liam Morris. Later I found that if a man knew William Morris, his
heart throbbed at the mention of his name, and he at once grew voluble and
confidential and friendly. It was the "Open Sesame," And if a person did
not know William Morris, he simply didn't, and that was all there was
about it.

But the man I met knew "Th' Ole Man," which was the affectionate title
used by all the hundreds and thousands who worked with William Morris. And
to prove that he knew him, when I asked that he should direct me to the
Upper Mall, he simply insisted on going with me. Moreover, he told a
needless lie and declared he was on the way there, although when we met he
was headed in the other direction. By a devious walk of half a mile we
reached the high iron fence of Kelmscott House. We arrived amid a florid
description of the Icelandic Sagas as told by my new-found friend and
interpreted by Th' Ole Man. My friend had not read the Sagas, but still he
did not hesitate to recommend them; and so we passed through the wide-open
gates and up the stone walk to the entrance of Kelmscott House. On the
threshold we met F.S. Ellis and Emery Walker, who addressed my companion
as "Tom." I knew Mr. Ellis slightly, and also had met Mr. Walker, who
works Rembrandt miracles with a camera.

Mr. Ellis was deep in seeing the famous "Chaucer" through the press, and
Mr. Walker had a print to show, so we turned aside, passed a great pile of
paper in crates that cluttered the hallway, and entered the library.
There, leaning over the long, oaken table, in shirt-sleeves, was the
master. Who could mistake that great, shaggy head, the tangled beard, and
frank, open-eyed look of boyish animation?

The man was sixty and more, but there was no appearance of age in eye,
complexion, form or gesture--only the whitened hair! He greeted me as if
we had always known each other, and Ellis and piles of Chaucer proof led
straight to old Professor Child of Harvard, whose work Ellis criticized
and Morris upheld. They fell into a hot argument, which was even continued
as we walked across the street to the Doves Bindery.

The Doves Bindery, as all good men know, is managed by Mr.
Cobden-Sanderson, who married one of the two daughters of Richard Cobden
of Corn-Law fame.

Just why Mr. Sanderson, the lawyer, should have borrowed his wife's maiden
name and made it legally a part of his own, I do not know. Anyway, I quite
like the idea of linking one's name with that of the woman o