PREFACE.

The Publisher being desirous to present the American public with a correct edition of the "Gentle Shepherd," considerable pains have been taken to ascertain the best or standard text. Fortunately, there were, within reach, several of the best editions, as well as others of inferior character. A careful examination of these satisfied us, that, the subscription edition in quarto, printed for the Author by Thomas Ruddiman, in 1728, has higher claims to be considered the standard one, than any other within our knowledge.

For this conclusion, perhaps it might be a sufficient reason to state, that, it was so considered by Andrew Foulis, of Glasgow, who reprinted it in David Allan's celebrated quarto of 1788, undoubtedly the most sumptuous edition of the "Gentle Shepherd" ever published.[1] From the well-known intelligence and proverbial accuracy of the Foulis', and from the fact that the same house reprinted the 10th edition of the Pastoral in 1750, (about eight years before the Author's death,) there can be very little doubt that Andrew Foulis possessed both the means and the inclination to ascertain which was the genuine text, and did so accordingly. But, besides this, the publishers of the octavo of 1798, who seem to have taken unusual pains to give a correct text, have adopted the same edition as the standard, and have given a reprint, still more literal than that of Foulis. Moreover, the same text has been selected for the very elaborate edition of 1808, in two volumes, royal octavo; as well as for the royal quarto, printed by Ballantyne in the same year. It is true the orthography of both these editions of 1808 is altered; that of the octavo being considerably Anglicised; while that of the quarto is changed throughout to the mode of spelling adopted by Burns. The verbal changes, however, are very few.

The text of the editions of 1761, 1800, and 1850, differs, in several places, from that of the editions before-mentioned. A list of the principal variations, with some further remarks, will be found in the Notes to the present edition. We have searched diligently for an explanation of the origin of these variations, but without success. They may belong either to the first edition, or, to some one subsequent to 1728. But, be this as it may, we cannot look upon them as improvements.

Neither have we been able to see any warrant for changes in orthography, such as those we have alluded to: we have rather supposed that readers generally, and especially the admirers of Ramsay, would prefer to see his best poem in precisely the same dress in which he ushered it into the world when his poetical powers were in their prime.

In accordance with these views, we have adopted, as the standard text, the quarto of 1728; of which the present edition is nearly a literal reprint. Some obvious typographical errors we have corrected, and a very few changes in orthography have been made; all of which, with one exception, are authorized by the editions of 1788 and 1798. Some what greater liberties have been taken with the punctuation, but in this also, we have been guided by the same editions, with the aid of the octavo of 1808.

Of the "Songs," the 9th, 11th, and 21st, with the verse at page 57, are the only ones that appear in the quarto of 1728, or in the preceding editions: the remaining eighteen were added, probably, in 1729. In Foulis' edition of 1788, these additional songs are excluded from the body of the poem; but are given, with the music, at the end. Every other edition, that we have seen, contains the whole twenty-one songs inserted in their proper places, as in the present edition. Another song (of which the last verse occurs at page 57) was added subsequently, probably after 1750, for it is not to be found among the other songs belonging to the "Gentle Shepherd," published in that year in the "Tea-table Miscellany."[2] It occurs in the edition of 1761, but it is not in those of 1788 and 1798. We have given it complete in the Notes at page 90. In a foot-note to the "Life" at page xviii, will be found a statement, explanatory of the causes why these additional songs were inserted. We quite agree with the writer of that Note, that they mar the beauty of the poem; and, in this edition, we would have preferred to follow the example of David Allan and Foulis in that of 1788; but, it being the opinion of the Publisher, that the Pastoral, in such a form, would be generally considered incomplete, they have been inserted in the usual manner.

For these eighteen extra songs we have not had what we can consider a standard text: they have been printed from the edition of 1798, collated with those of 1788 and 1808. We also compared them with those in the "Tea-table Miscellany" of 1733, the oldest copy in our possession, and found no difference of any consequence.

The Glossaries heretofore appended to the "Gentle Shepherd" have been, usually, reprints of that given by Ramsay in the quarto of 1728, which was prepared for his Poems, complete: that in the edition of 1800 being considerably enlarged. In the present edition the Glossary has been restricted chiefly to those words and phrases which occur in the Pastoral; of which, upwards of a hundred and fifty have been omitted in every former edition that we have seen: those are now added, with explanations. The rest of the Glossary has been carefully examined, and some corrections made.

In the "Life of Ramsay, by Tennant," we have made one or two corrections; and some additions, derived from various sources, have been inserted. These are distinguished by being enclosed in brackets.

The elaborate Essay by Lord Woodhouselee "on the Genius and Writings of Allan Ramsay," so far as it refers to the "Gentle Shepherd," we have given complete, excepting a few quotations in Italian. To this have been added, opinions and criticisms on the Pastoral, by various celebrated authors. These are not entirely confined to expressions of approbation; that of Pinkerton being quite the reverse, although, as we think, singularly unjust.

The Portrait prefixed to this edition is a careful and accurate copy of the print given by Cadell and Davies, in their edition of 1800; respecting which they make the following statement:—"there is prefixed a portrait of the author, which has been finely engraved by Mr. Ryder, from a drawing which was made by Allan Ramsay, the poet's son; the original of which is now in the possession of A. F. Tytler, Esq., of Edinburgh."

In order that we may not be charged with negligence, we subjoin a list of all the editions of the "Gentle Shepherd" to which we have had access during the preparation of the present edition; with a few slight remarks as to the character of these editions.

Poems:—"Printed for the Author at the Mercury, opposite, to Niddry's Wynd;" 1 vol. medium 8vo. Edinburgh, 1720-1. This is, perhaps, the first collected edition. It contains exactly the same poems (though differently arranged) and glossary, as the subscription 4to. of 1721. It has the first scene of the Pastoral, and the 11th Song.

Poems:—"Printed by Mr. Thomas Ruddiman, for the Author." 2 vols. 4to. Edinburgh, 1721-28. This is the subscription and, probably, the "best edition." The 1st volume has the first scene of the Pastoral, and the 11th Song: the 2d volume has the Pastoral complete.

*Poems:—Millar, Rivington, and others; 2 vols. 12mo. London, 1761. A neat edition, containing exactly the same poems as that of 1721-28.

*Poems:—Phorson; cheap edition; 2 vols. 12mo. Berwick, 1793.

*Poems:—Cadell and Davies; 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1800. This edition is well printed, on good paper: it is commonly called the "best edition;" but, so far as the "Gentle Shepherd" is concerned, it is not so.

Poems and Proverbs:—Oliver and Co.; 3 vols. 18mo. Edinburgh, no date. Neat edition, with plates, and music to the Songs in the "Gentle Shepherd."

Poems and Proverbs:—Chapman; 2 vols. 8vo. Philadelphia, 1813.

Poems:—Fairbairn and Anderson; 1 vol. 24mo. Edinburgh, 1819. Neat but abridged edition; with Life of Ramsay by Wm. Tennant, author of "Anster fair."

*Poems:—Fullarton and Co.; 3 vols. 12mo. London, 1850. A very neat edition; a reprint of that of 1800, with additions; appendix, &c.

Gentle Shepherd:—Printed by A. Foulis; 4to. Glasgow, 1788. An elegant and correct edition, with David Allan's plates, and the songs set to music.

Gentle Shepherd:—Geo. Reid and Co.; 8vo. Edinburgh, 1798. A very accurate edition, with 5 plates.

Gentle Shepherd:—A. Constable and Co., and others: printed by Abernethy and Walker; 2 vols. roy. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1808. One of the best editions, with many plates and an elaborate dissertation on the scenery, &c. Understood to have been edited by Robert Brown, Esq., advocate.

Gentle Shepherd:—Watt and Baillie, Leith: Printed by Jas. Ballantyne and Co.; Edinburgh. roy. 4to. 1808. A good edition, (with copies of David Allan's plates,) but the orthography much changed.

Gentle Shepherd:—Griffin and Co.; 32mo. Glasgow, 1828. In all the above editions, with the exception of those of 1788 and 1798, the orthography of the "Gentle Shepherd" is more or less changed from that of the original quarto of 1728. The editions marked thus (*) follow a different text of the "Gentle Shepherd" from that of the present edition. See the Notes.

THE LIFE

OF

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Born 1686.—Died 1758.

Allan Ramsay, the restorer of Scottish Poetry, was born on the 15th day of October, 1686, at Leadhills, in the parish of Crawfordmoor, in Lanarkshire. His father, John Ramsay, superintended Lord Hopetoun's lead mines at that place; and his grandfather, Robert Ramsay, a writer or attorney in Edinburgh, had possessed the same appointment: his great-grandfather, Captain John Ramsay, was the son of Ramsay of Cockpen in Mid-Lothian, who was brother of Ramsay of Dalhousie. His mother, Alice Bower, was daughter of Allan Bower, a gentleman of Derbyshire, whom Lord Hopetoun had brought to Scotland to instruct and superintend his miners. His grandmother, Janet Douglas, was daughter of Douglas of Muthil. In his lineage, therefore, our Poet had something to boast of, and, though born to nae lairdship, he fails not to congratulate himself on being sprung from the loins of a Douglas. He did not long enjoy the blessing of paternal care and instruction; for, shortly after his birth, his father died, leaving the widow and family in a condition rather destitute. His mother soon after married a Mr. Crichton, a petty landholder of the same county, by whom she had several children. Under these unfortunate circumstances, young Allan entered upon the career of life; and, for fourteen years he remained in the house of his stepfather, with no other education than was supplied by the school of the parish. Here, surrounded by wild and mountainous scenery, and amid an artless and secluded people, whose manners and language were of patriarchal simplicity, his childhood received those pastoral and Arcadian impressions, which were too lively to be effaced by future habits, however uncongenial, and of which he in his manhood, amid all the artificial life of the city, made so lively and fascinating a transcription.

Of his progress and attainments at school, we have no record. It does not appear that he read much poetry prior to his twentieth year; and his emulation, and ambitious thoughts, of which he says he had some, seem to have slumbered in inactivity, till they were awakened to unceasing exercise by the society and the excitements of Edinburgh.

To Edinburgh he was sent in his fifteenth year, when the felicity of his boyhood had been broken by the death of his mother. We have the assurance of undoubted testimony, that at that early age, when his mind was beginning to search about for the choice of a profession, his wishes were to be a painter; a circumstance too little known, and too little noticed by his biographers, but strongly indicative, in our opinion, of the aspirations of his youthful disposition. While yet in the country, he had been in the practice of amusing himself with copying such prints as he found in the books of his mother's house. This early predilection for an art kindred to that wherein he afterwards excelled, very likely followed bins through life, and led him to devote his son to that favourite study, from which he himself was so harshly precluded. For his stepfather, little consulting the inclination of young Allan, and wishing as soon as possible, and at any rate, to disencumber himself of the charge of his support, bound this nursling of the Muses apprentice to a wig-maker. Lowly as this profession is, it has been vindicated by one of Ramsay's biographers into comparative dignity, by separating it from the kindred business of barber, with which it is vulgarly, and too frequently confounded. Ramsay was never, it seems, a barber; his enemies never blotted him with that ignominy; his calling of "scull-thacker," as he himself ludicrously terms it, was too dignified to be let down into an equality with the men of the razor.

Thus from the beginning his business was with the heads of men. We know not on what authority it is asserted by some of his biographers, that he abandoned this profession on finishing his apprenticeship: he is called wig-maker in the parish record down to the year 1716; and we suspect he continued so till the year 1718, or 1719, for in one of Hamilton's letters to him, dated 24th of July, 1719, mention is made of his "new profession."

He was in 1712 induced, as one of his biographers observes, by the example of other citizens, to enter into the state of marriage. His wife's name was Christian Ross, daughter of a writer in Edinburgh, who brought him, year after year, a numerous family of three sons and five daughters. Of this family, Allan, the eldest, and the only son who survived him, inherited the genius of his father, and, having received a liberal education, became afterwards conspicuous as a scholar, and a painter.[3]

About the year 1711 or 1712 our Poet seems first to have ventured into the regions of rhyme. The clubs and societies of Edinburgh had provoked in him this new passion, and his earliest effort, so far as is known, is an Address, supplicatory of admission, "To the most happy members of the Easy Club," a production bearing every mark of unskilfulness and juvenility. Of this club he was afterwards appointed poet-laureate, in which capacity he was wont to recite to that jolly fraternity his successive productions, for their criticisms and their applause.

Many of these poems were published in a detached form at a penny a-piece, and his name became by this means celebrated in the city. About the year 1716, and ere he relinquished his avocation of wig-maker, he published an edition of the excellent old poem of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," with a second canto by himself. Having thus associated himself in the walks of humour with the King of Scotland, he was induced, by the approbation which he gained, and the rapid sale of the book, to "keep a little more company with these comical characters," and to complete the story, by adding afterwards a third canto. This attempt was crowned with all the success he anticipated, and numerous editions of the work afforded him satisfactory proof, that, in the public opinion, he had not unworthily put himself into partnership with the royal humourist.[4]

Elevated by the distinction his productions had now procured him, and losing at last all liking to a business which was at utter variance with his ambition and darling amusements; he commenced bookseller, most probably in the year 1718, when he was in the thirty-second year of his age. This was a trade at once more congenial to his habits, and more likely to be lucrative, on account of his being already recommended by his authorship to the buyers of books. His first shop as a bookseller was in the High-street opposite to Niddry's-wynd, with the figure of Mercury for his sign. From this shop proceeded, in 1721, a collection of his various poems in one quarto volume, published by subscription, which contained every eminent name in Scotland. It was thus advertised in the Edinburgh Evening Courant: "The poems of Allan Ramsay, in a large quarto volume, fairly printed, with notes, and a complete glossary (as promised to the subscribers), being now finished; all who have generously contributed to carrying on of the design, may call for their copies as soon as they please, from the author, at the Mercury, opposite to Niddry's-wynd, Edinburgh."

From the sale of this volume he realized 400 guineas, which was in those days a very considerable profit on a book of Scottish poetry. In 1722 he gave to the world his Fables and Tales; in the same year his tale of The Three Bonnets; and in 1724 his poem on Health. In January, 1724, he published the first volume of the Tea-table Miscellany, being a collection of Scottish and English songs; this volume was speedily followed by a second; [in 1727] by a third; [and some years afterwards by a fourth; all] under the same title. Hamilton of Bangour, and Mallet, assisted him by their lyrical contributions. Encouraged by the popularity of these books, he published, in October, 1724, the Evergreen, "a collection of Scots poems written by the ingenious before 1600." For the duties of an editor of such a work, it is generally agreed that Ramsay was not well fitted. For, neither had he a complete knowledge of the ancient Scottish language, nor was his literary conscience sufficiently tender and scrupulous to that fidelity, which is required by the office of editor. He abridged, he varied, modernized, and superadded. In that collection first appeared under a feigned signature his Vision, a poem, full of genius, and rich with Jacobitism, but disguising the author and his principles under the thin concealment of antique orthography.

At length appeared in 1725 his master-work, the Gentle Shepherd, of which two scenes had been previously printed, [the first] in 1721, under the title of Patie and Roger, and [the second] in 1723, under that of Jenny and Meggy. [In the quarto of 1721, there is likewise to be found (Sang XI.) the dialogue song between Patie and Peggy, afterwards introduced into the second act.] The reputation he had obtained by these detached scenes, and the admonitions of his friends, who perceived how easily and how happily they could be connected, induced him to re-model and embody them into a regular pastoral drama. Its success corresponded to his own hopes, and to his friends' anticipations. [In the following letter, (published for the first time by R. Chambers in his Scottish Biographical Dictionary, 1835,) it will be seen that he was engaged on this task in spring, 1724.

Allan Ramsay to William Ramsay, of Templehall, Esq.

"Edinburgh, April 8th, 1724.

"Sir,—These come to bear you my very heartyest and grateful wishes. May you long enjoy your Marlefield, see many a returning spring pregnant with new beautys; may everything that's excellent in its kind continue to fill your extended soul with pleasure. Rejoyce in the beneficence of heaven, and let all about ye rejoyce—whilst we, alake, the laborious insects of a smoaky city, hurry about from place to place in one eternal maze of fatiguing cares, to secure this day our daylie bread—and something till't. For me, I have almost forgot how springs gush from the earth. Once, I had a notion how fragrant the fields were after a soft shower; and often, time out of mind! the glowing blushes of the morning have fired my breast with raptures. Then it was that the mixture of rural music echo'd agreeable from the surrounding hills, and all nature appear'd in gayety.

"However, what is wanting to me of rural sweets I endeavour to make up by being continually at the acting of some new farce, for I'm grown, I know not how, so very wise, or at least think so (which is much about one), that the mob of mankind afford me a continual diversion; and this place, tho' little, is crowded with merry-andrews, fools, and fops, of all sizes, [who] intermix'd with a few that can think, compose the comical medley of actors.

"Receive a sang made on the marriage of my young chief.—I am, this vacation, going through with a Dramatick Pastoral, which I design to carry the length of five acts, in verse a' the gate, and if I succeed according to my plan, I hope to tope[5] with the authors of Pastor Fido and Aminta.

"God take care of you and yours, is the constant prayer of, sir, your faithful humble servant,

"ALLAN RAMSAY."

A second edition followed next year, and numerous impressions spread his fame, not only through Scotland, but through the united kingdom, and the colonies. His name became known, principally through this drama, to the wits of England, and Pope took delight in reading his pastoral, the obscurer phraseology of which was interpreted to him by Gay, who, during his residence in Scotland, had been careful to instruct himself in its dialect, that he might act as interpreter to the poet of Twickenham.

In 1726 our Poet, now a thriving bookseller, removed from his original dwelling at the Mercury opposite Niddry's-wynd, to a shop in the east end of the Luckenbooths, which was afterwards occupied by the late Mr. Creech, (whose Fugitive Pieces are well known), and, after his death, by his successor Mr. Fairbairn. With his shop he changed his sign, and leaving Mercury, under the protection of whose witty godship he had so flourished, he set up the friendly heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden. Here he sold books, and established a circulating library, the first institution of that kind, not only in Scotland, but we believe in Great Britain.[6] The situation being near the Cross, and commanding a full view of the High-street, his shop became the resort of all the wits of the city; and here Gay, who is described by Mr. Tytler, as "a little pleasant-looking man, with a tyewig," used to look out upon the population of Edinburgh, while Ramsay pointed out to him the principal characters as they passed. Of this house no vestiges now remain, for as the beauty and magnificence of the High-street had been long disfigured by the cumbrous and gloomy buildings called the Luckenbooths, they were, a few years ago, completely removed, and the street cleared of that misplaced mass of deformity.

In 1728 he printed in quarto a second volume, containing, [his portrait by Smibert, and,] with other poems, a Masque on the Marriage of the Duke of Hamilton, one of his most ingenious productions; [also the Gentle Shepherd, complete.[7]] Of this quarto an octavo edition followed next year; and so extended was now the circle of his reputation, and so universal the demand for his poems, that the London booksellers published an edition of his Works in 1731, and two years after an edition also appeared at Dublin. His collection of thirty Fables appeared in 1730, when he was in his 45th year, after which period the public received nothing from his pen. "I e'en gave o'er in good time," he says, in his letter to Smibert, "ere the coolness of fancy attending advanced years made me risk the reputation I had acquired."

[The following letter was first published in the Scots Magazine, August, 1784: we give it verbatim et literatim.

Allan Ramsay To Mr. John Smibert,[8] in Boston, New England.

"Edinburgh, May 10, 1736.

"My dear old friend, your health and happiness are ever ane addition to my satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant—half a century of years have now row'd o'er my pow; yes, row'd o'er my pow, that begins now to be lyart; yet, thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as I did twenty years syne; yes, I laugh heartily too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever: fools, fops, and knaves, grow as rank as formerly; yet here and there are to be found good and worthy men, who are an honour to human life. We have medium hopes of seeing you again in our old world; then let us be virtuous, and hope to meet in heaven.—My good auld wife is still my bedfellow: my son, Allan, has been pursuing your science since he was a dozen years auld—was with Mr. Hyssing, at London, for some time, about two years ago; has been since at home, painting here like a Raphael—sets out for the seat of the Beast, beyond the Alps, within a month hence—to be away about two years.—I'm sweer[9] to part with him, but canna stem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclinations.—I have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, one of twelve years old, and no waly-dragle[10] among them, all fine girls. These six or seven years past, I have not wrote a line of poetry; I e'en gave o'er in good time, before the coolness of fancy that attends advanced years should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.

"Frae twenty-five to five-and-forty, My Muse was nowther sweer[11] nor dorty; My Pegasus wad break his tether, E'en at the shakking[12] of a feather, And through ideas scour like drift, Streaking[13] his wings up to the lift: Then, then my saul was in a low, That gart my numbers safely row; But eild and judgment 'gin to say, Let be your sangs, and learn to pray.

"I am, sir, your friend and servant,

"ALLAN RAMSAY."]

He now therefore intermeddled no longer with the anxieties of authorship, but sat down in the easy chair of his celebrity to enjoy his laurels and his profits. After a lapse of six years of silence, and of happiness, his ardour for dramatic exhibitions involved him in some circumstances of perplexity, attended, it is believed, with pecuniary loss. As Edinburgh possessed as yet no fixed place for the exhibition of the drama, he endeavoured to supply that deficiency to the citizens, by building, at his own expense a theatre in Carrubber's-close. Shortly after, the Act for licensing the stage was passed, which at once blasted all his hopes of pleasure and advantage; for, the Magistrates availing themselves of the power entrusted to them by the Act, shewed no indulgence to the author of the Gentle Shepherd, but, in the true spirit of that puritanism which reckons as ungodly all jollity of heart, and relaxation of countenance, they shut up his theatre, leaving the citizens without exhilaration, and our poet without redress. This was not all; he was assailed with the satirical mockery of his laughter-hating enemies, who turned against him his own weapons of poetical raillery. Pamphlets appeared, entitled, "The flight of religious piety from Scotland, upon the account of Ramsay's lewd books, and the hell-bred playhouse comedians, who debauch all the faculties of the soul of our rising generation;"—"A looking-glass for Allan Ramsay;"—"The dying words of Allan Ramsay." These maligners, in the bitterness of their sanctimonious resentments, reproached him with "having acquired wealth,"—with "possessing a fine house,"—with "having raised his kin to high degree;" all which vilifications must have carried along with them some secret and sweet consolations into the bosom of our bard. Amid the perplexities caused by the suppression of his theatre, he applied by a poetical petition to his friend the Honourable Duncan Forbes, then Lord President of the Court of Session, in order that he might obtain some compensation for his expenses; but with what success is not recorded by any of his biographers.

His theatrical adventure being thus unexpectedly crushed, he devoted himself to the duties of his shop, and the education of his children. He sent in 1736 his son Allan to Rome, there to study that art by which he rose to such eminence. In the year 1743 he lost his wife, who was buried on the 28th of March in the cemetery of the Greyfriars. He built, probably about this time, a whimsical house of an octagon form, on the north side of the Castle-hill, where his residence is still known by the name of Ramsay-Garden. [The site of this house was selected with the taste of a poet and the judgment of a painter. It commanded a reach of scenery probably not surpassed in Europe, extending from the mouth of the Forth on the east to the Grampians on the west, and stretching far across the green hills of Fife to the north; embracing in the including space every variety of beauty, of elegance, and of grandeur.[14]] This house he deemed a paragon of architectural invention. He showed it with exultation to the late Lord Elibank, telling his Lordship at the same time, that the wags of the town likened it to a "goose-pye:" "Indeed, Allan," replied his Lordship, "now that I see you in it, I think it is well named."

Having for several years before his death retired from business, he gave himself up in this fantastical dwelling to the varied amusements of reading, conversation, and the cultivation of his garden. Being now "loose frae care and strife," he enjoyed, in the calmness and happiness of a philosophical old age, all the fruits of his many and well rewarded labours. A considerable part of every summer was spent in the country with his friends, of whom he had many, distinguished both for talents and rank. The chief of these were, Sir Alexander Dick of Prestonfield, and Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, one of the Barons of Exchequer, a gentleman who united taste to scholarship, and had patronized and befriended Ramsay from the beginning. This amiable gentleman died in 1756, a loss which must have been severely felt by our Poet, and which he himself did not long survive. He had been afflicted for some time with a scorbutic complaint in his gums, which after depriving him of his teeth, and consuming part of the jaw-bone, at last put an end to his sufferings and his existence on the 7th of January, 1758, in the 72d year of his age. He was interred in the cemetery of Greyfriars' church on the 9th of that month, and in the record of mortality he is simply called, "Allan Ramsay, Poet, who died of old age."

Of his person, Ramsay has given us a minute and pleasant description. He was about five feet four inches high,

"A blackavic'd[15] snod[16] dapper fallow, Nor lean, nor overlaid with tallow."

He is described by those who knew him towards the latter part of his life, as a squat man, with a belly rather portly, and a countenance full of smiles and good humour. He wore a round goodly wig rather short. His disposition may be easily collected from his writings. He possessed that happy Horatian temperament of mind, that forbids, for its own ease, all entrance to the painful and irascible passions. He was a man rather of pleasantry and laughter, than of resentment and moody malignancy. His enemies, of whom he had some, he did not deem so important as on their account to ruffle his peace of mind, by indulging any reciprocal hostility, by which they would have been flattered. He was kind, benevolent, cheerful; possessing, like Burns, great susceptibility for social joys, but regulating his indulgences more by prudence, and less impetuous and ungovernable than the impassioned poet of Ayrshire. By his genius he elevated himself to the notice of all those of his countrymen who possessed either rank or talents; but these attentions proceeded spontaneously from their admiration of his talents, and were not courted by any servilities or unworthy adulations. Never drawn from business by the seductions of the bowl, or the invitations of the great, he consulted his own respect, and the comfort of his family, by attending to the duties of his shop, which so faithfully and liberally rewarded him. His vanity (that constitutional failing of all bards) is apparent in many of his writings, but it is seasoned with playfulness and good humour. He considered, indeed, that "pride in poets is nae sin," and on one occasion jocularly challenges superiority in the temple of Fame, even to Peter the Great of Russia, by saying, "But haud, proud Czar, I wadna niffer[17] fame."—He is called by Mr. William Tytler, who enjoyed his familiarity, "an honest man, and of great pleasantry."

Of learning he had but little, yet he understood Horace faintly in the original; a congenial author, with whom he seems to have been much delighted, and in the perusal of whose writings he was assisted by Ruddiman. He read French, but knew nothing of Greek. He did not, however, like Burns, make an appearance of vilifying that learning of which he was so medium a partaker; he bewailed his "own little knowledge of it;" and, like the Ayrshire bard, he was sufficiently ostentatious and pedantic in the display of what little he possessed.

He composed his verses with little effort or labour; his poetry seems to have evaporated lightly and airily from the surface of a mind always jocose and at its ease. And as it lightly came, he was wont to say, so it lightly went; for after composition, he dismissed it from his mind without further care or anxiety.

In 1759 an elegant obelisk was erected to the memory of Ramsay, by Sir James Clerk, at his family-seat of Pennycuik, containing the following inscription:

Allano Ramsay, Poetae egregio, Qui Fatis concessit VII. Jan. MDCCLVIII. Amico paterno et suo, Monumentum inscribi jussit D. Jacobus Clerk. Anno MDCCLIX.

At Woodhouselee, near the [supposed] scene of the Gentle Shepherd,[18] a rustic temple was dedicated, by the late learned and accomplished Lord Woodhouselee, with the Inscription

Allano Ramsay, et Genio Loci.

REMARKS ON THE WRITINGS OF ALLAN RAMSAY.

BY W. TENNANT.

