When I returned to Chicago in October [1914] from a beautiful country which was sending its young men into the horrors of destruction, it seemed to me that I should be unable to interest myself at all in a nice, constructive process, the result of which is designedly an object of luxury and beauty, fitted to peaceful enjoyment and to a life of harmony and possible contemplation. I practically closed my bindery and did not expect anyone to think either of possessing beautiful books or of learning to make them. But since I find that a few still purpose to continue the tenor of normal life, even including the pursuit of the minor arts, I have readjusted; and I find that there is rest for the racked nerves in a process of construction pursued thoroughly and in quietness. I recall Morris pointing out in one of his lectures that it would be a pity to let art die out altogether, even for the cause of devoting every energy, as one is tempted to do, to bringing about a rational public life, as a fit garden for art.