Groups of foreigners, their beards yellow with dust, walked along with their hands stuck in their pockets, so as to make their full pantaloons even fuller than ordinary; and as the omnibuses stopped to “pick up” or “set down” their passengers, parties of Germans or Frenchmen were heard jabbering loudly within. Along Rotten-row, endless troops of equestrians galloped noiselessly along on the soft loose ground at the rear of the Crystal Palace—in front of it an interminable line of carriages drawled slowly past, and while some of those within thrust their heads out at the windows, others leant back, so as to be able to see the height or length of the giant building.
On every side were mobs of spectators pressing close up to the rails, and standing on tiptoe, with their necks out-stretched, in the hope of getting a peep of what was going on within. All along the building were ladders, one beside each of the columns, with painters perched high upon them, busy colouring the iron-work against the opening day. On top of the huge glass arch that formed the roof of the transept, the tiny figures of workmen were to be seen, some walking along the crystal covering, and making one wonder how the fragile substance bore them.
At the end of the building were steam-engines puffing out their white clouds of steam, and amid the debris of a thousand packing-cases stood giant blocks of granite, mammoth lumps of coal, stupendous anchors, and such huge articles as were too bulky to be placed within the building itself.
All was bustle, life, confusion, and amazement.
Those who were not working, were wondering at those who were; and many, as they looked at what still remained to be done, shook their heads in doubt as to the possibility of completing it against the appointed time.
Nor was it difficult to read disappointment in the countenances of the new-comers on their first beholding the building. To say the truth, the engravings and the imagination had failed to convey any adequate notion of the structure. The very name of the Crystal Palace had led people to conjure up in their minds a phantasm that could not be realized—a transparent edifice, pellucid as if built of blocks of ice instead of stone—a prismatic kind of fairy mansion, glittering in the sun, and breaking up and scattering the light all around in a thousand rainbow tints.
But how different the scene on the earliest dawn of the morrow!
Then to stand in the centre of the huge crystal pile, and cast the eye thence in any direction, was indeed to behold a sight that had no parallel in excellence. The exquisite lightness and tone of colour that pervaded the entire structure was a visual feast, and a rare delight of air, colour, and space. The vitrious material which outside was to be seen only in one point, here appeared really to form the sides and roof of the entire building, while the combined effect of the three “primary” colours of the decorations showed with what rare artistic skill and exquisite æsthetic appreciation they had been put together. It seemed more like one harmonious tone—a concert of mellifluous tints—than mere painting. A kind of coloured rainbowy air appeared to pervade the whole building, while, as the eye travelled down the long vista of galleries, and beheld the forms and tints at the end of the avenues, dimmed by the haze of distance, one was struck with a solemn sense of the majesty of the building.
Before the 1st of May, 1851, it was impossible to form an adequate idea of the magnificence of the scene which was to render its opening memorable for all time. Those who the day before had made the journey of the avenues from end to end, above and below, could not have believed it possible that in so few hours so great a change could have been wrought.
There was the glass fountain in the centre of the building, shining, as the sun’s rays came slanting down upon it through the crystal roofs, as if it had been carved out of icicles, or as if the water streaming from the fountain had been made suddenly solid, and transfixed into beautiful forms. In the machine-room, with its seeming infinity of engines puffing and twirling away, were the “self-acting mules” at work, drawing out almost spontaneously their long lines of threads, as if from a thousand spiders; the huge Jacquard lace machines were busy weaving the finest embroidered “edgings;” the pumps were throwing up their huge cascades of water, while the steam printing-press was whirling its vast sheets through a maze of tapes, and then pouring them forth, one after another, impressed with a whole firmament of “signs and symbols;” the envelope machine, with its magic “finger”—the power-looms—the model locomotives—the centrifugal pumps—the horizontal and vertical steam-engines—were each and all at work—snorting, whirring, and clattering. There was the canopy above the royal seat, and adorned with its golden cornice and fringe, and with a small plume of blue and white feathers at each of its angles. The floors were no longer strewn, but clean and matted, and at each corner of the central square, stages had been raised for the most illustrious visitors. As you glanced down the avenues, objects of exquisite texture, form, or colour, everywhere saluted the eye. From the top of the galleries were hung huge carpets and pieces of tapestry, gorgeous in their tints, and exquisite in their designs. Here was reared, high towards the crystal roof, the “Spitalfields trophy,” from the top of which hung the richest silks, with their glossy colours variegated with tints and forms of surpassing beauty; and looking still farther down the nave, the eye could just catch sight of the colossal mirror, set in its massive gilt frame, and mounted on crimson cloth. At every corner were statues, made doubly white by the scarlet drapery arranged behind them, while immediately at the back of the throne were two equestrian statues of the Prince and Queen, one on either side. Behind these was another fountain, that made the stream, as it rushed up from the centre and divided itself into a hundred drops, flashing in the sun as they fell, look like a shower of silver sparks—a kind of fire-work of water; and beside this rose the green plumage of the palm-trees embedded in moss, while close at their feet was ranged a bed of flowers, whose tints seemed to have been dyed by the prismatic hues of the water-drops of the neighbouring fountain. Then appeared the old elm-trees of the park, looking almost like the lions of the forest caught in a net of glass; and behind them again was a screen of iron tracery, so light and delicate that it seemed like a lacework of bronze.