that the subject is borrowed from Claude, I can truly declare that I have never availed myself of any thing of his in my life. Nature was his master-I ought rather to say mistress; and I gaze upon her with equal admiration; but confess that to me she is more coy. The buildings introduced in this drawing were sketched from the north side of the Regent's Park; and as I found that the gravel road was not exactly adapted for either my purpose or yours, I took the liberty of exchanging it for the sea, and those accessories which appeared to me best to harmonise with such a scene."

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Originality," continues he, " is nothing more than imitation concealed by great skill. The tyro in art imitates that which others have executed, and if there be a spark of genius in his composition, his mind will expand as he proceeds; and he will soon throw off the restraint that copying pictures imposes upon him, and seek for truth in nature, where it is alone to be found in its pristine beauty. By the term imitation, in its limited acceptation, I mean the copying of individual objects or (in landscape painting) local scenes, which depend for their effect merely on a correct eye and mechanical skill. All this may be easily acquired; whereas the application of these means to higher objects demands, on the part of the aspirant, very superior qualifications. Nature, indeed, may supply the material, but the mind it is which must superadd the charm. The painter who possesses the true feeling for his art, seeks in nature, equally with the poet, the means that will enable him to give expression to his ideas: with this view he makes himself acquainted, not only with her general appearance, but also with her details, and the various effects which are presented to all close observers of her beauties; these materials he stores up in his mind, and whenever a happy idea occurs to him, he is thus abundantly prepared to realise it. Pictures resulting from this course of study

will convey more entirely the appearance and effect of nature than any view, however correct, of a particular spot can possibly do; the latter can be at best but a mere portrait of some individual scene, and not a representation of the general aspect of nature. It is these views which have influenced me in my long-continued efforts. I admire the effects of the mid-day light, when beneath the shade of stately trees I can rest secure from its dazzling blaze; still more do I delight in the saffron glow of the afternoon sun; but the twilight, the sober twilight,

When all the air a solemn stillness holds,'

is my chief source of inspiration; for it is then that the fancy can take its flight unfettered; when to the eye of imagination shady groves, towers, palaces, and lakes, are conjured up; and objects are moving in the deepening shade, which the eye is unable to define, but to which the fancy is not slow to give

A local habitation and a name.'

The sky, too, with its streak of amber light, and above (so fancy deems) a giant spectre'floating many a rood' over the earth, enhances the illusion. It is true, that on reviewing the spot, the next day, by the glare of a meridian sun, the charm is in some degree dissipated: the shady grove turns out to be nothing more than a common clump of trees; the towers, stacks of chimneys; palaces, brick houses; the lake, a stagnant pool; and the mysterious object in the distance a grazing cow or a donkey. The effect is all that can be made to dignify such a scene; and that effect must be closely imitated from nature, even though Claude himself should have copied it centuries ago."

Such is the painter's own simple and eloquent exposition of his art; and we cannot more fitly conclude this slight notice

of his works, than with the following tribute, inscribed to him by one of the most ardent of his admirers:

TO GEORGE BARRET, ESQ.

WRITTEN BENEATH ONE OF HIS DRAWINGS OF TWILIGHT.

BARRET! I love thy solemn twilight hours,
Where silent Nature dwells in soft repose;
Doffed her gay trim, and many-coloured vest,
Whilst clad in saddest hues, that seem to mourn
Life's parting day, wide o'er the fading scene
She flings the shadow of the grave.
One ray,

One lingering ray of the departing sun,

Across the deep blue sky thy pencil tracks,

That speaks of brighter worlds beyond the tomb !

How dark and still the waters of that lake,

Over whose shadowy form the forest throws
Its deep impenetrable gloom. Beyond,

Some lonely turret rears its giant head,

Around whose frowning brow the tempest hangs
A mournful wreath of clouds: stern monument
Of man's fell tyranny, and restless fears!

Calm Spirit, thou hast surely felt and dreamed
With learned Poussin on the fabled shores
Of many a classic stream and ancient lake,
Where gods of yore, won by the rival charms
Of earth's fair forms, conversed with mortal men;
Or tuned their golden lyres, or breathed the flute :
Pan or Apollo, by the poplar shades

That wave o'er antique Po or Tiber's shores:
Such are the scenes thy solemn pencil loves;
To wake reflection in the kindred mind.
Paint but for poets' eyes! Still let thy tints
Kindle deep musings in the throbbing breast,
Till the rapt Muse, 'mid contemplations high,
Give birth to heavenly song.