Every student of Blake has read, or must read, Mr. Swinburne’s extraordinary essay, William Blake: a critical study, of which a new edition was recently published. It would be idle at this time of day to criticise. Much has been discovered, and more is likely to be discovered, about Blake since 1866. The interest of the book, for us, is chiefly reflex. And does not the great mouth laugh at a gift, if scheduled in an examination paper with the irritating question, ‘From what author does this quotation come?’ would probably elicit the reply, ‘Swinburne.’ Yet it occurs in one of Blake’s prophetic books.

How fascinated Blake would have been with Mr. Swinburne if by some exquisite accident he had lived after him. We should have had, I fancy, another Prophetic Book; something of this kind:

Swinburne roars and shakes the world’s literature—
The English Press, and a good many contemporaries—
Tennyson palls, Browning is found—
Only a brownie—
The mountains divide, the Press is unanimous—
Aylwin is born—
On a perilous path, on the cliff of immortality—
I met Theodormon—
He seemed sad: I said, ‘Why are you sad—
Are you writing the long-promised life—
Of Dante Gabriel Rossetti?’—
He sighed and said, ‘No, not that—
Not that, my child—
I consigned the task to William Michael—
Pre-Raphaelite memoirs are cheap to-day—
You can have them for a sextet or an octave.’—
I brightened and said, ‘Then you are writing a sonnet?’
He shook his head and said it was symbolical—
For six and eightpence!—
A golden rule: Never lend only George Borrow—

A new century had begun, and I asked Theodormon what he was doing on that path and where Mr. Swinburne was. Beneath us yawned the gulf of oblivion.

‘Be careful, young man, not to tumble over; are you a poet or a biographer?’

I explained that I was merely a tourist. He gave a sigh of relief: ‘I have an appointment here with my only disciple, Mr. Howlglass; if you are not careful he may write an appreciation of you.’

‘My dear Theodormon, if you will show me how to reach Mr. Swinburne I will help you.’

‘I swear by the most sacred of all oaths, by Aylwin, you shall see Swinburne.’

Just then we saw a young man coming along the path with a Kodak and a pink evening paper. He seemed pleased to see me, and said, ‘May I appreciate you?’

I gave the young man a push and he fell right over the cliff. Theodormon threw down after him a heavy-looking book which, alighting on his skull, smashed it. ‘My preserver,’ he cried, ‘you shall see what you like, you shall do what you like, except write my biography. Swinburne is close at hand, though he occasionally wanders. His permanent address is the Peaks, Parnassus. Perhaps you would like to pay some other calls as well.’

I assented.

We came to a printing-house and found William Morris reverting to type and transmitting art to the middle classes.

‘The great Tragedy of Topsy’s life,’ said Theodormon, ‘is that he converted the middle classes to art and socialism, but he never touched the unbending Tories of the proletariat or the smart set. You would have thought, on homoeopathic principles, that cretonne would appeal to cretins.’

‘Vale, vale,’ cried Charles Ricketts from the interior.

I was rather vexed, as I wanted to ask Ricketts his opinions about various things and people and to see his wonderful collection. Shannon, however, presented me with a lithograph and a copy of ‘Memorable Fancies,’ by C. R.

How sweet I roamed from school to school,
But I attached myself to none;
I sat upon my ancient Dial
And watched the other artists’ fun.

Will Rothenstein can guard the faith,
Safe for the Academic fold;
’Twas very wise of William Strang,
What need have I of Chantrey’s gold?

Let the old masters be my share,
And let them fall on B. B.’s corn;
Let the Uffizi take to Steer—
What do I care for Herbert Horne

Or the stately Holmes of England,
Whose glories never fade;
The Constable of Burlington,
Who holds the Oxford Slade.

It’s Titian here and Titian there,
And come to have a look;
But ‘thanks of course Giorgione,’
With Mr. Herbert Cook.

For MacColl is an intellectual thing,
And Hugh P. Lane keeps Dublin awake,
And Fry to New York has taken wing,
And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.

