Characteristics of the International Fair

To those who know Philadelphia well, yet not exactly as she is known of her own, there is an enormous incongruity in her being the site of an international exhibition. The historical propriety of celebrating the centennial anniversery here is self-evident, but the exhibition involves many ideas besides that of a national festival, and for the most part ideas of an order peculiarly opposed to the Philadelphian habit of mind. No place of such size has been so consistently averse to everything new; no large community ever set its face so firmly against innovations and improvements. It is probably not easy to convince any city, as a body, that it is making a mistake; in such cases the teaching of time is the best argument; but the pride of Philadelphia has been to perpetuate the mistakes of previous generations. In these days of recollections and reminiscences, everybody has, or should have, read of the circumstances which induced the tendency; it would be superfluous and perhaps invidious to rehearse them now. One of the strongest was the influence of the original settlers, with whom the element of change was opposed to the essence of their creed. As time went on they were somewhat pushed into a corner, and retired within the pale of extreme exclusiveness from contact with profane manners; but the standard they had established continued to shape and color the notions of those who superseded them. When the government withdrew on one hand to Washington and commerce on the other to New York, and the high fashion of the republican court vanished with other vestiges of the old order, there ensued a long period which may be called the rule of the mediocracy. Public opinion was controlled by society, a term which still had a significance such as it cannot have again in any part of this now republican country, nor probably in the republicanized world. Society here consisted in a number of families of high respectability, more or less entitled to the appellation of old, which they all now claim equally in speaking of those past times. The great division between Quakers and “ the world’s people ” continued, and the ideas of the former still gave the law to the latter, unconsciously to both. This law was the principle of universal conformity; whatever was different was disapproved. Everybody must dress, speak, build, live, and think alike. Diversity of taste or fortune excused none in external modes. The few fine old houses of colonial and revolutionary days had been turned into hotels and boardinghouses, or pulled down to make room for stores and shops; the descendants of their builders had moved up-town into the regulation red-brick, white-shuttered edifice of the gridiron pattern, —to live in the handle, as somebody said, for there was much respect shown for the front parlor, which wore the stiff, uninhabited air proper to apartments reserved for state occasions. Of course there were individuals to break the law; there always are; but they were regarded with a severity of which the most daring offender against the written code need no longer stand in fear. If anybody built himself a different house, or lived in it differently from his neighbor, the rest of the community might not actually look forward to his robbing a bank or murdering his wife, but they felt no surprise were he guilty of such a lapse. The house is the best illustration of a Procrustean rule by which everything was tried. The penalty of failure to be like everybody else was inexorable; it was not open persecution, but a moral process which answered to the old punishment of pressing to death. Transgressors were not cut or dropped, but a sort of ostracism was practiced against them which, if it did not shut them out of society, made them glad to keep away from it. No one who has not heard an old-school Philadelphian, strong in conscious similarity, pronounce a fellow-being “ peculiar,” can estimate the chilling, killing, damning force of the epithet. It availed naught that habits and fashions came from England or France, countries which were supposed to be in advance of ours in some respects half or a quarter century ago. Such a plea was met with derision. “ It may do for Paris, but it will not do for Philadelphia,” was the fiat on a pretty and rational change in women’s dress, and no one ventured to adopt it. So much for outlandish customs; an attempt to introduce them from another part of our own country was an impertinence.

Migrating from one city to another along the Atlantic coast was an unusual step then, but various considerations from time to time brought people of good standing from other places to Philadelphia; they never became amalgamated; although passing strangers were most hospitably treated, those who came to make their abode here remained " outsiders.” With regard to the different strata of society, at long intervals an individual, more rarely still a family, penetrated by slow and painful degrees the upper crust; some unusual qualification was recognized as warranting their admission. But it was mutually understood that absolute conformity was the price; the distinctive merit which had won the privilege must disappear on exercise of that privilege. Those admitted on such terms always became the greatest conservatives.

Although the academies of the fine arts and natural sciences were founded early in this century, art and science met with no general encouragement; the Quakers were the chief patrons of the latter, those of the former were among the “peculiar.” There was no value for persons of an intellectual or literary bent; the few who followed such pursuits must have been as lonesome as the honest Yankee says he feels nowadays. To know, or to try to know, anything beyond the common stock was discountenanced as sternly as living in a house higher than the rest on the street. Thus a dead level was produced, no doubt the most comfortable footing for the majority everywhere. How long this would have lasted, by what natural process it would have expired, what would have succeeded, can be but guesses. The place had spread immensely in the rapid development of its manufacturing resources, but the effects of this were not felt beyond the business world, and business itself was conducted on the old, slow, narrow system. Suddenly, violently, in an hour the end came. The day which brought the news of the fall of Fort Sumter saw the overthrow of the mediocracy. All the old customs, barriers, molds of opinion, were broken up at a blow. Not that there was the unanimity of feeling shown in some places. The affinities of Philadelphia for other parts of the country had always turned south ward; the Quaker spirit was again active in absurd appeals for peace and brotherly love. We had throughout the war a large though ever-diminishing party of Southern sympathizers, to give them the mildest name by which they were called. Yet everybody was the better even for the errors, even for the passions, of those years, which shook us from our habitual apathy and lethargy. The Cooper’s Shop refreshment-saloon, where every coming and going regiment was entertained on its passage through town, the Sanitary Fair, the military hospitals, the inexhaustible subscriptions, were proofs of the enthusiasm and sacrifices of which Philadelphia was capable. Quakers, whose religion forbade their bearing arms themselves, with a noble inconsistency gave wealth and health and even life in the service of the sick and wounded soldier. Of those who went to the field, whether they fell there or lived to come home, there is no need to speak.¹ We can look back to those years with pride and gratitude.

At length the war was over, and the country gradually adapted itself to normal conditions. We began to look about for the old roads and landmarks; they were gone. Numbers of men and women unknown before had been brought to the front by their courage, ability, and devotion. Some had lost money; others had made great fortunes. Energy and enterprise had been awakened; every faculty had received an impetus; incessant excitement for so many years had destroyed humdrum habits. The mediocrats discovered that their power had long been dead, and that they were even in danger of being forgotten altogether. The old régime was over. Those who can remember it will do it justice; its cleanly ways, its unostentatious forms, the benevolence and philanthropy which constituted its chief interests, the hearty hospitality, the respect for one’s neighbor which had no small share in keeping up self-respect, are things that one misses, whatever has been gained. But the time for change had come. That showed itself first superficially in the aspect of the town: handsome houses appeared, not on the old, invariable model; an architect was needed where formerly there had been only a builder; the irritating and wearisome monotony of the red brick was relieved by sandstone, marble, granite, by every variety of material and style. Hot-houses, conservatories, and picture-galleries were often appurtenances of the new residences; a new need — the desire for the magnificent, for the beautiful — had come up with the new caste.

Statues, paintings, bronzes, began to find their way into many houses; a taste for art, and a determination to cultivate and gratify it, manifested itself in many ways. The enchanting park, the like of which no other city in the world can boast, was one of the first achievements of the new epoch. It is not to the old Philadelphians that this dawning phase of luxury and culture belongs; it is to new men, who brought new ideas with their new money. It is to the credit of the old stock that they have been ready to adopt these larger, more civilized views. The last decade has been preparing Philadelphia for the great events of this summer. Ten years ago it would have been impossible. The men who have paved the way for the result are also for the most part those who have carried it through, and it is a prodigious undertaking to have performed with but little aid and encouragement from without.

