practical men. We have sat at the feet of the poets who sang of heaven, and they have told us their dreams. We have listened to the poets who sang of earth, and they have chanted to us dirges, and words of despair. But there is one class of men more-men, not capable of vision, nor sensitive to sorrow, but firm of purpose-practised in business; learned in all that can be, by handling, known. Men, whose hearts and hopes are wholly in this present world, from whom, therefore, we may surely learn, at least, how, at present, conveniently to live in it. What will they say to us, or show us by example ? These kings-these councillors-these statesmen and builders of kingdoms-these capitalists and men of business, who weigh the earth and the dust of it in a balance. They know the world, surely; and what is the mystery of life to us, is none to them. They can surely show us how to live, while we live, and to gather out of the present world what is best.

I think I can best tell you their answer, by telling you a dream I had once. For though I am no poet, I have dreams sometimes :-I dreamed I was at a child's May-day party, in which every means of entertainment had been provided for them, by a wise and kind host. It was in a stately house, with beautiful gardens attached to it; and the children had been set free in the rooms and gardens, with no care whatever but how to pass their afternoon rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know much about what was to happen next day; and some of them, I thought, were a little frightened, because there was a chance of

their being sent to a new school where there were examinations; but they kept the thoughts of that out of their heads as well as they could, and resolved to enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful garden, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers; sweet grassy banks for rest; and smooth lawns for play; and pleasant streams and woods; and rocky places for climbing. And the children were happy for a little while, but presently they separated themselves into parties; and then each party declared, it would have a piece of the garden for its own, and that none of the others should have anything to do with that piece. Next, they quarrelled violently, which pieces they would have; and at last the boys took up the thing practically, and fought in the flower-beds till there was hardly a flower left standing; there they trampled down each other's bits of the garden out of spite; and the girls cried till they could cry no more; and so they all lay down at last breathless in the ruin, and waited for the time when they were to be taken home in the evening. Meanwhile, the children in the house had been making themselves happy also in their manner. them, there had been provided every kind of in-doors pleasure: there was music for them to dance to ; and the library was open, with all manner of amusing books; and there was a museum, full of the most curious shells, and animals, and birds; and there was a workshop, with lathes and carpenter's tools, for the ingenious boys; and there were pretty fantastic dresses, for the girls to dress in; and there were micro

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scopes and kaleidoscopes; and whatever toys a child could fancy; and a table, in the dining-room, loaded with everything nice to eat.

But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or three of the more practical children, that they would like some of the brass-headed nails that studded the chairs, and they set to work to pull them out. Presently, the others, who were reading or looking at shells, took a fancy to do the like; and, in a little while, all the children nearly were spraining their fingers, in pulling out brass-headed nails. With all that they could pull out, they were not satisfied; and then, everybody wanted some of somebody else's. And at last, the really practical and sensible ones declared, that nothing was of any real consequence, that afternoon, except 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; and wiser. Children never do such foolish things. men do.

But

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, though they no more can dress or keep the garden.

These,-hewers of wood, and drawers of water— 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 honor, 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, and was utterly silent respecting all that he himself did.

The moment a man can really do his work, he becomes speechless about it. All words become idle to him-all theories.

Does a bird need to theorize about building its nest, or boast of it when built. All good work is essentially done that way-without hesitation, without difficulty, without boasting; and in the doers of the best, there is an inner and involuntary power which approximates literally to the instinct of an animal—nay, I am certain that in the most perfect