After a flaming description of sunrise, on which the clouds attend in their very best liveries; the Bill of Fare for the day proceeds in the usual manner. Whistling Ploughmen, singing Milkmaids, and sentimental Shepherds are always to be had at a moment's notice; and, if well grouped, serve to fill up the landscape agreeably enough.
On this part of the Poem we have only to remark, that if Mr JOHN MILTON proposeth to make himself merry with
Russet lawns, and fallows grey
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide,
Towers and battlements, &c. &c. &c.
he will either find himself egregiously disappointed; or he must possess a disposition to merriment which even DEMOCRITUS himself might envy. To such a pitch indeed does this solemn indication of joy sometimes rise, that we are inclined to give him credit for a literal adherence to the Apostolic precept, "Is any merry, let him sing Psalms!"
At length, however, he hies away at the sound of bell-ringing, and seems for some time to enjoy the tippling and fiddling and dancing of a village wake: but his fancy is soon haunted again by spectres and goblins, a set of beings not, in general, esteemed the companions or inspirers of mirth.
With stories told of many a feat,
How fairy MAB the junkets eat.
She was pinched, and pulled, she said:
And he, by friar's lanthern led,
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set;
When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy Flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end.
Then lies him down the lubbar Fiend;
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength:
And, crop-full, out of door he flings
Ere the first cock his Matins rings.
Mr. M. seems indeed to have a turn for this species of Nursery Tales and prattling Lullabies; and, if he will studiously cultivate his talent, he need not despair of figuring in a conspicuous corner of Mr NEWBERY's shop window: unless indeed Mrs. TRIMMER should think fit to proscribe those empty levities and idle superstitions, by which the World has been too long abused.
From these rustic fictions, we are transported to another species of hum.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men;
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold:
With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the Prize
Of Wit or Arms; while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
To talk of the bright eyes of Ladies judging the Prize of Wit is indeed with the Poets a legitimate species of humming: but would not, we may ask, the rain from these Ladies' bright eyes rather tend to dim their lustre? Or is there any quality in a shower of influence; which, instead of deadening, serves only to brighten and exhilarate?