A House of Pomegranates is a highly decorated quarto volume, printed on paper nearly as thick as cardboard, and profusely illustrated---in a word, it is nothing if not a table-book. Mr. Oscar Wilde's little stories are fanciful and pretty---prettier than the illustrations, some of which---several of the female figures especially---are downright ugly. As for the all but invisible full-sheet engravings---if engravings they are; for it is difficult to speak certainly of things one cannot see---they present, to our eyes, very much the aspect of ordinary prints seen through the veil of protecting tissue paper. But with all the recherche of which the volume bears such evident tokens---within and without---'the trail of the 'Zeit Gheist ' (to garble a well-worn quotation) is over it still'. However Mr. Oscar Wilde may struggle and strive after originality, he cannot emancipate himself from the dull uniformity of contemporary thought and sentiment. The best story by far, and the one which shows the smallest traces of this deadening influence, is 'The Fisherman's Soul' [sic]. 'Il y a de belles choses là dedans', as French professors say in praise of a pupil's version.