which benefited most-the pupil, by the practical hints he received, or the master, by the rapid and intelligent execution of his orders. The young man was fond of work, and this was of an interesting kind. He threw off his coat and neckerchief, and entered into it with zeal and determination, and Driftwood was the first to tire; declaring heartily, that with the advantage of his advice now and then, his assistant, in the course of time, would become almost as good a painter as himself. Here the door-bell rung.

'Zounds! where's that rascally boy?' cried the artist, as he flew to answer it. Robert did not know, and he went quietly on retouching the picture. In a short time Mr Driftwood returned, ushering in with great formality, a lady and gentleman.

'Did you see that boy, Mr Oaklands?' said he 'never mind: only a friend of mine from the country, Sir Vivian. I have been giving him a hint or two while working at your Correggio, and he takes well to it for an amateur.'

Upon my word,' said the stranger, who was an elderly man of a rather dignified presence, you appear to have taken your own hints to some purpose. There are bits here quite above the fidelity of your usual mechanical touch. Did you say Mr Oak'Oaklands, Sir Vivian.'

??

'Of the Devonshire family, sir?' 'Of no family at all,' replied Robert. "That is, of no family to speak of,' put in the artist, frowning aside. 'Who would talk of his own family in the presence of Sir Vivian Falcontower?'

'You see, Claudia, there is a spirit here which Driftwood's inaterial copies have hitherto wanted. He is improving. You are improving, Driftwood.' The artist bowed low. The lady called Claudia was a very lovely young person, and although rather slight and petite than otherwise in figure, of a still more distingué air than her father. Her nose might just incur a suspicion of being retroussé, and it was this, probably, that gave a certain piquancy to her otherwise still features; but the face owed its character chiefly to a pair of large, well-opened, brilliant eyes, which turned their full blaze upon those of the person she addressed, to the manifest discomfiture, sometimes, of the feeble or the sensitive. Those eyes were turned upon Robert when he said, 'Of no family at all;' and they remained fixed upon him with the interest one bestows upon a new or rare animal. Sir Vivian's visit was merely to learn what progress was being made with the copy, and perhaps to ascertain that the valuable original was safe; but his daughter seemed inclined to linger. She at length demanded of Robert suddenly, whether, as an amateur, he was an admirer of Correggio? Having satisfied her on this point, he added, with straightforward simplicity:

'But I am not an amateur, in the usual meaning of the word: I might rather be called an artist, for I would apply myself to the profession if I thought I could live by it.'

Miss Falcontower lightened upon him again, and this time from head to foot. If you desire to be an artist,' said she, you will doubtless make yourself acquainted with what is going on in the world of art. You perhaps do not know, seeing you are only recently from the country, that a new school threatens to supersede such objects of your admiration as this?'-pointing to the Correggio.

'I know,' replied Robert, at once pleased and surprised at being addressed so frankly by a young lady of Miss Falcontower's rank-'I know that Young Germany is indoctrinating Young England in the theory that the masters of art strayed in a wrong direction from the mediaval point; and that it is necessary, before any real advance can be made, to go back to the era before Raphael, and before Michael Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci.'

And do you not believe that this will lead to a school greater than that of Italy?'

'Not lead, in the ordinary meaning of the word; but it may give rise to a school that will avoid the errors both of the new and old. I have seen some specimens of the English heterodoxy, and they seem to me to be composed of the disjecta membra of art, not the whole body-far less the soul.'

'Do they not imitate nature with remarkable fidelity?'

"They imitate individual objects with remarkable fidelity, and then put them into the piece, as men put curiosities into a glass-case in a museum. Nature works differently in her pictures. The effects there are mainly produced by means of light and shadow. Shadow, so far as painters can deal with it, is merely an obscuration; and the things plunged in it become more or less rounded in their edges and indefinite in their figure. The new artists-if I may judge from the little I have seen-express shadow by a daub of dark colour, and give the objects within it as distinctly and definitely as if they were in the full blaze of the sun. They deal by distance in the same way. Yonder picture, near the door-I can hardly tell what the subject is, although my sight is reasonably clear; but the new artists, I have a notion, would make it a miniature copy. You, ma'am, are the centre of the piece I see before me: everything else is comparatively dim and disregarded; but in painting the scene, the new artists would do their best to injure the impression of interest or delight, by elaborating, as carefully as the principal figure, even the caricatures on the screen behind you, which serves as a background. This elaboration, it is true, would produce an exact copy of the actual thing; but not of the actual thing as it appears to me, faint and subsidiary to the figure in the foreground, which is the object of my interest and admiration. All this tends, I think, to shew that although the new imitations of nature would serve as exquisite illustrations for a treatise on botany, or zoology, or anything else requiring the minute depictment of individual objects, their authors have not yet risen to the conception of a picture.'

