FIFTY YEARS ago Mr. Jack Yeats, younger brother of the
poet, gave an exhibition of sketches in the Central Hall, Westmore- land Street, Dublin. Of that exhibition the Dublin Leader found it 'a little difficult to write, because of the impossibility of comparing his work with that of any oth;r painter.' Now Mr. Yeats, who is eighty or thereabouts (last time I saw him he looked about twenty years younger than the age he was most unwilling to admit), is giving another exhibition in Dublin, at the Victor Waddington Galleries, and this time the Leader's art critic finds no difficulty in laying hold of the proper words. 'J. B. Yeats,' he writes, 'gathers info his paint- ings the eternal sorrows, joys and jests of mankind, known to every man in every age.'