And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain.

--_The Ballad of Reading Gaol._


Copyright, 1916,
BY FRANK HARRIS




BOOK II




CHAPTER XVII


Prison for Oscar Wilde, an English prison with its insufficient bad
food[1] and soul-degrading routine for that amiable, joyous, eloquent,
pampered Sybarite. Here was a test indeed; an ordeal as by fire. What
would he make of two years' hard labour in a lonely cell?

There are two ways of taking prison, as of taking most things, and all
the myriad ways between these two extremes; would Oscar be conquered by
it and allow remorse and hatred to corrupt his very heart, or would he
conquer the prison and possess and use it? Hammer or anvil--which?