The trial of Oscar Wilde : from the shorthand reports

The Trial

O

of

scar

Wild

The Trial

of

Oscar Wilde

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I The Trial

of

Oscar Wilde

FROM THE SHORTHAND REPORTS

Then gently scan your briiher man,
Still gentler, sister woman,
Though they may gang a' kennin wrang,
To step aside is human.

Robt. Burns.

V

»

PARIS
PRIVATELY PRINTED

PREFACE

" It is wrong for us during the greater part
of the time to handle these questions
with timidity and false shame, and to
surround them with reticence and mystery.
Matters relating to sexual life ought to
he studied without the introduction of
moral prepossessions or of preconceived
ideas . Talse shame is as hateful as frivo-
lity. It is a matter of pressing concern
to rid ourself of the old prejudice that we
"sully our pens" by touching upon
facts of this class. It is necessary at
all costs to put aside our moral, esthetic,
or religious personality, to regard facts
of this nature merely as natural phenomena,
with impartiality and a certain elevation
of mind.

PREFACE

7 blame equally as much those who take it upon
themselves to praise man, as those who make it
their business to blame him, together with others
who think that he should be perpetually amused ;
and only those can 7 approve wbo seek for truth
with tear- filled eyes.

Pascal.

In M T>e Profundis, " that harmonious and last
expression of the perfect artist, Wilde seems, in a
single page to have concentrated in guise of supreme
confession, all the pain and passion that stirred and
sobbed in his soul.

" This JVew Life, as through my love of Dante 7
like sometimes to call it, is of course no new life at all,
but simply the continuance, by means of development,
and evolution, of my former life. J remember when J
was at Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were
strolling round Magdalen s narrow bird-haunted walks
one morning in the year before J took my degree, that J
wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden
of the world, and that J was going out into the world

IV

PREFACE

with that passion in my soul. And so, indeed, 7 went
out and so J lived. My only mistake was that J
confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what
seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned
the other side for its shadow and its gloom. Failure,
disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, suffering, tears even,
the broken words that come from lips in pain, remorse
that makes one walk on thorns, conscience that condemns,
self-abasement that punishes, the misery that puts ashes
on its head, the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its
raiment and into its own drink puts gall : — all these
were things of which 7 was afraid. And as J had
determined to know nothing of them , J was forced to
taste each of them in turn, to feed on them, to have for
a season, indeed no other food at all. "

Further on, he tells us that his dominant desire
was to seek refuge in the deepest shade of the gar-
den, for his mouth was full of the bitterness of
the dead-sea fruit that he had tasted, adding that
this tomb-like aroma was the befitting and necessary
outcome of his preceding life of error.

We are inclined to think he deceived himself.

The day wherein he was at last compelled to face
the horror of his tragical destiny his soul was tried
beyond endurance. He strode deliberately, as he
himself assures us, towards the gloomiest nook of

PREFACE

the garden, inwardly trembling perhaps, but proud
notwithstanding... hoping against hope that the
sun's rays would seek him out even there... or in
other words, that he would not cease to live that
Bios theoretikps , which he held to be the greatest ideal.

" From the high tower of Thought we can look out
at the world. Calm, and self-centred, and complete,
the xsthetic critic contemplates life, and no arrow
drawn at a venture can pierce between the joints of
his harness. "

We all know what arrows struck him, arrows that
he himself had sharpened, and that Society had not
forgotten to tip with poison.

•* Neither his own heedlessness nor the envious
and hypocritical anger of his enemies, nor the
snobbish cruelty of social reprobation were the true
cause of his misfortunes. It was he himself who,
after a time of horrible anguish, consented to his
punishment, with a sort of supercilious disdain for
the weakness of human will, and out of a certain
regard and unhealthy curiosity for the sportfulness
of fate. Here was a voluptuary seeking for torture
and desiring pain after having wallowed in every
sensual pleasure... Could such conduct have been
due to aught else but sheer madness ?

The true debauchee has no such object. He seeks

Yl PREFACE

only for pleasure and discounts beforehand the con-
ditions that Life dictates for the same; the conditions
laid down containing no guarantee that the pleasure
will be actually grasped except only in promise and
anticipation. Later, too proud to acknowledge his
cruel disappointment, he will gravely assure us that
the bitterness left in the bottom of the goblet whose
wine he has quaffed, has indeed the sweet taste
that he sought after. Certain minds are satisfied
with the fantasmagoria of their intelligence, whereas
the voluptuary finds happiness only in the pleasure
of realisation. In his heart he concocts for himself
a prodigious mixture of sorrow and of joy, of suffer-
ing and of ecstacy, but the great world, wotting
naught of this secret alchemy and judging only
according to the facts which lie upon the surface,
slices down to the same level, with the same stupid
knife, the strange, beautiful flower, as well as the
evil weed that grew apace.

Remy de Gourmont said of the famous author, Paul
Adam, that he was " a magnificent spectacle." Wilde
may be pronounced a painful problem. He seems
to escape literary criticism in order to fall under the
keen scalping knife of the analytical moralist, by the
paradoxical fact of his apparently imperious purpose
to hew out and fashion forth his life as a work of art.

PREFACE VI 1

" Save here and there, in Intentions and in his
poems, the Poem ofJ{eading Gaol, nothing of his soul
has he thrown into his books; he seemed to desire,
one can almost postulate as a certainty, the stupen-
dous tragedy that blasted his life. From the abyss
where his flesh groaned in misery, his conscience
hovered above him contemplating his woeful state
whilst he thus became the spectator of his own
death-throes. " ( i )

That is the reason why he stirs us so deeply.

Those who might be tempted to search in his
work for an echo however feeble, of a new message
to mankind, will be grievously disappointed. The
technical cleverness of Wilde is undeniable, but the
magnificent dress in which he has clothed it appears
to us to have been borrowed. He has brought us
neither remedy nor poison ; he leads us nowhere,
but at the same time we are conscious that he has
been everywhere. No companion of ours is he, but
all the companions we hold dear he has known.
True he sat at the feet of the wise men of Greece in
the Gardens of Academus, but the eurythmy of
their gests fascinated him more than the soberness
of their doctrines. Dante he followed in all his
subterranean travels and peregrinations, but all that

(i) Hugues Rebel].

Ylll PREFACE

he has to relate to us after his frightful journeyings
is merely an ecstatic description of the highly-
wrought scenery that he had witnessed.

" 1 packed all my genius, said he, into my life, 1
have put only my talent into my works ". Unfaith-
ful to the principle which he learnedly deduced in
Intentions, viz : that the undivided soul of a writer
should incorporate itself in his work, even as
Shakespeare pushing aside the " impulses that
stirred so strongly within him that he had, as it
were perforce, to suffer them to realize their energy,
not on the lower plane of actual life, where they
would have been trammelled and constrained and
so made imperfect, hut on that of the imaginative
plane of art, "... he came to confound the intensity
of feeling with the calmness of beauty. Possessed
of a mind of rare culture, he nevertheless only
evoked, when he touched Art, harmonious vibrations
perhaps, but vibrations which others, after all said
and done, had already created before him. He
succeeded in producing nothing more than a splendid
and incomparable echo. The most that can be said
is that the music he had in his soul he kept there,
living all the time a crowded, ostentatious life, and
distinguishing himself as a superlative conversa-
tionalist. Be this as it may, posterity cannot judge

PREFACE IX

us according to those possibilities of our nature
which were never developed. However numerous
may be the testimonies in our favour, she cannot
pronounce excepting on the works, or at least, the
materials left by the workman. It is this which
renders so precarious the actor's fleeting glory, as
it likewise dissipates the golden halo that hovers over
the brilliant Society causeur. Nothing remains of
Mallarme excepting a few cunningly wrought verses,
inferior to the clearer and more profound poems of
his great master, Baudelaire. Of Wilde nothing
will remain beyond his written works which are vastly
inferior to his brilliant epigrammatic conversation.

In our days, the master of repartee and the after-
dinner speaker is fore-doomed to forgetful ness, for
he always stands alone, and to gain applause has to
talk down to and flatter lower-class audiences. No
writer of blood-curdling melodramas, no weaver of
newspaper novels is obliged to lower his talent so
much as the professional wit. If the genius of
Mallarme was obscured by the flatterers that sur-
rounded him, how much more was Wilde's talent
overclouded by the would-be witty, shoddy-elegant,
and cheaply-poetical society hangers-on, who cover-
ed him with incense? Om of his devoted literary
courtezans, who has written a life of Wilde, which

/

PREFACE

is nothing more than a rhapsodidal panegyric of his
intimacy with the poet, tells us that the first attempts
of the sparkling conversationalist were not at all
successful in Paris drawing-rooms. In the house of
Victor Hugo seeing he had to let the veteran sleep
out his nap whilst others among the guests slumbered
also, he made up his mind to astonish them. He suc-
ceeded, but at what a cost ! Although he was a verse
writer, most sincerely devoted to poetry and art,
and one of the most emotional and sensitive and
tender-hearted amongst modern wielders of the pen
he succeeded only in gaining a reputation for artifi-
ciality.

We all know his studied paradoxes, his five or six
continually repeated tales, but we are tempted to
forget the charming dreamer who was full of tender-
ness for everything in nature.

" It is true that Mallarme has not written much,
but all he has done is valuable. Some of his verses
are most beautiful whilst Wilde seemed never
to finish anything. The works of the English
aesthete are very interesting, because they charac-
terize his epoch ; his pages are useful from a
documentary point of view, but are not extraor-
dinary from a literary standpoint. In the Duchess
of Padua, he imitates Hugo and Sardou ; the

PREFACE XI

Picture of Dorian Grey was inspired by Huys-
mans ; Intentions is a vade-mecum of symbolism, and
all the ideas contained therein are to be found in
Mallarme and Villiers de 1' Isle -Adam. As for
Wilde's poetry, it closely follows the lines laid down
by Swinburne. His most original composition is
Poems in Prose, They give a correct idea of his
home-chat, but not when he was at his best; that no
doubt, is because the art of talking must always be
inferior to any form of literary composition.
Thoughts properly set forth in print after due correc-
tion must always be more charming than a finely
sketched idea hurriedly enunciated when conversing
with a few disciples. In ordinary table-talk we meet
nothing more than ghosts of new-born ideas fore-
doomed to perish. The jokes of a wit seldom survive
the speaker. When we quote the epigrams of Wilde,
it is as if we were exhibiting in a glass case, a collec-
tion of beautiful butterflies, whose wings have lost
the brilliancy of their once gaudy colours. Lively
talk pleases, because of the man who utters it, and
we are impressed also by the gestures which accom-
pany his frothy discourse. What remains of the
sprightly quips and anecdotes of such celebrated
hommes d' esprit, as Scholl, Becque, Barbey d'Aure-
villy! Some stories of the XVllIth. century have

Xll PREFACE

been transmitted to us by Chamfort, but only because
he carefully remodelled them by the aid of his clever
pen."(.)

These opinions of Rebell questionable though
they may be, show us plainly something of the charm
and the weakness of Wilde.

A perfect artist desiring to leave his mark on the
temple-columns of Fame must not live among his
fellow men ambitious to taste the bitterness and the
sweetness alike of every caress of existence, but
submit himself pitilessly to the thraldom of the
writing desk. Some authors may produce master-
pieces amidst the busy throng; but there are others
who lose all power of creation unless they shut
themselves up for a time and live severely by rote.
When Wilde was dragging out a wretched life in the
sordid room of a cheap, furnished hotel, where he
eventually died, did he ever remember while reading
Balzac by the flickering light of his one candle that
the great master of French literature often sought
solitude and wrestled for eighteen hours at a stretch
with the demon of severe toil ? Did he ever repeat
the doleful wail of the Author of La ComedieJiumaine
who was sometimes heard to exclaim in sad tones :

(i) Hugues Rebel).

PREFACE Xlll

" J ought not to have done that... J ought to have put
black on white, black on white... "

Few experiments are really necessary for the
literary creator who seeks to analyse the stuff of
which Life is composed in order to dissolve for us
all its elements and demonstrate its ever-present
underlying essence. The romance writer must stand
away from the crowd, if only for a time, and reflect
deeply upon what he has seen and heard. The
power of thought, to be free and fruitful, cannot
flourish without the strength of ascetism. We must
yield to that law which decrees that action may not be
the twin-sister of dreams. Those who live a life of
pleasure can only give us colourless falsehoods when
they try to depict sincerity of feeling. The confes-
sions of sensualists resemble volcanic ashes.

Wilde himself give us the key to his errors and his
weakness :

" Human life is the one thing worth investigating.
Compared to it there is nothing else of any value. It is
true that as one watches life in its curious crucible of
pain and pleasure, one cannot wear over one's face a
mask of glass nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troub-
ling the brain and making the imagination turbid with
monstrous fancies and misshappen dreams. There are
poisons so subtle that to know their properties one has to

X1Y PREFACE

sicken of them. There are maladies so strange that one
has to pass through them if one seeks to understand their
nature. Jlnd yet what a great reward one receives !
How wonderful the whole world becomes to one I To
note the curious, hard logic of passion and the emotional,
coloured life of the intellect — to observe where they
meet, and where they separate, at what point they are in
unison and at what point they are in discord — there is
a delight in that ! What matter what the cost is ?
One can never pay too high a price for any sensa-
tion. " (i)

The brain becomes dulled at this sport, which it
would be illusory to call a study. He who uses his
intellect to serve only his sensuality can produce
nothing elaborate but what is artificial. Such is the
dilemma of Wilde, whose collections of writings is
like a painted stage-scene, mere garish canvas, behind
which there is never anything substantial.

" When 1 first saw Wilde, he had not yet been
seared by the brand of general reprobation. Often
1 changed my opinion of him, but at first 1 felt the
enthusiasm which young literary aspirants always
feel for those who have made their mark; then the
law-suit took place, followed by the dramatic thunder-
clap of a criminal prosecution; and my soul revolt-

(1) Sebastian Melmoth (Oscar Wilde).

PREFACE XV

ed as if some great iniquity had been consummated.
Later on, it seemed to me that the man of fashion
had swallowed up the literary god, his baggage
seemed light, and his brilliant butterfly-life had
perhaps been of more importance to him than the
small pile of volumes bearing his name.

M To-day, 1 seem clearly to understand what sort
of a man he was— extraordinary beyond a doubt;
but never has artificial sentiment been so cunningly
mingled with seemingly natural simplicity and pulsat-
ing pleasure in one and the same man. " (i)

" J must say to myself that J ruined myself, and that
nobody great or small can he ruined except by his own
hand. 1 am quite ready to say so. J am trying to say
so, though they may not think if at the present moment.
This pitiless indictment J bring without pity against
myself Terrible as was what the world did to me,
what J did to myself was far more terrible still.

1 was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art
and culture of my age. J had realised this for myself
at the very dawn of my manhood, and had forced my
age to realise it afterwards. Tew men hold such a
position in their own lifetime, and have it so acknowled-
ged. It is usually discerned, if discerned at all, by the
historian, or the critic, long after both the man and his

(l) Hugues Rebel].

XVI PREFACE

age have passed away. With me it was different.
7 felt it myself, and made others feel it. "Byron was a
symbolic figure, hut his relations were the passion of his
age and its weariness of passion. Mine were to
something more noble, more permanent of more vital
issue, of larger scope.

The gods had given me almost everything. But 1 let
myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual
ease. 7 amused myself with being a flaneur, a dandy,
a man of fashion . 7 surrounded myself with the smaller
natures and the meaner minds. 1 became the spendthrift
of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave
me a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights,
7 deliberately went to the depths in the search for new
sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of
thought, perversity became tome in the sphere of passion.
Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or
both. 7 grew careless of the lives of others. 7 took
pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. 7 forgot
that every little action of the common day makes or
unmakes character, and that therefore what one has
done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry
aloud on the housetop. 7 ceased to be lord over myself.
7 was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not
know it. 7 allowed pleasure to dominate me. 7 ended in

PREFACE XY1I

horrible disgrace. There is only one thing for me now,
absolute humility. ( i ) "

This confession of irreparable defeat while being
exceedingly dolorous, is unfortunately, rendered
still further painful by other pages which contradict
it, and almost tempt us to doubt its sincerity, in spite
of the fact that Wilde was always sincere for those
who knew how to read between the lines and enter
into his spirit.

M There is no doubt that he was truly a most
extraordinary man, endowed with striking origina-
lity, but a man who at the same time took more than
uncommon care to hide his gifts under a cloak bought
in some conventional bazaar which made a point of
keeping abreast with the fashions of the day. " (2)

What brought about his downfall was the mad
idea that possessed him of the possibility of employ-
ing in the service of noble aspirations all, without
exception, all the passions that moved and agitated
his human soul. Everyone of us is, no doubt,
peopled at times with mysterious spirits, ephemeral
apparitions, which like the wild beasts that Christ
long ago cast out of the Gadarene swine, tear them-
selves to pieces in internecine warfare. It is with

(1) De Pro fund is.
(a) Hugucs Rebel!.

XV111 PREFACE

such soldiers as these, who very seldom obey the
superior orders of the higher intellect, or desert and
rebel against us at the opportune moment, that we
are called upon to withstand the onslaught of a
thousand enemies. Wilde made the grand mistake
of trying to understand them all. He believed that
they were capable of adapting themselves to that
powerful instinct which animated him, and which
directed him, wherever he wandered or wherever he
went, towards the spirit of Beauty. This error
lasted long enough perhaps to convince him of the
power that was born in him, but unfortunately, the
revelation of his error came too late.

My object in this preface is not to write the life
of Wilde.

1 have only to do with the Writer, for the Man is
yet too much alive and his wounds have scarcely
ceasedbleeding ! In the presence of still living sor-
row, crimson-tinged, respect commands us to stand
bareheaded; before the scarred face of woe the voice
is dumb; we should, above all, endeavour rather to
ignore the accidents that thrust themselves into a life
and try to discover the great, calm soul, beautiful in
its melancholy, which though pained and suffering,
has never ceased to be nobly inspired. To prove
that this was true in the case of Wilde, we may have

PREFACE XIX

recourse to some of those who knew him well and
who forri a great " cloud of witnesses, " testifying
to the veracity of the things we have laid down.

Mr. Arthur Symons, a keen and large-minded
critic, a friend of Wilde's, and an elegant and forcible
writer to boot, in his recent volume : H Studies in
Prose and Verse, " characterizes Wilde as a " poet of
attitudes, " and we cannot do better than quote a
few lines from the fine article which he consecrated
to our author :

" When the " Ballad of Heading Gaol " was
published, he said, it seemed to some people that such a
return to, or so startling a first acquaintance with , real
things, was precisely what was most required to bring
into relation, both with life and art an extraordinary
talent so little in relation with matters of common expe-
rience, so fantastically alone in a region of intellectual
abstractions. In this poem, where a style formed on other
lines seems startled at finding itself used for such new
purposes, we see a great spectacular intellect, to which,
at last, pity and terror have come in their own person,
and no longer as puppets in a play. Jn its sight, human
life has always been something acted on the stage ; a
comedy in which it is the wise mans part to sit aside and
laugh, but in which he may also disdainfully take part,
as in a carnival, under any mask- The unbiassed,

XX PREFACE

scornful intellect, to which humanity has never been a
burden, comes now to be unable to sit aside and laugh,
and it has worn and looked behind so many masks thai
there is nothing left desirable in illusion. Having seen,
as the artist sees, further than morality, but with so
partial an eyesight as to have overlooked it on the way,
it has come at length to discover morality in the only
way left possible, for itself And, like most of those
who, having "thought themselves weary, " have made
the adventure of putting thought into action, it has had
to discover it sorrowfully, at its own incalculable
expense. And now, having become so newly acquainted
with what is pitiful, and what seems most unjust, in
*he arrangement of human affairs, it has gone, not
unnaturally, to an extreme, and taken, on the one hand,
humanitarianism, on the other realism, at more than their
just valuation, in matters of art. It is that odd instinct
of the intellect, the necessity of carrying things to their
furthest point of development, to be more logical than
either life or art, two very wayward and illogical
things, in which conclusions do not always follow from
premises.

His intellect was dramatic, and the whole man was
not so much a personality as an altitude...

And it was precisely in his attitudes that he was most
sincere. They represented his intentions ; they stood for

PREFACE XXI

the better, unrealised part of himself. Thus his attitude,
towards life and towards art, was untouched by his
conduct; his perfectly just and essentially dignified
assertion of the artist's place in the world of thought and
the place of beauty in the material world being in nowise
invalidated by his own failure to create pure beauty or
to become a quite honest artist. A talent so vividly at
work as to he almost genius was incessantly urging him
into action, mental action.

Idealising as he did, that it is possible to be very
watchfully cognisant of that " quality of our moments
as they pass, " and so shape them after one's own ideal
much more continuously and consciously than most people
have ever thought of trying to do, he made for himself
many souls, souls of intricate pattern and elaborate colour,
webbed into infinite tiny cells, each the home of a strange
perfume, perhaps a poison. "Every soul had its own
secret, and was secluded from the soul which had gone
before it or was to come after it. And this showman
of souls was net always aware that he was juggling
with real things, for to him they were no more than the
coloured glass balls which the juggler keeps in the air,
catching them one after another. Tor the most part
the souls were content to be play 'things ; now and again
they took a malicious revenge, and became so real that
even the juggler was aware of it. But when they

XX11 PREFACE

became too real he had to go on throwing them into the
air and catching them, even though the skill of the game
had lost its interest for him. But as he never lost his
self-possession, his audience, the world, did not see the
difference. (1) "

Thus not wishing to live for himself, Wilde was
surprised into living mainly for others, and his ever-
present desire to astonish was one of the prime
causes that led to his overthrow. Yet, in spite of
this, what riches of the mind, one easily divines him
to possess, if for a moment we peer beyond the
mobile curtain of his paradoxes. Those who listen-
ed to him, this modern St. Chrysostom, on whose
lips there was ever an ambiguous smile, could not
fail to see that he spoke to himself, was occupied in
translating that which was passing in his mind, trying
in a sense, to ravish his auditors and plunge them even
into greater, though only ephemeral, ravishment,
whilst ushering them into an absolutely unreal and
immaterial kingdom of capricious fantasy, and they
will remember that he was sometimes astonishingly
profound and grave, and always charming, paradoxi-
cal, and eloquent. His mind constantly dwelt upon
the questions of Art and Aesthetics. In Intentions he
laid down serious problems, which in themselves

(i) Studies in Prose cr Verse, by Arthur Symons. (Lond. i$o5).

PREFACE XX111

bore every appearance of contradiction, and which
any attempt to resolve would, at the outset, appear
puerile and ambitious.

For instance :— Is lying a fundamental principle
of Art, that is to say, of every art?

Is it possible for there to be perfect concordance
between a finely ordered and pure life, and the
worship of Beauty; or, are we to consider such a
consummation as utterly impossible and chimerical ?

Must there be a permanent and necessary divorce
between Ethics and Aesthetics?

Ought we, beneath the flowery mask of a borrowed
smile, allow ourselves to be carried away by all
the waves of instinct?

The art of Criticism, is it superior to Art ? The
* f 1 nterpreter can he be superior to the creator ? Must
we modify the profound axiom, " to understand is to
equal, " not by reducing it to that other axiom,
more profound perhaps, " to understand is to
achieve, " but by modifying it with that, which, at
the first glance looks at least passingly strange " to
understand is to surpass ? "

Such are the questions which Wilde postulated in
Intentions and worked out with great audacity, but
with no higher object than to win admiration, and all

XX1Y PREFACE

this with the indifferent suppleness of a conjuror of
words.

Intentions is a study of artificial genius, culture,
and instinct, and, for this reason, it forms a most
curious production. In itself it can hardly be
termed a magistral work, inasmuch as all the theo-
ries enunciated in it are, at least, twenty years old,
and appear to us to-day quite worn out and decrepit.
As much may be said, also, for the theories put
forward by our young, contemporaneous artists who
undertake to discuss all things in Heaven and Earth,
and whose vapourings on Life, Nature, Social Art
and other things — especially other things— are no
more guaranteed against mortality than the doctrines
above specified. Let them remember, in reading
Wilde's work, that their Aesthetical doctrines will
soon become as antiquated, and that it is no bid for
lasting fame to write flashy novels, pretty verses,
high-flown or realistic dramas, pessimistic or opti-
mistic plays, imbued with Schopenhaurian and Nitz-
schien principles, since the crying need of the time
is for sincere work. All the doctrines ever invented
are mere tittle-tattle, only fit to amuse brainless
ladies wanting in beauty, or minds stricken with
positive sterility.

It is not inexact that in Intentions one meets with a

PREFACE XXV

profound truth now and again, but the dressing of it
is so paradoxical that we run a risk of misinterpreting
all that may animate it of genuine fitness and sincerity.

