and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as a
rule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament,
that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit.
There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance of
sensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is not
generally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, to
make sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all,
impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist,
the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art are
the cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst for
beautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translate
these impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artist
has desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is not
the end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treated
by him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feed
the central flame. If one examines the records of great artistic
careers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and it
is, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a nature
which has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is not
always consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; he
tends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life as
ministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a great
master of musical art discussing the music of a young man of
extraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure;
he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it is
incomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love."

A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full of
vitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire for
self-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully as
eager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of the
earth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, the
lingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food,
with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them in
his own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point for
him is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there.
Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries of
human