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Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville Prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put in the treadmill. Consequently he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he was not to be put making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine's works and some historical books.

A correspondent thus describes Wilde's prison life at Pentonville: His cell is very small; perfectly bare, made even more hideous by a rough coating of whitewash. There is a wretched, hard bed, and a table with no cloth to cover its plain board top. On the table is the only literature permitted him— a copy of the Bible. He must read this or he may not read at all. He rises at 6 a.m., and before breakfast he must clean his cell, sweep it, make the bed, and in every way get it into condition for the sharp eyes of the inspector. Then at 7.30 a.m. he has breakfast- 8oz of whole meal wheaten bread, a pint of cocoa sweetened by molasses, or, by way of variety, a pint of gruel: Scotch oatmeal, salt and water. At 8.45 he goes to prayers, standing in the files with several hundred other convicts, and compelled to an attitude of reverence. At noon he has his two-course dinner, which varies regularly with the day of the week. On Sunday and Wednesday it is potatoes and suet pudding. On Monday and Friday he always has potatoes and boiled beef. On other days there is a soberer, more ascetic diet of potatoes and soup. There are always 8oz. of bread. Occasionally, as a great surprise, instead of boiled beef, they give him cold mutton, or beans and bacon. At 6 p.m. he has supper, a daily repetition of the frugal breakfast. Between supper and bedtime he may meditate as he sits in his cell, or may read the Bible. At 8.30 p.m. lights must be out, and every convict, including Wilde, must be stretched out in bed. Wilde has not yet reached the point where sleep straightway comes to him to shut out the waking hours, that must seem to him a dream. All this is detestable enough to the brutal and ignorant wretches -— those "criminal" classes about whose knowledge of aesthetics Wilde was speaking with such contemptuous epigram on the witness stand in the trial of his libel suit. To Wilde, the reincarnated voluptuary of decaying Greece and debauched Rome, it is so hideous that he cannot yet believe that he is not under the spell of a frightfur dream.

There have been many stories that he has lost his mind, but the truth is that he is still sane, but in a dazed, trance like condition, from which he is seldom roused. The first time he showed any signs of a realisation of the depths to which he had sunk was the second day of his imprisonment when he was put upon the treadmill. This awful remnant of prison discipline in former years has a wheel which the convicts must climb for six hours a day -— three hours in the forenoon, three hours in the afternoon. The speed of the wheel is 32ft a minute, and the convict who pauses while the wheel is in motion is struck and bruised by the edges of the ever-descending steps. At the end of every fifteen minutes there is a rest of five minutes. The second day Wilde, dazed and automatic, was led out and put upon the wheel. Mechanically he trod the steps for fifteen minutes, took the five minutes rest, and began again. In the second fifteen minutes he stopped, threw up his arms, gave vent to a horrible scream of anguish, and fell in a swoon. The prison surgeon examined him, and said his heart was in such a condition it would be dangerous to put him on the wheel again. So Wilde is allowed to sit in his cell. They throw in a quantity of oakum every morning, but he need not pick it unless he wishes to do so. Of late he has begun to pick the oakum. Any occupation is better than sitting idle and thinking, thinking, thinking.

The second arousing came through the gentle old chaplain, the Rev. W. Frederick Stockton, who visited Wilde in his cell before the latter had been there many days. Wilde, seated at the table, with his face buried in his hands, glanced at the old man, saw his occupation in the cut of his cloth, and flushed angrily.

"What do you mean by intruding yourself upon me?" he demanded.

The old man looked sympathetically at the fallen pagan, and said in his gentlest voice: "I wish to offer you the consolations of religion, and to help you to reflect upon your condition."

"I do not need the consolations of religion, and I am still capable of conducting my own reflections," said Oscar sneeringly.

"I hope you are not impenitent," the old clergyman next ventured.

Wilde jumped to his feet in a rage. "Impenitent?" he said, angrily. "What do you mean? How dare you insult me in this fashion? I am innocent of the crimes of which I am accused. You will kindly leave me at once."

Mr. Stockton insisted no further. He is waiting now for Wilde to get to work at the Bible. He feels that, sooner or later, he must read it, and, reading, soften to a more receptive frame of mind. He hopes also that Wilde will send for him. For he is allowed to see no one yet from the outside world but the chaplain or some other minister of revealed religion. And under the prison rules, which are strictly enforced, even the clergyman may not tell him any news, bring him any message, or talk to him on any subject not directly bearing upon the salvation of his soul.

