THE FIRST STONE 
 
 BY T. W. H. CROSLAND 
 
 ON READING 
 
 THE UNPUBLISHED PARTS 
 
 OF 'DE PROFUNDIS' 
 
- 
 
 Vm 
 
 K E I I * \ 
 
 RARY 
 
 i 
 
 RNIA 
 
The First Stone 
 
' Sometimes a horrible marionette 
 [Comes] out and [smokes] its cigarette 
 Upon the steps like a live thing.' 
 
 The Harlot's House. 
 
 ' Grief is noble or the reverse, according to tJie dignity 
 and worthiness of the object lamented, and the grandeur 
 of tJie mind enduring it.' 
 
 Modern Painters. 
 
The 
 First 
 Stone 
 
 By 
 
 T. W. H. Crosland 
 
 On Reading 
 
 The Unpublished Parts 
 
 Of <De Profundis' 
 
 London 
 
 Published by the Author 
 
 Fourteen Conduit Street 
 
 1912 
 
GIFT 
 

 Foreword 
 
 T^VE PROFUNDIS' is everybody's book. One's 
 J opinion of it does not alter the fact that it is 
 read and admired by people who have nothing 
 but loathing for c The Picture of Dorian Gray,' and little 
 but amused contempt for 'Intentions.' It was put before 
 the world as an * explanation ' and accepted more or 
 less as an expression of contrition. With the ex- 
 ception of a very occasional row of periods, there is 
 nothing about it to indicate that it is a fragmentary 
 or incomplete work, or that it has been edited into its 
 present form by the simple process of omitting quite 
 half of what the author really wrote. In his preface 
 Mr. Robert Ross, Wilde's literary executor, says, 'I 
 have only to record that it was written by my friend 
 during t he last months of his imprisonment, that it was 
 the only work he wrote while in prison, and the last 
 work he ever wrote.' The parts which have been 
 printed are supposed in the main to be creditable to 
 Oscar Wilde. Of the parts cut out it is charity to say 
 that they are sufficiently discreditable to render the 
 
 5 
 
 M856807 
 
whole ignominious. Posterity can arrive at no other 
 view. The blame, if any, must attach to Wilde rather 
 than to his friends or publishers, who, as they tell us, 
 have acted upon his clear wishes. 
 
 My justification for printing the following pages 
 will be more than apparent when ' De Profundis , sees 
 the light of day, complete and unexpurgated. We are 
 told that the complete work is not ' for this generation. 1 
 Until the race of men get rid of the last vestige of 
 moral sense it ought not to be for any generation. I 
 have read every word of it and shuddered as I read. A 
 blacker, fiercer, falser, craftier, more grovelling or 
 more abominable piece of writing never fell from mortal 
 pen. It may be held shameful in me that I rake it 
 up at all. I admit that in ordinary circumstances 
 common decency would have prevented me. Wilde 
 is dead ; let his crowning devilry die with him — yes, 
 Mr. Robert Ross, I say, devilry ! 
 
 But the ' De Profundis ' we know passes for a work 
 of edification. Its introducer ventured to hope that it 
 would ' give many readers a different impression of the 
 witty and delightful author. ' Nobody with his eyes open 
 can doubt that this wish is being abundantly realised. 
 The ' revulsion of feeling ' for which Wilde's friends 
 have laboured with such tender assiduity is actually 
 occurring, and ' De Profundis ' has helped it on mightily. 
 Oscar Wilde is nowadays to figure among the ' im- 
 proving ' authors whom he affected so to despise ! 
 
Roughly speaking we are invited to say of him, ' Thy 
 sins which were many are forgiven thee ; because at the 
 end thou madest a "beautiful," tearful book for the 
 Sunday Schools." The criticism of the time, which is 
 always a few lengths ahead of the public sentiment 
 or prejudice, commends us even to a more perilous and 
 preposterous complaisance. 
 
 Is it not time that somebody with a trifle of power 
 over printer's ink spoke out ? I think it is, and, 
 accordingly, I seem to have said my say. I shall be 
 told to remember that Wilde was a man of genius, and 
 that he is dead. In vieAv of what is happening under 
 our noses, I refuse to forget that he is fearfully alive, 
 that his genius belonged essentially to the stews, and 
 that he spent his last literary strength on the deliberate 
 production of a work which is disgraceful to humanity. 
 
