of the grass and flowers, if only I could see the old church, and the meadow, and hear the birds and the voices of the village folk. But that, of course, would not be death; and I suppose that I should soon want to be up and doing. No, I cannot think it out. It is inexplicable.
'There is Tolstoy, too. There is much that is interesting in him and in his "Inward Light" idea. I do not despise his teaching. I only feel that it leads me deeper into the insoluble mystery.'
******
I must warn my readers that in these jottings I am giving rather what expresses my present impression of some of Morris' observations than what he actually said or meant to convey. My mind, as I have already said, was not, at that time, closely bent on religious topics. Had I been listening to him now, or even a year or two later, when my mind was re-opening itself to the wonder of these high questions of belief—with what ardour and care I should have made record of every word of his conversation!
Only on one other occasion did he speak to me in an intimate way about the deeper problems of religion. I had not intended trying to set down in these pages his remarks on that occasion, because on my first reflecting back on our conversation my recollection of it hardly seemed to yield any additional light on the inner state of his mind. But the foregoing considerations have now made me think that I may be wrong in that judgment; and I have decided therefore to recall as clearly as I can the tenor of his remarks.
The conversation to which I refer took place during one of my last talks with him: indeed, I am not sure but that it was the very last time we spoke together in his library at Kelmscott House. I cannot now remember what led him to allude to the subject; but perhaps it arose from my having mentioned to him that I had, that morning, on my way to his house, met Mr. Touzeau Paris, a neighbour
