The Sun.
London, England, 1832-09-01 00:00:00

SLACKW 0 OD' S MAGAZINE.

Mr. Warren has here resumed his " Pas-
sages from the Diary of a late Physician." The
present tales are two in number, the first and
most effective of which is entitled the " Thun-
der-struck." The pervading defect of all these
narrations is, that they are too exaggerated, and
that their horrors are too elaborately worked up.
There is little or no sound healthy feeling in
them, but there is a prodigious deal of pains-
taking, and which lies too apparently on the
surface. The author piles the horrible upon
the horrible, Pelion upon Ossa, until discretion
and good taste revolt at the ungainly accumula-
tion. The " Thunder-struck" is a case in
point, in which the simple circumstance of a
young girl being struck by a flash of lightning,
and so affected by catalepsy, is deepened into
one of the most fearfully-exaggerated tales we
ever read. Yet it has not affected us, for the
reason, that Mr. Warren has laid on his coating
of black paint with a trowel. We subjoin one
specimen only (but the most natural) of his
mode of working up a point:—
_ _

" Agnes ! Agnes ! For God's sake, speak !—Speak,
or I shall come into your room !' No reply was made;
and I thrust open the door. Heavens! Can I describe
what I saw !

" Within less than a yard of me stood the most fearful
lifzure my eyes have ever beheld. It was Agnes ! She
was in the attitude of stepping to the door, with both
arms extended, as if in a menacing mood. Her hair was
partially disheveled. Her face seemed whiter than the
white dress s'ie wore. Her lips were of a livid hue. Her
eyes, full of awful expression—of supernaturd lustre,
were fixed with a petrifying stare on me. Oh, language
fails me—utterly ! Those eyes have never since been ab-
sent from me when a!one! I felt as though they were
blighting the life within me. I could not breathe, much
less stir. I strove to speak, but could not utter a sound.
My lips seemed rigid as those I looked at. The horrors
of nightmare were upon me. My eyes at length closed ;
my head seemed turning round, and for a moment or two
I lost all consciousness. I revived. There was the
frightful thing still before me—nay, close to me ! Though
I looked at her, I never once thought of Agnes P—.
It was the tremendous appearance—the ineffable terror
gleaming from her eyes, that thus overcame me. I pro-
test I cannot conceive any thing more dreadful ! Miss
P—continued standing perfectly motionless; and while
I was gazing at her in the manner I have been describing,
a peal of thunder roused me to my ,e'f-possession. I
stepped towards her, took hold of her hand, exclaiming
' Agnes—Agnes r —and carried her to the bed, where I
laid her down. It required some little free to press down
her arms ; and I drew the eyelids over her staring eyes
mechanically. While in the act of doing so, a flash of
lightning flickered luridly over her—but her eye neither
quivered nor blinked. She seemed to have been suddenly
deprived of all sense and motion ; in fact, nothing but her
pulse—if pulse it should be called—and faint breathing,
showed that she lived. My eye wandered over her whole
figure, dreading to meet some scorching trace of light-
ning—but there was nothing of the kind. What hap-
pened to her? Was she frightened—to death ? I spoke
to her; I called her by her n me, loudly ; I shook her,
rather violently; I might have acted it all to a statue !
I rang the chamber-bell with almost frantic violence, and
presently my wife and a female servant made their appear-
ance in the room; but I was far more embarrassed than
assisted by their presence. ' Is she killed ?' murmured
the former, as she staggered towards the bed, and then
clung convulsively to me—' Has the lightning struck her?'
" I was compelled to disent:age myself from her graT,
and hurry ber into the adjoining room, whither I called a
servant to attend to her ; and then returned to my hapless
patient. But what was Ito do? Medical man as I was,
I never had seen a patient in such circumstances, and
felt as ignorant on the subject as agitated. It was not
epilepsy—it was not apoplexy—a swoon—nor any known
species of hysteria. The most remarkable feature of her
c:-e, and what enabled me to ascertain the nature of her
di.case, was this; that if I happened accidentally to alter
the position of her limbs, they retained, for a short time,
their new position. P., for instance, I moved her arm—
it remained for a while in the situation in which I had
last placed it, and gradually tesumed its former one. If
I raised her into an upright posture, she continued sitting
ao without the support of pillows or other assistance, as
ex-ctly as if she had heard me express a wish to that effect,
and amnted to it but, the horrid vacancy of ber aspect!

If I elevated one eyelid for a moment, to examine the
state of the eye, it was some time in closing, unless I
drew it over myself. All these circumstances,—which
terrified the servant who stood shaking at my elbow, and
muttering, She's possessed ! she's possessed !—Satan
has her r —convinced me that the unfortunate young lady
was seized with catairrsy ; that rare mysterious affec-
tion, so fearfully blending the conditions of life and death
—presenting—so to speak--life in the aspect of death,
and death in that of life! I felt no doubt that extreme
terror, operating suddenly on a nervous system most highly
excited, and a vivid, active fancy, had produced the effects
I saw. Doubtless the first terrible outbreak of the thun-
*ler storm—especially the fierce splendour of that first flash
of lightning which so alarmed myself—apparently corro-
borating and realizing all her awful apprehensions of the
predicted event, overpowered her at once, and flung her
into the fearful situation in which I found her—that of
one ARRESTED in her terror-struck fight towards the door
of her chamber. But again—the thought struck me—
had she received any direct injury from the lightning?
Had it blinded her? It might be so—for I could make
no impression on the pupils of the eyes. Nothing could
startle them into action. They seemed a little more
dilated than usual, and fixed."

The fragmentary history of " John Bull" is
continued this month. It is not so easy or so
characteristic as Arbuthnot's, but it has redeem-
ing passages of grave irony notwithstanding.
" Noctes Ambrosianz" are too long, too dull,
and too political. Captain Hall is no addition
to the coterie at Ambrose's.