The Squire endeavoured to assist him, but was equally baffled. The old
general listened for some time to the discussion, and then asked the
parson if he had read Captain Morris's, or George Stevens's, or
Anacreon Moore's bacchanalian songs? On the other replying in the
negative, "Oh, then," said the general, with a sagacious nod, "if you
want a drinking song, I can furnish you with the latest collection--I
did not know you had a turn for those kind of things; and I can lend
you the Encyclopedia of Wit into the bargain. I never travel without
them; they're excellent reading at an inn."
It would not be easy to describe the odd look of surprise and
perplexity of the parson, at this proposal; or the difficulty the
Squire had in making the general comprehend, that though a jovial song
of the present day was but a foolish sound in the ears of wisdom, and
beneath the notice of a learned man, yet a trowl, written by a tosspot
several hundred years since, was a matter worthy of the gravest
research, and enough to set whole colleges by the ears.
I have since pondered much on this matter, and have figured to myself
what may be the fate of our current literature, when retrieved,
piecemeal, by future antiquaries, from among the rubbish of ages.
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