inative spirit, born now in
countries that have lived by the Christian faith with any courage or
truth. And the picture contains also, for us, just this which its maker
had in him to give; and can convey it to us, just so far as we are of the
temper in which it must be received. It is didactic if we are worthy to
be taught, not otherwise. The pure heart, it will make more pure; the
thoughtful, more thoughtful. It has in it no words for the reckless or
the base.

111. As I myself look at it, there is no fault nor folly of my life--and
both have been many and great--that does not rise up against me, and take
away my joy, and shorten my power of possession of sight, of
understanding. And every past effort of my life, every gleam of
rightness or good in it, is with me now, to help me in my grasp of this
art, and its vision. So far as I can rejoice in, or interpret either, my
power is owing to what of right there is in me. I dare to say it, that,
because through all my life I have desired good, and not evil; because I
have been kind to many; have wished to be kind to all; have wilfully
injured none; and because I have loved much, and not selfishly;
therefore, the morning light is yet visible to me on those hills, and
you, who read, may trust my thought and word in such work as I have to do
for you; and you will be glad afterwards that you have trusted them.

112. Yet, remember,--I repeat it again and yet again,--that I may for
once, if possible, make this thing assuredly clear: the inherited
art-gift must be there, as well as the life in some poor measure, or
rescued fragment, right. This art-gift of mine could not have been won
by any work or by any conduct: it belongs to me by birthright, and came
by Athena's will, from the air of English country villages, and Scottish
hills. I will risk whatever charge of folly may come on me, for printing
one of my many childish rhymes, written on a frosty day in Glen Farg,
just north of Loch Leven. It bears date 1st January, 1828. I was born
on the 8th of February, 1819; and al that I ever could be, and all that I
cannot be, the weak little rhyme already shows.

"Papa, how pretty those icicles are,
That are seen so near,--that are seen so far;
--Those dropping waters that come from the rocks
And many a hole, like the haunt of a fox.
That silvery stream that runs babbling along,
Making a murmuring, dancing song.
Those trees that stand waving upon the rock's side,
And me