-■vf)ililMrt»WlH(*rf ^fe^ ^s .^ V € € t t t < i"imT''3 [TV i Uo T rin.\ii\}^,±\.t\. m.W>^''^ UU'Qm.QM. (C IRA IB IBM, ■^,<^y.^fl^/i^^t9^^^''i^- iJbttdoa, .Tolin Murray, AUiPinirH" ■.ui-ci, 1H6O. THE -LIFE AND POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE CRABBE- BY HIS SON »r A NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION WITH PORTRAIT AND ENGRAVINGS LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 1901 LONDOK : PKIKTED BY -WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFOUD fTEEET AND CHARISG CROSS. « • • .* • • • • . • . f • •/ • . . • • • • • •• • • . • . ' , . , ' ' t • • « * CONTENTS. iii CONTENTS. Paos LIFE OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE ix. Dedication: To the Key. W. L. Bowles, Canon of Salisbury, &c xi. Preface xii. Chapter I. 17.54 — 1775 1 II. 1775—1780 8 III. 1780 13 IV. 1781 25 V. 1782—1783 31 VI. 1784—1792 36 Vn. 1792—1804 42 Vm. 1805—1814 50 IX. 1814—1819 60 X, 1823—1832 80 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE 93 Advertisement to the Poems 94 Dedication: To the Right Honourable Lord Holland 95 Preface to Poems published in 1807 96 THE LIBRARY 101 THE VILLAGE: Book 1 114 11 lis Appendix: Character of Lord Robert Manners : 121 THE NEWSPAPER: Dedication: To the Ri.}ht Honourable Loud Thurlow 124 To the Reader 124 The Newspaper 125 a -2 C:UNTENTS. THE PARISH REGISTER: P^„^ Part I. Baptisms 132 n. Marriages 141 III. Burials 146 THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY 156 REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT " Quid juvat errores, morsa jam puppe, fateri ? Quid lacrymse delicta juvant commissk seeutK ?" 160 SIR EUSTACE GREY 162 THE HALL OF JUSTICE: Part I 167 II 168 WOMAN 170 THE BOROUGH: Dedication : To his Grace the Dlke op Rutland 171 Preface 172 Letter I. General Description 175 II. The Church 17S III. The Yicar, the Curate, &c 182 IV. Introduction 185 Sects and Professions in Religion 188 V. The Election 194 VI. Professions — Law 196 VII. Professions — Physic 200 Vm. Trades , 204 IX. Amusements 20G X. Clubs and Social Meetings 209 XL Inns 213 XII. Players 216 XIII. The Almshouse and Trustees 220 XIV. Inhauitants of the Amishouse : Life of Blaney 22:5 XV. ,, ., ,, ,, Clelia 225 XVI. „ „ „ „ Benbow 227 XVIL The llosriTAL and Govehnoks 2.$0 XVIII. The Poor and their Dwellin(.s 232 XIX. The Pooh of the Bouough: Tin: Parish Clekk 236 XX. „ „ ,, „ Ellen Orford 239 XXI. „ „ „ ,, .\bel Keene 243 XXII. ,, „ ,. „ Peter Grimes 24<) XXIII. Prisons 250 XXIV. ScHOOiiS 254 CONTENTS. V OCCASIONAL PIECES: Page The Ladies of the Lake 260 Infancy — A Fragjient 260 The Magnet 262 Storm and Calm 262 Satire 262 Belvoir Castle 263 Lines in Laura's Album 264 Lines written at Warwick 264 On a Drawing of the Elm Tree under which the Ddke of Wellington stood several times during the Battle op Waterloo 265 On receiving from a Lady a Present of a King 266 To A Lady with sOxME Poetical Extracts 266 To a Lady on leaving hek at Sxdmodth 266 To Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on her Birthday 266 To A Lady who desired some Verses at parting 267 THE WOKLD OF DREAMS 268 TALES: Dedication : To Her Grace Isabeixa, Duchess Dcwager of Rutland 271 Preface 272 Tale I. The Dumb Orators ; ok, the Benefit or Society 276 II. The Parting Hour , 281 III. The Gentleman Farmer 285 IV. Procrastination 290 V. The Patron 294 VI. The Frank Courtship 301 VII. The Widom's Tale 306 VIII. The Mother 310 IX. Arabella 313 X. The Lover's Journey 316 XL Edward Shore 320 XII. 'Squire Thomas ; ou, the Precipitate Choice 325 XIII. Jesse and Colin 328 XIV. The Struggles of Conscience 333 XV. Advice; or, the 'Squire and the Priest 338 XVI. The Confidant 342 XVII. Resentment 347 XVm. The Wager 352 XIX. The Convert 355 XX. The Brothers 360 XXI. The Learned Boy 364 FLIRTATIOX: A DIALOGUE 370 vi CONTENTS. TALES OF THE HALL : 1'age Dedication : To Her Grace the Duchess of Rutland 375 Preface 376 Book I. The Hall 379 n. The Brothers 383 in. Boys at School 335 IV. Adventures of Richard 390 V. Ruth : 395 VI. Adventures of Richard — concluded 399 VII. The Elder Brother 40-t Vm. The Sisters 412 IX. The Preceptor Husband 420 X. The Old Bachelor 424 XI. The Maid's Story 431 Xn. Sir Owen Dale 441 XIII. Delay has Danger 450 XIV. The natural Death of Love 458 XV. Gretna Green 462 XVI. Lady Barbara; or, the Ghost '. 466 XVII. The Widow 476 XVIII. Ellen 482 XIX. "William Bailey 485 XX. The Cathedral-AValk 492 XXI. Smugglers and Poachers 496 XXII. The Visit concluded 502 POSTHUMOUS TALES .508 Dedication : To Samuel Rogers, Esq 508 Advertisemen-t 508 Tale I. SiLFORD Hall ; or, the Happy Day 509 II. The Family of Love 516 III. The Equal Marriage 526 IV. Rachel 529 V. ViLLARS .530 VI. The Farewell AND Return 5.'U VII. „ „ „ „ The Schoolfellow 536 VIII. „ „ „ ,. Barnaby, the Shopman 537 IX. „ „ „ „ Jane 539 X. ,, „ „ ,, The Anciem Mansion 540 XI. „ „ „ „ The SIerchant 542 XII. „ ,, „ „ The BiJOTHER Burgesses 544 XIII. „ „ „ „ The Dean's Lady 545 XIV. „ „ „ „ The Wife and Widow 546 XV. „ „ ,, ,, Belinda Watf.rs 548 XVI „ „ „ „ The Dealer and Clerk 549 XVII „ „ „ ., Danvers and Rayner 553 XVIIL „ „ ,. .. The Boat-Uacf. 5.56 CONTENTS. vii POSTHUMOUS TALES— continued: Page Tale XIX. The Farewell and IIetukn: Master William ; or, Lad's Love 559 XX. „ .: „ „ The Will 561 XXI. .. „ „ „ The Cousins 564 XXII. „ ., „ „ Preaching and Practice 567 APPENDIX 570 No. I. Inebriety, A Poem ; published at Ipswich, in 1775 570 II. Fragments of Verse, from Mr. Crabbe's early Note-Books 572 " Ye gentle Gales " 572 MiRA 573 Hymn — " Oh, thou, who taught my infant eye " 573 The Wish 573 The Comparison 573 Goldsmith to the Author 573 Fragment — "Proud, little Man, opinion's slave" 573 The Resurrection 574 My Birth-day, December 24, 1778 574 To Eliza — " The Hebrew King with spleen possest" 574 Life — " Think ye the joys that fill our early day " 574 The Sacrament — " O ! sacred gift of God to man" 574 Night — " The sober stillness of the night" 574 Fragment — Written at Midnight 575 Time 575 The Choice 575 III. The Candidate; a Poetical Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly Review • 576 INDEX 581 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The Rev. George Crabbe Frontispiece From a picture in the possession of John Murray, Esq. Aldborough, Suffolk, the Birthplace of Crabbe To/acep. 114 Crabbe's First Church „ 178 ( viii ) PKEFACE TO THE LIFE. Thk success of some recent biographical works, evidently written by unpractised hands, suggested to me the possibility that ray recollections of my father might be received with favour by the public. The rough draft of the following narrative was accordingly drawn up, and submitted to my fatlier's friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, whom at that time I had never seen, and who, in returning it, was so kind as to assure me that he had read it with mucli interest, and conceived that, with a little correction, it might gratify the readers of Mr. Crabbe's Poetical Works. I afterwards transmitted it to his friend Mr. Rogers, who expressed himself in terms equally flattering to an inexperienced writer : and who — as indeed, Mr. Moore had done before — gave me the most valuable species of assistance I could have received, by indicating certain passages that ought to be oblite- rated. Mr. Moore, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Lockhart, Mrs. Joanna Baillie, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Clark, and others of my father's friends, have, moreover, taken the trouble to draw up brief summaries of their personal reminiscences of him, with which I have been kindly permitted to enrich this humble Memoir. The letters and extracts of letters from Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Roger Wilbrahani. Mr. Canning, Mrs. Leadbeater, and other eminent friends of Mr. Crabbe, now deceased, which are introduced in the following pages, have been so used with the permission of their representatives ; and I have to thank the Duke of Rutland, tiie Marquis of Lans- downe. Earl Grey, Lord Holland, the Right Hon. J. AV. Croker, the Rev. Richarfl Turner, and the other living gentlemen, whose correspondence has been as serviceable to my labours as it was lionoarable to my fatlie'-'s ciiaracter, for leave to avail myself of these valuable materials. I cannot conclude, without expressing my .sense of the important assistance which has been rendered to me, in finally correcting my work and arranging it for the press, by a friend high in the scale of literary distinction ; wiio, however, does not permit me to mention his name on this occasion. On the assistance I have received from my l)rotlier, and another member of my own family, il would be impertinent to ilwell. l*tcKi.ECHUECH, January 6, 1834, LIFE OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. CHAPTER I. 1754—1775. Mr. Crabbe's Birth, Parentage, anil Early Education — His Apprenticeship to a Surgeon — His Attacliment to Miss Elmy, afterwards his Wife — Publication of " Inebrietj'," a Poem. As one of the severest calamities of life, the loss of our first and dearest friends, can be escaped by none whose own days are not prematurely cut short, the most pious atfection must be contented to pray that tlie