Wilde may truly be denominated the last repre-
sentative of that English art of the XlXth. century,
which beginning with Shelly, continuing with the
Pre-Raphaelites and culminating with the American
painter, Whistler, endeavours purposely to set forth
an ideal and elegant expression of the world.

The mistake of these men lies in the belief that
Art was made for Life; whereas it is, as a matter of
fact, quite the contrary. Life has no other value,
except as subject-matter, for poet and painter. These
are excentric theories, certainly, but then, what on
earth, does it matter about theories ? Do not they
serve the great artist to make his genius more puis-
sant, and enable him to concentrate all his forces in
the same direction by uniting instead of scattering
them? With, or in spite of his theories, Shelly
wrote his poems and Whistler painted his pictures ;
if their xsthetic basis was bad, one, at least, cannot
pretend that it was dangerous, since it enabled
them to accomplish their masterpieces. Wilde,
unfortunately, was an aesthete before he was a poet,
and produced his works somewhat in the spirit of
bravado. He had been told that he could not

XXY1 PREFACE

create aught of good : the reply, triumphant and
crushing was, the Picture of Dorian Grey. He is a
literary problem ; and in considering him, we are
struck with the unwarranted corruption, by his
acquaintances, of a fine artistic sensibility.

The fashionable drawing-rooms of the West-End
brought about his downfall, or rather, and it amounts
to the same thing : his frank and undisguised desire
to please and to dazzle them proved his undoing.
Possibly the same misfortune would have overtaken
Merimee, had it not been for his lofty and vigorous
intelligence; as it was, he lost more than once, most
precious time in composing " Chambres hleues, "
when he was undoubtedly capable of producing
another M Colomba, " and other variations of M Vases
etrusques. "

With all this, let us be thoroughly just; Intentions
is far from containing anything but mere paradoxes v
Those that we find there are at any rate of very
diverse kinds. Some are pure verbal amusements,
and may be thrust aside after the moment's attention
that they snatched from our surprise. Others
belong to a nobler family of ideas and awaken in us
the lasting and fecund astonishment of the paradox
which is born sound and healthy, because it con-
cerns a new truth. Into the mental landscape, these

PREFACE XXY11

paradoxes introduce that sudden change of perspec-
tive, which forces the mind to rise or to descend,
and thus causes us to discover other horizons.
What a grievous error would it be on our part not
to feel something of that immense and exhaustive
love of beauty which haunted the soul of Wilde until
the bitter end? However artificial his work may
appear at the first glance, there is still sufficient left
of the man which was incomparable. We instinctive-
ly feel that he belonged to the chosen race of those
upon whom the " spirit of the hour " had laid his
magic wand, and who give forth at the cunning touch
of the Magician some of the finest notes of which
our stunted human nature is capable. Men thus
endowed, enjoy the rare privilege of being unable
to proffer a single word, without our perceiving
however confusedly, the splendid harmony of an
almost universal accompaniment of ideas. The
choir, their eyes fixed upon the eyes of the master-
musician, follows his inspired gestures with jealous
care, and seeks to interpret his every nod and move-
ment.

None but an artist could have written the admir-
able pages on Shakespeare, Greek Art, and other
elevated themes that are to be found in the works
of Oscar Wilde.

XXY11 PREFACE

More than an artist was he, who noted down the
suggestive thought : that the humility of the matter
of a work of art is an element of culture. If there-
fore, we hear him exclaim that M thought is a
sickness, " we must bear in mind that this is simply
an analysis of the phrase : " We live in a period whose
reading is too vast to allow it to become wise, and
which thinks too much to be beautiful. "

Our eyes can no longer penetrate the esoteric
meaning of the statues of the olden times, beautiful
with glorified animality, and which have alas, become
for us little more than the tongue-tied offspring of
the inspiring god Pan, dead beyond all hope of
rebirth. Our brains have become stupified through
the heaviness of the flesh, and this, perhaps, because
we have treated the flesh as a slave.

" The worship of the senses, wrote Wilde, has often,
and with much justice, been decried ; men feeling a
natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations
that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are
conscious of sharing with the less highly-organised forms
of existence. But it is probable the true nature of the
senses has never been understood, and that they have
remained savage and animal merely because the world
has sought to starve them into submission or to kill them
by pain , instead of aiming at making them elements of a

PREFACE XXIX

new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty will
be the dominant characteristic. " (i).

In these lines, we may perhaps find the key of a
certain metamorphosis in the poet's life, before Circe,
that terrible sorceress, had passed his way.

' ' Who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
And downward fell into a grovelling swine ? ".

[Milton : Comus, 5o-53.)

The infant King of Rome, we are told, looking
out from a window of the Louvre one day, at the
muddy street where young children were playing,—
sad in the midst of a perfumed and divinely flattering
court, — cried out : " I too, would like to roll myself
in that beautiful mud. " We are inclined to think
from a sentimental outlook, that Wilde also had the
same morbid desire; but, he was worth better things;
and there were times in his life when serene aspir-
ations moved his heart before he sat down to the
festive board of Sin.

He had a pronounced tendency towards the
discipulat ; used to question youths about their
studies and their mind, showing as much interest in

(i) Sebastian Melmoth.

XXX PREFACE

them as a spiritual confessor, inebriating himself
with their enthusiasm, and surrounding himself more
and more with a medley of different friends. A
vigorous pagan, ardent, intoxicated with souvenirs
of Antiquity, heart-sick of his worldly successes, he
dreamed perhaps of living over again :

Ces heroiques jours oil les jeunes pensees
Jillaient chercher leur miel aux levres d'un Platon.

But this artificiel de I'art was, although he wotted
it not, a man who rioted in the good things of life.
He sought to inculcate in himself a quiet spirit
which believes itself invulnerable.

And when we reach the true culture that is our aim,
we attain to that perfection of which the saints have
dreamed, the perfection of those to whom sin is imposs-
ible, not because they make the renunciations of the
ascetic, but because they can do everything they wish
without hurt to the soul, and can wish for nothing that
can do the soul harm, the soul being an entity so divine
that it is able to transform into elements of a richer ex-
perience, or a finer susceptibility, or a newer mode of
thoughts, acts or passions that with the common would
be commonplace, or with the uneducated ignoble, or with
the shameful vile, t {m).

(}) Intentions.

PREFACE XXXI

This passage shows us a state of things very far
removed from the old dream of antiquity.

He forgot, alas ! the puritanism and sublime dis-
courses of Diotime, which have been so finely pic-
tured for us by Plato, to wallow in the orgies of the
Island of Capria.

Before that Criminal Court, where he vainly
struggled so as " not to appear naked before men,"
we hear him proclaim what he had himself desired and
perhaps attained.

What interpretation, asked the judge, can you give
us of the verse :

7 am the Love which dares not tell its name

M The Love referred to', replied Wilde, " is that
which exists between a man of mature years and a
young man ; the love of David and of Jonathan. It
is the same love that Plato made the basis of his
philosophy; it is that love which is sung in the
Sonnets of Shakespeare and of Michael-Angelo ; it
is a profound spiritual affection, as pure as it is
perfect. It is beautiful, pure and noble ; it is intel-
lectual, the love of a man possessing full experience
of life, and of a young man full of all the joy and all
the hope of the future ".

There in that struggle in the midst of thick dark-

XXXII PREFACE

ncss, this must have been the cry of his tormented
soul, a breath of pure air as he passed, a perfumed
memory... then there came a few arrow flights badly
winged which only wounded his own heart.

He defended himself in an indifferent way accord-
ing to some people, although it must be admitted
that he gave the answers that were necessary and
becoming, and, in some cases, compelled his judges,
who were no better than the mouth-pieces of the
crowd, to confess the hatred that the worship of
beauty had inspired.

" However strange may have been his attitude,
that attitude could not have been indifferent to
anyone. Those who have been fortunate enough to
laugh at the portrait that Rene Boylesve has drawn
of the aesthete in his fine novel H Le Parfum des
lies Borromees, M would find it difficult to make a
mock of the man who accepted with superb disinter-
estedness, the torture that he knew beforehand the
judges would inevitably inflict upon him.

Although he may not have been a great poet,
although the pretext of his equivocal mode of living
was taken to condemn him, we cannot lose sight of
the art and of the literary craftsman that were
condemned at the same time with him. M (i).

(l) Hugucs Rebel! .

PREFACE XXXI II

We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British
public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In gen-
eral, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels, pass with
little notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for a
day, and forget it. But once in six or seven years our
virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws
of religion and decency to be violated. We must make
a stand against vice. We must teach libertines that
the 'English people appreciate the importance of domes-
tic ties. Accordingly some unfortunate man, in no res-
pect more depraved than hundreds whose offences have
been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory
sacrfiice. If he has children , they are to be taken from
him. If he has a profession, he is to be driven from
it. He is cut by the higher orders, and hissed by the
lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whipping-boy, by
whose vicarious agonies all the other transgressors of
the same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chas-
tised, (j)

This bitter denunciation of English mock-modesty
by the brilliant Essayist rests upon thoroughly justi-
fiable grounds. Once again in the dolorous history
of humanity, the grotesque farce was enacted of
chasing forth the scapegoat into the wilderness to
bear away the sins of the people. But, in this

(j) Macaulay.

XXXIV PREFACE

instance, the unhappy creature was not only laden
with the sins of the tribe; a heavier burden still had
been added to all the others : the fearful burden of
the mad, unreasoned hatred of the sinners. Indeed
he, whose share in the general load of sin was the
greatest, sought to add more hatred than all the
others to the great fardel under which the victim
staggered, and believing himself so much the more
innocent that the abjection of the unfortunate wretch
was complete, would have been glad had it been in
his power to help even the public hangman in the
execution of his nefarious task. We have observed
that through some diabolical strain in human nature,
the evil joy which creates scandal and gives rise to
a man's downfall, increases in intensity if the victim
happens to be a man of superior rank and talent.

On voit briller au fond dts prunelles haineuses,
L'orgueil mysterieux de souiller la Beaute.

How great must have been the delighted intoxi-
cation of numberless weak minds when they were
impelled, in the midst of a silence that braver and
clearer spirits dared not break, to screech out voci-
ferations against Art and Thought, denouncing these
as the accomplices of the momentary aberrations of
him who erstwhile worshipped at their shrine.

PREFACE XXXY

Here in France at least, men knew better how to
restrain themselves, and there were even a few coura-
geous wielders of talented pens who did not hesitate
to use their abilities in favour of their Anglo-Saxon
colleague. Hugues Rebell published in the Mercure
de Trance that Defense a" Oscar Wilde, the calm and
tempered logic of which is still fresh to many minds.
A number of writers and artists even held a meeting
of protestation; but, of course, all this had not the
slightest effect on the judicial position of Wilde.
It was generally felt that the ferocious outcry raised
against the unhappy man " who had been found
out " was because that man was a poet, and not so
much because he had gone counter to the manners
of his time. Amongst all the mingled shouting and
laughter, the arguments for and the arguments
against, the voice of one man was heard stentorian
and clear above all the rest, that voice belonged to
Octave Mirbeau, a puissant master of the French
tongue, and a brilliant writer and dramatist. The
following lines of suppressed anger and large-minded
charity emanated from his pen :

1 ' A great deal has been heard about the paradoxes
of Oscar Wilde upon Art, Beauty, Conscience and
Life ! Paradoxes they were, it is true, and we know
that some laid themselves open to the charge of exagger-

XXXVI PREFACE

ation, and vaulted over the threshold of the Forbidden.
But after all, what is a paradox if not, for the most
part of the time, the exaltation of an idea in a striking
and superior form ? As soon as an idea overleaps the
low-level of ordinary popular understanding, having
ceased to drag behind it the ignoble stumps gathered in
the swamps of middle-class morality, and seeks with
strong, steadfast wing, to attain the lofty heights of Phi-
losophy, Literature or Art, we at once stigmatize it as
a paradox, because, unable ourselves to follow it into
those regions which are inaccessible to us, through the
weakness of our organs, and we make haste to scotch it
and put it under ban by flinging after it curse-laden cries
of blame and contempt.

And yet, strange as it may seem, progress cannot be
made save by way of paradox, whilst much vaunted
common sense— the prized virtue of the imbecile— per-
petuates the humdrum routine of daily life. The truth
is, we refuse to allow anyone to come and outrage our
intellectual sluggishness, or our morality, ready-made
like second-hand clothes in a dealer s shop, or the stupid
security of our sheepish preconceptions.

Looked at squarely, that was the veritable crime in
the minds of those who sat in judgment on Oscar
Wilde.

They could not forgive him for being a thinker, and

PREFACE XXXY1J

a man of superior intellect — and for that self-same rea-
son eminently dangerous to other men. Wilde is young
and has a future before him, and he has proved by the
strong and charming works which he has already given
us that he can still do much more in the cause of Beauty
and Art. Must we not then admit that it is an abomi-
nable thing to risk the killing of something far above all
laws, and all morality : the spirit of beauty, for the sake
of repressing acts which are not really punishable per
se.

For laws change and morality becomes transformed
with the transformations of time, with the changeing of
latitude and longitude, but beauty remains immaculate,
and sheds her light far over the centuries that she alone
can rescue from obscurity. "

With these magnificent words of one of the great
masters of French prose, we would gladly terminate
the present study ; but it remains for us to cite the
following from the pen of our lately deceased friend,
Hugues Rebell, who possessed not only acumen and
erudition, but employed a brilliant style and ready
wit in the expression of his thoughts :

" Will a day ever come, wrote he, when the deeds
of men will be no more judged in the name of reli-
gion and morality, but from the point of view of
their social importance ? When the misdemeanours

XXXYJJ] PREFACE

of a man of wit and of genius, or a clever, elegant
man of fashion, shall no longer be judged by the
same law as that which condemns a stolid navvy or
a dockyard hand? Far from believing in our much
belauded progress, 1 am inclined alas, to think that
we are really far behind our forefathers in tolerance,
and above all in the ideas that govern our idea of
social equality. The downfall of the sentiment of
hierarchy seriously compromises the existence of
some of the best men amongst us. It is not crime
merely which is tracked and hounded down, but all
that strays aside for a moment from e very-day habits
and customs. So-and-so, because he is not like
other people inspires aversion, even horror on the
part of those who take off their hats most respect-
fully to the successful swindler; and whilst the
Police complacently allow the perpetration in our
great cities of robberies and murders, they make a
raid on the unfortunate bookseller who happens to
have stowed away carefully in his back-shop, a few
illustrations where the high deeds and gestures of
Venus are too faitfully reproduced. These paltry
persecutions would only serve to bring a smile to
our lips were it not that everyone is more or less
exposed to their arbitrary measures. Men are far
less free to-day than they formerly were, because

PREFACE XXXIX

they are too much dominated by a large number of
ignorant and groundless prejudices. Ferocious gaol-
ers fetter and imprison their minds for their greater
overthrow ; no longer do they believe in God,
whilst giving implicit faith to vain Science which,
making small account of the great diversity of cha-
racter and temperament amongst human beings,
holds up for unique example, a healthy and virtuous
individual who never had any real existence except
in the imagination of fools ; and whilst no longer
following any of the old religions, they submit
themselves with equanimity to the condemnation of
so-called Human Justice, which more often than not
is radically venal, and impresses them far more than
did in olden times, the ex-communicating bulls of
Popes who had usurped the authority of God. "

As for the sentence of hard labour passed upon
Wilde, a description would fail to convey to the
inexperienced reader a full idea of its barbarous
severity. Sir Edward Clarke, the counsel for the
defense, gave substantially the following reply to
the representative of a Paris newspaper :

" My opinion is that Oscar Wilde will work out
his sentence. He has received the heaviest punish-
ment that it was possible to inflict upon him.
You cannot possibly form any notion of the extreme

PREFACE

severity of " hard labour ", which is implacable in
its rigime of absorbing and exigent regularity.

" Oscar Wilde, who wore his hair long like the
esthete he was, was obliged to undergo the indi-
gnity of having it cut close, and wearing the sack-
cloth suit bearing the broad -arrow mark of the
convict. Thrust into a small narrow cell with only
a bed, or rather a wooden plank in guise of a bed,
for all his furniture, — a bed without a matress, and
with a bolster made of wood, this talented man was
made to pass the long weary months of his mar-
tyrdom.

" The '* labour " given him to do was absolutely
ridiculous for a man of his bent; first of all for a
certain number of hours, he had to sit on a stool in
his cell and disentangle and reduce to small quan-
tities ship-rope of enormous size used for docking
ocean liners, the only instruments allowed him to
effect the work being a nail and his own fingers.
The result of this painful and atrocious penitence
was to tear and disfigure his hands beyond all hope.
After that he was conducted into a court where
he had to displace a certain number of cannon-balls,
carrying them from one place to another and arrang-
ing them in symmetrical piles. No sooner was this
edifying labour terminated, than he had himself to

PREFACE XL1

undo it all and carry back the cannon-balls one by
one to the place from whence he had first taken
them.

" Then finally, he was made to work the tread-mill
which is a harder task than those even that we
have endeavoured faintly to describe. Imagine if
you can, an enormous wheel in the interior of which
exist cunningly arranged winding steps. Wilde,
mounting on one of the steps, would immediately set
the wheel in motion by the movement of his feet ;
then the steps follow each other under the feet in
rapid and regular evolution, thus forcing the legs to
a precipitous action which becomes laborious, ener-
vating, and even maddening after a few minutes.
But this enervating fatigue and suffering the convict
is obliged to overcome, whilst continuing to move
his legs for all they are worth, if he would escape
being knocked down, caught up and thrown over,
by the revolving movement of the wheel. This
fantastical exercise lasts a quarter of an hour, and
the wretch obliged to indulge in it, is allowed five
minutes rest before the silly game recommences.

"The convict is always kept apart and not allowed
to speak even to his gaoler except at certain mo-
ments. All correspondence and reading is forbid-
den, save for the Bible and Prayer book placed at

XL11 PREFACE

the head of the wooden plank, which serves him for
a bed ; and relatives are not admitted to see him
excepting at the end of the year.

" His food consists of meat and black bread, and
of course only water is allowed. The meal-times
take place at fixed hours, for naturally he has to follow
a regular regime, in order to accomplish the hard
labours that are incumbent upon him.

" Many of the convicts have been known to say,
on coming out of prison, that they would have far
more preferred to pass ten years in penal servitude
than work out two years of hard labour. The
moral suffering men like Oscar Wilde are forced to
undergo is probably superior even to their physical
distress, and 1 can only repeat that this labour is the
severest which the laws of England impose.

Wilde endured this martyrdom to the bitter end,
the only favour allowed him being permission,
towards the end of the time, to read a few books
and to write. He read Dante in his entirety,
dwelling longer over the poet's description of Hell
than anything else, because here he recognized
himself " at home ".

Before the doors of the gaol had been bolted on
him, he wrote with a pen that had been dipped in

PREFACE XLIH

colourless ink, letters of tears, sobs and pains, which
were issued to the world only after the unhappy
man had winged his flight for another planet.
Those letters bear every mark of the deepest sincer-
ity. They are not so much literature as the wail
of a broken heart, which had attached itself to the
only human affection he believed was still faithful
to him. It is impossible to treat lightly the passion-
ate anguish which refrains from expressing itself
with the same intensity as the sorrows it had suffer-
ed, stricken with infinite sadness at the utter ship-
wreck of all hope and the cowardice of the human
nature that had brought him to such low estate.

That he should have conjured up the happy times
he had seen decked out in all the charming graces
of youth, and which smiled back his visage from the
limpid mirror of his marvellously artistic intelli-
gence, is only perfectly natural; and this evocation
of happier times took on a new and horribly strange
beauty, just as the feeblest ray of light stealing
through prison walls gains in puissance from the
sheer opacity of enveloping darkness.

1 will not stop here to enquire whether he found
later the consolation he so much desired, a haven of
peace in the friendship of the aristocratic adolescent,
who had unwittingly caused him to become cast-

XL1V PREFACE

a-way. li is highly probably that the bitter
words which Andre Gide heard him utter, referred
to that unfortunate intimacy : " No, he does not
understand me ; he can no longer understand me.
1 repeat to him in each letter ; we can no more fol-
low together the same path ; you have yours, and it
is certainly beautiful ; and 1 have mine. His path is
the path of Alcibiade, whilst mine henceforth must
be that of St. Francis of Assisi. "

His last most important work in prose : De Pro fun-
dis, which reveals him to us under an entirely diffe-
rent aspect, although, pratically always the same man,
shows that he is still engrossed with the perpetual
love of attitudinizing, dreaming perhaps, that in spite
of his sorrow and repentance, he will be able to take
up again and sing, although in an humbler tone, the
pagan hymn that had been strangled in his throat.
In this connection, we cannot help thinking of the
gesture of the great Talma, who whilst he lay a-dying,
although he knew it not, took the pendant skin of
his thin neck, between his fingers, and said to those
who stood around : " Here is something which
would suit finely to make up a visage for an old
Tiberius. M

It seems to us that the chief characteristic of
Wilde's book is not so much its admirable accent as

PREFACE XLY

its subtle irony, through which there seems to thrill
the reply of Destiny to the haughty resolutions that
he had undertaken. It is as though Death itself
rose up from each page to sneer and chuckle at the
master-singer ; and few things are more bitter on
the part of this poet — who had with his own hands
ensepulchred himself as a willing holocaust to the
deceitful gods of factitious Art, — than the constant
appeals that he makes to Nature. The song no
longer rings with the old regal note ; there is none
of the trepidating joy of a Whitman, or the yielding
sweetness of an Emerson; our ear detects only the
melopceia of a heart which had been wounded in its
innermost recess.

1 ' J tremble with pleasure when J think that on the
very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and
the lilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that J shall
see the wind stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of
the one, and make the other toss the pale purple of its
plumes so that all the air shall be Arabia for me. " (j)

These are the words of a convalescent; of a man
newly risen from a bed of sickness anticipating a
richer and fuller life, unknowing that the uplifted
hand of Death suspended just above him, was des-
tined to strike him down at brief delay.

(i) De Profundi*, 190$.

XLY1 PREFACE

In the darkness of his prison cell, he dreams of
the mysterious herbs that he will find in the realms
of Nature ; of the balms that he shall ferret out
amongst the plants of the earth, and which will bring
peace for his anguish, and deep-seated joy for the
suffering that racked his brain.

" But Nature, whose sweet rains fall on the unjust
and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where J
may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence 1 may weep
undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that
7 may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling,
and send the wind over my footprints so that none may
track me to my hurt : she will cleanse me in great
waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole. " (j)

In presence of this beautiful passage, it is painful
to remember how his hopes were fated to be shat-
tered by the cruellest of disappointments, and how
he was doomed to die in the grey desolation of a
poverty-haunted room.

Before drawing this notice to a close, it were not
unfitting to recall another name, borne by a Poet
of wayward genius, who likewise wandered astray
in a forest of more than Dantean darkness, because
the right way he had for ever lost from view. That
Poet was a poet of France, and the voice of his

(i) De Profundi*, 1905.

PREFACE XLY1I

glory and the echo of the songs he chanted resounded
with that proud and melodious note of genius which
can never weary human ears. Although this poet
led a life which can be compared only to the life of
Oscar Wilde, he belonged to an order of mentality
which differs too greatly in its essential features to
allow the accidents of the career of the two men
being used as a basis for comparing them closely
together on the intellectual plane.

Verlaine belonged to that race of poets who dis-
tinguish themselves by their perfect spontaneity ; he
was a veritable poet of instinct, and had heard voices
which no other mortal had heard before him on
earth. In place of the metallic verses of his prede-
cessors, the verses that for the most part are spoken
by linguistic artists, he created a sort of ethereal
music, a song so sweet and so penetrating that it
haunts us eternally like the low, passionate, whisper-
ings of a lover's voice. He gave us more than royal
largesse of a wonderful and delicious soul, that had
no part or lot in time, a music that was created for
his soul alone ; and we have willingly forgotten
many a haughtier voice for the bewitching strains
that this baptised faun played for us with such
artless joy on his forest-grown reed.

The English poet was more complex and perhaps

XLV11I PREFACE

less shcerly human ; and even his errors have no
other origin than the perpetual effort to astonish
us; whilst above all, that which staggers us most
and stirs us so profoundly is that these self-same
errors, which had come into life under such innocent
conditions, became terribly real in virtue of that
imperious law which compels certain minds to ren-
der their dreams incarnate.

