The Yorkshire Evening Post - Wednesday, April 3, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
TO-DAY'S LATE NEWS.
THE WILDE-QUEENSBERRY SCANDAL.
HEARING OF THE CHARGE AGAINST THE MARQUESS.
OSCAR
WILDE IN THE WITNESS-BOX.
The suit of Oscar Wilde and the Marquess of Queensberry was down in to-day's list for trial at the Central Criminal Court, London, before Mr. Justice Collins and a common jury. The words of the indictment charge John Sholto Douglas with maliciously publishng a defamatory libel of and concerning Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wilde. The general public and the members of the Junior Bar were very early in attendance, and not only was all sitting room taken up but the passages of the court were so blocked by the crush that ingress and egress was a matter of great difficulty.
Sir Edward Clarke, Q.C., Mr. Mathewe, and Mr. Travers Humphreys had been retained for the prosecution. Mr. Carson, Mr. C. F. Gill, and Mr. A. Gill were counsel for the defence; a watching brief for Lord Alfred Douglas (son of the defendant) being held by Mr. Besley, Q.C., and Mr. Monckton.
Plaintiff arrived at half-past ten, accompanied by his solicitor, and took a seat in the well of the court immediately in front of Sir Edward Clarke. Immediately afterwards the jury answered to their names, but it was not until twenty minutes to eleven that silence was called for the entrance of the learned judge.
Lord Queensberry at once surrended to his bail, and was conducted to the dock. His lordship seated himself, but obediently to the attendant's request advanced to the front and stood with his arms resting upon the ledger.
The Clerk of the Court having read the indictment charging the defendant with having published a defamatory libel of the plaintiff upon a card addressed to him, Lord Queensberry replied, "Not guilty," and added the further plea. "The libel is true and was published for the public benefit.'
For the prosecution Sir Edward Clarke then opened. The libel, he said, was upon a visiting card containing the name of Lord Queensberry, and it was a matter of very serious moment; because it imputed to Mr. Oscar Wilde the gravest offence with which a man could be charged; but a far graver issue was raised by the plea that the libel was justified, and that Mr. Oscar Wilde had for a considerable period solicited certain persons (whose names were mentioned in the pleadings) to commit certain practices. The learned counsel traced the plaintiff's career at Trinity College, Dublin, and subsequently at Magdalen College, Oxford, his marriage with a daughter of the late Mr. Lloyd, Q.C., and his later literary and artistic career. He detailed plaintiff's social connection with the sons of the defendant and with Lady Queensberry, who some years ago obtained relief from her marriage owing to misconduct on the part of the Marquess. Touching next on the introduction of Mr. Wilde to Lord Queensberry by Lord Alfred Douglas at the Café Royal, Sir Edward called the attention of the jury to a personage not hitherto mentioned. This was a man who had been given the same clothes worn by Lord Alfred Douglas, and who alleged that in the pockets he discovered four letters addressed to Lord Alfred by Mr. Oscar Wilde. Whether the man had found or stolen them was a matter of speculation. This person came to Mr. Oscar Wilde, represented himself as in distress and as wanting to go to America, and plaintiff gave him £15 or £20 in order to pay his passage. He then handed to plaintiff the letters. To those letters he (Sir E. Clarke) did not attach the slightest importance. As was generally the case the important letter was retained. While Mr. Oscar Wilde's play A Woman of No Importance was in preparation what appeared to be to some extent the copy of a letter was handed to Mr. Tree, the actor, with a request to give it to Mr. Wilde. After this another individual called on the plaintiff and offered him the original, but he said, "No." He had a copy which he looked upon as a work of art, and did not want the original. Plaintiff looked upon the letter as a sort of "prose sonnet," and told the man that it would probably appear as a "sonnet poem." It did so appear in a critical magazine edited by Lord A. Douglas, and called The Spirit Lamp. The learned counsel read the letter.
The following is a copy of the letter which was published in sonnet form in the Spirit Lamp—an aesthetical and satirical magazine edited by Lord Alfred Douglas:—
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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed love so madly as 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.
"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. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as 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 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."
"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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love and so madly as 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."
"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-built soul walks between passion and poetry. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as 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."
"My own Boy--Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips 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. No Hyacinthus followed Love so madly as 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 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."
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.
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-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.
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 who 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 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.
My Own Boy—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yourself 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.
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.
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 loved by Apollo 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.
My own dear 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 music of song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know that 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 and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place; it only lacks you, but to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours Oscar.
My own dear boy — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR.
My own dear boy — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for 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 go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you. But go to Salisbury first. Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR.
"My own dear Boy,— Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-rose lips of yours should be made no less for music of 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? When do you go to Salisbury? Do go there and cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place. It only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first—Always, with undying love, yours, OSCAR."
