The Coliseum in which the Jubilee is given, is upon the made lands of the Back Bay. Upon its site young Boston has fished in the summer, and skated in the winter. When Boston had filled out to the water's edge, it did what Canute could not do. It commenced to drive back the sea, and each step that the sea receded was filled up and built upon. Aristocracy turned its eyes thitherward, and went there to build its free-stone fronts, and made it the handsomest part of the city. The Coliseum is on the newest of this land, where it has not yet been divided off into lots. Its immediate surroundings, therefore, are not very attractive. The exterior of the building is not remarkably beautiful, and the fine Natural History rooms, and other elegant buildings near by, provoke architectural comparisons not particularly favorable to it. It has a cheerful, pleasant appearance, however, and derives a certain sort of brilliancy from the little flags of divers colors which flutter in the breeze from every salient point. The hucksters and venders of notions, who have improved the occasion to turn an honest or dishonest penny, as the case may be, have not improved the _ensemble_ with their scores of board shanties and canvas tents, which have been dumped down upon the crude ground in every direction. Their name is almost literally legion. There are venders of ice creams, which are mushy and sloppy; of soda water with gaudily colored syrups; of innocent vegetable beer, for the hard hand of the law forbids the sale of anything stronger; of domestic cigars compounded of innocuous herbs; of oranges, and pop corn, and bananas, and photographs, and fans. At this shanty you may get revolving heels placed upon your boots, and at that one you can get key tags stamped. Here the wild men of Borneo are delighting a crowd, and there you may see a two-headed monkey cheap. Blind men are selling ballads. Small girls are vending hot roasted peanuts. Here is a shooting gallery, and there a fandango. The old buxom Irish women of the common, who have been accustomed to drowse away their days under the elms, have suddenly become imbued with the enterprise of the hour, and are driving sharp bargains on the Back Bay in oranges and candy, and puff away at their dhudeens with an air of self congratulation.