Mr. Oscar Wilde describes his House of Pomegranates as a collection of ‘beautiful tales.’ Of course, no one should know better than the author the peculiar virtues of his literary architecture, but in the minds of modest people he might have advertised his wares by the publication of an outside opinion. There is, nevertheless, some fine writing in 'A House of Pomegranates, and the admirers of this modern philosopher will find more entertainment in its pages than in such works as 'Dreams' and 'The Shrine of Love'. The great fault of Oscar Wilde is, as a subtle citic put it, his resemblance to a theatrical manager who crowds his stage with aesthetic upholstery and bric-a-brac until the characters have scarcely room to walk about.