subsequently showed it to Boswell, together with a copy of his reply
which Boswell calls "solemn and soothing," giving it at length in the
"Life." My copy is in Allen's hand, but there is a note to Allen in
Dodd's hand which accompanied the original, reading: "Add, dear sir, to
the many other favors conferred on your unfortunate friend that of
delivering my dying thanks to the worthiest of men. W. D."
Two other things Johnson did: he wrote a sermon, which Dodd delivered
with telling effect to his fellow convicts, and he prepared with
scrupulous care what has been called Dr. Dodd's last solemn declaration.
It was without doubt intended to be read by Dodd at the place of
execution, but unforeseen circumstances prevented. Various versions have
been printed in part. The original in Johnson's hand is before me and
reads:--
To the words of dying Men regard has always been paid. I am brought
hither to suffer death for an act of Fraud of which I confess
myself guilty, with shame such as my former state of life naturally
produces; and I hope with such sorrow as The Eternal Son, he to
whom the Heart is known, will not disregard. I repent that I have
violated the laws by which peace and confidence are established
among men; I repent that I have attempted to injure my fellow
creatures, and I repent that I have brought disgrace upon my order,
and discredit upon Religion. For this the law has sentenced me to
die. But my offences against God are without name or number, and
can admit only of general confession and general repentance.
Grant, Almighty God, for the Sake of Jesus Christ, that my
repentance however late, however imperfect, may not be in vain.
The little good that now remains in my power, is to warn others
against those temptations by which I have been seduced. I have
always sinned against conviction; my principles have never been
shaken; I have always considered the Christian religion, as a
revelation from God, and its Divine Author, as the Saviour of the
world; but the law of God, though never disowned by me, has often
been forgotten. I was led astray from religious strictness by the
Vanity of Show and the delight of voluptuousness. Vanity and
pleasure required expense disproportionate to my income. Expense
brought distress upon me, and distress impelled me to fraud.
For this fraud, I am to die; and I die declaring that however I
have offended in practice, deviated from my own precepts, I have
taught others to the best of my knowledge the true way to eternal
happiness. My life has been hypocritical, but my ministry has been
sincere. I always believed and I now leave the world declaring my
conviction, that there is no other name under heaven by which we
can be saved, but only the name of the Lord Jesus, and I entreat
all that are here, to join with me, in my last petition that for
the Sake of Christ Jesus my sins may be forgiven.
Anything more gruesome and demoralizing than an eighteenth-century
hanging it would be impossible to imagine. We know from contemporary
accounts of Dodd's execution that it differed only in detail from other
hangings, which were at the time a common occurrence. His last night on
earth was made hideous by the ringing of bells. Under the window of his
cell a small bell was rung at frequent intervals by the watch, and he
was reminded that he was soon to die, and that the time for repentance
was short. At daybreak the great bell of St. Sepulchre's Church just
over the way began to toll, as was customary whenever prisoners in
Newgate were being rounded up for execution.
"Hanging Days" were usually holidays. Crowds collected in the streets,
and as the day wore on, they became mobs of drunken men, infuriated or
delighted at the proceedings, according to their interest in the
prisoners. At nine o'clock the Felon's Gate was swung open and the
prisoners were brought out. On this occasion, there were only two;
frequently there were more--once indeed as many as fifteen persons were
hanged on the same day. This was counted a great event.
Dodd was spared the ignominy of the open cart in which the ordinary
criminal was taken to the gallows, and a mourning coach drawn by four
horses was provided for him by some of his friends. This was followed by
a hearse with an open coffin. The streets were thronged. After the usual
delays the procession started, but stopped again at St. Sepulchre's,
that he might receive a nosegay which was presented him, someone having
bequeathed a fund to the church so that this melancholy custom could be
carried out. Farther on, at Holborn Bar, it was usual for the cortège to
stop, that the condemned man might be regaled with a mug of ale.
Ordinarily the route from Newgate to Tyburn was very direct, through
and along the Tyburn Road, now Oxford Street; but on this occasion it
had been announced that the procession would follow a roundabout course
through Pall Mall. Thus the pressure of the crowd would be lessened and
everyone would have an opportunity of catching a glimpse of the
unfortunate man; and everyone did. The streets were thronged, stands
were erected and places sold, windows along the line of march were let
at fabulous prices. In Hyde Park soldiers--two thousand of them--were
under arms to prevent a rescue. The authorities were somewhat alarmed at
the interest shown, and it was thought best to be on the safe side; the
law was not to be denied.
Owing to the crowds, the confusion, and the out-of-the-way course
selected, it was almost noon when the procession reached Tyburn. We do
not often think, as we whirl in our taxis along Oxford Street in the
vicinity of Marble Arch, that this present centre of wealth and fashion
was once Tyburn. There is nothing now to suggest that it was, a century
or two ago, an unlovely and little-frequented outskirt of the great
city, given over to "gallows parties."
At Tyburn the crowd was very dense and impatient: it had been waiting
for hours and rain had been falling intermittently. As the coach came in
sight, the crowd pressed nearer; Dodd could be seen through the window.
The poor man was trying to pray. More dead than alive, he was led to the
cart, on which he was to stand while a rope was placed about his neck.
There was a heavy downpour of rain, so there was no time for the
farewell address which Dr. Johnson had so carefully prepared. A sudden
gust of wind blew off the poor man's hat, taking his wig with it: it was
retrieved, and someone clapped it on his head backwards. The crowd was
delighted; this was a hanging worth waiting for. Another moment, and Dr.
Dodd was swung into eternity.
Let it be said that there were some who had their doubts as to the
wisdom of such exhibitions. Might not such frequent and public
executions have a bad effect upon public taste and morals? "Why no,
sir," said Dr. Johnson; "executions are intended to draw spectators. If
they do not draw spectators they do not answer their purpose. The old
method is satisfactory to all parties. The public is gratified by a
procession, the criminal is supported by it." And his biographer,
Hawkins, remarks complacently: "We live in an age in which humanity is
the fashion."
* * * * *
"And so they have hanged Dodd for forgery, have they?" casually remarked
the Bishop of Bristol, from the depths of his easy-chair. "I'm sorry to
hear it."
"How so, my Lord?"
"Because they have hanged him for the least of his crimes."
XII
OSCAR WILDE
My interest in Oscar Wilde is a very old story: I went to hear him
lecture when I was a boy, and, boy-like, I wrote and asked him for his
autograph, which he sent me and which I still have.
It seems strange that I can look back through thirty years to his visit
to Philadelphia, and in imagination see him on the platform of old
Horticultural Hall. I remember, too, the discussion which his visit
occasioned, preceded as it was by the publication in Boston of his
volume of poems, the English edition having been received with greater
cordiality than usually marks a young poet's first production--for such
it practically was.
At the time of his appearance on the lecture platform he was a large,
well-built, distinguished-looking man, about twenty-six years old, with
rather long hair, generally wearing knee-breeches and silk stockings.
Any impressions which I may have received of this lecture are now very
vague. I remember that he used the word "renaissance" a good deal, and
that at the time it was a new word to me; and it has always since been a
word which has rattled round in my head very much as the blessed word
"Mesopotamia" did in the mind of the old lady, who remarked that no
one should deprive her of the hope of eternal punishment.
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF OSCAR WILDE
_From an original drawing by Aubrey Beardsley_]
Now, it would be well at the outset, in discussing Oscar Wilde, to
abandon immediately all hope of eternal punishment--for others. My
subject is a somewhat difficult one, and it is not easy to speak of
Wilde without overturning some of the more or less fixed traditions we
have grown up with. We all have a lot of axioms in our systems, even if
we are discreet enough to keep them from our tongues; and to do Wilde
justice, it is necessary for us to free ourselves of some of these. To
make my meaning clear, take the accepted one that genius is simply the
capacity for hard work. This is all very well at the top of a copy-book,
or to repeat to your son when you are didactically inclined; but for the
purposes of this discussion, this and others like it should be
abandoned. Having cleared our minds of cant, we might also frankly admit
that a romantic or sinful life is, generally speaking, more interesting
than a good one.
