3 THE LION'S HEAD. THE Lion's Head is determined on having a paw in the Coronation: It has serious thoughts of putting in its claim to sit on the right side of Britannia (if Britannia intends being present), its old established place, as the carliest pocket-pieces testify. The Lion's Head can pledge itself, that the Unicorn will not be there, so that there will certainly be nothing to apprehend from that old and graceless broil about the Crown: at any rate, Lion's Head will fight for nothing so little as a Crown; and Mr. Dymoke would be by to settle all squabbles, as in duty bound. Lion's Head, or some part of its family, attended heart in hand, at Richard Cœur de Lion's Coronation; and it will certainly prowl its way into Westminster Hall, on the approaching splendid day, and bear a watchful eye upon the ceremony. Lion's Head is not a Dandy-lion, but its mane will be carefully cut and turned for the occasion; and it will go ruffled, like a true British Lion. The readers of the LONDON MAGAZINE, in fine, may rest assured, that Lion's Head will, on that day, seek its own food, and not trust to the established Jackalls of the diurnal press. We promised a Plate in the present Number, from Mr. Hilton's picture, of "Nature blowing Bubbles for her Children;" but being disappointed in the Engraving, we are compelled to defer the fulfilment of our promise till next month. Table Talk, No. XI. and the Buccaneer, will certainly appear in our next Number. We really cannot commend such poetry as the following, and say with our Correspondent that it "mingles delicacy, tenderness, and sprightliness, and is among the prettiest that has been written on that poetic favourite, the Nightingale." The Nightingale, pent in his cage, Cleora, is musical still; He harps on the wires in his rage, # Oh! hear how he warbles! each note Is a mystical, soft billet doux, Sent post to the woods, from his throat, We wish the Author of the "Ballad to his Mistress," had been near the postman of the woods, mentioned above, as he might have compassed a cheaper delivery. Surely this" earnest of future, and more valuable conributions," was never written in earnest. The "Public Office Clerk" must share the fate of many of his brethren, and be dismissed. "Two Sorts of Men" shall be carefully considered. We will, as a learned personage says, "take the papers home with us, and give judgment on a future day.” J. W. G. must excuse us if we decline inserting the "two more little efforts of his unfledged muse," which we the less regret, as he says, they cost no effort." Our respect for the original of Mr. R's "poetic paraphrases," impels us to refuse his friendly offer. Non hæc conveniunt lyræ. And if it were not so, the lyre he aims at holding is too heavy for his hands, judging from the specimen he has sent us. "The Lawyer, a Picture," is quite to our taste; and we promise our poetical readers a treat, by the insertion of it in our next number. The paper of A. W. upon the encouragement of Autograph-Epitaphs(a species of writing to which we never particularly applied our minds) partakes rather too much of the sombre sobriety of its subject. We are obliged by the offer of it for our pages; but, like young ladies at an offer of another description, we really cannot yet make up our minds. The Translation from Earl Conrad, of Kirchberg, in Praise of May, will appear in our next. We may answer our fair Correspondent's proverb of a "day after the fair," with another: "a miss is as good as a mile." The season, however, seems to have put itself off to oblige her. M. A. will see that we have availed ourselves of one of his papers. We cannot promise as to the rest, for we have really not yet had time to read them. E. R. and Zara, and the author of the versified Epistle on Poetical Deception, are unavoidably deferred. The proprietors of the following signatures must frame excuses the most pleasant to their own feelings for our omission of their several contributions. We sincerely thank them one and all for their kind intentions; but the public is a dainty personage, and we are obliged to cater cautiously.-Ensign S. -H. L.-Jack Straw.-J. J. W.-Beta.-Chevalier.-James with his Pocket Book.