by F.M.W. [Francis Morgan Whately].
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #6 (Apr 1867).
In common, I fear, with many of your readers, I enjoy that very doubtful blessing of being perfectly old enough to recollect the time when his Royal Highness Prince Albert, in 1851, started the idea of a material Peace Congress, to be held in London, and which, by a series of perverse accidents, almost marked the date of the rupture of a forty years' peace and the inauguration of a series of wars which will be barely ended when the International Exhibition opens on 1st April 1867 in the Champ de Mars. It is only another proof of the saying, L'homme propose, mais Dieu dispose; and poor Prince Albert's sparkling shrine of art and industry was scarcely less fragile than the profound and lasting peace it was to introduce.
It may seem absurd to say it, but the mere proposal to open an Exhibition to which foreigners, especially French and Italians, were to be freely invited, caused quite a panic in the elderly circles of London. Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, who really ruled the army and regulated to a great degree the state, was then alive—alive, but naturally sinking, after a life of unheard-of greatness and incredible work; and he was decidedly against the affair. "It was not an idea of his time." A lot of foreigners would get here, and who would answer for what they would do? Lax morality, revolutionary principles—nay, even an attack on God's regents on earth,—what might not be expected? Police! what use are they?
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?—who shall inspect the inspectors?
Nothing could do but soldiers; and young readers in 1867 will scarcely credit that, "under the rose," military preparations on a large scale were made to meet that revolutionary outbreak which the wariest old man in England actually believed to be possible on that fine 1st of May 1851.
Prince Albert introduced foreign Art into London, and the troops were under arms to receive her! A dubious compliment.
I remember as well as possible not going to the opening. In those days the nil-admirari feeling raged, or was affected more than it was before or has been since.
If we owe nothing else to the wars which succeeded the great Peace Conference of Hyde Park, we must at least credit them with the earnestness, hard-working life, and practical views which came in after the premature peace which terminated the Crimean war, just as England was beginning to show that she was still forged in the old metal. In 1851, however, a terrible spirit of apathy was abroad. Living in the most reckless, extravagant, and voluptuous manner, the young men of England were simply bored; their extravagance did not gratify them, their pleasures did not amuse them, nor their difficulties alarm them.
"Go to see the thing in Hyde Park! No, thank you. Hate sights. Shall go and dine at Richmond. Nobody will be there."
One idiot makes many—so I say. I distinctly remember mot assisting at the opening of that blessed-by-bishops ceremony. What we did do was this: we, having calmly breakfasted in the great neighbourhood of Belgravia, tried to get to St. James's-street; we were, however, brought up short opposite Buckingham Palace by the 1st Life-guards, who were keeping the ground there. Having then discussed things in general with "Tiny" (who was the officer on duty, and who was looming above his men) for some minutes, he let us through the ranks, and we made our respective clubs about 2 P.M. When I entered B—'s, a house-of-call in those days for the oldest Whigs (who, I need not say, are your true Tories), I found, as usual, the bay-window filled with fogies. To them enters another fogy, who it was evident from his appearance and manner had done something, and was full of news.
"Well, Sir John," said a voice from the bay-window, "you've been there?" "Yes, Sir William" (they were, I believe, all old county baronets), "and it all went off as quietly as possible—policemen everywhere; and the Duke himself had seen to the posting of the troops!"
Chorus: "Well, I confess I'm glad it's over."
To us in 1867 it seems strange to hear of the opening of a Universal Exhibition "going off quietly." Indeed we have since 1851 had so many, that some of the first days went off a good deal too quietly. Witness that of Florence in 1861, when the Government, thinking they must have a high price for the first day, set it at five francs; and so the Italians simply stopped away. But, at first, there was great alarm.
Independent of the actual Exhibition, however, it is impossible not to look back with interest (now that we are aged, sober, and sensible) at the glass palace of 1851. Who would not like to possess the original sketch (made by Sir Joseph Paxton on a sheet of blotting-paper) which caused the subject of the last business conversation ever held by the great Sir Robert Peel? Riding from that preparatory meeting, he fell from that well-remembered old cob, was hurt to death, picked up by Mrs. Lucas, and taken home to die.
