No one who has ever heard his comparison of the Englishman who carries his tub and sponge on the top of the coach to parade his cleanliness with the French who had vast public baths before England was discovered can ever forget the inimitable wit and humor and--underlying truth of it all. Again, his description of the Germans,--a people that call a glove a hand-shoe. Well, it is idle to even call to mind these things; they will never be heard again, and no report could do them justice. A lady, after visiting him, said, “He is like no other human being; a creature of moods and epigrams, but perfectly delightful. I feel as if I’d been conversing with a flash of lightning in a brown velvet coat.” No man could draw him out of malice aforethought. It was fatal to say: “Mr. Whistler, do tell that story of the----” etc. Of that sort he was no story-teller at all, and if persistently urged, would close up like a clam; but, if left to himself, he would take part in any conversation that might be started, and would soon take the lead, not obviously or offensively, but naturally, and say things that would make the professed wit dumb with envy. He would say things he had said, or even printed, before, if the subject warranted it. He might even go a bit out of his way to drag in a good thing which he thought would fit; but for the most part his talk was the spontaneous utterance of the occasion. He was known to every “chef” and “maître d’hôtel” in London and Paris,--for, while he ate and drank most sparingly, he was exceedingly fastidious. He did not care greatly for the large caravansaries like the “Ritz,” where people go to perform in public astounding gastronomic feats; but he knew every place in Paris where a really good dish was to be had at a moderate price, and every such place gave him the best it had. * * * * * Nearly every sketch, drawing, or portrait of Whistler gives some phase of his many-sided personality, but not one--not even those by himself--gives anything like an adequate conception.