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The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, July 12, 1896, Image 18

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18
Passenger (on a Powell
street cftr, rising politely)—
Excuse me, mum, but do
you believe in woman's
?2H£S§Si
Wonrxervs
Rights That Are
Very Doubtful J?igHts
New Woman— Most cer
tainly, I do.
Passenger(resumings?at) ■
—Oh, well, men stand up H
for them.— Wasp.
There is no carica-H
tare without a truthM
behind it; none fromß
which truth cannot I
learn a lesson; no la
bored joke in a comic
paper but has a point if you look deep
lor it.
Woman's rights and woman's wrongs
are so thoroughly discussed just now that
it would seem she has none of the riahta
she ought to have and all the wrongs she
ougnt not to have. I have noticed a few
of my own and my sisters' failings.
We take rights we have no riaht to.
Sometimes it makes me so out of patience
I wifch I were something else than a
woman — not a man thougn. I am like
Topsy.
That standing up in a car, now. Why
shouldn't she? She claims and proves
her claims to strength, and why should
skirts make a man give up his seat to her,
except in cases where he would do the
same for another man?
I never want a man to give me bis place
in a car or elsewhere. I have no right to
it. There is nothing makes me feel my
downtrodden condition so keenly as to be
compelled to take the place of some old
gentleman not one-half as able to stand,
but whose old-school politeness makes it
impossible for nim to sit while one of the
"fair sex" stands.
When a woman with a baby comes in
every one, man and woman alike, is in
duty bound to rise and insstupon making
her comfortable. We are not giving place
to the woman, but to the mother and child.
We would do the same for a man with a
like burden, or we would offer to hold the
baby. The weary woman with seven
bundles and a trail of children like a flight
of steps— well, she has no real right to my
seat or my brother's, but I would give her
mine gladly.
I am so glad not to be in her place that
I would stand half a day just for the pleas
ure of seeing her for once at rest.
The woman with a crutch or a cane it is
needless to mention.
California men stumble over each other
to help her, aud the tired conductor's
cross face grows all
gentleness again. I I
think nowhere are all I
classes more tender I
to bodily affliction I
than in our home I
city.
The old lady with I
the snowy puffs and I
the placid far look in I
her eyes, as if she I
had passed all the I
puzzles of life and I
could see something I
beyond, is willing to I
stand, and protests I
with her gentle hand I
and soft voice against I
putting you to any I
inconvenience. You I
would no more sit I
and see her swaying I
from a strap — why I
you feel like standing I
in her presence any- I
way.
There is often a pc- I
- culiar look in a girl's I
eye when she has to I
stand that, were I a I
man, would effectu- I
ally put to flight any I
cbivalric purpose. It I
is the same because- I
I-ani-a-woman looic I I
have spoken of be- I
fore. I notice that I
girl usually stands I
unless there is an old I
man in the car, and I
in my secret heart I I
rejoice.
Then there is the I
comfortably circum- I
stanced shopper, on I
her way home just at I
the season when I
workingmen are fill- I
ing the car. She not I
only has no right to I
expect one of these I
men to give up his I
place to her, but she I
has no right to accept I
it if it be offered.
Maybe she is fatigued from her after
noon's standing and choosing; perhaps
th« thought of jolting along fifteen
or twenty minutes hanging to a
strap is not a pleasant one. Justice is
justice, and you know how often we quote
of late that God created all of us free and
equal. That shabby man with a tin pail
between his feel is tired too; he was first
in the car, paid for his place and has a
right to it.
The woman with a dog in her arms has
no right to a seat, even when no one else
wants it.
Ido not like to stand in a car. I do not
enjoy Bitting in one, either. If I cannot
sit on the outside I like to stand there, and
often I would rather stand than sit. Be
cause of the bad habits of my sex I have
to explain this laboriously every time I
stand.
The other evening going out Butter street
after a long day's work sitting in one cnair
my heart beat high with hope. The car
was jammed. The only possible place for
me was standing-room on the front plat
form with two men. What a good breath
of damp air I would get, how my tired
back would relax and how hungry I would
be.
Bat I had forgotten who I was. The
conductor came as quickly as he could,
and with ft glance through -the door he
said, "I will matte room for you to stand
inside, Miss."
"Oh. don't," I pleaded; "it is so«tußy.
