mediocrity defies competition. But when the European meets ugly
sculpture or any ugly form of art in the New World, his instinct is to
exclaim, "Of course!" His instinct is to exclaim, "This beats
everything!" The attitude will not bear examination. And lo! I was
adopting it myself.

"And here's Frances Willard!" cried, ecstatically, a young woman in one
of the numerous parties of excursionists whose more deliberate paths
through the Capitol we were continually crossing in our swift course.

And while, upon the spot where John Quincy Adams fell, I pretended to
listen to the guide, who was proving to me from a distance that the
place was as good a whispering-gallery as any in Europe, I thought: "And
why should not Frances Willard's statue be there? I am glad it is there.
And I am glad to see these groups of provincials admiring with open
mouths the statues of the makers of their history, though the statues
are chiefly painful." And I thought also: "New York may talk, and
Chicago may talk, and Boston may talk, but it is these groups of
provincials who are the real America." They were extraordinarily like
people from the Five Towns--that is to say, extraordinarily like
comfortable average people everywhere.

We were outside again, under one of the enormous porticos of the
Capitol. The guide was receiving his well-earned dollar. The faithful
fellow had kept nicely within the allotted limit of half an hour.

"Now we'll go and see the Congressional Library," said my particular
friend.

But I would not. I had put myself in a position to retort to any