Few men in English literature have lived a nobler, purer life than
Robert Southey, and yet his very name sets us a-yawning, and if he lives
at all it is solely due to his little pot-boiler, become a classic, the
"Life of Nelson." The two great events in Nelson's life were his meeting
with Lady Emma Hamilton and his meeting with the French. Now, disguise
it as we may, it still remains true that, in thinking of Nelson, we
think as much of Lady Emma as we do of Trafalgar. Of course, in saying
this I realize that I am not an Englishman making a public address on
the anniversary of the great battle.
Southey's life gives the lie to that solemn remark about genius being
simply a capacity for hard work: if it were so, he would have ranked
high; he worked incessantly, produced his to-day neglected poems,
supported his family and contributed toward the support of the families
of his friends. He was a good man, and worked himself to death; but he
was not a genius.
On the other hand, Wilde was; but his life was not good, it was not
pure; he did injury to his friends; and to his wife and children, the
greatest wrong a man could do them, so that she died of a broken heart,
and his sons live under an assumed name; yet, notwithstanding all this,
perhaps to some extent by reason of it, he is a most interesting
personality, and no doubt his future place in literature will be to some
extent influenced by the fate which struck him down just at the moment
of his greatest success.
Remembering Dr. Johnson's remark that in lapidary work a man is not upon
oath, it has always seemed to me that something like the epitaph he
wrote for Goldsmith's monument in Westminster Abbey might with equal
justice have been carved upon Wilde's obscure tombstone in a neglected
corner of Bagneux Cemetery in Paris. The inscription I refer to
translates: "He left scarcely any style of writing untouched and touched
nothing that he did not adorn."
I am too good a Goldsmithian to compare Goldsmith, with all his faults
and follies, to Wilde, with his faults and follies, and vices
superadded; but Wilde wrote "Dorian Gray," a novel original and powerful
in conception, as powerful as "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"; and remembering
that Wilde was also an essayist, a poet, and a dramatist, I think we may
fairly say that he too touched nothing that he did not adorn.
But, to begin at the beginning. Wilde was not especially fortunate in
his parents. His father was a surgeon-oculist of Dublin, and was
knighted by the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--just why, does not appear,
nor is it important; his son always seemed a little ashamed of the
incident. His mother was the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of
England. She was "advanced" for her time, wrote prose and verse, under
the _nom de plume_ of "Speranza," which were published frequently in a
magazine, which was finally suppressed for sedition. If Lady Wilde was
emancipated in thought, of her lord it may be said that he put no
restraint whatever upon his acts. They were a brilliant, but what we
would call to-day a Bohemian, couple. I have formed an impression that
the father, in spite of certain weaknesses of character, was a man of
solid attainments, while of the mother someone has said that she
reminded him of a tragedy queen at a suburban theatre. This is awful.
Oscar Wilde was a second son, born in Dublin, on the 16th of October,
1854. He went to a school at Enniskillen, afterwards to Trinity
College, Dublin, and finally to Magdalen College, Oxford. He had already
begun to make a name for himself at Trinity, where he won a gold medal
for an essay on the Greek comic poets; but when, in June, 1878, he
received the Newdigate Prize for English verse for a poem, "Ravenna,"
which was recited at the Sheldonian Theatre at Oxford, it can fairly be
said that he had achieved distinction.
While at Magdalen, Wilde is said to have fallen under the influence of
Ruskin, and spent some time in breaking stones on the highways, upon
which operation Ruskin was experimenting. It may be admitted that the
work for its own sake never attracted Wilde: it was the reward which
followed--breakfast-parties, with informal and unlimited talk, in
Ruskin's rooms.
One does not have to read much of Wilde to discover that he had as great
an aversion to games, which kept him in the open, as to physical labor.
Bernard Shaw, that other Irish enigma, who in many ways of thought and
speech resembles Wilde, when asked what his recreations were, replied,
"Anything except sport." Wilde said that he would not play cricket
because of the indecent postures it demanded; fox-hunting--his phrase
will be remembered--was "the unspeakable after the uneatable." But he
was the leader, if not the founder, of the æsthetic cult, the symbols of
which were peacock-feathers, sunflowers, lilies, and blue china. His
rooms, perhaps the most talked about in Oxford, were beautifully
paneled in oak, decorated with porcelain supposed to be very valuable,
and hung with old engravings. From the windows there was a lovely view
of the River Cherwell and the beautiful grounds of Magdalen College.
