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 foreground alone is dubious. I know what it is because 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 hypercritical victim to dispute the assertion.
This picture is so beautiful that it must have a
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