Halcyon Days in the Dream City

by Mrs. D. C. Taylor

Continued from Part 8

Pause, before you enter, and gaze upon this mighty mass of crystal and iron;[1] union of purity and strength, seemingly so frail and airy, and yet in reality so firm and stable. Look at the roof, like a huge translucent wave, at the grand majestic archways towering high above you, with their pictured allegorys [sic] smiling down upon you from their airy heights.[2] Step within this arch and look through the doorway down the long, long perspective, where human beings dwindle away to moving black dots. Comprehend, if you can, the vastness, the richness, the illimitable variety of these productions of every clime and nation of the globe. Pace slowly down the grand central aisle and tell us what you see.[3] But no! we will set you no such impossible task, for well we know the very soul would faint before its magnitude. Forty-four acres of exhibits, think of it, if you can.

While riding in the country last summer we saw a thirty-acre field of oats yellowing in the sun. To our eyes it looked almost limitless; it was a farm. Judiciously cultivated it would support a small family. Imagine that field roofed in and covered with the choicest productions of the earth. It seems impossible, and yet the Manufactures Building covered nearly twice the surface of that field. It is no use to try; the mind cannot grasp it, so walk on and see what you are capable of seeing.

Ah! now you see an objective point. A tower, apparently of whitest marble, pierced with arches through which the crowd moves ceaselessly, and crowned with a graceful dome.[4] We draw near. Hark! melodious on the air the strains of ”Auld Lang Syne.” Mellow and rich, they strike the hour, while the wave of humanity pauses for an instant in its flow ’till the last breathing sweetness dies.[5]

Look about you again. To the right lies the exhibit, of Germany. The great lace-like iron gates are open and we step into a bewildering array of works of art in gold, silver, bronze, and most of all in Dresden china. Every conceit that ever tricksy sprite suggested, carried out in that material; huge vases covered with laughing cupids peeping out from behind wreathed flowers; mirrors, large and small, framed in the same; tables, dishes, cups, all in the same style of florid gayety; the profusion is so bewildering once ceases to admire. Let us pass on. Here is a throne room, with its mirrored and gold embroidered walls, its chairs of painted satin, framed apparently in solid gold, its jeweled roof and gilded candelabra; its doors are carved in precious woods, and marbles costly as gems lend their pallor to offset the profusion of gold and glitter. Take but a glance; pass on.

Here is “Switzerland,” heavy with fringed and tasseled draperies of deep crimson cloth, offering great store of jeweled miracles called watches, and countless other things in gold and silver, of which we take no note, for we must pass on to where those great feminine torsos bend painfully beneath the weight of broad arches, and “France” offers us her delicate, dainty toys for men and women. Toys only! All is sensuous, earthly, but sensuousness so delicately veiled, so refined of all grossness that we are charmed, both sense and soul. Germany is rich, heavy, florid; France is light, gay, beautiful, ephemeral, but we love her and long for her charms. We would fain linger among these laughing sirens in bronze and terra cotta, these gay cavaliers with their mandolins, these smiling babies in purest marble, and these maidens with dark Nubian brows and dusky bead decked breasts. All light, airy, gay. In France, life dances to a lovelilt. Here are wonders of millinery to enhance woman’s charms, gems to glitter on her bosom, but—we must pass on, for yonder we catch a glimpse of something bizarre, almost fantastic in its gorgeous efflorescence of embroidery and colors, and so we step into the exhibit of the Czar; we are in Russia.

The great bear rears his huge length and strength of limb above a group of satellites, that all wear costly coats of fur. Here we catch the blue of Lapis Lazuli, the green of Malachite, the streaked splendor of the Onyx. Here the gloom of grand dark carvings in oak and mahogony [sic]. Here are some dresses for noble ladies, stiff and ungraceful in their gold embroidery and satin sheen, and here are the petticoats and aprons of the peasant girls, thickly ornamented with painful cross-stitch in blue and red cotton; queer head gear, like glorified pots and pans, and laces so coarse in thread and mesh, that they are heavy in weight as if made of metal. No sympathetic harmony of form or color here; nothing soft and alluring, but cold, hard, brilliant, pass on.

