ferred Chaucer to Shakespeare, and did not admire Milton? What did he think of Michael Angelo? Was Swinburne likely to become a Socialist? Was Burne-Jones a Socialist? And (inevitably) how did Robert Burns rank as a poet?
This last question afforded Morris an opportunity of breaking from the fetters of the inquisition. 'Don't you know,' he replied adroitly, 'that I am constitutionally incapable of giving an opinion on your national bard? So at least a Scotch friend of mine, and one of the best linguists and best informed literary men I know of, tells me. No man, he says, but a Scotchman can really understand and appreciate Burns, and I have the misfortune not to be a Scotchman, but a pock-pudding Englishman. He tells me that were I a Scotchman and able to appreciate the real greatness of Burns' genius, I should set him above Shakespeare, Dante, Virgil, and Homer. But it is perhaps just as well, after all, don't you think, that I am not a Scotchman, for in that case I should not have been William Morris, and should not have had the pleasure of meeting you to-day, and inflicting a two hours' Socialist sermon on you.'
As the day advanced the weather had not improved. A cold, drizzling sleet was falling, and the sky had become quite dusk. It was now after one o'clock, and most of those present were already late for their dinner or lunch. To our delight, Morris announced that he would willingly spend the afternoon with us, and we decided to adjourn the meeting, on the understanding that those who cared to do so, or were able to do so, should return at 2.30. Whereupon, our gathering broke up, and I took Morris off to lunch at a restaurant—MacArthur's in the Trongate, the solitary dining establishment then open in Glasgow on Sundays.
When we returned to the rooms, a regular snowstorm had begun, and only some seven or eight of the branch members had returned to join our afternoon's symposium. So dark was it that we had to light the gas. But although
