The Sun.
London, England, 1837-04-01 00:00:00

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

In the " Humourist" department of this Magazine
we are again treated with a full and particular account
of all the goings on at " Little Pedlington." Really
this is trading on one idea with a vengeance I Can-
not the author change his theme, or is he ambitious
of elevating " Little Pedlington" to the honour of
being the prosiest village in the kingdom ? An ordi-
nary joke worn threadbare is worse than an infliction—
it is a calamity. The " Phantom Ship" deepens in
interest as it progresses. There is some vivid paint-
ing in the chapters before us. " A Day on the
Neilgherry Hills" contains an animated sketch of a
bear-hunt among the Indian mountains. " Pompeii"
is an extract from a poem (not yet published), entitled
" Italy." The author is Mr. Edmund Read, whose
fine work, " Cain the Wanderer," we well remember
noticing some years since in The Sun. The present
specimen will not detract from his reputation. It is
descriptive of the sudden rush of the volcanic fire
upon Pompeii, and exhibits marked power of thought
and language :

" Behold the Mountain !' words withheld while spoken,
For the Appearance fixed the astounded mind !
The clouds that veiled so long its crest, were broken
Away—hurled upwards by some pent-up wind,
Which earth no more could in her caverns bind ;
A mightier marvel ! Lo—forth wildly driven,
As if within its depths, till then confined,
Thick volumed Clouds cleave through his forehead riven,
Branching their pine-like shape in the profound of heaven 1
" A moment—mute—awed—stupified.—they stood!
The mountain that had slept a thousand years
Awakens from his slumber! 10, that flood
Of eddying vapour still its shape uprears ;
They fly not-yet—for who had linked with fears
Vesuvius in his evergreen attire ?
But lo ! each moment, wilder, fiercer, nears
The enormous canopy, still branching nigher—
Away !—for life—for life—its leaves are turned to fire !
" The trunk into a furnace flame 1 the shrouds
Of d trkness hurling off each side, alone
Blazing, encircled with a night of clouds,
The Spirit of Fire comes rushing from his throne I
Earth, cleft asunder, to her depths is shown,
Belching- forth flames, while 'scaping from their thrall,
The wild Winds leap up from their caves unknown ;
The answering Sea doth on the mountains call ;
The Thunder of the heavens is heard above them all.
" Hark from Pompeii ! one astounding shout !
The roar of thousands, for a moment drowned
The wreck of elements ; yet, o'er the rout,
Rose women's screams—a milder, shriller sound ;
Then—sunk for ever ! who might hear ? the ground
Reeling beneath— who see when air was night,
Lit by the forked lightnings hurtling round
Their arrowy deaths—:theflash that blinded sight,
The scathing ashes shot from that all-blasting Light,
" Making the Shape of Darkness visible I
As, blazing up, all terribly in air,
It stood out there the world's last funeral pile ;
Death was within the walls, without despair.
How the crowds rushed, led by that livid glare,
Deliriously on! or wildly olung
On to the shrines, assailing Heaven with prayer l
or to their hearths in gibbering madness hung:
Or, motic.4ll2,:s, la)! crushed 'neath giant columns flung !"
" Tritons and Men f tI)P Sea " is one of those
eketchy Essays, spriAided with diseer.iing pritiPiqms,
which Leigh HIM ever renders so palatable. We
trust, bower, he will riot nt33lnt his " Jack-4b-

boa' felicities of humour. " Signs of the Time"
is an ingenious conception worthily worked out. " Thr
Memoir of Disraeli" does no more than justice to
subject. Of the portrait accompanying it, we cannot
speak, having never peen the original.