“Oh, yes! I speak most languages; in the sweet honey-tinted brogue my own land lends me. _La bella Donna della mia Mente_ exists, but she is not the Jersey Lily, though I have grovelled at her feet; she is not the Juno Countess, though I have twisted my limbs all over her sofas; she is not the Polish Actress, though I have sighed and wept over all the boxes of the Court Theatre; she is not the diaphanous Sarah, though I have crawled after her footsteps through the heavy fields of scentless Asphodel; she is not the golden haired Ellen, more fair than any woman Veronesé looked upon, though I have left my _Impressions_ on many and many a seat in the Lyceum Temple, where she is High Priestess; nor is she one of the little Nameless Naiads I have met in Lotus-haunts, who, with longing eyes, watch the sweet bubble of the frenzied grape. No, Sir, my real Love is my own Kosmic Soul, enthroned in its flawless essence; and when America can grasp the supreme whole I sing in too-too utterance for vulgar lips, then soul and body will blend in mystic symphonies; then, crowned with bellamours and wanton flower-de-luce, I shall be hailed Lord of a new Empery, and as I stain my lips in the bleeding wounds of the Pomegranate, and wreathe my o’ergrown limbs with the burnished disk of the Sunflower, Apollo will turn pale and lashing the restive horses of the Sun, the tamer chariot of a forgotten god will make way for the glorious zenith of the one Oscar Wilde.” Since his return from America Mr. Oscar Wilde has settled in London, and is known in society as a genial and witty gentleman, and a particularly graceful after-dinner speaker. He is the Editor of _The Woman’s World_, a very high class magazine, published by Cassell and Co., in which he has ample opportunities of advocating his favourite _cult_, the worship of the beautiful in Nature and in Art. ―――― SAINTE MARGÉRIE. _An Imitation._ Slim feet than lilies tenderer,―― _Margérie!_ That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_ White as a shroud the silken gown,―― _Margérie!_ That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_ On back and bosom withouten braid,―― _Margérie!_ In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_ Eyes like a dim sea, viewed from far,―― _Margérie!_ Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet than lips of mortals are;―― _C’est ça Sainte Margérie!_