running his head against a concrete wall, and raging impotently
because he could not butt through. Now, instead of laying his futility
to a mysteriously malignant fate, or to the persecution of secret
enemies, he is likely to throw over stimulants and late hours and take
to the open road, the closed squash-court, and the sleeping-porch. And
presently armies cannot withhold him from joyful, triumphant labor.

The artist is finding that exuberance, this Open Sesame to the things
that count, may not be won without the friendly collaboration of the
pores; and that two birds of paradise may be killed with one stone
(which is precious above rubies) by giving the mind fun while one
gives the pores occupation. Sport is this precious stone. There is, of
course, something to be said for sportless exercise. It is fairly
good for the artist to perform solemn antics in a gymnasium class, to
gesture impassionedly with dumb-bells, and tread the mill of the
circular running-track. But it is far better for him to go in with
equal energy for exercise which, while developing the body, re-creates
the mind and spirit. That kind of exercise is best, in my opinion,
which offers plenty of variety and humor and the excitement of
competition. I mean games like tennis, baseball, handball, golf,
lacrosse, and polo, and sports like swift-water canoeing and
fly-fishing, boxing, and fencing. These take the mind of the artist
quite away from its preoccupations and then restore it to them, unless
he has taken too much of a good thing, with a fresh viewpoint and a
zest for work.

Sport is one of the chief makers of exuberance because of its purging,
exhilarating, and constructive effects on body, mind, and spirit. So
many contemporary artists are being converted to sport that the
artistic type seems to be changing under our eyes. It was only
yesterday that the worker in literature, sculpture, painting, or
music was a sickly, morbid, anaemic, peculiar specimen, distrusted at
sight by the average man, and a shining mark for all the cast-off wit
of the world. Gilbert never tired of describing him in "Patience." He
was a "foot-in-the-grave young man," or a "_Je-ne-sais-quoi_ young
man." He was

"A most intense young man,
A soulful-eyed young man.
An ultra-poetical, superaesthetical, Out-of-the-way young man."

To-day, what a change! Where is this young man? Most of his ilk have
accompanied the snows of yester-year. And a goodly proportion