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 of the secret motives which influence your conduct, than you oftentimes have yourself.  A good portrait is a kind of biography, and neither painter nor biographer can carry out his task satisfactorily unless he be admitted behind the scenes.  I think that the landscape painter, who has acquired sufficient mastery in his art to satisfy his own critical sense, and who is appreciated enough to find purchasers, and thereby to keep the wolf from the door, must be of all mankind the happiest.  Other men live in cities, bound down to some settled task and order of life; but he