Here is little Siam, tiny but exquisite, a wilderness of screens on which embroidery seems to have gone mad; so much richness of decoration is crowded into this little pavilion that it gives one a feeling of surfeit. Let us pass on. Ah me! such miles and miles of porcelains and wares of every description in such countless multiplicity of form, the eye flashes a lightning glance from each to each, and finally wearies of all. Persia, with rugs of velvet richness, the soft dark harmonics of color melting into each other imperceptibly; the glimmering lamps of brass, heavy with swinging chains; the light, soft, priceless shawls, the cunningly woven draperies of gold and silver, with their fringed splendor still quiet and subdued; the whole atmosphere of the pavilion, so grave and calm, yet with an amorous breath of self indulgence pervading the whole, as if one could be soothed to dreams of earth love on those soft couches by the pale gleam of those perfumed lamps, so we pass on—into Spain.

Arch beyond arch oft repeated, red and white, red and white; yellow and black banners, fans, fans, fans! delicate trinkets filagreed [sic] in gold and silver. Laces, lovely Spanish laces! who has not heard the magic words? We feel every moment as though we must hear the tinkling of a guitar, and the voice of a Caballero serenading his lady­love! Oh! here she is! dark eyed and sweet (selling fans.) What a pretty little gay flowered muslin skirt she wears, giving glimpses of high-heeled red morocco slippers, what a trim little, laced red velvet bodice, and bust modestly covered with a white lace fichu showing only the round brown throat encircled by gold beads. The smooth dark cheeks the soft dark eyes, the satin dark hair coiled so queerly on either temple stabbed through with long gold pins, and the high topped comb, immensely high and broad! that gives the finishing touch to the picture. Here she is! the Spanish Donna of our dreams, and lovelier than those dreams ever painted her! we stand and gaze, and gaze until she glances uneasily from beneath her long dark lashes; then we remember that she is alive, and apologetically buy a fan and pass on—for Spain has no more charms for us, we have seen her crowning flower.

See these white figures, rapt in a marble calm, guarding dark portals! though they will seek to hold you with a voiceless utterance, pass on—in—to the dusk quiet of the interior. Italy! this is the home of Art! look with reverent eyes, move softly, speak lowly; here the spirit speaks! nothing sensuous here. Love, life, light, but the love and light of heaven. Here by the door stands a clustered group of marbles, a “Marguerite” pale, pure, with braided hair and level lidded eyes, counting her daisy petals; a child weeping over a dead dove; Hypatia courageous in her faith, with serene uplifted brow! a mother clasping her babe to her breast; a veiled female head, gazing through the filmy folds with eyes of nun-like peace; little children in every phase of child-life, their little naked limbs so exquisitely true and beautiful that we long to press them to our lips, and tears of sympathetic admiration spring to our eyes. Tear yourself away, pass on. Here are carved furnishings, chair·and tables, benches, beautiful and unique. The chairs are beautiful to look at, they invite to no repose, the tables are things of art, they are not to eat upon; nothing seems made for material uses, only to give pleasure to the soul through the eye. Here is Venetian glass; words can not give expression to the beauty and grace of form, the faint purity of color and delicacy of ornamentation of this world renowned production. Such airy blues; such dawnlike pinks, such wave like greens and melting luscious reds, and over all the thread like tracery of white; it is beyond all things beautiful. Here is another department where ornamental fancy has run riot. Screens, tables, of pure diamond like plate glass painted in such perfect simulation of roses, lilies, violets, that you can almost inhale their perfume. Mirrors and toilet tables framed in the beautiful Venetian lace work—the pen fails; so does the spirit; and we pass out of the close and dusky room into the bright free air of heaven, and we have traversed the length of the central aisle of the Manufactures building, and have seen almost nothing, of the wonders it contains.

Continued in Part 10

NOTES

[1] The largest building in the world at the time of the fair, the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building designed by George Post was 787 feet by 1,687 feet, with approximately 40 acres of floor space inside and covered by a massive roof over 312 ft. high made of iron and glass.

[2] The allegorical paintings “smiling down upon you from their airy heights” refers to the murals decorating the domes and timpana of each of the grand entrances to the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building.

[3] The “grand central aisle” was the fifty-foot-wide Columbia Avenue that ran the north-south length of the main floor.

[4] The “tower, apparently of whitest marble” is the magnificent Clock Tower that rose 120 feet above Columbia Avenue in the center of the building. The clock was manufactured by the Self-Winding Clock Company.

[5] The chiming clock had nine bells fitted with hammers and magnets to be struck by electrical signals. The chimes could be played automatically at predetermined times by means of clock mechanism, or by an operator sitting at a keyboard.