Whenever the wandering demon of Drunkenness finds a ship adrift, —­no steady wind in its sails, no thoughtful pilot directing its course,—­he steps on board, takes the helm, and steers straight for the maelstrom.

—­I wonder if you know the terrible smile? [The young fellow whom they call John winked very hard, and made a jocular remark, the sense of which seemed to depend on some double meaning of the word smile.  The company was curious to know what I meant.]

There are persons—­I said—­who no sooner come within sight of you than they begin to smile, with an uncertain movement of the mouth, which conveys the idea that they are thinking about themselves, and thinking, too, that you are thinking they are thinking about themselves,—­and so look at you with a wretched mixture of self-consciousness, awkwardness, and attempts to carry off both, which are betrayed by the cowardly behaviour of the eye and the tell-tale weakness of the lips that characterize these unfortunate beings.

—­Why do you call them unfortunate, Sir?—­asked the divinity-student.

Because it is evident that the consciousness of some imbecility or other is at the bottom of this extraordinary expression.  I don’t think, however, that these persons are commonly fools.  I have known a number, and all of them were intelligent.  I think nothing conveys the idea of UNDERBREEDING more than this self-betraying smile.  Yet I think this peculiar habit as well as that of meaningless blushing may be fallen into by very good people who met often, or sit opposite each other at table.  A true gentleman’s face is infinitely removed from all such paltriness,—­calm-eyed, firm-mouthed.  I think Titian understood the look of a gentleman as well as anybody that ever lived.  The portrait of a young man holding a glove in his hand, in the Gallery of the Louvre, if any of you have seen that collection, will remind you of what I mean.

—­Do I think these people know the peculiar look they have?—­I cannot say; I hope not; I am afraid they would never forgive me, if they did.  The worst of it is, the trick is catching; when one meets one of these fellows, he feels a tendency to the same manifestation.  The Professor tells me there is a muscular slip, a dependence of the platysma myoides, which is called the risorius Santorini.

—­Say that once more,—­exclaimed the young fellow mentioned above.

The Professor says there is a little fleshy slip called Santorini’s laughing muscle.  I would have it cut out of my face, if I were born with one of those constitutional grins upon it.  Perhaps I am uncharitable in my judgment of those sour-looking people I told you of the other day, and of these smiling folks.  It may be that they are born with these looks, as other people are with more generally recognized deformities.  Both are bad enough, but I had rather meet three of the scowlers than one of the smilers.