affliction may come on us gra- dually, and after we have ibrmcd new connections to sustain us, and, in part at least, fill up the void. In this view, the present writer has every reason to consider with humble thankfulness the period and circumstances of his father's de- parture. The growing decline of his bodily strength had been perceptible to all around him for several years. He himself had long set the example of looking forward with calmness to the hour of his dissolution ; and if the firmness and resignation of a Christian's death-bed must doubly endear his memory to his children, they also afford indescribable consolation after the scene is closed. At an earlier period, Mr. Crabbe's death would have plunged his family in insupportable sufl'ering : but when the blow fell, it had many alleviations. With every softening circumstance, however, a considerable interval must pass, before the sons of such a parent can bear to dwell on the minor peculiarities of his image and character ;— a much longer one, ere they can bring themselves to con- verse on light and ludicrous incidents connected with his memory. The tone of some passages in the ensuing narrative may appear at variance with these feelings ; and it is therefore necessary for me to state here, that the design of drawing up some memoii-s of my father's life, from his own fireside anecdotes, had occurred to me several years ago, and that a great part of what I now lay before the public had been conunitted to writing more than a twelvemonth before his decease. At the time when I was thus occupied, although his health was evidently decaying, there was nothing to forbid the hope that he might linger for years among us, in the enjoy- ment of such comforts as can smooth the gradual descent of old age to the tomi) ; and I ])leased myself with the fond anticipation, that when I should have completed my manuscript, he him- self might be its first critic, and take the trouble to correct it wherever I had fallen into any mis- takes of importance. But he was at last carried oft' by a violent illness, of short duration — and thus ended for ever the most pleasing dream of my authorship. I mention these things to caution the reader against construing into unfilial levity certain passages of this little work : but, at the same time, I feel that Mr. Crabbe himself would have wished his son, if he attempted to write his life at all, to do so, as far as might be possible, with the unbiassed fairness of one less intimately connected with him. To impartiality, certainly, I cannot pretend ; but I hope partiality does not necessarily imply misrepresentation. I shall endeavour to speak of him as his manly and honest mind would have wished me to do. I shall place before the reader, not only his nobler qualities, but the weaknesses and infirmities which mingled with them — and of which he was more conscious than of the elevation of his genius. To trick out an ideal character for the public eye, by either the omission or the ex- aggeration of really characteristic traits, is an otMce which my respect for my father — even if there were nothing else — would render it impos- sible for me to attempt. I am sustained by the belief that his countrymen at large respect his memory too much to wish that his history should be turned into anything like a romance, and the hope that they will receive with indulgence a faithful narrative, even though it should be a homely one. I have in vain endeavoured to trace his de- scent beyond his grandfather. Various branches of the name appear to have bfcn set^'ed, *Vcm a remote j>eriod, in Norfolk, and in dirterent sea- faring places on the coast of Sufiblk ; and it seems ])r()l)ahIo that the first who assumed it was a fisherman.' A pilot, by name Crabbc, of Walton, was consulted as a man of remarkable experience, about the voyage of Edward the Third, ])rovious to the battle of Cressy. The Crabbes of Norfolk have been, for many genera- tions, in the station of farmers, or wealthy yeo- men ; and I doubt whether any of the race had ever risen much above this sphere of life ; ibr though there is now in the possession of my uncle at Southwold an apparently ancient coat of arms, — gules, three crab-fish, or, — how or whence it came into the hands of his father we have no trace, and therefore I cannot attach much weight to such a shadowy token of gentle pretensions. Geoige Crabbe, the Poet's grandfather, was a burgess of Aldborough, who became, in his latter days, collector of the customs in that port, but must have died in narrow circumstances ; since his son, named also George, and originally educated for trade, appears to have been, very early in life, the keeper of a parochial school in the porch of the church of Orford. From this ])lace he removed to Norton, near Loddon, in Norfolk, where he united the humble offices of schoolmaster and parish clerk. He at length returned to Aldborough, where, after actingfor manj' years as M'arehouse-keeper and deputy collector, he rose to be collector of the salt- duties, or Salt-master. He was a man of strong and vigorous talents, skilful in business of afl sorts, distinguished in particular for an extra- ordinary faculty of calculation ; and during many years of his life was the factotum, as the Poet expressed it, of Aldborough. Soon after his final settlement in his native town, he married a widow of the name of Loddock, a woman of the most amiable disposition, mihl, jwtient, afl'ec- tionate, and deeply religious in her turn of mind ; and by her he had six children, all of whom, except one girl, lived to n)ature years. Georgk Cuaube, the Poet, was the eldest of the family ; and was born at Aldborough, on the Christmas-eve of 1754.- His next brother, Robert, was bred to the business of a glazier, and is now livinir in retirement at Southwold. John Crabbe, the thiid son, served for some time in the royal navy, and became subsequently '"I cannot acoount for the vanity of tliat one of my an- cestors who tirst (l)ring diss^tislied with tlu; lour letters which composed the name of 'Crab,' the sour fruit, or ' Cnib,' tlie crusty fish) added his he by way of disi;iiise. Alas! he (,'ained nothing wortli liis lro(il)le; but he has broufjht upon me, his (li^scendant after 1 know not liow many jj neratioiis, a qu«!stion bc-voiid my abilities to ansiver." — Mr. Crabbe lu Mr. Citanlrii/, '' When my grandfather first settled fn Aldboroni;!!, lie lived in an old house in that lunge of builiiinys » liicli tlie sea has now almost demolished. I'lie chambers projected fur over the ground-lloor ; and tho windows were small, with dia- mond panes, almost impervious to the li;,'ht. In this ^'loomy dwelling the Poet was born. 'I'he house of whicli Mr Hernaril liarton li;is published a print as " tlie birlh-place of Oabbe " was inhabited by the family duriiu;; my lather's bovhood. A view of it, by Staiilield, forms the vi^^nette to this volume. the captain of a Liverpool slave-ship. Return- ing from a successful voyage, he married the owner's daughter ; and on his next excursion, he perished by an insurrection of the slaves. The negroes, having mastered the crew, set the whole of them adrift in an open boat ; and nei- ther Captain Crabbe nor any of his companions were ever again heard of. The fourth brother, William, also took to a seafaring life. Being made prisoner by the Sjianiards, he was carried to Mexico, where he became a silversmith, mar- ried, and prospered, until his increasing riches attracted a charge of Protestantism ; the conse- quence of which was much persecution. He at last was obliged to abandon Mexico, his pro- perty, and his family ; and was discovered, in the year 1803, by an Aldborough sailor, on the coast of Honduras, where again he seems to have Ibund some success in business. This sailor was the only person he had seen for many a year who could tell him anything of Aldborough and his family : and great was his perplexity when he M'as informed, that his ckiest brother, George, was a clergyman — the sailor, I dare say, had never himself heard of his being a poet. " This cannot be our George," said the wanderer — " he was a doctor!" 'J'his was the first, and it was also the last, tidinas that ever reached my father of his brother William ; and, upon the Aldbo- rough sailor's story of his casual interview, it is obvious that the poet built his tale of " The Parting Hour," whose hero, Allen Booth, " yielded to the Spanish force," and — " no more Return'd exullins; to his native shore." Like William Crabbe, " There, hopeless ever to escape the land, He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand : In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day He saw his happy infants round him play, — AVhere summer shadows, made by lofty trees, Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries." But— " ' Whilst I was poor,' said Allen, ' none would care What my poor notions of religion were ; I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife, AnA never montion'd Luther in my life ; Their forms I foUow'd, w lictlu^r well or sick. And »:is a most obedient Ca'holick. Hut I had monej — and these p;istors found My notions va^'ue, heretical, unsound.' " .Mas, poor Allen! througli his wealth were seLii Crimes that by poverty couoeal'd had been : l''aults that in dusty pictures rest unknown, .