terized by a greater multitude of similar terminations, than those which he wrote after the year 1600. And therefore, says he, "wherever, of two early pieces, it is doubtful which preceded the other, I am disposed to believe (other proofs being wanting) that play in which the greater number of rhymes is found to have been first composed. Whether (says he) in process of time Shakespeare grew weary of the bondage of rhyme, or whether he became convinced of its impropriety in a dramatic dialogue, his neglect of rhyming, for he never wholly disused it, seems to have been gradual." Dryden boldly asserts, that it was laziness that induced Shakespeare to abandon it; and indeed that sublime genius seems often to have written with too great haste. Perhaps Dryden's partiality to rhyming arose from his great superiority in the art, which gave him the advantage of his contemporaries in that particular.

But without entering in any degree into the merits of the dispute, or giving an opinion on the subject, it is sufficient for me, that the writers of most pastoral pieces have mingled with them a considerable number of similar terminations. The greater part, indeed almost the whole, of Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess is in rhyme. In the Mid-summer Night's Dream, and in the Saa Shepherd of Ben Johnson, the story goes "sometimes on rhyme, sometimes on blank verse, like a horse who eases himself on trot and amble." Milton himself, in his Comus, at the entrance of the attendant spirit, makes that being and the elder brother discourse a short time in rhymes.In short, with so many authorities in my favour, I may assert,

that if the following Pastoral be blamed because it is in rhyme, the defect is not this, but some other imperfection (.).

As to the Songs, which are scattered through the performance, they are not altogether original. I have sometimes adopted a stanza from an old Scotish song, and added new words, such as I thought suited my subject; in other cases, I have only borrowed some old burthen or chorus, and sometimes I have written songs altogether new. My reason for sometimes adapting an old line or stanza was the following. I am quite unacquainted with music as an art; and hence the only safe way I could do, was to look over some collection of Scotish songs, to consider which read best, and the rhythmus of which seemed to suit best with the sentiments which I wished to express.

"You know (says Burns to his correspondent Mr Thomson) that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid." Such is precisely my situation at present; and indeed my musical taste pretty much resembles that of those elegant gentlemen who, in the time of Henry VIII. drew up the Seventy-eight fautes and abuses of Religion, and who assert that "singing, and saying of mass, matins, or even song, is but roryng, howling,

whistleying, mummying, conjurying, and jogelyng, and the playing at the organys a foolish vanity."

But, while a considerable portion of the compositions of the Italian and German masters appear to me, with the exception of those of Corelli, mere tweedledum and tweedledee, my heart melts at the wild pathetic sweetness, at the natural and simple melody of many of our Scotish songs.

That strain again, it had a dying fall;

Oh! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing, and giving odour. (p)

I deliver this my first production (and which will, whatever is its success, be my last in the same kind) to the world, with a wish that it may please, but without much anxiety. Not that I am altogether indifferent about reputation, or desire to be classed with that numerous order of writers who are less solicitous about admiration than alms; but because, if I have health and leisure, I hope to give other works to the world, which will better entitle me to the public esteem. Like Noah, while myself and other property are snug in the ark, I send forth this as the raven to wander around, and to gather from its fate rules for my future conduct.

I interrupted, to write this performance, a work in which I was much more interested; hence I was in considerable haste to finish, and did not court favourable occasions, nor give much respite to the muse. To all this let it be added, that it is a first, and that some part of it is a boyish production, and besides it is a

dramatic work, perhaps the most difficult species of writing.

Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,

Did no Volponé, no Arbaces write;

Shakespeare's own mufe his Pericles first bore,
The Prince of Tyre is elder than the Moor;
'Tis miracle to fee a firft good play.

Dryden.

I mention these circumstances, not as if I either wished or hoped that the judgment of the public would be swayed by any thing but the intrinsic merit of the composition, but that whatever criticism is used be candid and without malignity. To criticise, said the King of Prussia, is easy, but the art of criticism is difficult. And it should never be forgotten, that it ought to be an examination, not a satire (q). No man is very perfect at first; and if the early productions of the most eminent poets were published to day, the poor authors would be hooted out of countenance, and perhaps be induced, in despair, to abandon those arts by which they have attained a glory so extensive. Had the first productions of Raphael been compared with his Transfiguration, how mean and pitiful must they have appeared? And what an immense interval is there between Milton's hobbling verses to the memory of Shakespeare, and the Paradise Lost? Yet such is the hardship which a young author has to when perfect models are abundant (r). His work is compared, not with common, but with the most eminent writers; not with the first productions of these

H

struggle with,

writers, but with the last and most perfect. And then, "The vivacity of

mercy on us! what a cry is raised. our modern critics (says Cibber in his life) is of late grown so riotous, that an unsuccessful author has no more mercy shewn him than a notorious cheat in the pillory; every fool, the lowest member of the mob, becomes a wit, and will have a fling at him.”

This vivacity of criticism, as Mr Cibber calls it, though a considerable grievance to all the members of the republic of letters, bears particularly hard upon writers of fancy. If a person publishes a scientific work, and it is unjustly attacked, he can demonstrate it is so, having only to construct his diagram, or bring forward his equation," with biquadratics rang'd in dread array." Thus he can be little affected by the assault of petulance; but for poor poets there is, alas! no such resource. A man may be convinced, but cannot easily be pleased against his will; and even Milton himself could have no redress against the sarcasms of the most paltry scribbler. The life of Tasso was embittered, and his mind deranged, by attacks on a poem, one of the most perfect productions of the human mind, written before he was thirty years of age.

And this is a new reason why criticism should not be too wanton in her reproaches, since it is only the highest minds that she can wound acutely. An inferior writer has generally little of that infirmity of noble minds, the desire of fame, and consequently perseveres unhurt amid ridicule and insult. But the writings of Pope and Voltaire (s) show how deeply they were affected by the wounds inflicted by the feeblest adversary. The sensibility of Montesqueiu is well known: A parody,