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,—