the professor at the breakfast table-第34部分

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apparitions；　no　wonder　that　my　imagination　got　excited；　and　I　was

liable　to　superstitious　fancies。



Jeremy　Bentham's　logic；　by　which　he　proved　that　he　couldn't　possibly

see　a　ghost　is　all　very　well…in　the　day…time。　　All　the　reason　in　the

world　will　never　get　those　impressions　of　childhood；　created　by　just

such　circumstances　as　I　have　been　telling；　out　of　a　man's　head。

That　is　the　only　excuse　I　have　to　give　for　the　nervous　kind　of

curiosity　with　which　I　watch　my　little　neighbor；　and　the　obstinacy

with　which　I　lie　awake　whenever　I　hear　anything　going　on　in　his

chamber　after　midnight。



But　whatever　further　observations　I　may　have　made　must　be　deferred

for　the　present。　　You　will　see　in　what　way　it　happened　that　my

thoughts　were　turned　from　spiritual　matters　to　bodily　ones；　and　how

I　got　my　fancy　full　of　material　images；faces；　heads；　figures；

muscles；　and　so　forth；in　such　a　way　that　I　should　have　no　chance

in　this　number　to　gratify　any　curiosity　you　may　feel；　if　I　had　the

means　of　so　doing。



Indeed；　I　have　come　pretty　near　omitting　my　periodical　record　this

time。　　It　was　all　the　work　of　a　friend　of　mine；　who　would　have　it

that　I　should　sit　to　him　for　my　portrait。　　When　a　soul　draws　a　body

in　the　great　lottery　of　life；　where　every　one　is　sure　of　a　prize；

such　as　it　is；　the　said　soul　inspects　the　said　body　with　the　same

curious　interest　with　which　one　who　has　ventured　into　a　〃gift

enterprise〃　examines　the　〃massive　silver　pencil…case〃　with　the

coppery　smell　and　impressible　tube；　or　the　〃splendid　gold　ring〃　with

the　questionable　specific　gravity；　which　it　has　been　his　fortune　to

obtain　in　addition　to　his　purchase。



The　soul；　having　studied　the　article　of　which　it　finds　itself

proprietor；　thinks；　after　a　time；　it　knows　it　pretty　well。　　But

there　is　this　difference　between　its　view　and　that　of　a　person

looking　at　us：we　look　from　within；　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　outline。　　It　is　that　you　resemble　so

