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The Lion's head.


SON, Student of Divinity, with Reprints of Elia, the Morgenblatt, &c. 99



The Inside of a Stage Coach.

Edward Herbert's Letters, No.
Harry Woodriff


163 The Sick Man's Summer Evening.. 113 The English Universities

166 Marshal Soult and his Murillos...... 114 The Funeral of Eleanor, a Ballad .. 172 To the Sky Lark.....

116 Review: Halidon Hill, a Dramatic Sonnet. A Still Place......... 116 Sketch, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 174 CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. By Report of Music

181 ELIA...... 117 THE DRAMA.

185 On the Spirit of Youth in the Young

Summer Theatres ....... and the Old ...

121 Abstract of Foreign and Domestic Defence of the Claims of PROPERTIUS 125


187 The Mariner's Song. By Allan Cun. ningham......

132 An Inquiry why Candles invariably

Monthly Register. burn blue in the Presence of a Ghost 133 THE TEA GARDEN................ 136 Agricultural Report......

17 Lycus THE Centaur, from an un- Commercial Report...

18 rolled Manuscript of Apollonius

Works preparing for Publication and Curius .....

lately published.... ..... 21-23 Ode to a Sparrow, alighting before the

Bankruptcies and Sequestrations . 23, 24 Judge's Chambers, in Serjeant's Inn, Fleet-street.

148 Births, Marriages, and Deaths .. 24/26 Additions to Lord Orford's Royal and

Ecclesiastical Preferments ...

26 Noble Authors.

Meteorological Journal, for June .... 27 John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester 149 Observations on the Weather, for June 28 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 150 Patents

29 Sonnet to Elia .... 151 | Markets, Stocks, &c.





[Entered at Stationers' Hall.]




Re-prints of Elia.- Many are the sayings of Elia, painful and frequent his lucubrations, set forth for the most part (such his modesty!) without a name, scattered about in obscure periodicals and forgotten miscellanies. From the dust of some of these, it is our intention, occasionally, to revive a Tract or two, that shall seem worthy of a better fạte; especially at a time like the present, when the pen of our industrious Contributor, engaged in a laborious digest of his recent Continental Tour, may haply want the leisure to expatiate in more miscellaneous speculations. We have been induced, in the first instance, to re-print a Thing, which he put forth in a friend's volume soine years since, entitled the Confessions of a Drunkard, seeing that Messieurs the Quarterly Reviewers have chosen to embellish their last dry pages with fruitful quotations therefrom ; adding, from their peculiar brains, the gratuitous affirmation, that they have reason to believe that the describer (in his delineations of a drunkard forsooth!) partly sate for his own picture. The truth is, that our friend had been reading among the Essays of a contemporary, who has perversely been confounded with him, a paper in which Edar (or the Great Eater) humorously complaineth of an inordinate appetite; and it struck him, that a better paper-of deeper interest, and wider usefulness-might be made out of the imagined experiences of a Great Drinker. Accordingly he set to work, and with that mock fervor, and counterfeit earnestness, with which he is too apt to over-realise his descriptions, has given us-a frightful picture indeed—but no more resembling the man Elia, than the fictitious Edat may be supposed to identify itself with Mr. Li, its author. It is indeed a compound extracted out of his long observations of the effects of drinking upon all the world about him; and this accumulated mass of misery he hath centered (as the custom is with judicious essayists) in a single figure. We deny not that a portion of his own experiences may have passed into the picture, (as who, that is not a washy fellow, but must at some times have felt the after-operation of a too generous cup?)—but then how heightened ! how .exaggerated how little within the sense of the Review, where a part, in their slanderous usage, must be understood to stand for the whole !-but it is useless to expostulate with this Quarterly slime, brood of Nilus, watery heads with hearts of jelly, spawned under the sign of Aquarius, incapable of Bacchus, and therefore cold, washy, spiteful, bloodless.-Elia shall string them up one day, and show their colours - or rather how colourless and vapid the whole fry-when he putteth forth his long promised, but unaccountably hitherto delayed, Confessions of a Water-drinker.

