Sydney Evening News - Friday, August 16, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
Wilde's Prison Life
OSCAR PICKING OAKUM.
RELIEVED FROM THE TREADMILL.
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.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently, he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he will soon be put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine’s works and some historical books.
LONDON, June 29.– 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 will soon be put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine’s works and some historical books.
LONDON, June 30. - Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently, he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he will soon be put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine's works and some historical books.
LONDON, June 30. - 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 he will soon be put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine's works and some historical books.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Kentonville prison is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put in treadmill. Consequently he is picking oakum, but it is understood that he will be soon put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Austin’s work and some books.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he will soon be put to making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine's works and some historical books. The Grand theatre announces the production of The Ideal Husband, and prints the author's name in large letters on the bill.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he will soon be put to making matches.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited him being put on the treadmill. Consequently, he is kept picking okum, but it is understood that he will soon be put on making matches. Recently he asked a friend to send him St. Augustine's works and some historical books. The Grand theatre announces the production of "The Ideal Husband," and prints the author's name in large letters on the bill.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently he is kept picking oakum, but, it is understood he will soon be put to making matches.
LONDON, June 29. - 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 will soon be put to making matches.
Oscar Wilde, who is confined in Pentonville Prison, is in good health, but the doctors have prohibited his being put on the treadmill. Consequently, he is kept picking oakum, but it is understood that he will be put to making matches. Wilde's plays are about to make their reappearance in the English theaters in London. The Grand Theater announces the production of "The Ideal Husband," and puts the author's name in large letters on the bills.
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 do not need the consolations of religion and I am still capable of conducting my own reflections," said Oscar sneeringly.
"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 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."
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."
"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."
"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 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.
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.
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 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.
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.
Wilde still has friends who believe 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 a 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.