From the Oak to the Olive: A Plain record of a Pleasant Journey

by Julia Ward Howe

Of Berne and Fribourg I will chronicle only the organ concerts, given to exhibit the resources of two famous instruments. At both places we found the organ very fine, and the musical performance very trashy. No real organ music was given on either occasion, the pièce de resistance being an imitation of a thunderstorm. Both instruments seemed to me to surpass our own great organ in beauty and variety of tone. The larger proportions of the buildings in which they are heard may contribute to this result. Both of these are cathedrals, with fine vaulted roofs and long aisles, very different from the essentially civic character of the music hall, whose compact squareness cannot deal with the immense volume of sound thrown upon its hands by the present overgrown incum—bent.

THE GREAT EXPOSITION.

It would be unfair to American journalism not to suppose that all possible information concerning the Great Exposition has already been given to the great republic. There have doubtless been quires upon quires of brilliant writing devoted to that absorbing theme. Columns from the most authentic sources have been commanded and paid for. American writing is rich in epithets, and we may suppose that all the adjective splendors have been put in requisition to aid imagination to take the place of sight. Yet, as the diversities of landscape painting show the different views which may be taken of one nature, even so the view taken by my sober instrument may possibly show something that has escaped another.

I here refer to the pages of my oft-quoted diary. But alas! the wretch deserts me in the hour of my greatest need. I find a record of my first visit only, and that couched in one prosaic phrase as follows: Exposition—valet, six francs.

Now, I am not a Cuvier, to reconstruct a whole animal from a single fossil bone; nor am I a German historian, to present the picture of a period by inventing the opposite of its records. Yet what I can report of this great feature of the summer must take as its starting-point this phrase: Exposition—valet, six francs.

This extravagant attendance was secured by us on the occasion of our first visit, when, passing inside the narrow turnstile, with ready change and eager mind, we encountered the great reality we had to deal with, and felt, to our dismay, that spirit would help us little, and that flesh and blood, eyes and muscles, must do their utmost, and begin by acknowledging a defeat. Looking on the diverse paths, and flags and buildings, we sought an Ariadne, and found at least a guide whom Bacchus might console. Escorted by him, we entered the first great hall, with massive machines partially displayed on one side. A coup d'œil was what we sought on this occasion, and our movements were rapid. The Sèvre porcelains, the magnificent French and English glasses, the weighty majolicas, the Gobelin tapestries, and the galleries of paintings, chiefly consumed our six francs, which represented some three hours. Magnificent services of plate, some in silver, and some in imitation of silver, were shown to us. In another place the close clustering of men and women around certain glass cases made us suspect the attraction of jewelry, which may be called the sugar-plummery of æsthetics. Insinuating ourselves among the human bees, we, too, fed our eyes on these sweets. Diadems, necklaces, earrings, sufficient, in the hands of a skilful Satan, to accomplish the damnation of the whole female sex, were here displayed. I was glad to see these dangerous implements of temptation restrained within cases of solid glass. I myself would fain have written upon them, "Deadly poison." There are enough, however, to preach, and I practised by running off from these disputed neighborhoods, and passing to the contemplation of treasures which to see is to have.

Among the Gobelins I was amazed to see a fine presentation of Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, a picture of universal reputation. The difficulty of copying so old and so perfect a work in tapestry made this success a very remarkable one. Very beautiful, too, was their copy of Guido's Aurora, and yet less difficult than the other, the coloring being at once less subtile and more brilliant.

I remember a gigantic pyramid of glass, which arose, like a frost-stricken fountain, in the middle of the English china and glass department. I remember huge vases, cups as thin as egg-shell, pellucid crystals in all shapes, a glory of hard materials and tender colors. And I remember a department of raw material, fibres, minerals, germs, and grains, and a department of Eastern confectionery, and one of Algerine small work, to wit, jewelry and embroidery. An American soda fountain caused us to tingle with renewed associations. And we hear, with shamefaced satisfaction, that American drinks have proved a feature in this great phenomenon. Machines have, of course, been creditable to us. Chickering and Steinway have carried off prizes in a piano-forte tilt, each grudging the other his share of the common victory. And our veteran's maps for the blind have received a silver medal. Tiffany, the New York jeweller, presents a good silver miniature of Crawford's beautiful America. And with these successes our patriotism must now be content. We are not ahead of all creation, so far as the Exposition is concerned, and the things that do us most credit must be seen and studied in our midst.

Our longest lingerings in the halls of the Exposition were among the galleries of art. Among these the French pictures were preëminent in interest. The group of Jerome's paintings were the most striking of their kind, uniting finish with intensity, and both with ease. In his choice of subjects, Jerome is not a Puritan. The much admired Almée is a picture of low scope, excusable only as an historic representation. The judgment of Phryne will not commend itself more to maids and matrons who love their limits. Both pictures, however, are powerfully conceived and colored. The "Ave Cesar" of the morituri before Vitellius is better inspired, if less well executed, and holds the mirror close in the cruel face of absolute power.

Study of the Italian masters was clearly visible in many of the best works of the French gallery. I recall a fine triptych representing the story of the prodigal son in which the chief picture spoke plainly of Paul Veronese, and his Venetian life and coloring. In this picture the prodigal appeared as the lavish entertainer of gay company. A banquet, shared by joyous hetairæ, occupied the canvas. A slender compartment on the right showed the second act of the drama—hunger, swine-feeding, and repentance. A similar one on the left gave the pleasanter dénouement—the return, the welcome, the feast of forgiveness. Both of the latter subjects were treated in chiaro-scuro, a manner that heightened the contrast between the flush of pleasure and the pallor of its consequences. Rosa Bonheur's part in the Exposition was scarcely equal to her reputation. One charming picture of a boat-load of sheep crossing a Highland loch still dwells in my memory like a limpid sapphire, so lovely was the color of the water. The Russian, Swedish, and Danish pictures surprised me by their good points. If we may judge of Russian art by these specimens, it is not behind the European standard of attainment. Of the Bavarian gallery, rich in works of interest, I can here mention but two. The first must be a very large and magnificent cartoon by Kaulbach, representing a fancied assemblage of illustrious personages at the period of the Reformation. Luther, Erasmus, and Melanchthon were prominent among these, the whole belonging to a large style of historical composition.