I would rather stand here."
"You are quite right," spoke np one of
the men; "the air in there is enough to
kill."
So I escaped for the time. [N. B. Should
I have been offended at the man's speech?]
At the next corner two women got off.
Two men went to sit down. "Lady on
the platform !" announced tb« conductor,
and one man hung himself up again. The
lady on the platform looked away with a
stony face, buc no use. The polite man ol
fares was bound to do his duty. "Room
inside, Miss."
"I would rather stay out here if you do
not mind."
I think 1 must have gone In willy-nilly,
only a man got off the dummy and waved
me to his place. Seeing that the earth was
disturbed and the heavens shaken by rea
son of my obstinacy, I sat. I didn't have
any right to the place, and I didn't want it
The most enjoyable ride I ever took (on
a car) was across the bay going to Blair
Park. It is a fine ride anyway, through
fields and over hills, and I got on a car
full of women and children. There was
no one to say me nay, ao man to give me
what was not ray right, and I bad to stand
on tbe step with one arm around a post.
The car swayed and flew, ray skirt caught
a picturesque border of thistledown and
foxtail, my cheeks tingled in the wind, it
was glorious.
I know all would not like a rid? of tbe
kind; still, if you object to thistles in your
dress, think of tbe anguish that is wring
ing the heart of tbe polite young man as
the foxtail enters his soul by way of his
dearest Sunday trousers.
While I am preaching about cars, there
is a secondly, my sisters. How many peo
ple is one woman equal to? If we are each
equal to one, we have no right to more
space than one would naturally occupy.
Big sleeves are lovely. We all dread the
day when fashion shall decree that our
arms shall look like sausages, and it does
hurt to have them crushed, to come out of
a crowd with our pride flat. Is it the
crowd's fault?
No, ma'am. You and I have each tbe
right to one woman's room and no more.
If, with bie sleeves and voluminous skirts
we take the space of three, we must be
good naturea when we find ourselves flat
tened sidewise to cnr natural width.
Did you ever notice the glare of displeas
ure as a man settles into what he thinks
is an empty seat between two ladies? The
seat is vacant, to be sure, but as each
shoulder of the man touches that next to
him, cr-ra-ack goes fiber chamois, like tbe
sack in which Little Claus kept his con-
I juror.
The man looks embarrassed or annoyed,
while tbe owners of the pneumatic sleeves
send lightning from both sides. Ii is
funny. They have no right to the extra
space, and he has.
Tbe same if tne folds of the full and
heavy skirts billow out over tho floor and
tne last passenger takes bis stand thereon.
If I were he I'd delight to walk all over
it— with nails in my shoes.
JWO STRIKI^Q PORTRAITS,
Leaving the car and following the sleeves
and the skirt of many yards to their desti
nation, we see them still usurpers, taking
other folks' ground and other folks' view
with a coolness tbat belongs everywhere
to pure selfishness.
In the theater the prospect of silk and
the topping of feathers may be very won
derful to the little man sitting behind, but
it is not what he paid to see.
Nowhere and never can one garment
cause agony to so many people as a full
skirt going'downstairs with a crowd.
Now doesn't that bring to you a picture
of an unconscious madam, dignity in every
movement, sweeping down the stairs with
yards and yards and yards of good strong
cloth wiping the dust from three, no, four
steps, ru«tling now to one side and then
the otber, while a nearly frantic man
comes after, pushed from behind, and with
almost superhuman effort trying to keep
off the grass?
He steps gingerly down, pushing the
mass with his toe to make room for his
foot— one step; her majesty sweeps on, tbe
billows fall and leave a space clear — two
steps; she steps again, the skirt starts, the
man starts, and the woman pauses to nod
to one, in tbe crowd ; the skirt pauses too, \
and tbe man is standing on it with tears
of distress in his eyes; be hops to one side,
treading on three different feet, bringing
down as many anathemas on his unlucky
head— three steps; the skirt moves on—
four steps; in his dizzy eyes the mass of
cloth is a hideous mass of snakes and they
are drawing him with resistless power to
tread on them and die; the people behind
push, and a voice whose owner sees tbe
space ahead grumbles that there is plenty
of room for him to go on, and they press
harder- five steps. Alas, alas, the eddy
ing billows ahead and the pushing crowd
behind are too much ! At the sixth step
he goes plump with both feet on the skirt
just as madam takes a step. There is a
tearing sound that seema to him the crack
of doom, he sees a pair of angry eyes,
hears a sharp voice call him awkward and
stupid, stammers ana apologizes, and is so
glad to get out into tbe darkness and lay
his hot bead against a lamppost.
