There is a valley in front of him (but that is far off), a place of darkness, where high rocks are cleft to meet again overhead so that the sunlight cannot pierce through the gloom; a place of skulls--the Golgotha of the painter--where the armour of conceit is broken into pieces and left amongst the wreckage with which the place is strewn. Those who come out of this valley of humiliation live on for ever afterwards grave men, who look more after their own imperfections than the faults of their neighbours. Countless hordes rush into the darkness and are never seen again; the bones of some whiten there, pits on the roadside swallow up others, while others again get into false tracks and are never able to retrace their steps. A number shirk it and go by this side backwards, as happy in their ignorance and foolish laughter as when they began so hopefully. And the world is so blind that it consents to honour and pay those shirkers, oftentimes better than it does those grave survivors of the black valley. When the artist first begins his pursuit he ought to begin with the high sense that his profession is a calling, and that he is the eye-preacher of beauty as the pastor is the ear-preacher of religion; he must go out with the intention always to do his very best in his own natural way, for no other man's habit of walking will do for him. To be a painter is a great pleasure and a great pain; pleasure in the summer, when the sun is ripening the pale golden ears of corn, and the painter walks out amongst the lights and shadows, the fresh air and the singing of birds, and, fixing upon something beautiful, sits down to listen to the divine concert and sketch it all in--the _music_ and the magic changes of Mother Earth; pleasure when he gets up in the night-time, thralled with his great idea, yet unborn, and labours to bring it out--those gracious hours of ecstasy when the charcoal smudges over the paper, and the brain is reeling with the intoxication of the Creator. _IMAGINATION_ Gift of God to erring mortal, promise of a life divine, When the creature is admitted to that awful inner shrine; There is naught of earth remaining, kings and princes hedged about With divinity the circle, leaving lesser beings out. Gifted with the Maker's magic, out of nothing they create Crowded earths which rise before them, void, until they animate. They are passed in scorn or pity, beggars in their fellows' eyes. What are rags and empty purses when to heights like these they rise? For alas! with this gift comes too often _tactlessness_, a glorious capacity to build castles in the air, with a most deplorable incapacity of being able to reduce those splendid edifices to any marketable value.