amazedly staring Pierre full in the countenance;—'why bless your soul, my portrait is published—long ago published!'—'Can't help that, sir,' said Pierre. 'Oh! come along, come along,' and the chief mate seized him again with the most uncompunctious familiarity by the arm. Though the sweetest-tempered youth in the world when but decently treated, Pierre had an ugly devil in him sometimes, very apt to be evoked by the personal profaneness of gentlemen of the Captain Kidd school of literature. 'Look you, my good fellow,' said he, submitting to his impartial inspection a determinately double fist,—'drop my arm now—or I'll drop you. To the devil with you and your Daguerreotype!'
This incident, suggestive as it was at the time, in the sequel had a surprising effect upon Pierre. For he considered with what infinite readiness now, the most faithful portrait of anyone could be taken by the Daguerreotype, whereas in former times a faithful portrait was only within the power of the moneyed, or mental aristocrats of the earth. How natural then the inference, that instead of, as in old times, immortalising a genius, a portrait now only dayalised a dunce. Besides, when everybody has his portrait published, true distinction lies in not having yours published at all. For if you are published along with Tom, Dick, and Harry, and wear a coat of their cut, how then are you distinct from Tom, Dick, and Harry? Therefore, even so miserable a motive as down-right personal vanity helped to operate in this matter with Pierre.
Some zealous lovers of the general literature of the age, as well as declared devotees to his own great genius, frequently petitioned him for the materials wherewith to frame his biography. They assured him, that life of all things was most insecure. He might feel many years in him yet; time might go lightly by him; but in any
