I saw the Metropolitan Club built; in fact, I painted the library ceiling. I remember, in looking it over one day, I threw a lighted match among some shavings and, in a panic, ran to stamp it out. I was told I need not be afraid, as everything was fireproof. Stanny had bet a large amount with Ogden Goelet that he would have the club finished on the specified date. Just at the last moment the workmen struck. The mantelpieces, of which there were a large number, had not been polished in the state of New York and the unions demanded that they be done over again. There was no time the night before the limit expired, but I knew Stanny had a plan, so I went up to see the fun. Stanny and the contractor had a line of boats filled with the necessary materials waiting at the North River, and another line of carts and workmen to bring them up. A thousand men and women were waiting in the street—masons, handy men, scrub women, and what not. At six o’clock sharp every trades-union workman had left; then in came the army. The first ones, bearing huge rolls of paper, unrolled them on the floor from the door to every fireplace. Women with mops stood at attention, to clean up if anything dropped. Out on the street, the carts came up to the door, one by one, each in solemn rotation, depositing its contents of the grates, cement, bricks, or some material necessary to the completion. These were whisked up by the workmen and borne in to their rightful places. A continuous procession upstairs and downstairs which reminded one of an army of ants building themselves a new home. All this time the women with mops were waiting, lest a bit of something drop on the new polished floors or splash against the walls. So carefully was the whole affair planned, however, that not a thing was marred, and at 9 A.M. the next morning Stanford White handed over to the committee a finished building. He won his money from Mr. Goelet, but with his customary generosity bought a beautiful piece of tapestry and presented it to the club. Stanford was accused of shamefully copying when he built the Madison Square Garden. It was supposed to be an exact replica of the Giralda, in Spain. I have never seen the Giralda, but I have seen on the right and left of a page, in juxtaposition, a photograph of both buildings. I do not see a resemblance striking enough to comment upon. When one thinks of how Shakespeare and Dumas, and, in fact, almost every great man, has borrowed, the question for the fair minded is whether the thing borrowed has been changed by the personality of the borrower, which, if he be of any value, must overlay and extinguish that first personality and give an entirely new impression. Remember the lines, “He winked at Omar down the road....”