Then, too, in ordering his life, he must be humble, sincere, and simple.  He must keep his eye and his mind open to all generous admirations.  He must let no lust or appetite, no ambition of pride, cloud his vision.  He must take delight in the work of other artists, and strive to see the beautiful and perfect rather than the false and feeble.  He must rejoice if he can see his own dream more seriously and sweetly depicted than he can himself depict it, for he must care for nothing but the triumph of beauty over ugliness, of light over darkness.  And thus the true artist may be most easily told by his lavish appreciation of the work of other artists, rather than by his censure and disapproval.

And, again, he must be able to take delight in the smallest and humblest beauties of life.  He must not need to travel far and wide in the search for what is romantic, but he must find it lying richly all about him in the simplest scene.  He must not crave for excitement or startling events or triumphs or compliments; he must not desire to know or to be known by famous persons, because his joys must all flow from a purer and clearer fountain-head.  He must find no day nor hour dreary, and his only fatigue must be the wholesome fatigue that follows on patient labour, not the jaded fatigue of the strained imagination.

Age, and even infirmity, does not dull the zest of such a nature; it merely substitutes a range of gentler and more tranquil emotions for the heroic and passionate enthusiasms of youth; for the true artist knows that the emotion of which he is in search is something far higher and purer and more vivid than his fiercest imaginations—­and yet it has the calm of strength and the dignity of worth; the vehement impulses of youth “do it wrong, being so majestical.”  And he draws nearer to it when animal heat and the turbulence of youthful spirit has burnt clearer and hotter, throwing off its smoke and lively flame for a keener and purer glow.

And above all things, the artist must most beware of the complacency, the sense of victory, the belief that he has attained, has plumbed the depth, seen into the heart of the mystery.  Rather as life draws on he must feel, in awe and hope, that it is infinitely mightier and greater than he thought in the days of potent impulse.  His whole soul must be full of a sacred fear as he draws closer to the gate, the opening of which may give him a nearer glimpse of the secret.  The humble sense of failure will be a bright and noble thought, because it will show him how much the mystery transcends the most daring hope and dream.

XXXI