seventy miles of road in the United Kingdom
as from Galway to Clifden, and round by
Leenane and Maam to the Galway road again.

         HYPOCRISY AND CANDOUR.

    TOM says he always tells the truth,
      Though an unpleasant duty;
    While Jack, a less punctilious youth,
      Would praise a Satyr's beauty.

    But somehow, when you hear them both,
      Their diff'rent manners trying,
    You take Jack's praises, nothing loth,
      And hope that Tom is lying.

    You know that Jack is not sincere,
      While Tom is full of virtue;
    But one can sometimes please your ear,
      The other's sure to hurt you.

    Jack's ready lie has such success,
      'Twill please you though you doubt it;
    Tom never tells the truth, unless
      You'd rather be without it.

    Falsehood a paltry vice may be—
       Plain-speaking may be grander—
     But, though I hate Hypocrisy,
        I loathe too fulsome Candour.

       A NEW PORTRAIT GALLERY.

IT was once the fortune of the writer of these
lines to employ a carpenter who, whenever he
inserted a screw into any part of his work,
always, before he did so, took the trouble of
anointing the instrument with tallow or some
other kind of grease, which he called the
"friend." On being asked what was his motive
for administering this unction, his reply was
that he did it for the benefit of the person,
whoever he might be, who should have, one of these
days, to extract that same screw, and whose
task this application of grease would render
very much easier of execution than it otherwise
would have been. There was a principle
involved in the proceeding of this carpenter—in
all respects a very honest man—which we are
most of us inclined to lose sight of. He was
acting for the benefit of posterity.

This small anecdote is appropriate here,
because the project, the carrying out of
which is to be urged in this paper, is one
which, in some respects, affects those who will
live after us more than it does ourselves. It
does affect us too, or the case would be desperate;
but it touches the interest of those who
will walk on this stage, when we have walked
off it. The project in question is the formation of
a National Collection of Photographic Portraits
of eminent and remarkable persons, to be got
together and preserved in some public institution.

There are various opinions as to the value,
and still more as to the satisfactoriness, of
photographic portraits. Of some individuals it is
said that they do not make good photographs.
People will even say—generally after having
proclaimed that they know whose physiognomy
it is that is presented before them—" Well! I
should really not have known who it was
intended for." Such critics will remark, moreover,
looking disparagingly at the portrait before
them: "It is not my idea of him," or "It looks
too serious," or "too ferocious." "The hands,"
they will say, "are too big," or "the feet are out
of all proportion." The criticism of the audience
to which a photographic likeness is submitted
may be of this sort, or even more severe yet; but
it cannot be denied that that portrait, whether it
excites approval or disapproval, is a reproduction
of a face presented at a certain moment to
the surface of a mirror which retained the
image reflected upon it. Whether the face so
reflected was truly reflected—whether it was
presented under favourable or under unfavourable
circumstances—whether the lights and shadows
were so thrown upon it as to develop its beauties,
or to bring out its defects—whether the view
selected was the most characteristic or the most
favourable—these are all points which may
legitimately be called in question. One thing,
however, is certain; the object that we see
reproduced, was really presented before a plate
chemically prepared to receive and to retain
whatever was placed in front of it. A mechanical
contrivance, like the photographic process,
can neither invent nor omit; there may be
defects in the working of that piece of
machinery, there may be exaggeration in the size of
the objects which happen to be nearest to the
lens, there may be inaccuracy, produced by
some trifling movement on the part of the
sitter; but in the main we feel, in looking at
a photographic portrait, that we know pretty
well what the person who sat for it was like.

And, moreover, we certainly know that at
least there has been no voluntary tampering
with the face represented. There is a
tendency in portrait-painters to humour their
subjects a little. "This is an intellectual character,"
says the artist. "I must make the most
of the forehead and the eyes, and reduce the
lower part of the face, ever so little, in size."
The artist does so, and a "commanding brow,"
and a "mouth and chin indicative of great
refinement," are the result; together, probably,
with a total deficiency of force, and a loss of
individuality and character. We have had too
many of these garbled representations of
illustrious men. We want to see a remarkable man
as he was; not as a portrait-painter thinks he
ought to have been. If the hero were of a
puny figure, and of a frail build, let us be made
aware of it; if the man of genius had a
disappointing forehead, let that be proclaimed also.
We may learn something through such revelation,
and correct our notions (generally
very erroneous) of what is a disappointing
forehead. We have most of us known
instances of low and retreating foreheads
from out of which great thoughts have
issued, as we have of grand and ponderous
brows behind whose mighty fastnesses there has