any public monument in the East. Such men are only bred in the very
shadow of genuine history.

"See," he said, touching a wall. "Painted by celebrated Italian artist
to look like bas-relief! But put your hand flat against it, and you'll
see it isn't carved!" One might have been in Italy.

And a little later he was saying of other painting:

"Although painted in eighteen hundred sixty-five--forty-six years
ago--you notice the flesh tints are as fresh as if painted yesterday!"

This, I think, was the finest remark I ever heard a guide make--until
this same guide stepped in front of a portrait of Henry Clay, and, after
a second's hesitation, threw off airily, patronizingly:

"Henry Clay--quite a good statesman!"

But I also contributed my excursionist's share to these singular
conversations. In the swathed Senate Chamber I noticed two
holland-covered objects that somehow reminded me of my youth and of
religious dissent. I guessed that the daily proceedings of the Senate
must be opened with devotional exercises, and these two objects seemed
to me to be proper--why, I cannot tell--to the United States Senate; but
there was one point that puzzled me.

"Why," I asked, "do you have _two_ harmoniums?"

"Harmoniums, sir!" protested the guide, staggered. "Those are roll-top
desks."