ch he never turned to but under pressure of necessity； and usually late at night with the publishers messenger in the hall； he had half filled his studio with mechanical toys of his own invention； and perpetually increased their number。 a model railway train at intervals puffed its way along the walls； passing several railway stations and signal boxes； and on the floor lay a camp with attacking and defending soldiers and a fortification that blew up when the attackers fired a pea through a certain window； while a large model of a thames barge hung from the ceiling。 opposite our house lived an old artist who worked also for the illustrated papers for a living； but painted landscapes for his pleasure； and of him i remember nothing except that he had outlived ambition； was a good listener； and that my father explained his gaunt appearance by his descent from pocahontas。 if all these men were a little like becalmed ships； there was certainly one man whose sails were full。 three or four doors off； on our side of the road； lived a decorative artist in all the naive confidence of popular ideals and the public approval。 he was our daily edy。 i myself and sir frederick leighton are the greatest decorative artists of the age； was among his sayings； & a great lych？gate； bought from some country church？yard； reared its thatched roof； meant to shelter bearers and coffin； above the entrance to his front garden； to show that he at any rate knew nothing of discouragement。 in this fairly numerous pany？？there were others though no other face rises before me？？my father and york powell found listeners for a conversation that had no special loyalties； or antagonisms； while i could only talk upon set topics； being in the heat of my youth； and the topics that filled me with excitement were never spoken of。
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Four YearsIV
，小，说'网
some quarter of an hours walk from bedford park； out on the high road to richmond； lived w。 e。 henley； and i； like many others； began under him my education。 his portrait； a lithograph by rothenstein； hangs over my mantlepiece among portraits of other friends。 he is drawn standing； but； because doubtless of his crippled legs； he leans forward； resting his elbows upon some slightly suggested object？？a table or a window？sill。 his heavy figure and powerful head； the disordered hair standing upright； his short irregular beard and moustache； his lined and wrinkled face； his eyes steadily fixed upon some object； in plete confidence and self？possession； and yet as in half？broken reverie； all are exactly as i remember him。 i have seen other portraits and they too show him exactly as i remember him； as though he had but one appearance and that seen fully at the first glance and by all alike。 he was most human？？human； i used to say； like one of shakespeares characters？？and yet pressed and pummelled； as it were； into a single attitude； almost into a gesture and a speech； as by some overwhelming situation。 i disagreed with him about everything； but i admired him beyond words。 with the exception of some early poems founded upon old french models； i disliked his poetry； mainly because he wrote vers libre； which i associated with tyndall and huxley and bastien？lepages clownish peasant staring with vacant eyes at her great boots； and filled it with unimpassioned description of an hospital ward where his leg had been amputated。 i wanted the strongest passions； passions that had nothing to do with observation； and metrical forms that seemed old enough to be sung by men half？asleep or riding upon a journey。 furthermore； pre？raphaelitism affected him as some people are affected by a cat in the room； and though he professed himself at our first meeting without political interests or convictions； he soon grew into a violent unionist and imperialist。 i used to say when i spoke of his poems： he is like a great actor with a bad part； yet who would look at hamlet in the grave scene if salvini played the grave？digger？ and i might so have explained much that he said and did。 i meant that he was like a great actor of passion？？character？acting meant nothing to me for many years？？and an actor of passion will display some one quality of soul； personified again and again； just as a great poetical painter； titian； botticelli； rossetti may depend for his greatness upon a type of beauty which presently we call by his name。
irving； the last of the sort on the english stage； and in modern england and france it is the rarest sort； never moved me but in the expression of intellectual pride； and though i saw salvini but once； i am convinced that his genius was a kind of animal nobility。 henley； half inarticulate？？i am very costive； he would say？？besetwith personal quarrels； built up an image of power and magnanimity till it became； at moments； when seen as it were by lightning； his true self。 half his opinions were the contrivance of a sub？consciousness that sought always to bring life to the dramatic crisis； and expression to that point of artifice where the true self could find its tongue。 without opponents there had been no drama； and in his youth ruskinism and pre？raphaelitism； for he was of my fathers generation； were the only possible opponents。 how could one resent his prejudice when； that he himself might play a worthy part； he must find beyond the mon rout； whom he derided and flouted daily； opponents he could imagine moulded like himself？ once he said to me in the height of his imperial propaganda； tell those young men in ireland that this great thing must go on。 they say ireland is not fit for self？government but that is nonsense。 it is as fit as any other european country but we cannot grant it。
and then he spoke of his desire to found and edit a dublin newspaper。 it would have expounded the gaelic propaganda then beginning； though dr。 hyde had as yet no league； our old stories； our modern literature？？everything that did not demand any shred or patch of government。 he dreamed of a tyranny but it was that of cosimo de medici。
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Four YearsV
？小｜说网
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 cold meat。 i can 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 confidant。 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 determined to 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 listened to him； and often obeyed him； partly because 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 confident 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 in secret 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 congress in liverpool or in manchester。 the salvation armyism of art； he called it； & gave a grotesque description of some city councillor he had found admiring turner。 henley； who hated all that ruskin praised； thereupon derided turner； and finding the city councillor the next day on the other side of the gallery； admiring some pre？raphaelite there； derided that pre？raphaelite。 the third day henley discovered the poor man on a chair in the middle of the room； staring disconsolately upon the floor。 he terrified us also； and certainly i did not dare； and i think none of us dared； to speak our admiration for book or picture he condemned； 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 can remember meeting of a sunday night charles whibley； kenneth grahame； author of the golden age；
barry pain； now a well known novelist； r。 a。 m。 stevenson； art critic and a famous talker； george wyndham； later on a cabinet 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 cannot 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 and we knew that his judgment could neither sleep； nor be softened； nor changed； 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 vulcan perpetually forging swords for other men to