England, are committed to the Tower on Stow relates, that James I., on a visit to the lion and lioness in the Tower, caused a live lamb to be put into them; but they refused to harm it, although the lamb in its innocence went close to them. An anecdote equally striking was related to the editor of the Every-Day Book by an individual whose friend, a few years ago, saw a young calf thrust into the den of a lion abroad. The calf walked to the lion, and rubbed itself against him as he lay; the lion looked, but did not move; the calf, by thrusting its nose under the side of the lion, indicated a desire to suck, and the lion then slowly rose and Maitland's London, edit. 1772. i. 171. + Gent. Mag. walked away, from mere disinclination to be interfered with, but without the least expression of resentment, although the calf continued to follow him. On the 13th of August, 1731, a litter of young lions was whelped in the Tower, from a lioness and lion whelped there six years before. In the Gentleman's Magazine for February, 1739, there is an engraving of Marco, a lion then in the Tower. On the 6th of April, 1775, a lion was landed at the Tower, as a present to his late majesty from Senegal. He was taken in the woods, out of a snare, by a private soldier, who, being attacked by two natives that had laid it, killed them both, and brought away the lion. The king ordered his discharge for this act, and further rewarded him by a pension of fifty pounds a year for life. On this fact, related in the Gentleman's Magazine for that year, a correspondent inquires of Mr. Urban whether " a lion's whelp is an equivalent for the lives of two human creatures." To this question, reiterated by another, it is answered in the same volume, with rectitude of principle and feeling, that "if the fact be true, the person who recommended the soldier to his majesty's notice, must have considered the action in a military light only, and must totally have overlooked the criminality of it in a moral sense. The killing two innocent fellow-creatures, unprovoked, only to rob them of the fruits of their ingenuity, can never surely be accounted meritorious in one who calls himself a christian. If it is not meritorious, but contrary, the murderer was a very improper object to be recommended as worthy to be rewarded by a humane and christian king." This settled the question, and the subject was not revived. THE LION'S HEAD. Because the inundation of the Nile happened during the progress of the sun in Leo, the ancients caused the water of their fountains to issue from the mouth of a lion's head, sculptured in stone. The circumstance is pleasant to notice at this season; a few remarks will be made on fountains by-and-bye. The Lion's Head, at Button's coffeehouse, is well remembered in literary annals. It was a carving with an orifice at the mouth, through which communications for the "Guardian" were thrown. Button had been a servant in the countess of Warwick's family, and by the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south side of Russell-street, about two doors from Covent-garden, where the wits of that day used to assemble. Addison studied all the morning, dined at a tavern, and afterwards went to Button's. "The Lion's Head" was inscribed with two lines from Martial: Cervantur magnis isti Cervicibus ungues : Non nisi delectâ pascitur ille fera. This has been translated in the Gentleman's Magazine thus: Bring here nice morceaus; be it understood The lion vindicates his choicest food. Button's "Lion's Head" was afterwards preserved at the Shakspeare Tavern, where it was sold by auction on the 8th of November, 1804, to Mr. Richardson of the Grand Hotel, the indefatigable collector and possessor of an immense mass of materials for the history of St. Paul, Covent-garden, the parish wherein he resides. The late duke of Norfolk was his ineffectual competitor at the sale: the noble peer suffered the spirited commoner to gain the prize for 177. 10s. Subsequently the duke frequently dined at Mr. Richardson's, whom he courted in vain to relinquish the gem. Mr. R. had the head with its inscription handsomely engraved for his "great seal," from which he has caused delicate impressions to be presented in oak-boxes, to a few whom it has pleased him so to gratify; and among them the editor of the Every-Day Book, who thus acknowledges the acceptable civility. In the London Magazine the "Lion's Head," fronts each number, greeting its correspondents, and others who expect announcements, with "short affable roars," and inviting "communications" from all "who may have committed a particularly good action, or a particularly bad oneor said or written any thing very clever, or very stupid, during the month." By too literal a construction of this comprehensive invitation, some got into the head," who, not having reach enough for the "body" of the magazine, were happy to get out with a slight scratch, and others remain without daring to say "their souls are their own"-to the rereformation of themselves, and as examples to others contemplating like offences. The "Lion" of the "London" is of delicate scent, and shows high masterhood in the great forest of literature. 