viciousness; he challenges it: "It is poisonous, if you like; but you cannot
deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we artists aim at."

When Oscar republished "The Picture of Dorian Gray" in book form in April, 1891,
he sent me a large paper copy and with the copy he wrote a little note, asking
me to tell him what I thought of the book. I got the volume and note early one
morning and read the book until noon. I then sent him a note by hand: "Other
men," I wrote, "have given us wine; some claret, some burgundy, some Moselle;
you are the first to give us pure champagne. Much of this book is wittier even
than Congreve and on an equal intellectual level: at length, it seems to me, you
have justified yourself."

Half an hour later I was told that Oscar Wilde had called. I went down
immediately to see him. He was bubbling over with content.

"How charming of you, Frank," he cried, "to have written me such a divine
letter."

"I have only read a hundred pages of the book," I said; "but they are
delightful: no one now can deny you a place among the wittiest and most
humorous writers in English."

"How wonderful of you, Frank; what do you like so much?"

Like all artists, he loved praise and I was enthusiastic, happy to have the
opportunity of making up for some earlier doubting that now seemed unworthy:

"Whatever the envious may say, you're with Burke and Sheridan, among the very
ablest Irishmen . . . .