14

Chicago Daily Hour
5 May 1893

THE DAILY NEWS

AMY LESLIE AT THE FAIR.

Some Reflections as to What Might Have Been Done in American Art.

VISIT TO BUFFALO BILL AND HIS MEN.

Rain-in-the-Face a Particularly Amiable Indian--Other Incidents of the Day.

[By Special Private Wire from the Daily News World's Fair Bureau.]

If there had been a decisive American spirit in the commission upon art in this Columbian Exposition instead of revivals of mythological symphonies, classics and the rightful inheritances of worlds crumbling with mellowed perfections there would have been something of the daring originality, vigor and unique emphasis indicative of our own history, our undeveloped splendors and gradual advancement in the profligate natural resources of the greatest country, the newest country and most ambitious country on earth. Instead of the eternal procession of tiresomely perfect gods and goddesses, allegories, revered freaks and European celebrites there might have been a glorious unveiling of the unbroken, golden splendors of America awakening, an indisputable chronology and some recognition of the most picturesque figures in our thrilling vicissitudes.

Instead of familiar old Ceres (this time in such luxury of grace and plenty) or inexhaustible Bacchus, sacred bovines and impious feasters, an American would have lifted on the walls of agricultural hall great pansy-eyed Texas steers, feather-crested Indians, a sundance, a Rocky mountain hero, or an even dozen of them and a wilderness of picturesque beauty. On the highest point of vantage, instead of pillaging buried art, America might have been honored with the effort of an artist who felt the magnitude of his own country. Any one of the men employed would have greeted the innovation with rejoices. The ymust be tired as the least enthusiastic of us of endless views of the myths, the gods and the artistic chestnuts. Fancy a nineteenth century artist deliberately perching himself upon a ladder to map out a Diana or Triton at all comparable with the hundreds which have confronted him during his studies abroad in every investigated quarter from the catacombs to Monte Carlo. While Church, our most decisive creator, must needs distort his brush with "The Viking's Daughter" Macmonnies, Millet, Symonds and the rest of the Columbian immortals have wrestled with gigantic beauties of antiquity until the wonderful Fair looks least like America of any place this side of the world of the obelisks. Any one of these artists or the greater ones honoring the nations with charming art would have reveled in the novelty of picturesque America. It might not have necessarily interfered with the encyclical marble appearance of the Apollos, Venuses, Hebes and adipose Cupids, but what Americans might have enjoyed showing the congress of nations would be types of our own idolized heroes, the like of which ornament no other history. Our warriors, pioneers, savages and broad acres. I--it is I, because I am American from the crown of my head to the ground my feet caress--I would have reveled in a colossal reproduction of the adored heroes inspiring American boys of the last century to courageous undertaking, press of civilization and the audacious vehemence of rightful war. Now, about the only art-remembrance of the march of stupendous American improvement is epitomized in the magnificent examples of the American tiger in one man's magnificent puma.

Some time ago I listened to a pleasant discourse upon World's Fair art by Lorado Taft, and though intensely enthusiastic and complimentary, as every one must needs be in commenting upon the exquisite works, about every third model Mr. Taft would dismiss with the significantly amiable remark: "I do not quite know what it represents or signifies, except that it is eminently artistic and beautiful." That is the one absent quality in the gracious art smiling with life at our portals. It does not quite mean anything American, and therefore does not speak to stranger visitors of our nation, but reminds them of their own, and commemoration of signal events are not entitled to so much of a country's homage. It is one thing to discover a world and another to peopel it, jewel it with heaven's gentlest benisons and slave for the might, glory and perfection of all its promised wealth. If any memory of the pioneer force in American culture is indicated in the World's-Fair decorative exhibitions it must be very stealthily expressed. In place of glided Dianas and huge Ajaxes, winged houris and exultant dragons how infinitely more surprising and dramatic would have been a group of ungovernable prairie horses, startling western riders, and Daniel Boone, Kit Carson, old Jim Bridger or Buffalo Bill. Of course the primitive slush of illiterate penny-dreadfuls has tarnished the princely achievements of this type of American hero. We are accustomed to a sort of dime-novel or Frank Chanfrau interpretation of these splendid characters and teh proof of great worthiness is that even under so uncouth a cloud they have always shone out resplendent.

I was more impressed with this forgivable virtue by a visit to Cody's "Wild West" today. There is the American Exposition which will attract foreigners when they are tired of staring at the Italian gentleness of faultless outlines and evidence of superb culture. They will bring up at the Cody every time and they will find Americans, real Americans, there - if not in the audience, in the performance.

How a heroic statue of Buffalo Bill, with his magnificent physique, picturesque accouterments and scout impetuosity, would have stood out among the dulcet elegances of foreign art! Clad in fringed deer-skins - than which not Grecian drapery is more genuinely graceful and artisitc - with the high boots which typify hardship and the country's savage estate, his inspearable gun, fiery horse and incomparable inherent nose!

Cody is one of the most imposing men in appearance that America ever grew in her kindly atmosphere. In his earlier days a hint of the border desperado lurked in his blazing eyes and the poetic fierceness of his mien and coloring. Now it is all subdued into pleasantness and he is the kindliest, most benign gentleman, as simple as a village priest and learned as a savant of Chartruese. I have just left him in his beaded regalia (which is not dress, but rest for him), and I do not think I ever spent a more delightful hour. His history, teeming with romance, is familiar to everybody in two continents, but his social personality is known to a favored few, in which treasured category I herewith entoll myself. All the gray that has been thrust into his whirlwind life has centered itself in the edges of his beautiful hair. For the rest he is ruddy, straight as the sturdiest buck in his troupe and graceful as an eagle. He talks in the quaint mountaineer language which robs English of all its proper crudities. It is a lazy, melodious sort of drawl tremendously fascinating and unapproachable except by a thoroughbred trapper, a cool soldier and American westerner.

