I am exceedingly fond of military
parades; so fond that I repeatedly find myself standing in front of
ladies of medium height who pathetically inquire at frequent intervals
what regiment is passing at that moment. But it is not the blare of the
brass bands I care for, or the clatter of cavalry, which I find
exceedingly stupid, or even the rattle of the heavy guns, but the men on
foot. Only when the infantry comes swinging by do I grow wild with the
desire to wear a conspicuous uniform and die for my country.
Saint-Gaudens's man on horseback in the Shaw memorial is beautiful, but
it is the forward-lunging line of negro faces and the line of muskets on
shoulder that threaten to bring the tears to my eyes.
This, I suppose, is rank sentimentality; but I cannot help it. Any
procession, no matter how humble, puts me into a state of mingled
exaltation and tearfulness. It is in part the sound of human footsteps
and in part the solemn idea behind them. I am not thinking of stately
processions moving up the aisles of churches to the sound of music. I
have in mind, rather, a band of, say, a thousand working girls on Labour
Day, or of an Italian fraternal organisation heavy with plumes and
banners, or even a Tammany political club on its annual outing; wherever
the idea of human dependence and human brotherhood is testified to in
the mere act of moving along the pavement shoulder to shoulder.
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