I did not think I ran any risk in helping Oscar to get away.  The newspapers had seized the opportunity of the trials before the magistrate and before Mr. Justice Charles and had overwhelmed the public with such a sea of nauseous filth and impurity as could only be exposed to the public nostrils in pudibond England.  Everyone, I thought, must be sick of the testimony and eager to have done with the whole thing.  In this I may have been mistaken.  The hatred of Wilde seemed universal and extraordinarily malignant.

I wanted a steam yacht.  Curiously enough on the very day when I was thinking of running down to Cowes to hire one, a gentleman at lunch mentioned that he had one in the Thames.  I asked him could I charter it?

“Certainly,” he replied, “and I will let you have it for the bare cost for the next month or two.”

“One month will do for me,” I said.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I don’t know why, but a thought came into my head:  I would tell him the truth, and see what he would say.  I took him aside and told him the bare facts.  At once he declared that the yacht was at my service for such work as that without money:  he would be too glad to lend it to me:  it was horrible that such a man as Wilde should be treated as a common criminal.

He felt as Henry VIII felt in Shakespeare’s play of that name: 

    “... there’s some of ye, I see,
    More out of malice than integrity,
    Would try him to the utmost, ...”

It was not the generosity in my friend’s offer that astonished me, but the consideration for Wilde; I thought the lenity so singular in England that I feel compelled to explain it.  Though an Englishman born and bred my friend was by race a Jew—­a man of the widest culture, who had no sympathy whatever with the vice attributed to Oscar.  Feeling consoled because there was at least one generous, kind heart in the world, I went next day to Willie Wilde’s house in Oakley Street to see Oscar.  I had written to him on the previous evening that I was coming to take Oscar out to lunch.

Willie Wilde met me at the door; he was much excited apparently by the notoriety attaching to Oscar; he was volubly eager to tell me that, though we had not been friends, yet my support of Oscar was most friendly and he would therefore bury the hatchet.  He had never interested me, and I was unconscious of any hatchet and careless whether he buried it or blessed it.  I repeated drily that I had come to take Oscar to lunch.

“I know you have,” he said, “and it’s most kind of you; but he can’t go.”

“Why not?” I asked as I went in.

Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering.  Willie’s theatrical insincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to get away.  Suddenly I saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar’s memory.  In his book there is a record of this visit of mine.  He was standing silently by the wall.