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The criminal proceedings for libel which Oscar Fingall O'Flahertie Wilde has set in motion against John Sholto Douglas, Marquis of Queensberry, commenced on Wednesday at the Old Bailey. Public interest in the case is enormous. Long before the hour appointed for the opening of the court doors their vicinity is thick with humanity, and five minutes after they have been thrown open the court is crammed to suffocation. So it was on Wednesday and Thursday. When the court opened on Wednesday the marquis lost no time in stepping into the dock. The indictment was gabbled over to him and he pleaded "Not guilty," that the libel was true, and that it was for the public benefit that it was printed. Sir Edward Clark opened the case. He told how the marquis had left a card with the hall porter of the Albemarle Club addressed "To Oscar Wilde;" whereon were words gross and libellous. The accusation against Mr. Wilde was one of the gravest that could be made, but the plea put before the court raised a much graver issue. There was no accusation in the plea that Mr. Wilde had been guilty of a criminal offence, but there were given a number of names of persons whom he was accused of inciting to commit such offences, and with whom he was charged with improper conduct. Having said so much, Sir Edward sketched Oscar's career for the benefit of those who knew not Oscar prior to the æsthetic craze period. And then he came to speak of the circumstances under which the various parties in the present action became acquainted, and dwelt upon transactions connected with certain letters and other incidents about which Mr. Wilde spoke freely in his examination later on. One of these letters addressed by Oscar to young Douglas was read by Sir Edward. It ran thus: —

My own dear boy — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for madness of kissing. Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR.

A review of the meetings between the marquis and Oscar concluded a long and able opening.

After the Albemarle porter had proved the marquis's call, &, came the real beginning of the case. Oscar, cool as a cucumber, and fatter than ever, glided gracefully into the box. Sir Edward Clarke having examined him as to his relations with the Douglas family, and as to the attempts of Woods and others to blackmail him on the strength of certain letters found in the pockets of Lord Alfred Douglas's cast-off clothing, and having obtained his denial to the insinuation of the marquis that he was kicked out of the Savoy Hotel on account of disgusting conduct, gave Oscar up to the tender mercies of Carson, Q.C. The learned counsel commenced to cross-examine Oscar somewhat minutely as to his literary output, but more especially in regard to certain poetic contributions to a fin de siècle magazine called The Chameleon. Carson, Q.C., suggested that these contributions would convey improper suggestions, but Oscar said "No." He considered them exceedingly beautiful poems. Regarding a very warm story entitled "The Priest and the Acolyte," which most people attributed to Oscar, the æsthete denied the authorship. He thought it was badly written, but would not call it immoral or blasphemous. As Oscar had already stated that in his opinion there is no such thing as an immoral book, the point of Carson's examination at this juncture was not apparent. But he kept to Oscar's literature, and presently "Dorian Grey" was dragged in. Oscar repudiated the suggestion that Dorian's sin was "unnatural vice," and remarked that the book could only be called vicious when misinterpreted by the vulgar and the illiterate. Oscar said he did not write for the "ordinary individual," which brought from Carson, Q.C., the remark that the novelist did not mind the ordinary individual buying his books. "I have never discouraged him," quoth Oscar loftily. Asked if he had ever experienced the sentiments of the painter Basil, and whether he thought them natural, Oscar made answer, "I should think it perfectly natural to intensely adore and love a younger man. It is an incident in the life of almost every artist." Carson, Q.C., wanted to know if Oscar had himself adored madly a man twenty years his junior? He said he had loved one - not madly, but just loved one. Adoration was a thing he reserved to himself. He had, however, never been jealous; jealousy was, he thought, an intense nuisance. Then Mr. Carson came to the novelist's letter to young Douglas. The one quoted, Mr. Carson suggested, was an improper letter to write to a young man, but Oscar could not see eye to eye with his tormentor. The letter was a "prose-poem," "beautiful," "unique," but not as the Q.C. read it. "You read it very badly, Mr. Carson," said Oscar blandly; "you are not an artist." "I do not profess to be an artist, Mr. Wilde, and sometimes when I hear your evidence I am glad I am not one," responded the lawyer gravely. He then read another of Oscar's "prose-poems," which ran thus: —

Dearest of all boys, your letter was delightful. Red and yellow wine to me. But I am out of sorts. You must not make scenes with me. They kill me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing. I want a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here (at Goring) is £49 for the week. I have got a new sitting-room, over the Thames. But, you, why are you not here, my dear, my beautiful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead. -Ever your own, OSCAR.

