Why did this primitive artist paint at all? There are those who suggest that he had some practical end in view to be reached by the magic of representation—an idea perhaps of thus ensuring luck for his hunting. But at least that can hardly be true of the graceful form and the conventional adornment he gave to some of his tools. It is far more likely that even if he began with magic and a practical end he went on to paint for the pure joy of it, the pure spiritual joy of inspired admiration glowing to a creative act, and winning admiration in its display. That is the manner of art—even to the delight in its being admired by those to whom it is made known—and this man's work is the work of an artist. I should say these men's work is the work of artists, for there were many of them in many generations. There was not merely a single eccentric genius—though even one would have sufficed us for a revelation. Here then, in these caverns, we have a kind of work done by many men, who, however much they looked for admiration from their fellows, worked in something of the self-forgetfulness of an artist; so we may presume. The man who pursued it did not in any lesser way profit by it (unless his fellows were self-forgetful enough to pay him for the joy he gave, and that only extends and strengthens the case); but he assuredly profited in his spirit, which there found its outlet as creative, there showed its self-forgetting love of something beyond self, there in consequence found its joy. The true artist paints or sings for the love of it, and because he must; and wins his joy, even though in and with the artist's pain, and the man's self-seeking. The spirit within him drives him on; no outward necessity, no carnal attraction, no mere self-seeking, is adequate to force or draw him. Art, however skilled and taught, however marred by human weakness, is spontaneous as love. We are in presence here of that of which only faint adumbrations can be discerned in any other creature than man. There are adumbrations; and there is at least a plain foreshadowing of love. But full and lasting self-forgetfulness is to be attained only in man, and true art and true love, like true joy, depend upon it.