* * * * *

At an exhibition at the Academy of Fine Arts there was a portrait in subdued colors by Whistler, “The Little Lady of Soho.”  Before this picture Secretary Harrison S. Morris stood one day.  “It is beautiful,” he observed, “and it reminds me of a story about Whistler—­not a very appropriate or poetical one, perhaps.  But here it is, anyhow.  Whistler one summer day took a walk through the Downs with three or four young men.  They stopped at an ale-house and called for beer.  Tankards were set before them and they drank.  Then Whistler said to the host: 

“‘My man, would you like to sell a great deal more beer than you do?’

“‘Aye, sir, I would that!’

“‘Then don’t sell so much froth!’”

* * * * *

When a French magazine located his birthplace in Baltimore, and the error traveled far, Whistler took no pains to correct it.  “My dear cousin Kate,” he said to Mrs. Livermore, “if any one likes to think I was born in Baltimore, why should I deny it?  It is of no consequence to me.”

* * * * *

A chance American introduced himself by saying:  “You know, Mr. Whistler, we were born at Lowell, and at very much the same time.  You are sixty-seven and I am sixty-eight.”

“Very charming,” he replied.  “And so you are sixty-eight and were born at Lowell.  Most interesting, no doubt, and as you please!  But I shall be born when and where I want, and I do not choose to be born in Lowell and I refuse to be sixty-seven!”

* * * * *

“Don’t be afraid,” said Whistler to Howard Paul, who recoiled from the presence of a huge dog because he did not like the look in the animal’s eyes.  “Look at his tail—­how it wags.  When a dog wags his tail he’s in good humor.”

“That may be,” replied Paul, “but observe the wild glitter in his eye!  I don’t know which end to believe.”

* * * * *

Comyns Carr met a foreign painter who had been known to breakfast with Whistler at Chelsea and asked him if he had seen him lately.

“Ah no, not now so much,” was the reply.  “He ask me a little while ago to breakfast, and I go.  My cab-fare two shilling, ’arf crown.  I arrive.  Very nice.  Goldfish in bowl.  Very pretty.  But breakfast!  One egg, one toast, no more!  Ah, no!  My cab-fare back, two shilling, ’arf crown.  For me no more!”

* * * * *

A.G.  Plowden, the London police magistrate, attended a private view at Grosvenor Gallery.  The first person he met was Whistler.  He took Plowden, very amiably, to his full-length portrait of Lady Archibald Campbell, where, after sufficiently expressing his admiration, Plowden asked if there were any other pictures he ought to see.

“Other pictures!” cried Whistler, in a tone of horror.  “Other pictures!  There are no other pictures!  You are through!”