Of Ramsay's Poems, the largest, and that on which his fame chiefly rests, is his Gentle Shepherd. Though some of his mediumer poems contain passages of greater smartness, yet its more general interest as a whole, and the uniformity of talent visible in its scenes, render it one of the finest specimens of his genius. We have no hesitation in asserting, that it is one of the best pastoral dramas in the wide circle of European literature; an excellent production in a department of writing in which the English language has as yet nothing to boast of. While other modern tongues have been enriching themselves with pastoral, the English, copious in all other kinds, continues, in this, barren and deficient. No English production, therefore, can enter into competition with the Gentle Shepherd. We must look to the south of Europe for similar and rival productions, with which it can be compared. The shepherd plays of Tasso, and Guarini, and Bonarelli, contain more invention, and splendour, and variety of incident and of dialogue, than our Scottish drama; but they have also more conceit and flimsiness of sentiment, more artifice of language, more unnatural and discordant contrivance of fable. In its plot, the Gentle Shepherd is simple and natural, founded on a story whose circumstances, if they did not really happen, are at least far within the compass of verisimilitude. Its development is completed by means interesting but probable, without the intervention of gods, or satyrs, or oracles, or such heathenish and preposterous machinery. The characters of the Gentle Shepherd are all framed by the hand of one evidently well acquainted with rural life and manners. They are not the puling, sickly, and unimpressive phantoms that people the bowers of Italian pastoral; they are lively, stirring creatures, bearing in their countenances the hardy lineaments of the country, and expressing themselves with a plainness, and downright sincerity, with which every mind sympathizes. They are rustics, it is true, but they are polished, not only by their proximity to the metropolis, but by the influence of the principal shepherd, who, besides the gentility of blood that operates in his veins,

———————————also reads and speaks, With them that kens them, Latin words and Greeks.

The situations in which the persons are placed are so ingeniously devised, as to draw forth from their bosoms all those feelings and passions which accompany the shepherd, life, and which are described with a happiness and a simplicity, the truer to nature, on account of its being removed from that over-wrought outrageousness of passion which we sometimes think is the fault of modern writing. The tenderness of correspondent affections,—the hesitation and anxiety of a timid lover,—the mutual bliss on the mutual discovery of long concealed attachment,—the uneasiness of jealousy, with the humorous and condign punishment of its evil devices,—the fidelity of the shepherd notwithstanding his elevation to an unexpected rank,—the general happiness that crowns, and winds up the whole, are all impressively and vividly delineated.

With regard to its sentiments, the Gentle Shepherd has nothing to be ashamed of; though in a very few places coarse, the thoughts are nowhere impure; they have somewhat of the purity of Gesner, with rather more vivacity and vigour. There is no affectation; every character thinks as country people generally do, artlessly, and according to nature. With regard to its language, we know not whether to say much, or to say little. Much has been already said, to redeem from the charge of vulgarity a language once courtly and dignified, but now associated with meanness of thought, and rudeness of manners. We do not think it necessary, however, to stand up in defence of a dialect which has, since the days of Ramsay, been ennobled by the poems of Burns, and is eternized more lately in the tales of that mighty genius, who sits on the summit of Northern Literature, and flashes forth from behind his cloud his vivid and his fiery productions. In the use of this dialect, Ramsay is extremely fortunate; for Scottish shepherds he could have employed none other; and he wields his weapon with a dexterity which we do not think has been since exceeded. Out of his own familiar language, he is indeed heavy and wearisome; English armour is too cumbrous for him; he cannot move in it with grace and activity. We find, accordingly, that in his Gentle Shepherd the most unskilful passages are in English, without beauty or energy; whereas his Scottish has in it a felicity which has rendered it popular with all ranks, and caused his verses to pass with proverbial currency among the peasants of his native country.

Next in value to his Gentle Shepherd, we think, are his imitations of Horace. To this good-humoured author Ramsay had, from congeniality of mind, a strong predilection; and he in some places has fully equalled, if not surpassed, his prototype in happy hits of expression. Pope himself is not so fortunate. Take for instance,

Daring and unco stout he was, With heart hool'd in three sloughs[20] of brass, Wha ventur'd first on the rough sea, With hempen branks,[21] and horse of tree.

Again,

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip O' ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung.[22]

In his Vision there is more grandeur, and a nearer approach to sublimity than in any other of his poems. He is indeed, here, superior to himself, and comes nearer to the strength and splendour of Dunbar, whose antiquated style he copied. The 5th stanza may be a specimen.

Grit[23] daring dartit frae his ee, A braid-sword schogled[24]at his thie,[25] On his left arm a targe; A shinnand[26] speir filld his richt hand, Of stalwart[27] mak, in bane and brawnd, Of just proportions large; A various rainbow-colourt plaid Owre[28] his left spawl[29] he threw, Doun his braid back, frae his quhyte[30] heid, The silver wymplers[31] grew.

His Tales and Fables, a species of writing which he himself deemed as "casten for his share," display great ease and readiness of versification, with much comic vivacity. The best of these are the Twa Cats and the Cheese; the Lure, in which the Falconer's "foregathering with auld Symmie" is excellently described; and the Monk and the Miller's Wife, for the story of which he is indebted to Dunbar. As a song writer we are not inclined to give Ramsay a very high place. His mind had not those deep and energetic workings of feeling that fitted Burns so admirably for this difficult species of writing. He is stiff, where passion is required; and is most easy, as usual, where he is comic. Several of his songs yet retain their popularity; but even of these none are without some faults. We prefer the Highland Laddie, Gie me a Lass wi' a Lump o' Land, The Carle he came o'er the Craft, The Lass of Patie's Mill and Jenny Nettles.

His Christ's Kirk is no mean effort of his muse; the idea of continuing King James's production was good, and he has executed it happily. Ramsay's humour must, however, be acknowledged to be inferior to the pure, strong, irresistible merriment that shines even through the dim and nearly obsolete language of his royal master. In the Third Canto, the morning, with its effect on the crapulous assemblage, is well painted.

Now frae east nook o' Fife the dawn Speel'd[32] westlins up the lift, Carles wha heard the cock had crawn Begoud, &c. An' greedy wives, wi' girning thrawn, Cry'd lasses up to thrift; Dogs barked, an' the lads frae hand Bang'd[33] to their breeks,[34] like drift, Be break o' day

Of a character similar to the first two lines of the above stanza, are the following other passages of Ramsay's works, which remind us a little of the Italian poets;—

Now Sol wi' his lang whip gae cracks Upon his nichering coosers'[35] backs, To gar them tak th' Olympian brae, Wi' a cart-lade o' bleezing day. Tale of the Three Bonnets. And ere the sun, though he be dry, Has driven down the westlin sky, To drink his wamefu' o' the sea. Fables and Tales. Soon as the clear goodman o' day Does bend his morning draught o' dew. Fables and Tales.

To sum up our opinion of Ramsay's merits as a poet—he was fortunate, and he deserved well, in being the first to redeem the Muse of Scotland from wasting her strength in a dead language, which, since the days of Buchanan, had been the freezing vehicle of her exertions. He re-established the popularity of a dialect, which, since the removal of the Scottish Court, had received no honour from the pen of genius, but which, near two hundred years before, had been sublimed into poetical dignity by Dunbar and the bards of that age. To Ramsay, and to his treasures of Scottish phraseology, succeeding poets have been much indebted; he knew the language well, and had imbibed the facetious and colloquial spirit of its idioms. Ramsay, therefore, when he employs his beloved dialect, manages it masterly, and, though never lofty, he is always at his ease: Burns, in his highest flights, soared out of it. The genius of the first was pleasing, placid, versatile, in quest rather of knacks, and felicities of expression, than originating bold and masculine thoughts: The genius of the latter was richer, more original, more impressive, and formidable, but less equal, and less careful of the niceties and tricks of phraseology. The tone of Ramsay's mind was good-humoured composure, and facile pleasantry; of Burns's, intensity of feeling, tenderness, and daring elevation approaching to sublimity. Of Burns's superiority no man is doubtful; but Ramsay's merits will not be forgotten; and the names of both will be forever cherished by the lovers of Scottish poetry.

ESSAY

ON

RAMSAY'S GENTLE SHEPHERD.

By Lord Woodhouselee.

As the writings of Allan Ramsay have now stood the test of the public judgment, during more than seventy years;[36] and, in the opinion of the best critics, he seems to bid fair to maintain his station among our poets, it may be no unpleasing, nor uninstructive employment, to examine the grounds, on which that judgment is founded; to ascertain the rank, which he holds in the scale of merit; and to state the reasons, that may be given, for assigning him that distinguished place among the original poets of his country, to which I conceive he is entitled.

The genius of Ramsay was original; and the powers of his untutored mind were the gift of nature, freely exercising itself within the sphere of its own observation. Born in a wild country, and accustomed to the society of its rustic inhabitants, the poet's talents found their first exercise in observing the varied aspects of the mountains, rivers, and vallies; and the no less varied, though simple manners, of the rude people, with whom he conversed. He viewed the former with the enthusiasm which, in early childhood, is the inseparable attendant of genius; and on the latter he remarked, with that sagacity of discriminating observation, which instructed the future moralist, and gave the original intimations to the contemporary satirist. With this predisposition of mind, it is natural to imagine, that the education, which he certainly received, opened to him such sources of instruction as English literature could furnish; and his kindred talents directed his reading chiefly to such of the poets as occasion threw in his way.

Inheriting that ardour of feeling, which is generally accompanied with strong sentiments of moral excellence, and keenly awake even to those slighter deviations from propriety, which constitute the foibles of human conduct, he learned, as it were from intuition, the glowing language, which is best fitted for the scourge of vice; as well as the biting ridicule, which is the most suitable corrective of gross impropriety, without deviating into personal lampoon.

A consciousness of his own talents induced Ramsay to aspire beyond the situation of a mere mechanic; and the early notice, which his first poetical productions procured him, was a natural motive for the experiment of a more liberal profession, which connected him easily with those men of wit, who admired, and patronised him. As a book-seller, he had access to a more respectable class in society. We may discern, in the general tenor of his compositions, a respectful demeanour towards the great, and the rich, which, though it never descends to adulation or servility, and generally seeks for an apology in some better endowments than mere birth or fortune, is yet a sensible mark, that these circumstances had a strong influence on his mind.

As he extended the sphere of his acquaintance, we may presume, that his knowledge of men, and acquaintance with manners, were enlarged; and, in his latter compositions, we may discern a sufficient intelligence of those general topics, which engaged the public attention. The habits of polite life, and the subjects of fashionable conversation, were become familiar, at this time, to the citizens of Edinburgh, from the periodical papers of Addison and Steele; and the wits of Balfour's Coffee-house, Forrester, Falconer, Bennet, Clerk, Hamilton of Bangour, Preston, and Crawford,[37] were a miniature of the society, which was to be met with at Will's and Button's.

The political principles of Ramsay were those of an old Scotsman, proud of his country, delighted to call to mind its ancient honours, while it held the rank of a distinct kingdom, and attached to the succession of its ancient princes. Of similar sentiments, at that time, were many of the Scotish gentry. The chief friends of the poet were probably men, whose sentiments on those subjects agreed with his own; and the Easy Club, of which he was an original member, consisted of youths who were anti-unionists. Yet, among the patrons of Ramsay, were some men of rank, who were actuated by very different principles, and whose official situation would have made it improper for them, openly, to countenance a poet, whose opinions were obnoxious to the rulers of his country. Of this he was aware; and putting a just value on the friendship of those distinguished persons, he learnt to be cautious in the expression of any opinions, which might risk the forfeiture of their esteem: hence he is known to have suppressed some of his earlier productions, which had appeared only in manuscript; and others, which prudence forbad him to publish, were ushered into the world without his name, and even with false signatures. Among the former was a poem to the memory of the justly celebrated Dr. Pitcairne, which was printed by the Easy Club, but never published; and among the latter, is The Vision, which he printed in the Evergreen, with the signature of Ar. Scot.[38]

In Ramsay's Vision, the author, in order to aid the deception, has made use of a more antiquated phraseology, than that, which we find in his other Scotish poems: but, it evidently appears from this attempt, and from the two cantos, which he added to King James the First's ludicrous satire of Christ's Kirk on the Green, that Ramsay was not much skilled in the ancient Scotish dialect. Indeed the Glossary, which he annexed to the two quarto volumes of his poems, wherein are many erroneous interpretations, is of itself sufficient proof of this assertion. In compiling the Glossary of his Evergreen, Lord Hailes has remarked, that he does not seem ever to have consulted the Glossary to Douglas's Virgil; "and yet they who have not consulted it, cannot acquire a competent knowledge of the ancient Scotish dialect, unless by infinite and ungrateful labour."[39] A part of this labour undoubtedly may be ascribed to Ramsay, when he selected and transcribed, from the Bannatyne manuscript, those ancient poems, which chiefly compose the two volumes of his Evergreen: and hence, it is probable, he derived the most of what he knew of the older dialect of his country. His own stock was nothing else than the oral language of the farmers of the Lothians, and the common talk of the citizens of Edinburgh, to which his ears were constantly accustomed. A Scotsman, in the age of Ramsay, generally wrote in English; that is, he imitated the style of the English writers; but when he spoke, he used the language of his country. The sole peculiarity of the style of Ramsay is, that he transferred the oral language to his writings. He could write, as some of his compositions evince, in a style which may be properly termed English verse; but he wrote with more ease in the Scotish dialect, and he preferred it, as judging, not unreasonably, that it conferred a kind of Doric simplicity, which, when he wished to paint with fidelity the manners of his countrymen, and the peculiarities of the lower orders, was extremely suitable to such subjects.

From these considerations, one cannot but wonder at the observation, which is sometimes made even by Scotsmen of good taste, that the language of The Gentle Shepherd disgusts from its vulgarity. It is true, that in the present day, the Scotish dialect is heard only in the mouths of the lowest of the populace, in whom it is generally associated with vulgarity of sentiment; but those critics should recollect, that it was the language of the Scotish people, which was to be imitated, and that too of the people upwards of a century ago, if we carry our mind back to the epoch of the scene.

If Ramsay had made the shepherds of the Lowlands of Scotland, in the middle of the seventeenth century, speak correct English, how preposterous would have been such a composition! But, with perfect propriety, he gave them the language which belonged to them; and if the sentiments of the speakers be not reproachable with unnecessary vulgarity, we cannot with justice associate vulgarism with a dialect, which in itself is proper, and in its application is characteristic. After all, what is the language of Ramsay, but the common speech of Yorkshire during the last century?[40]

But, as associated ideas arise only where the connection is either in itself necessary, or the relation is so intimate, the two ideas are seldom found disunited; so of late years, that disunion has taken place in a twofold manner; for the language, even of the common people of Scotland, is gradually refining, and coming nearer to the English standard; and it has fortunately happened, that the Scotish dialect has lately been employed in compositions of transcendant merit, which have not only exhibited the finest strokes of the pathetic, but have attained even to a high pitch of the sublime. For the truth of this observation, we may appeal to The Cotter's Saturday Night, and The Vision of Burns. In these, the language, so far from conveying the idea of vulgarity, appears most eminently suited to the sentiment, which seems to derive, from its simplicity, additional tenderness, and superior elevation.

The Scots, and the English, languages are, indeed, nothing more than different dialects of the same radical tongue, namely, the Anglo-Saxon; and, setting prejudice apart, (which every preference, arising from such associations, as we have mentioned, must be,) it would not perhaps be difficult, on a fair investigation of the actual merits of both the dialects, to assert the superior advantages of the Scotish to the English, for many species of original composition. But a discussion of this kind would lead too far; and it is but incidentally connected with the proper subject of these remarks.[41] It is enough to say, that the merits of those very compositions, on which we are now to offer some remarks, are of themselves a sufficient demonstration of the powers of that language in which, chiefly, they are composed, for many, if not for all the purposes of poetry.

(Remarks on Ramsay's miscellaneous poems are here omitted.)

In the year 1725, Ramsay published his pastoral comedy of The Gentle Shepherd, the noblest and most permanent monument of his fame. A few years before, he had published, in a single sheet, A Pastoral Dialogue between Patie and Roger, which was reprinted in the first collection of his poems, in 1721. This composition being much admired, his literary friends urged him to extend his plan to a regular drama: and to this fortunate suggestion the literary world is indebted for one of the most perfect pastoral poems that has ever appeared.[42]

The pastoral drama is an invention of the moderns. The first who attempted this species of poetry was Agostino de Beccari, in his Sacrificio Favola Pastorale, printed in 1553. Tasso is supposed to have taken the hint from him; and is allowed, in his Aminta, published in 1573, to have far surpassed his master. Guarini followed, whose Pastor Fido contends for the palm with the Aminta, and, in the general opinion of the Italians, is judged to have obtained it. Tasso himself is said to have confessed the superior merit of his rival's work; but to have added, in his own defence, that had Guarini never seen his Aminta, he never would have surpassed it. Yet, I think, there is little doubt, that this preference is ill-founded. Both these compositions have resplendent beauties, with glaring defects and improprieties. I am, however, much mistaken, if the latter are not more abundant in the Pastor Fido, as the former are predominant in the Aminta. Both will ever be admired, for beauty of poetical expression, for rich imagery, and for detached sentiments of equal delicacy and tenderness: but the fable, both of the Aminta, and Pastor Fido, errs against all probability; and the general language and sentiments of the characters are utterly remote from nature. The fable of the Aminta is not dramatic; for it is such, that the principal incidents, on which the plot turns, are incapable of representation: the beautiful Silvia, stripped naked, and bound by her hair to a tree by a brutal satyr, and released by her lover Amyntas;—her flight from the wolves;—the precipitation of Amyntas from a high rock, who narrowly escapes being dashed in pieces, by having his fall broken by the stump of a tree;—are all incidents, incapable of being represented to the eye; and must therefore be thrown into narration. The whole of the last act is narrative, and is taken up entirely with the history of Amyntas's fall, and the happy change produced in the heart of the rigorous Silvia, when she found her lover thus miraculously preserved from the cruel death, to which her barbarity had prompted him to expose himself.

Yet, the fable of the Aminta, unnatural and undramatic, as it is, has the merit of simplicity. That of the Pastor Fido, equally unnatural and incredible, has the additional demerit of being complicated as well as absurd. The distress of Amyntas, arising from an adequate and natural cause—rejected love, excites our sympathy; but the distress in the Pastor Fido is altogether chimerical; we have no sympathy with the calamities arising from the indignation of Diana, or the supposed necessity of accomplishing the absurd and whimsical response of an oracle. We cannot be affected by the passions of fictitious beings. The love of a satyr has nothing in it but what is odious and disgusting.

The defects of these celebrated poems have arisen from the erroneous idea entertained by their authors, that the province of this species of poetry was not to imitate nature, but to paint that chimerical state of society, which is termed the golden age. Mr. Addison, who, in the Guardian, has treated the subject of pastoral poetry at considerable length, has drawn his critical rules from that absurd principle; for he lays it down as a maxim, that, to form a right judgment of pastoral poetry, it is necessary to cast back our eyes on the first ages of the world, and inquire into the manners of men, "before they were formed into large societies, cities built, or commerce established: a state," says he, "of ease, innocence, and contentment; where plenty begot pleasure, and pleasure begot singing, and singing begot poetry, and poetry begot singing again:" a description this, which is so fantastical, as would almost persuade us, that the writer meant to ridicule his own doctrine, if the general strain of his criticism did not convince us it was seriously delivered. Is it necessary to prove, that this notion of pastoral poetry, however founded, in the practice of celebrated writers, has no foundation in fact, no basis in reason, nor conformity to good sense? To a just taste, and unadulterated feelings, the natural beauties of the country, the simple manners, rustic occupations, and rural enjoyments of its inhabitants, brought into view by the medium of a well-contrived dramatic fable, must afford a much higher degree of pleasure, than any chimerical fiction, in which Arcadian nymphs and swains hold intercourse with Pan and his attendant fauns and satyrs. If the position be disputed, let the Gentle Shepherd be fairly compared with the Aminta, and, Pastor Fido.

