I may now try and accentuate a trait or two of these photographs, so to speak, and then realise the whole portrait by adding an account given to me by Oscar himself.  The joy in humorous romancing and the sweetness of temper recorded by Sir Edward Sullivan were marked traits in Oscar’s character all through his life.  His care in dressing too, and his delight in stately editions; his love of literature “with a special leaning to poetry” were all qualities which distinguished him to the end.

“Until the last year of my school life at Portora,” he said to me once, “I had nothing like the reputation of my brother Willie.  I read too many English novels, too much poetry, dreamed away too much time to master the school tasks.

“Knowledge came to me through pleasure, as it always comes, I imagine....

“I was nearly sixteen when the wonder and beauty of the old Greek life began to dawn upon me.  Suddenly I seemed to see the white figures throwing purple shadows on the sun-baked palaestra; ’bands of nude youths and maidens’—­you remember Gautier’s words—­’moving across a background of deep blue as on the frieze of the Parthenon.’  I began to read Greek eagerly for love of it all, and the more I read the more I was enthralled: 

    Oh what golden hours were for us
        As we sat together there,
    While the white vests of the chorus
        Seemed to wave up a light air;
    While the cothurns trod majestic
        Down the deep iambic lines
    And the rolling anapaestics
        Curled like vapour over shrines.

“The head master was always holding my brother Willie up to me as an example; but even he admitted that in my last year at Portora I had made astounding progress.  I laid the foundation there of whatever classical scholarship I possess.”

It occurred to me once to ask Oscar in later years whether the boarding school life of a great, public school was not responsible for a good deal of sensual viciousness.

“Englishmen all say so,” he replied, “but it did not enter into my experience.  I was very childish, Frank; a mere boy till I was over sixteen.  Of course I was sensual and curious, as boys are, and had the usual boy imaginings; but I did not indulge in them excessively.

“At Portora nine out of ten boys only thought of football or cricket or rowing.  Nearly every one went in for athletics—­running and jumping and so forth; no one appeared to care for sex.  We were healthy young barbarians and that was all.”

“Did you go in for games?” I asked.

“No,” Oscar replied smiling, “I never liked to kick or be kicked.”

“Surely you went about with some younger boy, did you not, to whom you told your dreams and hopes, and whom you grew to care for?”

The question led to an intimate personal confession, which may take its place here.