ittle 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....

"Of course I have heard most of the epigrams from you before, but you
have put them even better in this book."

"Do you think so, really?" he asked, smiling with pleasure.

It is worth notice that some of the epigrams in "Dorian Gray" were
bettered again before they appeared in his first play. For example, in
"Dorian Gray" Lord Henry Wotton, who is peculiarly Oscar's mouthpiece,
while telling how he had to bargain for a piece of old brocade in
Wardour Street, adds, "nowadays people know the price of everything
and the value of nothing." In "Lady Windermere's Fan" the same epigram
is perfected, "The cynic is one who knows the price of everything and
the value of nothing."

Nearly all the literary productions of our time suffer from haste: one
must produce a good deal, especially while one's reputation is in the
making, in order to live by one's pen. Yet great works take time to
form, and fine creations are often disfigured by the stains of hurried
parturition. Oscar Wilde contrived to minimise this disability by
talking his works before writing them.

The conversation of Lord Henry Wotton with his uncle, and again at
lunch when he wishes to fascinate Dorian Gray, is an excellent
reproduction of Oscar's ordinary talk. The uncle wonders why Lord
Dartmoor wants to marry an American and grumble