•\re in an instant through the varnish shown. They spared his forleit life, but bade him lly ; l)r for his crime and contumacy die. I'ly from rU scenes, all objects of delight ; His wife, his children, weeping in his sight. All urging him to lleo— he tied, and cursed his flight. He next related how he found a way, Liuidcless and grieving, to Campeachy l!ay : 'I'here, in the woods, he wrought, and then; among Some labouring seamen heard his nalive tongue : Again he heard — ^he seized an offer'd hand — ' And when beheld you last our native land ?' He cried ; ' and in what country ? quickly say.' The seamen answer'd — strangers all were they — One only at his native port had been ; He landinij once the quay and church had seen." &c. The youngest of this family, Mary, became the wife of Mr. Sparkes, a builder in her native town, where she died in 1827. Another sister, as has been mentioned, died in infancy ; and I find among my fathers papers the following lines, referring to the feelings with which, in the darkening evening of life, he still recurred to that early distress : — " But it was misery stung me in the day Death of an infant sister made his prey ; For then first met and moved my early fears A father's terrors and a mother's tears. Though greater anguish I have since endured, Some heal'd in part, some never to be cured, Yet was there something in that first-born ill So new, so strange, that memory feels it still." MS. The second of these couplets has sad truth in every word. The fears of the future poet were as real as the tears of his mother, and the " ter- rors" of his father. The Salt-master was a man of imperious temper and violent passions ; but the darker traits of his character had, at this period, showed themselves only at rare intervals, and on extraordinary occasions. He had been hitherto, on the whole, an exemplary husband and father ; and was passionately devoted to the little girl, whose untimely death drew from him those gloomy and savage tokens of misery which haunted, fifty years after, the memory of his gentler son. He was a man of short stature, but very robust and powerful ; and he had a highly marked countenance, not unlike in linea- ments, as my father used to say, to that of Howard the philanthropist ; but stamped with the trace of jnissions which that illustrious man either knew not or had subdued. Aldborough (or, as it is more correctly written, Aldeburgh) was in those days a poor and wretched place, with nothing of the elegance and gaiety which have since sprung up about it, in consequence of the resort of watering parties. The town lies between a low hill or cliff, on which only the old church and a few better houses were then situated, and the beach of the German Ocean. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved streets, running between mean and scrambling houses, the abodes of seafaring men, pilots, and fishers. The range of houses nearest to the sea had suffered so much from repeated invasions of the waves, that only a few scattered tenements appeared erect among the desolation.'* 3 " From an accurate plan of tlie borough, which was taken in 1559, it appears tliat the church was then more tlian ten times its present distance from the shore ; and also that there were Denes of some extent, similar to those at Varraoutli, between the town and the sea, whicli have long been swal- lowed up and lost. After very hi;^!! tides, the remains of wells hav(; been frequently discovered below liigh-water mark." — Aldborough Described, by the Rev. James Ford, p. 4. I have often heard my father describe a tremen- dous spring-tide of, 1 think, the 1st of January, 1779, when eleven houses iiere were at once demolished ; and he saw the breakers dash over the roofs, curl round the walls, and crush all to ruin. The beach consists of successive ridges — large rolled stones, then loose shingle, and, at the fall of the tide, a stripe of fine hard sand. Vessels of all sorts, from the large heavy troll- boat to the yawl and prame, drawn up along the shore— fishermen preparing their tackle, or sorting their spoil — and nearer the gloomy old town-hall (the only indication of municipal dig- nity) a few groups of mariners, chiefly pilots, taking their quick short walk backwards and forwards, every eye watchful of a signal from the ofBng — such was the squalid scene that first opened on the author of " The Village." Nor was the landscape in the vicinity of a more engaging aspect — open commons and sterile farms, the soil poor and sandy, the herb- age bare and rushy, the trees " lew and far between," and withered and stunted by the bleak breezes of the sea. The opening picture of " The Village " was copied, in every touch, from the scene of the Poet's nativity and boyish days : — " Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er. Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ; From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy. Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye ; There thistles spread their prickly arms afar, And to tlie ragged infants threaten war." The " broad river," called the Aid, approaches the sea close to Aldborough, within a few hun- dred yards, and then turning abruptly continues to run for about ten miles parallel to the beach, — from which, for the most part, a dreary stripe of marsh and waste alone divides it,— until it at length finds its embouchure at Orford. The scenery of this river has been celebrated as lovely and delightful, in a poem called " Slaughden Vale," written by Mr. James Bird, a friend of my father's ; and old Camden talks of " the beau- tiful vale of Slaughden." I confess, however, that though I have ever found an indescribable charm in the very weeds of the place, I never could perceive its claims to beauty. Such as it is, it has furnished Mr. Crabbe with many of his happiest and most graphical descrijjtions : and the same may be said of the whole line ot coast from Orford to Dunwich, every feature of which has somewhere or other been reproduced in his writings. The quay of Slaughden, in particular, has been jiainted with all the minute- ness of a Dutch landscape : — " Here samphire banks and saltwort bound the flood, There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud ; And higher up a ridge of all things base, Whicli some strong tide has roU'd upon the place. . . . b2 LIFE OF CRABBE. Yon is our quay 1 tliose smaller hoys from town Its various wares for country use bring down." &c. S;c. The powerful effect with which Mr. Crabbe has depicted the ocean itself, both in its calm and its tempestuous aspects, may lead many to inler that, had he been born and educated in a region of mountains and forests, he might have represented them also as ha])])ily as he has done the slimy marshes and withered commons of the coast of Suffolk : but it is certain that he visited, and even resided in, some of the finest i)arts of our island in after-life, without appearing to take much delight in the grander features of inland scenery ; and it may be doubted whether, under any circumstances, his mind would ever have found much of the excitement of delight elsewhere than in the study of human beings. And certainly, for one destined to distinction as a portrayer of character, few scenes could have been more favourable than that of his infancy and boyhood. He was cradled among the rough sons of the ocean, — a daily witness of unbridled passions, and of manners remote from the sameness and artificial smoothness of polished society. At home, as has already been hinted, he was subject to the caprices of a stern and imperious, though not unkindly nature ; and, probably, fiew whom he could familiarly ap- proach but had passed through some of those dark domestic tragedies in which his future strength was to be exhibited. The common people of Aldborough in those days are de- scribed as — -" a "ild, amphibious race, With sullen woe ilisplay'd in every foce ; Wlio far from civil arts and social lly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye." Nor, although the family in which he was born happened to be somewhat above the mass in point of situation, was the remove so great as to be marked with any considerable difiercnce in point of refinement. Masculine and robust frames, rude manners, stormy passions, laborious days, and, occasionally, boisterous nights of merriment, — among such accompaniments was born and reared the Poet of the Poor. His father, at this early period, was still, as I have already noticed, on the whole, domestic in his habits ; and he used occasionally to read aloud to his family, in the evenings, passages from Milton, Young, or some other of our graver classics, with, as his son thought long after- wards, remarkable judgment, and with power- ful effect: but his chosen intellectual pursuit was mathematical calculation. He mingled with these tastes not a little of the seafaring habits and propensities of the jjlace. He pos- sessed a share in a fishing-boat, in which he not unfretiueiitly went to sea ; and he had also a small sailing-boat, in which he delighted to navigate the river. The first event which was deeply