We have the irresponsible Irishman in life, and would gladly get rid of him. We have him now in literature and in the things of the mind, and are compelled perforce to see that there is a good deal to be said for him. The men I described to you the other day under the heading, 'A Reckless Century', thought they might drink, dice, and shoot each other to their hearts' content, if they did but do it gaily and gallantly, and here now is Mr. Oscar Wilde, who does not care what strange opinions he defends or what time-honoured virtue he makes laughter of, provided he does it cleverly. Many were injured by the escapades of the rakes and duellists, but no man is likely to be the worse for Mr. Wilde's shower of paradox. We are not likely to poison any one because he writes with appreciation of Wainewright---art critic and poisoner---nor have I heard that there has been any increased mortality among deans because the good young hero of his last book tries to blow up one with an infernal machine; but upon the other hand we are likely enough to gain something of brightness and refinement from the deft and witty pages in which he sets forth these matters.
'Beer, bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made England whatshe is', wrote Mr. Wilde once; and a part of the Nemesis that has fallen upon her is a complete inability to understand anything he says. We should not find him so unintelligible---for much about him is Irish of the Irish. I see in his life and works an extravagant Celtic crusade against Anglo-Saxon stupidity. 'I labour under a perpetual fear of not being misunderstood', he wrote, a short time since, and from behind this barrier of misunderstanding he peppers John Bull with his peashooter of wit, content to know there are some few who laugh with him. There is scarcely an eminent man in London who has not one of those little peas sticking somewhere about him. 'Providence and Mr. Walter Besant have exhausted the obvious', he wrote once, to the deep indignation of Mr. Walter Besant; and of a certain notorious and clever, but coldblooded Socialist [Bernard Shaw], he said, 'he has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by all his friends'. Gradually people have begun to notice what a very great number of those little peas are lying about, and from this reckoning has sprung up a great respect for so deft a shooter, for John Bull, though he does not understand wit, respects everything that he can count up and number and prove to have bulk. He now sees beyond question that the witty sayings of this man whom he has so long despised are as plenty as the wood blocks in the pavement of Cheapside. As a last resource he has raised the cry that his tormentor is most insincere, and Mr. Wilde replies in various ways that it is quite an error to suppose that a thing is true because John Bull sincerely believes it. Upon the other hand, if he did not believe it, it might have some chance of being true. This controversy is carried on upon the part of John by the newspapers; therefore, those who only read them have as low an opinion of Mr. Wilde as those who read books have a high one. Dorian Gray with all its faults of method, is a wonderful book. The Happy Prince is a volume of as pretty fairy tales as our generation has seen; and Intentions hides within its immense paradox some of the most subtle literary criticism we are likely to see for many a long day. To this list has now been added Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and other Stories (James R.Osgood, M'Ilvaine, and Co.). It disappoints me a little, I must confess. The story it takes its name from is amusing enough in all conscience. 'The Sphinx without a Secret' has a quaint if rather meagre charm; but 'The Canterville Ghost' with its supernatural horse-play, and 'The Model Millionaire', with its conventional motive, are quite unworthy of more than a passing interest.... Surely we have in this story something of the same spirit that filled Ireland once with gallant, irresponsible ill-doing, but now it is in its right place making merry among the things of the mind, and laughing gaily at our most firm fixed convictions. In one other Londoner, the socialist, Mr. Bernard Shaw, I recognize the same spirit. His account of how the old Adam gradually changed into the great political economist Adam Smith is like Oscar Wilde in every way. These two men, together with Mr. Whistler, the painter---half an Irishman also, I believe---keep literary London continually agog to know what they will say next.