is the list of bankrupts, and the bills of mortality; but, to prove that our object is any thing but ill-natured, we have glanced last at the Deaths. The paper over which we have been travelling, wants the Gazette and Parliamentary News, and a Literary feature. The Debates would have enabled us to illustrate the rapid marches of 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 £2. 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.
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.
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 the grave I live!"
Tophet! I thrill! for scorn'd
Was the sere thought, though warn'd
Ofttimes that Death, enclos'd that dread abyss!
Now, by each burning vein
And venom'd conscience—pain
I know the terrors of that world, in this!
Heaven! ay, 'tis in Death
For him, whose fragile breath
Wends from a breast of piety and peace,
But darkness, chains, and dree
Eternal, are for me
Since Death's tremendous myst'ries never cease!
TO JUDY
(For the Mirror.)
I have thought of you much since we parted,
And wished for you every day,
And often the sad tear has started,
And often I've brush'd it away;
When the thought of thy sweet smile come o'er me
Like a sunbeam the tempest between,
And the hope of thy love shone before me
So brilliantly bright and serene,
I remember thy last vow that made me
Forget all my sorrow and care,
And I think of the dear voice that bade me
Awake from the dream of despair.
I regard not the gay scene around me,
The smiles of the young and the free,
Have not now the soft charm that once bound me.
For that hath been broken by thee;
And tho' voices, dear voices are teeming,
With friendship and gladness, and wit,
And a welcome from bright eyes is beaming,
I cannot, I cannot, forget—
I may join in the dance and the song,
And laugh with the witty and gay,
Yet the heart and best feelings that throng
Around it, are far, far away.
Dost remember the scene we last traced, love,
When the smile from night's radiant queen
Beamed bright o'er the valley, and chased love
The spirit of gloom from the scene?
And the riv'let how heedless it rushed, love,
From its home in the mountain away,
And the wild rose how faintly it blush'd, love,
In the light of the moon's silver ray:
Oh, that streamlet was like unto me,
Parting from whence its brightness first sprung,
And that sweet rose was the emblem of thee,
As so pale on my bosom you hung.
Dearest, why did I leave thee behind me,
Oh! why did I leave thee at all,
Ev'ry day that dawns, only can find me
In sorrow, and tho' the sweet thrall
Of my heart serves to cheer and to check me
When sorrow or passion have sway,
Yet I'd rather have thee to hen-peck1 me,
Than be from thy bower away;
And, dear Judy, I'm still what you found me,
When we met in the grove by the rill,
I forget not the spell that first bound me,
And I shall not, till feeling be still.
ANCIENT PLACES OF SANCTUARY IN LONDON AND WESTMINSTER
"No place indeed should murder sanctuarise."
