RAILWAY JUBILEE IN AMERICA.

The opening in September last of the grand railway which unites Massachusetts with British North America is one of the most noticeable events of our times.  Before this, the commercial path of transit from Europe lay from the Atlantic up the St Lawrence, the navigation of which—­at all times difficult and dangerous—­is closed by ice during five months of the year, and thus all intercourse through the States, except by sleighs, stopped.  Now, goods may be brought direct to Boston and shipped to Europe, or unshipped at Boston for the Canadas without interruption.  But in a moral and social point of view, the subject is still more important.  Rivalry and bad feeling vanish before intercourse, and the locomotive mows down prejudices faster than corn falls before the Yankee reaping-machine.

When I heard that there was to be a procession, the word vulgarised the whole affair.  It conjured up before my mind’s eye our doings of the sort in England, with the Lord Mayor’s Show at the head of them; and I concluded that the Yankee attempt would be still more trashy.  Let us see how it turned out.  I send you a newspaper for the details; but here you must be a spectator, with the whole picture dashing, mass by mass, upon your sensorium.

As the first requisite for enjoyment, it was a glorious day even for this climate.  Nothing shews off a pageant like fine weather.  I left home shortly after daybreak, and went to the Common, as it is called—­a Park about as large as St James’s, handsomely laid out, with long alleys, some parallel, others crossing at various angles, and all shaded by fine trees.  The scene presented by this Park reminded me of Camacho’s wedding in Don Quixote, on a large scale.  There stood the tent for the banquet, constructed to dine 3000 persons, and decorated with the flags of America and England streaming from the top, with the flags of other nations below.  Close by, were large tents for the preparation of viands, surrounded with all the paraphernalia of a feast.  In various places, booths had been erected by the city, for the gratuitous supply of all comers with pure iced water, and these were thronged throughout the day, especially with children.  The pedestrian portion of the procession assembled in the Park, while the vehicles crowded all the adjacent streets.  And now might be observed the various societies, with their bands of music; volunteer companies marching here and there, getting into step, arranging their order and practising their tunes.  I was chatting with a raw Vermonter, who was as much a stranger as myself.  ‘In the name of creation,’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘what tarnal screeching is that yonder?’ ‘That,’ I said, ‘is the bagpipes, the national music of Scotland.’  ‘That?’ said he:  ‘it would clear a State of racoons in no time!’ But the Scots had determined to shine, and they advanced: