t you, dear Robbie, to do anything. Of course the letter
to Reading must go at once, as my friends come out on Wednesday morning
early.

This letter displays almost every quality of Oscar Wilde's genius in
perfect efflorescence--his gaiety, joyous merriment and exquisite
sensibility. Who can read of the little Chapel to Notre Dame de Liesse
without emotion quickly to be changed to mirth by the sunny humour of
those delicious specimens of self-advertisement: "Mr. Beerbohm Tree also
writes: 'Since I have tried it, I am a different actor, my friends
hardly recognise me.'"

This letter is the most characteristic thing Oscar Wilde ever wrote, a
thing produced in perfect health at the topmost height of happy hours,
more characteristic even than "The Importance of Being Earnest," for it
has not only the humour of that delightful farce-comedy, but also more
than a hint of the deeper feeling which was even then forming itself
into a master-work that will form part of the inheritance of men
forever.

"The Ballad of Reading Gaol" belongs to this summer of 1897. A fortunate
conjuncture of circumstances--the prison discipline excluding all
sense-indulgence, the kindness shown him towards the end of his
imprisonment and of course the delight of freedom--gave him perfect
physical health and hope and joy in work, and so Oscar was enabled for a
few brief months to do better than his best. He assured me and I believe
that the conception of "The Ballad" came to him in prison and was due to
the alleviation of his punishment and the permission accorded to him to
write and read freely--a divine fruit born directly of his pity for
others and the pity others felt for him.

"The Ballad of Reading Gaol"[20] was published in January, 1898, over
the signature of C.3.3., Oscar's number in prison. In a few weeks it ran
through dozens of editions in England and America and translations
appeared in almost every European language, which is proof not so much
of the excellence of the poem as the great place the author held in the
curiosity of men. The enthusiasm with which it was accepted in England
was astounding. One reviewer compared it with the best of Sophocles;
another said that "nothing like it has appeared in our time." No word of
criticism was heard: the most cautious called it a "simple poignant
ballad, ... one of the greatest in the English language." This praise is
assuredly not too generous. Yet even this was due to a revulsion of
fee