Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into Pennsylvania (25 page)

The desperate fury of the 1863 Battle of Gettysburg still exists today . . . in a century-old painting in the round
.

W
hat's a cyclorama? It's a large oil painting displayed on a circular wall, a popular form of entertainment during the 19th century. Viewers would stand in the center of it and turn to see the painting all around them, as though they were at the center of the scene. Like movies today, they told stories (usually from the Bible, literature, or history) that transported people to another time. Most cycloramas were more than 40 feet tall and nearly 380 feet in circumference. They were usually accompanied by a props or tangible artifacts, and included music or narration to heighten the effect. By the 1880s, most large cities in Europe and the United States had a building made especially for viewing cycloramas, and one of the most famous and profitable ones created in the United States was the
Gettysburg Cyclorama
.

In 1882, 36-year-old Paul Philippoteaux arrived in Gettysburg from France. He was already an acclaimed artist who had made sketches for books by Alexandre Dumas and Jules Verne and worked on military cycloramas in France. Philippoteaux came to the United States because Chicago businessman Charles L. Willoughby—looking to make some money from the public's interest in Civil War history—hired him to paint the final moments of Pickett's Charge during the 1863 Battle of Gettysburg.

The charge occurred on July 3, 1863, when about 13,000
Confederate soldiers marched through open fields and enemy fire to a short hill called Cemetery Ridge in an effort to break through the Union line. It turned out to be a disaster for the Southern army, and a low stone wall (called the “Angle”) where the armies met was the farthest point in Union territory that the invading Confederate forces managed to penetrate. It was also one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War—and its turning point, the moment when the Union army held its line and forced a Confederate retreat.

Philippoteaux wanted his cyclorama to be as close to the real thing as possible, so in preparation for painting, he spent weeks researching the battlefield in southern Pennsylvania.

He built a 30-foot tower near the Angle so that he'd have a panoramic view of the entire battlefield, made hundreds of sketches of the terrain, and hired a local man named William Tipton to take photographs. Tipton's pictures swept the horizon, covering Cemetery Ridge, the rocky hill called Little Round Top, and the fields below.

In addition to making sure he got the landscape right, Philippoteaux also interviewed Civil War veterans who had survived Gettysburg. No records exist of what the men said, but historians know that their memories of what happened on the battlefield helped Philippoteaux create detailed sketches of the conflict.

His research done, it was time to paint. Philippoteaux returned to his studio in France and pasted the photos of Gettysburg together to make a mini-cyclorama. Then, he started painting. It normally took one painter several years to fill in such a huge canvas, so Philippoteaux hired a crew of about 20 workers to help him.

Each assistant had a specialized task. Some were adept at painting landscapes, others at painting horses, and still others at portraits. For a year and a half, the team put oil to canvas, often standing on scaffolding to reach the high points. Philippoteaux even put his “signature” on the cyclorama by including a portrait of himself holding a sword and leaning against a tree as the war raged around him.

The group finished the painting in 1883, and the work was loaded onto a ship and sent to Chicago, where it would make its debut. It wasn't quite finished, though. After it arrived, workers placed the painting on the walls and added dioramas to make the scene more real. The painted wagon ruts on the canvas extended into actual wagon rut depressions in the packed-earth floor. Stone and wooden structures blended into painted ones to give viewers the illusion that they were actually standing behind Union troops on Cemetery Ridge and facing 13,000 storming Confederates.

The cyclorama opened to the public on October 22, 1883. Ticket buyers climbed a stairway onto a platform and found themselves surrounded by the chaotic moment when the Confederates charged the Union line. Over the next 50 years, the cyclorama spent time in Chicago and made a tour of eight cities around the country. More than half a million people eventually went to see it, and admirers even included war heroes like General John Gibbon, who had commanded the Union army's Second Division at Gettysburg and faced the brunt of the attack from Pickett's men.

The Gettysburg cyclorama did so well in Chicago that Philippoteaux
made a copy of the painting for display in Boston. It took about a year to create and was again such a success that Philippoteaux churned out two more copies: one for New York City and another for Philadelphia.

The painting in Boston remained on display until 1892, when workmen packed it away in a crate. Then in 1910, businessman Albert J. Hahne bought the Boston cyclorama. It wasn't in great shape; water and fire had damaged it over the years. But Hahne put sections of it on display in his department store in New Jersey anyway. He later sold the painting and it changed hands several times . . . eventually arriving in Gettysburg. The National Park Service (NPS) bought it in 1942, and in 1944, the U.S. Congress designated the cyclorama a National Historic Object. The NPS partially restored the cyclorama in 1959 and, in 1962, put it on display in Gettysburg National Military Park.

