"Clothed in grey binding, mystic, wonderful full of " nauseous and semireligious sentimentality and a good deal of snobbishness a mischievous and unworthy" book, which its author will ere long deeply regret having given to the world: repulsive, morbid, and impuro—such is the verdict of the English press upon a work the appearance of which we may fairly consider the literary event of the week—A Romance of the Nineteenth Century, by Mr. Mallock. Once a freethinker, then a truth-secker, and now a Catholic, there are perhaps few men of the day whose religious pilgrimage has been performed more publicly than that of this gifted writer, Buthislast book will do much rive him of the sympathy of all right-ug men. The Athenawm remarks that it appears to be intended as a protest against rudely. This is a somewhat The hero, Ralph Vernon, belongs to that modern school, the members of which, with a remarkable tendency to indulge their bodies, are still more remarkably cumbered about the state of their souls; who instead of talking about Homer and the City of the Violet Crown, affect St. Augustine, and alternately address gushing harangues to their Creator and profess their disbelief in his existence. On the whole, it appears that this novel is, to put it mildly, somewhat hasardé, and we should recommend all readers of fastidious stomachs to caro-fully road the criticisms of the press before venturing on the book itself. Another work of some note, which occupies the place of honour in the Athenwum, is a volume of poems by one Mr. Oscar Wilde. Of this the reviewer makes the original remark that it is the evangel of anew creed, We confess, however, that we have been unable to make out what sort of a creed is supposed to be promulgated by the poet, excepting that, like many other versifiers of the Herbert Blanchet school, he thinks the times are out of joint, in a vague and general senso although, as the Atheneum remarks, it is doubtful how far familiarity with the nudities of passion will go towards setting them to rights again. The great curse of the age Mr. Wilde believes to be commerce.
It is commerce, indeed, that has ruined England. Fanciful theorists like Adam Smith and other writers on political economy have hitherto taught "different doctrines but our poet soon disposes of that This mighty empire bath but fect of clay OF al its ancient chivalry and night Our little island is forsaken qui Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, Ani, from its hills, that voice has passed way spoke of Freedom; O come out of it Come out of it, my soul, thou art not fit For this vile trailicchouse, where day by day Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart And the rude people rage with ignorant cries Against an heritage of centuries.
it ware my cals: wherefore, in dream of art And loftiest culture I would stand apart, Neither for God uor for his enemies, Mr. Wilde, however, has the gift of versifying, whatever we may think of his economic theories. Li one poem he says
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.