Chapter III: Preface (2)

[Footnote 37: To the last three of these we owe the words of some of the best of the Scotish songs, which are to be found in the collection published by Ramsay, called _The Tea-table Miscellany_.]

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]

[Footnote 38: See _Observations on The Vision_, by William Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, in the first volume of the Transactions of Scotish Antiquaries; where that poem, and The Eagle and Robin Redbreast, are proved to be both written by Allan Ramsay.]

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.

[Footnote 39: I am convinced, however, from a comparison of many of Ramsay's interpretations, both in the Glossary to the _Evergreen_, printed in 1724, and in that, which is subjoined to his _Poems_, with the interpretations given by Ruddiman in the Glossary to _G. Douglas's Virgil_, that Ramsay had made frequent use of the latter for the explanation of the most antiquated words; though he does not seem to have studied it with that care, which his duty as an editor of ancient Scotish poetry certainly required. In proof of this, his obligations to Ruddiman's Glossary, the reader has only to compare, with the interpretations in that work, the following, given by Ramsay in the Glossary to his Poems: _Bodin_, _Brankan_, _Camschough_, _Dern_, _Douks_, _Dynles_, _Elritch_, _Ettle_, _Freck_, _Gousty_, _Moup_, _Pawky_, _Withershins_; and the following, in the Glossary to the Evergreen: _Crawdon_, _Galziart_, _Ithandly_, _Ourefret_, _Ruse_, _Schent_, &c.]

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]

[Footnote 40: See "A Yorkshire Dialogue in its pure natural dialect;" printed at York, 1684.]

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.

[Footnote 41: A learned writer has published, in the Transactions of the Society of Scotish Antiquaries, a Dissertation on the Scoto-Saxon Dialect; of which, as the work is not in every body's hands, the reader may not be displeased with a short account. The author maintains this proposition; that the Scoto-Saxon dialect was, at the time of the union of the two nations, equal in every respect, and in some respects superior, to the Anglo-Saxon dialect. He lays it down as a principle, that three things constitute the perfection, or rather the relative superiority, of a language: richness, energy, and harmony. He observes, that a language is rich in proportion to the copiousness of its vocabulary, which will principally depend, 1. on the number of its primitive or radical words; 2. on the multiplicity of its derivations and compounds; and, 3. on the variety of its inflections. In all, or almost all of these respects, he shows the superiority of the Scotish dialect of the Saxon to the English. The Scots have all the English primitives, and many hundreds besides. The Scots have derivatives from diminution, which the English entirely want: e. g. _hat_, _hatty_, _hattiky_; _lass_, _lassie_, _lassiky_. The degrees of diminution are almost unlimited: _wife_, _wifie_, _wifiky_, _wee wifiky_, _wee wee wifiky_, &c. Both the English, and Scots, dialects are poor in the inflections; but the Glossary to Douglas's Virgil will shew that the Scotish inflections are both more various, and less anomalous, than the English. Energy is the boast both of the English, and the Scotish, dialects; but, in this author's opinion, the Scotish poetry can furnish some compositions of far superior energy to any cotemporary English production. With respect to harmony, he gives his suffrage likewise in favour of the Scotish dialect. He observes, that the _sh_ rarely occurs; its place being supplied by the simple _s_, as in _polis_, _punis_, _sal_, &c. The _s_ itself is often supplied by the liquids _m_ or _n_; as in _expreme_, _depreme_; _compone_, _depone_. Harsh combinations of consonants are avoided: as in using _sel_, _twal_, _neglek_, _temp_, _stown_ or _stawn_, for _self_, _twelve_, _neglect_, _tempt_, _stolen_. Even the vowel sounds are, in this author's opinion, more harmonious, in the Scots, than in the English, dialect; as the open _a_, and the proper Italic sound of _i_. For further elucidation of this curious subject, the Dissertation itself must be referred to, which will abundantly gratify the critical reader. It is proper here to observe, that the remarks of this writer are the more worthy of attention, that he is himself an excellent Scotish poet, as the compositions subjoined to his Dissertation clearly evince. _Three Scotish Poems, with a previous Dissertation on the Scoto-Saxon Dialect, by the Rev. Alexander Geddes, LL.D., Transactions of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland_, vol. i., p. 402.]

(_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]

[Footnote 42: In the quarto of 1728, the following note is subjoined to the first scene of the Gentle Shepherd:--"This first scene is the only piece in this volume that was printed in the first: having carried the pastoral the length of five acts, at the desire of some persons of distinction, I was obliged to print this preluding scene with the rest."]

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 alltheir 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]

[Footnote 43: When the sentiments are drawn from nature, it is not surprising that, where the subject is similar, there should be a concurrence of thought between two genuine poets, who never saw each other's works. How similar is the following passage of the 10th satire of Boileau to the imagery of this beautiful family picture!

Quelle joie en effet, quelle douceur extreme
De se voir caresser d'une epouse qu'on aime;--
De voir autour de soi croitre dans la maison,
Sous les paisibles loix d'une agréable mere
De petits citoyens dont on croit être pere!
Quel charme au moindre mal qui nous vient menacer
De la voir aussitot accourir, s'empresser, &c.]

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.

[Footnote 44: So little has Ramsay borrowed from the ordinary language of pastoral, which is generally a tame imitation of the dialogue of Virgil and. Theocritus, that in the whole of the Scotish poem there are (I think) only _three_ passages that bring to mind those common-places which, in the eclogues of Pope, we find almost in every line:

The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie-ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornful queans, &c. ACT 1, SCENE 1.

I've seen with shining fair the morning rise,
And soon the sleety clouds mirk a' the skies.
I've seen the silver spring a while rin clear,
And soon in mossy puddles disappear.
The bridegroom may rejoice, &c. _Act 3, Scene 3._

See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and bride; &c.

_Act 1, Scene 2._]

* * * * *

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]

[Footnote 45: Aikin's Essays on Song-Writing, p. 33.]

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]

[Footnote 46: Beattie's Essays, p. 652. Ed. 1776.]

WILLIAM TYTLER. 1783.