222 
To the Editor of the Monthly Magazine. 
SIR. 
CONSIDER the Vocal Library by 
far the best compilation of songs 
and ballads in the English language, 
as it contains in a small volume almost 
all that is excellent in that species of 
poetry, without any admixture of those 
pieces that would be detrimental to re- 
ligion and good morals. The motto 
prefixed is a saying of the late Mr. 
Sheridan, who declared he would rather 
have written Glover's Song of Hosier’s 
Ghost than the Annals of Tacitus. 
You will not, I hope, charge me with 
pedantry for suspecting that that emi- 
nent dramatist and orator had never 
read or at least never relished the great 
historian of antiquity, whose masterly 
delineation of men and maaners, and 
lowing description of passing events, 
justly place him at the head of all the 
Latin classics: the comparison had 
been more appropriate if applied to the 
Leonidas of the same author, a poem 
of great merit, but now hastening fast 
into oblivion; Hosier’s Ghost will, 
however, probably, render the name of 
Glover coeyal with the English lan- 
guage, a boast of no mean estimation to 
those who pant after fame. 
It would seem then that it is not the 
higher or lower degree of poetical aim 
that ought to guide our judgment in 
estimating talents and merit, but the 
intrinsic worth and excellence of the 
production itseif. Our modern bards 
would do well to consider this, for I 
think I can venture to assure them that 
fifty years hence not one of them will 
be remembered, unless they can bring 
better claims to immortality than any 
they have put forth. The cumber- 
some ponderosity of Wordsworth, and 
the unvarying mediocrity of Southey, 
Wilson, &c. will soon consign them to 
the shop of the huckster “ vendentem 
thus et cdores’’ if they do not hit upon 
something that will float so large a 
mass ; not that I would by any means 
infer that they are capable of much 
better things. For it seems impossible 
to suppose that every age will not pro- 
duce writers of equal merit with those 
above-mentioned, and personal know- 
ledge, present fashion, and the taste- 
less search after novelty so much fos- 
tered by book clubs, constitute their 
principal if net sole attractions. 
It is not a lifile curious to consider 
how many writers and composers owe 
their immortality to what during life 
they regarded as poetical trifles: the 
On National Song. 
| April 1, 
days of the late Scotch Episcopalian 
Skinner were spent in laborious theo- 
logical study, and he published three 
volumes of lucubrations, which it is 
impossible to wade through: but a few 
excellent songs, such as Tullochgorum, 
John of Badenyon, &c. subjoined to 
these heavy tomes, will be sufficient to 
transmit his memory to after ages. 
Nor is this sort of immortality like 
that of the horses of Achilles, voz et 
preterea nihil, to be despised : it is well 
known how curious Burns was in the 
investigation of the authors of Scotch 
ballads, who have by their efforts in 
that species of poetry done so much ho- 
nour to their country, and contributed 
so largely to one of the main sources of 
harmiess pleasure. The passion of 
love has never been treated with such 
genuine feeling, nature, and simplicity 
as in the pastoral songs of this country, 
witness the Gentle Shepherd of Ram- 
say, the ballads of Ferguson, Gall, and 
above all the inimitable Burns, whom 
Lord Byron, the first poetical genius of 
his day, places in the first rank of his 
order. 
It is also remarkable that Petrarch 
laboured his Latin compositions with 
the utmost care, all of which are for- 
gotten, while his sonnets continue to 
be read with admiration and delight. 
Mallet’s Eurydice has perhaps never 
been seen by any one born within the 
last thirty years, while Margaret’s 
Ghost has thrilled every heart of taste 
and feeling ; and J cannot but regard the 
Despairing Shepherd of Rowe as a finer 
effort of genius than the Fair Penitent 
itself. The Dialogue of Horace and Ly- 
dia, of which Joseph Sealiger (the only 
critic to whom Bentley applies the epi- 
thet of “ great,’’) has, in the enthusiasm 
of his admiration, said he would rather 
have been the author than king of Ar- 
ragon, is merely a ballad ; which has, 
however, exercised the skill and de- 
fied the talent of every translator in all 
the modern languages; Mrs. Brooke’s 
song in Rossina, ‘ I’ve kissed and I’ve 
prattled with fifty fair maids,” is 
thought to come the nearest to it. It 
is, however, endless to multiply in- 
stances of this sort; all I would infer 
is, that more talent is required for this 
species of composition than is com- 
monly imagined. It is, indeed, mere 
pedantry to prefer a dulland ponderous 
epic to an exquisite light production ; 
and to talk of “ the sublime imagina- 
tion of Wordsworth,”’ a phrase,thatec- 
curs among the gossip of ‘+ Peter’s:-Let- 
ters.”* 
