to it in a tedious way.

Mr. Cobbam has, I have no doubt, already repented of the unfortunate
expression with which he has made his _debut_, so I will say no more
about it. As far as I am concerned he is quite forgiven.

And finally, Sir, in taking leave of the _Scots Observer_, I feel bound
to make a candid confession to you.

It has been suggested to me by a great friend of mine, who is a charming
and distinguished man of letters (and not unknown to you personally),
that there have been really only two people engaged in this terrible
controversy, and that those two people are the editor of the _Scots
Observer_ and the author of "Dorian Gray."

At dinner this evening, over some excellent Chianti, my friend insisted
that under assumed and mysterious names you had simply given dramatic
expression to the views of some of the semi-educated classes of our
community, and that the letters signed "H." were your own skilful, if
somewhat bitter caricature of the Philistine as drawn by himself. I
admit that something of the kind had occurred to me when I read "H.'s"
first letter--the one in which he proposed that the test of art should
be the political opinions of the artist, and that if one differed from
the artist on the question of the best way of mis-governing Ireland, one
should always abuse his work. Still, there are such infinite varieties
of Philistines, and North Britain is so renowned for seriousness, that I
dismissed the idea as unworthy of the editor of a Scotch paper. I now
fear that I was wrong, and that you have been amusing yourself all the
time by inventing little puppets and teaching them how to use big words.
Well, Sir, if it be so--and my friend is strong on the point--allow me
to congratulate you most sincerely on the cleverness with which you have
reproduced the lack of literary style which is, I am told, essential for
any dramatic and life-like characterisation. I confess that I was
completely taken in; but I bear no malice; and as you have, no doubt,
been laughing at me up your sleeve, let me join openly in the laugh,
though it be a little against myself. A comedy ends when the secret is
out. Drop your curtain and put your dolls to bed. I love Don Quixote,
but I do not wish to fight any longer with marionettes, however cunning
may be the master-hand that works their wires. Let them go, Sir, on the
shelf. The shelf is the proper place for them. On some future occasion
you can re-label them and bring them