Nobody ever doubted that who saw him draw.

And he had, besides, what so many men of his own class made shipwreck for want of--he had _imagination_--enough to show him what it is that makes the mere craftsman into the artist, enough to make him hunger night and day for knowledge, travel, experience.

Thanks to his father's shop, he had read a great deal already; and with a little money, how he would buy books, how he would read them!-- And at the thought, fresh images, now in rushing troops, and now in solitary fantastic beauty, began to throng before the inward eye, along the rich background of the valley; images from poetry and legend, stored deep in a greedy fancy, a retentive mind.

They came from all sources--Greek, Arthurian, modern; Hephaestus, the lame god and divine craftsman, receiving Thetis in his workshop of the skies, the golden automata wrought by his own hands supporting him on either side; the maidens of Achilles washing the dead and gory body of Hector in the dark background of the hut, while in front swift-foot Achilles holds old Priam in talk till the sad offices are over, and the father may be permitted to behold his son; Arthur and Sir Bedivere beside the lake; Crusaders riding to battle--the gleam of their harness--the arched necks of their steeds--the glory of their banners--the shade and sunlight of the deep vales through which they pass; the Lady of Shalott as the curse conies upon her--Oenone--Brunhilda--Atalanta.
Swift along the May woods the figures fled, vision succeeding vision, beauty treading on beauty.

It became hallucination--a wildness--an ecstasy.