may be true enough; but for all that, they do not come back as empty as they went.

And they have had this merit,—that they have in truth enjoyed what they have done. Little clouds there have been,—such as that quarrel between Brown and his future brother-in-law; but they have been passing mists which have hardly served to disturb the sunshine of their tour. Together they started, together they have been over mountains and through cities, performing feats which, in their own judgments, are little short of marvellous, and together they return at the end of their holiday satisfied with themselves and with the world at large. They have seen pictures and walked through cathedrals; but, above all, they have stood upon the slopes of the hills and have looked at the mountains. They have listened to the little rivers as they tumbled, and have laid their hands upon the edges of mighty rocks; they have smelt the wild thyme as it gave out its fragrance beneath their feet, and have peered wondering through the blue crevasses of the glacier. They have sat in the sweet gloom of the evening and have watched the surface of the lake as it lay beneath them without a ripple, and have waited there till the curtain of night has hid the water from their view. Then they have thrown themselves idly on their backs, and have counted the stars in the firmament over their head, wondering at the beauty of the heavens. They have said little perhaps to each other of the romance of such moments, of the poetry, which has filled their hearts; but the romance and the poetry have been there; and they have brought home with them a feeling for beauty which will last them through their lives, in spite of their crumpled hats, their big bludgeons, their short pipes, and their now almost indecent knickerbockers.

THE ART TOURIST.

The class of art tourists is very numerous, and of all tourists the art tourist is, I think, the most indefatigable. He excels the tourist in search of knowledge both in length of hours and in assiduity while he is at his work. The art tourist now described is not the man or woman who goes abroad to learn to paint, or to buy pictures and gems, or to make curious art investigations. Such travellers are necessarily few in number, and set about their work as do other people of business. They are not tourists at all in the now accepted meaning of the word. Our art tourist is he,—or quite as often she,—who flies from gallery to gallery, spending hours and often days in each, with a strong determination to get up conscientiously the subject of pictures. Sculpture and architecture come also within the scope of the labours of the art tourist, but not to such an extent as to influence them materially. Pictures are the ever present subject of the English art tourist's thoughts, and to them and their authors he devotes himself throughout his holiday with that laborious perseverance which distinguishes the true Briton as much in his amusement as in his work. He is studying painters rather than pictures,—certainly not pictures alone as things pleasing in themselves. A picture, of which the painter is avowedly unknown, is to such a one a thing of almost no interest whatever,—unless in the more advanced period of his study he should venture to attempt to read the riddle and should take upon himself to name the unknown. And this work of the art tourist, though it may lead to a true love of pictures, does in no wise arise from any such feeling. And, indeed, it is quite compatible with an entire absence of any such predilection. Men become learned in pictures without caring in the least for their beauty or their ugliness, just as other men become learned in the laws, without any strong feeling either as to their justice or injustice. The lawyer looks probably for a return for his labours in a comfortable income, and the art tourist looks for his return in that sort of reputation which is now attached to the knowledge of the history of painting.

The first great object of the art tourist is to be able to say, without reference to any card, guide-book, or affixed name, and with some approach to correctness, who painted the picture then before him; and his next great object is to be able to declare the date of that painter's working, the country in which he lived, the master who taught him, the school which he founded, the name of his mistress or wife, the manner of his death, and the galleries in which his chief works are now to be found.

As regards the first object,—that of knowing the painter from his work,—the art tourist soon obtains many very useful guides to his memory. Indeed, it is on guides to his memory that he depends altogether. When he has progressed so far that he can depend on his judgment instead of his memory, he has ceased to be an art tourist, and has become a connoisseur. The first guide to memory is the locality of the picture. He knows that Raphaels are rife at Florence, Titians at Venice, Vandykes at Genoa, Guidos at Bologna, Van Eykes and Memlings in Flanders, and Rembrandts and Paul Potters in Holland. Pictures have been too much scattered about to make this knowledge alone good for much; but joined to other similar aids, it is a powerful assistance, and prevents mistakes which in an old art tourist would be disgraceful. Next to this, probably, he acquires a certain, though not very accurate idea of dates, which supplies him with information from the method and manner of the picture. If he is placed before a work of some early Tuscan painter,—Orcagna, or the like,—he will know that it is not the work of some comparatively modern painter of the same country,—such as Andrea del Sarto;—and so he progresses. Then the old masters themselves were very liberal in the aids which they gave to memory by repeating their own work,—as, indeed, are some of their modern followers, who love to produce the same faces year after year upon their canvas,—I will not say usque ad nauseam, for how can we look on a pretty face too often? The old masters delighted to paint their own wives or their own mistresses,—the women, in short, whom they loved best and were most within their reach, guided perhaps by some idea of economy in saving the cost of a model; and this peculiarity on their part is a great assistance to art tourists. He or she must be a very young art tourist who does not know the Murillo face, or the two Rubens faces, or the special Raphael face, or the Leonardo da Vinci face, or the Titian head and neck, or the Parmigianino bunch of hair, or the Correggio forehead and fingers. All this is a great assistance, and gives hope to an art tourist in a field of inquiry so wide that there could hardly be any hope without such aid. And then these good-natured artists had peculiar tricks with them, which give further most valuable help to the art tourist in his work. Jacobo Bassano paints people ever cringing towards the ground, and consequently a Jacobo Bassano can be read by a young art tourist in an instant. Claude Lorraine delighted to insert a man carrying a box. That vilest of painters, Guercino, rejoices in turbans. Schalken painted even scenes by candle-light, so that he was called Della Notte. Jan Steen usually greets us with a portrait of himself in a state of drunkenness. Adrian van Ostade seldom omits a conical-shaped hat, or Teniers a red cap and a peculiar figure, for which the art tourist always looks immediately when he thinks of discovering this