I have spoken above of the Florence Exhibition—the only one, I believe, yet attempted in Italy. It was charming—no crowd, no hurry—not, perhaps, much of the "useful" to be seen, but mines of the "beautiful" to be worked. It was worth a journey to Florence—and that in those days was really no joke—to see the sculpture alone. I must descend for a moment from the "beautiful," and enter most practically into the "needful." I trust that if any Paris tradesman, hotel-keeper, or other of the necessary scourges of every-day life, reads this, he will take heed of it, and avoid the example of his Florentine fellow-fleecers. There, in 1861, they raised the price of everything one hundred per cent on account of the Exhibition, and entirely omitted to reduce those "war prices" when peace was proclaimed. The palace in the "Cascine" melted away; still prices were stiff. Art went back to its normal value; but life—by which I mean living—held its own, and even exacted a good deal from mere travellers, who fancied that, having escaped the "Exhibition season," they might be let down easy to their old level. Non crederlo!
Now Paris has already shown symptoms of availing herself of that "pressure from without" which must come by railroad and steamer, by diligence, omnibus, and country cart; and the first preparation for a visit to the Champ de Mars should be a hardening of the heart and an opening of the purse. So shall you be imposed upon. Yes; but being prepared, you will rather pay and smile than remonstrate, perhaps fight—here cocked-hats and dress-swords on swallow-tailed coats appear on the scene—and have to pay, plus police expenses, later.
Napoleon III., by the grace of God and the will of the people Emperor of the French, was not a man to miss the great points which might be secured from really playing out the great game which Prince Albert had commenced. It was easier for the Emperor than the Prince: a few lines in the Moniteur and a few words in season—I mean, of course, the parliamentary season—by a Minister of Public Works, does away with all your rubbishing discussions in the "faithful Commons," and avoids all those unpleasant questions of utility and those remonstrances against extravagance which I believe are sometimes heard in the House of Commons. At any rate the Emperor had a Great Exhibition in 1855, and erected a "Palace of Industry," which still exists in the Champs Elysées as a lasting monument of the vile taste of the French architect.
This much, however, must be said of the Palais de l'Industrie: it is useful. Fat beasts are exhibited, and model furniture. Cocks and hens cackle there under the winter's sun in Christmas-week. Cheese knows what competition is there; and there is also the annual exhibition of nude pictures, which constitutes the yearly "Royal Academy Exhibition of Paris." I would advise anyone fond of pictures,—any amateur of modern painting, anyone, in a word, devoted to modern art,—to remember that this Exhibition is open during the summer months from 10 till 6 (entrance a franc), and to be very careful not to go there if he does not wish to tear his hair with vexation and cry out his eyes by weeping over the want of taste in artistic Paris.
And now, after this dreary introduction, it is time that I should come to our Great Industrial Palace of to-day. Great industrial palace! great iron monstrosity!
Still, we used to be told as children that it was better to be "good" than "handsome;" and we were always called upon to admire Peter, who, being asked whether he would rather have a fine uniform or a new greatcoat, chose the latter more serviceable article; and so "next day Peter appeared in a new blue coat," and we, the rising generation, were called on to admire his practical taste! Now the oblong iron case in the Champ de Mars is a very "Peter" of utility and ugliness. When I first saw its metallic outlines, I confess I quite shuddered; but I was not so bad as the gentleman who accompanied M. Leon le Play to the ground; for he observed, "Well, I suppose you will have got rid of that in a very few hours?" thinking it was one of the things which were to be cleared away to make room for the new palace! However, judges say that, ugly as the erection—if you can call that an erection which cowers down close to its mother mud—really is, it is eminently useful. True, we can have no great official ceremonies, no opening services, no long processions; for there is no place where they could be seen, or to or from which they could proceed; but as a show-board for the art, science, and industry of the world, judges declare the building to be perfect. It has the usual "spots," however,—it is badly ventilated (even now, when one of those rare rays of spring sun fall on the building, it becomes too hot), very dusty, and liable to be burned to the ground on the shortest notice. So great is that latter risk, that the Norwich Insurance Society—which is not usually believed to be easily frightened—for a long time declined to accept any insurances, and has only just reversed that decision. You can insure there now, and also in a company started in Paris by the Duc de Valney and Mr. Hankey. So now, if (O my exhibitors!) your goods and chattels are destroyed by what the newspapers call the "devastating element," your heirs can be consoled at the expense of the Norwich Society and the French duke.
