“See frae a’ quarters, east and west,
I’ drwoves th’ country coman,
Wheyle flocks o’ naigs an’ kye are press’d
By flocks o’ men an’ women;
Buss’d i’ their best the blythesome troop
Bang forrat helter-skelter,
Wheyle monny ’mang the mingled group
O’ th’ geat war fit to swelter
Wi’ heat that day.
* * * * *
Whist! what’s yon noise amang yon crowd,
Yon rantin an’ huzzain?
Whar trumpets skirl an’ drums beat loud,
An’ organs sweet are pleyin.”
_Rosley Fair._
The Great Exhibition of the Industry of all Countries is the first
public national expression ever made in this country, as to the dignity
and artistic quality of labour.
Our “working men,” until within the last few years, we have been in the
habit of looking upon as mere labourers—as muscular machines—creatures
with whom the spinning-jenny and the power-loom might be brought into
competition, and whom the sense of fatigue, and consequent demand for
rest, rendered immeasurably inferior “as producers,” to the instruments
of brass and iron.
It is only within the last ten years, perhaps, that we have got to
acknowledge the artistic and intellectual quality of many forms of
manual labour, speaking of certain classes of operatives no longer as
handicraftsmen—that is to say, as men who, from long habit, acquired a
dexterity of finger which fitted them for the “automatic” performance of
certain operations,—but styling them artisans, or the artists of our
manufactures. It is because we have been so slow to perceive and express
this “great fact”—the artistic character of artisanship—that so much
intellectual power has been lost to society, and there has been so much
more toil and suffering in the world than there has been any necessity
for.
Had we, as a really great people, been impressed with the sense of the
heavy debt we owed to labour, we should long ago have sought to
acknowledge and respect the mental operations connected with many forms
of it, and have striven to have ennobled and embellished and enlivened
the intellect of those several modes of industry that still remained as
purely physical employments among us. Had the men of mind done as much
for the men of labour, as these had done for those, we might long ago
have learned how to have made toil pleasant rather than irksome, and to
have rendered it noble instead of mean.
The ploughman, at the tail of the plough, has been allowed to continue
with us almost the same animal as the horses in front of it, with no
other incentive to work but the craving of his stomach.
Had we striven to elevate ploughing into an art, and the ploughman into
an artist—teaching him to understand the several subtle laws and forces
concerned in the cultivation of every plant—and more especially of those
with which he was dealing—had we thus made the turning up of the soil
not a brute operation, but an intellectual process, we might have
rendered the work a pleasure, and the workman a man of thought, dignity,
and refinement.
As yet, the art-exhibitions of this country have been confined solely to
the handiworks of artists-proper. We have been led to suppose, by the
restricted sense which we have given to the term _artist_, that Art was
confined solely to the several forms of pleasing—pictorially, musically,
or literarily. A more comprehensive view of the subject, however, is now
teaching us that the different modes of operating on the intellectual
emotions, of attracting attention, of exciting interest, of producing a
feeling of astonishment, beauty, sublimity, or ludicrousness in others,
are but one species of Art, for not only are the means of affecting the
intellect, of inducing a sense of truth and causation an equally
artistic operation, but, assuredly, the affection of material objects in
a desired manner is just as worthy of being ranked in the same category.
Whether the wished-for object be to operate upon mental, moral, or
physical nature—whether it be to induce in the intellect, the heart, or
the unconscious substances around us a certain predetermined state, such
an end can be brought about solely by conforming to the laws of the
object on which we seek to operate.
Art, literally rendered, is cunning, and cunning is “kenning,” or
knowing. It means, simply and strictly, intellectual power. _Ars_ is the
power of mind, in contradistinction to the _In-ers_, or power of matter.
Art, therefore, is merely the exercise of the mind towards a certain
object—that express operation of the intellect which enables us to
compass our intentions, no matter what the object may be—whether to
convince, to astonish, to convulse with laughter, to charm with beauty,
to overwhelm with the sense of the sublime, or even to extract metal
from the ore, or weave the fibres of a plant into a covering for the
body—each of these processes differs, not in the intellectual operation,
but solely in the nature of the substances operated upon, every one
requiring the knowledge of a different set of laws, and thus, in most
instances, necessitating a distinct operator.
Such are the marvellous effects of some of the more ordinary arts of
civilization. Art, it has been said, lies simply in the adaptation of
the means to the end—the more cunning or knowing this adaptation
appears—that is to say, the greater the knowledge, intuitive or
acquired, that it evinces, or is felt to require, the greater, of
course, is the art, or, in other words, the more _artful_ the process
becomes.
As yet, but few modes of industry in this country have been rendered
artistic; our handicraftsmen have remained pure mechanics, because
wanting that knowledge which alone could convert their operation into an
art; they have merely repeated, mechanically, the series of acts that
others had performed before them, while such processes which had been
elevated into intellectual exercises had been rendered so by mere
scientific knowledge.
By means of Mechanics’ Institutes and cheap literature, we had so
extended the discoveries of our philosophers, that the truths of science
were, in many instances, no longer confined to the laboratory, the
observatory, or the library, but made to permeate the mine, the forge,
the workshop, the factory, and the fields.
Still, it was only science that reached our working men.
Taste, as yet, was scarcely known to them.
A knowledge of the laws of nature might make better and more cunning
handicraftsmen, but a knowledge of the laws of pleasing could alone
render their works more elegant in design; and, since every material
object must necessarily partake of form and colour, it is surely as well
it should be made to please as to displease the eye in these qualities.
As yet we have sought to develop only the utilities of art—the
beautiful, as an essential element of all manufacture, we have entirely
neglected. As a stranger recently come among us, this defect appears to
have forced itself deeply into the mind of Prince Albert; for, as far
back as 1846, his Royal Highness urged upon a deputation that waited
upon him from the Society of Arts, that the department of that Society
“most likely to prove immediately beneficial to the public, was that
which encouraged, most efficiently, the application of the Fine Arts to
the various manufactures of the country;” and, added the Prince, after
speaking of the excellence and solidity of British manufactures
generally, “to wed mechanical skill with high art is a task worthy of
the Society of Arts, and directly in the path of its duty.”
The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry and Art of all Nations is,
then, the first attempt to dignify and refine toil; and, by collecting
the several products of scientific and æsthetic art from every quarter
of the globe into one focus, to diffuse a high standard of excellence
among our operatives, and thus to raise the artistic qualities of
labour, so that men, no longer working with their fingers alone, shall
find that which is now mere drudgery converted into a delight, their
intellects expanded, their natures softened, and their pursuits ennobled
by the process.
When mining becomes with us a geological art—when the agricultural
labourer is an organic chemist—when the feeder and breeder of cattle is
an experimental physiologist—when, indeed, every handicraft is made both
a scientific and æsthetic operation—then, and then alone, will the
handicraftsmen hold that high and honourable position in the country,
which, as the producers of all our wealth—as those to whom we owe our
every comfort and luxury, they ought most assuredly to occupy.
The Great Exhibition is a higher boon to labour than a general advance
of wages. An increase of pay might have brought the working men a larger
share of creature comforts, but high feeding, unfortunately, is not high
thinking nor high feeling.
Anything which tends to elevate the automatic operation of the mere
labourer to the dignity of an artistic process, tends to confer on the
working classes the greatest possible benefit.
Such appears to be the probable issue of the Great Exhibition!
Nor can we conceive a nobler pride than that which must be felt by
working men when they behold arranged all around them the several
trophies and triumphs of labour over the elements of the whole material
universe. The sight cannot fail to inspire them with a sense of their
position in the State, and to increase their self-respect in the same
ratio as it must tend to increase the respect of all others for their
vocation.
* * * * *
London, for some time previous to the opening of the Great Exhibition,
had been a curious sight even to Londoners. In all the main
thoroughfares, especially those leading from the railways and the docks,
heavy vans, piled high with unwieldy packing-cases, or laden with some
cumbrous machine, and drawn by a long team of horses, crawled along,
creaking, on their way towards the Crystal Palace. The greater part of
the principal streets were being repaired, preparatory to the increased
traffic; shops were being newly-painted and newspapers were announcing
in huge placards that they proposed publishing supplements in several
languages.
In almost every omnibus, some two or three foreigners were to be seen
among the passengers,—either some light-haired Germans, or high-cheeked
Americans, or sallow Turks, with their “fez-caps” of scarlet cloth. In
the pit of the theatres, Chinamen, with their peculiar slanting eyes,
and old-woman-like look and dress, might occasionally be perceived
gaping with wonder at the scene; while from the number of gentlemen in
beards, felt-hats, and full pantaloons, visible at the West-end,
Regent-street had much the Anglo-Frenchified character of
Boulogne-sur-Mer.
New amusements were daily springing into existence, or old ones being
revived. The Chinese Collection had returned to the Metropolis, with a
family from Pekin, and a lady with feet two inches and a half long, as a
proof of the superior _standing_ she had in society; Mr. Catlin had
re-opened his Indian exhibition; Mr. Wyld had bought up the interior of
Leicester Square, with the view of cramming into it—“yea, the great
globe itself!” The geographical panoramas had rapidly increased, no less
than three Jerusalems having been hatched, as it were, by steam—like
eggs, by the patent incubator—within the last three weeks. “Australia”
and “New Zealand,” like floating islands, had shifted their quarters
from Miss Linwood’s Gallery to the Strand, while the cost of immigrating
thither for half-an-hour was reduced from sixpence for each country, to
“threepence all the way;” while those who felt indisposed for so long a
journey, could make the “Grand Tour of Europe” for one shilling, or take
the “Overland Route to India” for the same price, or be set down by the
Waterloo omnibus at the entrance to the “Dardanelles,” and see all over
“Constantinople” for less than a trip to Gravesend.
The road to the Crystal Palace had for a long time been an extraordinary
scene. Extensive trains of waggons stretched far away, like an Eastern
caravan, each waiting for its turn to be unloaded, monopolised one side
of the carriage-way. Omnibuses, with their roofs crowded with people,
went dashing by, while carts laden with building materials crept
leisurely along.
At almost every one of the public-houses some huge flag was flying from
the upper windows, and around the doors were groups of men and soldiers
either about to enter or depart. Along the edge of the foot-path stood
hawkers, shouting out the attractions of their wares—some had trays
filled with bright silvery-looking medals of the Exhibition—others,
pictures of it printed in gold on “gelatine cards”—while others had
merely barrows of nuts, baskets of oranges or trucks of the omnipresent
penny ginger-beer.
Groups of foreigners, their beards yellow with dust, walked along with
their hands stuck in their pockets, so as to make their full pantaloons
even fuller than ordinary; and as the omnibuses stopped to “pick up” or
“set down” their passengers, parties of Germans or Frenchmen were heard
jabbering loudly within. Along Rotten-row, endless troops of equestrians
galloped noiselessly along on the soft loose ground at the rear of the
Crystal Palace—in front of it an interminable line of carriages drawled
slowly past, and while some of those within thrust their heads out at
the windows, others leant back, so as to be able to see the height or
length of the giant building.
On every side were mobs of spectators pressing close up to the rails,
and standing on tiptoe, with their necks out-stretched, in the hope of
getting a peep of what was going on within. All along the building were
ladders, one beside each of the columns, with painters perched high upon
them, busy colouring the iron-work against the opening day. On top of
the huge glass arch that formed the roof of the transept, the tiny
figures of workmen were to be seen, some walking along the crystal
covering, and making one wonder how the fragile substance bore them.
At the end of the building were steam-engines puffing out their white
clouds of steam, and amid the _debris_ of a thousand packing-cases stood
giant blocks of granite, mammoth lumps of coal, stupendous anchors, and
such huge articles as were too bulky to be placed within the building
itself.
All was bustle, life, confusion, and amazement.
Those who were not working, were wondering at those who were; and many,
as they looked at what still remained to be done, shook their heads in
doubt as to the possibility of completing it against the appointed time.
Nor was it difficult to read disappointment in the countenances of the
new-comers on their first beholding the building. To say the truth, the
engravings and the imagination had failed to convey any adequate notion
of the structure. The very name of the Crystal Palace had led people to
conjure up in their minds a phantasm that could not be realized—a
transparent edifice, pellucid as if built of blocks of ice instead of
stone—a prismatic kind of fairy mansion, glittering in the sun, and
breaking up and scattering the light all around in a thousand rainbow
tints.
But how different the scene on the earliest dawn of the morrow!
Then to stand in the centre of the huge crystal pile, and cast the eye
thence in any direction, was indeed to behold a sight that had no
parallel in excellence. The exquisite lightness and tone of colour that
pervaded the entire structure was a visual feast, and a rare delight of
air, colour, and space. The vitrious material which outside was to be
seen only in one point, here appeared really to form the sides and roof
of the entire building, while the combined effect of the three “primary”
colours of the decorations showed with what rare artistic skill and
exquisite æsthetic appreciation they had been put together. It seemed
more like one harmonious tone—a concert of mellifluous tints—than mere
painting. A kind of coloured rainbowy air appeared to pervade the whole
building, while, as the eye travelled down the long vista of galleries,
and beheld the forms and tints at the end of the avenues, dimmed by the
haze of distance, one was struck with a solemn sense of the majesty of
the building.
Before the 1st of May, 1851, it was impossible to form an adequate idea
of the magnificence of the scene which was to render its opening
memorable for all time. Those who the day before had made the journey of
the avenues from end to end, above and below, could not have believed it
possible that in so few hours so great a change could have been wrought.
There was the glass fountain in the centre of the building, shining, as
the sun’s rays came slanting down upon it through the crystal roofs, as
if it had been carved out of icicles, or as if the water streaming from
the fountain had been made suddenly solid, and transfixed into beautiful
forms. In the machine-room, with its seeming infinity of engines puffing
and twirling away, were the “self-acting mules” at work, drawing out
almost spontaneously their long lines of threads, as if from a thousand
spiders; the huge Jacquard lace machines were busy weaving the finest
embroidered “edgings;” the pumps were throwing up their huge cascades of
water, while the steam printing-press was whirling its vast sheets
through a maze of tapes, and then pouring them forth, one after another,
impressed with a whole firmament of “signs and symbols;” the envelope
machine, with its magic “finger”—the power-looms—the model
locomotives—the centrifugal pumps—the horizontal and vertical
steam-engines—were each and all at work—snorting, whirring, and
clattering. There was the canopy above the royal seat, and adorned with
its golden cornice and fringe, and with a small plume of blue and white
feathers at each of its angles. The floors were no longer strewn, but
clean and matted, and at each corner of the central square, stages had
been raised for the most illustrious visitors. As you glanced down the
avenues, objects of exquisite texture, form, or colour, everywhere
saluted the eye. From the top of the galleries were hung huge carpets
and pieces of tapestry, gorgeous in their tints, and exquisite in their
designs. Here was reared, high towards the crystal roof, the
“Spitalfields trophy,” from the top of which hung the richest silks,
with their glossy colours variegated with tints and forms of surpassing
beauty; and looking still farther down the nave, the eye could just
catch sight of the colossal mirror, set in its massive gilt frame, and
mounted on crimson cloth. At every corner were statues, made doubly
white by the scarlet drapery arranged behind them, while immediately at
the back of the throne were two equestrian statues of the Prince and
Queen, one on either side. Behind these was another fountain, that made
the stream, as it rushed up from the centre and divided itself into a
hundred drops, flashing in the sun as they fell, look like a shower of
silver sparks—a kind of fire-work of water; and beside this rose the
green plumage of the palm-trees embedded in moss, while close at their
feet was ranged a bed of flowers, whose tints seemed to have been dyed
by the prismatic hues of the water-drops of the neighbouring fountain.
