Dowson was now at Dieppe, now at a Normandy village.  Wilde, too, was at Dieppe; and Symons, Beardsley, and others would cross and recross, returning with many tales, and there were letters and telegrams.  Dowson wrote a protest against some friend’s too vivid essay upon the disorder of his life, and explained that in reality he was living a life of industry in a little country village; but before the letter arrived that friend received a wire, “arrested, sell watch and send proceeds.”  Dowson’s watch had been left in London ­and then another wire, “Am free.”  Dowson, ran the tale as I heard it ten years after, had got drunk and fought the baker, and a deputation of villagers had gone to the magistrate and pointed out that Monsieur Dowson was one of the most illustrious of English poets.  “Quite right to remind me,” said the magistrate, “I will imprison the baker.”

A Rhymer had seen Dowson at some cafe in Dieppe with a particularly common harlot, and as he passed, Dowson, who was half drunk, caught him by the sleeve and whispered, “She writes poetry ­it is like Browning and Mrs Browning.”  Then there came a wonderful tale, repeated by Dowson himself, whether by word of mouth or by letter I do not remember.  Wilde has arrived in Dieppe, and Dowson presses upon him the necessity of acquiring “a more wholesome taste.”  They empty their pockets on to the cafe table, and though there is not much, there is enough if both heaps are put into one.  Meanwhile the news has spread, and they set out accompanied by a cheering crowd.  Arrived at their destination, Dowson and the crowd remain outside, and presently Wilde returns.  He says in a low voice to Dowson, “The first these ten years, and it will be the last.  It was like cold mutton” ­always, as Henley had said, “a scholar and a gentleman,” he no doubt remembered the sense in which the Elizabethan dramatists used the words “Cold mutton” ­and then aloud so that the crowd may hear him, “But tell it in England, for it will entirely restore my character.”