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WRITING from London to a contemporary, Mr. Henry Lucy remarks - There is something dismally tragic in its way in the thought of Oscar Wilde in his prison cell whilst two London Theatres are crammed with audiences delighted with the clever situations and light persiflage of plays from his pen, in the full tide of their popularity when his career was abruptly cut short. The situation was a little awkward for the managers of St. James's Theatre, where "The Importance of Being Earnest" is played, and for Messrs. Waller and Morell, who had arranged to continue at the Criterion the successful run of "An Ideal Husband." They have attempted to meet it in a manner that is problematically wise, but indubitably mean. They keep on the plays, but erase the name of the dishonoured author. In the United States, where "The Ideal Husband" has been played to crowded houses, the manager has heroioally withdrawn it, a proceeding in which there is at least some sign of logic. To show one's moral indignation by omitting the name of a dishonoured and degraded author, and to continue taking at the door the money he brings in is quite another thing. It is impossible to feel any regret at the fate that has at length tracked the evil footsteps of Oscar Wilde. But the pity of it is infinite. After long struggling with costly habits and inadequate means, Wilde had reached a position in which he found fortune as well as fame. His plays, running in the United States and simultaneously in two theatres in London, brought him in large revenues. Having outlived the well considered foolishness of his lily and sunflower days, he had before him an honourable and lucrative career. Then his sin finds him out, and all is blackness and night. The sensation created in London by the criminal proceedings is commensurate with the wideness of the circle to which Wilde was personally known, and that included everybody worth knowing. The last time I met him at dinner was at a small party in a private dining-room at the House of Commons. The host, heir presumptive to a peerage, an ex-Minister, belonged, like the majority of his guests (who included Mr. Arthur Balfour), to the most exclusive set in London. Wilde, as usual amid such surroundings, was in brilliant conversational form. In his narrow cell, or hereafter in company with the coarsest of mankind, with nothing in his dress to distinguish between them and the sybarite, he will doubtless sometimes think of that particular evening, and of many another akin to it. The bitterest part of his punishment will be these crowding memories, for truly "sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."

London, May 27.—During the trial, Wilde, who appeared to be suffering from weakness, was allowed to remain seated in the witness-box while giving evidence on his own behalf. He said he always understood Taylor to be a respectable man, and, referring to his association with him, said the reason for the friendship was because he personally liked praise, and lionising was delightful to him.

Sir Edward Clarke, counsel for the accused, declared that the witnesses for the prosecution were blackmailers, and that it was impossible to believe them.

The jury asked whether it was intended to arrest Lord Alfred Douglas.

The Judge replied that he was not aware of the intention of the police, but in any case it did not affect the present trial.

The jury thought that if Wilde's letter showed him to be guilty the guilt applied equally to Lord Alfred Douglas.

His Honor concurred in this opinion, but added that the suspicion of the jury that the son of the Marquis of Queensberry was being allowed to escape owing to his connections was both unfounded and impossible.

Oscar Wilde, after being sentenced, appeared quite dazed and horror-struck. In his despair he weakly muttered a request to be permitted to address the court, but this was unheeded, and the warders hurried him off to his cell.

Mr Henry W. Lucy, writing to one of the Australian papers on the subject, says:—There is something dismally tragic in its way in the thought of Oscar Wilde in his prison cell whilst two London theatres are crammed with audiences delighted with the clever situations and light persiflage of his plays from his pen, in the full tide of their popularity, when his career was abruptly cut short. The situation was a little awkward for the managers of St. James's Theatre, where "The Importance of Being Earnest" is played, and for Messrs Waller and Morell, who had arranged to continue at the Criterion the successful run of "An Ideal Husband." They have attempted to meet it in a manner that is problematically wise, but indubitably mean. They keep on the plays, but erase the name of the dishonoured author. In the United States, where the "Ideal Husband' has been played to crowded houses, the manager has heroically withdrawn it, a proceeding in which there is at least some sign of logic. To show one's moral indignation by omitting the name of a dishonoured and degraded author, and to continue taking at the door the money he brings in, is quite another thing. It is impossible to feel any regret at the fate that has at length tracked the evil footsteps of Oscar Wilde. But the pity of it is infinite. After long struggling with costly habits and inadequate means Wilde had reached a position in which he found a fortune as well as fame. His plays, running in the United States and simultaneously in two theatres in London, brought him in large revenues. Having outlived the well-considered foolishness of his lily and sunflower days, he had before him a honourable and lucrative career. Then his sin finds him out, and all is blackness and night. The sensation created in London by the criminal proceedings are commensurate with the wideness of the circle to which Wilde was personally known, and that included everybody worth knowing. The last time I met him at dinner was at a small party in a private dining-room at the House of Commons. The host, heir presumptive to a peerage, an ex-Minister, belonged, like the majority of his guests (who included Mr Arthur Balfour), to the most exclusive set in London. Wilde, as usual amid such surroundings, was in brilliant conversational form. In his narrow cell, or hereafter in company with the coarsest of mankind, with nothing in his dress to to distinguish between them and the sybarite, he will doubtless sometimes think of that particular evening, and of many another akin to it. The bitterest part of his punishment will be these crowding memories, for truly "sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."