 T. W. H. C. 
 
The First Stone 
 
 ON READING THE UNPUBLISHED PORTIONS OF 
 OSCAR WILDE'S ' DE PROFUNDIS.' 
 
 THOU, 
 The complete mountebank, 
 The scented posturer, 
 The flabby Pharisee, 
 The King of Life, 
 The Lord of Language 
 With the bad teeth ; 
 The whining convict 
 And Prince of Hypocrites, 
 That slouchest 
 Out of the shameless slime, 
 Shamelessly 
 
 To the prison penitent form, 
 Licking pious chops, 
 And saying texts 
 For the pleasuring 
 
 9 
 
And sweet approval 
 
 Of tract-distributors ; 
 
 Who hast wept and wept, 
 
 And wept and wept and wept, 
 
 Like a man ; 
 
 For whom there was nothing left 
 
 But ' absolute Humility ' 
 
 And Love ; 
 
 And who withal might observe, 
 
 Ever so airily, 
 
 In the very act and motion 
 
 Of delivering stab on stab 
 
 With a dirty butcher's knife 
 
 At the unguarded breast 
 
 Of one who out of her pain 
 
 Had trusted thee, 
 
 ' There is something 
 
 So exquisite 
 
 About Christ ! ' 
 
 Behold in dark places 
 They light tapers for thy picture 
 And range thee about 
 With sorrowing angels; 
 And gibe and gibber 
 And make swift trips to Dieppe, 
 
 10 
 
When they think the police 
 
 May call . . . 
 
 In open daylight 
 
 At the street corners 
 
 Wherever five shillings net 
 
 Is nimbly to be compassed 
 
 We are to hear 
 
 Squeaky accounts 
 
 Of thine ' artistry,' 
 
 Thy ' consummate ' wit, 
 
 Thy ' intolerable ' griefs, 
 
 Thy ' heroic ' fortitude, 
 
 Thy ' dignified ' penitence, 
 
 Thy Humility 
 
 And Love ; 
 
 And they murmur * Requiescat ' ! 
 
 And ' Let us draw a veil ' ! 
 
 And ' Who shall cast the first stone ? ' 
 
 O, fleering Falseness, 
 
 Though this my little stone 
 
 Bar me from Mercy 
 
 It is for thee. 
 
 So, where thou lurkest 
 Drenched in stale tears 
 And very sorry for thyself, 
 
 11 
 
' In the lowest mire 
 
 Of Malebolge 
 
 Between Gilles de Retz 
 
 And the Marquis de Sade ' 
 
 (Of a verity 
 
 Thou knewest thy destined place !) 
 
 So, where thou lurkest 
 
 Playing gracefully with ideas 
 
 In the delicious 
 
 Impudent Oxford manner 
 
 (Albeit still damp 
 
 With the aforesaid sour tears), 
 
 Or nobly regretting 
 
 * The clear turtle soup, 
 
 The luscious ortolans 
 
 In crinkled Sicilian vine leaves, 
 
 The wonderful pates 
 
 Procured directly from Strasbourg, 
 
 The Perrier Jouet, 
 
 The Dagonet 1880, 
 
 And the marvellous liqueur brandy 
 
 Served always 
 
 At the bottom 
 
 Of great bell-shaped glasses,' 
 
 Not to mention 
 
 Certain fine feather-beds ; 
 
 Or steeping the gew-gaw pearl 
 
 Of thy indecent soul 
 
 12 
 
In the elegant Brummagem cup 
 Which thy schoolfellow with the brogue 
 Rather put out of shape 
 At the Central Criminal Court, 
 Here's for thee ! 
 
 ' De mortuis ! ' thou shalt cry 
 Who cried of old with rouged lips 
 * Love,' and who wept every day 
 ' For the same space of time,' 
 ' Half an hour,' to wit, 
 Because a critic of parts 
 Clothed like a labouring man, 
 Spat in thy tallowy face, 
 Seeing what none had yet seen, 
 Namely the Judas heart 
 Wrapped in thy coward hide. 
 
