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London, April 5.

Of course the "fashionable sensation" of the week has been the trial of Lord Queensberry on the charge of criminally libelling Mr Oscar Wilde. "A person named Oscar Wilde" was how the judge, in charging the grand jury, specified this celebrated (or notorious) personage. It will be remembered that Lord Queensberry left at Mr Wilde's club a card on which was written words that virtually accused Mr Wilde of a vile crime, and that on the fact of coming to his knowledge the latter caused the Marquis to be arrested forthwith for criminal libel. He was committed for trial, and the grand jury found a true bill against him. The trial is now proceeding.

Yesterday the Daily Chronicle reported the proceedings to the extend of five solid columns, the Telegraph gave four and a-half, the Standard three and a-half, the Times and Morning Post each two and a-half, the Daily News and Daily Graphic each two columns. Permit me here, figuratively, to uplift my hands in utter amazement that respectable journals should have allowed their columns to be defiled by floods of filthy allusions and revolting innuendo which flows through the whole evidence in this disgusting case. To me it seems most deplorable and discreditable that such loathsome garbage should be reported in respectable journals which are presumably fit for family perusal. One need not be a purist or a prude to be genuinely and intensely shocked that such an experience should have been possible. One evening paper, the St. James's Gazette, to its great and abiding credit be it said, resisted the temptation to wallow in this filth, and refused to report the case at all beyond a mere statement of the plain facts, much as they are set forth above. The St. James's expresses its conviction that most cleanly-minded people will be glad "that there is at least one London newspaper to-day which can be read without a shudder by persons of ordinary decent feeling, which need not be excluded from a household where there are women and young girls, which can be permitted to lie on the drawing room table without offence, and which can be taken into the family circle without apprehension." An earnest appeal is made by the same paper for the hearing of such cases in camera. It admits the temptation under which newspapers lie to publish sensational matter, and argues that they should be protected from themselves and their readers from them by the court having the power to forbid the publication of indecent evidence. It is terrible to think of inquisitive boys and girls reading this morning's papers.

What makes the whole thing even more off offensive that it is per se is the unblushing way in which Mr Wilde utilises the case as an advertisement of himself and his wares. I wonder the judge tolerated the flippancies and impertinencies and irrelevancies with which he "showed off" to an admiring audience. He had evidently been at work for weeks "mugging up" smart sayings and quips and paradoxes with which to astonish his hearers. Some of them are worth quoting, if only to show how far sheer impudence may be carried by a witness in a court of law.

Mr Wilde, by the way, confessed to 39 years of age, but in cross-examination admitted to being born in 1854. Asked if a certain book was immoral, he replied—"It is worse, it is badly written." Mr Wilde holds that "wickedness is a myth invented by good people," that "religions die when they are proved to be true," that "if one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out." This last is characterised as "a pleasing paradox." "Anything," said Mr Wilde, "is good that stimulates thought. . . . There is no such thing as morality in immorality in though. . . . Pleasure is the only thing one should live for, nothing ages like happiness. . . . (another pleasing paradox!) and to realise oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. . . . A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it"—"that," said Oscar, "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" that, Mr Wilde thinks, is at least "half true." He says further "there is something tragic about the enormous number of young men in England who are starting life with perfect profiles and end by adopting some useful profession." This Mr Wilde describes as "an amusing paradox." All these sapient aphorisms are from Mr Wilde's "Phrases and Philosophy for the Use of the Young." They were submitted to him in cross-examination for an expression of his matured opinion on their merits. Mr Wilde further stated that the only critic of the century whose opinion he set high was Mr Walter Pater: "That no work of art ever puts forward 'views' of any kind. 'Views' belong to people who are not artists." He held that the tone of his own writings could only be deemed immoral by "brutes and the illiterate—the views of the Philistines on art," said Oscar, "are incalculably stupid." He was afraid the majority of people were not cultivated enough to live up to the pose he had given them; but still, he admitted, he had "never discouraged their buying his books." He begged that he might not be cross-examined about "the ignorance of other people," and declared he had "a great passion to civilise the community." He described one of his own letters to a friend as "a beautiful letter." "Was it an ordinary letter?" asked counsel. "Certainly not; I should think not!" replied Mr Wilde, indignantly, amid roars of laughter. "It was a beautiful letter—unique, I should think." "Have you written others of this class?" was next asked. "There is no class in that letter," said Mr Wilde, proudly. "Have you written others like it?" "I don't repeat myself in style" was the lofty reply.

