cloud which appeared of a very unusual size and shape. He had just returned from taking the benefit of the sun, and after bathing himself in cold water, and taking a slight repast, was retired to his study: he immediately rose, and went out upon an eminence from whence he might more distinctly view this very uncommon appearance. It was not at that distance discernible from what mountain this cloud issued, but it was found afterwards to ascend from Mount Vesuvius. I cannot give a more exact description of its figure than by resembling it to a pinetree, for it shot up to a great height in the form of a trunk, which extended itself at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or the cloud itself, being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in this manner; it appeared sometimes bright and sometimes dark and spotted, as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This extraordinary phenomenon excited my uncle's philosophical curiosity to take a nearer view of it. He ordered a light vessel to be got ready, and gave me the liberty, if I thought proper, to attend him. I rather chose to continue my studies, for, as it happened, he had given me an employment of that kind. As he was coming out of the house he received a note from Rectina, the wife of Bassus, who was in the utmost alarm at the imminent danger which threatened her; for, her villa being situated at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, there was no way to escape but by sea; she earnestly entreated him, therefore, to come to her assistance. He accordingly changed his first design, and what he began with a philosophical, he pursued with an heroical, turn of mind. He ordered the galleys to put to sea, and went himself on board with an intention of assisting not only Rectina but several others, for the villas stand extremely thick upon that beautiful coast. When hastening to the place whence others fled with the utmost terror, he steered his direct course to the point of danger, and with so much calmness and presence of mind as to be able to make and dictate his observations upon the motion and figure of that dreadful scene. He was now so nigh

the mountain that the cinders, which grew thicker and hotter the nearer he approached, fell into the ships, together with pumicestones and pieces of burning rock; they were likewise in danger not only of being aground by the sudden retreat of the sea, but also from the vast fragments which rolled down from the mountain and obstructed all the shore. Here he stopped to consider whether he should return back again, to which the pilot advising him, "Fortune," said he, "befriends the brave; carry me to Pomponianus." Pomponianus was then at Stabiæ, separated by a gulf which the sea, after several insensible windings, forms upon that shore. He had already sent his baggage on board; for though he was not at that time in actual danger, yet being within the view of it, and indeed extremely near, if it should in the least increase, he was determined to put to sea as soon as the wind should change. It was favourable, however, for carrying my uncle to Pomponianus, whom he found in the greatest consternation: he embraced him with tenderness, encouraging and exhorting him to keep up his spirits, and, the more to dissipate his fears, he ordered, with an air of unconcern, the baths to be got ready; when, after having bathed, he sat down to supper with great cheerfulness, or at least (what is equally heroic) with all the appearance of it. In the meanwhile the eruption from Mount Vesuvius flamed out in several places with much violence, which the darkness of the night contributed to render still more visible and dreadful. But my uncle, in order to soothe the apprehensions of his friend, assured him it was only the burning of the villages which the country people had abandoned to the flames; after this he retired to rest, and it is most certain he was so little discomposed as to fall into a deep sleep; for, being pretty fat and breathing hard, those who attended without actually heard him snore. The court which led to his apartment being now almost filled with stones and ashes, if he had continued there any time longer it would have been impossible for him to have made his way out; it was thought proper, therefore, to awaken him. He got up and went to Pomponianus and the rest of his company, who were not unconcerned enough to think of going to

bed. They consulted together whether it would be most prudent to trust to the houses, which now shook from side to side with frequent and violent concussions; or fly to the open fields, where the calcined stones and cinders, though light indeed, yet fell in large showers, and threatened destruction. In this distress they resolved for the fields as the less dangerous situation of the two; a resolution which, while the rest of the company were hurried into it by their fears, my uncle embraced upon cool and deliberate consideration. They went out then, having pillows tied upon their heads with napkins; and this was their whole defence against the storm of stones that fell around them. Though it was now day everywhere else, with them it was darker than the most obscure night, excepting only what light proceeded from the fire and flames. They thought proper to go down farther upon the shore to observe if they might safely put out to sea, but they found the waves still run extremely high and boisterous. There my uncle, having drunk a draught or two of cold water, threw himself down upon a cloth which was spread for him, when immediately the flames and a strong smell of sulphur which was the forerunner of them, dispersed the rest of the company, and obliged him to rise. He raised himself up with the assistance of two of his servants, and instantly fell down dead; suffocated, as I conjecture, by some gross and noxious vapour, having always had weak lungs, and frequently subjected to a difficulty of breathing. As soon as it was light again, which was not till the third day after this melancholy accident, his body was found entire, and without any marks of violence upon it, exactly in the same posture that he fell, and looking more like a man asleep than dead. During all this time my mother and I, who were at Misenum- But as this has no connexion with your history, so your inquiry went no further than concerning my uncle's death; with that, therefore, I will put an end to my letter: suffer me only to add, that I have faithfully related to you what I was either an eyewitness of myself or received immediately after the accident happened, and before there was time to vary the truth. You will choose out of this narrative such circumstances as shall

be most suitable to your purpose; for there is a great difference between what is proper for a letter and a history, between writing to a friend and writing to the public. Farewell.

The Old Oak-Tree at Hatfield, Broadoak.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

[Mr FREDERICK LOCKER is the eldest son of the late Mr Edward Hawke Locker, whose Half Hour of the "Old English Admiral" appears in Vol. I. Mr Frederick Locker nine years ago published a collection of vers de société entitled "London Lyrics," and of these and other productions of his pen a selection has been made in a charming little volume of "Moxon's Miniature Poets."]

A mighty growth! The country side
Lamented when the giant died,

For England loves her trees:
What misty legends round him cling!
How lavishly he once did fling
His acorns to the breeze!

To strike a thousand roots in fame,
To give the district half its name,
The fiat could not hinder;

Last spring he put forth one green bough
The red leaves hang there still-but now
His
very props are tinder.

Elate, the thunderbolt he braved,
Long centuries his branches waved
A welcome to the blast;
An oak of broadest girth he grew,
And woodman never dared to do
What Time has done at last.

The monarch wore a leafy crown,
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
Found shelter at his foot;
Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free,
Glad music filled the gallant tree

From stem to topmost shoot.

And it were hard to fix the tale

Of when he first peered forth a frail
Petitioner for dew;

No Saxon spade disturbed his root,
The rabbit spared the tender shoot,
And valiantly he grew.

And showed some inches from the ground When Saint Augustine came and found Us very proper Vandals;

When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose,
When England measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.

Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade
Ere Richard led the first crusade,
And maidens led the dance

Where, boy and man, in summer-time,
Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme ;
And Robin Hood, perchance,

Stole hither to maid Marian,
(And if they did not come, one can
At any rate suppose it);

They met beneath the mistletoe,—
We did the same, and ought to know
The reason why they chose it.

And this was called the traitor's branch,-
Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch
Along its mighty fork;

Uncivil wars for them! The fair

Red rose and white still bloom,--but where Are Lancaster and York?

Right mournfully his leaves he shed

To shroud the graves of England's dead,
By English falchion slain;

And cheerfully, for England's sake.
He sent his kin to sea with Drake,
When Tudor humbled Spain.

A time-worn tree, he could not bring
His heart to screen the merry king,
Or countenance his scandals-
Then men were measured by their wit,
And then the mimic statesmen lit
At either end their candles!

While Blake was busy with the Dutch
They gave his poor old arms a crutch:
And thrice four maids and men ate
A meal within his rugged bark,
When Coventry bewitched the park,
And Chatham swayed the senat

His few remaining boughs were greer,
And dappled sunbeams danced between
Upon the dappled deer,

When, clad in black, a pair were met
To read the Waterloo Gazette.--

They mourned their darling here