 Dost thou forget, O thou 
 Of the fragrant April memories 
 Who went down the primrose path 
 To the thin sound of flutes, 
 And down the Old Bailey stairs 
 To the sound of unwashed hisses, 
 Dost thou forget 
 
 13 
 
A bilious canting knave, 
 
 The weeper for his own woes, 
 
 Convict C 33, 
 
 Who having meekly obeyed 
 
 The excellent prison rules, 
 
 And having omitted to cause 
 
 The excellent prison staff 
 
 A single moment's pain, 
 
 Was given the use of ink ? 
 
 ' Behold,' he cried, ' a boon ! 
 
 I have ink to spill and spare, 
 
 By Narcisse, I have ink ! 
 
 Now for a ravishing job 
 
 Which will put the Devil to blush 
 
 And teach the race of men 
 
 To wince when you call them men 
 
 ' There was a friend of mine 
 Gat in my tuft-hunting days 
 When I was yet no more 
 Than "the Bohemian Wilde," 
 The apothecary's son, 
 James Whistler's lickspittle, 
 A foolish, middling poet, 
 A " busy " journalist, 
 And the puling lecturer 
 
 14 
 
On ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay Art : 
 
 From October 10th to 13th 
 
 Of 1894 ' 
 
 (Think of the glittering soul 
 
 Thus tragically seared 
 
 With unimportant dates !) 
 
 ' My dear young friend lay ill 
 
 Of a terrible cold in the head. 
 
 An influenza cold, 
 
 At Brighton, in an hotel : 
 
 I, the great and the good, 
 
 Nursed and tended him, 
 
 Not merely with luxuries 
 
 Of fruit and flowers and books, 
 
 But with fond solicitude 
 
 And singular affection ; 
 
 I got " special grapes from London," 
 
 Invented things to please him 
 
 And remained at his bedside 
 
 To quiet and amuse him . . . 
 
 Under my kindly care 
 
 In a day or two, of course, 
 
 He recovered, and "went for drives." 
 
 Then I feel extremely ill, 
 
 A terrible fever attacks me, 
 
 I had caught my friend's influenza ! 
 
 Oh yes, I had, I had ! 
 
 And how did he treat me ? Sweet Jove ! 
 
 15 
 
Help me to cry my wrongs ! 
 
 It was not a question of grapes, 
 
 Flowers and charming gifts, 
 
 It was a question, alas ! 
 
 Of common necessities ; 
 
 I could not get the milk 
 
 The Doctor had ordered me ; 
 
 Lemonade — lemonade 
 
 Was pronounced impossible, 
 
 And when I begged my friend 
 
 To purchase a book for me 
 
 At a neighbouring bookseller's shop, 
 
 He actually didn't ! 
 
 For this black treachery 
 
 I reproached him in scathing terms 
 
 And bade him leave the room ; 
 
 But, when I lifted my head 
 
 From the downy pillow in which 
 
 I had carefully buried it, 
 
 Believe me or not, as you will, 
 
 My friend was still there — and he laughed, 
 
 A brutal common laugh, 
 
 Laughed at me, Oscar Wilde, 
 
 Oscar O'Flahertie Wilde, 
 
 The intensive genius, 
 
 The Lord of Language and Life, 
 
 The Symbol of my Age — 
 
 Told me I drank too much 
 
 16 
 
And that I ought to eat less, 
 And turned on his wicked heel ! 
 
 ' By Tuesday the fever had gone, 
 
 And so " I dined downstairs." 
 
 (You may judge of the horrible state 
 
 In which I had been, from the fact 
 
 That the day before, I dined 
 
 And also supped, up stairs !) 
 
 Next day was Wednesday, my birthday. 
 
 Epistles of congratulation 
 
 Showered on me through the post, 
 
 One of them, need I remark. 
 
 Was a letter from my friend : 
 
 Did he express his regret 
 
 For the ugly scene he had caused ? 
 
 Oh dear me no ! Did he say 
 
 " Many happy returns " ? 
 
 Probably so ; perhaps not ; 
 
 Any way there were parts 
 
 Of this hideous letter of his 
 
 Which flicked me on the raw, 
 
 As Plato might have put it, 
 
 Or Longinus possibly, 
 
 Or Pliny, or Dante, or Bion, 
 
 Or Aeschylus, if you will. 
 
