created and destroyed in my mind; but of all the conceptions I formed none equalled the reality. The fairy structure was the greatest curiosity connected with the display. It was sublime in every feature, and gorgeous in its grandeur. Harmony was blended in its proportions, and beauty and symmetry in its lines and airy form. It possessed magnitude without the power to weary; and magnificence with simplicity. The lofty and imposing transept was a noble feature of the structure, and the lengthened naves died away in perspective like sweet music softly floating into distance.

It would be vain to attempt a detailed description of the great attractions of the display. The vast edifice was converted into a receptacle of the products of man's ingenuity and skill; and there was scarcely an article of elegance and invention known, but was represented there. India and China contributed specimens of the gorgeous fabrics of the eastern loom; and the far islands of the sea sent their manufactures. Egypt, Syria, Persia, Arabia, and the once Holy Land, but now the Moslem's home, exhibited the skill of their respective peoples in arts and works of beauty. Austria showered exquisite gems in profusion before the eye of the beholder; and tasteful France spread out lavishly the splendid products of her looms, her genius, and her cunning hand. Every country in the civilized or half-civilized world displayed its manufactures; and the combined collection constituted, in itself, a tangible history of the industry, ingenuity, and productive skill of man for ages.

From the hour of admission in the morning until the heavy bell proclaimed the time for closing the aisles, the galleries and the halls of the spacious edifice were thronged with human beings, intent upon the glories of the place, and absorbed in the splendors of the display. Seventy, eighty, yes! even one hundred thousand beings were assembled there on one day; and the noise of their voices and movements went up like the roar of the sounding sea. Order reigned supreme; all was peace, all cheerfulness and entranced attention. The sunlight streamed in subdued rays through the crystal vault, and fell sweetly on fabrics rich as gold or of Tyrian purple dye. The products of the chisel adorned the aisles and naves; and fountains sent up tides of gushing waters. The richest works of man were arranged in profusion, and the immense palace had the appearance of a creation not of earth.

A view of surpassing grandeur was spread before him who gazed down from the transept galleries on the moving mass below. The great arch sprang like a silver bow aloft, while the symmetrical naves swept softly away into dim distance. Along the sides of the galleries, like the gay banners of a countless host, hung the most gorgeous and costly products of the loom, and the eye feasted on their glorious hues, and took in their beauties; and glanced over the busy mass below, mingling and commingling in apparent confusion, yet moving and changing without discord, or tumultuous sound. Colossal figures in bronze, splendid groups in marble, exquisite fountains and classic temples encountered the sight in its range, and carried the mind captive with the magnitude and sublimity of the display. Viewed from such a point, the crystal palace exhibited a scene of unparalleled grandeur, and exceeding splendor, and left its impress indelibly upon the soul. Its very magnificence awed the mind, and defied the power that would attempt its representation by words; the painter's art quailed before it, and when the imitation came from his hands, it was but the dead, cold shadow of the once triumphant and gorgeous reality.

Such an exhibition of the skill of man was never witnessed before, and many cycles must roll on ere another can be accomplished. The English people are content with the one, and take the glory of its conception and successful termination to themselves, fully satisfied with the result, and with the honors it yielded.

My visits to it were frequent, and always rewarded with pleasure. The last time I was there, I lingered until the close of the day, and felt reluctant to bid farewell. The great organ in the eastern nave was filling the magnificent pile with tides of melodious sound, and nearly seventy thousand souls listened to its tones. After performing a number of sacred compositions, the organist drew from the tubes of his powerful instrument the thrilling notes of England's national anthem, "God save the Queen;" and as the sounds quivered in the air, and began to roll in waves through the aisles of the vast edifice, the voices of seventy thousand human beings were blended with them, and rang like a wild hallelujah of praise to heaven. Each individual sang as if his soul were in the strain, and the enthusiasm of the throng heightened the grandeur of the incident, and sublimity of the hymn. The chorus ceased with the words, but the sounds still waved and rolled through the nave and transept, until, like softly beating surges of a subsiding sea on the sandy shore, they died in gentle murmurs in the far distance; and then, as the assemblage departed, darkness and silence resumed their reign.

CHAPTER IX.

RAMBLES AND REFLECTIONS IN LONDON.

THERE are innumerable places in the great city made celebrated for having been the residences of renowned men, and the stranger, curious about such things, can frequently employ his time advantageously by looking them out. Who that is acquainted with English literature would not like to see the spot whereon Will's Coffee-House stood, or the walls which sheltered Goldy and the other members of the Club? Some of the old houses have been removed long since, but their localities are distinctly marked to this day, and there is pleasure in knowing that you have been at the precise spot. Button's, and Will's, and Tom's, were all near each other, on Russell Street, Covent Garden, and I took the trouble to indulge my prying propensities, and seek out their celebrated localities. Will's is now a gin-palace, and not remarkable either for good liquor or genteel company. It is at, or near the corner of Bow Street and Russell Street; but the people in the immediate neighborhood know nothing of its former celebrity, nor is the landlord aware that it was in time past the most popular resort of great men in London. Tom's is the house on the north side of the street, No. 17. At present it is occupied by a provision-dealer, and he appears to know nothing of its history. There are two pedestals over the shop front, on one of which is a bust of one of the Roman Emperors -the other being vacant. Reference is frequently made to this house in the writings of distinguished men in the days of Queen Anne, and it was in it that Pope's "Essay on Criticism" was first published. On the other side of the street, almost facing the house just named, is the site of Button's Coffee-House, once the resort of Pope, Addison, Colley Cibber, Ambrose Phillips, and others equally distinguished. The house took its name from one Button, who had been a servant in the family of the Countess of Warwick, and continued to be a resort of the wits of the day until Addison's death. It is now scarcely ever looked for, and the pork butcher who occupies it cares nothing about its former celebrity. Will's, however, was the most famous place of its day, and I felt angry to see it converted into a shop for the sale of gin and ale by the pennyworth. Great Dryden was wont to resort there, and all the bright intellectual stars of his time shone brilliantly within those walls; but now things are changed, and low women, grimy sweeps, and coal-dealers drink their "half-andhalf" in the desecrated hall of Will's Coffee-House. The neighborhood is no longer fashionable as a residence, nor does the world-renowned Covent Garden Theatre attract large audiences at this time. It is called the Italian Opera, and no longer echoes to the plays of Shakspeare or his celebrated followers.

New Bond Street was once the great fashionable residence, and it was at Long's Hotel, in that street, that Byron and Scott met for the last time. Moore and his friend, the author of "Childe Harold," used to dine frequently at Stevens's Hotel, in the same thoroughfare, and as both houses are still standing I had the curiosity to look them out. Old Bond Street is still more celebrated than its modern namesake, it having been the place in which many of the distinguished of former days resided.

Sterne, the author of "Tristram Shandy," lived and died in that street, at what was called in his day "The Silk-Bag Shop." The house is now in the occupancy of a cheesemonger, who spurns a knowledge either of the immoral parson or his works. If my memory serves me correctly, it was in Old Bond Street that Boswell lived when he gave a supper to Johnson and others of the Club, at which Goldsmith made his appearance in the famous blossomcolored coat his biographers tell us about. The house is not known, and I found it useless to hunt the locality. These remarks call to mind a visit I made to the graveyard of Temple Church, off Fleet Street, near Temple Bar. Goldsmith was buried there in a common grave; but, as there was no stone raised upon the spot, his last resting-place is unknown. Others, total strangers to fame, lie around, and lengthy inscriptions on the slabs which cover their tombs record who rest below; but the man, who was really great and good, sleeps the endless sleep in the heart of a great city, and not one can point out the place of his grave. Many seek it, but none find! The honorary tomb in Westminster Abbey is a mockery, when one is made acquainted with these facts. Some admirers of the bard have placed a beautiful marble tribute to his memory, in the vestry of Temple Church, on which is engraved the following :

This Tablet,

recording that

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Died in the Temple on the 4th of April, 1774,
and was buried in the adjoining

churchyard,

was erected by the Benchers
of the

Hon. Society of the Inner Temple,

A. D. 1837.

This is something for poor Goldy, and although none can tell his last resting-place, the pilgrim from distant lands can see that his memory is cherished by those who dwell near his forgotten grave! The poet lived and died in the building No. 2, Brick Court, Middle Temple, near by his last resting-place; and immediately under the rooms he occupied, lived Sir WM. BLACKSTONE, the great lawyer. I went into the house and looked around, but saw nothing worthy of remark. It is secluded