JOHN RUSKIN.

ON

NE June morning, after enjoying Ambleside, in the English lake district, we drove nine miles to Lake Coniston, on which is Ruskin's home, called "Brantwood." A lodge, square, coated with mortar, rugged with pebbles, as are many of the English houses, stands at the entrance. Further on, upon an elevation overlooking the loveliest of lakes and noblest of mountains, is the home of the famous author.

It is covered, like the lodge, with rough mortar, except a large addition of blue slate, and it is low and rambling, as though made for rest and enjoyment. Over it clamber vines of several varieties, one thick with white flowers and red berries. Close to the house are beds of yellow poppies, as though no inch of ground should fail to add its share of beauty. Behind is a steep mountain, where Ruskin geologizes, bringing down large pieces of rock in his hands. This is a study he especially loves. He says, "I was forced to write upon art by an accident (the public abuse of Turner) when I was two and twenty; but I had written a 'Mineralogical Dictionary' as far as C, and invented a short-hand symbolism for crystalline forms before I was fourteen; and have been at stony work ever since, as I could find time; silently, not caring to speak much till the chemists had given me more help."

All about the home are ash, spruce, holly, chestnut, and oak trees, furnishing shade and comfort. Within, one finds a perfect treasure-house of art, science, and literature. As you enter, the square hall, green in color, is brightened by three drawings of Burne-Jones: "Fair Rosamond," "Thisbe," and "Cleopatra," with some sketches by Prout and from Ruskin's own pencil. The drawing-room is furnished in delicate blue, with some pieces in rich golden satin, while the walls are in handsome figured paper in subdued tints. Rugs are on the A plant, with exquisitely shaded leaves, stands on the table in the centre of the room. The dining-hall is one of the most cheerful of the apartments, furnished in pea-green. Here are the family portraits. The picture of the mother represents her as a woman of uncommon sweetness and strength; that of the father shows a fine, manly face. Most winsome of all is that of a three-yearold boy, with flaxen hair, bright blue eyes, dressed in white, with blue shoes and a sash of the same color. This is painted by Northcote, who says that when the little John Ruskin was brought to sit for his picture, he had not been ten minutes in the room before he inquired, "Why were there holes in his carpet?" Here also is a famous portrait of Andrea Gritti, by Titian, and an "Annunciation" by the great Tintoretto. Here is sweet Angelica Kauffman, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds; Raphael, from life; young Reynolds, by his own hand; and Turner, at the age of seventeen, by himself. Here were playing the pretty children of Mrs. Severn, Ruskin's niece, of whom he is very fond, and who brightens what, even with all its art, would otherwise be a lonely house. For what is genius in a home without the sunshine of affection and sympathy?

Mr. Ruskin's sleeping-room, up-stairs, is simple, in light chintz, with bureau, washstand, and bedstead of mahogany; but the pictures are worth a fortune. The walls are closely covered with Turners, incased in blue. cambric lest the light fade the exquisite colors. Here is a 66 Carnarvon Castle," and others about which Ruskin has written in "Modern Painters." The adjoining room, where he used to work, but which he left from a prolonged illness, has a tower with glass on each side, so that no sunrise or sunset may be lost to view.

one case for

Most attractive of all is the master's study, furnished in green. Books fill cases on every side classics, one for botany, another for geology, while still another is filled with old books and manuscripts. I look out of the window across the lake, upon an ivy-covered house with tower, once the home of Sir Philip Sidney, and then, taking from the case a French book that once belonged to the famous man, I read his name. How these things link us to the past! Here is a work on Dante, with Michael Angelo's autograph written in a fine hand. Here is a large Chaucer of 1694, with some verses in Addison's handwriting. Mr. Ruskin evidently ikes autographs, although he has been obliged to issue a circular, stating that he is not able to comply with the request for his own.

Here also is a manuscript Greek Testament of the tenth century; an illuminated book of music of an early date; the prayer-book of St. Louis on vellum, illuminated with work so fine that a microscope is required to see its beauty. Here are some of the "Waverley novels in the original manuscript, and a bound volume of some of Sir Walter Scott's letters in his own writing. Linnæus's "Botany" is here, with notes by Thomas

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Gray. A desk is opened, and it is full of Turners. Another desk has a most beautiful collection of gold, diamonds and other precious stones, laid on crimson or purple velvet; also the finest assortment of agates, probably, in the world.

His seal is the word

In one part of the room is a bundle of walking-sticks, hammers, and big pieces of basalt which Ruskin has brought down from the mountain. "To-day," graven on the end of a piece of chalcedony, five or six inches long, like a stalactite. Here are vases from Rome and Greece, and this three-cornered inkstand once belonged to Galileo. Here is a piece of a font from Florence, executed by Niccolo Pisano. In the centre of the room is a circular table, covered with green cloth, where the scholar does his work. And what a student! He may work for a month on geology, then, if he tires, he turns to botany and writes a book; then to art; then, dearest of all, to his work for the poor.

More interesting by far than the home is the gifted man who lives here, childless, but with a wealth of affection for man and beast and flower. Literature furnishes no man like him - unique in character and munificent

with both brain and hand.

The only son of a London merchant, he was born February 8, 1819. "I was accustomed," he says, "for two or three years, to no other prospect than that of the brick walls over the way; had no brothers nor sisters nor companions; and though I could always make myself happy in a quiet way, the beauty of the mountains had an additional charm of change and adventure for me which a country-bred child could not have felt."

In his boyhood he was taken by his parents in leisurely carriage-travel to nearly all the cathedrals, picture-gal