"This Irish journey is capitally done, certainly," said Mr. Punch, as, thirteen hours later, he found himself over his coffee and prawns in Sackville Street, on a radiant morning, and all the bright eyes of Dublin sparkling round the door of his hotel, eagerly glancing towards his balcony. Mr. Punch rushed forth, serviette in hand. His large heart beat high at the sight of so much loveliness, and at the sound of those angel-voices, rising into musical cheering.
"Bless you, my darlings!" Mr. Punch could say no more, but finished his prawns, and, throwing his manly form upon a jaunting car, he dashed over the bridge, and to Merrion Square.
"An' it's for luck I'll be takin' your honour's sixpence, and not for the dirthy money," said the excited driver, as he rattled round the corner, and into the Square, and the gigantic cylinders of the Exhibition burst upon Mr. Punch's gaze.
"My Irish friend," said Mr. Punch, gravely, but not severely, "do not talk nonsense. Your carriage is clean, your horse is rapid, you are civil, and your fare is certain. In London, we have as yet neither clean carriages, rapid horses, civil drivers, nor certain fares. We may learn those lessons of you. Learn two from us. Do not believe in luck, but practice perseverance; and do not call that money dirty which is the well-earned pay of honest service. To sweeten the advice, there is a shilling." And Mr. Punch entered the Exhibition building, and was drawing out his purse at the turnstile. But two gigantic policemen, in soldierly garb, welcomed him with a respectful smile, and the turnstile suddenly spun him into the building gratis, but a little too fast for dignity. What a sight was that before him! The vast hall, with its blue lines and red labels, looked a handsome instalment of Paxtonia. Plashing fountains, murmuring organs, a Marochetti Queen high pedestalled, white statues, glistering silver-blazoned banners. A fine and a noble sight, and worthy of all plaudit; but it was not that which almost bewildered the great patriot, as he was shot into Dargania. Those eyes again—two thousand pairs at least—Irish diamonds, worth mines of Koh-i-noors, suddenly flashing and sparkling and melting upon him. That telegraph message from the Octagon Hall—and, as they say in the Peers' House, "and the Ladies summoned." Staggered though he was, you do not often see such a bow as that with which Mr. Punch did homage to his lovely hostesses.
Two of the fairest stepped forward gracefully, and blushingly proffered themselves as his guides through the building.
"Chiefly, that I may set them in my prayers," murmured Mr. Punch, "if you happen to have names——"
Those blue eyes belong to Honora, and those violet eyes to Grace, and all to Mr. Punch's heart henceforth and until further notice. They proceeded, and there was a sound as of a great rustling, as of a world of feminine garments forming into procession and following, but it was vain for Mr. Punch to think of looking round, for he never got further than the face of one or other of his companions. They paraded the building.
Grace bade him look from her, and observe the five halls, in the central and greatest of which they stood. She showed him that Royalty had contributed a gorgeous temple, rich in gems and gold, richer in an artist-thought of the Prince who designed it. And, standing on the platform, she pointed out that the forge and the loom and the chisel had all been busy for that huge hall, whose area offered a series of bold general types of the work to be seen in detail around it. And China was near with her carvings, and India with her embroideries, and Japan with a hundred crafts (now for the first time revealed, thanks to our brother, the King of Holland), and Belgium with her graceful ingenuity, and France with her artistic luxury, and the Zollverein with its bronzes, and Austria with her maps, and flowers, and furniture. And then Grace led him on to the Fine Arts Hall, where the original thoughts of a thousand painters, new and old, glowed upon him from walls which the Devonshires, and Lansdownes, and Talbots, and Portarlingtons, and Yarboroughs, and Charlemonts, and others, had joined to enrich with the choicest treasures of their castles and mansions. And amid the priceless display, Mr. Punch felt justly proud of his aristocratic friends, who could at once trust and teach the people.
Honora bade him look from her, and they passed from an exquisite Mediæval Court, its blue vault studded with golden stars, crossed the hall, and observed a long range of machinery doing its various restless work, and doing it noiselessly, thanks to a silent system and a tremendous rod, sent from Manchester by Fairbairn, through whose Tubular Bridge Mr. Punch had flown at dawn. And Honora showed him where Ireland had put forth her own strength, and thrown down her linens and her woollens in friendly challenge, and with her hardware, her minerals, her beautiful marbles, and her admirable typography. They ascended, and passing through long lines of galleries, Mr. Punch's adorable guides pointed out, amid a legion of wares, things more graceful and useful than he had seen assembled since the bell (on that 11th of October last but one) tolled for the fall of Paxtonia.
"And now, dear Mr. Punch," said Honora, "you have looked round our Dublin Exhibition, and—and—"