THE LION'S HEAD. We are not often in the habit of eulogizing our own work,-but we can not neglect the opportunity which the following explanatory note gives us of calling the attention of our readers to the deep, eloquent, and masterly paper which stands first in our present Number. Such Confessions, so powerfully uttered, cannot fail to do more than interest the reader. We give the following chronological explanation in the author's own words, and at his request, NOTICE TO THE READER:-The incidents recorded in the Preliminary Confessions already published, lie within a period of which the earlier extreme is now rather more, and the latter extreme less, than nineteen years ago: consequently, in a popular way of computing dates, many of the incidents might be indifferently referred to a distance of eighteen or of nineteen years; and, as the notes and memoranda for this narrative were drawn up originally about last Christmas, it seemed most natural in all cases to prefer the former date. In the hurry of composing the narrative, though some months had then elapsed, this date was every where retained: and, in many cases, perhaps, it leads to no error, or to none of importance. But in one instance, viz. where the author speaks of his own birthday, this adoption of one uniform date has led to a positive inaccuracy of an entire year: for, during the very time of composition, the nineteenth year from the earlier term of the whole period revolved to its close. It is, therefore, judged proper to mention, that the period of that narrative lies between the early part of July, 1802, and the beginning or middle of March, 1803. We are still prevented from giving the 2d Number of the Lives of the Poets, owing to the absence of the author, who is at present on the Continent. We have every reason to expect his return in time to enable us to continue this interesting Series in our next Number, or in the one immediately succeeding.-In the meanwhile, we are enabled to promise a Second Letter from Mr. Edward Herbert, on Greenwich Hospital, with the prospect of others (addressed to the Family of the Powells) descriptive of Scenes in London, which our readers may feel interested in witnessing. Mr. Herbert appears to be a country gentleman of considerable curiosity, and his London Researches have led him into strange places, and have made him familiar with strange customs. The Letters of T. T. T. and The Theban touch the Heart of Lion's Head. The feeling, temperate, and sensible spirit in which they are written, speaks eloquently for the minds of the writers, and we almost grieve at the severity which marked our rejection of their offers. They will, we are sure, properly estimate our present respect for their gentlemanly and intelligent acknowledgments of the justice of our rebukes. The two little Poems found amongst the papers of a deceased young Lady, could never have been intended by the Authoress for publication. They are very pretty portfolio reading; but printing would destroy them. -No. Sonnet to Autumn.-" Have not we seen that line before, Mr. Puff?" The other Sonnet on the Anvil may as well not be hammered into shape. Venus has two dimples. The writer of "the following Lines" (which do not follow) has sent us his "second thoughts," which rather too closely resemble the first thoughts of some other Author. The verses that are lighter" are sadly heavy. We should conceive from this specimen, that the Author had more power over tears than smiles. He might make a water-man; he is no lighter-man. We are compelled to announce to E. R. that the Storm" is blown over. The Broken Heart should certainly have a place in our pages, if we thought it would give pleasure either to the writer or to the public; but we are quite sure that its appearance in print would make more broken hearts than one. We do not see any vast objection to the Sonnet of J. J. W.; it is as innocent as Sonnets generally are. But we have a word or two to say to this writer, on the subject of his "Russian Flower Girl, a simple Tale." Can the Author be serious in his wish that we should print it? A more painful and immoral rhapsody we never remember to have encountered from the most bewildered brain of the most bewildered novelist. J. J. W. will do well to write decently, if he cannot write ably. The Stanzas of H. D. are very promising, if the Author be really young. But if he has reached twenty, we recommend him to cut the rhymes from his sonnets, and make essays of them. The Streamlet is beautifully written. We were tempted to exclaim with Sir Roger de Coverley, "What a remarkably handsome hand!" By the bye, Mr. Carstairs appears to have been drilling our contributors of late; the soul of Tomkins is abroad! We are grieved to reject the last lays of a Poet, who chaunts his own elegy. If he is really a swan " singing as he dies," he Lion's Head cannot see its way through L. L.'s "lines called Night.” Were the Lion to put, as the writer requests, his "correcting hand" to them, L. L. would soon be induced to cry paws off!" Was G. asleep during the performance at the Haymarket which he affects to criticise? If not, we think he might as well have been so. The ability and the justice of his criticism are about upon a par. We must also inform him that we breed our own critics. There is another G. who addresses us, (for a very facetious reason,)" Dear Sir." Had all the lines been equal to the first one of his "Familiar Epistle," we should have been happy to avail ourselves of his contribution. We are compelled to decline "One brief Remembrance of the Youthful Bard." The papers from L, and from Fitzroy Square, my Uncle John, &c. are received, and under consideration. The Life, by a Dublin Correspondent, is printed, for insertion. We have received many other communications from Correspondents bespeaking or requiring our special lenity. We spare them accordingly, and thank them for their good Intentions. THE London Magazine. No XXII. OCTOBER, 1821. VOL. IV. CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM EATER So then, Oxford-street, stonyhearted step-mother! thou that listenest to the sighs of orphans, and drinkest the tears of children, at length I was dismissed from thee: the time was come at last that I no more should pace in anguish thy never-ending terraces; no more should dream, and wake in captivity to the pangs of hunger. Successors, too many, to myself and Ann, have, doubtless, since then, trodden in our footsteps -inheritors of our calamities: other orphans than Ann have sighed: tears have been shed by other children: and thou, Oxford-street, hast since, doubtless, echoed to the groans of innumerable hearts. For myself, however, the storm which I had outlived seemed to have been the pledge of a long fair-weather; the premature sufferings which I had paid down, to have been accepted as a ransom for many years to come, as a price of long immunity from sorrow and if again I walked in London, a solitary and contemplative man (as oftentimes I did), I walked for the most part in serenity and peace of mind. And, although it is true that the calamities of my noviciate in London had struck root so deeply in my bodily constitution that afterwards they shot up and flourished afresh, and grew into a noxious umbrage that has overshadowed and darkened my latter years, yet these second assaults of suffering VOL. IV. were met with a fortitude more confirmed, with the resources of a maturer intellect, and with alleviations from sympathising affection - how deep and tender! Thus, however, with whatsoever alleviations, years that were far asunder were bound together by subtle links of suffering derived from a common root. And herein I notice an instance of the short-sightedness of human desires, that oftentimes on moonlight nights, during my first mournful abode in London, my consolation was (if such it could be thought) to gaze from Oxford-street up every avenue in succession which pierces through the heart of Marylebone to the fields and the woods; for that, said I, travelling with my eyes up the long vistas which lay part in light and part in shade, “that is the road to the North, and therefore to and if I had the wings of a dove, that way I would fly for comfort." Thus I said, and thus I wished, in my blindness; yet, even in that very northern region it was, even in that very valley, nay, in that very house to which my erroneous wishes pointed, that this second birth of my sufferings began; and that they again threatened to besiege the citadel of life and hope. There it was, that for years I was persecuted by visions as ugly, and as ghastly phantoms as ever haunted the couch of an Orestes and in 2 D |