[The] Young King; the Birthday of the Infanta," [and] other Beautiful Tales," writes Mr. Wilde as [a cap]tion over his "House of Pomegranates." [A de]lightful touch of a charming vanity, which [refers] to itself at itself. Those who have [heard] Mr. Wilde lecture know the smile. [It is] the smile of a Narcissus with a gift of [talk.] Narcissus is sometimes born so, and then [is] saved from drowning, and lives to write [a charm]ing autobiography, or give us some other [gift] of his dear self with a daring [hand] that wins the world. So Mr. Wilde has [built] us this "house not made with [hands,"] "this house of pomegranates gathered in [hi]s garden. And with him went two dream-[mak]ing artists, by name Ricketts and Shannon, [who in] a nook of the green place they dreamed [in the] grass, and builded the house together [to the] sound of the double flute. Forgive [me if] this reads more like a fairy [tale] than a review. Were I to write to [him f]or at this moment, I must begin "Fair Sir," [and] truly I should bid him see that "seven [stars] were woven into my robe." [What] a marvellous eye Mr. Wilde has for such [minute] detail, and what a knowledge of precious [things!] His memory must surely be like the treasure [chambe]rs of his own King of Ashter, wherein were— [the] tortoiseshells full of pearls, and hollowed [ivory] ones of great size piled up with red rubies. [Gold] was stored in coffers of elephant hide, and [fragrant] dust in leather bottles. There were opals [and sap]phires, the former in cups of crystal, and [the latt]er in cups of jade. Round green emeralds [were arrang]ed in order upon thin plates of ivory, and in [a corner] were silk bags filled, some with turquoise [gems] and others with beryls. . . . And yet [you] have [here] but a tithe of what was there." [He] has often admired the dainty magic with [which] Keats was able to transmute mere confec-[tion] into— Candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;<br>

Jellies smoother than the creamy curd,<br>

[And] lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon." [He] possessed the same power, especially over [richly] vowelled names. "These delicates" are [handle]d "with glowing hand" all through these [beauti]ful stories. The hand is perhaps too glowing [in its] profusion. It is apt to neglect proportion. [Nev]er mind that, read this sentence from "The [Birth]day of the Infanta." Maybe you have known [it l]ong ago—that sentence telling of the wood-[land] life of the little dwarf:— [When t]he wind dances he knew—the mad dance [of enter]tainment with the autumn, the light dance in [the s]andals over the corn, the dance with white [snow] wreaths in winter, and the blossom dance [throug]h the orchards in spring. [The] tragedy of a toadstool, that dreamed it was [a] rose worthy to be worn in the little [Infanta']-s bosom—is the story of the poor [little] dwarf, who never having seen his face, and knowing nought of a cul-[ture]d passion for the ugly, dreamed that the [Infanta] loved him for his beauty, when she laughed [to wat]ch him dance. Then, seeking her through [the] place, he comes to a mirrored room, where all [things] strangely repeat themselves. "Was it Echo? [Did] she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice?" [So] tenderly does Mr. Wilde tell how at last he [finds] himself in the monstrous little reflection [that mi]mics him in the glass, very tenderly does he [lay] his little broken-hearted figure upon the floor. [But] why need we choose no favourite out of these four [tales]? — but this and "The Fisherman and his Soul" [are fi]ne. The latter, the longest and most elab-[orate]ly-wrought of the four, and "The Star-[Child"] — I have not, I believe, previously appeared. ["The] Fisherman and his Soul" strikes one first [as one] of good fairy tales, with its simplicity of [manner], and then, how strange to watch the various [on]es shooting out from the one smooth stem, [hung] with clusters of blossom and strange [birds] and songs. It is art's miracle of the mango— [I] speak of the "get-up" and "illustrations" [of this] book as things apart seems absurd, for, [indeed,] this is one of those rare books of which we [speak of] not the body from the soul. It is a unity. [It] should really be spoken of as a whole. [The] cover, designs, and stories seem not separate [things,] but only different ways of expressing the [same] strange fantasy. But I have spoken of the [stories] apart. Why not the pictures? But they [are hard]er for me to write about than the stories. [Especial]ly Mr. Shannon's dim "dreams" or rather [the sil]very ghosts of dreams. There is something [very] fascinating about these silvery grey [impres]sions, faint as the faintest grey of dawn—so [faint] that one at first almost takes the page for a [blank.] But gradually they grow on one like [the] fields in the moonlight. And the best [of] them is actually of the moonlight, [where] the fisherman far away out on the moonlit [sea dr]aws up the little mermaid in his net and [wears] such a secret sweet smile, as he doats on [his st]range haul. Mr. Ricketts' quaint symbolic [art no] less beautifully accompanies that more [narrat]ive side of Mr. Wilde's writing of which I [have sp]oken. Are we never to have another num-[ber of] "The Germ"?