 Especially loathsome and foul 
 
 17 B 
 
Were my friend's concluding words 
 Which, for his shame, I set down, 
 
 " When you are not on your pedestal 
 
 You are not interesting. 
 
 The next time you are ill 
 
 I will go away at once " ! 
 
 * Ah ! what coarseness of fibre 
 
 Does that reveal. What entire 
 
 Lack of imagination . . . 
 
 How often have these words 
 
 Come fearfully back to me 
 
 In the wretched solitary cell 
 
 Of the various prisons 
 
 I have been sent to (sic). 
 
 I have said them to myself 
 
 Over and over again . . . 
 
 For him to write thus to me 
 
 When the very illness and fever 
 
 From which I was suffering 
 
 I had caught from tending him 
 
 Was of course revolting 
 
 In its coarseness and crudity ; 
 
 And for any human being 
 
 In the whole wide world to write thus 
 
 To another would be a sin 
 
 For which there is no pardon ; 
 
 18 
 
Were there any sin 
 For which there is none. 
 
 • But let me keep Love in my heart, 
 
 You, who outraged me thus, 
 
 Let me keep love in my heart, 
 
 Lest I falter and fail 
 
 And lose the trick of tears 
 
 Which we in prison must use 
 
 Or feel unhappy all day ; 
 
 For love of you my friend, 
 
 Out of sheer love, I indite 
 
 Forty-six thousand words 
 
 Of livid chattering rage, 
 
 Hate and malice and spite : 
 
 Let down with piety, 
 
 Humility and tears, 
 
 And I do this inasmuch 
 
 As you who laughed at me 
 
 Are happy and at large 
 
 In Paris, at Naples, or Rome, 
 
 In golden Sicily, 
 
 Or where the Cyprian palms 
 
 Climb from the sea to the sun ; 
 
 You have books and flowers and friends, 
 
 Meat and drink of the best, 
 
 Purple and fine linen, 
 
 19 
 
Money and all it can buy, 
 
 You who have written naught 
 
 But a few undergraduate poems ; 
 
 While I blubber here forlorn 
 
 In a latrine called a cell, 
 
 Clothed with the felon's garb, 
 
 A common convict, a " lag " 
 
 Doing his bitter " stretch " — 
 
 I whose engaging plays 
 
 Beat Congreve for brilliancy, 
 
 For philosophy, Dumas fils 
 
 And 
 
 I suppose 
 
 Everybody else 
 
 For every other quality ; 
 
 I, Oscar Wilde, lie prone 
 
 'Mid the wreck of my wonderful life ; 
 
 Crushed by anguish, 
 
 Bewildered with terror, 
 
 Dazed through pain, 
 
 " Multa gernens ; " 
 
 With nothing before me but ink, 
 
 And nothing inside me but Love ! 
 
 * Give me my Testament, 
 
 My Christmas Greek Testament. 
 
 Let me weep a bit more. 
 
 20 
 
Tears are the supreme virtue, 
 Niobe must have known 
 What we feel who are pent 
 In the hideous prison house : 
 Every morning of late 
 After I polish my tins 
 I read the Gospels in Greek ; 
 It is such a delightful way 
 Of opening the day ; 
 Every one, my dear friend. 
 Even in a turbulent life 
 Should read the Greek Testament, 
 It is like going into a garden 
 Of lilies, my dear young friend, 
 Out of some narrow, dark house. 
 And, while I remember it, 
 Does it occur to you 
 That each rich dish you ate 
 When you lunched or dined with me, 
 Each glass of amber champagne 
 You swallowed at Willis's Rooms 
 Where you were often, my guest, 
 Cost me a lot of money ? 
 Of course, in the vulgar, low, 
 Undistinguished, profane 
 Circles in which you move 
 Such a question would not 
 Be considered quite good style ; 
 
 21 
 
But think it over and try 
 
 To discern what a beautiful thought 
 
 This is, which I now propound 
 
 In the simple Socratic form ; 
 
 When you lay aside your mask 
 
 To get a little breath 
 
 Which you surely must do sometimes, 
 
 Try to perceive with pain 
 
 That when a man of parts, 
 
 A man of supreme parts, 
 
 The symbol of his age, 
 
 Asks another man to sup, 
 
 The man of supreme parts 
 
 Is expected to foot the bill : 
 
 This is what Dante meant 
 
 When he wrote " Abandon hope 
 
 All ye who enter here," 
 
 That is to say " All ye 
 
 Who enter Willis's Rooms ; " 
 
 St. Francis of Assisi 
 
 Had the same thought, 
 
 And it runs 
 
 Like a thread of purple and gold 
 
 Through my " Picture of Dorian Gray ' 
 
 And through my " Soul of Man " 
 
 And all my other works. 
 
