impropriety. In the November number of the Magazine of Art for 1881 there is a notice of the prices of two pictures by Mr. Millais, painted within the last few years, namely $17,500 and $19,500 respectively. The dimensions of one of these pictures, as stated in Academy Notes,' are five feet by three, and the other would probably be of the same size. The subjects are not elaborate, and the manner of painting has the appearance of being rapid, so that probably the two pictures would not represent half a year's work, and fully bear out the above report. Moreover, the Illustrated London News has published an advertisement, to the effect that the price of a forthcoming picture by Mr. Millais, similar, we may infer, to 'Puss in Boots' or 'Cherry Ripe,' for their Christmas number, is to be three thousand guineas-say $15,000. It has also been stated that the portrait of Lord Beaconsfield, by Mr. Millais, for which he had only four sittings, shortly before Lord Beaconsfield's death, was purchased by the Right Hon. W. H. Smith for two thousand guineas. Such prices as these, in connection with artistical honours of all kinds may be taken as a sufficient indication of Mr. Millais' high rank as an artist. So that we may accept him as a great authority as to what is really beautiful, and may suppose that no one would be more likely to appreciate the full value of daylight upon which his work so mainly depends. The Magazine of Art has been lately publishing articles entitled "The Homes of our Artists,' and in the number for last May is a description of a palatial residence which Mr. Millais has built for himself in one of the most choice situations in London, with illustrations of the staircase, drawing room, studio, and fountain. The author, Mr. John Oldcastle, writes about it as follows:- We English, who consider ourselves par excellence the people of good sense, are a curious people for extremes. If we get a good

thing, we fling ourselves into the passion of it, do it, overdo it, work it to death, rend it, empty it out, and trample it underfoot. So with the needful, welcome and admirable fashion of taste in furniture and wallpapers. It might have spread reasonably and gently over the whole country, and made the entire aspect of English home-life delightful, unvulgarising a domestic nation (which is no small good, because, while people know themselves to be vulgar and vulgarly surrounded, their homely virtues were apt to have a repulsive flavour, and also loftier virtues were felt to be out of place), and serving incalculably the cause of high art by educating the eyes of a whole people in the joys of colour and the laws of form. But the British enthusiast was too strong-and too absurd. His day of frenzy must pass, and art in the house, as a fashion, must pass with with it. Still, the peacock and the lily are not less beautiful because they have been made a ridicule by æsthetic poseurs; so will the happy repose of tertiary backgrounds, and the splendid accents of bold yet subtle Oriental colour, and the simplicity of lines and the rightness of ornament. Meanwhile, these good things are somewhat ridiculous-a fact to which we must resign ourselves. Our great satirical draughtsman has laughed at them wittily, and our actors have mimicked them ignorantly, and a very large number of sensible men are sick of the subject. Among those, we suppose, must be placed Mr. Millais, who has built himself an artist's house into which the æstheticism of the day does not enter; no, not by so much as a peacock's fan. Only a few feathers, if we mistake not, in a single vase of Oriental blue-green upon the drawingroom mantelpiece, serve to remind him of the peculiar flash and play of colour which most of us have learned to think so beautiful. Thus the great red house at Palace Gate is, above all things, remarkable for absence of every kind

of affectation. It is scarcely picturesque, though not an impossible house to put into picture. It is stately and prosperous,' &c., &c. Further on, Mr. Oldcastle writes: Nearly all the walls are of variegated whites-creamwhite, ivory-white, milk-white. Those who are accustomed to this whiteness in a glowing climate, who know that nothing could be more broad and picturesque than the effectiveness of a greenish or creamy white wall in Italian sunshine and Italian shade, full of golden reflected lights, checkered with the fine shadows of Italian vines, and accentuated by dark Italian objects-a black chevelure, a brown face, or a huge indistinguishable old picture-may be incredulous of the beauty of a background of whitewash in England, where the grey lights of London days, and the sunshine at half power, which is the greatest glow we ever receive in the fullest midsummer, would seem to require some surface less dependent upon the colours of the atmosphere. Nevertheless, Mr. Millais' warm white rooms have the great merit of making the most of what light there is for seeing purposes, nor will the eyes which most delight in the distinctively English tones of sage-green find fault with the whiteness here, where the surrounding objects are in no case suggestive of the quaint, tender, and shadowy colours of the last century.'

