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And worse and worse the weather grew,
The fields were so white, and the sky so blue,

Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu !
What a terrible journey from Moscow !

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" The Devil take the hindmost,

All on the road from Moscow,'
Quoth Nap; who thought it small delight
To fight all day, and to freeze all night;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,

Morbleu! Parbleu !
He stole away, I tell you true,
All on the road from Moscow !"

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Here, no doubt, Homer, or Virgil, or Tasso, would have ended their Epic; Sophocles or Shakspeare their Tragedy; Aristophanes, or Jonson, or Shakspeare, or Moliere, their Comedy; Mr. Dimond or Mr. Terry their Melodrama. Be the whole composition what you please, still the hero is decidedly done up; and when such a hero runs away upon a turnpike road, who would be able, or if able, who would have the face to bring him on the stage again? Mr. Southey saw all this, and yet does not end here: original in this, as in all the other parts of his poem, he does not let his victim loose; the wand of the enchanter is still upon the runaway; and, with a terrible boldness, to be found only in Dante's Inferno, he pronounces prophetically what will be his doom in another world. This exertion of poetical prerogative, like all others, will be viewed by many of the Whigs with great jealousy, and even indignation ; but besides our having, as we must needs confess, a Tory twist, we think the < Divina Commedia” sufficient warrant for

any Poet against the charge of unauthorized novelty. Mais chacun a son goût—and we must leave this post-obituary denunciation to its fate.

'T'was as much too cold upon the road

As it was too hot at Moscow;
But there is a place which he must go to,
Where the fire is red, and the briinstone blue,

Morbleu ! Parbleu !
He'll find it much hotter than Moscow !

We hinted before, that as a Song this Poem requires, for the full developement of its beauties, the accompaniment of music and voice. By the particular favour of Mr. Southey we are able to state that this is likely to be accomplished soon : we have been informed of the plan, and we will shortly explain it to the Public. It is to be performed by a grand convention of all the Theatrica Talent in London ; Bishop has submitted the scheme of an overture, which is to consist of three parts. The first an agitato movement in A, expressive of the troubled state of Nap's mind, before he has finally determined on his expedition. This is followed, secondly, by a minor, in the manner of the old chacone in which the case is decided, and Nap is quiet again: and this movement dies away in five bars of minims, diminuenda from dolce to pianoto p.p.to p.p.p.; and the last bar is not to be heard, but understood--for Nap hath fallen asleep.

He is instantly awakened by a fine splendid Marcia en grand chæur, which concludes the overture. We cannot charge our memory with an exact account of all the ariette and recitativi, and their performers: Matthews, we think, was to execute the Russians ; Macready to act the lines on the Admiral, with blacked eye-brows, amid thunder and lightning; the “ heigho for Moscow," by Miss Stephens; and the “ Morbleu, Parbleu," by Miss Wil

Angrisani was to be taught to pronounce one line, but we forget which ; and Braham was to hold a D forte through six bars without shaking, to give some idea of the long shout of the Cossaque. Mr. Southey is to sit



in the middle of the pit with a wreath of laurel on his head, and to prompt the performers. Towards the end Nap will be produced, and a very correct representation of Pandemonium, upon a more improved plan than that in “Don Giovanni ;” Nap will try to coax Nick, but Nick will not stand bamboozling ;-after a short struggle, and two kicks on the shins, Nap is floored and unlaced, and shown to be all slush ; and then he will descend, in his Majesty's arms, to a mournful dirge, expressive of justice, brimstone, pain, nitre, and birches.

This is all we know of the intended exhibition ; but of course the Public will be more particularly informed of the place, and time, and price of admittance, by printed hand-bills. We do not mean to offer any remarks on the design, though we think it liable to objection in many parts; we will only suggest to Mr. Southey the expediency of the representation taking place on Easter Monday, instead of that stupid stuff, “George Barnwell.” But we have written so much that we must needs stop here ; intreating our Readers, if they have met with any thing odd or unaccountable in this Article, not immediately to suppose that we are in the wrong, but take it for granted that some deep meaning lies concealed under the text; or, if they are dying for the secret, to write privately to us; and, if they appear worthy

of confidence, we promise to gratify their curiosity. For, Messieurs the Critics, there are more things in Heaven and Earth (and par consequence in “ The Etonian”) than are dreamt of in your philosophv.

G. M.



MAIDEN! that'bloom'st in solitude so still,

And through those eyes so gentle, yet so bright,

Pourest a soft and melancholy light, Thou should'st be one, methinks, whose virgin will Knows not temptation, nor the taint which Ill,

Committed or design'd, doth leave, in spite

E'en of Religion's self. Thou, in the might Of primal Innocence, hath gazed thy fill of the Earth's beauties, and hast felt the power

And harınony intense of this great Whole;

Hence never on thy brow doth Anger lour, Nor Laughter loved bely thy peaceful soul;

But sighs or smiles, in sad or happy hour, And Saintlike aspirations round thee roll.

G. M.



Thou bid'st me write! in vain I call

The Muses to the welcome task ;
Good wishes, little Friend, are all

That I can give, or thou should'st ask.

May'st thou go on in quiet bliss,

Thy tranquil way to Virtue's shrine;
Sung in happier strain than this,

Dear to a nobler heart than mine!

May Kindness shed her cheering ray,

As now, upon thy sinless years !
And may thy future praise repay

The fondness of our hopes and fears !



I have been so emboldened, my dear Peregrine, by your approbation of my last petite morceau from the Country, that I have again determined to shock the ears my

fashionable Readers with one more description of rural manners and simplicity. Without further preface, then, I one evening, during my stay at the Rectory, started for a solitary walk soon after dinner, which had been earlier than usual. The sky was without a cloud, and the Sun, still almost arrayed in his meridian glory, displayed his honest countenance receding through the wide expanse of the clear transparent hemisphere. Many an Exquisite would drawl out an affected titter at the idea of a rural walk till sunset ; but, in spite of all the domineering power of fashion that affirms nothing is so beautiful as dusky walls and smoke-dried towers, and can conceive no fragrance equal to the delightfully varied odours of a town, I found sufficient and even abundant objects of enjoyment. As I strolled along through fields of the richest fertility, or lingered under the shade of blossoming verdant hedge-rows, alive with the music of a hundred songsters, most deeply should I have pitied the man that delighted not in such a scene. I should pity him almost as much as a person who has so little taste for the Novels by the Author of Waverley, and is so miserably unable to digest their extraordinary

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