THE CRYSTAL PALACE OF 1851.

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V.

Visit to the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park-Sculpture and Jewels-The Royal Academy of 1851-Portrait of Mr. Wordsworth by Pickersgill-Supposed Tendency to Pantheism in the "Lines on Tintern Abbey."

To Miss FENWICK.

May 25th, 1851, Chester Place.-Dearest Miss Fenwick,Yesterday, for the first time, I visited the Crystal Palace, and ever since I have been longing for you to see it. Is it quite impossible for you to come up to me first, and see this interesting assemblage of works of art ? I saw so many Bath chairs, and invalids in them, so many, many degrees weaker than you or I. You could be wheeled about to everything with perfect ease, and there are several gentlemen, either of whom would delight to devote time to going about with us and showing us everything.

I had a perfect dread of the thing before I went, and would not have gone at all but to escape the perpetual question, "Have you seen the great wonder?" and "Do go with me. Do let me take you to see it." I would not go with any party, fearing that I should have to stay longer than my strength would allow. Yesterday, E. and I went under the care of Mr. D-; we stayed four hours, and I came away far less fatigued than I have often felt after half an hour in the Royal Academy. The difference arises from the freedom in walking about, and the freshness of the atmosphere. In this great conservatory or glass house, we are perfectly sheltered from all inclemency of weather, all too muchness of hot or cold, wind or sun, and under foot are smooth boards which do not try the limbs like the inequalities of street or road; and yet there is an openness and space, and free circulation of air such as was never enjoyed, I suppose, under cover before. I did not think to stay more than one hour, but four soon slipped away. We were lucky in meeting Lord Monteagle, who talked instructively to me

on the works of art, and pointed out a most graceful and beautiful piece of sculpture by Gibson, which I afterwards showed to friends whom I met, telling them at the same time of Lord Monteagle's criticism. . . . Lord Monteagle talked of little A—, and of his having enjoyed one of the greatest honours a mortal could obtain, in having been preferred to the hippopotamus! I dare say you may have heard the story of little A's choosing to see grandpapa, rather than to visit the zoological favourite new-comer.

*

At first I felt mortified to see how British art, in the high line of sculpture, appeared to be outdone by foreign,—all the striking pieces, and those which occupied the conspicuous places in the centre of the great middle aisle, being German, Italian, or French performances. The grandest thing in this way is an Amazon on horseback, about to spear a lioness, who has leaped upon her horse, and is trying to throttle it. The huntress sits back upon her steed, the right leg drawn up, the left extended on the other side below the belly of the horse, a superb tom-boy indeed. The piece is colossal. Then there are two fishing girls by Monti of Milan, most lovely, but quite real-life-ish, -not like Gibson's piece, which would be almost taken for a Greek antique, and there are such beauteous little babes in marble, one little fellow strapped to his cot, from which he is trying to rear himself up. But among the most striking performances are two groups by Lequesne: (1) A dog protecting a boy, about four or five years old, from a serpent; (2) the dog, having bitten off the serpent's head, caressed by the child. The contrast in the face of the dog when he is about to kill the serpent and when he has done the job, is most expressive; in the first group it is sharpened with anxiety, it looks almost like that of a wolf, full of horror and disgust at the noxious beast, and cautious determination. In the second, it is all abroad with com* By Kiss, a German sculptor.-E. C.

fortable, placid satisfaction, and affectionate good-nature. These, of course, are only a few in a crowd.

I was disappointed in the great diamond, even though I had heard that it disappointed every one. There is nothing diamondy in it that I can see, no multiplicity of sparkle, it looks only like a respectable piece of crystal. The two strings of large pearls of the East India Company are very fine, but I have some strings of large mock pearl which look almost as well, and they can be imitated still more nearly. The huge emeralds, too, look rather glassy. Of all the works of art adapted to the uses of domestic life, the most exquisite is the Gobelin tapestry; in our noblemen's palaces and houses there is nothing like it. The bunches of flowers are more delicate and brilliant than any painting I ever saw. The carved wood furniture is very fine, but in that department the English equal the French, except in one sideboard, supported by four hounds, which is the most elegantly magnificent thing I ever saw. The grand beds, too, are very grand. The crowd was far greater yesterday than it ever was before, and what it will be on the shilling days I know not. It was fine to look down from the galleries, and see such a vast mass of human beings all in motion, enjoying themselves, and animated. Everybody looked pleased and comfortable.

