Midsummer Day Reviews

— The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska —

British Poetry of the later Eighteenth and Earlier Nineteenth Centuries

Bibliographical and Contextual Apparatus

Atherstone, Edwin.

A Midsummer Day's Dream. A Poem. London: Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, 1824. Pp. 173.

Contemporary Reviews of this Volume

The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review. No. 260. (May 8, 1824): 289-91.
Art. A Midsummer Day's Dream: a Poem, Foolscap. 8vo. Pp.173. With plates, after Designs by Martin.

To those who have perused Mr. Atherstone's former production, it is needless to say that he possesses many of the nobler elements of poetry, -- a vivid and powerful imagination, grandeur of imagery, and a nervous energy of expression. How, then, it may be asked, has it happened that he has not attained greater popularity, or even notice; and this question is, we think, not very difficult to answer. Neither his subject nor his method of treating it were calculated to render it a general favourite: it had no story or plot to allure the reader on; it possessed none of the prettinesses of modern poetry; it had not sufficient promise of novelty in its title:--it was neither sentimental, nor erotic, nor satiric; it was no tale either of northern or of eastern romance; nor did it exhibit any exact or minute painting of familiar objects, or any narrative of familiar events.

The author sent forth an unassuming little volume, unprovided even with the alluring garnish of notes, and unassisted by any adventitious aid,--to attract notice, to seek its fortune in the world; yet we have every reason to believe that there were not a few who were struck with the indications of power which it manifested. But to confess the truth, the sympathies and interest which it awakened were of too painful a nature to allow it to be perused with unmixed delight. It painted horror and suffering in their most appalling forms: so intensely dreadful were the pictures of misery therein exhibited, as to be almost overpowering to readers of a lively imagination-that is to say, precisely those readers who are most capable of being affected by poetry and of relishing its beauties.

In the present poem we have met with less of the terrible, although not of the solemn and magnificent. Yet this is not a volume for the million; it is not written for those who feel no sympathies, no interest, but for the present world. The themes of which it treats have in them an awful profundity that is sufficient to startle even those who are most accustomed to abstract themselves from the 'visible diurnal sphere,' and to contemplate in thought the trackless and boundless fields of space, in which our whole system, with its myriads of worlds, is but as a drop of water filled with animalculæ:—
          'From sun to perished sun we glance; and yet
          Darkness is still before us. On!—yet on!
          Millions of blackened systems are behind;
          Myriads of millions are before us still.'

The principal portion of the narrative consists of a vision, in which the poet is conducted, by a spirit, to view the various recesses of nature—to explore the abysses of the deep, the innermost womb of the earth; to pass through the vast realms of space, visiting unknown worlds and their inhabitants. In all this there is fine scope for the fancy, and for description of the most impressive character; and we think that, gigantic as the subject is, the author has shown himself equal to it. Many of his pictures are very forcibly conceived, and delineated with a powerful pen. The opening of the poem contains an animated poetical portraiture of the beauties of nature on a fine midsummer morning; and here the author occasionally introduces a stroke of satire on the folly of those who are led, by their sordid cupidity, to forego the enjoyments of natural scenery. In the following passage, we recognize somewhat of the tone of Cowper; the phrases printed in italics have a prosaicness that was doubtless intended by the author as characteristic:—

                                 'O! to breathe
The nectar'd air of a clear morn in May,
Treading the gorgeous meadows; or to sit
In blissful meditation, drinking deep
The warm rich incense of a night in June,
Is earth's least earthly joy!
                                'And such a night
Is even now. The sun an hour ago
Went down without a cloud; and, sinking, saw
His gentle partner in the eastern heavens,
Rising with radiant brow: and now she pours
Her golden light on the thick-foliaged trees,
And brightens the far hills that girdle round
This most enchanting valley*. A light mist,
So light 'tis almost viewless, gathers o'er
Those meadows, crowded with spring flowers: I hear
A hundred nightingales, remote and nigh.
How beautiful!—here, in a poplar bower,
Entwined thick with jessamine and rose,
Clymatis, and the sweet-breath'd honeysuckle,
I sit alone in a luxurious gloom;
And close above my head one joyous bird
Pours fearlessly a loud triumphant song;
And, as he pauses, far away I hear
Unnumber'd delicate answerings, jocund trills,
And low soft breathings; and the swell and fall
Of gently-talking waters. O! this hour
Is worth a thousand days in gaudy courts,
Or noisy cities.
                        'Every season thus
Hath for the healthy mind its proper charm;
But to the soul diseased by avarice,
Worthless ambition, cankering envy, guilt,
Or fashion's paltry follies, nature shows
No beauties. If the splendid July sun
Burn in the cloudless heaven,—why—then they wear
Cool dresses:—if a fragrant May shower fall,
They know 'tis well to carry their silk screen,
Lest they be wetted:—does the thunder lift
His awful voice?—they stir not then abroad,
For lightning sometimes kills:—is the night dark
And still and solemn?—'tis to them a sign
That lanterns will be needed:—does the wind
Rock the strong trees and battle in the sky,
Rolling the ponderous clouds, and making shake
Houses to their foundations?—then they fear
Chimneys may fall, or ships be wreck'd, and goods
Go to the bottom.
                             'O, unhappy men!
Ye drain the lees and smack your lips; then scoff,
Or, may be, pity him who quaffs the wine:—
Ye rake the kennels for the glittering earth,
Deeming yourselves wise, prudent, thriving men;
And marvel such should be who love sweet air,
And rambles on the hills and by the brooks,
And beds on the new hay. What, if the fields
Are studded, thick as stars on frosty night,
With violets, primroses, daffodils,
Gold-cups, or sweetest cowslips,—what is this
To you? will't raise the price of stocks? invent
Some gaudy fashion? make your mortgage safe?—
Will't blast some envied rival's fame, or keep
Your victim in your clutches?—No.—What then
Can these import to you?—Ye see them not,
For ye haunt noisy streets, or factories,
Markets, guildhalls, heated assembly-rooms,
Or Babel-like exchanges:—if ye tread
The spangled fields, most likely 'tis to slay
The innocent birds, or hunt the timid hare,—
And that is sport:—the diamond-studded grass
But wets your shoes; and all that gorgeous show
Of flowers you say is not good food for cattle!—
'Mistaken men!—too prudent to be wise;
Too thriving to be rich in real wealth;
Too fond of heartless levities to be gay;
Consent to throw your gravity aside,
Your ledgers and your idle fopperies,
Awhile each day:—get out into the air
And smell the flowers and climb upon the hills:—
Take books into the woods and leave your guns;
The birds will give you music, and the leaves
Will whisper wisdom to you:—sit you down
On the sweet grass, or on some bending branch,
And watch the twinkling crystal of the brook,
Where the sun pierces the o'erhanging boughs:
Look at the silvery glitter of the fish,
That dart and flash, or rest their elegant shapes
With outspread poising fins, floating asleep
In some still sunny pool:—but take not there
The cruel angle-rod:—they feel like you
Pain from the tearing steel; like you, they love
To feed and play in their own element.
Do thus, and know, if your last testament
Give to your thankless heirs a thousand less,—
Or if your name at morning visitings,
Or evening gossip, be less mix'd with talk
Of the last-fashion'd coat or gown, yet you
Will have been healthier, happier, better men. '