The woman nad no right to more than
one step.
I have walked downstairs, my skirts
h«id close— it is easy enough— and pushed
before ma all tbe way another woman's
flowing garment. If my shoes were muddy
I suppose I was sorry.
Once I was coming down tbe boat steps
with a man who thinks It a disgrace to be
brusque to a woman. He patiently kept
j off « skirt, until at last he turned to me
THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JULY 12, 18JJ6.
with a question, put
his foot on the cloth
and tore a piece out.
He started for the
owner to apologize. I
could not stand it.
With my hand on
bis arm I expostulat
ed. "Don't you ex
cuse yourself ! Don't
dare to apologize!
She owes you an apol
ogy instead ! She bad
no rieht to the whole
Stairway! "Thewom
an turned, heard and saw. She came
back and begged pardon. I forgave her.
There is one right which is no right oar
sisters are fond o( taking— "keeping a seat
for my friend."
In a crowded hall where no seats are re
served, where often they are not even
paid for, my lady will calmly put her fan
in the next chair and for an hour tell the
people, men ana woman who have a right
to that chair, that she Is keeping it for a
friend. And sbe insists upon keeping it,
too, turning a deaf ear and a blank face
upon demands for the seat and remarks
about her right to it. When "my iriend"
comes sbe rustles into the empty place
with an air of proprietorship most enlac
ing — if you are not the one defrauded of
tbe seat. If 1 were an artist I would draw
that woman in the likeness of a nice clean
Pig-
I saw her last week biackmail a man out
of his chair in a way wonderful to see.
Her friend came up to her, late as usual,
and she said : "I tried to keep your seat,
dear, but this gentleman took it and I
didn't like to asK him to eive it up. I'm
so sorry you have to stand."
The man left his chair and stood by me,
soliloquizing, and I said for him to hear,
"Tbe selfish you have with you always."
I felt sorry that tne man should have
brought home to him so forcibly the weak
side of my sisters, and was glad when, an
hour later, a black glove was laid on mine,
and a quiet voice said, "Now, yon take
this chair for tne rest of the time and let <
OJME OF WOMAN'S piQHTS TH/\J jvtyW BE WJ*OJ^q.
me stand." I took the little stranger's
place, glancing to see if the ousted man
saw the other side. He did.
We have no right to go to a place where
people have assembled to hear a certain
thing and regale those aoout us with pri
vate affairs.
I went once to bear Congressman Maguire
talß single-tax. Like the man who aston
ished the Circumlocution Oflice, I wanted
to know, you know. I didn't know more
about single-tax after, but such charming
tales I heard of the last illness of tbe
woman behind me.
And, lastly, of my younger sisters,
They, too, take more than belongs to them.
The schoolgirl tyrannizes over a male
teacher in a way tbat is pitiless. She
does and says what he would never en
dure from a boy, and does it with con
scious impunity because sbe is a girl. If
once in a way a teacher lets discipline
overrule sex consideration what a wail
arises! The brute! to punish a girl.
Why, a girl without doing enough to
bang a complaint on can nag the life
nearly out of a teacher. I have pitied a
young instructor, only a boy himself, in
the tolls of a cruel girl. I have said to
him, "If you show her. she is subject to
tbe same laws and the same penalties as
her brother she will cease."
I don't exactly like to tell the rest of it
He took my advice and lost his position.
They said, *'Of course, if it had been a boy
it would have different." There is no .-uch
and "of course."
The average girl on a wheel takes her
share of tbe road and as much more as she
wants. Sbe expects the boys to keep from
getting in her way and to keep from getting
where she will be in their way. I know.
I beard a man's opinion of me when I
nearly ran him down before I learned to
manage my wheel and I said to myself,
'•My friend, them's my sentiments, too,
and- next time I'll keep to my aide of the
road if I take off the panel of a fence."
I did want to speak of the right of a girl
to do a man's work and do it well for less
than enough to buy her clothes and food,
but tbat will make another story.
