they not been deficient in these points the former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone the merits of his countryman.  Our author was undoubtedly possessed of that power which they wanted, and was cautious not to indulge too far the sallies of a lively imagination.  Omitting, therefore, any mention of sultry Sirius, sylvan shade, sequestered glade, verdant hills, purling rills, mossy mountains, gurgling fountains, &c., he simply tells us that it was “All on a summer’s day”.  For my own part I confess that I find myself rather flattered than disappointed, and consider the poet as rather paying a compliment to the abilities of his readers, than baulking their expectations.  It is certainly a great pleasure to see a picture well painted; but it is a much greater to paint it well oneself.  This, therefore, I look upon as a stroke of excellent management in the poet.  Here every reader is at liberty to gratify his own taste, to design for himself just what sort of “summer’s day” he likes best; to choose his own scenery, dispose his lights and shades as he pleases, to solace himself with a rivulet or a horse-pond, a shower or a sunbeam, a grove or a kitchen-garden, according to his fancy.  How much more considerate this than if the poet had, from an affected accuracy of description, thrown us into an unmannerly perspiration by the heat of the atmosphere, forced us into a landscape of his own planning, with perhaps a paltry good-for-nothing zephyr or two, and a limited quantity of wood and water.  All this Ovid would undoubtedly have done.  Nay, to use the expression of a learned brother commentator—­quovis pignore decertem, “I would lay any wager”, that he would have gone so far as to tell us what the tarts were made of, and perhaps wandered into an episode on the art of preserving cherries.  But our poet, above such considerations, leaves every reader to choose his own ingredients, and sweeten them to his own liking; wisely foreseeing, no doubt, that the more palatable each had rendered them to his own taste, the more he would be affected at their approaching loss.

     “All on a summer’s day.”

I cannot leave this line without remarking that one of the Scribleri, a descendant of the famous Martinus, has expressed his suspicions of the text being corrupted here, and proposes instead of “all on” reading “alone”, alleging, in favour of this alteration, the effect of solitude in raising the passions.  But Hiccius Doctius, a high Dutch commentator, one nevertheless well versed in British literature, in a note of his usual length and learning, has confuted the arguments of Scriblerus.  In support of the present reading he quotes a passage from a poem written about the same period with our author’s, by the celebrated Johannes Pastor[230], intituled “An Elegiac Epistle to the Turnkey of Newgate”, wherein the gentleman declares that, rather indeed in compliance with an old custom than to gratify any particular wish of his own, he is going—­