the size of two pages of the Mirror, and exhibits specimens of almost every branch of the art.  Thus, there are fruit and flowers—­an antique cross—­a Gothic tomb—­bust and ornamented pedestal—­laurel wreath—­the Corinthian capital and Egyptian architecture—­wood scenery—­a beautiful landscape—­a portrait of Lord Clarendon—­“Portrait of a Lady”—­a storm on the sea-coast—­anatomical picture—­a crouching tiger—­a charter, with the seal affixed, the latter extremely fine—­a country plan, very delicate and clear—­suit of ancient armour, &c.  The etchy spirit of these subjects almost equals the finest work on copper, and its elaborateness proves to how great perfection English artists have already carried the art of drawing on stone.  Compared with some of their early productions, the present is a marvel of art:  it combines the perspicuity of a pen-and-ink drawing with the freedom and fine effect of chalk drawing.  We hope to hear nothing more of the uncertainty of lithography.

* * * * *

PHILANTHROPY

Is the only consistent species of public love.  A patriot may be honest in one thing, yet a knave in all else;—­a philanthropist sees and seizes the whole of virtue.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

PUNCH AND JUDY.

By a Modern Pythagorean.

One day last summer I happened to be travelling in the coach between Lanark and Glasgow.  There were only two inside passengers besides myself; viz. an elderly woman, and a gentleman, apparently about thirty years of age, who sported a fur cap, a Hessian cloak, and large moustaches.  The former was, I think, about the most unpleasant person to look at I had ever seen.  Her features were singularly harsh and forbidding.  She was also perfectly taciturn, for she never opened her lips, but left me and the other passenger to keep up the conversation the best way we could.  The young man I found to be a very pleasant and intelligent fellow—­quite a gentleman in his manners; and apparently either an Oxon or a Cantab, for he talked much and well about the English universities, a subject on which I also happened to be tolerably conversant.  But, agreeable as his conversation was, it could not prevent me from entertaining an unpleasant feeling—­one almost amounting to dislike and hostility—­against the female; whom I regarded, from the first moment, with singular aversion.  We were not troubled, however, very long with her company, for she left us at Dalserf, about half way between Lanark and Hamilton.

“It is very curious, sir,” said I to the stranger when she had gone, “that I should feel so strangely annoyed as I have been with that woman.  I absolutely know nothing about her, and cannot lay a single fault to her charge, but plain looks and taciturnity; and yet I feel as if no inducement would tempt me to step again into a coach where I knew she was to be present.  And after all, for any thing I know to the contrary, she may be a very good woman.”