As for his work, however finely polished, how-
ever exquisite it may be and undoubtedly is, we have
to confess that it has no power to move our souls
into high passion and lofty endeavour ; although
it might easily have sufficed to conquer celebrity
for more than one ambitious literary craftsman.
But we feel, with regard to Wilde, that we had a
legitimate right to insist on the accomplishment of
far greater things, a more sincere and genuine out-
put, and are so much more dissatisfied because we
clearly see the great discord betwen the man who
palpitated with intense life, and the esthetic dandy
whose cleverness overreached itself when he tried to
work out that life on admittedly artificial lines.

This extraordinary divorce between intelligence
and will-power was that which gave rise to the strik-
ing drama of Wilde's eareer ; albeit the word drama
looks strange and out of place, if applied only to the

PREPACE XL1X

sorrow-filled period that crowned with thorns the
latter end of his brilliant existence, if it be used for
no other reason than to particularize the great catas-
trophe that took place in the sight of all the world.
The fact is, the man's entire life was one perpetual
drama. Throughout the whole course of his exis-
tence, he persistently sought after and that with
impunity, all sorts of excitants that could at last no
longer be disguised under the name of experiences —
and no doubt, others more terrible still that fall
under no human laws, would have come finally to
swell the ranks of their forerunners — and then, had
the hand of Destiny not arrested him in his course,
he would have wound up by descending so low
that the artistic life of his soul would have been for-
ever extinguished.

That, when all is said and done, would have been
the veritable, the irremediable tragedy.

Fortunately, royal intellects such as these, can
never utterly die, and therein consists their greatest
chastisement. Spasmodic movements agitate them,
revealing beneath their mendacious laughter the
secret agony of their souls ; and we are suddenly
called upon to witness the heart-rending spectacle
of the slow death-agony of a haughty, talented poet,
a Petronius self-poisoned through fear of Caesar or

PREFACE

a Wilde whom a vicious and over-wrought Public
had only half assassinated, raising his poor, glazed
eyes towards the marvellous Light of Truth, whose
glorious vision, we know by the sure voice that
comes " from the depths, " he had caught at last

Oscar Wilde had desired to live a pagan's free and
untramelled life in Twentieth-century England,
forgetful of the enormous fact that no longer may
we live pagan-wise, for the shadow of the Cross has
shed a steadily increasing gloom over the conditions
that enlivened the joyous existence of olden times.

C. G.

«3&

The Trial
of

Oscar Wilde.

" In all men's hearts a slumbering
swine lies low ", says the French poet ;
so come ye, whose porcine instincts
have never been awakened, or if rampant
successfully hidden, and hurl the big-
gest, sharpest stones you can lay your
hands on at your wretched, degraded,
humiliated brother, who has been found
out.

The Trial
of

Oscar Wilde

The life and death of Oscar Wilde, poet, play-
wright, poseur and convict, can only fittingly be
summarised as a tragedy. Every misspent life is a
tragedy more or less; but how much more tragic
appear the elements of despair and disaster when
the victim to his own vices is a man of genius
exercising a considerable influence upon the thought
and culture of his day, and possessing every advan-
tage which birth, education, talent and station can
bestow? Oscar Wilde was more than a clever and
original thinker. He was the inventor of a certain
literary style, and, though his methods, showy and
eccentric as they were, lent themselves readily to
imitation, none of his followers could approach their
*' Master M in the particular mode which he had made

4 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

his own. There can be two opinions as to the merits
of his plays. There can be only one judgment as
to their daring and audacious originality. Of the
ordinary and the commonplace Wilde had a horror,
which with him was almost a religion, He was
unmercifully chaffed throughout America when he
appeared in public in a light green suit adorned with
a large sunflower ; but he did not don this out-
rageous costume because he preferred such startling
clothing. He adopted the dress in order to be
original and assumed it because no other living man
was likely to be so garbed. He was consumed,
in fact, with overpowering vanity. He was pos-
sessed of a veritable demon of self-esteem. He ate
strange foods, and drank unusual liquors in order
to be unlike any of his contemporaries. His eccen-
tricities of dress continued to the end. On the first
night of one of his plays — it was a brilliant
triumph — he was called upon by an enthusiastic
audience for the customary speech. He was much
exercised in his mind as to what he could say that
would be unconventional and sensational. No mere
platitudes or banalities for the author of " Lady
Windermere's Fan, " who made a god of the spirit
of Epigram and almost canonized the art of Repartee.
He said, V Ladies and Gentlemen : 1 am glad you

The Death-bed of genius 5

like my play. 1 like it very much myself too, "
which, if candid, was hardly the remark of a modest
and retiring author. The leopard cannot change his
spots and neither can the lion his skin. Even in
his beautiful book, " De Profundis " — surely the
most extraordinary volume of recent years — the
man's character is writ so plainly that he who runs
may read. Man of letters, man of fashion, man of
hideous vices, Oscar Wilde remained to the last mo-
ment of his murdered life, a self-conscious egotist.
" Gentlemen, " he gasped on his death-bed, hearing
the doctors express misgivings as to their fees, " it
would appear that I am dying beyond my means! "
It was a brilliant sally and one can picture the
startled faces of the medical attendants. A genius
lay a-dying and a genius he remained till the breath
of life departed.

Genius we know to be closely allied to insanity
and it were charitable to describe this man as mad^
besides approaching very nearly to the truth. Some-
thing was out of gear in that finely attuned mind.
Some thorn there was among the intellectual roses
which made him what he was. He pined for strange
passions, new sensations. His was the temperament
of the Roman sybarite. He often sighed for a
return of the days when vice was deified. He spoke

6 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

of the glories of the Devastation, the awful woman
and the Alexandrian school at which little girls and
young boys were instructed in all the most secret
and unthinkable forms of vice. Modern women
satisfied him not. Perverted passions consumed
the fire of his being. He had had children of his
wife, but sexual intercourse between him and that
most unfortunate lady was more honoured in the
breach than in the observance. They had their
several rooms. On many occasions Wilde actually
brought the companions of his abominable rites and
sinful joys to his own home, and indulged in his
frightful propensities beneath the roof of the house
which sheltered his own sons and their most unhappy
mother. Could the man capable of this atrocity
possess a normal mind? Can Oscar Wilde, who
committed moral suicide and made of himself a social
pariah, be regarded as a sane man? London
society is not so strict nor straight-laced that it will
not forgive much laxity in its devoted votaries.
Rumour had been busy with the name of Oscar
Wilde for a long time before the whole awful truth
became known. He was seen, constantly, at
theatres and restaurants with persons in no way fit
to be his associates and these persons were not girls
or women. He paraded his shameful friendships

Wilde goes his own Way y

and flaunted his villainous companions in society's
face. People began to look askance at the famous
wit. Doors began to be closed to him. He was
ostracised by all but the most Bohemian coteries.
But even those who were still proud to rank him
among their friends did not know how far he had
wilfully drawn himself into the web of disgrace.
Much that seemed strange and unaccountable was
attributed to his well-known love of pose. Men
shrugged their shoulders and declared that li Wilde
meant no harm. It was his vainglorious way of
showing his contempt for the opinion of the world.
Men of such parts could not be judged by ordinary
standards. Intellectually Wilde was fit to mix with
the immortals. If he preferred the society of
miserable, beardless, stunted youths destitute alike
of decency or honour — it was no affair of theirs,
and so on ad nauseam. Meanwhile, heedless of the
warnings of friends and the sneers of foes, Wilde
went his own way — to destruction.

He was addicted to the vice and crime of sodomy
long before he formed a li friendship " which was
destined to involve him in irretrievable ruin. In
London, he met a younger son of the eccentric
Marquis of Queensbury, Lord Alfred Douglas
by name. This youth was being educated at Cam-

8 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

bridge. He was of peculiar temperament and talen-
ted in a strong, frothy style. He was good-looking
in an effeminate, lady-like way. He wrote verse.
His poems not being of a manner which could be
acceptable to a self-respecting publication, his efforts
appeared in an eccentric and erratic magazine which
was called M The Chameleon. " In this precious
serial appeared a " poem " from the pen of
Lord Alfred dedicated to his father in these filial
words : " To the Man 1 Hate. "

Oscar Wilde at once developed an extraordinary
and dangerous interest in this immature literary
egg. A being of his own stamp, after his own heart,
was Lord Alfred Douglas. The love of women
delighted him not. The possession of a young girl's
person had no charm for him. He yearned for
higher flights in the realms of love! He sought
unnatural affection. Wilde, experienced in all the
symptoms of a disordered sexual fancy, contrived to
exercise a remarkable and sinister influence over this
youth. Again and again and again did his father
implore Lord Alfred Douglas to separate himself
from the tempter. Lord Queensberry threatened,
persuaded, bribed, urged, cajoled : all to no purpose.
Wilde and his son were constantly together. The
nature of their friendship became the talk of the

Jl Bouquet of Vegetables 9

town. It was proclaimed from the housetops. The
Marquis, determined to rescue him if it were
humanly possible, horsewhipped his son in a public
thoroughfare and was threatened with a summons
for assault. On one occasion — ir was the opening
night of one of the Wilde plays — he sent the author
a bouquet of choice — vegetables! Three or four
times he wrote to him begging him to cancel his
friendship with Lord Alfred. Once he called at the
house in Tite Street and there was a terrible scene.
The Marquis fumed; Wilde laughed. He assured
his Lordship that only at his son's own request
would he break off the association which existed
between them. The Marquis, driven to desperation,
called Wilde a disgusting name. The latter, with a
show of wrath, ordered the peer from his door and
he was obliged to leave.

At all costs and hazards, at the risk of any pain
and grief to himself, Lord Queensberry was deter-
mined to break off the disgraceful liaison. He stop-
ped his son's allowance, but Wilde had, at that time,
plenty of money and his purse was his friend's. At
last the father went to the length of leaving an insult-
ing message for Oscar Wilde at that gentleman's
club. He called there and asked for Wilde. The
clerk at the enquiry office stated that Mr. Wilde was

jo The Trial of Oscar Wilde

not on the premises. The Marquis then produced
a card and wrote upon it in pencil these words,
" Oscar Wilde is a Bugger. " This elegant mis-
sive he directed to be handed to the author when
he should next appear at the club.

From this card — Lord Queensberry's last resource
— grew the whole great case, which amazed and horri-
fied the world in 1 895. Oscar Wilde was compelled,
however reluctantly, to take the matter up. Had
he remained quiescent under such a public affront,
his career in England would have been at an end.
He bowed to the inevitable and a libel action was
prepared.

One is often compelled to wonder if he foresaw
the outcome. One asks oneself if he realized what
defeat in this case would portend. The stakes were
desperately high. He risked, in a Court of Law,
his reputation, his position, his career and even his
freedom. Did he know what the end to it all would
be ?

Whatever Wilde's fears and expectations were,
his opponent did not under-estimate the importance
of the issue. If he could not induce a jury of
twelve of his fellow-countrymen to believe that the
plaintiff was what he had termed him, he, the
Marquis of Queensberry, would be himself dis-

Str Edward Clark defends //

graced. Furthermore, there would, in the event of
failure, be heavy damages to pay and the poor man
was not over rich. Wilde had many and power-
ful friends. For reasons which it is not neces-
sary to enlarge upon, Lord Queensberry was
not liked or respected by his own oi'der. The ulti-
mate knowledge that he was a father striving to save
a loved son from infamy changed all that, and his
Lordship met with nothing but sympathy from the
general public in the latter stages of the great
case.

Sir Edward Clarke was retained for the plaintiff.
It is needless to refer to the high estimation in
which this legal and political luminary is held by all
classes of society. From first to last he devoted
himself to the lost cause of Oscar Wilde with a
whole-hearted devotion which was beyond praise.
The upshot of the libel action must have pained and
disgusted him ; yet he refused to abandon his client,
and, in the two criminal trials, defended him with a
splendid loyalty and with the marked ability that
might be expected from such a counsel. The acute,
energetic, silver-spoken Mr. Carson led on the
other side. It is not necessary to make more than
passing mention of the conspicuous skill with which
the able lawyer conducted the case for the defen-

12 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

dant. Even the gifted plaintiff himself cut a sorry
figure when opposed to Mr. Carson.

Extraordinary interest was displayed in the
action; and the courts were besieged on each day
that the trial lasted. Remarkable revelations were
expected and they were indeed forthcoming. Enor-
mous pains had been taken to provide a strong
defence and it was quite clear almost after the first
day that Wilde's case would infallibly break down.
He made some astonishing admissions in the
witness-box and even disgusted many of his friends
by the flippancy and affected unconcern of his
replies to questions of the most damaging nature.
He, apparently, saw nothing indecorous in facts
which must shock any other than the most de-
praved. He saw nothing disgusting in friendships
of a kind to which only one construction could be
put. He gave expensive dinners to ex-barmen and
the like : ignorant, brutish young fools — because
they amused him ! He presented youths of ques-
tionable moral character with silver cigarette-cases
because their society was pleasant ! He took young
men to share his bedroom at hotels and saw nothing
remarkable in such proceedings. He gave sums of
thirty pounds to ill-bred youths— accomplished black-
mailers— because they were hard-up and he felt they

The Averted Looks of Triends j3

did not deserve poverty ! He assisted other young
men of a character equally undesirable, to go to
America and received letters from them in which
they addressed him as " Dear Oscar, " and sent
him their love. In short, his own statements
damned him* Out of his own mouth — and he pos-
ing all the time — was he convicted. The case
could have but one ending. Sir Edward Clarke —
pained, surprised, shocked — consented to a verdict
for the Marquis of Queensberry and the great
libel case was at an end. The defendant left
the court proudly erect, conscious that he had
been the means of saving his son and of eradi-
cating from society a canker which had been rotting
it unnoticed, except by a few, for a very long time.
Oscar Wilde left the court a ruined and despised
man. People — there were one or two left who
were loyal to him — turned aside from him with
loathing. He had nodded to six or seven friends
in court on the last day of the trial and turned ashen
pale when he observed their averted looks. All was
over for him. The little supper-parties with a few
choice wits ; the glorious intoxication of first-night
applause ; the orgies in the infamous dens of his
boon companions — all these were no more for him.
Oscar Wilde, bon vivant, man of letters, arbiter

14 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

of literary fashion, stood at the bar ol public
opinion, a wretch guilty of crimes against which the
body recoils and the mind revolts. Oh ! what a
falling-off was there !

]f any reader would care to know the impression
made upon the opinion of the London world by the
revelations of this lawsuit, let him turn to the
" Daily Telegraph " of the morning following the
dramatic result of the trial. In that great newspaper
appeared a leading article in reference to Oscar
Wilde, the terms of which, though deserved, were
most scathing, denunciatory, and bitter. Yet a
general feeling of relief permeated the regret which
was universally expressed at so terrible a termination
of a distinguished career. Society was at no pains
to hide its relief that the Augean stable has been
cleansed and that a terrible scandal had been
exorcised from its midst.

It now becomes a necessary, albeit painful task, to
describe the happenings incidental or subsequent to
the Wilde & Queensberry proceedings. It was
certain that matters could not be allowed to rest as
they were. A jury in a public court had convinced
themselves that Lord Queensberry's allegations were
strictly true and the duty of the Public Prosecutor

Wilde is Arrested i5

was truly clear. The law is not, or should not be,
a respector of persons, and Oscar Wilde, genius
though he were, was not less amenable to the law
than would be any ignorant boor suspected of
similar crimes. The machinery of legal process
was set in action and the arrest of Wilde followed
as a matter of course. (

A prominent name in the libel action against Lord
Queensberry had been that of one Alfred Taylor.
This individual, besides being himself guilty of the
most infamous practices, had, it would appear, for
long acted as a sort of precursor for the Apostle of
Culture and his capture took place at nearly the
same time as that of his principal. The latter was
arrested at a certain quiet and fashionable hotel
whither he had gone with one or two yet loyal
friends after the trial for libel. His arrest was
not unexpected, of course ; but it created a tre-
mendous sensation and vast crowds collected at
Bow Street Police Station and in the vicinity dur-
ing the preliminary examinations before the Magis-
trate. The prisoner Wilde bore himself with some
show of fortitude, but it was clear that the iron had
already entered into his soul and his old air of jaunty
indifference to the opinion of the world had plainly
given way to a mental anxiety which could not alto-

j 6 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

gether be hidden, though it could be controlled.
On one occasion as, fur-coated, silk-hatted, he
entered the dock, he nodded familiarly to the late
Sir Augustus Harris, but that magnate of the
theatrical world deliberately turned his back upon
the playwriting celebrity. The evidence from first
to last was followed with the most intense interest
and the end of it was that Oscar Wilde was fully
committed for trial.

The case came on at the Old Bailey during the
month of April, 1895, and it was seen that the
interest had in no wise abated. Mr. Justice Charles
presided and he was accompanied by the customary
retinue of Corporation dignitaries. The court was
crowded in every part and hundreds of people were
unsuccessful in efforts to obtain admission. A
reporter for a Sunday newspaper wrote: u Wilde's
personal appearance has changed little since his
committal from Bow Street. He wears the same
clothes and continues to carry the same hat. He
looks haggard and worn, and his long hair that was
so carefully arranged when last he was in the court,
though not then in the dock, is now dishevelled.
Taylor, on the other hand, still neatly dressed,
appears not to have suffered from his enforced
confinement. But he no longer attempts to regard

In the Dock 'J

the proceedings with that indifference which he
affected when first before the magistrate."

As soon as Wilde and his confederate took their
places in the dock, each held a whispered consulta-
tion with his counsel and the Clerk of Arraigns then
read over the indictments. Both prisoners pleaded
" Not guilty, " Taylor speaking in a loud and
confident tone. Wilde spoke quietly, looked very
grave and gave attentive heed to the formal opening
proceedings.

Mr. C. F. Gill led for the prosecution and he
rose amidst a breathless silence, to outline the main
facts of the case. After begging the jury to
dismiss from their minds anything that they might
have heard or read in regard to the affair, and to
abandon all prejudice on either side, he described at
some length the circumstances which led up to the
present prosecution. He spoke of the arrest and
committal of the Marquis of Queensberry on a
charge of criminal libel and of the collapse of the
case for the prosecution when the case was heard
at the old Bailey. He alluded to the subsequent
inevitable arrest of Wilde and Taylor and of the
committal of both prisoners to take their trial at the
present Sessions.

Wilde, he said, was well-known as a dramatic

j8 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

author and generally, as a literary man of unusual
attainments. He had resided, until his arrest, at a
house in Tite Street, Chelsea, where his wife lived
with the children of the marriage. Taylor had had
numerous addresses, but for the time covered by
these charges, had dwelt in Little College Street,
and afterwards in Chapel Street. Although Wilde
had a house in Tite Street, he had at different times
occupied rooms in St. James's Place, the Savoy
H otel and the Albermarle H otel . 1 1 would be shown
that Wilde and Taylor were in league for certain
purposes and Mr. Gill then explained the specific
allegations against the prisoners. Wilde, he asserted,
had not hesitated, soon after his first introduc-
tion to Taylor, to explain to him to what purpose
he wished to put their acquaintance. Taylor was
familiar with a number of young men who were in
the habit .of giving their bodies, or selling them, to
other men for the purpose of sodomy. It appeared
that there was a number of youths engaged in this
abominable traffic and that one and all of them were
known to Taylor, who went about and sought out for
them men of means who were willing to pay
heavily for the indulgence of their favorite vice.
Mr. Gill endeavoured to show that Taylor himself
was given to sodomy and that he had himself

Terrible Charges 19

indulged in these filthy practices with the same
youths as he agreed to procure for Wilde. The
visits of the latter to Taylor's rooms were touched
upon and the circumstances attending these visits
were laid bare. On nearly every occasion when
Wilde called, a young man was present with whom he
committed the act of sodomy. The names of
various young men connected with these facts were
mentioned in turn and the case of the two Parkers
was given as a sample of many others on which the
learned counsel preferred to dwell with less minute-
ness.

When Taylor gave up his rooms in Little College
Street and took up his abode in Chapel Street, he
left behind him a number of compromising papers,
which would be produced in evidence against the
prisoners; and he should submit in due course that
there was abundant corroboration of the statements
of the youths involved. Mr. Gill pointed out the
peculiarities in the case of Frederick Atkins. This
youth had accompanied the prisoner Wilde to Paris,
and there could be no doubt whatever that the latter
had in the most systematic way endeavoured to
influence this young man's mind towards vicious
courses and had endeavoured to mould him to his
own depraved will. The relations which had

20 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

existed between the prisoner and another lad, one
Alfred Wood, were also fully described and the
learned counsel made special allusion to the remark-
able manner in which Wilde had lavished money
upon Wood prior to the departure of that youth for
America.

Mr. Gill referred to yet another of Wilde's
youthful familiars — namely : Sidney Mavor — in
regard to whom, he said, the jury must form their
own conclusions after they had heard the evidence.
A mong other things to which he would ask them to
direct careful attention was a letter written in pencil
by Taylor, the prisoner, to this youth. The
communication ran : " Dear Sid, 1 cannot wait any
longer. Come at once and see Oscar at Tite
Street. 1 am, Yours ever, Alfred Taylor. " The
use of the christian name of Wilde in so familiar a
way suggested the nature of the acquaintance which
existed between Mavor and Wilde, who was old
enough to be his father. In conclusion, Mr. Gill
asked the jury to give the case, painful as it must
necessarily be, their most earnest and careful
consideration.

Both Wilde and Taylor paid keen attention to the
opening statemznt. They exchanged no word
together and it was observed that Wilde kept as far

Painted Trash 21

apart from his companion in the dock, as he
possibly could.

The first witness called was Charles Parker. He
proved to be a rather smartly-attired youth, fresh-
coloured, and of course, clean-shaven. He was very
pale and appeared uneasy. He stated that he had first
met Taylor at the St. J ames' Restaurant. The latter
had got into conversation with him and the young
fellows with him, and had insisted on "standing"
drinks. Conversation of a certain nature passed
between them. Taylor called attention to the pros-
titutes who frequent Piccadilly Circus and remarked:
" 1 can't understand sensible men wasting their
money on painted trash like that. Many do,
though. But there are a few who know better.
Now, you could get money in a certain way easily
enough, if you cared to. " The witness had
formerly been a valet and he was at this time out of
employment. He understood to what Taylor
alluded and made a coarse reply.

Mr. Gill. — " 1 am obliged to ask you what it
was you actually said. "

Witness. — " I do not like to say. "

Mr. Gill. — " You were less squeamish at the
time, I daresay. 1 ask you for the words. M

Witness. — u 1 said that if any old gentleman

22 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

with money took a fancy to me, \ was agreeable. ]

was terribly hard up. "

Mr. Gill. — " What did Taylor say ? "
Witness. — M He laughed and said that men far

cleverer, richer and better than 1 preferred things of

that kind. M

Mr. Gill. — " Did Taylor mention the prisoner

Wilde?"

Witness. — M Not at that time. He arranged to

meet me again and 1 consented.

Mr. Gill. — " Where did you first meet

Wilde? "

Witness — M At the Solferino Restaurant. "
Mr. Gill. — " Tell me what transpired. "
Witness. — " Taylor said he could introduce

me to a man who was good for plenty of money.

Wilde came in later and 1 was formally introduced.

Dinner was served for four in a private room. "
Mr. Gill. — " Who made the fourth ? "
Witness. — " My brother, William Parker. 1

had promised Taylor that he should accompany

me. "

Mr. Gill. — " What happened during dinner ? "
Witness. — fl There was plenty of champagne

and brandy and coffee. We all partook of it. "

A Frightful Confession 2 3

Mr. Gill. — " Of what nature was the conversa-
tion? "

Witness. — " General, at first. Nothing was
then said as to the purposes for which we had come
together. "

Mr. Gill. — " And then ? "

Witness. — " Wilde invited me to go to his
rooms at the Savoy Hotel. Only he and 1 went,
leaving my brother and Taylor behind. Wilde
and I went in a cab. At the Savoy we went to his
— Wilde's — sitting-room. "

Mr. Gill. — " More drink was offered you
there ? "

Witness. — " Yes ; we had liqueurs. "

Mr. Gill. — " Let us know what occurred. "

Witness. — " He committed the act of sodomy
upon me. "

Mr. Gill. — " With your consent? "

The witness did not reply. Further examined,
he said that Wilde on that occasion had given him
two pounds and asked him to call upon him again a
week later. He did so, the same thing occurred and
Wilde then gave him three pounds. The witness
next described a visit to Little College Street, to
Taylor's rooms. Wilde used to call there and the
same thing occurred as at the Savoy. For a fort-

24 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

night or three weeks the witness lodged in Park-
Walk, close to Taylor's house. There too he was
visited by Wilde. The witness gave a detailed
account of the disgusting proceedings there. He
said, " ] was asked by Wilde to imagine that 1 was
a woman and that he was my lover. I had to keep
up this illusion. 1 used to sit on his knees and he
used to play with my privates as a man might amuse
himself with a girl. " Wilde insisted in this filthy
make-believe being kept up. Wilde gave him a sil-
ver cigarette case and a gold ring, both of which
articles he pawned. The prisoner said, " 1 don't
suppose boys are different to girls in acquiring
presents from them who are fond of them. " He
remembered Wilde having rooms at St. James's Place
and the witness visited him there.

