One evening at Pennell’s Miss Annulet Andrews mentioned attending the Royal Society soirée the evening before.

“Poor thing!” he said.  “Poor, misguided child!  Did you come all the way to London to consort with such—­well, what shall we call them?  Why, there isn’t a fellow among them who had his h’s five years ago!”

* * * * *

“You should be grateful to me,” said Whistler to Leyland, after he had painted the Peacock Room in the latter’s house.  “I have made you famous.  My work will live when you are forgotten.  Still, perchance in the dim ages to come you may be remembered as the proprietor of the Peacock Room.”

* * * * *

Whistler’s butterfly was the moth of the silkworm borrowed from Hokusai.  Otto H. Bacher thought the addition of a sting to the signature came from this incident at Venice:  In 1880 he found a scorpion and impaled it on his etching needle.  As the little creature writhed and struck, Whistler exclaimed:  “Look at the beggar now!  See him strike!  Isn’t he fine?  Look at him!  Look at him now!  See how hard he hits!  That’s right—­that’s the way!  Hit hard!  And do you see the poison that comes out when he strikes?  Isn’t he superb?”

* * * * *

Referring long after to his retirement from West Point, where he had been a cadet for three years, the artist explained his fall by saying:  “If silicon had been a gas, I should have been a soldier!”

* * * * *

He was always proud of his West Point cadetship.  “West Point is America,” he would say.  Julian Alden Weir, son of Whistler’s instructor at the Academy, once dining with him in London, chanced to remark that football had been introduced at the school.  “Good God!” cried Whistler.  “A West Point cadet to be rolled in the mud by a Harvard junior!”

* * * * *

When a student at the Point he had the habit of combing his long hair in class with his fingers, which brought this frequent command from Lieutenant Caleb Huse: 

“Mr. Whistler, go to your room and comb your hair!”

* * * * *

Examined on history at West Point, he failed to recall the date of the battle of Buena Vista.  “Suppose,” said the exasperated instructor, “you were to go out to dinner and the company began to talk of the Mexican War, and you, a West Point man, were asked the date of the battle; what would you do?”

“Do?” was the reply.  “Why, I should refuse to associate with people who could talk of such things at dinner!”

* * * * *

He disliked the work of the riding class at West Point, and one day wished to exchange his heavy horse for a lighter animal.  The dragoon in charge called out:  “Oh, don’t swap, don’t you swap!  Yours is a war-horse!”

“A war-horse!” exclaimed the little cadet.  “That settles it.  I certainly don’t want him!”