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 . . .