gh in
it to support so elaborate a structure of paradoxical rhetoric. It
must be taken, therefore, as something serious in the main; and if so
taken, and read by the light reflected from Mr. Whistler's more
characteristically brilliant canvases, it may not improbably recall a
certain phrase of Moliere's which at once passed into a proverb--"Vous
etes orfevre, M. Josse." That worthy tradesman, it will be remembered,
was of opinion that nothing could be so well calculated to restore a
drooping young lady to mental and physical health as the present of a
handsome set of jewels. _Mr. Whistler's opinion that there is nothing
like leather--of a jovial and Japanese design--savours somewhat of the
Oriental cordwainer._

"_Et tu, Brute!_"

Why, O brother! did you not consult with me before printing, in the
face of a ribald world, _that you also misunderstand_, and are capable
of saying so, with vehemence and repetition.

Have I then left no man on his legs?--and have I shot down the singer
in the far off, when I thought him safe at my side?

Cannot the man who wrote _Atalanta_--and the _Ballads_ beautiful,--can
he not be content to spend his life with _his_ work, which should be
his love,--and has for him no misleading doubt and darkness--that he
should so stray about blindly in his brother's flowerbeds and bruise
himself!

Is life then so long with him, and _his_ art so short, that he shall
dawdle by the way and wander from his path, reducing his giant
intellect--garrulous upon matters to him unknown, that the scoffer may
rejoice and the Philistine be appeased while he takes up the
parable of the mob and proclaims himself their spokesman and
fellow-sufferer? O Brother! where is thy sting! O Poet! where is thy
victory!

How have I offended! and how shall you in the midst of your poisoned
page hurl with impunity the boomerang rebuke? "Paradox is discoloured
by personality, and merriment is distorted by malevolence."

Who are you, deserting your Muse, that you should insult my Goddess
with familiarity, and the manners of approach common to the reasoners
in the marketplace. "Hearken to me," you cry, "and I will point out
how this man, who has passed his life in her worship, is a tumbler and
a clown of the booths--how he who has produced that which I fain must
acknowledge--is a jester in the ring!"

Do we not speak the same language? Are we strangers, then, or, in our
Father's house are there so many mansions that