Ramsay were undoubtedly the prototypes of those Imprimis, then, for tallness, I Ramsay addressed epistles to Gay and Somerville, and the latter paid him in kind, in very flattering In one of Allan's answers is the following picturesque sketch, in illustration of his own contempt for the stated rules of art: verses. I love the garden wild and wide, Where oaks have plum trees by their side; Heaven Homer taught; the critic draws The 'Gentle Shepherd' is the greatest of Ramsay's works, and perhaps the finest pastoral drama in the world. It possesses that air of primitive simplicity and seclusion which seems indispensable in compositions of this class, at the same time that its landscapes are filled with life-like beings, who interest us from their character, situation, and circumstances. It has none of that studied pruriency and unnatural artifice which are intruded into the 'Faithful Shepherdess' of Fletcher, and is equally free from the tedious allegory and forced conceits of most pastoral poems. It is a genuine picture of Scottish life, but of life passed in simple rural employments, apart from the guilt and fever of large towns, and reflecting only the pure and unsophisticated emotions of 1 A sirloin. our nature. The affected sensibilities and feigned distresses of the Corydons and Delias find no place in Ramsay's clear and manly page. He drew his shepherds from the life, placed them in scenes which he actually saw, and made them speak the language which he every day heard the free idiomatic speech of his native vales. His art lay in the beautiful selection of his materials-in the grouping of his well-defined characters-the invention of a plot, romantic yet natural-the delightful appropriateness of every speech and auxiliary incident, and in the tone of generous sentiment and true feeling which sanctifies this scene of humble virtue and happiness. The love of his gentle' rustics is at first artless and confiding, though partly disguised by maiden coyness and arch humour; and it is expressed in language and incidents alternately amusing and impassioned. At length the hero is elevated in station above his mistress, and their affection assumes a deeper character from the threatened dangers of a separation. Mutual distress and tenderness break down reserve. The simple heroine, without forgetting her natural dignity and modesty, lets out her whole soul to her early companion; and when assured of his unalterable attachment, she not only, like Miranda, weeps at what she is glad of,' but, with the true pride of a Scottish maiden, she resolves to study 'gentler charms,' and to educate herself to be worthy of her lover. Poetical justice is done to this faithful attachment, by both the characters being found equal in birth and station. The poet's taste and judgment are evinced in the superiority which he gives his hero and heroine, without debasing their associates below their proper level; while a ludicrous contrast to both is supplied by the underplot of Bauldy and his courtships. The elder characters in the piece afford a fine relief to the youthful pairs, besides completing the rustic picture. While one scene discloses the young shepherds by 'craigy bields' and 'crystal springs,' or presents Peggy and Jenny on the bleaching green A trotting burnie wimpling through the groundanother shows us the snug thatched cottage, with its barn and peat-stack, or the interior of the house, with a clear ingle glancing on the floor, and its inmates happy with innocent mirth and rustic plenty. The drama altogether makes one proud of peasant life and the virtues of a Scottish cottage. By an ill-judged imitation of Gay, in his 'Beggar's Opera,' Ramsay interspersed songs throughout the Gentle Shepherd,' which interrupt the action of the piece, and too often merely repeat, in a diluted form, the sentiments of the dialogue. These should be removed to the end of the drama, leaving undisturbed the most perfect delineation of rural life and manners, without vulgar humility or affectation, that ever was drawn. [Ode from Horace.] Look up to Pentland's towering tap, The biast bouls on Tamson's green. Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, And beek the house baith but and ben; That mutchkin stoup it hauds but dribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, If that they think us worth their while; That will they do, should we gang wud; The high command of supreme Jove. Let neist day come as it thinks fit, And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time; Watch the saft minutes of delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath; On you, if she kep ony skaith. And hide hersell in some dark nook. Nineteen naysays are half a grant. These benisons, I'm very sure, Are of the gods' indulgent grant; To plague us with your whining cant. [In this instance, the felicitous manner in which Ramsay has preserved the Horatian ease and spirit, and at the same time clothed the whole in a true Scottish garb, renders his version greatly superior to Dryden's English one. For comparison, two stanzas of the latter are subjoined : Secure those golden early joys, That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, For active sports, for pleasing rest, The best is but in season best. The appointed hour of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark, These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.] Song. Tune-Bush Aboon Traquair. At setting day and rising morn, Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair, By greenwood shaw or fountain; From thoughts unfeigned and tender; The last Time I came o'er the Moor. The last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me; Ye powers! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me! Soon as the ruddy morn displayed The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for wooing. Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting; We kissed and promised time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, E'en kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be called where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In all my soul there's not one place Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall centre. The next time I go o'er the moor, Lochaber No More. Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on wear; Though bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, Then glory, my Jeany, man plead my excuse; [Rustic Courtship.] [From the 'Gentle Shepherd.'-Act I.] Hear how I served my lass I love as well As ye do Jenny, and with heart as leal. Last morning I was gay and early out, Upon a dike I leaned, glowering about, I saw my Meg come linkin' o'er the lee; I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me; For yet the sun was wading through the mist, And she was close upon me e'er she wist; Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw. Her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek, Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her e'en sae clear; And oh her mouth's like ony hinny pear. Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffing o'er the dewy green. Blythsome I cried, My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye're so soon asteer? But I can guess, ye're gaun to gather dew.' She scoured away, and said, 'What's that to you?' "Then, fare-ye-weel, Meg-dorts, and e'en's ye like,' I careless cried, and lap in o'er the dike. I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She came with a right thieveless errand back. Misca'd me first; then bade me hound my dog, To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. I leugh; and sae did she; then with great haste I clasped my arms about her neck and waist; About her yielding waist, 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 louping to my lips. Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack, But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak. 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 wud. [Dialogue on Marriage.] PEGGY and JENNY. Jenny. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green; Peggy. Gae far'er up the burn to Habbie's How, There wash oursells-'tis healthfu' now in May, Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say Jenny. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld- Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, Peggy. Be doing your wa's; for me, I hae a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. Jenny. Heh lass! how can ye loe that rattle-skull! A very deil, that aye maun hae his wull; We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. Peggy. I'll rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear, But rather think ilk langsome day a year, Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed, Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head. Jenny. He may, indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise, And daut ye baith afore fouk, and your lane; But soon as his newfangledness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: And maybe, in his barleyhoods, ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love. Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill. In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate. Jenny. Hey, Bonny lass o' Branksome! or't be lang, Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. Can there be toil in tenting day and night Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a'; Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life; Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray; Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you!) Lies darned within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor prisoner! Jenny, that's no fair, Jenny. Anither time's as good-for see, the sun DRAMATISTS. In The dramatic literature of this period was, like its general poetry, polished and artificial. In tragedy, the highest name is that of Southerne, who may claim, with Otway, the power of touching the passions, yet his language is feeble compared with that of the great dramatists, and his general style low and unimpressive. Addison's Cato' is more properly a classical poem than a drama-as cold and less vigorous than the tragedies of Jonson. comedy, the national taste is apparent in its faithful and witty delineations of polished life, of which Wycherley and Congreve had set the example, and which was well continued by Farquhar and Vanbrugh. Beaumont and Fletcher first introduced what may be called comedies of intrigue, borrowed from the Spanish drama; and the innovation appears to have been congenial to the English taste, for it still pervades our comic literature. vigorous exposure of the immorality of the stage by Jeremy Collier, and the essays of Steele and Addison, improving the taste and moral feeling of the public, a partial reformation took place of those nuisances of the drama which the Restoration had introduced. The Master of the Revels, by whom all plays had to be licensed, also aided in this work of retrenchment; but a glance at even those improved plays of the reign of William III. and his successors, will show that ladies frequenting the theatres had still occasion to wear masks, which Colley Cibber says they usually did on the first days of acting of a new play. The THOMAS SOUTHERNE. THOMAS SOUTHERNE (1659-1746) may be classed either with the last or the present period. His life was long, extended, and prosperous. He was a native of Dublin, but came to England, and enrolled himself in the Middle Temple as a student of law. He afterwards entered the army, and held the rank of captain under the Duke of York, at the time of Monmouth's insurrection. His latter days were spent in retirement, and in the possession of a considerable fortune. Southerne wrote ten plays, but only two exhibit his characteristic powers, namely, Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage, and Oroonoko. The latter is founded on an actual occurrence; Oroonoko, an African prince, having been stolen from his native kingdom of Angola, and carried to one of the West India islands. The impassioned grandeur of Oroonoko's sufferings, his bursts of horror and indignation at the slave trade, and his unhappy passion for Imoinda, are powerful and pathetic. In the following scene, the hero and heroine unexpectedly meet after a long absence : I cannot miss it now. Governor, friend, [Embraces her. Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness; I do most heartily. Lieut. And all of us: but how it comes to pass— More precious time than I can spare you now. Oroo. Let the fools Oroo. My soul steals from my body through my eyes; Who follow fortune live upon her smiles; All that is left of life I'll gaze away, And die upon the pleasure. Lieut. This is strange! Oroo. If you but mock me with her image here: If she be not Imoinda Ha! she faints! [She looks upon him and falls into Nay, then, it must be she-it is Imoinda! All our prosperity is placed in love; [Exeunt. Mr Hallam says that Southerne was the first English writer who denounced (in this play) the traffic in To welcome her to her own empire here. [Kisses her. slaves and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. Imoinda! oh, thy Oroonoko calls. Imo. (Recovering.) My Oroonoko! believe What any man can say. But if I am Oh! I can't To be deceived, there's something in that name, [Stares at him. That voice, that face Oh! if I know myself, I cannot be mistaken. Oroo. Never here: [Embraces him. That I would have: my husband! then I am Imo. Oh! I believe, And know you by myself. If these sad eyes, You appear [Return of Biron.] A Chamber-Enter ISABELLA. Isa. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, Enter NURSE. Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below. This ring was the first present of my love |