After turning round a rather sharp corner I began to ask Theodormon if John Addington Symonds was anywhere to be found. He smiled, and said: ‘I know why you are asking. Of course he is here, but we don’t see much of him. He published, at the Kelmscott, the other day, “An Ode to a Grecian Urning.” The proceeds of the sale went to the Arts and Krafts Ebbing Guild, but the issue of “Aretino’s Bosom, and other Poems,” has been postponed.’

We now reached a graceful Renaissance building covered with blossoms; on each side of the door were two blue-breeched gondoliers smoking calamus. Theodormon hurried on, whispering: ‘That is where he lives. If you want to see Swinburne you had better make haste, as it is getting late, and I want you to inspect the Castalian spring.’

The walking became very rough just here; it was really climbing. Suddenly I became aware of dense smoke emerging with a rumbling sound from an overhanging rock.

‘I had no idea Parnassus was volcanic now,’ I remarked.

‘No more had we,’ said Theodormon; ‘it is quite a recent eruption due to the Celtic movement. The rock you see, however, is not a real rock, but a sham rock. Mr. George Moore has been turned out of the cave, and is still hovering about the entrance.’

Looming through the smoke, which hung like a veil of white muslin between us, I was able to trace the silhouette of that engaging countenance which Edouard Manet and others have immortalised. ‘Go away,’ he said: ‘I do not want to speak to you.’ ‘Come, come, Mr. Moore,’ I rejoined, ‘will you not grant a few words to a really warm admirer?’—but he had faded away. Then a large hand came out of the cavern and handed me a piece of paper, and a deep voice with a slight brogue said: ‘If you see mi darlin’ Gosse give this to him.’ The paper contained these verses:—

Georgey Morgie, kidden and sly,
Kissed the girls and made them cry;
What the girls came out to say
George never heard, for he ran away.

W. B. Y

We skirted the edge of a thick wood. A finger-post pointed to the Castalian spring, and a notice-board indicated Trespassers will be prosecuted. The lease to be disposed of. Apply to G. K. Chesterton.

Soon we came to an open space in which was situated a large, rather dilapidated marble tank. I noticed that the water did not reach further than the bathers’ stomachs. Theodormon anticipated my surprise. ‘Yes, we have had to depress the level of the water during the last few years out of compliment to some of the bathers, and there have been a good many bathing fatalities of a very depressing description.’

‘You don’t mean to say,’ I replied, ‘Richard le Gallienne?’

‘Hush! hush! he was rescued.’

‘Stephen Phillips?’ I asked, anxiously.

‘Well, he couldn’t swim, of course, but he floated; you see he had the Sidney Colvin lifebelt on, and that is always a great assistance.’

‘Not,’ I almost shrieked, ‘my favourite poet, the author of “Lord ’a Muzzy don’t you fret. Missed we De Wet. Missed we De Wet”?’

Theodormon became very grave. ‘We do not know any of their names,’ he said. ‘I will show you, presently, the Morgue. Perhaps you will be able to identify some of your friends. The Coroner has refused to open an inquest until Mr. John Lane can attend to give his evidence.’

I saw the Poet Laureate trying very hard to swim on his back. Another poet was sitting down on the marble floor so that the water might at least come up to his neck. Gazing disconsolately into the pellucid shallows I saw the revered and much-loved figures of Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, and Mr. Edmund Gosse. ‘Going for a dip?’ said Theodormon. ‘Thanks, we don’t care about paddling,’ Mr. Lang retorted.

‘I hope it is not always so shallow,’ 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 Mr. Swinburne or the ungrateful Theodormon I do not know, but I found myself falling down the gulf of oblivion, and suddenly, with a dull thud, I landed on the remains of Howlglass. The softness of his head had really preserved me from what might have been a severe shock, because the distance from Parnassus to Fleet Street, as you know, is considerable, and the escalade might have been more serious. I reached my rooms in Half Moon Street, however, having seen only one star, with just a faint nostalgia for the realms into which for one brief day I was privileged to peep.

(1906.)