how constantly the history of a great nation will live in and by its art.  Only a few thin wreaths of beaten gold remain to tell us of the stately empire of Etruria; and, while from the streets of Florence the noble knight and haughty duke have long since passed away, the gates which the simple goldsmith Gheberti made for their pleasure still guard their lovely house of baptism, worthy still of the praise of Michael Angelo who called them worthy to be the Gates of Paradise.

Have then your school of design, search out your workmen and, when you find one who has delicacy of hand and that wonder of invention necessary for goldsmiths’ work, do not leave him to toil in obscurity and dishonour and have a great glaring shop and two great glaring shop-boys in it (not to take your orders:  they never do that; but to force you to buy something you do not want at all).  When you want a thing wrought in gold, goblet or shield for the feast, necklace or wreath for the women, tell him what you like most in decoration, flower or wreath, bird in flight or hound in the chase, image of the woman you love or the friend you honour.  Watch him as he beats out the gold into those thin plates delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or draws it into the long wires like tangled sunbeams at dawn.  Whoever that workman be help him, cherish him, and you will have such lovely work from his hand as will be a joy to you for all time.

This is the spirit of our movement in England, and this is the spirit in which we would wish you to work, making eternal by your art all that is noble in your men and women, stately in your lakes and mountains, beautiful in your own flowers and natural life.  We want to see that you have nothing in your houses that has not been a joy to the man who made it, and is not a joy to those that use it.  We want to see you create an art made by the hands of the people to please the hearts of the people too.  Do you like this spirit or not?  Do you think it simple and strong, noble in its aim, and beautiful in its result?  I know you do.

Folly and slander have their own way for a little time, but for a little time only.  You now know what we mean:  you will be able to estimate what is said of us—­its value and its motive.

There should be a law that no ordinary newspaper should be allowed to write about art.  The harm they do by their foolish and random writing it would be impossible to overestimate—­not to the artist but to the public, blinding them to all, but harming the artist not at all.  Without them we would judge a man simply by his work; but at present the newspapers are trying hard to induce the public to judge a sculptor, for instance, never by his statues but by the way he treats his wife; a painter by the amount of his income and a poet by the colour of his necktie.  I said there should be a law, but there is really no necessity for a new law:  nothing could be easier than to bring the ordinary critic under the head of the criminal classes.  But let us leave such an inartistic subject and return to beautiful and comely things, remembering that the art which would represent the spirit of modern newspapers would be exactly the art which you and I want to avoid—­grotesque art, malice mocking you from every gateway, slander sneering at you from every corner.