After Christmas I stayed a few days with Chérie at her house at Cosham and with the Ponsonbys at the Isle of Wight. Uncle Henry Ponsonby said he had taken one book with him in the Crimean War, and he had read it through. This was Paradise Lost. The conversation arose from his quoting the lines:
“The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven,”

and I happened to know where the quotation came from. I stayed for a few days with the Bensons at Addington. Arthur and Fred Benson were there, but none of the rest of the family. Fred Benson had just finished his novel, Dodo, and was correcting the proofs of it. I read the proofs. Arthur Benson had written a great many poems, which he read out to me. They were published later in the year. During the time I had spent at Hildesheim I had continued to write verse every now and then, and I used to send my efforts to Arthur Benson for his criticism. I had also written what must have been a childish play, a modern drama, but I had published nothing except a little verse in a Plymouth newspaper. While I was staying at Osborne with the Ponsonbys and also at Addington with the Bensons I heard a great deal about a Miss Ethel Smyth. Arthur Benson had told me about her at Eton. She was a friend of his family, and he used often to hear from her. She was a newer friend of my aunts and my cousins, and they talked a great deal about her. I heard about her wonderful singing, her energy, her vitality, her talk, how she had said that Mrs. Benson was “as good as God and as clever as the Devil”; how I must hear her sing “l’Anneau d’argent,” and her own Mass. It was arranged that I was to make her acquaintance.[139] Her Mass was to be given at the Albert Hall, and I was invited by Mrs. Charles Hunter (Miss Smyth’s sister) to hear it from her box. The box was full of Miss Smyth’s hunting friends, who gave the music a respectful hearing, and when it was over we went to the Bachelors’ Club and had supper. I sat next to Miss Smyth and we made friends at once. The next night I had dinner at Dover Street, where Mrs. Hunter was staying, and there I met General Smyth, Miss Smyth’s father, and Mr. Brewster, an American by birth, a Frenchman by education, an Italian by residence. His appearance was striking; he had a fair beard and the eyes of a seer; à contre jour, someone said he looked like a Rembrandt. His manner was suave, and at first one thought him inscrutable—a person whom one could never know, surrounded as it were by a hedge of roses. When I got to know him better I found the whole secret of Brewster was this: he was absolutely himself: he said quite simply and calmly what he thought. Nothing leads to such misunderstandings as the truth. Bismarck said the best of all diplomatic policies was to tell the truth, as nobody believed you. But even when you are not prepared to disbelieve, and suspect no diplomatic wiles, the truth is sometimes disconcerting when calmly expressed. I recollect my first conversation with Mr. Brewster. We talked of books, and I was brimful of enthusiasm for Swinburne and Rossetti. “No,” said Brewster, “I don’t care for Rossetti; it all seems to me like an elaborate exercise. I prefer Paul Verlaine.” I knew he was not being paradoxical, but I thought he was lacking in catholicity, narrow in comprehension. Why couldn’t one like both? I thought he was being Olympian and damping. When I got to know him well, I understood how completely sincere he had been, and how utterly unpretentious; how impossible it was for him to pretend he liked something he did not like, and how true it was that Rossetti seemed to him as elaborate as an exercise.

That night we went to a concert at St. James’s Hall, and I saw again the familiar green benches where for so many years my mother had seats in Row 2. “You remind me,” said a lady I was introduced to that night, “of a lady who used to come and sit here at the Pops in the second row, a long time ago.”

I can’t remember where it was I first heard Ethel Smyth sing,[140] whether it was in Dover Street or in her own little house, “One Oak.” I remember the songs she sang—some Brahms, some Schubert, among others “Pause” and “Der Doppelg?nger,” “l’Anneau d’argent,” and “Come o’er the Sea,” and I knew at once that I had opened a window on a new and marvellous province. The whole performance was so complete and so poignantly perfect: the accompaniment, the way the words and the music were blended, and the composer’s inmost and most intimate intention and meaning seemed to be revealed and interpreted as if he were singing the song himself for the first time; the rare and exquisite quality and delicacy of her voice, the strange thrill and wail, the distinction and distinct clear utterance, where every word and every note told without effort, and the whirlwind of passion and feeling she evoked in a song such as “Come o’er the Sea” or Brahms’ “Botschaft.”

