I bent forward, and looked at the door—close. It was sunk deep into squares, and each square had a picture of men and women that seemed to be busy at something.
"What is it all about?" says I.
"Every picture is taken from something connected with the history of our country," says he.
"You don't say so," says I. "Who did you say made them all?"
"Mr. Rogers, a sculptor from Ohio. One of the great geniuses of the age, and one of the finest fellows that ever breathed."
"Do you know him?" says I.
"Yes," says he. "I got acquainted with him in Florence, years ago, when Elizabeth and I went to Europe on our wedding trip. He was then a rising man, hard at work on the art that he has since done much to ennoble. I am glad to see his great genius embodied here, where it will live as long as the marble on the walls. The country has honored itself in this almost as much as it has disgraced itself in placing some of the vilest attempts that ever parodied art in conspicuous places here."
Cousin Dempster's face turned red as he spoke—red with shame, I could see.
"It is enough to make an American, who understands what real art is, ashamed of his country," says he.