Brooks was then a man of forty-five years old； a strong writer and a vigorous thinker who irritated too many Boston conventions ever to suit the atmosphere； but the two brothers could talk to each other without atmosphere and were used to audiences of one. Brooks had discovered or developed a law of history that civilization followed the exchanges， and having worked it out for the Mediterranean was working it out for the Atlantic. Everything American， as well as most things European and Asiatic， became unstable by this law， seeking new equilibrium and compelled to find it. Loving paradox， Brooks， with the advantages of ten years' study， had swept away much rubbish in the effort to build up a new line of thought for himself， but he found that no paradox compared with that of daily events. The facts were constantly outrunning his thoughts. The instability was greater than he calculated； the speed of acceleration passed bounds. Among other general rules he laid down the paradox that， in the social disequilibrium between capital and labor， the logical outcome was not collectivism， but anarchism； and Henry made note of it for study.
By the time he got back to Washington on September 19， the storm having partly blown over， life had taken on a new face， and one so interesting that he set off to Chicago to study the Exposition again， and stayed there a fortnight absorbed in it. He found matter of study to fill a hundred years， and his education spread over chaos. Indeed， it seemed to him as though， this year， education went mad. The silver question， thorny as it was， fell into relations as simple as words of one syllable， compared with the problems of credit and exchange that came to complicate it； and when one sought rest at Chicago， educational game started like rabbits from every building， and ran out of sight among thousands of its kind before one could mark its burrow. The Exposition itself defied philosophy. One might find fault till the last gate closed， one could still explain nothing that needed explanation. As a scenic display， Paris had never approached it， but the inconceivable scenic display consisted in its being there at all -- more surprising， as it was， than anything else on the continent， Niagara Falls， the Yellowstone Geysers， and the whole railway system thrown in， since these were all natural products in their place； while， since Noah's Ark， no such Babel of loose and ill joined， such vague and ill-defined and unrelated thoughts and half-thoughts and experimental outcries as the Exposition， had ever ruffled the surface of the Lakes.
The first astonishment became greater every day. That the Exposition should be a natural growth and product of the Northwest offered a step in evolution to startle Darwin； but that it should be anything else seemed an idea more startling still； and even granting it were not -- admitting it to be a sort of industrial， speculative growth and product of the Beaux Arts artistically induced to pass the summer on the shore of Lake Michigan -- could it be made to seem at home there？ Was the American made to seem at home in it？ Honestly， he had the air of enjoying it as though it were all his own； he felt it was good； he was proud of it； for the most part， he acted as though he had passed his life in landscape gardening and architectural decoration. If he had not done it himself， he had known how to get it done to suit him， as he knew how to get his wives and daughters dressed at Worth's or Paquin's. Perhaps he could not do it again； the next time he would want to do it himself and would show his own faults； but for the moment he seemed to have leaped directly from Corinth and Syracuse and Venice， over the heads of London and New York， to impose classical standards on plastic Chicago. Critics had no trouble in criticising the classicism， but all trading cities had always shown traders' taste， and， to the stern purist of religious faith， no art was thinner than Venetian Gothic. All trader's taste smelt of bric-à；-brac； Chicago tried at least to give her taste a look of unity.
One sat down to ponder on the steps beneath Richard Hunt's dome almost as deeply as on the steps of Ara C渓i， and much to the same purpose. Here was a breach of continuity -- a rupture in historical sequence！ Was it real， or only apparent？ One's personal universe hung on the answer， for， if the rupture was real and the new American world could take this sharp and conscious twist towards ideals， one's personal friends would come in， at last， as winners in the great American chariot-race for fame. If the people of the Northwest actually knew what was good when they saw it， they would some day talk about Hunt and Richardson， La Farge and St. Gaudens， Burnham and McKim， and Stanford White when their politicians and millionaires were otherwise forgotten. The artists and architects who had done the work offered little encouragement to hope it； they talked freely enough， but not in terms that one cared to quote； and to them the Northwest refused to look artistic. They talked as though they worked only for themselves； as though art， to the Western people， was a stage decoration； a diamond shirt-stud； a paper collar； but possibly the architects of Pæ；stum and Girgenti had talked in the same way， and the Greek had said the same thing of Semitic Carthage two thousand years ago.