IT has become a practice of
late, with a certain description of people who have no visible means of
subsistence, to string together a few trite images of rural scenery,
interspersed with vulgarisms in dialect and traits of vulgar manners; to dress
up these materials in a sing-song j ingle, and to offer them for sale as a
poem. According to the most approved recipes, something about the heathen gods
and goddesses, and the schoolboy topics of Styx, and Cerberus, and Elysium, is
occasionally thrown in, and the composition is complete. The stock-in-trade of
these adventurers is in general scanty enough, and their art therefore consists
in disposing of it to the best advantage. But if such be the aim of the writer,
it is the critic's business to detect and defeat the imposture; to warn the
public against the purchase of shop-worn goods and tinsel wares; to protect the
fair trader by exposing the tricks
.of needy quacks and
mountebanks; and to chastise that forward and noisy importunity with which
they present themselves to the public notice.
How far Mr. Milton is amenable
to this discipline will best appear from a brief analysis of the poem before
us. In the very opening he assumes a tone of authority which might better suit
some veteran bard than a raw candidate for the Delphic bays. Before he proceeds
to the regular process of invocation, he clears the way by driving from his
presence, with sundry hard names and bitter reproaches on her father, mother,
and all the family, a venerable personage, whose age
at
least, and staid, matron-like appearance, might have eI1titled her to more
civil language:
"Hence, loathed Melancholy;
Of
Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In
Stygian rave forlorn, etc."
There is no giving rules, however, in these matters,
without a knowledge of the case. Perhaps the old lady had been frequently
warned off before, and provoked this violence by continuing still to lurk about
the poet's dwelling. And, to say the truth, the reader will have but too good
reason to remark, before he gets through the poem, that it is one thing to
tell the spirit of dulness to depart, and another to get rid of her in reality.
Like Glendower's spirits, anyone may order them away, "but will they go
when you do order them? "
But let us suppose for a moment
that the Parnassian decree is obeyed, and according to the letter of the order,
which is as precise and wordy as if Justice Shallow himself had drawn it,
that the obnoxious female is sent back to the place of her birth,
" 'Mongst horrid shapes, shrieks, sights,
etc.,"
at
which we beg our fair readers not to be alarmed, for we can assure them they
are only words of course in all poetical instruments of this nature, and mean
no more than the " force and arms," and" instigation of the
devil" in a common indictment. This nuisance then being abated, we are
left at liberty to contemplate a character of a different complexion,
"buxom, blithe, and debonair;" one who, although evidently a great
favourite of the poet's, .and therefore to be received with all due courtesy,
is, notwithstanding, introduced under the suspicious description of an alias:
"
In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing
Mirth."
Judging indeed from the light and easy deportment of
this gay nymph, one might guess there were good reasons for a change of name as
she changed her residence.
But .,f all vices, there is
none we abhor more than that of slanderous insinuation; we shall therefore
confine our moral strictures to the nymph's mother, in whose defence the poet
has little to say himself. Here, too, as in the case of the name, there
is some doubt; for the uncertainty of descent on
the father's side having become trite to a proverb,
the author, scorning that beaten track, has left us to choose between two
mothers for his favourite, and without much to guide our choice; whichever we
fix upon, it is plain she was no better than she should be. As he seems,
however, himself inclined to the latter of the two, we will even suppose it so
to be:
"Or whether (as some sages sing)
The
frolic wind that breathes the sprzng,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As
he met her once a-Maying,
There
on beds of violets blue,
And
fresh-blown roses washed in dew, etc."
Some dull people might imagine that the wind was more
like the breath of spring, than spring the breath of the wind; but we are more
disposed to question the author's ethics than his physics, and accordingly
cannot dismiss these May gambols without some observations.
In the first place, Mr. M.
seems to have higher notions of the antiquity of the Maypole than we have been
accustomed to attach to it. Or perhaps he thought to shelter the equivocal
nature of this affair under that sanction. To us, however, who can hardly
subscribe to the doctrine that" vice loses half its evil by losing all its
grossness," neither the remoteness of time nor the gaiety of the season
furnishes a sufficient palliation. "Violets blue" and"
fresh-blown roses" are, to be sure, more agreeable objects of the
imagination than a ginshop in Wapping or a booth in Bartholomew Fair; but in
point of morality these are distinctions without a difference; or, it may be,
the cultivation of mind, which teaches us to reject and nauseate these latter
objects, aggravates the case if our improvement in taste be not accompanied by
a proportionate improvement of morals.
If the reader can reconcile himself to this latitude
of principle, the anachronism will not long stand in his way. Much, indeed,
may be said in favour of this union of ancient mythology with modern notions
and manners. It is a sort of chronological metaphor-an artificial analogy, by
which ideas, widely remote and heterogeneous, are brought into contact, and the
mind is delighted by this unexpected assemblage, as it is by the combinations
of figurative language.
