THE GREAT EXHIBITION was about to attract sight-seers of all the world—the sight-seers, who make up nine-tenths of the human family. The African had mounted his ostrich. The CRISP of the Desert had announced an excursion caravan from Zoolu to Fez. The Yakutskian SHILLIBEER had already started the first reindeer omnibus to Novogorod. Penny cargoes were steaming down Old Nile, in Egyptian “DAYLIGHTS;” and “MOONLIGHTS,” while floating from the Punjaub, and congregating down the Indus, Scindian “BRIDESMAIDS” and “BACHELORS” came racing up the Red Sea, with Burmese “WATERMEN, Nos. 9 and 12,” calling at the piers of Muscat and Aden, to pick up passengers for the Isthmus—at two-pence a-head. The Esquimaux had just purchased his new “registered paletot” of seal-skin from the great “sweater” of the Arctic Regions. The Hottentot Venus had already added to the graceful ebullitions of nature, the charms of a Parisian _crinoline_. The Yemassee was busy blueing his cheeks with the _rouge_ of the backwoods. The Truefit of New Zealand had dressed the full buzz wig, and cut and curled the horn of the chief of the Papuas. The Botocudo had ordered a new pair of wooden ear-rings. The Maripoosan had japanned his teeth with the best Brunswick Black Odonto. The Cingalese was hard at work with a Kalydor of Cocoa-Nut-Oil, polishing himself up like a boot; and the King of Dahomey—an ebony Adam—in nankeen gaiters and epaulets, was wending his way towards London to tender his congratulations to the Prince Consort. Nor was the commotion confined alone to the extremes of the world—the metropolis of Great Britain was also in a prodigious excitement. ALEXIS SOYER was preparing to open a restaurant of all nations, where the universe might dine, from sixpence to a hundred guineas, off _cartes_ ranging from pickled whelks to nightingale’s tongues—from the rats _à la Tartare_ of the Chinese, to the “turkey and truffles” of the Parisian gourmand—from the “long sixes, _au naturel_,” of the Russian, to the “stewed Missionary of the Marquesas,” or the “cold roast Bishop” of New Zealand. Here, too, was to be a Park with Swiss cottages, wherein the sober Turk might quaff his Dublin stout; and Chinese Pagodas, from whose golden galleries the poor German student, dreaming of the undiscoverable _noumena_ of Kant, might smoke his penny Pickwick, sip his Arabian chicory, and in a fit of absence, think of his father-land and pocket the sugar.