By a coincidence common to translations, the Tales of Miles Colvine, the Cumberland mariner, and of Elphin Irving, the Fairies' cupbearer, which appeared in our 4th and 5th Volumes, are also to be found in the Morgenblatt, a German periodical publication, where they pass for excellent German stories. The translation of the first was made so early, that it had nearly anticipated the original; the Morgenblatt for January, 1822, containing what we published in December, 1821: the second came to light in the LONDON Magazine for January, 1822, and emerged in Germany in March. We are, of course, no enemies to translations; but when stories are thus seduced into foreign countries, and taught to speak other languages, we wish them not to forget their allegiance to their Father-land, though they renounce their Mother-tongue. The piracy requires to be thus noticed in justice to the original genius of our excellent friend Mr. Allan Cunningham.

The Editor of the above work has not omitted this reference to the original in his abridgment of our article on the Elgin Marbles, inserted in the Morgenblatt for April, 1822; nor is it often neglected by the periodical press of our own country, though no work has ever received more of the flattering distinction of their reprints, and quotations, than the LONDON MAGAZINE,

It is much to the credit of D.'s good sense that he is willing to be “put out of conceit of his poetry;" which, indeed, we cannot honestly advise him to pursue but as an amusement. For his sake, and perhaps for the benefit of some others of our Correspondents, we would quote these words of Hölty: “ I will not become a poet at all, unless I can become a great one. A middling poet is a nonentity."


The Memoir of a Hypochondriac has been received, but is delayed from « a press of matter," as the newspapers say.

P.'s “ Time,” we are sorry to say, is lost; and in endeavouring to find it ours has shared the same fate.

Stretch'd on the grave with clenched hands,

The lifeless Malcolm lay :
While through the new-raised earth, his head

Had forced its wretched way; like the ostrich, which, hiding its head in the sand, imagines it has buried its whole body. This is a wretched picture indeed, Mr. Basil Cathcart !

If our industrious friend,

-(whose letters really amuse us)would write only one Sonnet where he now sends three, it might be such as we should be glad to see in our pages.

The riddle from Woodford is a mystery that “puzzles more than wit.” It is, however, a pleasant token of the existence of a former Correspondent.

The following are scarcely good enough to tempt us:-My Native Land, written in the Bay of Dublin.-Walks in the Environs of Paris, by F.Ellen of the Vale, &c.—Sonnet on an Infant Sleeping.–Sonnet on Viewing, an Eruption of Strombolo.

We should be glad to hear again from our friend P. M.

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The smugglers are the only race partly, I believe, from the eagerness of people in this country who have with which I listened to his tales of not been at all acted upon by the himself and his associates, and not improvements of society. Every a little because he mistook my rowhere else civilization has been hard mantic feelings for courage. Our at work; scouring through the land acquaintance, or rather, our intimacy, with the speed of a twopenny post- commenced by my going out with man,--building schools, breeching him in a storm, to the relief of a Highlanders, and grubbing up the distressed collier, when the chances spirit of adventure from the very were twenty to one against our ever bosom of rocks and mountains. It returning; but with me it certainly has made a smart attack too on the was not courage ; there was an exgipsies, but with only a sort of pye- altation of the spirits more like the bald success, robbing the gallows to effect of wine, as we swept along augment the population of Botany the waves, that at one moment rose Bay; taking off the edge of their like a mountain, and in the next daring, yet, by no means lessening opened almost to the very sands. I their indolence, or their love of feared no danger, for I felt no danger, petty larceny. But the smuggler, and there can hardly be courage the sturdy smuggler,-is still the without the consciousness of peril. same creature he was fifty years ago, But Harry was not the man to look and even allowing him to be a vil- so nicely into things; I had shown lain,--villain is a hard word,--there no symptoms of fear, and that was is yet something noble in his doings enough for him, who held that a and his sufferings. In fact, the good stout spirit included all the cardinal people of this city know as little virtues : ever after he loved me as about him as they do of Prester John, a son, and many a tale did I gather or the Cham of Tartary. I have some from the sturdy smuggler, as he right to speak on the subject, for paced up and down the cliff with his one part of my early days was spent glass in his hand, on the look out for on the sea-coast, when,-to my shame what the sea was next to bring him. be it spoken, -I preferred the smug- It was not, however, of Harry's glers to my books; and, from many early stories that I would speak at wild pranks, became a favorite among present, though a time may come them. There was one outlaw in for them too, but of our meeting two particular, Harry Woodriff, years ago, when we least expected Woodrieve, who was much attached it, and for an end that thrilled my to the MASTER, as they called me, blood with horror, Remember this . VI




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