impressed on my father's memory was a voyage in this vessel. A party of amateur sailors was formed — the yacht-club of Aldborough — to try the new purchase ; a jovial dinner prepared at Orford, and a merry return anticipated at night ; and his fond mother obtained permission tor George to be one of the company. Soon after sunrise, in a fine summer morning, they were seated in their respective vessels, and started in gallant trim, tacking and manoeuvring on the bosom of the flickering water, as it winds gently towards its junction with the sea. The freshness of the early dawn, the anticipation of amusements at an unknown place, and no little exultation in his father's crack vessel, " made it," he said, " a morning of exquisite delight ;" and, among the MSS. which he left, arc the following verses on this early incident : — " Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide. And our boat gliding, where alone could glide Small craft — and they oft toucli'd on eitlier side. It was my first-born joy— I heard tliem say ' Let the child go ; he will enjoy the day , For children ever feel delighted when They talie their portion and enjoy with men. Tlie linnet cliirped upon the fur/.e as well, To ray young sense, ;is sings the niglitingale. Without H as Paradise — because witliin Was a keen relisli, without taint of sin." But it appears that, as in other sublunary plea- sures, the best part of this day's sport was the anticipation of the morning ; for he adds, — " As the sun declined, The good found early I no more could find. The -men drank much to whet the appetite. And, growing heavy, drank to m;ike them light ; Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. The lads play'd idly with the helm and oar, And nervous women would be set on shore. And ' civil dudgeon ' grew, and peace would smile no more, Till on the colder water faintly shone The sloping light — the cheerful day was gone. In life's advance, events like this I knew, — So they advanced, and so they ended too. nie promised joy, that like this morning rose, Broke on the view — then clouded at its close." MS. Though born and brought up almost within the washing of the suj'ge, the future Poet had but few qualifications for a sailor. The Salt- master often took his boys a-fishing with him ; and sorely was his patience tried with the awk- wardness of the eldest. " That boy," he would say, " must be a fool. John, and Bob, and Will, are all of some use about a boat ; but what will that thing ever be good for? " This, how- over, was only the passion of the moment ; for Mr. Crabbe perceived early the natural talents of his eldest son, and, as that son ever gratefully remembered, was at more expense with his edu- cation than his worldly circumstances could well afibrd. My father was, indeed, in a great measure, self-educated. After he could read at all— and LIFE OF CRABBE. he was a great favourite with the old dame who taught him— he was unwearied in reading ; and he "devoured without restraint whatever came into his hands, but especially works of fiction — those little stories and ballads about ghosts, witches, and fairies, which were then almost ex- clusively the literature of youth, and which, whatever else might be thought of them, served, no doubt, to strike out the first sparks of imagi- nation in the mind of many a youthful poet. Mr. Crabbe retained, to the close of life, a strong partiality for marvellous tales of even this humble class. In verse he delighted, from the earliest time that he could read. His father took in a periodical work, called "Martin's Philoso- phical Magazine," which contained, at the end of each number, a sheet of " occasional poetry." The Salt-master irreverently cut out these sheets when he sent his magazines to be bound up at the end of the year ; and the " Poet's Corner " became the property of George, who read its contents until he had most of them by heart. The boy ere long tried to imitate the pieces which he thus studied ; and one of which, he used to say, particularly struck his childish fancy by this terrible concluding couplet, — " The boat went down in flames of fire, Wliich made tlie people all admire." Mild, obliging, and the most patient of listen- ers, he was a great favourite with the old dames of the place. Like his own " Richard," many a friendly " matron woo'd him, quickly won. To lill the station of an absent son." He admired the rude prints on their walls, rum- maged their shelves for books or ballads, and read aloud to those whose eyes had failed them, by the winter evening's fire-side. Walking one day in the street, he chanced to displease a stout lad, who doubled his fist to beat him ; but another boy interfered to claim benefit of clergy for the studious George. " You must not meddle with him," he said ; "let him alone, for he ha' got I'arning." His father observed this bookish turn, and though he had then no higher view for him in life than that he should follow his own example, and be employed in some inferior department of the revenue service, he resolved to give George the advantage of passing some time in a school at Bungay, on the borders of Norfolk, where it was hoped the activity of his mind would be disciplined into orderly diligence. I cannot say how soon this removal from the paternal roof took jjlace : but it must have been very early, as the following anecdote will show : — The first night he spent at Bungay he retired to bed, he said, "with a heavy heart, thinking of his fond, indulgent mother." But the morning brought a new miser3^ The slender and de- licate child had hitherto been dressed by his mother. Seeing the other boys begin to dress themselves, poor George, in great confusion, whispered to his bedfellow, " Master G , can you put on your shirt ? — for — for I 'm afraid I cannot." Soon after his arrival he had a very narrow escape. He and several of his schoolfellows were punished for playing at soldiers, by being put into a large dog-kennel, known by the terri- ble name of" the black hole." George was the first that entered : and, the place being crammed full with offenders, the atmosphere soon became pestilentially close. The poor boy in vain shrieked that he was about to be suffocated. At last, in despair, he bit the lad next to him vio- lently in the hand. " Crabbe is dying — Crabbe is dying," roared the sufferer ; and the sentinel at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush out into the air. My father said, " A minute more, and I must have died." I am unable to give any more particulars of his residence at Bungay. When he was in his eleventh or twelfth year, it having now been determined that he should Ibllow the profession of a surgeon, he was removed to a school of somewhat superior character, kept by Mr. Richard Haddon, a skilful mathematician, at Stovvmarket, in the same county ; and here, in- heriting his father's talent and predilection for mathematical science, he madp considerable pro- gress in such pursuits. The Salt-master used often to send difficult questions to Mr. Haddon, and, to his great delight, the solution came not unfrequently from his son ; and, although Had- don was neither a Person nor a Parr, his young pupil laid, under his care, the ibundations of a fair classical education also. Some girls used to come to the school in the evenings, to learn writing; and the tradition is, that Mr. Crabbe's first essay in verse was a stanza of doggerel, /L|-- cautioning one of these little damsels against being too much elevated about a new set of blue ribbons to her straw bonnet. After leaving this school, some time passed before a situation as surgeon's apprentice could be found for him ; and, by his own confession, he has painted the manner in which most of this interval was spent, in those beautiful lines of his " Richard," which give, perhaps, as striking a picture of the "inquisitive sympathy" and solitarj^ musings of a youthful poet as can else- where be pointed out : — " I to tlie ocean gave My mind, and thoughts as restless as the wave. Wliere crowds assembled I was sure to run. Hear wlmt was said, and muse on what was done. To me the wives of seamen loved to tell What storms endanger'd men esteera'd so well ; No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach But I could give the luckless tale of each. In fact, I lived for many an idle year In fond pursuit of agitations dear: A ; LIFE OF CRABBE. For ever seekinj,', ever please'l to find The food I souglit, I thought not of its kind. " I loved to walk w.iere none had walk'd before. About the rocks that ran along the shore ; Or f;ir beyond the sight of men to stray, And take my pleasure when I lost my way : For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath, And all the raos-;y moor that lies beneath. Here had I favourite stations, where I stood And heard the murmurs of the ocean-flood. With not a sound beside, except when flew Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew . . , , When I no more my fancy could employ — I left in haste what I could not enjoy, And was my gentle mother's welcome boy." The reader is not to suppose, however, that all his hours were spent in this agreeable manner. His father emplojed him in the ware- house on the quay of Slaughden, in