 Perhaps in after life 
 
 It will dawn upon your slow 
 
 22 
 
And darkened intellect 
 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow 
 
 Is remembering what one paid 
 
 For other people's lunches, 
 
 As Tennyson somewhere says. 
 
 Pray excuse me for a moment, 
 
 I must a little indulge 
 
 In the prisoner's prerogative 
 
 Of tears. 
 
 ' Then again — 
 
 This will wound your vanity. 
 
 But I want to wound it, 
 
 And thus bring you 
 
 In some way nearer 
 
 To a proper appreciation 
 
 Of the Oxford temperament 
 
 And my own flawless Art, 
 
 Which you never understood 
 
 Or sufficiently admired ; 
 
 Has it occurred to you 
 
 That while you go free and at large 
 
 Happy and indolent 
 
 In Paris, at Naples or Rome, 
 
 Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, 
 
 I the damp prisoner, 
 
 The Democritus of the gaols, 
 
 23 
 
The Lord of Language and Life, 
 
 The Symbol of my Age, 
 
 Am really suffering 
 
 My terrible, terrible sentence 
 
 And public obloquy 
 
 Because of my friendship for you ? 
 
 ' You start with horror. Ah ! 
 
 Look at yourself in the glass, 
 
 The author of my disgrace, 
 
 The ruin of my house. 
 
 Out of my love, I say 
 
 You and yours are to blame 
 
 For all that has happened to me ; 
 
 Love you know is the first 
 
 Secret of this sad world, 
 
 Love is a Sacrament 
 
 That one should take kneeling, my friend 
 
 And 1 — I love you. Ah yes 
 
 I insist on loving you 
 
 Whether you like it or not . . . 
 
 As I was saying, the Law, 
 
 Your stupid English law, 
 
 Pretended to send me here 
 
 Because of my infamies 
 
 With certain unkempt clods ; 
 
 Swine, who nevertheless 
 
 24 
 
Being approached by me, 
 
 The dainty " artist in life,'' 
 
 Were simply " Ariels, 
 
 Delightfully suggestive 
 
 And most stimulating." 
 
 It is quite true that my life 
 
 Has been foul with perversities, 
 
 And that I more than deserve 
 
 My terrible punishment; 
 
 (He who will not admit this 
 
 And realise it to the full 
 
 Must never lay claim to the grace 
 
 And honour of friendship with me.) 
 
 I don't regret what I did, 
 
 I merely explain it and weep, 
 
 For where there is sorrow, my friend, 
 
 There clearly is holy ground ; 
 
 But I say to myself every day 
 
 " If I had never met you, 
 
 Never allowed you to force 
 
 Your way into a life 
 
 So big with wonder and joy, 
 
 I could have gone my gait, 
 
 My mellow, spicy gait, 
 
 Undisturbed, unabashed, 
 
 Unassailed, and unhurt. 
 
 Flauntingly impudent, 
 
 Grinningly callous, 
 
 25 
 
Puffed out with Saumur, 
 
 And full of ortolans, 
 
 Down to the day of my death." 
 
 1 Of course, 1 don't blame you, 
 
 Oh no, oh no, no, no ; 
 
 Though you will see what 1 mean. 
 
 Besides, if it wasn't you 
 
 Who was it ? Your father prepared 
 
 With a guileless carrot or so 
 
 Thrown at " my actors," the trap, 
 
 The idiot booby-trap, 
 
 Which tangled up my feet 
 
 And brought me from my fame 
 
 To this damp infamy, 
 
 Your father — I borrow a phrase 
 
 From the poor thieves and rogues 
 
 Who harbour with me here — 
 
 Your father " did me in " ; 
 
 If you had never been born, 
 
 He wouldn't have troubled himself, 
 
 And if he had never been born 
 
 And his father hadn't been born 
 
 And his father hadn't, why then 
 
 Your father, my dear young friend. 
 
