“I first knew Mr. James McNeill Whistler many years ago in Venice, when he was quite unknown to fame. He had lodging at the top of an old palace in the uttermost parts of the town, and many days he would breakfast, lunch, and dine off nothing more nutritious than a plateful of polenta or macaroni. He was just as witty, and gave himself just the same outrageous but inoffensive airs as afterwards in the days of his prosperity. He used to go about and do marvellous etchings for which he could find no market, or else only starvation prices. When he was absolutely obliged to, he would sell them for what he could get; but he never lost the fullest confidence in his own powers; and, whenever he could, he preferred to keep them in the expectation--nay, certainty--of being able to sell them some day at a high figure. “He used to go roaming about Venice in search of subjects for his etchings, and those who know all about it say that the charm of his work lies quite as much in the choice of subjects as in their execution. He used to make a great deal of mystery about his etching expeditions, and was rarely prevailed upon to let any one accompany him. If he did, it was always under the strictest pledge of secrecy. What was the use, he would ask, of his ferreting out some wonderful old bridge or archway, and thinking of making it immortal, if some second-rate painter-man were to come after him and make it commonplace with his caricatures? On the other hand, if some friend of his discovered an ideal spot, and asked what he thought of it, he would not scruple for an instant to say, ‘Come, now, this is all nonsense, your trying to do this. It is much too good a subject to be wasted on you. You’d better let me see what I can do with it.’ And he would be so charming about it, and take his own superiority so completely for granted, that no one ever dreamed of refusing him.” The story is told that a woman, some elderly countess, moved into an apartment immediately below him. By her noise, fussiness, and goings to and fro she annoyed him very much, and Whistler wished her out. The weather was hot, and one day the countess put a jar of goldfish on the balcony immediately beneath his window. During her absence Whistler tied a bent pin to a thread and caught the fish, broiled them to a turn, and dropped them back. Soon the countess returned, and on finding her goldfish dead, there was a great commotion, and the next day she packed up and left, saying that Venice was altogether too hot,--the sun had cooked her goldfish in their jar. Of Whistler’s etchings Seymour Haden once said that if he had to part with his Rembrandts or his Whistlers he would let the former go. This collection of Haden’s came to this country a few years ago. An enthusiastic collector says: