What of art? Now, very many people, I am afraid, in this and other countries, do not realise that beauty is a necessity of daily life for the human being, and when he does not get it he is less man, less woman, than he ought to be. It is not a question as to whether you should have a beautiful thing as a luxury; it is a necessity, and it should be the daily bread of life. Nations which knew the value of beauty made their towns beautiful; their works of art were made common property, their buildings were exquisitely proportioned, their architecture magnificent, and out of all that, open always to the masses of the people, grew a beauty of form and a beauty of mind that cannot possibly grow up in a nation where the towns are allowed to be hideous, where the air is poisoned, and where all the common things of life are ugly instead of beautiful. There is one thing in India that I have often complained of; it will not strike you here so much as it would inevitably strike you there. The old Indian life was a life full of beauty. Even now, out in the villages, life is beautiful. The garments of men and women alike are graceful, flowing, exquisite in colour. If you see an Indian peasant woman working in the fields she is a picture to paint, for the grace of her drapery, for the beauty of the colours that she wears; and if you see her going to the village well to draw water, she will carry on her head some vessel, it may be of beaten bronze or copper, it may be of kneaded clay, it will always be beautiful in form and exquisite in colour, Nowadays, since our civilisation has spread its power through India, things are changing; aniline dyes are replacing vegetable dyes; kerosene oil tins are replacing the exquisite vessels of the older days. In the old days in a village, when there was a wedding, every house contributed some of its beautiful vessels for the village festival; but now those have been cast aside, and miserable tin vessels take their place. It is only a small thing, you may say; I assure you it is a very great thing; for to kill out the sense of beauty which comes by living in contact with Nature—for Nature is beautiful everywhere, and contact with her beautifies the human face and form and mind—the killing-out of that sense of beauty which grows out of the mountains and the rivers, and the meadows and the groves, that is a national loss, and spells national decay. The garden cities you are beginning to build, those are not mere fancies of fanciful people, but a wise attempt to get the people out of the hideousness of bricks and mortar as they are used in England, into the country, where life still is fair, and where sunshine and colour are supreme. The life is poor where there is no beauty, and life itself grows common, vulgar, where beauty is not a dominating force. It is one of the great revelations of God Himself, for beauty lies in perfection of harmony, in exquisiteness of outline, in loveliness of