Ouve Hbtdew.
Wild
Leap of a
Darirvg Wheelman
A few nights ago the chains which held !
the Piedmont to the pier in San Francisco j
had been released with the customary
clank, the deck bands had pushed up the
apron attached to the pier which bridges
the gap between the pier and the boat's i
deck, tbe signal had been given for the \
wheels to revolve and already the paddles
were churning 'up tbe water under the
boat into a resemblance to soapsuds; the
thrill of movement wa» already ex
perienced and tbe people who habitually
frequent the lower deck while crossing the I
bay were amusing themselves in customary
fashion, smoking, gossiping and preparing
to sniff the cool air as soon as the boat
passed out beyond the piles and into the
ship channel.
Suddenly there came into view a start
ling apparition. Down the wharf, clad in
sweaters and bicycle garb, sped an impet- j
uous wheelman straight for the fleeing
boat. The spokes of bis bicycle wheels
were invisible. His feet went up and
down with regularity and great speed. At
once there was a feeling of apprehension
on tbe ferry-boat, and warning shouts in
stinctively were uttered. The scorcher
paused not nor hesitated. The boat was
moving, but the bicycle easily outclassed
it by many degrees as a racer. Just as the
clear water was about to srlow between the
edge of the apron and the deck of the
ferry-boat the bicycler leaped from his i
bicycle with the speed of thought, seized J
the machine and boldly jumped toward I
tbe boat. He was cool as well as nervy, |
and his wheel was not permitted to strike !
the deck with a perceptible jar. Then the '
men breathed easier and women specta- '
tors laughed hysterically. The bold rider j
took a fearful chance. 1
dokrv
Gkir\arc\ar\ or\
the Cliff-DWellers
A group of Eastern tourists dropped in
yesWday at the museum of tbe California
Academy of Sciences and were soon aeeply
engrossed in contemplation of the minia
ture reproduction of the homes of the cliff
dwellers of Arizona, New Mexico and
Colorado. The scientific method adopted
to bring up these scenes of antiquity is
the plaque plan, the wails, battlements,
precipitous cliffs, etc., appearing thereon in
relief. The scale being largely reduced, it is
possible that the overhanging cliffs which
menace the roofs and heads of the sup
posable ancients are a little too beetling
and the cliffs are a trifle too lofty and pre
cipitous and inaccessible.
"Ab," sighed a very engaging young
lady, "how could any one ever live up
there now?"
'Suppose so see hole; that forketchum
inside," said a Mongolian bystander.
"Window, you mean," interrupted the
fair Easterner. "Do 1 understand you
that these interesting people climbed in at
the windows?"
"All samee climb in at window. Man
ho walkum heap hard until be climp up,
four, tive thousand feet."
"Yes, and then?"
"He lookum see heap high; he
fallum down into soup — what you call
him?"
'•Soup? Oh, yes, I understand. The
aboriginal fell into tbe soup. How in
teresting."
"S'pose he not walkum. Then man at
top he haulum. He go up, up, all same
like Chicago house — heap way up."
"Did you ever see the cliff dwellings?"
This question was asked with fine Bos
tonian irony.
"No," admitted the Chinaman who
knows it all. "No, but I lived three
months at Chicago and I eavey Chicago
all tanie."
LONDON, Eng.,H
June 24. —To passH
through a room con-H
.tain ing a > number oiH
pictures means gener-M
ally to carry nway anH
impression *as indis-H
tinct as the faces of aH
crowd in th 3 street^
Sometimes a single^J
! picture rivets the at-H
tent ion,; ci t heiH
through some strongH
characteristic chann,M
some particularly^^^^^^^^^^^^
striking _» defect \or ' merely through the
accident of a vivid light. • ''\*:-'- :'V
There was a small, very choic.9 ". loan ex
hibition to be seen for, rive day* at Camp
den House, and a single -portrait made
every picture in the place as shadowy as
the figures in very many ; of the: modern
pictures of evening. .t , „ ' : , '
.jit is only fair to add that this is essen
tially a personal {experience. People col
lected in groups before the great canvas
by V Luke Fildes called . "The Doctor 1 ';
looked in ; solemn, respect^ at Paul f Dela
roche's great tragedy.of Marie Antoinette
going to ncr execution; at Gainaboroughs
and Rornneys and Sir Joshua Reynolds;
sighed pensively '. before , ; Sir Frederick
Leigh ton's great decorative illustration
and wept tears of joy ..be fore /any thing,
new or old, bad or good, painted by' the
present president of the Royal Academy,
Sir John Millais. And hanging in the
shadow of a great window, with. : the un
shaded light blinding . the eyes, was the
exquisite portrait of a little i girl, Miss
Cicely Alexander, by that prince of jokers
and king of painters, James McNeil Whis
tler. And this little white- rose bloomed
almost unnoticed in the corner.
To live in London is to pass from expe
rience to experience. Nowhere in. the
world, not in gay Paris itself, is the oppor
! tunity tor enjoyment so rich or so varied.
: Besides the great picture shows, at Bur
| lington House and the new gallery there
j have been three swell exhibitions opened
I and closed within one week, and each
Tkree
Snrxall picture
SKoWs ir\ Lor\dor\ ToWr\
choice in its way and peculiar and inter
esting — tbe above-mentioned loan collec
tion at Cr.m] den House, a collection of
the drawings and studies of Sir Edward
Burne-Jones, and a collection of drawings
"illustrating society," as tbe catalogue
modestly informs us, by Mr. Charles Dana
Gibson.
Campden House is one of the big old
fashioned mansions of Kensington; the
great garden surrounding it, the shaded
walk leading to it, make it rather impos
ing; but it is not better adapted for bang
ing pictures than tbe Hopkins house
itself. It is not only necessary to be able
to see pictures by walking around them ;
it is a pleasure to be able to see them at
their best. Tbat is possible only in a
well-ordered gallery or in a studio.
Over tbe inner doorway of the entrance
ball the little "Strawberry Girl," by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, bad been executed. It
was possible to see tbe big eyes under the
nnchildish turban, tho little hands crossed
one over the otber and tbe general dark
richness of the color — but the actual color
itself was as invisible as the strawberries,
for which latter fact the absence of light
and tbe hanging were not responsible.
Two portraits — one of Mrs. Hickey, one
of Charles James Fox— were not very in
teresting.
The Romney portrait of Mrs. Glyn made
me long for the old fashions of powdered
hair and folded kercbiets, and the clear,
almost childlike expression of tbe faces of
tbe women of that period.
Romney's portraits have retained a won
derful purity of color— the liquid blue of
tbe eyes, the touch of crimson on the lipa
have almost tbe freshness of wet paint —
and who better than Romney could paint
a head at once spirited and delicate?
Tbe grayish nair tbat is blonde under
the, powder, tbe transparent white of the
kerchief — tbe melting color of flesh in
light, against light, with light all around
it "receive the assurance of our most
distinguished respect," George Romney.
"The Mushroom Picker" and a small
"Full Length Figure of a Girl" represent
Gainsborough— not too well. "Tbe Mush
room Picker" is interesting technically
because it is untinished— it is hardly more
than oegun— washed in, in a rich dark
brown and a scumble of lighter amber.
Hogarth is responsible for the white*
{ headed, red-coated old reprobate bung in
'the refreshment-room; bis small, blue
I twinkling eyes look down upon bills of
microscopic cakes and transparent sand
wiches — his face is almost apoplectic in
color. Time has been kind to the harsh,
firm color — to the thickly painted red
face — but it must have Deen rather un
pleasantly vivid when the gold frame was
new.
And opposite over the teatable scowls
Prince Rupert by Albert Cuyp. Prince
I Rupert is a formidable gentleman in a red
velvet cap and flaunting feathers — there is
a storm brewing in the landscape bebind
him, and his dark hard face, rather bilious
in color, with bold eyes and a thin line of
cruel mouth under an equally straight
and tbin line of mustache— is hardly less
awe inspiring.
The refreshment-room has been more
than honored. In the corner we meet the
cold glance of George Villiers, second
Duke of Buckingham. Reserved, distin
guished, with a long, tine-featured face,
painted in cool gray flesh tones, a great
point lace collar cooler and grayer still,
this portrait has almost the aristocratic
distinction of a Van Dyck. It is by Cor
nelius Van. C. Jansen, who must have been
the contemporary of the great master — bat
C. Van. C. Jansen had more sense of
color than of form. Tbe head is rather
badly out of drawing.
