ss almost that has ever been taken of me, but the
only true ones--the daguerreotypes. However, even daguerreotypes are not
absolutely accurate; the process is imperfect, except for plane (not
_plain_, you know) surfaces. Besides, after all, it takes a human hand
to copy a human face, because of the human soul in both; and the great
sun in heaven wants fire, light, and power, to reproduce that spark of
divinity in us, before which his material glory grows pale.

As long as he was Phoebus Apollo, and went about, man-fashion, among
the girls, making love to such of them as he fancied, he may have been
something of an artist, his conduct might be called artistic, I should
say; but now that he sits in the sky, staring with his one eye at
womankind in general, Sir Joshua, and even Sir Thomas, are worth a score
of him.

While I was sitting, Mrs. E----, my young artist's mother, read aloud to
us the new volume of Lord Chesterfield's writings.

My impression of Lord Chesterfield is a very ignorant one, principally
derived from the very little I remember of that profound science of
superficiality contained in his "Letters to his Son." The matter I heard
to-day exalted him infinitely in my esteem, and charmed me extremely,
both by the point and finish of the style (what fine workmanship good
prose is!) and the much higher moral tone than anything I remembered,
and consequently expected from him.

Mrs. E---- read us a series of his "Sketches of his Political
Contemporaries," quite admirable for the precision, distinctness, and
apparent impartiality with which they were drawn, and for their
happiness of expression-and purity of diction. Among them is a character
of Lord Scarborough, which, if it be a faithful portrait, is perhaps the
highest testimony in itself to the merit of one who called such a man
his intimate friend; and going upon the faith of the old proverbs, "Show
me your company and I'll tell you what you are," "Like will to like,"
"Birds of a feather flock together," and all the others that, unlike
Sancho Panza, I do not give you, has amazingly advanced Lord
Chesterfield in my esteem.

We have this morning parted with some of the company that was here. Mr.
and Mrs. Hibbard, clever and agreeable people, have gone away, and, to
my great regret, carried with them my dear B----, for whom my affection
and esteem are as great as ever. Mrs. Hibbard is the daughter of Sydney
Smith, and so like him that I kept wondering when