Then appeared the old elm-trees of the park, looking almost like the
lions of the forest caught in a net of glass; and behind them again was
a screen of iron tracery, so light and delicate that it seemed like a
lacework of bronze.
The opposite side of the transept was filled with sight-seers, and the
galleries, around and all along, as far as the eye could stretch, were
dotted over with the yellow, white, and pink bonnets of the fairer
portion of the company.
But it was when the retinue of the court began to assemble that the
scene became one—perhaps the most gorgeous in colouring and splendour
ever beheld; for it was seen in the clear light of the transparent roof
above. The gold embroidered bosoms of the officers of State seemed to be
almost alight with the glitter of their ornaments; and as the
ambassadors of all nations stood grouped in the centre, the various
forms and colours and embellishments of their costumes were a sight to
see and never to forget.
There stood all the ministers of state in their glittering suits; the
ambassadors of every country, some in light blue and silver, others in
green and gold, and others in white, with their bosoms studded with
their many-coloured “orders.” There was the Chinese mandarin in his red
cap, with peacock’s feathers dangling behind, and his silken robes with
quaint devices painted upon them in front and at the back. There was the
turbaned Turk, and the red fez-capped Egyptian; and there were the
chocolate-coloured court suits, with their filagree steel buttons, and
long, white, embroidered silk waistcoats.
There was the old Duke, too, with his silver hair and crooked back
showing most conspicuous amongst the whole. At the back and sides of the
throne, stood the gentlemen-at-arms, in their golden helmets, with the
long plumes of white ribbon-like feathers drooping over them. Beside
these were the portly-looking beef-eaters, in their red suits and black
velvet caps; and near them were the trumpeters, in their golden coats
and close-fitting jockey-caps, with silver trumpets in their hands. Near
these were the Aldermen, in their red gowns of office, trimmed with fur;
and the Common-councilmen, in their blue silk gowns; and the Recorder,
in long, big, powdered judge’s wig—the Archbishop, in full lawn sleeves,
and close, curly wig—and the “Musical Doctor,” in his white satin,
damask robe, and quaint-looking black cap—and the heralds in their blue
silk robes, emblazoned with gold-looking lions, and other silken
devices—and the Garter King-at-Arms, in his gorgeous red velvet coat,
becrested all over in gold—while, round all these were ranged sappers
and miners, in their red and yellow uniforms; and behind them were seen
the dark blue coats of the police.
It was a feast of colour and splendour to sit and gloat over—a congress
of all the nations for the most hallowed and blessed of objects—one,
perhaps, that made the two old soldiers, as they tottered backwards and
forwards across the scene, the most noticeable, because in such a
gathering for such an object, the mind could hardly help looking upon
them as the last of the warriors to whom the nation would owe its future
greatness.
At a few minutes before the appointed hour, the royal carriages with
their bright liveries were seen to flash past the windows of the
northern entrance—then darted by a troop of the Life Guards, with their
steel helmets and breast-plates glistening in the sunshine, and
immediately after, the glass sides and roof of the Crystal Palace
twanged with the flourish of trumpets, that announced the arrival of the
Queen.
At this moment the gates were flung back, and within the crimson
vestibule appeared a blaze of gold and bright colours.
Then advanced the royal retinue, with the ushers and chamberlain in
front, bowing as they moved backwards towards the throne; and after them
the Prince leading the Princess Royal, and the Queen with the Prince of
Wales, and followed by their court.
The equerries, in their golden-striped coats and powdered hair, and the
Life Guards with their glittering steel accoutrements, brought up the
rear, and formed the background to such a picture as could be seen
perhaps in no other country but England.