My own boy, — Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. 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 go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place — it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first. — Always with undying love, yours, OSCAR."
My own boy,—Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red roseleaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses. 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 go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come here whenever you like. It is a lovely place—it only lacks you; but go to Salisbury first.—Always with undying love, yours, Oscar."
My Dear Boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks betweens poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to. Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of the Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first. With undying love, OSCAR.
"MY OWN BOY: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"My dear boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"MY DEAR BOY: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like but go to Salisbury first."
My Dear Boy - Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first.
"My Dear Boy,- Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"MY DEAR BOY: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who loved Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
My Dear Boy, - Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first.
My Dear Boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your rose-leaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first.
"My dear boy - Your sonnet is quite lively. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"My dear boy - Your sonnet is quite lively. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"MY DEAR BOY Your sonnet is quite lovely. your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim. gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come where whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"My Dear Boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim-gill soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthu, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
Mr Dear Boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was like you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to Salisbury? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first.
"My dear boy: Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks betweens poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when do you go to. Salisbury? Do you sleep fih the gray twilight of the Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
"My Dear Boy--Your sonnet is quite lovely. Your roseleaf lips seem made no less for the music of song than for the madness of kisses. Your slim, gilt soul walks between poetry and passion. I know that Hyacinthus, who was loved by Apollo, was you in the Greek days. Why are you alone in London and when you do you go to Swisburne? Do you sleep in the gray twilight of Gothic things? Come here whenever you like, but go to Salisbury first."
Continuing the learned counsel said the words of the the letter did appear extraordinary to those in the habit of reading commercial correspondence—(laughter)—but it was merely an expression of poetic feeling, and had no relation whatever to the suggestion now made. On the production of the plaintiff's play, The Importance of Being Earnest, Lord Queensberry was refused admission and his money returned because he brought to the theatre a bouquet of vegetables—(laughter)—and the jury might have their doubts whether his lordship was responsible for his actions. The learned advocate dealt at some length with the suggestion made against the plaintiff because of his connection with certain literary productions, and as showing his real feeling as to improper publications he instanced the fact that plaintiff the instant he saw a production called The Priest and the Acolyte, wrote to the editor of the magazine protesting against its continued appearance. As to Mr. Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray, it was simply idealising reality in the sense of harmony and beauty.
Sydney Wright, the porter of the Albemarle, having deposed to handing Lord Queensberry's card to Mr. Oscar Wilde,
The Plaintiff himself entered the witness-box, and assuming an easy pose with his arms resting on the rail, he answered the questions of his leader in a firm, deliberate voice. He met the man Wood, who had the letters referred to at the rooms of a tailor, and Wood said a man named Allen had stolen the letters from him, but they had been recovered by a detective. Plaintiff told him he did not consider the letters of any importance. Wood said he had been offered £60 for what witness described as "his beautiful letter to Lord Alfred Douglas." His reply was "I never received so large a sum for a prose work so short in length." That letter formed the basis of a French poem afterwards published and signed by a young French poet, a friend of his own. Passing from various interviews with Wood and another person named Tyler, plaintiff described a scene with Lord Queensberry in his library. He told defendant he supposed he had come there to apologise for the letter he had written about plaintiff and his son. Defendant replied that the letter was privileged, adding that plaintiff and Lord Alfred had been kicked out of the Savoy Hotel at a moment's notice, and that they had been blackmailed, and that plaintiff had taken rooms for defendant's son in Piccadilly. These statements were perfectly untrue. He asked defendant, "Do you seriously accuse your son and me?" Lord Queensberry answered, "I do not say that you are it, but you look it." (Slight applause in court.)
The Learned Judge: I will have the court cleared if there is the smallest repetition of disturbance.
The judge: I shall have this court cleared if there is the slightest manifestation of feeling.
Witness completed Lord Queensberry's answer, "I do not say that your are it, but you look it and you pose at it, which is just as bad. If I catch you in a public cafe again with my son I will thrash you." Plaintiff replied, "I don't know what the Queensberry Rules are, but the Oscar Wilde's rule is to shoot at sight." He then ordered defendant out of his house, saying to the servant, "This is the Marquess of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. Never allow him to enter my house again. If he attempts it send for the police." He was not responsible for the publication of "The Priest and the Acolyte" in the Cameleon magazine. He disapproved of it, and expressed his disapproval to the editor. There was no truth in the statements of defendant contained in the pleadings.
(Continued on Page 4.)
LATEST BUFF EDITION.
OSCAR WILDE UNDER CROSS-EXAMINATION.
EPIGRAMS IN THE BOX.
