, I have a right to the last word. Let that last
word be the present letter, and leave my book, I beg you, to the
immortality that it deserves.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

OSCAR WILDE.

16, Tite Street, S.W., June 28th.

* * * * *

"THE LAST WORD."

We should be sorry to deny the ex-editor of the _Woman's World_ the
feminine privilege of "the last word" for which he pleads to-day. At the
same time we cannot admit that we force upon Mr. Oscar Wilde the burden
of a newspaper controversy by "daily attacks."

Mr. Wilde published a book, and (presumably) submitted it to criticism:
we exercised our rights as critics of contemporary literature by
pointing out that we thought the book feeble and offensive. Mr. Wilde
replies, defending his book against our unfavourable criticism, and we
have again the right to point out that we do not consider that he has
satisfactorily met our arguments and our objections. For the rest, we
are quite willing to leave "The Picture of Dorian Gray" to the
"immortality it deserves." We must add one word. We congratulate Mr.
Wilde on his emphatic disavowal of the ridiculous puff preliminary which
his publishers had chosen to circulate.

Two days later (July 2nd) the Editor could not resist one more word:--

Modest Mr. Oscar Wilde. He has been having a little dispute with the
_Daily Chronicle_ as well as with the _St. James's Gazette_ and this is
what he writes to our contemporary:--

My story is an essay on decorative art. It re-acts against the
crude brutality of plain realism. It is poisonous, if you like, but
you cannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we
artists aim at.

[10] June 30th.

* * * * *

_Art should never try to be popular. The public should try and make
itself artistic._

* * * * *

"THE DAILY CHRONICLE"[11] ON "DORIAN GRAY."

Dulness and dirt are the chief features of _Lippincott's_ this month.
The element in it that is unclean, though undeniably amusing, is
furnished by Mr. Oscar Wilde's story of "The Picture of Dorian Gray." It
is a tale spawned from the leprous literature of the French Decadents--a
poisonous book, the atmosphere of which is heavy with the mephitic
odours of moral and spiritual putrefaction--a gloating study of the
mental and physical corruption of a fresh, fair and gol