He soon made himself the most talked-of person in the place: abusing his
foes, who feared his tongue. His friends, as he later said of someone,
did not care for him very much--no one cares to furnish material for
incessant persiflage.
When he left Oxford Oscar Wilde was already a well-known figure: his
sayings were passed from mouth to mouth, and he was a favorite subject
for caricature in the pages of "Punch." Finally, he became known to all
the world as Bunthorne in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, "Patience." From
being the most talked-of man in Oxford, he became the most talked-of man
in London--a very different thing: many a reputation has been lost on
the road between Oxford and London. His reputation, stimulated by long
hair and velveteen knee-breeches, gave Whistler a chance to say, "Our
Oscar is knee plush ultra." People compared him with Disraeli. When he
first became the talk of the town, great things were expected of him;
just what, no one presumed to say. To keep in the going while the going
was good, Wilde published his volume of Poems (1881); it followed that
everyone wanted to know what this singular young man had to say for
himself, and paid half a guinea to find out. The volume immediately
went through several editions, and, as I have mentioned, was reprinted
in this country.
Of these poems the "Saturday Review" said,--and I thank the "Saturday
Review" for teaching me these words, for I think they fitly describe
nine tenths of all the poetry that gets itself published,--"Mr. Wilde's
verses belong to a class which is the special terror of the reviewers,
the poetry which is neither good nor bad, which calls for neither praise
nor blame, and in which one searches in vain for any personal touch of
thought or music."
It was at this point in his career that Wilde determined to show himself
to us: he came to America to lecture; was, of course, interviewed on his
arrival in New York, and spoke with the utmost disrespect of the
Atlantic.
[Illustration: "OUR OSCAR" AS HE WAS WHEN WE LOANED HIM TO AMERICA
_From a contemporary English caricature_]
Considering how little ballast Wilde carried, his lectures here were a
great success: "Nothing succeeds like excess." He spoke publicly over
two hundred times, and made what was, for him, a lot of money. Looking
back, it seems a daring thing to do; but Wilde was always doing daring
things. To lecture in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston was all very
well; but it would seem to have required courage for Wilde, fresh from
Oxford, his reputation based on impudence, long hair, knee-breeches, a
volume of poems, and some pronounced opinions on art, to take himself,
seriously, west to Omaha and Denver, and north as far as Halifax.
However, he went and returned alive, with at least one story which
will never die. It was Wilde who said that he had seen in a dance-hall
in a mining-camp the sign, "Don't shoot the pianist; he is doing his
best." The success of this story was instant, and probably prompted him
to invent the other one, that he had heard of a man in Denver who,
turning his back to examine some lithographs, had been shot through the
head, which gave Wilde the chance of observing how dangerous it is to
interest one's self in bad art. He remarked also that Niagara Falls
would have been more wonderful if the water had run the other way.
On his return to England he at once engaged attention by his remark,
"There is nothing new in America--except the language." Of him, it was
observed that Delmonico had spoiled his figure. From London he went
almost immediately to Paris, where he found sufficient reasons for
cutting his hair and abandoning his pronounced habiliments. Thus he
arrived, as he said of himself, at the end of his second period.
Wilde spoke French fluently and took steps to make himself at home in
Paris; with what success, is not entirely clear. He made the
acquaintance of distinguished people, wrote verses, and devoted a good
deal of time to writing a play for Mary Anderson, "The Duchess of
Padua," which was declined by her and was subsequently produced in this
country by Lawrence Barrett and Minna Gale. In spite of their efforts,
it lived for but a few nights.
Meanwhile it cost money to live in Paris, especially to dine at
fashionable cafés, and Wilde decided to return to London; but making
ends meet is no easier there than elsewhere. He wrote a little, lectured
when he could, and having spent the small inheritance he had received
from his father, it seemed that "Exit Oscar" might fairly be written
against him.
