science and intellect in our times, as displayed in the present perfect system of parliamentary reporting.  But enough has been said on other points to prove that the physiognomy of a newspaper is a subject of intense interest.  In this slight sketch we have neither magnified the crimes, nor sported with the weaknesses; all our aim has been to search out points or pivots upon which the reflective reader may turn; the result will depend on his own frame of mind.

There is, however, one little paragraph, one pearl appended to the Police Report which we must detach, viz. the acknowledgment of L2. sent to the Bow Street office poor-box, the seventh contribution of the same amount of a benevolent individual (by the handwriting, a lady) signed “A friend to the unfortunate.”

Read this ye who gloat over ill-gotten wealth, or abuse good fortune; think of the delights of this divine benefactress—­silent and unknown—­but, above all, of the exceeding great reward laid up for her in heaven.

Philo.

* * * * *

CAT AND FIDDLE.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

Your correspondent, double X has furnished us with a well written and whimsical derivation of the above ale-house sign, and partly by Roman patriotism and French “lingo,” he traces it up to “l’hostelle du Caton fidelle.”  But I presume the article is throughout intended for pure banter—­as I do not consider your facetious friend seriously meant that “no two objects in the world have less to do with each other than a cat and violin.”

How close the connexion is between fiddle and cat-gut, seems pretty well evident—­for a proof, I therefore refer double X to any cat-gut scraper in his majesty’s dominions, from the theatres royal, to Mistress Morgan’s two-penny hop at Greenwich Fair.

JACOBUS.

* * * * *

THE ROUE’S INTERPRETATION OF DEATH.

(For the Mirror.)

“Death! who would think that five simple letters, would produce a word with so much terror in it.”—­The Rou.

    Death! and why should it be
    That hideous mystery
  Is with those atoms integral combin’d? 
    Alas! too well—­too well,
    I’ve prob’d unto the spell
  In each dark imag’d sound, that lurks entwin’d! 
    Eternity, implied
    In Death, and long denied
  Now sacrifices my tortur’d menial gaze! 
    Whilst, with its lurid light
    Heart-burnings fierce unite
  And what may quench, the guilty spirit’s blaze?

    Annihilation!—­this,
    Was once, the startling bliss
  I forc’d my soul to fancy Death should give! 
    But, whilst I shudd’ring bless
    The hopes—­of—­nothingness,
  A something sighs:  “Beyond