Another member of the party, a city councillor, who was an ardent Henry Georgite, fancied he was making himself both entertaining and instructive to our guest, by immediately citing from a notebook, which was never out of his hand, the rent value of the land in the neighbourhood of any part of the landscape on which Morris' eye happened for a moment to rest.
Another friend, an enthusiastic vegetarian, was eager to ascertain what the dietetic habits were of Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Swinburne, and other men of genius with whom Morris was acquaint, and assured Morris that he would find his intellect much clearer, and feel fit for twice as much work, if he gave up flesh-eating and stimulants!
There were, of course, several young aspirants to literary and art fame who took occasion to waylay Morris when he was by himself, and submit to him examples of their verses or specimens of their designs—all unconscious, let us hope, of the squirming of their victim!
Morris, I repeat, bore himself splendidly through all this prolonged heckling and harassment, and his forbearance never once gave way. Is there, I wonder, any other poet or artist of repute who would have endured a similar experience with so much patience and good-humour? I cannot think of anyone. Shelley would have fled the steamboat at the first port of call; Wordsworth would have ensconced himself on a campstool and gone to sleep; Tennyson would have hidden himself away somewhere—if need be, in the coal-hole.
The Lochgoilhead excursion was, however, an exceptional experience. Generally, Morris' experiences of the fraternal receptions arranged on the occasion of his visits to branches were of a less exacting kind. Even in Glasgow, where we were always apt to exploit the fame and zeal of our elect brethren to the utmost, we did better on after occasions. I remember how wholly delightful was the tea-party meeting we held in his honour on his next visit the following season. A more enjoyable and appropriate
