Official views of the World's Columbian Exposition — Context and Discussion

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Arnold, C. D. (Charles Dudley), 1844-1927, Higinbotham, H. D. Project Gutenberg 2007 Not confirmed
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Words 6,250
Reading time 28 min
Text sections 4

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An editorial note on the language, narrative voice, and pace in C. D. Arnold and H. D. Higinbotham's photographic record of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, with observations drawn from the accompanying text by E. Benjamin Andrews.
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THE WORLD'S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION

Columbian Celebration, New York, April 28, 1893. Parade passing Fifth Avenue Hotel.

The thought of celebrating by a world's fair the third centennial of Columbus's immortal deed anticipated the anniversary by several years. Congress organized the exposition so early as 1890, fixing Chicago as its seat. That city was commodious, central, typically American. A National Commission was appointed; also an Executive Committee, a Board of Reference and Control, a Chicago Local Board, and a Board of Lady Managers.

The task of preparation was herculean. Jackson Park had to be changed from a dreary lakeside swamp into a lovely city, with roads, lawns, groves and flowers, canals, lagoons and bridges, a dozen palaces, and ten score other edifices. An army of workmen, also fire, police, ambulance, hospital, and miscellaneous service was organized.

Wednesday, October 21 (Old Style, October 12), 1892, was observed as Columbus Day, marking the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus's discovery. A reception was held in the Chicago Auditorium, followed by dedication of the buildings and grounds at Jackson Park and an award of medals to artists and architects. Many cities held corresponding observances. New York chose October 12th for the anniversary. On April 26-28, 1893, again, the eastern metropolis was enlivened by grand parades honoring Columbus. In the naval display, April 22d, thirty-five war ships and more than 10,000 men of divers flags, took part.

Pinta, Santa Maria, Nina, lying in the North River, New York. The caravels which crossed from Spain to be present at the World's Fair at Chicago.

Between Columbus Day and the opening of the Exposition came the presidential election of 1892. Ex-President Cleveland had been nominated on the first ballot, in spite of the Hill delegation sent from his home State to oppose. Harrison, too, had overcome Platt, Hill's Republican counterpart in New York, and in Pennsylvania had preferred John Wanamaker to Quay. But Harrison was not "magnetic" like Blaine. With what politicians call the "boy" element of a party, he was especially weak. Stalwarts complained that he was ready to profit by their services, but abandoned them under fire. The circumstances connected with the civil service that so told against Cleveland four years before, now hurt Harrison equally. Though no doubt sincerely favoring reform, he had, like his predecessor, succumbed to the machine in more than one instance.

The campaign was conducted in good humor and without personalities. Owing to Australian voting and to a more sensitive public opinion, the election was much purer than that of 1888. The Republicans defended McKinley protection, boasting of it as sure, among other things, to transfer the tin industry from Wales to America. Free sugar was also made prominent. Some cleavage was now manifest between East and West upon the tariff issue. In the West "reciprocity" was the Republican slogan; in the East, "protection." Near the Atlantic, Democrats contented themselves with advocacy of "freer raw materials "; those by the Mississippi denounced "Republican protection" as fraud and robbery. If the platform gave color to the charge that Democrats wished "British free trade," Mr. Cleveland's letter of acceptance was certainly conservative.

Populism, emphasizing State aid to industry, particularly in behalf of the agricultural class, made great gains in the election. General Weaver was its presidential nominee. In Colorado, Idaho, Kansas, and Wyoming most Democrats voted for him. Partial fusion of the sort prevailed also in North Dakota, Nevada, Minnesota, and Oregon. Weaver carried all these States save the two last named. In Louisiana and Alabama Republicans fused with Populists. The Tillman movement in South Carolina, nominally Democratic, was akin to Populism, but was complicated with the color question, and later with novel liquor legislation. It was a revolt of the ordinary whites from the traditional dominance of the aristocracy. In Alabama a similar movement, led by Reuben F. Kolb, was defeated, as he thought, by vicious manipulation of votes in the Black Belt.

The Manufactures and liberal Arts Building, seen from the southwest.

Of the total four hundred and forty-four electoral votes Cleveland received two hundred and seventy-seven, a plurality of one hundred and thirty-two. The Senate now held forty-four Democrats, thirty-seven Republicans, and four Populists; the House two hundred and sixteen Democrats, one hundred and twenty-five Republicans, and eleven Populists.

The editorial note that accompanies this photographic record—a chapter from E. Benjamin Andrews's History of the United States—employs a brisk, reportorial voice that shifts abruptly between technical description and dramatic narration. The prose is most striking when it moves from calm enumeration of architectural features to sudden, vivid accounts of disaster. For instance, the description of the Cold Storage Building's ice-making capacity and blank walls gives way without warning to the fire that consumed it: “Early in the afternoon of July 10th flames burst out from the top of the central tower.” This juxtaposition of the mundane and the catastrophic is a recurring structural device, and it gives the text a nervous energy that mirrors the fair's own blend of order and spectacle.

A Voice That Shifts from Inventory to Elegy

The narrative voice in Andrews's chapter is not uniform. It often begins a section with a detached, almost bureaucratic tone, listing dimensions, costs, and capacities. The description of the Fisheries Building, for example, notes that “its pillars were twined with processions of aquatic creatures and surmounted by capitals quaintly resembling lobster-pots.” This is precise, almost taxonomic. But the same voice can turn elegiac without transition. The account of the fair's end is a single, compressed sentence: “One day some boys playing near the Terminal Station saw a sinister leer of flame inside.” The phrase “sinister leer” is a sudden personification that breaks the earlier neutrality. The narrative then accelerates into a brief, almost breathless sequence of destruction: “A high wind soon blew a conflagration, which enveloped the structures, leaving next day naught but ashes, tortured iron work, and here and there an arch, to tell of the regal White City that had been.” The shift from inventory to elegy is a deliberate rhetorical move, and it colors the entire chapter with a sense of impermanence.

Pace and the Use of the Unexpected Detail

Andrews controls pace by inserting small, unexpected details that momentarily arrest the reader. In the midst of a description of the Government exhibits, he notes that “a combination postal car, manned by the most expert sorters and operators, interested vast crowds.” The phrase “most expert sorters” is oddly specific, and it slows the reader down, inviting a pause to imagine the scene. Similarly, the description of the Ferris Wheel is couched in technical language—“a cantilever bridge wrought around two enormous bicycle wheels”—before the pace quickens with the simple observation that passengers were “swung from the ground far above the highest buildings.” The contrast between the engineering jargon and the visceral image of swinging creates a shift in tempo. The most dramatic change in pace occurs in the fire narrative, where long, detailed sentences give way to short, staccato clauses: “Firemen were soon on hand. Sixteen of them forthwith made their way to the balcony near the blazing summit. Suddenly their retreat was cut off by a burst of fire from the base of the tower.” The word “Suddenly” is the pivot, and the prose thereafter becomes a series of rapid, almost cinematic images.

Recurring Motifs of Heat, Ice, and Water

Throughout the chapter, Andrews returns to images of heat and cold, often in close proximity. The Cold Storage Building, which “made a hundred tons of ice daily,” is described in terms of its “cheering coolness,” yet it is the site of the first major fire. The juxtaposition is not accidental: the building's function (ice) is directly opposed to its fate (fire). Later, the Fisheries Building, with its aquatic motifs, offers a kind of visual coolness, but it too is consumed in the final conflagration. The Wooded Island is presented as a place of “sequestered shade and quiet,” a respite from the heat of the fairgrounds. These recurring contrasts between ice and flame, water and fire, create a subtle thematic tension. They also serve to unify the disparate sections of the chapter, giving the reader a sensory thread to follow. The final image of the fair's destruction—“naught but ashes, tortured iron work, and here and there an arch”—is the culmination of this motif: the White City, built of temporary materials, is reduced to its elemental opposites.

Readers of this photographic record may find it useful to attend to the interplay between image and text. The photographs, taken by the official photographers C. D. Arnold and H. D. Higinbotham, offer a static, detailed view of the fair's architecture and crowds. Andrews's prose, by contrast, is dynamic and selective, emphasizing change and catastrophe. The two media do not always align: the photographs show the fair at its peak, while the text dwells on its fragility. This tension is worth exploring as you move between plate and page.

There’s something tender about old books that work hard to preserve a fleeting world—Arnold’s photographs of the 1893 fair feel like holding a memory by the hand. That same quiet reverence came back to me in A concise account of the principal works in stained glass that have been executed by Thomas Willement of London, Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries — Story, Setting & Ideas, where light itself is archived, patiently, like a whispered glow.

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