was entrusted, at the age of thirty-four, with
that great and important expedition against
Quebec, in the successful crisis of which he, to
use his own words, "died contented."

Another remarkable instance of a head
calculated to surprise the student of physiognomy, is
the portrait of Jeffreys—Chancellor Jeffreys,
the cruel and unjust judge. This cruel, violent,
drunken judge, has, at first sight, the countenance
of a highly sensitive reflective person,
with regular handsome features, and an expression
of refined melancholy. Close scrutiny,
however, reveals something cruel as well as
melancholy in the heavy eyes.

These, however, are exceptional cases; in
most instances, the portraits in the collection
are wonderfully true to the preconceived idea of
the persons represented. Take, for instance, the
beautiful terra-cotta bust of Hampden. It
would be difficult to imagine anything finer.
Indeed, the head is almost ideal in its splendour.
This bust of Hampden is placed as a
pendant to one of Cromwell, and it is interesting
to study the difference between the two
men, allied in a common cause. The energy
expressed in the bust of Cromwell—which
was modelled from life—is so intense that
you almost expect the cold clay to burst
into action as you look at it. To stand before
it, is like being near a loaded Armstrong gun;
a steam-engine waiting for the twist of a handle
to tear along the iron road; a race-horse held
back at the starting-place. To change the
destinies of a great country, to convulse it from end
to end, and from side to side, seems too small a
work for the thousand-man power of such a
giant. Hampden's face and head are of a
different type. With less of energy than
Cromwell's though with enough too, Heaven knows
—there is more of refinement, more feeling.
He looks a true gentleman, in courage not second
even to Cromwell, in honour and integrity
unimpeachable. When one takes with these two
the portrait of Ireton, also in this collection,
Ireton "taciturn and reserved," the man who
was "never diverted from any resolution he
had taken," one can wonder at nothing which
their united efforts were able to achieve. It
would be a curious thing to compare these three
heads of the men who headed an English
revolution, with those of the chief actors in the
French Reign of Terror.

Widely different from these portraits of Cromwell
and Hampden, is a painting of the celebrated
Earl of Chesterfield, the author of those
renowned letters to his son, which were once
thought to embody the perfection of (worldly)
wisdom. In one respect, this portrait is allied to
those of Hampden and Cromwell, for it carries
out one's previously formed idea of the man as
completely as each of theirs does. Those
refined symmetrical features, the dark eyebrows
contrasting with the powdered hair, the cold
courteous composed countenance, could belong
surely to nobody but this man, distinguished in
literature, in the senate, and in the drawing-
room; the prince of courtiers.

There is—again corroborative of physiognomy
as an instinct—a bust of Hogarth in this same
room, executed by neat-handed Roubiliac, and
a masterpiece of modelling and truthfulness.
We want nothing better than this to put before
us the sharp mobile, observant, pleasantly
audacious face of the man who sketched the Calais
Gate, with the French sentries looking on
suspiciously. The bust is placed in a kind of
painter's corner, where are portraits, mostly
painted by the artists themselves, of Reynolds,
Opie, Wilkie, Northcote, and Wright of Derby.
There are two rather curious phenomena
connected with the exhibition-frequenting public,
which any one who chooses to plant himself
in this painter's corner, may observe. Sir
Joshua has painted himself turning his head
away from the easel, at which he sits, and
looking eagerly at his model; and, in order that
he may not be dazzled by the strong light in
the room, he shades his eyes with his hand.
This shadow of the worthy knight's hand cuts
straight across his face, and is painted with
infinite skill; and it is upon this that the general
visitors fix. They do not seem much to care
about seeing a likeness of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
showing what the great painter was like, and
having the additional interest of being a picture
from his own hand. They fasten upon that
shadow. It is so "natural." How in the world
is it done? The second phenomenon
appertains to Wright of Derby, a portrait-painter of
some standing in his day, but very little known
at this day; here is his portrait; an uninteresting
picture of a not remarkable person; but
then it is hung in an obscure corner out of the
way, and it is necessary to squeeze the digestive
organs quite flat over a wooden barrier, in order
to get a glimpse of it; consequently, everybody
is determined to see it. There is a portrait of
Oliver Goldsmith close beside this of Wright
of Derby, which, because it is in a better light,
and can be seen without personal anguish and
twisting of the spinal column, few will look at.
Poor, dear, delightful Goldsmith! Even here
he is placed upon the ground, and is slighted
by his company.

In a room close to this are two portraits
of two distinguished religious professors, which
somehow or other are not quite delightful. Here
is, first of all, William Huntington, S.S. This
personage, who was a great preacher, and also
a great coal-heaver, might pass, as far as
appearance goes, for a convict, but that he
looks too conceited. The vitality and strength
of his constitution are fearful to behold, and
it is certain that he looks better fitted for
coal-heaving than for religious oratory. The
initials appended to his name are thus
explained by himself: "As I cannot get at D.D.
for want of cash, neither can I get at M.A. for
the want of learning; therefore I am compelled
to fly for refuge to S.S., by which I mean Sinner
Saved." The reader would, perhaps, like to read
his works, in twenty volumes.

Immediately beneath the portrait of S.S.
hangs a picture of a gentleman in a black gown,