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487

THE LION'S HEAD.

Several Correspondents have written to us on the Article in our last Number upon the Drama. Some declare that it contains an ex parte and prejudiced statement. Others, that it is the production of persons interested in the success of Covent Garden Theatre. We can only say, that we believe we have written under, and not over the facts of the case, and that we are quite prepared to meet any authorized answers to our statement, with evidence of their truth. We think we need not repeat that we have no interest to serve in writing upon either Theatre.

The Lady's Magazine has, with that tenderness peculiar to its sex, adopted one of our children as its own, not from any supposed cruelty or neglect on our part we are sure,-nor from any extraordinary liberality on her’s,-but, as we conjecture, from that extravagance which often springs up in those who are themselves destitute of offspring. Her Ladyship has clipped the locks of one of our favourites, straitened its shape, given it a new name, and passed it off as her own.. Now really this literary kidnapping is not to be endured. The fact is, for we must speak plainly on the point, The Lady's Magazine has pilfered one of the Tales of Lyddaleross (the Tale of Haddon Hall)-cut a little off the head of the Introduction, omitted the Ballads, christened it “ The Elopement,” and sent it forth as an original production !--We trust this notice of the abuse will be sufficient.

Eleven of our Editors protest that the following Stanzas are “ from the elegant pen of the greatest lyrist of the day;" but there is one stubborn soul on the jury that will hold out-and we are therefore compelled to submit it, with its misleading signature, to our readers. Our Eleven, as Maryle-bone cricketers call themselves, pin their faith upon the passages in italics.

STANZAS ON LEAVING ENGLAND.

Farewell to thee, Albion ! blest land of my sires,

I saw thy white cliff like a pearl on the billow,
When sunk were thy meadows, thy walls, and the spires

That I hoped would have gleam'd o'er my turf-cover'd pillow.
And thou, whose remembrance will ever awaken

E'en warmer ideas than the isle of my birth,
Dearest girl! though awhile by thy lover forsaken,

His prayers will be thine from the ends of the earth.
May the wrinkle of care never wither thy brow,

Or, if grief should impress his rude scal upon thee,
May it vanish as fast as the circles that nowo

Spread and fade round my tears as they fall in the sea.
Yet with nought but the desolate ocean around me,

So dreadful beneath, and so dreary above,
Still a thonsand sweet objects of pleasure surround me,

Rekindling my heart, when I think on my love.

Where the branches of coral beneath me are growing,

Pellucid as crystal, but rubies in hue,
I remember thy lips, how deliciously glowing,

When fondly they promised they'd ever be true.
While the breezes of eve in soft murmurs are dying,

As over the smooth rosy waters they sweep,
I believe that I hear my fond Isabel sighing,
Ere blushing she sinks, overpower'd

in sleep.
In the depth of the night, as the maid of the ocean

Attunes her lone voice to the wild swelling wind,
Oh! I think of the strain that with tender emotion

Oft melted my soul, on the shore left behind.
When the beam of the moon on the billows, which, darkling,

Lie blue as the air, sheds her holiest light,
Can I fail to reflect on that azure eye sparkling,

My beacon of hope, that made noon-day of night ?
No.-Thus, though the sun of thy presence hath faded,

The twilight of memory beams on me yet,
And Hope gently whispers, “ though now overshaded,

" That sun shall arise brighter e'en than it set.” F. A. B. B.

With some omissions, and allowing for some objectionable lines, the following is simply and feelingly written :

THE YOUNG POET DYING AT A DISTANCE FROM HOME.

O bury me not in yon strange spot of earth

My rest never sweet, never tranquil can be !
But bear me away to the land of my birth,

To a scene, O how dear, and how pleasant to me!
If you saw how the sunbeams illumine the mountains

How brightly they lie in the glen that I choose ---
Could the song of its birds, and the gush of its fountains

Through your souls the rapture and freshness diffuse,
Which erst, in life's morning, they shed over minc-
0, your hearts would confess, it is all but divine.

I know it-the grave which to me you assign,

Is black in the shade of your dreary church-wall,
Where nettle and hemlock their rankness combine,

And the worm and the sullen toad loathsomely crawl.
(! where is the primrose, so meet for adorning

The grave of a minstrel cut off in his bloom?
0! where is the daisy, to shed in the morning

The tear it has gather'd by night, for my doom?
And lastly—but dearer than anguish can tell-
Where, where are the friends that have loved me so well ?

See ! one aged mourner comes, trembling, to place

A weak, wither'd hand on the grave of her son-
See! Friendship, to tell how I strove in the race,

But died ere the chaplet of glory was won -
And Beauty“I plaited a wreath for that maiden

When warm was my heart and my fancy was high-
See ! Beauty approaches, with summer-flowers laden,

And strews them when nought but the blackbird is nigh!
Thus, thus shall I rest, with a charm on my name,
In the shower-mingled sunshine of love and of fame!

R.S.

We have occupied all our room, and there are before us at least two dozen more letters and papers requiring answers; but one word will suffice for the whole.

THE

London Magazine.

No XXXVI.

DECEMBER, 1822.

Vol. VI.

MR. ANGERSTEIN'S COLLECTION OF PICTURES. Oh! Art, lovely Art! “ Balm of 'least) for low-thoughted cares and hurt minds, chief nourisher in life's uneasy passions. We are abstracted feast, great Nature's second course!” to another sphere: we breathe emTime's treasurer, the unsullied mir- pyrean air; we enter into the minds ror of the mind of man!