labours which he abhorred, though he in time became tolerably expert in them ; such as piling up butter and cheese. He said long after, that he remembered with regret the fretfulncss and in- dignation wherewith he submitted to these drudgeries, in which the Salt-master himself often shared. At length an advertisement, headed "Apprentice wanted," met his father's eye ; and George was offered, and accepted, to fill the vacant station at Wickham-Brook, a small village near Bury St. Edmunds. He left his home and his indulgent mother, under the care of two farmers, who were travelling across the country ; with whom he parted within about ten miles of the residence of his future master, and proceeded, with feelings easily imagined in a low-spirited, gentle lad, to seek a strange, perhaps a severe, home. Fatigue also contri- buted to imjiart its melancholy ; and the re- ception augmented these feelings to bitterness. Just as he reached the door, his master's daugh- ters, having eyed him for a few moments, burst into a violent tit of laughter, exclaiming, " La ! here 's our new "prentice." He never forgot the deep mortification of that moment ; but justice to the ladies compels me to mention, that shortly before that period he had had his head shaved during some illness, and, instead of the orna- mental curls that now embellish the shorn, he wore, by his own confession, a very ill-made scratch-wig. This happened when he was in his fourteenth year, in 1768. Besides the duties of his profession, " our new 'prentice "' was often employed in the drudgery of the farm — for his master had more occupations than one — and was made the bed- fellow and companion of the ploughboy. How astonished would he have been, when carrying medicines on foot to Chevelcy (a village at a considoral)le distance), could he have foreseen that, in a very few years, he shouhl take his daily station in that same place at a duke's table ! One day as he mixed with the herd of lads at the public-hou.se, to see the exhibitions of a conjurer, the magician, having worked many wonders, changed a white ball to black, exclaiming — ^'Quique olim alhus erat nunc est contrarlus olbo — and I 5up])0se none of you can tell me what that means." "Yes, I can," said George. " The d— 1 you can," replied he of the magic wand, eyeing his garb : " 1 suppose you picked up your Latin in a turnip-field." Not daunted by the laughter that followed, he gave the interpretation, and re- ceived from the seer a condescending compli- ment. Whether my father complained of the large portion of agricultural tuition he received gratis, I know not ; but, not being bound by indenture, he was removed, in the year 1771, to a more eligible situation, and concluded his apprentice- ship with a Mr. Page, surgeon at Woodbridge, a market-town seventeen miles from Aid- borough. Here he met with companions suit- able to his mind and habits, and, although he never was fond of his destined profession, began to apply to it in earnest. I have often heard him speak with pleasure of a small society of young men, who met at an inn on certain evenings of the week to converse, over a frugal supper, on the subjects which they were severally studying. One of this rural club was a surgeon of the name of Levett, with whom he had had some very early acquaintance at Aldborough. This friend was at the time paying his addresses to a Miss Brereton, who afterwards married a Mr. Lewis, and published, under the name of Eugenia de Acton, several novels, which enjoyed a tem- porary popularity — " Vicissitudes of Genteel Life," " The Microcosm," " A Tale without a Title," &e. &c. Miss Brereton's residence was at Framlingham, and her great friend and com- panion was Miss Sarah Elmy, then domesticated in the neighbouring village of Parham, under the roof of an uncle, Mr. Tovell. Mr. Levett said carelessly one day, " Why, George, you shall go with me to Parham : there is a young lady there that would just suit you. My father accompanied him accordingly on his next " lovers journey," was introduced to Miss Brereton and her friend, and spent in their society a day which decided his matrimonial lot in life.* He was at this time in his eighteenth year, and iiad already excited the attention of his comj)anions by his attempts in versification — attempts to which it may be supposed his love now lent a new impulse, and supi)lied an in- •» William Springall Levett died in IT7I ; and the follow- ing epitaph, written at the time by Mr. Crabbe, may be worth preserving : — " What! thougli no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust; What ! though no earthly thunders sound his name, De.itli gives liim conquest, and our sorrows fame ; One sigli rellection heaves, but shuns excess — More should we mourn liim, did we love him less," Oreen's History of Framlingham, p. 163. LIFE OF CRABBE. exhaustible theme. In an autobiographical sketch, published some years ago to acconripany a portrait in the New Monthly Magazine, he says of himself, " He had, with youthful indis- cretion, written for publications wherein Damons and Delias begin the correspondence that does not always end there, and where diffidence is nursed till it becomes presumption. There was then a Lady's Magazine, published by Mr. Wheble, in which our young candidate wrote for a prize on the subject of Hope,^ and he had the misfortune to gain it ; in consequence of which he felt himself more elevated above the young men, his comi)anions, who made no verses, than it is to be hoped he has done at any time since, when he has been able to compare and judge with a more moderate degree of self-approbation. He wrote upon every oc- casion, and without occasion ; and, like greater men, and indeed like almost every young ver- sifier, he planned tragedies and epic poems, | and began to think of succeeding in the highest line of composition, before he had made one good and commendable eftbrt in the lowest." In fact, even before he quitted his first master at Wickham-Brook, he had filled a drawer with verses ; and I have now a quarto volume before me, consisting chiefly of pieces written at Woodbrido-e, among which occur " The Juda:- ment of the Muse, in the Metre of Spenser," — "Life, a Poem," — "An Address to the Muse, in the Manner of Sir Walter Raleigh," — an ode or two, in which he evidently aims at the style of Cowley, — and a profusion of lyrics " To Mira ;" the name under which it pleased him to celebrate Sarah Elmy. A parody on Shenstone's " My time, oh ye Muses," opens thus : — " My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped. Ere you or your whimsies got into ray head ; I could laugh, I could sing, I could trille and jest, And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast. But now, lack-a-da_v I what a change for the worse, 'Tis as lieavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse. " My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind. Could guide my pen gently to wliat I design'd. I could malie an enigma, a rebus, or riddle. Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle. But since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. And \vh^tever my subject, the fancy still roves, And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves." S After long search a copy of ^V^leble's Magazine for 1772 has been discovered, and it contains, besides the prize poem on Hope, four other pieets, signed " G. C, Woodbridge, Suffolk:' "To iMira;" "The Atheist reclaimed;" "The Bee ;" and " An AUe,'orical Fable." As might be supposed, there is hardly a line in anv of these productions which I should be justified in reprinting. I shall, however, preserve the conclusion of the prize poem : — " But, above all, the port owns thy powers— Hope leads him on, and every fear dev^rs ; He writes, and, unsuccessful, w^es again. Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain ; New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries, To win the laurel, and possess tlie pkize." The poet himself says, in " The Partine- Hour,"— ^ " Minutely trace man's life ; year after year, Through all his days, let all his deeds appear— And then, though some may in that life be strange, Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change : The links that bind those various deeds are seen. And no mysterious void is left between :" — but, it must be allowed, that we want several links to connect the author of " The Library " with the young lover of the above verses, or of " THE WISH. " My Mira, shepherds, is as fair As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale, As sylphs who dwell in purest air. As fays who skim the dusky dale, As Venus was when Venus fled From watery Triton's oozy bed. " My Mira, shepherds, has a voice As soft as Syrinx in her grove, As sweet as echo makes her choice. As mild as whispering virgin-love ; As gentle as the winding stream, Or fancy's song when poets dream." &c. &:c. Before, however, he left Woodbridge, Mr. Crabbe not only wrote, but found courage and means (the latter I know not how) to print and publish at Ipswich a short piece, entitled " Ine- briety, a Poem," in which, however rude and unfinished as a whole, there are some couplets not deficient in point and terseness, and not a little to indicate that devotion to the style of Pope, which can be traced through all the ma- turer labours of his pen. The parallel passages from the Dunciad and the Essay on Man, quoted in the notes, are frequent ; and to them he mo- destly enough alludes in " The Preface," from which, as an early specimen of his prose, it may be worth while to extract a paragraph : — '* Presumption or meanness are both too often the only articles to be discovered in a preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another timidly courts it, I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and there- fore should advance nothing iu favour of the fol- lowing little Poem, did it not appear a cruelty and disregard to send a first production naked into the world. "The World!