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other hand, a touch of democracy; it was he who brought art down to noble artisanship. And his democracy of art was saved from vulgarity by his Puritanic aloofness. It is too common to say that his art was a work of love; but with Whistler it was a true case. Whatever the people happened to say, he was the most enthusiastic admirer of his own work; where is any more strong supporter? And where is the other artist who adored his work of creation as he did? I think that it does little justice to call him a colourist. We have many Oriental artists who never use any other colour but black and grey; yet we call them true colourists. One must see beyond the colour itself, and feel the inner voice of symphony. The colour, I think, was for Whistler only a means to make his picture sing a living song; from such a sense, he was a great colourist. Indeed, he was. And it is almost foolish to attempt to examine the truth or reality of the colour on his canvas; though it may not be a true colour to you, surely it is a poetry or song, which you cannot deny.