amidst a wood between “a river and a well,” continuing for three months,—
“From early rising of the sun
Until the day was spent and done.”
The coincidence between these parts of the poet’s dream and the reality of 1851, with respect to the place, the Palace, the regal personages, and the period of the year, is singular enough: it is one of those remarkable exploits of thought, which appear sometimes in the form of reproductions of the past, and sometimes in the form of anticipations of the future,—exhibiting the counterpart of far distant things, now on the page of history, then in poetic strains, and again in the records of science—likenesses between what has been and what is, apparently without any connexion whatever: likenesses which baffle the effort to explain the law of their occurrence, and which seem to indicate the existence of unfathomable sympathies between minds in ages present and remote, and suggest to us yet once more the oft-told truth that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy. What was the precise form and fashion of the structure Chaucer pictured in his charmed isle we cannot tell; but we question whether, even in his boldest dreams, he ever saw aught so marvellous as that which the people of all lands are flocking, or will flock, to see in our Hyde Park the present summer. Chaucer was not ignorant of the ways of building in the age in which he lived, for he was appointed clerk of the works at Windsor Castle, in the year 1390; but assuredly, among all the plans which were ever suggested by his genius, or adopted by his judgment, as capable of being reduced to realities, such a thing as the grand transparent Hall of Industry never entered his mind.
It may indeed be said, that every beautiful work of art was once a dream,—it floated in the imagination before it was fixed and made visible by the hand. A picture by Corregio or Rubens is a painter’s dream transferred to canvass. The Apollo Belvidere is a sculptor’s dream carved in marble. Milton’s “Paradise Lost” is a poet’s dream committed to paper. Strasburg Cathedral is an architect’s dream built up in stone. Thousands of strange images arise in artistic minds which of necessity never find expression in any actual work; some, also, worthy of being set in ripe and lasting fruit, perish in the blossom: but all the great productions of ancient and modern times assuredly constitute a harvest, of which the seeds were only dreams. To whatever order of genius the origin of the Crystal Palace belongs, it certainly embodies a beautiful dream, which in a happy hour lighted on the fancy of Mr. Paxton. It was shaping itself into form during the few days he thus describes:
“It was not until one morning when I was present with my friend Mr. Ellis, at an early sitting in the House of Commons, that the idea of sending in a design occurred to me. A conversation took place between us, with reference to the construction of the New House of Commons, in the course of which I observed that I was afraid they would also commit a blunder in the building for the Industrial Exhibition. I told him that I had a notion in my head, and that if he would accompany me to the Board of Trade, I would ascertain whether it was too late to send in a design. Well, this was on Friday, the 11th of June. From London I went to the Menai Straits, to see the third tube of the Britannia Bridge placed, and on my return to Derby, I had to attend some business at the Board-room, during which time, however, my whole mind was devoted to this project; and, whilst the business proceeded, I sketched the outline of my design on a large sheet of blotting-paper. Having sketched this design on blotting-paper, I sat up all night until I had worked it out to my own satisfaction.”
Thus was created in the inventor’s mind an image of his work, with a rapidity precursive of the speed with which the work itself has since been realized. The dream grew up and bore its ripened fruits in a few hours: the Industrial Palace, in a few months, has attained its full perfection; so that, as if by miracle, it now looks like the old fig-tree,—
“Such as at this day to Indians known—
In Malabar or Deccan, spreads her arms,
Branching so broad and long, that on the ground
The bending twigs take root, and daughters grow
About the mother tree; a pillar’d shade,
High overarch’d, and echoing walks between.”
We do not know whether Mr. Paxton possesses what is generally understood by a poetic mind; but, certainly, no one who has gazed on the stupendous structure erected in Hyde Park, according to his plan, but must feel that a poetical idea there stands expressed. So gigantic in its dimensions, simple in its form, and graceful in its details, it awakens a sense of vague wonder, which, on a careful survey of the object exciting it, subsides into calm, intelligent admiration. It inspires a curiosity to examine into the parts and proportions of so strange an edifice—into the minute and delicate filling up of so bold an outline; and commends itself to the taste and judgment of the spectator, as it spreads out before his eye, like the pages of a volume, and reveals, on close inspection—
—“The subtle shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margin of such books.”
Seen a little while ago, as the morning vapours rolled round its base,—its far stretching roofs, rising one above another, and its great transept, majestically arched, soaring out of the envelope of clouds, its pillars, window-bars, and pinnacles enamelled with rich hoar-frost, the trees around it all sparkling with the same bright ornament,—the structure looked literally a castle in the air, like some palace, such as one reads of in idle tales of Arabian enchantment, having about it all the ethereal softness of a dream,—being itself “the fabric of a vision,” rather than a structure of solid and enduring material. Looked at from a distance at noon, when the sunbeams come pouring upon the terraced and vaulted top, it resembles a regal palace of silver, built for some eastern prince; when the sun at eventide sheds on its sides his parting rays, the edifice is transformed into a temple of gold and rubies; and in the calm hours of night, when “the moon walketh in her brightness,” the immense surface of glass which the building presents, looks like a sea or lake throwing back in flickering smiles the radiant glances of the queen of heaven. Ever does it repose in its strong, though not stone-built, foundations—the very image of beauty and strength.