Wilde still has his friends who believe firmly in his innocence, among them several women well known as writers. One of these women, wishing to send him a message of trust and hope, bethought her that a clergyman could get in to see him. But the first question asked of this clergyman was whether he came as a bearer of any message. He was too truthful to deny that he had a message, and was straightway turned away.

Oscar Wilde's wife is not one of these believers in him. She has taken another name, and, with her children, gone away to some quiet place on the Continent. She is a clever woman, and proposes to let no one know of her whereabouts, and to make the new name an honorable one for the children. Wilde will not hear from the outside world for three months. Many people believe he will go mad long before that time. But others think, with, good reason, that he is so facile and adaptable that he will gradually and easily slip into the prison routine, and keep his mind balanced by the entertainment his well-stored memory and vigorous imaginaition can give him. If this proves the correct diagnosis, then the prison life will do him a world of good. It will stay the rapid degeneration his dissipations had brought on, and will bring him back to the normal health of a well constituted man of 40 years.

Special Correspondence of The Inquirer.

LONDON, June 21.— How is Oscar Wilde bearing the strain of his new life as a convict in dreary Pentonville Prison? That is the question often asked nowadays by thousands over here who were dogged or scandalized by his epigrams, said or written. It has come in the way of the present writer to find out something about it that can be relied upon, as it comes from the best possible source.

The bare cell in which he has been confined, the limited diet, the hard routine of daily labor and the restriction in enjoyment to the reading of the Bible are detestable enough to the brutal and ignorant wretches—those "criminal classes" about whose knowledge of aesthetics Wilde spoke with such contempt. To Wilde it is so hideous that he cannot yet believe that he is not under the spell of some frightful dream. He is still sane, but in a dazed, trance-like condition from which he is seldom roused.

ON THE TREADMILL.

The first time he showed any sign of a realization of the depths to which he had sunk was the second day of his imprisonment, when he was put upon the treadmills. This awful remnant of prison discipline in former years has a wheel which the convict must climb for six hours a day, three hours in the forenoon and three hours in the afternoon.

The speed of the wheel is thirty-two feet a minute, and the convict who pauses while the wheel is in motion is struck and bruised by the edges of the ever-descending steps. At the end of every fifteen minutes there is a rest of five minutes. The second day Wilde, dazed and automatic, was led out and put upon the wheel. Mechanically he trod the step for fifteen minutes, took the five minutes rest and began again. In the second fifteen minutes he stopped, threw up his arms, gave vent to a horrible scream of anguish and fell in a swoon.

The prison surgeon examined him and said his heart was in such a condition that it would be dangerous to put him on the wheel again. So Wilde is allowed to sit in his cell. They throw in a quantity of oakum every morning, but he need not pick it unless he wishes to do so. Of late he has begun to pick the oakum. Any occupation is better than being idle and thinking, thinking, thinking.

THE CHAPLAIN'S VISIT.

The second arousing came through the gentle, earnest old plain, Rev. W. Frederick Stockton, whose duty as well as pleasure is to labor spiritually with the convicts. Wilde had not been in Pentonville many days before the old clergyman pushed timidly into his cell. Wilde flushed angrily.

"What do you mean by intruding yourself upon me?" he demanded.

The old man looked sympathetically at the fallen Pagan, and said in his gentlest voice:

"I wish to offer you the consolation of religion and to help you to reflect upon your condition."

"I do not need the consolation of religion, and I am still capable of conducting my own reflections," said Oscar, sneeringly.

"I hope you are not unrepentent," the old clergyman next ventured. Wilde jumped to his feet in a rage.

"Unrepentant," he said, angrily, "What do you mean? How dare you insult me in this fashion? I am innocent of the crimes of which I am accused. You will kindly leave me alone."

Mr. Stockton insisted no further. He is waiting now for Wilde to get to work at the Bible. He feels that sooner or later he must read it, and reading, soften to a more receptive frame of mind. He hopes also that Wilde will send for him. For he is allowed to see no one from the exterior world, but the Chaplain or some other minister of revealed religion. And under the prison rules, which are strictly enforced, even the clergyman may not tell him any news, bring him any messages or talk to him on any subject not directly bearing upon the salvation of his soul.

Oscar Wilde's wife is now a believer in him. She has taken another name, and with the children has gone away to some quiet place on the Continent. She is a clever woman and purposes to let no one know of her whereabouts and to make the new name an honorable one for the children. It is said that no one is in her secret.

Wilde will not hear from the outside world for three months. Many people believe he will go mad long before that time. But others think, and with reason, that he is so facile and adaptable that he will gradually and easily slip into the prison routine.