"An extraordinary letter," commented Oscar softly. "Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary." Mr. Carson then reverted to the episode of the letters upon which a man named Cleburn attempted to blackmail Mr. Wilde, and touched upon the plaintiff's relations with two young men, named Wood and Taylor. Oscar denied improper conduct with these men, but admitted having "dined and wined" them in private rooms at the Café Florence, and to having given Wood various sums of money amounting to over £30 "out of pure kindness." He admitted also that, though believing Wood to be levying blackmail, he privileged him to use his Christian name. But he explained that everybody called him "Oscar." Passing on to another case Mr. Carson questioned the plaintiff as to his friendship for Edward Shelley, sometime an assistant in Messrs. Elkin Lane's office. Oscar repudiated all sinister suggestions in connection with this youth. Shelley had an intellectual face and literary ambitions, so Oscar dined him at the Albemarle Hotel in a private room, and gave him autograph copies of "Dorian Gray" and other Wilde works. Then Oscar's intimacy with a youth named Alphonso Conway was enquired into. Alphonso was a "pleasant creature" whose "simple conversation" attracted Wilde so much that he gave him a silver cigarette case, an inscribed photograph, an autograph volume, a silver-mounted walking-cane, a blue serge suit, and a straw hat, and finally took him for a trip to Brighton. All this Oscar did out of kindness, and not with any idea of subverting the lad's morals.

On Thursday Mr. Carson continued his crusade, and Oscar was called upon to answer an exhaustive series of questions as to his "friendship" for other young men. He admitted that he took to Paris a boy named Atkins, and shared a suite of rooms, all communicating, with the lad. But he denied any impropriety, and waxed very indignant when Mr. Carson made the "monstrous suggestion" that he had "plied Atkins with wine." The case of Ernest Scarth was next on the board. Scarth was, said Oscar, "a pleasant, nice, good fellow," who had been kind to Lord Douglas of Hawick during a voyage from Australia, so he dined the young man. Oscar indignantly denied that he kissed Scarth or had acted improperly with the young fellow. Similarly he denied that he had committed any impropriety with one Sydney Maror, who stayed with him all night at the Albermarle, and to whom he gave a four-guinea cigarette case. He did these things simply for the sake of conversing with "a very charming, nice fellow." Now came a little scene. Oscar was questioned as to his relations with a lad named Granger, who was Lord Alfred Douglas's servant at Oxford. "Have you ever kissed this boy?" demanded Carson, Q.C., abruptly. Oscar replied airily, "Oh, no! certainly not. A peculiarly plain boy." The counsel pounced on this expression instantly, asked if it was only because the boy was ugly that he was not kissed. Oscar for the first time hesitated before answering, and then replied evasively, "No; because it seems such an intense insult on your part. It seems ridiculous to imagine that any such thing could have occurred." "Then why mention his ugliness?" demanded the Q.C. sternly. "I should not like to kiss a boy," replied Oscar, adding hotly, "Am I to be cross-examined as to the reasons I should not like to kiss a boy?" "Well, why mention his ugliness?" reiterated Carson, Q.C., blandly. "Because," exclaimed Oscar shrilly, "you sting me with insolent questions; you try to unnerve me in every way, and make me say things flippantly that I would not say seriously." Carson, Q.C., agreed to take the "ugliness" as a flippant answer, but smiled meaningly at the jury. At 12.30 the cross-examination concluded, and Sir Edward Clarke rose to re-examine. He read several pathetic letters from Lord Queensberry to young Douglas, which it is not necessary to dwell upon. Certainly they tended to show that the marquis deemed his son's close friendship with Wilde a horrible thing, which should be smashed no matter the cost. The re-examination proper enabled Oscar to deny the defendant's statement that Mrs. Wilde was seeking divorce, but Sir Edward did not take his client over the ground covered by Mr. Carson again. The jury having asked a few questions relative to the publication of the Chameleon the case for the prosecution was closed.