Another letter was read. "Don't you think that is an extraordinary letter?" asked counsel. "I think everything I write is extraordinary" answered the modest Oscar. "I don't pose as being ordinary! Great Heavens!!" Several people had attempted to blackmail him, with the result that he gave them money very freely and apparently constituted them his personal friends henceforward, calling them by their Christian names, regaling them at dinner, champagne lunches, &c., and otherwise entertaining them. "Everybody, with few exceptions, calls me by my Christian name," said the poetic Oscar, "and I like calling people by their Christian names." He did not think it "monstrous" that a man with whom he was on such intimate terms should come to blackmail him, so he gave him 10s "to show my contempt for him—to show I don't care twopence for him!" "Did you call him Alf?" was asked. "No," replied Mr Wilde, solemnly, "I never use abbreviations. I called him Alfred." Being asked whether another passage in one of his writings was proper, Mr Wilde said, "I think it is the most perfect description possible of what an artists would feel." Asked whether he ever had the feeling of admiration for another which one of his heroes expresses, Oscar loftily responded, "I have never given admiration to any person except myself!" He regarded it as "an intellectual treat" to his guests to be allowed to visit him. He did not know their ages because he "did not keep a census." He did not visit them. "It would not interest me to go and see Parker; it would interest Parker to call and see me," said Mr Wilde. "I do not like the sensible and I do not like the old," he remarked, "and I do not care twopence for social position. I recognise no social distinction at all of any kind. I like the society of people much younger than myself. The society of young people is so wonderful. I would talk to a street arab with more pleasure than I would be cross-examined by you in court." When asked if one visitor discussed literature with him "I would not allow it," said Oscar sternly.

These touches are amusing and characteristic of the man. He is emphatically a poseur and phraseur. He lives for notoriety.

Some of the correspondence between Lord Queensberry and his son whom he desired to save from Oscar Wilde's influence is, to say the least, curious. The Marquis wrote commanding him to cease his friendship with Wilde, and remonstrating with him for his idleness and "loafing." To this the dutiful son replied in the following telegram:—"What a funny little man you are!" His father not unnaturally rejoined: "You impertinent young jackanapes, if you give me any of your impertinence I shall give you the thrashing you deserve. My only excuse for you is that you must be crazy."

To this the affectionate son responded with the following, written on a postcard:—"As you have returned 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, and I shall continue to go to any of those places whenever I choose, and with 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 right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts, you would get seven years' penal servitude for the 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 I'll shoot you, or if he shoot you we will 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."

This morning the unexpected happened, and the revolting case suddenly relapsed. When the judge took his seat he was seen to receive, open, and read a letter. The silence was breathless. Expectation was on tiptoe. But nothing happened immediately. Mr Carson proceeded with his speech for the defence. But suddenly he was interrupted. Sir Edward Clarke plucked him by the gown and whispered to him. Mr Carson sat down. Sir Edward Clarke arose and intimated the withdrawal of the prosecution against Lord Queensberry, or, if that were not agreed to, consent to a verdict of not guilty on the ground of justification and publication for the public good. A verdict was returned accordingly.

Meanwhile Mr Wilde's whereabouts is not definitely known. He was last heard of at the Holborn Viaduct Hotel, where he wrote a letter implying that he withdrew rather than place Lord Alfred Douglas in the box against his father. But the shorthand notes of the case and all the documents have been placed in the hands of the Public Prosecutor.

Let us hope we have heard the last of a case which is one of the most shocking society scandals of modern times.

