thought of, and when the universal peace and
brotherhood glass palaces were mysteriously
supposed to bring with them were not quite
believed in, this "un-self-reliant" people had their
regular triennial exhibition ot manufactures,
on the French model. Further, that close on
the footsteps of the Hyde Park Exhibition
came the great one of Cork, and closer again
on the footsteps of Cork the really great Dublin
Exhibition of 1853, the building of which cost
nearly eighty thousand pounds, and which was
remarkable for the first international collection
of pictures, and for the first performance
of Handel on a colossal scale. Not content
with this, I am told that this people, who were
not self-reliant, went further, had two more
successful exhibitions on a smaller scale, and
have now finally girded themselves up for this
yet more complete effort of 1865. Not so bad,
this, for our poor wobegone sister with the Harp,
especially when we consider that our well-to-do
Scotch sister has not "fashed" herself with such
follies, justly considering the margin of profit
too uncertain or too slight to repay the trouble.
But this is a grim and statistical ungracious
view, not at all suited to this Dublin May
morning.

It is known then, on this gay Dublin May
morning, that the young prince, who in this
island has always been looked to with an
affectionate interest, has been in the city since
overnight, and out at the pretty lodge, which lies out
in the "Phaynix." Hence the flags and the
streamers. Hence, too, in front of the palace, the
balconies fringed with scarlet, and the softened
and melodious buzz of distant military music,
with the staff officers flying north and south, and
the regiments tramping by. But the flags grow
thicker, and the balconies gayer, and the music
more distinct, as I find myself at the corner of
the great place, or square, dedicated to St.
Stephen, which is a good mile's walking all round,
and near which I see the great building, with
the heavy porches and pillars, round which, and
over which, run delicately, the light entrance of
a Moorish-looking glass temple—a silver howdah
on the back of a grey elephant. Such is the
rather novel design for this last comer in the
long series of exhibitions.

After all the miles of glass greenhouse, and
the long protracted repetitions of gorgeous
decorated pillars and girders, I cannot but think
what a happy combination this is of solidity and
lightness; and acknowledge that in these days
when Paxton Palace succeeds Paxton Palace,
with some monotony, there is something original
in striking out the idea of fitting the glasshouse
to a great solid building, with huge halls,
and long, cool passages, and spacious rooms,
and surrounding the whole with a garden, and
greenery, and cascades.

There has been the usual crush and pressure,
the tremendous toiling against time, to get all
done; the straining of every nerve, the sitting
up all night, the hammering and sawing, the
stitching of a hundred workmen and
workwomen, changing the utter disorder and the
naked deal boards and the rude planks of five
o'clock last evening to perfect order—to the
regularity of a drawing-room and acres of scarlet
cloth. And in a crowd of light May morning
dresses we drift into the huge Concert Hall,
which is to hold thousands, and to echo to
brass throats, and where there are the great
organ, and the orchestra which holds the musical
army a thousand strong: on the floor of which
has grown up beds upon beds of human lilies
that flutter and flutter again, whose flowers are
white parasols and gossamer shawls. This hall,
as a feature, is not so remarkable, for there
are many great halls; but at its far end it
is open, and crossed half way by a gallery;
and through this opening we see far on into
a Winter Garden and Crystal Palace, where are
the light airy galleries, with the old familiar
crimson labels, and the French trophies, and the
bright objects, and the great apse like a glass
cathedral, and Mr. Doyle's pale colouring, the
faint lines of delicate green, chosen with rare
good taste, which in itself is a novelty.

Looking out through the open end of the
Concert Hall, and facing the organ, I see a
grand marone velvet Eastern canopy and dais,
under which the Pasha of Egypt is to sit a few
months hereafter and receive his tribes; and on
this dais are the nobles and gentlemen gathering,
in the fine rich theatrical suits which give a
colour to a festival, and of which we have not
half enough. Judges in scarlet and ermine,
privy councillors with coats that seem "clotted"
with gold, the never-failing lords-lieutenant
and deputy-lieutenants, knights of St. Patrick,
deans, doctors in scarlet, soldiers in scarlet, a
lord chancellor all black and gold, Eastern
dervishes (it may be, from the pillow-case look of
their caps), a lord mayor of York, a lord provost
of Edinburgh; in short, all shapes of parti-
coloured finery. Turning round for a second,
I see that the black musical army has debouched
and taken ground, and that the great orchestra
has spread like a large dark fan from floor to
ceiling. I can see "Ulster" in a gorgeous
tabard, flitting to and fro, marshalling grandees,
as none so well know how to marshal them, each
according to his or her degree. That marvellous
tabard is so stiff and gorgeous, that when it
is laid by, it surely cannot be hung up or
folded, or put to sleep on its back like other
robes, but, I fancy, must stand up straight in a
wardrobe on its end, like a steel cuirass.

We seem to riot in mayors. The eye
can be feasted on mayors; they can become
as the air we breathe, if we so choose it.
They have flowed in from every town in the
three kingdoms. And it does strike one, with
having such a municipal gathering brought
together, that there is a sort of corporate expression,
a kind of municipal smirk or perk, a kind
of smiling burgess air of complacency which
makes the whole of this world akin. Every one,
too, seems to be invested with the collar of the
Golden Fleece.

Here, also, are many known faces, who wear
no scarlet nor gold, nor collars. Faces like