As a contrast to this, and a specimen of the author's ability in conceiving a catastrophe of supernatural horror, we extract his description of the destruction of our planet by a comet:—

'Yet a time
Hath been, in the profound of ages pass'd,
When this fair order was disturb'd. The earth
Was then not what ye see it now; nor man,
Such as now is, existed then; nor beasts;
Nor did the globe bend towards the sun its poles
As now; but yet it held sublimely on
The same unerring path along the heavens.
'Then suddenly there came a fiery star,
Wandering from its orbit, masterless.
The dwellers of the earth,—they were a race
Mightier than yours,—look'd nightly on the sky,
And their thoughts were troubled: night by night the star
Grew brighter, larger;—waving flames shot out
That made the sky appear to shake and quiver.
Night after night it grew;—the stars were quench'd
Before its burning presence:—the moon took
A paler—and paler hue:—men climbed
Upon the mountains every eve to watch
How it arose; and sat upon the ground
All night to gaze upon it. The day than
Became the time for sleeping; and they woke
From feverish rest at evening to look out
For the terrific visitor. Night by night
It swell'd and brighten'd:—all the firmament
Was kindled when it came. The waning moon
Had died away; and, when she should have come
Again into the sky, men found her not.
Still, still the heaven-fire grew!—there was no night;
But to the day succeeded a new day
Of strange and terrible splendour. Darkness then
Became a luxury; and men would go
To caves and subterranean depths to cool
Their hot and dazzled eyes. The beasts of the field
Were restless and uneasy, knowing not
Their hour for slumber: they went up and down
Distractedly; and, as they fed, would stop,
And tremble, and look round, as if they fear'd
A lurking enemy. The things of prey,—
Monsters that earth now knows not,—came abroad
When the red night-sun had gone down; for day
With its mild light less glar'd upon their eyes
Than that fire flashing firmament.—Yet,—yet
With every coming night the terrible star
Expanded: men had now no thought but that:
All occupations were laid by:—the earth
Was left untill'd:—the voyagers on the deeps
Forsook their ships, and got upon the land
To wait the unknown event. O'er all the world
Unutterable terror reigned. Men now
By thousands, and by tens of thousands, met—
Wond'ring and prophesying. Day and night
All habitable regions sent to heaven
Wailings and lamentations and loud prayers.
The ethereal shapes that peopled earth, as now,
Saw with astonishment, but not with fear,
This strange disorder;—for the wreck of worlds
Injures not them. The spirits of the sun
Look'd wondering down, expecting what might come;
For night tow'rds earth the blazing terror held
Its awful course; and all the abyss of space
Resounded to the roarings of its fires.
'Night after night men still look'd out:—it grew
Night after night, faster and faster still.
The crimson sky announc'd its terrible coming
Long ere it rose; and after it went down
Look'd red and fiery long. Each night it came
Later,—and linger'd later in the morn,
Till in the hearvens the sun and it at once—
Eastward and westward-shone, with different lights:
The sun, as still he shines, ineffably pure;
The other of intensest burning red.
But one was still the same;—the other swell'd
Each day to a terrific bulk, and grew
Dreadfully bright, till the out-blazed sun
Look'd pale,—and paler,—and at last went out:——
And men knew not when he arose or set
'The terrible event was then at hand:
Throughout the day the roarings of the fires
Oppress'd all ears:—and when the fury sank
Beneath the horizon, still throughout the night
They heard its threatenings; dying far away
Till midnight; then with every hour returning
Louder and louder, like advancing thunders
Riding upon the tempest.
'Yet once more
It rose on earthly eyes. One-fourth the heavens
Was cover'd by its bulk. Ere it had reach'd
Its middle course, the huge ball almost fill'd
The sky's circumference;—and anon there was
No sky!naught but that terrible world of fire,
Glaring,—and roaring,—and advancing still!'

This we think will be allowed by every one who has a true relish for the sublime to be a most noble picture. There are many others equally fine, but for these we must refer the reader to the poem itself, and can assure him that if he has been at all delighted by the specimens we have laid before him, he will not be less so by the perusal of the whole. Much as we have already extracted, we cannot forbear adding the following passage, which speaks volumes:—

' "Now thou seest,"
The spirit said, "one half the globe,—divided
By day and moonlight night: there Africa,—
Here Asia,—Europe there,—and opposite
To the south pole, the ocean without shore.