-Singultus. Our Publishers desire to say a word or two, but we have not room for them this time: they shall have a fair hearing on a future opportunity. In the mean time, the Public are assured, that all the former Contributors to the LONDON MAGAZINE are earnest in giving it their powerful support; and the contents of the present Number are, in our minds, a more substantial recommendation than a thousand promises. London Magazine. No XIX. JULY, 1821. VOL. IV. WARWICK CASTLE. The castle I do give thee, Ir any one would choose to pay Antiquity a visit, and see her in her grand tiara of turrets, see her in all her gloomy glory,-not dragging on a graceless existence, in ruined cell, with disordered dress, and soiled visage; but clad in seemly habiliments, bearing a staid, proud, and glowing countenance, and dwelling in a home that seems charmed, and not distracted by time:-let such a one go to the wooded solitudes, the silent courts, the pictured walls, and rich embrowned floors of Warwick Castle. There dwells Antiquity like a queen! There she holds her sombre state, amid spear and sword, and battle-axe and shield: there she keeps rich and solemn revel through all time. The air takes a more hallowed softness from her presence; and the paintings which hang in her halls, appear to warm and brighten under her mild care and sovereignty. Time breathes patiently upon them, and they ripen in his breath, like fruit in the rich mellowed airs of autumn. The Titian cheek deepens and glows into rich perfection; the black hair becomes more black, magnificent, intense. The velvet garmenting, and crimson robe, and gloomy fur, seem filled with thought. All around looks sacred, and dedicate to Time. Warwick Castle is sure the palace of Antiquity and here let me tell how I found that gracious and queenly creature, when I last was in her presence. I will minutely describe my VOL. IV. : here's the keyes. Old Ballad. love me, take up at the gate, and then my description will be sure to prosper. No-I must begin with the bridge that leads the road over the river (the Avon! Shakespeare's Avon!) from Leamington to Warwick,-because I once beheld from it one of the finest scenes of evening-quiet and beauty that ever blessed me in my poetical days. The sky all around was cloudless; so much so, as to appear thrice spacious over my head; and the set sun had warmed it, and tinted it with a soft pink lustre, that made it extremely calm and reposing to the eye. Peace "sailed upon the bosom of the air." I leaned against the parapet of the bridge, and gazed in lazy wonder and delight at the castle. It crowned the river, and looked proudly down from its nest of trees and ancient rock, as though watching and brooding over its image in the water, silver bright beneath it. Nothing could be more strangely still and clear; not a leaf thrilled on the trees; not a wave, not the shudder of a wave, arose to break the mirrored smoothness of the charmed Avon! Every sound and moving object even confirmed the silence; for the long low evening moan of the cattle, in the level meadows by the river side, took a deep far-off echo, as though no other sound was alive to disturb or break it; and the passing of a sparrow across the air was most distinct, and apparently most solitary. I never shall forget this scene,--and when in a morning of last spring, I crossed the bridge anew, that evening arose before my eyes in its placid splendour and beauty, and the past revived, with all its warm and slumberous lustre. How poor does the scene appear in this colourless description, and yet it seemed to contain at the time the inspiration of a thousand glowing pages! Why did I not "write it down" at the moment I saw it, as a landscape-painter colours from nature; then should I have had a sketch worthy the possessing: but the opportunity is gone by, and such evenings do not occur frequently in these degenerate days. I can but exclaim with master Shallow, "Ha! o' my life, if I were young again!" The reader will admit that I have not staid on the bridge longer "than one with moderate haste might count a hundred." I proceed. The gate of the castle is walled, or rather rocked, deeply in; and the transition from the coarse road, meagre gravel, and barren wall, to the verdant riches of the garden, to its soft shades and tender lustres, high enchantment. You pass the gate, and the world is shut out!-You enter, and Adam's banishment seems reversed. I would only recommend, and this earnestly, that all lovers of the picturesque rush onwards immediately, and that they dally not with a sleek modern porter, who does antiquity great disservice at her very portal. He may be a worthy man, but he should not stand there yet. He is old-a trifle but not old enough for his situaHe ought to be infra-an tion. nuated. The garden, or park, for I know not which it should be called, is pleasantly relieved with hill and slope,distance, and sweet bounded dells; and clumps of trees-not of those slim, young things, saplings, I would call them, which usurp the name of trees in these impoverished times, but of old solid family trees, trees of character, and long standing,-break the prospect grandly and irregularly, and vary the green expanse of grass and shrubs, with beautiful strewings of light and shade. The