It was Stanford White with Saint-Gaudens—­that great sculptor, whose work dignifies nearly all the great cities in America—­who had most to do with the Exhibition buildings of the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893.  It was odd to see that fair dream city rising out of the lake, so far more beautiful in its fleeting beauty than the Chicago of the stock-yards and the Pit which had provided the money for its beauty.  The millionaires did not interfere with the artists at all.  They gave their thousands—­and stood aside.  The result was one of the loveliest things conceivable.  Saint-Gaudens and the rest did their work as well as though the buildings were to endure for centuries instead of being burned in a year to save the trouble of pulling down!  The World’s Fair always recalled to me the story of Michael Angelo, who carved a figure in snow which, says the chronicler who saw it, “was superb.”

Saint-Gaudens gave me a cast of his medallion of Bastien-Lepage, and wrote to a friend of mine that “Bastien had ‘le coeur au metier.’  So has Miss Terry, and I will place that saying in the frame that is to replace the present unsatisfactory one.”  He was very fastidious about this frame, and took such a lot of trouble to get it right.  It must have been very irritating to Saint-Gaudens when he fell a victim to that extraordinary official puritanism which sometimes exercises a petty censorship over works of art in America.  The medal that he made for the World’s Fair was rejected at Washington because it had on it a beautiful little nude figure of a boy holding an olive branch, emblematical of young America.  I think a commonplace wreath and some lettering were substituted.

Saint-Gaudens did the fine bas-relief of Robert Louis Stevenson which was chosen for the monument in St. Gile’s Cathedral, Edinburgh.  He gave my daughter a medallion cast from this, because he knew that she was a great lover of Stevenson.  The bas-relief was dedicated to his friend Joe Evans.  I knew Saint-Gaudens first through Joe Evans, an artist who, while he lived, was to me and to my daughter the dearest of all in America.  His character was so fine and noble—­his nature so perfect.  Many were the birthday cards he did for me, original in design, beautiful in execution.  Whatever he did he put the best of himself into it.  I wrote to my daughter soon after his death:—­

“I heard on Saturday that our dear Joe Evans is dangerously ill.  Yesterday came the worst news.  Joe was not happy, but he was just heroic, and this world wasn’t half good enough for him.  I keep on getting letters about him.  He seems to have been so glad to die.  It was like a child’s funeral, I am told, and all his American friends seem to have been there—­Saint-Gaudens, Taber, etc.  A poem about the dear fellow by Mr. Gilder has one very good line in which he says the grave ‘might snatch a brightness from his presence there.’  I thought that was very happy, the love of light and gladness being the