series of symbolic visions. "In another moment," he
said, "I should have been off." We went into the open air and walked up
and down to get rid of that feeling, but presently we came in again and I
began again my explanation, Ellis lying upon the sofa. I had been talking
some time when Mrs Ellis came into the room and said, "Why are you sitting
in the dark?" Ellis answered, "But we are not," and then added in a voice
of wonder, "I thought the lamp was lit, and that I was sitting up, and
now I find that I am lying down and that we are in darkness." I had seen a
flicker of light over the ceiling but thought it a reflection from some
light outside the house, which may have been the case.

XVII

I had already met most of the poets of my generation. I had said, soon
after the publication of _The Wanderings of Usheen_, to the editor of a
series of shilling reprints, who had set me to compile tales of the Irish
fairies, "I am growing jealous of other poets and we will all grow jealous
of each other unless we know each other and so feel a share in each
other's triumph." He was a Welshman, lately a mining engineer, Ernest
Rhys, a writer of Welsh translations and original poems, that have often
moved me greatly though I can think of no one else who has read them. He
was perhaps a dozen years older than myself and through his work as editor
knew everybody who would compile a book for seven or eight pounds. Between
us we founded The Rhymers' Club, which for some years was to meet every
night in an upper room with a sanded floor in an ancient eating house in
the Strand called The Cheshire Cheese. Lionel Johnson, Ernest Dowson,
Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, John Davidson, Richard le Gallienne, T. W.
Rolleston, Selwyn Image, Edwin Ellis, and John Todhunter came constantly
for a time, Arthur Symons and Herbert Home, less constantly, while William
Watson joined but never came and Francis Thompson came once but never
joined; and sometimes if we met in a private house, which we did
occasionally, Oscar Wilde came. It had been useless to invite him to The
Cheshire Cheese for he hated Bohemia. "Olive Schreiner," he said once to
me, "is staying in the East End because that is the only place where
people do not wear masks upon their faces, but I have told her that I live
in the West End because nothing in life interests me but the mask."

We read our poems to one another and talked criticism and drank a little
wine. I sometimes say when I