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