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A larger crowd than usual waited outside the Old Bailey this morning to see Wilde drive up. He … into court soon after 10, accompanied by … Stewart Headlam. Wilde looked worn and … nervous perspiration on his face … bearing signs of sleeplessness. … erect, however, and bore his … silver-mounted cane with his ...

... crowded early, doubtless the … that Wilde would be put in the witness-box.

Before the opening of the proceedings Wilde … with Mr. Travis Humphreys, the … counsel for the defence, and afterwards with Sir Edward Clarke.

Lord Douglas of Hawick arrived about half-past ten, and joined company with his fellow- … and kept Wilde in animated conversation for a few minutes before Wilde was called into …

THE SHELLEY CASE.

Sir Frank Lockwood, immediately the Judge took his seat, spoke re the withdrawal of Shelley, and denoted decisions of judges as late … to show that the jury might be told the evidence of a witness who was an accomplice was a thing they should not accept unless corroborated, instead of the case being withdrawn altogether.

Mr. Justice Wills replied that he had made up his mind that it would be far better to withdraw a witness altogether than let his evidence go to the jury and the jury to be told to disregard it.

THE SPEECH FOR THE DEFENCE.

Sir Edward Clarke opened the defence by pointing out that the area of the case had become small, the witnesses upon whose evidence they would have to decide their verdict being few. Sir Edward alluded to what he called the "causual, unjustifiable way in which the case is being conducted on the part of the Crown." He realised, he said, the responsibility of his learned friend the Solicitor-General. He himself had had the honour of holding the office of Solicitor-General for six years, for a longer period than ever it was held by any other man in the last hundred years. He realised the responsibilities of a Crown official, but he would point out to his learned friend that he was there, not to try to get a verdict of guilty by any means—the Solicitor-General was there to lay the facts of the case before the jury for their safe judgment, and fair action to all concerned. For the third time, said Sir Edward, he would call Oscar Wilde, the defendant, into the witness-box, and for the third time Wilde would swear the charges made against him were wholly and completely untrue. Law officers of the Crown had, Sir Edward continued, a strange and invidious privilege—a privilege the existence of which he could not understand, a privilege he had never availed himself of, and never would avail himself of if he were again Solicitor-General—that was, the privilege of addressing the jury last. But the Crown had sent down a law official, and so he was forced, in order to reply to the Solicitor-General, to put Wilde into the box.

WILDE TO BE CALLED.

"Now, broken as he is," said SIr Edward in a most impressive voice, "and no one who saw him when he came into the court for the first time, and sees him now, can fail to see what has happened to the man—broken as he is by being kept in prison without bail, contrary to practice, and I believe contrary to law—broken as he is by the anxiety of these successive trials, I might have spared him the indignity of having again to go into the witness-box, to go through the ordeal of repeating his denial on oath."

Sir Edward then traced the history of the case from the action of the Marquis of Queensberry. He dwelt on the continued friendship of Wilde for the Douglases and their mother, the Marchioness of Queensberry. Wilde had heroically fought against the accusations made against him, accusations that had broken down piece by piece.

WILDE IN THE WITNESS-BOX.

Wilde, looking very haggard, was given a chair in the witness-box, and a glass of water placed at his elbow.

In the early part of the year 1894, did it come to your knowledge that the Marquis of Queensberry objected to your acquaintance with Lord Alfred Douglas?

Then followed answer and question detailing the facts of the card left at Wilde’s club, and his taking action against the Marquis of Queensberry. He had long been, and was still, a friend of the Queensberry family.

You made certain remarks upon the evidence of Charles Parker, when you were in the box before?—Yes.

Have you any qualification to make on those remarks?—No.

You have been living with your wife since you were married in 1894, at 16, Tite-street?—Yes.

While your family were away you stayed at the Savoy Hotel?—Yes.

You had rooms at St. James’s-place?—Yes, for writing. It was quiet. Most literary men like to work away from their own house. I was then writing "An Ideal Husband."

Is there any truth whatever in the accusations made against you?—None whatever.

