before I have
thoroughly studied the Walls of it, and examined the several printed
Papers which are usually pasted upon them. The last Piece that I met
with upon this Occasion gave me a most exquisite Pleasure. My Reader
will think I am not serious, when I acquaint him that the Piece I am
going to speak of was the old Ballad of the _Two Children in the Wood_,
which is one of the darling Songs of the common People, and has been the
Delight of most _Englishmen_ in some Part of their Age.

This Song is a plain simple Copy of Nature, destitute of the Helps and
Ornaments of Art. The Tale of it is a pretty Tragical Story, and pleases
for no other Reason but because it is a Copy of Nature. There is even a
despicable Simplicity in the Verse; and yet because the Sentiments
appear genuine and unaffected, they are able to move the Mind of the
most polite Reader with Inward Meltings of Humanity and Compassion. The
Incidents grow out of the Subject, and are such as [are the most proper
to excite Pity; for [1]] which Reason the whole Narration has something
in it very moving, notwithstanding the Author of it (whoever he was) has
deliver'd it in such an abject Phrase and Poorness of Expression, that
the quoting any part of it would look like a Design of turning it into
Ridicule. But though the Language is mean, the Thoughts [, as I have
before said,] from one end to the other are [natural, [2]] and therefore
cannot fail to please those who are not Judges of Language, or those
who, notwithstanding they are Judges of Language, have a [true [3]] and
unprejudiced Taste of Nature. The Condition, Speech, and Behaviour of
the dying Parents, with the Age, Innocence, and Distress of the
Children, are set forth in such tender Circumstances, that it is
impossible for a [Reader of common Humanity [4]] not to be affected with
them. As for the Circumstance of the _Robin-red-breast_, it is indeed a
little Poetical Ornament; and to shew [the Genius of the Author [5]]
amidst all his Simplicity, it is just the same kind of Fiction which one
of the greatest of the _Latin_ Poets has made use of upon a parallel
Occasion; I mean that Passage in _Horace_, where he describes himself
when he was a Child, fallen asleep in a desart Wood, and covered with
Leaves by the Turtles that took pity on him.

Me fabulosa Vulture in Apulo,
Altricis extra limen Apuliae,
Ludo fatigatumque somno
Fronde nova puerum palumbes
Texere ...

I have heard that th