Thee we

of Raphael, of Titian, of Poussin, of invoke, and not in vain, for we find the Caracci, and look at nature with thee here retired in thy plenitude their eyes; we live in time past, and and thy power! The walls are dark seem identified with the permanent with beauty; they frown severest forms of things. The business of the grace. The eye is not caught by world at large, and even its pleasures, glitter and varnish; we see the pic- appear like a vanity and an impertitures by their own internal light. nence. What signify the hubbub, the This is not a bazaar, a raree-show shifting scenery, the fantoccini fiof art, a Noah's ark of all the gures, the bustle, the idle fashions Schools, marching out in endless without, when compared with the soliprocession; but a sanctuary, a holy tude, the silence, the speaking looks, of holies, collected by taste, sacred the unfading forms within ? Here is to fame, enriched by the rarest pro- the mind's true home. The contem-. ducts of genius. For the number of plation of truth and beauty is the propictures, Mr. Angerstein's is the per object for which we were created, finest gallery, perhaps, in the world. which calls forth the most intense We feel no sense of littleness: the desires of the soul, and of which it attention is never distracted for a

never tires.

A capital print-shop moment, but concentrated on a few (Molteno's or Colnaghi's) is a point

a pictures of first-rate excellence.- to aim at in a morning's walkMany of these chef-d'quvres might a relief and satisfaction in the motley occupy the spectator for a whole confusion, the littleness, the vulgamorning ; yet they do not interfere rity of common life: but a printwith the pleasure derived from each shop has but a mean, cold, meagre, other-so much consistency of style petty appearance after coming out of is there in the midst of variety ! a fine Collection of Pictures.

We We know of no greater treat than want the size of life, the marble to be admitted freely to a Collection flesh, the rich tones of nature, the of this sort, where the mind reposes diviner expanded expression. Good with full confidence in its feelings of prints are, no doubt, better than admiration, and finds that idea and bad pictures; or prints, generally love of conceivable beauty, which it speaking, are better than pictures ; has cherished perhaps for a whole for we have more prints of good life, reflected from every object around pictures than of bad ones: yet they it. It is a cure (for the time at are for the most part but hints, loose

Vol. VI.

2 N

memorandums, outlines in little of that time; its charms have sunk what the painter has done. How deep into our minds; we wish to often, in turning over a number of see it once more, that we may conchoice engravings, do we tantalise firm our judgment, and renew our ourselves by thinking “ what a head vows. The SUSANNAH AND THE that must be,”-in wondering what ELDERS at Mr. Angerstein's was one colour a piece of drapery is of, green of those that came upon us under or black, -in wishing, in vain, to these circumstances. We had seen it know the exact tone of the sky in a formerly, among other visions of our particular corner of the picture! youth, in the Orleans Collection, Throw open the folding-doors of a fine where we used to go and look at it Collection, and you see all you have by the hour together, till our hearts desired realised at a blow—the bright thrilled with its beauty, and our eyes originals starting up in their own pro- were filled with tears. How often had per shape, clad with flesh and blood, we thought of it since, how often and teeming with the first concep- spoken of it! There it was still, the tions of the painter's mind ! The same lovely phantom as ever-not as disadvantage of pictures is, that when Rousseau met Madame de Wathey cannot be multiplied to any ex- rens, after a lapse of twenty years, who tent, like books or prints; but this, was grown old and spiritless—but as in another point of view, operates if the young Jewish beauty had been probably as an advantage, by making just surprised in that situation, the sight of a fine original picture an crouching down in one corner of the event so much the more memorable, picture, the face turned back with a and the impression so much the mingled expression of terror, shame, deeper. A visit to a genuine Cole and unconquerable sweetness,' and lection is like going a pilgrimage-it the whole figure (with the arms is an act of devotion performed at crossed) shrinking into itself with the shrine of Art! It is as if there bewitching grace and modesty!' It were but one copy of a book in the is by Ludovico Caracci, and is worworld, locked up in some curious thy of his name, from its truth and casket, which, by special favour, we purity of design, its expression and were permitted to open, and peruse its mellow depth of tone. Of the (as we must) with unaccustomed re- ELDERS, one is represented in the lish. The words would in that case attitude of advancing towards her, leave stings in the mind of the reader, while the other beckons her to rise. and every letter seem of gold. The We know of no painter who could ancients, before the invention of have improved upon the Susannah, printing, were nearly in the same except Correggio, who, with all situation with respect to books, that his capricious blandishments, and we are with regard to pictures, and wreathed angelic smiles, would at the revival of letters, we find the hardly have given the same natural same unmingled satisfaction, or fer- unaffected grace, the same perfect vid enthusiasm, manifested in the womanhood. pursuit or the discovery of an old There is but one other picture in manuscript, that connoisseurs still the Collection, that strikes us as a feel in the purchase and possession of matter of taste or fancy, like this; and an antiqure cameo, or a fine specimen that is the Silenus teaching a Young of the Italian school of painting; Apollo to play on the Pipe- a smal? Literature was not then cheap and oblong picture, executed in distemper, vulgar, nor was there what is called by Annibal Caracci. The old prea reading public; and the pride of ceptor is very fine, with a jolly, leerintellect, like the pride of art, or the ing, pampered look of approbation, pride of birth, was confined to the half inclining to the brute, half conprivileged few!

scious of the God; but it is the We sometimes, in viewing a cele- Apollo that constitutes the charm brated Collection, meet with an old of the picture, and is indeed difavourite, a first love in such matters, vine. The whole figure is full of that we have not seen for many simple careless grace, laughing in years, which greatly enhances the youth and beauty; he holds the delight. We have, perhaps, pam- Pan’s-pipe in both hands, looking up pered our imaginations with it all with timid wonder ; and the express

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