nasty." In his letters home, which were afterwards collected and pub- 

 lished as a book, he smote his countrymen hip and thigh for their want 

 of taste and skill. He said that German plastic art seemed to exhaust 

 itself in making innumerable busts of the Kaiser, Bismarck, and Moltke, 

 in every possible material from marble to soap. There was much truth 

 in this scathing criticism and it was almost equally true of the Ameri- 

 can display. The Germans had some redeeming features, such as Dres- 

 den china, but if we had any, I fail to remember it. Of course, ma- 

 chinery was another story; I have been speaking of industrial art. 



On the other hand, the British display was conspicuously beautiful, 

 in the strongest contrast to the American and German exhibits. This 

 humiUating contrast awakened the country to a knowledge of its back- 

 wardness in the arts and led to a remarkable renascence, especially in 

 architecture, in which America now leads the world. The English sent 

 over a remarkable collection of paintings, which were hung in a per- 

 manent stone building. One of the most popular of the English pic- 

 tures Vv'as "Circe and the Companions of Ulysses," by Riviere, in which 

 the companions had already been turned into swine. There was a story 

 current of that picture, that a rustic standing before it and reading the 

 title from his catalogue said: "Well! if that aint the roughest thing 

 on old Grant that ever I see!" Three years later, I met Mr. Riviere in 

 Professor Huxley's house in London and told him that story, which 

 seemed to please him greatly. 



My brother Lenox graduated from West Point in June 1876, as a 

 Second Lieutenant of cavalry and was spending his graduation leave at 

 home, when the news came of Custer's defeat and death on the Little 

 Big-Horn, in Montana. Len's first assignment was to the 9th Cavalry, 

 a negro regiment, but, after the fight, he was transferred to the 7th, 

 which had been almost wiped out with Custer. Under the system 

 of promotion then in force, this was an unlucky change, for Len re- 

 mained a First Lieutenant for more than twenty years, while all his 

 West Point classmates were promoted far over his head. 



Near the end of Junior year there occurred an incident which, though 

 it seemed trivial enough at the time, nevertheless proved to be the 

 pivot on which turned not only all my subsequent career, but that of 

 Harry Osborn as well. He had intended to go into the business of 

 railroads and finance in the office of his father, who was a wealthy man 

 and had been president of the Illinois Central Railroad. I had deter- 

 mined to study medicine and the arrangements for my sojourn in 

 Philadelphia had already been made. The incident to which I referred 



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