A portrait of Charles Edward by Allen
Ramsey shows a young man with a smil
ing countenance against a sunset sky ; his
head seems to be turned almost to tbe
back of his neck and his shoulders are
shrugged only on one side.
Lord Byron and Campbell, mellow with
ace, are nung as companion pictures; the
familiar portrait of Lord Byron, pale,
noble, with his beautiful melancholy eyes
By JAMES McNEIL WHISTLER.
following the interested visitor even to the |
remotest corner of the room.
The modern men are here as well. Lord
Leigbton's Flaming June, Electra mourn
ing at the tomb of Agamemnon. The
music of the sea, the dignified, careful
work of the late president of the Royal
Academy. Hi? successor has sent, in
piace of the "Flaming June," which was
only exhibited for two days, a portrait of
a child called "The Deserted Cage." Sir
John Millais is ill and suffering. He is
almost as popular as the late Sir Freder
ick, but when he sends a canvas like "The
Deserted Cage" he almost forfeits sympa
thy. The cage is hardly as vacant as tbe
child's face, and is certainly drawn with
more interest.
The cheap popularity of the subject is
the touch too much. Let us turn to the
"Gambler's Wife," whicn is an old canvas,
but which has lost nothing of its careful,
if rather sweet, coloring and composition.
The landscape by Sir John Millais is
called "The Old Garden," a very clean old
garden, with a weather-stained cupid
blowing a horn on the back of an ani
mated dolphin with the fine silver jet of a
fountain tossed up from bis great jaws. !
The garden bas smooth walks and clipped |
trees and hedges, and is just such an old,
sheltered, sunny place as we may wander
into any day, if we are fortunate, even in
smoky London.
Watts is represented by several portraits.
There are two beautiful dark landscapes
by tbe late Henry Moore. Alfred Parsons
has his rather conventional blooming fruit
trees against a windy sky; tbere is a
Frank Hall, and two jolly Sir David
Wilkies, "A Peddler Showing His Wares,"
and "'The Penny Wedding," from the
j Queen's collection. Tbere is a David
I Teniers, even a Muriilo. But it is impossi
ble to stay away from the portraits at the
end of tbe middle room, with the light
streaming in between them, and the glass
which protects them giving maddening
reflections of all tbe other pictures one
does not care to see, and of all the people
in bright dresses, who might be more
profitably employed in tbe daily passing
show in Hyde Park.
It is hardly in an amiable spirit that we
pause before the Whistlers; it is in uncon
trollable bad temper that we regard the
great canvas of Luke Fildes, the anxious
doctor looking into the white face of the
sick child, upon whom the rather theatri
cal lamplight is turned. In justice to the
big emotional picture that occupies the
place of honor, it is well conceived, well
drawn and well painted, soberly and hon
estly. Tbe mother who has her head
buried, in her arms, the father standing at
■ her side nth a con-
I trolling had on ber
I loved shoulders, all
I the homeijdetails of
I a respectajle rather
Imeaifer household
I are indiraed with
Htbat knowedge of
la man wht under-
I stands his medium
Band uses it to the
I test c f Us ca-
I pacity.
And iere at the
end of tie loom the
little girl stands, very erect sad tery self
possessed, in a rather sUtelj, if entirely
childlike, dignity. And the Siul of every
painter beats almost audibly as he regards
it. If it be not treason I wood suggest
that Miss Cicely Alexander coad be hung
next to the Infanta Margheria, in the
Louvre, and the masterpiece of 3an Diego
di Velasquez would not seem more re
markable.
Some one has recently wriiten that
Whistler's art is the quintessence of all
that the nineteenth ceniury has t> offer to
the artistic gourmet. He has takei to him
self the best of every art with w-iich his
subtle and delicate fancy has b*en mo
mentarily impressed. In bis yoith the
mysterious charm of the creations of
Dante Gabriel Rossetti surrounded him;
something of their still, deep clanct is ia
the eyes of all of Whistler's womeft and
children.
