by starvation through being sent to the infirmary. Though these facts
are well known, _Punch_, the pet organ of the British middle-class, was
not ashamed a little while ago to make a mock of some suggested reform,
by publishing a picture of a British convict, with the villainous face
of a Bill Sykes, lying on a sofa in his cell smoking a cigar with
champagne at hand. This is not altogether due to stupidity, as Oscar
tried to believe, but to reasoned selfishness. _Punch_ and the class for
which it caters would like to believe that many convicts are unfit to
live, whereas the truth is that a good many of them are superior in
humanity to the people who punish and slander them.

While waiting for his wife to join him, Oscar rented a little house, the
Châlet Bourgeat, about two hundred yards away from the hotel at
Berneval, and furnished it. Here he spent the whole of the summer
writing, bathing, and talking to the few devoted friends who visited
him from time to time. Never had he been so happy: never in such perfect
health. He was full of literary projects; indeed, no period of his whole
life was so fruitful in good work. He was going to write some Biblical
plays; one entitled "Pharaoh" first, and then one called "Ahab and
Jezebel," which he pronounced Isabelle. Deeper problems, too, were much
in his mind: he was already at work on "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," but
before coming to that let me first show how happy the song-bird was and
how divinely he sang when the dreadful cage was opened and he was
allowed to use his wings in the heavenly sunshine.

Here is a letter from him shortly after his release which is one of the
most delightful things he ever wrote. Fitly enough it was addressed to
his friend of friends, Robert Ross, and I can only say that I am
extremely obliged to Ross for allowing me to publish it: