Song-writing is the most difficult species of poetry; failure is not to be
recovered--one slip ruins the whole attempt. A good song is a little piece
of perfection, and perfection does not grow in every field. There must be
felicity of idea, lightness of tone, exquisiteness or extreme naturalness
and propriety of expression; and this within the compass of a few verses.
And this is not all; the writer must betray a sustained tone of enthusiasm:
the song should have neither beginning nor end,--it must seem a snatch
from out of a continuous strain of melody--something that swells upon the
ear, as if the previous parts had been unheard, and which dies away as if
the air had carried its notes afar, and the sounds were wafted along to
other lands. Men of genius are now and then born song-writers; such were
Horace and Burns, such is Béranger. England has not had hers yet, and
perhaps never may have. Englishmen are not nationally calculated to make
song-writers; but individual genius makes light of running counter to a
whole nation of habits, and there is no saying that we may not have our
true lyricist yet. Song-writing is most likely to spring up among people
greatly susceptible of the charms of music, and inventive of airs which,
by some peculiar charm they possess, spread over all the country, sink
deep in the memory, and come spontaneously on the thoughts in moments of
sadness or joy, and, in short, become what are called national. National
songs go with national airs, and spring up with circumstances. The English
have few native airs, and as few native songs of any excellence. When an
Englishman is in love, does he sing? In camp, what wretched braying goes
by that name! at table, what have we of the generous, jovial sort?
Generally speaking, our table songs--always excepting our glees--are
pieces of bald sentiment, when they are English; but more generally, they
are borrowed from the Scotch, the Irish, and other national song-writers.
Gaiety, and that gaiety showing itself musically, is not _English_: when
we are poetically given, it is in the sad piping strain of the forlorn,
deserted, or hopeless lover. Gaiety is not English: we can be sentimental,
tender, witty, pretty, pompous, and glorious in our songs; but we ever
want the essential quality of gaiety--gaiety of heart--the dancing life of
the spirit, that makes the voice hum, the fingers crack merrily, and the
feet fidget restlessly on the ground.--_Spectator Newspaper_.
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