But to the gratification of some, and the surprise of all, just about
this time came the announcement of his marriage to a beautiful and
charming lady of some fortune, Constance Lloyd, the daughter of a
deceased barrister. Whistler sent a characteristic wire to the church:
"May not be able to reach you in time for ceremony; don't wait." Indeed,
it may here be admitted that in an encounter between these wits it was
Jimmie Whistler who usually scored.
Of Whistler as an artist I know nothing. My friends the Pennells, at the
close of their excellent biography, say, "His name and fame will live
forever." This is a large order, but of Whistler, with his rapier-like
wit, it behooved all to beware. In a weak moment Wilde once voiced his
appreciation of a good thing of Whistler's with, "I wish I had said
that." Quick as a flash, Jimmie's sword was through him, and forever:
"Never mind, Oscar, you will." It may be that the Pennells are right.
But to return. With Mrs. Wilde's funds, her husband's taste, and
Whistler's suggestions, a house was furnished and decorated in Tite
Street, Chelsea, and for a time all went well. But it soon became
evident that some fixed income, certain, however small, was essential;
fugitive verse and unsigned articles in magazines afford small resource
for an increasing family. Two sons were born, and, driven by the spur of
necessity, Wilde became the Editor of "The Woman's World," and for a
time worked as faithfully and diligently as his temperament permitted;
but it was the old story of Pegasus harnessed to the plough.
Except for editorial work, the next few years were unproductive. "Dorian
Gray," Wilde's one novel, appeared in the summer of 1890. It is
exceedingly difficult to place: his claim that it was the work of a few
days, written to demonstrate to some friends his ability to write a
novel, may be dismissed as untrue--there is internal evidence to the
contrary. It was probably written slowly, as most of his work was. In
its first form it appeared in "Lippincott's Magazine" for July, 1890;
but it was subjected to careful revision for publication in book form.
Wilde always claimed that he had no desire to be a popular novelist--"It
is far too easy," he said.
"Dorian Gray" is an interesting and powerful, but artificial,
production, leaving a bitter taste, as of aloes in the mouth: one feels
as if one had been handling a poison. The law compels certain care in
the use of explosives, and poisons, it is agreed, are best kept in
packages of definite shape and color, that they may by their external
appearance challenge the attention of the thoughtless. Only Roosevelt
can tell without looking what book should and what should not bear the
governmental stamp, "Guaranteed to be pure and wholesome under the food
and drugs act." Few, I think, would put this label on "Dorian Gray."
Wilde's own criticism was that the book was inartistic because it has a
moral. It has, but it is likely to be overlooked in its general
nastiness. In "Dorian Gray" he betrays for the first and perhaps the
only time the decadence which was subsequently to be the cause of his
undoing.
I have great admiration for what is called, and frequently ridiculed as,
the artistic temperament, but I am a believer also in the sanity of true
genius, especially when it is united, as it was in the case of Charles
Lamb, with a fine, manly, honest bearing toward the world and the things
in it; but alone it may lead us to yearn with Wilde
To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play.
It has been suggested on good authority that it is very unpleasant to
wear one's heart upon one's sleeve. To expose one's soul to the
elements, however interesting in theory, must be very painful in
practice: Wilde was destined to find it so.
Why the story escaped success at the hands of the adapter for the stage,
I never could understand. The clever talk of the characters in the novel
should be much more acceptable in the quick give-and-take of a society
play than it is in a narrative of several hundred pages; moreover, it
abounds in situations which are intensely dramatic, leading up to an
overwhelming climax; probably it was badly done.
It is with a feeling of relief that one turns from "Dorian Gray"--which,
let us agree, is a book which a young girl would hesitate to put in the
hands of her mother--to Wilde's other prose work, so different in
character. Of his shorter stories, his fairy tales and the rest, it
would be a delight to speak: many of them are exquisite, and all as pure
and delicate as a flower, with as sweet a perfume. They do not know
Oscar Wilde who have not read "The Young King and the Star Child," and
the "Happy Prince." That they are the work of the same brain that
produced "Dorian Gray" is almost beyond belief.