It cannot be pretended that M. Blondin’s movements are graceful. There is nothing novel or elegant in the performance from beginning to end. We have seen equally good rope-dancing at a country fair, and as for the gymnastic feats they could be surpassed by the pupils of many a gymnasium in London.
As rope-dancing and gymnastics they gain nothing in quality from being performed at so great a height, and if they pass as wonderful because they are done under circumstances which should make the performer lose his head, the same interest would be produced if he were to drink two bottles of champagne, and then attempt them on the ground. If the rope were stretched at a height of only ten feet, so that a fall from it would not signify, or if—placed as it is—a net were suspended beneath it to secure M. Blondin against a fatal accident, his performance would instantly cease to attract. Danger and nothing else is its charm. Abstract this, and nothing remains that any one would care to go a hundred yards to see. The more apparently dangerous the exhibition is made, the greater its attraction. So, mere walking and posturing upon the rope having become vapid, the sack and the wicker baskets are brought out, and M. Blondin pretends to slip, that the spectators may not become hardened into the belief that his skill is all-sufficient to sustain him, and that there is no chance of their beholding a mangled crimson mass writhing in the midst of that ghastly space which is kept clear 170 feet below.
It was when M. Blondin—blindfold and enveloped in a sack—pretended to slip, that we turned away our eyes and saw his audience. Just then, the sun streamed through the glass roof, lighting up thousands of upturned faces, and revealing to us that we were not the only persons who could not brave the sight. Two ladies in our immediate vicinity fainted. Several others had their faces in their hands, and many a strong man averted his gaze from the sight. Upon the countenances of those who endured, and watched it, many feelings were expressed. There was pity, and terror, and suspense, and admiration, and horror, but not one particle of pleasure. There were dilated eyes, quivering lips, clenched hands, loudly beating hearts,—but not one smile until the performer passed from that dreadful line to the firm floor, and then followed a gasp of relief. We write of what passed around us, and what we saw, looking down from a corner of the great orchestra with a good glass as far as we could see. There was one—and only one—person who appeared to enjoy what he saw. He was dressed like a farm labourer of the better sort, and sat in a front row with his mouth upon the broad grin, and his eyes running over with delight. How he banged his great red hands together after each feat! How he rolled about and stamped with glee!
An hour afterwards we saw him again in the refreshment room, and thought he was drunk, but were undeceived by a policeman, who informed us that he was quite harmless—merely idiotic from his birth, nothing more. We can safely say that no one looked as though he enjoyed the sight, and that the applause which followed a clever solo upon the cornopean in an interval of rest was as hearty as any that Blondin received after his most dangerous feats.
We are afraid that the “hero of Niagara” is not a good sign of the times. Do we blame him for giving these entertainments? Not we! He can make one hundred pounds a day by them, and as that is the price at which he estimates his own neck, he is entitled to risk it as often as he pleases. Do we blame the managers of the Crystal Palace for engaging M. Blondin? Not we! He draws—at present, and his performance is not more vulgar or inconsistent with the place than many which have preceded it. Do we blame the British public for tolerating such exhibitions, and rendering it possible that they can be profitable? Most assuredly we do! It is a sign of the worst possible taste, of a craving for excitement of the worst possible order, or of a blind and servile obedience to fashion.
Blondin is fashionable! It is “the thing” to see persons in deadly peril of their lives. Perhaps there is some one who attends every one of these performances, so that he may not be absent when the crash comes, just as the old gentleman followed the Lion Queen all over the country in hopes of seeing her head bitten off by the lion into whose mouth she placed it for the amusement (?) of the public. We are told to have no fears for Blondin, that he has practised catching the rope in case of a stumble, and that he is sure to save himself. Of course! Everything and everybody is quite safe until—. That poor Lion Queen was quite safe, but the old gentleman had his wish. Scott, the American diver, was quite safe. He went through the merry performance of being hanged on Waterloo Bridge. How well he did it, how he writhed and jerked! Bravo, Scott! Why does he not get down and bow his thanks to an admiring audience? There is a little mistake—he has hanged himself in earnest, he is dead! The poor wretch who is now a helpless cripple living in an iron cage to support his broken back, but who only a few weeks ago delighted the votaries of the Alhambra in Leicester Square with his daring feats on the flying trapeze, was quite safe. Bless your heart, he had practised the thing till he could not fail!—only somehow or other he did fail. The public in its stupid craze for perilous amusements has led these and scores of others to their deaths, or to accidents which make life one long fit of pain. We wish M. Blondin no sort of harm; but if his audiences were to dwindle down to nothing, so as to cause him to retire upon his savings, we should congratulate him upon having escaped a great danger, and the country upon getting rid of a disgrace to the intelligence of the age.
JESSIE CAMERON’S BAIRN.
A TALE IN TWO CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER I.
