in, and see nothing but the mould formed by the elements in
which we are incased; other observers look from without, and see us as
living statues. To be sure, by the aid of mirrors, we get a few glimpses
of our outside aspect; but this occasional impression is always modified
by that look of the soul from within outward which none but ourselves can
take. A portrait is apt, therefore, to be a surprise to us. The artist
looks only from without. He sees us, too, with a hundred aspects on our
faces we are never likely to see. No genuine expression can be studied
by the subject of it in the looking-glass.

More than this; he sees us in a way in which many of our friends or
acquaintances never see us. Without wearing any mask we are conscious
of, we have a special face for each friend. For, in the first place,
each puts a special reflection of himself upon us, on the principle of
assimilation you found referred to in my last record, if you happened to
read that document. And secondly, each of our friends is capable of
seeing just so far, and no farther, into our face, and each sees in it
the particular thing that he looks for. Now the artist, if he is truly
an artist, does not take any one of these special views. Suppose he
should copy you as you appear to the man who wants your name to a
subscription-list, you could hardly expect a friend who entertains you to
recognize the likeness to the smiling face which sheds its radiance at
his board. Even within your own family, I am afraid there is a face which
the rich uncle knows, that is not so familiar to the poor relation. The
artist must take one or the other, or something compounded of the two, or
something different from either. What the daguerreotype and photograph
do is to give the features and one particular look, the very look which
kills all expression, that of self-consciousness. The artist throws you
off your guard, watches you in movement and in repose, puts your face
through its exercises, observes its transitions, and so gets the whole
range of its expression. Out of all this he forms an ideal portrait,
which is not a copy of your exact look at any one time or to any
particular person. Such a portrait cannot be to everybody what the
ungloved call "as nat'ral as life." Every good picture, therefore, must
be considered wanting in resemblance by many persons.

There is one strange revelation which comes out, as the artist shapes
your features from his ou