for the next the Book of the Dead serves her turn, and then Epictetus and Gogol and Drummond of Hawthornden and the Saga of Erik the Red (if there is such a Saga), and Voltaire and Heine and Tasso and Montesquieu (assuredly Montesquieu), and Old Play and Anon.
When I think that I compete with such giantesses!
But I was worrying about a name for my picture.
Some painters, less highly endowed than the others, fall back upon what may be called the pseudo-poetic; that is to say, not having at their command a line or lines of genuine authenticated verse which will describe what they have painted, they take some form of words which ring with a well-established sentimentality, thus—
| No. 7. | Evening Shadows. | Arthur Struggles. |
| No. 603. | The Trysting Tree. | Arthur Struggles. |
| No. 9001. | Leafy June. | Arthur Struggles. |
| No. 9002. | The Workhouse Door. | Arthur Struggles. |
But I am so dull that nothing of the kind occurs to me in connection with my picture. This landscape is bathed, obviously, in bright sunlight. There are a number, a great number of trees in it, but none so outstanding and important that it could be dignified into a special feature, and
