THE FRENCH FETE AT THE ALEXANDRA PALACE.
THE approaches to the brick phoenix on Muswell Hill (which has risen from its ashes much more ugly than it was in its previous state of existence) present the oddest mingling of the old and the new which, to our knowledge, is to be found in any of the suburbs of London. After one passes the splendid feudal structure at Holloway in which we incarcerate our social failures, and is fairly in the district which by a special providence furnishes perennial opportunities to the H.drop- pingest population in the world, little bits of the past crop up refreshingly ; the life of the wayside grows quieter, and has a suggestion of the possibility of leisure upon it ; perhaps a whisper from the forest trees on ahead —and not so very far on—carried by the wind over the uplands. Grave red houses, with formal rows of old trees in front of them, and such drapery of greenery on their walls and round their windows, as makes their pert and ricketty neighbours look indecently naked by contrast, stand back from the road. In the midst of a row of those horrid pretentious little houses supposed to represent the improved social position of the work- ing-man, but which are dishonest shams, from their leaky roofs to their crooked doorsteps, one's eye is caught by a sturdy cottage, long, low, and broad, with its diamond- paned window wide open, a lark in a cage singing as if the sur- rounding prospect were Salisbury Plain, a trellised hedge, gorge- ous with nasturtium-flowers, and a trim little garden, where "cockle-shells" are conspicuous, and it needs only a little faith to foresee the "cowslips all a-row " in the border next spring. From a smith's forge, where fowls, regardless of regulations, are scratch- ing in the doorway, where everything has a good old-fashioned air, and a skilfully designed festoon of old horse-shoes nailed over the doorway " for luck," seems to tell of the ages of faith, and of disdain of base economy in using up, comes the merry 1111.13iC of hammers. A heavy country-waggon creeps along, with its big, cordial-miuded horses, and they have hollyhocks stuck in their blinkers, and are shiny and comfortable, unconscious of their distant relatives in weary cab - shafts. Old-fashioned industries appear among the vulgar, pushing, petty trades of the suburban high-street ; a " general shop," to which the purchaser ascends by a steep flight of steps, and enters by a small and inconvenient door, decorated with balls of string, " cage " petticoats, carpet-brooms and battledores ; a toy-shop, with an imaginative model of the Victory' displayed in the window, Admiral Lord Nelson in a yellow cocked hat on the deck, and just half the height of the mainmast ; and a choice assort- ment of Scriptural puzzles,—the most casual observer must recognise Joseph and his brethren ;—a stationer's, where the stock is represented by a quire of Bath post, a bundle of quill pens tied up in legal-looking green cord, and a delft tray full of many-coloured wafers, by the side of which slumbers a big black cat; where the doors lie peacefully open, and there is no sign of human habitation. Close by, a cheap drapery shop is doing a brisk trade, if enormous price-tickets, a throng of corners and -goers, and a truculent tout, who is bawling invitations and dis- tributing hand-bills of the alarming sacrifice within, be indica- tions of prosperous commerce. Straw-bonnet-making declares itself upon the front of a very old house, with a deep red roof, and a ponderous brass door-handle, which must have taken a deal of polish in its time, when the house was probably tenanted by some small gentry, of the class which Miss Austen tells us .about; but it is dull now, and the fly-spotted blind is down ; straw-bonnet-making is a thing of the past. We actually come to ducks, waddling quite unconcernedly in the dry gutters where no mud is ; we come on one side to fields, with sheep and cows, rather huddled and towny, though, and more like beasts waiting the -convenience of the butcher than like animals in quiet pastures ; we pass a resplendent "oil-shop," indicated to the universe by two enor- mous crimson jars, perched upon the opposite corners of a stucco ledge so much too narrow for them, that on returning one is sur- prised to find they have not tumbled off ; and weare in the "real country," as a girl, faring towards the Alexandra Palace in a van last Saturday, joyously remarked in our hearing. Somehow, the real country looks newer than the town suburb, and the outlying village might be that very one where Jane Austen's Miss Bates lived, and which Frank Churchill threw into a flutter by going up to town in a post-chaise from the Crown on that silly pretext of wanting to have his hair cut, which "finished" him in the estimation of Mr. Knightley ; but the country is hopelessly modernised, not only by the Alexandra Palace and its dependencies, but by the pert town- lets with which it is dotted all over.
The entrance to the Alexandra Palace is pretty, and the system of issuing tickets at the Park-gate is a good one. The "Palace" is supremely ugly, especially the Muswell front of it, which is so contrived as effectually to mask the extent of building behindit, and to present to the visitor,—when he has been dragged up the steep, winding hill to the foot of the long, ugly flight of steps, flanked by much-trodden grass-slopes, which leads to the central entrance,— an imitation of a second-rate Continental railway station, with a coarse and heavy group of statuary over the doorway, so much too big for its position that its want of proportion spoils the otherwise happy resemblance. "Our foreign guests" were too much hurried to take note of the architectural portion of the treat prepared for them on last Saturday, but a number of Frenchmen not of that official character roamed about the ugly, empty box which is supposed to be a paradise of delights for North London, and were suitably depressed by the occasion. It was amusing to watch them, entering with an air of eager ex- pectation, looking about the big ball with polite stupor, when they discovered that it contained nothing more interesting than a few birds (they are beauties, though), a plant and flower trophy (much too big), and a realistic bust of Mr. Lowe ; and that there opened out of it a cavernous space, too dark at three o'clock for anybody to inspect its contents, which are curiosities from, foreign lands, chiefly represented, near the door, by wooden idols. It was noticeable that their spirits revived—in the case of one pair of friends in particular—when they had discovered the picture galleries, and went to "do them" accordingly. Here they met with an obstacle, ludicrous, but unavoidable.. The Lord Mayor—concerning whose functions French notions are likely to be more than ever fabulous in future—was coming, in procession,' through the picture galleries, and no one could be admitted. Such was the explanation which an excited doorkeeper, much exhausted by his efforts to expel the British public who had come there early, tried to make to the foreign friends. His method bad breadth and simplicity to recommend it ;. he seized the smaller of the two—a mild man in spectacles—by the shoulders, and bellowed at him, "You can't go in. The Lord Mayor's coming through in procession, and the galleries have got to be cleared," with that intense national conviction that any one who does not speak English is deaf, obstinate, and vicious, which never yields to reason or experience. But he nodded and grinned all the time, in order that there should be no mistake about his international sentiments. The mild foreigners yielded ; one remarked that it was a pity, for the Munich Collection was well worth seeing, but it should be for later,' and the other ob- served that cigars were not forbidden in the Italian Garden. They repaired thither, they sat upon a bench, whence they com- manded a view of the unofficial procession of " Buff Tickets only " to the concert-room—a lofty, gaudy, bedizened place, but well. suited for its purpose—and they smoked, patiently waiting to get into the galleries, until the civic dignitaries should be internation- ally engaged in listening to the music, and apparently indifferent to the spectacle of a real live Lord Mayor.
Simplicity, which was far from being elegant, characterised the- fête. No attempt was made to "receive" the visitors ; the steps were kept clear by a couple of policemen ; a portion of the crowd collected in a cheerful, picnicking fashion on the green slopes ; while another portion thronged round the carriages as they arrived, and inspected—with a good deal of solemnity, indeed, in many instances, as if they had been paid to do it and the duty was occupants of each. It must have been rather trying to inoffensive persons merely coming to look on, to find themselves mistaken for civic personages and audibly censured for their plain clothes. Surely a guard of honour might have been supplied, if only by one of the City Volunteer corps, and a Master of Ceremonies might have attended to instruct the unhappy foreign gentlemen, who arrived with exemplary punctuality, in what was expected of them under the circumstances. As it was, nobody knew, and if the officials really did run away, as we heard it humorously suggested that they had done, they have our warmest commendation and sympathy. It all did very well ; there were fine weather and a lovely view, every one was good-humoured, perhaps a good many were amused. The procession' was very funny, but the public were clearly entitled to behold something more in the robe-and-fur line than was bestowed upon their gaze. The deficiency was perhaps made up in gold chains, some of beauti-
ful, light, graceful workmanship, others conspicuous for massive ugliness. If it had not been for Signor Brignoli, the concert would have had nothing to distinguish it from other concerts, in which well- selected music, well performed, is more or less audible to a great crowd, who, generally speaking, are trying to get a good sight of a select number of people of distinction, and are only temporarily recalled to attention in intervals of staring. But Signor Brignoli's single combat with the conductor, waged with frown and gesture, the discord between his singing and the orchestral accompaniment, his abandonment of the situation, the penitence of the orchestra, the atonement of the conductor, the shrugs of the Signor, his return, and his final accomplishment of the song,—all these, in conjunction with the fact that the melody in question was " Good- bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye !" (the second silliest song in the world, " When other lips," being the first,) were so intensely ridiculous, that the hilarity was general, and everybody's spirits rose.
The honours of the day were, of course, for the French per- formers; the famous band of the Garde Republicaine—we knew that glorious music in old times, when the regiment was the Garde Imperiale, and they were called Les Guides—and their playing roused the audience to real enthusiasm. It is music which sets one's heart beating, and thrill one's nerves with the keen pleasure of sound. The Electric Polka realised its name ; the familiar music of "William Tell" was given with immense effect, and "God Save the Queen," played by the French band in reply to the cheering and applause with which they were received, was per- formed with such exultant grandeur, varied by profound solemnity, as lent the hackneyed air an extraordinary charm. Many a cheek paled as the notes rang out with a crashing clangour, and was wet with an unconscious tear. The Garda Republicaines were immensely popular, and though Le Figaro quizzes the idea of inviting the French civic dignitaries to a fete where they were to be entertained with their own music, it was not such a bad idea, after all, and they evidently liked it.
The foreign visitors in general did not evince much interest in the dreary bazaars, where the usual rubbish is displayed for sale ; or in the Japanese village, which no doubt would be very like a village, if it were not a shop ; nor even in Captain Boyton, who kindly paddled in the lake for the benefit of the inoadds, to whom his dress would have been invaluable ; but they were much interested in the Irish jaunting-cars. It was amusing to gather scraps of the talk about them among various groups, and to hear the explana- tions of the fearful and wonderful vehicles gravely offered by persons who had never seen them before in their lives, to other persons to whom they were equally unknown. The general impression seemed to be that they are warranted not to sink in a ,bogue.' Not until one of the cars had made the grand tour of the precipitous park three times did a bright young Frenchman, one of a closely observant group, volunteer to "try it." At length, he volubly demanded a seat. To see that young Frenchman pass his
thumb and forefinger round the wrist of his tightly buttoned glove, first the right, then the left (which is the French equivalent for turn- ing up one's shirt-sleeves as a preliminary to an achievement), look at the car with gravity for an instant, step lightly up, lift his hat to his admiring friends, and vanish, with an expression on his countenance which no one can realise who has not seen grown men careering round and round upon the wooden horses in the Champs Elysees, was the pleasantest experience of the French fete-day at Muswell Hill.
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