It was settled that I was to learn Italian, and for that purpose I went to Florence. I stayed in Paris a few days on the way at the H?tel St. Romain, Rue St. Roch, and I went to several plays and saw Bartet at the Théatre fran?ais, in Le Père Prodigue. Then I travelled to Florence in a crowded second-class carriage. I had expected Florence to be a dismal place, full of buildings like Dorchester House, grey and cold. It was cold when the Tramontana blew, but I had forgotten or rather I had not imagined the Italian sun. I arrived late, at one in the morning, and when I got up and saw the sun streaming from a cloudless blue sky on warm, yellow, sun-baked houses with red flat roofs, I was amazed. I stayed the first night I arrived at an hotel, and then moved into a pension at Lung’Arno della Borsa 2 bis, which belonged to Signora Agnese Traverso. I began to learn Italian at once, and had lessons from a charming old Italian called Signor Benelli. Signor Benelli had been a soldier in Garibaldi’s Army; he was an intense enthusiast both in politics and literature—a Dante scholar and an admirer of the moderns: Carducci, and Gabriele d’Annunzio’s early poems, which were not well known then. I never had a better master before or afterwards. He knew English well and revelled in English poetry, especially in Shelley and Keats. As soon as I got to understand Italian we read Dante, and I read the whole of the Divina Commedia aloud with Signor Benelli, all Leopardi, and a great deal of Tasso and Ariosto. I also made other discoveries for[141] myself in other branches of literature. There was a large lending library at Florence, full of books in every European literature. I there discovered by myself the works of Anatole France and read Tha?s, Balthazar, and L’Etui de Nacre, le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard, and La R?tisserie de la Reine Pédauque. I read a great deal of Maupassant as well, the complete works of Merimée, some Balzac, and the plays of Dumas fils, and all the Sardou I could get hold of. I also had a few Russian lessons from a lady, but I did not go on with them as I had not the time. I made the acquaintance of Miss Violet Paget (Vernon Lee), who lived in a lovely little villa called “The Palmerino” on the Fiesole side of the town.

The spring in Florence is a wonderful pageant. At first you do not see where there can be any room for it. The trees seem all evergreen—cypresses and silvery olives. The landscape seems complete as it is. Then suddenly the brown hills are alive with wild, fluttering, red jagged-edged tulips. Large bunches of anemones, violets, and lilies of the valley are sold in the streets, and soon roses. Then the young corn shoots up, and all the hills become green and the cornfields are fringed with wild dog-roses, and soon the tall red and white lilies come out, and then the wistaria, and the Judas trees—a dense mass of blossom against the solid, speckless blue sky.

In May I met Hubert Cornish at Naples and spent a few days with him, and we went for a night to Sorrento, and in June I went to Venice by myself and stayed there for one long and deliciously hot week. I saw the pictures, drifted about on the lagoon, and bathed at the Lido in the Adriatic, the only sea that is really hot enough.

At the end of June I was back again in England. I was to go to Oxford or Cambridge, but to do either of these things it is necessary to pass an examination in which sums had to be done. At first I was going to Oxford, but it was thought that I would never be able to pass Smalls, so it was decided I should go to Cambridge, but in order to pass the examination before matriculating I had to go to a crammer’s to brush up my Latin and Greek and try to learn Arithmetic.

At the end of July I went to Eton and stayed with the Cornishes. Mr. Cornish had just been made Vice-Provost, and was moving into the Cloisters from Holland House. It was a hot, beautiful August and we spent most of our days on the[142] river. One day there was a regatta going on at Datchet. As we passed it we made triolets on the events of the regatta. “My shirt is undone, here comes the regatta,” one of them began. The incident that struck us most was the passage of Miss Tarver in a boat. She appeared to be in distress, and was weeping. This incident was at once put to verse in this triolet:
“Oh! there’s Lily Tarver
In oceans of tears,
Like streams of hot lava,
Oh! there’s Lily Tarver!
The regatta’s loud brava
Still rings in her ears.
Oh! there’s Lily Tarver
In oceans of tears!”

At Arthur Benson’s one night I met Mr. Gosse, who was kind to me, and from that moment became a lifelong friend.

I had written an essay on Collins, and Arthur Benson had sent it for me to Macmillan’s Magazine. The editor did not print it, but he wrote me a letter about it, urging me to go on writing. While I had been at Florence I had written a complete novel, which I had sent to the publishers. The publishers’ reader reported that it was worth printing, and offered to publish it on the half-profits system. I had the sense to put it in the fire. Everyone, said Vernon Lee to me once, should write a novel once, if only so as never to want to do it again.

