together, though Blatchford seemed rather a taciturn man. 'He is a queerish, black-looking chap,' Morris remarked. 'But I'm not sure he came quite out of his shell.'
He inquired about what our old League comrades in Scotland were doing, the Rev. Dr. Glasse, John Gilray, and others in Edinburgh, Webster, Leatham in Aberdeen, and Muirhead, Joe Burgoyne, Sandy Haddow, Dr. Stirling Robertson, and others in Glasgow. I was struck with the distinctness which these far-away and but seldom seen comrades had in his mind.
He showed me, I remember, a letter in MS. he had written to the Athenæum or Academy (I forget on what subject), and I had no little delight in pointing out the word 'paralel' and several similar misspellings in it, as he had reprimanded me for my own misspelling on a recent occasion. 'Oh,' he said, 'I don't profess to spell correctly—spell, that is to say, according to rule. Spelling and grammar were made for man, not man for spelling and grammar.'
On my wife joining us he brought in cider and cakes, as we both had to go into the City early, and could not wait for lunch. He displayed a number of new designs for the Kelmscott Press, saying he was greatly pleased with them, and speaking, as always, with affectionate admiration of his collaborator, Burne-Jones. I asked if Burne-Jones was getting at all inclined towards Socialism. He shrugged his shoulders. 'The Trafalgar Square riots terrified him against Socialism at the outset,' he said. 'If only we could guarantee that the Social Revolution would not burn down the National Gallery he might almost be persuaded to join us, I think. But who is going to guarantee what the people, or, for that matter, the soldiers, will do or will not do, should ever the flames of revolution burst forth?'
As we arose to go I alluded to an article by him which had appeared with his photograph in the January number of the Labour Prophet—the organ of the new Labour Church movement. I said that some of his old friends
