harp reminiscence of my first sitting for my
daguerreotype. I repaired with my father on an August day to the great
Broadway establishment of Mr. Brady, supreme in that then beautiful art,
and it is my impression--the only point vague with me--that though we
had come up by the Staten Island boat for the purpose we were to keep
the affair secret till the charming consequence should break, at home,
upon my mother. Strong is my conviction that our mystery, in the event,
yielded almost at once to our elation, for no tradition had a brighter
household life with us than that of our father's headlong impatience. He
moved in a cloud, if not rather in a high radiance, of precipitation and
divulgation, a chartered rebel against cold reserves. The good news in
his hand refused under any persuasion to grow stale, the sense of
communicable pleasure in his breast was positively explosive; so that we
saw those "surprises" in which he had conspired with our mother for our
benefit converted by him in every case, under our shamelessly encouraged
guesses, into common conspiracies against her--against her knowing, that
is, how thoroughly we were all compromised. He had a special and
delightful sophistry at the service of his overflow, and never so fine a
fancy as in defending it on "human" grounds. He was something very
different withal from a parent of weak mercies; weakness was never so
positive and plausible, nor could the attitude of sparing you be more
handsomely or on occasion even more comically aggressive.

My small point is simply, however, that the secresy of our conjoined
portrait was probably very soon, by his act, to begin a public and
shining life and to enjoy it till we received the picture; as to which
moreover still another remembrance steals on me, a proof of the fact
that our adventure was improvised. Sharp again is my sense of not being
so adequately dressed as I should have taken thought for had I foreseen
my exposure; though the resources of my wardrobe as then constituted
could surely have left me but few alternatives. The main resource of a
small New York boy in this line at that time was the little sheath-like
jacket, tight to the body, closed at the neck and adorned in front with
a single row of brass buttons--a garment of scant grace assuredly and
compromised to my consciousness, above all, by a strange ironic light
from an unforgotten source. It was but a short time before those days
that the great Mr. Thackeray