Date of this Version
A score of years have passed since that courageous band of young Englishmen who styled themselves the Rhymers' Club tried to transplant the air of the Latin Quarter into London, by meeting at the Cheshire Cheese to discuss welsh rarebits, ale, and each other's verses. Time has played havoc with their ranks, and to some extent with their works. Some of them have died; several have abandoned song for scholarship; Mr. Le Gallienne has migrated to America; Mr. Yeats devotes himself to managing the Irish renascence. Of the two most characteristic voices of the period, one, that of Ernest Dowson, was silenced years ago; Arthur Symons alone still carries the old banner. French decadence apparently did not flourish on English soil, and Dowson's "one strayed, last petal of one last year's rose" has yielded to Mr. John Masefield' s pugilism and to the smoke of Mr. W. W. Gibson's factories.