Whistler

Art happens--no hovel is safe from it, no Prince may depend upon
it, the vastest intelligence can not bring it about, and puny
efforts to make it universal end in quaint comedy, and coarse
farce.
--The "Ten-o'Clock" Lecture

The Eternal Paradox of Things is revealed in the fact that the men
who have toiled most for peace, beauty and harmony have usually
lived out their days in discord, and in several instances died a
malefactor's death. Just how much discord is required in God's
formula for a successful life, no one knows, but it must have a use,
for it is always there.

Seen from a distance, out of the range of the wordy shrapnel, the
literary scrimmage is amusing. "Gulliver's Travels" made many a
heart ache, but it only gladdens ours. Pope's "Dunciad" sent shivers
of fear down the spine of all artistic England, but we read it for
the rhyme, and insomnia. Byron's "English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers" gave back to the critics what they had given out--to
their great surprise and indignation, and our amusement. Keats died
from the stab of a pen, they say, and whether 't was true or not we
know that now a suit of Cheviot is sufficient shield. "We love him
for the enemies he has made"--to have friends is a great gain, but
to achieve an enemy is distinction.

Ruskin's "Modern Painters" is a reply to the contumely that sought
to smother Turner under an avalanche of abuse; but since the enemy
inspired it, and it made the name and fame of both Ruskin and
Turner, why should they not hunt out the rogues in Elysium and
purchase ambrosia?

Whistler's "The Gentle Art of Making Enemies" is a bit of
sharpshooter sniping at the man who was brave enough to come to the
rescue of Turner, and who afterward proved his humanity by adopting
the tactics of the enemy, working the literary stinkpot to repel
impressionistic boarders.

No friend could have done for Whistler what Ruskin did. Before
Ruskin threw an ink-bottle at him, as Martin Luther did at the
Devil, he was one of several; after the bout he was as one set
apart.

When we think of Whistler, if we listen closely we can hear the echo
of shrill calls of recrimination, muffled reveilles of alarm--
pamphlet answering unto pamphlet across seas of misunderstanding--
vituperations manifold, and recurring themes of rabid ribaldry--all
forming a lurid Symphony in Red.

John Davidson has dedicated a book to his enemy, thus:

"Unwilling Friend, let not thy spite abate: help me with scorn, and
strengthen me with hate."

The general tendency to berate the man of superior talent would seem
to indicate, as before suggested, that disparagement has