His own tent at the show is a dream of improvised luxury. There are couches of tempting comfort and such a bewildering plethora of Indian ornament that further entertainment scarcely seems called for but he thinks of a thousand charming favors and offers from them in such an every-day simple manner that one scarcely appreciates that there has been any effort made in courtesy. Mr. Cody is perfectly natural. He has acquired no alien airs or manner in his marvelous travels and such an every-day simple manner that one scarcely appreciates that there has been any effort made in courtesy. Mr. Cody is perfectly natural. He has acquired no alien airs or manner in his marvelous travels and successes, has never lost the atmosphere of the boundless plains, the inspiration of discovery and attempt, nor the honest vreavery of a lonely scout who dares break through savagery and peril for nothing much more than hardy sustenance and exciting adventure.

He has gathered about him a host of clever men and all tongues are spoken under the white tents of the "Wild West Show." The colonel don't speak much of anything but musical, trapper-English and Indian, but he makes himself understood in every camp. I went from one cleanly tent to another and found that most of the soldiers from other battlefields than ours could speak French, some of them very correctly. The Indians growl a sort of Canuk patois which is a distortion of the French, and the Arab shiek speaks most beautifully in both English and French. I think that next to the Indians perhaps this mannerly Turk was the most alluring of all the camping attractions, unless dashing Miss Oakley be excepted.

In the tent of the Arabian leader I was introduced to a lovely young Arabian woman who was herself a shower of bright smiles and beauty. She was the wife of the Arab leader

and was dressed in a Parisian fashion very becoming and stylish, though she looked as if a coming and stylish, though she looked as if a filmy veil, soft silk sashes and the oriental trousers might fit her in sweeter appropriateness. She was introduced as "La Belle Fatima," and chattered in fin de globe French, told me all about the different Arabian was implements with which the tent is loaded down in decoration, laughed, brought out two stalwart young Syrians, who seemed quite as delightful as her charming self or her husband, and we had an impromptu Turkish cafe while Col. Cody went about the other tents to warn lounging Indians and smoking soldiers of the probable appearance in their midst of the rather unusual feminine intruder.

First I was presented to Rain-in-the-Face, a mild; inoffensive old warriot, who looked as if he had never done anything more reprehensible than eat oatmeal all his active life. They all wanted to shake with me and seized my hand in a hearty, friendly way, smile large, oleaginous smiles at me and look straight into my eyes in rather an informal but reassuring manner. Curly, the only survivor of the unhappy Custer massacre, accompanies Mr. Rain-in-the-Face and a pleasant group of white men headed by Wickham join the party in Sitting Bull's cabin. Outside suddenly there raises a fearful din, strange animal yelps and the beating of thightened drums and shuffle of moccasined feet. The young braves are executing a ghost dance and are arrayed in startling coats of paint and tufts of feathers, principally paint. One splendidly built young fellow is naked to his feet, except a cloud of tanned dog-skin about his loins, gorgeously embroidered in beads and feather-bones. He is painted a warn terra cotta and, as he dances, his back is a sturdy little Indian boy is called out of the dance, which he leaves relucently to greet me. He is the baby, growing very fast, wich Burke found wandering among the dead on the battlefield of Wounded Knee, and boasts the cosmopolitian title of Johnnie Burke No Neck.

WHile I was conversing in Hiawatha quotations to the youthful No Neck an old and somewhat indignant Indian pushed his way through the group around me and made several empathetic remarks to Buffalo Bill, then strode up to me with his tomahawk in a pleasingly convenient attitude. He is the medicine man and wants to bless me, shake hands and recite an inspiring incantation over my trembling head. He is immensely complimentary, Cody assures me I suspect both the swarthy doctor and the colonel, but I find that the proper thing to do upon all occasions of doubt is to shake hands furiously with the lowly red man, whether he is out for scalps or wampum. Annie Oakley's tent is next invaded and the clever little sharp-shooter welcomes us royally. Her tent is a bower of comfort and taster. A bright Axminister carpet, rugs, cougar skins and bucksin trappings are all about in artistic confusion. She has a glass of wine and a suggestion of honest entiente cordiale awaiting me when I enter. Guns, guns, guns everywhere, in everybody's tent, but in this particular one they are swagger, what a seaman would call taut and jaunty sorts of firearms. Miss Oakley is not only a wonderful shot but an actress of no mean pretensions and her comedy in her dextrous exhibition of shooting, which is one of the features of the show, is half her performance.

A kindly old lady then takes me into an adjoining canvas, where she has piles of unfinished costumes and sewing machines that look pretty busy. She is the mother of the entire camp and has been with Cody for fifteen years. The Russian prince, Ivan Makharadze Richter, a tremendously swell vaquero and an expert bolas wielder are in turn presented to me, and then the infinitely more interesting groups of Indians lounging about the tents close to the fires. One charming characteristic of the fiery, untamed monarch of the plains is his prodigious talent for resting. Indians can rest more to the square inch than any class of royalty I ever ran across. The show is simply tremendous. I can well see how strangers to such brilliant spectacular nature might rave over it. I was born and raised where occurrences identical with the dramatic incidents of this exhibition were not

NOT FINSIHED