The Sunday Times - Sunday, May 12, 1895
This report was originally published in English. Machine translations may be available in other languages.
THE OSCAR WILDE CASE.
Some Extraordinary Letters.
CROSS-EXAMINATION OF
WILDE.
Oscar's Brilliant
Repartée.
THE trial of the Marquis of Queensberry for libelling Oscar Wilde, and which ended in the acquittal of the Marquis and the arrest of Wilde on a serious criminal charge, was commenced in the Old Bailey Criminal Court, London, on April 3. From an English paper to hand yesterday we make the following extracts:—
In opening the case for the prosecution, Sir Edward Clarke referred to the fact that a man named Wood had been given some clothes by Lord Alfred Douglas, and he alleged that he found in the pocket of a coat
FOUR LETTERS FROM MR. WILDE TO
LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS.
Whether he did find them there or whether he stole them is matter for speculation, but the letters were handed about, and Wood asked Mr. Wilde to buy them back. He represented himself as being in need and wanting to go to America. Mr. Wilde handed him £15 or £20, and received from him three of somewhat ordinary importance. It afterwards appeared that only the letters of no importance had been given up (Sir Edward Clarke made the remark quite innocently) and the letter of some importance had been retained. At that time "A Woman of No Importance" was in rehearsal at the Haymarket Theatre, and there came to Mr. Wilde through Mr. Beerbohm Tree a document which purported to be a copy of the retained letter. It had two headings—one Babbicombe Cliff, Torquay, and the other 16 Tite-street. Shortly afterwards a man named Allan called on Mr. Wilde, and demanded ransom for the original of the letter. Mr. Wilde peremptorily refused. He said, "I look upon the letter as a work of art. Now I have got a copy I do not desire the original. Go." Almost immediately afterwards a man named Claburn brought the original and surrendered it, saying it was sent by Mr. Wood. Mr. Wilde gave him a sovereign for his trouble. The letter was as follows:—
Whether he did find them there or whether he stole them is a matter of speculation, but the letters were handed about, and Wood asked Mr. Wilde to buy them back. He represented himself as being in need and wanting to go to America. Mr. Wilde handed him £15 or £20, and received from him three of somewhat ordinary importance. It afterwards appeared that only the letters of no importance had been given up (Sir Edward Clarke made the remark quite innocently), and the letter of some importance had been retained. At that time, "A Woman of No Importance" was in rehearsal at the Haymarket Theatre, and there came to Mr. Wilde through Mr. Beerbohm Tree a document which purported to be a copy of the retained letter. It had two headings-one Rabbicombe Cliff, Torquay, and the other 16, Tite-street. Shortly afterwards a man named Allan called on Mr. Wikde and demanded ransom for the original of the letter. Mr. Wilde peremptorily refused. He said, "I look upon the letter as a work of art. Now I have got a copy I do not desire the original. Go." Almost immediately afterwards a man named Claburn bought the original and surrendered it, saying it was sent by Mr. Wood. Mr. Wilde gave him a sovereign for his trouble. It was supposed to be
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 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 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 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-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 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 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."
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 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."
"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 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 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 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 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."
"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."
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 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."
Under examination by his counsel Wilde replied that the Marquis of Queensberry called upon him and said: "I hear you were thoroughly well blackmailed last year for a disgusting letter that you wrote to my son." Oscar replied: "The letter was a beautiful letter, and I never write except for publication."
Mr. Wilde continued: "About the end of June Lord Queensberry called upon me in the afternoon. I said to him, "I suppose you have come to apologise for the statement you made about my wife and myself in a letter you wrote to your son. Lord Queensberry said, 'If I catch you and my son together again I will thrash you.' I said, 'I do not know what the Queensberry rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.' I then told him to leave my house. He said he would not do so. I told him I would have him put out by the police. Mr. Wilde then went into the hall and said to his servant, 'This is the Marquis of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. Never allow him to enter my house again. Should he attempt to come in you may send for the police.'"
Mr. Wilde continued, "Lord Queensberry said, 'If I catch you and my son together again I will thrash you." I said, 'I do not know what the Queensberry rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.' I then told him to leave my house. He said he would not do so. Itold him I would have him put out by the police." The scene ended with recriminations of a similar kind. Mr. Wilde went into the hall and said to his servant, "This is the Marquess of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in London. Never allow him to enter my house again. Should he attempt to come in you may send for the police."
In cross-examination Wilde was questioned respecting the vicious tendencies of a story which had appeared in a magazine to which he was a contributor, when the following questions and answers were given:—
You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? — From the literary point of view
You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? - From the literary point of view
You have no doubt whatever that was an improper story? — From the literary point of view, it was highly improper.
IT WAS HIGHLY IMPROPER.
It is impossible for a man of literature to judge it otherwise, by literature meaning
treatment, selection of subject, and the like. I
thought the treatment rotten and the subject rotten.
You are of opinion there is no such thing as an immoral book? — Yes.
It is impossible for a man of literature to judge otherwise, by literature meaning treatment, selection of subject, and the like. I thought the treatment rotten and the subject rotten.
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 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 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 accolade was not immoral?—It was worse, it was badly written." (Laughter.)
Was the "Priest and the Acolyte" immoral?—lt was worse—it was badly written. (Laughter.)
In reply to another question Wilde said: I do not believe that any book or work of art ever had any effect on morality whatever.
And the following dialogue ensued:
Am I right in saying that you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality? — Certainly, I do not.
Am I right in saying that you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality ?— Certainly, I do not.
Am I right in saying that you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality? - Certainly, I do not.
Am I right in saying you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality?—Certainly I do not.
Am I right in saying you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality?—Certainly I do not.
Am I right in saying you do not consider the effect in creating morality or immorality?—Certainly I do not.
Am I right in saying 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So far as your work is concerned you pose as not being concerned about morality and immorality? - I do not know whether you use the word "pose" in any particular sense.
It is a favorite word of your own? — Is it? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play, or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature, that is, with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
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 aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
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 aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
It is a favourite word of your own ? — ls it ? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play, or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature — that is, with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
Is it 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 aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
It is a favorite word of your own?—It is? I have no pose in this matter. In writing a play, or a book, or anything, I am concerned entirely with literature—that is, with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
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 […] with art. I aim not at doing good or evil, but in trying to make a thing that will have some quality of beauty.
Listen, sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the use of the Young"; "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true? — I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Listen, sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young": "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Listen sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young": Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Listen, sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philoso- phies for the Use of the Young" : "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true ?— I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Listen, sir. Here is one of the 'Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young': "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true?—I rarely thing that anything I write is true.
Listen, Sir. Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young": "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that is true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Listen, Sir.Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young"; "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others" You think that true? - I rarely think anything I write is true.
Here is one of the "Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young": "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." You think that true?—I rarely think that anything I write is true.
Mr. Carson—Here is one of your phrases in philosophy for the young— "Wickedness is a myth, invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." (Laughter.) Do you think that is true?
"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.
Did you say rarely? — I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely ?— I said rarely. I might have said never ; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely?—I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
Did you say rarely? - I said rarely. I might have said never; not true in the actual sense of the word.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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 absorpion of religions by science, but it is too big a question to go into now.
"Religions die when they are proved to be true." Is that true?—Yes, I hold that. It is a suggestion towards the philosophy of the absorption of religions by science, but it is too big a question to go into now.
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?— Most stimulating (laughter).
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating. (Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating.—(Laughter.)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young? - Most stimulating. (Laughter)
Do you think that was a safe axiom to put forward for the philosophy of the young?—Most stimulating.(Laughter.)
Do you trunk that was a safe axiom to put forward for the use of the young?—It was a most stimulating [...] (Laughter.)
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out." — That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."—That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out." - That is a pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells tbe truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out."— That is a pleasing paradox, hut I do not set very high store on it as an axiom.
"If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out." That is a very pleasing paradox, but I do not set very high store on it as an axiom. (Laughter.)
Is it good for the young? — Anything is good that stimulates art in whatever age.
Is it good for the young? - Anything is good that stimulates art in whatever age.
Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought, in whatever age.
Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.
Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.
Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought, in whatever age.
Is it good for tbe young ?— Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.
It is good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought in whatever age.
Is it good for the young?—Anything is good that stimulates thought, in whatever age. (Laughter.)
Whether moral or immoral? — There is no such thing as morality or immorality in art. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral? - There is no such thing as morality or immorality in art. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral ?— There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
Whether moral or immoral?—There is no such thing as morality or immorality in thought. There is immoral emotion.
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 that the realisation of one's self is the prime aim of life, and to realise one's self through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients—the Greeks.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for." - I think that the realization of one's self is the prime aim of life, and to realise one's self through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients--the Greeks.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that 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.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that 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.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that 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.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that 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.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."—I think that 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.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for."— I think that 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 ot the ancients — the Greeks.
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for"?—I think that 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. (Laughter.)
"Pleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing else ages like happiness"?—I think that the realization of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realize oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain. I am on that point entirely on the side of the ancients.
"A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it?" — Perfectly. That would be my metaphysical definition of truth; somewhat so personal that the same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.
A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it?" - Perfectly. That would be my metaphysical definition of truth: somewhat so personal that the same truth could never be appreciated by two minds.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"A truth ceases to be true when more than one per-son 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.
"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.
"A truth ceases to be true when ore 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.
"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. (Laughter.)
"A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes it"? —Perfectly. That would be my most physical definition of truth; something so [...] the same truth could never be appreciated by [...]
