A supposititious conversation in Punch brought about the following interchange of telegrams:—
The World, Nov. 14, 1883.
From Oscar Wilde, Exeter, to J. McNeill Whistler, Tite Street.—Punch too ridiculous—when you and I are together we never talk about anything except ourselves.
From Whistler, Tite Street, to Oscar Wilde, Exeter.—No, no, Oscar, you forget—when you and I are together, we never talk about anything except me.
A Warning
REFLECTION:
"A foolish man's foot is soon in his neighbour's house; but a man of experience is ashamed of him."
My dear James,—I see from a weekly paper that your late residence, the White House, The World, June 1, 1881. in Tite Street, is now occupied by Mr. Harry Quilter, "the excellent art critic and writer on art," or words to that effect. This is the great man who has succeeded Mr. Tom Taylor on the Times, and whose vagaries in art criticism you and I, my dear James, have previously noticed....
ATLAS.