the only thing I would insist on for the present, and now leave the matter in the hands of our rulers.

A NUT FOR THE OLD.

Of all the virtues which grace and adorn the inhabitants of these islands, I know of none which can in anywise be compared with the deep and profound veneration we show to old age. Not content with paying it that deference and respect so essentially its due, we go even further, and by a courteous adulation would impose upon it the notion, that years have not detracted from the gifts which were so conspicuous in youth, and that the winter of life is as full of promise and performance, as the most budding hours of spring-time.

Walk through the halls of Greenwich and Chelsea-or, if the excursion be too far for you, as a Dubliner, stroll down to the Old Man's Hospital, and cast your eyes on those venerable "fogies," as they are sometimes irreverently called, and look with what a critical and studious politeness the state has invested every detail of their daily life. Not fed, housed, or clothed like the "debris" of humanity, to whom the mere necessaries of existence were meted out, but actually a species of flattering illusion is woven around them. They are dressed in a uniform; wear a strange, quaint military costume; are officered and inspected like soldiers; mount guard; answer roll-call, and mess as of yore.

They are permitted, from time to time, to clean and burnish pieces of ordnance, old, time-worn, and useless as themselves, and are marched certain short and suitable distances to and from their dining-hall, with all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. I like all this. There is something of good and kindly feeling in perpetuating the delusion that has lasted for so many years of life, and making the very resting-place of their meritorious services recall to them the details of those duties, for the performance of which they have reaped their country's gratitude.

The same amiable feeling, the same grateful spirit of respect, would seem, from time to time, to actuate the different governments that wield our

destinies, in their promotions to the upper house.

Some old, feeble, partizan of the ministry, who has worn himself to a skeleton by late sittings; dried, like a potted herring, by committee labour; hoarse with fifty years' cheering of his party, and deaf from the cries of "divide" and "adjourn" that have been ringing in his ears for the last cycle of his existence, is selected for promotion to the peerage. He was eloquent in his day, too, perhaps; but that day is gone by. His speech upon a great question was once a momentous event, but now his vote is mumbled in tones scarce audible.Gratefully mindful of his "has been,” his party provide him with an asylum, where the residue of his days may be passed in peace and pleasantness.

Careful not to break the spell that has bound him to life, they surround him with some semblance of his former state, suited in all respects to his age, his decrepitude, and his debility; they pour water upon the leaves of his politics, and give him a weak and pleasant beverage, that can never irritate his nerves, nor destroy his slumbers. Some insignificant bills-some unimportant appeals some stray fragments that fall from the tables of sturdier politicians, are his daily diet; and he dozes away the remainder of life, happy and contented in the simple and beautiful delusion that he is legislating and ruling-just as warrantable the while, as his compeer of Chelsea, in deeming his mock parades the forced marches of the Peninsula, and his Sunday guards, the dispositions for a Toulouse or a Waterloo.

A NUT FOR THE ART UNION.

THE battle between the "big and little-endians" in Gulliver, was nothing to the fight between the Destructives and Conservatives of the Irish Art Union, a few days since the former party deciding that the engraved plate of Mr. Burton's picture should be broken up; the latter protesting against the Vandalism of destroying a first-rate work of art, and preventing the full triumph of the artist's genius, in the circulation of a print so creditable to himself and to his country.

The great argument of the Destruc tives was this:We are the devoted

frien sof art--we love it—we glory in i-we cherish it: yea, we even give a guinea a-year a-piece for the encou ragement of a society established for its protection and promotion;-this society pledging themselves that we shall have in return-what think ye?— the immortal honour of raising a school of painting in our native country? the conscientious sense of a high-souled patriotism?-the prospect of future estimation at the hands of a posterity who are to benefit by our labours? Not at all: nothing of all this. We are far too great materialists for such shadowy pleasures; we are to receive a plate, whose value is in the direct ratio of its rarity, "which shall certainly be of more than the amount of our subscription," and, maybe, of five times that sum. The fewer the copies issued, the rarer (i. e., the dearer) each impression. We are the friends of art-therefore, we say, smash the copperplate, destroy every vestige of the graver's art, we are supplied, and heaven knows to what price these engravings may not subsequently rise!

Now, I like these people. There is something bold, something masterly, something decided, in their coming forward and fighting the battle on its true grounds. There is no absurd affectation about the circulation of a clever picture disseminating in remote and scarce-visited districts the knowledge of a great man and a great work; there is no prosy nonsense about encouraging the genius of our own country, and showing with pride to her prouder sister, that we are not unworthy to contend in the race with her. Nothing of this.-They resolve themselves, by an open and candid admission, into a committee of printsellers, and they cry with one voice"No free trade in' The Blind Girl'-no sliding-scale-no fixed duty-nothing save absolute, actual prohibition!"

