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Up to this time I have carefully refrained from discussing Oscar Wilde's downfall, but now that his ruin is complete I cannot resist the impulse to express my contempt for some of the men who are loudest in denunciation of the man. There has been no secret about the fellow for years. He lived in that Greater Bohemia in which everybody knows everybody - in which no man's infamy is concealed from the inhabitants thereof. This Greater Bohemia, although it comprises two continents and extends from St. Petersburg to San Francisco, is in reality a very limited world peopled by men and women nearly all of whom know each other personally and where all are known to all the others even in the absence of personal acquaintanceship. It is not a world that is wholly bad, but it has in it a set whose religion is vice and whose vices are hideous. It is from this set that has come much of the literature and art of the epoch - a literature and art that are poisoned at their source. It is no compliment to the great outside world that has no part in this Greater Bohemia that it eagerly drinks the poisons distilled by these votaries of impurity, whether they bear the label of Zola or Ibsen or Sarah Grand or Oscar Wilde. It is because the world at large likes these poisons that such creatures are possible. But there could be no greater sham than that the venders of these poisons do not know the characters of their makers in such a case as that of Wilde. As a matter of fact he has been tabooed for years by every man acquainted with the inner life of Bohemia who held his manhood above the associations that are hideous. I have never consciously read a line that Oscar Wilde ever wrote - I have never seen one of his plays. In themselves it is not likely that his pieces would have offended me very much, although it is probable I should have avoided the plays even if I had not known of the man, but, knowing of the man through those vague whispers that pass like electric currents through the kingdom of Bohemia, I could not insult my manhood by accepting the meretricious brilliancy of such a wretch. Under the circumstances, when I see the producers of his pieces tumbling over each other in their eagerness to remove his name from their playbills I can only express my sentiments with a - Phew!!

The point that I wish to make in connection with Oscar Wilde's downfall is summed up in the name of his farce now running at the St. James’ Theatre, in London, "The Importance of Being Earnest." I so sincerely believe in the importance of being earnest that I can't see why this farce should continue to be acceptable by merely removing his name from the bill. Even if it was acceptable before and is not acceptable now with his name on the bill it is not clear to me that its removal makes a difference. It is absolutely certain that many persons who would have gone to see it before, regardless of the reputation of its author, will not go to see it now in either case. It is because of this that I am insisting so strenuously upon the importance of being earnest. If I had announced my reasons for staying away from Wilde’s plays before his downfall I would have been called a crank. I would have been told that the private character of a playwright has nothing to do with his play. Now the very people who would have thus argued with me are staying away and insisting that a playwright's private character is inseparable from his plays. I acknowledge the fact, but at the same time I am disposed to think that it is the exposure of his wickedness and not his wickedness itself that is creating so much virtuous indignation. If I could have endured the fellows immorality at all, knowing his private character before his downfall, I do not see why I should not be able to endure it now that everybody else knows what I knew before. It is for the importance of being earnest that I am contending and it must be admitted that consistency and earnestness are identical.

It has been a favorite proposition for a good many years that art has nothing to do with morality. This is true in the abstract, but Oscar Wilde went a great deal further and made the impudent claim that immorality and art are inseparable. He turned the immoral into a cult, but I believe that his receptivity was a more important agent in the process than his activity. His whole life was a continuous evolution from the vague impressions of the artistic with which he began to the festering corruption with which his career culminated. At first his philosophy was summed up in the phrase that accompanied Du Maurier's famous caricature – "Let us try to live up to our blue china." He was from the very outset part quack and part rascal, but if he had been left to himself his eccentricities of attire and his affections of devotion to the sun-flower would have had no marked effect either for good or evil. But society took him up because, to use his own phrase, he was "an amusing creature," and the theatres caricatured him because society had taken him up. At that time he was already half bad, and thenceforward his progress from bad to worse was rapid. As the "pure young man" personified in Bunthorne in "Patience," there was a satirical hint of what he would become. After this came his poems and then his plays, and if the rottenness of his life had not eaten away all semblance of shame from his heart he might have occupied a place in the romance of literature as the most intellectual Sybarite not of his own time only, but of all time. As it is, he is likely to end a life that began as a farce as a tragedy that will be both terrible and flippant.

But he has told the climax of his life in words that were prophetic in his introductory sonnet to his "Poems," and I print them as having a deeper meaning than any language I might use:

To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute, on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control? - Methinks my life is a twice written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe and virelay Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: Is that time dead? Lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance - And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?

THE EX-EDITOR.

Oscar Wilde, whose downfall is the talk of two continents, first achieved notoriety as a prostrate apostle, and then as the leader of the then infantile aesthetic craze. He carried his aesthetic peculiarities so far that he became the subject of Du Maurier’s caricaturing pencil and Gilbert’s satirizing fun. That may have been what he was trying for. Neither the caricaturist nor the satirist diminished the ardor with which Wilde purpled what was vaguely called aestheticism. The Bunthornes of "Patience" made up in exact imitation of Wilde, and he posed in the lobbies of the same theatres and composed phrases which outdid, in lily-like languages, the phrases Gilbert has thought to be satires. One of the songs of "Patience," which seemed to contain a more or less pointed allusion to Wilde, ran:—

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion Should excite your languid spleen; An attachment, a la Plato, for a bashful young potato, Or a not too French French bean; Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle In the sentimental band, If you walk walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily In your mediaeval hand; And every one will say As you walk your mystic may, "If he’s content with vegetable love that would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most peculiarly pure young man this pure young man must be."

The more limp Du Maurier drew his caricature the limper was Oscar when he confronted the next assemblage; the longer Du Maurier made his people’s hair the longer Wilde stayed away from the barber’s.

The ridicule of the playwright frightened many of his disciples into everyday garb and an attempt at common-sense conversation. The undaunted Oscar would not yield. He found it to his profit not to do so. Even at a supper party, graced by the presence of the Prince of Wales, he appeared in his characteristic costume.

It happened that Grossmith, the original Bunthorne, was also present. He yielded to the general importunity to sing the famous Bunthorne solo. The presence of the original of the "Pure Young Man," gave additional zest to the verses. At the close the admirer of a "bashful young potato, or a not too French, French bean," was dragged bodily up before His Royal Highness, with two words, "This is the man." But Oscar imperturbably preserved his placid smile amid the general merriment.

Perhaps Oscar found it to his interest not to resent the stage caricatures. At the very height of the "Patience" fever came the announcement of Oscar Wilde’s poems. Then it was seen that the young man was only pretending to be an idiot. His verses on "England," his "Ave Imperatrix," though too Tennysionian, and his "Garden of Eros," though too Swinburnian, his neo-Catholic poems, gathered under the general head of "[…] Mystics, had the right ring in them. They announced that a true poet had been born.

But the most sincere and genuine of all was the introductory sonnet, full of and vain longing and regret. Here it is. It casts a curious light upon a curious personality:—

HELAS!

To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute, on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?— Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday, With idle songs for pipe and virelay, Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: Is that time dead? Lo! with a little rod I do but touch the honey of romances— And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?

Wilde is no longer young, nor very romantic, nor has he anything of the outward aesthete of former days. He is fat, heavy-eyed and prosperous, married, a father and a snug householder. There is no denying that he is sagacious, for he not only makes himself a social position with his fade, but makes money aa well.

There are other curious things about him. For example he pays his debts. For another thing, while everlastingly posing as a triller, an idler and a blase, man of the world, he is a hard worker and one of the most industrious men in London. There are plenty of men in England and in this country with a great reputation for industry who do not work half as hard as he does.

Ever since he was rusticated from Oxford Wilde has been a good money-maker. What is odder still, he lives within his income. As to his marriage, in "The Green Carnation" there is a report of his own version of it. It is very funny, but it does not happen to be true. As a matter of fact Wilde has a charming wife, who adores him, all his present notoriety to the contrary notwithstanding. He has two fine, manly boys, Vivian and Clarence, eleven and thirteen years old, and to the resting of these boys and to devotion to her husband. Mrs Wilde has given her life. She has educated youngsters herself; they have never been to school.

Mrs Wilde was an Irish girl, Miss Constance Lloyd, daughter of an eminent barrister and is counted among the most beautiful women in London. She inherited a fortune of several thousand dollars. Mr Wilde’s plays bring large royalties, and he and his family live in luxurious style.

Wilde declares that between them these boys have ruined him as a poet, and as a last resort he has been compelled to become a dramatic author. "A dramatic author," he says "can endure a tumult; a poet cannot. Noise has not, as I once fancied it would, robbed me of life — it has simply stifled the soul of poetry that was once within me."

Wilde is not only a model husband — he even attends his wife’s receptions with unflagging regularity, and he is a devoted son as well. There is a touch of Irish gallantry in his attitude toward his mother, who is one of the most interesting women in London.

Wilde came to America about 12 years ago, frankly advertising as a freak lecturing on "Aestheticism." He wore knee breeches, silk hose, lace cuffs, and was otherwise variously freakish in his dress. At Boston a half hundred Harvard boys marched into his lecture hall dressed as he was, each carrying a lily. Wilde’s noted imperturbability did not desert him. He merely lisped, "How tenderly droll" and went on with his lecture.