The story of the Gentle Shepherd is fitted to excite the warmest interest, because the situations, into which the characters are thrown, are strongly affecting, whilst they are strictly consonant to nature and probability. The whole of the fable is authorized by the circumstances of the times, in which the action of the piece is laid. The era of Cromwell's usurpation, when many loyal subjects, sharing the misfortunes of their exiled sovereign, were stripped of their estates, and then left to the neglect and desolation of forfeiture; the necessity under which those unhappy sufferers often lay, of leaving their infant progeny under the charge of some humble but attached dependant, till better days should dawn upon their fortunes; the criminal advantages taken by false friends in usurping the rights of the sufferers, and securing themselves against future question by deeds of guilt; these circumstances, too well founded in truth, and nature, are sufficient to account for every particular in this most interesting drama, and give it perfect verisimilitude.

The fables of the Aminta and Pastor Fido, drawn from a state of society which never had an existence, are, for that reason, incapable of exciting any high degree of interest; and the mind cannot for a moment remain under the influence of that deception, which it is the great purpose of the drama to produce.

The characters or persons of the Italian pastorals are coy nymphs and swains, whose sole occupation is hunting wild beasts, brutal satyrs who plot against the chastity of those nymphs, shepherds deriving their origin from the gods, stupid priests of these gods who are the dupes of their ambiguous will, and gods themselves disguised like shepherds, and influencing the conduct and issue of the piece. The manners of these unnatural and fictitious beings are proper to their ideal character. A dull moralizing chorus is found necessary to explain what the characters themselves must have left untold, or unintelligible.

The persons of the Scotish pastoral are the actual inhabitants of the country where the scene is laid; their manners are drawn from nature with a faithful pencil. The contrast of the different characters is happily imagined, and supported with consummate skill. Patie, of a cheerful and sanguine temperament; spirited, yet free from vain ambition; contented with his humble lot; endowed by nature with a superior understanding, and feeling in himself those internal sources of satisfaction, which are independent of the adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune. Roger, of a grave and phlegmatic constitution; of kind affections, but of that ordinary turn of mind, which is apt to suppose some necessary connection between the possession of wealth and felicity. The former, from native dignity of character, assuming a bold pre-eminence, and acting the part of a tutor and counsellor to his friend, who bends, though with some reluctance, to the authority of a nobler mind. The principal female characters are contrasted with similar skill, and equal power of discrimination. Peggy, beautiful in person as in mind, endowed with every quality that can adorn the character of woman; gentle, tender-hearted, constant in affection, free from vanity as from caprice; of excellent understanding; judging of others by the criterion of her own innocent mind, and therefore forming the most amiable views of human nature. Jenny, sensible and affectionate, sprightly and satirical; possessing the ordinary qualities of her sex, self-love, simulation, and the passion of conquest; and pleased with exercising a capricious dominion over the mind of a lover; judging of mankind rather from the cold maxims of instilled prudential caution, than from the native suggestions of the heart.—A contrast of characters strongly and skilfully opposed, and therefore each most admirably fitted to bring the other into full display.

The subordinate persons of the drama are drawn with equal skill and fidelity to their prototypes. Glaud and Symon are the genuine pictures of the old Scotish yeomanry, the Lothian farmers of the last age, in their manners, sentiments, and modes of life; humble, but respectable; homely, yet comfortable. The episode of Bauldy, while it gives a pleasing variety, without interrupting the principal action, serves to introduce a character of a different species, as a foil to the honest and simple worth of the former. It paints in strong colours, and exposes to merited reprobation and contempt, that low and sordid mind, which seeks alone the gratification of its own desires, though purchased by the misery of the object of its affection. Bauldy congratulates himself on the cruel disappointment of Peggy's love;—"I hope we'll a' sleep sound, but ane, this night;"—and judges her present situation of deep distress to be the most favourable moment for preferring his own suit. His punishment, as it is suitable to his demerits, gives entire satisfaction.

The Aminta, and Pastor Fido, abound in beautiful sentiments, and passages of the most tender and natural simplicity; but it is seldom we find a single page, in which this pleasing impression is not effaced by some affected and forced conceit. Nothing can be more delicately beautiful, or more agreeable to the true simplicity of pastoral, than Amyntas's recounting to Tircis the rise of his passion for Silvia. The description of their joint occupations and sports, till love insensibly arose in the breast of Tircis; the natural and innocent device he employed to obtain a kiss from Silvia; the discovery of his affection, and his despair on finding her heart insensible to his passion, are proofs that Tasso was a true poet, and knew [how] to touch those strings, with which our genuine feelings must ever harmonize. In elegant and just description he is equally to be admired. The scene in which Tircis describes the lovely Silvia bound naked to a tree by a brutal satyr, and released by Amyntas, whose passion she treated with scorn, is one of the most beautiful pieces of poetic painting. But, when Amyntas, unloosing his disdainful mistress, addresses himself to the tree, to which she was tied; when he declares its rugged trunk to be unworthy of the bonds of that beautiful hair, which encircled it, and reproaches its cruelty in tearing and disfiguring those charming tresses, we laugh at such despicable conceits, and lament that vicious taste, to which even a true poet found himself (we presume against his better judgment) so often compelled to sacrifice. So likewise when, forgetting nature, he resorts to the ordinary cant of pastoral, the language and thoughts of Theocritus and Virgil, and even superadds to those common-places, the false refinement, which in his age delighted his countrymen, we turn with dissatisfaction from his page. If we compare him, where the similarity of the subject allows a comparison, with the Scotish poet, how poor does the Italian appear in the competition!

Thus, let the first scene of the Aminta, between Silvia and Daphne, be compared with the scene between Jenny and Peggy, in the Gentle Shepherd. The subject of both is the preference between a single and a married life:

DAPHNE.

But whence can spring thy hate?

SILVIA.

Whence? from his love.

DAPHNE.

Too cruel offspring of so kind a sire! When was it heard that e'er the tender lamb Produced a tiger, or the rook a swan?— Sure you deceive yourself, or jest with me.

SILVIA.

How can I choose but hate his love, Which hates my chastity?

DAPHNE.

Now tell me, should another thus address thee, Would'st thou in such harsh kind receive his love?

SILVIA.

In such harsh kind I ever would receive The traitor who would steal my virgin jewel. Whom you term lover I account a foe.

DAPHNE.

Thus to the ewe the ram Thou deem'st a foe; or to the tender heifer, The sturdy bull; the turtle to its mate. Thus the delightful spring Seems in thy mind the season of fell hate, And deadly enmity; the lovely spring That smiling prompts to universal love, That rouses nature's flame thro' all her bounds: Nor less in animals of every kind, Than favour'd man. See how creation glows, In all her works, with love's imperious flame! Mark yonder doves that bill, and sport, and kiss: Hear'st thou the nightingale, as on the bough She evermore repeats, "I love, I love:" The wily snake sheaths her envenom'd fang, And sinuous glides her to her glossy mate: The savage tiger feels the potent flame: The grim majestic lion growls his love To the resounding forest.—Wilder thou Than nature's wildest race, spurn'st at that power To which all nature bows.—But why of these, Of the grim lion, or the spotted lynx, Or wily serpent?—these have sense and feeling. Even trees inanimate confess the god: See how the vine clings with a fond embrace; The mountain fir, the pine, the elm, the beech, Have each their favour'd mate: they burn, they sigh, &c.

SILVIA.

Well, when my ear shall hear their sighs of love, Perhaps I too may learn to love like them.

By a similar strain of argument, Linco, in the Pastor Fido, endeavours to persuade Silvio to love, whose sole delight is in the chase, and who tells his adviser, that he would not give one wild beast, taken by his dog Melampo, for a thousand beautiful nymphs. Linco bids him "See how all nature loves, the heavens, the earth, the sea; and that beautiful morning star that now shines so bright, she likewise loves, and shines more splendid from her amorous flame: see how she blushes, for now perhaps she has just left the stolen embraces of her lover. The woods, and all their savage inhabitants, the seas, the dolphins. the huge whales, &c., &c."

How poor is all this refinement and conceit, when compared with the language of truth and nature! When Pegg, in the confidence of a wamr and innocent heart, describes to her copanion the delights of a mutual passion, the enjoyments of domestic bliss, and the happiness arising from the exercise of the parental duties and affections; contrasting these with the cold and selfish feelings of determined celibacy, it is nature that speaks in every line, and the heart yields its warmest sympathy, as the judgment its complete conviction:

PEGGY.

Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settl'd mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath; But want of him I dread nae other skaith. There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancening een. And then he speaks with sic a taking art, His words they thirle like musick thro' my heart. How blythly can he sport, and gently rave, And jest a feckless fears that fright the lave! Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill. He is—but what need I say that or this? I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!