— how presumptuous, and yet how trifling the sound. Every man, gentle reader, has a world of his own, and whether it consists of half a score or half a thousand friends, 'tis his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my world, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest labour, nothing doubting the clemency of the climate, nor fearing the partiality of the censorious. " Something by way of apology for this trifle is, perhaps, n^^ssaj-y; especially for those parts wherein I havte^aken such great liberties with Ala "" "" in immortaliilHHe, tfope. That gentleman would forgive me ^ for critic; I promise from that Swan ,^!j*<^ ^performance." I tw, t: of Tiia secure ive me, too. my friendly iffli wilt find the ^extracts mes the best part^of the LIFE OF CRABBE. I may also transcribe a few of the opening: <'ou])lets, in which we have the student of Pope, ;is well as of surgery, and not a few germs of the i'uture Crabbe : — " When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears, A sable void the barren eartli appears ; Tlie meads no more tlieir former verdure boast. Fast bound their streams, and all their beauty lost. The herds, the Hocks, in icy garments mourn, And wildly murmur for the Spring's return ; The fallen branches, from the sapless tree, With glittering fragments strow the glassy way ; From snow-topp'd liills the whirlwinds keenly blow, Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below ; Tlirough the sharp air a flaky torrent flies. Mocks the slow sight, and liides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosonts bare. And shed their substance on the floating air; The floating air their downy substance glides Through springing waters, and prevents their tides; Seizes the rolling waves, and, as a God, Cliarms their swift race, and stops the refluent flood. The opening valves, which fill the venal road, Then scarcely urge along the sanj;uine flood. The labouring pulse a slower motion rules. The tendons stilTen, and the spirit cools ; Each asks the aid of Nature's sister, Art, To cheer the senses, and to warm the heart. The geiite Fair on nervous tea relies. Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes; An inoffensive si'andal fluttering round. Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound ; Champagne the cuurlier drinks, the spleen to chase, The colonel Baryundy, and Port his grace." (He was not yet a ducal chaplain.) " See Inebriety ! her wand she waves. And, lo! her pale— and, lo! her purple slaves. Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape. Of every order, station, rank, and shape ; The king, who nods upon liii rattle-throne. The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ; The slow-tongued Liishop, and the deacon sly. The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ; The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great, Sttell the dull tlirong, and stagger into state. " Lo! proud Flaminius, at the splendid board, The easy chaplain of an atheist lord. Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense, And clouds his brain in torpid elegance; In China vases, see! the sparkling ill; From gay decanters view the rosy rill ; The neat-carved pipes in silver settle laid ; The screw by mathematic cunning made : The whole a pompous and enticing scene, And grandly glaring for the surpliced swain: Oh, happy priest! whose God, like Egypt's, lies At once the Deity, and sacrifice." lie, indeed, seems to be particularly fond of "girding at" the cloth, which, in those early and thoughtless days, he had never dreamed he himself should wear and honour. It is only just to let the student of his maturer verses and formed cliaracter see in what way the careless apprentice could exjjress himself, respecting a class of which he could then know nothing : — " Tlic vicar nt the table's front presides, Whose presence a monastic life derides ; The reverend wig. In sideway order placed. The reverend band, by rubric stains dis>,'raced. The leering eye, in wayward circles roU'd, Mark him the Pastor of a jovial fold ; Whose various texts excite a loud applause. Favouring the bottle, and the (iood Old Cause. See the dull smile, which fearfully appears, When gross Indecency her front uprears. The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within. As masks afford the keenest gust to sin : Imagination helps the reverend sire, And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire. — But when the gay immoral joke goes round. When Shame, and all her blushing train are drown'd, Rather than hear his God blasphemed, he takes The last loved glass, and then the board forsakes. Not that religion prompts the sober thought, But slavish custom has the practice taught: Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion Has a true Levite bias for promotion ; Vicars must with discretion go astray, ^^^lilst bishops may be d d the nearest way."* Such, in his twentieth year, was the poetry of Crabbe. His Sarah encouraged him, by her approbation of his verses : and her precept and example were of use to him in a minor matter, b'jt still of some importance to a young author. His hand-writing had hitherto been feeble and bad ; it now became manly, clear, and not in- elegant. Miss Elniy's passion for music induced him also to make some eftbrts in that direction ; but nature had given him a poor ear, and, after many a painful hour spent ia trying to master " Grammachree" and "Over the water to Charlie," he laid aside his flute in despair. To the period of his residence at Woodbridge, I suppose, may also be assigned the first growth of a more lasting passion — that for the study of botany; which, from early life to his latest years, my father cultivated with Ibnd zeal, both in books and in the fields. CHAPTER II. 1775— ] 780, Termination of Mr. Crabbe's Apprenticeship — ^\'isit to London — n« sets np for himself at Aldborough — Failure of his I'lans there — He gives up his Business, and proceeds to London as a literary Adventurer. Aboi;t the end of the year 1775, when he had at length completed his term of apprenticeship, Mr. Crabbe returned to Aldborough, hoping to find the means of repairing to the metropolis, and there to complete his ])rofessional education. The Salt-master's affairs, however, were not in such order tliat he could at once gratify his son's inclination in this respect; neither could he afford to maintain him at home in idleness; and the j'oung man, now accustomed to far diflercnt i)ursuits and habits, was obliged to return \o the <■ " Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by t;. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butler-Market, 177.). Price one shilling and sixpence." LIFE OF CRABBE. labours of the warehouse on Slaughden quay. His jjride disdained this homely employment ; his spirit rose against what he considered arbi- trary conduct : he went sullen and angry to his work, and violent quarrels often ensued between him and his fother. He frequently confessed in after-times that his behaviour in this affair was unjustifiable, and allowed that it was the old man's poverty, not his will, that consented to let him wear out any more of his days in such ignoble occupation. I must add, however, that before he returned from Woodbridge, his father's habits had under- gone a very unhappy change. In 1774 there was a contested election at Aldborough, and the Whig candidate, Mr. Charles Long, sought and ibund a very able and zealous partisan and agent in Mr. Crabbe. From that period his family dated the loss of domestic comfort, a rooted taste for the society of the tavern, and such an increase in the violence of his temper, that his meek-spirited wife, now in poor health, dreaded to hear his returning footsteps. If the food prepared for his meal did not please his fancy, he would fling the dishes about the room, and all was misery and terror. George was the chief support of his atiiicted mother — her friend and her physician. He saw that her complaint was dropsical, and, from the first, anticipated the fatal result which, after a few years of suffer- ing, ensued. One of his favourite employments was to catch some small fish called " butts," the only thing for which she could muster a little a|)petite, for her nightly meal. He was in all things her dutiful comforter ; and it may be su])posed that, under such circumstances, he was not sometimes able to judge favourably of her husband's conduct, even where there might be nothing really