and shadows are reversed—is laid upon it. It
is then exposed to the action of the light, which
renders insoluble the gelatinised surface exposed
to its action. The part not acted upon is washed
away, and the stone is then quite ready to be
printed from. The plan is that of a Frenchman,
M. Poitevin, who has produced by means
of it some exceedingly good lithographs. Similar
methods have been patented in England.

Then, again, there is Mr. Crookes, who has
lately patented a way of printing photographs
on wood, without altering the surface of the
block, and his device appears to have excited a
good deal of attention both at home and abroad.
It looks very simple. A little oxalate of silver,
mixed with water, is smeared on the block with
the finger; on this the copy is made from the
negative; and it is ready at once for the hand
of the engraver. The value of this discovery is
likely to be great, inasmuch as, by help of it,
illustrations may be transferred immediately to a wood
block, without intervention of the draughtsman.

There is also a recent application of the
electrotype process, promising to reduce the cost of
first-rate engravings to a sum that will bring
them within the reach of thousands who at
present go without them altogether. It is that of
Messrs. Salmon and Garnier, to whose
heliographic engraving we have slightly referred, and
consists in applying a steel surface to metal
plates of any kind. An engraved copper-plate,
for example, has been produced at a heavy cost
by an engraver of great reputation, but from
this plate, notwithstanding its great cost, only
a limited number of proofs can be taken before
it gives signs of wear, owing to the comparative
softness of the metal on which the design is
engraved. The practice, therefore, has been,
where a large number of proofs were required—
as in the case of the Art Union prints—to take
fac-similes of the plate by electrotyping, and in
this way multiplying the number of copper-plates
available for use. In the new process the plate
is placed in the bath, and coated with steel
without the least hurt to the engraving. So
that we have a steel-plate for a copper-plate, and
from this, since it is harder, a much greater
number of impressions can be printed. As soon
as it shows signs of wear, which the printer will
immediately detect, the surface of steel is
dissolved, and a new surface formed by the means
previously employed; so that, in point of fact,
there is absolutely no limit to the number of
prints that may be taken from a single plate, the
last being almost equal in beauty to the first.

A NEW SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.
IN FIVE PARTS.
PART 1. CHAPTER THE FIRST.

ONLY to Paris, mind. Not committing myself
to too much at first, lest I should prove a bankrupt
in my stock of sentiment sooner than I had
anticipated, and turn out sentimentally insolvent
earlier than might be convenient.

"Only to Paris," some one echoes, in a
disappointed tone. Nay, but you may trust me,
reader, you shall have nothing you have had
before. I am not the man to inflict on others
what I dread myself, and in my hands you are
safe, at least, from long descriptions and profuse
accounts of what you know already.

The interest of this journey—if there is any
—shall be human, and not local.

I solemnly affirm that between London and
Paris I will find as much food for that mixed
appetite for the sentimental and the humorous,
which is ever riotous within me, as I desire to
have, and that I would not wish to go farther;
nor to turn my steps in any other direction, if I
had the money and the time (and I have neither)
to set off to the Pyramids to-morrow.

Why, look at the room in which I write these
words; for they are written in Paris. It is au
quatrième (counting the entresol), but such a
prince of rooms! Furnished in green throughout
is my little room. Green bed-curtains—green
window-curtains—green chairs—green fauteuil
—green sofa. Comfortable? Why it is more
than comfortable, it is luxurious. The windows
are in a robe de chambre of white lace, which
gives them a joyous and wedding-like appearance,
and the chimney-piece is surmounted by a
gilded clock, with Cupids fighting which of them
is to guide the hands. The gilded clock is
always wrong: a gilded clock, let it be remarked
in passing, always is wrong, and it would be a
curious subject of speculation, and one fraught
with infinite benefit to the community at large,
if some ingenious mechanician, cunning in
horology, would make it his study to ascertain
whether it is the gilding or the Cupids which
renders accuracy unattainable in such timepieces
as have just been alluded to. My own impression
on the subject is that the fault rests
entirely with the Cupids, and I make this assertion
the more fearlessly, because I was once in
possession of a watch whose movements I could
always depend upon, except when it was placed
in a certain watch-stand which was presented to
me some years ago, on the last birthday which
I thought it desirable to keep, and which (the
watch-case, not the birthday) was presided over
by a Cupid playing on a fife. Now I noticed
that, whenever my unexceptionable watch was
placed in this receptacle—which was of bronze,
and not gilt, so it wasn't the gilding—it
invariably lost heart, and went abominably.

This fact is surely enough. Besides, the thing
is obvious. What have Cupids to do with
punctuality, or any respectability and regularity of
habits whatsoever?

Beneath the clock—beneath the chimney-
piece, two brazen female Sphinxes, lying upon
their stomachs, consent to act as dogs, and bear
upon their polished backs, the logs, which,
blazing merrily, and cracking as they burn, at
least give one heart and prevent one's feeling
lonely, even if they do fail to give out the full
amount of heat which might be considered
desirable by a chilly subject.

Such, then, is my apartment; situated in one of
the half busy streets of Paris. A street not so
full of traffic as to be too noisy for thought ;