PART I.

THE POET’S DREAM.

“The bard beholds the work achieved, And, as he sees the shadow rise Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mini conceived.”

KIRKE WHITE.

FIVE centuries ago there might have been seen in the streets of old London, one of those gifted mortals who are now and then sent into the world by the Father of spirits, to stamp their name upon the age in which they live, and to enshrine its memory amidst the splendours of their own genius. With a deep and luminous insight into the scenes of nature, the works of art and the ways of men, did there look forth from those large bright eyes of his a poetic soul of an order high and rare. As he passed along the highways of his native city, to which he tells us he had “more kindly love, and fuller appetite than to any other place on earth,” he was gathering materials for a living picture of his times; or rather forming a photograph representation of men around, catching in the magic mirror of his verse the evanescent forms and colours, lights and shades, of our Proteus-like humanity, and there retaining them in stedfast imagery for ever.

Chaucer, though unhappily as a writer not free from moral blemishes, was, like Hogarth, the great historic painter of his age, sketching not armies in battle, or parliaments in conclave, but a people in their costume and intercourse, their business and pastime, their private habits and daily life. In turning over the black-letter volume of his works, we see and hear our ancestors, and talk with them. It is as if the very glance of the eye, the quivering of the lip, and the tones of the voice, had by some strange process been preserved by this wonder-working artist.

But Chaucer often passed beyond the sphere of contemporary realities. The lore of chivalry he was accustomed to weave into a rich tapestry of verse; and ideal realms, and groups of visionary beings, he was wont to sketch with the power and beauty of a Fuseli. It was in one of the playful flights of his untiring fancy, that he touched on scenes and objects strangely associated with the occasion of this little book;—it occurs in a poem, well known as “Chaucer’s Dream.” Throughout the wild revellings of his genius, which he has recorded in that production, it would be beside our present purpose to follow him. The general plot and machinery of the tale are in the extravagantly symbolic spirit of the age,—utterly unlike what could happen at any period, and not at all entering within the range of our conceptions now. In the nineteenth century a poet’s strangest vision would not be like his. But amidst associations out of all congruity with modern times did the bard we have described fashion out a picture, almost the counterpart of what we have lived to witness embodied in the actual work of men. He “had a dream which was not all a dream.” He imagined, standing on an island, a structure, whose wall and gate were “all of glass:”

“And so was closed round about, That leaveless none came in or out— And of a suit were all the towers, Subtilly carven, after flowers Of uncouth colours, during aye— That never been, or seen, in May.”

This island of the Crystal Palace he represents under the sovereignty of a beautiful lady, who becomes wedded to a royal knight, and he describes a festival celebrated in tents on a large plain, by

“The Prince, the Queen, and all the rest,”

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.

The antecedent of this great work—the parent construction, of which it is the offspring, nobler than its sire—had more than a dash of poetry about it. The building we refer to is the glass conservatory at Chatsworth, contrived for the preservation of the gigantic water-lily, found on new-year’s day, 1837, on the river Berbice, in Demerara, and sent to England by sir Robert Schomburgh. The arrival of the extraordinary plant, with its six-foot leaf, shaped like an elegant salver, and adorned with broad rims of green and crimson, was warmly welcomed by that patron of botanical science, the duke of Devonshire, and forthwith committed to the charge of Mr. Paxton, then and still the scientific and tasteful horticulturist-in-chief at the far-famed paradise of the Peak. Improving upon all his former improvements in the arrangement of glass-houses, he contrived a fitting receptacle for this new specimen of the western flora, surnamed the “_Victoria Regia_,”—and “so well had everything been prepared for its reception, that it flourished as vigorously as if it had been restored to its native soil and climate. Its growth and development were astonishingly rapid, for on the 9th of November a flower was produced a yard in circumference. In little more than a month after the first seeds ripened, some of them were tilled; and on the 16th of February succeeding, young plants made their appearance. The extraordinary lily obeyed nature’s law of development with such unexpected rapidity, that it outgrew the dimensions of its home in little more than a month.” This circumstance gave rise to a new conservatory of much greater extent, out of which has grown the idea of the present, and much vaster one, for receiving the world’s industry—one which throws its predecessor into the shade, and which, in addition to its other wonders, included within its vitreous walls some fine old trees, above a hundred feet in height.

To return again to Chaucer; we cannot help thinking how much there is in this glass palace, and in what is connected with it, which would have seemed even to his credulous fancy, more strange and startling than any dream. Whence all the glass could come, needful for a building composed chiefly of such material, and of length more than quadruple that of St. Peter’s Abbey at Westminster, would have sorely puzzled our architect and poet to divine, in days when glass windows were so little used, that his great contemporary, William of Wykeham, who built Windsor Castle, was hard put to it to find twelve glaziers to do the work there, and actually had to _press_ men into the service from different counties! The unity of principle, too, pervading the whole construction—everything in the great building being a dividend or multiple of twenty-four {14}—so different from the bold, yet not inharmonious, irregularity of the cathedrals, churches, and castles which Chaucer had seen; and the variety of uses sub-served by one and the same member of the edifice; columns serving the purpose of water-drains, and the floor being at once a ventilator and a dust-trap, securing conveniences of which he never thought, and strangely different from the cumbrous contrivances employed for such simple and necessary ends as were then contemplated,—would have startled and discomposed him with a long-enduring surprise. And, then, the haste with which the beautiful dream has been wrought out into well-compacted wood and glass and iron, the few months taken for its completion—rapid as the growth of the _Victoria Regia_; and the thousands of men engaged in its erection,—the preparation of the parts before they were brought together,—the strange machinery employed in the preparation,—the fact of the structure serving as a scaffold for itself—and the small expense of the whole, not amounting to more than one halfpenny per cubic foot,—these items in the history of the building would surely have made him open his eyes and lift up his hands in wild astonishment.

But the strangeness of the dream ends not here. We must think of what is included within this vast area, what is exhibited in its long aisles and galleries where are gathered and arranged the productions of every art in every clime—arts which five hundred years ago had no existence, and climes then undiscovered. Articles, a list of which will fill a portly volume; the handiwork of man and woman in every sort of usable material. Works of strength and skill for necessity and convenience—for comfort and luxury—for ornament and display—things carved, and moulded, and woven—vast and minute, bold and elegant, simple and elaborate, running through all the conceivable departments and grades of inventive industry! Groups, heaps, masses of all manner of cunning work!

And the whole of the contents in this hive of the world classified according to the clime from which they come! At the extreme east of the edifice one sees the productions of America, our young and ardent rival in ingenious toil. Next are the fruits of rising art in Russia, with specimens of skilful labour sent by Norwegians and Swedes. There are found rich stores from the shops of German craftsmen. The Zollverein exhibits its treasures in close vicinity to these; and beyond are seen contributions from the provinces of Austria. The Dutch, the Belgic, and the French vie with each other further on; and close to them, Portugal, Spain, and Italy also appear in friendly contest for the palm of pre-eminence. Switzerland, in the contiguous space, spreads out her various wares, beside which Brazil and Mexico deposit their rich freights; and then Egypt, Turkey, China, Greece, Persia, and Arabia, in close neighbourhood, exhibit a harvest of oriental taste. Crossing the transept, at once a garden and a refectory—where, beneath over-arching trees, and beside sparkling fountains, the spectator of this the world’s great horn of plenty may refresh himself with various delicacies—he is forthwith introduced to the products of the distant “Ind,” and the numerous ramifications of our colonial dependencies, to terminate at length this tour around the globe, performed under a case of glass, with a sight of the immense assemblage of our home manufactures, gathered from almost every town and village in the British Isles. Nine miles of table-room are thus passed in review; and it would require days and weeks to circumnavigate this epitome of the manufacturing world, and only to glance with anything like intelligence at the various divisions of its affluent stores. A traveller who has visited in detail the chief manufactories of European countries must feel himself to be in a kind of dream, when looking on these achievements of human industry brought together, not merely from the English provinces, and the European continent, but from the remotest regions of this and the other hemisphere. A dream, then, indeed, would it have seemed to the father of English poetry, with his limited knowledge of geography and art, could he have paced along these spacious alleys, lined with the peaceful spoils of all the earth.

The sight of these interesting objects is suggestive of important reflections. Imagining oneself left alone in the vast building—permitted to tread in silence the deserted halls—what musings might arise relative to themes awfully beautiful, which the giddy portion of the daily crowd within the walls have never entertained!

This repository of art, with all its varied contents, is the production of the human mind. Its constructive skill is singularly exhibited in the edifice itself; not such constructive skill as can be confounded with the instinct of the bird or bee, not a blind impulsive power; but a clear-eyed intelligence, which can survey, and consider, and contrive, and adapt, and fashion, according to the exigency of the case, in ways more various than art can classify. Of the power of human discovery, the detection of latent qualities in nature, a remarkable example is afforded in the history of the material out of which the building itself is chiefly wrought.—That the vitrification of sand and nitrium, noticed accidentally by the Phœnician mariners, according to the once generally received account by Pliny; or that some other occurrence at a much earlier period, as is now commonly believed, should have led men to perceive, in materials perfectly opaque, capabilities of transformation into a substance perfectly transparent; that out of dingy masses of mineral could be spread forth sheets of liquid diamonds, broad as the awning over the Coliseum at Rome; that it was possible to mould this brittle material, as if it were so much wax or clay; that, hard as rock, it might be blown into a bubble soft and light as a drop of water; that, white as the sunbeam, it could receive and retain all the dyes of the rainbow; constitute a series of marvels, forming but one out of a thousand chapters included in the annals of human discovery. The plastic power of the human mind is also here displayed in the almost infinitely diversified forms which, under its touch, the rude materials of nature have received. Timber and stone, cut into elegant shapes for useful purposes, or with astonishing truthfulness made to resemble the most delicate expressions of animated nature, even to the feather of a bird and the petal of a flower! Earth moulded by hand or machinery, and metals wrought or cast in a thousand mimic fashions!

