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._