There would seem to be quite a revival in Fairy literature. Within a very recent period many pretentious volumes have been published dealing with goblin and elfin lore—some treatises, almost scientific in their hard matter-of-fact, dry, grave, and serious analysis of the popular stories, point out the origin of them, detecting resemblances between them and Persian myths or Saga’s songs, explaining [sic] andexploding with a vandalism that spares no illusions, however cherished or time sanctified—others simply relating, as if with faith and credence, the legends whose recital has for many an age brightened the hearthsides and brought pleasure not unmixed with ill-mastered dread to the hearts of successive generations of listeners. Into these latter, however, the spirit of modern utilitarianism—if it may be styled sohas in a manner infused itself; and in the deft hands of th elater reciter they take a new character, hiding a moral or a sting under their seeming innocent guilelessness. Poor fairy and spire, they have been in these latter days remorselessly hauled into politics and chained to the wheel of its iron ear. Few things now, indeed, are altogether what they seem; something lurks under all the outward appearances, and, perhaps, one should not wonder that even the children’s fairy tale should undergo the new influence and change like all things else. Just as, taught by sad encessity, we have learned to search in almost everything for its cunningly hidden undermeaning or point, so one in reading the simplest composition is harassed at every stage by the oppressive self-suggested questions—Is that anything new? Is there any political reference in it? Is there any social grievance hinted at here? Mr. Oscar wilde with his “Happy Prince” and his “Remarkable Rocket”broke up new ground, and others have been not slow to follow him. Oftener than not, it is the case that the first in the field has the greatest success, and so it seems to be here. Mr. Frank Hudson is charming, bright, racy, humorous, and winning, but in some of his work he lacks the lightness of touch, fineness, indefinable grace, and delicate fancy that are never wanting in Mr. Wilde. He has, however, qualities of his own which, in part though not entirely, make up for this deficiency. He is less subtle; his meaning is more easily apprehended. Yet perhaps by reason of this very circumstance, he loses something of his intended effect. His stories are aimed at “little people and big,” and precisely because they are more appropriate for youthful reading—through the simplicity of both substance and style—they are less suitable for adults. Conversely, those works that lend themselves to “reading between the lines,” which have a weightier purpose, are less effective in engaging and delighting the young. In most of Oscar Wilde’s fanciful and highly poetical works of this kind, it might be said that his cunning and skill interlace pleasure and profit so seamlessly that each story is equally enjoyable for readers of all ages. To say that Mr. Hudson falls short of him is, after all, not a severe criticism. No one could read these little stories and maintain an unfriendly critical attitude toward them. They are like good wine, bearing their own commendation, making argument about their excellence unnecessary. The first story is perhaps …