Thus in that elegant interlude, which the pen of Ben
Jonson has transmitted to us, of the loves of Hero and Leander:
" Gentles, that no longer your expectations may
wander,
Behold our
chief actor, amorous Leander,
With
a great deal of cloth, lapped about him like a scarf,
For
he yet serves his father, a dyer in Puddle Wharf;
Which place we'll make bold with, to call it
our Abydus,
As
the Bank side is our Sestos, and let it not be denied us."
Far be it from
us to deny the use of so reasonable a liberty; especially if the request be
backed (as it is in the case of Mr. M.) by the craving and imperious necessities
of rhyme. What man who has ever bestrode Pegasus but for an hour will be
insensible to such a claim?
We are next favoured with an
enumeration of the attendants of this" debonair" nymph, in all the
minuteness of a German dramatis persOl~a, or a rope-dancer's handbill:
" Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest,
and youthful Jollity ;
Quips,
and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as
hang on Hebe's cheek, .
And
love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And
Laughter, holding both his sides."
The author, to prove himself worthy of being admitted
of the crew, skips and capers about upon" the light fantastic toe,"
that there is no following him. He scampers through all the categories, in
search of his imaginary beings, from substance to quality, and back again; from
thence to action, passion, habit, etc., with incredible celerity. Who, for
instance, would have expected cranks, nods, becks, and wreathed
smiles as part of a group in which Jest, Jollity, Sport and Laughter figure
away as full-formed entire personages? The family likeness is certainly very
strong in the last two, and if we had not been told we should perhaps have
thought the act of deriding as appropriate to laughter as to sport.
But
how are we to understand the stage directions?
'Come,
and trip it as you go."
Are the words used synonymously? Or is it meant that this
airy gentry shall come in at a minuet step, and go off in a jig? The phenomenon
of a tripPing crank is indeed novel, and would doubtless attract
numerous spectators. But it is difficult to guess to whom among this jolly
company the poet addresses himself, for immediately after the plural
appellative
(you), he proceeds:
"
And in thy right hand lead with tbee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty."
No sooner is this fair damsel introduced, but Mr. M.,
with most unbecoming levity, falls in love with her, and makes a request of her
companion, which is rather greedy, that he may live with both of them:
"To
live with her, and live with thee.~'
Even
the gay libertine who sung, "How happy could I be with either," did
not go so far as this. But we have already had occasion to remark on the laxity
of Mr. M.'s amatory notions.
The poet, intoxicated with the charms of his
mistress, now rapidly runs over the pleasures which he proposes to himself in
the enjoyment of her society. But though he has the advantage of being his own
caterer, either his palate is of a peculiar structure, or he has not made the
most judicious selection. To begin the day well, he will have the skylark
" to come in spite of sorrow,
And at his window bid good morrow."
The
skylark, if we know anything of the nature of that bird, must come in spite of
something else as well as of sorrow, to the performance of this office. In his
next image the natural history is better preserved, and as the thoughts are
appropriate to the time of the day, we will venture to transcribe the passage,
as a favourable specimen of the author's manner:
"While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the bam-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft
listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly
rouse the slumbering mom,
From
the side of some hoar hill,
Through
the high wood echoing shrill."
Is it not lamentable that, after all, whether it is
the cock or the poet that listens, should be left entirely to the reader's
conjecture? Perhaps also his embarrassment may be increased by a slight
resemblance of character in these two illustrious personages, at least as far
as relates to the extent and numbers of their seraglio.
After a flaming description of
sunrise, on which occasion 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 proposes to make himself merry with
"
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
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, etc.,"
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 lanthorn led,
Tells
how the drudging goblin sweat
To
earn his cream-bowl duly set;
When
in one night, ere glimpse of mom,
His
shadowy flail hath threshed the com,
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 marin 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. Newbury'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. £ut 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? Whatever the case may be, we would advise Mr.
M. by all means to keep out of the way of these knights and barons bold; for if
he has nothing but his wit to trust to, we will venture to predict that,
without a large share of most undue influence, he must be content to see
the prize adjudged to his competitors.
Of the latter part of the poem little need be said.
The author does seem somewhat more at home when he gets among the actors and
musicians, though his head is still running upon Orpheus and Eurydice, and
Pluto, and other sombre gentry, who are ever thrusting themselves in where we
least expect them, and who chill every rising emotion of mirth and gaiety.
Upon the whole, Mr. Milton seems to be possessed of
some fancy and talent for rhyming; two most dangerous endowments, which often
unfit men for acting a useful part in life, without qualifying them for that
which is great and brilliant.
If it be true, as we have heard, that he has declined advantageous
prospects in business for the sake of indulging his poetical humour, we hope it
is not yet too late to prevail upon him to retract his resolution. With the
help of Cocker and common industry he may become a respectable scrivener; but
it is not all the Zephyrs, and Auroras, and Corydons, and Thyrsises, aye, nor
his junketing Queen Mab and drudging goblins, that will ever make him a poet.
Edward Copleston
-"Advice
to a Young Reviewer."
