And inside the Great Exhibition the scene is equally different from that of the first week or two. The nave is no longer filled with elegant and inert loungers—lolling on seats, and evidently come there to be seen rather than to see. Those who are now to be found there, however, have come to look at the Exhibition, and not to make an exhibition of themselves. There is no air of display about them—no social falsity—all is the plain unvarnished truth. The jewels and the tapestry, and the Lyons silks, are not now the sole objects of attraction. The shilling folk may be an “inferior” class of visitors, but at least they know something about the works of industry, and what they do not know, they have come to learn. Here you see a railway guard, with the silver letters on his collar, and his japan pouch by his side, hurrying, with his family, towards the locomotive department. Next, you come to a carpenter, in his yellow fluffy flannel jacket, descanting on the beauties of a huge top, formed of one section of a mahogany tree. Then may be seen a hatless and yellow-legged Blue-coat boy mounting the steps of one of the huge prismatic lighthouses, to have a glance at the arrangements of the interior. Peeping into the model of the Italian Opera are several short-red-bodied and long-black-legged Life-Guardsmen; while, among the agricultural implements, saunter clusters of countrymen in smockfrocks. On the steps of the crimson-covered pedestals are seated small groups of tired women and children, some munching thick slices of bread and meat, the edges of which are yellow with the oozing mustard. Around the fountains are gathered other families, drinking out of small mugs, inscribed as “presents for Charles or Mary;” while all over the floor—walk where you will—are strewn the greasy papers of devoured sandwiches. The minute and extensive model of Liverpool, with its long strip of looking-glass sea and thousands of card-board vessels, is blocked round with wondering artisans, some, more familiar with the place, pointing out particular streets and houses. And as you pass by the elaborate representation, in plaster, of Underdown Cliff, you may hear a young sailor—the gloss upon whose jacket indicates that he has but recently returned from sea—tell how he went round the Needles last voyage in a gale of wind. Most of the young men have catalogues or small guide-books in their hands, and have evidently, from the earnest manner in which they now gaze at the object, and now refer to the book, come there to study the details of the whole building. [Illustration: _Some of the Drolleries of The Great Exhibition of 1851._ ]