Part 2

With regard, however, to the great superiority of foreign artists over our own in the present matter of competition, and our utter defeat in the first trial of the respective strength of Nations, some very excellent remarks have been put forth by the “Athenæum.” “Let us see,” says the writer, “if the men who did come up to this architectural battle have been fairly dealt with. It is essential to the integrity of a combat that it should be fought with the weapon prescribed. If one of two combatants bring a sword double the length of his adversary’s, or a rifle to his rival’s pistol, we should scarcely hold that the defeat of the latter is proof that he is inferior in fence or in aim.” This is closely and fairly put. The answer must be, that our artists have _not_ been fairly beaten. The advertisement of the Committee requested “information and suggestions” on the general form of the building in plan, &c., and they laid down rules and regulations to which “they earnestly requested the contributors to conform,” declaring that they would not recognise any plans which were “sent in a form inconsistent with these rules.” They were clearly defined. For instance—they directed that the communications must consist of a single sheet of paper of given dimensions; that the drawing should be a simple ground-plan, also of limited dimensions; and that it should _only_ contain “such elevations and sections of the building, on the same sheet, as might be necessary to elucidate the system proposed.” Surely all this is clear enough.

Let us now see how some of the most successful of the competitors have attended to these conditions on which they were to enter the arena.

What extensive pleasure-grounds are those?—and adorned with such architectural displays? They are the work of Monsieur Cailloux. But, a little further on, we behold pleasure-grounds and architectural structures yet more ornate and refined. They are from the hand of Monsieur Charpentier. Further on, another, by Monsieur Cleemputte; and another by Monsieur Gaulle—a complicated work of thoughtful elaboration. Yet even these are destined to be surpassed by the luxurious fancies of other artists.

So far from denying or doubting that many of these designs are beautiful, we close our eyes, and see in imagination the exquisite magnificence of the structures, into which no coarse and profane hands should dare to wheel or carry rude raw materials of any kind; there, everything must be finished to the highest degree of polished art and refined taste. Also, no lumbering pieces of machinery or mechanism must risk doing injury to the walls, and pillars, and profusion of glass—no uncouth agricultural implements, or other tools of horny-handed Industry. Hither, let no enthusiasts in smoke-jacks, patent capstans, door-hinges, dock-gates, double-barred gridirons, humane chimney-sweeping apparatuses, peat-charcoal, bachelor’s broilers, fire-annihilators, patent filters, portable kitchens, or electric telegraphs, dare to send their uncouth machinery and compounds; but only such things as are delicate of texture, rainbow-coloured, and exquisite to the smell, while the visitors (none of whom will be admitted except in full dress, and great numbers of whom will always appear in court dresses) perambulate about, gazing now on this side, and now on that, to the sound of the seraphine and Moorish flutes.

Let us awake from this charming vision; but it was natural to fall into it on such suggestions. Again we are in danger. For who can contemplate the elegant originality of Monsieur Jacquet (No. 25) without emotion, or a “wish to be there?” His ground-plan resembles a section of some enormous fan-light of painted glass, or like part of a gigantic Oriental fan, made of the plumes of some fabulous peacock. Nor must we pass over the suggestion of our countrymen, Messrs. Felix and White (No. 72), because they are not equally imaginative, for they certainly manifest very much and excellent thought in their architectural display; though, like our foreign friends, no thought at all of the cost of such a work. The same may be said of the beautiful pleasure-grounds designed by Mr. Reilly (No. 102), with circular, oval, and serpentine garden-plots, flower-beds, and shrubberies, and labyrinthine walks or covered ways of glass.

But there are more—yet more of these delightful and deliberate violations of the terms on which competitors were to enter the lists—one vieing with another, not in producing the most excellently useful and economical structure for the purpose required, but the most perfect exhibition of the artist’s especial taste, “regardless of expense.” Yes, there are more of these deserving notice. One competitor—nay, three of them—propose that the entire building should be made of iron, domes and towers inclusive; another, that it shall be all made of glass, such as we might find in an Arabian Nights’ Tale. Monsieur Soyer, the mighty cook (No. 165), begins the synopsis of his design by proposing to take up, and remove the great marble arch from Buckingham Palace, as though it were a “trifle,” and serve it up for a grand entrance opposite the Prince of Wales’s Gate. Here, also, is a structure which arrests the attention even amidst the surrounding wonders, and appears to be several conservatories and libraries on a colossal scale of glass frame-work, delightfully intermingled with domes and turrets, and observatories, with here and there minarets and pagodas, of the delicious character presented by those fragile structures which make such a tempting figure on the festive board, standing erect among the dessert-plates. Yet, once more, behold the prodigal laying out of palace-gardens, not to speak of the ante-industrial palace itself (which reminds one of Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence”), gardens with alcoves and aviaries, and fountains, glass temples, green labyrinths, flower-beds and flower-stands, vases and _jets-d’eaux_, sculpture, shrubberies, shaded lovers’ walks, public promenades, with lords and ladies and princes and princesses, of all nations, sauntering about, and the clouds and sky of an Italian sunset lighting up and colouring the whole. For this, and similar _chateaux_, we are quite at a loss to conjecture the principle on which they present themselves on this occasion; but we have no doubt that they all belong to that munificent patron of art, and great landed proprietor, the Marquis of Carrabas.

Now, that our own architects are able to compete successfully with the best of our foreign friends in works of imaginative design, we do not affirm; neither, for the reasons previously adduced by the “Athenæum,” do we consider ourselves justified in denying it, from the result of the present struggle. But for our own artists and others, who have confined themselves to the terms and preliminaries announced by the Commissioners, have they succeeded?—that is the question. Not satisfactorily, we think. Our architects are, for the most part, impracticable, from the expense required, and the wilful forgetfulness that the building is to be of a temporary character; while our surveyors and builders have been thinking too much of railway-stations, not of that sober, simple, and sufficient kind which the occasion requires, but (according to the error in these stations) of that large, ornate, and redundant kind which is meant to be admired as much as used, and also to last for ages. This latter mistake is very characteristic of our countrymen. They do not feel, nor comprehend, the act of knocking up a temporary structure; they are always for something that will endure.

In certain matters requiring great skill and many forethoughts, most of these plans are not very successful. For instance, the prevention of terrible confusion and danger in the constant arrivals and departures of visitors—carriages, vehicles of all sorts, horsemen, and shoals of pedestrians. This relates to the approaches and entrances outside; and the position and approaches of the exit-doors inside; also, the best means of directing and managing the currents of visitors within. It seems pretty clear that everybody must not be allowed to follow his “own sweet will” in all respects, or there will be many a deadlock, and perhaps a deadly struggle, with all the usual disastrous consequences. Many of the plans seek to direct the current of visitors (indicated by shoals of little arrows with their heads pointing the same way) not so much for the convenience and freedom of the public, as in accordance with the architectural points to be displayed. Others appear to intend that the direction of the current shall be forced by the pressure from the column constantly advancing behind. This might be dangerous. The current might surely be managed so as to combine direction on a large scale with a considerable amount of individual freedom; and, in any case, the amount of pressure from the masses behind should be regulated by sectional barriers.

How to find your way out? This may be a question well worth consideration. Of course there will be a sufficient number of exit-doors; but if you have to walk and struggle through several miles of bazaar-counters or winding ways, amidst dense crowds, before you can discover a means of egress, your amount of pleasure is not likely to induce a second visit. Mr. Brandon for instance (No. 207), has beautiful domed temples and libraries (so they appear) or other “glass cases,” while the ground-plan presents a series of circuitous batches of stalls, or bazaar-counters, not unlike large circles of sheep-pens, except that there is a free passage between them. Hence, the currents, or rather, the “rapids,” of visitors must inevitably be going and coming, and jostling, and conflicting; and others arriving at a dead stand, and having no chance of progression, or retreat, without a “trial of strength,”—the whole producing of necessity an inextricable maze and confusion, with an impossibility for a long time of finding a way out, even when able to move.

This question of the current of visitors, and of movement in general, is ingeniously settled by one gentleman, who proposes to have a railway along the grand central line, for the conveyance up and down of all sorts of goods and articles, heavy or light. We presume that the progress of the carriages and trucks would be very slow, so that the visitors, when fatigued, might, at their pleasure, step up to a seat, and be quietly conveyed along to any part of the line. This notion has, of course, been laughed at, and we confess to having amused ourselves considerably with the “train” of thought induced by it; but we are not sure, in the present state of mechanical science, whether something very commodious might not result from a modification of the idea. The fares, if any (and we think there should be a trifle paid to check reckless crowding), should not exceed a penny. The inventor will thus perceive that, if we have laughed, we have also sympathised, and are quite ready to get up and have a ride. One gentleman (Mr. C. H. Smith) proposes to erect three octagonal vestibules, communicating with all principal compartments; the roof to be upheld by suspension chains. Cast-iron frames are to hold rough glass, laid in plates lapping over each other, like tiles. This is certainly a sensible provision against a hail-storm, which has occurred to no one else, amidst their prodigalities in glass.

