acies of his own nature.

On the day of the last sitting a singular incident occurs. Lord Harry,
meeting with Dorian Gray for the first time, is no less impressed than
was Hallward, the artist, with the youth's radiant beauty and freshness.
But whereas Hallward would keep Dorian unspotted from the world, and
would have him resist evil temptations and all the allurements of
corruption, Lord Harry, on the contrary, with a truly Satanic ingenuity,
discourses to the young man on the matchless delights and privileges of
youth. Youth is the golden period of life: youth comes never again: in
youth only are the senses endowed with divine potency; only then are
joys exquisite and pleasures unalloyed. Let it therefore be indulged
without stint. Let no harsh and cowardly restraints be placed upon its
glorious impulses. Men are virtuous through fear and selfishness. They
are too dull or too timid to take advantage of the godlike gifts that
are showered upon them in the morning of existence; and before they can
realise the folly of their self-denial, the morning has passed, and
weary day is upon them, and the shadows of night are near. But let
Dorian, who is matchless in the vigour and resources of his beauty, rise
above the base shrinking from life that calls itself goodness. Let him
accept and welcome every natural impulse of his nature. The tragedy of
old age is not that one is old, but that one is young: let him so live
that when old age comes he shall at least have the satisfaction of
knowing that no opportunity of pleasure and indulgence has escaped
untasted.

This seductive sermon profoundly affects the innocent Dorian, and he
looks at life and himself with new eyes. He realizes the value as well
as the transitoriness of that youth and beauty which hitherto he had
accepted as a matter of course and as a permanent possession. Gazing on
his portrait, he laments that it possesses the immortality of loveliness
and comeliness that is denied to him; and, in a sort of imaginative
despair, he utters a wild prayer that to the portrait, and not to
himself, may come the feebleness and hideousness of old age; that
whatever sins he may commit, to whatever indulgences he may surrender
himself, not upon him but upon the portrait may the penalties and
disfigurements fall. Such is Dorian's prayer; and, though at first he
suspects it not, his prayer is granted. From that hour, the evil of his
life is registered upon the face and form of his p