e judge, whose attitude compared
unfavorably with the more impartial attitude of the eighteenth century
judges in similar cases. Wilde came out of prison ambitious to retrieve
his reputation by the quality of his literary work. But he left Reading
gaol merely to enter a larger and colder prison. He soon realized that his
spirit was broken even more than his health. He drifted at last to Paris,
where he shortly after died, shunned by all but a few of his friends.[92]

In a writer of the first order, Edward Fitzgerald, to whom we owe the
immortal and highly individualized version of _Omar Khayyam_, it is easy
to trace an element of homosexuality, though it appears never to have
reached full and conscious development. Fitzgerald was an eccentric person
who, though rich and on friendly terms with some of the most distinguished
men of his time, was always out of harmony with his environment. He felt
himself called on to marry, very unhappily, a woman whom he had never been
in love with and with whom he had nothing in common. All his affections
were for his male friends. In early life he was devoted to his friend W.K.
Browne, whom he glorified in _Euphranor_. "To him Browne was at once
Jonathan, Gamaliel, Apollo,--the friend, the master, the God,--there was
scarcely a limit to his devotion and admiration."[93] On Browne's
premature death Fitzgerald's heart was empty. In 1859 at Lowestoft,
Fitzgerald, as he wrote to Mrs. Browne, "used to wander about the shore at
night longing for some fellow to accost me who might give some promise of
filling up a very vacant place in my heart." It was then that he met
"Posh" (Joseph Fletcher), a fisherman, 6 feet tall, said to be of the best
Suffolk type, both in body and character. Posh reminded Fitzgerald of his
dead friend Browne; he made him captain of his lugger, and was thereafter
devoted to him. Posh was, said Fitzgerald, "a man of the finest Saxon
type, with a complexion _vif, male et flamboyant_, blue eyes, a nose less
than Roman, more than Greek, and strictly auburn hair that any woman might
envy. Further he was a man of simplicity; of soul, justice of thought,
tenderness of nature, a gentleman of Nature's grandest type," in fact the
"greatest man" Fitzgerald had ever met. Posh was not, however, quite so
absolutely perfect as this description suggests, and various
misunderstandings arose in consequence between the two friends so unequal
in culture and social traditions. These difficu