In those days Theodore Watts (he had but recently taken on the -
Dunton) was still something of a gad-about. I had met him here and
there, he had said in his stentorian tones pleasant things to me about
my writing, I sent him a new little book of mine, and in acknowledging
this he asked me to come down to Putney and `have luncheon and meet
Swinburne.' Meet Catullus!
On the day appointed `I came as one whose feet half linger.' It is but
a few steps from the railway-station in Putney High Street to No. 2.
The Pines. I had expected a greater distance to the sanctuary--a walk
in which to compose my mind and prepare myself for initiation. I laid
my hand irresolutely against the gate of the bleak trim front-garden,
I withdrew my hand, I went away. Out here were all the aspects of
common modern life. In there was Swinburne. A butcher-boy went by,
whistling. He was not going to see Swinburne. He could afford to
whistle. I pursued my dilatory course up the slope of Putney, but at
length it occurred to me that unpunctuality would after all be an
imperfect expression of reverence, and I retraced my footsteps.
No. 2--prosaic inscription! But as that front-door closed behind me I
had the instant sense of having slipped away from the harsh light of
the ordinary and contemporary into the dimness of an odd, august past.
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