A careless shepherd once would keep The flocks by moonlight there,[21]
And high amongst the glimmering sheep The dead men stood on air.
They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail: The whistles blow forlorn, And trains all night groan on the rail To men that die at morn.
There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night, Or wakes, as may betide, A better lad, if things went right, Than most that sleep outside.
And naked to the hangman"s noose The morning clocks will ring A neck G.o.d made for other use Than strangling in a string.
And sharp the link of life will snap, And dead on air will stand Heels that held up as straight a chap As treads upon the land.
So here I"ll watch the night and wait To see the morning shine When he will hear the stroke of eight And not the stroke of nine;
And wish my friend as sound a sleep As lads I did not know, That shepherded the moonlit sheep A hundred years ago.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes, Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!
And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam And heard the prayer the hangman"s snare Strangled into a scream.
And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the b.l.o.o.d.y sweats, None knew so well as I: For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die.
There are better things in "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" than those inspired by Housman. In the last of the three verses I quote there is a distinction of thought which Housman hardly reached.
"For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die."
There are verses, too, wrung from the heart which have a diviner influence than any product of the intellect:
The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave: Nor mark it with that blessed Cross That Christ for sinners gave, Because the man was one of those Whom Christ came down to save.
This too I know--and wise were it If each could know the same-- That every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame, And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim.
With bars they blur the gracious moon, And blind the goodly sun: And they do well to hide their h.e.l.l, For in it things are done That Son of G.o.d nor son of man Ever should look upon!
The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air: It is only what is good in Man That wastes and withers there: Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, And the Warder is Despair.
And he of the swollen purple throat, And the stark and staring eyes, Waits for the holy hands that took The Thief to Paradise; And a broken and a contrite heart The Lord will not despise.
"The Ballad of Reading Gaol" is beyond all comparison the greatest ballad in English: one of the n.o.blest poems in the language. This is what prison did for Oscar Wilde.
When speaking to him later about this poem I remember a.s.suming that his prison experiences must have helped him to realise the suffering of the condemned soldier and certainly lent pa.s.sion to his verse. But he would not hear of it.
"Oh, no, Frank," he cried, "never; my experiences in prison were too horrible, too painful to be used. I simply blotted them out altogether and refused to recall them."
"What about the verse?" I asked:
"We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill: We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill: And in the heart of every man Terror was lying still."
"Characteristic details, Frank, merely the _decor_ of prison life, not its reality; that no one could paint, not even Dante, who had to turn away his eyes from lesser suffering."
It may be worth while to notice here, as an example of the hatred with which Oscar Wilde"s name and work were regarded, that even after he had paid the penalty for his crime the publisher and editor, alike in England and America, put anything but a high price on his best work.
They would have bought a play readily enough because they would have known that it would make them money, but a ballad from his pen n.o.body seemed to want. The highest price offered in America for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" was one hundred dollars. Oscar found difficulty in getting even 20 for the English rights from the friend who published it; yet it has sold since by hundreds of thousands and is certain always to sell.
I must insert here part of another letter from Oscar Wilde which appeared in _The Daily Chronicle_, 24th March, 1898, on the cruelties of the English prison system; it was headed, "Don"t read this if you want to be happy to-day," and was signed by "The Author of "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."" It was manifestly a direct outcome of his prison experiences. The letter was simple and affecting; but it had little or no influence on the English conscience. The Home Secretary was about to reform (!) the prison system by appointing more inspectors. Oscar Wilde pointed out that inspectors could do nothing but see that the regulations were carried out. He took up the position that it was the regulations which needed reform. His plea was irrefutable in its moderation and simplicity: but it was beyond the comprehension of an English Home Secretary apparently, for all the abuses pointed out by Oscar Wilde still flourish. I can"t help giving some extracts from this memorable indictment: memorable for its reserve and sanity and complete absence of any bitterness:
"... The prisoner who has been allowed the smallest privilege dreads the arrival of the inspectors. And on the day of any prison inspection the prison officials are more than usually brutal to the prisoners. Their object is, of course, to show the splendid discipline they maintain.
"The necessary reforms are very simple. They concern the needs of the body and the needs of the mind of each unfortunate prisoner.
"With regard to the first, there are three permanent punishments authorised by law in English prisons:
"1. Hunger.
"2. Insomnia.
"3. Disease.
"The food supplied to prisoners is entirely inadequate. Most of it is revolting in character. All of it is insufficient. Every prisoner suffers day and night from hunger....
"The result of the food--which in most cases consists of weak gruel, badly baked bread, suet and water--is disease in the form of incessant diarrhoea. This malady, which ultimately with most prisoners becomes a permanent disease, is a recognised inst.i.tution in every prison. At Wandsworth Prison, for instance--where I was confined for two months, till I had to be carried into hospital, where I remained for another two months--the warders go round twice or three times a day with astringent medicine, which they serve out to the prisoners as a matter of course. After about a week of such treatment it is unnecessary to say that the medicine produces no effect at all.
"The wretched prisoner is thus left a prey to the most weakening, depressing and humiliating malady that can be conceived, and if, as often happens, he fails from physical weakness to complete his required evolutions at the crank, or the mill, he is reported for idleness and punished with the greatest severity and brutality. Nor is this all.
"Nothing can be worse than the sanitary arrangements of English prisons.... The foul air of the prison cells, increased by a system of ventilation that is utterly ineffective, is so sickening and unwholesome that it is not uncommon for warders, when they come into the room out of the fresh air, and open and inspect each cell, to be violently sick....
"With regard to the punishment of insomnia, it only exists in Chinese and English prisons. In China it is inflicted by placing the prisoner in a small bamboo cage; in England by means of the plank bed. The object of the plank bed is to produce insomnia. There is no other object in it, and it invariably succeeds. And even when one is subsequently allowed a hard mattress, as happens in the course of imprisonment, one still suffers from insomnia. It is a revolting and ignorant punishment.
"With regard to the needs of the mind, I beg that you will allow me to say something.
"The present prison system seems almost to have for its aim the wrecking and the destruction of the mental faculties. The production of insanity is, if not its object, certainly its result. That is a well-ascertained fact. Its causes are obvious. Deprived of books, of all human intercourse, isolated from every humane and humanising influence, condemned to eternal silence, robbed of all intercourse with the external world, treated like an unintelligent animal, brutalised below the level of any of the brute-creation, the wretched man who is confined in an English prison can hardly escape becoming insane."
This letter ended by saying that if all the reforms suggested were carried out much would still remain to be done. It would still be advisable to "humanise the governors of prisons, to civilise the warders, and to Christianise the Chaplains."
This letter was the last effort of the new Oscar, the Oscar who had manfully tried to put the prison under his feet and to learn the significance of sorrow and the lesson of love which Christ brought into the world.
In the beautiful pages about Jesus which form the greater part of _De Profundis_, also written in those last hopeful months in Reading Gaol, Oscar shows, I think, that he might have done much higher work than Tolstoi or Renan had he set himself resolutely to trans.m.u.te his new insight into some form of art. Now and then he divined the very secret of Jesus:
"When he says "Forgive your enemies" it is not for the sake of the enemy, but for one"s own sake that he says so, and because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own entreaty to the young man, "Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor," it is not of the state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that wealth was marring."
In many of these pages Oscar Wilde really came close to the divine Master; "the image of the Man of Sorrows," he says, "has fascinated and dominated art as no Greek G.o.d succeeded in doing."... And again:
"Out of the carpenter"s shop at Nazareth had come a personality infinitely greater than any made by myth and legend, and one, strangely enough, destined to reveal to the world the mystical meaning of wine and the real beauties of the lilies of the field as none, either on Cithaeron or Enna, has ever done. The song of Isaiah, "He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him," had seemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the prophecy was fulfilled."