“Usually Mr. Whistler came once a week to criticise us, and on those days the class, numbering anywhere from fifteen to forty, had been instructed to adopt a certain respectful mode of bearing on the arrival of the master; so, when the concierge threw wide the door and formally announced, ‘Monsieur Whistler,’ every student had risen to return his ceremonious salutation. Vividly I recall the scene: a man of not much more than medium stature, but so slight as to give the impression, when standing apart from others, of being much taller; dressed entirely in black, even to the suéde gloves; every garment immaculate in fit and condition; a little red rosette of the Legion of Honor of France forming the only spot of color about him until a faint flush rose to his cheek as he greeted the class with kindly smile. “Then, as _massier_ (or monitor, in charge of the class), he passed me his long, black, fur-lined coat and tall, straight-brimmed hat,--those well-known targets for the caricaturist,--and began his criticism by inspecting every drawing and weighing its merits--if any there were, as only too rarely happened--before uttering a word. This silent inspection finished, Mr. Whistler usually asked for a palette,--preferably mine, because it was patterned after his own, and made him ‘feel at home,’ as he expressed it,--and then, without removing his gloves, painted a few strokes here and there on some of the pupils’ work. Even in the matter of a palette he evinced marked sentiment. A carelessly kept one was, above all, his particular abhorrence, and generally elicited some such remark as the following: ‘My friends, have you noticed the way in which a musician cares for his violin--how beautiful it is? how well kept? how tenderly handled? Your palette is your instrument, its colors the notes, and upon it you play your symphonies.’