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. (†)

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 healthand 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 Volpone, no Arbaces write;

Shakespeare's own mufe his Pericles firft bore,

The Prince of Tyre is elder than the Moor;
"Tis miracle to see a first 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 (g). 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, mercy on us! what a cry is raised. "The vivacity of 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,

:

it is said, of one of the odes of Gray, disgusted him with poetry and Racine acknowledged to his son, that the petulant attacks of the meanest scribbler gave him pain more acute than the highest eulogies of taste and learning had given him pleasure.

But if bad writers (says S. Johnson in his life of Pope) were to pass without reprehension, what should restrain them? and upon bad writers alone will censure have much effect. The satire, which brought Theobald and Moore into contempt, dropped impotent from Bentley, like the javelin of Priam."

Instead of saying, upon bad writers alone will censure have much effect, he ought to have said, upon the works of bad writers. All this may be true; and perhaps there is much justice in a remark I have somewhere seen attributed to Bentley, that no man was ever written down but by himself. But of what importance is it to a man that his works survive his persecutors, if his peace while living was disturbed? Of what importance is it to Tasso or Racine that, while the memory of their opponents shall not follow them, their own fame "spreads and grows brighter with the length of days."

Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft?

Or Flattery foothe the dull cold ear of death? (1)

In short, unless a writer is himself dogmatical and overbearing, unless he attacks the interests of religion. and morality, he ought never to be treated in a manner as crucl as if he were an enemy to society. And