Belfast News-Letter - Thursday, April 4, 1895

CHARGE AGAINST THE MARQUIS OF QUEENSBERRY.
ALLEGED LIBEL ON MR. OSCAR WILDE
EXTRAORDINARY EVIDENCE.
BY OUR PRIVATE WIRE.

London, Wednesday.—The Marquis of Queensberry surrendered to his bail to-day at the Central Criminal Count, London, indicted for publishing a defamatory libel on Oscar Wilde, by addressing to him a postcard at the Albemarle Club. There was a crowded attendance of the public.

On taking his place in the dock, Lord Queensberry answered the indictment by pleading first "not guilty," and, secondly, that the libel was true, and was published for the public benefit.

Sir E. Clarke, in opening for the prosecution, said that a very grave issue had been raised, because the defendant in the pleadings alleged that the plaintiff had for some time solicited persons named to commit indecent offences. Certain letters addressed by the plaintiff to Lord A. Douglas were brought to him by a man who said he was in distress, and Mr. Wilde gave him £15 or £20 to pay his passage to America. Another letter came to plaintiff through Mr. Tree, the actor. It was handed to that gentleman, who in turn gave it to plaintiff. It was couched in extravagant terms, but it did not bear the suggestion made in this case. Coming to Lord Queensberry's action, the learned counsel said the jury might have doubts whether defendant was responsible for his actions. Plaintiff was examined by Sir Edward Clarke at length on the subject of the letters, which, he said, he did not regard as important. He described a stormy interview in his own house with Lord Queenberry, who accused him of a nameless offence. He told defendant he did not know what the Queensberry rules were, but the Oscar Wilde rule was to shoot at sight. In ordering defendant out of the house he described him as the most infamous brute in London. There was no foundation for the suggestions in the pleadings.

Cross-examined by Mr. Carson—You stated that your age was thirty-nine? I think you are over forty. You were born on October 16, 1854? I had no wish to pose as being young.
That makes you more than forty? Ah.

In reply to further questions, the prosecutor said—Lord Alfred Douglas is about twenty-four, and was between twenty and twenty-one years of age when I first knew him. Down to the interview in Tite Street Lord Queensberry had been friendly. I did not receive a letter on April 3 in which Lord Queensberry desired that my acquaintance with his son should cease.. After the interview I had no doubt that such was Lord Queensberry's desire. Notwithstanding Lord Queensberry's protest, my intimacy with Lord A. Douglas continues to the present moment.
You have stayed with him at many places? Yes.
At Oxford, Brighton? On several occasions.
Worthing? Yes.
You never took rooms for him? No.
Were you at other places with him? Cromer, Torquay.
And in various hotels in London? Yes. One in Albemarle Street and in Dover Street and at the Savoy.
Did you ever take rooms yourself in addition to your house in Tite Street? Yes: at 10 and 11, St. James's Place. I kept the rooms from the month of October, 1893, to the end of March, 1894. Lord Douglas stayed in those chambers, which were not far from Piccadilly. I bad been abroad with him several times, and even lately to Monte Carlo. With reference to those books, it was not at Brighton, in 20, King's Road, that I wrote my article in the "Chameleon." I observed that there were also contributions from Lord A. Douglas, but these were not written at Brighton. I had seen them. I thought them exceedingly beautiful poems. One was in "Praise of Shame;" the other "Two Loves." One spoke of his love—boy and girl love—as true love, and other boys' love as shame.
Did you see in that any improper suggestion? None whatever.
You read "The Priest and the Acolyte?" Yes.
You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? From the literary point of view it was highly improper.
You are of opinion there is no such thing as an immoral book? Yes.
May I take it that you think "The Priest and the Acolyte" was not immoral? It was worse; it was badly written. (Laughter.)

Mr. Carson was proceeding to examine as to the contents of the story, when Sir Edward Clarke objected, but His Lordship held that Mr. Carson had a perfect right to examine as to the reasons for the witness's disapproval of the book.

Mr. Carson asked if the story was not that of a priest who fell in love with a boy who served him on the altar, and who was discovered by the rector in the priest's room, and a scandal arose.

The Witness—I have only read it once, in last November, and nothing will induce me to read it again.
Do you think the story blasphemous? I think it violated every artistic canon of beauty.
That is not an answer? It is the only one I can give.
I want to see the position you pose as? I do not think you should use that.
I have said nothing out of th way. I wish to know whether you thought the story blasphemous? The storv filled me with disgust.
Answer the question, sir. Did you or did you not consider the story blasphemous? I did not consider the story blaspnemous.
I am satisfied with that. You know that when the priest in the story administers poison to the boy he uses the words of the sacrament of the Church of England? That I entirely forget.
Do you consider that blasphemous? I think it is horrible; blasphemous is not the word.

Mr. Carson was again proceeding to examine in passages in the story, when Sir E. Clarke objected, but Mr. Carson's course was upheld by his Lordship.

Mr. Carson read the words describing the administration of the poison in the sacrament and tlie death scene on the altar, and asked Mr. Wilde did he disapprove of them.

The Witness—I think them disgusting and perfect twaddle.
I think you will admit that anyone who would approve of such an article would pose as guilty of certain practices? I do not think so in the person of another contributor to the magazine. It would show very bad literary taste. I strongly object to the whole story. I took no steps to express disapproval of the Chameleon because I think it would have been beneath my dignity as a man of letters to associate myself with an Oxford undergraduate's productions. I am aware that the magazine might have been circulated among the undergraduates of Oxford. I do not believe that any book or work of art ever had any effect on morality whatever.
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 favourite word of your own. Is it? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature—that is with art. I am not 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 "phases and philosophies for the use of the young"—"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." Yon 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 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 cut." That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
Is it good for the young? Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.
Whether moral or immoral? There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for." I think tbat the realisation of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realise oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients, the Greeks.
"A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it?" Perfectly; that would be my metaphysical definition of truth—something so personal that the same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?" Oh, yes; I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles and end by adopting some useful profession?" I should think that the young have enough sense of humour.
You think that is humorous? I think it is an amusing paradox.
What would anybody say would be the effect of "phrases and philosophies" taken in connection with such an article as "the priest and the acolyte?" Undoubtedly: it was the idea that might be formed that made me object so strongly to the story. I saw at once that maxims that were perfectly nonsensical, paradoxical, or anything you like might be read in conjunction with it.
After the criticisms that were passed on "Dorian Grey" was it modified a good deal? No; additions were made.

Mr. Carson read the description of the artist's feelings on first meeting "Dorian Grey," and in reply to a question Mr. Wilde said—I think this is the most perfect description possible of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful personality.
You mean a beautiful person? Yes, a beautiful young man, if you like.
Having read another passage, Mr. Carson asked—Do you mean to say that that describes the natural feelings of one man towards another? It describes the influence produced on an artist by a beautiful personality.
A person? I said personality. You can describe it as you like. Answering another question, witness said he did not think the feeling described was a natural or a moral feeling, but the work was a work of fiction.
The book speaks of adoration for the youth Dorian. Have you experienced that? I have never given adoration to anybody but myself. (Laughter.)
I dare say you think tbat is very smart? Not at all.

Asked a further question, Mr. Wilde exclaimed, "I do not know what you are talking about," to which counsel retorted, "Well, I hope I shall make myself very plain before I am done."
Do you sympathise with, "I want to have you all to myself?" I should consider it an intense bore.

Replying to a question of Mr. Carson, witness said, "There is no such thing as bad influence in the world."
A man never corrupts a youth? I think not. Nothing could do it. It is quite impossible psychologically.

