An author's opinion on his own work should claim a peculiar respect. Like a fond mother's, his appreciation may incline towards excess; but he, like the mother, sat up with the child. Even if the book send us to sleep, it has probably kept him awake, and that, after all, is the more favourable condition for knowledge. Recognising this, we were not annoyed---as certain critics have been annoyed---to discover, on opening this volume, that Mr. Wilde himself considers the four tales contained in it to be beautiful. We allowed at once that he was possibly, even probably, right; and any small regret at finding our judgment anticipated and our labour curtailed was obliterated in the happy reflection that Mr. Wilde had by this precaution saved himself at least three letters to the newspapers. It is unfortunate that Messrs. Ricketts and Shannon, the illustrators, were not also given a upon which to express their satisfaction with their handiwork. For lack of this, a critic in THE SPEAKER, left to judge without guidance, asserted that the gilt peacock on the cover resembled a bulging umbrella. He has since been corrected and superseded; but it cost Mr. Wilde a postage stamp. The present critic is ready to admit that for decorative ends, in certain places, a peacock which resembles a bulging umbrella may be preferable to the peacock of our gardens: and he follows up this admission with another---that, for decorative ends, the prose of Mr. Oscar Wilde is superior to the prose of other men. You may like decorative prove, or you may not. If you do not, there is no more to be said than that the book is not for your enjoyment. If you do, then the author is right in calling it a book of 'beautiful tales'. From cover to cover, in binding, paper, illustrations and letterpress, the scheme 'of the volume is a scheme of decoration. The title itself is purely decorative. 'A House of Pomegranates, by Oscar Wilde', reads beautifully, though there be no house and the pomegranates are all contributed by Messrs. Ricketts and Shannon. And the dedications are decorative; so are the margins; and so, above all, is the prose. Here is a passage selected at random---

Now whether we like this kind of thing or not, it is impossible to deny its extreme beauty in its kind. And it is just as impossible to name any other writer who could elaborate his sensuous impressions with such assiduities, minutely careful down to the two sandals on the priest's feet. Among bright colours, sweet sounds, pleasant tastes, Mr. Wilde is like his own Dorian Gray, plunging his hand in gems and letting them rain through his fingers. His pages may be cold reading; but their glitter is amazing, and the fineness of their workmanship, Nor is i¢ merely the sensuous imagery that is decorative. The structure of Mr. Wilde's prose is decorative, too. Take, for example, his description of a mermaid in the third tale :---'Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like sea-shells were her ears, and her lips were like seacoral. The cold waves dashed over her cold breasts, and the salt glistened upon her eyelids'. Here is a deliberate and successful adaptation of the old Hebrew trick of repeating a phrase to give balance and rhythm to a sentence, or possibly for the mere pleasure of looking « second time on a cluster of beautiful words. Our poets have made splendid use of this device now and again, and perhaps it has been unduly neglected by our prosewriters. At any rate its decorative value is obvious enough here, as in the Song of Solomon, And having pointed out what we conceive to be Mr. Wilde's purpose, and added our belief that he has attained his purpose with extraordinary skill, we may simply leave readers to decide whether or not their tastes incline towards that which is 'precious' in literature. If they do, they will hardly find two better tales than 'The Young King' and 'The Fisherman and His Soul'. If they do not, the morals of these stories (which, by the way, are not merely irreproachable but beneficent) will be seen sicklied over with detail and cloying to the taste. They will desire a little more of idiom and humanity in the writing, a little less of cadence and artifice. But, after all, they will only be in the position of the critic who objected to a decorative peacock---because it differed from the peacock of his experience.