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 kilt.i.t, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw; Her c.o.c.kernony 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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.surance 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.ds, is fortunately accomplished in an instant.

Equally unnatural with the fable are the sentiments of this pastoral.

_Amaryllis_, pa.s.sionately 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 appet.i.tes. 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 pa.s.sion. But we need no chorus to elucidate _arcana_ of this nature.

True it is that in this drama, as in the _Aminta_, there are pa.s.sages 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 eta de l'oro! &c.;

who is there that can read these pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sages of splendour; and not in the structure of their fables, or the consonance of their general sentiments to truth and nature.

The princ.i.p.al difficulty in pastoral poetry, when it attempts an actual delineation of nature, (which we have seen is too seldom its object,) lies in the a.s.sociation 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 princ.i.p.al 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 n.o.bler 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 coa.r.s.eness 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 pa.s.sions, quarrel with him only on the score of his language; as they seem to annex inseparably the idea of coa.r.s.eness 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 circ.u.mstance 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 cla.s.sical 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 a.s.signs to the Scotish poetry in general, is in the most peculiar manner a.s.signable 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 cla.s.s 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 la.s.ses a.s.semble 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 pa.s.sages, and can rehea.r.s.e 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_ pa.s.sages 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

"_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 smallest fragment behind them that can give countenance to such a claim. While I pa.s.sed 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."

"_P.S._ The above note was shewn to Sir _James Clerk_, and had his approbation."[47]

[Footnote 47: Poetical Remains of James 1st of Scotland; p. 189.]

HUGH BLAIR, D.D. 1783.

"I must not omit the mention of another _pastoral drama_, which will bear being brought into comparison with any composition of this kind, in any language; that is, Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. It is a great disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will probably be entirely obsolete, and not intelligible; and it is a farther disadvantage that it is so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a native of that country can thoroughly understand or relish it. But, though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine its reputation within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural description, and tender sentiment, as would do honour to any poet. The characters are well drawn, the incidents affecting; the scenery and manners lively and just. It affords a strong proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity possess, to reach the heart in every sort of writing; and of the variety of pleasing characters and subjects with which _pastoral poetry_, when properly managed, is capable of being enlivened."[48]

[Footnote 48: Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric, vol. iii. p. 126.]