the face of the globe; and yet, after all, what would it be even
then as compared with one of the great pyramids? Modern attempts
cannot bear comparison with those of the old world in simple
vastness. But in lieu of simple vastness, the modern world aims to
achieve either beauty or utility. By the Washington monument, if
completed, neither would be achieved. An obelisk with the
proportions of a needle may be very graceful; but an obelisk which
requires an expanse of flat-roofed, sprawling buildings for its
base, and of which the shaft shall be as big as a cathedral tower,
cannot be graceful. At present some third portion of the shaft has
been built, and there it stands. No one has a word to say for it.
No one thinks that money will ever again be subscribed for its
completion. I saw somewhere a box of plate-glass kept for
contributions for this purpose, and looking in perceived that two
half-dollar pieces had been given--but both of them were bad. I was
told also that the absolute foundation of the edifice is bad--that
the ground, which is near the river and swampy, would not bear the
weight intended to be imposed on it.

A sad and saddening spot was that marsh, as I wandered down on it
all alone one Sunday afternoon. The ground was frozen and I could
walk dry-shod, but there was not a blade of grass. Around me on all
sides were cattle in great numbers--steers and big oxen--lowing in
their hunger for a meal. They were beef for the army, and never
again, I suppose, would it be allowed to them to fill their big maws
and chew the patient cud. There, on the brown, ugly, undrained
field, within easy sight of the President's house, stood the
useless, shapeless, graceless pile of stones. It was as though I
were looking on the genius of the city. It was vast, pretentious,
bold, boastful with a loud voice, already taller by many heads than