blameworthy in it. To him, he acknowledged, his i'athor had always been " sul> stantially kind." His leisure hours were spent in the study of botany, and other branches of natural history ; and, perhaps, the ill success of " Inebriety " had no small share in withdrawing him, for a time, from the practice of versification. He appears, indeed, to have had, at this jjcriod, every dispo- sition to ])ursuc his j)rofession with zeal. " The time," he says, in the sketch already quoted, " liad come, when he was told, and believed, that he had more important concerns to engage him than verse : and therefore, for some years, though he occasionally found time to write lines upon ' Mira's Birthday ' and ' Silvia's Lapdog,' though he composed enigmas ajid solved rebuses, he had some degree of ibrbearance, and did not believe that the knowledge of diseases, and the sciences of anatomy and physiology, were to be acquired by the perusal of Pope's Homer and a Treatise on the Ai't of Poetry." His professional studies, in the mean time, continued to be interrupted by other things than LL the composition of trifles for a corner of Wheble's Magazine ; and the mortifications he daily under- went may be guessed at from the following inci- dent, which he used to relate, even in his old age, with deep feeling : — One of his Woodbridge acquaintances, now a smart young surgeon, came over to Aldborough, on purpose to see him : he was directed to the quay of Slaughden, and there discovered George Crabbe, piling up butter- casks, in the dress of a common warehouseman. Tlie visitor had the vanity and cruelty to despise the honest industry of his friend, and to say to him, in a stern, authoritative tone, — " Follow me, sir." George followed him at a respectful distance, until they reached the inn, where he was treated with a long and angry lecture, in- culcating pride and rebellion. He heard it in sad silence : his spirit was, indeed, subdued, but he refused to take any decided step in opposition to his parent's will, or rather, the hard necessities of his case. "My friends," said my father, in concluding this story, " had always an ascend- ancy over me." I may venture to add, that this was the consequence purely of the gentle warmth oi" his affections ; for he was at heart as brave as affectionate. Never was there a more hopeless task than to rule him by intimidation. After he had lingered at Aldborough for a considerable time, his father made an efibrt to send him to London, and he embarked in one of the trading sloops at Slaughden Quay, ostensibly to walk the hospitals, and attend medical lec- tures in customary form, but in reality with a purse too slenderly provided to enable him to do this ; and, in short, with the purpose, as he said, of " picking up a little surgical knowledge as cheap as he could." He took u]) his quarters in the house of an Aldborough family, humble tradespeople, who resided somewhere in White- chapel ; and continued there for about eight or ten months, until his small resources were ex- hausted, when he returned once more to Suffolk, but little, I suspect, the better for the desultory sort of instruction that had alone been within his reach. Among other distresses of this time, he had, soon after he reached London, a narrow escape from being carried before the Lord Mayor as a resurrectionist. His landlady, having dis- covered that he had a dead child in his closet, for the purpose of dissection, took it into her head that it was no other than an infant whom she had had the misfortune to lose the week before. " Dr. Crabbe had dug up William ; she was certain he had ; and to the Mansion- house he must go." Fortunately, the counte- nance of the child had not yet been touched with the knife. The "doctor" arrived when the tumult was at its height, and, opening the closet door, at once established his innocence of the charge. On his return to Aldborough, he engaged himself as an assistant in the shop of a Mr. 10 LIFE OF CRABBE. Maskill, who had lately commenced business there as a surgeon and apothecary — a stern and poweri'ul man. Mr. Crabbe, the first time he had occasion to write his name, chanced to mis- spell it Mnskwell ; and this gave great offence. "D — n you, Sir," he exclaimed, '-do you take me for a proficient in deception ? Mask-j'// — Mask-///,- and so you shall find me." He as- sumed a despotic authority which the assistant could ill brook ; and yet, conscious how imper- fectly he was grounded in the commonest details of the profession, he was obliged to submit in silence to a new series of galling vexations. Nor was his situation at all improved, when, at the end of some miserable months, Mr. Maskill transferred his practice to another town, and he was encouraged to set up for himself in Aid- borough. He dearly loved liberty, and he was now his own master; and, above all, he could now more frequently visit Miss Elmy, at Parham : but the sense of a new responsibility pressed sorely and continually on his mind ; and he never awoke without shuddering at tlie thought, that some operation of real difficulty might be thrown in his way before night. Ready sharpness of mind and mechanical cleverness of hand are the first essentials in a surgeon ; and he wanted them both, and knew his deficiencies far better than any one else did. He had, moreover, a clever and active opponent in the late Mr. Raymond ; and the practice which fell to his share was the poorest the place afforded. His very passion for botany was injurious to him ; for his ignorant patients, seeing him return from his walks with handfuls of weeds, decided that, as Dr. Crabbe got his medicines in the ditches, he could have little claim for payment. On the other hand, he had many poor relations ; and some of these, old women, were daily visitors, to request " some- thing comfortable from cousin George ;" that is to say, doses of the most expensive tonics in his possession. " If once inducjil these cordial sips to try, All feel the ease, and few the danger tly ; For while obtain'd, of drams they 've all the force, And when denied, then drams are the resource." Add to all this, that my poor father was a lover, separated from his mistress, and that liis heart was in the land of imagination — for he had now resumed his pen — and it is not wonderful that he soon l)egan to despair altogether of succeeding in his profession. Yet there was a short period when fortiuie seemed somewhat more favourable to him, even in Aldborough. In the summer of 1778, the Warwickshire militia were quartered in tiie town, and !iis emoluments were considerably im- proved in consequence. He had also the ))h'a- 8ure of finding his society greatly estimated l)y the officers, and formed a very strong fi'iendsliip with one of them, Lieutenant Hay ward, a highly promising young gentleman, who afterwards died in the East Indies. Tlie Colonel — afterwards the celebrated field -marslial, Conway — took much notice of Mr. Crabbe ; and among other marks of his attention, was the gift of some valu- able Latin works on the favourite subject of Botany, which proved of advantage to him in more ways than one : for the possession of them induced him to take up more accurately than heretoi'ore the study of the language in which they were composed ; and the hours he now spent on Hudson's " Flora Anglica "' enabled him to enjoy Horace, and to pass with credit through certain examinations of an after- period. The winter following the Warwick militia were replaced by the Norfolk ; and Mr. Crabbe had the good fortune to be, for a time, their medical attendant also, and to profit, as before, by the society of educated gentlemen, who appreciated his worth, and were interested and pleased with his conversation. This was a passing gleam of stmshine ; but the chief consolation of ail his distresses at this period, was the knowledge that he had gained a fitithful and affectionate heart at Parham, and the virtuous and manly love which it was his nature to feel, imparted a buoyancy to his spirits in the very midst of his troubles. His taste and manners were different from those of the family with whom Miss Elmy resided, and he was at first barely tolerated. The uncle, Mr. Tovell, a wealthy yeoman of the highest class so deno- minated,— a class ever jealous of the privileges of literature, — would now and then growl in the hearing of his guest, — " What good does their d — d learning do them ?" By degrees, his ster- ling worth made its duo impression : he was esteemed, then beloved, by them all; but still he had every now and then to put up with a rough sneer about " the d — d learning." Miss Elmy occasionally visited her mother at Beccles ; and here my father found a society more adapted to his acquirements. The family had. though in apparently humble circumstances, always been numbered among the gentry of the place, and jmssesscd education and manners that entitled them to this distinction.