Above us was the lofty stained dome, a most imposing feature;—flags of all nations waved from the latticed balconies; beneath, the jeweled arms of ladies fair gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. Directly below us was Marochetti’s equestrian statue of Washington, of colossal proportions. Years ago, dear general, you rode into my young affections on that very horse, as represented on a ninepenny printed cotton handkerchief, given me as a “reward of merit” for correctly “declining to love”—(I wish I had always declined it!) In the immediate neighborhood, our eye rested on a gigantic statue of Webster. There were his features, certainly, all correct, by line and plummet; but where’s the expression? It was soulless and corpse-like—it failed to magnetize me.
An hour has passed; our eyes are weary with gazing; still, no President. The singers have taken their places—the organ has emitted one or two premonitory subterranean grumbles, and the platform is beginning to fill with lesser dignitaries. The richly-cushioned Presidential chair, has been wheeled about in the most inviting locality; a huge bouquet is placed under it by way of bait, but still the President doesn’t nibble! So we bide our time with what patience we may—though the thought of a glass of ice-water, or a cake, occasionally quenches our patience and patriotism.
Another hour has passed! Even feminine curiosity cannot exist much longer on such unsubstantial aliment as pontifical robes and empty glitter. My companion is certainly a wizard! He has conjured up some ice cream and cake:—now I shall have strength to cheer the President. Here he comes, God bless him! You won’t see a sight like that out of America. The representative of a mighty nation—one of the mightiest on earth—receiving the homage of expectant thousands, standing without “star” or “order,” or insignia of power, other than that with which the Almighty has stamped him. No “body guard,” no hedging him in from the people. It is sublime!
—Now the Bishop reads an eloquent prayer; then follows an ode, sung to the time-honored tune of Old Hundred, echoing from hundreds of voices, through those deep naves, with such thrilling majesty that you feel as if wings were growing from out your shoulders, and you must soar; and suggesting the song of the redeemed, sung by thousands and tens of thousands, before the great White Throne.
Now the speeches commence—but as I see a whole army of reporters, down below, I shall use their ears instead of my own, and make my escape while an omnibus is to be had. Some day, when the President is not present to eclipse them, I shall return and examine all the chef de’oeuvres of art here collected.
—Stay! here’s a pretty conceit I must look at, as we pass along out—a mock garden of moss and flowers, about the size of a lady’s work table, from the center of which plays a fountain of eau de cologne, beneath whose drops any lady can perfume her kerchief en passant, a dainty invention for a boudoir. Need I say its birth-place is Paris.
There’s the statue of the Amazonian Queen, startled by the sudden spring of a tiger at her horse’s throat. Hartshorn and smelling salts, it’s alive!—no; it is lifeless bronze, but so full of vitality and expression, it makes me shiver to look at it.
Now my eye is arrested by an imposing group of Thorwalsden, “Christ and his Apostles.” It is not my Christ. It is not He who said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” It is not He who said to the weeping Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee.” It is not He who raised for the meek Mary, the dead Lazarus. It is not He who, dying, cried, “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” It is a form, stern, unbending, forbidding. My heart refuses its allegiance.
But I fear I am wearying the reader; so, let me close by saying, that what astonished me more than anything else, was the appearance of four of the most consummate Knaves in the world. They occupied conspicuous positions during the public exercises, and in fact, all the time I was there. Indeed, I am informed that they have been in regular attendance ever since the Palace was opened, notwithstanding they are well known, not only to the police, but to the officers of the exhibition. It is even whispered that the latter named gentlemen connive at their attendance, unblushingly bestow many attentions upon them, and will, undoubtedly, permit them to be present during the entire exhibition. That the public may know and recognize them, I will give their names: they are the North Nave, the South Nave, the East Nave, and the West Nave!