text:  Thus you perceive for men whose education is _intellectual_ but whose practice is more or less _mechanical_ you have many great intermediate and little prizes in the lottery of life; but where on the contrary are the prizes for the historian transmitting to posterity the events and men and times long since past; where the prize of the analyst of mind of the dramatic the epic or the lyric poet the essayist and all whose works are likely to become the classics of future times; where the prize of the public journalist who points the direction of public opinion and himself without place station or even name teaches Governments their duty and prevents Ministers of State becoming by hardihood or ignorance intolerable evils; where the prize of the great artist who has not employed himself making faces for hire but who has worked in loneliness and isolation living like Barry upon raw apples and cold water that he might bequeath to his country some memorial worthy the age in which he lived and the art _for_ which he lived? For these men and such as these are no prizes in the lottery of life; a grateful country sets apart for them no places where they can retire in the full enjoyment of their fame; condemned to labour for their bread not in a dull mechanical routine of professional official or business-like duties but in the most severe most wearing of all labour _the labour of the brain_ they end where they begun