city. It may be doubted whether a finer place for walking, riding, or driving, is to be met with in the centre of any city in the world.

Then for the admirers of rural scenery there is the Phoenix Park. It lacks the richness of our Regent's Park, and of that part of Hyde Park which borders on Kensington Gardens; but it is a beautiful place, and sufficiently large for all the purposes which such places are intended to serve. It is much frequented by the citizens when the weather is favourable for out-door exercises or amusements. You miss, it is true, the splendid equipages which are constantly dashing through Hyde Park, and dazzle the eye of the spectator as they sweep along; but if you witness less aristocratic pomp and splendour in the Phoenix Park of Dublin, than you do in the fashionable drives of London, you see a great deal more real enjoyment in the former than you witness in the latter. Hyde Park and Regent's Park are shut against all but private vehicles, and, consequently, you only see in the carriages and cabriolets which whirl along their drives, the victims of an artificial state of society-persons possessing polished manners, but remarkably little heart. The gates of the Phoenix Park are as much open to the hired car occupied by the working man and his family, as to the carriage of the richest and most fashionable nobleman who resides in one of the magnificent mansions in Merrion Square.

There is one thing in which Dublin is deficient. It has but few statues or monuments erected to the memory of distinguished men. The monument which attracts most attention is the column erected in Sackville Street, to commemorate the most important and most glorious of Nelson's victories. It is surmounted by a bronze statue of the hero of Trafalgar. It is a most imposing column-worthy alike of the city of Dublin, and of the eventful occasion it is intended to commemorate. The Nelson monument at Charing Cross fades into insignificance before it. If the architectural eye can detect a blemish in it, it is that the pedestal is too high.

Of the monument to the memory of the Duke of Wellington, in Phoenix Park, there can only be but one opinion. It is altogether unworthy the man and the place. It is a poor unmeaning construction. It has no appearance whatever. It is stunted in size, and has not a single ornamental thing about it. It is an eyesore to every man of taste. It is a pity it was ever erected.

A person accustomed to the business and bustle of London looks upon the streets of Dublin as comparatively quiet, and, in many respects, dull. In the leading thoroughfares numbers of persons are always passing along, but nobody seems in a hurry. Every one appears as if he was in the pursuit of self-enjoyment, instead of being driven by the pressure of business. In London

you see every one in a hurry. Even those who have nothing to do, and do not, very possibly, know whither they are goingeven they appear to be in as great a hurry as if their houses were on fire, and they were rushing onwards to extinguish the flames. But though there be less motion in the bodies of the people of Dublin than in those of the inhabitants of London, there is in the former much more hilarity of mind. There is a cheerfulness in every countenance-the countenance of every Irishman I mean-you encounter in passing along the streets of Dublin, for which you look in vain amidst the streets and thoroughfares of this great metropolis. The citizens of Dublin are a happy and humorous people. You cannot associate with them-no matter what may be their rank in society-without being delighted with the happy and humourous traits of character which meet your eye wherever you happen to be. The principal Dublin streets are often full, but they are seldom crowded as with us. A person never finds it difficult to pass along the leading thoroughfares in consequence of masses of human beings obstructing his path. You thread your way through the streets with the greatest ease and facility, mecting with no interruption of any kind, nor even the appearance of an interruption.

And here let me mention, that the pedestrians in the leading thoroughfares of Dublin look quite as well in their dress and general appearance as those whom you meet with in the streets of the British metropolis. Nor is it only that the people of Dublin are as well clad as those who are to be met with in the streets of London, but there is an aspect of comfort about them which you look for in vain among those you see in the leading thoroughfares of London. You miss, it is true, in Dublin, the splendid equipages and other indications of opulence and luxury which everywhere attract the eye in the metropolis of Great Britain; but, as before intimated, pageantry and happiness are not always, nor even usually, associated together. In my view there seems to be more of happiness in the more respectable districts of Dublin, than there is to be found in the English Babylon. I attribute this, in a great measure, to the peculiar temperament of the Irish. Providence has so constituted them, that happiness seems an essential portion of their nature. No one who has been in Ireland can doubt that they would be in the third heaven of bliss, where the people of other countries would be over head and ears in the depths of misery. To this point I shall have occasion to recur, when I come to speak in detail of the physical condition of the Irish people.

I went to Dublin prepared to witness splendour and squalor, happiness and misery, in much more striking contrast than ever I had before seen them, either in this country or on the ContiI was agreeably disappointed. If poverty were synony

nent.

mous with wretchedness, perhaps I did witness the extremes in question. I saw much poverty in that part of Dublin called the Liberties, and in other districts of the town; but I did not find misery associated with it to the same extent as in London. The Liberties are regarded as the most wretched and lowest locality in Dublin. Even there I could not discern any symptoms of the misery which are so visible in many parts of London. Here we often read details of destitution, ending in death, which make the blood curdle in one's veins. In Dublin such cases are exceedingly rare. In the lowest and most wretched districts of that city; I saw a measure of contentment, and a buoyancy of spirits, which filled me equally with surprise and gratification. The houses are so old and ruinous as to threaten, every moment, to fall about your ears as you pass along the streets. You are unable to discover a single pane of glass which has not been broken in a dozen places-in many instances it is a question whether there ever were any glass in the window-frames at all; you wonder how human beings can bring themselves to live a single hour in such wretched and ruinous abodes, and yet in these very abodes I found a cheerful and contented people. At almost every window you saw one or more smiling faces. The children looked redolent of health and happiness. And what pleased and gratified me exceedingly, was the fact of seeing flower-pots in the windows with flowers of various kinds, which had every appearance of being well attended to; and cages, with canaries and other birds for their inmates. I believe I did not omit visiting any of the poorer or more miserable localities of Dublin; and yet I saw nothing, which, either as respects filth or wretchedness, could be compared to many districts in London. They who would form their ideas of the lower localities of Dublin from our St. Giles's, would do Dublin a great injustice. There is no place in the latter city so low and filthy as the St. Giles's of London. The creatures who grovel in the latter locality are not fair specimens of the poorer class of Irish character; nor are their manners and habits fair specimens of the manners and habits of their countrymen in Dublin. The inhabitants of St. Giles's are, for the most part, the scum of the lower orders of Irish society.

In Dublin, as in London, there are many places which you would infer, from the names given to them, to be quite different from what you actually find them. Stephen's Green, for instance, would lead one to expect something different from a large and beautiful square. In like manner, College Green-the spot in which the Irish Parliament House formerly stood, and where the great majority of the Irish expect to see it, ere long, standing again-this place, in its present condition, has no more right to the title of a green, than has the Clerkenwell Green of London. It is in the very centre of the town, and is a fine, open, spacious

street. It is a place peculiarly dear to Irishmen, in consequence of the associations connected with its past history. There is not a boy in Ireland, who has reached his tenth year, who does not talk as familiarly about College Green as if he had been born and brought up in the locality. This, however, is still more to be ascribed to what is expected from the spot in future, than to anything which has taken place in connection with it in years that are past. Mr. O'Connell, by promising his countrymen a speedy restoration of an independent legislature, which shall hold its sittings in College Green, has made the phrase household words throughout the length and breadth of Ireland.

In endeavouring to convey to the mind of the reader my impressions of Dublin, it would be an unpardonable oversight were I to omit a reference to the hotels of that city. They are of a very superior order. They are handsomely fitted up, commodious, and comfortable. I prefer the better class of them to anything we have in England. The principal hotels—the principal ones, I mean, for persons in the middle ranks of life-are in Sackville Street, the most central and most convenient street in Dublin. The largest of these establishments are the Imperial and Gresham's. The Imperial is considerably the larger of the two. I am not sure whether it be not the most extensive establishment of the kind in the world. They make up no fewer than 140 beds. Some idea of the magnitude of the business carried on in it, may be inferred from the fact, that there are occasions when every bed in the house is occupied. This, of course, is only on those occasions when there is something-such as a cattle show-which attracts an unusual number of strangers to Dublin. But, without any special cause of attraction, it is not an uncommon circumstance, during the season in which people most extensively travel, to find upwards of a hundred of the beds nightly occupied.

In the Imperial and Gresham's, and all the better class of hotels in Dublin, there are two public rooms for the accommodation of those who put up at these establishments. There is a large and handsome dining room, and a commodious and tastefully fitted up coffee room. The latter is the place in which gentlemen breakfast, write their letters, read the newspapers, and take tea, coffee, or wine in the evening.

Considering the superiority of the fare and the style in which every thing is served up, no one can complain of the charges made at the hotels in Dublin. For bed, and the use of the public rooms, the charge is, in the Imperial-and it is, I believe, the same in Gresham's-three shillings per night. The charge in the bill is not made under the head "for bed," but "for lodgings." An excellent breakfast costs you two shillings. For dinner, consisting of mock turtle or mulligatawny soup, fish, a

hot joint, cheese, &c., all of the very best quality, and served up not only in a style of comfort but even of elegance, the charge is three shillings. In this establishment there is the best and most ample attendance. There are no fewer than thirty servants all remarkable for their civility. In most instances, too, they are more intelligent than servants in hotels usually are. have been in a great many hotels in my time, but in none have I seen a greater or more successful anxiety evinced to contribute, in every possible way, to the comfort of its patrons.

To speak of Dublin without a reference to its women would be a sin of omission for which there could be no forgiveness. They have long been celebrated for their beauty. They are taller than those of England. I thought, when in Brighton a short time ago, that a greater amount of beauty, considering the number present, could not be anywhere met with, if the parties were brought accidentally together, than what I have witnessed, evening after evening, on the pier and parade of that place. I will not say that among the same number of Dublin ladies, brought by chance together, you would see a greater proportion of fine faces. The claims of the ladies in the one country and the other are, in this respect, so nicely balanced, that it would be difficult to say which of the two classes of candidates carried off the palm. But this, I am sure, will be admitted by every unprejudiced Englishman, who has walked on a fine afternoon in August on the promenade at Kingston Harbour, that he never, in any part of England, saw, in an assemblage of women of the same extent, an equal number of fine figures. There is, too, in the carriage and manner of the better order of Irish ladies generally, a marked superiority to the English women. There is comparatively little in Ireland of that cold reserve, and distant demeanour, which strike foreigners as an unfavourable characteristic of our English women. The Irish ladies have much of the ease, gracefulness, and vivacity of the French, without any of their exceptionable qualities. There is not in the world a more modest race of women than the Irish-a remark which equally applies to all ranks and classes among them.

Dublin is the place of abode of many persons distinguished for their literary and scientific acquirements. Intellectual pursuits have of late been followed by all classes, and even by many in the humbler ranks of life, to an extent which had no parallel in its previous history. It abounds with booksellers' shops, and publishes many works and several literary periodicals of its own. Its circulating libraries are numerous, and the books varied and valuable.

For the cultivation of the fine arts, Dublin has long been distinguished among the cities of Europe. The Art-Unions, of