The success of Oscar Wilde as playwright, essayist, and story-teller is one of the wonders of recent years. When he came to this country a decade ago he was covered with scorn and ridicule. Nevertheless, he succeeded in having his first play, 'Vera,' produced in New York. It was scored by the critics here, and, after running for a few weeks, it was never heard of again. But even at this period Oscar was imbued with that sublime conceit which has helped him so much in his career. One night, after a performance of his play, he was walking uptown with a well-known writer of this city, and talking about himself as usual. 'Ah!' he cried, in a fine frenzy of enthusiasm, 'do you know what I need most in the world?' His friend gave up the cocnundrum, and Oscar went on: 'Well, I need fowship. I must have worship.' Then, after a moment's silence, he added: 'In that respect, I resemble God Almighty.' Oscar carried from America $20,000, the proceeds of his lecture tour. He went back to London, where for several years, he has indulged with the famous 'Jimmy Whistler, the artist, in a warfare of the wits. At the present time of course, Oscar is ahead, for he has struck a vein of 'devilish' cynicism and perverted humor. His book of essays, which he called 'Intentions', is, however, a really fine achievement, and it would give Oscar a place in literature if he had not written wicked plays. Nothing, too, could be finer in its way than his 'House of Pomegranates,' luxurious in fancy and in diction, as well as in its manner of publication. 'Dorian Gray,' his novel, however, is distinctly inferior to these, and must be regarded as a comparative failure. Oscar i smarried to one of the most beautiful of the London aesthetes, and his home is a bower of soft draperies and rich and harmonious colors.