It now stands inaugurated, open, soon to be complete. All winter long our quiet streets have been crowded and bustling, the town alive with an all-pervading stir. The unwonted sound of foreign speech, which once made Philadelphians turn to look, has become as familiar as the varieties of our own; we have grown used to the sight of Europeans staring impartially at every woman; the numerous types of our countrymen have more interest for some of us, especially certain dark, long-haired figures distinguished by studied dignity and courtesy, wearing thin-soled boots and an indescribable wide felt hat, who have not been seen here since the close of the year 1860. The centre of all these intimations and apparitions has been the exhibition grounds, where, throughout the mild, open winter, the work has gone on without pause. For some time before the 10th of May, the interiors — above all that of the Main Building—offered most curious sights and studies. Groups of workmen from all parts of the world were unpacking and arranging with amazing celerity; the contents of cases lettered in all known and unknown tongues, with strange cabalistic characters, stamped with the arms of every government, were piled and scattered by thousands. These ruder, earlier tokens of universal industry make the ends of the earth whence they come nearer and clearer to the mind than the rarest and most finished productions. The familiar names and look of the American show - cases gave an extraordinary edge to the strangeness of the rest; the contrast was needful to the full effect. In this host of heterogeneous humanity, this wilderness of deal boxes of all shapes and sizes, of temples, pavilions, booths, grand pianos, porcelain tea-cups, flags, chips, shavings, planks, and paint-pots, there were all the elements of an organic chaos, yet an indefinable sense of order predominated, which must have been the mental recognition of a plan as yet invisible in the faintest outline. It was a most singular, mysterious expression of purpose amid what looked like a mere riot of inchoate matter. Immense preparation was the prevailing impression. The intelligence of the faces one met and of the answers one received was a most striking feature of these visits; not surprising if it be remembered that those employed, from superintendents to laborers, were naturally chosen for their superiority; yet one is so often overcome by the aggregate of human stupidity that it is a comfort once in a life-time to realize the amount of intelligence there must be in the world. This was a marvelously curious and attractive period of the exhibition, which disappeared in the nature of things as the day of opening approached.

If everything was not ready on the 10th of May, it was not the Centennial Commission that was behindhand. The foreign commissioners bear flattering testimony to the forwardness of our exhibition compared with previous ones. The day was on the whole fortunate, notwithstanding the early and the latter rain. The cool, damp spring had emerged into a May as green and blossomy as the Mays of England. The refulgent sun and the sky across which rolled great, white, rounded masses of cloud, belonged to America alone. The universal flutter of flags, the grouping and draping of tricolor, woke a strange thrill. The last time the waving of those colors brightened the air, it meant war and woe; now it means peace and exultation; how much lies between! Some comparisons and contrasts, some old memories and associations, could not be kept out of mind, and perhaps it was good to remember them.

The crowd was the most interesting part of the opening ceremonies, and that best worth observing, for to most of the spectators even on the platform the speaking was dumb show, the music merely reverberation. But the hundred thousand good-tempered, well-dressed lookers - on, whose patience could not be exhausted nor their holiday humors spoiled by hours of waiting, and seeing and hearing nothing after all, was what gave the occasion its strongest stamp. The group of diplomatic personages, officers, and elegantly dressed women which headed the procession was a mere point in the panorama; the character of the assemblage was democratic. It was a cosmopolitan concourse, if one takes note of a large sprinkling of foreign faces, of turbaned or pig-tailed heads, but its concrete expression was American; a decent, dryly-humorous multitude, peaceable, yet having its own way despite police and soldiery. It was not enthusiastic as our people sometimes are, and bore strong, silent witness to its convictions. Those who have observed the rejoicing or homage of an American crowd know how different it is from the windier demonstrations of European ones, in which the majority of the shouters could not tell what they are shouting about; there is little of follow-theleader in our popular manifestations, but the individual fervor of thousands, each one of whom thinks for himself, makes a collective excitement of tremendous intensity. There was an incident on the inaugural programme which tested the state of public opinion and feeling like a touchstone. The President of the United States came, spoke, and went, without applause. A few scattering cheers made more apparent the silent indifference with which he was received. Let the truth be told in spite of the reporters: there were more groans and hisses than huzzas, as he finished his brief address. Ten years ago earth and sky would have shaken with the thunder of his welcome. What a sublime possession to have thrown away, the confidence and gratitude of a nation! He stood there, as it were, discrowned and disowned, the frock-coat and black hat typifying the loss of the glory he put off forever with his uniform.

