The immense hall was divided in the middle by a red rope. The Shah’s
division was sacred to blue blood, and there was breathing room there;
but the other corral was but a crush of struggling and perspiring
humanity. The place was brilliant with gas and was a rare spectacle in
the matter of splendid costumes and rich coloring. The lofty
stained-glass windows, pictured with celebrated episodes in the history
of the ancient city, were lighted from the outside, and one may imagine
the beauty of the effect. The great giants, Gog and Magog (whose origin
and history, curiously enough, are unknown even to tradition), looked
down from the lofty gallery, but made no observation. Down the long
sides of the hall, with but brief spaces between, were imposing groups
of marble statuary; and, contrasted with the masses of life and color
about them, they made a picturesque effect. The groups were statues (in
various attitudes) of the Duke of Wellington. I do not say this
knowingly, but only supposingly; but I never have seen a statue in
England yet that represented anybody but the Duke of Wellington, and, as
for the streets and terraces and courts and squares that are named after
him or after selections from his 797 titles, they are simply beyond the
grasp of arithmetic. This reminds me that, having named everything after
Wellington that there was left to name in England (even down to
Wellington boots), our British brothers, still unsatisfied, still
oppressed with adulation, blandly crossed over and named our Californian
big trees Wellington, and put it in Latin at that. They did that, calmly
ignoring the fact that we, the discoverers and owners of the trees, had
long ago named them after a larger man. However, if the ghost of
Wellington enjoys such a proceeding, possibly the ghost of Washington
will not greatly trouble itself about the matter. But what really
disturbs me is that, while Wellington is justly still in the fashion
here, Washington is fading out of the fashion with us. It is not a good
sign. The idols we have raised in his stead are not to our honor.
Some little dancing was done in the sacred corral in front of the Shah
by grandees belonging mainly to “grace-of-God” families, but he himself
never agitated a foot. The several thousand commoner people on the other
side of the rope could not dance any more than sardines in a box.
Chances to view the Guildhall spectacle were so hungered for that people
offered £5 for the privilege of standing three minutes in the musicians’
gallery and were refused. I cannot convey to you an idea of the
inordinate desire which prevails here to see the Shah better than by
remarking that speculators who held four-seat opera boxes at Covent
Garden Theater to-night were able to get $250 for them. Had all the
seats been sold at auction the opera this evening would have produced
not less than one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in gold! I am
below the figures rather than above them. The greatest house (for money)
that America ever saw was gathered together upon the occasion of Jenny
Lind’s first concert at Castle Garden. The seats were sold at auction
and produced something over twenty thousand dollars.
I am by no means trying to describe the Guildhall affair of last night.
Such a crush of titled swells; such a bewildering array of jeweled
uniforms and brilliant feminine costumes; such solemn and awful
reception ceremonies in the library; such grim and stately imposing
addresses and Persian replies; such imposing processional pageantry
later on; such depressing dancing before the apathetic Shah; such ornate
tables and imperial good cheer at the banquet--it makes a body tired to
merely think of trying to put all that on paper. Perhaps you, sir, will
be good enough to imagine it, and thus save one who respects you and
honors you five columns of solid writing.