upon the conception. Further extracts would be needless, as the parcel accompanying this letter will afford abundant materials, were such necessary, for judging of my poetical merits. The literary world will see with delight that I have supplied a grand desideratum by executing that which Milton contemplated, but left unaccomplished an epic poem on the subject of King Arthur; while I flatter myself that my domestic tragedy on the pathetic subject of Mrs. Brownrigg, the apprenticide, will be found free from all fault, unless it may by some be thought too intensely interesting. Should you comply with the very moderate terms noted at the foot of each work, you may enclose me the money, directed to the Post-office here: I am not mercenary; it is " my poverty, and not my will consents." (Shakspeare). And now, Mr. Editor, as both yourself, and your readers, must be extremely anxious to know some personal particulars of the new literary phenomenon, I shall proceed to furnish them, although I know the difficulty of the task- Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdin" (Gualterus). However, I shall observe Shakspeare's injunction," nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." My countenance, as I intimated when speaking of Mary's resemblance to me, is handsome, and I suffer my light hair to fall in curls over my shoulders, so as to resemble the engravings of Cowley, who was particularly good looking. My general health, thank God! is very good. I am of a cheerful disposition, constant in my friendships, naturally benevolent, and I may say, constitutionally well disposed towards the whole human race, an assertion which I should scorn to make, if I did not believe it to be true, for I am scrupulous in my adherence to veracity. "Praise undeserved is censure in disguise," (Pope); you may therefore be sure that mine is merited.-" Ogni medaglio ha il suo reverso," say the Italians; and Rochefoucault observes, with his usual sagacity, "Il n'appartient qu'aux grands hommes d'avoir des grands defauts."-Why should I, therefore, blush in admitting mine. Let me confess that, considering my circumstances, I am sometimes heedlessly charitable ;-that I am a bad getter-up of a morning;-that I have more than once eaten to excess of roast shoulder of mutton and onion sauce; and that, according to Dr. Johnson, I am capable of picking a pocket, since I occasionally like to indulge in a pun, provided it be original and unpremeditated.—As for instance: -Tom Sullivan, whose name I have already immortalized, told me one day, that my godfather, who had a club foot, had just died and left me ten pounds.-Egad, said I, I hope not, for I should be sorry to have such a Leg-as-he: and again, he was giving me an account of a man in the pillory, whose whole face was covered with eggs, except his nose. Then said I, if he were a poet he would compose the longest verses in the world-Versos Alexandrinos i. e. all-eggs-and-dry-nose.-I desired him to repeat them to Miss Emmett, offering to bet ten to one that she would say they were in Swift, or some other author; and sure enough she fell into the trap, exclaiming with her usual sneer"both in Swift!" so Tom and I had a famous laugh together at her ex ATHERSTONE'S LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM, &c.* THIS is, we believe, the first acknowledged production of a young writer; and, as such, is certainly entitled to very considerable attention. The subject of the principal poem is one of appalling interest. A great city—situated amidst all that nature could create of beauty and of profusion; or art collect of science and magnificence-the growth of many ages the residence of enlightened multitudes the scene of splendour, and festivity, and happiness-in one moment withered as by a spell-its palaces, its streets, its temples, its gardens "glowing with eternal spring," and its inhabitants in the full enjoyment of all life's blessings, obliterated from their very place in creation, not by war, or famine, or disease, or any of the natural causes of destruction to which earth had been accustomed-but in a single night, as if by magic, and amid the conflagration, as it were, of nature itself, presented a subject on which the wildest imagination might grow weary without even equalling the grand and terrible reality. The eruption of Vesuvius, by which Herculaneum and Pompeii were overwhelmed, has been chiefly described to us in the letters of Pliny the younger to Tacitus, giving an account of his uncle's fate, and the situation of the writer and his mother. The elder Pliny had just returned from the bath, and was retired to his study, when a small speck or cloud, which seemed to ascend from Mount Vesuvius, attracted his attention. This cloud gradually encreased, and at length assumed the shape of a pine tree, the trunk of earth and vapour, and the leaves, "red cinders." Pliny ordered his galley, and, urged by his philosophic spirit, went forward to inspect the phenomenon. In a short time, however, philosophy gave way to humanity, and he zealously and adventurously employed his galley in saving the inhabitants of the various beautiful villas, which studded that enchanting coast.— Amongst others he went to the assistance of his friend Pomponianus, who was then at Stabiæ. The storm of fire, and the tempest of the earth, encreased; and the wretched inhabitants were obliged, by the continual rocking of their houses, to rush out into the fields with pillows tied down by napkins upon their heads, as their sole defence against the shower of stones which fell on them. This, in the course of nature, was in the middle of the day; but a deeper darkness than that of a winter night had closed around the ill-fated inmates of Herculaneum. This artificial darkness continued for three days and nights, and when, at length, the sun again appeared over the spot where Herculaneum stood, his rays fell upon an ocean of lava! There was neither tree, nor shrub, nor field, nor house, nor living creature; nor visible remnant of what human hands had reared-there was nothing to be seen but one black extended surface still steaming with mephitic vapour, and heaved into calcined waves by the operation of fire, and the undulations of the earthquake! Pliny was found dead upon the sea shore, stretched upon a cloth which had been spread for him, where it was conjectured he had perished early, his corpulent and apoplectic habit rendering him an easy prey to the suffocating atmosphere. Such is the subject which Mr. Atherstone has chosen for his first essay-grand and magnificent, it must be confessed, but at the same time heart-rending and terrific. It is not exactly the theme which we would say was either most natural or most suited to a young poet.It has none of those visions of love, and joy, and tenderness, which float before the eye of youthful inspiration-there is nothing to warm and interest the heart amid the play and flight of the imagination-its images. are those of desolation, its interest is the dreadful interest of death. Such subjects have been rendered of late but too popular, by that splendid "The Last Days of Herculaneum," "Abradates and Panthea," and " Leonidas," a dramatic sketch. By Edwin Atherstone, pp. 137. Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, London. misanthrope of poetry, whose lamp, like his goblet, seems made of an human skull; and whose genius shines only in a sunless world. We should be sorry indeed if such a style became universal-we should not wish to see genius altogether flying from our fire-side scenes; from those dear, and natural, and tender To fields roam pluck the gaudy flowers-or in the brook Would snare the glittering fry-or banks of mud, With mighty toil thrown up, throw down again For childhood's weighty reasons. associations which constitute the bliss and anxiety of life to take refuge amid the shadows of the tomb or the horrors of the charnel house. Above all, we should regret to see a school so gloomy and so sad count amongst its disciples those who have, like the bard before us, only just entered upon the spring-time both of poetry and of life: it is like deserting a garden of roses and of violets for the cypress and hemlock of a churchyard. That Mr. Atherstone has, however, not only indulged, but Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled rioted in such scenes of horror, we There was a man, And from no taint of viciousness, o'erleap But generous, and brave, and kind. While The beard was new and tender on his chin, To call him father-'twas a rosy boy, That gave him birth; and ever since the The jailor, touched with compassion for the situation of the father, had indulged him by the admission of this child into the prison during his confinement and the boy, His father's lingering hours and brought a balm With his loved presence, that in every wound Dropt healing. Such was the situation of the Roman captive, when this dreadful phenomenon burst upon the city.--"Their subterranean cells" were no safeguard, for the "thunders rolled above and through the earth below." The feelings of the father are very beautifully described. He had borne bid adieu To the bright heavens awhile and the green earth, And the sweet air, and sweeter libertyNor would have uttered plaint, nor dress'd his face (That loved to smile,) in sorrow's liveryBut when he took that boy within his arms And kiss'd his pale and frighten'd face, and felt The little heart within his sobbing breast Child as he was, to keep his sorrows hid tears Fast trickled down his cheeks-his mighty heart Seem'd bursting-strong, convulsive sobbings choked His parting blessing— after watching for hours, nature be came exhausted, and they slept. Soon the storm Burst forth the lightnings glanced-the air Shook with the thunders. They awokethey sprung Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed A moment as in sunshine and was darkWith intensest awe The soldier's frame was fill'd; and many a thought Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind As underneath he felt the fever'd earth Jarring and lifting and the massive walls Heard harshly grate and strain :-yet knew he not, While evils undefined and yet to come Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound Fate had already given-where, man of woe! Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call'st His name in vain he cannot answer thee. The unfortunate parent is again left in darkness, and fills the whole dungeon with his shrieks-all in vain -there is no echo but of his voice. The description of his straining round the prison as far as the length of his chain allowed, and of his convulsive tugging at the staple by which he was held to the wall, is very powerfully, but frightfully painted: at length a "thin blue light" rises from the earth before him, and shows him his child heaved just out of his reach by a shock of the earthquake, and killed by lightning! This appears to us to exhibit no ordinary powers of description; and we have selected it, because, sad as it is, it is the least sombre picture of the whole poem. Its great fault is, indeed, that it collects all the instances of human suffering, not only mental but physical, which may be supposed to accompany so frightful a calamity, and presents them disgusting series to the reader. That one after another, in a terrific and such scenes are naturally described -that the sigh and the groan are faithfully echoed, and the gasp and the agony of corporal pain brought to the eye and ear with terrible fidelity, is no excuse, in our mind, for their selection. Mr. Atherstone has all the merit of energy and truth; but then it is the truth and energy of colouring, at which the very head'sman of the Old Bailey would shudder. Is it possible without a chilling of the heart (we were almost tempted to add, a sickening of the stomach) to read the following?— See there a head forth peepsThoughtful and calm it seems, though somewhat pale And lightly dush'd with blood—you'd say it lived And matters deep was pondering-so the Beneath yon mountain load-what once was limbs, Heart-lungs-flesh-nerves and bone Now lies a crimson jelly—oozing slow This may be natural, but it is disgusting-it is mere, revolting, physical deformity without possessing any mental interest whatever. If such subjects become popular ́ we shall expect to see the corruption of the grave in verse; and the dissection room robbed of its subjects by the midnight resurrection men of poetry. The poet before us is capable of better things, and we hope and trust that he will in future be dissuaded from making his page a Golgotha. There are some passages, both in this poem and in that of Abradates and Panthea, which follows it, of fine and exquisite description. From the picture of morning, and the effect which it has on the animal creation, we cannot avoid giving the following ex Stood thick upon her, and her golden hair Studded with trembling dew drops. Like the corse She gazed upon, the deadness of her lookPale as a sculptured marble, but her form Lovelier than ever artist traced, or thought Of poet or of lover (in his dreams Of more than earthly beauty) caught and lost. In this situation Cyrus finds her and promises, vain promise, “ a monument of wondrous structure, fitting his renown."-Panthea hears not, moves not The day is far declined: The sun descends--the chilly evening comes: But yet Panthea has not moved her eye Is open still and looks upon the corse. The chilly evening gale begins to wave And dark'ning vale, the mournful spirit Her golden tresses and along the vast sighs Of the departed day———— A palanquin is sent to bear away the body of Abradates-she remains still immoveable, almost a statueDown her fair check the tear that sometimes fell Was all that told of life |