Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1883 — A Story About Whistler. [ARTICLE]

A Story About Whistler.

“A friend of mine,” said my infoi-m----ant, “was wandering through a street in London one rainy, foggy night about 11 o’clock, in doubt as to whether he should go to the club for a rubber at whist, or to go home. ‘What! is that you ? Why, how are you, my dear fellow '?’ He turned and there was Whistler, just as wet as he. ‘This is good luck,’ said the artist; ‘come home with me and have some beer and a cracker.' ” So off they went to Whistler’s house, in the suburbs somewhere, through the rain and darkness. Once there the house was as black as the night. Whistler rang the bell but there was no reply. He rang again and still harder, but apparently he might as well have tried to wake the dead. There wasn’t a sign of life in the house. Well, for nearly half an hour those two men stood at the door and tried in vain to get into the house, Whistler, I am afraid, swearing at the stupidity of his Servants, while the vision of a quiet chat over the beer and crackers gradually began to fade from my friend’s mind. “Finally, however, the door opened a few inches and the two men were soon conducted in a very mysterious manner through the hall and a few rooms, not a ray of light meanwhile being visible. Here Whistler left his guest for a few moments, and in his absence, lo! the whole house suddenly blazed with lights. The doors between the apartments were simultaneously thrown open, and a gorgeous scene presented itself. In the elegant diniDg hall was a table loaded with all the delicacies of the season, and set off with the rarest of old chin a, and glass in exquisite shapes and designs. Wines were there in abundance; and in their proper places were the butlers and servants, ready to do their bidding at this sumptuous repast. “This was Whistler’s' ‘lunch’ of crackers and cheese. ‘The whole affair,’ said my friend* ‘was one of Whistler’s strong conceits—his apparently accidental meeting with me (when he had probably been hunting for me for hours), his selection of midnight for such an escapade, his inability to get into his house (all arranged beforehand), and his surprise for me when I entered. No man bot Whistler would think of such a thing, and no one else would carry it out in such perfection as he. There was enough for twenty men on the table, and there we two sat ’till early morning, eating and talking of a thousand things.”—London letter. . No heart is empty of the humor of curiosity; the beggar being as attentivf in his station to an improvement oe knowledge as the Prino e.*—Osborn. Africa makes money showing her ivories. The export averages $3,300,000 worth a year.