many　relatives　to　whom　you　yourself　never　had　noticed　any　particular

likeness　in　your　countenance。



He　is　at　work　at　me　now；　when　I　catch　some　of　these　resemblances；

thus：



There！　that　is　just　the　look　my　father　used　to　have　sometimes；　I

never　thought　I　had　a　sign　of　it。　　The　mother's　eyebrow　and　grayish…

blue　eye；　those　I　knew　I　had。　　But　there　is　a　something　which

recalls　a　smile　that　faded　away　from　my　sister's　lipshow　many

years　ago！　　I　thought　it　so　pleasant　in　her；　that　I　love　myself

better　for　having　a　trace　of　it。



Are　we　not　young？　　Are　we　not　fresh　and　blooming？　　Wait；　a　bit。　　The

artist　takes　a　mean　little　brush　and　draws　three　fine　lines；

diverging　outwards　from　the　eye　over　the　temple。　　Five　years。　The

artist　draws　one　tolerably　distinct　and　two　faint　lines；

perpendicularly　between　the　eyebrows。　　Ten　years。　The　artist

breaks　up　the　contours　round　the　mouth；　so　that　they　look　a　little

as　a　hat　does　that　has　been　sat　upon　and　recovered　itself；　ready；　as

one　would　say；　to　crumple　up　again　in　the　same　creases；　on　smiling

or　other　change　of　feature。　Hold　on！　　Stop　that！　　Give　a　young

fellow　a　chance！　　Are　we　not　whole　years　short　of　that　interesting

period　of　life　when　Mr。　Balzac　says　that　a　man；　etc。；　etc。；　etc。？



There　now！　　That　is　ourself；　as　we　look　after　finishing　an　article；

getting　a　three…mile　pull　with　the　ten…foot　sculls；　redressing　the

wrongs　of　the　toilet；　and　standing　with　the　light　of　hope　in　our　eye

and　the　reflection　of　a　red　curtain　on　our　cheek。　　Is　he　not　a　POET

that　painted　us？



　　　　　　　　　　〃Blest　be　the　art　that　can　immortalize！〃

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　COWPER。



Young　folks　look　on　a　face　as　a　unit；　children　who　go　to　school

with　any　given　little　John　Smith　see　in　his　name　a　distinctive

appellation；　and　in　his　features　as　special　and　definite　an

expression　of　his　sole　individuality　as　if　he　were　the　first　created

of　his　race：　As　soon　as　we　are　old　enough　to　get　the　range　of　three

or　four　generations　well　in　hand；　and　to　take　in　large　family

histories；　we　never　see　an　individual　in　a　face　of　any　stock　we

know；　but　a　mosaic　copy　of　a　pattern；　with　fragmentary　tints　from

this　and　that　ancestor。　　The　analysis　of　a　face　into　its　ancestral

elements　requires　that　it　should　be　examined　in　the　very　earliest

infancy；　before　it　has　lost　that　ancient　and　solemn　look　it　brings

with　it　out　of　the　past　eternity；　and　again　in　that　brief　space　when

Life；　the　mighty　sculptor；　has　done　his　work；　and　Death；　his　silent

servant；　lifts　the　veil　and　lets　us　look　at　the　marble　lines　he　has

wrought　so　faithfully；　and　lastly；　while　a　painter　who　can　seize　all

the　traits　of　a　countenance　is　building　it　up；　feature　after

feature；　from　the　slight　outline　to　the　finished　portrait。



I　am　satisfied；　that；　as　we　grow　older；　we　learn　to　look　upon　our

bodies　more　and　more　as　a　temporary　possession　and　less　and　less　as

identified　with　ourselves。　　In　early　years；　while　the　child　〃feels

its　life　in　every　limb；〃　it　lives　in　the　body　and　for　the　body　to　a

very　great　extent。　　It　ought　to　be　so。　　There　have　been　many　very

interesting　children　who　have　shown　a　wonderful　indifference　to　the

things　of　earth　and　an　extraordinary　development　of　the　spiritual

nature。　　There　is　a　perfect　literature　of　their　biographies；　all

alike　in　their　essentials；　the　same　〃disinclination　to　the　usual

amusements　of　childhood　〃；　the　same　remarkable　sensibility；　the　same

docility；　the　same　conscientiousness；　in　short；　an　almost　uniform

character；　marked　by　beautiful　traits；　which　we　look　at　with　a

painful　admiration。　　It　will　be　found　that　most　of　these　children

are　the　subjects　of　some　constitutional　unfitness　for　living；　the

most　frequent　of　which　I　need　not　mention。　　They　are　like　the

beautiful；　blushing；　half…grown　fruit　that　falls　before　its　time

because　its　core　is　gnawed　out。　　They　have　their　meaning；they　do

not…live　in　vain；but　they　are　windfalls。　　I　am　convinced　that　many

healthy　children　are　injured　morally　by　being　forced　to　read　too

much　about　these　little　meek　sufferers　and　their　spiritual

exercises。　　Here　is　a　boy　that　loves　to　run；　swim；　kick　football；

turn　somersets；　make　faces；　whittle；　fish；　tear　his　clothes；　coast；

skate；　fire　crackers；　blow　squash　〃tooters；〃　cut　his　name　on　fences；

read　about　Robinson　Crusoe　and　Sinbad　the　Sailor；　eat　the　widest…

angled　slices　of　pie　and　untold　cakes　and　candies；　crack　nuts　with

his　back　teeth　and　bite　out　the　better　part　of　another　boy's　apple

with　his　front　ones；　turn　up　coppers；　〃stick〃　knives；　call　names；

throw　stones；　knock　off　hats；　set　mousetraps；　chalk　doorsteps；　〃cut

behind　〃　anything　on　wheels　or　runners；　whistle　through　his　teeth；

〃holler〃　Fire！　on　slight　evidence；　run　after　soldiers；　patronize　an

engine…company；　or；　in　his　own　words；　〃blow　for　tub　No。　11；〃　or

whatever　it　may　be；isn't　that　a　pretty　nice　sort　of　a　boy；　though

he　has　not　got　anything　the　matter　with　him　that　takes　the　taste　of

this　world　out？　　Now；　when　you　put　into　such　a　hot…blooded；　hard…

fisted；　round…cheeked　little　rogue's　hand　a　sad…looking　volume　or

pamphlet；　with　the　portrait　of　a　thin；　white…faced　child；　whose　life

is　really　as　much　a　training　for　death　as　the　last　month　of　a

condemned　criminal's　existence；　what　does　he　find　in　common　between

his　own　overflowing　and　exulting　sense　of　vitality　and　the

experiences　of　the　doomed　offspring　of　invalid　parents？　　The　time

comes　when　we　have　learned　to　understand　the　music　of　sorrow；　the

beauty　of　resigned　suffering；　the