The ghosts of heroes! And whether it was that my
own memories and affections and visions stirred my brain, or that
some tide of the spirit still sets from the undiscovered shores to
the scenes of life and love, I know not, but the place seemed
thronged with unseen presences and viewless mysteries of hope.
Doubtless, loving as we do the precise forms of earthly beauty, the
wide green pastures, the tender grace of age on gable and wall, the
springing of sweet flowers, the clear gush of the stream, we are
really in love with some deeper and holier thing; yet even about
the symbols themselves there lingers a consecrating power; and that
influence was present with me to-day, as I went homewards in the
westering light, with the shadows of house and tree lengthening
across the grass in the still afternoon.
Heroes, I said? Well, I will not here speak of Rossetti, though his
impassioned heart and wayward dreams were made holy, I think,
through suffering: he has purged his fault. But I cannot deny the
name of hero to Morris.
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