those whom he is addressing, but with all people in the world.
How rare that posture of mind is among writers, reformers, and public leaders, even those who are reckoned democratic! Of the poets I can recollect none except Robert Burns (different in temperament as he was) who is at all akin to him in this respect. Shelley always seemed to belong to a different world from mankind generally. Ruskin and Carlyle both acclaimed the dignity of labour, and both spoke as men who recognised the indivisible unity of rich and poor, educated and uneducated. We are all of the one body in God's sight, so they said. Nevertheless, they both posed as men of higher spiritual calling, higher moral and intellectual perception, than the mass of their fellows. The public, the people, the democracy, were a rather shapeless, nebulous mass or herd down below somewhere. With Ruskin, the people are always 'You', with Carlyle they are even farther away, they are 'They'; but with Morris the people are always 'We.' Ruskin and Carlyle are for ever scolding, are admonishing the public and mankind as 'Schoolmasters.' Morris always (except in explosive moments when he seemed kindled into a flame of Olympian or Jehovist wrath) spoke as a fellow-man and a fellow-sinner. Even when referring to the wrong-doings and stupidities of the public he almost invariably included himself as one equally guilty with the rest. Seldom, even in his most passionate protests as a Socialist against the evils of existing society, did he think of separating himself, or Socialists as a whole, from the full sweep of his expostulation.
Therein, I say, we discern something of that remarkable quality in Morris which makes so unique and attractive, and, I think, so prophetic, his character as a man and his teaching as a Socialist.
It is generally supposed that Morris' health was seriously impaired by his public speaking and agitation. Mr. Mackail, in his 'Life of Morris,' and other writers on Morris speak in this strain. A similar idea, as my readers know,
