THE WILDE REVIVAL.

Recollections of Oscar Wilde. By Ernest La Jeunesse, Andre Gide and Franz Blei. Translated by Percival Pollard. Boston: John W. Luce & Co. 99 pages. Price, $1.00.

The Canterville Ghost. By Oscar Wilde. Boston: John W. Luce & Co. 124 pages, Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

THE revival of interest in Oscar Wilde is being fanned by the discussion of "Salome," but it was a very real phenomenon before Conried thought of bringing Richard Strauss' tonal tragedy to the Metropolitan Opera house. In Europe, and especially in Germany, Wilde's fame has overshadowed that of all contemporary English authors. For example, a series of monographs upon the world's great writers is being issued by a Berlin publisher, and among one hundred volumes that have appeared or are announced three English names are represented—Shakespeare, Swinburne and Wilde. There are translations, editions de luxe, biographies, a whole Wilde literature; university professors lecture on Wilde and his plays are frequently performed. The cult has now spread to England and America; all of Wilde's books have been republished; "De Profundis" caused him to be regarded in a new light, and Sherard's life will lead to a further understanding of the man and his works.

The little volume of "Recollections," by two Frenchmen and one German, is full of interest and pathos. It is only Gide, however, who has any real recollections to present. Some of Wilde's conversations and discourses which he reports are remarkable. There is a parable about Jesus' return to Nazareth which is full of poetic beauty and dramatic pathos—a veritable cameo of pagan pessimism:

When Jesus returned to Nazareth, he said, Nazareth was so changed that He did not know the place. The Nazareth of His day had been full of misery and tears; this town laughed and sang. And as the Lord descended into the town He saw flower-laden slaves hastening up the white steps of a marble house. He went into the house and saw in a jasper hall, reclining upon a marble couch, one in whose hair were twined red roses and whose lips were red with wine. And the Lord stepped behind him, touched his shoulder and spoke to him: "Why do you spend your life like this?" The man turned around, knew Him and said: "I was a leper once, and you healed me—how else should I live?"

And the Lord left the house and returned upon the street. And after a little while He saw one whose face and garments were painted, and whose feet were shod with pearls. And after her followed a youth, softly, slowly, like a hunter, and his coat was of two colors and lust was in his eyes. But the face of the woman was the lovely face of a goddess. And the Lord touched the youth's hand and said: "Why look you upon this woman?" And the youth turned around and knew Him, and said: "I was blind and you restored my sight. Upon what else should I look?"

And the Lord approached the woman: "The way you go is the way of sin; why do you go that way?" And the woman knew Him and said: "The way I go is a joyful way and you forgave me my sins."

Then the Lord's heart filled with sorrow, and he wished to depart from the town. And as He came to the gates, a youth was sitting by the roadside, weeping. The Lord approached him, touched his hair and said to him: "Why do you weep?"

And the youth looked up, knew Him and said: "I was dead, and you waked me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?"

M. Gide has drawn a wonderful portrait of Wilde, the decadent genius, from the rising to the setting of his sun. M. La Jeunesse, on the contrary, gives us an impressionistic monotone of his dark days—the pity and despair of the end. As for Herr Blei's pages, they are hopelessly flat and commonplace; what the Germans would call "geistreicheind," describing a snobbish affectation of wit and profundity for which no other language furnishes a sufficiently contemptuous term.

"The Canterville Ghost" is a tale written by Wilde in a vein of whimsical humor. The poor old specter returning to his ancestral halls to find them in possession of an American intruder is conceived in the spirit of Stockton and Jerome, rather than in that of Bulwer Lytton and the S. P. R., but there is a vein of paradoxical satire which adds a more distinguished touch.