s at least
something. A second-rate poem is utterly worthless, and no one will
buy it on account of its binding. A picture is your own exclusive
property: it is a costly article of furniture. You hang it on your
walls, to be admired by all the world. Pictures represent wealth: the
possession of them is a luxury. The portrait-painter is of all men the
most beloved. You sit to him willingly, and put on your best looks.
You are inclined to be pleased with his work, on account of the strong
prepossession you entertain for his subject. To sit for one's portrait
is like being present at one's own creation. It is an admirable excuse
for egotism. You would not discourse on the falcon-like curve which
distinguishes your nose, or the sweet serenity of your reposing lips,
or the mildness of the eye that spreads a light over your countenance,
in the presence of a fellow-creature for the whole world; yet you do
not hesitate to express the most favourable opinion of the features
starting out on you from the wet canvas. The interest the painter
takes in his task flatters you. And when the sittings are over, and
you behold yourself hanging on your own wall, looking as it you could
direct kingdoms or lead armies, you feel grateful to the artist. He
ministers to your self-love, and you pay him his hire without wincing.
Your heart warms towards him as it would towards a poet who addresses
you in an ode of panegyric, the kindling terms of which--a little
astonishing to your friends--you believe in your heart of hearts to be
the simple truth, and, in the matter of expression, not over-coloured
in the very least. The portrait-painter has a shrewd eye for
character, and is usually the best anecdote-monger in the world. His
craft brings him into contact with many faces, and he learns to compare
them curiously, and to extract their meanings. He can interpret
wrinkles; he can look through the eyes into the man; he can read a
whole foregone history in the lines about the mouth. Besides, from the
good understanding which usually exists between the artist and his
sitter, the latter is inclined somewhat to unbosom himself; little
things leak out in conversation, not much in themselves, but pregnant
enough to the painter's sense, who pieces them together, and
constitutes a tolerably definite image. The man who paints your face
knows you better than your intimate friends do, and has a clearer
knowledge of your amiable weaknesses, and o