lives for and in his work; he is humble because he cannot reach the
perfection for which he strives; he is hopeful because he gets
nearer to it day by day. But, speaking generally, the temperament
is not one that brings steady happiness; it brings with it moments
of rapture, when some bright dream is being realized; but it brings
with it also moments of deep depression, when dreams are silent,
and the weary brain fears that the light is quenched. There are,
indeed, instances of the equable disposition being found in
connection with the artistic temper; such were Reynolds, Handel,
Wordsworth. But the annals of art are crowded with the figures of
those who have had to bear the doom of art, and have been denied
the tranquil spirit.

But besides all these, there are artistic temperaments which do not
express themselves in any of the recognized mediums of art, but
which apply their powers direct to life itself. I do not mean
successful, professional people, who win their triumphs by a happy
sanity and directness of view, to whom labour is congenial and
success enjoyable; but I mean those who have a fine perception of
quality in innumerable forms; who are interested in the salient
points of others, who delight to enter into appropriate relations
with those they meet, to whom life itself, its joys and sorrows,
its gifts and its losses, has a certain romantic, beautiful,
mysterious savour. Such people have a strong sense of the
significance of their relations with others, they enjoy dealing
with characters, with problems, with situations. Having both
interest and sympathy, they get the best out of other people; they
pierce through the conventional fence that so many of us erect as a
protection against intrusion. Such people bring the same perception
to bear on technical art. They enjoy books, art, music, without any