to get plenty of brass-headed nails; and that the books, and the cakes, and the microscopes were of no use at all in themselves, but only, if they could be exchanged for nail-heads.  And at last they began to fight for nail-heads, as the others fought for the bits of garden.  Only here and there, a despised one shrank away into a corner, and tried to get a little quiet with a book, in the midst of the noise; but all the practical ones thought of nothing else but counting nail-heads all the afternoon—­even though they knew they would not be allowed to carry so much as one brass knob away with them.  But no—­it was—­“who has most nails?  I have a hundred, and you have fifty; or, I have a thousand, and you have two.  I must have as many as you before I leave the house, or I cannot possibly go home in peace.”  At last, they made so much noise that I awoke, and thought to myself, “What a false dream that is, of children!” The child is the father of the man;[232] and wiser.  Children never do such foolish things.  Only men do.

But there is yet one last class of persons to be interrogated.  The wise religious men we have asked in vain; the wise contemplative men, in vain; the wise worldly men, in vain.  But there is another group yet.  In the midst of this vanity of empty religion—­of tragic contemplation—­of wrathful and wretched ambition, and dispute for dust, there is yet one great group of persons, by whom all these disputers live—­the persons who have determined, or have had it by a beneficent Providence determined for them, that they will do something useful; that whatever may be prepared for them hereafter, or happen to them here, they will, at least, deserve the food that God gives them by winning it honourably:  and that, however fallen from the purity, or far from the peace, of Eden, they will carry out the duty of human dominion, though they have lost its felicity; and dress and keep the wilderness,[233] though they no more can dress or keep the garden.

These,—­hewers of wood, and drawers of water,[234]—­these, bent under burdens, or torn of scourges—­these, that dig and weave—­that plant and build; workers in wood, and in marble, and in iron—­by whom all food, clothing, habitation, furniture, and means of delight are produced, for themselves, and for all men beside; men, whose deeds are good, though their words may be few; men, whose lives are serviceable, be they never so short, and worthy of honour, be they never so humble;—­from these, surely, at least, we may receive some clear message of teaching; and pierce, for an instant, into the mystery of life, and of its arts.

Yes; from these, at last, we do receive a lesson.  But I grieve to say, or rather—­for that is the deeper truth of the matter—­I rejoice to say—­this message of theirs can only be received by joining them—­not by thinking about them.

You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have obeyed you in coming.  But the main thing I have to tell you is,—­that art must not be talked about.  The fact that there is talk about it at all, signifies that it is ill done, or cannot be done.  No true painter ever speaks, or ever has spoken, much of his art.  The greatest speak nothing.  Even Reynolds is no exception, for he wrote of all that he could not himself do,[235] and was utterly silent respecting all that he himself did.