Mr. Gill. — " Where else have you been with
Wilde ? "

Witness. — " To Kettner's Restaurant. "
Mr. Gill. — " What happened there? "
Witness. — M We dined there. We always had
a lot of wine. Wilde would talk of poetry and art
during dinner, and of the old Roman days.

Mr. Gill. — M On one occasion you proceeded
from Kettner's to Wilde's house ? "

Witness. — " Yes. We went to Tite Street.

M As Pretty as Ever " i5

It was very late at night. Wilde let himself and me
in with a latchkey. 1 remained the night, sleeping
with the prisoner, and he himself let me out in the
early morning before anyone was about.

Mr. Gill. — M Where else have you visited this
man?"

Witness. — "At the Albemarle Hotel. The
same thing happened then. "

Mr. Gill. — M Where did your last interview
take place ? "

Witness. — " 1 last saw Wilde in Trafalgar
Square about nine months ago. He was in a
hansom and saw me. He alighted from the
hansom. "

Mr. Gill. — What did he say ?" .

Witness. — " He said, * Well, you are look-
ing as pretty as ever. ' He did not ask me to go
anywhere with him then. "

The witness went on to say that during the
period of his acquaintance with Wilde, he frequently
saw Taylor, and the latter quite understood and
was aware of the motive of the acquaintance. At
the Little College Street rooms he had frequently
seen Wood, Atkins and Scaife, and he knew that
these youths were M in the same line, at the same
game, " as himself. In the August previous to this

26 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

trial he was at a certain house in Fitzroy Square.
Orgies of the most disgraceful kind used to happen
there. The police made a raid upon the premises
and he and the Taylors were arrested. From that
time he had ceased all relationship with the latter.
Since that event he had enlisted, and while away in
the country he was seen by someone representing
Lord Queensberry and made a statement. The
evidence of this witness created a great sensation in
court, and it was increased when Sir Edward Clarke
rose to cross-examine. This began after the
adjournment.

Sir Edward Clarke. — " When were you seen
in the country in reference to this case? "

Witness. — u Towards the end of March. "

Sir Edward. — ' ' Who saw you ? "

Witness. — " Mr. Russell. "

Sir Edward. — " Was there no examination
before that ? "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — M Did you state at Bow Street
that you received <£3o not to say anything about a
certain case ? "

Witness. — M Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " Now, 1 do not ask you to
give me the name of the gentleman from whom this

Blackmail Alleged 27

money was extorted, but 1 ask you to give me the
name of the agents. "

Witness. — " Wood & Allen. "

Sir Edward. — M Where were you living
then ? "

Witness. — " In Cranford Street. "

Sir Edward. — " When did the incident occur
in consequence of which you received that <£3o ? "

Witness. — " About two weeks before. M

Sir Edward. — " Where? M

Witness. — "At Camera Square. "

Sir Edward. — " I'll leave that question. You
say positively that Mr. Wilde committed sodomy
with you at the Savoy ? "

Witness. — " Yes. M

Sir Edward. — ** But you have been in the
habit of accusing other gentlemen of the same
offence?"

Witness. — - " Never, unless it has been done.

Sir Edward. — "1 submit that you blackmail
gentlemen ? *

Witness. — " No, Sir, 1 have accepted money,
but it has been offered to me to pay me for the
offence. 1 have been solicited. 1 have never sug-
gested this offence to gentlemen. "

28 The Trial of Oscar Wildt

Sir Edward. — " Was the door locked during
the time you describe ? "

Witness. — " 1 do not think so. It was late and
the prisoner told the waiter not to come up again. "

The next witness was William Parker. This
youth corroborated his brother's evidence. He said
he was present at the dinner with Taylor and Wilde
described by the last witness. Wilde paid all his
attention to his — witness's — brother. He, Wilde,
often fed his brother off his own fork or out of his
own spoon. His brother accepted a preserved
cherry from Wilde's own mouth — he took it into
his and this trick was repeated three or four times.
His brother went off with the prisoner to his rooms
at the Savoy and the witness remained behind with
Taylor, who said, " Your brother is lucky. Oscar
does not care what he pays if he fancies a chap.

Ellen Grant was the landlady of the house in Little
College Street at which Taylor lodged. She gave
evidence as to the visits of various lords and stated
that Wilde was a fairly frequent caller. He would
remain for hours and one of the lads was generally
closeted with him. Once she tried the door and
found it locked. She heard whispering and laughing
and her suspicions were aroused though she did not
like to take steps in the matert.

Women give "Evidence 29

Lucy Rumsby, who let a room to Charles Parker
at Chelsea, gave rather similar evidence, but Wilde
does not appear to have called there more than once
and that occasion it was to take out Parker, who
went away with him.

Sophia Gray, Taylor's landlady in Chapel Street,
also gave evidence. She amused the court by the
emphatic and outspoken way in which she explained
that she had no idea of the nature of what was going
on. Several young men were constantly calling upon
Taylor and were alone with him for a long time, but
he used to say that they were clerks for whom he
hoped to find employment. The prisoner Wilde
was a frequent visitor.

But all this latter evidence paled as regards sinister
significance beside that furnished by a young man
named Alfred Wood. This young wretch admitted
to acts of the grossest indecency with Oscar Wilde.
He said, " Wilde saw his influence to induce me to
consent. He made me nearly drunk. He used to
put his hand inside my trousers beneath the table
at dinner and compel me to do the same to him.
Afterwards, 1 used to lie on a sofa with him. It
was a long time, however, before 1 would allow him
to actually do the act of sodomy. He gave me
money to go to America.

3o The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Sir Edward Clarke submitted this self-disgraced
witness to a very vigorous cross-examination.

Sir Edward. — " What have you been doing
since your return from America? "

Witness. — " Well, J have not done much. "

Sir Edward. — " Have you done anything?"

Witness. — " 1 have had no regular employment."

Sir Edward. — " ] thought not. "

Witness. — "1 could not get anything to do. M

Sir Edward. — "Asa matter of fact, you have
had no respectable work for over three years? "

Witness. — m Well, no. "

Sir Edward. — f* Did not you, in conjunction
with Allen, succeed in getting £3oo from a gentle-
man ? "

Witness. — " Yes; but he was guilty with
Allen. "

Sir Edward. — m How much did you receive? "

Witness. — "1 advised Allen how to proceed.
He gave me £i3o. M

Sir Edward. — " Who else got any of this
money ? "

Witness. — '* Parker. Charles Parker got some
and also Wood. "

Thos. Price was the next witness. This man was
a waiter at a private hotel in St. James's and he

A Billiard Marker 3i

testified to Wilde's visits there and to the number of
young men; " of quite inferior station, " who called
to see him. Then came Frank Atkins, whose evi-
dence is given in full.

Mr. Avory. — " How old are you?"

Witness. — " | am 20 years old. "

Mr. Avory. — " What is your business? "

Witness. — " ] have been a billiard-marker. "

Mr. Avory. — M You are doing nothing now? M

Witness. — " No. "

Mr. Avory. — " Who introduced you to Wilde? "

Witness. — u I was introduced to him by Schwabe
in November, 1892. "

Mr. Avory. — " Have you met Lord Alfred
Douglas?"

Witness. — " 1 have. I dined with him and
Wilde on several occasions. They pressed me to
go to Paris. H

Mr. Avory. — " You went with them? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Avory. — " You told Wilde on om occasion
while in Paris that you had spent the previous night
with a woman? M

Witness. — " No. 1 had arranged to meet a
girl at the Moulin Rouge, and Wilde told me not to

32 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

go. However, 1 did go, but the woman was not
there. "

Mr. Avory. — " You returned to London with
Wilde? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Avory. — u Did he give you money? "

Witness. — M He gave me a cigarette-case. "

Mr. Avory. — " You were then the best of
friends?"

Witness. — " He called me Fred and ] addressed
him as Oscar. We liked each other, but there was
no harm in it. M

Mr. Avory. — M Did you visit Wilde on your
return? "

Witness. — " Yes, at Tite Street. Wilde also
called upon me at Osnaburgh Street. On the latter
occasion one of the Parkers was present. "

Mr. Avory. — '* You know most of these
youths. Do you know Sidney Mavor? "

Witness. — " Only by sight. "

Sir Edward Clarke. — " Were you ill at Osna-
burgh Street? "

Witness. — M Yes, 1 had small-pox and was re-
moved to the hospital ship. Before 1 went 1 wrote
to Parker asking him to write to Wilde and request
him to come and see me, and he did so. "

A Pair of Blackmailers 33

Sir Edward. — " You are sure you returned
from Paris with Mr. Wilde? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " Did any impropriety ever take
place between you and Wilde? M

Witness. — *' Never. "

Sir Edward. — *' Have you ever lived with a man
named Burton ? "

Witness. — " Yes. M

Sir Edward. — M What was he? M

Witness. — " A bookmaker. "

Sir Edward. — " Have you and this Burton been
engaged in the business of blackmailing? "

Witness. — " 1 have a professional name. I have
sometimes called myself Denny. "

Sir Edward. — M Has this man Burton, to your
knowledge, obtained money from gentlemen by
accusing them or threatening to accuse them of cer-
tain offences? "

Witness. — M Not to my knowledge. "

Sir Edward. — H Not in respect to a certain
Birmingham gentleman ? "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — " That being your answer, 1
must particularize. On June 9th, 1891, did you and

3

34 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Burton obtain a large sum of money from a Bir-
mingham gentleman? *

Witness. — " Certainly not. "

Sir Edward. — " Then 1 ask you if in June, 91 ,
Burton did not take rooms for you in Tatchbrook
Street? "

Witness. — M Yes; and he lived with me there. "

Sir Edward. — " You were in the habit of
taking men home with you then? "

Witness. — " Not for the purposes of black-
mail. "

Sir Edward. — " Well, for indecent purposes. "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — M Give me the names of two or
three of the people whom you have taken home to
that address? "

Witness. — "1 cannot. 1 forget them. "

Sir Edward. — " Now 1 am going to ask you a
direct question, and 1 ask you to be careful in your
reply. Were you and Burton ever taken to Ro-
chester Road Police Station? "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — '* Well, was Burton? "

Witness. — " 1 think not — at least, he was not,
to my knowledge. "

Sir Edward. — " Did the Birmingham gentleman

Damning Admissions 35

give to Burton a cheque for ,£200 drawn in the

name of S. Denis or Denny, your own name? "
Witness. — " Not to my knowledge. "
Sir Edward. — " About two years ago, did you

and someone else go to the Victoria Hotel with two

American gentlemen ?"

Witness. — "No, I did not. Never. "

Sir Edward. — "1 think you did. Be careful

in your replies. Did Burton extort money from

these gentlemen?

Witness. — "J have never been there at all. "
SirEDWARD. — "Have you ever been to Anderton's

Hotel and stayed a night with a gentleman, whom

you threatened the next morning with exposure ? "
Witness. — "1 have not. n
Sir Edward. — "When did you go abroad with

Burton ? "

Witness. — " 1 think in February, 1892. "

Sir Edward. — "When did you last go with him

abroad ? "

Witness. — " Last spring. "

Sir Edward. — " How long were you away?"

Witness. — " Oh ! about a month. "

Sir Edward. — "Where did you stay?"

Witness. — "We went to Nice and stayed at

Gaze's Hotel. "

36 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Sir Edward. — "You were having a holiday?"

Witness. —"Yes."

Sir Edward. — "Which you continued with
business in your usual way ? "

The witness did not reply.

Sir Edward. — "What were you and Burton
doing at Nice? "

Witness. — " Simply enjoying ourselves. "

Sir Edward. — "During this visit of enjoyment
you and Burton fell out, ] think. "

Witness. — " Oh, dear, no ! "

Sir Edward. — "Yet you separated from this
Burton after that visit?"

Witness. — "I gave up being a bookmaker's
clerk. "

Sir Edward. — "What name did Burton use in
the ring? *

Witness. — "Watson was his betting name. "

Sir Edward. — " Did you blackmail a gentleman
at Nice?"

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — "Are you sure there was no
quarrel between you and Burton at Nice? '

Witness. — " There may have been a little one,
but 1 don't remember anything of the kind. "

Large Sums are Paid 3y

Mr. Grain then put some questions to the
Witness.

Mr. Grain. — M Did you go to Scarbro' about a
year ago? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Grain. — M Did Burton go with you ? "

Witness. — M Yes. M

Mr. Grain. — "What was your business there? "

Witness. — u I was engaged professionally. 1
sang at the Aquarium there. "

Mr. Grain. — M Did you get acquainted while
there with a foreign gentleman, a Count ? "

Witness. — "Not acquainted. "

At this moment Mr. Grain wrote a name on a
piece of paper and handed it up to the witness, who
read it.

Mr. Grain. — " Do you know that gentleman ? "

Witness, — " No, I heard his name mentioned at
Scarborough. "

Mr. Grain. — " Then you never spoke to
him ? "

Witness. — "No."

Mr. Grain. — '* Was not a large sum — about
£5oo — paid to you or Burton by that gentleman
about this time last year ? "

Witness. — " No."

38 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Mr. Grain. — " Had you any engagement at the
Scarborough Aquarium ? "

Witness. — "Yes."

Mr. Grain. — " How much did you receive a
week?"

Witness. — '* 1 was paid four pounds ten shil-
lings. "

Mr. Grain. — ' ' How long were you there ? "

Witness. — " Three weeks. "

Mr. Grain. — " Have you ever lived in Bucking-
ham Palace Road?"

Witness. — " 1 have. "

Mr. Grain wrote at this stage on another slip of
paper and it was handed up to the witness-box.

Mr. Grain. — " Look at that piece of paper. Do
you know the name written there ? "

Witness. — " I never saw it before. "

Mr. Grain. — " When wereyou livingin Bucking-
ham Palace Road ? "

Witness. — " In 1892."

Mr. Grain. — M Do you remember being intro-
duced to an elderly man in the City ? "

Witness. — " No."

Mr. Grain. — V Did you take him to your room,
permit him to commit sodomy with and upon you,

Another Woman Called 3$

rob him of his pocket-book and threaten him with
exposure if he complained? "

Witness. — H No. "

Mr. Grain. — " Did you threaten to extort
money from him because he had agreed to accom-
pany you home for a foul purpose ?

Witness. — " No. "

Mr. Grain. — " Did you ever stay at a place in
the suburbs on the South Western Railway with
Burton?"

Witness. — if No. "■

Mr. Grain. — " What other addresses have you
had in London during the last three years? "<

Witness. — il None but those 1 have told you.

This concluded the evidence of this witness for
the time being.

Mary Applegate, employed as a housekeeper at
Osnaburgh Street, said Atkins used to lodge there
and left about a month ago. Wilde visited him at
this house on two occasions that she was cognisant
of. She stated that one of the housemaids came to
her and complained of the state of the sheets of the
bed in which Atkins slept after Wilde's first visit.
The sheets were stained in a peculiar way. It may
be explained here, in order to make the witness's
evidence understood, that the sodomistic act has

40 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

much the same effect as an enema inserted up the
rectum. There is an almost immediate discharge,
though not, of course, to the extent produced by
the enema operation.

The next witness called was Sidney Mavor, a
smooth-faced young fellow with dark hair and eyes.
He stated that he was now in partnership with a
friend in the City. He first made the acquaintance
of, the prisoner Taylor at the Gaiety Theatre in
1892. He afterwards visited him at Little College
Street. Taylor was very civil and friendly and
introduced him to different people. The witness
did not think at that time that Taylor had any
ulterior designs. One day, however, Taylor said
to him, " ) know a man, in an influential position,
who could be of great use to you, Mavor. He
likes young men when they're modest and nice in
manners and appearance. I'll introduce you. " It
was arranged that they should dine at Kettner's
Restaurant the next evening. He called for Taylor,
who said, " 1 am glad you've made yourself pretty.
Mr. Wilde likes nice, clean boys. M That was the
first time Wilde's name was mentioned. Arrived at
the restaurant, they were shown into a private room.
A man named Schwabe and Wilde and another
gentleman came in later. He believed the other

A Meeting at the Albemarle 41

gentleman to be Lord Alfred Douglas. The con-
versation at dinner was, the witness thought,
peculiar, but he knew Wilde was a Bohemian and
he did not think the talk strange. He was placed
next to Wilde, who used occasionally to pull his
ear or chuck him under the chin, but he did nothing
that was actually objectionable. He, Wilde, said
to Taylor, M Our little lad has pleasing manners ; we
must see more of him. " Wilde took his address
and the witness soon after received a silver cigarette-
case inscribed "Sidney, from O. W. October 1892/'
" It was/' said the innocent-looking witness, "quite
a surprise to me I" In the same month he received
a letter making an appointment at the Albemarle
Hotel and he went there and saw Wilde. The
witness explained that after he saw Mr. Russell, the
solicitor, on March 3oth, he did not visit Taylor,
nor did he receive a letter from Taylor.

Sir Edward Clarke. — "With regard to a
certain dinner at which you were present. Was the
gentleman who gave the dinner of some social
position? M

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Grain. — " Taylor sent or gave you some
cheques, 1 believe? "

Witness. — " He did. "

42 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Mr. Grain. — " Were they in payment of money
you had advanced to him, merely? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. C. F. Gill. — " The gentleman — ' of po-
sition ' — who gave the dinner was quite a young
man, was he not? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Gill. — " Was Taylor, and Wilde also,
present? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Gill. — " In fact, it was their first meeting,
was it not? "

Witness. — " So ] understand. M

Mavor being dismissed from the box, Edward
Shelley was the next witness. He gave his age as
twenty-one and said that in 1891 he was employed
by a firm of publishers in Vigo Street. At that
time Wilde's books were being published by that
firm. Wilde was in the habit of coming to the
firm's place of business and he seemed to take note
of the witness and generally stopped and spoke to
him for a few moments. As Wilde was leaving
Vigo Street one day he invited him to dine with
him at the Albemarle Hotel. The witness kept the
appointment — he was proud of the invitation— and
they dined together in a public room. Wilde was

The Notorious " Dorian Gray " j.3

very kind and attentive, pressed witness to drink,
said he could get him on and finally invited him to
go with him to Brighton, Cromer, and Paris. The
witness did not go. Wilde made him a present of
a set of his writings, including the notorious and
objectionable M Dorian Gray. " Wilde wrote
something in the books. M To one 1 like well, "
or something to that effect, but the witness removed
the pages bearing the inscription. He only did
that after the decision in the Queenberry case. He
was ashamed of the inscriptions and felt that they
were open to misconception. His father objected
to his friendship with Wilde. At first the witness
thought that the latter was a kind of philanthropist,
fond of youth and eager to be of assistance to young
men of any promise. Certain speeches and actions
on the part of Wilde caused him to alter this opin-
ion. Pressed as to the nature of the actions he
complained of, he said that Wilde once kissed him
and put his arms round him. The witness objected
vigorously, according to his own statement, and
Wilde later said he was sorry and that he had drank
too much wine. About two years ago — in j 893—
he wrote a certain letter to Wilde.

Sir Edward Clarke. — " On what subject? I1

44 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — ** It was to break off the acquain-
tance. "

Sir Edward. — M How did the letter begin? "

Witness. — M It began 'Sir'. "

Sir Edward. — M Give me the gist of it. "

Witness. — " I believe I said I have suffered
more from my acquaintance with you than you are
ever likely to know of. 1 further said that he was
an immoral man, and that 1 would never, if I could
help it, see him again. M

Sir Edward. — " Did you ever see him again
after that? "

W]TNESS. — •' 1 did. "

Sir Edward. — " Why did you go and dine with
Mr. Wilde a second time? "

Witness. — " 1 suppose 1 was a young fool. 1
tried to think the best of him. "

Sir Edward. — ' ' You seem to have put the worst
possible construction on his liking for you. Did
your friendly relations with Mr. Wilde remain
unbroken until the time you wrote that letter in
March, i893?"

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — "Have you seen Mr. Wilde since
then? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

" J would not allow it " ^5

Sir Edward. — M After that letter? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " Where did you see him? "

Witness. — *' 1 went to see him inTite Street. M

Sir Edward Clarke then proceeded to question
the witness with regard to letters which he had
written to Wilde both before and after the visits to
the Albemarle Hotel, and in the course of his replies
the witness said that he formed the opinion that
" Wilde was really sorry for what he had done. "

Sir Edward Clarke. — " What do you mean by
'what he had done'? "

Witness. — ** His improper behaviour with
young men. "

Sir Edward. — " Yet you say he never prac-
tised any actual improprieties upon you? "

Witness. — " Because he saw that 1 would never
allow anything of the kind. He did not disguise
from me what he wanted, or what his usual customs
with young men were. "

Sir Edward. — " Yet you wrote him grateful
letters breathing apparent friendship ? "

Witness. — " For the reason 1 have given. "

Sir Edward. — " Well, we'll leave that question.
Now, tell me, why did you leave the Vigo Sreet
firm of publishers ? "

46 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — " Because it got to be known that 1
was friendly with Oscar Wilde. "

Sir Edward. — " Did you leave the firm of your
own accord ? M

Witness. — M Yes. "

Sir Edward. — -Why? *

Witness. — " People employed there— my fel-
low-clerks—chaffed me about my acquaintance
with Wilde. "

Sir Edward. — " In what way ? "

Witness. — " They implied scandalous things.
They called me 'Mrs. Wilde' and ' Miss Oscar. ' "

Sir Edward. — "So you left? "

Witness. — "1 resolved to put an end to an
intolerable position. "

Sir Edward. — M You were in bad odour at
home too, I think ? "

Witness. — " Yes, a-little. "

Sir Edward. — '* 1 put it to you that your
father requested you to leave his house ? *

Witness. — m Yes. He strongly objected to my
friendship with Wilde. "

Sir Edward. — " You were uneasy in your mind
as to Wilde's object ? "

Witness. — " That is so. *

Arrested for Assault 4j

Sir Edward. — '• When did your mental balance,
if 1 can put it so, recover itself? "

Witness. — " About October or November
last. "

Sir Edward. — " And have you remained well
ever since? "

Witness. — " I think so.

Sir Edward. — " Yet I find that in January of
this year you were in serious trouble ? "

Witness. — "In what way ? "

Sir Edward. — " You were arrested for an
assault upon your father ?

Witness. — " Yes, 1 was. N

Sir Edward. — " Where were you taken ? "

Witness. — M To the Fulham Police Station. "

Sir Edward. — il You were offered bail ? "

Witness. — M Yes. M

Sir Edward. — " Did you send to Wilde and
ask him to bail you out ? "

Witness. — " Yes. n

Sir Edward. — What happened ? "

Witness. — u In an hour my father went to the
station and 1 was liberated. "

This witness now being released, the previous wit-
ness, Atkins, was recalled and a very sensational inci-
dent arose. During the luncheon interval, Mr. Robert

48 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Humphreys, Wilde's solicitor, had been busy.
Not satisfied with Atkins's replies to the questions
put to him in cross-examination, he had searched
the records at Scotland Yard and Rochester Road
and made some startling discoveries. A folded
document was handed up to the Judge. Mr. Jus-
tice Charles, who read it at once, assumed a severe
expression. The document was understood to be a
copy of a record from Rochester Road. Atkins,
looking very sheepish and uncomfortable, re-ente-
red the witness-box and the Court prepared itself
for some startling disclosures.

Sir Edward Clarke. — " Now, 1 warn you to
attend and to be very careful. I am going to ask
you a question ; think before you reply. "

The Judge. — ll Just be careful now, Atkins. "

Sir Edward. — " On June 10th, 1891, you were
living at Tatchbrook Sreet ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " In Pimlico ? M

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " James Burton was living there
with you ? "

Witness. — M He was.

Sir Edward. — " Were you both taken by two
constables, 396 A & 5oo A — you may have for-

Sensational Incident 49

gotten the officer's numbers — to Rochester Road
Police Station and charged with demanding money
from a gentleman with menaces. You had threat-
ened to accuse him of a disgusting offence ? "

Witness. — (huskily) — " 1 was not charged
with that. "

Sir Edward. — " Were you taken to the police
station ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " You, and Burton ?M

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — M What were you charged
with ? "

Witness. — " With striking a gentleman. "

Sir Edward. — "In what place was it alleged
this happened ? "

Witness. — "At the card-table. "

Sir Edward. — " In your own room at
Tatchbrook Street ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " What was the name of the
gentleman ? "

Witness. — " 1 don't know. "

Sir Edward. — " How long had you known
him?"

Witness. — " Only that night. "

4

5o The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Sir Edward. — " Where had you met him ? "

Witness. — " At the Alhambra. "

Sir Edward. — " Had you seen him before that
time ? M

Witness. — " Not to speak to. "

Sir Edward. — " Meeting him at the Alhambra,
did he accompany you to Tatchbrook Street ? "

Witness. — " Yes, to play cards. M

Sir Edward. — " Not to accuse him, when
there, of attempting to indecently handle you ? "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Edward. — " Was Burton there ? "

Witness. — u Yes. w

Sir Edward. — " Anyone else?"

Witness. — " 1 don't think so.

Sir Edward. — M Was the gentleman sober ? '

Witness. — M Oh, yes. " \

Sir Edward. — '* What room did you go into ? "

Witness. — " The sitting-room. M

Sir Edward. — " Who called the police ? M

Witness. — " 1 don't know."

Sir Edward. — M The landlady, perhaps? "

Witness. — " 1 believe she did. "

Sir Edward. — li Did the landlady give you and
Burton into custody?"

Witness. — "No; nobody did. "

What a Landlady saw 5i

Sir Edward. — " Some person must have done.
Who did ? "

Witness. — " All 1 ean say is, ] did not hear
anybody. "

Sir Edward. — "At any rate you were taken to
Rochester Road, and the gentleman went with you? "

Witness. — "Yes. "

Police Constable 396 A was here called into court
and took up a position close to the witness-box. He
gazed curiously at Atkins, who wriggled about and
eyed him uneasily.

Sir Edward. — M Now 1 ask you in the pre-
sence of this officer, was the statement made at the
police-station that you and the gentleman had been in
bed together ? "

Witness. — " 1 don't think so. "

Sir Edward. — " Think before you speak; it
will be better for you. Did not the landlady actually
come into the room and see you and the gentleman
naked on or in the bed together ? n

Witness. — " 1 don't remember that she did."

Sir Edward. — "You may as well tell me about
it. You know. Was that statement made ? M

Witness. — M Well, yes it was."

Sir Edward. — " You had endeavoured to force
money out of this gentleman ? "

5i The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — "1 asked him for some money. "
Sir Edward. — " At the police-station the gen-
tleman refused to prosecute? "
Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — "So you and Burton were
liberated?"

Witness. — M Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " About two hours ago, Atkins,
] asked you these very questions and you swore
upon your oath that you had not been in custody at
all, and had never been taken to Rochester Road
Police Station. How came you to tell me those
lies? "

Witness. — "1 did not remember it. "
Atkins looked somewhat crestfallen and abashed.
Yet some of his former brazen impudence still
gleamed upon his now scarlet face. He heaved a
deep sigh of relief when told to leave the court by
the judge, who pointed sternly to the doorway.

Of all the creatures associated with Wilde in these
affairs, this Atkins was the lowest and most con-
temptible. For some years he had been in the habit
of blackmailing men whom he knew to be inclined to
perverted sexual vices, and his was a well-known
figure up West. He constantly frequented the
promenades of the music-halls. He " made up" his

The Butt of Gay Ladies 53

eyes and lips, wore corsets and affected an effeminate
air. He was an infallible judge of the class of man he
wished to meet and rarely made a mistake. He
would follow a likely subject about, stumble against
him as though by accident and make an elaborate
apology in mincing, female tones. Once in con-
versation with his "mark, " he speedily contrived to
make the latter aware that he did not object to
certain proposals. He invariably permitted the
beastly act before attempting blackmail, partly
because it afforded him a stronger hold over his
M victim " and partly because he rejoiced in the
disgusting thing for its own sake. He was the butt
of the ladies of the pavement round Piccadilly
Circus, who used to shout after him, enquire
sarcastically "if he had got off last night, "and if
his" toff hadn't bilked him. " He would affect to
laugh and pass the thing off with a joke; but, to
his intimates, he assumed a great loathing for
women of this class, whom he appeared to regard as
dangerous obstacles to the exercise of his own foul
trade. On several occasions he was assaulted by
these women.

To return to the Trial of Wilde and Taylor. As
soon as the enquiry was resumed, Mr. Charles
Mathews went down into the cells and had an

5+ The Trial of Oscar Wilde

interview with the prisoner Wilde, and on his return
entered into serious consultation with his leader,
Sir Edward Clarke. In the meanwhile, Taylor
conversed with his counsel, Mr. Grain, across the
rail of the dock. It was felt that an important
announcement bearing on the conduct of the case was
likely to be made. It came from Mr. Gill, repre-
senting the prosecution.

As soon as Mr. Justice Charles had taken his
seat, the prosecuting counsel rose and said that
having considered the indictment, he had decided
not to ask for a verdict in the two counts charging
the prisoners with conspiracy. Subdued expres-
sions of surprise were audible from the public
gallery when Mr. Gill delivered himself of this
dramatic announcement, and the sensation was
strengthened a little later when Sir Edward Clarke
informed the jury that both the prisoners desired
to give evidence and would be called as witnesses.
These matters having been determined upon, Sir
Edward Clarke rose and proceeded to make some
severe criticisms upon the conduct of the prose-
cution in what he referred to as the literary part of
the case. Hidden meanings, he said, had been
most unjustly "read" into the poetical and prose
works of his client and it seemed that an endeavour,

Wilde in the Witness Box 55

though a futile one, was to be made to convict
Mr. Wilde because of a prurient construction which
had been placed by his enemies upon certain of his
works. He alluded particularly to ' ' Dorian Gray, "
which was an allegory, pure and simple. According
to the rather musty and far-fetched notions of the
prosecution, it was an impure and simple allegory,
but Wilde could not fairly be judged, he said, by
the standards of other men, for he was a literary
eccentric, though intellectually a giant, and he did
not profess to be guided by the same sentiments as
animated other and less highly-endowed men. He
then called Mr. Wilde. Thep risoner rose with
seeming alacrity from his place in the dock, walked
with a firm tread and dignified demeanour to the
witness-box, and leaning across the rail in the same
easy and not ungraceful attitude that he assumed
when examined by Mr. Carson in the libel action,
prepared to answer the questions addressed to him
by his counsel. Wilde was first interrogated as to
his previous career. In the year 1884, he had
married a Miss Lloyd, and from that time to the
present he had continued to live with his wife at 16,
Tite Street, Chelsea. He also occupied rooms in
St. James's Place, which were rented for the pur-
poses of his literary labours, as it was quite impos-

56 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

sible to secure quiet and mental repose at his own
house, when his two young sons were at home.
He had heard the evidence in this case against
himself, and asserted that there was no shadow of a
foundation for the charges of indecent behaviour
alleged against himself.

Mr. Gill then rose to cross-examine and the Court
at once became on the qui vive. Wilde seemed
perfectly calm and did not change his attitude, or
tone of polite deprecation.

Mr. Gill. — " You are acquainted with a publi-
cation entitled ' The Chameleon ' ? "

Witness. — " Very well indeed. "

Mr. Gill. — " Contributors to that journal are
friends of yours ? "

Witness. — " That is so. "

Mr. Gill. — • *« 1 believe that Lord Alfred Dou-
glas was a frequent contributor ? "

Witness. — " Hardly that, 1 think. He wrote
some verses occasionally for the * Chameleon, '
and, indeed, for other papers.

Mr. Gill. — " The poems in question were
somewhat peculiar ? "

Witness. — u They certainly were not mere com-
monplaces like so much that is labelled poetry. M

The Poem to Lord Douglas 5y

Mr. Gill. — u The tone of them met with your
critical approval ? "

Witness. — "It was not for me to approve or
disapprove. 1 leave that to the Reviews. n

Mr. Gill. — "At the trial Queensberry and
Wilde you described them as " beautiful poems ' ? n

Witness. — "1 said something tantamount to
that. The verses were original in theme and con-
struction, and 1 admired them. M

Mr. Gill. — " In one of the sonnets by Lord
A. Douglas a peculiar use is made of the word
- shame ' ? "

Witness. — ** 1 have noticed the line you refer
to. "

Mr. Gill. — " What significance would you
attach to the use of that word in connection with
the idea of the poem ? "

Witness. — " 1 can hardly take it upon myself
to explain the thoughts of another man. "

Mr. Gill. — M You were remarkably friendly
with the author ? Perhaps he vouchsafed you
an explanation ? "

Witness. — u On one occasion he did. "

Mr. Gill. — "1 should like to hear it. "

Witness. — " Lord Alfred explained that the

58 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

word ' shame ' was used in the sense of modesty,
i. e. to feel shame or not to feel shame. "

Mr. Gill. — " You can, perhaps, understand
that such verses as these would not be acceptable to
the reader with an ordinarily balanced mind ? "

Witness. — " 1 am not prepared to say. It
appears to me to be a question of taste, tempera-
ment and individuality. 1 should say that one
man's poetry is another man's poison ! " (Loud
laughter.)

Mr. Gill. — " 1 daresay ! There is another
sonnet. What construction can be put on the line,
' ] am the love that dare not speak its name* ? "

Witness. — " 1 think the writer's meaning is
quite unambiguous. The love he alluded to was
that between an elder and younger man, as between
David and Jonathan; such love as Plato made the
basis of his philosophy ; such as was sung in the
sonnets of Shakespeare and Michael Angelo; that
deep spiritual affection that was as pure as it was
perfect. It pervaded great works of art like those
of Michael Angelo and Shakespeare. Such as
' passeth the love of woman. ' It was beautiful,
it was pure, it was noble, it was intellectual— this
love of an elder man with his experience of life, and

" The Love of David and Jonathan " 5p

the younger with all the joy and hope oflife before
him. "

The witness made this speech with great emphasis
and some signs of emotion, and there came from the
gallery, at its conclusion, a medley of applause and
hisses which his lordship at once ordered to be sup-
pressed.

Mr. Gill. — "1 wish to call your attention to the
style of your correspondence with Lord A. Dou-
glas. "

Witness. — " 1 am ready. 1 am never ashamed
of the style of any of my writings. "

Mr. Gill. — " You are fortunate — or shall 1
say shameless ? 1 refer to passages in two letters
in particular. "

Witness. — " Kindly quote them.

Mr. Gill. — "In letter number one. You use
this expression : • Your slim gilt soul, ' and you
refer to Lord Alfred's M rose-leaf lips. "

Witness. — *f The letter is really a sort of prose
sonnet in answer to an acknowledgement of one 1
had received from Lord Alfred. "

Mr. Gill. — li Do you think that an ordinarily-
constituted being would address such expressions to
a younger man ? "

60 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — " 1 am not, happily, 1 think, an
ordinarily constituted being. "

Mr. Gill. — " It is agreeable to be able to agree
with you, Mr. Wilde. " (Laughter).

Witness. — " There is, 1 assure you, nothing in
either letter of which 1 need be ashamed. "

Mr. Gill. — " You have heard the evidence of
the lad Charles Parker ? "

Witness. — li Yes. "

Mr. Gill. — " Of Atkins ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Gill. — " Of Shelley ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Gill. — ** And these witnesses have, you
say, lied throughout? M

Witness. — " Their evidence as to my associa-
tion with them, as to the dinners taking place and
the small presents 1 gave them, is mostly true. But
there is not a particle of truth in that part of the
evidence which alleged improper behaviour. "

Mr. Gill. — " Why did you take up with these
youths ? "

Witness. — *' 1 am a lover of youth. " (Laughter).

Mr. Gill. — " You exalt youth as a sort of God?"

Witness. — " 1 like to study the young in

The Society of Barristers 61

everything. There is something fascinating in
youthfuJness. "

Mr. Gill. — " So you would prefer puppies to
dogs, and kittens to cats ? " (Laughter).

Witness. — " I think so. 1 should enjoy, for
instance, the society of a beardless, briefless, barris-
ter quite as much as that of the most accomplished
Q. C. " (Loud laughter).

Mr. Gill. — ?* 1 hope the former, whom 1
represent in large numbers, will appreciate the com-
pliment. " (More laughter). " These youths were
much inferior to you in station? "

Witness. — " I never enquired, nor did I care,
what station they occupied. 1 found them, for the
most part, bright and entertaining. 1 found their
conversation a change. It acted as a kind of mental
tonic. "

Mr. Gill. — " You saw nothing peculiar or
suggestive in the arrangement of Taylor's rooms? "

Witness. — " I cannot say that J did. They
were Bohemian. That is all. 1 have seen stranger
rooms. "

Mr. Gill. — " You never suspected the relations
that might exist between Taylor and his young
friends ? "

Witness. — " \ had no need to suspect anything.

6i The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Taylor's relations with his friends appeared to me to
be quite normal. "

Mr. Gill. — " You have attended to the evidence
of the witness Mavor ? "

Witness. — " 1 have. "

Mr. Gill. — " Is it true or false? "

Witness. — u It is mainly true, but false inferen-
ces have been drawn from it as from most of the
evidence. Truth may be found, I believe, at the
bottom of a well. It is, apparently difficult to find
it in a court of law. " (Laughter.)

Mr. Gill. — " Nevertheless we endeavour to
extract it. Did the witness Mavor write you expres-
sing a wish to break off the acquaintance? "

Witness. — " 1 received a rather unaccountable and
impertinent letter from him for which he afterwards
expressed great regret. M

Mr. Gill. — " Why should he have written it if
your conduct had altogether been blameless ? "

Witness. — * ' I do not profess to be able to explain
the motives of most of the witnesses. Mavor may
have been told some falsehood about me. His father
was greatly incensed at his conduct at this time, and,
1 believe, attributed his son's erratic courses to his
friendship with me. 1 do not think Mavor altoge-
ther to blame. Pressure was brought to bear upon

Jewelled Garters 63

him and he was not then quite right in his mind. "

Mr. Gill. — " You made handsome presents to
these young fellows ? "

Witness. — " Pardon me, I differ. 1 gave two
or three of them a cigarette-case. Boys of that
class smoke a good deal of cigarettes. 1 have a
weakness for presenting my acquitances with ciga-
rette-cases. "

Mr. Gill. — " Rather an expensive habit if indul-
ged in indiscriminately. "

Witness. — " Less extravagant than giving
jewelled-garters to ladies. " (Laughter).

When a few more unimportant questions had been
asked, Wilde left the witness-box, returning to the
dock with the same air of what may be described as
serious easiness. The impression created by his
replies was not, upon the whole, favorable to his
cause.

His place was taken by the prisoner Taylor.
He said that he was thirty -three years of age and
was educated at Marlborough. When he was twenty-
one he came into £45,000. In a few years he ran
through this fortune, and at about the time he went
to Chapel Street, he was made a bankrupt. The
charges made against him of misconduct were enti-
rely unfounded. He was asked point-blank if he had

64 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

not been given to sodomy from his early youth, and
if he had not been expelled from a public-school for
being caught in a compromising situation with a
small boy in the lavatory. Taylor was also asked if
he had not actually obtained a living since his bank-
ruptcy by procuring lads and young men for rich
gentlemen whom he knew to be given to this vice.
He was also asked if he had not extracted large sums
of money from wealthy men by threatening to accuse
them of immoralities. To all these plain questions
he returned in direct answer, " No ".

After the luncheon interval, Sir Edward Clark
rose to address the jury in defence of Oscar Wilde.
He began by carefully analysing the evidence. He
declared that the wretches who had come forward to
admit their own disgrace were shameless creatures
incapable of one manly thought or one manly action.
They were, without exception, blackmailers. They
lived by luring men to their rooms, generally, on the
pretence that a beautiful girl would be provided for
them on their arrival. Once in their clutches, these
victims could only get away by paying a large sum of
money unless they were prepared to face and deny
the most disgraceful charges. Innocent men cons-
tantly paid rather than face the odium attached to the
breath even of such scandals. They had, moreover,

Speech for the Defence 65

wives and children, daughters, maybe or a sister
whose honour or name they were obliged to consid-
er. Therefore they usually submitted to be
fleeced and in this way, this wretched Wood and the
abject Atkins had been able to go about the West-end
well-fed and well-dressed. These youths had been
introduced to Wilde. They were pleasant-spoken
enough and outwardly decent in their language and
conduct. Wilde was taken in by them and permit-
ted himself to enjoy their society. He did not
defend Wilde for this; he had unquestionably shown
imprudence, but a man of his temperament could not
be judged by the standards of the average individual.
These youths had come forward to make these charges
in a conspiracy to ruin his client.

Was it likely, he asked, that a man of Wilde's
cleverness would put himself so completely in the
power of these harpies as he would be if guilty of
only a tenth of the enormities they alleged against
him ? If Wilde practised these acts so openly and so
flagrantly — if he allowed the facts to come to the
knowledge of so many — then he was a fool who was
not fit to be at large. If the evidence was to be
credited, these acts of gross indecency which culmin-
ated in actual crime were done in so open a manner
as to compel the attention of landladies and house-

5

66 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

maids. He was not himself — and he thanked Heaven
for it — versed in the acts of those who committed
these crimes against nature. He did not know under
what circumstances they could be practised. But
he believed that this was a vice which, because of the
horror and repulsion it excited, because of the fury
it provoked against those guilty of it, was conducted
with the utmost possible secrecy. He respectfully
submitted that no jury could find a man guilty on
the evidence of these tainted witnesses.

Take the testimony, he said, of Atkins. This
young man had denied that he had ever been charged
at a police station with alleging blackmail. Yet he
was able to prove that he had grossly perjured
himself in this and other directions. That was a
sample of the evidence and Atkins was a type of the
witnesses.

The only one of these youths who had ever
attempted to get a decent living or who was not an
experienced blackmailer was Mavor,and he had denied
that Wilde had ever been guilty of any impropriety
with him.

The prosecution had sought to make capital out
of two letters written by Wilde to Lord Alfred
Douglas. He pointed out a fact which was of
considerable importance, namely, that Wilde had

Wilde's Motives 6y

produced one of these letters himself. Was that
the act of a man who had reason to fear the contents
of a letter being known ? Wilde never made any
secret of visiting Taylor's rooms. He found there
society which afforded him variety and change.
Wilde made no secret of giving dinners to some of
the witnesses. He thought that they were poorly
off and that a good dinner at a restaurant did not
often come their way. On only one occasion did he
hire a private room. The dinners were perfectly
open and above-board. Wilde was an extraordinary
man and he had written letters which might seem
high-flown, extravagant, exaggerated, absurd if they
liked ; but he was not afraid or ashamed to produce
these letters. The witnesses Charles Parker, Alfred
Wood and Atkins had been proved to have previously
been guilty of blackmailing of this kind and upon
their uncorroborated evidence surely the jury would
not convict the prisoner on such terrible charges.

" Fix your minds, M concluded Sir Edward
earnestly, " firmly on .the tests that ought to be
applied to the evidence as a whole before you can
condemn a fellow-man to a charge like this. Remem-
ber all that this charge implied, of implacable ruin
and inevitable disgrace. Then ] trust that the
result of your deliberations will be to gratify those

68 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

thousand hopes that arc waiting upon your verdict.
I trust that verdict will clear from this fearful im-
putation one of the most accomplished and renowned
men-of-letters of to-day. "

At the end of this peroration, there was some
slight applause at the back of the court, but it was
hushed almost at once. Wilde had paid great atten-
tion to the speech on his behalf and on one or two
occasions had pressed his hands to his eyes as if
expressing some not unnatural emotion. The
speech concluded, however, he resumed his cus-
tomary attitude and awaited with apparent firmness
all that might befall.

Mr. Grain then rose to address the jury on
behalf of Taylor. He submitted that there was
really no case against his client. An endeavour had
been made to prove that Taylor was in the habit of
introducing to Wilde youths whom he knew to be
amenable to the practices of the latter and that he
got paid for this degrading work. The attempt to
establish this disgusting association between Taylor
and Wilde had completely broken down. He was,
it is true, acquainted with Parker, Wood and Atkins.
He had seen them constantly in restaurants and
music-halls, and they had at first forced themselves
upon his notice and thus got acquainted with a man

An Acquittal demanded 69

whom they designed for blackmail. All the resour-
ces of the Crown had been unable to produce any
corroboration of the charges made by these witness-
es. How had Taylor got his livelihood, it might be
asked? He was perfectly prepared to answer the
question. He had been living on an allowance made
him by members of his late father's firm, a firm with
which all there present were familiar. Was it in the
least degree likely that such scenes as the witnesses
described, with such apparent candour and such
wealth of filthy detail, could have taken place in
Taylor's own appartments? It was incredible that
a man could thus risk almost certain discovery. In
conclusion, he confidently looked for the acquittal
of his client, who was guilty of nothing more than
having made imprudent acquaintances and having
trusted too much to the descriptions of themselves
given by others.

Mr. Gill then replied for the prosecution in a
closely-reasoned and most able speech, which occu-
pied two hours in delivery and which created an
enormous impression in the crowded court. He
commented at great length upon the evidence. He
contended that in a case of this description corrobor-
ation was of comparatively minor importance, for
it was not in the least likely that acts of the kind

jo The Trial of Oscar Wilde

alleged would be practised before a third party who
might afterwards swear to the fact. Therefore,
when the witnesses described what had transpired
when they and the prisoners were alone, he did not
think that corroboration could possibly be given.
There was not likely to be an eye-witness of the
facts. But in respect to many things he declared
the evidence was corroborated. Whatever the char-
acter of these youths might be, they had given
evidence as to certain facts and no cross-examination,
however adroit, however vigorous, had shaken their
testimony, or caused them to waver about that
which was evidently firmly implanted in their memor-
ies. A man might conceivably come forward and
commit perjury. But these youths were accusing
themselves, in accusing another, of shameful and
infamous acts, and this they would hardly do if it
were not the truth. Wilde had made presents to
these youths and it was noticeable that the gifts were
invariably made after he had been alone, at some
rooms or other, with one or another of the lads. In
the circumstances, even a silver cigarette-case was
corroboration. His learned friend had protested
against any evil construction being placed upon these
gifts and these dinners ; but, in the name of common-
sense, what other construction was possible? When

Speech for the Pros ecu Hon ji

they heard of aman like Wilde, presumably of refin-
ed and cultured tastes, who might if he wished,
enjoy the society of the best and most cultivated men
and women in London, accompanying to Nice and
other places on the Continent, uninformed, unintel-
lectual and vulgar, ill-bred youths of the type of
Charles Parker, then, in Heaven's name what were
they to think? All those visits, all those dinners,
all those gifts, were corroboration. They served to
confirm the truth of the statements made by the
youths who confessed to the commission of acts for
which the things he had quoted were positive and
actual payment.

I nthecaseof the witness Sidney Mavor, it was clear
that Wilde had, in some way, continued to disgust
this youth. Some acts of Wilde, either towards
himself, or towards others, had offended him. Was
not the letter which Mavor had addressed to the
prisoner, desiring the cessation of their friendship,
corrobation ?

(At this moment his Lordship interposed, and said
that although the evidence of this witness was clearly
of importance, he had denied that he had been
guilty of impropriety, and he did not think the
count in reference to Mavor could stand. After

J2 The Trial of Oscar Wildt

some discussion this count was struck out of the
indictment).

Before concluding Mr. Gill stated that he had
withdrawn the conspiracy count to prevent any
embarrassment to Sir Edward Clarke, who had
complained that he was affected in his defence by the
counts being joined. Mr. Gill said, in conclusion,
that it was the duty of the jury to express their
verdict without fear or favour. They owed a duty
to Society, however sorry they might feel themselves
at the moral downfall of an eminent man, to protect
Society from such scandals by removing from its
heart a sore which could not fail in time to corrupt
and taint it all.

Mr. Justice Charles then commenced his summing-
up. His lordship at the outset said he thought Mr.
Gill had taken a wise course in withdrawing the
conspiracy counts and thus relieving them all of an
embarrassing position. He did not see why the
conspiracy counts need have been inserted at all, and
he sh#uld direct the jury to return a verdict of
acquittal on those charges as well as upon one other
count against Taylor, to which he would further
allude, and upon which no sufficient evidence had
been given.

He the learned judge, asked the jury to apply

The li Sutnming-Up " j3

their minds solely to the evidence which had been
given. Any pre-conceived notion which they might
have formed from reading about the case he urged
them to dismiss from their minds, and to deal with
the case as it had been presented to them by the
witnesses.

His Lordship went on to ask the jury not to attach
too much importance to the uncorroborated evidence
of accomplices in such cases as these. Had there
been no corroboration in this case it would have
been his duty to instruct the jury accordingly; but
he was clearly of opinion that there was corrobora-
tion to all the witnesses; not, it is true, the conspiracy
testimony of eye-witnesses, but corroboration of the
narrative generally.