Impressionism as it was first understood
taught him the lesson of surrounding his
figures with air, of bringing them forward
out of cool depths of background by atten
tion to the form and modeling of the points
where lights and shadows meet. From
Velasquez himself he gained his beautiful
great lines, the simple solid backgrounds,
the lovely silver-gray tone, and from the
Japanese, at last, he took the understand
ing of great flat manses of color, the dec
orative arrangement and the wonderful
attention to detail, which maicea every
jar, every flower he adds to his composi
tion absolutely necessary to its perfect
harmony.
Whistler's powerful tongue is a weapon
to be feared and his whole scorn is di
dicted against the realists, whose creed is
contained in the single rule that nature
cannot err, that everything, in nature is
tit subject for the art of the painter, that
to make a servile copy of the model, not
closing an eye to one unpleasant or inhar
monious touch, is the beginning and the
end of the first and
the last lesson.
To Whistler nature
lis a vast garden,
I from which he plucks
I only the flowers that
I he desires; his world
lis a world 01 music
lin which every dis-
Bcord, by subtle rela-
I tions, by careful se-
I lections, can be used
lin a general har-
I mony. In his own lit-
I tie pamphlet, which,
Halas! I am not able
Ito quote word for
I word, he says some-
I thing like this:
"When the veil of
I evening falls mildly
I over the banks of
I the rivers; when the
I little houses sink
I into soft mist; when
I the tall chimneys
I loolc like church
I towers and the ware-
I houses gloom like
I palaces in the night
I — when the whola
I world joins and is
I one with the vast
I sky, and the twilight
I wonderland is before
I the enchanted eyes —
I then the Philistine
I ceases to understand,
I because he has
I ceased to see sharply
I everything, every de-
I tail — the bald, the
I ugly, the shapeless
I truth."
The portrait of lit-
I tie Miss Alexander,
I done long ago, was
I one of his first and
I most striking sue-
I cesses. After his first
I picture had been re-
I fused at the Salon
I (tnat wonderful
woman in white
, which made the Sa
lon dcs Refuses of 1863 a conspicuous
and distinguished exhibition) Whistler
settled in London and very soon after the
present portrait was painted.
Miss Cicely Alexander makes us thine
of the little Spanish princesses. It is per
haps the dress, which is of white muslin,
with wide sleeves and a skirt that bangs
out in crisp stiffness like the skirts of a
ballet dancer. The child has a large gray
hat in her hand, with a black ribbon and a
floating feather. With white and black and
gray, and a tone hardly warmer over the
siiver-blonde hair and the soft little lumi
nous face, with the big eyes ar.d the one
touch of crimson on the lips, everything
that could be said has been said.
Did Whistler give or had the child
really all that soft dignity, that mixture
of reserve and graciousness, that fine
j flower of an appealing, shy reserve that is
as intangible as a fragrance? Toe delicacy
of extreme youth rests upon the little
fiaureas lightly as the two butterflies of
pale gold that have fluttered into the
[ background, or the gold-hearted daisies
that tremble in the shadow behind her.
! On the opposite wall, equally badJy hnne,
, hangs the older sister, not quite so delight-
I ful and equally indescribable.
A young girl in black, that is not dead,
that is not shadow, that is a clear, fresh,
soft light-black; the bead pointed low in
tone; around the neck a bit of transparent
white crushed muslin. Shi is buttoning
her gloves and looking outof the canvas!
In the background, the which is of yellow
ish-gray, there is a dark far, and a flatter
of tiny vivid yellow flowed. In both por
traits even the signature teems indispensa
ble, that characteristic buiterfly caught on
the wheel.
The nocturne is on* of the dim-blue
evenings, Whistler so l>ved to paint, and
wnich started the rage in painting moon
ligh's and starlights ano twilights as no
body ever before saw tbt>m. It is almost a
heartbreak to think tiat these portraits
are not in a public gfllery, although the
generous frequency wrh which they are
exhibited cannot be oo highly appreci
ated.
At tbe Fine Arts we see the drawings
and studies of Sir Edward Bume-Jones
It would be well to .urn the entire art
school into this little exhibition, in order
to marvel at the uniring energy, the re
markable industry d this wonderful man
who, although o'«r 60 years of ace'
makes his studies with the same pain*:
taKing care, :tie same devotion to every
detail that charaeurized the youth of all
the great descendaits (if they may be so
called) of the gaatest of all the pr^
Raphaehtes, Daat» Gabriel Rnssetti.
Van Dick Bbowk.

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