XXXI 



OF THE NAMES OF PICTURES 



I HAVE painted a very beautiful picture. It is 

 undoubtedly the most lovely thing I have yet 

 done. Nobody, however rude, could mistake its 

 meaning. A thick belt of trees crosses it from 

 one side to the other. The foreground indubitably 

 slopes downwards to the wood. Beyond, further 

 trees stretch into astonishing distance. There 

 would seem to be one hundred miles of trees. The 

 sky is obviously composed of folded clouds, with 

 glimpses of the ultimate blue between. The fore- 

 ground alone is dubious. I know what it is be- 

 cause I was there ; but I cannot lay my hand on 

 my heart and declare that everybody would guess 

 rightly. Yet I have not spared the ochre and 

 dragon's blood, and there are some cunningly- 

 placed shadows such as large stones or bricks 

 would throw. One thing is quite certain about it. 

 It is a foreground, and I defy my most hyper- 

 critical victim to dispute the assertion. 



This picture is so beautiful that it must have a 



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