in molasses candy which made it blest and beautiful.  Still in the distance, but on this side of the water and close to its edge, the Monument to the Father of his Country towers out of the mud—­sacred soil is the, customary term.  It has the aspect of a factory chimney with the top broken off.  The skeleton of a decaying scaffolding lingers about its summit, and tradition says that the spirit of Washington often comes down and sits on those rafters to enjoy this tribute of respect which the nation has reared as the symbol of its unappeasable gratitude.  The Monument is to be finished, some day, and at that time our Washington will have risen still higher in the nation’s veneration, and will be known as the Great-Great-Grandfather of his Country.  The memorial Chimney stands in a quiet pastoral locality that is full of reposeful expression.  With a glass you can see the cow-sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy calm of its protecting shadow.

Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared granite pile, the Treasury building-an edifice that would command respect in any capital.  The stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment.  Beyond the Treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds about it.  The President lives there.  It is ugly enough outside, but that is nothing to what it is inside.  Dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste reduced to mathematical completeness is what the inside offers to the eye, if it remains yet what it always has been.

The front and right hand views give you the city at large.  It is a wide stretch of cheap little brick houses, with here and there a noble architectural pile lifting itself out of the midst-government buildings, these.  If the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about town, you will wonder at the short-sightedness of the city fathers, when you come to inspect the streets, in that they do not dilute the mud a little more and use them for canals.

If you inquire around a little, you will find that there are more boardinghouses to the square acre in Washington than there are in any other city in the land, perhaps.  If you apply for a home in one of them, it will seem odd to you to have the landlady inspect you with a severe eye and then ask you if you are a member of Congress.  Perhaps, just as a pleasantry, you will say yes.  And then she will tell you that she is “full.”  Then you show her her advertisement in the morning paper, and there she stands, convicted and ashamed.  She will try to blush, and it will be only polite in you to take the effort for the deed.  She shows you her rooms, now, and lets you take one—­but