principles of the greatest importance, and practically involve the decision of actions in which character, or property, or personal liberty are at stake. These are, of course, an essential part of the business of the court, and in such cases I think the court appealed to would seldom refuse leave to appeal further in cases in which a further appeal was really required.

Such is my view of the changes which the constitution of the High Court requires. I hope they may be thought worthy of consideration before practically irrevocable steps are taken which would greatly alter, and as I think for the worse, perhaps the most popular and one of the soundest of all English institutions.

JAMES FITZJAMES STEPHEN.

A GLIMPSE AT NEWFOUNDLAND.

ONE fine August day a friend of mine and I, being anxious to explore the hunting-grounds of Newfoundland, embarked on board an Allan steamship, and after a somewhat boisterous passage, found ourselves deposited in the city of St. John's.

St. John's, the capital of Newfoundland, is remarkably well situated on the northern side of a magnificent harbour. The entrance to the harbour is through a very narrow passage between lofty, precipitous, rugged cliffs; but within, the haven expands and forms a perfectly secure, land-locked, and commodious shelter from the wild waves that lash those inhospitable shores. The most noticeable point about the city is that all the manufacturing energy of the population appears to be concentrated in the making of long fisherman's boots, and the keeping of public-houses. It produces seal oil and cod-fish, and consumes rum and tobacco. St. John's is a busy, thriving, moneymaking place, and the prosperity of the capital of the oldest colony of Great Britain is appreciated by the traveller long before he sets foot upon her classic shores; for one side of the harbour smells abominably of dried cod-fish, and the other of seal oil. Judging by the accent, there must be a large mixture of Irish blood in the population, a conjecture which is not confuted by the fact that the inhabitants of St. John's and of the outports-as all the other towns and settlements are called-and of the island in general, are a splendid set of tall, strong, active, healthy-looking men. Accustomed from childhood to brave the hardships of a most rigorous climate, drawing their sustenance from the teeming but treacherous bosom of a storm-vexed ocean, that rages in vain for ever round a rugged reef-bound coast ; navigating their frail and ill-found schooners amid tempest, ice, and fog, the Newfoundlanders have developed into one of the finest seafaring populations on the face of the globe. Nowhere can better mariners be found than among the hardy, adventurous, self-reliant men who ply their precarious calling along the dangerous shores of their native island, or on the wintry coast of the neighbouring mainland of Labrador.

The principal industry of Newfoundland is the cod-fishery, and the chief centre of the trade is at St. John's, where the process of

packing and shipping the salted fish may be witnessed to perfection. The fish, having been dried on stages erected for the purpose on the shores of every bay and inlet of the island, are brought to St. John's in small schooners and thrown in heaps upon the wharves of the merchants. There they are culled over, sorted into three or four piles. according to their quality by experienced cullers, who separate the good from the indifferent, and the indifferent from the bad, with great rapidity and unerring skill. Women with hand-barrows attend upon the cullers, carry the fish into an adjoining shed, and upset their loads beside barrels standing ready to receive them. A couple of boys throw the fish into a cask, piling them up a foot or so above the brim, mount on the top, and having danced a war-dance upon them in their hobnailed boots to pack them down, roll the barrel under a screw-press, where two men stand ready to take charge of it. Grasping the ends of the long arms of the lever, the men run quickly round a couple of times, lift their feet off the ground, and, throwing their weight on the lever to add impetus to the blow, swing round with it, and bring down the stamp with a dull thud, compressing the cod-fish into a compact mass. The cask is then rolled out from under the press, and handed over to two coopers. In a trice the hoops are driven on, the cask is headed up, and then trundled down an incline into the hold of some vessel, loading for the West Indies or some Mediterranean port. The rapidity with which the whole process is managed is remarkable.

Sealing operations also are vigorously conducted by the inhabitants of St. John's. In former days the seal fishery was carried on in sailing vessels, and was attended with considerable danger; but now that steam-ships are used the risk is much diminished. The paying nature of the business may be gathered from the fact that steamers of five or six hundred tons burden, built and fitted for the purpose, and quite useless for any other trade, make a large profit in average years, although the sealing season lasts only a month or six weeks. Early in the spring, about the beginning of March, the ice from the north strikes in towards the eastern coast of Newfoundland, bringing with it hundreds and hundreds of thousands of seals, young and old. Then St. John's wakes up, and the whole island is in a bustle. Though it entails constant exposure to great cold, and extremely hard work, the young men struggle eagerly to secure a berth for the sealing season, for they earn very high wages, and the business is salted with that element of uncertainty and danger which adds such a relish to life. At length everything is ready, and a fleet of steamers from St. John's, and of sailing craft, of all kinds and sizes from large coasting schooners down to open boats, issuing from every bay, start out to look for the ice. The ships, crowded with as many men as they can hold, make two trips of about a fortnight's duration each; the first being devoted to the capture of the young seals, at that

