Imagine ringing in the New Year inside the belly of a dinosaur—a life-sized model, that is. But here's where it gets even more fascinating: this wasn't a modern-day theme park gimmick, but a groundbreaking event that took place in 1853, long before dinosaurs became household names. And this is the part most people miss: it was a strategic masterpiece of science communication, blending art, dining, and paleontology in a way that captivated both the elite and the public.
In December 1853, 20 men received an invitation that was anything but ordinary. The venue? The hollowed-out mold of an Iguanodon at the Crystal Palace. The host? Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins, a visionary natural history artist determined to bring the ancient past to life. Among the guests were luminaries like Richard Owen, the man who coined the term 'dinosaur,' and Edward Forbes, a naturalist renowned for his work on British starfish. But why exclude women? While the article doesn't delve into this, it’s worth noting that such gatherings in the 19th century often reflected societal norms of the time, though this detail remains a point of historical curiosity.
Hawkins’ goal was twofold: to unveil his groundbreaking dinosaur sculptures and to draw attention to the newly relocated Crystal Palace and its park. To ensure maximum exposure, he invited reporters, local dignitaries, and investors. But here’s the controversial part: was this a genuine scientific endeavor or a calculated publicity stunt? While Hawkins’ passion for paleontology was undeniable, his inclusion of Herbert Ingram, publisher of the Illustrated London News (with a circulation of over 150,000), suggests a savvy understanding of media power.
Despite the snowy weather, the guests arrived in formal attire at a large warehouse, where Hawkins’ menagerie of prehistoric creatures awaited. The Iguanodon, the largest model, required guests to climb a flight of steps to reach their dining table inside its structure. A giant tent shielded them from the cold, and a chandelier hung overhead, adding a touch of elegance to the prehistoric setting. Banners honored pioneering paleontologists like Georges Cuvier and Gideon Mantell, whose tragic death from an opium overdose the previous year sparked whispered speculation among the guests.
And this is where it gets even more intriguing: Richard Owen was seated inside the dinosaur’s head, while a musician’s melodies filled the air at the other end. As midnight approached, Owen proposed toasts, and Forbes recited a lengthy poem, his enthusiasm so infectious that it was said to rival the bellowing of a herd of Iguanodons. The evening culminated in Forbes declaring it 'a good wind-up for a geologist's year.'
The seven-course feast was nothing short of opulent, with dishes like Mock Turtle Soup, Turbot à l'Hollandaise, and Charlotte Russe. Wines included Sherry, Madeira, and Port, ensuring the conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. The Illustrated London News later described the event as 'luxurious and elegantly served,' while Punch quipped that in an earlier geological era, the guests might have been the Iguanodon’s dinner rather than dining inside it.
Hawkins’ gambit paid off spectacularly. The event was covered by The Times, Punch, and the Illustrated London News, even earning a mention in Charles Dickens’ The Daily News. Six months later, over 40,000 people flocked to the Crystal Palace to see Hawkins’ sculptures. Today, these models are Grade I listed, with funding allocated for their renovation—though, alas, no dinosaur dinner parties are planned for this New Year.
But here’s the question that lingers: Was Hawkins a pioneer of public science engagement or a master manipulator of media? His blend of art, science, and spectacle undeniably bridged the gap between academia and the public, but did his methods cross the line into sensationalism? Let us know your thoughts in the comments—was this a triumph of education or a clever publicity stunt? The philosophic mirth, it seems, is far from over.
