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We gathered on Sunday evenings in two rooms, with folding doors between, & hung, I think, with photographs from Dutch masters, and in one room there was always, I think, a table with eat. I recall but one elderly man??Dunn his name was??rather silent and full of good sense, an old friend of Henleys. We were young men, none as yet established in his own, or in the worlds opinion, and Henley was our leader and our fidant. One evening I found him alone amused and exasperated.He cried: Young A... has just been round to ask my advice. Would I think it a wise thing if he bolted with Mrs. B...? "Have you quite determio do it?" I asked him. "Quite." "Well," I said, "in that case I refuse to give you any advice." Mrs. B... was a beautiful talented woman, who, as the Welsh triad said of Guinevere, was much given to being carried off. I think we listeo him, and often obeyed him, partly bebbr>藏书网</abbr>cause he was quite plainly not upon the side of our parents. We might have a different ground of quarrel, but the result seemed more important than the ground, and his fident manner and speech made us believe, perhaps for the first time, in victory. And besides, if he did denounce, and in my case he certainly did, what we held i reverence, he never failed to associate it with things, or persons, that did not move us to reverence.
Once I found him just returned from some art gress in Liverpool or in Maer. The Salvation Armyism of art, he called it, & gave a grotesque description of some city cillor he had found admiring Turner. Henley, who hated all that Ruskin praised, thereupon derided Turner, and finding the city cillor the day oher side of the gallery, admiring some Pre?Raphaelite there, derided that Pre?Raphaelite<var>?９９ｌib?</var>. The third day Henley discovered the poor man on a chair in the middle of the room, staring dissolately upon the floor. He terrified us also, aainly I did not dare, and I think none of us dared, to speak our admiration for book or picture he ned, but he made us feel always our importance, and no man among us could do good work, or show the promise of it, and lack his praise.
I remember meeting of a Sunday night Charles Whibley, Keh Grahame, author of The Golden Age,
Barry Pain, now a well known , R. A. M. Stevenson, art critid a famous talker, Gee Wyndham, later on a et minister and Irish chief secretary, and Oscar Wilde, who was some eight years or ten older than the rest. But faces and names are vague to me and, while faces that I met but once may rise clearly before me, a face met on many a Sunday has perhaps vanished. Kipling came sometimes, I think, but I never met him; and Stepniak, the nihilist, whom I knew well elsewhere but not there, said I ot go more than once a year, it is too exhausting. Henley got the best out of us all, because he had made us accept him as our judge at>.９９ｌiｂ?t>hat his judgment could her sleep, nor be softened, nor ged, nor turned aside. When I think of him, the antithesis that is the foundation of human nature being ever in my sight, I see his crippled legs as though he were some Vul perpetually f swords for other men to use; aainly I always thought of C..., a fine classical scholar, a pale and seemingly gentle man, as our chief swordsman and bravo.
When Henley founded his weekly neer, first the Scots, afterwards The National Observer, this young man wrote articles and reviews notorious for savage wit; and years afterwards wheional Observer
was dead, Henley dying & our cavern of outlaws empty, I met him in Paris very sad and I think very poor.
Nobody will employ me now, he said. Your master is gone, I answered, and you are like the spear in an old Irish story that had to be kept dipped in poppy? juice that it might not go about killing people on its own acetnt. I wrote my first good lyrid tolerable essays for The National Obsever and as I always signed my work could go my own road in some measure. Henley often revised my lyrics, crossing out a line or a stanza and writing in one of his own, and I was forted by my belief that he also re?wrote Kipling then in the first flood of popularity. At first, indeed, I was ashamed of being re?written and thought that others were not, and only began iigatiohe editorial characteristics??epigrams, archaisms and all??appeared iicle upon Paris fashions and in that upon opium by aian Pasha. I was not pelled to full ity for verse is plainly stubborn; and in prose, that I might avoid uable opinions, I wrote nothing but ghost or fairy stories, picked up from my mother, or some pilot at Rosses Point, and Henley saw that I must needs mi<bdo>..</bdo>x a palette fitted to my subject matter. But if he had ged every has into hath I would have let him, for had not we sunned ourselves in his generosity? My young men out?dome and they write better than I, he wrote in some letter praising Charles Whibleys work, and to another friend with a copy of my Man who dreamed of Fairyland: See what a fihing has been written by one of my lads.
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