CROSS-EXAMINED.

In cross-examination Sir Frank Lockwood asked:

Where is Lord Alfred Douglas now?—He is abroad.

Where?—Paris.

When did he go?—About three weeks ago.

Did he leave after the first trial?—No, he stayed awhile after the Queensberry trial.

Did he stay till your first trial as defendant?—No, he went away to France at my wish.

What did you do when you learned that the marquis objected to your friendship with his son? I said I was perfectly ready to cease the acquaintance, if it would make peace between him and his father, but he preferred to do otherwise.

So the intervention of the father had no effect?—None.

Then the Solicitor-General read the two famous letters from Wilde to Douglas.

"The letter from Torquay was intended to be a prose poem in answer to one he had written to me," repeated Wilde.

Are these two letters a sample of the letters you have written to Douglas?—No; I don’t think you can take them as a sample.

"My own boy," proceeded Sir Frank Lockwood, reading the letter. Is that the way you usually addressed him?—Oh yes, often. He was much younger than I was.

You adopted that phraseology on account of his being so much younger?—Yes.

"Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kissing."

May I ask you this, Mr. Wilde: Do you consider that was a decent way of addressing a youth?—It is a little like a sonnet of Shakespeare. I admit it was a fantastical and extravagant way of writing to a young man. The question whether the thing is proper or right is—

A QUESTION OF DECENCY.

The word I used, Mr. Wilde, was decent?—It was a beautiful way for an artist to write to a young man who had a love of art.

Do you consider that a decent mode of addressing a young man? (emphatically).—It was a literary way of addressing a prose poem to—

I ask you whether you know the meaning of the word decent?—Yes (quietly).

And do you consider that decent?—It was an attempt to write a prose poem in beautiful phraseology.

Did you consider it decent phraseology?—Oh yes, yes.

"Your slim-gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days." You were speaking of love between?—What I meant by the phrase was that he was a poet and Hyacinthus was a poet, and—(then the voice became inaudible).

"Always with undying love," read on Sir Frank. It was not a sensual love, said Wilde.

Is that again poetic imagery or an expression of your feelings?—That is an expression of my feelings; with a smile and bow).

"Dearest of old boys," read on Sir Frank, "your letter was delightful red and yellow wine for me, but I am sad and out of sorts, Bosey. You must not make scenes with me. They wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see you, Greek and gracious, distorted by passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips say hideous things to me. Don’t do it: you break my heart, and 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? There are many difficulties; my bill here is £49"—that I suppose is true? That is, not poetic?—Oh! no, no! (Laughter suppressed.)

"I have also got a new room over the Thames. But why are you not here, my dear boy. Ever your own Oscar." He came and stayed with you at the Savoy?—Yes, in the month of February.

You were alone, you two?—Oh, yes.

The approach to your room was through his?—Yes.

Were you then aware of his father objecting to your acquaintance?—No.

TAYLOR’S TEA PARTIES.

The words on the Queensberry card containing the alleged libel were then ascertained from Wilde, after which the examination turned in the direction of the meetings and tea parties at Taylor’s rooms.

The boys Wood, Mavor, and Parker, what was their occupation?—One doesn’t ask people such questions at a tea party.

You have heard Taylor’s rooms described; Were they always in darkness?—I was only there once in the daytime, and then saw nothing remarkable.

Did you know Taylor had friends staying there, who invariably slept in bed with him?—I didn’t know that.

You know now?—I have heard it here.

Does that alter you opinion of Taylor?—No.

Do you approve of his conduct?—I don’t think I am called upon to express approval or disapproval of any persons conduct.

I must press you—I don’t believe, replied Wilde, that anything improper took place between Taylor and these boys. If Taylor was poor and shared his bed with his friends, that may have been charity.

What pleasure could you find in the society of boys teach beneath you in social position?—I make no social distinctions.

What did you do with them?—I read to them. I read one of my plays to them.

From your literary position you would be able to exercise considerable influence over them?—Certainly, but not literary influence, I don’t think that would be possible.

