America says the Father of his Country must have a monument worthy of his exalted place in history.  What shall it be?  A temple such as Athens might have been proud to rear upon her Acropolis?  An obelisk such as Thebes might have pointed out with pride to the strangers who found admission through her hundred gates?  After long meditation and the rejection of the hybrid monstrosities with which the nation was menaced, an obelisk is at last decided upon.  How can it be made grand and dignified enough to be equal to the office assigned it?  We dare not attempt to carve a single stone from the living rock,—­all our modern appliances fail to make the task as easy to us as it seems to have been to the early Egyptians.  No artistic skill is required in giving a four-square tapering figure to a stone column.  If we cannot shape a solid obelisk of the proper dimensions, we can build one of separate blocks.  How can we give it the distinction we demand for it?  The nation which can brag that it has “the biggest show on earth” cannot boast a great deal in the way of architecture, but it can do one thing,—­it can build an obelisk that shall be taller than any structure now standing which the hand of man has raised.  Build an obelisk!  How different the idea of such a structure from that of the unbroken, unjointed prismatic shaft, one perfect whole, as complete in itself, as fitly shaped and consolidated to defy the elements, as the towering palm or the tapering pine!  Well, we had the satisfaction for a time of claiming the tallest structure in the world; and now that the new Tower of Babel which has sprung up in Paris has killed that pretention, I think we shall feel and speak more modestly about our stone hyperbole, our materialization of the American love of the superlative.  We have the higher civilization among us, and we must try to keep down the forth-putting instincts of the lower.  We do not want to see our national monument placarded as “the greatest show on earth,”—­perhaps it is well that it is taken down from that bad eminence.

I do not think that this speech of mine was very well received.  It appeared to jar somewhat on the nerves of the American Annex.  There was a smile on the lips of the other Annex,—­the English girl,—­which she tried to keep quiet, but it was too plain that she enjoyed my diatribe.

It must be remembered that I and the other Teacups, in common with the rest of our fellow-citizens, have had our sensibilities greatly worked upon, our patriotism chilled, our local pride outraged, by the monstrosities which have been allowed to deform our beautiful public grounds.  We have to be very careful in conducting a visitor, say from his marble-fronted hotel to the City Hall.—­Keep pretty straight along after entering the Garden,—­you will not care to inspect the little figure of the military gentleman to your right.—­Yes, the Cochituate water is drinkable, but I think I would not turn aside to visit that small fabric which makes believe it is a temple, and is a weak-eyed fountain feebly weeping over its own insignificance.  About that other stone misfortune, cruelly reminding us of the “Boston Massacre,” we will not discourse; it is not imposing, and is rarely spoken of.