The 10th of May was no day for seeing the exhibition itself. The next time that I went there the whole place looked deserted: it was only in the Japanese department or picture-galleries that one became aware of a crowd through which it was not easy to pass, and which, though constantly changing, did not decrease hour after hour. The Japanese collection is the first stage for those who are moved chiefly by the love of beauty or novelty in their sight-seeing. The gorgeousness of the specimens is equaled only by their exquisite delicacy. To judge of the antiquity of their art, let any one who has been in Europe compare them with the treasures which have accumulated at famous shrines where the lamp of sacrifice has been kept burning for centuries by the piety and gratitude of the richest sovereigns; what barbarous lumps of gold and silver stuck full of jewels of the rudest shape are the crowns, the carcanets, the holy vessels, of the ages before the qualtro cento. The preciousness of the material, the size and number of the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls, aggravate the clumsiness of design and execution. Here is the handicraft of those extremest Orientals, five, eight, eleven hundred years old, if we can believe it, with a grace and elegance of design and fabulous perfection of workmanship which rival or excel the marvels of Italian ornamental art at its zenith; and as one of discernment standing by said, there is no decline nor degeneracy, no period of corruptness and coarseness, such as the Renaissance shows in its decay. There may be a monotony of theme, a sameness of idea, but endless variety of representation. It is all reproduction of natural objects with nothing conventional in the treatment, no attempt to compose patterns, or combine the trees, blossoms, birds, and animals according to decorative theories. Yet somehow these creatures are transported out of the realm of reality before we find them on the screens, hangings, and vases. The fancy and sentiment shown in the mode of depicting and arranging them seems inexhaustible. I do not know whether familiarity would dispel this illusion. There is a large painting on silk, meant, perhaps, for a curtain, which has in the foreground a group of animated nature in a flowery jungle on the bank of a stream: there is every sort of beautiful beast which one could fondle, there are fish in the water, birds on the branches, butterflies in the air, all colored in the softest, most harmonious, delicate tints; it looks like a glimpse of the garden of Eden on the evening of the fifth day; the river glides away from this happy nook like a ghost fleeing before the dawn, through a blank, shadowy waste, towards far distant mountains melting into mist. There are other paintings — drawings, sketches, what shall they be called? — on screens, a few houses and trees beside water which vanishes amid outlines of scenery as ethereal as visions; you hardly see them as you examine the picture, they steal out as you are turning away; the whole landscape has hardly any color, yet it is not in black and white; it might be veiled moonlight without shadows. There is an indefinable suggestiveness about these pictures, like those mental processes which evade analysis, those memories of something one cannot recall yet feels to have been full of charm.

comes nearer to the impression they produce than anything else I remember in Western literature, and these lines convey it too palpably yet not exactly; the inspiration must emanate from some source of poetry deep in the Eastern breast, to which we have never penetrated. Side by side with these dissolving views are splendid scarlet cranes, purple iris-flowers in painting and embroidery, slabs of solid tortoise-shell two and three feet high, embossed with birds and beasts and flowers in gold and silver, of massy richness, yet so cunningly wrought that every feather of the plumage and vein of the petals may be traced. And so it is in everything they do, — painting, porcelain, bronzes; of the last there are some of a warm yellow brown, like smoked amber, with a surface as soothing to the eye as satin, on which are raised designs of deep gold color, and others of dark, rich red; the whole hue is golden, but a superb contrast is produced by the three shades. The Japanese seem to possess the secret which the modern pre-Raphaelites have striven for without success, the union of detail and effect; perhaps they limit the choice of their subjects to those in which the two can be happily combined. An enumeration of even the most striking objects in the Japanese department would be the driest of catalogues; description can give no idea of them; wherever you look, the eye is delighted and contented. The commonest object of pottery or cotton-stuff for daily use has a merit of design or color which it does not owe to oddity alone, as one may see by comparing it with similar objects in the Chinese department close at hand; those for rather finer purposes, such as little fans and toilet-boxes, which are displayed wholesale, have each some of the exquisite, generic grace of the most rare and costly specimens.

