ins, and art, and style; but, if he can write for
none but outlawed noblemen and perverted telegraph-boys, the sooner
he takes to tailoring (or some other decent trade) the better for
his own reputation and the public morals."

[13] July 5th, 1890.

_The Scots Observer_ was edited by W.E. Henley. It was violently Tory in
character, and afterwards became _The National Observer_, but not even a
re-christening could save it from an early death.

* * * * *

_We are dominated by journalism.... Journalism governs for ever and
ever._

* * * * *

OSCAR WILDE'S REPLIES.

To this vulgar abuse Wilde condescended to reply in the following
terms:--

16, Tite Street, Chelsea,

9th July, 1890.

Sir,--You have published a review of my story, "The Picture of Dorian
Gray." As this review is grossly unjust to me as an artist, I ask you to
allow me to exercise in your columns my right of reply.

Your reviewer, Sir, while admitting that the story in question is
"plainly the work of a man of letters," the work of one who has "brains,
and art, and style," yet suggests, and apparently in all seriousness,
that I have written it in order that it should be read by the most
depraved members of the criminal and illiterate classes. Now, Sir, I do
not suppose that the criminal and illiterate classes ever read anything
except newspapers. They are certainly not likely to be able to
understand anything of mine. So let them pass, and on the broad question
of why a man of letters writes at all let me say this.

The pleasure that one has in creating a work of art is a purely personal
pleasure, and it is for the sake of this pleasure that one creates. The
artist works with his eye on the object. Nothing else interests him.
What people are likely to say does not even occur to him.

He is fascinated by what he has in hand. He is indifferent to others. I
write because it gives me the greatest possible artistic pleasure to
write. If my work pleases the few, I am gratified. If it does not, it
causes me no pain. As for the mob, I have no desire to be a popular
novelist. It is far too easy.

Your critic then, Sir, commits the absolutely unpardonable crime of
trying to confuse the artist with his subject-matter. For this, Sir,
there is no excuse at all.

Of one who