'"How soft and tranquil all from hence appears!
Like a most exquisite garden, where naught evil
May ever come! Those mazy winding shores,
Those calm bright seas,—those sleeping vales,—those hills
Dappled with light and shade,—those rivers,—forests,—
Islands,—and lakes,—not visible hence to thee,
But to me clear;—how beautiful are they all!
Doth it not seem a spot where happy things
Should dwell, for ever happy? Who would think
To find in such a paradise broken hearts,—
Emaciated forms,—limbs bent and rigid
With years of ceaseless toil,— faces where health,
If ever known, hath left no bloom behind;
But where the miserable heart looks out,
Telling in every feature—wretchedness,
Is this the doom of nature? No! 'tis man,—
Weak and mistaken man,—that hath himself
Inflicted on his fellows misery
To purchase that which yet he hath not gained,
A happiness more than simple nature gives.
Pride and self love have been and are the source
Of general misery: each man for himself
Strives only,—not for needful sustenance
Or harmless joys, which, with a wiser course,
All might, and should have; but to rise above
His fellow men in wealth and rank and power,
Unheeding how to elevate himself,
Others must be depress'd. As in the sea
Distrub'd by tempests, every wave that climbs
To touch the clouds must leave the waters nigh
The lower sunk, as it the higher mounts;
So the rapacious and the ambitious man,
Heaping together wealth, or grasping power,
Must leave his fellows poorer and less free.
One is not great or rich but as the rest
Are poor and weak:—one bloated epicure
Makes many hungry:—one who rolls in wealth
Leaves hundreds pinched with want:—one despot lives
That millions may be slaves. Did they create
The luxuries they seize, it were not so;
And they alone were pitiable things,
Mistaking their own good, deeming the means
To be the end. Life's real joys are few;
But ample for the reach of happiness:
Health and a quiet mind include them all.
But can the wretch who, by unceasing toil
From early morn till night, year after year,
Must earn his meagre food, feel peace of mind?
Can his worn frame have the fresh glow of health?
Can he look pleased on nature's endless charms,
Which he must never taste? The fields and woods,
The seas and hills, are beautiful; but he
Must sweat in the hot factory or mine,
Shut from the wholesome airs of heaven, the sights,
The pleasant sounds of nature. When he rests,
'Tis not to enjoy the happiness of being,
The consciousness of life, on this fine earth;
But to prepare his jaded limbs to meet
Another day of toil and misery.
And for what end?—that some proud pamper'd man
May drink himself to drunkenness,—may gorge
His greedy stomach till the bloated mass
Becomes corruption,—deck his useless limbs
With gaudy ornaments, and call himself
Wealthy and great. But is he happy then?
Hath the unremitting toil and wretchedness
Of hundreds given in one heap to him
The happiness that hundreds should have shared?
No! he is proud and wrathful,—covetous
Of more, though he already hath too much:
A thousand foolish wants are satisfied,
But thousands more arise. Look at his nights,
Sleepless and feverish, or distraught with dreams
That well repay on him the misery
That hundreds feel through him:—he knoweth not
The luxury of a vigorous limb,—the glow
Of health,—the lightness of the heart,—the dance
Of innocent spirits:—he is but a cancer
Upon the general body,—in itself
Painful and foul,—and draining the whole mass
Of health and strength.
' "Doth the proud monarch sleep
More soundly on the gorgeous couch for which
Thousands have made their bed upon the ground?
If he have wisdom, 'twould as brightly shine
Without the glittering jewels on his head,
To furnish which what numbers have lack'd food
And shelter from the elements! But not
To kings or nobles doth the blame belong
Exclusively: even those who think themselves
Robb'd by their lords, do rob as greedily
The ranks below themselves, till they whose toil
Gives all the rest their luxuries, are depress'd
To want and misery. Self-love, thou seest,—
Self-pride,—the cause of all. Would man but learn
That—to be truly happy, he should strive
To make his fellows so,—all might be well."'

We have left ourselves no room to speak of the embellishments of this volume, and must, therefore, content ourselves with merely observing that they are very superior to book plates in general. They are from designs by Martin, and serve to convey, as far as can be effected on such a scale, an idea of the gorgeous magnificence and the sublimity of that artist's composition.

The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review

The Literary Chronicle was published from 1819 to 1828 with three consecutive editors. The editor at the time of Atherstone's A Midsummer Day's Dream was Thomas Byerley. The Literary Chronicle prided itself on its independence from publishers which it claimed kept the journal from becoming biased and apt to build up forthcoming works. The Literary Chronicle especially accused the Literary Gazette of this because the publisher Longman controlled it. The reviews in the Chronicle were not usually very detailed, mostly providing extensive excerpts from which the reader was expected to make his or her own opinion. Occasionally, the journal did publish negative criticism, some of it directed at poets who have now been immortalized, such as Keats and Wordsworth. However, Byron and Shelley often received relatively positive reviews. The Chronicle was fiercely competitive with other reviewers and was fairly successful during its publication, but publication of other journals like the Gazette outlasted the Chronicle. However, the Chronicle merged with the Athenaeum, which outlived the Gazette, so the Chronicle indirectly survived its competitors.

Works Consulted

Sullivan, Alvin, ed. British Literary Magazines. Vol. 2, The Romantic Age, 1789-1836. 4 vols. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983.

The Literary Gazette and Journal of Belles Lettres, Arts, Sciences, &c. No. 381. (May 1824). Pp. 291-93.
A Midsummer Day's Dream. A Poem. By Edwin Atherstone. 12mo. pp. 173. London 1824. Baldwin, Cradock & Joy.

That Mr. Atherstone is a poet of a very high order, no one who has read his "Last Days of Herculaneum" can doubt; and the present work, though, like its precursor, unequal, will not only confirm but augment his fame. Splendid conception, and the appearance of being borne on with the full tide of inspiration, are his striking characteristics. Where the subject is inferior he languishes; but where it is sublime he rises to the top of his theme, and

Rides the whirlwind and directs the storm.

It is a disadvantage to the volume before us, that in our critical capacity we have been obliged to peruse it from beginning to end at a sitting. A succession of noble images, of grand descriptions, and of lofty ideas, like the succession of masterpieces of art in a too numerous collection, fatigue the mind and pall on the imagination. We should look at only a few of them at a time, and return again and again fresh to the view, if we desire truly to feel all their beauties. So, in a poem like the present, where the author, in his excursive fancy, carries us from the Pole to the Equator, dives with us into the depths of the ocean, penetrates the centre, lifts us from the earth to the end of space, visits other worlds, suns, and systems, and describes their birth and extinction—it is impossible to enter sufficiently into his thoughts, and duly to appreciate his merits at a single reading. We can only speak of our general impression ; and that is highly in favour of Mr. Atherstone, whose production, in our opinion, contains both what is original and admirable.

