And how shall men dress?  Men say that they do not particularly care how they dress, and that it is little matter.  I am bound to reply that I do not think that you do.  In all my journeys through the country, the only well-dressed men that I saw—­and in saying this I earnestly deprecate the polished indignation of your Fifth Avenue dandies—­were the Western miners.  Their wide-brimmed hats, which shaded their faces from the sun and protected them from the rain, and the cloak, which is by far the most beautiful piece of drapery ever invented, may well be dwelt on with admiration.  Their high boots, too, were sensible and practical.  They wore only what was comfortable, and therefore beautiful.  As I looked at them I could not help thinking with regret of the time when these picturesque miners would have made their fortunes and would go East to assume again all the abominations of modern fashionable attire.  Indeed, so concerned was I that I made some of them promise that when they again appeared in the more crowded scenes of Eastern civilisation they would still continue to wear their lovely costume.  But I do not believe they will.

Now, what America wants today is a school of rational art.  Bad art is a great deal worse than no art at all.  You must show your workmen specimens of good work so that they come to know what is simple and true and beautiful.  To that end I would have you have a museum attached to these schools—­not one of those dreadful modern institutions where there is a stuffed and very dusty giraffe, and a case or two of fossils, but a place where there are gathered examples of art decoration from various periods and countries.  Such a place is the South Kensington Museum in London whereon we build greater hopes for the future than on any other one thing.  There I go every Saturday night, when the museum is open later than usual, to see the handicraftsman, the wood-worker, the glass-blower and the worker in metals.  And it is here that the man of refinement and culture comes face to face with the workman who ministers to his joy.  He comes to know more of the nobility of the workman, and the workman, feeling the appreciation, comes to know more of the nobility of his work.

You have too many white walls.  More colour is wanted.  You should have such men as Whistler among you to teach you the beauty and joy of colour.  Take Mr. Whistler’s ‘Symphony in White,’ which you no doubt have imagined to be something quite bizarre.  It is nothing of the sort.  Think of a cool grey sky flecked here and there with white clouds, a grey ocean and three wonderfully beautiful figures robed in white, leaning over the water and dropping white flowers from their fingers.  Here is no extensive intellectual scheme to trouble you, and no metaphysics of which we have had quite enough in art.  But if the simple and unaided colour strike the right keynote, the whole conception is made clear.  I regard Mr. Whistler’s famous