Three of the witnesses, Chas. Parker, Wood and
Atkins, were not only accomplices, but they had
been properly described by Sir Edward Clarke as
persons of bad character. Atkins, out of his own
mouth, was convicted of having told the most gross
and deliberate falsehoods. The jury knew how this
matter came before them as the outcome of the trial
of Lord Queensberry for alleged libel.

The learned judge proceeded to outline the features
of the Queensberry trial, commenting most upon
what was called the literary part of Wilde's examina-

74 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

tion in that case. The judge said that he had not
read " Dorian Gray ", but extracts were read at the
former trial and the present jury had a general idea
of the story. He did not think they ought to base
any unfavourable inference upon the fact that Wilde
was the author of that work. It would not be fair to
do so, for while it was true that there were many
great writers, such for instance as Sir Walter Scott
and Charles Dickens, who never penned an offensive
line, there were other great authors whose pens dealt
with subjects not so innocent.

As for Wilde's aphorisms in the " Chameleon ",
some were amusing, some were cynical, and some
were, if he might be allowed to say so, simple, but
there was nothing in per se, to convict Wilde of in-
decent practices. However, the same paper contained
a very indecent contribution; " The Priest and the
Acolyte ". Mr. Wilde had nothing to do with that.
In the " Chameleon " also appeared two poems by
Lord Alfred Douglas, one called M In Praise of
Shame ", and the other called " Two Loves ". It
was said that these sonnets had an immoral tendency
and that Wilde approved them. He was examined
at great length about these sonnets, and was also
asked about the two letters written by him to Lord

The Actual Charges j5

Alfred Douglas — letters that had been written before
the publication of the above mentioned poems.

In the previous case Mr. Carson had insisted that
these letters were indecent. On the other hand,
Wilde had told them that he was not ashamed of
them, as they were intended in the nature of prose
poems and breathed the pure love of one man for
another, such a love as David had for Jonathan, and
such as Plato described as the beginning of wisdom.

He would next deal with the actual charges, and
would first call their attention to the offence alleged
to have been committed with Edward Shelley at the
beginning of 1 892. Shelley was undoubtedly in the
position of an accomplice, but his evidence was corro-
borated. He was not, however, tainted with the
offences with which Parker, Wood and Atkins were
connected. He seemed to be a person of some edu-
cation and a fondness for Literature. As to Shelley's
visit to the Albemarle Hotel, the jury were the best
judges of the demeanour of the witness. Wilde
denied all the allegations of indecency though he
admitted the other parts of the young man's story.
His Lordship called attention to the letters written by
Shelley to Wilde in 1892, 1893 and 1894. It was, he
said, a very anxious part of the jury's task to account
for thetone of these letters, and for Shelley's conduct

j6 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

generally. It became a question as to whether or
no his mind was disordered. He felt bound to say
that though there was evidence of great excitability,
to talk of either Shelley orMavor as an insane youth
was an exaggeration, but it would be for the jury to
draw their own conclusions.

Passing to the case of Atkins, the judge drew
attention to his meeting with Taylor in November
1892, to the dinner at the Cafe Florence, at which
Wilde, Taylor, Atkins and Lord A. Douglas were
present, and to the visit of Atkins to Paris in com-
pany with Wilde.

After dwelling on the circumstances of that visit,
his lordship referred to Wilde's two visits to Atkins
in Osnaburgh Street in December 1893. Wilde
explained the Paris visit by saying that Schwabe had
arranged to take Atkins to Paris, but being unable
to leave at the time appointed he asked Wilde to take
charge of the youth, and he did so out of friendship
for Schwabe. Wilde further denied that he was
much in Atkins* company when in Paris. Atkins
certainly was an unreliable witness and had obviously
given an incorrect version of his relations with Bur-
ton. He told the grossest falsehoods with regard
to their arrest, and was convicted out of his own
mouth when recalled by Sir E. Clarke. It was for

The Tell-tale Bed-Sheets yy

the jury to decide how much of Atkins's evidence
they might safely believe.

Then there were the events described as having
occured at the Savoy Hotel in March 1892. He
would ask the jury to be careful in the evidence 01
the chamber-maid, Jane Cotter, and the interpre-
tation they put upon it. If her evidence and that of
the Masseur Mijji, were true, then Wilde's evidence
on that part of the case was untrue, and the jury must
use their own discretion. He did not wish to enlarge
upon this most unpleasant part of the whole unplea-
sant case, but it was necessary to remind the jury
as discreetly as he could that the chamber-maid had
objected to making the bed on several occasions after
Wilde and Atkins had been in the bed-room alone
together. There were, she had affirmed, indicatiohs
on the sheets that conduct of the grossest kind had
been indulged in. He thought it his duty to remind
the jury that there might be an innocent explanation
of these stains, though the evidence of Jane Cotter
certainly afforded a kind of corroboration of these
charges and of Atkins's own story. In reference to
the case of Wood, he contrasted Wood's account
with that of Wilde.

It seemed that Lord Alfred Douglas had met Wood
at Taylor's rooms. In response to a telegram from

j8 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

tbe former, Wood went to the Cafe Royal and there
met Wilde for the first time, Wilde speaking first.
On the other hand, Wilde represented that Wood
spoke first. The jury might think that, in any case,
the circumstances of that meeting were remarkable,
especially when taken in conjunction with what fol-
lowed. There was no doubt that Wood had fallen
into evil courses and he and Allen had extracted the
sum of £3oo in blackmail. The interview between
Wilde and Wood prior to the latter's departure for
America was remarkable. A sum of money, said to
be £3o, was given by Wilde to Wood, and Wood
returned some of Wilde's letters that had somehow
come into his possession. Wood, however, kept
back one letter which got into Allen's possession.
Wood got £5 more on the following day, went to
America, and while there wrote to Taylor a letter
in which occured the passage. "Tell Oscar if he
likes he can send me a draft for an Easter Egg. "
It would be for the jury to consider what would
have been the inner meaning of these and other tran-
sactions.

As to the prisoner Taylor, he had, on his own
admission, led a life of idleness, and got through a
fortune of £45,000. It was alleged that the prisoner
had virtually turned his apartments into a bagnio or

Eaves-dropping Impossible 79

brothel, in which young men took the place of prosti-
tutes, and that his character in this regard was well
known to those who were secretly given to this par-
ticular vice. One of the offences imputed to Taylor
had reference to Charles Parker, who had spoken of
the peculiar arrangement of the rooms. There were
two bedrooms in the inner room with folding
doors between and the windows were heavily draped,
so that no one from the opposite houses could pos-
sibly see what was goingon inside. Heavy curtains,
it was said, hung before all the doors, so that it
could not be possible for an eave's-dropper to hear
what was proceeding inside. There was a curiously
shaped sofa in the sitting-room and the whole aspect
of the room resembled, it was asserted, a fashion-
able resort for vice.

Wilde was undoubtedly present at some of the tea
parties given there, and did not profess to be surpri-
sed at what he saw there. It had been shown that
both the Parkers went to these rooms, and further,
that Charles Parker had received £3o of the blackmail
extorted by Wood and Allen.

Charles Parker's evidence was therefore doubly-
tainted like that of Wood and Atkins, but his evi-
dence was to some extent confirmed by that of his
brother William. Some parts of Charles Parker's

80 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

evidence were also corroborated by other witnesses,
as for instance, by Marjorie Bancroft, who swore
that she saw Wilde visit Charles Parker's rooms in
Park Walk.

It was admitted that this Parker visited Wilde at
St. James* Place. Charles Parker had been arrested
with Taylor in the Fitzroy Square raid and this went
to show that they were in the habit of associating
with those suspected cf offences of the kind alleged.
Both, however, were on that occasion discharged
and Parker enlisted in the army. It was quite
manifest that Charles Parker was of a low class of
morality.

That concluded the various charges made in this
case and he had very little to add. Mavor's evidence
had little or no value with reference to the issues now
before the jury, except as showing how he became
acquainted with Wilde and Taylor. So far as it went,
Mavor's evidence was rather in favour of Wilde than
otherwise and nothing indecent had been proved
against that witness.

In conclusion, his lordship submitted the case
to the jury in the confident hope that they would do
justice to themselves on the one hand, and to the two
defendants on the other. The learned judge con-
cluded by further directing the jury as to the issues,

Questions for the Jury 8j

and asked them to form their opinions on the
evidence, and to give the case their careful consider-
ation.

The judge left the following questions to the
jury: —

First, whether Wilde committed certain offences
with Shelley, Wood, with a person or persons un-
known at the Savoy Hotel, or with Charles Parker?

Secondly, whether Taylor procured the commis-
sion of those acts or any of them ?

Thirdly, did Wilde or Taylor, or either of them
attempt to get Atkins to commit certain offences with
Wilde, and Fourthly, did Taylor commit certain acts
with either Charles Parker or Wood ?

The Jury retired at i .35, the summing-up of the
judge having taken exactly three hours.

At three o'clock a communication was brought from
the jury, and conveyed by the Clerk of arraigns to the
Judge, and shortly afterwards the jury had luncheon
taken in to them.

At 4.1 5 the judge sent for the Clerk of arraigns,
Mr. Avory, who proceeded to his lordship's private
room.

Subsequently, Mr. Avory went to the jury,
apparently with a communication from the judge and

6

8i The Trial of Oscar Wilde

returned in a few minutes to the judge's private
room.

Shortly before fivz o'clock the usher brought a
telegram from one of the jurors, and after it had been
shown to the clerk of arraigns it was allowed to be
despatched.

Eventually the jury returned into court at a quar-
ter past five o'clock.

THE VERDICT

The Judge. — u 1 have received a communication
from you to the effect that you are unable to arrive
at an agreement. Now, is there anything you desire
to ask me in reference to the case ? *'

The Foreman. — " ) have put that question to
my fellow-jurymen, my lord, and 1 do not think
there is any doubt that we cannot agree upon three
of the questions. "

The Judge. — "1 find from the entry which you
have written against the various subdivisions of
N°. i that you cannot agree as to any of those sub-
divisions?"

The Foreman. — " That is so, my lord."

The Judge. — " Is there no prospect of an agree-
ment if you retire to your room ? M

The Jury "Disagree 83

The Foreman. — "I fear not. "

The Judge. — " You have not been inconvenien-
ced ; I ordered what you required, and there is no
prospect that, with a little more deliberation, you
may come to an agreement as to some of them ? "

The Foreman. — " My fellow-jurymen say there
is no possibility. "

The Judge. — " I am very unwilling to prejudice
your deliberations, and 1 have no doubt that you
have done your best to arrive at an agreement. On
the other hand 1 would point ot to you that the
inconveniences of a new trial are very great. If you
thought that by deliberating a reasonable time you
could arrive at a conclusion upon any of the questions
] have asked you, ] would ask you to do so. "

The Foreman. — M We considered the matter
before coming into court and 1 do not think there is
any chance of agreement. We have considered it
again and again. "

The Judge. — "]f you tell me that, ] do not
think 1 am justified in detaining you any longer. "

Sir Edward Clarke. — " 1 wish to ask, my
lord, that a verdict may be given in the conspiracy
counts. "

Mr. Gill. — M J wish to oppose that."

The Judge. — "] directed the acquittal of the

84 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

prisoners on the conspiracy counts this morning. ]
thought that was the right course to adopt, and the
same remark might be made with regard to the two
counts in which Taylor was charged with improper
conduct towards Wood and Parker. It was unfortu-
nate that the reaJ and material questions which had
occupied the jury's attention for such a length of
time were matters upon which the jury were unable
to agree. Upon these matters and upon the counts
which were concerned with them, 1 must discharge
the jury. "

Sir Edward Clarke. — M 1 wish to apply for
bail, then for M. Wilde."

Mr. Hall. — "And 1 make the same application
on behalf of Taylor. "

The Judge, — "1 dont* feel able to accede to the
applications. "

Sir Edward. — "1 shall probably renew the
application, my lord. "

The Judge. — M That would be to a judge in
chambers. "

Mr. Gill. — "The case will assuredly be tried
again and probably it will go to the next Sessions. "

The two prisoners, who had listened to all this
very attentively, were then conducted from the dock.

The Second Trial 85

Wilde had listened to the foreman of the jury's state-
ment without any show of feeling.

It was stated that the failure of the jury to agree
upon a verdict was owing to three out of the twelve
being unable upon the evidence placed before them
to arrive at any other conclusion than that of " Not
Guilty. "

The following day Mr. Baron Pollock decided that
Oscar Wilde should be allowed out on bail in his own
recognisances of £a,5oo and two sureties of £i,25o
each. Wilde was brought up at Bow Street next
day and the sureties attended. After a further
application, bail in his case was granted and he went
out of prison, for the present a free man, but with
Nemesis, in the shape of the second trial, awaiting
him!

*

The second trial of Oscar Wilde, with its dramatic
finale, for no one thought much of its consequences
to Alfred Taylor, came on in the third week of May
at the Old Bailey.

It was agreed to take the cases of the prisoners
separately, Taylor's first. Sir Edward Clarke, who
still represented Wilde, stated that be should make

86 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

an application at the end of Taylor's trial that Wilde's
case should stand oyer till the next sessions. His
lordship said that application had better be postponed
till the end of the first trial, significantly adding.
M If there should be an acquittal, so much the better
for the other prisoner. " Meanwhile Wilde was to
be released on bail.

Sir Francis Lockwood, who now represented the
prosecution, then went over all the details of the
intimacy of the Parkers and Wood with Taylor and
Wilde and called Charles Parker, who repeated his
former evidence, including a very serious allegation
against the prisoner. He stated in so many words
that Taylor had kept him at his rooms for a whole
week during which time they rarely went out, and
had repeatedly committed sodomy with him. The
witness unblushingly asserted that they slept toge-
ther and that Taylor called him " Darling " and
referred to him as "my little Wife ". When he left
Taylor's rooms the latter paid him some money, said
he should never want for cash and that he would in-
troduce him to men " prepared to pay for that kind of
thing". Cross-examined; Charles Parker admitted
that he had previously been guilty of this offence,
but had determined never to submit to such treat-
ment again. Taylor over-persuaded him. He was

The Landlady s Testimony 8j

nearly drunk and incapable, the first time, of
making a moral resistance.

Alfred Wood also described his acquaintance with
Taylor and his visits to what he termed the t4 snug-
gery " at Little College Street, but which quite as
appropriately could have been designed by a name
which would have the additional merit of strictly
describing it and of rhyming with it at the same
time ! It was not at all clear, however, that Taylor
was responsible, at least directly, for the introduc-
tion of Alfred Wood to Wilde as the indictment
suggested. This was effected by a third person,
whose name had not as yet been introduced into
the case.

Mrs. Grant, the landlady at i3 Little College
Street, described Taylor's rooms. She was not
aware, she said, that they were put to an improper
use, but she had remarked to her husband the care
taken that whatever went on there should be hidden
from the eyes and ears of others. Young men used
to come there and remain some time with Taylor,
and Wilde was a frequent visitor. Taylor provided
much of his own bed-linen and she noticed that the
pillows had lace and were generally elaborate and
costly.

The prosecution next called a new witness, Emily

88 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Becca, chambermaid at the Savoy Hotel, who stated
that she had complained to the management of the
state in which she found the bed -linen and the
utensils of the room. When pressed for particu-
lars the witness hesitated, and after stating that she
refused to make the bed or empty the " chamber, "
she said she handed in her notice but was prevailed
upon to withdraw it. Then by a series of adroit
questions Counsel obtained the particulars. The
bed-linen was stained. The colour was brown.
The towels were similarly discoloured. One of
the pillows was marked with face-powder. There
was excrement in one of the utensils in the bed-
room. Wilde had handed her half a sovereign but
when she saw the state of the room after he had
gone she gave the coin to the management.

Evidence with regard to Wilde's rooms at St.
James* Place was given by Thomas Price, who was
able to identify Taylor as one of the callers.

Mrs. Gray — no relation, haply, to the notorious
' ' Dorian " — of 3 Chapel Street, Chelsea, deposed that
Taylor stayed at her house from August 1893 to
the end of that year. Formal and minor items of
evidence concluded the case for the prosecution of
Taylor, and Mr. Grain proceeded to open his

Forty-five Thousand Pounds* 89

defence by calling the prisoner into the witness-box.
Mr. Grain examined him.

Mr. Grain. — " What is your age? "

Witness. — " 1 am thirty-three. "

Mr. Grain. — M You are the son of the late
Henry Taylor, who was a manufacturer of an article
of food in large demand? "

Witness. — " 1 am."

Mr. Grain. — " You were at Marlborough
School?"

Witness. — " Gill ] was seventeen. "

Mr. Grain. — " You inherited £45,000 1 be-
lieve?"

Witness. — " Yes. "

Mr. Grain. — " And spent it? "

Witness. — "It went. "

Mr. Grain. — " Since then you have had no
occupation? "

Witness. — " 1 have lived upon an allowance
made me. "

Mr. Grain. — "Is there any truth in the evi-
dence of Charles Parker that you misconducted
yourself with him. "

Witness. — " Not the slightest. "

Mr. Grain. — " What rooms had you at Little
College Street? "

?o The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — M One bedroom, but it was sub-
divided and 1 believe there was generally a bed in
each division. "

Mr. Grain. — u You had a good many visitors? "
Witness. — " Oh, yes. M

Sir Frank Lockwood. — M Did Charles Mavor
stay with you then ? "

Witness. — M Yes, about a week. M
Sir Frank. — "When?"

Witness. — w When I first went there, in 1892."
Sir Frank. — " What is his age? *
Witness. — " He is now 26 or 27. "
Sir Frank. — " Do you remember going through
a form of marriage with Mavor ? "
Witness. — " No„ never. M
Sir Frank. — M Did you tell Parker you did? "
Witness. — " Nothing of the kind."
Sir Frank. — H Did you not place a wedding-
ring on his finger and go to bed with him that night
as though he were your lawful wife? "

Witness. — " It is all false. 1 deny it all. "
Sir Frank. — " Did you ever sleep with Mavor?"
Witness. — "1 think I did the first night — after,
he had a separate bed. "

Sir Frank. — f4 Did you induce Mavor to attire
himself as a woman? "

Dressed as a Woman 91

Witness. — " Certainly 1 did not. M

Sir Frank. — " But there were articles of
women's dress at your rooms? "

Witness. — " No. There was a fancy dress for
a female, a theatrical costume. "

Sir Frank. — u Was it made for a woman? "

Witness. — M 1 think so. "

Sir Frank. — " Perhaps you wore it? "

Witness. — u 1 put it on once by way of a lark."

Sir Frank. — " On no other occasion ? "

Witness. — " \ wore it once, too, at a fancy
dress ball. "

Sir Frank. — "1 suggest that you often dressed
as a woman ? "

Witness. — " No. "

Sir Frank. ■■■ " You wore, and caused Mavor
afterwards, to wear lace drawers — a woman's
garment— with the dress ? "

Witness. — " 1 wore knicker-bockers and stoc-
kings when I wore it at the fancy dress ball. "

Sir Frank. — " And a woman's wig, which
afterwards did for Mavor ? "

Witness. — " No, the wig was made for me.
1 was going to a fancy-ball as ' Dick Whittington'. "

Sir Frank. — " Who introduced you to the
Parkers ? "

92 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Witness. — "A friend named Harrington at the
St. James's Restaurant. "

Sir Frank. — " You invited them to your
rooms ? "

Witness. — " 1 did. "

Sir Frank. — " Why ? "

Witness. — "1 found them very nice. "

Sir Frank. — M You were acquainted with a
young fellow named Mason ? "

Witness. — " Yes. "

Sir Frank. — " He visited you ? "

Witness. — M Two or three times only, 1 think. M

Sir Frank. — " Did you induce him to commit a
filthy act with you ? "

Witness. — M Never. "

Sir Frank. — " He has written you letters ? "

Witness. — M That's very likely. "

Sir Frank. — u The Solicitor General proposes
to read one. "

The letter was as follows : —

" Dear Alf,

Let me have some money as soon as you can. 1
would not ask you for it if 1 could get any myself.
You know the business is not so easy. There is a
lot of trouble attached to it.

Come home soon, dear, and let us go out toge-

One Man to Another $3

ther sometimes. Have very little news. Going to
a dinner on Monday and a theatre to-night.
With much love,
Yours always,
Charles. "

The Solicitor General. — (Severely) " 1 ask
you, Taylor, for an explanation, for it requires one,
of the use of the words M come home soon, dear ",
as between two men. "

Taylor. — (Laughing nervously) " I do not see
anything in it. "

The Solicitor General. — " Nothing in it ? "

Witness. — " Well, 1 am not responsible for
the expressions of another. "

The Solicitor General. — ft You allowed your-
self to be addressed in this strain ? "

Witness. — M Its the way you read it. "

The summing-up followed and after a consulta-
tion of three-quarters of an hour, the jury retur-
ned a verdict against Taylor on the indecency counts,
not agreeing, however, as to the charges of procura-
tion. Sentence was postponed, pending the result
of the trial of Oscar Wilde, which began next day.

Wilde had meanwhile been at large on bail. The

94 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

one charge of M conspiring with Alfred Taylor to
procure V had been dropped, and the indictment of
misdemeanour alleged that the prisoner unlawfully
committed various acts with Charles Parker, Alfred
Wood, Edward Shelley, and certain persons
unknown.

The plea of " Not Guilty " was recorded.

The case for the prosecution was opened by cal-
ling Edward Shelley, the young man who had been
employed by the Vigo Street publishers. Shelley
repeated the story of the beginning and the progress
of his intimacy with Wilde. It began, he said, in
1891 ; in March 1893, they quarrelled. The
witness had been subjected by the prisoner to
attempts at improper conduct. Oscar had, to be
plain, on several occasions, placed his hand on the
private parts of the witness and sought to put his,
witness's, hand in the same indelicate position as
regards Wilde's own person. Witness resented
these acts at the time ; had told Wilde not to be ' a
beast \ and the latter expressed his sorrow. u But
1 am so fond of you, Edward, " he had said.

The Witness wrote Wilde that he would not see
him again. He spoke in the letter of these and
other acts of impropriety and made use of the
expression, " 1 was entrapped.'* Witness explained

Tell-tale Letters $5

to the court, M He knew 1 admired him very
much and he took advantage of me — of my admira-
tion and — well, 1 wont' say innocence. 1 don't
know what to call it.

These are some of the letters which Shelley
wrote to Wilde :

October 27, 1892.

Oscar : Will you be at home on Sunday evening
next ? 1 am most anxious to see you. 1 would
have called this evening, but 1 am suffering from
nervousness, the result of insomnia and am obliged
to remain at home.

] have longed to see you all through the week.
1 have much to tell you. Do not think me forget-
ful in not coming before, because 1 shall never
forget your kindness, and am conscious that 1 can
never sufficiently express my thankfulness. "

Another letter ran :

October 2 5, 1894.

Oscar : 1 want to go away and rest somewhere —
1 think in Cornwall for two weeks. I am determined
to live a truly Christian life, and 1 accept poverty as
part of my religion, but 1 must have health. 1 have
so much to do for my mother. "

Sir Edward Clarke. — '* Now, Mr. Shelley,
do you mean to tell the jury that having in your

p6 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

mind, that this man had behaved disgracefully
towards you, you wrote that letter of October 27,
1892?"

Witness. — u Yes. Because after those few
occurrences he treated me very well. He seemed
really sorry for what he had done. "

Sir Edward. — " He introduced you to his
home ? *

Witness. — " Yes, to his wife. I dined with
them and he seemed to take a real interest in me. "

Sir Edward. — u You have met Lord Alfred
Douglas ? "

Witness. — " Yes, at his rooms at the ' Var-
sity \ "

Sir Edward. — M He was kind to you ? "

Witness. — " Yes. He gave me a suit of
clothes while 1 was there. "

Sir Edward. — u And you found two letters in
one of the pockets ? "

Witness.— " Yes. "

Sir Edward. — " Who from ? "

Witness. — " From Mr Wilde to Lord Alfred. "

Sir Edward. — M How did they begin ? "

Witness. — " One was addressed, '* Dear
Alfred ", and the other to " Dear Bogie ". "

The Modus Operandi yj

Solicitor-General. — " When did you first meet
Lord Alfred ? "

Witness. — u At Taylor's rooms in Little College
Street. "

Solicitor-General. — " Then you visited him
at the University ? "

Witness. — M Yes. "

The Solicitor-General then proceeded to ask the
witness as to the terms upon which Wilde and Lord
Alfred appeared to be ; but this has been a prohibi-
ted topic from first to last and was now successfully
objected to.

Charles Parker was called and he repeated his evi-
dence at great length, relating the most disgusting
facts in a perfectly serene manner. He said that
Wilde invariably began his " campaign "—before
arriving at the final nameless act— with indecencies.
He used to require the witness to do what is vul-
garly known as *' tossing him off ", explained
Parker quite unabashed, " and he would often do the
same to me. He suggested two or three times that
1 should permit him to insert " it " in my mouth,
but ] never allowed that. " He gave other details
equally shocking.

A few other witnesses were examined, and the
rest of the day having been spent in the reading over

7

98 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

of the evidence, Sir Edward Clarke submitted that
in respect of certain counts of the indictment there
was no evidence to go to the jury.

The Solicitor-General submitted that there was
ample evidence to go to the jury, who alone could
decide as to whether or not it was worthy of belief.

The Judge said he thought the point in respect to
the Savoy Hotel incident was just on the line, but
he thought that the wiser and safer course was to
allow the count in respect of this matter to go to
the jury. At the same time, he felt justified, if the
occasion should arise, in reserving the point for the
Court of Appeal. He was inclined to think it was
a matter, the responsibility of deciding which, res-
ted with the jury.

Sir Edward Clarke submitted next that there was
no corroboration of the evidence of this witness.
The letters of Shelley pointed to the inference that
the latter might have been the victim of delusions,
and, judging from his conduct in the witness-box, he
appeared to have a peculiar sort of exaltation in and
for himself.

The Solicitor-General maintained that Shelley's
evidence was corroborated as far as it could possibly
be. Of course, in a case of this kind there was an
enormous difficulty in producing corroboration of

The Law of 'Evidence 99

eye-witnesses to the actual commission of the alleged
act.

The judge held that Shelley must be treated on
the footing of an accomplice. He adhered, after a
most careful consideration of the point, to his former
view, that there was no corroboration of the nature
required by the Act to warrant conviction, and there-
fore he felt justified in withdrawing that count from
the jury.

Sir Edward Clarke made the same submission in
the case of Wood.

The Solicitor General protested against any
decision being given on these questions other than
by a verdict of the jury. In his opinion the case of
the man Wood could not be withheld from the
jury. He submitted that there was every element
of strong corroboration of Wood's story, having
regard especially to the strange and suspicious
circumstances under which Wilde and Wood became
acquainted.

Sir Edward Clarke quoted from the summing-up
of Mr. Justice Charles on the last trial relative to
the directions which he gave the jury in the law
respecting the corroboration of the evidence of an
accomplice.

The judge was or opinion that the count affecting

J oo The Trial of Oscar Wilde

Wood ought to go to the jury, and he gave reasons
why it ought not to be withheld.

Sir Edward Clarke after a private passage of arms
with the Solicitor-General in respect to the need for
corroborative evidence, then began a brief, but able
appeal to the jury on behalf of his client, after which
Wilde entered the witness-box. He formally denied
the allegations against him. Sir Frank Lockwood,
in cross-examination : " Now, Mr. Wilde, 1 should
like you to tell me where Lord A. Douglas is now?"
Witness. — M He is in Paris, at the Hotel des
Deux Mondes. "

Sir Frank. — M How long has he been there?"
Witness. — " Three weeks."
Sir Frank. — " Have you been in communication
with him?"

Witness. — u Certainly. These charges are
founded on sand. Our friendship is founded on a
rock. There has been no need to cancel our acquain-
tance."

Sir Frank. — " Was Lord Alfred in London at
the time of the trial of the Marquis of Queensber-
ry?"

Witness. — "Yes, for about three weeks. He
went abroad at my request before the first trial on
these counts came on. "

The Question of Decency joj

Sir Frank. — M May we take it that the two
letters from you to him were samples of the kind you
wrote him ? "

Witness. — *' No. They were exceptional
letters born of the two exceptional letters he sent to
me. It is possible, 1 assure you, to express poetry
in prose. "

Sir Frank. — "I will read one of these prose-
poem letters. Do you think this line is decent,
addressed to a young man? " Your rose-red lips
which are made for the music of song and the madness
of kissing. "

Witness. — "It was like a sonnet of Shakespeare.
It was a fantastic, extravagant way of writing to a
young man. It does not seem to be a question of
whether it is proper or not. "

Sir Frank. — "1 used the word decent. "

Witness. — M Decent, oh yes. "

Sir Frank. — " Do you think you understand the
word, Sir?

Witness. — "1 do not see anything indecent in
it, it was an attempt to address in beautiful phrase-
ology a young man who had much culture and
charm. "

Sir Frank. — lt How many times have you been

102 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

in the College Street ' snuggery ' of the man Tay-
lor?"

Witness. — M I do not think more than five or six
times. "

Sir Frank. — " Who did you meet there? "

Witness. — * u Sidney Mavor and Schwabe— I
cannot remember any others. I have not been there
since I met Wood there. "

Sir Frank. — "With regard to the Savoy Hotel
Witnesses ? "

Witness. — " Their evidence is quite untrue. "

Sir Frank. — " You deny that the bed-linen was
marked in the way described ? "

Witness. — I do not examine bed-linen when I
arise.. I am not a housemaid. "

Sir Frank. — " Were the stains there, Sir?"

Witness. — "If they were there, they were not
caused in the way the Prosecution most filthily sug-
gests. "

Sir Edward Clarke, after a slight " breeze "
with the Solicitor-General as to the right to the last
word to the jury, then addressed that devoted band
of men for the third time, a*d asked for the acquittal
of his client on all the counts.

Sir Frank Lockwood also addressed the jury and
the Court then adjoined.

Meaningless Laughter io3

Next day the Solicitor-General, resuming his
speech on behalf of the Crown dealt in details with
the arguments of Sir E. Clarke in defence of Wilde,
and commented in strong terms on observations that
he made respecting the lofty situation of Wilde,
with his literary accomplishments, for the purpose
of influencing the judgment of the young. He said
that the jury ought to discard absolutely any such
appeal, to apply simply their common-sense to the
testimony ; and to form a conclusion on the evidence,
which he submitted fully established the charges.

He was commenting on another branch of the
case, when Sir E. Clarke interposed on the ground
that the learned Solicitor-General was alluding to
incidents connected with another trial. The Soli-
citor-General maintained that he was strictly within
his rights, and the Judge held that the latter was
entitled to make the comments objected to. " My
learned friend does not appear to have gained a great
deal by his superfluity of interruption", remarked
the Solicitor-General suavely, and the Court laughed
loudly. The Judge said that this sort of thing was
most offensive to him. It was painful enough to
have to try such a case and keep the scales of justice
evenly balanced without the Court being pestered
with meaningless laughter and applause. If such

J 04 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

conduct were repeated he would have the Court
cleared.

The Solicitor-General then criticised the answers
given by Wilde to the charges, which explanations
he submitted, were not worthy of belief. The jury
could not fail to put the interpretation on the con-
duct of the accused that he was a guilty man and
they ought to say so by their verdict.

The Judge, in summing-up, referred to the diffi-
culties of the case in some of its features. He
regretted, that if the conspiracy counts were unne-
cessary, or could not be established, they should
have been placed in the indictment. The jury must
not surrender their own independent judgment in
dealing with the facts and ought to discard every-
thing which was not relevant to the issue before
them, or did not assist their judgment.

He did not desire to comment more than he could
help about Lord Alfred Douglas or the Marquis of
Queensberry, but the whole of this lamentable
enquiry arose through the defendant's association
with Lord A. Douglas.

He did not think that the action of the Marquis
of Queensberry in leaving the card at the defendant's
club, whatever motives he had, was that of a gent-
leman. The jury were entitled to consider that

Lord Alfred Douglas io5

these alleged acts happened some years ago. They
ought to be the best judges as to the testimony of
the witnesses and whether it was worthy of belief.

The letters written by the accused to Lord
A. Douglas were undoubtedly open to suspicion,
and they had an important bearing on Wood's evi-
dence. There was no corroboration of Wood as to
the visit to Tite Street, and if his story had been
true, he thought that some corroboration might have
been obtained. Wood belonged to the vilest class
of person which Society was pestered with, and the
jury ought not to believe his story unless satisfac-
torily corroborated.

Their decision must turn on the character of the
first introduction of Wilde to Wood. Did they
believe that Wilde was actuated by charitable mo-
tives or by improper motives?

The foreman of the jury, interposing at this stage,
asked whether a warrant had been issued for the
arrest of Lord Alfred Douglas and if not, whether
it was intended to issue one.

The Judge said he could not tell, but he thought
not. It was a matter they could not now discuss.
The granting of a warrant depended not upon the
inferences to be drawn from the letters referred to
in the case, but on the production of evidence of

io6 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

specific acts. There was a disadvantage in speculat-
ing on this question. They must deal with the
evidence before them and with that alone. The
foreman said, M If we are to deduce from the letters
it applies to Lord Alfred Douglas equally as to the
defendant ".

The Judge. — "In regard to the question as to
the absence of Lord A. Douglas, 1 warn you not
to be influenced by any consideration of the kind.
All that they knew was that Lord A. Douglas went
to Paris shortly after the last trial and had remained
there since. He felt sure that if the circumstances
justified it, the necessary proceedings could be
taken." I

His lordship dealt with each of the charges, and
the evidence in support of them, and he then, after
thanking the jury for the patient manner in which
they had attended to the case, left the issues in their
hands.

The jury retired to consider their verdict at half
past three o'clock and at half past five they returned
into Court.

The Blow of the Hammer toy

THE VERDICT

Amidst breathless excitement, the Foreman, in
answer to the usual formal questions, announced
the verdict, " Guilty".

Sir Edward Clarke. — "1 apply, my lord, for
a postponement of sentence. "

The Judge. — " ] must certainly refuse that
request. 1 can only characterise the offences as the
worst that have ever come under my notice. 1 have,
however, no wish to add to the pain that must be
felt by the defendants. 1 sentence both Wilde and
Taylor to two years imprisonment with hard labour."

The sentence was met with some cries of *' shame"
" a scandalous verdict ", " unjust, " by certain
persons in Court. The two prisoners appeared
dazed and Wilde especially seemed ready to faint as
he was hurried out of sight to the cells.

Thus perished by his own act a man who might
have made a lasting mark in British Literature and
secured for himself no mean place in the annals of
his time.

He forfeited, in the pursuit of forbidden pleasures,

108 The Trial of Oscar Wilde

if pleasures theyjcan be called, all and everything
that made life dear.

He entered upon his incarceration bankrupt in
reputation, in friends, in pocket, and had not even
left to him the poor shreds of his own self-esteem.

He went into gaol, knowing that if he emerged
alive, the darkness would swallow him up and that his
world — the spheres which had delighted to honour
him — would know him no more.

He had covered his name with infamy and sank
his own celebrity in a slough of slime and filth.

He would die to leave behind him what? — the
name of a man who was absolutely governed by his
own vices and to whom no act of immorality was too
foul or horrible.

Oscar Wilde emerged from prison in every way
a broken man. The wonderful descriptive force of
the "Ballad of Treading Gaol; the perfect, torturing
self-analysis of De Profundis speak eloquently of
powers unimpaired ; but they were the swan-songs
of a once great mind. All his abilities had fled.
He seemed unable to concentrate his mind upon
anything. He took up certain subjects, played
with them, and wearied of them in a day. French
authors did not ostracise the erratic English genius
when he hid himself amongst them and they honestly

The Blow of the Hammer 109

endeavoured to find him employment. But his
faculties had been blunted by the horrors of prison
life. His epigrams had lost their edge. His aphor-
isms were trite and aimless. He abandoned every
subject he took up, in despair. His mind died before
his body. He suffered from a complete mental
atrophy. A nightingale cannot sing in a cage. A
genius cannot flourish in a prison. He died in two
years and is now — the merest memory ! Let us
remember this of him : if he sinned much, he
suffered much.

Peace to his ashes!

HIS LAST BOOK

AND HIS LAST YEARS IN PARIS

By " A "
(LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS?)

The following three arti-
cles, two of them from the
" St James's Gazette " and
one from the " Motorist ",
are marked with so much
good sense and dissipate so
many errors touching Oscar
Wildes last Years in Paris
that the publisher deemed it
a duty to reproduce them
here as a permanent answer
to the wild legends circulated
about the subject of this book.

OSCAR WILDE

His last Book and his last Years

The publication of Oscar Wilde's last book, " De Profun-
dis, u has revived interest in the dosing scenes of his life,
and we to-day print the first of two articles dealing with his
last years in Paris from a source which puts their authenticity
beyond question.

The one question which inevitably suggested itself to the
reader of " De Profundis, " was, " What was the effect of
his prison reflections on his subsequent life ? " The book w full
not only of frank admissions of the error of his ways, but of
projects for his future activity. " J hope, " he wrote, in reply
to some criticisms on the relations of art and morals, f ' to live
long enough to produce work of such a character that 7 shall
be able at the end of my days to say, " Yes, that is just where
the artistic life leads a man ! " Tie mentions m particular two
subjects on which he proposed to write, " Christ as the Pre-
cursor of the T{omantic Movement in "Life " and '* The Artistic

8

U4 T-ast Years in Paris

Life Considered in its Relation to Conduct. " These resolutions
were never carried out, for reasons some of which the writer
of the following article indicates.

Oscar Wilde was released from prison in May, iS^j. fie
records in his letters the joy of the thought that at that time
94 both the lilac and the laburnum will he blooming in the gar-
dens. " The closing sentences of the book niay be recalled :
" Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for
me, has none to offer ; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on
unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where 7 may
hide, and secret valleys in whose silence 7 may weep undis-
turbed. She will hang the night with stars so that 7 may walk
abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind
over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt : she
will cleanse me in great waters, aud with bitter herbs make
me whole ".

Tie died in November, 1900, three years and a half after
his release from Treading Gaol.

Monsieur Joseph Renaud, whose translation of
Oscar Wilde's M Intentions " has just appeared in
Paris, has given a good example of how history is
made in his preface to that work. He recounts an
obviously imaginary meeting between himself and
Oscar Wilde in a bar on the Boulevard des Italiens.
He concludes the episode, such as it is, with these
words : ■■ Nothing remained of him but his musical

Last Years in Paris ii5

voice and his large blue childlike eyes. " Oscar
Wilde's eyes were curious — long, narrow, and green.
Anything less childlike it would be hard to imagine.
To the physiognomist they were his most remarkable
feature, and redeemed his face from the heaviness
that in other respects characterised it. So much for
M. Joseph Renaud's powers of observation.

The complacent unanimity with which the chroni-
clers of Oscar Wilde's last years in Paris have
accepted and spread the " legend " of his life in that
city is remarkable, and would be exasperating consi-
dering its utter falsity to anyone who was not
aware of their incompetence to deal with the subject.
Scarcely one of his self-constituted biographers had
more than the very slightest acquaintance with him,
and their records and impressions of him are chiefly
made up of stale gossip and secondhand anecdotes.
The stories of his supposed privations, his frequent
inability to obtain a square meal, his lonely and
tragic death in a sordid lodging, and his cheap fune-
ral are all grotesquely false.

True, Oscar Wilde, who for several years before
his conviction hat been making at least £5,ooo a year,
found it very hard to live on his rather precarious
income after he came out of prison ; he was often
very " hard up," and often did not know where to

n6 Last Years in Paris

turn for a coin, but I will undertake to prove to
anyone whom it may concern that from the day he
left prison till the day of his death his income aver-
aged at least £400 a year. He had, moreover, far
too many devoted friends in Paris ever to be in need
of a meal provided he would take the trouble to
walk a few hundred yards or take a cab to one of
half a dozen houses. His death certainly was tragic —
deaths are apt to be tragic — but he was surrounded
by friends when he died, and his funeral was not
cheap ; ] happen to have paid for it in conjunction
with another friend of his, so I ought to know.

He did not become a Roman Catholic before he
died. He was, at the instance of a great friend of his,
himself a devout Catholic, " received into the
Church " a few hours before he died ; but he had
then been unconscious for many hours, and he died
without ever having any idea of the liberty that had
been taken with his unconscious body. Whether he
would have approved or not of the step taken by his
friend is a matter on which 1 should not like to
express a too positive opinion, but it is certain that
it would not do him any harm, and, apart from all
questions of religion and sentiment, it facilitated the
arrangements which had to be made for his interment
in a Catholic country, in view of the fact that no

Last Years in Paris wj

member of his family took any steps to claim his
body or arrange for his funeral.

Having disposed of certain false impressions in
regard to various facts of his life and death in Paris,
] may turn to what are less easily controlled and
examined theories as to that life. Without wishing
to be paradoxical, or harshly destructive of the care-
fully cherished sentiment of poetic justice so dear
to the British mind (and the French mind, too, for
that matter), ] give it as my firm opinion that Oscar
Wilde was, on the whole, fairly happy during the
last years of his life. He had an extraordinarily
buoyant and happy temperament, a splendid sense of
humour, and an unrivalled faculty for enjoyment of
the present. Of course, he had his bad moments,
moments of depression and sense of loss and defeat,
but they were not of long duration. It was part of
his pose to luxuriate a little in the details of his tra-
gic circumstances. He harrowed the feelings of many
of those whom he came across ; words of woe pour-
ed from his lips; he painted an image of himself,
destitute, abandoned, starving even (] have heard
him use the word after a very good dinner at Pail-
lard's) ; as he proceeded he was caught by the pathos
of his own words, his beautiful voice trembled
with emotion, his eyes swam with tears ; and then,

ii8 Last Years in Paris

suddenly, by a swift, indescribably brilliant, whim-
sical touch, a swallow-wing flash on the waters of
eloquence, the tone changed and rippled with laugh-
ter, bringing with it his audience, relieved, deligh-
ted, and bubbling into uncontrollable merriment.

He never lost his marvellous gift of talking ; after
he came out of prison he talked better than before.
Everyone who knew him really before and after his
imprisonment is agreed about that. His conversation
was richer, more human, and generally on a higher
intellectual level. In French he talked as well as in
English ; to my own English ear his French used
to seem rather laboured and his accent too marked,
but 1 am assured by Frenchmen who heard him talk
that such was not the effect produced on them.

He explained to me his inability to write, by
saying that when he sat down to write he always
inevitably began to think of his past life, and that
this made him miserable and upset his spirits. As
long as he talked and sat in cafes and M watched
life," as his phrase was, he was happy, and he had
the luck to be a good sleeper, so that only the
silence and self-communing necessary to literary
work brought him visions of his terrible sufferings
in the past and made his old wounds bleed again.
My own theory as to his literary sterility at this

Last Years in Paris jj$

period is that he was essentially an interpreter of
life, and that his existence in Paris was too narrow
and too limited to stir him to creation. At his best
he reflected life in a magic mirror, but the little cor-
ner of life he saw in Paris was not worth reflecting.
]f he could have been provided with a brilliant " en-
tourage " of sympathetic listeners as of old and
taken through a gay season in London, he would
have begun to write again. Curiously enough, society
was the breath of life to him, and what he felt more
than anything else in his "St. Helena" in Paris,
as he often told me, was the absence of the smart
and pretty women who in the old days sat at his
feet I A.

OSCAR WILDE'S
LAST YEARS IN PARIS. - 1]

The French possess the faculty, very rare in
England, of differentiating between a man and his work.
They are utterly incapable of judging literary work
by the moral character of its author. 1 have never
yet met a Frenchman who was able to comprehend
the attitude of the English public towards Oscar
Wilde after his release from prison. They were
completely mystified by it. An eminent French man-
of-letters said to me one day : M You have a man of
genius, he commits crimes, you put him in prison,
you destroy his whole life, you take away his fortune
you ruin his health, you kill his mother, his wife, and
his brother (sic), you refuse to speak to him, you exile
him from your country. That is very severe. In
France we should never so treat a man of genius, but
enfin ca peut se comprendre. But not content with
that, you taboo his books and his plays, which
before you enjoyed and admired, and pour comble de

Last Years in Paris 121

tout you are very angry if he goes into a restaurant
and orders himself some dinner. Jl faut pourtant quit
mange ce pauvre hommeV If] had been represent-
ing the British public in an official capacity 1 should
have probably given expression to its views and
furnished a sufficient repartee to my voluble French
friend by replying : lt]e n'en voispas lanecessite. "

Fortunately for Oscar Wilde, the French took
another view of the attitude to adopt towards a man
who has offended against society, and who has been
punished for it. Never by a word or a hint did
they show that they remembered that offence, which,
in their view, had been atoned for and wiped out.
Oscar Wilde, remained for them always un grand
homme, un maitre a distinguished man, to be treated
with deference and respect and, because he had
suffered much, with sympathy. It says a grfeat deal
for the innate courtesy and chivalry of the French
character that a man in Oscar Wilde's position, as
well known by sight, as he once remarked to me, as
the Eiffel Tower, should have been able to go freely
about in theatres, restaurants, and cafes without
encountering any kind of hostility or even impertinent
curiosity.

It was this benevolent attitude of Paris towards
him that enabled him to live and, in a fashion, to

J 22 Last Years in Paris

enjoy life. His audience was sadly reduced and
precarious, and except on some few occasions it was
of inferior intellectual calibre; but still he had an
audience, and an audience to him was everything.
Nor was he altogether deprived of the society of
men of his own class and value. Many of the most
brilliant young writers in France were proud to sit
at his feet and enjoy his brilliant conversation, chief
among whom J may mention that accomplished critic
and essayist, Monsieur Ernest Lajeunesse, who is
the author of what is perhaps the best posthumous
notice of him that has been published in France in
that excellent magazine, the ' * Revue blanche " ; among
older men who kept up their friendship with him,
Octave Mirbeau, Moreas, Paul Fort, Henri Bauer,
and Jean Lorrain may be mentioned.

In contrast to this attitude taken up towards him
by so many distinguished and eminent men, 1 cannot
refrain from recalling the attitude adopted by the
general run of English-speaking residents in Paris.
For the credit of my country 1 am glad to be able to
put them down mostly as Americans, or at any rate
so Americanised by the constant absorption of
'* American drinks " as to be indistinguishable from
the genuine article. These gentlemen M guessed
they didn't want Oscar Wilde to be sitting around"

Last Years in Paris J 23

in the bars where they were in the habit of shedding
the light of their presence, and from one of these
establishments Oscar Wilde was requested by the
proprietor to withdraw at the instance of one of our
•f American cousins " who is now serving a term of
two years, penal servitude for holding up and robbing
a bank !

Oscar Wilde, to do him justice, bore this sort of
rebuff with astonishing good temper and sweetness.
His sense of humour and his invincible self-esteem
kept him from brooding over what to another man
might have appeared intolerable, and he certainly
possessed the philosophical temperament to a greater
extent than any other man 1 have ever come across.
Every now and then one or other of the very few
faithful English friends left to him would turn up in
Paris and take him to dinner at one of the best
restaurants, and anyone who met him on one of these
occasions would have found it difficult to believe
that he had ever passed through such awful experi-
ences. Whether he was expounding some theory,
grave or fantastic, embroidering it the while with
flashes of impromptu wit or deepening it with
extraordinary and intimate learning (for, as Ernest
Lajeunesse says, he knew everything), or whether he
was " keeping the table in a roar " with his delight-

J24 Last Years in Paris

fully whimsical humour, summer-lightning that
flashed and hurt no one, he was equally admirable.
To have lived in his lifetime and not to have heard
him talk is as though one had lived for years at
Athens without going to look at the Parthenon.

1 wish ] could remember one-hundredth part of
the good things he said. He was extraordinarily
quick in answer and repartee, and anyone who says
that his wit was the result of preparation and midnight
oil can never have heard him speak. 1 remember
once at dinner a friend of his who had formerly been
in the " Blues," pointing out that in the opening
stanza of "The Ballad of Reading Jail" he had
made a mistake in speaking of the " scarlet coat " of
the man who was hanged ; he was, as the dedication
of the poem says, a private in the " Blues, " and
his coat would therefore naturally not be scarlet.
The lines go-
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red.

"Well, what could I do," said Oscar Wilde
plaintively, " 1 couldn't very well say

He did not wear his azure coat,
For blood and wine are blue —

could]?"

Last Years in Paris u5

The last time I saw him was about three months
before he died. I took him to dinner at the Grand
Cafe. He was then perfectly well and in the highest
spirits. All through dinner he kept me delighted
and amused. Only afterwards, just before I felt
him, he became rather depressed. He actually told
me that he didn't think he was going to live long ;
he had a presentiment, he said. I tried to turn it
off into a joke, but he was quite serious. " Some-
how, " he said, " I don't think I shall live to see
the new century. M Then a long pause. ■ • I f another
century began, and I was still alive, it would be
really more than the English could stand. M And
so I left him, never to see him alive again.

Just before he died he came to, after a long period
of unconsciousness and said to a faithful friend who
sat by his bedside, M I have had a dreadful dream ;
I dreamt that I dined with the dead. " "My dear
Oscar," replied his friend, "I am sure you were
the life and soul of the party. M " Really, you are
sometimes very witty," replied Oscar Wilde, and I
believe those are his last recorded words. The jest
was admirable and in his own genre; it was prompted
by ready wit and kindness, and because of it Oscar
Wilde went offinto his last unconscious phase, which

n6 Last Years in Paris

lasted for twelve hours, with a smile on his lips. 1
cherish a hope that it is also prophetic, Death
would have no terrors for me if only 1 were sure
of " dining with the dead" (i).

(i) Both of the articles given above appeared for the first time in the
St., James's Gazette.

" DE PROFUNDIS"

A Criticism by "A"
(LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS?)

" The English are very
fond of a man who admits he
has been wrong ".

(The Ideal Husband).

a

DE PROFUND1S

>>

A Criticism by

Lord Alfred Douglas

In a painful passage in this interesting posthumous
book (it takes the form of a letter to an unnamed
friend), Oscar Wilde relates how, on November
the 1 3th, 1895, he stood for half an hour on the
platform of Clapham Junction, handcuffed and in
convict dress, surrounded by an amused and jeering
mob. M For a year after that was done to me," he
writes, " 1 wept every day at the same hour and for
the same space of time." That was before he had
discovered or thought he had discovered that his
terrible experiences in prison, his degradation and
shame were a part, and a necessary part, of his
artistic life, a completion of his incomplete soul.
After he had learnt humility in the bitterest school

j3o De Profundis : A Criticism

that " man's inhumanity to man " provides for unwil-
ling scholars, after he had drained the cup of sor-
row to the dregs, after his spirit was broken — he
wrote this book in which he tried to persuade him-
self and others that he had learnt by suffering and
despair what life and pleasure had never taught him.
If Oscar Wilde's spirit, returning to this world in
a malicious mood, had wished to devise a pleasant
and insinuating trap for some of his old enemies ol
the press, he could scarcely have hit on a better one
than this book. 1 am convinced it was written in
passionate sincerity at the time, and yet it represents
a mere mood and an unimportant one of the man
who wrote it, a mood too which does not even last
through the i5o pages of the book. " The English
are very fond of a man who admits he has been
wrong," he makes one of his characters in " The
Ideal Husband" say, and elsewhere in this book he
compares the advantages of pedestals and pillories
in their relation to the public's attitude towards
himself. Well here he is in the pillory, and here also
is Mr. Courtney in the " Daily Telegraph " getting
quite fond of him for the very first time. Here is
Oscar Wilde, " a genius," " incontestably one of
the greatest dramatists of modern times " as he is
now graciously allowed to be, turning up unexpec-

De Profundis : A Criticism i3i

tcdly with an admission that he was in the wrong,
and telling us that his life and his art would have
been incomplete without his imprisonment, that he
has learnt humility and found a new mode of expres-
sion in suffering. He is M purged by grief," M chas-
tened by suffering," and everything, in short, that
he should be, and Mr. Courtney is touched and
pleased. What Mr. Courtney and others have failed
to realise, and what Wilde himself did realise very
soon after he wrote this interesting but rather pathe-
tically ineffective book, is that the mood which pro-
duced it was no other than the first symptom of that
mental and physical disease generated by suffering
and confinement which culminated in the death of
its gifted and unfortunate author a few years later.
As long as the spirit of revolt was left in Oscar
Wilde, so long was left the fire of creative genius.
When the spirit of revolt died, the flame began to
subside, and continued to subside gradually with
spasmodic flickers till its ultimate extinction. " 1 have
got to make everything that has happened good for
me." He writes, " The plank bed, the loathsome
food, the hard rope shredded into oakum till one's
finger tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices
with which each day begins, the harsh orders that
routine seems to necessitate, the dreadful dress that

j 32 De Profundis : A Criticism

makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence, the
solitude, the shame — each and all these things 1 have
to transform into a spiritual experience. There is not
a single degradation of the body which 1 must not
try and make into a spiritualising of the soul." But,
alas ! plank beds, loathsome food, menial offices, and
oakum picking do not spiritualise the soul ; at any
rate, they did not spiritualise Oscar Wilde's soul.
The only effect they had was to destroy his magni-
ficent intellect, and even, as some passages in this
book show to temporarily cloud his superb sense of
humour. The return of freedom gave him back the
sense of humour, and the wreck of his magnificent
intellect served him so well to the end of his life that,
although he had hopelessly lost the power of con-
centration necessary to the production of literary
work, he remained to the day of his death the most
brilliant and the most intellectual talker in Europe.
It must not be supposed, however, that this book
is not a remarkable book and one which is not worth
careful reading. There are fine prose passages in it,
and occasional felicities of phrase which recall the
Oscar Wilde of " The House of Pomegranates " and
the " Prose-Poems/' and here and there rather
unexpectedly comes an epigram like this for example :
" There were Christians before Christ. For that

De Profundis : Jl Criticism i33

we should be grateful. The unfortunate thing is that
there have been none since/' True, he spoils the
epigram by adding, u 1 make one exception, St.
Francis of Assisi." A concession to the tyranny of
facts and the relative importance of sincerity to style,
which is most uncharacteristic of the " old Oscar."
Nevertheless, the trace of the master hand is still
visible, and the book contains much that is profound
and subtle on the philosophy of Christ as conceived
by this modern evangelist of the gospel of Life and
Literature. One does not travel further than the
33rd page of the book before finding glaring and
startling inconsistencies in the mental attitude of the
writer towards his fate, for whereas on page 18 in a
rather rhetorical passage he speaks of the M eternal
disgrace" he had brought on the " noble and honour-
ed name " bequeathed him by his father and mother,
on page 33 " Reason " tells him " that the laws
under which he was convicted are wrong and unjust
laws, and the system under which he has suffered a
wrong and unjust system. " But this is the spirit of
revolt not quite crushed. He says that if he had
been released a year sooner, as in fact he very nearly
was, he would have left his prison full of rage and
bitterness, and without the treasure of his new-found
" Humility." 1 am unregenerate enough to wish

j 34 T>e Profundi* : A Criticism

that he had brought his rage and bitterness with him
out of prison. True, he would never have written
this book if he had come out of prison a year sooner,
but he would almost certainly have written several
more incomparable comedies, and we who reverenced
him as a great artist in words, and mourned his
downfall as an irreparable blow to English Literature
would have been spared the rather painful experience
of reading the posthumous praise now at last so
lavishly given to what certainly cannot rank within
measurable distance of his best work. A.

From " The Jffotoritt and Traveller " (March 1, 1905).

>

LIST

OF PRIVATELY ISSUED

HISTORICAL, ARTISTIC,

AND CLASSICAL WORKS

IN ENGLISH

Thais

Romance of the Byzantine
"Empire (Fourth Century)

From the French of
ANATOLE
FRANCE

With Twenty Copper-plate Etchings by Martin van Maele

price 21*.
u Thais m is a work of religious mysticism. The story
of the Priest-hero who sought to stamp out the flames
of nature is told with a delicacy and realism that will
at once charm and command the reader's attention.
Anatole France is one of the most brilliant literary men
in the world, and stands foremost amongst giants like
Daudet, Zola, and Maupassant.

The book before us is a historical novel based on the legend
of the conversion of the courtesan ThaVs of Alexandria by a monk
of the Theba'id. Thais may be described as first cousin to the
Pelagia of Charles Kingsley " Hypatia ;" indeed, the two books,
dealing as they do with the same place and period, Alexandria
in the fourth century, offer points of resemblance, as well as of
difference, many and various, and sufficiently interesting to be
commended to the notice of students of comparative criticism.
There is, however, a subtle and profound moral lesson about the
work of Mr. Anatole France which is wanting in Kingsley's shal-
lower and more commonplace conception of human motive and
passion. The keynote is struck in the warning which an old
schoolfellow of the monk Paphnutius addresses to him when he
learns of his intention to snatch Tha'is as a brand from the
burning : " Beware of offending Venus. She is a powerful
goddess; she will be angry with you if you take away her chief
minister. " The monk disregards the warning of the man of the
world, and perseveres with his self-imposed task, and that so

successfully that Tha'is forsakes her life of pleasure, and ultimately
expires in the odour of sanctity. Custodes, sed quis custodiet ipsos ?
Paphnutius has deceived himself, and has failed to perceive that
what he took for zeal for a lost soul was in reality but human desire
for a fair face. The monk, who has won Heaven for the beau-
tiful sinner, loses it himself for love of her, and is left at the end,
baffled and blaspheming, before the dead body of the woman he
has loved all the time without knowing that he loved her.

Jt is impossible for the reviewer to convey any adequate notion
of the subtle skill with which the author deals with a delicate but
intensely human theme, Alike as a piece of psychical analysis and
as a picture of the age, this book stands head and shoulders
above any that we have ever read about the period with which it
deals. It is a work of rare beauty, and, we may add, of profound
moral truth, albeit not written precisely virginibus puerisque.

It is emphatically the work of a great artist. — (From a Notice
in " The Vail Mall Gazette ").

The Well of Santa Clara

This work is, from the deep interest of its contents,
the beauty of its typography and paper, and the elegance
and daring of the illustrations, one of the finest works in
edition de luxe yet offered to the collectors of rare books.

Apart from the other stories, all of them written with
that exquisite grace and ironical humour for which Anatole
France is unmatched, " The Human Tragedy, " forming
half of the book, is alone worthy to rank amongst the
master-efforts of literature. The dominant idea of u The
Human Tragedy "is foreshadowed by the quotation from
Euripedes : Jill the life of man is full of pain, and there is
no surcease of sorrow. 1 f there he aught better elsewhere than
this present life, it is hid, shrouded in the clouds of darkness.

The English rendering of this work is, from its purity
and strength of style, a veritable tour de force. The book
will be prized and appreciated by scholars and lovers of
the beautiful in art.

New Grasset characters have been used for this work,
limited to 5oo numbered copies on handmade paper ; each
page of text is contained in an artistic green border, and
the work in its entirety constitutes a volume of rare excel-
lence.

Twenty-one clever Copper-plate Engravings (in the
most finished style) by Martin van Maele.

f

The Well of Santa Clara

CONTENTS

Pages

Prologue. — The Reverend Father Adone Doni. i

1. San Satiro 18

]]. Messer Guido Cavalcanti 71

III. Lucifer 102

IV. The Loaves of Black Bread 116

V. The Merry-hearted Buffalmacco. ... 1 26

1. The Cockroaches 127

II. The Ascending up of Andria Tafin . . . 143

III. The Master . , , . 1 63

iy. The Painter 172

VI . The Lady of Verona 1 84

VI 1. The Human Tragedy

1. Fra Giovanni 1 93

11. The Lamp 206

ill. The Seraphic Doctor 210

iy. The Loaf on the Flat Stone 214

y. The Table under the Fig-tree 218

vi. The Temptation 2 23

yii. The Subtle Doctor 232

vin. The Burning Coal 245

ix. The House of Innocence 248

x. The Friends of Order 260

xi. The Revolt of Gentleness 271

xii. Words of Love 280

xin. The Truth 288

xiv. Giovanni's Dream 3o4

xv. The J udgment 317

xvi. The Prince of this World 326

Vlll. The Mystic Blood 343

IX. A Sound Security 36o

X. History of Dona Maria d'Avalos and the

Duke d'Andria 379

XI. Bonaparte at San Miniato 4o5

Price : One Guinea.

Oscar Wilde's Works.

Poems in Prose :

The Artist |> The Disciple

The Doer of Good jg The Master
The House of Judgment, etc.

I imited Edition of Five Hundred Copies on superior

English vellum paper, and printed in Grasset

characters in red and black. Price 5s.

Fifty copies on Japanese paper Price 10s.

What Never Dies

Translated into English by
« Sebastian Melmoth '
(Oscar Wilde), from the
French of Barbey d'Aure-
yilly. A strange and powerful
romance of LOVE AND
PASSION IN A COUNTRY
(Ce qui ne meurt pas) HOUSE, similar to the plot

unfolded in Guy de Maupas-
r\ %r t 11 sant's " Lady's Man, " but

One Volume small crown told in even >ore )ordIy and

8vO., bound in white parch- brilliant language; thewonder-

xr t ful French of " Barbey

ment. Nearly 400 pages. bejng rendered into yet more

Price 10s.6d. ^Eerful English * °SCAR

sole THE PICTURE

Authorized 0p DORIAN GRAY

Version By Oscar Wilde

Limited Edition of One Hundred Copies on J{eal Hand-made
English paper, Price \5s.

Translated from the Latin by

Oscar Wilde

Be Salyricoo of Petrooius

A Literal and Complete Translation
with Notes and Introduction.

Circular free for a%d.
Price, £1. lis. Gd.
Tifteen Copies on Papier de Chine, Price £2. 2s.

T^is Edition is not

only the ....

MOST COMPLETE

AND BRILLIANT

ever done into English,
but it constitutes also a
typographical b ij o u ,
being printed in a lim-
ited number on hand-
made paper in red and
black throughout.

Unknown Poems by Lord Byron

" F\ON JUAN" is
•*--' generally spoken
of as a composition re-
markable for its daring
gallantry ; but here is a
long connected poetical
work by the same Auth-
or which far outdistan-
ces " Don Juan " both
in audacity of concep-
tion and licence of lan-
guage.

These poems were
issued sub rosa in 1 866,
and owing to the fact
that interested persons
bought up immediately
on its appearance and
burnt the entire output,
any stray copies that
chanced to escape the
general destruction,
when they turn up nowa-
days, fetch from Five
to Ten Guineas each.

The size of the book is

small crown octavo, i$4

pp., in artistic paper

wrappers.

This issue has been limited to Two
Hundred and Fifty copies as follows :

DON LEON

Lord Byron

A Poem

by the late

Author of Childe Harold, Don Juan, etc

And forming part of the Private

Journal of His Lordship, supposed

to have been entirely destroyed by

Thos. Moore.

' ' Pardon, dear Tom, these thoughts on days gone
Me men revile and thou must justify. by;

Yet in my bosom apprehensions rise
(Tor brother poets have their jealousies),
Lest under false pretences thou shoudst turn
A faithless friend, and these confessions burn.

Price :
175 on Ordinary Vellum paper 10s. 6d.
y5 on French hand-made paper £l.ls.
Detailed circular on demand for a d.

Curious By-Paths !#?,&££

L 1J . Mdlle de la Vallie-

Ol IT 1 StOty re; Madame de

Pompadour; So-
phie ArnoulcTs Sickness; The True Charlotte Corday;
A Savage M Hound;" In the Hands of the" Charcutiers; "
Napoleon's Superstitions; The Affair of Madame Reca-
mier and Queen Elizabeth of England, etc.
Followed by a fascinating study of

FLAGELLATION IN FRANCE from a Medical and Historical Standpoint

With special Foreword by the Editor, dealing with the
Reviewers of a previous work, and sundry other cognate
matters good to be known; particularly concerning the
high-handed proceedings of British Philistinism, which
here receives " a rap on the knuckles. " A fine realistic
Frontispiece after a design by Daniel Vierge, etched by
F. Masse. The whole (in Two Volumes), Price 21s.

With this book is given away (undercover) a fine plate entitled CO"NJUGKL

COJfflECTJOJV , reproduced in Aquatint by the Maison Goupil,

of Paris, after the famous Oil Painting of Correggio.

"Fascinating Historical Studies by a Trench Physician,

The Secret Cabinet of History

0™ stout volume of 260 Pag- peepe(] into by a Doctor (Dr. Cabanes)

es. Edition limited to 5oo

Copies, on fine quality Dutch

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with wide margins and un- . , , , , , _,

, . a . „ And preceded by a letter

trimmed edges, specially man- r J

ufactured for this Edition; from the pen of

cloth bound. M. VICTOR] EN SARDOU

Price 12s. 6d. (de 1' Academic francaise).

The " tret un " ciF the Although the bizarre character of some of the subjects may

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book will please all who " Arabian Nights, " and placed in an Eighteenth Century

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" " the whole is based on unimpeachable documents.

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English water-coloured Silk Cloth. Price £3. 3s.

A LTHOUGH this work has been published
■**> many times in French during the last four-
and-a half centuries, it has never hitherto been
done into English, and in fact is little known in
England at all on account of its archaic form,
which renders the reading of the original impos-
sible to any but a student of old French.

Very little inferior to Boccaccio and far super-
ior to the Heptameron, the stories possess a
brightness and gaiety entirely their own ; more-
over they are of high literary merit.

Illustrated Circular free by post for 5d.

500 NUMBERED COPIES
PRINTED

For England and America

ALSO 75 LARGE
NUMBERED COPIES

Printed on
Japanese vellum

PRICE : £5. 5s. net

The...

Evolution and Dissolution
of the Sexual Instinct . . .

TRUTH and science are never immoral ;
but it cannot be denied that the narra-
tion of facts relating to sexual physiology
and pathology, if their real significance
is not pointed out, may be the cause of perversion
in the case of predisposed subjects. The danger
appears more serious to those who think that
normal individuals may be perverted under the
influence of environment, and yet more serious
when the sexual instinct is represented as an
uncontrollable instinct, which nobody can resist,
however abnormal the form in which the instinct
may reveal itself.

By. . .

Doctor
CUarlos FERE

of the

Bicetrc Hospital,

(PARIS)

Price : 21s.

The Only Worthy Translation into French

-~«3^§^&-©.

OSCAR WILDE

Intentions

Traduction francaise de HUGUES REBELL

Preface de CHARLES GROLLEAU

Orne d'un portrait

Un volume in-8° carre. Impression de luxe sur antique vellum.
Prix : 6 francs.

11 a ete tire Irente exemplaires sur Japon imperial.
Prix : 12 francs.

PARIS

CHARLES CARR1NGTON, L1BRA1RE-ED1TEUR

1 3, Faubourg Montmartre, 1 3

1906 .

NOTICE

" INTENTIONS " est un des ouvrages
les plus curieux qui se puisse lire. On y
trouve tout 1'esprit, si paradoxal, toute 1'eton-
nante culture du brillant ecrivain que fut
Oscar WILDE.

Des cinq Essais que contient Ce livre, trois
sont sous forme de dialogue et donnent Tim-
pression parfaite de ce qui fut le plus grand
prestige de WILDE : la Causerie.

La traduction que nous publions aujour-
d'hui, outre sa fidelite scrupuleuse et son incon-
testable elegance, offre cet attrait particulier
d'etre le dernier travail d'un des jeunes maitres
de la prose fran$aise, Hugues REBELL, qui
Tacheva peu de jours avant sa mort.

La preface de M. Charles GROLLEAU,
ecrite avec une delicatesse remarquable et une
emotion penetrante, constitue la plus subtile
etude psychologique que Ton ait jamais publiee
sur Oscar WILDE.

v^

Sous prcsse

Du mime Auteur :

Poemes en Prose.

La Duchesse de Padoue.

La Maison des Grenades.

L'ceuvre d'Oscar "Wilde demande a etre traduite a la fois
avec precision et avec art. Les phrases ont des significations si
tenues et le choix des mots est si habile qu'une traduction
defectueuse, abondante en contre-sens ou en coquilles, risque-
rait de decevoir grandement le lecteur. Car il faut bien compter
que ceux qui se soucient de connaitre Oscar "Wilde ne peuvent
etre ni des concierges ni des cochers de fiacre ; ils n'appar-
tiennent certainement pas a ce « grand public » qui se delecte
aux emouvants feuilletons de nos quotidiens populaires ou qui
savoure avidement les elucubrations egrillardes de certains
fabricants de pretendue litterature. C'est ce qu'avait compris
1'editeur Carrington quand il chargea Hugues Rebell de lui
traduire Intentions. Ces essais d'Oscar "Wilde representent plus
parti culierement le cote paradoxal et frondeur de sa person-
nalite. 11 y exprime ses idees ou plutot ses subtil ites esthe-
tiques ; il y « cause » plus qu'ailleurs, a tel point que trois de
ces essais sur cinq sont dialogues ; 1'auteur s'enrretient avec
des personnages qu'il suppose aussi cultives, aussi beaux
esprits que lui-meme : « s'entretient » est beaucoup dire, car
ce sont plutot des contradicteurs auxquels il suggere les
objections dont il a besoin pour poursuivre le developpement et
le triomphe de ses arguments. La conversation vagabonde a
plaisir et le causeur y fait etalage de toutes les richesses de son
esprit, de son imagination, de sa memoire. Au milieu de ces
citations, de ces allusions, de ces exemples innombrables em-
pruntes a tous les temps et a tous les pays, le traducteur a
chance de s'egarer s'il n'est lui-meme homme d'une culture
tres sure et tres variee. Hugues Rebell pouvait, sans danger de
paraitre ignorant ou ridicule, entreprendre de donner une
version df Intentions. 11 n'avait certes pas fait de la litterature
anglaise contemporaine, non plus que d'aucune epoque, Tobjet
d'etudes speciales. Mais il connaissait cette litterature dans
son ensemble beaucoup mieux que certains qui s'autorisent de
quelques excursions a Londres pour clamer a tout venant leur
competence douteuse. J'ai souvenir de maintes occasions ou
Rebell, avec cet air mysterieux qu'il ne pouvait s'empecher de
prendre pour les choses les plus simples, m'attirait a Tecart de
tel groupe d'amis, ou la conversation etait generale, pour me
parler de tel jeune auteur sur qui Tune de mes chroniques avait
attire son attention. Et, chaque fois, il faisait preuve, en ces
matieres, d'un savoir tres etendu.

Hugues Rebell fit done cette necessaire traduction, et, dit
1'editeur dans une note preliminaire, « c'est le dernier travail
auquel il put se livrer. 11 nous en remit les derniers feuillets
peu de jours avant sa mort ». Rebell devait prefacer ce travail
d'une etude sur la vie et les ceuvres du poete anglais, etude
qu'il ne put qu'ebaucher, malheureusement, car, avec Gide, —

mais cclui-ci d'un point de vue different et peut-etre oppose,
— il etait exclusivement qualifie pour saisir, demeler et inter-
preter 1'etrange personnalite de Wilde. Quelques fragments
de cette etude nous sont donnes cependant et ils nous font
tres vivement regretter que le vigoureux et paradoxal auteur de
YUnion des Trois Aristocralies n'ait pu achever son travail.

Mais ce regret bien legitime se mitige grandement a mesure
qu'on lit la belle preface de M. Charles Grolleau. Prenant
pour epigraphe cette pensee de Pascal : « Je blame egalement
et ceux qui prennent le parti de louer 1'homme, et ceux qui le
prennent de le blamer, et ceux qui le prennent de se divertir ;
et je ne puis approuver que ceux qui cherchent en gemissant »,
M. Grolleau s'efforce de comprendre et de resoudre ce « dou-
loureux probleme » que fut Wilde. Et il le fait avec cette
reserve et ce parfait bon gout que doivent s'imposer les veri-
tables amis et les sinceres admirateurs d'Oscar Wilde. II y a
plus, dans ces cinquante pages : il y a Tune des meilleures
etudes qui aient jamais ete faites du brillant dramaturge. Bien
qu'il s'en defende, M. Grolleau, dans cette langue elegante et
harmonieuse que lui connaissent ceux qui ont lu ses beaux vers,
reussit a discerner mieux et a mieux reveler que certaines dia-
tribes « Tame et la passion » de 1'auteur de De Profundis.

Je me suis interdit d'ecrire une biographie. Je nc connais que
1'ecrivain, ct 1'homme est trop vivant encore et si blesse ! J'ai la
devotion des plaies, et le plus beau rite de cette devotion est le geste
qui voile.

Toute « cette meditation sur une ame tres belle » est ecrite
avec ce tact delicat et cette tendre sympathie. Ainsi, apres
avoir admire ces emouvantes pages, le lecteur peut aborder
dans un etat d'esprit convenable les essais parfois deconcertants
qui sont reunis sous le titre significatif d'Jntentions. C'est dans
cette belle edition qu'il faut les lire. On sait avec quel souci
d'artiste M. Carrington etablit ses volumes; il n'y laisse pas de
ces incroyables coquilles, de ces epais mastics qui ressemblent
si fort a des contre-sens, et, sachant quel public intelligent et
eclaire voudrait ce livre, il n'a pas eu 1'idee saugrenue d'abimer
ses pages par d'inutiles notes assurant le lecteur par exemple
que Dante a ecrit la Divine Comedie, que Shelley fut un grand
poete, que Keats mourut poitrinaire, que George Eliot etait
femme de lettres et Lancret peintre. Un portrait de 1'auteur est
reproduit en tete de cette excellente edition.

Henry-D. Davray.

(Extrait du " Mercure de Trance. " iS septembre tyoS).

9Bw?k*

'$m&M&W'E