To the sarcastical picture which Jenny draws of the anxieties and turmoil of a wedded life, Peggy thus warmly replies:

Yes, 'tis a heartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be, Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; When a' they ettle at—their greatest wish, Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? Can there be toil in tenting day and night, The like of them, when love makes care delight?[43]

JENNY.

But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a', Gif o'er your heads ill chance shou'd beggary draw: Your nowt may die—the spate may bear away Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay.— The thick blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ews. &c.,

PEGGY.

May sic ill luck befa' that silly she, Wha has sic fears; for that was never me. Let fowk bode well, and strive to do their best; Nae mair's requir'd, let Heaven make out the rest. I've heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads shou'd a' for wives that's vertuous pray: For the maist thrifty man cou'd never get A well stor'd room, unless his wife wad let: Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, To gather wealth to raise my Shepherd's heart. What e'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, } And win the vogue, at market, tron, or fair, } For halesome, clean, cheap and sufficient ware. } A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, Shall first be said, to pay the laird his due; Syne a' behind's our ain.—Thus, without fear, With love and rowth we thro' the warld will steer: And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

JENNY.

But what if some young giglit on the green, With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, Shou'd gar your Patie think his haff-worn Meg, And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg?

PEGGY.

Nae mair of that;—Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we: Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them with solidity of mind. They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile. Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, 'Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art, To keep him chearfu', and secure his heart. At even, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll have a' things made ready to his will. In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane. And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething pot's be ready to take aff. Clean hagabag I'll spread upon his board, And serve him with the best we can afford. Good-humour and white bigonets shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

Act 1, Scene 2.

Such are the sentiments of nature; nor is the language, in which they are conveyed, inadequate to their force and tenderness: for to those who understand the Scotish dialect, the expression will be found to be as beautiful as the thought. It is in those touches of simple nature, those artless descriptions, of which the heart instantly feels the force, thus confessing their consonance to truth, that Ramsay excels all the pastoral poets that ever wrote.

Thus Patie to Peggy, assuring her of the constancy of his affection:

I'm sure I canna change, ye needna fear; Tho' we're but young, I've loo'd you mony a year. I mind it well, when thou cou'd'st hardly gang, Or lisp out words, I choos'd ye frae the thrang Of a' the bairns, and led thee by the hand, Aft to the Tansy-know, or Rashy-strand. Thou smiling by my side,—I took delite, To pu' the rashes green, with roots sae white, Of which, as well as my young fancy cou'd, For thee I plet the flowry belt and snood.

Act 2, Scene 4.

Let this be contrasted with its corresponding sentiment in the Pastor Fido, when Mirtillo thus pleads the constancy of his affection for Amaryllis:

Sooner than change my mind, my darling thought, Oh may my life be changed into death!

(and mark the pledge of this assurance)

For cruel tho', tho' merciless she be, Yet my whole life is wrapt in Amaryllis; Nor can the human frame, I think, contain A double heart at once, a double soul!

Pastor Fido, Act 3, Scene 6.

The charm of the Gentle Shepherd arises equally from the nature of the passions, which are there delineated, and the engaging simplicity and truth, with which their effects are described. The poet paints an honourable and virtuous affection between a youthful pair of the most amiable character; a passion indulged on each side from the purest and most disinterested motives, surmounting the severest of all trials—the unexpected elevation of the lover to a rank which, according to the maxims of the world, would preclude the possibility of union; and crowned at length by the delightful and most unlooked for discovery, that this union is not only equal as to the condition of the parties, but is an act of retributive justice. In the anxious suspense, that precedes this discovery, the conflict of generous passions in the breasts of the two lovers is drawn with consummate art, and gives rise to a scene of the utmost tenderness, and the most pathetic interest. Cold indeed must be that heart, and dead to the finest sensibilities of our nature, which can read without emotion the interview between Patie and Peggy, after the discovery of Patie's elevated birth, which the following lines describe:

PATIE.

——My Peggy, why in tears? Smile as ye wont, allow nae room for fears: Tho' I'm nae mair a shepherd, yet I'm thine.

PEGGY.

I dare not think sae high: I now repine At the unhappy chance, that made not me A gentle match, or still a herd kept thee. Wha can, withoutten pain, see frae the coast The ship that bears his all like to be lost? Like to be carry'd, by some rover's hand, Far frae his wishes, to some distant land?

PATIE.

Ne'er quarrel fate, whilst it with me remains,> To raise thee up, or still attend these plains. My father has forbid our loves, I own: But love's superior to a parent's frown. I falshood hate: Come, kiss thy cares away; I ken to love, as well as to obey. Sir William's generous; leave the task to me, To make strict duty and true love agree.

PEGGY.

Speak on!—speak ever thus, and still my grief; But short I dare to hope the fond relief. New thoughts a gentler face will soon inspire, That with nice air swims round in silk attire: Then I, poor me!—with sighs may ban my fate, When the young laird's nae mair my heartsome Pate: Nae mair again to hear sweet tales exprest, By the blyth shepherd that excell'd the rest: Nae mair be envy'd by the tattling gang, When Patie kiss'd me, when I danc'd or sang: Nae mair, alake! we'll on the meadow play! And rin haff breathless round the rucks of hay; As aftimes I have fled from thee right fain, And fawn on purpose, that I might be tane. Nae mair around the Foggy-know I'll creep, To watch and stare upon thee, while asleep. But hear my vow—'twill help to give me ease; May sudden death, or deadly sair disease, And warst of ills attend my wretched life, If e'er to ane but you, I be a wife.

PATIE.

Sure Heaven approves—and be assur'd of me, I'll ne'er gang back of what I've sworn to thee: And time, tho' time maun interpose a while, And I maun leave my Peggy and this isle; Yet time, nor distance, nor the fairest face, If there's a fairer, e'er shall fill thy place. I'd hate my rising fortune, &c.——

With similar fervent assurances of the constancy of his affection, Patie prevails in calming the agitation of Peggy's mind, and banishing her fears. She declares she will patiently await the happy period of his return, soothing the long interval with prayers for his welfare, and sedulous endeavours to improve and accomplish her mind, that she may be the more worthy of his affection. The scene concludes with an effusion of her heart in a sentiment of inimitable tenderness and beauty:

With every setting day, and rising morn, I'll kneel to Heaven, and ask thy safe return. Under that tree, and on the Suckler Brae, Where aft we wont, when bairns, to run and play; And to the Hissel-shaw where first ye vow'd Ye wad be mine, and I as eithly trow'd, I'll aften gang, and tell the trees and flowers, With joy, that they'll bear witness I am yours.

Act 4, Scene 2.

To a passion at once so pure, so delicate, so fervent, and so disinterested in its object, with what propriety may we apply that beautiful apostrophe of Burns, in his Cottar's Saturday Night!

O happy love! where love like this is found; O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.

In intimate knowledge of human nature Ramsay yields to few poets either of ancient or of modern times. How naturally does poor Roger conjecture the insensibility of his mistress to his passion, from the following simple, but finely-imagined circumstances:

My Bawty is a cur I dearly like, Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb tyke: If I had fill'd a nook within her breast, She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock and horn, With a' her face she shaws a caulrife scorn. Last night I play'd, ye never heard sic spite, O'er Bogie was the spring, and her delyte; Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speer'd, Gif she cou'd tell what tune I play'd, and sneer'd.

Act 1, Scene 1.

The counsel, which Patie gives his friend, to prove with certainty the state of Jenny's affections, is the result of a profound acquaintance with the human heart:

Daft gowk! leave off that silly whindging way; Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day. Hear how I serv'd my lass I love as well As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leel.

Then follows a picture so natural, and at the same time so exquisitely beautiful, that there is nothing in antiquity that can parallel it:

Last morning I was gay and early out, Upon a dike I lean'd, glowring about, I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lee; I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me: For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist, And she was closs upon me ere she wist; Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw; Her cockernony snooded up fou sleek, Her haffet-locks hang waving on her cheek; Her cheek sae ruddy, and her een sae clear; And O! her mouth's like ony hinny pear. Neat, neat she was, in bustine waste-coat clean, As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. Blythsome, I cry'd, My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer; But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew: She scour'd awa, and said, What's that to you? Then fare ye well, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like, I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the dike. I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She came with a right thievless errand back; Misca'd me first,—then bade me hound my dog To wear up three waff ews stray'd on the bog. I leugh, and sae did she; then with great haste I clasp'd my arms about her neck and waste; About her yielding waste, and took a fouth, Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. While hard and fast I held her in my grips, My very saul came lowping to my lips. Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack; But well I kent she meant nae as she spake. Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb. Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood; Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.

Act 1, Scene 1.

If, at times, we discern in the Aminta the proofs of a knowledge of the human heart, and the simple and genuine language of nature, our emotions of pleasure are soon checked by some frivolous stroke of refinement, or some cold conceit. In the Pastor Fido, the latter impression is entirely predominant, and we are seldom gratified with any thing like a natural or simple sentiment. The character of Silvio, utterly insensible to the charms of beauty or of female excellence, and who repays an ardent passion with insolence and hatred, if it exists at all in nature, is fitted only to excite contempt and detestation. Dorinda's courtship of Silvio is equally nauseous, and the stratagem she employs to gain his love is alike unnatural. She steals and hides his favourite dog Melampo, and then throwing herself in his way while he is whooping after him through the forest, tells him she has found both the dog and a wounded doe, and claims her reward for the discovery. "What shall that be?" says Silvio.—"Only," replies the nymph, "one of those things that your mother so often gives you."—"What," says he, "a box o' the ear?"—"Nay, nay, but," says Dorinda, "does she never give thee a kiss?"—"She neither kisses me, nor wants that others should kiss me."—The dog is produced, and Silvio asks, "Where is the doe?"—"That poor doe," says she, "am I." A petulance which, though rudely, we cannot say is unjustly punished, by Silvio giving a thousand kisses to his dear dog, and leaving the forward nymph, with a flat assurance of his hatred, to ruminate on his scorn, and her own indelicacy. If this is nature, it is at least not la belle nature.