In August I went to Mr. Tatham, who lived near Abingdon, to prepare for my examination. At his house several boys were struggling with the same task and preparing to go to Oxford. Mr. Tatham did not teach me arithmetic—nobody could do that—but he taught me some Greek and Latin. We read the Plutus of Aristophanes, and some Catullus, and he led me into new fields in English literature. I enjoyed myself at his house quite immensely. Sometimes at dinner Mr. Tatham would laugh till tears poured down his cheeks, and once he laughed so much that he was almost ill and had to go upstairs to his room to recover.

We used to make up triolets at meals, and at all times of the day, and while I was at Abingdon I had two little books of them printed called Northcourt Nonsense.[143] One of them was written while dressing for dinner and after having been stung by a fly, and addressed to Mr. Tatham and sent to him by the maid. It ran thus:
“May I wear a silk tie
To-night at the table?
I’ve been stung by a fly,
May I wear a silk tie?
I will bind it as high
And as low as I’m able,
May I wear a silk tie
To-night at the table?”

to which Mr. Tatham at once sent this answer:
“The tie that you wear
May be wholly of silk,
Or of stuff or mohair,
The tie that you wear;
If the pain you can’t bear,
Better bathe it with milk,
The tie that you wear
May be wholly of silk.”

One of the boys who was preparing for Oxford was called Ralli, and he had great facility as a planchette writer. He could not write by himself, but as soon as anyone else put their hands on planchette at the same time as he did, it would write like mad. The things it wrote seemed to be nearly always what he had read and forgotten, sometimes an article from the Figaro, sometimes a passage from a French novel. Sometimes it wrote verse. Ralli was a fluent poet, but wrote better verse without the aid of planchette than with. Sometimes the planchette board answered his questions, but with a flippant inconsequence.

In October I went to Cambridge and passed into Trinity, leaving the Little Go to be tackled later. I had rooms in Trinity Street. Hubert Cornish was at King’s. I was to go in for the Modern Language Tripos, which meant languages about as modern as Le Roman de la Rose and Chaucer. I went to a coach for mathematics, but this was sheer waste of time, as not one word of what I was taught ever entered my brain, nor did I improve one jot.

I belonged to two debating societies—the Magpie and Stump, and the Decemviri—and used to speak at both of them quite often; and to a society where one read out papers, called[144] the Chit-Chat. I also belonged to the A.D.C., and played the part of the butler in Parents and Guardians, and that of the footman in the Duchess of Bayswater.

In the summer term, during the May week, Hubert Cornish, R. Austen Leigh, and myself edited an ephemeral newspaper called the Cambridge A B C, which had four numbers and which contained an admirable parody of Kipling by Carr-Bosanquet.

Here are some lines from it:
“By Matyushin and Wilczek-land he is come to the Northern Pole,
Whose tap-roots bite on the Oolite and Pal?ozoic coal:
He set his hand and his haunch to the tree, he plucked it up by the root,
And the lines of longitude upward sprang like the broken chords of a lute;
And over against the Hills of Glass he came to the spate of stars,
And the Pole it sank, but he swam to bank and warmed himself on Mars;
Till he came to the Reeling Beaches between the night and the day,
Where the tall king crabs like hansom cabs and the black bull lobsters lay.”

Aubrey Beardsley was just becoming known as an artist, and we wrote to him and asked him to design a cover, never thinking he would consent to do so. He did, for the modest sum of ten guineas, and many people thought it was a clever parody of his draughtsmanship.

At Trinity, Carr-Bosanquet was the shining light of the Decemviri Debating Society. At Eton he had edited the Parachute, which was far the best schoolboy periodical that had appeared there for years, and had written, in collaboration with two other boys, a book called Seven Summers, about Eton, which was afterwards withdrawn from circulation because for some reason or other the authorities objected to it. Next to A Day of my Life at Eton it is the best book about Eton life that has ever been written, and the only book of its kind. It certainly ought to be republished. The curious thing is that the objections to it, which to the lay mind are not perceptible (for a more harmless book was never written), were only made after it had been published for some time.