THE WITNESS SPEAKS
LIKE ONE OF HIS OWN CHARACTERS.
(Continued from Page Three.)
Mr. Carson began his cross-examination by asking plaintiff whether he was not something over 39, the age which he had given in his examination in chief. He now said he was born on the 16th October, 1854. In addition to his house in Chelsea he had rooms in St. James's Place, and Lord A. Douglas had visited them. He regarded the "Priest and the Acolyte" as violating all the artistic canons, and as being disgusting twaddle; but he had never publicly dissociated himself from the Chameleon, in which it appeared.
Was the "Priest and the Acolyte" immoral?—lt was worse—it was badly written. (Laughter.)
May I take it that you think "The Priest and the Acolyte " was not immoral?—lt was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter.)
May I take it that you think "The Priest and the Acolyte " was not immoral ? — lt was worse, it was badly written (laughter).
May I take it that you think "The Priest and the Acolyte" was not immoral? - It was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter)
May I take it that you think "The Priest and the Acolyte" was not immoral? — It was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter.)
May I take it that you think the story was not immoral? — It was worse, it was badly written. (Laughter.)
May I take it that you think the priest and the accolade was not immoral?—It was worse, it was badly written." (Laughter.)
The learned counsel took plaintiff through a series of questions on his "Phrases and Philosophies," contributed to the Chameleon.
"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the attractiveness of others." Do you hold that to be a safe axiom?—Witness: Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that is true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.
You think anything that stimulates thought is good whether moral or immoral?—Thought is neither one nor the other, thought is intellectual.
Counsel called attention to a criticism of "Dorian Gray" in the Scots Observer, in which it was described as set in "an atmosphere of moral corruption," and asked plaintiff whether he regarded that as a suggestion that his work pointed to a certain grave offence?—Witness: Some might think so, whether reasonably or not.
Mr. Carson: Have you ever felt the feeling of "adoring madly" a man some years younger than yourself?
Plaintiff: I never gave adoration to anybody except myself. (Laughter.)
Mr. Carson: In your introduction to "Dorian Gray" you say there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are either well or badly written?
This is your introduction to "Dorian Gray :— "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. — That expresses my view on art.
This is your introduction to " Dorian Grey ":—"There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written."—That expresses my view on art.
This is your introduction to "Dorian Grey": There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written." - That expresses my view on art.
Plaintiff: That expresses my view.
Has "Dorian Gray" a certain tendency?—Only to brutes, and only illiterates would so regard it.
Do the majority of people take up the "pose" you are giving us ?—I am afraid not. I am afraid they are not cultivated enough.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.)
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.)
Mr. Carson: Not cultivated enough to draw a distinction between a good book and a bad book?
Witness (loftily): Oh. certainly not. (Laughter.)
Mr. Carson, quoting from a copy of "Lippincot" (a second copy having been handed to the learned judges), read the author's description of his first meeting with Dorian Gray, and asked, "Do you consider that description of the feelings of a man towards a youth just growing up as proper or improper?"
Plaintiff: I think it is the most proper description possible of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful personality.
Mr Wilde said—I think this is the most perfect description possible of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful personality.
May I take it that you have never felt the sensations which you there describe?—No; I borrowed from Shakespeare's Sonnets.
Mr. Carson: You have written an article pointing out that Shakespeare's Sonnets have a certain tendency?
Plaintiff: On the contrary, I wrote objecting to the shameful perversion by Hallam, the historian, aud a great many French critics.
Certain questions as to a French novel referred to in plaintiff's "Dorian Gray," were ruled out as irrelevant.
Mr. Carson returned to "Dorian Gray," and in a long passage hit upon the phrase, "Why is your friendship so fatal to young men ?"
Plaintiff: I do not think any grown person influences another grown person.
Further questioned, he said his letter to Lord A. Douglas was written from Torquay, where he was staying, and Lord Alfred was at the Savoy.
Mr. Carson: You say "your slim built soul walks between passion and poetry."
Plaintiff: It is a beautiful phrase. (Laughter.) The letter is unique. (Renewed laughter.)
Mr. Carson: Listen to this second letter of your own to Lord A. Douglas:—
"Dearest of all boys,—Your letter was delightful, and it was red and yellow wine to me, for I am sadly out of sorts. 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 curved lips saying hideous things to me. Don't do it. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties. My bill here is £49 for the week. I have also a new sitting-room over the Thames for you. Why are you not here my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, aud a heart of lead.—Ever your own, Oscar.
Dearest of all boys, your letter was delightful. Red and yellow wine to me. But I am out of sorts. 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 curved lips saying hideous things to me. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing. I want a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here (at Goring) is £49 for the week. I have got a new sitting-room, over the Thames. But, you, why are you not here, my dear, my beautiful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead. -Ever your own, OSCAR.
