else would, nor to cavil by declaring that the inanities of
the Plush-Covered Age followed the Era of the Hair-Cloth Sofa. These
things are frankly admitted, but the refreshing fact remains that fully
one-half the homes of England and America have been influenced by the good
taste and vivid personality of one strong, earnest man.

William Morris was the strongest all-round man the century has produced.
He was an Artist and a Poet in the broadest and best sense of these
much-bandied terms. William Morris could do more things, and do them well,
than any other man of either ancient or modern times whom we can name.
William Morris was master of six distinct trades. He was a weaver, a
blacksmith, a wood-carver, a painter, a dyer and a printer; and he was a
musical composer of no mean ability.

Better than all, he was an enthusiastic lover of his race: his heart
throbbed for humanity, and believing that society could be reformed only
from below, he cast his lot with the toilers, dressed as one of them, and
in the companionship of workingmen found a response to his holy zeal which
the society of an entailed aristocracy denied.

The man who could influence the entire housekeeping of half a world, and
give the kingdom of fashion a list to starboard; who could paint beautiful
pictures; compose music; speak four languages; write sublime verse;
address a public assemblage effectively; produce plays; resurrect the lost
art of making books, books such as were made only in the olden time as a
loving, religious service; who lived a clean, wholesome, manly
life--beloved by those who knew him best--shall we not call him Master?

ROBERT BROWNING

So, take and use Thy work,
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim:
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same.
--_Rabbi Ben Ezra_

[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING]

If there ever lived a poet to whom the best minds pour out libations, it
is Robert Browning. We think of him as dwelling on high Olympus; we read
his lines by the light of dim candles; we quote him in sonorous monotone
at twilight when soft-sounding organ-chants come to us mellow and sweet.
Browning's poems form a lover's litany to that elect few who hold that the
true mating of a man and a woman is the marriage of the mind. And thrice
blest was Browni