After the Japanese collection everything looks in a measure commonplace, almost vulgar. The English embroidery and china in imitation of their models are either pitiably weak or like feverish fancies, quite disordered and unnatural. The only piece of needlework we saw which held its own against Japan was a three-leaved screen by a Miss Gemmel, of the Royal School of Art Needlework; it is a lovely design of white fruit blossoms on two of the panels, and wild roses on the third, — if I remember right,— with light green leaves on a very dark green ground, free and simple and yet controlled by rule; the pattern in shining silk on a cloth ground heightens the contrast of shades and colors very happily. The whole nearer East looks dim and rough after the splendor and sheen of Japan. China strikes one as elaborately ugly and grotesque, Egypt as poor and semi-civilized; unfortunately, Egyptian wares have been discredited by the shams which have lately been sold even on the Nile; some of the embroidery in the show - cases of that department, if genuine, looks more like imitation than the imitations themselves. If Egypt has finished unpacking, she makes but a poor display, but like many others she may not be ready; one powerful nation, more than a week after the opening, was represented only by her flag and a packingcase. This incompleteness, which is not confined to the interior of the buildings, but is to be seen in every direction as the eye wanders over the grounds, imparts to the aspect of the whole place an air of rawness and impermanence which is probably common to all exhibitions on the same plan, but which is also emphatically American. The detached cottages and pavilions, especially our own, have in most cases a lamentable look of smart new railway stations. Inventions, modern improvements, machinery, patents, and the last Paris fashions, are the only objects and ideas which surround us from the cradle; there is nothing in our country as in older ones to give contrast to such an exhibition. Besides ever-present traditions and recollections of an ancient past, London had Westminster Abbey and the Tower, Paris her old churches and bridges, Vienna her grand cathedral and gloomy palaces, to add relief to the novelty of a world’s fair. The absence of such elements in our surroundings gives a double delight to objects like the Japanese, whose beauty has nothing to do with newness or utility. In the cities of Europe, it is true, the spectacle of people from far-off countries in strange, picturesque garb is an every-day matter, and fails to raise the emotions it does with us; yet after all, the occasional Arab, Turk, or Chinaman one meets here, among hosts of people in what it is agreed to call the European dress, is a very small part of the show, and does no more to transport us in imagination to his native country than the lion in the Zoölogical Gardens hard by makes that corner of the West Park look like a tropical forest. It is only lucky that they have not all followed the examples of the Japanese clerks and showmen, who in our dress look like the ugliest and most unfortunate of little mortals; their inferior countrymen, the carpenters, working outside at the cottage in their national costume, are far more comely to behold. They are the sweetest - voiced, gentlest - mannered folk, and it is impossible to look from their small forms to their exquisite productions without an uncomfortable misgiving that they may feel like so many Gullivers in Brobdingnag.

For these reasons the exhibition presents to Americans a national rather than an international physiognomy, and for these and others ought to be more interesting to foreigners than to ourselves. Except the Australians, nobody else has a country where everything is new. In no other could it happen that, going from one building to another of a great industrial exhibition, within the precincts of an immense modern city, the path should lead through dells and dingles whose pristine sylvan sweetness lingers among old forest trees and beside singing brooks, where the wild flowers of the wood are springing under milkwhite canopies of dogwood and pale pink azaleas.