Carr-Bosanquet used often to contribute poems of a light kind about topical events to the Eton Chronicle, and at Cambridge he wrote as wittily as he talked and spoke. He had rather a dry, kind sense of humour, saltlike sense, and an Attic[145] wit, which pervaded his talk, his speeches, his finished and scholarly verse. We thought he was certain to be a bright star in English literature, a successor to Praed and Calverley, and perhaps to Charles Lamb; but his career was distinguished in another line—arch?ology—and he allowed himself no rival pursuit. Had he opted for literature, and the province of the witty essay and the light rhyme, he certainly could have achieved great things, as he had already done far more than show promise. His performance as far as it went was already mature, finished, and of a high order. There was at Trinity and at King’s at this time, as I suppose there is at all times, a small but highly intellectual world, of which the apex was the mysterious Society of the Apostles, who discussed philosophy in secret. I skirted the fringe of this world, and knew some of its members: Bertrand Russell, the mathematician; Robert Trevelyan, the poet; and others. One day, one of these intellectuals explained to me that I ought not to go to Chapel, as it was setting a bad example. Christianity was exploded, a thing of the past; nobody believed in it really among the young and the advanced, but for the sake of the old-fashioned and the unregenerate I was bidden to set an example of sincerity and courage, and soon the world would follow suit. I remember thinking that although I was much younger in years than these intellectuals, and far inferior in knowledge, brains, and wits, no match for them in argument or in achievement, I was none the less older than they were in a particular kind of experience—the experience that has nothing to do either with the mind, or with knowledge, and that is independent of age, but takes place in the heart, and in which a child may be sometimes more rich than a grown-up person. I do not mean anything sentimental. I am speaking of the experience that comes from having been suddenly constrained to turn round and look at life from a different point of view. So when I heard the intellectuals reason in the manner I have described, I felt for the moment an old person listening to young people. I felt young people must always have talked like that. It was not that I had then any definite religious creed. I seldom went to Chapel, but that was out of laziness. I seldom went to church in London, and never of my own accord.

While I was at Heidelberg the religious tenets which I had kept absolutely intact since childhood, without question and[146] without the shadow of doubt or difficulty, suddenly one day, without outside influence or inward crisis, just dropped away from me. I shed them as easily as a child loses a first tooth. In the winter of 1893, when I came back from Berlin, someone asked me why I didn’t go to church. I said it was because I didn’t believe in a Christian faith, and that if I were ever to again I would be a Catholic. That seemed to me the only logical and indeed the inevitable consequence of such a belief. In spite of this, dogmatic disbelief was to me always an intolerable thing, and when I heard the intellectuals talk in the manner I have described, I used to feel that people like Dr. Johnson had known better than they, but that in his day it was probable that the young and he himself talked like that; it was one of the privileges of youth. I did not say this, however. I kept my thoughts to myself. I remember my spoken answer being that I did not care if my landlady thought an upright poker placed in front of the fire made it burn or not. If she liked to believe that, it was her affair. I didn’t mind if she worshipped the poker.

At King’s my great friends were Hubert Cornish, Ramsay, who was afterwards Lower Master at Eton, and R? A?, the son of a distinguished soldier. A. was the most original of all the undergraduates I knew. He was a real scholar, with the most eclectic and rather austere taste in literature, and a passion for organ music. He was shy and fastidious beyond words. He could not endure being shaved at Cambridge, and used to go up to London twice a week for that purpose. He took no part in any of the clubs or societies. At the same time he was a devoted friend and a fiery patriot. He was so difficult to please about his own work that when he went up for his Tripos and had to do a set of Latin hexameters, he showed up a series of unfinished lines, “pathetic half-lines,” a suggested end of hexameter, a possible beginning, the hint of a c?sura, a few epithets, and here and there an almost perfect line, with a footnote to say “these verses are not meant to scan.” He was a bibliophile, but collected faded second editions and never competed. He had a passionate admiration for Thomas Hardy’s works, and a great deference for the opinion of his friends. One day when he was discussing literature with Hubert Cornish, Hubert said he liked a book which A. disliked. When A. heard this he said gently: “Of course if you like it, Hubert, I like it too.”

