The Freeman’s Journal - Monday, May 27, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
LONDON CORRESPONDENCE.
(FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.)
(BY SPECIAL WIRE.)
London, Monday Morning.
[...]The result of the prosecution of Oscar Wilde undoubtedly occasioned profound surprise among the public, as it did among those in court, including the prosecuting counsel. Not that there was a shadow of doubt as to his guilt, but somehow the feeling spread abroad that in view of all the circumstances there would certainly be another disagreement, probably even an acquittal. The scene of excitement in the West End when the newsboys rushed along with the papers at about half-past six was something to remember. They could not sell them fast enough to the fashionable crowd thronging out of the Row at Hyde Park corner, in fact so frenzied was the demand that enterprising paper boys succeeded in disposing of all their unsold copies of the earlier editions for double the ordinary price, which, of course, did not contain the verdict.
[...] The result of the prosecution of Oscar Wilde undoubtedly occasioned profound surprise among the public, as it did among those in court, including the prosecuting counsel. Not that there was a shadow of doubt as to his guilt, but somehow the feeling spread abroad that in view of all the circumstances there would certainly be another disagreement, probably even an acquittal. The scene of excitement in the West End when the newsboys rushed along with the papers at about half-past six was something to remember. They could not sell them fast enough to the fashionable crowd thronging out of the Row at Hyde Park corner, in fact so frenzied was the demand that enterprising paper boys succeeded in disposing of all their unsold copies of the earlier editions for double the ordinary price, which, of course, did not contain the verdict.
As to the horrid character of Wilde's crime it is quite superfluous to add anything to what Judge Wills, who held the scales of justice with scrupulous fairness, said in passing sentence. The remarkable thing is to discover now that the fact that Oscar wilde was a centre of festering corruption seems to have been perfectly well known in the artistic and theatrical circles in which he moved. But it is satisfactory anyway to feel that even the most brazen effrontery in the pursuit of such abominations does not bring immunity from punishment—a lesson that may be taken to heart perhaps with advantage by the other more or less known individuals who are now also freely spoken of as being of the same loathsome coterie. It is even said that the police could lay their hands on fifty men well known in society who are equally guilty with him, and whose connection with this odious scandal has been notorious for years.
As to the horrid character of Wilde’s crime it is quite superfluous to add anything to what Judge Wills, who held the scales of justice with scrupulous fairness, said in passing sentence. The remarkable thing is to discover now that the fact that Oscar Wilde was a centre of festering corruption seems to have been perfectly well known in the artistic and theatrical circles in which he moved. But it is satisfactory anyway to feel that even the most brazen effrontery in the pursuit of such abomination does not bring immunity from punishment—a lesson that may be taken to heart perhaps with advantage by the other more or less known individuals who are now also freely spoken of as being of the same loathing coterie. It is even said that the police could lay their hands on fifty men well known in society who are equally guilty with him, and whose connection with this odious scandal has been notorious for years.
Some few months ago I saw Oscar Wilde at the first night of "An Ideal Husband." He was then in the zenith of his fame. The play showed a distinct advance in dramatic power; and convinced those who saw it that the writing of witty dialogue was not his only gift. Wilde himself was in a stage box, being flattered and lionised by a party of most distinguished persons—men and women—whose praise he condescendingly accepted. He was dressed in a last note of fashion, faultlessly groomed, and assumed airs of semi-royal graciousness to an admiring audience. At the fall of the curtain he was vociferously called—not unanimously, however—as he was always accepted with a certain reservation by the pittites. But the stalls rose at him when he strutted in from the wings with an air of contemptuous indifference, one hand in his trousers pocket, opera hat in the other. The pit growled, and again the stalls, boxes, and dress circle continued to applaud with animation, to which the object of this ovation responded with a shrug of the shoulders suggesting a feeling of deprecatory boredom. When silence had been restored he drawled out a few words with studied insolence and retired.
London, Monday.Some few months ago I saw Oscar Wilde at the first night of "An Ideal Husband." He was then in the zenith of his fame. The play showed a distinct advance in dramatic power, and convinced those who saw it that the writing of witty dialogue was not his only gift. Wilde himself was in a stage box, being flattered and lionised by a party of most distinguished persons—men and women—whose praise he condescendingly accepted. He was dressed in a last note of fashion, faultlessly groomed, and assuming airs of semi-royal graciousness to an admiring audience. At the fall of the curtain he was vociferously called—not unanimously, however—as he was always accepted with a certain reservation by the pittites. But the stalls rose at him when he strutted in from the wings with an air of contemptuous indifference, one hand in his trousers pocket, opera hat in the other. The pit growled, and again the stalls, boxes, and dress circle continued to applaud with animation, to which the object of this ovation responded with a shrug of the shoulders suggesting a feeling of deprecatory boredom. When silence had been restored he drawled out a few words with studied insolence and retired.
I again saw Oscar Wilde on Friday last in the dock at the Old Bailey, and a more shocking contrast not possibly be conceived. The aspect of sleek, well-fed luxuriousness had vanished, the cheeks were lined and flabby, and wore a most unearthly colour. His eyes were bloodshot, and expressive of the last stage of acute terror—the eyes of a man who might at any time get a fatal seizure from overstrain. His hair was all in disorder, and he crouched into a corner of the dock, with his face turned towards the jury and the witness-box, his head resting against his hand, so that it was almost hid from the public. Occasionally he occupied himself by drawing meaningless strokes and making huge blots of ink on a piece of foolscap that lay on the ledge of the dock. His shaking hand got splashed with ink, but he went on absently stroking the paper until it was almost completely black. Most of the time he seemed in a daze, and now and then, when consciousness of his position returned to him, he swayed backwards and forwards as if overwrought with mental distress. The evidence that was being given made no impression upon him, and he showed no more perceptive interest in the proceedings when his counsel made a palpable hit than when the Solicitor-General irresistibly pressed home some damning point. The general impression he conveyed was of a man filled with a vague hopeless terror, not of one overcome with shame at the dreadful ignominy of his position.
I again saw Oscar Wilde on Friday last in the dock at the Old Bailey, and a more shocking contrast could not possibly be conceived. The aspect of sleek, well-fed luxuriousness had vanished, the cheeks were lined and flabby, and wore a most unearthly colour. His eyes were bloodshot, and expressive of the last stage of acute terror—the eyes of a man who might at any time get a fatal seizure from overstrain. His hair was all in disorder, and he crouched into a corner of the dock, with his face turned towards the jury and the witness-box, his head resting against his hand, so that it was almost hid from the public. Occasionally he occupied himself by drawing meaningless strokes and making huge blots of ink on a piece of foolscap that lay on the ledge of the dock. His shaking hand got splashed with ink, but he went on absently stroking the paper until it was almost completely black. Most of the time he seemed in a daze, and now and then, when consciousness of his position returned to him, he swayed backwards and forwards as if overwrought with mental distress. The evidence that was being given made no impression upon him, and he showed no more perceptive interest in the proceedings when his counsel made a palpable hit than when the Solicitor-General irresistibly pressed home some damning point. The general impression he conveyed was of a man filled with a vague hopeless terror, not of one overcome with shame at the dreadful ignominy of his position.
Thought the verdict of the jury is unassailable, there is no doubt that no counsel ever committed a grosser or more inexplicable error of judgment, from his client's point of view, than did Sir Edward Clarke when he accepted a verdict in the Queensberry trial. There was nothing to gain and everything to lose—as has been proved—by Sir Edward Clarke's action. In all probability Lord Queensberry would have got a verdict anyhow, but a verdict secured in the face of the unbroken denials of Wilde would have been a different matter from a verdict obtained on his own admission of the truth of Lord Queensberry's charge. That fatal admission made on the astounding advice of Sir Edward Clarke dogged his wretched client through all the subsequent proceedings and minimised to the last degree his chance of escape. Sir Edward Clarke tied a millstone round his unfortunate client's neck—he served the ends of justice, but what can be said of the way he served his client's? Then there is another matter in connection with this remarkable trial which I think should be brought into prominence. We all know what trial by jury is—in England. It is the palladium of English justice, and all the rest of it. It is a peculiarly English institution which the miserable "Celtic fringe" is quite incapable of appreciating or utilising at its proper value. An English jury we are untiringly assured is not only what Caesar's wife should be, but it is one of the few earthly institutions which attains the complete perfection of the ideal. With this lofty conception of the preternatural virtue of any twelve Englishmen who happened to be enclosed in a jury box, I naturally heard with bated breath after the last trial a doubt cast upon the absolute probity of the jury who disagreed about Wilde and Taylor.
Though the verdict of the jury is unassailable, there is no doubt that no counsel ever committed a grosser or more inexplicable error of judgment, from his client’s point of view, than did Sir Edward Clarke when he accepted a verdict in the Queensberry trial. There was nothing to gain and everything to lose—as has been proved—by Sir Edward Clarke’s action. In all probability Lord Queensberry would have got a verdict anyhow, but a verdict secured in face of the unbroken denials of Wilde would have been a different matter from a verdict obtained on his own admission of the truth of Lord Queensberry’s charge. That fatal admission made on the astounding advice of Sir Edward Clarke dogged his wretched client through all the subsequent proceedings and minimised to the last degree his chance of escape. Sir Edward Clarke tied a millstone round his unfortunate client’s neck—he served the ends of justice, but what can be said of the way he served his client’s? Then there is another matter in connection with this remarkable trial which I think should be brought into prominence. We all know what trial by jury is—in England. It is the palladium of English justice, and all the rest of it. It is a peculiarly English institution which the miserable "Celtic fringe" is quite incapable of appreciating or utilising at its proper value. An English jury we are untiringly assured is not only what Caesar’s wife should be, but it is one of the few earthly institutions which attains the complete perfection of the ideal. With this lofty conception of the preternatural virtue of any twelve Englishmen who happened to be enclosed in a jury box, I naturally heard with bated breath after the last trial a doubt cast upon the absolute probity of the jury who disagreed about Wilde and Taylor. Mere Irish juries had been accused freely in agrarian or political cases of refusing to place absolute trust in the evidence of policemen or informers, but here was a London jury without the suspicion of an Irishman about it accused of being actuated by what among the "Celtic fringe" would be regarded as an immeasurably baser motive in refusing to find the prisoners guilty.
Mere Irish juries had been accused freely in agrarian or political cases of refusing to place absolute trust in the evidence of policemen or informers, but here was a London jury without the suspicion of an Irishman among the "Celtic fringe" would be regarded as an immeasurably baser motive in refusing to find the prisoners guilty.
But this report, circumstantial and persistent as it was, would never have been mentioned by me did I not find it adopted and repeated in the course of an article in that highly respectable and influential journal, Lloyd's Newspaper. Here is what it says—"Unfortunately there is a strong suspicion that the first jury with its hopeless disagreement was not entirely free from the taint of corruption." The fact that a London jury should be open to this suspicion apparently is only deemed worthy of this passing notice by a London paper. Had such a charge been made against a jury in Ireland what would have happened? What did happen to the late Mr E Dwyer Gray when the Freeman ventured merely to criticise the composition of a jury, not, as Lloyd's has done, attribute to its "the strong suspicion" of having been "corrupted" in the interest of the prisoners? For my part, from the calm way that London lawyers and journalists have spoken of what is to them apparently something very much stronger than "strong suspicion" of the first jury having been "corrupted," it is impossible to escape the conclusion that an Old Bailey jury must be very amenable to influences of this kind, and that the high-flown eulogies we have been accustomed to from English orators in the House of Commons on the immaculate character of the English juries as compared with Irish are mere pharisaical humbug.
But this report, circumstantial and persistent as it was, would never have been mentioned by me did I not find it adopted and repeated in the course of an article in that highly respectable and influential journal, Lloyd’s Newspaper. Here is what it says—"Unfortunately there is a strong suspicion that the first jury with its hopeless disagreement was not entirely free from the taint of corruption." The fact that a London jury should be open to this suspicion apparently is only deemed worthy of this passing notice by a London paper. Had such a charge been made against a jury in Ireland what would have happened? What did happen to the late Mr E Dwyer Gray when the Freeman ventured merely to criticise the composition of a jury, not, as Lloyd’s has done, attribute to its "the strong suspicion" of having been "corrupted" in the interest of the prisoners? For my part, from the calm way that London lawyers and journalists have spoken of what is to them apparently something very much stronger than "strong suspicion" of the first jury having been "corrupted," it is impossible to escape the conclusion that an Old Bailey jury must be very amenable to influences of this kind, and that the high-flown eulogies we have been accustomed to from English orators in the House of Commons on the immaculate character of the English juries as compared with Irish are mere pharisaical humbug.