time only a few weeks old, and the second to the destruction of the full-grown animals. The latter are generally shot, while the former are knocked on the head with clubs. As soon as the ice is reached, the men scatter themselves about the field, running over the rough surface, jumping from block to block of loose ice, tumbling into holes and scrambling out again, wild with excitement in their search for seals. Each man acts independently, doing the best he can for himself. When he has killed a seal he stops but a minute to whip off the skin with the blubber attached, and fasten a cord to it, and then off again after another seal, till he has got as many as he can drag, when he returns, towing his load behind him, to the ship. The men work with a will, giving themselves scarcely time to eat or rest, for they receive a share of the profits according to the number of seals that each man brings in, and if the season is successful, an active and daring man will make a large sum of money. The seals are valuable only for the oil which is tried out of their fat, and which is employed for various lubricating purposes, and for their skins, which are tanned and used principally, I believe, for shoe leather. They do not produce the pelt which, when plucked and dyed, is worked up into those lovely seal-skin jackets that are as destructive to the purse as they are delightful to the eye. The number of seals brought in annually is very great, as many as 500,000 having been killed in a single season, and the business employs nearly 10,000 men. What becomes of the multitude of surviving seals is a problem I have never heard satisfactorily solved. The ice, on which they come down in swarms every year from the north, melts during the summer months soon after coming in contact with the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. What then becomes of the seals? Do they find their way back through thousands of watery miles to their polar birthplace, or do they remain scattered about along the shores of Newfoundland and the neighbouring continent? It is a problem in natural history similar to the eel puzzle at home, for we are still in ignorance as to what becomes of the millions of full-grown eels that descend our rivers with each autumn flood, but which are never seen reascending the

stream.

We remained some days in the interesting city of St. John's, much enjoying the kind hospitality of our friends, but waiting somewhat anxiously for an opportunity to get a lift down the coast to the neighbourhood of our proposed hunting-grounds. The regular fortnightly steamer did not call in anywhere near our destination, and day after day passed without any coasting vessel sailing in that direction. From this dilemma we were relieved by the kindness of a judge who was about to start on his circuit in one of the harbour tugs, and who very good-naturedly undertook to put us ashore at the mouth of the river we wished to ascend. This offer was most thankfully accepted, and shortly after, my friend and I,

with three Mic Mac Indians from Bay of Despair, two birch bark canoes, one month's provisions and a very limited supply of baggage, steamed out of the picturesque harbour of St. John's in the august society of the judge and all the functionaries of his court. The whole court was there assembled, including judge, barristers, lawyers, clerks, and all—everybody, in fact, except the criminals and the jurymen; and it really was a pity they could not have been provided also; it would have saved such a lot of time and trouble. As far as I could see, there was very little work for the court to do. We would stop occasionally, apparently at any nice likely-looking spot for a malefactor, and send on shore to see if there was any demand for our commodity, namely, justice. Generally we were informed that the inhabitants did not require any just at present, but that perhaps if we would call again another time a little later, we might be more fortunate; and then we would give three hideous steam whistles by way of a parting benediction, and plough our way through the yielding billows to some other settlement, where, if we were lucky, the court would divest itself of oil-skin coats and sou'-westers, and go ashore to dispose of the case or cases to be tried.

We were a very jolly party, and amused ourselves by lounging about the little deck enjoying the fresh air and grand wild coast scenery, reading 'dime novels' and playing cards in the stifling saloon below, where we were veritably cribbed, cabined, and confined-stuffed as close as herrings in a cask. There was something rather comical in the whole proceeding. To my insular and antiquated notions, a judge is an awful form clad in a solemn wig and wrapped in gorgeous robes and the majesty of the law, and barristers and the whole personnel of a court of justice are superhuman creatures, extraordinary mortals to be looked upon with wonder not unmixed with awe; and to see eminent counsel staggering about the slippery deck in long boots and guernsey frocks, and the highest functionary of the law playing profane games of cards in his shirt sleeves, condescending to exchange remarks concerning the weather with grimy stokers and tarry-breeched seamen, and even experiencing inner qualms and spasms when our little ship tossed and struggled across some wide exposed bay, quite destroyed my illusions, and produced a feeling of somewhat irreverent amusement. The mere fact of the judge going his circuit in a tug-steamer appeared strange and incongruous, though why he should not go in a steamer just as naturally as in a train or a coach-and-four, I do not know. Indeed, it was the natural mode of progression in Newfoundland, where the ocean is, or was at the time of my visit, the principal highway. Roads in those days—and I am thinking of events which happened some years ago-there were none, except in the vicinity of St. John's and one or two other towns. People who, for their sins, had to go from one part of the island to another, travelled in the