Everything that indicates nationality will then have its reward. Grave dignitaries of the Church will practise the bagpipes, and prothonotaries will refresh their jig-dancing; whatever is Irish, will be _la vogue_; and, instead of reading that her Majesty wore a shawl of the Gordon tartan, manufactured at Paisley, we shall find that the Queen appeared in a novel pattern of rags, devised at Mud Island; while his Royal Highness will compliment the mildness of our climate by adopting our national dress. What a day for Ireland that will be!--we shall indeed be great, glorious, and free; and if the evening only concludes with the Irish Quadrilles, I have little doubt that her Majesty will repeat her exclamation of “How grand!” as she beholds the members of the royal suite moving gracefully to the air of “Stony-batter.” Let us, then, begin in time. Let there be an order of council to preserve all the parsons, agents, tithe-proctors, and landlords till June; let there be no more shooting in Tipperary for the rest of the season; let us “burke” Father Mathew, and endeavour to make our heads for the approaching festivities; and what between the new poor-law and the tariff, I think we shall be by that time in as picturesque a state of poverty as the most critical stickler for nationality would desire. A NUT FOR “A NEW COMPANY.” By no one circumstance in our social condition is a foreigner more struck than by the fact that there is not a want, an ailing, an incapacity for which British philanthropy has not supplied its remedy of some sort or other. A very cursory glance at the advertising columns of the _Times_ will be all-sufficient to establish this assertion. Mental and bodily infirmities, pecuniary difficulties, family afflictions, natural defects, have all their separate _corps_ of comforters; and there is no suffering condition in life that has not a benevolent paragraph specially addressed to its consolation. To the “afflicted with gout;” to “all with corns and bunions;” to “the friends of a nervous invalid”--who is, by the bye, invariably a vicious madman; to “the childless;” to “those about to marry” Such are the headings of various little crumbs of comfort by which the active philanthropy of England sustains its reputation, and fills its pocket. From tooth-powder to tea-trays--from spring-mattresses to fictitious mineral waters--from French blacking to the Widow Welch's Pills--all have their separate votaries; and it would be difficult to conceive any real or imaginary want unsupplied in this prolific age of contrivance.