I suppose what will strike most readers with regard to these lines is that they are decidedly fluent, and utterly commonplace. That, however, is not the light in which a critic of the last quarter of the eighteenth century would regard them. Amid the dead level of sing-song couplets, the milk-and-water decency of Hayley, the chill and prolix classicism of Pye, the ineffable mediocrity of a thousand Pratts and Polwheles—the fluency of Merry passed, according to the critic's leanings, for fire or for fustian; and the phraseology, which afterwards became hackneyed, was then startling. Take, for instance, Horace Walpole's criticism of the new poetic departure. “It is refreshing to read natural easy poetry, full of sense and humor, instead of that unmeaning, labored, painted style now in fashion of the Della Cruscas and Co., of which it is impossible ever to retain a couplet, no more than one could remember how a string of emeralds and rubies were placed in a necklace. Poetry has great merit if it is the vehicle and preservative of sense, but it is not to be taken in change for it.” Poetry the vehicle and preservative of sense—that is the critical canon which would have made Walpole as blind to Della Crusca's merits, had he happened to possess any, as it made him keen-sighted for his defects. It may, nevertheless, be doubted whether Della Crusca would have caused so great a stir in literature, had it not been for several collateral circumstances, of which the first and most important was the appearance in the _World_, some ten days later, of “Anna Matilda,” with a poem entitled _To Della Crusca, the Pen_. Oh, seize again thy golden quill, And with its point my bosom thrill, With magic touch explore my heart, And bid the tear of passion start. Thy golden quill Apollo gave, Drenched first in bright Aonia's wave. He snatched it fluttering through the sky, Borne on the vapor of a sigh; It fell from Cupid's burnished wing As forcefully he drew the string, Which sent his keenest, surest dart, Through a rebellious, frozen heart, That had, till then, defied his power, And vacant beat through each dull hour. Be worthy, then, the sacred loan! Seated on Fancy's air-built throne; Immerse it in her rainbow hues, Nor, what the Godheads bid, refuse. Apollo Cupid shall inspire, And aid thee with their blended fire; The one poetic language give, The other bid thy passion live, With soft ideas fill thy lays, And crown with Love thy wintry days! The shuttlecock of correspondence, thus fairly started, was diligently tossed to and fro in the _World_ by the two pseudonymous writers; Della Crusca “seized his quill” again and again, and his ideal passion for the invisible Anna Matilda gained in fervor of expression with every fortnight. It is obvious that here was just that element of mystery, of romance, which creates a _furore_ and sets a fashion.