 Would not have interfered, 
 
 And I (don't you see ?) should be free 
 
 26 
 
It is equally true, of course, 
 
 That if my father hadn't been born, 
 
 I should not have been born 
 
 And couldn't have come to grief; 
 
 But that is scarcely the point, 
 
 So we won't labour it ; 
 
 I wish to show you how love 
 
 Helps us to grasp the truth, 
 
 How " the cassia and myrrh of tears " 
 
 Shed copiously every hour 
 
 Lift us out of the rut 
 
 Of vulgar reasoning, 
 
 And " creeping common sense," 
 
 And put us on the heights 
 
 Where we perceive great truths 
 
 And learn to love and forgive.' 
 
 Here, O ineffable Lord 
 
 Of the cynical inky arts 
 
 And the split infinitive, 
 
 Here is the drift and gist 
 
 Of thy forty-six thousand words 
 
 Thy ouvrage de tongue haleine 
 
 And deft apologia, 
 
 Thy congregation of hints, 
 
 Whispers and monkey rage, 
 
 Whereby thou wouldst « put thyself right 
 
 27 
 
And the friend thou lovedst all wrong ; 
 
 This is the gracious yield 
 
 Of the humble, contrite heart 
 
 Writ magnificently 
 
 On paper stamped 'Reading Gaol.' 
 
 With the cheap prison ink, 
 
 And given to trusty hands 
 
 Not to burn but to hold. 
 
 * When I am dead my dearest 
 
 (And not till I am dead) 
 
 Publish the pious parts, 
 
 The holy parts about Love, 
 
 And Pity and Kindness and Tears, 
 
 So that I figure no more 
 
 As the super-fatted goat 
 
 With emeralds round his neck 
 
 And stercoraceous hooves, 
 
 Who tore the lilies down 
 
 And scattered the young vines, 
 
 But rather as the dove 
 
 Brooding in innocent joy, 
 
 Or the kindly pelican 
 
 Who keepeth a bleeding breast 
 
 For love of her young things ; 
 
 So that in obscure time 
 
 I may be seen to belong 
 
 28 
 
Not to the smirking fops 
 
 And sexless demireps 
 
 Whose fleers made hideous 
 
 The Cities of the Plain, 
 
 But to the company 
 
 Of the untroubled saints 
 
 Whose sins though scarlet were washed 
 
 Milk-white with fire and tears, 
 
 And who, in that they became 
 
 As little children, might walk 
 
 In the green fields with Christ: 
 
 As for my friend . . . the parts 
 
 About my friend ... I think . . . 
 
 'Twere well... on the whole, 'twere well 
 
 Furnish a secret drawer 
 
 And keep them — for my friend; 
 
 And he will live me out 
 
 And never dream, good fool, 
 
 How we have trussed him up 
 
 A-teaching of him love : 
 
 But I shall know . . . and you. 
 
 And when he dies— why then 
 
 We take our chance of print!' 
 
 O Treachery ! O damned 
 And furtive Plotter! Thou 
 Of whom the filthiest fiend 
 
 29 
 
Might wish to wash his hands. 
 
 By whom Iago pales 
 
 Into a gentleman 
 
 And Wainwright shines snow-white 
 
 If any echo or hail 
 
 Of this world reaches thee 
 
 Deep in thy lampless lair 
 
 Harken ! The dubious dust 
 
 Hidden in Pere la Chaise 
 
 Beneath the Epstein stone 
 
 Is not thou ; and that stone 
 
 Is not thy monument, 
 
 Nor for thy memory : 
 
 But on a Rock called Shame 
 
 Sunken in letters of lead 
 
 Which may not be effaced 
 
 Till the slow clocks of Time 
 
 Shall strike the ages out, 
 
 Men read : — 
 
 OSCAR FINGAL 
 O'FLAHERTIE WILLS WILDE 
 
 WHOSE SOUL WAS ALL A SIN, 
 WHOSE HEART WAS ALL A LUST, 
 WHOSE BRAIN WAS ALL A LIE. 
 
 30 
 
London : Strangeways, Printers. 
 
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