‘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 homœopathic 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.’