Recent newspapers have brought the information that the authorities of the British Museum have with drawn from circulation all books written by Mr. Oscar Wilde. For this performance there has been applause on all sides. It has been hailed as a most righteous judgment and a noble act of justice. Preachers have approved, moralists have commended, the Prevention of Vice people have been loud in their praises and now the critics also come in with their cheers. For most of these there is the old excuse of utter and growling ignorance and on that score one must-we suppose-forgive them. In the present instance, however, it is cowardly and small. They have struck a man when he is down. They have kicked a body when life was nearly gone and they found pleasure in doing it-they-the erudite, the honest, the just critics.

As to certain criminal proceedings not long past, fortunately there can be but one opinion. But that Mr. Wilde may be guilty of all immoralities conceivable and inconceivable is neither here nor there. It is not the man but his work of which there is question. And sad precedentin the lives of Poe and Byron and Shelley-has lead us to see the necessity of disassociating a man from his work. In truth much of Mr. Wilde's writing is immoral. The evidence of immorality is not to be found in the records of any court of justice, however, but in the books themselves. "The Picture of Dorian Grey," "The Sphinx," and "Salome" are bad books. If the curators of the British Museum have failed in time past to see this it adds only to a belief in their stupidity. On the other hand the "Poems," "The House of Pomegranates," "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" are pure and charming. No man in our generation has written better fairy tales. These also the authorities have withdrawn from circulation.

If there ever was in any of Mr. Wilde's writings literary merit and beauty, which may perhaps originally have lead the Museum to purchase the works, the same merit and beauty still exist and will continue to exist. Once and for all, a book printed and given to the public has a life wholly its own and independent of the fortunes of its author. Even should we discover that Shakspeare himself had committed sins against a dozen decalogues, it would not alter by one hair's breadth the wonder of his poetry. This is a far cry, but the question is one of principle and justice and not of the values at stake. The performance of the curators of the British Museum is an act of bigoted and blind fury. It is narrow-minded and indiscriminating. One must protest.