Entering the studio he paid down double the usual price, as this Boar was the most liberal member of his government. He then seated himself solidly down in his appointed place where his steadiness and {168} unconcern rendered him a capital subject for the camera. Topaz on his part exercised all his skill in posing, lighting, and photographing. The portrait was a perfect gem, his lordship was delighted. The little {169} image seemed to reduce his bulk in every way, while the silvery grey of the metallic plate replaced with advantage the sombre monotony of his dark coat. It was a most agreeable surprise, and fast as his bulk and dignity would permit him, he hastened to present the picture to his idol. The loved one was in rapture, and by a peculiar feminine instinct she first suspended the miniature round her neck, then, as instinctively, called together her relatives and friends to form an admiring circle around her lover’s portrait. Thanks to her enthusiasm, before the day was over, all the animal inhabitants for miles round were appraised of the marvellous talent of Topaz, who soon became quite the rage. His cabin was visited at all hours of the day, the camera was never for a moment idle. As for Sapajo he had more than enough to do in preparing the plates for every new comer. With the exception of the apes there was not a single creature in earth, air, or water, who had not sat for a likeness to the famous Topaz. One of his chief patrons was a Royal bird, the sovereign of a winged principality, who arrived surrounded by a brilliant staff of general officers and aide-de-camps. The artist was greatly annoyed by the remarks of a group of obsequious courtiers who bent over the desk alternately praising the prince, and criticising the portraits. The finished work, nevertheless, afforded satisfaction to the potentate who, proud of his tufted crown and brilliant feathers, gazed fondly down upon his image. His conduct was quite different from that of the Boar. Although the king was accompanied by a splendid pea-hen, his wife by morganatic marriage, he himself retained the portrait, and, like Narcissus, before the fountain, fell in love with his own image. Happy are they who love themselves. They need not fear coldness, or disdain. They can feel no grief of absence, or pangs of jealousy. If the sayings of human philosophers are true, love is only a form of self-esteem which leaves its habitual abode, seeking to extend its dominion over the passions of another.