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The sequel to the Wilde scandal would not have astonished anyone who has read the reports of the Queensberry-Wilde case had the fracas in Piccadilly taken place between the Marquis of Queensberry and Lord Alfred Douglas. Those reports contain some correspondence between the Marquis and his son Lord Alfred Douglas which pointed to the possibility of something even worse than the fracas in the street chronicled by the cable on Thursday morning. It opened with a letter from the Marquis adjuring his son to leave the company of Wilde, and threatening violence to Wilde in case of non-compliance. To that letter the hopeful youth replied with a telegram winding up with the dutiful words: "What a funny little man you are." He was at once called "an impertinent young jackanapes," and told that the first opportunity would be taken for "marking" Wilde.

The young man answered with the following precious epistle:—

As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write a postcard. I write to inform you that I consider your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your last 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, &c., &c.—and I shall continue to go to these places when and with just whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no rights over me, legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts 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 I 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. (Signed, A.D.)

What reply the Marquis made to the "impertinent young jackanapes" was not recorded at the time; but the kind of reply he intended to make the cable account of the fracas in the street has explained. But it has deepened the mystery of the Wilde case by telling us that another Douglas got the benefit of the paternal intention.

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.