Mr. Carson then rose to address the jury on the more serious side of the justification of the alleged libel. He said that Lord Queensberry withdrew nothing that he had said or written, having done everything with premeditation and a determination at all risks and hazards to try and save his son. His conduct has been absolutely consistent throughout. From beginning to end Lord Queensberry had been influenced with regard to Mr. Oscar Wilde by the one hope alone of saving his son. What had been Mr. Wilde's own case? That up to a certain date he had met Lord Queensberry, who had been on terms of friendship with him. Lord Queensberry had heard of Mr. Wilde's character, and of these scandals at the Savoy Hotel, which would be proved before them. Mr. Wilde had been going about with young men who were not his equals either in position or education. He thought it would be proved that some of these men were known as some of the most immoral characters in London, and he specially referred to Taylor, who was the right man to assist Wilde in all these orgies. Had they been able to cross-examine Taylor they would have learned what went on. Taylor was the pivot of the case, for the simple reason that when they heard the witnesses examined — and he would be unfortunately compelled to examine them on the immoral practices of Mr. Oscar Wilde — it would be found that Taylor was the man who introduced them to Wilde. When Mr. Wilde wanted to show that someone was present he mentioned a gentleman who could not be called because he was out of the country; but Taylor was in the country and could have been called. They were told that the friendship of Wilde and Taylor had not been interrupted. With regard to the books, they were being continually told by Mr. Wilde that they were by an artist for artists, but there was the greatest contrast between his books, which were for the select and not for the ordinary individual, and the way he chose his friends. He took up with Charlie Parker, a gentleman's servant, whose brother is a gentleman's servant; with young Conway, whose brother sold papers on the pier at Worthing; and with Scarfe, also a gentleman's servant. Then his excuse was no longer that he was dwelling in regions of art, but that he had such a noble, such a democratic soul, that he drew no social distinctions, and that it was quite as much pleasure to have the sweeping boy from the streets to lunch or dine with him as the greatest literateur or artist. Mr. Carson considered the positions absolutely irreconcilable. He thought if they had rested the case alone upon Mr. Wilde's literature they would have been absolutely justified in the course which Lord Queensberry had taken. Lord Queensberry undertook to prove that Mr. Wilde was posing as guilty of certain vices. Mr. Wilde never complained of the immorality of the story of "The Priest and the Acolyte." He knew no distinction, in fact, between a moral and an immoral book. Nor did he care whether the article was in its very terms blasphemous. All that Mr. Wilde said was that he did not approve of the story from a literary point of view. What was that story? It was the story of the love of a priest for the acolyte who attended him at Mass. Exactly the same idea that ran through the two letters to Lord A. Douglas ran through that story and through "Dorian Gray." Unable to persuade the rector as Mr. Wilde had been unable to persuade the public of the beauty of this love the priest and the acolyte resolved to die together upon the altar. The priest administered poison and they died together on the altar in an embrace after the priest had used the sacred words and forms of the Christian faith. When asked if that was not blasphemy Mr. Wilde said that he did not think it was. The same idea ran through those two letters which Mr. Wilde called beautiful, but which he called disgusting. Moreover, there was in this same Chameleon a poem which showed some justification for the frightful anticipations which Lord Queensberry entertained for his son. The poem was written by Lord Alfred Douglas, and was seen by Mr. Wilde before its publication. Was it not a terrible thing that a young man on the threshold of life, who had been for several years dominated by Oscar Wilde, and who had been "adored and loved" by Oscar Wilde, as the two letters proved, should thus show the tendency of his mind upon this frightful subject? What would be the horror of any man whose son wrote such a poem?

This (Friday) morning the case came to an abrupt but perhaps not unexpected ending. Mr. Carson was continuing his rigorous denunciation of Wilde and his works (Oscar was not in court) when Sir Edward Clarke touched his arm and whispered in his ear. Mr. Carson sat down, and Sir Edward, rising, said he was prepared to accept a verdict of "not guilty" on behalf of his client. The judge put two things to the jury, viz., that the justification set up by the Marquis of Queensberry was true in substance and in fact, and that the Marquis's statement was published in such a manner as to be for the public benefit. Amid loud applause the jury intimated that they considered both these things to be fact, and a few minutes later the court was empty.

