I was delighted with this. Another time he wrote a parody of Myers' "St. Paul" for me. I will only quote one verse out of the eight:
Lo! what the deuce I'm always saying "Lo!" for
God is aware and leaves me uninformed.
Lo! there is nothing left for me to go for,
Lo! there is naught inadequately formed.
He ended by signing his name and writing:
Souvenez-vous si les vers que je trace
Fussent parfois (je l'avoue!) l'argot,
Si vous trouvez un peu trop d'audace
On ose tout quand on se dit
"Margot."
My dear friend J.K.S. was responsible for the aspiration frequently quoted:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards ride no more.
Although I can hardly claim Symonds as a Soul, he was so much interested in me and my friends that I must write a short account of him.
I was nursing my sister, Pauline Gordon Duff, when I first met
John Addington Symonds, in 1885, at Davos.
I climbed up to Am Hof[Footnote: J. A. Symonds's country house.] one afternoon with a letter of introduction, which was taken to the family while I was shown into a wooden room full of charming things. As no one came near me, I presumed every one was out, so I settled down peacefully among the books, prepared to wait. In a little time I heard a shuffle of slippered feet and some one pausing at the open door.
"Has he gone?" was the querulous question that came from behind the screen.