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