There were two exhibits which struck my boyish imagination: one the great crystal fountain in the centre of the building—the sun was shining gloriously, charming all the jewels of the world into the plashing water—it seemed to me a dream of beauty. The other was Koh-i-Nur, in the cutting of which the great Duke of Wellington took so much interest; its fire has now been eclipsed by the mightier light of that wonder-stone, the Cullinane diamond, but the poetry of its story remains now, as it was then, one of the great traditions of the gorgeous East, reaching back into legendary times, when there were still Afrits to do the bidding of King Solomon. No stone newly found in the blue earth of Africa can dim the magic halo of Eastern romance, or blur the succession of pictures which the crystal-gazer should see in the mystic depths of the Mountain of Light—all the glamour of “the thousand nights and one.” But it is idle to talk of this or of that exhibit, or even of many. There were things beautiful, and things hideous, for art at that moment had sunk very low; but the general effect of beauty and airy grace, together with the delicate framework and brilliancy of the whole structure, was indelible—unlike its more modern successors its size was not so great as to prevent one from gaining a general impression of the whole, and that was a joyous, sensuous revelling in a palace of light. Even those whom I remember scoffing at the idea when it was first mooted were compelled to admit that it was a great conception nobly carried out; it was a triumph of which the present Crystal Palace gives no conception. The transfer to Sydenham and the increase in size seemed at once to vulgarize it. Great were the joys of the Exhibition! but there were greater yet in store for me in the first sight of the richly fabled Rhineland, where, after a few happy days in London, I was to join my father. Those were times when the “Pilgrims of the Rhine” wandered through a realm of romance and poetry untouched by the vulgar hand of utilitarianism. The air that we breathed was as pure, as nipping, and as eager as that which many centuries ago floated round the Dragon’s rock and the eyrie from which the brave Roland looked down upon the island convent—the prison of all that he held dearest upon earth.