But what do you mean by a picture? If everything in the piece, taken individually, is correct, is not the whole correct?'

'No. Nature, in her pictures, does not represent individual objects as they are, but as they seem to be, when observed through the media of air and distance, and modified by light and shadow; and the colour with which she glorifies the scene is no inherent property of its component parts, for that would sometimes be discrepant and irreconcilable.'

'The colours of nature irreconcilable with themselves! -that seems a strange idea. Is it not the province of art to copy nature as she is?'

'Not always-not often. Nature rarely-perhaps never-presents a finished picture, small enough for the canvas of man. Were it otherwise, photography would be the highest art. It is the business of art, or rather its high and hopeless study, to select and combine the forms of nature, and work with them towards the production of one grand impression. This was the aim of the great painters-great only from the noble conception. This was the aim of the great sculptors, who, out of the materials of mortal life, created gods.' Robert grew warm as he spoke on his favourite subject. His figure seemed to dilate; the veins of his finely chiseled neck swelled; and his kindling eyes pierced proudly through the blaze they encountered. Sir Vivian listened with interest to this dialogue, for he was himself an adherent of the old masters, while his daughter was infected with Young-Englandism. 'Do you write as well as paint?' said he with some cordiality.

'I do a little of both,' was the reply; 'but to do either

well, I must see and think more.

At present, my aim

is merely to secure the means of living.'

'I shall be glad to hear of your success. Your lucubrations, when they appear, will render me valuable assistance in my conflicts with a heretical daughter.' 'Nay,' said Miss Falcontower, 'if there are two to one, it is time for me to retire; but be assured it is only to collect my resources against a future occasion.' While she spoke she was walking towards the door, followed respectfully by Robert, with her head turned, Parthianlike, towards the enemy, till she was suddenly brought up by the thin spar that propped the frail part of the roof.

'For God's sake, come away!' shrieked the artist, smiting his hands together. The warning was of no use, for it only made the young lady look up; but our adventurer, darting his spread hands, with the speed of lightning, above her head, received on them a dislodged tile, the broken edge of which cut him to the bone, and splashed a drop of blood upon her face. Leading her away from the dangerous spot, he calmly wound his handkerchief round his bleeding hand; and then, requesting the loan of her own, with an air of tender deference, unmingled with the slightest touch of gallantry, he wiped carefully away the taint from a lovely face, which, but for him, would have been lovely no more. Sir Vivian stood looking on at this scene, pale and terror-stricken, unable to move during the few moments it lasted; and the artist was hardly less paralysed. Miss Falcontower alone was calm and collected; her cheek did not change its colour; and she watched the motions of Robert with a wondering but composed scrutiny, as if they referred to something in which she herself was not personally concerned.

'I thank you,' said she at length recollecting herself. My father, too, will tell you that he is grateful.' 'I am, indeed, grateful; but I cannot fitly express my thanks in this horrid den. Come, Claudia, let us leave it at once and for ever.'

'I beg to assure you, Sir Vivian,' said the artist, 'that the moment I can lay hands upon that boy, I will send him for a workman to repair the roof.'

And if he should fail in laying hands on that boy,' added Robert, 'I will undertake the task of reparation myself to-morrow morning.' Miss Falcontower gave another flash; and the artist hastened to say:

'Let him alone; it is only eccentricity—all young men of genius are eccentric.'

'I shall be glad to see you at my house,' said Sir Vivian, after a look had passed between him and his daughter; and to shew you my insignificant collection.' Robert bowed.

'And soon,' added the young lady, with another of her brilliant flashes-for her face seemed unaccustomed to fall into the form of a smile.

'I shall be only too happy to avail myself of the privilege,' said Robert. After a momentary hesitation, she put out her hand, which he accepted calmly, bowing over it, too much in the Grandisonian style, it must be told, but gracefully withal. She then took hold of her father's arm.

'Where's that rascally boy?' cried the artist. 'Never mind, I'll open the street door myself;' and then they all passed from the studio, leaving Robert to the luxurious feelings of a young man who has met with an adventure.

When the artist returned alone, his new friend expostulated warmly with him on the impolicy of suffering his studio to fall into so ruinous a condition; but Mr Driftwood denied stoutly that it was his faultit was all along of high art.

The public will not patronise the modern masters,' said he; and what can we do but let the tiles come down on them? An author is well off. He gives an address, perhaps at his bootmaker's or stationer's, in a genteel street like this, and lives where he likes; his

whole stock in trade being merely a little paper, pen, and ink, which he may carry in his coat-pocket. An artist, on the other hand, has his works to exhibit; and exhibit them he must in a respectable locality. That is no joke, let me tell you; and then, again, look at the necessity he is under of keeping a boy!'

'Very well, Mr Driftwood, all you have to do is to borrow a ladder for me to-morrow morning, and a carpenter's plane, for I see you are well supplied with what you will call out-of-doors' paint; and before I am done with it, I will turn this into a new house for you.' 'Will you really? that is kind. But you are a queer fellow for the young gentleman cousin Margery speaks of! I can borrow a whole chest of tools, for that matter. However, you have already done a fair job for to-day, and you must dine at my expense. What do you drink?' and he thrust his hand into his pocket, apparently to examine the state of the treasury.

'Anything,' replied Robert, putting on his coat and neckerchief-anything from claret to cold water.' "Then, perhaps, you wouldn't mind doing with a pot of beer?'

'Nothing better.'

'Come along, then, old fellow. Boy!-never mind; we'll open the door ourselves.'

IMPRESSIONS FROM SEALS.

ON approaching the precincts of that district of the metropolis called Bermondsey, the wayfarer is sensible that he has entered into quite a different atmosphere. The heavy odour he perceives resembles that of leather, and it is soon obvious that it arises from the principle to which leather owes its peculiar smell, and likewise its adaptation for the many industrial uses to which it is applied. The Ronel Tanneries are close by, and if he will peep into the courtyard, he will be able to account for at least a portion of the peculiarity of the region. The open space presents the regular equipments of a tanner's yard-pits, hills of hides and skins, and larger hills of refuse tan. Ovine, bovine, equine trophies, the tribute of Europe, India, Brazil, respectively, form mimic mountains in various parts of the yard-scattered in so much apparent confusion that we must take him in tow, or he will never be able to discriminate. But leaving these things without present examination, we turn to a heap in the corner, the deposits of several wagons: these are seal-skins. casual glance, they differ nothing from a dirty, hairy, raw calf-skin; but to the touch they are thick, oily, and heavy.

To a

The seal-skin manufacture forms a very material part of the great business of these tanneries. After as much oil as possible has been expressed from the unctuous skins, they are put into the lime-pits near us, to loosen the bulbous roots of the hair, and prepare them for depilation. We may see the workmen hooking them up, turning them, and then allowing them to glide like sheets of slime through their leather gloves, from one pit into another, as easily as eels slip through the fingers. When by the handling' they receive, the action of the lime is hastened, the skins proceed to the long low fleshing-house at hand, where strange-looking beings-wearing only a shirt and leather breeches, and all with a pipe in their mouthsare to 'unhair' them on one side, and to 'flesh' them on the other. A thorough washing afterwards, and 'striking out,' currier fashion, on an inclined bench, leave them in a state fit to be turned into leather. But, in deference to modern taste, leather must not only be good, but fine. The seal-skin, in its natural state, would make leather too thick to please the customer, and take too much tanning to please the producer. These considerations have led to the invention of a skin-splitting machine, which, amongst the manifold contrivances that facilitate the operations of the

modern manufacturing world, stands very prominent for its ingenuity.

Two of these machines are working at the Ronel Tanneries, and through one or the other our seal-skins will have to pass. In each are a couple of iron rollers, which, as they revolve horizontally, one above the other, seize the skin, spread out before them by the workman, and present the edge, as it emerges on the opposite side, to a keen and rapid blade, moving parallel with the line of contact of the rollers. So nicely adjusted is this blade, that it gives us in the result two skins instead of one, of equal superficial extent, and of such thickness as may be desired.

Our utilising age turns everything to account. Sealhair, if fine and long, finds its way, with cow-hair, to the feltmaker or the plasterer; but more usually it is fit only for the waste-heap, and, along with the refuse from the flesh-house, goes to fertilise our fields. Even the flesh-side of the skin from the splitting-machine is usually given up as manure. This splitting process is not gone through for the object of getting double the amount of leather, but to get the grain-side thin. Seal makes the toughest and most durable leather, and admits of being reduced-under the knives of fleshers, splitters, curriers, and finishers-to about a tenth of its weight. The pure gelatine of the under or flesh side, as it comes from the splitting-machine, makes now and then an inferior kind of leather. In general, however, it is unfit for this purpose, or even for glue or size, either of which would be of so deliquescent a nature as to retain the solid form only two or three days.

