he hoped I'd publish them as he had written them.

Naturally I replied that the final judgment must rest with him and I published
them at once.

The delight I felt in his undoubted genius and success was not shared by others.
Friends took occasion to tell me that I should not go about with Oscar Wilde.

"Why not?" I asked.

"He has a bad name," was the reply. "Strange things are said about him. He
came down from Oxford with a vile reputation. You have only got to look at
the man."

"Whatever the disease may be," I replied, "it's not catching--unfortunately."

The pleasure men take in denigration of the gifted is one of the puzzles of life
to those who are not envious.

Men of letters, even people who ought to have known better, were slow to admit
his extraordinary talent; he had risen so quickly, had been puffed into such
prominence that they felt inclined to deny him even the gifts which he
undoubtedly possessed. I was surprised once to find a friend of mine taking
this attitude: Francis Adams, the poet and writer, chaffed me one day about my
liking for Oscar.

"What on earth can you see in him to admire?" he asked. "He is not a great
writer, he is not even a good writer; his books have no genius in them; his
poetry is tenth rate, and his prose is not much better. His talk even is
fictitious and extravagant."