This is only an introductory article, short and, let us hope, sharp and to the purpose. Indeed it is not easy—although I see several "Special Correspondents" are daily condemned to do so—to describe that which at present does not exist, De non apparentibus et de non existentibus eadem est ratio. So there is as yet very little reason to describe the shrine of art and industry which to-day is but a shell—a shell, however, which will be opened for the public inspection on the day on which the present number of the Belgravia appears in the delighted world of its subscribers.
The Champ de Mars is, as probably nine-tenths of your readers know as well as I do, a great oblong space between the river and the Ecole Militaire, and is, as I read, 3084 feet by 2290 feet, or say 1028 yards by 764 yards. Yet I daresay even that lucid explanation will not give so clear an idea of the space now occupied by the building and gardens of the "Great International Exposition" as will be given by my saying that on August 14th, 1865 I saw a corps d'armée of 80,000 men of all arms reviewed there without the slightest crowding or "clubbing" of battalions. The "gasometer," as it was originally christened by a lady in Paris (a bon-mot on which correspondents have been living ever since), occupies now the centre of this review-ground, and the army of occupation has thrown out skirmishers which occupy the whole space. Many reserves too are as yet out of sight. In open order round the main building, which may be said to have "formed oval" to receive visitors, are scattered an imperial tribune, a club, a lighthouse, model houses (contributed by the Emperor); a lake, on which are to float the craft of all nations (here the Empress also is an exhibitor, sending a funereal gondola and a light caique), Indian pagodas, Turkish mosques, Egyptian tombs, a photographic establishment; Spiers and Pond's institution for the dissemination of useful knowledge, as represented by a taste for pale ale; a telegraphic station, from which many hundreds of messages will be flashed, arriving at their destination sooner, or rather—only later rather than sooner. Then there is a garden, already green with the promise of spring—a promise, by the bye, which Nature seems this year rather inclined to renew than to pay. The weather has been very much against the Exhibition up to this time; not only causing inconvenience to visitors, but actual serious delay to exhibitors.
At Bellancourt, an island on the Seine as little known to the readers of the Belgravia as that of Juan Fernandez, there is a sort of supplementary exhibition, chiefly devoted to the elevation of the bucolic mind, but also a little to the amusement of the bucolic body, which as in London one requires casino after cattle-show, so here one is supposed to want a café chantant after a model plough. This island has been, I regret to say, half washed away, and is in a dilapidated, used-up state. However, resurgam is the imperial motto, and so all will be ready on the day of fools and fish of April. If I could give you a list of the still unveiled beauties which have already arrived for the Exhibition, it would indeed be a curious revelation of chaos! Blocks of coal and black pearls; preserved meat, with pickles of the period; the latest fashion of setting diamonds, and a new plan for planting shrubs; an improved billiard-table; a pulpit warranted to carry to the longest range; harness without straps, buckles, anything; cigars which consume their own smoke; "drags" fitted up with cells to bring back in "solitary confinement" the refractory from Greenwich and Richmond. Strange animals will come to us, and deuced odd fish! We shall be a prey to strange birds; dining-houses of all nations will disgust us (fancy "bird-nest soup" in July, 14 francs the portion!); theatres of all nations will weary us; and, in a word, to the denizen of Paris life will be a bore! Too much pudding, we know, has an unhealthy effect even on the canine race, and too much to see will blind a Christian.
"Duchess," said a young man the other night in one of the best-frequented salons of Paris, "where shall you be to be found chiefly when the Exhibition is open?"
"Mais, mon dieu," replied the lady, "chiefly in bed!"
She had reason, that duchess!