THE LION'S HEAD.

To our Readers.

THIS IS OUR BIRTH-DAY. For we, like other imperial units, must con-
fess to a day of birth. Although the king never dies, yet he is born: So
Editors, though they be shadowy as ghosts, and bear within them the seed
of immortality and wisdom, yet are they sometimes reduced to their "ab
initio," and must own to some origin, some source, like their inferiors the
Ohio and the Missouri.

Accordingly, we are this day three years of age.-But, understand us,
gentle readers:-In periodical literature there is no nonage, no lisping
feeble immaturity. It springs at once to its full strength, like the rain-
bow,-like art. Its wisdom is, as it were, an intuition, and has no infancy.
It changes, like the sky; but it always preserves its due elevation.

On this day we bid a welcome once more to our friends and to the public.
A probation of three years has established us, we believe, in the good opi-
nions of many; and our last year has, we hope, confirmed us there, and
acquired for us new friends and well wishers. We may venture to assert,
that we have included in our past pages many Essays of first-rate merit.
There have been displayed-wisdom, and wit, and humour,-true poetry
and story, the knowledge of art and science, mingled, and (we trust) made
agreeable. We may the less hesitate to ascribe to our papers these eminent
qualities, and confer on them our own mark of approbation, since they are
not productions of our own, but are referable to gentlemen of admitted
talent, most of whom are well known, and some of whom enjoy a high and
undoubted celebrity.

From what we have done, our readers will be enabled in some degree to
judge of what we intend to do. The conclusion of our Third Year has come upon
us. We are not oppressed by the vanity arising from what we have accom-
plished: yet the consciousness of having striven to lead the public mind to
proper objects, of having never pampered a vicious taste, nor fed the open
ears of the curious with private slander, or unjust and malignant satire, may
well afford us some satisfaction, while it generates in our readers a con-
fidence in our designs for the time to come.

For the future-we can, of course, speak only of what is probable and
possible. We hope and expect to do much (even more than we have
hitherto done), and this hope is backed by the strong support of our many
literary friends, and our increasing acquaintance with the public.

Having said thus much, we may now leave the argument in better
hands, namely, in those of our Contributors; they will advocate, in less direct
terms perhaps than we have done, but with more effect, the subject to
which we have once more thought it right to draw the attention of our
friends and readers.

Elia is dead!—at least so a Friend says; but if he be dead, we have
seen him in one of those hours "when he is wont to walk;" and his ghost-
ship has promised us very material assistance in our future Numbers. We
were greatly tempted to put the Irish question to him of "Why did you

Sea, its luminous property derived from in- Versification, English, 29-No. II. 173—

Siddons, Mrs., 160-her abridgement of Washington, General, original Letter of,

THE LION'S HEAD.

THIS IS eca Bare-Cut Fr we. He echer imperial units, must confess to a day of buri Chongi the king never dies, yet he is born: So Editors, though ey de stadrvy as ghosts, and bear within them the seed of immortality and wisdom, yet are they sometimes reduced to their “ ab initie,” and must swn 20 some driga, some source, Eke their inferiors the Ohio and the Missouri.

Accordingly, we are thus day the years of age.—But, understand us, gentle readers:-In periodical Iterature there is no nonage, no lisping feeble immaturity. Is springs at coce to its full strength, like the rainbow,-like art Is wisdom is, as it were, an intuition, and has no infancy. It changes, like the sky; but it always preserves its due elevation.

On this day we bid a welcome once more to our friends and to the public. A probation of three years has established us, we believe, in the good opinions of many; and our last year has, we hope, confirmed us there, and acquired for us new friends and well wishers. We may venture to assert, that we have included in our past pages many Essays of first-rate merit. There have been displayed-wisdom, and wit, and humour,-true poetry and story, the knowledge of art and science, mingled, and (we trust) made agreeable. We may the less hesitate to ascribe to our papers these eminent qualities, and confer on them our own mark of approbation, since they are not productions of our own, but are referable to gentlemen of admitted talent, most of whom are well known, and some of whom enjoy a high and undoubted celebrity.

From what we have done, our readers will be enabled in some degree to judge of what we intend to do. The conclusion of our Third Year has come upon us. We are not oppressed by the vanity arising from what we have accomplished: yet the consciousness of having striven to lead the public mind to proper objects,—of having never pampered a vicious taste, nor fed the open ears of the curious with private slander, or unjust and malignant satire, may well afford us some satisfaction, while it generates in our readers a confidence in our designs for the time to come.

For the future-we can, of course, speak only of what is probable and possible. We hope and expect to do much (even more than we have hitherto done), and this hope is backed by the strong support of our many literary friends, and our increasing acquaintance with the public.

