He was but sixty-nine when he died. His first etchings appeared in 1857-58. For the remainder of his life he averaged twelve plates and lithographs a year,--one a month; and of this great number, it is conceded by conservative experts, the percentage of successful plates and stones is much larger than that of any of his great predecessors. In fact, there are no failures. Some of the plates were more sketchy and of slighter importance than others, but every one is the genuine expression of the artist’s mood at the moment of execution, and precious accordingly. Not many years ago there was in a certain city an exhibition of the slight but pretty work of a famous French illustrator. By his grace, and especially by his happy facility in the drawing of children in checked frocks and gray or brown or blue stockings and stubby shoes, the work attracted attention, and, as always happens with the pretty and the novel, aroused an enthusiasm quite out of proportion to its real merit. Two men fell into a dispute over the merits of the little drawings, one siding with the throng and maintaining they were great, the other insisting they were simply pretty,--too pretty to be good and really quite hard and mechanical in execution,--in fact, quite inconsequential as art. “Look,” said he, “at this figure of a child. See how the outline is painfully traced in black and then the colors filled in as mechanically and methodically as if a stencil had been used. What would a Jap say to that?” “He would say it is fine. It is Japanese in color and motive.” “About as Japanese as a colored illustration in a modern magazine.” The discussion became heated. Oddly enough, at that moment a Japanese expert, who was crossing the country on his way to Europe to catalogue some collections, entered the room, and he was appealed to for his opinion of the drawing in question. In broken English he said: “It is--very--pretty, very pretty; but--I not know how you say it,--but it is what you call--Spencerian,--yes, that is the name of the copy-books--Spencerian writing, while a Japanese drawing is the--autograph--that is the difference--the autograph.” And that is the difference between some of the work of even the great ones before him and whatever Whistler did,--everything he touched was his autograph; whereas with even Rembrandt there is the feeling now and then, though seldom, of the set purpose, of the determination to secure a certain result, of the intention to do something for others. Whistler never did anything for any one but himself. He never touched needle or brush to please model, sitter, or patron. Whenever the work in hand ceased to amuse and interest him as a creation of his own fancy, he dropped it. He could not work after his interest had evaporated. * * * * *