As the Queen moved onwards with her diamond tiara and little crown of
brilliants scintillating in the light, the whole assembly rose, and
waving their hats and fluttering their handkerchiefs, they shouted forth
peal after peal of welcome.
[Illustration:
THE OPENING OF THE GREAT HIVE OF THE WORLD
MAY 1 1851
OR THE INDUSTRIAL EXHIBITION OF ALL NATIONS
]
Then was sung the National Anthem—the white head and bright blue coat of
the courtly old leader appeared in the red rostrum raised above the
royal entrance, and high in the air his baton might be seen waving to
and fro; while, as the “melodious thunder” of the organ
rolled through the building, the choristers in their white robes chanted
in the rich unison of many voices.
The Archbishop then invoked a blessing on the objects of the
building—this was followed by a chorus sung in exquisite harmony by the
large band of singers—and then the Queen and Prince, preceded by the
officers of state, walked round the building in procession; while, as
she went, the people who lined the nave and galleries saluted her and
her consort with their acclamations.
On her Majesty declaring the Exhibition opened, there followed another
flourish of trumpets, and the gorgeous ceremony was at an end.
Immediately were heard the booming of the hundred guns without, telling
the people of the metropolis that the Great Exhibition of the Industry
of all Nations had been formally inaugurated.
And well may the nation be proud of its Crystal Palace. No other people
in the world could have raised such a building—without one shilling
being drawn from the national resources, or have stocked it with the
same marvellous triumphs of industry and art. The machine-room alone,
with its thousand iron monsters snorting and clattering, was a sight to
overwhelm the mind with a positive sense of awe; stories were current of
many of the strongest minds having been affected to tears at the
spectacle; and most assuredly, what with the noise and the motion, there
was a sense of reverent humility forced upon the mind, together with a
feeling of gratitude to the Almighty, who had vouchsafed to confer upon
us so much of his own power, that filled the bosom with the very pathos
of admiration.
You might wander where you pleased—to “France”—and see the exquisite
tapestry; you might step across to “Austria”—and wonder at the carving
of the furniture; but though beneath the crystal roof were ranged all
the choicest works of the whole world, there was nothing in any way
comparable for skill, for mind, for work—nothing so plain, so solid, and
yet so eminently handsome—nothing, indeed, so thoroughly English as that
iron type of our indomitable energy to be found in the machinery.
One glance was quite sufficient to account for the greatness of the
nation to which it belonged!
The foreigners appeared to be in no way prepared for so overpowering an
example of England’s immeasurable pre-eminence in this respect. And it
was curious to see the Frenchmen and Germans grouped round the several
machines in operation, with their noses almost touching the wheels, as
they vainly endeavoured to make themselves acquainted with their
bewildering details; nor was it less interesting to notice the innocent
pride which the attendants appeared to take in pointing out to the
visitors of other nations the uses of the several parts of the complex
tool.
But if the machinery department were especially attractive for the
striking evidence it afforded of the supremacy of this nation over all
others in mechanical genius and industry—exhibiting at once the cause
and effect of Britain’s greatness—assuredly the mineral department,
though having less surface attractions, still displayed our peculiar
national characteristics. Without our coal and without our iron, where
would have been our machinery?
Watt, Arkwright, Stevenson, born in another quarter of the globe that
possessed less metallic treasures, might have lived and died mere clods
perhaps, removed from the minerals that were necessary both to the
production and achievement of their genius; and more marvellous than all
is it, after having cast the eye over the several huge lumps of ore that
here are to be seen, to pass into the several branches of manufactures,
and behold the things of special interest that the skill and genius of
man have learned to fashion them into—to contrast the dull-looking iron
ore with the glittering, bright-polished, and sharp-edged steel
instruments that are made from it—to see the opaque and powdery sand,
and then behold the pellucid and massive glass fountains, chandeliers,
and vases into which we have learned to convert it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------