Having said thus much, we may now leave the argument in better hands, namely, in those of our Contributors; they will advocate, in less direct terms perhaps than we have done, but with more effect,-the subject to which we have once more thought it right to draw the attention of our friends and readers.

Elia is dead!—at least so a Friend says; but if he be dead, we have seen him in one of those hours "when he is wont to walk;" and his ghostship has promised us very material assistance in our future Numbers. We were greatly tempted to put the Irish question to him of "Why did you

die?"-But as we know how very unusual a thing it is for a gentleman to give his reasons for such a step, we resisted the temptation. Mercy on us!— we hope we are wrong,-but we have our shadowy suspicions, that Elia, poor gentleman! has not been honestly dealt by. Mercutio was killed by one Will Shakspeare, a poacher, though his death was laid to other hands ; -and Sir Roger De Coverley (a gentleman more near our own time) perished under very mysterious circumstances. We could lay our finger upon the very man we suspect as being guilty of Elia's death! Elia's ghost, however, cannot sleep in its grave, for it has been constantly with us since his death, and vows it must still write for its peace of mind. Indeed the first paper in our present Number is one of its grave consolations.

The winter must be very hard,-as it was expected to be,-for honest Master Janus Weathercock has, in the present Number, "composed his decent head and breathed his last.”—But we are acquainted with his tricks -and well know how subject he is to wilful trances and violent wakings. The newspapers told us the other day of a person who could counterfeit death to such a nicety, as to deceive even an undertaker :-now our Readers must not be surprised to find Janus get up, after his laying out, and go about his ordinary concerns. Depend upon-it, Readers, he resembles the Spectator's sleeper at the Cock and Bottle-and is no more dead than we are !

The Letters to a Young Man whose Education has been Neglected, are, as our readers will perceive, from the pen of one of their favourite writers. We are led to expect much valuable assistance in the course of the ensuing year from that Gentleman-and, like all communicative personages, we like to babble of our expectancies.

A Paper upon The Marquis of Stafford's Gallery, will form No. III. of the Series upon the Great English Collections of Pictures.

We are prevented by want of room (what an enemy to good articles this same want of room always is!) from inserting the first of a Collection of Papers, illustrative of the Domestic Manners, &c. of the inhabitants of Persia, Siberia, and Turkey, by a Gentleman (a member of the University of Cambridge,) who has been for many years resident in those Countries; but it is already set up (to use a printer's phrase) and will inform our very next Number. We beg also to say that we are set up (to use an Editor's phrase)

- with the rest of the Series.

Peter Patricius Pickleherring is a fish rather to our taste. We did think well of the last paper we received - and we do think well of the present one. If P. P. P. will favour our Publishers with a call, and introduce himsel. (we know no other way), they will make his mind easy on the subject to which he alludes in his letter.

Our other unknown Contributors must-perturbed spirits as they are, rest until the next Number for our replies to them.

THE

London Magazine.

JANUARY, 1823.

REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE.

THE Old Year being dead, and the New Year coming of age, which he does, by Calendar Law, as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's body, nothing would serve the young spark but he must give a dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days in the year were invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed as his Stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in providing mirth and good cheer for mortals below; and it was time they should have a taste of their own bounty. It was stiffly debated among them, whether the Fasts should be admitted. Some said, the appearance of such lean, starved guests, with their mortified faces, would pervert the ends of the meeting. But the objection was overruled by Christmas Day, who had a design upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and a mighty desire to see how the old Domine would behave himself in his cups. Only the Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns, to light the gentlefolks home at night.

All the Days came to their day. Covers were provided for three hundred and sixty-five guests at the principal table; with an occasional knife and fork at the side-board for the Twenty-Ninth of February.

I should have told you, that cards of invitation had been issued. The carriers were the Hours; twelve litJAN. 1823.

tle, merry, whirligig foot-pages, as you should desire to see, that went all round, and found out the persons invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few such Moveables, who had lately shifted their quarters.

Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but, Hail! fellow Day, well met-brother Day-sister Day,-only Lady Day kept a little on the aloof, and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some said, Twelfth Day cut her out and out, for she came in a tiffany suit, white and gold, like a Queen on a frost-cake, all royal, glittering, and Epiphanous. The rest came, some in green, some in white-but old Lent and his family were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came in, dripping; and sunshiny Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in his marriage finery, a little the worse for wear; Pay Day came late, as he always does; and Doomsday sent word-he might be expected.

April Fool (as my young lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal the guests, and wild work he made with it. It would have posed old Erra Pater to have found out any given Day in the year, to erect a scheme upon-good Days, bad Days, were so shuffled together, to the confounding of all sober horoscopy. B