etail; the big clumsy hands, apt for such delicacy of work; to
see him in his rough blue suit, his easy rolling gait, wandering about,
stooping to look at the flowers in the beds, or glancing up at the
sky, or sauntering off to fish in the stream, or writing swiftly in
the parlour, or working at his loom; so bluff, so kindly, so blunt in
address, so unaffected, loving all that he saw, the tide of full-blooded
and restless life running so vigorously in his veins; or, further
back, Rossetti, with his wide eyes, half bright, half languorous,
pale, haunted with impossible dreams, pacing, rapt in feverish thought,
through the lonely fields. The ghosts of heroes! And whether it was that
my own memories and affections and visions stirred my brain, or that
some tide of the spirit still sets from the undiscovered shores to the
scenes of life and love, I know not, but the place seemed thronged with
unseen presences and viewless mysteries of hope. Doubtless, loving as
we do the precise forms of earthly beauty, the wide green pastures, the
tender grace of age on gable and wall, the springing of sweet flowers,
the clear gush of the stream, we are really in love with some deeper
and holier thing; yet even about the symbols themselves there lingers a
consecrating power; and that influence was present with me to-day, as
I went homewards in the westering light, with the shadows of house and
tree lengthening across the grass in the still afternoon.

Heroes, I said? Well, I will not here speak of Rossetti, though his
impassioned heart and wayward dreams were made holy, I think, through
suffering: he has purged his fault. But I cannot deny the name of hero
to Morris. Let me put into words what was happening to him at the very
time at which he had made this sweet place his home. He had already
done as much in those early years as many men do in a lifetime. He
had written great poems, he had loved and wedded, he had made abundant
friends, his wealth was growing fast; he loved every detail of his
work, designing, weaving, dyeing; he had a band of devoted workers and
craftsmen under him. He could defy the world; he cared nothing at all
for society or honours. He had magnificent vitality, a physique which
afforded him every kind of wholesome momentary enjoyment.

In the middle of all this happy activity a cloud came over his mind,
blotting out the sunshine. Partly, perhaps, private sorrows had
something to do with it; partly, perhaps, a weakeni