CHAPTER IX.
No season, it is said, is so beautiful as the brief northern summer.
Three-fourths of the year is cold and dark, and the ice-bound landscape is swept by snowstorm and blizzard.

Summer comes like a goddess; in a twinkling the snow vanishes and Nature puts on her robes of tenderest green; the birds arrive in flocks; flowers spring to life on all sides, and the sun shines by night as by day.

Such a summertide, so beautiful and so brief, was accorded to Oscar Wilde before the final desolation.
I want to give a picture of him at the topmost height of happy hours, which will afford some proof of his magical talent of speech besides my own appreciation of it, and, fortunately, the incident has been given to me.

Mr.Ernest Beckett, now Lord Grimthorpe, a lover of all superiorities, who has known the ablest men of the time, takes pleasure in telling a story which shows Oscar Wilde's influence over men who were anything but literary in their tastes.

Mr.Beckett had a party of Yorkshire squires, chiefly fox-hunters and lovers of an outdoor life, at Kirkstall Grange when he heard that Oscar Wilde was in the neighbouring town of Leeds.