Richard Le Gallienne was the first real poet I had ever laid eyes upon
in the flesh and it seemed to my rapt senses that this frock-coated
young god, with the classic profile and the dark curls curving from the
impeccable silk "tile" that surmounted them as curve the acanthus
leaves of a Corinthian capital, could be none other than Anacreon's
self in modern shape.

I can see Le Gallienne now, as he steps across the sunlit sidewalk and
with gesture Mercurian hails the passing Jehu. I can even hear the
quick clud of the cab doors as the smartly turning hansome snatches
from my view the glass-dimmed face I was not to behold again until
years later at the house of a mutual friend in New York.

In another moment the swiftly moving vehicle was dissolved in the
glitter of Regent Street and I fell to musing upon the curious
interlacement of parts in this picture puzzle of life.

Here was a common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself the
several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of habeas
corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the hour and
all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown, including the
_pourboire_!

Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And how
might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse!

* * * * * *

Now after all these years it has come to pass that I am to change