When the English mail left London on April 5, the Wilde v. Queensberry case had come to the curious and abrupt termination of which our cable messages have informed us. To-day the plaintiff in that case will, for the second time, stand his trial on the serious charges which have been brought against him. From the copious reports of the libel action in the London papers we extract the following account of Wilde's cross-examination by Mr. Carson, counsel for the Marquis of Queensberry:—

You stated that your age is 39. I think you are over 40?—Is that so; I do not think so. Forty on my next birthday. You have my birth certificate, and that settles the matter.

You were born on October 16, 1854?—Oh! I have no wish to pose as being young.

That makes you more than 40?—Ah!

You are of opinion that there is no such thing as an immoral book?—Yes.

Am I right in saying you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality?—Certainly I do not.

So far as your work is concerned, you pose as not being concerned about morality or immorality?—I do not know whether you use the word pose in any particular sense.

It is a favourite word of your own?—Is it? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play, or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature, that is with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.

Listen, sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young": "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.

Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.

"Religions die when they are proved to be true." Is that true?—Yes, I hold that. It is a suggestion towards a philosophy of the absorpion of religions by science, but it is too big a question to go into now.

Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)

"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.

Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.

Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.

"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that the realisation of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realise oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients—the Greeks.

"A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it?"—Perfectly. That would be my metaphysical definition of truth; something so personal that the same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.

"The condition of perfection is idleness?"—Oh yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.

"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession."—I should think that the young have enough sense of humour.

"You think that is humorous?"—I think it is an amusing paradox.

Do you call "Dorian Gray" an objectionable book?—Only to brutes and the illiterates. To Philistines it might seem immoral; to the incalculably stupid it might appear to be anything. The view of the Philistine troubles me not. The ordinary individual does not appeal to me; I have no knowledge of him. what appeals to me is my work, my art.

You do not think the majority of people live up to the views you are giving us, Mr. Wilde?—I am afraid they are not cultivated enough. (Laughter.)

Have you ever madly adored a man 20 years younger than yourself?—I have never given adoration to anybody except myself. (Laughter.) Adoration is a thing I reserve for myself. I have never adored anyone else. I do not adore a person; I either love him or not. The idea is borrowed from Shakespeare's sonnets.

You do not think flattering a young man and making love to him, likely to corrupt him?—No; I do not think it is possible.

Mr. Carson next referred to the following letter which had been sent by Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas:—

My Own Boy,—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim-built soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things. Come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place, and only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love.—Yours, Oscar.

You begin, "My own boy." Do you not consider that an improper way to address a boy twenty years younger than yourself?—No; I was fond of the boy, and always have been.

You go on in your letter to say, "Your sonnet is quite lovely, it is marvellous; those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for music or song than for madness of kissing." Do you consider that proper language?—I think it is a beautiful letter.

I see you conclude this letter, "Always with undying love, yours, Oscar." Is not that exceptional?—I should call it an unique letter. (Laughter.)

Is that a specimen of your of your ordinary correspondence with Lord Alfred Douglas?—I have written him most beautiful letters, though I don't think I have called others "my own boy." He is the greatest friend I have.

Do you write to other persons in the same style?—Oh, no.

You have written many letters of this sort?—I do not repeat myself in style. (Laughter.)

Here is another letter to Lord Alfred Douglas. Is that a poem? Will you read it?

Mr. Wilde: No, you read it; I decline.

Mr. Carson then read the letter as follows:—

"Savoy Hotel, Thames Embankment, W.C. Dearest of all boys.—Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Boysey, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me; they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, so Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your young curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner"—here a word is undecipherable, but I will ask the witness—"than have you bitter, unjust, hating. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter.) I have also a new sitting-room over the Thames. Why is it you are not here my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead. Ever your own, Oscar."

Don't you call that an extraordinary letter:—Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter).

Have you got his letter in reply?—I do not recollect what letter it was.

It was not a beautiful letter?—I do not remember the letter.

You describe it as "delightful, red, and yellow wine to you" ?—Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.

Was this one of yours a beautiful letter?—Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.

Towards the close of the case for the prosecution counsel for the defence read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to his father, Lord Queensberry:—

As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, etc., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me, I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. A.D.

There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the case and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.