Turning to the personal letter written by witness to Lord A. Douglas counsel asked, "Was that an ordinary letter? Witness—Certainly not. An ordinary letter? No.
Do you mean to tell me that this was a natural and proper way to address a young man? You are criticising a poem. If you ask me whether it is proper, you might as well ask me whether "King Lear" is proper, or a sonnet of Shakespeare proper.
But apart from art? I can't answer any question apart from art. A man who was not an artist could never have written that letter. He could not use the language I used unless he was a man of letters and an artist.
Was that the ordinary way in which you carried on your correspondence with Lord A. Douglas? One could not write a letter like that every day. It would be like writing a poem every day. Yon couldn't do it.
Do you write to other persons in the same way? Oh, never.
Have you written other letters in the same style as this? I do not repeat myself in style.
Well, here is another letter written by you to Lord Alfred from the Savoy Hotel—"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 yon so, Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen 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 the divine thing I want, the thing I grace, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury? My bill here is £49 for a week. (Laughter.) Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit. Your own Oscar."

Mr. Carson—Is that an extraordinary letter? I think everything I write extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. Good heavens—

Mr. Carson—When did the man named Wood first come to you about the letters which he had found in Lord A. Douglas' coat? An appointment was made through Mr. A. Taylor.
Before you brought about the appointment through Taylor did you get Sir G. Lewis to write a letter to Wood? Yes.
Did Wood refuse to go to Sir George Lewis? I do not know.
He did not go? No.
Then you made an appointment to meet Taylor? Yes.
Were you anxious about these letters? I should think so. What private gentleman wants his private correspondence made public?

Answering further questions, Mr. Wilde said he met Wood at the Cafe Royal at Lord A. Douglas's request. He frequently went to 13, Little College Street, and had tea there sometimes.
Mr. Carson—I think they were all young men at those tea parties? No, not all.
They were all men? Yes.
Did you dine at the Florence Restaurant, in Regent Street, with Wood? No, I have never dined with him. I asked him whether he had any dinner or supper, and I ordered some.
What was Wood? As far as I can make out he was looking for some situation. He told me he had had a clerkship.
What was his age at that time? I should think about twenty-three or twenty-four.
Do I understand, that the very first day you saw Wood you took him round to the Florence Restaurant? Yes.
Was Taylor also present? There was no one else present.

In reply to further questions, witness emphatically denied having any unlawful relations with Wood.

As to the letters which Wood brought to witness, they were, said witness, "letters of no importance." The £15 he gave him was to pay his passage to New York, and witness gave him £5 more the next day.
Do you suggest to the jury that this was done out of charity? It is hardly for me to make suggestions to the jury.
Did you have a champagne lunch with him before he left for America? Yes.
With the man you thought wanted to blackmail you? Yes.

Answering further questions, witness said Wood called him "Oscar." Almost everybody called him by his Christian name. Continuing, witness said Allen, who brought him the "prose poem," was a notorious blackmailer. He gave him 10s out of contempt. That was one of the best ways to show contempt.
I suppose he was pleased with your contempt? He was apparently pleased with my kindness. Clyborn, said witness, was another blackmailer for whom he showed contempt.
Mr. Carson—With the exception of your letter that was found out was any other one turned into a sonnet? I should require to read a great deal of modern poetry before I could answer that question. (Laughter.)

Counsel then proceeded to put questions with regard to the "office boy" of witness's publishers. Mr. Wilde denied that the lad was the office boy, and said he was an assistant. He was not good-looking, but he had an intellectual face. He had dined with witness at the Albemarle Hotel.
For the purpose of having an intellectual treat? Well—for him—yes. (Laughter.)

Cross-examination continued—He became acquainted with a boy named Alfonzo Conway at Worthing, who was abont eighteen years of age, but had no occupation. He denied having any unlawful relations with him. He had given him a cigarette case, with the incription, "Alfonso, from his friend, Oscar Wilde." He had also given this boy his photograph, a book, and a walking stick. He took him to Brighton, and gave him a new suit of clothes and a straw hat.

Mr. Carson—You dressed him up in order that he might look something more like your equal. I did it in order that he might not be ashamed of his shabby clothes.

The case was adjourned until to-morrow.