castle stands at no great distance from the gate, but you are purposely and cunningly perplexed with a winding path, that will have its own way, and will not let you have yours; and, it is therefore a work of time to reach the foss and solemn walls of this noble building. To be candid, I must own that my shrewdness and ingenuity adopted an erring path, and maintained it contrary to the advice of two young creatures (women-kind, as my friend Jonathan Oldbuck hath it) who accompanied me; and thus we were carried far beyond the castle, and, indeed, were brought to the greenery before its time. Greatly were my associates disconcerted, and, as my powers as a guide were considerably disordered, I attempted no excuse, but sought by other topics to divert the minds of my friends from the recollection of my perversity. We talked of the beauty of the day, the charm of fine scenery, the pleasures of a picturesque solitude-of all those delights, in short, which so romantic a place never fails to suggest, but we entered the greenery, and my errors were instantly and utterly forgotten. The tall and beautiful myrtles, the wide-spreading geraniums, the graceful and delicate roses of every variety, plants of the most rare flower and odour, were disposed around us in the most cunning order, and arranged, so as to set each other's beauties off, like "jewels in an Ethiop's ear." We admired in silence, save that one of us (I will not disclose the name of the Extravagant) wished for the possession of the tallest and handsomest geranium, and that another hinted at a certain mother going mad in such a paradise of plants. In the midst of the most delicate stems and tender leaves, which crept and twined around, as forming a verdant nest, stood the farfamed vase, présented to the Earl of Warwick by Sir William Hamilton. This noble piece of antiquity, with its silent Bacchanalian emblems, and fair shape of white marble, seemed to us a fit urn to hold the ashes of Anacreon. Its decorations of the vine-leaf, and the grape, would fain remind us of joy, and life, and love, and -the wine, Brought from the gloomy tun with merry shine. But there is in the pale cold stillness of the white marble, a mystery that touches the imaged joy to sad ness. The heart becomes awed under the strange and tomb-like quiet of the vase, and scarcely dares to ask What leaf-fringed legend haunts about its shape. We gazed upon it in silence, until we departed from its magic presence, when I could not help uttering those beautiful lines, which the most original poet of the age hath consecrated to an imaginary vase. A gardener now joined us, and proceeded forthwith to fasten himself upon us as a guide. He led us back into the green-house, from which we had slily and quietly oozed at his approach, and with tedious officiousness went into a prose account of the vase, hoeing up all our little previous poetical feelings, and plainly telling us that the handles were formed of interwoven vine-branches, and that the basin would hold one hundred and sixty-three gallons, wine measure. He then descanted on the plants, and on the prospects, and contrived to take us out of the greenhouse, in a far more perplexed and ignorant state, than that in which we entered it. In spite, however, of the cruel learning of our guide, we forgave him in the open air. He was an old man, lame, and clothed in a grey dress, a shade darker than his hair. His garments and general appearance were remarkably neat and placid, and he might have been mistaken for a quaker of the forests-a romantic sectarian. I myself could not but conceit him to be a kind of lay-gardener, let loose by the Earl to ornament the grounds more by his presence, than by his labour: to be sure, he picked a weed from the walk, as he toiled idly and relaxedly before us, and rooted up a stray daisy or so, but he did no more; and he had no spud, no spade, no hoe, no hook, no blue apron, no curved clasp knife, to mark him a man of gardenoccupation. He stood before us an ideal gardener only! His long grey locks curled loosely and irregularly over his grey shoulders, and around his dark healthy neck, which, being slightly 'kerchiefed, was deeply embrowned by the united efforts of the air and sun. His step was heavy and solemn, as though he dragged at his heels all his past years, the withered weeds and brambles of existence. I thought his aged face handsome, and my companions detected in it a kindly and benign expression: and I have, indeed, remarked or fanIcied that men who associate with plants and flowers only become as simple and as pure as they; that their faces ever speak of the gentleness of pleasant plants. So country schoolmasters are touched with the simplicity of childhood, and become un |