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Show iu.;m. nut tae crouoie lay in tne Tact tha the definition is a favorite one with Mr. Whistler, and Mr. Wilde did not gay so in his article. And this is friendship! It is probable that Mr. Whistler ran his fingers through his already artistically rumpled rum-pled hair and threw The Nineteenth Century down in disgust. At any rate, ho straightway straight-way wrote a letter to London Truth, in which he accused Mr. Wilde of plagiarism. Mr. Wilde replied, through the same medium, me-dium, In these gentle and aesthetic words: "I can hardly imagine that the public are in the vory smallest degree interested in the shrill shrieks of 'plasiarist' that proceed from time to time out of the lips of silly vanity or incompetent mediocrity. However, as Mr. James Whistler has had the impertinence imperti-nence to attack me with both venom land vulgarity in your columns, 1 hope you will allow me to state that the assertions contained con-tained in his letter are as deliberately untrue as they are deliberately offensive. offens-ive. The definition of a disciple as one who has thocour- ' james whistler. nge of the opinions of his master is really too old even for Mr. Whistler to be allowed to claim it; and as for borrowing Mr. Whistler's Ideas about art, the only thoroughly original ideas I have ever heard hint express have had reference to his own superiority as a painter over painters greater than himself. It is trouble for any gentleman to have to notice the lucubratious of so ill bred and ignorant a person as Mr. Whistler, but your publication of his insolent inso-lent letter left me no option in the matter." What a pity it is thi:t all this did not occur before Gilbert and Sullivan wrote their delightful de-lightful opera, "Patiencel" The craze after Wilde which that Opera satirizes in such an amusing manner has, by the way, become a thing of the past. Moreover, Mr. Wilde has shorn his long locks and no longer wean knee breeches. Perhaps he and Whistler will fight a duel. Who knows? WHEN FRIENDS FALL OUT. Artist WlilMliu' and Owar Wilde; tho iEallieta, Have Quurveled. It would have surprised the ancients to have received cards of invitation bearing the Inscription, "Prize fight to a finish betwt'ou Mr. Damon and Mr. l'ythins," but their snr-prise snr-prise (supyir. that it viisteU) would be an water unto wine could it be compared to Hint felt by modern Londoners over tho quarrel between Whistler, the artist, and Wilde, the aesthete. Until very recently the artist aud the aesthete aes-thete were brothers; they ivulkod una iu arm along the hili road of fame, whilo on ad-miriuR ad-miriuR world gazod at them in mute admiration. admira-tion. They agreed with each other, or at least they said they did, which answered quite as well. They hobnobbed together, praised each other at all times and places, and together mourned the Degeneracy of the Modern Artistic Sense. But, alae! the golden days have flown. They are friends no longer. Whi9tler picked up, not long ago, a copy of The Nineteenth. Century, and saw that his fiieud Wilde had a contribution therein. It was entitled "The Decay of Lying." Those unfortuuata people who are neither Whistler ites nor Wildeites, but are merely mortals, cannot apprecinto the pleasure with ', which the artist ' scanned ttie polish-. ed paragraphs and J neatly turned phrases written by ' his friend, the ses-t ses-t h e t e , on that sweetly suggestiye oscar wiug. subject, "The Decay of Lying," but perhaps they cau imagine it. Paragragh after paragraph Mr. Whistler read, but suddeuly he stepped. What was the matter f Why, he had discovered that his dear friend had violated one of the con-ilitions con-ilitions of their friendship he had let a chance to exalt Whistler slip by unnoticed. He defined a disciple, in the course of bis article, as one who has the courage of ttis opinions of hit master a verr, eoM .. |