46 St. Anne. Her name, which in Hebrew signifies gracious, is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, which is kept as a great holiday by the Romish church. The history of St. Anne is an old fiction. It pretends that she and her husband Joachim were Jews of substance, and lived twenty years without issue, when the high priest, on Joachim making his of ferings in the temple, at the feast of the dedication, asked him why he, who had no children, presumed to appear among those who had; adding, that his offerings were not acceptable to God, who had judged him unworthy to have children, nor, until he had, would his offerings be accepted. Joachim retired, and bewailed his reproach among his shepherds in the pastures without returning home, lest his neighbours also should reproach him. The story relates that, in this state, an angel appeared to him and consoled him, by assuring him that he should have a daughter, who should be called Mary, and for a sign he declared that Joachim on arriving at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem should there meet his wife Anne, who being very much troubled that he had not returned sooner, should rejoice to see him. Afterwards the angel appeared to Anne, who was equally disconsolate, and comforted her by a promise to the same effect, and assured her by a like token, namely, that at the Golden Gate she should meet her husband for whose safety she had been so much concerned. Accordingly both of them left the places where they were, and met each other at the Golden Gate, and rejoiced at each others' vision, and returned thanks, and lived in cheerful expectation that the promise would be fulfilled. The meeting between St. Anne and St. Joachim at the Golden Gate was a favourite subject among catholic painters, and there are many prints of it. From one of them in the "Salisbury Missal," (1534 fo. xix) the annexed engraving is copied. The curious reader will find notices of others in a volume on the “Ancient Mysteries," by the editor of the EveryDay Book. The wood engraving in the "Missal" is improperly placed there to illustrate the meeting between the Virgin Mary and Elizabeth. 1009 1010 Meeting of St. Anne and St. Joachim AT THE GOLDEN GATE. It is further pretended, that the result of the angel's communication to Joachim and Anne was the miraculous birth of the Virgin Mary, and that she was afterwards dedicated by Anne to the service of the temple, where she remained till the time of her espousal by Joseph. In the Romish breviary of Sarum there are forms of prayer to St. Anne, which show how extraordinarily highly these stories placed her. One of them is thus translated by bishop Patrick:* "O vessel of celestial grace, Blest mother to the virgins' queen, By thee we beg, in the first place, Remission of all former sin. Patrick's Devot. of Rom, Church. "Great mother, always keep in mind And, by thy wonted prayer, let's find Another, after high commendations to St. Anne, concludes thus :"Therefore, still asking, we remain, And thy unwearied suitors are, That, what thou canst, thou wouldst obtain, And give us heaven by thy prayer. Do thou appease the daughter, thou didst bear, She her own son, and thou thy grandson dear." The nuns of St. Anne at Rome show a rude silver ring as the wedding-ring of Anne and Joachim; both ring and story are ingenious fabrications. There are of course plenty of her relics and miracles from the same sources. They are further noticed in the work on the "Mysteries" referred to before. SUMMER HOLIDAYS. A young, and not unknown correspondent of the Every-Day Book, has had a holiday---his first holiday since he came to London, and settled down into an every-day occupation of every hour of his time. He seems until now not to have known that the environs of London abound in natural as well as artificial beauties. What he has seen will be productive of this advantage; it will induce residents in London, who never saw Dulwich, to pay it a visit, and see all that he saw. Messrs. Colnaghi and Son, of Pallmall East, Mr. Clay of Ludgate-hill, or any other respectable printseller, will supply an applicant with a ticket of admission for a party, to see the noble gallery of pictures there. These tickets are gratuitous, and a summer holiday may be delightfully spent by viewing the paintings, and walking in the pleasant places adjacent: the pictures will be agreeable topics for conversation during the stroll. MY HOLIDAY! To the Editor of the Every-Day Book. My dear Sir, The kind and benevolent feelings which you are so wont to discover, and the sparkling good-humour and sympathy which characterize your Every-Day Book, encourage me to describe to you "My holiday!" I approach you with familiarity, being well known as your constant reader. You also know me to be a provincial cockney-a transplant. Oh! why then do you so often paint nature in her enchanting loveliness? What cruelty! You know my destiny is foreign to my desires: I cannot now seek the shade of a retired grove, carelessly throw myself on the bank of a " babbling brook," there muse and angle, as I was wont to do, and, as my old friend Izaak Walton bade Think of that! I have experienced what Leigh Hunt desires every christian to experience that there is a green and gay world, as well as a brick and mortar one. Months previous was the spot fixed upon which was to receive my choice, happy spirit. Dulwich was the place. It was an easy distance from town; moreover, it was a "rustic" spot; moreover, it had a picture-gallery; in a word, it was just the sort of place for me. The happy morning dawned. I could say with Horace, with the like feelings of enraptured delight "Insanire juvat. Sparge rosas." Such was the disposition of my mind. We met (for I was accompanied) at that general rendezvous for carts, stages, waggons, and sociables, the Elephant and Castle. There were the honest, valiant, laughter-loving J—; the pensive, kindlyhearted G-; and the sanguine, romantic, speculative M-. A conveyance was soon sought. It was a square, covered vehicle, set on two wheels, drawn by one