Chapter 1 The Great Fair Well, Moon, see that the bill is passed; the Centennial must be made a great success. --Thomas A. Scott On the morning of May 10, 1876, Ulysses S. Grant stepped from his overnight quarters on Walnut Street in downtown Philadelphia to be greeted by an escort of brass bands, massed sailors and soldiers, cavalry in horse-tailed helmets, admirals and beribboned major generals, state governors, members of the U.S. Supreme Court, magnates of industry, politicians of every rank and stripe, foreign ambassadors, and the president''s guest of honor, the emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro II. They were the advance guard of the most spectacular public extravaganza to be mounted in Gilded Age America, the long-anticipated celebration of the nation''s first Centennial a figurative stone''s throw from Independence Hall, where the Founding Fathers had signed the Declaration of Independence. In carriages, on horseback, and on foot the festive cavalcade processed along streets festooned with patriotic bunting and the flags of all nations, through roaring crowds of men, women, and children to Fairmount Park, two miles to the north, which a year''s labor had transformed into a phantasmagorical theater of national glory, vaster and grander than anything ever before seen in America.

At the park, Grant and his entourage mounted a vast stage to face a crowd that numbered at least 100,000 and perhaps twice that, packed so densely that it was difficult to move without the aid of police. Boys slack-jawed with excitement perched on statues of the Muses. Bishop Matthew Simpson of the Methodist Church offered thanks to God for the nation''s prosperity and progress, for the courage of its Founding Fathers, and for the labor-saving machinery that eased the lives of the toiling masses. An orchestra of 150 musicians played "La Marseillaise," "God Save the Queen," the anthems of Brazil, Germany, Russia, the Netherlands, Spain, and a dozen other powers, followed by a specially commissioned march composed for the occasion by Richard Wagner. A thousand-voiced chorus next sang the official "Centennial Hymn" penned by the aged John Greenleaf Whittier, dedicated to "Our fathers'' god, from whose hand the centuries fall like grains of sand": Oh! Make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong. Then, the popular Quaker poet Bayard Taylor recited his "Song of 1876," a paean to sectional reconciliation--a vital national concern barely a decade after the Civil War, when the ghosts of 650,000 dead stalked the hearts of Americans North and South: Waken voice of the Land''s Devotion! Spirit of Freedom, awaken all! North and South, we are met as brothers! At last, the president rose. Grant was a man of modest height, more portly than when he ascended to his office seven years earlier, his chestnut hair beginning to go gray. In big gatherings he was stiff, even shy, his voice difficult to hear from a distance.

He gripped his speech in his clenched fist. He felt more beleaguered than ever before, shackled to the country''s wounded economy, grimly watching his effort to save Reconstruction sputter for lack of Northern support, embarrassed by the exposure of venality among his trusted advisors, belittled by defectors from his own party, who sneered at him as incompetent or worse. Wherever he turned some new dishonor seemed to lay concealed. But he never lacked dignity or sincerity, and with them he soldiered on. "One hundred years ago, our country was new and but partially settled," he began, in that soft voice. To Grant, the frontier, now unfolding far west of the Missouri River, was no abstraction. He was born in an Ohio cabin in 1822, when settlement extended only in patchwork west of the Appalachians and most of the Midwest was still woodland, from which towns were being hacked by main force. "Our necessities have compelled us to chiefly expend our means and time in felling forests, subduing prairies, building dwellings, factories, ships, docks, warehouses, roads, canals, machinery.

Most of our schools, churches, libraries & asylums have been established within a hundred years. Burthened by these great primal works of necessity which could not be pretermitted"--he meant delayed--"we yet have done what this exhibition will shew in the direction of rivalling older and more advanced nations in law, medicine, and theology--in science, literature, philosophy, and the fine arts. And now fellow citizens, I hope careful examination of what is about to be exhibited to you will not only inspire you with a profound respect for the skill and taste of our friends from other nations, but also satisfy you with the attainments made by our own people during the past one hundred years." He then declared the Centennial officially open. Cannon boomed. Tens of thousands of voices cheered. As the presidential party descended from the stage, the great choir roared out Handel''s "Hallelujah Chorus." With Dom Pedro and his family at his side, and senators and congressmen in tow, Grant made his way through the palatial, glass-roofed Machinery Hall, to the foot of the Corliss Engine, the most powerful piece of machinery in the world.

