It is not so clear that we may depend upon hearing Signora Ortolani at the Academy.

Surely our readers will be glad to hear the praise of an old favorite, the blithe Beneventano, always prompt and ready to pour out upon the little house in Astor Place, even more voice than was required. Beneventano was the "realization" of a beatified baritone, when he was encored in the Carlo Magno chorus of Ernani.

"We are particularly happy to be able to say a hearty word of praise for Signor Beneventano, whom we may have seemed too little disposed to appreciate. On this occasion we shall not even take his legs in vain, but pronounce a decided opinion that his Riccardo is, on the whole, an admirable performance. In the beautiful airs with which the part is studded, he sang with marked discretion, and a delicacy for which we were not prepared, and in the famous Suoni la tromba his really noble voice, encouraged and excited by the alliance with Belletti, vibrated through the house with immense effect. If the duo was not audible at Bologna, it was powerful enough to shake the Austrian Empire to its base. We never heard it sung with more enthusiasm or with more success. After the curtain had fallen, the audience insisted on its repetition, and the two singers vied with each other in the power and intensity with which they declaimed in unison, ringing out the Liberte like the tocsin of awakened Italy. At Milan Libertà would have been pronounced Lealta.

New York has drawn an elephant, and cannot keep him in the back parlor. What shall be done with the Crystal Palace? It pleads for itself. It is the most beautiful building in New York. But what will you do with it? Like a princess born to a red republican, New York has always been perplexed with its lovely toy. The feeling that led to its erection was a foolish imitation of foreign enterprise. Then it had a wet President to open it; then Barnum inaugurated his falling fortunes with it; then it was a great, desolate, beautiful hall; and now, like a blind royal Belisarius, it stands upon the top of Murray Hill, and asks an alms of sympathy and interest.

Viewed from Our Window, it really

seems as if the free and enlightened must confess they made a miscalculation in blowing the beautiful bubble of Murray Hill.

They manage Worlds' Fairs better in the Old World than in the New. They make the great ones lasting institutions, and, while we are wondering over the fate of our Crystal Palace, the London palace grows into a permanent popular resort at Sydenham. Then they have constant smaller ones. The last is open now in Manchester. It is not a collection of everything, but limits itself to works of art. In a broad interpretation, says the Atheneum in a careful and elaborate notice, "it is a vast epitome of art, ancient and modern, the best of its kind ever attempted. Everything is to see, and nothing to sell. Rich tapestries deck the walls; Vandykes and Holbeins bloom above us; cases of ivories and bronzes, each worth a king's ransom, are piled on either side of us; trophies of Raphael ware, such as were heaped on the buffets of the Medici, delight our eyes on the right; on the left, the red and black vases of Etruria have been disentombed to again delight the living. Gold and silver are crowded in vases and flagons, till we seem to have all the wealth of Manchester incarnate before our gaze. Gems and porcelain, gilded armor, statuary, swell into one vast diapason of art, that has taken nineteen centuries and more to think out, to hew out, to shape out, and to bring together.

"It is at once humiliating and encouraging to think how little of this great encyclopædia Pericles saw, and how little Raphael beheld. Behind one, lies all mediæval art-behind the other, all the climax and results of the renaissance of classical art and the rise of the romantic and platonic schools of thinking. What nation but the English could let millions lie quiet in such luxuries? What provincial city but Manchester would have desired, or could have got together, or would have wished for, such a sight? It is as much as to say, 0 brothers! we are weary of this spiderspinning, this weaving thin lilacs and bluestriped stuffs for the men of Ashanteeweary of iron bars and such materialities -weary of ever-revolving wheels, and the jar and buzz of many-tiered factories. Give us finer results of a life; steel beaten to filagree-ivory fretted thin as a dra

gon-fly's wing-china frail and white as the lily's bell-and, above all, pictures, those magic results of oil, and earth, and canvas the grapple of Rubens, the cathedral twilight of Titian, the gentlehood of Vandyke, the saintliness of Correggio, the tenderness of Guido. The men of Manchester wished, and lo! the Exhibition!

"For beauty, this third Exhibition cannot be compared with that of the Park or that on the Hill, at Sydenham; it has not the great trees of the one, nor the hanging flowers and sprinkling fragrance of the other. It is not so crystalline and luminous, nor so transparent, nor is it such a Domdaniel of glass, as either. It is not musical with fountains, nor does it echo with the notes of birds. It is not an Indian bazaar nor a glass Louvre. Architectural art is scarcely visible, while at Sydenham it is the chief feature; Greek art is only seen here reflected through the minds of Gibson and Macdowell-at Penge Park it rules the eye, and turns the medieval into splay religious eccentricities. The three tubes : with the red and white brick front, and the flat shed-like wings, are sensible and pleasing, but not astonishing: the great hall, with its long slip of skylight overhead, and the neat transept and the two side galleries, do not lead the eye up, but drive it down on the three lines of statues that hem you in with beauty on either hand. The busts on the side-walls, the cases of the Soulages and Bernal collections, the water-color and engraving galleries, all lead up well to the great organ gallery at the west end. The bluish-gray coloring is clear and simple. The righthand gallery is devoted to modern pictures, beginning with Hogarth and going down-or rather up, as most think-to Landseer, Ward, and other living worthies. The left-hand gallery is devoted to the Old Masters, beginning "with the beginning," as Pantagruel wished the story told. Down the right and left side-walks of the great middle hall come the historical Portrait Gallery, beginning with Richard the Second and coming down to our own times. This is Mr. Peter Cunningham's province, while Mr. Scharf puts the Old Masters into order, and Mr. Egg draws up the moderns in rank and file, as nearly chronologically as may be. The centre of the great hall is devoted to cases of metal work and Ivories, china, armor, etc.; before these

comes the statuary, and here, too, is the Oriental court that Dr. Royle marshals, leaving Mr. Waring to the Soulages and Bernal collections, that are here too. Bronze vases, old chests and furniture are heaped about the glass-cases of smaller works and curiosities, and the galleries hold the photographs, engravings, and water-colors. Thus under one roof we see a complete epitome of art; we have the wayside block of marble, overgrown once with wild laurel, that some wandering Dædalus first toilsomely chipped into a fireside god-the rude picture that the Italian first called a saint and gilt and crowned-the iron shell of armor that by degrees grew a trophy of the engraver's art-the beautiful burned earth that the Chinese first shaped and hardened-the Indian's pennyworth of ivory that an Italian's lifetime turned into a casket worth its weight in jewels, the transforming, in fact, of a base thing, whether canvas, wood, steel, or clay, into a glorified and more spiritual creation."

So says John Bull, properly proud of his country, in the Athenæum, and adds the following account of some of the most striking contributions :

"Etty, whom Manchester may be said to have discovered, and which had the honor of fostering his genius, makes a splendid stand here. His women, with their voluptuous bosoms, raven hair, killing eyes, spaced out with driving blue skies, and scarlet draperies, and fruit and jewels, shine out here like lamps amid the quieter works of lower-toned men. His Satyrs and Nymphs' is gorgeous in its contrasts of brown and white skin. His 'Cleopatra on the Cydnus' is a prodigal eastern galaxy of color, with its adoring slaves and the diving girls; of thought not much, but a prodigality of artful contrasts and composition-the flying Cupids spoil it and turn it into mere allegory. Then there is the Storm,' a sort of Tom Moore fancy, and the 'Idle Lake,' two people swimming in an oyster shell, and the 'Sirens,' a fine imagination. Who can match his carnations-he the pink of painters? Wilkie is not so well represented. There is, however, his Ratcatchers,' Distraining for Rent,' The Jew's Harp, 'Guess my Name,' and ' Blind Man's Buff.' The Ratcatchers' is a small diploma picture, painted small because it was a gift.

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• The Distraining for Rent' is beautiful in its expression of the varieties of grief, from petulant scolding to the sleepy torpor of a despair. The touch, fairy-like and silvery, super-delicate often, but always true, precise, cool, and sure.

"A few interesting pictures preserve the memory of Turner. 'Saltash,' a deeptoned, wonderful piece of work, and a 'Sunrise on the Coast,' with a white burning sea and a blue film of haze, as delicious as if it had been distilled from the salvia blossom. To Turner a single pearl was a universe of color.

"Phillips has a portrait of Lord Thurlow, and Duncan the Entry of the Pretender into Edinburgh,' ghastly and almost putrid, as Scotch color generally is since Wilkie's day, but brimful of character--the barber frightened by the rush of the Lochaber axe-man, the old lord cheering, the pretty and hooded girls, are all excellent.

"Constable's dewy, speckled, shiny impasto, is well seen in a picture of his here, with a dull-colored rainbow and an earthy look about the grass. Mr. Mulready's pleasant Goldsmith feeling is shown in his 'Barber's Shop,' a heavy black picture, almost a caricature; his 'Forgotten Word,' which, below Etty's Jean of Arc,' and his 'Mercy interceding for the Vanquished,' perhaps the finest thing the York man ever did, are as refreshing as spring blue sky after winter rain. It is a pity Mr. Mulready's boys should all wear cinnamoncolored jackets, though it may be good for color. HisTraveling Druggist' is a good example of his larger style; the subject is good, and the sick boy's face excellent, though we wish he had been younger; but Mr. Mulready generally paints boys about fourteen. Here, too, we see his 'Haymaking,' that is, just a bit of one of Tennyson's Idyls, but dress and color a little sham.

"Of Sir E. Landseer we have a splendid specimen,-- There's life in the Old Dog yet,' a low-toned picture, but such a picture, such a block of a man's life and mind in it. The poor dog with a glazing eye and feeble gaze, the dead deer, the momentariness of the shock, the depth of the chasm, the gray slabs of table rock, the eager and business-like look of the gillie raise this picture to the highest rank. The visitor would do well, too, to compare

"Of Mr. Frith's grace, and witty, epigrammatic style of painting, now courtly as Chesterfield, now smart as a French grisette, there are some excellent specimens --a frame of pretty faces and The Highwayman.' Scene, the interior of a stagecoach; at the window, dark against the sky, looks in an ugly highwayman in a black mask with a suspicious-looking hole in it over the left temple. The barrel of his pistol shows what he wants. On one side, a pretty woman whitens and faints; at her side, a bragging officer betrays unmistakable fear, in spite of his sword; on the right is terror in other shapes. Through the window we see a lonely common, and a thief swinging from a gibbet. Never was story told better. Mr. Wallis's 'Death of Chatterton' and Mr. Goodall's Village Festival' are too well known to need praise at our hand; nor need we say much of Mr. Leslie's 'Death of Queen Catharine' or his famous scene of Uncle Toby and the Widow'-the last a delicious contrast of guile and innocence. The color in this picture is not, as is too common in Mr. Leslie's works, purply and decomposed.

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"The Pre-Raphaelites are not numerous, and we hope not from any jealousy. Mr. Millais has the twilight' Autumn Leaves,' and Mr. Holman Hunt his Claudio and Isabella,' the scene from The Two Gentlemen of Verona,' 'The Idle Shepherd,' and, we believe, a 'Scene from the Holy Land.' His almost fanatical earnestness, his religious labor, his marvelous finish, and exquisite yet speckled color may be seen here to great advantage.

"There is a great want of landscapes, perhaps owing to the choice depending upon one whose ambition lies in figures. Some Lees and Linnels stand first among the few we see. We should like to have seen specimens of the rising Pre-Raphaelite landscape-painters-Mr. Inchbold, for instance, whose exquisite finish we have often praised. We saw no Creswick, and men of lesser note should have had a place. We had forgot a fine Ferry' by Mr. Danby, very luminous and calming."