Let us now return to the vats. Round about them in various parts are hillock-ranges of seal-skins prepared for tanning. A busy crew of men handle these skins, and steep them in successively stronger baths of the astringent infusion of oak-bark. Another crew, in one of the buildings that skirt the open yard, are engaged, meanwhile, in tanning many of the skins more expeditiously by means of sumach. And a curious manipulation it appears, for the skins, sewn flesh to flesh round the edges, are filled with the liquid sumach, and then float about like gigantic bowls, in colour and consistence resembling green turtle. The sumach is the powdered leaves and stalks of a plant that sometimes decorates our shrubberies at home, but which grows abundantly in Sicily. It contains more of the tanning principle than oak-bark, and is very extensively used where expedition is desired.

The after-processes which the seal-skin undergoes are very much the same as with other leathers: it is dried and curried, and worked and grained, and finished, before the tanner has done his whole duty. It then gives occupation to the varnisher, and reaches the leather-dealers. Journeying onwards, it comes into the hands of Crispin, who makes it into the close, beautifully grained shoes for children's wear, or into the toes of the leather cordovan boots, with high military heels, of which our ladies during the last two seasons have been so proud.

Remember, these are the details of only one scene of manufacture. A larger community is busy at the Ronel Tanneries than at almost any other, with respect to seal-skins, but every tanner has something to do with them. The seal gives employment to a greater number of our human working-bees than is generally supposed. Both in the extent to which it pays tribute to some of our common domestic comforts, and in the particulars of its commercial and manufacturing history, it offers points of peculiar interest. Even before its arrival in England at all, its adventures would furnish matter both interesting and useful for a long gossip. The capture of the seal gives employment, in the proper season, to a fleet of three or four hundred vessels belonging to Newfoundland. The number has been gradually increasing during the last quarter of a century, and the trade is by far

the most profitable part of the business of that colony. Although not so extensive a staple, nor so generally followed, as the cod-fishery, circumstances give it the precedence in importance. When we take into account the capital and time, and the almost certain and immediate return for investment, it is perhaps the most remunerative employment in the British Empire.

The most suitable vessels for the service are from 130 to 160 tons, and carry forty or fifty men. In 1852, the outfit consisted of 367 vessels, employing 13,000 men. A quarter of a million seals are sometimes captured: about this number was caught last year, although, in respect to loss of vessels, it was a very disastrous season. Young ones are destroyed by being literally knocked on the head; the slightest blow with a club or a bat on the back part of the head despatching them. Breeding-season is deemed the best time for the sealhunt, as the animals are then in the best condition. The seals frequenting the coast of Newfoundland are supposed to whelp in the months of February and March. This takes place upon the pans and fields of ice-whelping-ice as it is called-that float down with the north and north-east currents from Labrador to the coast of Newfoundland. The cubs are three months old before they take the water. They are often discovered in such immense numbers within a day's sail of St John's, that three or four days suffice to load a vessel with pelts, as they are called, consist- | ing of skin and fat. The skin is taken off while the animal is still warm; and what little remains of the carcass-for it is nearly all blubber that is attached to the skin-is left upon the ice. Sufficient time being allowed for the pelts to cool, they are stowed away; and five-sevenths of them reach the market of St John's, the rest going chiefly to the United States. Formerly, they were disposed of by tale; now they are sold, fat and skin together, by weight.

A thousand seals are thought remunerative; but the majority of the vessels come with 3000 or 5000, and some with 7000, 8000, or even 9000. The season for starting on the voyage is from the 1st to the 15th of March; before this time the young seals would be too small to be remunerative. A voyage seldom occupies more than two months, and sometimes only two or three weeks. If the take is speedy, two, and sometimes three voyages are accomplished in one season.

There are four varieties of seals in these capturesthe young harp and young hood, the old harp and the bedlamer, or old hood. Of the first two kinds, about equal proportions are taken. Generally, all four varieties are in a cargo. The young harp is the best and most productive of oil. It is only when the ice is jammed together so that no open water can be reached, that any considerable number of the old seals are caught. Their timidity, as well as their intelligence, teaches them to dive under water, whenever that is possible, upon the slightest alarm.

As soon as the pelts reach St John's, they are unshipped, and immediately begin to undergo a series of manipulations. The first operation after being landed, is that of separating the fat from the skin: a dexterous hand can manage 400 a day. The pelts are dry-salted for a month, and are then sufficiently cured for shipment. Nearly all of them reach the British market; the lion's share going to the Ronel Tanneries.

Although our attention thus far has been chiefly claimed by the pelts or skins, yet the oil is the most important product of the seal. The blubber, separated from the skin, is cut up and put into vats, where it is gradually subjected to great pressure, and the oil trickles out into a pan underneath, and is immediately ready for casking. The weight of the blubber itself is sufficient at first to render the oil, and this, called pale seal, is of the finest quality. As pressure is applied and time elapses, decomposition takes place, and the oil becomes darker. The operation is exceedingly dis