Yet we are not blind to certain blemishes and faults. The introductory part, minutely detailing the aspects and employments of a long Summer's Day, is often trite and cockneyish; the writer does not seem to have been warmed by its sun, into the genuine pitch of poetical feeling. He is only preparing for his dream, and trifles through the preliminaries, not always attentive to sound composition, or even to grammar. We heartily dislike the eminent silliness of what has been called the Cockney School: the poetry of fellows who never experienced one glowing or manly sentiment, who never tasted the sweets or the grandeur of nature, who never knew the overwhelming gushes of human passions;—but little conceited prigs, as busy about a tiny blossom as if they were bees and had to suck their existence from it,—nibbling minnows in the stream of Helicon, to which a crumb is an endless supply of food,—or grasshoppers at the lower edge of Parnassus, chirping over the treasures of a stunted blade of herbage, as if they had dared to ascent and marked their path with an ever-during track. Let Mr. Atherstone shun the contagion of these puny creatures, of whom a myriad, belonging to air, water, or earth, would not constitute one great poet.

We give him this advice, because, in such passages as the following, he approaches their namby-pamby confines.

There was no ripple seen,
No gentlest swell. - - -
So I went
Through fields, and green-bank'd lanes, where the spring flowers
Live on till summer. - - -
For a faint breath of air, ev'n at the height
On which I stood scarce felt, play'd over it,
Waking innumerous dimples on its face,
As though 'twere conscious of the splendid guest,
That ev'n then touch'd the threshold of heaven's gates,
And smiled to bid him welcome. - - -

A miserable conceit, and worthy of Leigh Hunt.

                                    Towards the east
An atmosphere of golden light, that grew
Momently brighter, and intensely bright,
Proclaim'd the approaching sun. - - -
                            - - - The young lambs
Scour'd over hill and meadow.
                                      - - - The hawk
Gliding - - -
Or like an arrow rapidly darting down.

But we will not pursue the exposition of these weaknesses, nor enter into a dispute with the author upon his lectures against city living and social enjoyments. Poor Man has not always his choice; and though sleeping on the grass in the hot sun may be preferable to going to bed after supper—though new milk from the cow may be better than old wine from the bin—though water may beat champagne (which, however, we doubt upon occasions)—in short, though every thing in the country may far surpass every thing in the town, yet we hold it unkind in a roaming, idling, bathing, plunging and dreaming Bard, to insist too strenuously upon these points, and even abuse us (for what we cannot help) who are doomed to life in London. Pierce Egan might, with equal propriety, try to put the provincials out of love with pastoral pleasures. But enough of these. We proceed to the much more gratifying task of displaying the elevated poetical powers of Mr. Atherstone.

He supposes himself to fall asleep on May-day, and in his Sleep a Spirit of the Sun addresses him, enables him to shuffle off his mortal coil, and see all the world of supernatural beings around him. He then bears him to the North Pole, by an easier voyage than Captain Parry makes; thence to the Equator, without undergoing the usual ceremonies on crossing the Line for the first time;—here he dips into the 'bottom of the abyss,' then visits the earth's fiery centre: anon rises through ether and scans existing worlds, splendid abodes in the heavens, and allows him to revel in all the wonders of a highly excited imagination. Such is the outline: we quote parts to exhibit the skill and genius of the execution. When the Sleeper is first rendered immaterial he is finely told—

The elements have now
No influence upon thee: the soft breeze
Passes and feels no stop where thou art. Look!
Thy substance casts no shadow on the ground;
The sunbeams through thee go as through the air;
Yet dost thou see, and hear, and think, and move;
Though with no mortal organs. But, away!
I see thee all impatient to put forth
They new-conferred powers. - - -

The same idea is repeated, but beautifully modified, when the pair are described to be standing by the Northern Pole. The Spirit says-

Such is the rage
Of polar storms. Man never hath beheld—
And could not view them. Thy new-moulded form
Feeleth not fire nor frost; but couldst thou stand
With mortal body for one instant here,
In the keen wintry night, thy breath would fall
In snow-flakes, and thine eyes be frozen stiff
Ere thou couldst close them: but man could not live
To breathe or look; for, as the lightning strikes
With instantaneous death, so suddenly
That intense blast would turn the flesh to stone.

Nor is the picture of the deep ocean's bed inferior—

Now suddenly the darkness
Fled; and a glorious light shone round about,
As if the waters, over-charged with heat,
Had burst into a blaze. Then I beheld
The bed of the great deep:—mountains of rock,
Huge as earth's highest hills; and rocky valleys,
All bright, and glittering, and pure: no weed,
Or earth, or slime, as in the shallow seas,
Defil'd them;—the transparent waters rested
Upon them like an emerald atmosphere.

These are, however, too brief and slight extracts to afford a just idea of the poet's talents. We will take a consecutive quotation of several pages, to show fairly how he acquits himself. While they remain at the bottom of the Atlantic, the following beautiful retrospect is taken by the Spirit.