[147]

This all happened in the period of the ’nineties. When people write about the ’nineties now, which they often do, they seem to me to weave a baseless legend and to create a fantastic world of their own creation. The ’nineties were, from the point of view of art and literature, much like any other period. If you want to know what literary conversation was like in the ’nineties you can hear it any day at the Reform Club. If you compare the articles on literature or art that appeared in the Speaker of 1892-3 with the articles in the New Statesman of 1921, you will find little difference between the two. The difference between the Yellow Book and periodicals of the same kind (The Owl, for instance), which were started years later, was chiefly in the colour of the cover. The fact is there are only a certain number of available writers in London, and whenever a new periodical is started, all the available writers are asked to contribute; so in the Yellow Book you had practically the available writers of the time contributing—Henry James, Edmund Gosse, George Moore, Crackenthorpe, William Watson, John Davidson, John Oliver Hobbes, Vernon Lee, Le Gallienne, Arthur Benson, Arthur Symons, and Max Beerbohm. I think there is seldom any startling difference between the literature of one decade and another. When I was at Cambridge, England was said by the newspapers to be a nest of singing birds; again the same thing was said when the Georgian poets began to publish their work; but the same thing might be said of any epoch. Throughout the whole of English history there never has been a period, as yet, when England was not a nest of singing birds, and when a great quantity of verse, good, bad, and indifferent, was not being poured out. But it was said in the ’nineties that poetry was a paying business; second-hand booksellers were speculating in the first editions of the new poets, just as they do now; and to get the complete works of one poet, who had published little, one had to pay a hundred pounds. A society called the Rhymers’ Club published two books called respectively the Book of the Rhymers’ Club, and the Second Book of the Rhymers’ Club, both of which were anthologies by living authors, and somewhat the same in intention as the Books of Georgian Poetry. Both these books are now rare and sought after by collectors. It is interesting to look at them now, and to look back in general on the poets of that day, and to see what has survived and what[148] has been forgotten. These two anthologies by no means represented the whole of the poetic output and production of the day. They were not comprehensive anthologies of all the living poets, but the manifesto of one small Poetical Club. Taking a general bird’s-eye view of literature and the literary world of that day, this is what you would have noted. Tennyson was just dead. Swinburne was still writing, and published some of the finer poems of his later manner in a volume called Astrophel, in 1894. Stevenson was alive, and had just published The Ebb Tide. Meredith had but lately come into his own, and was hailed by old and young. Tess of the D’Urbervilles had enlarged the public of Thomas Hardy. Robert Bridges was issuing fastidious pamphlets of verse printed by Mr. Beeching at Oxford. Christina Rossetti was alive. Mr. Kipling published what are perhaps his greatest achievements in the short story in Life’s Handicap in 1891, and his Many Inventions came out in 1892. His Barrack Room Ballads were published in 1892. His loud popularity among the public was endorsed by critics such as Henry James, Edmund Gosse, and Andrew Lang. Andrew Lang was still writing “books like Genesis and sometimes for the Daily News,” besides a monthly causerie in Longman’s Magazine, and a weekly causerie in the Illustrated London News. Mrs. Humphry Ward’s David Grieve was published in 1892 and acclaimed by the whole press. Edmund Gosse was collecting and preparing a volume of the verse of his maturity (published in 1894), and once a year produced a volume of delicate and perspicuous prose. Henley was writing patriotic verse and barbed prose in the National Observer, which was full of spirited, scholarly and brilliant writing. Charles Whibley was making a name. Max Beerbohm was making his début. William Watson was discovered as a real new poet, and his “Wordsworth’s Grave,” and his “Lachrym? Musarum” won praise from the older critics, and attracted, for verse, great attention. He was named as a possible laureate. John Davidson was said to have inspiration and fire, and to have written a fine ballad; Norman Gale’s Country Lyrics were praised; Arthur Benson represented the extreme right of English poetry, and Arthur Symons the extreme left. Wilde had published a play in French, and his Lady Windermere’s Fan was hailed as the best comedy produced on the English stage since Congreve. Pinero had startled London with his Second Mrs. Tanqueray[149] and the discovery of Mrs. Patrick Campbell. In the Speaker Quiller-Couch wrote a weekly causerie, and George Moore put some of his best work in weekly articles on art, and Mr. Walkley some of his wittiest writing in weekly articles on the stage. Henry James was struggling with the stage, and John Oliver Hobbes was making a name as a coiner of epigrams. Harry Cust was editing the Pall Mall Gazette and concocting delightful leaders out of the classics, with fantastic titles. E. F. Benson had published Dodo. Turning from the general to the particular, and to the Book of the Rhymers’ Club, published in 1892, the names of the contributors were: Ernest Dowson, Edwin Ellis, C. A. Greene, Lionel Johnson, Richard le Gallienne, Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, Ernest Rhys, T. W. Rolleston, Arthur Symons, John Todhunter, and W. B. Yeats. In the second series the same names occur with an additional one—Arthur Cecil Hillier.

A reaction against supposed foreign influences was started and preached, and Richard le Gallienne called his book of verse English Lyrics to accentuate this; but it is difficult to find any trace of this foreign influence in the verse of that day, except in some of the poems of Arthur Symons. When people write of the ’nineties now, they say that the verse of that period is all about pierrots, powder, and patchouli. The reason is perhaps that the most startling feature in the creative art of the period was the genius of Aubrey Beardsley, whose perfect draughtsmanship seemed to be guided by a malignant demon. I have looked through the Books of the Rhymers’ Club carefully, and I cannot find a single allusion to a pierrot, or even to a powder-puff. Here are the titles of some of the subjects: “Carmelite Nuns of Perpetual Adoration”; “Love and Death”; “The Pathfinder”; “The Broken Tryst”; “A Ring’s Secret”; “A Burden of Easter Vigil”; “Father Gilligan”; “In Falmouth Harbour”; “Mothers of Men”; “Sunset in the City”; “Lost”; “To a Breton Beggar”; “Song in the Labour Movement”; “Saint Anthony”; “Lady Macbeth”; “Midsummer Day”; “The Old Shepherd”; “The Night Jar”; “The Song of the Old Mother”; “The First Spring Day”; “An Ode to Spring.” These subjects seem to me singularly like those that have inspired poets of all epochs; it is difficult to detect anything peculiar to the ’nineties in a title such as “The First Spring Day,” or “A Ring’s Secret.”

[150]

The first Rhymers’ Book contains Yeats’ exquisite poem on the Lake of Innisfree, and some dignified verse by Lionel Johnson; the second series contains a well-known poem by Ernest Dowson: “I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.” But I think I am right in saying that it was neither Yeats nor Lionel Johnson nor Dowson’s work in these anthologies that attracted the greatest attention, but a lyric of Le Gallienne’s called “What of the Darkness?” which I remember one critic said wiped out Tennyson’s lyrics. Tennyson’s lyrics, however, went on obstinately existing, no doubt so as to give another generation the pleasure of thinking that they had wiped them out. While these singing birds were twittering, I remember one day at Cambridge buying a new book of verse by a man called Francis Thompson. Here, I thought, is another of the hundreds of new poets, but directly I caught sight of the “Hound of Heaven,” I thought to myself “Here is something different.” I remember showing Hubert Cornish a poem called “Daisy,” and saying to him, “Isn’t this very good?” It begins:
“Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill,
O the breath of the distant surf.”

“Yes,” said Hubert, “but the trouble is that everyone writes so well nowadays that it is hardly worth while for any new poet to write well. All can raise the flower because all have got the seed.”

The undergraduates had no great enthusiasm for any of these new writers. I mean the intellectuals among the undergraduates. But the booksellers were always urging us to buy them on the plea that they would go up. Some of them did, and those who speculated in Francis Thompson and Yeats did well. The curious thing is that the prose writers and the poets were supposed to be great sticklers for form, to be absorbed by the theory of art for art’s sake, and to be aiming at impeccable craftsmanship. Looking back on the work of those poets now, their technique, compared to that of more modern poets, seems almost ludicrously feeble, but they seem to have had just what they were supposed to be without: a burning ideal to serve literature; to have been consumed with the desire to bring about a renaissance in[151] English literature and an English renaissance. There was one poet’s name which was sometimes mentioned then, and which had come down to the ’nineties from other and older generations. The name has gone on being mentioned since, and will one day, I think, reach the safe harbour of lasting fame, and this was Michael Field. Michael Field was a pseudonym which covered the remarkable personalities of two ladies, an aunt and a niece, who were friends of Robert Browning and of all the literary lights of their day, and who wrote a series of most remarkable dramas in verse and some extremely beautiful lyrics.

John Lane, the publisher, used to come down to Cambridge sometimes, and I made his acquaintance and, through him and Mr. Gosse, that of many of the writers I have mentioned: John Davidson, Le Gallienne, and others. There was a society at this time in London called the Cemented Bricks, to which some of the littéra............