In a western city he was the guest of a club, among whose members were a number of stout drinkers. They undertook to "tank up the aesthete," as they expressed it. The process was long. As the sun was breaking into the club windows Wilde looked over a room strewn with fallen braves, and said to the one man still able to comprehend speech:

"We’ve had a charmingly quiet little evening. Don’t you feel like a bit of a run about town before breakfast?"

Up to the time of his American lecturing tour Wilde had done little else to attract attention to himself. He was known to be the son of exceptionally clever parents, and winner of the Newdigate at Oxford; but, besides cleverly advertising himself and writing a few verses, he had done no clever original work, and was not seriously considered. His reputation as a lecturer, man of fashion, wit, poet, novelist, essayist, playwright, has been made in most particulars, in the last half dozen years.

Oscar Wilde comes of parentage distinguished alike in social and in intellectual life. His father was Sir William Wilde, the late eminent surgeon, who for many years was surgeon oculist to Queen Victoria, who was the founder and lifelong chief of staff of St. Mark’s Ophthalmic and Aural Hospital, of Dublin; who had a European reputation in his profession, who wilded an immense personal influence in Ireland through his magnetic qualities and wide information, and who was known to antiquarians and historians by his passionate devotion to the study of archeology.

Twice he was elected president of the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin. His published works, "The Shores of Lough Corrib and Lough Mask," are everywhere recognized as scholarly contributions to the early history of Ireland. He was knighted in 1853 in recognition both of his professional and of his arduous and successful labor in producing the first elaborate and reliable census of his native land.

Oscar Wilde’s mother, who is now 77, is perhaps the most famous woman poet in Ireland. Her patriotic poems and lyrics, produced under the pseudonym of "Speranza," endeared her to the heart of her countrymen. One especially, "The Famine of Ireland," is still remembered, and may be found in almost any anthology of poetry. It is a grim and masterly description of the desolation produced by the famine of 1849.

Mrs Frank Leslie, once the wife of Wm Wilde, has known Oscar Wilde and his family 15 years. When the libel suit began Mrs Leslie predicted that Mr Wilde would win his case.

"I suppose I am to be classed as a false prophet," Mrs Leslie said to a reporter yesterday. "But I must judge Mr Wilde only as I knew him, that is, as a dignified, high-minded gentleman, a perfect son, a kind, considerate husband, and a doting, affectionate parent. I cannot imagine why he gave up the battle, when surrender meant a practical admission of guilt.

"It is certainly hard to lose faith in a good husband and ideal son, a man who pays his bills and who does not dissipate, who loved the beautiful and has done so much for the world by encouraging a love of the beautiful. Too much importance, it seems to me, has been attached to the extravagant language used by Oscar Wilde. It is simply a rapsodical style of talk common among people of that set."

If this is the Oscar Wilde of today, how does it happen that such a really clever, gifted, successful, industrious man has brought upon himself the scandal of the Queensberry trial, with all its unspeakable details? This question was put to Mrs Langtry, who is probably more intimately acquainted with Wilde than any one else in New York, says the World of that city. Mrs Langtry said:

"Dear me! All theses fads and doings of Mr Wilde’s are not to be taken seriously. I don’t think that people in London take them seriously any more than he does himself. I have known Oscar ever since he was rusticated from Oxford, and he was always full of these things, you know. He writes a play upon "The Importance of Being Earnest," without the slightest notion of what it means to be serious or in earnest himself.

"I don’t think he takes himself seriously or intends that other people shall. He is so clever, so jolly, and his wit so deliciously Irish that people put up with his fads, admire them immensely, in fact, and when he begins to reel off his epigrams and paradoxes all one can do is to laugh at him and understand that he hardly means a word he says. He moves in the very best of society, and I don’t think there is a man in London who is better liked."

But though the British matron was not aroused, British manhood was. For years past Oscar Wilde was quietly avoided by the better class, even by men-about-town.

It was intimated, though under the breath, that he was a person not to be courted. Vague whispers, all the more awful, perhaps, for their very vagueness, passed from masculine lips about the horror of his inner life. The whispers did not reach the blazonment of print; they did not pollute the ears of the innocent. None the less, they caused Oscar Wilde to be shunned by those whose taboo is a very stigma and a reproach. At last an angry father uttered aloud what others had only whispered. With that utterance, Oscar Wilde fell.

He has fallen so deep that no hand can raise him without being besmirched with his own infamy. But in the gutter where he lies once can, without offence, do him such justice, at least, as he deserves. He was certainly a good son, patient, loving, devoted. He appeared to be a kind husband and a fond father, and his work had much in it that was useful. It is a pity that his hatred of conventionality and traditional shame had so much in it that it was itself a sham, and worse.

In the fall of Oscar Wilde art and literature have innocently suffered. But better no art and no literature than the acceptance of Wilde.