Filling the pediment over the main portico is a bit of sculpture which enjoys the distinction of having been designed by John Quincy Adams, because he could not find an artist who could draw him what he wished. It consists of three figures: the Genius of America in the center and Hope and Justice on either side, Justice appearing without her customary blindfold. Flanking the main staircase are two groups of statuary. That on our left is called “The Discovery”--Columbus holding aloft a globe, while an Indian woman crouches at his feet. It was done by the Italian sculptor Persico, who copied Columbus’s armor from the last suit actually worn by him. And now comes a bit of politics; for Congress, having awarded this work to a foreigner, was besieged by a demand that the next order be given to an American, and accordingly engaged Horatio Greenough to produce “The Rescue,” which stands on our right. It represents a frontiersman saving his wife and child from capture by an Indian. The portico has an historic association with another President besides Adams, for it was here that an attempt was made upon the life of Andrew Jackson. At the close of a funeral service in the House of Representatives, he had just passed out of the rotunda to descend the steps, when a demented mechanic named Lawrence sprang from a place of hiding, aimed a pistol at him, and pulled the trigger. As they were less than ten feet apart, the President was saved only by the failure of the powder to explode. Lawrence instantly dropped the useless pistol and tried another, with like effect. Jackson never could be talked out of the idea that Lawrence was the tool of political conspirators who wished to put some one else in his place as President. We enter the building between the bronze doors designed by Randolph Rogers, commonly called the “Columbus doors” because they tell, in a series of reliefs, the life story of the discoverer. In the rotunda, the center of the building, we find ourselves surrounded by paintings and sculpture dealing with historical subjects. Hung at even intervals are eight large canvases, of which four are by John Trumbull, a portrait painter who was also an officer of the patriot army in the Revolution. For the one representing the signing of the Declaration of Independence, old John Randolph could find no better designation than “the shin piece,” because “such a collection of legs never before came together in any one picture”; but a more friendly commentator has discovered by actual count that, of the nearly fifty figures, only ten show either legs or feet, the rest being relieved by drapery or deep shadows. In another, the “Resignation of General Washington,” are the figures of two girls, which have given rise to many a discussion among sightseers because the pair seem to have five hands between them; I shall not attempt to solve the problem.