Here, then, we see how doctors differ. We have before us two great authorities. Mr. Cimabue Brown has studied the subject, and understands what he is talking about. On the other hand, here is a celebrated painter, who knows the nature of half lights and half shadows if ever any man did, for no picture was ever yet painted without both (except, indeed, that of Queen Elizabeth, who commanded that her portrait should be painted without shadow, which, by the bye, was just like her), and he has no idea of introducing them artificially into his house, at the expense of the daylight, which

he seeks, as every painter does, to infuse into his colours. We might imagine Rembrandt to have liked a dark house, but then there has been but one Rembrandt, and we are not likely to see another. It is to be particularly observed that our authorities differ as to the white,' upon which Mr. Brown is so especially severe—that is, the white ceilings and the white walls, not, be it remarked, a glaring, cold, cheerless white, but a soft creamy white, relieved with just a suspicion of gold. The more white, the more daylight, that is certain; and the more daylight, the more health, the more lilies and roses on the cheeks of beauty. Ladies may choose to sit in a half-darkened room, with their backs to the light, when the mischief has been done, but, in the name of all that is attractive, forestall the mischief, make and retain daylight, sunshine complexions; do for yourselves what nothing but artifice can do for you, when the harm has been done and the day has gone by, for ever. Shut up the most beautiful flower in a dark cellar, and see what becomes of its colour; take it out into the sunshine, and revel in its radiant charms. So it is with feminine beauty. Flowers are, beyond question, the most beautiful things in the world. How do they come into being? In the bright, pure, open air and the broad sunshine, in floods of daylight.

So is it with the lilies and roses of humanity. They can only bloom by the same process.

So

As an essential part of the same subject, I wish to say a word about verandas. Any opposition to them. will be met with an outcry, I am very well aware. They have so many recommendations, I shall be told. they have. But they have more than equivalent disadvantages. First and foremost, and above all, they shut out the sunshine in winter. That is inexpiable. At all seasons they give an unfavourable direction to the light entering a room. If a house has any

planted just exactly where they are most wanted. In summer they are highly ornamental, full of natural beauty, which no veranda that was ever designed could reach; and they harmonize perfectly with any building, in any style. In winter they are bare, it is true, but even then not without natural beauty, and entirely innocuous. Then they shade the whole walls, or nearly, and so keep, not certain rooms only, but the whole house cool. Here, as in all else, there must be moderation. The trees must not be too thick nor too near the house. In cities they are often both, and very perniciously so. To be sure, trees take time to grow, and a veranda can be put up at once. But have a little patience; it will not be much tried. While you are eating and sleeping, and going about your business, your trees will be growing into

height and breadth and beauty, and into all that you could have best hoped, invaluable for every quality. It need not be said that, in dull weather and in the short days of winter, a veranda darkens a room most seriously, let alone keeping out every gleam of sunshine, at that season worth its weight in gold.

Though not strictly belonging to the subject, may I add a hint which will be found well worth consideration. I learnt it myself from an old Canadian when I was a young one, and others, may, if they will, learn it from me. Opportunity serving, put up a pavilion or a summer-house, in the shade, sufficiently handy to the summer kitchen, large enough for six or eight persons to sit round a table, and take your meals there in the warm season. You will find it delightful, and every body that comes to your house will like it. You will not have many flies, and it will keep them out of the house, as they will not find their meals spread for them there. It is far better than a tent; I have tried both; experto crede. A tent is much hotter and closer. The floor of the summer-house can be swept and washed. The turf under a tent becomes trodden, worn and sour. The summer-house may be of open lattice-work, more or less, according to taste and shelter from wind.