ed the previous years that led up to it, without
having also the assured hopes for the years that lie beyond. The attempt
is constantly made by amateurs of all kinds, and by men of temporary
purposes, and it always fails. The amateur says when he awakes on some
fine summer morning, and draws up his blind, and looks out on the dewy
fields: "Ah, the world of nature is beautiful to-day: what if I were to
lead the life of an artist?" And after breakfast he seeks up his old box
of watercolor and his blockbook, and stool, and white umbrella, and what
not, and sallies forth, and fixes himself on the edge of the forest or
the banks of the amber stream. The day that he passes there looks like
an artist's day, yet it is not. It has not been preceded by the three or
four thousand days which ought to have led up to it; it is not strong in
the assured sense of present skill, in the calm knowledge that the hours
will bear good fruit. So the chances are that there will be some hurry,
and fretfulness, and impatience, under the shadow of that white parasol,
and also that when the day is over there will be a disappointment. You
cannot put an artist's day into the life of any one but an artist.

Our impatiences come mainly, I think, from an amateurish doubt about our
own capacity, which is accompanied by a fevered eagerness to see the
work done, because we are tormented both by hopes and fears so long as
it is in progress. We have fears that it may not turn out as it ought to
do, and we have at the same time hopes for its success. Both these
causes produce eagerness, and deprive us of the tranquillity which
distinguishes the thorough workman, and which is necessary to
thoroughness in the work itself. Now please observe that I am not
advising you to set aside these hopes and fears by an effort of the
will; when you have them they are the inevitable result of your state of
culture, and the will can no more get rid of them than it can get rid of
an organic disease. When you have a limited amount of power and of
culture, and are not quite clear in your own mind as to where the limits
lie, it is natural on the one hand that you should fear the
insufficiency of what you possess, and on the other that in more
sanguine moments you should indulge in hopes which are only extravagant
because your powers have not yet been accurately measured. You will
alternate between fear and hope, according to the temporary predominance
of saddening or cheerful ide