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228 Here follows a running mention of many names, which, I fear, my limits will not per mit me to add. I will,’ therefore, pass them, and bid you good night, with the closing re marks of the review, which I have so largely I quoted. “It is universally admitted that the collec tion is one, in every way, of extraordinary j interest; and that the Committee have execu ted their difficult and delicate task with dis- , Anguished and unwonted justice and taste. — I The Art Union, during the few years of its existence, has achieved wonders in the im provement of the public love of art, and in aiding, both directly and indirectly, its many gifted professors. While its affairs continue to be conducted by gentlemen so high in the confidence and esteem of the public, as are the present distinguished officers and direc tors, it must go on, year by year, conquering and to conquer.” Wishing you and all your readers a glo rious prize in the distribution. I am very truly yours, FLIT. ©nr Bowl of |3und). WE TWA HA DUNE A LITTLE BILL. Air— “ Auld iMng Syne.'"’ Should auld acceptance be forgot, And never brought to mind I .Should auld acceptance be forgot. All drawn, endorsed, and signed 1 Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend. Endorsed, drawn, and signed ; And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up, The siller we must find! We twa ha dune a little bill, To raise the bonnie wind ; And, tak’ the matter hoo we will, That document will bind. Endorsed, &c. And Shadrach will nae time alloo, And therefore a'm inclined To think that we had better do Anithcr o’ the kind. Endorsed, &c. And surely ye'll be your bit stamp, And I’ll nae be behind, And we’ll do a right gude billie-wacht The needful cash to find. Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend< Endorsed, drawn, and signed ; We ’ll do anither billie yet, Just the wherewitha’ to find! A VISIT TO KEW GARDENS. From “ Our Own Old Lady.” “ You can’t think, Mr. Punch, how thank ful I am to you for explaining to me all about the great Oolite, and his testaceous disposi tions, and the mysteries of Zoology, which, indeed, it is a wonderful thing to think of the earth having a crust, all as one as a beefsteak pie, and society, I suppose, like the steaks, some at the top and some at the bottom, and 1 am quite ashamed of my suspicions of the Palce —something— graphical Society, which I’ve no doubt, now, that they take their name from the Rev. Mr. Paley, a highly respectable arch-deacon of the Established Church , and wrote a Natural Theology, and Evidences, showing us the wonders of nature, which my son has tfm work, and Lord Brougham wrote an edition of it, and he wouldn’t countenance anything that wasn’t quite correct, as is well known. 44 However, Mr. Punch, what with your explanations about those poor dear Chelo nians, that live like the poor neglected brick makers among the London clay (though how it isn’t all made into bricks before this, with ihe houses they’re building in ail directions, 1 ’m sure I can’t think), and my son’s talk out of Mr. Paley about the wonders of the vegetable world, I said to myself, says I, to think of there being a vegetable world, and I, fifty-five my last birth-day, and never saw it, and accustomed to green-grocers all my life, for the late dear deceased lie wasn't happy without his two dishes of vegetables regular, so I determined to pay a visit to this vegeta ble world, anil hearing it was to be seen in Q. Gardens, I thought I would take an op portunity this fine weather, and took the ‘bus accordingly, at Sloane Street, and a very civil conductor he was, with whiskers and a gold band round his hat. I thought we never should have got there, and was very near get ting out at the egg-hatching machine, but, however, we reached the place safe at last, myself and my niece, for 1 was determined .she shouldn’t grow up as I had done, having placed her at an establishment nearTurnham Green, where I made the conductor stop and called for her, and why that old gentleman jj ext the door did swear so I’m sure I can’t think, for we weren’t above ten minutes wait ing for Jemima. fIafIITBiBAIBY BABBIF If IB ♦ “ Well, Sir, we got to the Gardens where the vegetable world is; and it’s well I ex pected to see vegetables, for there isn’t no flowers to signify ; but hot-houses upon hot houses. How the coals are paid for isn't my business. And such a Conservatory; all made of glass, and covering I don’t know how much ground; all under the care of Sir William Hookey. First, we went into the Conserva tory, where they’ve the poor plants transport ed from Botany Bay—what for I’m sure I don’t know, but no good , I'll be bound —and very ugly they looked, set in bush-ranges, which you may have read of, and put in sol itary confinement in tubs, on short allowance of earth. “ But oh, Sir! that Palm-house ! The heat was awful, and the company suffered a deal; and it’s little watering them plants want, I'll be bound. And all the fanning in the world isn’t any use ; for the more you fan, the hot ter you get, tor it ’s heated up to the topical regions—that is, the parts about the line, which must be the no-clothes line, where the benighted blacks go stark naked. This was the vegetable world I wanted to see, where you’ve trees that grow umbrellas and chair bottoms, and trees that grow bread equal to hot rolls, and custards, and cocoa-nuts, and chocolate, and tea, and coffee, and other gro ceries, and one that makes lace, and another that grows sugar and nutmeg and all sorts of spices, and one that you milk for all the world like a cow, and another that makes butter, and another that makes pots to put it in : and the