doubt as little that many have drawn their first principles of judging of works of genius from that respected source; and that few or none will deny that they were thence instructed in the art of detecting latent beauties, which, do what we may, will often escape our notice under the disguise of puerility or nonsense. Yet feeling, as we certainly do, the utmost deference for the authority of Mr. Griffin, and acknowledging with pleasure the ingenuity of his observations, still we must own that at times a sort of suspicion has arisen in our mind, that what that gentleman attempted to maintain was in fact not maintainable; that the object of his admiration was not worthy of it; that in short his real intention throughout was to see how much he could make the boys swallow, and that he himself enjoyed the joke heartily, at the expense of the perverted judgments of hundreds of aspiring Poets and Reviewers. Far be it from us to impute the real consequences as the motives of his conduct;-we believe that it was meant as a pleasant piece of bantering, and that the implicit faith with which most men have received it since, was what he could not be expected to reckon upon. Our chief reason for our suspicion is this, that we cannot think the Poem itself at all worthy of such commendation from so dignified a critic; and that, talk as he may about its epic artifice and admirable plot, he will never persuade us that there is any imagination, or fancy, or wisdom in it, which deserves to raise it from its legitimate habitation-the Nursery. These are novel and startling objections, and we know the difficulty and danger of attacking ancient prejudices; yet we thought it a part of our duty to speak our honest opinion, and certainly, on the supposition of our being in the right, no place could be more proper for the destruction of an error than that in which it arose, and none such legal executioners as the heirs of him who begot it. We had another motive for giving this opinion. We were apprehensive lest the "March to Moscow," upon which we propose saying a few words, should be erroneously estimated; one party degrading it below the standard of the "Queen of Hearts," and another equally degrading it, by supposing that it was intended to complete the par nobile of lauded childishness. We declare we have no such intention: let the "Epic" of "The Microcosm" be still considered by those, who choose it, a unique, without equal or second; but for the "Song" of "The Etonian," we intreat but a little patience from our readers, and we will wager the price of this present Number, that we prove its immeasurable superiority over its celebrated antagonist. We invite Mr. Griffin himself to take notice of our arguments in its favour, and we leave the decision to Doctors Keate or Goodall, as the appellee pleases; or, in default of either of those muchrespected Judges, we will lay the case before the Visitor. We shall avoid the indelicacy of answering, point by point, the positions of our opponent, and shall set at once about showing, to the satisfaction, as we dare hope, of every candid mind, that what we have advanced boldly we are able to defend reasonably. In the first place, then, the "March to Moscow" is a Song; and hence in its very nature, as we shall soon show, a nobler creation than an Epic Poem. The fact is, in modern times the character of Songs has been greatly depreciated, and perhaps with some justice, when reference is had to the shoals of things called, or calling themselves, by that name; but we should not therefore forget that the essence still remains the same, though not successfully substantialized in the imperfect attempts which we contemn. A Song is that which was first sung before the jargon of epic, or tragic, or comic, was thought of by a parcel of plodding grammarians: it was the free and sponta neous poetry of the soul, couched in multiform images, dressed in a thousand robes, and comprehending all things, even as the soul itself comprehended them. A Song is the original and natural organ of Genius; and for this we have the greatest authority; for when the wisest man that ever lived on earth turned his universal mind to Poetry, what did he write? An Epic Poem? A Tragedy? A Comedy? A Melo-drama? A Satire? A Sonnet? An Epigram? By no means! He instantly saw, or rather felt, how Poetry best showed itself to men; in what dress it least suffered from the imperfection and material touch of language; and in what form it would be most popular, most comprehensive, most penetrating, most melodious. He wrote a Song--and verily, a man must be gifted with a more than usual proportion of impudence, who denies or underrates the authority of King Solomon. But we cite this mighty name, not to crush the question with its weight, nor even to prove the truth of our position, but simply to demonstrate the primitive and almost sacred descent of the Song, in its proper sense. We shall show, in the instance of the " March to Moscow," in what manner it comprehends every kind and degree of beauty of all sorts and names; and who will deny that what possesses the particular excellences of all, must be more excellent than each particular, or that the whole is more than its parts? In the mean time, we cannot refrain from adducing, in confirmation of our argument, and as a test that we are not playing the same trick, of which we take the liberty to suspect Mr. Griffin,-the opinion of an acute Italian, the Abbé Salvini, who concludes his examination and eulogy of this species of composition in these words:" But where does it ever become a Poet to display himself in all his poetical riches, in his invention, his powers of arrangement, his musical variety of metres, which affect the soul diversely, in his brilliant sentences, and his great and magnificent figures, if not in a Song ?"* Having shown that we had some grounds for our assertion of the superior nature of the Song in the abstract, we will now, without further delay, proceed to the examination of the "March to Moscow" itself; when we will endeavour to demonstrate its great and indeed transcendent merits, to the confusion of the most determined sceptic. To do this effectually, we crave the loan, Gentle Readers, of your ears and imaginations; be for ten minutes but so old as the winter of 1812 will make you; revive all the terrible sentiments of anxiety, or even despair, which at that time agitated the breast of the most sanguine statesmen; consider the Emperor of France, the armed leader of countless armies, springing on from victory to victory; Holland incorporated, Italy enslaved, Spain deluged with blood, Germany crouching, Sweden playing double, and the despatches of the dreadful defeat of Smolensko overtaken by news of the slaughter of the Russians at Moskwa, and the Capital of the North in the possession of France-and we alone are left!-But Providence interferes; the conquerors are conquered and exterminated, and their Leader runs away. Remember the joy, the delight, the happiness of England; our old prejudices against soup-maigre and wooden shoes all alive; we are feasting, we are dancing, we are triumphing, when at length a true Englishman gets on a table, calls for silence, says he has a bit of a song for the occasion, drinks the King's health with a "God "Ma dove mai vale a mostrarsi il Poeta con tutte le ricchezze poetiche, coll' invenzione, colla disposizione, colla musicale varietà de' metri, che l'anima variamente percuotono, co' lumi delle sentenze, colle figure grande, et magnifiche, se non nella Canzone?” Prose Foscare di A. M. Salvini, Firenz. 1715, p. 219. bless him," is received with three tremendous cheers, and then, half air half recitative, commences thus "Bonaparte he would set out For a summer excursion to Moscow; The fields were green, and the sky was blue, What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! Four hundred thousand men or more, : There were Marshals by dozens, and Dukes by the score, While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! There was Junot and Augéreau, Dombrowsky, and Poniatowsky, Nothing would do, While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, But they must be marching to Moscow." Now let us pause here for a moment, and examine the varied qualities of the preceding lines. Consider them in whatever light you please, still, as in a well-drawn face, the eye is ever upon you. And not merely do they address themselves to you; but if a hundred people, each with different feelings, gaze upon them, they answer each one look for look, and respond to the heart with an expression which every individual feels is his own. You are expecting an Epic ?-Good:-Show us, in Homer or Virgil, Tasso or Milton, any thing superior to the apt arrangement of the foregoing exordium:-the attacking forces are first numbered in a mass; Homer, we are aware, does not so state their gross amount, but forces the reader to have recourse to a very long and somewhat intricate calculation to arrive at this most important pre |