muse for ever, in the long afternoon, so full
of warmth and fragrance and murmurous sound? That is the joy of art, of
the symbol--that it remains and rests within itself, in a world that
seems, for a moment, more real and true than the clamorous and
obtrusive world we move in.

It is so all along the line--the hard and soulless art of technique and
rule, of tradition and precept, however accomplished, however perfect
it is, is worth nothing; it is only another dreary form of labour,
unless through some faculty of the spirit, some vital intensity, or
even some inexplicable felicity, not comprehended, not designed, not
intended by the artist, it has this remote and suggestive quality. And
thus suddenly, in the midst of this weary beating of instruments, this
dull laying of colour by colour, of word by word, there breaks in the
awful and holy presence; and then one feels, as I have said, that this
thrill, this message, this oracle, is the one thing in the world worth
striving after, and that indeed one may forgive all the dull efforts of
those who cannot attain it, because perhaps they too have felt the
call, and have thrown themselves into the eternal quest.

And it is true too of life; one is brought near to many people, and one
asks oneself in a chilly discomfort what is the use of it all, living
thus in hard and futile habits, on dull and conventional lines; and
then again one is suddenly confronted by some personality, rich in hope
and greatness, touching the simplest acts of life with an unearthly
light, making them gracious and beautiful, and revealing them as the
symbols of some pure and high mystery. Sometimes this is revealed by a
word, sometimes by a glance; perfectly virtuous, capable, successful
people may miss it; humble, simple, quiet people may have it. One
cannot analyse it or describe it; but one has instantaneously a sense
that life is a thing of large issues and great hopes; that every action
and thought, however simple or commonplace, may be touched with this
large quality of interest, of significance. It is a great happiness to
meet such a person, because one goes in the strength of that heavenly
meat many days and nights, knowing that life is worth living to the
uttermost, and that it can all be beautiful and lofty and gracious; but
the way to miss it, to lose that fine sense, is to have some dull and
definite design of one's own, which makes one treat all the hours in
which one cannot pursue it, b