ture, or any of the arts. The
architect, before putting pencil to paper, will have the splendid
cathedral before him as in a vision; the sculptor, the ideal form and
facial expression. The mind of the artist is a vast canvas on which
pictures appear, remaining a longer or shorter period at his will, and,
when no longer required, giving place to others. The idea once recorded
seems never to appear again. Nature is never so prodigal as with the man
of genius. Of all her children he is the favorite; these pictures are
given him in superfluity, out of all proportion to his ability to use
them. The harder he works in the effort to catch up with his material,
the more plentiful it becomes.

Mr. Chamberlain, in his Life of Wagner, calls attention to the curious
fact that Wagner produced his operas in pairs for the most part, up to
his fortieth year. This was true of Beethoven with his symphonies, to a
great extent. He became so fired with enthusiasm while on a great work,
his thoughts became so prolific, that another work must, perforce, come
into being to utilize the surplus material.

This prodigality with which the artist is supplied, explains his
absorption in his work. Once fairly started on a great work, this type
of man carries it through with the force of a torrent. Nothing but
physical exhaustion can stop him. Wagner, after completing a great work,
usually had to drop all composing or writing for some months in order to
recuperate. No slave-driver with a lash ever drove his victim so
mercilessly as Wagner did himself when in the stress of composition.
Being married he had some one to look after him, and this had an
important bearing on the preservation of his health. Beethoven, with the
strenuousness that came from his Rhenish ancestry, was more intractable,
impatient of interference. His domestics were often afraid to go near
him when engaged in composition. Usually when in deep thought he was
oblivious of the outer world. He once agreed to sit for an artist, and
maintained his pose for five minutes; then he forgot all about it and
went to the piano, where he began improvising. This just suited the
artist, who got a good position and worked along until he was tired,
finally leaving the room without the master's knowledge.

The Swedish poet, Atterbohm, and Dr. Jeitteles, distinguished literary
men of the period, called at Beethoven's house one hot afternoon. Their
knocking met with no response, although they knew th