1876 (35 page)

Although this is my first visit to Philadelphia, I shall
not
record here my first impressions of the old capital of the republic—other than to say that whatever virtues the city may possess are entirely obscured by the several hundred thousand visitors who have made the town a nightmare of stalled carriages and horsecars, of crowded sidewalks and restaurants.

After a sleepless night (the walls of our hotel might just as well have been made of paper like those of the Japanese pavilion at the Fair), we got up at dawn to the merry sounds of hawking and spitting, of yawning and groaning, not to mention a number of loud domestic quarrels.

Emma and I met in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, only to find that the groaners, hawkers, spitters, yawners and domestic battlers were already in possession. So with empty stomachs and nerves stretched taut, we proceeded through a fine hot drizzle to the depot of one of the three new steam railways that connect the city with Fairmount Park, where an entire new city has been erected on some two hundred acres. Thirty-eight foreign nations have each put up a characteristic building, as have the various states of the Union. A specially built railroad circles the Fair. It is ... No! I shall save all that for the
Evening Post
.

At about 8:00 a.m. the clouds lifted; the sun shone; and we were able to find seats on the special railway car reserved for “honoured guests.” I was well equipped with all sorts of documents, ensuring Emma and me the very best accommodations everywhere, as befitting the representative of the nation’s most distinguished newspaper.

“It is like the Paris Exhibition.” Emma was delighted by the splendid new exotic buildings. Many are
literally
exotic: built by Japanese, Turks, Tunisians; others because they represent the very latest in architectural styles.

The honoured guests were allowed to sweep past thousands of early arrivals who were waiting in line at the turnstiles. We chosen few (there proved to be four thousand of us) were then admitted to the south door of the Main Building. Here each of us was given a map of the seating arrangements in front of the Memorial Hall at the opposite end of the Grand Plaza. Emma and I had been placed just behind the presidential party, thanks to Bryant.

The Main Building covers twenty-three acres (I cannot keep out the statistics that have all day been poured into my head); it is made of glass with a central nave nearly 2,000 feet long. One would have the sense of being in the world’s largest railway station were it not for the huge imperial eagles on plinths—and, of course, the exhibits.

With our fellow four thousand, we left the Main Building by the north door. Immediately overhead was a temporary platform built to support an enormous orchestra and chorus. Beyond the shadow of the platform was the Grand Plaza, a sea of gummy red earth ending in the grandiose Memorial Hall. Here wooden stands covered with miles of red, white and blue bunting had been built to contain the notables.

In the center of the plaza two colossal statues make hideous the prospect (for the
Post
, I shall be more tactful). Each of these Colossi picts an Amazon standing beside a horse slightly smaller than she. Emma thinks that the animals are not horses but big dogs. Pegasus? Cerberus?

Once we had found our seats, the orchestra began to warm up, and the public was admitted. Some two hundred thousand people, I am told, filled the Grand Plaza. Certainly, it was a considerable mob. I was happy to note that the two dreadful statues were soon hidden from view by dozens of boys who seated themselves on Pegasus’s back and wings, and on the Amazon’s broad shoulders and thick head.

Our fellow honoured guests proved to be so distinguished that Emma and I spent the better part of an hour gawking, like country folk come to the fair. The entire diplomatic corps from Washington City was on hand, all aglitter with gold braid and orders. Baron Jacobi’s costume was vaguely Hungarian; he waved his fur-lined cap at Emma. We decided that he had invented his own costume in the name of Servia.

The Justices of the Supreme Court, the leaders of the Congress, the principal generals and admirals were all to be seen in the grandstands. Or nearly all. The very greatest of the personages delayed their entrances until the rest of us were safely seated and the crowd was more or less quiet and expectant.

“It is just like the theatre!” Emma was having a marvellous time. Particularly when, to the strains of some military march (
not
“Marching Through Georgia”), the erect figure of General William Tecumseh Sherman appeared. To much whistling and shouting, the General made his way to the empty presidential box. Like so many of our warriors and statesmen (at least in the early days of the republic), Sherman is red-haired. General Philip Sheridan was then applauded. So, too, was a genial-looking man in a frock coat. I asked the man sitting next to me (a member of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court) who this civilian hero was. “That’s the Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Bristow.” My informant was obviously a Stalwart Republican; he did not applaud.

