it is thought that to be whimsical, moody, or self-indulgent best fits a
man both to create and appraise works of art, whereas to become so
really is the only way in which a man capable of such high tasks can
with certainty ruin and degrade his faculties. Precious, surpassingly
precious indeed, must every manifestation of such faculty before its
final extinction remain, since the race produces comparatively few
endowed after this kind.

Perhaps a sufficient illustration of this prevalent fallacy may be drawn
from Mr. Whistler's "Ten O'Clock," where he speaks of art:

"A whimsical goddess, and a capricious, her strong sense of joy
tolerates no dulness, and, live we never so spotlessly, still may she
turn her back upon us."

"As from time immemorial, she has done upon the Swiss in their
mountains."

Here is no proof of caprice, save on the witty writer's part; for men
who fast are not saved from bad temper, nor have the kindly necessarily
discreet tongues. The Swiss may be brave and honest, and yet dull.
Virtue is her own reward, and art her own. Virtue rewards the saint, art
the artist; but men are rewarded for attention to morality by some
measure of joy in virtue, for attention to beauty by some measure of joy
in works of art. Between the artist and the Philistine is no great gulf
fixed, in the sense that the witty "master of the butterfly" pretends to
assume, but an infinite and gentle decline of persons representing every
possible blend of the virtues and faults of these two types. Again, an
artist is miscalled "master of art." "Where he is, there she appears,"
is airy impudence. "Where she wills to be, there she chooses a man to