"The Raphael tapestry, for which Raphael executed his cartoons, bright still with needle-work colors, adorn the walls

of the side-gallery. The dilettante will have a rich treat, too, in the miscellaneous cases full of cinque-cento work of the costliest and most delicate kind. Here is one of fine locksmith's work of the best French and Italian periods. This Venetian coffer is covered with scrolls and leaves in low relief; the handle is partly of chiseled bronze. It is such a chest as Philip of Burgundy may have kept his deeds and blank charters in, and his red canceled ones, with the seals cut off, too. It seems a writing-desk. Beyond it is a chiseled lock, adorned with niches and small statues of Christ, St. John, and the Virgin. Who but a fairy blacksmith could have shaped it; for it has the crumbly prettiness of a cork model? The statuettes and canopies are superhumanly small and cleanly wrought; and here is another like it, but still richer, with flamboyant perforated work-the side-panels filled with rich tracery, and the canopies crocheted, pierced through with openings no larger than a needle could make-and yet wrought out by rude hands, that could slice a coat of mail open at a blow. Then come ruder wooden locks, with coarse keys; and then, for contrast, keys of the Medicean period, with the bow formed of figures of sirens, and with grace and expression, too, though so small; then there are gilded nymphs for watch-keys, and keys with the wards as fine as the teeth of a comb, astonishing you with the feeling of perverted and transmuted material of steel turned to ivory or horn.

"The chocolate-colored Wedgwoods we may class with the miscellaneous china. Agate ware, Peruvian pottery, brown Tygs tazzas, snuff-boxes, crowd upon the eye with a conflicting richness of colors-leaf-shaped dishes, nautilus-shaped tureens, terra-cotta vases, gold reflex water-bottles, help to fill one case, and make a rich show, that Palisy would have crawled to Cologne on hands and knees to see."

Here is evidently a Mecca to which the feet of all our Summer-pilgrims abroad will surely turn.

The English Government has abandoned the search for Sir John Franklin. But Lady Franklin will not believe that her husband may not be found, alive or dead. She asked for the loan of the Resolute, which

our Government returned to the English; but, failing to obtain it, she proposed to undertake the heroic service alone. Many eminent geographical and naval men support her faith as well as her hope by the public expression of their opinion, and copious pecuniary contributions to the "Lady Franklin's Search-fund." Sir Roderick Murchison gives a hundred pounds, Captain Barrow twenty-five, Rear-Admiral Beaufort, fifty, the Hon. Mrs. Fairholme, a hundred and fifty, and many others large

sums.

Lady Franklin has purchased the steameryacht Fox, the property of the late Sir Richard Sutton, and has given orders to have her strengthened for Arctic service. She will proceed to the Arctic Seas, viâ Barrow's Straits, during the present month of July, under the command of Captain M'Clintock, who will endeavor to reach the mouth of the Fish river, carefully examining the land and sea in that locality.

We find the following authentic account of this enterprise, in which all Americans must feel a peculiar interest:

"The plan of Lady Franklin's Arctic Expedition is now arranged. A glance at any recent map of the Arctic regions shows that nearly the whole area east and west of the outlet of the Fish river has been swept by Government searching expeditions. Apart, then, from the fact that Esquimaux reports point to a very limited locality where the great Arctic mystery lies concealed, we are warranted in hoping that a search within an area embracing not more than 370 miles of coast, may be rewarded by the discovery of the Erebus and Terror. Capt. M'Clintock proposes to make his way down Prince Regent's Inlet, and thence through Bellot's Strait to the field of search; or, should the ice permit, to proceed direct to it by going down Peel Sound, which he has good reasons for believing to be a strait. If prevented by the ice from passing through Bellot's Strait, or going down Peel Sound, he will abandon the idea of taking his ship through these channels, and, leaving her in safety in Prince Regent's Inlet, will proceed to search for the Erebus and Terror, by sledging parties, so successfully used in the late expedition, in conducting which Capt. M'Clintock particularly distinguished

himself.