At the direction of its inventor, the famous engineer George Corliss, Grant grasped one lever and Dom Pedro the other. In unison, they pulled and the immense iron walking beams began to move and the great wheel began to spin, setting in motion eight miles of shafts, belts, and spindles connected to the hundreds of lesser machines throughout the hall. Gongs clanged, steam whistles shrilled, cannon again boomed, and church bells rang across the city. Those who were there felt that the wheel of history itself had turned before their eyes. A reporter for the Philadelphia Times strained for words: "The obedient looms began their round of six months like an ark of machinery set afloat for a voyage to preserve the creations of man." The Centennial Exhibition--sometimes called the Exposition, but most often simply the Centennial--was the most ambitious public event in the nation''s history up to then: a spectacle of industrial might, America''s first World''s Fair, an "Arabian Nights of Modern Times," as one magazine effusively termed it, evoking an almost magical experience that innumerable visitors would struggle to describe. Harper''s Bazaar quipped that Philadelphia "appears for the nonce to have thrown off her sombre Quaker apparel, and to have ushered in the Centennial with much the air of a venerable old lady endeavoring to execute some difficult steps in the can-can." Showmanship aside, it marked the country''s first century with an epic celebration of its past and the promise of its future.

The roar of the engines and innovations that packed its halls proclaimed that the country could now not only manufacture for itself everything it needed but also sell its burgeoning surpluses to all the world. The Exposition''s menagerie of new farming equipment--giant tractors, harvesters, mechanical planters--foretold the ecological future of the as yet barely settled West, as well as the fate of the still potent Native tribes that blocked the way. A plenitude of works by the nation''s artists challenged the world to take American art seriously. A pavilion designed, built, and staffed entirely by women hoped to upend society''s most basic gendered conventions. Colossal displays of new consumer goods teased the eye and tantalized desire. Apart from its dazzling exhibits, the Centennial embodied a stock-taking of the nation''s past as it charged toward new existential challenges. Throughout its first century the nation had labored to knit together its disparate, mutually distrustful parts, fissured by slavery and bitter disagreement over the powers of the central government. Only with the Civil War''s end could Americans begin to feel assured that republican government would truly prevail.

That the United States would survive as a nation no one but the most unforgiving former Confederates now doubted; slavery was gone and states'' rights had (or so it seemed to victorious Yankees) been consigned to the dustbin of lost causes. If triumphalism was the Centennial''s dominant idiom, beneath its glittering surface it served as a giant kaleidoscopic lens that revealed much about America at one of its most transformative moments, as big money infiltrated government, technology reshaped everyday American life, Black Americans struggled to exercise their hard-won freedom, feminists demanded rights for women, and Native tribes went to war to repel advancing settlement in the West. Although the Centennial celebrated the spread of mechanization in all aspects of American life, it did so in the midst of massive poverty and unemployment, in the third year of the worst economic depression the United Sates had yet experienced. With the bloody violence of the 1871 Paris Commune still stark in Americans'' memories, fear of what people were beginning to call "communism" entered popular speech for the first time. Even as Bishop Simpson spoke in the opening ceremony of the improved lives of working men, in Chicago mobs of bricklayers armed with clubs and pistols were marching for higher wages, miners were striking in Ohio, and less than a hundred miles north of Philadelphia, Irish American labor leaders were on trial for their lives. Everyone knew that the future of the country lay at stake in the coming presidential election, barely six months away. The parties readied themselves for what promised to be an epic battle, with the resurgent Democrats pitted against the scandal-ridden Republicans. Even as Americans proclaimed the superiority of their democracy, they fel.