r not only does it prove the painter to
have a certain literary talent--of aptness, unexpectedness, above all
impertinence--but also it proves him never to have feared the face of
art-critical man.... To him the art-critic is nothing if not a person
to be educated, with or against the grain; and when he encounters him
in the ways of error, he leaps upon him joyously, scalps him in print
before the eyes of men, kicks him gaily back into the paths of truth
and soberness, and resumes his avocation with that peculiar zest an
act of virtue does undoubtedly impart. Indeed, Mr. Whistler, so far
from being the critic's enemy, is on the contrary the best friend
that tradesman has ever had. For his function is to make him
ridiculous....

... Yes, Mr. Whistler is often "rowdy" and unpleasant; in his last
combat with Mr. Oscar Wilde--("Oscar, you have been down the area
again")--he comes off a palpable second; his treatment of 'Arry dead
and "neglected by the parish" goes far to prove that his sense of
smell is not so delicate nor so perfectly trained as his sense of
sight....

_A Question_

_TO THE EDITOR:_

[Sidenote: _The Scots Observer_, April 19, 1890.]

Sir--It is, I suppose, to your pleasant satisfaction in "The Critic's
Friend" that I owe the early copy of the _Scots Observer_, pointed
with proud mark, in the blue pencil of office, whereby the impatient
author hastened to indicate the pithy personal paragraphs, that no
time should be wasted upon other matter with which the periodical is
ballasted.

Exhilarated by the belief that I had been remembered--for vanity's
sake let me fancy that you have bestowed upon me your own thought and
hand--I plunged forthwith into the underlined article, and read with
much amusement your excellent appreciation.

Having forgotten none of your professional manner as art arbiter, may
I say that I can picture to myself easily the sad earnestness with
which you now point the thick thumb of your editorial refinement
in deprecation of my choicer "rowdyism"? And knowing your analytical
conscientiousness, I can even understand the humble comfort you take
in Oscar's meek superiority; but, for the life of me, I cannot follow
your literary intention when you say that my care of "''Arry,' dead
and neglected by the parish," goes far to prove that my "sense of
smell is not so delicate nor so perfectly trained as" my "sense of
sight."