ot understand what
he is writing about. Everybody who has been to an exhibition has heard
visitors discoursing about the pictures before their faces. One says,
"This is very well;" another says, "This is stuff and rubbish;" another
cries, "Bravo! this is a masterpiece:" and each has a right to his
opinion. For example, one of the pictures I admired most at the Royal
Academy is by a gentleman on whom I never, to my knowledge, set eyes.
This picture is No. 346, "Moses," by Mr. S. Solomon. I thought it had
a great intention, I thought it finely drawn and composed. It nobly
represented, to my mind, the dark children of the Egyptian bondage, and
suggested the touching story. My newspaper says: "Two ludicrously ugly
women, looking at a dingy baby, do not form a pleasing object;" and so
good-by, Mr. Solomon. Are not most of our babies served so in life?
and doesn't Mr. Robinson consider Mr. Brown's cherub an ugly, squalling
little brat? So cheer up, Mr. S. S. It may be the critic who discoursed
on your baby is a bad judge of babies. When Pharaoh's kind daughter
found the child, and cherished and loved it, and took it home, and found
a nurse for it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-dust colored
chamberlains, or some of the tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses at
court, who never had children themselves, who cried out, "Faugh! the
horrid little squalling wretch!" and knew he would never come to good;
and said, "Didn't I tell you so?" when he assaulted the Egyptian.

Never mind then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, because a critic pooh-poohs
your work of art--your Moses--your child--your foundling. Why, did not
a wiseacre in Blackwood's Magazine lately fall foul of "Tom Jones?"
O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. Richardson, who could
write novels himself--but you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear sir, agree
in giving our respect, and wonder, and admiration, to the brave old
master.

In these last words I am supposing the respected reader to be endowed
with a sense of humor, which he may or may not possess; indeed, don't
we know many an honest man who can no more comprehend a joke than he can
turn a tune. But I take for granted, my dear sir, that you are brimming
over with fun--you mayn't make jokes, but you could if you would--you
know you could: and in your quiet way you enjoy them extremely. Now many
people neither make them, nor understand them when made, nor like them
when understood, and are suspicious, testy, and