he
tale as I heard it ten years after, had got drunk and fought the baker,
and a deputation of villagers had gone to the magistrate and pointed out
that Monsieur Dowson was one of the most illustrious of English poets.
"Quite right to remind me," said the magistrate, "I will imprison the
baker."

A Rhymer had seen Dowson at some cafe in Dieppe with a particularly common
harlot, and as he passed, Dowson, who was half drunk, caught him by the
sleeve and whispered, "She writes poetry--it is like Browning and Mrs
Browning." Then there came a wonderful tale, repeated by Dowson himself,
whether by word of mouth or by letter I do not remember. Wilde has arrived
in Dieppe, and Dowson presses upon him the necessity of acquiring "a more
wholesome taste." They empty their pockets on to the cafe table, and
though there is not much, there is enough if both heaps are put into one.
Meanwhile the news has spread, and they set out accompanied by a cheering
crowd. Arrived at their destination, Dowson and the crowd remain outside,
and presently Wilde returns. He says in a low voice to Dowson, "The first
these ten years, and it will be the last. It was like cold
mutton"--always, as Henley had said, "a scholar and a gentleman," he no
doubt remembered the sense in which the Elizabethan dramatists used the
words "Cold mutton"--and then aloud so that the crowd may hear him, "But
tell it in England, for it will entirely restore my character."

XV

When the first few numbers of _The Savoy_ had been published, the
contributors and the publisher gave themselves a supper, and Symons
explained that certain among us were invited afterwards to the
publisher's house, and if I went there that once I need never go again. I
considered the publisher a scandalous person, and had refused to meet him;
we were all agreed as to his character, and only differed as to the
distance that should lie between him and us. I had just received two
letters, one from T. W. Rolleston protesting with all the conventional
moral earnestness of an article in _The Spectator_ newspaper, against my
writing for such a magazine; and one from A. E. denouncing that magazine,
which he called the "Organ of the Incubi and the Succubi," with the
intensity of a personal conviction. I had forgotten that Arthur Symons had
borrowed the letters until as we stood about the supper table waiting for
the signal to be seated, I heard the infuriated voice of the publisher
shouting, "Give me the