Nor should we omit to notice, in these objects of art, a deep desire to embody in material things the _beau idéal_, to rise above the dull purpose of mere utility and convenience, to give a touch of beauty to the commonest aids and implements of life, to lift art to a lofty sphere, and to surround it with a brilliant halo. Man is seen as the lover of artistic perfection, tasking his powers to conceive and execute what shall at least approach a standard too lofty for him yet to measure, but of the existence of which he has the consciousness, deep though dim. He may be said to fight a battle with the obstinate resistance of material nature, and though oft defeated, still struggles for the victory! The spiritual takes possession of the physical, as a foreign realm, which it seeks to subdue to its own purposes. The _distinct essence_ of the soul is also asserted. Its attempt to rule over all around, and to enrich itself with the spoils of the conquered region, is not a contest with a co-ordinate and equal power, but it is the effort of a kingly nature so formed by God, created in his image, and inaugurated into regal office, at the beginning when the charge was given, “Replenish the earth and subdue it.” The superiority of the mind over all material nature is thus unequivocally proclaimed.

And amidst all this, does he not catch glimpses of things purer, nobler, and more enduring than the things of earth? Does he not feel at times that there are objects existing somewhere, incomparably more beautiful than any work of art? Has he not raised within him a conception of invisible and spiritual realms more wonderful than the material? And is there not also to be recognised, in the ambition of the artist who strives to produce a work which his admirers vainly call immortal, a strong craving for some after-existence—a flinching from the thought, that death is to put an end to all—a wish, at least, to impress some characteristic idea of his own on some portion or particle of the great whole of things, so that he may live by representation if not in consciousness.

Yet, while such musings on the works of men open up to us deeps of power and beauty in the soul, they only reveal a small division of the vast world of human nature. We visit but a single province of the intellectual realm: we leave unexplored the vast domains enriched by the growths of literature and science; while the emotions, social affections, moral feelings, and religious capacities of the soul remain untouched. No account is here taken of conscience, and of the capability of knowing, loving, and serving his Maker, which form the highest distinction of man’s nature. Yet even from our partial and limited view of the subject, we derive no slight conviction of the immortality of that nature to which such attributes as we have described belong. Great as may be the mystery of a future existence, most certainly the mysteries connected with the denial of this truth are greater still. It involves the supposition that what in nature, power, and capability is perfectly distinct from the material form in which it dwells, and by which it works, is to perish with it:—that the inmate is to die with the decay of his dwelling, the artist expire with the breaking of his implement;—that a being possessed of unbounded capacities of improvement is destined to advance only a few steps in his proper career, and then be arrested in his course for ever;—that a life of thought and feeling, which contains the germs of higher thoughts and feelings, awaiting, as essential to their full development, other influences than those which are shed on earth, is to be succeeded by eternal unconsciousness and oblivion;—and that a soul which finds in the present life a range too narrow for the full and vigorous scope of its nascent powers and feelings, is to be disappointed in its earnest longings and deep-seated hopes. It involves the supposition of a Divine design intimated, and then thrown aside—a Divine promise pledged and broken. The Great Architect would appear constructing a portico as if introductory to a magnificent temple, and then, suddenly stopping short in the work, breaking it down, and scattering its beauty in the dust.

The construction of the Crystal Palace, with its contents, is a monument to the superiority of mind over matter; and that superiority indicates some great destiny hereafter. Immortality rises upon the eye of reason in the hazy distance: but confidence in relation to the future state must come from another quarter, through the exercise of faith. “Life and immortality” are brought “to light through the gospel.”

Nor can we properly terminate reflections of this order without going back to the source and origin of mind. If the material universe bears witness to the existence and character of a Great First Cause; if “the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made;” if “the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork;” if the earth be full of his goodness; how much more does the soul of man, with all its capacities and powers, its intellect and genius, and, above all, its moral and religious susceptibilities, bear testimony to the being and attributes of the Creator. The marks of design in the mind of man, himself a designer, are more astonishing than those which we have in visible things. The power and beneficence of God, in giving us faculties of thought and susceptibilities of affection, appear with a plainness of expression even beyond what we discover in any of the material provisions for our comfort. While the whole universe is a volume in which God has, as it were, written down his thoughts, what page in it is so wonderful as the human mind? Whatever is great or beautiful in the imagination of man—whatever there is to admire in the works of his hands, fashioned according to the intellectual type within, must be traced up to the infinite source of intelligence, as its origin. Man has nothing which he has not received. What then must that unrevealed fount of beauty be, of which all the choice thoughts and beautiful imaginings of men from the beginning, however they have been expressed, are but as drops and spray!