Dearest of all boys, your letter was delightful. Red and yellow wine to me. But I am out of sorts. 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 curved lips saying hideous things to me. You break my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing. I want a thing of grace and genius, but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties; my bill here (at Goring) is £49 for the week. I have got a new sitting-room, over the Thames. But, you, why are you not here, my dear, my beautiful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead. -Ever your own, OSCAR.
Dearest of Old Boys,—Your letter was delightful red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Poesy, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I can see you, so Greek and great, contorted by passion. I cannot see your rosy lips and listen to you; you break my heart. I must see you. You are the divine thing I want—the thing of grace and genius—but I do not know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? There are many difficulties. My bill is £45 for the week. I have a sitting room over the Fens. But you, where are you, my heart, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear almost to live—no money, no credit, and a heart of lead.—Ever your own Oscar.
"Savoy Hotel. "Dearest of all Boys, -- Your letter was delightful red and yellow wine to me, and 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 curved lips saying hideous things to me. Don't do it It breaks my heart. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want of grace and genius. But I don't know how to do it. There are many difficulties. My bill here is £49 for the week. My dear, my wonderful boy, I fear I must leave. No money, no credit, and a heart of lead.--From your own OSCAR."
"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."
"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."
"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 L49 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."
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. Boysie 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 with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner — [here a word is indecipherable] — than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty, 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 got a new sitting room. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit. — Your own OSCAR.
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. Boysie 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 with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner—[here a word is indecipherable]—than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty, 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 got a new sitting-room. Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave. No money, no credit.—Your own Oscar.
"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.)
Then I will:—"Savoy Hotel, Thames-embankment, W.O.—Dearest of all boys,— Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. You must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of like. I cannot see you, 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 undecipherable, 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 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 for a week. (Laughter.) I have also got a new sitting-room. But why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must leave; no money, no credit, only a heart of lead.—Ever your own Oscar." Is that an ordinary letter?—Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter.)
Dearest of all boys, - Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Bosey, 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 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 £49 for a week. Why is it you are not here, my dear, wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit. - Your own OSCAR.
"Dearest of all 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 £40."
Then I will :— " 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. Boysie 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 with passion. I cannot listen to your curved lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner" — here a word is indecipherable, but I will ask the Witness — "than have you bitter, uujust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is 49l. for a week (laughter). I have also got a new sitting-roam. Why are you not here my dear, my wonderful boy ? I fear I must leave. 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).
Is not that an extraordinary letter?—Everything I write is extraordinary. (Laughter).
Don't you call that an extraordinary letter?—Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter)
Don't you call that an extraordinary letter:—Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter).
[…]you call that an extraordinary […] Everything I write is extraordinary […] not pose as being ordinary.
Is that an ordinary letter? — Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter.)
Is that an ordinary letter? — Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter.)
Mr. Carson: You do not pose as being ordinary?
Plaintiff (with a gesture of contempt): No.
Is that a love letter?—lt is a letter expressive of love.
Cross-examined: Wood was a young man who had held a clerkship and was in a different social position. He had been asked by Lord A. Douglas to help Wood, and supped with Wood at the Café on the night of his introduction. On one occasion he gave Wood £2, but not for an object suggested by the learned counsel. He never misconducted himself with Wood at his house in Chelsea while his (the plaintiff's) wife and children were away. When Wood brought those letters to him he thought he came to levy blackmail.
My suggestion to you is that instead of giving him £16 you gave him £30. Did you not give him £5 the following day?—Yes. (Sensation.)
Did you have a champagne farewell lunch with the man who levied blackmail?—Yes. He convinced me he had no intention, and that the letters had been stolen by other persons.
Was it then you gave him the £5?—Yes.
Why?—Because he said £15 would land him penniless at New York.
Did you not think it strange that a man with whom you had lunched in a private room should seek to levy blackmail?—Perfectly infamous.
Cross-examination resumed: He knew Wood as "Alfred," and two other men named Allen and Taylor were also known to him. Allen was known to him by reputation as a blackmailer and nothing else. He gave Allen 10s. "to show his contempt." (Laughter). After Allen came Clyburne, who also consulted him about the letters. He was also kind to Clyburne, and gave him 10s. (Laughter.) He told Clyburne he was afraid he was leading a dreadfully wicked life. Clyburne said, "There was good and bad in all of us," to which he replied, "You are a philosopher." (Laughter.)
Is the discovered letter the only one that a sonnet was written about?-I should have to go through a great deal of modern poetry before I could answer that? (Laughter.)
The case was adjourned till to-morrow.