From Carrickfergus to Cape Clear, the whole island is on the “qui vive” as to whether her gracious majesty the queen will vouchsafe to visit us in the ensuing summer. The hospitable and magnificent reception which awaited her in Scotland has given a more than ordinary impulse to every plan by which we might evince our loyalty, and exhibit ourselves to our sovereign in a point of view not less favourable than our worthy neighbours across the sea.

At first blush, nothing would seem more easy to accomplish than this. A very cursory glance at Mr. O'Connell's speeches will convince any one that a land more favourably endowed by nature, or blessed with a finer peasantry, never existed: with features of picturesque beauty dividing the attention of the traveller, with the fertility of the soil; and, in fact, presenting such a panorama of loveliness, peace, plenty, and tranquillity, that a very natural doubt might occur to Sir Robert Peel's mind in recommending this excursion to her majesty, lest the charms of such an Arcadia should supersede the more homely attractions of England, and “our ladye the queene” preferring the lodge in the Phoenix to the ancient towers of Windsor, fix her residence amongst us, and thus at once repeal the Union.

It were difficult to say if some vision of this kind did not float across the exalted imagination of the illustrious Daniel, amid that shower of fortune's favours such a visit would inevitably bring down—baronetcies, knighthood deputy-lieutenancies would rain upon the land, and a general epidemic of feasting and festivity raise every heart in the island, and nearly break Father Mathew's.

If the Scotch be warm in their attachment, our affections stand at a white heat; if they be enthusiastic, we can go clean mad; and for that one bepraised individual who boasted he would never wash the hand which had the honour to touch that of the queen, we could produce a round ten thousand whose loyalty, looking both ways, would enable them, under such circumstances, to claim superiority, as they had never washed theirs since the hour of their birth.

Notwithstanding all these elements of hospitality, a more mature consideration of the question would show how very difficult it would be to compete successfully with the visit to Scotland. Clanship, the remains of feudalism, and historical associations, whose dark colours have been brought out into glowing brightness under the magic pencil of Scott—national costume and national customs—the wild sports of the wilder regions—all conspired to give a peculiar interest to this royal progress; and from the lordly Baron of Breadalbane to the kilted Highlander upon the hills, there was something of ancient splendour and by-gone homeliness mixed up together that may well have evoked the exclamation of our queen, who, standing on the terrace at Drummond, and gazing on the scent below her, uttered—“How grand!”

Now, unfortunately in many, if not in all these advantages, we have no participation. Clanship is unknown amongst us,—only one Irishman has a tail, and even that is as ragged an appendage as need be. Our national costume is nakedness; and of our national customs, we may answer as the sailor did, who, being asked what he had to say in his defence against a charge of stealing a quadrant, sagely replied—“Your worship, it's a damn'd ugly business, and the less that's said about it the better.”

Two doubts press upon us—who is to receive her Majesty; and how are they to do it? They who have large houses generally happen to have small fortunes, and among the few who have adequate means, there is scarcely one who could accommodate one half of the royal suite. In Scotland, everything worthy of being seen lies in a ring-fence. The Highlands comprise all that is remarkable in the country; and thus the tour of them presents a quick succession of picturesque beauty without the interval of even half a day's journey devoid of interest. Now, how many weary miles must her Majesty travel in Ireland from one remarkable spot to another—what scenes of misery and want must she wade through from the south to the west. Would any charms of scenery—would any warmth of hospitality—repay her for the anguish such misery must inflict upon her, as her eye would range over the wild tract of country where want and disease seem to have fixed their dwelling, and where the only edifice that rises above the mud-cabin of the way-side presents the red brick front of a union poor-house? These, however, are sad topics—what are we to do with the Prince? His Royal Highness loves sporting: we have scarcely a pheasant—we have not one capercailzie in the island; but then we have our national pastimes. If we cannot turn out a stag to amuse him, why we can enlarge a tithe-proctor; and, instead of coming home proud that he has bagged a roe, he shall exult in having brought down a rector. How poor and insignificant would any battue be in comparison with a good midnight burning—how contemptible the pursuit, of rabbits and hares, when compared with a “tithe affray,” or the last collision with the military in Tipperary. I have said that the Scotch have a national costume; but if semi-nakedness be a charm in them, what shall be said of us, who go the “whole hog?” The details of their ancient dress—their tartan, their kilt, their philabeg, that offered so much interest to the royal suite—how shall they vie with the million-coloured patches of an Irishman's garment? or what bonnet that ever flaunted in the breeze is fit to compare with the easy jauntiness of Paddy's caubeen, through which, in lieu of a feather, a lock of his hair is floating?

Then, again, how will the watch-fires that blazed upon the mountains pale before the glare of a burning haggard; and what cheer that ever rose from Highland throats will vie with the wild yell of ten thousand Black-feet on the march of a midnight marauding? No, no; it is quite clear the Scotch have no chance with us. Her Majesty may not have all her expectations fulfilled by a visit to Ireland; but most assuredly a “touch of our quality” will show her many things no near country could present, and the probability is, she will neither have time nor leisure for a trip to New Zealand.

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.