THE FIRST WEEK OF THE EXHIBITION.
THE aspect of the huge international bazaar at Kensington, one week after its opening, is something very curious. From the hands of artists and upholsterers, the exhibition has again lapsed into that of bricklayers and carpenters, bent on finishing the work which ought to have been finished a month ago. Yet, somehow or other, although the building does not look half so fine now as it did on the opening day, it has become infinitely more in- teresting. The strange procession of princes, ambassadors, ministers, bagpipers, and members of Parliament, which mournfully pushed its way along the nave on the opening day, had in it something ghastly and unnatural ; and it is a positive relief to see the periwigs and cocked-hats gone, and the place in possession of its genuine in- habitants. The pleasure of this change is scarcely diminished by the evidence, impressed upon all our senses, that as yet everything is in a totally chaotic state. Unhung bells are chiming, a legion of men are hammering, the dust is flying in clouds, packing-cases are cover- ing the floor in all directions, and a Babel of languages is struggling to overpower the sound of bells, chisels, and hammers. The elements themselves are waging war against the big bazaar. The wind is drumming on the top of the huge domes—irreverently called "dish- covers" by critical French visitors—as if inclined to topple over the whole into the Horticultural Gardens, and the rain occasionally pours in streams through all the thousand chinks and crevices in the twenty-four acre glass-house. Notwithstanding all these dis- advantages, contentment and cheerfulness gradually begin to reign within the exhibition. The spirit of international emulation, the soul and supporter of the whole undertaking, is evidently beginning to work. It is a struggle among intelligent workers as to who shall stand foremost in the ranks of industrial progress, and who shall be the first to take the rightful post. The public of fine ladies and gentle- men, who as yet are the only ones privileged to visit the great Show, look wonderingly at the strange international army, and having stared awhile at all the pretty things they are preparing, withdraw into the fine-art galleries. During the past week nine-tenths at least of the visitors to the Exhibition have had their abode chiefly in the long saloons devoted to paintings, engravings, and sculpture.
These fine-art galleries in all probability will prove the great feature of the present international show, distinguishing it favourably from its predecessor of eleven years since. All feel now-a-days that it is the connexion of art with industry which alone prevents the triumphs of the latter from degenerating into handicraft, and secures a real progress to what might otherwise become a mere money-making pur- suit. There is 'nothing more delightful to be had in the whole Exhibition than a morning saunter along the mile of canvas-covered walls which encircle in warm embrace the miscellaneous collection of industrial productions. Great Britain fills a most respectable position in this highest department of the international show. Nearly all the eminent names of native art are numerously represented ; in some cases a more complete collection of individual talent or genius being brought together than ever before in a similar case. Of course, this refers only to deceased painters ; the living ones being, for obvious reasons, but sparsely represented. In sculpture the reverse is the case, to such an extent as to create perfect astonishment about the number of really respectable, if not genial, performances in this department of high art. Prominent among them is an exquisite "Rhodope," by C. F. Fuller, and a " Girl at the Bath," by J. Gibson. The coloured marble statues by the same artist do not as yet seem to attract much public attention, though some of them are emi- nently chaste and beautiful. What to think of statues "executed by machinery," of which there are three specimens, is difficult to say, unless the remark is allowed that these objects of "fine art" had better be exhibited with the machines in the lower regions. From the British division, the road leads into the French saloon of paint- ings, the progress into which is by no means so pleasant as the well- known high state of French art may lead many to think. To come fresh from the impression of Turner's sunny landscapes, and gaze upon square acres of canvas full of red-pantalooned heroes, storming breaches in impossible attitudes, and discharging guns in a sus- piciously theatrical manner, is by no means a pleasant change. It is not easy to see why these more patriotic than artistic effusions have
been taken from their store-rooms at Versailles, to the probably im- mense grief of the Paris ipiciers who spend their Sundays revelling
in the glories of France. Otherwise, the French school is not at all well represented. Some of the best of living artists shine by their absence, and others have sent their most insignificant pieces. It is whispered that there is a political motive at the bottom of this ; the most eminent French painters and sculptors, no less than the most distinguished writers, being notoriously hostile to the Imperial Government, which has taken the Exhibition under its official pro- tection. A careful inspection of the names of the contributors, with occasional glance into " Vapereau," gives great show of probability to this rumour.
One of the most striking pictures in the foreign art division, around which there are constantly crowds of gazers, is the canvas marked in the catalogue with the number 764, and described as " Nero after the burning of Rome." -It is a most extraordinary work of art, distinguished by great power of conception, and genial execution, though without any effort whatever at historical truth. The text is simple. Nero is treading the ruins of burning Rome, the fire still raging in the distance. In the foreground lies a man tied to the stake, with wife and child at the side of him— evidently disciples of the new sect of Jesus of Nazareth, duly punished for ultra-liberalism and want of orthodoxy. Immediately behind marches the Imperial procession ; first, the mailed guards of the sovereign : next, torch-bearing youths in flaming red garments; and then the Emperor himself, followed by more guards. Nero is dressed in white flowing garments from head to foot, with a crown of roses in his hair. The figure of the despot, in this dress, amid this scene of death and desolation, is marvellously impressive. The dreamy eyes scarcely glance from under the crown of roses at the distant flames curling up high into the air; while the haughty under- lip is expressive of unspeakable contempt of humanity. In the drawing and colouring of this strange picture there is much of the amateur or the beginner in painting; yet the impression of the whole is, nevertheless, extraordinarily attractive, as is shown by the crowds who flock before the work, leave it, and then return to it again. A Bavarian artist, Carl Piloty, is recorded as author of this striking romance on canvas, which bids fair to become the lion of the foreign art department in the Exhibition.
The same department is not without its " chamber of horrors," arranged under the denomination of the " Belgian School." What in the world has induced the subjects of King Leopold I. to send us such a mass of painted death and bloodshed, is difficult to imagine. It is almost impossible to contemplate Belgian art without a shudder. One of the first pictures on entering the room is "Cold and Hunger," depicted in woful colours. It is followed by "Separation," and "Regrets," with, immediately after, a hideous portrait of "Crazy Jane," representing a livid corpse-like woman lying on a coach. One shudders to think that this picture is not taken from a lunatic asylum, but comes direct from the royal gallery. The next notable picture is "Rapine, Plunder, and Conflagration," showing a young woman dragged away by assassins, with a city in flames ; which piece of high art, by one Mons. Lies, is followed by "The Prisoner," "A Rat Hunt," "Mater Dolorosa," "A Martyr in the Reign of Diocletian," and " Judas Iscariot on the Night of our Lord's betrayal." Here are horrors of horrors, but all these are sur- passed by the crowning piece of the whole, entitled, "The Last Honours paid to Counts Egmont and Horn," a painting of consi- derable dimensions, by L. Gallait, belonging to the town of Tournai. The "honours" paid to the celebrated patriots are depicted as fol- lows : There is a large wooden stretcher, such as seen in barracks, around which stand a number of armed men; on the stretcher lie a few clothes, and on the top of these the heads of Egmont and Horn, livid, blood-streaming, hideous in the extreme. There is no beauty, strength, resignation, energy, or other noble quality whatever in these awful trunk-separated heads ; all is utter deformity, terror, and death. It looks as if decay had begun its work already, and the flesh had been stolen from the grave. Undoubtedly, the ancient town of Tournai would have conferred a notable benefit on the British International Exhibition by keeping this bit of canvas within its own time-honoured walls.
Descending from the fine-art galleries again into the industrial ground floor of the Exhibition, the eye is struck by the incongruity of the arrangement of the latter part of the show as compared with the former. While the objects of art are placed before the beholder in harmonious groups, or regular lines along the wall, keeping up in outward appearance the connexion between the part and the whole, the industrial products are stuck in wild confusion along the ground, without any order or regularity whatever. Chaos itself seems to have presided over the higgledy-piggledy arrangement, which can be explained only on the supposition that the goods tumbled through the glass roof, and remained in the exact place where they happened to fall. A twenty-four acre shop is not the most convenient building for setting off beauty of proportion and harmony of outline, and if it has one advantage, it is that of im- pressing the beholder with an idea of grandeur and majesty. But this impression, which all seem to expect on entering the Exhibition, is wofully destroyed by the chaotic arrangement of the contents. It is amusing to watch the blank looks of the visitors who, for the first time, enter the great show, and instead of wandering, as they ex- pected, in the midst of a vast palace, find themselves among two rows of crockery-ware, and a dozen fire-engines, with a vista of tea-kettles and coffee-pots at a short distance. They push forward, in hopes of getting out of this muddle, and enjoying an uninterrupted view along the magnificent nave which they have seen in their dream ; but all is vain. Razors succeed tea-kettles, and wash-hand stands razors ; and the more the impatient visitor advances, the bigger get the mon- strosities, called trophies, which obstruct the view. Here some active " contractors to her Majesty" have built up a huge pyramid of daggers, swords, bayonets, and rifles ; a few steps farther on is an awful " trophy" of dolls, shuttlecocks, and skipping-ropes ; which is fol- lowed by what looks somethiug like a haystack, but turns out on closer inspection to be a trophy of " pedigree wheat," also described in French as "b/egenialogique." But the British exhibitors are by no means the worst sinners against good taste. The trophy mania itself is not half so bad as the penitentiary system adopted by a ma- jority of foreign manufacturers. The French have shut themselves entirely off from the rest of the exhibition world in a gilded, car- peted, and mirrored fortress ; and the Dutch have tried hard in the building of walls to deserve their old nickname of being the Chinese of Europe. But the climax of exclusiveness is reached by the ex- hibitors of Austria. As if to illustrate the political condition of their own ill-fated country, they have locked themselves up in a series of square boxes resembling railway vans. The high walls look ominous, and almost forbidding, and the visitor bold enough to pass the narrow entrances feels a sort of astonishment at not running against an Imperial custom-house officer, or a white-coated soldier who demands his passport in the name of the Kaiser.
The International Exhibition is a Sphinx, which has to be un- riddled. Splendid in conception, and more than faulty in execution, it is yet on the whole a wondrous product of the age. Like all great things, however, it must be studied in detail before it can be justly appreciated. The duty will not be neglected by the Spectator.
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