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Updated: May 26, 2025
Whistler and Wilde were just as much intellectual bullies as I was a physical bully yesterday morning when I punched Tom Spink into lying down and staying down. And my knuckles are sore and swollen. I cease writing for a moment to look at them and to hope that they will not stay permanently enlarged. At any rate, Tom Spink took his disciplining and promised to come in and be good. "Sir!"
Whistler was one of those assigned to find the cause of the "tick-tock" noise, and it was he who finally suggested the spot where the mechanism which caused the sound might be found. The party had searched the lumber room and the compartments on both sides, that above, and the one directly beneath the room in question.
We were given in the Nineties to borrowing the things Whistler said and wrote, for we knew, if it is not every critic who does to-day, that he was as great a master of art criticism as of art. What the men who undertook to carry on tradition did for us was to arrange a good show.
There was a grave look on the faces of the officers, and the men talked low together as they watched them. "Strange-looking hill out yonder," remarked a mate. "Not a tree on it, nor any green thing. 'Tis black and shining enough for the devil's grave-stone." "Have done with your gossip of devils," snorted the other mate. "You're as evil a man for a ship's company as a whistler.
The manager of the munition works, for instance?" "That's so! Mr. Santley. Say! let's 'phone him and see if he is at home." "But you can't say anything over the telephone about Blake, or about us fellows thinking he is up to something wrong." "We'll make an appointment with the manager," said Whistler, running into the Torrance house.
Every method is to be judged in and for itself on its own merits, and not as better or worse than some other method. Individually we may prefer Velasquez to Frans Hals; Whistler may minister to our personal satisfaction in larger measure than Mr. Sargent; we may enjoy Mr. James better than Stevenson; Richard Strauss may stir us more deeply than Brahms.
We are looking into a soul when we are looking at a Turner, a Carot, or a Whistler, as surely as when in dream we find ourselves moving in strange countries which are yet within us, contained for all their seeming infinitudes in the little hollow of the brain.
"I don't mean that it's all their fault," she continued. "We do all we can to attract them the way we dress. Who was it said that to every woman every man is a potential lover. We can't get it out of our minds. It's there even when we don't know it. We will never succeed in civilizing Nature." "We won't despair of her," laughed Joan. "She's creeping up, poor lady, as Whistler said of her.
"Old Mag tells you, and she knows. Yo' fine, big ship will go down in the midst of the seas and her crew with her. Better yo' luck if it happens befo' yo' git back to her already." "You don't mean that?" Whistler cried. "I'm a-tellin' yo' so," said the queer old woman. "Old Mag knows mo' than other folks. Oh, yes! She'll sink. Better yo' boys stay ashore."
Every one in town, including the editors, spoke of them familiarly as "Toots" and "Beppy" Barrows, applying nicknames that had grown up with them and had no connection whatever with the names they received when christened. They were young, rich, lovely and apparently heart-whole. Charley Whistler, being newly-wedded, wanted every one else in the world to get married.
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