s told by one of them； on a night when i had done perhaps more than my share of the talking； that i had talked more nonsense in one evening than he had heard in the whole course of his past life。 i had merely preferred parnell； then at the height of his career； to michael davitt who had wrecked his irish influence by international politics。 we sat round a long unpolished and unpainted trestle table of new wood in a room where hung rossettis pomegranate； a portrait of mrs。 morris； and where one wall and part of the ceiling were covered by a great persian carpet。 morris had said somewhere or other that carpets were meant for people who took their shoes off when they entered a house； and were most in place upon a tent floor。 i was a little disappointed in the house； for morris was an old man content at last to gather beautiful things rather than to arrange a beautiful house。 i saw the drawing？room once or twice and there alone all my sense of decoration； founded upon the background of rossettis pictures； was satisfied by a big cupboard painted with a scene from chaucer by burne jones； but even there were objects； perhaps a chair or a little table； that seemed accidental； bought hurriedly perhaps； and with little thought； to make wife or daughter fortable。 i had read as a boy in books belonging to my father； the third volume of the earthly paradise and the defence of guinevere； which pleased me less； but had not opened either for a long time。 the man who never laughed again had seemed the most wonderful of tales till my father had accused me of preferring morris to keats； got angry about it and put me altogether out of countenance。 he had spoiled my pleasure； for now i questioned while i read and at last ceased to read； nor had morris written as yet those prose romances that became； after his death； so great a joy that they were the only books i was ever to read slowly that i might not e too quickly to the end。 it wasnow morris himself that stirred my interest； and i took to him first because of some little tricks of speech and body that reminded me of my old grandfather in sligo； but soon discovered his spontaneity and joy and made him my chief of men。 to？day i do not set his poetry very high； but for an odd altogether wonderful line； or thought； and yet； if some angel offered me the choice； i would choose to live his life； poetry and all； rather than my own or any other mans。 a reproduction of his portrait by watts hangs over my mantlepiece with henleys； and those of other friends。 its grave wide？open eyes； like the eyes of some dreaming beast； remind me of the open eyes of titians ariosto； while the broad vigorous body suggests a mind that has no need of the intellect to remain sane； though it give itself to every phantasy； the dreamer of the middle ages。 it is the fool of fairy 。。。 wide and wild as a hill； the resolute european image that yet half remembers buddhas motionless meditation； and has no trait in mon with the wavering； lean image of hungry speculation； that cannot but fill the minds eye because of certain famous hamlets of our stage。 shakespeare himself foreshadowed a symbolic change； that shows a change in the whole temperament of the world； for though he called his hamlet fat； and scant of breath； he thrust between his fingers agile rapier and dagger。
the dream world of morris was as much the antithesis of daily life as with other men of genius； but he was never conscious of the antithesis and so knew nothing of intellectual suffering。 his intellect； unexhausted by speculation or casuistry； was wholly at the service of hand and eye； and whatever he pleased he did with an unheard of ease and simplicity； and if style and vocabulary were at times monotonous； he could not have made them otherwise without ceasing to be himself。 instead of the language of chaucer and shakespeare； its warp fresh from field and market； if the woof were learned； his age offered him a speech； exhausted from abstraction； that only returned to its full vitality when written learnedly and slowly。 the roots of his antithetical dream were visible enough： a never idle man of great physical strength and extremely irascible？？did he not fling a badly baked plum pudding through the window upon xmas day？？？a man more joyous than any intellectual man of our world； called himself the idle singer of an empty day created new forms of melancholy； and faint persons； like the knights & ladies of burne jones； who are never； no； not once in forty volumes； put out of temper。 a blunderer； who had said to the only unconverted man at a socialist picnic in dublin； to prove that equality came easy； i was brought up a gentleman and now； as you can see； associate with all sorts； and left wounds thereby that rankled after twenty years； a man of whom i have heard it said he is always afraid that he is doing something wrong； and generally is； wrote long stories with apparently no other object than that his persons might show one another； through situations of poignant difficulty； the most exquisite tact。
he did not project； like henley or like wilde； an image of himself； because； having all his imagination set on making and doing； he had little self？knowledge。 he imagined instead new conditions of making and doing； and； in the teeth of those scientific generalisations that cowed my boyhood； i can see some like imagining in every great change； believing that the first flying fish leaped； not because it sought adaptation to the air； but out of horror of the sea。
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Four YearsX
soon after i began to attend the lectures； a french class was started in the old coach？house for certain young socialists who planned a tour in france； and i joined it and was for a time a model student constantly encouraged by the pliments of the old french mistress。 i told my father of the class； and he asked me to get my sisters admitted。 i made difficulties and put off speaking of the matter； for i knew that the new and admirable self i was making would turn； under family eyes； into plain rag doll。 how could i pretend to be industrious； and even carry dramatization to the point of learning my lessons； when my sisters were there and knew that i was nothing of the kind？ but i had no argument i could use and my sisters were admitted。 they said nothing unkind； so far as i can remember； but in a week or two i was my old procrastinating idle self and had soon left the class altogether。 my elder sister stayed on and became an embroideress under miss may morris； and the hangings round morriss big bed at kelmscott house； oxfordshire； with their verses about lying happily in bed when all birds sing in the town of the tree； were from her needle though not from her design。 she worked for the first few months at kelmscott house； hammersmith； and in my imagination icannot always separate what i saw and heard from her report； or indeed from the report of that tribe or guild who looked up to morris as to some worshipped mediaeval king。 he had no need for other people。 i doubt if their marriage or death made him sad or glad； and yet no man i have known was so well loved； you saw him producing everywhere organisation and beauty； seeming； almost in the same instant； helpless and triumphant； and people loved him as children are loved。 people much in his neighbourhood became gradually occupied with him； or about his affairs； and without any wish on his part； as simple people bee occupied with children。 i remember a man who was proud and pleased because he had distracted morris thoughts from an attack of gout by leading the conversation delicately to the hated name of milton。 he began at swinburne。
oh； swinburne； said morris； is a rhetorician； my masters have been keats and chaucer for they make pictures。 does not milton make pictures？ asked my informant。 no； was the answer； dante makes pictures； but milton； though he had a great earnest mind； expressed himself as a rhetorician。 great earnest mind；
sounded strange to me and i doubt not that were his questioner not a simple man； morris had been more violent。 another day the same man started by praising chaucer； but the gout was worse and morris cursed chaucer for destroying the english language with foreign words。
he had few detachable phrases and i can remember little of his speech； which many thought the best of all good talk； except that it matched his burly body and seemed within definite boundaries inexhaustible in fact and expression。 he alone of all the men i have known seemed guided by some beast？like instinct and never ate strange meat。 balzac！ balzac！ he said to me once； oh； that was the man the french bourgeoisie read so much a few years ago。 i can remember him at supper praising wine： why do people say it is prosaic to be inspired by wine？ has it not been made by the sunlight and the sap？ and his dispraising houses decorated by himself： do you suppose i like that kind of house？ i would like a house like a big barn； where one ate in one corner； cooked in another corner； slept in the third corner & in the fourth received ones friends； and his plaining of ruskins objection to the underground railway： if you must have a railway the best thing you can do with it is to put it in a tube with a cork at each end。 i remember too that when i asked