Cabbage Palm, equal to the best savoys, and the Guinea Palm, which grows the Oil of Palm, which guineas is well known to be; and there’s some, no doubt the Aristocracy, that spend their time catching flies; and some that carry water; and there’s dwarfs among ’em, and ‘an Oldest Inhabitant,’ into the bar gain, Sir W. Hookey says in his book, which his name is Baobab, and my niece, who draws sweetly, took the portraits of some of them, ain’t they pretty ? There was one little plant I was tempted to put into my reticule—the Pawpaw —that makes tough meat tender, a great comfort it would be to one. as none but a housekeeper can know. “ But of all the vegetable world I saw that day, and dear knows I saw plenty, and al most fainted among the Palms, there xvasone dreadful house in particular, where the Hugh Forbeses live, and awful plants they are, like melons, with spikes a sticking out in everv direction, and tickets written up— 4 Visitors are requested not to touch the plants,’ and they'd better not , for 1 came on one of the Hugh Forbeses promiscuously, and my shrieks brought in three gardeners, very civil young men, and how they got me off I hardly know, but grateful I was I’d put on my stout bom bazine that morning. And in the same house there’s a heap of little old plants, called the Cercus Senilis in Sir W. Hookey’s catalogue; and when I asked a gentleman who was civil to me and Jemima what ‘Serious Senelis’ meant, he said it was the Latin for ‘ a heavy father,’ or serious old man ; and serious old men they may well be called, for this is what they ’re like in Jemima’s drawing, which is the very moral of them, all covered over with white hair, and little skin-partings on the tops of their green heads, and bowing and winking at you as you walk through, like so many rows of wicked old gentlemen that nev er had their hair cut. “ I shall never get over them old Seriouses as long as 1 live, never. Indeed, what with the turn they gave me, and me coming upon that pumpkin with the spikes in it, I was obli ged to leave the Gardens and take the first ’bus back to town, and very glad I was to get out of the vegetable world, you may be sure; for w'hat with the hot rooms those plants live in, and those dreadful old Serious es, with their white heads, and the ugly things curling about in the air in baskets, with long legs and open mouths, which they call the audacious plants, and most audacious they looked. It may suit Sir W. Hookey to live there, but I’d rather be among Christians, if you please. “So no more at present, from “ Yours, respectfullv, “The Old Lady.” THE VEGETARIAN MOVEMENT. I When we noticed, a week or two ago, a banquet of vegetables, we were not aware that a great Vegetarian Movement was going j on, with a vegetarian press, a vegetarian so- | ciety, a vegetarian boarding-house, a vegeta- i rian school, two or three vegetarian hotels, a ; vegetarian Life Insurance Office, vegetarian ; letter-paper, vegetarian pens, vegetarian wa fers, and vegetarian envelopes. The Vegetarian Advocate has replied to our i article on the late vegetarian banquet, and we ; must confess that, notwithstanding the very cholera-inducing diet on which the members | of the sect exist, the answer is by no means of a choleric character. The Vegetarian Ad vocate has a delicious vegetable leader, with two or three columns of provincial intelli gence, showing the spread of vegetarian prin ciples. There are vegetarian missionaries going about the country, inculcating the doc trine of peas and potatoes; and there is a talk of a vegetarian dining-room, where there is to be nothing to eat but potatoes, plain and mashed, with puddings and pies in all their tempting variety. We understand a prize is to be given for the quickest demolition of the largest quanti ty of turnips; and a silver medal will be awarded to the vegetarian who will dispose of one hundred heads of celery with the ut most celerity. We sincerely hope the pud dings will not get into the heads of our vege tarian friends, and render them pudding-head ed ; but they are evidently in earnest; and, if we are disposed to laugh at them for their excessive indulgence in rice, we suspect that, Risum teneati?, amici, will be the only reply they will make to us. ————————M————————^ (Eckftic of ill it. THE DREAM OF THE PRINTER. “ ’Twas in the prime of winter time, An evening calm and cold, When in his room the printer sat, A care-worn man and old; With look so meek that he did seem A sheep without a fold A melanchoty man was he, As ever trod the soil; Small pleasures had he in his life, For it was one of toil; And dimly burnt the printer’s lamp; For why 1 It wanted oil ! He leaned his head upon his hand, Ilis mind was ill at ease, And while through many a broken pane In rushed the horrid breeze ; With eager look, he read a book That laid upon his knees. Aud still he read, nor turned his head, To hear the shutter flap, But like some marble statue seemed, So motionless he sat; Much fasting made him very pale, And anything but fat! At last he shut the dusky hook, Close, with a sudden fling, With fevered grasp he closed it fast, And then upright did spring; Oh, God ! could 1 so shut my mind, And tie it with a string ! Then up the room and down the room Ten hasty strides he took, And then he gazed about, him, with A sad and doleful look, And lo ! he saw theofiice boy Writing upon a book. “ Whrt do you write, my little chap, While sitting there so still 1 Now, is it some sad accident, A marriage, or a will V* The boy he gave a mournful look— “ ’Tis nothing but a bill!” The printer sunk down in his chair, As smit with sudden pain, Down in his clmir he sank with force And then —got up again ; And as he talked with the young