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- 11393
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.924Z
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- 11339
- text
- 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 any one 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, as in old times, immortalizing
a genius, a portrait now only _dayalized_ a dunce. Besides, when every
body 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 downright
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 sudden and fatal sickness,
how would his last hours be embittered by the thought, that he was about
to depart forever, leaving the world utterly unprovided with the
knowledge of what were the precise texture and hue of the first trowsers
he wore. These representations did certainly touch him in a very tender
spot, not previously unknown to the schoolmaster. But when Pierre
considered, that owing to his extreme youth, his own recollections of
the past soon merged into all manner of half-memories and a general
vagueness, he could not find it in his conscience to present such
materials to the impatient biographers, especially as his chief
verifying authority in these matters of his past career, was now
eternally departed beyond all human appeal. His excellent nurse Clarissa
had been dead four years and more. In vain a young literary friend, the
well-known author of two Indexes and one Epic, to whom the subject
happened to be mentioned, warmly espoused the cause of the distressed
biographers; saying that however unpleasant, one must needs pay the
penalty of celebrity; it was no use to stand back; and concluded by
taking from the crown of his hat the proof-sheets of his own biography,
which, with the most thoughtful consideration for the masses, was
shortly to be published in the pamphlet form, price only a shilling.
It only the more bewildered and pained him, when still other and less
delicate applicants sent him their regularly printed
_Biographico-Solicito Circulars_, with his name written in ink; begging
him to honor them and the world with a neat draft of his life, including
criticisms on his own writings; the printed circular indiscriminately
protesting, that undoubtedly he knew more of his own life than any other
living man; and that only he who had put together the great works of
Glendinning could be fully qualified thoroughly to analyze them, and
cast the ultimate judgment upon their remarkable construction.
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