the blue veil, and substitute a dark green or
yellow one in its stead. Blue tulle offers no
more obstruction to the actinic rays of the sun
than white. Half a yard of yellow net, though,
perhaps, not very becoming, will be found more
efficacious and considerably cheaper than a quart
of Kalydor. The cause of freckles is simple
enough. It is nothing more than a darkening
of the salts of iron contained in the blood, by
the action of light. A freckled face is, therefore,
an animated photograph.

Still another reason why photographs are not
always pleasing, either as likenesses or pictures,
is that the time occupied in posing the sitter
and securing the negative is not sufficient to
allow much thought or care to be devoted to it.
It was recorded in a photographic journal, some
time since, as a wonderful feat, and lauded
accordingly, that one operator had taken ninety-
seven negatives in eight hours, just five minutes
apiece. Now, as no two individuals ought to be
subjected to precisely the same treatment, that
is, placed in the same position, or in the same
lights, it is certain that fifty at least of those,
measured by this modern Procustes, would be
capable of much improvement. Sometimes, for
days together, when the atmosphere is foggy,
they can do nothing; and, therefore, it behoves
them to make their hay while the sun shines.

Now for my trials: "How frightfully stout
you have made me," remonstrates a lady weighing,
probably, about a couple of hundred-weights;"
I have had my portrait painted in
oil and pastelle, but neither make me look so
stout as you have. I declare I look like some
fat, dumpy old woman. I wouldn't let any one
see this for worlds. You really must do another."
This lady is succeeded by another, of
uncertain age, who wants a carte de visite
taken of her pet dog (it is presumed, for him to
distribute amongst his acquaintances). "I should
like it taken very nicely, if you please. How do
you think he would look best? In profile, three-
quarters, or full face?" "I think in profile,"
replies the artist. "Will you please make him
lie down on the table." "Oh dear, he won't
be still, I know, on the hard table; he must have
a cushion to lie on." A cushion is accordingly
procured, and Beauty is deposited thereon.
"I think," remarks the young lady, after he is
focussed and light arranged, "the other is the
prettiest side of his face. Yes," turning him
round, "he looks far more intelligent in this
position." This, of course, necessitates
re-focussing and rearrangement of the light.
Just at the moment of exposure, Beauty
jumps off the table. No amount of whistling
or coaxing, no startling announcement of "rats"
or even "cats" will induce him to keep still for
one second. Half a dozen plates in succession
are spoiled, until he takes it into his intelligent
head to go to sleep, when a good photograph is
at last secured, and the lady, with many apologies
for having given so much trouble, bows
herself out. She is succeeded by two young
gentlemen just returned from school, who,
beyond making each other laugh, putting themselves
into absurdly grotesque positions while the
operator is attempting to focus, and asserting
that "it's no end of fun being photographed"
(which the obtuse operator doesn't seem to see),
conduct themselves tolerably well, and in a few
minutes are dismissed. The next visitor is a
young mamma with her infant. "Do you think
you can take a good likeness of this child?"
she inquires; "she has just learned to walk,
and I should like her to be taken standing."

"But if she has only just learned to walk,"
suggests the artist, "I don't think she will be
able to stand still."

"Oh yes, I am sure she will," returns
mamma. "Do, please try; I should so like to
have it."

The artist cannot withstand this appeal, and,
against his better judgment, attempts and fails;
for the sweet little cherub is unsteady on its
"pins," and is much given to "flopping" at
unseasonable times. Mamma is at length
compelled to do what the artist recommended
in the first place—to take the baby on her lap.

Then there is the deaf old gentleman, who
can't hear when he is told to keep still; and
the communicative young lady; and the funny
person, who wants to be taken with his fiancee,
and when he has moved talks about missing his
face, and facing his miss, and tells the operator
he may fire away again, he has lots of time.

It is now about four o'clock, and the artist,
who has in the course of the day travelled about
twenty miles, in rushing in and out of the
developing-room, arranging sitters' dresses and
accessories, regulating the light, &c., with the
thermometer standing up amongst the nineties,
has not had an opportunity of taking any refreshment,
or sitting down for one minute. Yet he is expected
to be polite and conciliatory to all, never to
lose his temper, and must attempt,
at least, to strike up a cheerful conversation
with each sitter, so as to get an "expression."

Can you understand, then, that some of us
who live in glass houses do occasionally desire
to express our impatience by some strong
demonstration?

          REMINISCENCES OF BROGG.

       IN FOUR CHAPTERS.   CHAPTER II.

THE remarkable subject of this brief memoir
passed, in due time, from the shelter of the
paternal roof to that afforded by a set of rooms
in the immediate neighbourhood of Cephas
College, Cambridge. He was accompanied, of
course, by the Reverend Smear, in order that he
might have some friend and protector at hand to
support him in this first contact with the rough
hard world. C.J. did not boat, nor did he smoke.
He did not give, or go to, wine-parties, nor play
at billiards, nor indulge in jokes at the expense of
his masters. He did not hunt or get into debt,
and finally, strange to say, he did not take a
degree!

It was in the merest trumpery formalities that
he broke down, mere inability to answer certain