THE trial of the Marquis of Queensberry for libelling Oscar Wilde, and which ended in the acquittal of the Marquis and the arrest of Wilde on a serious criminal charge, was commenced in the Old Bailey Criminal Court, London, on April 3. From an English paper to hand yesterday we make the following extracts:—

In opening the case for the prosecution, Sir Edward Clarke referred to the fact that a man named Wood had been given some clothes by Lord Alfred Douglas, and he alleged that he found in the pocket of a coat

FOUR LETTERS FROM MR. WILDE TO

LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.

Whether he did find them there or whether he stole them is matter for speculation, but the letters were handed about, and Wood asked Mr. Wilde to buy them back. He represented himself as being in need and wanting to go to America. Mr. Wilde handed him £15 or £20, and received from him three of somewhat ordinary importance. It afterwards appeared that only the letters of no importance had been given up (Sir Edward Clarke made the remark quite innocently) and the letter of some importance had been retained. At that time "A Woman of No Importance" was in rehearsal at the Haymarket Theatre, and there came to Mr. Wilde through Mr. Beerbohm Tree a document which purported to be a copy of the retained letter. It had two headings—one Babbicombe Cliff, Torquay, and the other 16 Tite-street. Shortly afterwards a man named Allan called on Mr. Wilde, and demanded ransom for the original of the letter. Mr. Wilde peremptorily refused. He said, "I look upon the letter as a work of art. Now I have got a copy I do not desire the original. Go." Almost immediately afterwards a man named Claburn brought the original and surrendered it, saying it was sent by Mr. Wood. Mr. Wilde gave him a sovereign for his trouble. The letter was as follows:—

My Own Boy,— Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the 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 you go there and cool your hands in the gray 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.

Under examination by his counsel Wilde replied that the Marquis of Queensberry called upon him and said: "I hear you were thoroughly well blackmailed last year for a disgusting letter that you wrote to my son." Oscar replied: "The letter was a beautiful letter, and I never write except for publication."

Mr. Wilde continued: "About the end of June Lord Queensberry called upon me in the afternoon. I said to him, "I suppose you have come to apologise for the statement you made about my wife and myself in a letter you wrote to your son. Lord Queensberry said, 'If I catch you and my son together again I will thrash you.' I said, 'I do not know what the Queensberry rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.' I then told him to leave my house. He said he would not do so. I told him I would have him put out by the police. Mr. Wilde then went into the hall and said to his servant, 'This is the Marquis of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. Never allow him to enter my house again. Should he attempt to come in you may send for the police.'"

In cross-examination Wilde was questioned respecting the vicious tendencies of a story which had appeared in a magazine to which he was a contributor, when the following questions and answers were given:—

You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? — From the literary point of view

IT WAS HIGHLY IMPROPER.

It is impossible for a man of literature to judge it otherwise, by literature meaning treatment, selection of subject, and the like. I thought the treatment rotten and the subject rotten. You are of opinion there is no such thing as an immoral book? — Yes.

May I take it that you think the story was not immoral? — It was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter.)

In reply to another question Wilde said: I do not believe that any book or work of art ever had any effect on morality whatever.

And the following dialogue ensued:

Am I right in saying that 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 favorite 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 absorption 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 art in whatever age.

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

"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for." — I think that the realisation of one's self is the prime aim of life, and to realise one's self 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; somewhat 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 professions." — I should think that the young have enough sense of humor.

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

In answer to other questions, he said: The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of art. I don't care twopence what other people think of it.

The majority of people would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates? — I have found wonderful exceptions.

Do you think that the majority of people live up to the position you are giving us? — I am afraid they are not cultivated enough.

Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction you have drawn between a good and a bad book? — Certainly not.

The affection and love of the artists of Dorian Grey might lead an ordinary individual to believe that it might have a certain tendency? — I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.

You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book? — I have never discouraged him.

At a later stage the following letter, written by Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, was read:—

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 so, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your young lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner—

Here a word is indecipherable, but I will ask the witness—

than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £40 for a week. Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit.—Your own OSCAR.

Is that an ordinary 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.

What would you pay for that beautiful letter? — I could not get a copy.

How much would you give if you could get a copy? — Oh, I do not know.

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 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, &, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with 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 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 procedure and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.