                               Look upward now
Tow'rds yon huge mountain!—on its top thou seest
Enormous masses of black rock, that seem
Like some gigantic city overthrown:
And such it was; the work of those who lived
Ere man was; for the ocean hath not always
Cover'd these hills. That mighty wreck was once
The abode of life and joy:—the sun shone there;
And the winds play'd amid the trees and flowers.
How silent, dark, and lonely is it now!
So deep beneath the topmost waves, no storm
Can move those waters that enshrine it, keeping
The elements of decay at rest. Yet there
The wise have counsell'd, and the fair have smiled;—
There generations first drew breath, and lived,—
And saw their children, and their children's sons
Grow up in peace! What myriads from that height
Have look'd out on the sea beneath, to hail
The rising sun; or espy the ship
Coming from distant lands, that brought their sons,
Fathers, or husbands! That black, mournful wreck
Was once magnificent temples, palaces,
And dwellings of the wealthy!—and they deem'd
Their city was eternal. In a moment
It ceas'd to be:——the waters cover'd it.——
Listen! and thou shalt hear how this befell.
Oh! it is beautiful to see this world
Pois'd in the crystal air,—with all its seas,
Mountains, and plains majestically rolling
Around its noiseless axis, day by day,
And year by year, and century after century;
And, as it turns, still wheeling through the immense
Of ether, circling the resplendent sun
In calm and simple grandeur!
                                             Yet a time
Hath been, in the profound of ages past,
When this fair order was disturb'd. The earth
Was then not what ye see it now; nor man,
Such as now is, existed then; nor beasts;
Nor did the globe bend towards the sun its poles
As now; but yet it held sublimely on
The same unerring path along the heavens.
Then suddenly there came a fiery star,
Wandering from out its orbit, masterless.
The dwellers of the earth,—they were a race
Mightier than yours,—look'd nightly on the sky,
And their thoughts were troubled: night by night the star
Grew brighter, larger;—waving flames shot out
That made the sky appear to shake and quiver.
Night after night it grew;—the stars were quench'd
Before its burning presence;—the moon took
A paler—and a paler hue:—men climbed
Upon the mountains every eve to watch
How it arose; and sat upon the ground
All night to gaze upon it. The day then
Became the time for sleeping; and they woke
From feverish rest at evening to look out
For the terrific visitor. Night by bight
It swell'd and brighten'd:—all the firmament
Was kindled when it came. The waning moon
Had died away; and when she should have come
Again into the sky men found her not.
Still, still the heaven-fire grew!—there was no night;
But to the day succeeded a new day
Of strange and terrible splendour. Darkness then
Became a luxury; and men would go
To caves and subterranean depths to cool
Their hot and dazzled eyes. The beasts of the field
Were restless and uneasy, knowing not
Their hour for slumber: they went up and down
Distractedly; and, as they fed, would stop
And tremble, and look round, as if they fear'd
A lurking enemy. The things of prey,—
Monsters that earth now knows not,—came abroad
When the red night-sun had gone down; for day
With its mild light less glar'd upon their eyes
Than that fire-flashing firmament. Yet,—yet
With every coming night the terrible star
Expanded: men had now no thought but that:
All occupations were laid by:—the earth
Was left untill'd:—the voyagers on the deeps
Forsook their ships, and got upon the land
To wait the unknown event. O'er all the world
Unutterrable terror reign'd. Men now
By thousands, and by tens of thousands, met—
Wond'ring and prophesying. Day and night
All habitable regions sent to heaven
Wailings, and lamentations, and loud prayers.
The ethereal shapes that peopled earth, as now,
Saw with astonishment, but not with fear,
This strange disorder;—for the wreck of worlds
Injures not them. The spirits of the sun
Look'd wondering down, expecting what might come;
For right tow'rds earth the blazing Terror held
Its awful course; and all the abyss of space
Resounded to the roarings of its fires.

Night after night men still look'd out:—it grew
Night after night, faster and faster still,
The crimson sky announc'd its terrible coming
Long ere it rose; and after it went down
Look'd red and fiery long. Each night it came
Later,—and linger'd later in the morn,
Till in the heavens the sun and it at once—
Eastward and westward-shone, with different lights
The sun, as still he shines, ineffably pure;
The other of intensest burning red.
But one was still the same;—the other swell'd
Each day to a terrific bulk, and grew
Dreadfully bright, till the out-blazed sun
Look'd pale,—and paler,—and at last went out;
And men knew not when he arose or set.

The terrible event was then at hand:
Throughout the day the roarings of its fires
Opress'd all ears;—and when the fury sank
Beneath the horizon, still throughout the night
They heard its threatenings; dying far away
Till midnight; then with every hour returning
Louder and louder, like advancing thunders
Riding upon the tempest.
                                      Yet once more
It rose on earthly eyes. One-fourth the heavens
Was cover'd by its bulk. Ere it had reach'd
Its middle course, the huge ball almost fill'd
The sky's circumference,—and anon there was
No sky!—nought but that terrible world of fire
Glaring,—and roaring,—and advancing still!
Men saw not this:—th' insufferable heat
Had slain all things that lived. The grass and herbs
First died:—the interminable forests next
Burst into flames:—down to their uttermost deeps
The oceans boil'd,—spurting their bubbling waves,—
Rocking and wallowing higher than the hills:—
The hills themselves at last grew burning red;
And the whole earth seem'd as 'twould melt away.

Intensest expectation now held all
The ethereal natures silent. From the heights
Of space they look'd, and waited for the shock;
For in right opposite courses the two orbs
Rush'd tow'rds each other, as two enemies haste
To meet in deadly combat. 'Twas a sight
Sublime, yet sad, to see this beautiful earth,—
Stript of all verdure, empty of all life,—
Glowing beneath the comet's terrible breath,
Like a huge coal of fire!
                                     They now drew nigh:
Rapidly rolling on they came!—They struck!—

The universe felt the shock. We look'd to have seen
The earth shatter'd to dust, or borne away
By that tremendous fire-star; but they touch'd
Obliquely,—and glanced off. The comet soon
Shot swiftly on again:—the weaker earth,—
Jarr'd from her orbit,—stood awhile,—turning
Backward upon her axis,—vibrating
Down to her very centre;—then went on
Faltering,—swinging heavily to and fro
Upon her alter'd poles.
                                  Such was the shock,
Hills started from their roots, and flew away
Leagues through the air:—islands and deep-fix'd rocks
Leap'd from the sea, and on the continents
Became new mountains:—continents were rent
Asunder; and the boiling seas rush'd in
And made of them new islands:—all the waters
That round the earth rose upward, and rush'd on
Toward the new equator. Then the hills
Were overflow'd,—the highest mountain tops,
Still peeping o'er the flood, became sea rocks
And islands;—and the bed of the old deeps
Was left dry land."

This one example would stamp the poet, or we know not what poetry is: and though greatly tempted to prolong our review by examples of equal genius, we must leave the cause of the author with what we have done, convinced that the public verdict will even go beyond our most cordial applause.

The Literary Gazette

Henry Colburn, an aggressive publisher, sought to reach a simpler audience by starting the Literary Gazette in 1817. The most noteworthy editor was William Jerdan, who was well-known for his tendency to build up those writers he was acquainted with, partly by choice and partly due to pressure from Colburn. Most of the Gazette's articles are guilty of such bias until 1830 when the journal was taken over by Charles Wentworth Dilke. Like the Chronicle, the reviews themselves lacked depth and analysis, focusing instead on fulfilling contemporary views on literature. Jerdan repeatedly gave Dickens good reviews as well as Austen and Mary Shelley. Byron's skill was acknowledged but Coleridge and Wordsworth received only minimal notice.

Works Consulted

Sullivan, Alvin, ed. British Literary Magazines. Vol. 2, The Romantic Age, 1789-1836. 4 vols. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983.

Monthly Catalogue, (March, 1825). Pp. 322-24.
Art. 16 A Midsummer-Day's Dream: a Poem. 12mo. pp. 173. 8s. Boards. Baldwin and Co. 1824

Like the former effusions of Mr. Atherstone's muse, this poem is distinguished by a highly fanciful and imaginative character, which often reaches a degree of extravagance and absurdity; though accompanied by decided manifestations of poetic power. It is written in the extreme taste of our more wild and daring geniuses of the age, of the late poet Shelley, John Wilson, and other less celebrated names belonging to the same school; and these, we must admit, the author has very successfully emulated, especially in the dark pictures in which their fancy so much delights to abound. For this reason it would be no very easy task to describe the scope and object of the present poem: which, however, corresponds very exactly with its title, for it is nothing but a strange yet poetical "Day-Dream," full of the most opposite and incoherent scenes, pleasing and melancholy descriptions, reveries, and sights of pleasure and of woe.

"A court of cobblers and a mob of kings."

However richly such a species of composition may be embued with fine and fanciful passages, bright and bold imagery, and attempts to reach the more daring beauties of the art, we conceive it to be our duty to enter our decided protest against the indulgence of a similar taste, at the expence of all that is correct and classical, and of all those studied graces which were so much prized by most of our older writers.—Instances of this species of licence are too frequent throughout the present work; though at the same time, perhaps, it has enabled the author to manifest some occasional beauties which he might not otherwise have ventured to attempt. These, however, will hardly compensate for the loss of that chaster pleasure which we derive from a perusal of more tasteful and classical compositions; which, if they do not so often transport us with daring and romantic flights, afford a more rational and sustained interest, calculated to inform the judgment and to gratify the taste. Still we grant that much latitude may be claimed by a poet whose subject is a 'Midsummer-Day's Dream;' and passages of a beautiful romantic kind are not wanting to justify such a claim. The following sample is of this character, and breathes the spirit of true poetry:

                          'Methought that, as I lay,
A shape of dazzling light stood over me;
His stature more than man's, but full of grace
And indescribable beauty. Gold-tinged locks,
That shone like sunbeams, round his temples curl'd,
And cluster'd in his neck; his ample brow
Was pure and open as the cloudless heaven;
His eye gazed on me with a bright, soft fire,
Like the first sun-tints on some mountain's peak
Seen from the vales below, ere day hath risen.
He seem'd not flesh like man, nor yet mere air;
But like some glorious thing of light create,
Rosy with morn's first blush. High majesty
He had; but therewith blended a divine
Softness, benignity, and gracefulness:
And, where he stood, I mark'd the slender grass,
That would have bent beneath an insect's weight,
Standing unbow'd and freely vibrating
To every sighing breeze.
                                    He spake at length:—
The tones were tender as the lightest pulse
Of that sweet harp touch'd by the delicate fingers
Of spirits of the air, yet had a power
Upon my soul like low-discoursing thunder
Heard in the still night: with that power a charm
Like woman's voice, when in the deep repose
Of summer's twilight she first owns her love.
I could not fear, for 'twas not terrible;
I could not love, for it was too majestic;
But I could deeply, fervently admire,
And bow my spirit down as when I gaze
At midnight on the unfathomable deep
Of ether, spangled with its myriad fires.
Thus the melodious-voiced one spake; and the air
Took fragrance from his rosy-tinted lips.
' "Thou art a son of earth, and earthly eyes
See nought but what is earthly. The fine shapes
Ethereal that people this fair world
And the vast universe, ye cannot see:
Ye can behold the rich vermilion clouds
Of morning and of eve, but cannot view
The beautiful spirits that therein reside,
And make them beautiful. Ye can see the flowers,
Their shapes and colours, and your other sense
Perceives their odorous exhalations; but
The forms from your thick sight are hid, that mould
Their elegant fabric, paint their various hues,
And breathe into them perfume. When the wind
Wails through the gloomy forest, ye see not
The solemn spirits on the lonely hill
Making that mournful music. Ye can hear
The voice of thunders, thronging waves, and groans
Of earthquakes, but ye never could behold,
And live, the terrible and mighty powers
That work them.
                         ' "All the earth, the sea, the sky,
Have many such; your fellow-planets too
That roll like yours round yon magnificent sun:—
He also hath ethereal ministers
That do his errands here and through all space,
Subjected to his influence. One of these
I am.
            ' "To us, whose purer elements
Are all unfetter'd by gross matter, time
And space are nought, or almost nought; for we
Are not ethereal quite. That highest Spirit
Whom we name not, but, thinking of, bow down,—
That Highest One alone is spirit pure.
Yet farthest space by us is quicker spann'd
Than by man's quickest thought. Pass in your mind
Around the globe,—o'er seas and continents
Speed with a glance,—yet our fleet essences
Shall reach the goal before you," ' &c. &c.

The New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal, 12 (1824), Pp. 365.
Art. A Midsummer Day's Dream. 12mo. 8s. vol. XII.

There is much merit in portions of this poem, which, from the somewhat unintelligible nature of the subject, will, we fear, excite but little public attention. There is too much obscurity in the plan and developement of the "Midsummer Day's Dream," to render it generally attractive, a fault which is not diminished by its length. It, however, contains many descriptive passages of very considerable beauty. Such lines as the following are evidently the production of a very poetical mind.

"It was the hour of noon: the God of day
Stood on the summer's pinnacle; from thence
With each succeeding morning to descend
Till he sink down in winter's lowest vale:
For ever changing, yet, to healthy minds,
Bringing with every change a new delight.
Such love the summer's brilliant morn, hot noon,
And balmy evening, and perfumed night;
They love beginning autumn, with its fruits
And golden harvest fields;—they love its fall,
Its chilly evenings, and its dropping leaves,
Bringing soft melancholy thoughts:—they love
The winter's cheerful fire-side eve, its bright,
And crisp, and spangled fields in morning frost;
Its silent-dropping snows, its pelting showers,
The mighty roaring of its tempests, heard
At midnight, waking from a gentle sleep,
Glad to be so awaked; for solemn thoughts,
And pleasing awe, come then upon the soul,
And infant spring they love; its delicate flowers.
Its tender springing grass, and swelling buds,
Its soft rains, and its flitting clouds, and glints
Of joyous sunshine.
But of all most sweet
That lovely time when spring and summer meet,
Delightful May, and the young days of June:
When all the bloom and freshness of the spring
Meet all the summer's bright voluptuousness,
Forming a climate such as in the fields
Of unpolluted Eden.
O! to breathe
The nectar'd air of a clear morn in May,
Treading the gorgeous meadows; or to sit
In blissful meditation, drinking deep
The warm, rich incense of a night in June,
Is earth's least earthly joy!"

The New Monthly Magazine

The New Monthly Magazine was founded in 1814 and was intended as a Tory, anti-Jacobin, anti-Napoleonic journal. It was very supportive of the monarchy, even of its particularly strict policies. The journal published reviews of Coleridge, Wordsworth which were not overly admiring, but Byron's reviews were more favorable. Keats's were not generally favorable either, except for a few exceptions. By 1821 the New Monthly was more respectable and had a wider audience and was lauded as one of the most widely circulated and important journals in literature. Its greatest success and prestige was under Thomas Campbell and E.L. Bulwer in the 1820s.

Works Consulted

Sullivan, Alvin, ed. British Literary Magazines. Vol. 2, The Romantic Age, 1789-1836. 4 vols. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983.

The Westminster Review, 2 (July, 1824): 285-88.
Art. 8, A Midsummer Day's Dream; a Poem, by Edwin Atherstone. Fp. 8vo. Baldwin & Co.

That a poem may be something more than tolerable, and yet not soar beyond the bounds of mediocrity, is a truth, in spite of the authority of Horace, which the writer of 'A Midsummer Day's Dream' is capable of proving whenever he pleases; and if he has failed to prove it in the present instance, it is because he has chosen a subject which nothing could render more than tolerable.

The work before us consists of an Introduction, which is most pleasingly and in many instances elegantly and poetically written, describing the various circumstances and sentiments which immediately preceded the "Dream" (which is the main subject of the volume), and which circumstances and sentiments may be supposed to have in a great measure caused it.—Accordingly, we proceed to the Dream itself, with an expectation that it will, at any rate, in some way or other concern itself with our actual nature—that it will at least blend itself with the thoughts and feelings, the hopes and fears, of that "human heart by which we live." But we have not perused half a dozen pages before we find that the Dreamer, in "shuffling off this mortal coil," has taken a long farewell of all mortal interests, and is gone careering away, under the guidance of an angelic stranger, among "unimaginable" glories, and "inconceivable" grandeurs, and "ineffable" splendours; with which, by reason of the very applicability of the epithets which he unconsciously assigns to them, we have no concern or sympathy whatever. This, in a word, is the crying defect of the poem before us; and a defect which no poetical powers retaining the subject, could have remedied.—In regard to the execution of this defective plan, we are able to speak much more favourably. We conceive that, altho' the powers which that execution evince do not reach beyond a certain graceful mediocrity, they exist in very considerable quantity (if we may so express it, in distinction from intensity), and might have been employed, even on a subject very similar to the one in question, to very valuable effect. What the writer does imagine he imagines vividly, and describes clearly and forcibly; and if he would but take to imagining and describing imaginable and describable things, he would give us poetry of a very agreeable character, and of no contemptible order; and he would express it in language possessing considerable variety, and, occasionally, considerable vigour. We are justified in pronouncing this opinion, even from the introduction alone of this poem—which includes many very pleasing and poetical descriptions of external nature, as it is modified by the medium of human associations through which it is seen. But the moment the writer takes his flight, from the green earth on which we are happy to stand side by side with him, into the realms of illimitable space, we gradually lose sight of him, and the sounds of his voice come to us more and more faintly,—till presently we miss him altogether, and are not sorry for it.

To shew that we have not miscalculated in our estimate of this writer's powers, when he applies them to real objects, we shall give one or two extracts from the introductory part of his poem. The following is a description of sun-rise, as seen from the summit of a cliff:

------------"A tender mist
Was round th' horizon, and along the vales;
But the hill-tops stood in a crystal air;
The cope of heaven was clear, and deeply blue,
And not a cloud was visible towards the east.
An atmosphere of golden light, that grew
Momently brighter, and intensely bright,
Proclaim'd the approaching sun. Now—now he comes!
A dazzling point emerges from the sea;
It spreads;—it rises:—now it seems a dome
Of burning gold:—higher and rounder now
It mounts—it swells: now like a huge balloon
Of light and fire, it rests upon the rim
Of waters; lingers there a moment; then—soars up.—
Exulting I stretched forth my arms,
And hailed the king of summer, every hill
Put on a face of gladness; every tree
Shook his green leaves in joy: the meadows laughed;
The deep glen, where it caught the amber beams,
Began to draw its misty veil aside,
And smile and glisten through its pearly tears.
The birds stuck up their chorus; the young lambs
Scour'd over hill and meadow;—all that lived
Look'd like a new creation, over-fill'd
With health and joy: nay, even the inanimate earth
Seemed coming into life.
But glorious far
Beyond all else, the mighty god of light
Mounting the crystal firmament: no eye
May look upon his overwhelming pomp:
Power and majesty attend his steps;
Ocean and earth adoring gaze on him:—
In lone magnificence he takes his way
Through the bright solitude of heaven." P. 7,8.

We will do Mr. Atherstone the justice to make another extract which will better perhaps than our criticism, shew the extent of his poetical powers, and the description of interest which his work is calculated to excite. This description of the effects of a comet coming in contact with the earth—a striking subject, though not a new one, and not, perhaps, treated here without a constant reference to a prior poem, will give the reader a good idea both of the excellencies and defects of this volume—

'Then suddenly there came a fiery star,
Wandering from out its orbit, masterless.
The dwellers of the earth,—they were a race
Mightier than yours,—look'd nightly on the sky,
And their thoughts were troubled: night by night the star
Grew brighter, larger;—waving flames shot out
That made the sky appear to shake and quiver.
Night after night it grew;—the stars were quench'd
Before its burning presence;—the moon took
A paler-and a paler hue:—men climbed
Upon the mountains every eve to watch
How it arose; and sat upon the ground
All night to gaze upon it. The day then
Became the time for sleeping; and they woke
From feverish rest at evening to look out
For the terrific visitor. Night by bight
It swell'd and brighten'd:—all the firmament
Was kindled when it came. The waning moon
Had died away; and when she should have come
Again into the sky men found her not.
Still, still the heaven-fire grew!—there was no night;
But to the day succeeded a new day
Of strange and terrible splendour. Darkness then
Became a luxury; and men would go
To caves and subterranean depths to cool
Their hot and dazzled eyes. The beasts of the field
Were restless and uneasy, knowing not
Their hour for slumber: they went up and down
Distractedly; and, as they fed, would stop
And tremble, and look round, as if they fear'd
A lurking enemy. The things of prey,—
Monsters that earth now knows not,—came abroad
When the red night-sun had gone down; for day
With its mild light less glar'd upon their eyes
Than that fire-flashing firmament. Yet,—yet
With every coming night the terrible star
Expanded: men had now no thought but that:
All occupations were laid by:—the earth
Was left untill'd:—the voyagers on the deeps
Forsook their ships, and got upon the land
To wait the unknown event. O'er all the world
Unutterrable terror reign'd. Men now
By thousands, and by tens of thousands, met—
Wond'ring and prophesying. Day and night
All habitable regions sent to heaven
Wailings, and lamentations, and loud prayers.
The ethereal shapes that peopled earth, as now,
Saw with astonishment, but not with fear,
This strange disorder;—for the wreck of worlds
Injures not them. The spirits of the sun
Look'd wondering down, expecting what might come;
For right tow'rds earth the blazing Terror held
Its awful course; and all the abyss of space
Resounded to the roarings of its fires.
                                              'Yet once more
     *      *      *      *      *      *'s
It rose on earthly eyes. One-fourth the heavens
Was cover'd by its bulk. Ere it had reach'd
Its middle course, the huge ball almost fill'd
The sky's circumference,—and anon there was
No sky!-nought but that terrible world of fire
Glaring,—and roaring,—and advancing still!
'Men saw not this:—th' insufferable heat
Had slain all things that lived. The grass and herbs
First died:—the interminable forests next
Burst into flames:—down to their uttermost deeps
The oceans boil'd,—spurting their bubbling waves,—
Rocking and wallowing higher than the hills:—
The hills themselves at last grew burning red;
And the whole earth seem'd as 'twould melt away.
'Intensest expectation now held all
The ethereal natures silent. From the heights
Of space they look'd, and waited for the shock;
For in right opposite courses the two orbs
Rush'd tow'rds each other, as two enemies haste
To meet in deadly combat. 'Twas a sight
Sublime, yet sad, to see this beautiful earth,—
Stript of all verdure, empty of all life,—
Glowing beneath the comet's terrible breath,
Like a huge coal of fire!
                                    'They now drew nigh:
Rapidly rolling on they came!—They struck!—
The universe felt the shock. We look'd to have seen
The earth shatter'd to dust, or borne away
By that tremendous fire-star; but they touch'd
Obliquely,—and glanced off. The comet soon
Shot swiftly on again:—the weaker earth,—
Jarr'd from her orbit,—stood awhile,—turning
Backward upon her axis,—vibrating
Down to her very centre;—then went on
Faltering,—swinging heavily to and fro
Upon her alter'd poles.

In conclusion, we would urge this writer, with no unfriendly voice, to be content with the real glories and the real grandeur that he seems willing as well as able to see every where about him, and leave the imaginary (or as he himself calls them the "unimaginable") ones to dreamers and visionaries.

The Westminster Review

The Westminster Review began in 1824 and was the voice for the Benthamites, causing many to claim the Westminster viewed literature as unimportant. While this is true, especially at the beginning, many of the contributing editors and reviewers acknowledged literature's place and enjoyed it themselves, in spite of their Utilitarian views. Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill are notable contributors to the journal in more ways than one; Mill's treatment of Tennyson helped establish the author as a serious poet. Often, the reviews in the Westminster were springboards to the reviewer's presentation of his politics or views on other issues. The Westminster was influenced by both New Criticism and realism in later years. It was published for a long time, 1824 to 1914, and always called for radical reform of Parliament while changing itself to fit the times. On occasion, however, non-literary concerns (usually politics) crept into reviews of literature where they did necessarily belong. Overall, the journal provided well-written and thoughtful reviews and had significant influence in the literary and political world.

Works Consulted

Sullivan, Alvin, ed. British Literary Magazines. Vol. 2, The Romantic Age, 1789-1836. 4 vols. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1983.