But, amidst all these wonders of 1851, are there no plain, simple, practical plans sent in? There are a good many. Some of these are certainly not very attractive, presenting, as they do, the appearance of a superior kind of barracks, hospitals, alms-houses, nursery-grounds; and one of these plans is laid out entirely like a series of cucumber-frames, with shifting lights at top. There are, however, several of these sober designs which possess great practical merit, and have preserved a due consideration of the terms on which the competition was proposed. Of these, the Commissioners and Committees have availed themselves in all respects suited to their own views and wishes; and out of all these, combined with their own especial fancies, they seem likely to produce an interminable range of cast-iron cow-sheds, having (as a specimen of the present high state of constructive genius) an enormous slop-basin, of iron frame-work, inverted in the centre, as an attraction for the admiring eyes of all the nations.

But other problems have to be solved. The classification and arrangement of the raw materials, the manufactured articles, the machinery, and the works of plastic art, is a question of very great importance. It not only involves the things themselves, but their respective countries. Should the productions of each country be kept separate? This appears the natural arrangement, or how should any one make a study of the powers of any special country. Prince Albert, it seems, wishes otherwise. He thinks that a fusion of the productions of all nations will be more in accordance with the broad general principle of the Exhibition—more tending to amalgamate and fraternise one country with another. This feeling is excellent; but we fear it would cause an utter confusion, and amidst the heterogeneous masses, nobody would be able to make a study of the productions of any particular nation. An eminent civil engineer suggests that the productions of the respective countries should be ranged together from side to side of the entire width of the edifice—thus you can at once see the works of industry of England, France, Germany, America, Switzerland, &c., &c., by walking up and down from one side to the other; and you can obtain a collective view of the works of all these countries by walking longitudinally, or from end to end of the building. To some such classification and arrangement as this, we think, the Committee will be compelled to have recourse at last.

The other problem to which we adverted, is one which is not so liable to be solved as saturated with hot water, and then dragged from one quarter of the metropolis to another before it is settled by some arbitrary decision. We allude to the spot on which the buildings of the Exhibition are to be erected. Hyde Park is not unlikely to be a subject of much contest. The latent idea of preserving the most important part of the “temporary” structure has alarmed all the drivers and riders in Hyde Park, and all those whose windows overlook it. And no wonder;—to say nothing of the crowds and stoppages outside the park, and the slough within, produced by the enormous traffic of heavy wheels, long before the Exhibition opens. Battersea Fields was next mentioned, and thought advantageous, not only from the open space they present, but the facilities of water-conveyance for goods and passengers. Still, the distance is rather against such a choice. It would probably reduce the number of times each visitor would go to the Exhibition, and, consequently, be a check upon the money taken at the doors. Hundreds of thousands flock daily to Greenwich during the Fair; but the argument will not hold good, in all respects, as regards the present question. Regent’s Park has been named as more appropriate; but there is a strong and manifest objection to any interference with that much-used place of public recreation. To cut up its green turf, and gravelled roads, would be even more monstrous than any spoliation of Hyde Park. No locality could be selected, perhaps, for such a purpose that would be perfectly free from all objections. Still we are so convinced of the multitude of inconveniences inevitably attendant on such an Exhibition in the midst of the metropolis—and we feel so strongly the cool, high-handed injustice of parcelling out the public property at Court, and stopping up the public breathing-places, for any purpose—that we urge its removal to some spot out of the town, easily accessible both by railway and river.

“I WOULD NOT HAVE THEE YOUNG AGAIN.”

I would not have thee young again Since I myself am old; Not that thy youth was ever vain, Or that my age is cold; But when upon thy gentle face I see the shades of time, A thousand memories replace The beauties of thy prime.

Though from thine eyes of softest blue Some light hath passed away, Love looketh forth as warm and true As on our bridal day. I hear thy song, and though in part ’Tis fainter in its tone, I heed it not, for still thy heart Seems singing to my own.

LITTLE MARY.

A TALE OF THE BLACK YEAR.

That was a pleasant place where I was born, though ’twas only a thatched cabin by the side of a mountain stream, where the country was so lonely, that in summer time the wild ducks used to bring their young ones to feed on the bog, within a hundred yards of our door; and you could not stoop over the bank to raise a pitcher full of water, without frightening a shoal of beautiful speckled trout. Well, ’tis long ago since my brother Richard, that’s now grown a fine clever man, God bless him!—and myself, used to set off together up the mountain to pick bunches of the cotton plant and the bog myrtle, and to look for birds’ and wild bees’ nests. ’Tis long ago—and though I’m happy and well off now, living in the big house as own maid to the young ladies, who, on account of my being foster-sister to poor darling Miss Ellen, that died of decline, treat me more like their equal than their servant, and give me the means to improve myself; still at times, especially when James Sweeney, a dacent boy of the neighbours, and myself are taking a walk together through the fields in the cool and quiet of a summer’s evening, I can’t help thinking of the times that are passed, and talking about them to James with a sort of peaceful sadness, more happy maybe than if we were laughing aloud.

Every evening, before I say my prayers, I read a chapter in the Bible that Miss Ellen gave me; and last night I felt my tears dropping for ever so long over one verse,—“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.” The words made me think of them that are gone—of my father, and his wife that was a true fond mother to me; and, above all, of my little sister Mary, the _clureen bawn_[1] that nestled in her bosom.

Footnote 1:

White dove.

I was a wild slip of a girl, ten years of age, and my brother Richard about two years older, when my father brought home his second wife. She was the daughter of a farmer up at Lackabawn, and was reared with care and dacency; but her father held his ground at a rack-rent, and the middleman that was between him and the head landlord did not pay his own rent, so the place was ejected, and the farmer collected every penny he had, and set off with his family to America. My father had a liking for the youngest daughter, and well become him to have it, for a sweeter creature never drew the breath of life; but while her father passed for a _strong_[2] farmer, he was timorous-like about asking her to share his little cabin; however, when he found how matters stood, he didn’t lose much time in finding out that she was willing to be his wife, and a mother to his boy and girl. _That_ she was, a patient loving one. Oh! it often sticks me like a knife, when I think how many times I fretted her with my foolishness and my idle ways, and how ’twas a long time before I’d call her “mother.” Often, when my father would be going to chastise Richard and myself for our provoking doings, especially the day that we took half-a-dozen eggs from under the hatching hen, to play “Blind Tom” with them, she’d interfere for us, and say,—“Tim, _aleagh_, don’t touch them this time; sure ’tis only _arch_ they are: they’ll get more sense in time.” And then, after he was gone out, she’d advise us for our good so pleasantly, that a thundercloud itself couldn’t look black at her. She did wonders too about the house and garden. They were both dirty and neglected enough when she first came over them; for I was too young and foolish, and my father too busy with his out-door work, and the old woman that lived with us in service too feeble and too blind to keep the place either clean or decent; but my mother got the floor raised, and the green pool in front drained, and a parcel of roses and honeysuckles planted there instead. The neighbours’ wives used to say ’Twas all pride and upsetting folly, to keep the kitchen-floor swept clean, and to put the potatoes on a dish, instead of emptying them out of the pot into the middle of the table; and, besides, ’twas a cruel unnatural thing, they said, to take away the pool from the ducks, that they were always used to paddle in so handy. But my mother was always too busy and too happy to heed what they said; and, besides, she was always so ready to do a kind turn for any of them, that, out of pure shame, they had at last to leave off abusing her “fine English ways.”

Footnote 2:

Rich.

West of our house there was a straggling, stony piece of ground, where, within the memory of man, nothing ever grew but nettles, docks, and thistles. One Monday, when Richard and myself came in from school, my mother told us to set about weeding it, and to bring in some basketsful of good clay from the banks of the river: she said that if we worked well at it until Saturday, she’d bring me a new frock, and Dick a jacket, from the next market-town; and encouraged by this, we set to work with right good will, and didn’t leave off till supper time. The next day we did the same; and by degrees, when we saw the heap of weeds and stones that we got out, growing big, and the ground looking nice and smooth and red and rich, we got quite anxious about it ourselves, and we built a nice little fence round it to keep out the pigs. When it was manured, my mother planted cabbages, parsnips, and onions in it; and, to be sure, she got a fine crop out of it, enough to make us many a nice supper of vegetables stewed with pepper, and a small taste of bacon or a red herring. Besides, she sold in the market as much as bought a Sunday coat for my father, a gown for herself, a fine pair of shoes for Dick, and as pretty a shawl for myself, as e’er a colleen in the country could show at mass. Through means of my father’s industry and my mother’s good management, we were, with the blessing of God, as snug and comfortable a poor family as any in Munster. We paid but a small rent, and we had always plenty of potatoes to eat, good clothes to wear, and cleanliness and decency in and about our little cabin.