It was on this visit to Lady Wilde, or a later one, that I first heard of that other poem of Oscar, “The Harlot’s House,” which was also said to have been written in Paris.  Though published in an obscure sheet and in itself commonplace enough it made an astonishing stir.  Time and advertisement had been working for him.  Academic lectures and imitative poetry alike had made him widely known; and, thanks to the small body of enthusiastic admirers whom I have already spoken of, his reputation instead of waning out had grown like the Jinn when released from the bottle.

The fuglemen were determined to find something wonderful in everything he did, and the title of “The Harlot’s House,” shocking Philistinism, gave them a certain opportunity which they used to the uttermost.  On all sides one was asked:  “Have you seen Oscar’s latest?” And then the last verse would be quoted:—­“Divine, don’t ye think?”

    “And down the long and silent street,
        The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
    Crept like a frightened girl.”

In spite of all this extravagant eulogy Oscar Wilde’s early plays and poems, like his lectures, were unimportant.  The small remnant of people in England who really love the things of the spirit were disappointed in them, failed to find in them the genius so loudly and so arrogantly vaunted.

But, if Oscar Wilde’s early writings were failures, his talk was more successful than ever.  He still tried to show off on all occasions and sometimes fell flat in consequence; but his failures in this field were few and merely comparative; constant practice was ripening his extraordinary natural gift.  About this time, too, he began to develop that humorous vein in conversation, which later lent a singular distinction to his casual utterances.

His talk brought him numerous invitations to dinner and lunch and introduced him to some of the best houses in London, but it produced no money.  He was earning very little and he needed money, comparatively large sums of money, from week to week.

Oscar Wilde was extravagant in almost every possible way.  He wished to be well-fed, well-dressed, well-wined, and prodigal of “tips.”  He wanted first editions of the poets; had a liking for old furniture and old silver, for fine pictures, Eastern carpets and Renascence bronzes; in fine, he had all the artist’s desires as well as those of the poet and viveur.  He was constantly in dire need of cash and did not hesitate to borrow fifty pounds from anyone who would lend it to him.  He was beginning to experience the truth of the old verse: 

    ’Tis a very good world to live in,
      To lend or to spend or to give in,
    But to beg or to borrow or get a man’s own,
      ’Tis the very worst world that ever was known.

The difficulties of life were constantly increasing upon him.  He despised bread and butter and talked only of champagne and caviare; but without bread, hunger is imminent.  Victory no longer seemed indubitable.  It was possible, it began even to be probable that the fair ship of his fame might come to wreck on the shoals of poverty.