*From the manuscript collections in Culloden House. goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ludicrous comparison. What,' said the witty peer, 'a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that I see you in it, I think the house is not ill named.' He lived in this singular-looking mansion (which has since been somewhat altered) twelve years, and died of a complaint that had long afflicted him, scurvy in the gums, on the 7th of January 1758, at the age of seventy-two. So much of pleasantry, good humour, and worldly enjoyment, is mixed up with the history of Allan Ramsay, that his life is one of the green and sunny spots' in literary biography. His genius was well rewarded; and he possessed that turn of mind which David Hume says it is more happy to possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a-year-a disposition always to see the favourable side of things. Ramsay's poetical works are sufficiently various; and one of his editors has ambitiously classed them under the heads of serious, elegiac, comic, satiric, epigrammatical, pastoral, lyric, epistolary, fables and tales. He wrote trash in all departments, but failed in none. His tales are quaint and humorous, though, like those of Prior, they are too often indelicate. The Monk and Miller's Wife, founded on a poem of Dunbar, is as happy an adaptation of an old poet as any of Pope's or Dryden's from Chaucer. His lyrics want the grace, simplicity, and beauty which Burns breathed into these wood-notes wild,' designed alike for cottage and hall; yet some of those in the Gentle Shepherd' are delicate and tender; and others, such as The last time I came o'er the Moor, and The Yellow-haired Laddie, are still favourites with all lovers of Scottish song. In one of the least happy of the lyrics there occurs this beautiful image: How joyfully my spirits rise, When dancing she moves finely, O; His Lochaber no More is a strain of manly feeling and unaffected pathos. The poetical epistles of Ramsay were undoubtedly the prototypes of those by Burns, and many of the stanzas may challenge comparison with them. He makes frequent classical allusions, especially to the works of Horace, with which he seems to have been well acquainted, and whose gay and easy turn of mind harmonised with his own. In an epistle to Mr James Arbuckle, the poet gives a characteristic and minute painting of himself: Imprimis, then, for tallness, I Am five foot and four inches high; 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. 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, tha 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; They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile. For what they have a mind to do, That will they do, should we gang wud; If they command the storms to blaw, Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. But soon as e'er they cry, Be quiet,' The blattering winds dare nae mair move, But cour into their caves, and wait 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, Before auld age your vitals nip, 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. Haith, ye're ill-bred,' she'll smiling say; 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, Ere withering time the taste destroys With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for. pleasing rest, This is the time to be possest; 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, When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again; These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.] Song. Tune-Bush Aboon Traquair. At setting day and rising morn, With soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask of heaven thy safe return, With all that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush, 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, The next time I go o'er the moor, There, while my being does remain, 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 do Jenny, and with heart as leal. ye 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; Gac 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; He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: 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 himseli, 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-skulli 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. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll hae a' things made ready to his will; In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething pat's be ready to tak aff; or't be lang, Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board, And serve him wi' the best we can afford; Good humour and white bigonets shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. Jenny. A dish o'married love right soon grows cauld, And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld. Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, 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 Peggy. Nae mair o' 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 wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile : Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. 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, That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the air: Haste, let him out; we'll tent as weel's we can, Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man. Jenny. Anither time's as good-for see, the sun To freath the graith-if cankered Madge, our aunt, 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 |