It is with pride I confess myself of this party: perish art! down with painting to the ground with every effort of native genius! but keep up the price of our engraving, which, with the rapid development of Mr. Burton's talent, may yet reach ten, nay, twenty guineas for an impression. But in the midst of my enthusiasm a still small voice of fear is whispering ever:-Mayhap this gifted

man may live to eclipse the triumphs of his youthful genius: it may be, that as he advances in life, his talents, ma tured by study and cultivation, may ascend to still higher flights, and this, his early work, be merely the beaconlight that attracted men in the outset of his career, and only be esteemed as the first throes of his intellect. What

is to be done in this case? It is true we have suppressed "The Blind Girl;" we have smashed that plate; but how shall we prevent him from prosecuting those studies that already are leading him to the first rank of his profession? Disgust at our treatment may do much ; but yet, his mission may suggest higher thoughts than are assailable by us and our measures. I fear, now, that but one course is open; and it is with sorrow I confess, that however indisposed to the shedding of blood, however unsuited by my nature and habits to murderous deeds, I see nothing for us, but to burke Mr. Burton.

By accepting this suggestion, not only will the engravings, but the picture itself attain an increased value. If dead men are not novelists, neither are they painters; and Mr. Burton, it is expected, will prove no exception to the rule. Get rid of him, then, at once, and by all means. Let this resolution be brought forward at the next general meeting, by any leader of the Destructive party, and I pledge myself to second and defend it by every argument used with such force and eloquence for the destruction of the copperplate. I am sure the talented gentleman himself will, when he is put in possession of our motives, offer no opposition to so natural a desire on our part, but will afford every facility in his power for being, as the war-cry of the party has it, "broken up and destroyed."

A NUT FOR THE RAILROAD. IF the wise Calif who studied mankind by sitting on the bridge at Bagdad, had lived in our country, and in our times, he doubtless would have become a subscriber to the Kingstown railway. There, for the moderate sum of some ten or twelve pounds per annum, he might have indulged his peculiar vein, while wafted pleasantly through the air, and obtained a greater insight into character and individuality, inasmuch as the objects of his inves

tigation would be all sitting shots, at least for half an hour. Segur's "Quâtre Ages de la Vie" never marked out mankind like the half-hour trains. To the uninitiated and careless observer, the company would appear a mixed and heterogeneous mass of old and young, of both sexes-some sickly, some sulky, some solemn, and some shy. Classification of them would be deemed impossible. Not so, however; for, as to the ignorant the section of a mountain would only present some confused heap of stone and gravel, clay and marl; to the geologist strata of divers kinds, layers of various ages, would appear all indicative of features, and teeming with interests, of which the other knew nothing: so, to the studious observer, this seeming commixture of men, this tangled web of humanity, unravels itself before him, and he reads them with pleasure and with profit.

So thoroughly distinctive are the classes, as marked out by the hour of the day, that very little experience would enable the student to pronounce upon the travellers-while so striking are the features of each class, that "given one second-class traveller, to find out the contents of a train," would be the simplest problem in algebra. As for myself, I never work the equation: the same instinct that enabled Cuvier, when looking at a broken molar tooth, to pronounce upon the habits, the size, the mode of life and private opinions of some antediluvian mammoth, enables me at a glance to say-"This is the apothecaries' trainhere we are with the Sandycoves."

You are an early riser-some pleasant proverb about getting a worm for breakfast, instilled into you in childhood, doubtless inciting you; and you hasten down to the station, just in time to be too late for the eight-o'clock train to Dublin. This is provoking ; inasmuch as no scrutiny has ever enabled any traveller to pry into the habits and peculiarities of the earlier voyager. Well, you lounge about till the half-after, and then the conveniency snorts by, whisks round at the end, takes a breathing canter alone for a few hundred yards, and comes back with a grunt, to resume its old drudgery. A general scramble for places ensues-doors bang-windows are shut and opened a bell rings-and, snort!

snort! ugh! ugh! away you go. Now— would you believe it?-every man about you, whatever be his age, his size, his features, or complexion, has a little dirty blue bag upon his knees, filled with something. They all know each other-grin, smile, smirk, but don't shake hands-a polite reciprocity-as they are none of the cleanest : cut little dry jokes about places and people unknown, and mix strange phrases here and there through the dialogue, about "demurrers and declarations, traversing in prox and quo warranto. You perceive it at once-it is very dreadful; but they are all attorneys. The ways of Providence are, however, inscrutable! and you arrive in safety in Dublin.

Now, I am not about to take you back; for at this hour of the morning you have nothing to reward your curiosity. But, with your leave, we'll start from Kingstown again at nine. Here comes a fresh, jovial-looking set of fellows. They have bushy whiskers, and geraniums in the button-hole of their coats. They are traders of various sorts-men of sugar, soap, and sassafras-Macintoshes, molasses, mouse-traps-train-oil and tabinets. They have however half an acre of agricultural absurdity, divided into meadow and tillage, near the harbour, and they talk bucolic all the way. Blindfold them all, and set them loose, and you will catch them groping their way down Dame-street in half an hour.

93.-The housekeeper's train. Fat, middle-aged women, with cotton umbrellas-black stockings with blue fuz on them; meek-looking men, officiating as husbands, and an occasional small child, in plaid and the small-pox.

10. The lawyer's train. Fiercelooking, dictatorial, categorical faces look out of the window at the weather, with the stern glance they are accustomed to bestow on the jury, and stare at the sun in the face, as though to say-" None of your prevarication with me; answer me, on your oath, is it to rain or not?"

10. The return of the doctors. They have been out on a morning beat, and are going home merry or mournful, as the case may be. Generally the former, as the sad ones take to the third class. These are jocose, droll dogs; the restraint of physic over, they unbend, and chat pleasantly, un