Ship-builder," from the Schmidt collection at Amsterdam; Mr. Angerstein 5,000l. for the "Woman taken in Adultery," now in the National Gallery; whilst the picture just secured for the same collection from the gallery of M. Sweenardt-" Christ Blessing Little Children "-cost 7,0007.

But it is to the Spanish school we must go to find the largest sum paid in modern times for a picture. Of the thirteen Murillos which Marshal Soult managed to collect in Spain, one of them, an "Immaculate Conception," at the Marshal's sale in May, 1852, was bought by the French Government for 23,4401.! We have an amusing story of the circumstances under which Soult secured his prize. In his pursuit of Sir John Moore he overtook two Capuchin friars, who turned out, as he suspected them to be, spies. On hearing that there were some fine Murillos in the convent to which they belonged, he ordered them to show him the way to it. Here he saw the Murillo in question and offered to purchase it. All to no purpose, till the prior found that the only way to save the lives of his two monks was to come to terms. 66 But," said the prior, "we have had 100,000 francs offered for the picture." "I will give you 200,000 francs," was the reply; and the bargain was concluded. "You will give me up my two brethren?" asked the prior. "Oh," said the Marshal, very politely, "if you wish to ransom them, it will give me the greatest pleasure to meet your wishes. The price is-200,000 francs." The poor prior got his monks, and lost his picture.

One word about miniatures. We have had some famous men in that branch of art; as, for instance, the one mentioned by Donne

A hand or eye

By Hilliard drawn, is worth a history
By a worse painter made.

One of his miniatures-of Lady Jane Grey-was sold at Lord Northwick's sale for 125 guineas. Another very beautiful one of Lady Digby, by P. Oliver, fetched at the same sale 100 guineas. Probably the highest price given for such a work in modern days was that for the Duke of Wellington by Isabey, which was purchased by the Marquis of Hertford in 1851 for something more than 4407.

My subject would be incomplete without some mention of drawings. By far the finest collection of drawings by the old masters was that made by Sir T. Lawrence. The sum he spent amassing them is variously estimated at from 40,000l. to 75,000l. At his death the collection was to be offered to the British Museum for the sum of 20,000l. But, thanks to the exertions of Lord Grey and Sir M. A. Shee, this generous offer was not accepted. Whilst the subject of the purchase was under consideration, Sir C. Eastlake took some of the drawings to Lord Brougham, then Lord Chancellor. Lord Lansdowne and Talleyrand were with the Chancellor ; and Talleyrand said, "Si vous n'achetez pas ces choses lá, vous êtes des barbares." But to our everlasting disgrace we did not. The collection was then broken up. The King of Holland had first choice, and bought VOL. XVI, No. 93. 16.

to the amount of 20,000l.; though his speculation, by the way, does not seem to have been very successful, for at his sale in 1850 they only realized 7,500l. Another very interesting portion, containing seventynine by Michel Angelo and 162 by Raffaelle, was secured for the University of Oxford, at the expense of 7,000l., of which the largest portion was munificently contributed by Lord Eldon.

Of single drawings, I may mention one of Michel Angelo, "The Virgin, Infant Christ, and S. John," sold for 200 guineas; and the same sum, or more, was obtained at Christie's for another interesting drawing of his, the heads and upper parts of the principal figures in a picture by Seb. del Piombo,-"The Salutation of Mary and Elizabeth," which is or was at Farly Hall, in Berkshire. Of drawings by Raffaelle, "Jacob's Dream" has brought 200 guineas; and a portrait of Timoteo della Vite, 320 guineas; "The Entombment," from the Crozat collection, at Rogers's sale, 440 guineas; and "Christ at the Tomb," the finest in the King of Holland's collection, 550 guineas. It was purchased for the Louvre. The British Museum secured the drawing of the "Garvagh Madonna," at Dr. Wellesley's sale, for 600.

Of modern water-colour drawings, six by Turner fetched, at Mr. Wheeler's sale, 1864, 3,500 guineas; one of them alone, 27 inches by 151, bringing 1,350. The Bicknell sale in 1863 furnished a marvellous instance of successful speculation in three drawings of Copley Fielding-" Bridlington Harbour," "Rivaulx Abbey, evening," and "Crowborough Hill." The original prices were 36, 42, and 25 guineas; they sold for 530, 600, and 760.

315

44

"Off for the Holidays: "

THE RATIONALE OF RECREATION

Ar this time of the year recreation is uppermost in the thoughts of nearly all classes. The farmer alone, looking over his fields as they spread their ripeness under the summer sun, thinks joyfully of work. For most of us harvest-time brings a different but still glorious fruition to the labours of the year. Our dreams at night are of the rest we have earned, and our thoughts by day are of mountain-tops, of rushing streams, and of the open sea. Into the dreary "chambers" these gleams of sunshine have made their way, bringing a message of the fields. The cosy study, such an attractive workshop in other seasons, looks dull and heavy now, and the backs of the books are persecuting in their too familiar aspect, for the sunshine which opens all the flowers shuts up these blossoms of the human tree. The roar of the street comes in through the open window with the distant whistle of the trains, and it suddenly strikes us how like the one is to the boom of the sea, and what a sound of country travel there is in the other. In society, too, the talk is of journeys, and even the children just home from school are full of thoughts of flight. A happy restlessness is on us; a peaceful flutter pervades the household-a quiet agitation makes itself manifest. There is a buzz of travel in the air, domestic and social life has a provisional character, and all the ties of society seem to be loosening. It is the holidays, and we are "breaking-up." Duty stands aside, care is content to wait, routine is thrown gaily off, business and ambition put the yoke from their shoulders, and even divinity assures itself that "there is a time to play."

Perhaps it may be true, as many a paterfamilias is saying, that holiday travel is, in the present day, pushed to an extreme. But there is the best and profoundest reason for a custom which has so thoroughly incorporated itself with modern civilization. There is in human nature a necessity for change; and the more intense is the life we live, the stronger and more imperious does that necessity become. The habits of a vegetable are only possible to those who vegetate, and a certain stolidity of mind and feebleness of character almost always characterize the vegetating portion of the race. It is the wonderful intellectual activity of the age which produces its restlessness. A highly developed nervous system is usually connected with a somewhat restless temperament; but the tendency of intellectual activity is to give an undue development to the nervous organization at the expense of the muscular tissues. In comparison with our great grandfathers, we are highly nervous, restless, and

what they would have called "mercurial." The stress of nineteenthcentury civilization is on the brain and the nerves; and one of the sad forms in which this fact becomes visible to the eye is the melancholy vastness of such establishments as those at Colney Hatch and Hanwell. Of course the very stress under which so many break down develops the power and capacity of vastly larger numbers than succumb to it; and if in the present day there is some diminution in the muscular development of the race, there is a more than corresponding increase in its nervous development and of all that depends thereon. Physical beauty, in so far as it depends on splendid muscular organizations, may not be as general among us as it was among the Greeks; but magnificent nervous organizations, with all the power of work which they confer, are more numerous among Englishmen and Americans to-day than they have ever been among any people whom the world has seen before. Our national temperament is in process of rapid development and change. The typical John Bull is fast becoming a merely legendary personage; his vegetative life and stationary habits and local prejudices are all disappearing beneath the stimulating influences of railways and telegraphs and great cities. But this change of national temperament brings with it, and in part results from, an entire change of national habits and customs. English life in the eighteenth century was that of a nation who took the world easily, in the nineteenth century it is that of a people who feel that "art is long and time is fleeting," and that life must be made the most of. From being what philosophers call extensive and running into physical developments, it has become intensive and takes intellectual forms. Our great grandfathers ate and drank, laughed and grew fat; we plan and study, labour and fret, and are nervous and thin. They took life as it came we are more anxious to mould it to our purpose, and make it what we think it ought to be. They were content with news when it had already become history; we want to watch the history of this generation in the very process of making. They lived a life which was self-contained and satisfied; we are greedy of information, anxious for conquest, determined to acquire. Their times are typified by the pillion and the pack-horse; ours by the telegraph and the train. The same figure aptly typifies the relative wear and tear of the two modes of life. Theirs ambled along with an almost restful movement; ours rushes along at high pressure, with fearful wear and noise. Their work was almost play compared with ours; business of all kinds was steadier and quieter, politics were less exacting and exhausting, literature was rather a pursuit than a profession, and even divinity was duller. It may be that our pleasures are more refined than theirs were, but they are of a more exciting character; we take them in a busier and more bustling way, and tire of them sooner. Hence our greater need of change of scene and surrounding. Travel was only a luxury to them, but it has become a necessity to us. It is not merely fashion that sends us all from home, for the fashion itself has originated in an intellectual and physical need.

The condition of animal life is movement. Little children are perpetually active, and the form of their activity is perpetually changing. There seems to be in the physical organization a disgust of sameness, and this disgust extends through the whole of our sensational experience. The lungs always breathing the same air, the stomach always taking the same food, the ears always hearing the same sounds, even the eyes always resting on the same round of familiar objects, become disgusted, lose their tone or strength, and cry out for change. Disuse is well known to be fatal to our active powers, but a mill-horse round, which puts the stress of use always on the same part of them, is only less injurious than disuse. Yet the tendency of life is to fall into routine. It is always easier to go on using the powers that are in action than to rouse into activity those that have been overlooked. To change our course needs effort, to keep on in the old one needs none. The common prescription of " change of air" really means change of scene, of surroundings, and, consequently, of habit. The bodily machine has fallen into a rut, and is "cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in " to a course of life which has the sole but sufficient condemnation of an oppressive sameness. Change of place and scene helps us to lift it out of the rut, as we could never do if we stayed at home. The first thing we do when we get away for "change of air" is to change our habits. The late man gets up early, and the early man lies in bed late. The man who has bustled from his meals, giving his digestion no time to act, sits quietly over them and gives his stomach a chance; the young lady who has lounged or worked at home, afraid of the air, puts away her in-door occupations, and lives in the wind and the sunshine. The student puts away his books, the merchant forgets his counting-house, and the diligent housewife lays aside her household cares. The hours of sleeping and eating are altered, even the food is somewhat different, and all around there is the gentle stimulus of general newness and change. It is just this break in the continuity of sameness, this lifting of the animal machine out of the rut, which does us good. We come back from change of air recruited and refreshed, but the natural law which has blessed us for our obedience to it is just that law by which a change of attitude relieves an aching limb, and by which change of work is as good as play. The old coachmen used to tell us that a long unbroken level was more fatiguing to the horses than a road which was diversified by hill and valley-the change from level to uphill or downhill bringing new muscles into play, and preventing the whole stress of the journey from falling on the same parts of the animal organization. But herein is a parable of human life. The dead level needs to be diversified. A weariness of perpetually recurring sensations, a disgust of sameness, a restlessness beneath the continued stress of active use belongs to our physical organization-is the instinct of the body's wholeness, and, therefore, the law of its health.

There is, therefore, not only a profound necessity for holidays, but a reason equally good why we can never take our holidays at home. We