Warren.

The metropolis of England to a stranger, and more especially an American, exhibits the varied wonders of a fairy-land. Its hoary cathedrals at Westminster and Cheapside; ² its richly foliaged groves of Kensington and Hyde Park, carpeted with the freshest verdure, and reflecting in added beauty the dazzling hues of morn, or the mellowed effulgence of twilight, – these and a hundred objects of similar attraction, present each to the mind of the traveller a theme for unbounded admiration. For the first week of his arrival he betrays a wondering ignorance at the alternate grace and grandeur of each scene or edifice he beholds, and broods, with the tenacious eagerness of a child, / over every fresh source of amusement. He visits, with intensest interest, the rival temples of Melpomene and Thalia, ³ recalls the Quirinal Hill ⁴ in contemplating the majestic Achilles, ⁵ and paces, with kingly step, the tesselated pavements of Regent Street. In a few weeks, however, this feverish ecstasy subsides, and he has then sufficient soberness of temperament to pay his passing tribute of applause to those sweet but unobtrusive nestling places, which are consecrated by the recollection of living or departed genius. Then it is that he visits the Boar’s Head at Eastcheap, ¹ and, in fancy, quaffs his sack with Falstaff; or, with feelings of equal enthusiasm, bows before the shrine of Warren, the manufacturer and minstrel of the Strand.