,' I said to my guide.

'Oh, no; we have a new water-supply, but as the spring is in the nature
of a public place, we won't turn on the fresh water until people have
learnt to appreciate what is good. That handsome little marble structure
which you see at the end of the garden is really the _new_ Castalian
Spring. At all events, that is where all the miracles take place. The
old bath is terribly out of repair, in spite of plumbing.'

We then inspected a very neat little apartment mosaiced in gold. Round
the walls were attractive drinking-fountains, and on each was written the
name of the new water--I mean the new poet. Some of them I recognised:
Laurence Binyon, A. E. Housman, Sturge Moore, Santayana, Arthur Symons,
Herbert Trench, Henry Simpson, Laurence Housman, F. W. Tancred, Arthur
Lyon Raile, William Watson, Hugh Austin.

'You see we have the very latest,' said Theodormon, 'provided it is
always the best. I am sorry to say that some of the taps don't give a
constant supply, but that is because the machinery wants oiling. Try
some Binyon,' said my guide, filling a gold cup on which was wrought by
some cunning craftsman the death of Adam and the martyrdom of the Blessed
Christina. I found it excellent and refreshing, and observed that it was
cheering to come across the excellence of sincerity and strength at a
comparatively new source . . .

Mr. Swinburne was seated in an arbour of roses, clothed in a gold
dalmatic, a birthday gift from his British Peers. Their names were
embroidered in pearls on the border. I asked permission to read my
address:--

There beats no heart by Cam or Isis
(Where tides of poets ebb and flow),
But guards Dolores as a crisis
Of long ago.

A crisis bringing fire and wonder,
A gift of some dim Eastern Mage,
A firework still smouldering under
The feet of middle age.

For you could love and hate and tell us
Of almost everything,
You made our older poets jealous,
For you alone could sing.

In truth it was your splendid praises
Which made us wake
To glories hidden in the phrases
Of William Blake.

No boy who sows his metric salads
His tamer oats,
But always steals from Swinburne's ballads
The stronger notes.

'Do you play golf?' said Mr. Swinburne, handing me two little spheres
such as are used in the royal game. And I heard no more; for I received
a blow--whether delivered by