lad, His tears gushed out amain. < He told him how some men will owe And never pay a cent, And of those wretched, wretched men, Who never, never lent; But how their life and fortunes all In foolishness is spent. “ And well I know what pangs they feel, Who would collect a bill, Wo, wo, unutterable wo, Their wretched souls must fill, So it did seem, once in a dream That I remember still.” “ One who had owed me very long, Though wealthy as a Jew — I stood before his house one eve When cold the night wind blew. And now, said I, this man must try To pav me what is due. j “ Two heavy blows with a walking stick, And one with my knuckles bare, Then 1 went through the open door, But alas ! he was not there ; There was nothing now within the room But an old aud empty chair ! “ Nothing there but an empty chair That stood against the wall, For he went out the other door The moment. 1 did, call! A dozen times I groanod aloud— lie never groaned at all! “ Then quickly I turned myself about, And swiftly home I fled,” Despair was the grim servant girl That li jilted me to bed!” The fearful boy look’d up and saw His face pale as the dead. W hen gentle sleep o’er the young lad Had thrown her silent veil, 1 wo stout, tall men set out from town Through the cold and heavy hail; And the printer he did walk between, On his mournful road to jail! DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER, BT THOMAS HOOD. I was once—for a few hours only—in the militia. I suspect I was in part answerable for my own mishap. There is a story in Joe Miller, of a man, who, being pressed to serve his Majesty on another element, pleaded his polite breeding, to the as a good ground of exemption; but was told that Ihe crew be ing a set of sad unmanerly dogs, a Chester field was the very character they wanted. The militia-men acted, 1 presume, on the same principle. Their customary schedule was forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fill up, and in a moment of incautious hilarity in duced, perhaps, by the absence of all business or employment, except pleasure—l wrote myself down in the descriptive column as “ Quite a Gentleman .” The consequence followed immediately. A precept, addressed by the High Constable of Westminster to the Low ditto of the parish of St. M*****, and endorsed with my name, informed me that it had turned up in that in voluntary lottery, the Ballot. At sight of the Orderly, who thought pro per to deliver the document into no other hands than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife fainted on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions in military sendee —a soldier was a soldier—and they imagined that, on the very morrow, I might be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They were un fortunately ignorant of that benevolent pro vision which absolved the militia from going out of the kingdom, “ except in case of an invasion.” In vain I represented that we were “locals”; they had heard of local dis eases, and thought there might be wounds of the same description. In vain I explained that we were not troops of the line ; they could see nothing to choose between shot in a line, or in any other figure. I told them next, that I was not obliged to “serve my self;” but they answered, “’twas so much the harder I should be obliged to serve any one else.” My being sent abroad, they said, would be the death of them; for they had witnessed, at Ramsgate, the embarkation of the Walcheren expedition, and too well re membered “ the misery of the soldiers’ wive* at seeing their husbands in transports /” I told them that, at the very worst, if I should be sent abroad, there was no reason why I should not return again; but they both declared, they never did, and never would, believe in those “Returns of the Killed and Wounded.” The discussion was in this stage when it was interrupted by another loud single knock at the door, a report equal in its effects on us to that of the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels ; and before we could recover our selves, a strapping Serjeant entered the par lor, with a huge bow, or rather rain-bow, of party-colored ribbons in his cap. He came, he said, to offer a substitute for me, but I was prevented from reply by the indignant females asking him in the same breath, “ Who and what did he think could be a substitute for a son and a husband ?” The poor Serjeant looked foolish enough at this turn ; but he was still more abashed when the two anxious ladies began to cross examine him on the length of his services abroad, and the number of his wounds —the campaigns of the militia-man having been confined, doubtless, to Hounslow, and his bodily marks militant to the three stripes on his sleeve. Parrying these awkward ques tions, he endeavored to prevail upon me to see the proposed proxy, a fine young fellow, he assured me, of unusual stature ; but I told him it was quite an indifferent point with me whether he was 6-feet-2 or 2-feet-6, in short, whether he was as tall as the flag, or “under the standard.” The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of profound peace ; that a civil war, or an in vasion, was very unlikely; and as for an oc casional drill, that 1 could make shift, life* Lavater, to right-about-face. Accordingly I declined seeing the substi tute, and dismissed the Serjeant with a note to the War-Secretary to this purport: “That I considered myself drawn; and expected, therefore, to be well quartered. That, under the circumstances of the country, it would probably he unnecessary for militia-men ‘to be mustarded’ : but that if his Majesty did ‘ call me out,' 1 I hoped I should 1 give htm sat isfaction.''” The females were far from being pleased