transplanting operations. In August, 1748,
the Twickenham Prophet wrote to his Cousin
Conway, as a piece of extravagant fun—"I
lament living in so barbarous an age, when
we are come to so little perfection in gardening.
I am persuaded that, a hundred and
fifty years hence, it will be as common to
remove oaks a hundred and fifty years old, as it
is now to transplant tulip roots."

However, Mr. Paxton could do without
moving the venerable wood "on the shortest
notice" (as if it had been converted into
household furniture before its time). If the
Park authorities preferred, he would clap the
trees, all standing, under his great glass case.

But, alas! feasible as the plan appeared, it
was not to be thought of. The fiat of the
Building Committee had gone forth. The
competition of architectural skill invited by
the authorities had not produced one available
design. The first exhibition of the
Industry of the Architects of all Nations
had been pronounced a failure; and the fact
of the Building Committee having invited
tenders for the construction of a design of
its own, shut out fresh competitors.

One day, however—it was Friday, the
fourteenth of June—Mr. Paxton happened
to be in the House of Commons conversing
on this subject with Mr. Ellis, a member of
it, who accompanied him to the Board of
Trade to see what could be done. Then,
nothing could be done; for Mr. Paxton (who
is one of the busiest men in England—whose
very leisure would kill a man of fashion with
its hard work) was off immediately to keep
a special appointment at the tubular bridge
over the Menai. After his journey, the next
morning, the conversation with his friend,
the M.P., was clenched by another and
more than usually powerful burst of thunder
in that day's issue from Blackfriars. His mind
was made up; "and," said the Duke of Devonshire,
at a recent public meeting at Bakewell,
"I never knew Mr. Paxton resolve to undertake
what he did not fully accomplish." To
have engagements for every day in the week
in different parts of England and Ireland,
together with the management of the estates
at Chatsworth, did not much matter; there
was still time to be found for concocting the
plans and details of a few square acres of
building. Tuesday morning, the eighteenth
of June, found Mr. Paxton at Derby, seated—
as Chairman of the Works and Ways
Committee of the Midland Railway—to try an
offending pointsman. This was the first
leisure moment he had been able to secure
since he resolved to plan the great building.
At the end of the table stood the culprit;
and, upon it, before the Chairman, was
invitingly spread a virgin sheet of blotting-
paper. As each witness delivered his
evidence, Mr. Paxton appeared to be taking notes
with uncommon assiduity; and when the case
closed, one of his colleagues turned specially
to him, saying,

"As you seem to have noted down the
whole of the evidence, we will take the
decision from you."

"The truth is," whispered the Chairman,
"I know all about this affair already, having
accidentally learned every particular last
night. This" he continued, holding up the
paper, "is not a draft of the pointsman's case,
but a design for the Great Industrial Building
to be erected in Hyde Park."

The pointsman was let off with a fine, and
before evening the blotting-paper plan had
found its way into Mr. Paxton's office at
Chatsworth. By the help of that gentleman's
ordinary assistants, elevations, sections, working
details, and specifications were completed
in ten days.

When he made his next appearance at the
Derby station, at the end of that time, Mr.
Paxton had the complete plans under his
arm. There was not a minute to spare, for
the train was on the point of starting, and the
Royal Commissioners met the next morning;
so, taking his dinner in his pocket, he entered
a carriage. Here, to his extreme delight, he
found one of the greatest and most influential
engineers of the day—a member, moreover, of
the Royal Commission—who was going to
London by the same train.

"This is extraordinarily lucky!" he
exclaimed; "for I want you to look over a few
plans and a specification of mine."

Accordingly the plans were unrolled.
"There they are," said the impromptu architect;
"look them over, and see if they will do
for the great Building for eighteen hundred
and fifty-one!"

"For what?" asked the engineer, looking
at his friend with the serio-comic surprise of
incredulity.

"I am serious."

"But you are too late; the whole thing is
settled and decided."

"Well, just see what you think of them. I
am very hungry, and if you will run them
over while I eat my dinner, I'll not speak a
word."

"Neither will I disturb you, for I must
light a cigar; " and in spite of every regulation
in that case made and provided, the engineer
began to smoke.

There was a dead taciturnity; the Royal
Commissioner went over the plans slowly and
carefully; their originator narrowly watching
their effect on his mind. It was an anxious
moment for the one; for upon the opinion
of the other no little depended. At first
there was not much to augur from. The
drawings were scanned with no more than
business-like attention. No word of
commendation was uttered; no sign of pleasure
or surprise appeared. The smoke rose in
regular wreaths; but, presently, they grew
fainter and more intermittent, and by-and-
by the cigar went out; yet the suction was
continued as vigorously as ever. The
projector's hopes rose; his friend's attention