"The condition of perfection is idleness?" — Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?"—Oh yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?"—Oh yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?"—Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness ?" — Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life. "
"The condition of perfection is idleness?" Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness.—Oh, yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?" - Oh yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
"The condition of perfection is idleness?"—Oh ,yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life.
The condition of perfection is idleness."?—[...] Yes, I think so. Half of it is true. The life of contemplation is the highest life, and so recognized by the philosopher.
"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful professions." — I should think that the young have enough sense of humor.
"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 humor.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England in the present who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession." (Laughter.)—I should think that the young have enough sense of humour to know what is meant by that.
You think that is humorous? — I think it is an amusing paradox.
In answer to other questions, he said: The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of art. I don't care twopence what other people think of it.
An illiterate person reading "Dorian Gray" might consider it such a novel? — The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of art. I don't care twopence what other people think of it.
An illiterate person reading "Dorian Grey" might consider it such a novel? - The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view on art. I don't care twopence what other people think of it.
The majority of people would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates? — I have found wonderful exceptions.
The majority of people would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates ? - I have found wonderful exceptions.
The majority of people would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates? - I have found wonderful exceptions.
The majority of people would come under your term of illiterates? I have found wonderful exceptions.
The majority of people would come under your term of illiterates? I have found wonderful exceptions.
Do you think that the majority of people live up to the position you are giving us? — I am afraid they are not cultivated enough.
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.)
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.
Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction you have drawn between a good and a bad book? — Certainly not.
Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction you have drawn between a good and a bad book ? Certainly not.
Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction you have drawn between a good and a bad book? - Certainly not.
The affection and love of the artists of Dorian Grey might lead an ordinary individual to believe that it might have a certain tendency? — I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.
The affection and love of the artists of Dorian Grey might lead an ordinary individual to believe that it might have a certain tendency? - I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.
The affection and love of the artists of "Dorian Gray" might lead an ordinary individual to believe, that it might have a certain tendency ? – I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.
You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book? — I have never discouraged him.
You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book ? — I have never discouraged him.
You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book? - I have never discouraged him.
You don't prevent the ordinary individual from buying your books?—I have never discouraged it. (Laughter.)
At a later stage the following letter, written by Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, was read:—
Savoy Hotel, Thames Embankment, W.C.
Dearest of all boys,—Your letter was delightful, red and yellow wine to me, but I am sad and out of sorts. Boysey, you must not make scenes with me. They kill me, they wreck the loveliness of life. I cannot see so, so Greek and gracious, distorted with passion. I cannot listen to your young lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner—
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 with passion. I cannot listen to your young lips saying hideous things to me. I would sooner -
Here a word is indecipherable, but I will ask the witness—
than have you bitter, unjust, hating. I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace, but I don't know how to do it. Shall I come to Salisbury. My bill here is £40 for a week. Why is it you are not here, my dear, my wonderful boy? I fear I must have no money, no credit.—Your own OSCAR.
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 L49 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.
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.)
Is it an ordinary 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)
Don't you call that an extraordinary letter:—Everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. (Laughter).
Mr. Carson—Is that an extraordinary letter? I think everything I write extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. Good heavens—
Was that an extraordinary letter? - I think everything I write is extraordinary. I do not pose as being ordinary. Ask me anything you like.
[…]you call that an extraordinary […] Everything I write is extraordinary […] not pose as being ordinary.
Is that an extraordinary letter?—I think everything I write is extraordinary. I don't pose as being ordinary, great heavens! Ask me any question you like
Is not that an extraordinary letter?—Everything I write is extraordinary. (Laughter).
Have you got his letter in reply? — I do not recollect what letter it was.
Have you got his letter in reply?—I do not recollect what letter it was.
Have you got his letter in reply?—I do not recollect what letter it was.
Have you got his letter in reply?—I do not recollect what letter it was.
Have you got his letter in reply? - I do not recollect what letter it was.
Have you got his letter in reply? — I do not recollect what letter it was.
It was not a beautiful letter? — I do not remember the letter.
You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you?" — Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you?"—Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
You describe it as "delightful, red, and yellow wine to you" ?—Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you"? - Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you"? — Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you?"—Oh, of course, a a beautiful letter, certainly.
It was not a beautiful letter?—I do not remember the letter. You describe it as "delightful red and yellow wine to you?"—Oh, of course, a beautiful letter, certainly.
What would you pay for that beautiful letter? — I could not get a copy.
What would you pay for that beautiful letter?—I could not get a copy.
What would you pay for that beautiful letter? - I could not get a copy.
What would you pay for that beautiful letter? — I could not get a copy.
How much would you give if you could get a copy? — Oh, I do not know.
How much would you give if you could get a copy?—Oh, I do not know.
How much would you give if you could get a copy? — Oh, I do not know.
Have much would you give if you could get a copy? - Oh, I do not know.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter? — Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter?—Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter?—Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter?—Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter? - Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other--a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter ? — Yes ; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other — a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter? — Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other — a prose poem.
Was this one of yours a beautiful letter?—Yes; it was a tender expression of my great admiration for Lord Alfred Douglas. It was not like the other—a prose poem—but it was a beautiful letter.
Towards the close of the case for the prosecution counsel for the defence read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to Lord Queensberry:—
Towards the close of the case for the prosecution counsel for the defence read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to his father, Lord Queensberry:—
Towards the close of the case for the prosecution counsel for the defence read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to his father, Lord Queensberry:—
Mr. Carson, again cross-examining, read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to Lord Queensberry:-
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, &, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master; you have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.
"As you return my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Cafe Royal, &c., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal Courts for libel you would get seven years penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rouge, and. I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.--A. D."
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write you a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, &c., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master; you have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. A.D.
As you returned my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O. W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, etc., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no right over me, either legal or moral. If O. W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me, I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we shall be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. A.D.
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, etc., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me, I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. A.D.
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write a postcard. I write to inform you that I consider your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your last exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants—such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, &c., &c.—and I shall continue to go to these places when and with just whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no rights over me, legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but I you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry, and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough; and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. (Signed, A.D.)
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write a postcard. I write to inform you that I consider your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your last exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants — such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, &., &. — and I shall continue to go to these places when and with just whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no rights over me, legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts you would get seven years’ penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry, and if I shoot you, or [O.W.] shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self defence against a violent and dangerous rough; and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. (Signed, A.D.)
As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write a postcard. I write to inform you that I consider your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your last exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants—such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, etc., etc.—and I shall continue to go to these places when and with just whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no rights over me, legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry, and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough; and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. (Signed A.D.)
Mr. Carson, again cross-examining, read the following post-card, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to Lord Queensberry : — "As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a post-card. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O. W's house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, tbe Cafe Royal, &c, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose, and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master ; you have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. Yon have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family ; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry ; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you. — A. D."
Mr. Carson, with the permission of the Judge (over-ruling an objection by Sir E. Clarke), read the following postcard, addressed by Lord A. Douglas to Lord Queensberry:—"As you return my letters unopened I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis's Booms, the Café Royal, &c, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose, and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master; you have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no right over me, either legal or moral. If O. W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family; but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.—A.D."
The following message sent on a postcard by Lord Alfred Douglas to his father, which was read in court during the case, throws light on the relations existing between the pair:— "As you return my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis' Rooms, the Café Royal, &c., and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you in the Criminal Courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.—A.D."
The following message was sent on a post card by Lord Alfred Douglas to his father, which was read in Court during the ease, throws light on the relations existing between the pair—"As you return my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a post card. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O W's house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, such as the Berkeley, Willis's Rooms, the Café Royal, &c, and I shall continue to go to any of these places whenever I choose and with whom I choose. I am of age and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have, therefore, no right over me either legal or moral. If O. W. was to prosecute you in the criminal courts for libel you would get seven years' penal servitude for your outrageous libels. Much as I detest you, I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver which I always carry; and if I shoot you, or if he shoots you, we should be completely justified, as we should be acting in self defence against a violent and dangerous rough, and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you.—A.D."
To this the affectionate son responded with the following, written on a postcard:—"As you have returned my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, and I shall continue to go to any of those places whenever I choose, and with whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have therefore no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts, you would get seven years' penal servitude for the outrageous libels. Much as I detest you I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry, and I'll shoot you, or if he shoot you we will be completely justified, as we should be acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough; and I think if you were dead not many people would miss you."
To this the affectionate son responded with the following, written on a postcard:—"As you have returned my letters unopened, I am obliged to write on a postcard. I write to inform you that I treat your absurd threats with absolute indifference. Ever since your exhibition at O.W.'s house I have made a point of appearing with him at many public restaurants, and I shall continue to go to any of those places whenever I choose, and with whom I choose. I am of age, and my own master. You have disowned me at least a dozen times, and have very meanly deprived me of money. You have no right over me, either legal or moral. If O.W. was to prosecute you for libel in the criminal courts, you would get seven years' penal servitude for the outrageous libels. Much as I detest you I am anxious to avoid this for the sake of the family, but if you try to assault me I shall defend myself with a loaded revolver, which I always carry, and I'll shoot you, or if he shoot you, we will be completely justified, as we should by acting in self-defence against a violent and dangerous rough; an di think if you were dead not many people would miss you."
A.D.
There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the procedure and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.
There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the case and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came
There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the case and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.
There are some portions of the evidence that we do not care to publish. The above gives a fair idea of the case and the attitude assumed by Wilde until the crash came.