I don’t mean literary influence?—I like to be liked, I liked their society simply because I like to be lionised.

What—by these boys?—Yes; I like praise.

HE IS FOND OF PRAISE.

You, a successful literary man, wished to obtain the praise of those boys?—Praise from anybody—praise from other literary people is usually tainted with criticism. I am enormously fond of praise, enormously fond of admiration, and, I admit, to be praised by my inferiors; I admit it pleased me very much.

Your social inferiors?—I have no sense at all of social differences.

Alluding to the brothers Parker Wilde admitted he preferred Charles to William because he was bright.

You preferred Charles?—I make no preferences.

You like bright boys?—I like bright boys. Charles Parker was bright. I liked him.

Do you think it would be of any service to youths in their position to be entertained to dinner in the manner they were by a man of your station?—Schoolboys enjoy a treat.

You looked upon them as schoolboys?—No, but if you ask people to come and dine with you, you must give them something they don’t have every day. I don’t think it would have interested them if I had asked them to dine on a pint of ale and a chop.

PLENTY OF WINE.

You didn’t stint them with wine?—Oh, no.

You would let them drink as much as they liked?—I should not limit their consumption, but I should consider it extremely vulgar for any one to take too much wine at table.

Let me ask you whether it didn’t occur to you that having obtained their admiration that it was then within your power to exercise an influence for good or for ill with these lads?—The only influence I could exercise with anybody would be a literary influence. Of course, in their case it was impossible. Literary influence I know I have had a great deal, but not influence of any other kind.

Was Taylor charming?—Charming is not the word I would apply. I found him bright and pleasant.

Intellectual?—Not intellectual. Clever, decidedly.

Artistic?—Yes.

Very good taste, with his accents and—?—I think it good taste to use perfumes. I thought his rooms were done up with considerable taste. I think he had a very pleasant taste. His rooms were cheerful.

Not a very cheerful street, Little College-street?—Few streets are cheerful.

Is it true that when you met Parker in Trafalgar-square you used the words, "You are looking as pretty as ever?"—No, I don’t think I used the words.

Would you consider such words right to use to a youth?—Oh, no. It would be frivolous.

You don’t object to being frivolous?—Oh, I—

Sir Edward Clarke objected to the Solicitor-General being frivolous. He leaped to his feet and protested against the cross-examination going away to subjects which had nothing to do with the charges. Mr. Justice Wills also objected to anybody being frivolous, and intimated as much to the Solicitor-General, whereupon SIr Edward Clarke sat down again.

WOOD AND THE £15.

The acquaintance with the boy Alphonse at Worthing, and Wilde taking him to Brighton, buying him new clothes, and presenting him with a cigarette case, was the subject of a brief part of the cross-examination. Wilde’s replies were that he met the boy, talked to him, found him interesting, and felt he would like to keep the boy. What he did was more kindness.

For a while the cross-examination fell to dulness. It assumed more seriousness and importance when the transaction of Alfred Wood being handed money to go to America came up. Wilde said he received an anonymous letter at the supper table one evening, and another the following day, signed by a person who called himself a private detective, and saying Wood had letters belonging to Lord Alfred Douglas, written by him, and meant to extort money for them. So he communicated with Sir George Lewis. Wood afterwards met him at Taylor’s He gave Wood £15 to enable him to go to London, but certainly did not give him the money for the letters.

Do you mean, on your oath, to say the payment had nothing to do with the delivery of the letters?—None whatever.

You got the letters?—Yes. They were of no importance whatever. I tore them up.

Coming to the Savoy Hotel incident, the Solicitor-General asked: When you stayed at the Savoy, had you young men there to see you?—The great majority of my friends were young. I was ill while at the Savoy.

You were attended by the masseur?—Yes.

You have heard what he says about a person being seen in your bed. Is that statement untrue?—Absolutely and entirely untrue.

There was no one there, man or woman?—No one.

You answer also that the chambermaid’s statement is untrue?—Absolutely.

Sir Edward Clarke summed up for the defence.

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.