It snowed
steadily for three days and nights, but when the fourth morning broke,
it was on one of the clearest and most beautiful days ever known and to
my surprise I awoke full of renewed cheerfulness and physically like my
former self. The youthful storm of my life was over.
But the "Ego" had changed. I was living in a poetic atmosphere and
imbibing its qualities and its stimulants. Born with artistic tastes, I
had imagined an artistic future; but as the procession of realistic
lives passed before me, I seemed to see the inward side of the real and
the ideal. An artistic life!--a triumph after long years of labor,
awarded by the hand-clapping of a few admirers, most of whom had no
appreciation of the work, and no sympathy with its higher motives.
Would it not be cold? Would it not slowly freeze my heart to the warm
love of human beings, with every one of whom I had now something in
common? A real life, taking part in active work, in plain, daily toil;
touching the great, full, seething heart of humanity on its warm side;
working for them; working with them; being one with many--one with her.
Which was best? Which was the supremest ideal? I think the latter.
There were other visitors who came, attracted by the little group of
singers.
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