By 2003, the Boston cyclorama had been damaged and cut up so many times that it was nearly half its original size, so the NPS sent it out to be restored. The project was the largest restoration of a painting ever undertaken in North America. Experts from Virginia and Texas cleaned 1.4 million square inches of canvas, bringing the dulled painting back to its original bright clarity. The restorers strengthened and supported the sagging canvas, repaired its unstable parts, and corrected the damage from fire, water, and years of neglect. The painting was also restored to its original dimensions (42 feet by 377 feet). With its new backing and hanging system, it weighed 12.5 tons.

In 2008, a new visitors' center opened at the Gettysburg National Military Park, and the restored cyclorama became a
highlight. Today, it hangs in the park's auditorium, and its diorama includes rifles, boots, saddles, knapsacks, and even a full-size cannon donated by Civil War reenactors. To take in the display, visitors ascend to a platform that puts them at the center of Pickett's Charge. Strobe lights and sound effects mimic artillery fire.

The cyclorama on display at Gettysburg is the copy Philippoteaux made for the exhibit in Boston. The original in Chicago was last exhibited at the 1933 World's Fair there . . . and then it disappeared. In 1965, artist Joseph King found it rolled up and stored behind a smoke-stained wall in a burned Chicago warehouse. King brought the painting to his home in North Carolina, but it was so gigantic he could only unroll it on a football field. (He even had to remove the goalposts at either end because the painting was 76 feet longer than the field.) When he died in 1996, King willed the painting to Wake Forest University, which then sold it to a group of investors. Today, the group is trying to find a buyer who will restore it.

The third Gettysburg cyclorama ended up on a Shoshone Indian reservation, where it was used to make tents. The fate of the fourth painting is unknown.

 

Between 1790 and 1800, Philadelphia was the capital of the newly independent United States. It was a title for which Philadelphians lobbied hard and won, though briefly. Here are the reasons Philly got the honor . . . and then lost it
.

In the late 18th century, Philadelphia was among the most sophisticated cities in the world. At a time when many cities just had dusty dirt roads, Philadelphia's streets were paved with cobblestone, sidewalks were brick, and public squares boasted multistory buildings. The High Street Market—filled with stalls that sold fresh produce, meat, and dairy products—extended for an entire mile, and many wealthy people (like Robert Morris, who owned one of the most profitable trading companies in the United States) lived in Philadelphia. Art and culture also thrived there, and the City Tavern on Second Street was one of the fanciest restaurant/hotels in the new nation.

Philadelphia was also home to three continental congresses before and during the Revolutionary War. The Declaration of Independence was signed and the Constitution drafted at the city's state house (now called Independence Hall). Given its prominence in the Revolution, it seemed logical to Philadel-phians that their city would become the new country's capital.

But in 1783, Congress left Philadelphia after 250 soldiers stormed the state house, demanding back pay. The government didn't have the money, and Philadelphians sympathized with the soldiers. So Congress moved—to New Jersey and Mary-land, finally settling in New York City.

Philadelphia wanted the “capital” title back—being a nation's capital would bring prestige and business to the area. But in 1790, the U.S. government decided that instead of assigning the capital to an existing city, it would create a new city that would be independent from any single state. The city would be carved out of a swamp along the Potomac River between Virginia and Maryland. At the time, there were no structures there and it would take at least a decade to build an entire city, so the country needed a temporary capital. Philadelphia got that job for a term of 10 years.

Philadelphians saw it as an opportunity, and they remained optimistic that they could entice the government out of the swamp and back into their city if they just provided satisfactory accommodations. So the two-story brick county courthouse (now Congress Hall) became the home of the U.S. Congress. The House of Representatives met on the first floor, and the Senate met on the second—in a room whose floor was covered with a carpet that bore an American eagle encircled by the seals of the 13 original states.

The city also built President George Washington an immense mansion that had a glass cupola, ornate windows, and a marble staircase. Washington never actually lived there, though. Instead, he rented a house on High Street from Robert Morris, a wealthy Philadelphian who had financed much of the Revolution. The President's House, as the High Street home became known, had a public office on the third floor where Washington conducted presidential business and had room for him to host state dinners.

Despite the fine accommodations, the government did move the capital out of Philadelphia in 1800. There were many
reasons, but the main ones were money, slavery, and disease.