The applause for Bristow was slow to get started (in appearance he is an unprepossessing man, but he holds himself well, as if certain of some unique destiny). Plainly aware that unlike the famous warriors his appearance is less known to the crowd, Bristow paused in front of our grandstand and waited for the word to spread throughout the huge muddy plaza, now entirely filled with men in holiday black, with women in bright hats.

Gradually one heard, louder and louder, the sibilant in Bristow’s name until the fervent applause of those nearest him was taken up by concentric ring after concentric ring of humanity until, at its crescendo, he turned to the people—his people-to-be?—removed his hat, bowed, and took his place with the rest of the Cabinet. Emma was amused. “The other Cabinet ministers don’t seem at all pleased. Look at Mr. Fish. He seems to be asleep.”

“In an election year, all politicians dream of glory.”

Then James G. Blaine was in the Grand Plaza, riding the mob’s thunder as if it were a wild horse to be broken. He waved his hat as he turned to left, to right; bowed and grinned. No doubt about it, between him and the people there is a powerful bond.

“He could sell the White House to a speculator,” I heard myself observe to Emma, “pocket the cash, and the people would still love him.” I do admire the man’s audacity.

“It’s because he is one of them. Because they’d do the same thing if they dared but they don’t dare because they know they’d be caught and they know he’ll
never
be caught!” Emma was breathless from cheering Blaine. I saw Baron Jacobi watching her with amusement—and watching with equal amusement me watching the whole extraordinary spectacle.

As Blaine moved toward the grandstand the people almost engulfed him; but then soldiers in blue swiftly formed a cordon and pushed back the crowd.

Next appeared Dom Pedro, the emperor of Brazil, with his empress. This eccentric gentleman has been for some time at Washington incognito; although he is furious if any official pays the slightest attention to him, he is even more furious when he is not treated in a manner properly befitting the ruler of the world’s largest jungle.

Dom Pedro was very much cognito today and plainly overjoyed by the sensation he caused. Bowing, smiling, waving, with his white moustaches and goatee, he looks like an elderly version of Napoleon III. As Dom Pedro is the only foreign chief of state at the Exhibition, he is duly cherished by the mob for his condescension. He is also in his element, for he loves science, and spent much of the day listening to a new invention called the telephone which makes it possible for two people at a distance of miles to conduct a conversation. “It talks!” Dom Pedro kept shouting.

We were then treated by the orchestra of Mr. Theodore Thomas to the national anthems of
thirteen
countries. The orchestra was very loud, and I am edified to have heard not only Argentina’s “Marcha de la Rep
ú
blica” but Austria’s “Gott erhalte Franz der Kaiser” all in one morning. Exhausted by so much patriotic ardour, we were not prepared for the next extraordinary effort on the part of Maestro Thomas, an “Inaugural March,” especially written for the occasion by Richard Wagner.

“Astonishing!” murmured Emma. “Are there no American composers?”

“None so good apparently.” As one who likes the new music, I think it amazingly intelligent, not to mention courageous, of the Centennial Committee to have given the commission to Wagner and not to some local sweet-singer. Emma prefers Offenbach.

Simultaneously with the beginning of Wagner’s march, the presidential party came into view. To the sound of French horns, the President appeared with Mrs. Grant on his arm. As the music continued, the two little figures and their entourage took their places in the central box just below us. I was somewhat startled that the President’s entrance had been covered by music, that he had not been allowed the sort of ovation the other great men had received. I soon discovered that whoever had planned the pageantry knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time the orchestra was silent, the presidential party was seated and a bishop was on his feet, speaking at awful length, as bishops will. This holy man favoured peace, commerce and God, in that order. When he sat down, the chorus treated us to a very loud hymn, whose words had been written especially for the occasion by the American poet J.G. Whittier, who piously hoped that America’s future would be bright.

