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On the Early English Dramatists.
[March

siderable felicity." Your generous heart will, I am sure, think but little of the person who could, in order to flatter you, thus shamelessly undervalue the genius of so excellent and admirable a man as the author of the Farmer's Boy. He adds, "the circumstances of Bloomfield were certainly not the most favourable for the growth of genius!" James, you know the flying tailor of Ettrick. Well, suppose that he had written the Queen's Wake,—even he, sitting cross-legged on his board, with his Muse on his one hand, and his Goose on the other. Would he not, in that case, have been a more extraordinary genius than yourself? and pray, where is the great difference between making breeches and making brogues? I strongly suspect, James, that if you had made your own celebrated top-boots, you never would have written "Kilmeny." Bloomfield had much less poetical education than you had—you possess some powers which belong not to him—but where, in all your writings, is there a more beautiful passage than the following?

"Where's the Blind Child, so admirably fair, With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair That waves in every breeze? he's often seen Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, With others match'd in spirit and in size, Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes; That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear, Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here; And, hark! that laugh is his, that jovial cry; He hears the ball and trundling-hoop brush by, And runs the giddy course with all his might, A very child in every thing but sight: With circumscrib'd, but not abated pow'rs,—Play! the great object of his infant hours;—In many a game he takes a noisy part, And shows the native gladness of his heart; But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent, The new suggestion and the quick assent; The grove invites, delight thrills every breast— To leap the ditch and seek the downy nest Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind, And one companion leave—the boy is blind! His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, That childish fortitude awhile gives way, He feels his dreadful loss—yet short the pain; Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again; Pond'ring how best his moments to employ, He sings his little songs of nameless joy, Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, And plucks by chance the white and yellow flow'r; Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees, He binds a nosegay which he never sees; Along the homeward path then feels his way, Lifting his brow against the shining day, And, with a playful rapture round his eyes, Presents a sighing parent with the prize."

Your biographer then sneers at Capel Loft, and jocularly remarks, "that even his colossal shoulders have not been able to sustain Bloomfield at that elevation" (i.e. the rank of Burns). Strange blindness of self-love! This very old gentleman, in the same paper in which he thus accuses Capel Loft of injudicious admiration of his protegèe, actually brings your name into connexion, not only with Scott, Byron, and Campbell, but (mirabile dictu), (get Mr Gray to explain that), places the name of Hogg (O sus quando te aspiciam!) along with that of Shakspeare!!

I had intended writing you a much longer letter, but I am engaged to go to the theatre to see Yates perform Shylock, which I am told he does most admirably—so I must conclude. I have just time to add, that I am not a little hurt that your biographer has hitherto taken no notice of your Essay on Sheep, certainly one of your most useful and able performances. The style of it shews the great versatility of your talents, for it assuredly is altogether different from that of the Pilgrims of the Sun. In that last, I think there is "great cry and little wool." Believe me, dear Hogg, your sincere friend and admirer, Timothy Tickler.

P. S.—In a party at Southside last night, a young gentleman gave the following toast: "Messrs Cleghorn and Pringle, and the Trial by Jury."


ANALYTICAL ESSAYS ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMATISTS.

No IV.

Duchess of Malfy.—Webster.[1]

Before the time of Shakspeare flourished several dramatic writers, who possessed great power over the passions,—had a deep insight into the darkest

  1. ↑ Of Webster, who flourished in the reign of James I., little, we believe, is known. According to Gildon, he was clerk of the parish of St Andrew, Holborn, and a member of the merchant-tailors' company. In Dodesley, part of an old satire is quoted, in
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