The picture exhibition, too, is worth seeing. I like Watts' portrait of Mr. Taylor much, and there are beautiful portraits of Gibson, the sculptor, and a lady by Boxall. Eastlake's Hippolita is very beautiful, but too pinky. Pickersgill's portrait of our dear departed great poet is insufferable-velvet waistcoat, neat shiny boots-just the sort of dress he would not have worn if you could have hired him and a sombre sentimentalism of countenance quite unlike his own look, which was either elevated with high gladness or deep thought, or at times simply and childishly gruff, but never tender after that fashion, so lackadaisical and mawkishly sentimental.

Dr. Wordsworth's apologizing in the "Life," for the "Lines on Tintern Abbey," seems to me injudicious. Those great works of the Poet's vigorous mind must stand for themselves; it is on them, I believe, that Wordsworth's fame will rest, and by them he must be judged.

But why admit for a moment that they might be accused of Pantheism, or that Wordsworth might, had he not written in a different spirit late in life? If they had really proceeded from a Pantheistic view, they ought to have been suppressed if possible. Their beauty and power ought not to have saved them; this would give them influence,—add wings to the poisoned shaft. But there is no such thing as Pantheism truly imputable to them.

To E. QUILLINAN, ESQ.

VI.

Intellectual Tuft-hunting.

1851.-A parent cannot say to a son, "You must never form an intimacy except with decidedly superior men." There would be a sort of intellectual tuft-hunting in this, which could not lead to good, for man is a very complex animal, and cannot be determined in his movements and procedure by one part of his nature without regard to the rest, and our connections arise from many influences, all of which cannot be given an exact account of.

VII.

The Bears of Literature-Margate-Bean-fields and Water Companies -Leibnitz on the Nature of the Soul-Materialism of the Early Fathers-Historical Reading-Scott's Novels.

TO AUBREY DE VERE, Esq.

3, Zion Place, Eastcliff, Margate, June 20th, 1851.—I have delayed writing to you more as reserving a pleasure, than postponing a time-consuming task, for the subjects which you invite me to investigate with you are so interesting to my mind that a letter to you is always a high entertainment

EDITORS AND REVIEWERS.

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to myself, whether or no to you it be a treat so far as it is a treatise, or only acceptable as a personal communication. I ought to have written sooner, however, to express my grateful delight in what you have undertaken on behalf of dear Hartley's poetry. It is painful to think of your composition being cut. and slashed and squeezed and ground, and perhaps inlaid and vamped by editorial interference. Still, in any shape, the article will be very acceptable, unless more tampered with than I can believe probable; and even if aught unforeseen should prevent its appearance altogether, it would always be most agreeable to me to think of your having written it. I should like to see your composition in its original virgin state, like the gadding vine or well-attired woodbine, free and luxuriant in kindly remark and beauty-finding criticism. An editor of a critical review ought to be painted with a pruning-hook in his hand as big as himself, and an axe beside him, just ready to fall edge foremost upon his own foot,-only that it would tantalize one to see it always suspended. There's a piece of savagery! The foot ought to be represented as rough as that of a bear, and clumsy as the pedestal of an elephant, to denote the rough clumsy way in which those ursine editors go ramping and ravaging about the fairest flowergardens. Don't you remember how C's great hoofs went plunging about in Tennyson's first volume, containing "Mariana," "The Miller's Daughter," and the "Ode to Memory," and "The Dying Swan," and "Enone," the loveliest and most characteristic things, to my fancy, that he ever wrote? Indeed, C's stamping down that pretty bed of heart's ease, Moxon's Sonnets, was shameful, and showed him fit to be chained to a post, or shut up with the guests of Circe, in a sty of tolerable accommodation and capacity, for the rest of his bearish and Grilline existence. All this indignation streams forth from me on the pressure of the mere thought of the treatment that your article is to