'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: