Exhibition. We are not learned in jewels;
but it appeared to us that these panels are
quite as pretty as the Queen of Spain's jewels;
and that neither the one nor the other is half
so pretty as the convolvulus in the wine-glass,
or the half-open lily, or drooping fuchsia, on
many a screen or paper-knife in the colouring
room.

There is something to be said about the
forms, as well as the colouring of these
beautiful productions. Those who have seen
the contributions of this firm to the Exhibition
will not be surprised to hear that such
men as Bell the sculptor, and Redgrave the
painter, are employed in its service. The
Oriental chair at the Exhibition is a marvel
for beauty of form, ease to the lounger,
splendour of decoration, and—as we learned
while viewing the model—difficulty of production.
It is said to be unique: but it will
probably not be so for long; for orders from
Eastern potentates are flowing in fast. Mr.
Redgrave has transferred to trays the
convenience of horse-shoe tables. Instead of the
painful sight of waiters holding trays of wine
and cake at a long stretch, supporting the
inner edge against their bodies, we shall now
see them in a state of ease, if not an attitude
of grace. The inner rim of the wine and
fruit tray is now cut out, so that the whole
tray presents the arc of a circle projecting
towards the guest, and relieving the waiter
from his strained attitude. At each corner is
a little pit, sunk to contain the decanter.

From end to end of the show-room of this
manufacture, there is a refinement of
convenience as well as of beauty, which would
make one ashamed, but for the evidence
presented throughout, that the luxury is not
confined to the rich, even now, and that it is
likely to descend more and more abundantly
into humble homes. The truest beauty—that
which is natural—ought to cost nothing:
beauty of form ought to be had as cheap as
ugliness. The humblest cottage may as easily
be well-proportioned as not; and the cheapest
tea-tray will soon be of as convenient and
graceful a form as the most cumbrous. It
may be of plain black, with a simple coloured
or gilt border, instead of being painted with
flowers, or inlaid with gems; but it will be
ornamental from its form, and will drive
out for ever the yellow tiger, and pink
and green shepherdesses of a grosser time.
At a more removed, but already-promised
period, we, or the next generation, may see
the inkstand or writing-desk in the cottage-window,
or on the bureau, where the pen has
scarcely yet found its way. If we can but see
this, we shall willingly let unique Oriental
chairs go to Persia, and sixteen-guinea
chess-tables to India, satisfied with our humbler
share in the improvements of the arts of life.
We may even look without envy on our
Norwegian neighbours, if we see them line their
churches with papier-mâché. There is a
church actually existing, near Bergen, which
can contain nearly one thousand persons. It
is circular within, octagonal without. The
relievos outside, and the statues within, the
roof, the ceiling, the Corinthian capitals,
are all of papier-mâché, rendered waterproof,
by saturation in vitriol, lime-water, whey,
and white of egg. We have not yet reached
this pitch of audacity, in our use of paper;
but it should hardly surprise us, inasmuch
as we employ the same material in private
houses, in steamboats, and in some public buildings,
instead of carved decorations and plaster
cornices. When Frederick the Second of Prussia
set up a limited papier-mâché manufactory at
Berlin, in 1765, he little thought that paper
cathedrals might, within a century, spring out
of his snuff-boxes, by the sleight-of-hand of
advancing art. At present, we old-fashioned
English, who haunt cathedrals, and build
churches, like stone better. But there is no
saying what we may come to. It is not very
long since it would have seemed as impossible
to cover eighteen acres of ground with glass,
as to erect a pagoda of soap bubbles; yet the
thing is done. When we think of a psalm
sung by one thousand voices pealing through
an edifice made of old rags, and the universal
element bound down to carry our messages
with the speed of light, it would be presumptuous
to say what can and what can not be
achieved by Science and Art, under the training
of steady old Time.

A SULTAN'S WARNING.

IN days now past, (why need we name the year?
For good men and good deeds rest not on Time,
But are as orbs, perfect within themselves,
And firmly hung on their own central strength,)
A Sultan—of the many-steepled town,
Stamboul, that looks across the narrow straits
Tow'rds Asia and the lands of morning—felt
The time had come for shaking the thick blood
Of high-fed empire, which had, from repose,
Engender'd humours knotty and corrupt,
Whereof the body languish'd, keeping yet
A sort of insolent pretence of health,
Which was, in truth, though fair to outward show,
The hectic fever-flush of luxury.
These things the Sultan fiercely weeded out;
Whereat the nobles murmur'd; and the priests
(As men who feel an earthquake's gathering throbs
Under their feet, even in the Temple) shriek'd
Prophecies of the ending of the world.

    Death found the Sultan eager at his work,
And bore him off into the idle grave;
But the young monarch who succeeded him
Kept the same path, moveless and strong as Fate ,
So that, to sight of priests and noblemen,
A glaring phantom, with a scimitar,
Over the land stood imminent and huge.

    One morning the new Sultan knelt in pray'r
Before his father's sepulchre; when, just
As earth dropp'd outward, and his spirit hung
In vasts of space, 'twixt starry Eden-worlds,
He heard a voice within the cavernous vault,