horse, which was a noble creature, creditable to its humane master, who has my best wishes, as I presume he will never have cause to answer under Mr. Martin's Act. Thus equipaged and curtained in,we merrily trotted by the Montpelier Gardens, and soon overtook the "Fox-under-theHill." To this "Fox" I was an entire stranger, having never hunted in that part of the country before. The beautiful hill which brought us to the heights of turned to the left, which gave us the view Camberwell being gained, we sharply of Dulwich and its adjoining domains in the distance. Oh, ecstacy of thought! Gentle hills, dark valleys, far-spreading groves, luxuriant corn-fields, magnificent prospects, then sparkled before me. The rich carpet of nature decked with Flora's choicest flowers, and wafting perfumes of odoriferous herbs floating on the breezes, expanded and made my heart replete with joy. What kind-heartedness then beamed in our countenances! We talked, and joked, and prattled; and so fast did our transports impulse, that to expect an answer to one of my eager inquiries as to "who lives here or there?" was out of the question. Our hearts were redolent of joy. It was our holiday! By the side of the neat, grassy, picturesque burying-ground we alighted, in front of Dulwich-college. Now for the picture-gallery. Some demur took place as to the safety of the "ticket." After a few moments' intense anxiety, it appeared. How important was that square bit of card-it was the key to our hopes"Admit Mr. R- and friends to view the Bourgeois Gallery." We entered by the gate which conducts into the clean, neat, and well-paved courtyard contiguous to the gallery. In the lodge, which is situate at the end of this paved footpath, you see a comely, urbane personage. With a polite bend of the head, and a gentle smile of good-nature on his countenance on the production of the "ticket," he bids you welcome. The small folding doors on your right hand are then opened, and this magnificent gallery is before you. This collection is extremely rich in the works of the old masters, particularly Poussin, Teniers, Vandyke, Claude, Rubens, Cuype, Murillo, Velasquez, Annibal Caracci, Vandervelt, Vanderwerf, and Vanhuysem. Here I luxuriated. With my catalogue in hand, and the eye steadily fixed upon the subject, I gazed, and although neither connoisseur nor student, felt that calmness, devotion, and serenity of soul, which the admiration of either the works of a poet, or the "sweet harmony" of sound, or form, alone work upon my heart. I love nature, and here she was imitated in her simplest and truest colourings. The gallery, or rather the five elegant rooms, are well designed, and the pictures admirably arranged. We entered by a door about midway in the gallery, on the left, and were particularly pleased with the mausoleum. The design is clever and ingenious, and highly creditable to the talents of Mr. Soane. Here lie sir Francis Bourgeois, and Mr. and Mrs. Desenfans, surrounded by these exquisite pictures. The masterly painting of the Death of Cardinal Beaufort is observed nearly over this entrance-door. But, time hastens and after noticing yonder picture which hangs at the farther extremity of the gallery, I will retire. It is the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by Annibal Caracci. Upon this sublime painting I could meditate away an age. It is full of power, of real feeling and poetry. Mark that countenance-the uplifted eye" with holy fervour bright !"—the resignation, calmness, and holy serenity, which speak of truth and magnanimity, contrasted with the physical sufferings and agonies of a horrid death. I was lost-my mind was slumbering on this ocean of sublimity! The lover of rural sights will return "Heav'ns! what a goodly prospect spread around Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, And glittering towns, and gilded streams." eye glances from villa to grove, turret, This is a fairy region. The ravished pleasure-ground, hill, dale; and "figured streams in waves of silver" roll. Here Droog Castle, Peckham, Walworth, Greenare seen Norwood, Shooter's-hill, Seven wich, Deptford, and bounding the horizon, the vast gloom of Epping Forest. What the eye, and the heart! A few paces a holiday! What a feast for the mind, from us we suddenly discerned a humble, aged, wintry object, sitting as if in mockery of the golden sunbeam which played thropy of the good and gentle Elia inspired across his furrowed cheek. The philanthis monument of days gone by. Love is our hearts on viewing this "dim speck," charity, and it was charitable thus to love. The good old patriarch asked not, but received alms with humility and gratitude. His poverty was honourable: his character was noble and elevated in low liness. He gracelessly doffed his manycoloured cap in thanks (for hat he had none), and the snowy locks floating on the breeze rendered him an object as interesting as he was venerable. Could we have made all sad hearts gay, we should but have realized the essayings of our souls. Our imaginings were of gladness and of joy. It was our holiday! Now, my holiday is past! Hope, like a glimmering star, appears to me through the dark waves of time, and is ominous of future days like these. We are now "at home," homely in use as occupation. I am hugging the desk, and calculating. I can now only request others who have leisure and opportunity to take a "holiday," and make it a "holiday" similar to this. Health will be improved, the heart delighted, and the mind strengthened. The grovelling sensualist, who sees pleasure only in confusion, never can know pleasures comparable with these. There is |