Next the head of the Centennial Committee made a speech, which, I think, turned everything over to the government; this was duly accepted, at some length, by a general. We were then obliged to listen to a very long poem by a Mr. Sidney Lanier, entitled
Cantata
. So badly was this long poem delivered that hardly anyone but me heard the actual words. Due to some acoustical vagary, I heard every line. Not surprisingly, the poet praised the United States. He, too, hoped for a better future. “At least we have American poets,” I said to Emma, who sighed.

It was now close to noon. We were all beginning to wilt from the warm sun, from the odour of too many distinguished people too closely pressed together about us, from the relentless music, poetry, oratory.

Then the accepting general (must get his name; I’ve mislaid the schedule of events) spoke at length; he ended by presenting to the people their President.

General Grant got to his feet. From our seats just above the presidential box, we had an excellent view of his back. He moved slowly toward the lectern. This is the moment, I thought, in which all the earlier displays of delight will be surpassed.

Grant was now in full view of the crowd, the text of his speech clutched in one hand. He paused. He looked straight ahead. He waited. But there was nothing, nothing at all from the crowd: only silence, an absolute dead silence for the hero of Vicksburg and Shiloh, for the saviour of the Union, for the twice-elected President of the United States.

I saw Mrs. Grant turn suddenly to the person next to her; even in profile, and at a distance one saw the alarm in her face.

For a long dull moment the President simply stood there, speech in hand. Finally, someone cheered him. Then a second cheer went up, which made it even worse, for after that there were no more cheers.

At last, in a resonant and dignified voice, General Grant read his speech, which was graceful and mercifully short. He even struck a modest note, a sound seldom heard in this self-regarding land. “While proud of what we have done, we regret that we have not done more.” I think that this reasonable sentiment must have distressed his audience (it is usual for their masters to sing their praises), for when the President finished, the original silence that had greeted him was now replaced with quite a number of jeers, whistles, and booing.

Emma looked at me in amazement. “They have turned against him?”

“It would seem so.”

“But I thought he was their hero.”

“No one is a hero in this place for very long. Let’s hope it will be Governor Tilden’s turn to be hero next.”

As we spoke, I caught a glimpse of Grant’s face as he turned away from the mob to take his seat. Most of the distinguished guests were applauding him. In fact, the Emperor of Brazil was waving his hat over his head like a cowboy. The bleakness of Grant’s face, however, was not altered by the applause of friends. He had just been given harsh proof that he had lost the people who once had worshipped him, and any hope that he might have entertained of continuing in office was now entirely at an end.

Meanwhile, a hundred-cannon salute was being fired and a huge American flag went up a pole at the center of the plaza, while orchestra and singers deafened us with the “Hallelujah” chorus. Then it was over.

Led by the presidential party, we moved on to Machinery Hall, which proved to be nearly as large as the Main Building. At the center of the hall is something very large called the Corliss engine. I have not yet found out what this machine is supposed to do (mercifully, the directors of the fair are providing us journalists with elaborate descriptions of the various exhibits), but I must say that the size of this double engine is most impressive; it is about six times the height of a man, made of some dark gleaming metal.

On a platform at the base of the machine General Grant moved into the place of honour, the Brazilian Empress on his arm; he was followed by Mrs. Grant on the arm of the Brazilian Emperor. Mrs. Grant looked very grim. General Grant’s expression was, as usual, puzzled and withdrawn.

Rather dementedly, and certainly tactlessly, the Brazilian Emperor kept waving his hat in the air rather more times than was entirely necessary, emphasizing the uncomfortable fact that the crowd was deliberately cheering him and not the President.

At a signal from an official of the fair, the President and the Empress moved toward a ... what? a small mechanical something. The President turned politely to the Empress, said something to her, and she, very firmly, pushed a valve. The huge engine began to pump away most impressively, and a number of disagreeable machines began to chatter all around us. This was the occasion for more cheers, more waves of the Emperor’s hat, more scowls from Mrs. Grant.