I enjoyed this record of a visit to Madam Tussauds  from Marcus Fall’s London Town, Sketches of London Life published by Tinsley Brothers, London in 1880. At this time Tussauds were still operating from Baker Street and not from their current location in Marylebone Road. I couldn’t find it anywhere else on the net so I have transcribed and republished it in full here.

AT MADAME TUSSAUD’S

IT is evening, 7 pm, and a thin stream of earnest-looking men and enthusiastic-looking children, and grave careful women, plentifully decorated with placid babies, passes into the wide hall, and slowly ascends the broad staircase to the realms of undreamed delight.

The children are of all classes. For aught we know to the contrary, that little boy with the dark-eyed, light-footed, and quick-limbed French governess may be a hon. gentleman or an earl, permitted by an indulgent mother to pay just one evening visit to these alluring halls; for blue blood in its youth has as cordial a scorn of mere midday exhibitions as your most republican “top-gallery” pavement-boy, and yearns for the sweet wickedness of late hours and gaslight and music, like children of later growth. But here is a group that could not be supposed by the wildest imagination to know the address of even a baron, except for the purposes of collecting accounts.

 

It consists of a near-sighted, heavy-browed, radical father, a stout, red-checked, over- dressed, pretentious mother, and three children of about fourteen, twelve, and eight years. As this party reaches the summit of the staircase the children stand discomfited and confounded before their reflect ions in the mirror. The mother is fluttered by the consternation of her brood. The heavy father, in obedience to her look of displeasure, comes to the front, and draws near his approaching reflection, until, lured on by the impertinent mimicry of the stranger, his hat comes into contact with the glass, and with an imprecation, smothered under a forced laugh, he discovers his mistake, to the relief, joy, and loquacious surprise of the young people. If the children who arrive at Madame Tussaud’s are of many social grades, the grown-up people are all below a certain loadmark. No man or woman of the crowd reaches so high as even the modest escutcheon of a squire.
The turnstiles and foot-high brass rods cause some perplexity and give us pause, but once they have been passed, we enter unimpeded the small, dim chamber in which the effigy of the third Emperor of the French lies in state. The radical father blunders towards the bed, and suddenly seeing the very “lifelike “ features of the dead, an unbidden impulse seizes him, his hand rises to his hat, and for a moment he stands uncovered. All at once he detects his mistake, looks round under his gathered brows, and steals his hat back to its native resting-place, rubbing his forehead with his other hand the while, as though he had removed the hat merely for coolness. He is ashamed of having paid homage to the wax model of an emperor, as he would have been afraid to trust his principles in the presence of even the corpse of the dead, lest, peradventure, some fine emanation from the bier might overcome his staunch loyalty to principles untested by contact with the influence of one whom he regarded as a despot. This group of suburban democrats gives a look at sooty Uncle Tom, and a long pathetic glance at Charles Dickens; during the latter examination the male parent gathers a heavy breath, and exclaims with lugubrious emphasis, pointing to the author of “Hard Times,” “That was a man for you !“ “Charley Dickens !” sighs the woman, with that familiarity assumed by vulgarity, on the ground of the possession of a few volumes by a popular author. Of Uncle Tom’s position in history the father has evidently a vague and wavering conception, and preferring not to be probed by inquisitive youth, be leads the party off into the more spacious fields beyond.
Here is a collection of people almost as motley as the models around the rooms. Before the figure of Lord Brougham stand two meagre sallow Japanese, conversing volubly, but with immobile features. To judge by their interest in the famous law lord, and by the length of time they devote to a study of his unprepossessing countenance, they know more about him than the average intelligent tradesman who passes by with an easy eye, which, taking in the individuality represented by the wax, and connecting it with a consciousness that the dead and the gazer have lived under the one flag, looks down on the poor “English of the West,” who have come amongst us to study our laws and absorb our philosophy.

 

Looking upward and around, what a golden glory and blaze of mellow light breaks in upon young eyes, upon eyes young in years, and those young in such experiences. Now the ears are invaded by the music from the little orchestra halfway down the hall. Ease comes with the music, and those who a few minutes ago seemed overcome and affrighted by proximity to so much splendour and greatness, now gather strength and move about with a qualified timorous freedom. The bulk of the crowd cannot conquer a certain diffidence and apprehensiveness. They have never been so near conquerors and kings before, and although they know when they appeal to their reason that the models are fixtures on their stand, the average child of ten and the average man or woman of thirty, whose experience and attainments are limited, seldom have recourse to the reason when once an appeal is made to the senses and the imagination. Hence at Madame Tussaud’s there is never loud talk or hilarious laughter.
Before the effigy of Pope Pius IX. a few people stand. The prevailing expression is one as though they feared an attack from behind while they looked, and yet were too much tempted by the chance of seeing a sovereign pontiff absolutely within the shores of their own country. The Henry VIII  group is a great favourite. The women regard the six wives with questioning pity, as though they felt suspicion that the lure of a crown had something to do with the fatal readiness of the ladies to risk accepting the royal hand. Henry, himself, they appear to loathe at first glance, but later on the burly front of the king and the fact of his success with their sisters of the olden time weigh powerfully in favour of the bIuff Tudor, and in the end the women of to-day pass off with little anger against that English Solomon who loved not wisely but too well. In front of a hollow square of celebrities of this century in the middle of the floor sit a number of careful students conning the catalogue, comparing the numbers, and devoting a brief examination to the nobles and princes. Around these diligent investigators stand and sit a number of eager listeners who await with breathless attention the voice of the oracle, and are no sooner in possession of the facts than they carefully misapply the description, and lose themselves in marvelling over the change of fashion in a lifetime, since forty years ago dukes wore stomachers and princesses swords. Few dally with the Napoleonic phalanx of subject kings and conqueror generals.
At last the Chamber of Horrors is reached. Its name is more terrible than its aspect, and although highly-impressionable young ladies may shudder in anticipation of their dreams, the chances are in favour of those terrors keeping without the domains of Morpheus. The interest taken in the mere portraits of the criminals is slender enough, unless when we happen to come upon a visitor who recognises an actor, assassin or victim, in one of the ghastly histories. The interest in a criminal executed twenty years ago dwindles down almost to indifference. But the hideous guillotine fascinates the most heedless. Those terrible carnivals of eastern inhumanity which hang upon the walls are examined by but few people. But in all the exhibition there is nothing the sheer horror of which is more enthralling.

 

Against the bars of that prison-cell, beneath the stage supporting the guillotine, are pressed faces as anxious and sympathetic as though the sufferings of the aged prisoner of the Bastille were still enduring and the vivid healthful pulses of those without beat in a not dishonouring pity for the wretched wreck of humanity pictured within.

 Update January 14th 2011. For more Tussauds nostalgia why not have a look at the blog Westminster Walking . The author Joanna Moncrieff has just begun to publish pages from a rather stylish 1930′s souvenir guide.

The author of this blog is a fully qualified and insured City of Westminster Tour Guide. He runs unique walking tours in London, see tabs for details.