But the circumstance, on which turns the conversion of the obdurate Silvio, bids defiance even to possibility. Hunting in the forest, he holds a long discourse with an echo, and is half persuaded, by the reflected sounds of his own voice, that there is some real pleasure in love, and that he himself must one day yield to its influence. Dorinda clothes herself in the skin of a wolf, and is shot by him with an arrow, mistaking her for that animal. Then all at once he becomes her most passionate lover, sucks out the barb of the arrow with a plaister of green herbs, and swears to marry her on her recovery, which, by the favour of the gods, is fortunately accomplished in an instant.

Equally unnatural with the fable are the sentiments of this pastoral. Amaryllis, passionately adored by Mirtillo, and secretly loving him, employs a long and refined metaphysical argument to persuade him, that if he really loves her, he ought to love her virtue; and that man's true glory lies in curbing his appetites. The moral chorus seems to have notions of love much more consonant to human nature, who discourses for a quarter of an hour on the different kinds of kisses, and the supreme pleasure felt, when they are the expression of a mutual passion. But we need no chorus to elucidate arcana of this nature.

True it is that in this drama, as in the Aminta, there are passages of such transcendent beauty, of such high poetic merit, that we cannot wonder if, to many readers, they should veil every absurdity of fable, or of the general strain of sentiment: for who is there that can read the apostrophe of Amaryllis to the groves and woods, the eulogy of rural

Care selve beate, &c.;

the charming address of Mirtillo to the spring—

O primavera gioventi del anno, &c.;

or the fanciful, but inspired description of the age of gold—

O bella età de l'oro! &c.;

who is there that can read these passages without the highest admiration and delight? but it must at the same time be owned, that the merit of these Italian poets lies in those highly finished, but thinly sown passages of splendour; and not in the structure of their fables, or the consonance of their general sentiments to truth and nature.

The principal difficulty in pastoral poetry, when it attempts an actual delineation of nature, (which we have seen is too seldom its object,) lies in the association of delicate and affecting sentiments with the genuine manners of rustic life; an union so difficult to be accomplished, that the chief pastoral poets, both ancient and modern, have either entirely abandoned the attempt, by choosing to paint a fabulous and chimerical state of society; or have failed in their endeavour, either by indulging in such refinement of sentiment as is utterly inconsistent with rustic nature, or by endowing their characters with such a rudeness and vulgarity of manners as is hostile to every idea of delicacy. It appears to me that Ramsay has most happily avoided these extremes; and this he could the better do, from the singularly fortunate choice of his subject. The principal persons of the drama, though trained from infancy in the manners of rustic life, are of generous birth; to whom therefore we may allow, from nature and the influence of blood, an elevation of sentiment, and a nobler mode of thinking, than to ordinary peasants. To these characters the poet has therefore, with perfect propriety and knowledge of human nature, given the generous sentiments that accord with their condition, though veiled a little by the manners, and conveyed in the language which suits their accidental situation. The other characters, who are truly peasants, are painted with fidelity from nature; but even of these, the situation chosen by the poet was favourable for avoiding that extreme vulgarity and coarseness of manners which would have offended a good taste. The peasantry of the Pentland hills, within six or seven miles of the metropolis, with which of course they have frequent communication, cannot be supposed to exhibit the same rudeness of manners which distinguishes those of the remote part of the country. As the models, therefore, from which the poet drew were cast in a finer mould than mere provincial rustics, so their copies, as drawn by him, do not offend by their vulgarity, nor is there any greater degree of rusticity than what merely distinguishes their mode of life and occupations.

In what I have said of the manners of the characters in the Gentle Shepherd, I know that I encounter the prejudices of some Scotish critics, who allowing otherwise the very high merits of Ramsay as a poet, and giving him credit in particular for his knowledge of human nature, and skill to touch the passions, quarrel with him only on the score of his language; as they seem to annex inseparably the idea of coarseness and vulgarity to every thing that is written in the native dialect of their country: but of this I have said enough before. To every Englishman, and, I trust, to every Scotsman not of fastidious refinement, the dialect of the Gentle Shepherd will appear to be most perfectly consonant to the characters of the speakers, and the times in which the action is laid. To this latter circumstance the critics I have just mentioned seem not to have been sufficiently attentive. The language of this pastoral is not precisely the Scotish language of the present day: the poet himself spoke the language of the beginning of the century, and his persons were of the age preceding that period. To us their dialect is an antiquated tongue, and as such it carries with it a Doric simplicity. But when we consider both the characters and the times, it has an indispensable propriety; and to have given the speakers in the Gentle Shepherd a more refined and pollished dialect, or more modern tone of conversation, would have been a gross violation of truth and nature.

In the faithful painting of rustic life, Ramsay seems to have been indebted to his own situation and early habits, as well as to the want of a learned education. He was familiarly acquainted with rural nature from actual observation; and his own impressions were not weakened or altered by much acquaintance with the classical common-places, or with those artificial pictures which are presented by the poets.[44] It is not therefore the general characters of the country, which one poet can easily draw from the works of others, that we find in his pastoral; it was the country in which he lived, the genuine manners of its inhabitants, the actual scenes with which he was conversant, that fixed his observation, and guided his imitative pencil. The character which, in the preface to his Evergreen, he assigns to the Scotish poetry in general, is in the most peculiar manner assignable to his own: "The morning rises in the poet's description, as she does in the Scotish horizon: we are not carried to Greece and Italy for a shade, a stream, or a breeze; the groves rise in our own valleys, the rivers flow from our own fountains, and the winds blow upon our own hills." Ramsay's landscapes are drawn with the most characteristic precision: we view the scene before us, as in the paintings of a Claude or a Waterloo; and the hinds and shepherds of the Pentland hills, to all of whom this delightful pastoral is as familiar as their catechism, can trace the whole of its scenery in nature, and are eager to point out to the inquiring stranger—the waterfall of Habbie's how—the cottages of Glaud and Symon—Sir William's ancient tower, ruinated in the civil wars, but since rebuilt—the auld avenue and shady groves, still remaining in defiance of the modern taste for naked, shadeless lawns. And here let it be remarked, as perhaps the surest criterion of the merit of this pastoral as a true delineation of nature, that it is universally relished and admired by that class of people whose habits of life and manners are there described. Its sentiments and descriptions are in unison with their feelings. It is recited, with congenial animation and delight, at the fireside of the farmer, when in the evening the lads and lasses assemble to solace themselves after the labours of the day, and share the rustic meal. There is not a milk-maid, a plough-boy, or a shepherd, of the Lowlands of Scotland, who has not by heart its favourite passages, and can rehearse its entire scenes. There are many of its couplets that, like the verses of Homer, are become proverbial, and have the force of an adage, when introduced in familiar writing, or in ordinary conversation.

OPINIONS AND REMARKS

ON

"THE GENTLE SHEPHERD,"

BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.

John Aikin, LL.D. 1772.

"No attempt to naturalize pastoral poetry, appears to have succeeded better than Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd: it has a considerable air of reality, and the descriptive parts, in general, are in the genuine taste of beautiful simplicity."[45]

James Beattie, LL.D. 1776.

"The sentiments of [the 'Gentle Shepherd'], are natural, the circumstances interesting; the characters well drawn, well distinguished, and well contrasted; and the fable has more probability than any other pastoral drama I am acquainted with. To an Englishman who has never conversed with the common people of Scotland, the language would appear only antiquated, obscure, or unintelligible; but to a Scotchman who thoroughly understands it, and is aware of its vulgarity, it appears ludicrous; from the contrast between meanness of phrase and dignity or seriousness of sentiment.

This gives a farcical air even to the most affecting part of the poem; and occasions an impropriety of a peculiar kind, which is very observable in the representation. And accordingly, this play, with all its merit, and with a strong national partiality in its favour, has never given general satisfaction upon the stage."[46]

William Tytler. 1783.

"Ramsay was a man of strong natural, though few acquired parts, possessed of much humour, and native poetic fancy. Born in a pastoral country, he had strongly imbibed the manners and humours of that life. As I knew him well, an honest man, and of great pleasantry, it is with peculiar satisfaction I seize this opportunity of doing justice to his memory, in giving testimony to his being the author of the Gentle Shepherd, which, for the natural ease of the dialogue, the propriety of the characters, perfectly similar to the pastoral life in Scotland, the picturesque scenery, and, above all, the simplicity and beauty of the fable, may justly rank amongst the most eminent pastoral dramas that our own or any other nation can boast of. Merit will ever be followed by detraction. The envious tale, that the Gentle Shepherd was the joint composition of some wits with whom Ramsay conversed, is without truth. It might be sufficient to say, that none of these gentlemen have left the mediumest fragment behind them that can give countenance to such a claim. While I passed my infancy at Newhall, near Pentland hills, where the scenes of this pastoral poem are laid, the seat of Mr. Forbes, and the resort of many of the literati at that time, I well remember to have heard Ramsay recite, as his own production, different scenes of the Gentle Shepherd, particularly the first two, before it was printed. I believe my honourable friend Sir James Clerk of Pennycuik, where Ramsay frequently resided, and who I know is possessed of several original poems composed by him, can give the same testimony."