- It was in his walks between Aldborough and Beccles that Mr. Crabbe jiassed throiigii the very scenery described in the first part of " The Lover's 1 In one of his early Note-books he h;is written : — " Ah ! blest be the days when with Mira I took The learninj; of Love When we pluck'd the wild blossoms that blusli'd in the grass, And I taught my dear maid of their species and chuss ; For C'Onway, the Iriend of mankind, liad decreed That Hudson should show us the wealtli of the me.id." Mr. Conway's character is familiar to every reader of his cousin Horace W'alpole's Letters. - Miss Elmv's father was now no more. He had been a tanner at Beccles, but fiiiled in liis business, and wenttoCiiiu- daloupe, where he died some time before .Mr. Crabbe knew tlie family. Journey ;" while near Beccles, in another di- rection, he found the contrast of rich vegetation introduced in the latter part of that tale ; nor have I any doubt that the disappointment of the story figures out something that, on one of these visits, befell himself, and the feelings with which he received it : — " Gone to a friend, she tells rae. — I commend Her purpose : — means she to 3. female friend i &c.' For truth compels me to say, that he was by no means free from the less amiable sign of a strong attachment — jealousy. The description of this self-toi-ment, which occurs in the sixth book of " Tales of the Hall," could only have been pro- duced liy one who had undergone the pain him- self; and the catastrophe which follows may be considered as a vivid representation of his hap- pier hours at Beccles. Miss Eimy was then remarkably pretty ; she had a lively disposition, and, having generally more than her share of attention in a mixed company, her behaviour might, without any coquettish inclination, occa- sion painful surmises in a sensitive lover, who could only at intervals join her circle. In one of these visits to Beccles, my father was in the most imminent danger of losing his life. Having, on a sultry summer's day rowed his Sarah to a favourite fishing spot on the river Waveney, he left her busy with the rod and line, and withdrew to a retired place about a quarter of a mile off, to bathe. Not being a swimmer, nor calculating his depth, he plunged at once into danger ; for his foot slid on the soft mud towards the centre of the stream.' He made a rush for the bank, lost his footing, and the flood boiled over his head ; he struggled, but in vain ; and his own words paint his situa- tion : — " An undefined sensation stopp'd my breath ; Disorder'd views and threat'ning signs of death Met in one moment, and a terror gave 1 cannot paint it — to the moving grave : My thoughts were all distressing, hurried, mix'd, On all things fixing, not a moment fix'd. Brother, I have not — man has not — the power To paint the horrors of that life-long hour ; Hour ! — but of time I knew not — when I found Hope, youth, life, love, and all they promised, drown'd." Tales oftlie Hall. My father could never clearly remember how he was saved. He at last found himself grasping eome weeds, and by their aid reached the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe, cordially approving their son's choice, invited Miss Elmy to pass some time beneath their roof at Aldborough ; and my father had the satisfaction to witness the kindness with which she was treated by both his parents, and the commencement of a strong attachment between her and his sister. During this visits he was attacked by a very dangerous 3 At this period the whole family were still living together. Some time after, my father and his sister had separate lodg- ings, at a Mr. Aldrich's. fever ; and the attention of his affianced wife was unwearied. So much was his mind weakened by the violence and pertinacity of this disorder, that, on his dawning convalescence, he actually cried like a child, because he was considerately denied the food which his renovated stomach longed for. I have heard them laugh heartily at the tears he shed, because Sarah and his sister refused him a lobster on which he had set his affections. For a considerable time, he was unable to walk upright ; but he was at length enabled to renew, with my mother, his favourite rambles — to search for fuci on the shore, or to botanise on the heath : and again he expresses his own feelings, in the following passage of " The Borough :"— " See I one relieved from anguish, and to-day AUow'd to walk, and look an hour away. Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain, He comes abroad, and is himself again. He stops, as one unwilling to advance, Without another and another glance. . . . With what a pure and simple joy he sees Those sheep and cattle browsing at their ease ! Easy himself, there 's nothing breathes or moves, But he would cherish ; — all that lives he love's." On Miss Elmy's return to Parham, she was seized with the same or a kindred disorder, but still more violent and alarming ; and none of her friends expected her recovery. My father was kindly invited to remain in the house. A fearful delirium succeeded : all hope appeared irrational ; and then it was that he felt the bitterness of losing a fond and faithful heart. I remember being greatly aflected, at a very early period, by hearing him describe the feelings with which he went into a small garden her uncle had given her, to water her flowers ; intending, after her death, to take them to Aldborough, and keep them for ever. The disorder at last took a favourable turn. But a calamity of the severest kind awaited her uncle and aunt. Their only child, a fine hale girl of fourteen, humoured by her mother, adored by her father, was cut off in a few days by an inflammatory sore throat. Her parents were bowed down to the earth : so sudden and unexpected was the blow. It made a i)ermanent alteration at Parham. Mr. Tovell's health de- clined from that period, though he lived many years with a broken spirit. Mrs. Tovell, a busy, bustling character, who scorned the exhibition of what she termed " fine feelings," became for a time an altered woman, and, like Agag, " walked softly." I have heard my father describe his astonishment at learning, as he rode into the stable yard, that Miss Tovell was dead. It seemed as if it must be a fiction, so essential did her life appear to her parents. He said he never recollected to have felt any dread equal to that of entering the house on this occasion : for my mother might now be considered as, n\ part at least, Mr. Tovell's heir, and he anticipated 12 LIFE OF CRABBE. •I- the reception ho sliould meet witli, and well knew what she must suMcm* from the first bitter- ness of minds too uncultivated to suppress their i'eelings. He found it as painful as he had fore- boded. Mr. Tovell was seated in his arm-chair, in stern silence ; but the tears coursed each other over his manly face. His wife was weeping violently, her head reclining on the tabic. One or two female friends were there, to otl'er con- solation. After a long silence, Mr. Tovell observed, — " She is now out of every body's way, poor girl ! " One of the females re- marked that it was wrong, very wrong, to grieve, because she was gone to a better place. " How do I know where she is gone ? " was the bitter reply ; and then there was another long silence. But, in the course of time, these gloomy feelings subsided. Mr. Crabbe was received as usual, naj', with increased kindness; for he had known their "dear Jane." But though the hospitality of the house was undiminished, and occasionally the sound of loud, joyous mirth was heard, yet the master was never himself again. Whetiier my lather's more frequent visits to Parham, growing dislike to his profession, or increasing attachment to ])oetical composition, contributed most to his ultimate abandonment of medicine, I do not profess to tell. I have said, that his spirit was buoyed up by the inspiring influence of requited atfection ; but this neces- sarily led to other wishes, and to them the obstacles appeared insuperable. Miss Elmy was too prudent to marry, where there seemed to be no chance of a competent livelihood ; and he, instead of being in a position to maintain a family, could hardly, by labour which he abhorred, earn daily bread for himself. He was proud, too; and, though conscious ihat he had not deserved success in his profession, he was also conscious of possessing no ordinary abilities, and brooded with deep mortification on his failure. Meantime he had jjcrused with atten- tion the works of the British poets and of his favourite Horace ; and his desk had gradually been filled with verses which he justly esteemed more worthy of the public eye than " Inebriety." He indulged, in short, the dveams of a young poet: — " A little time, and he should burst to light, And admiration of the world excite; And every friend, now cool and apt to blame His fond pursuit, would wonder at liis tame. ' Fame shall be mine;— then wealth shall I possess; — And beauty next an ardent lover bless.' " TIte Patron. He deliberated often and long, — " resolved and le-rcsolved," — and again doubted; but, well aware as he was of the hazard he wius about to encounter, he at last made up his mind. One i_,'loomy day, towards the close of the year 1779, he had strolled to a bleak and cheerless jiart of the cliff above Aldborough, called " The Marsh Hill," brooding, as he went, over the humiliating necessities of his condition, and plucking every now and then, I have no doubt, the hundredth specimen of some common weed. He stopped op])osite a shallow, muddy piece of water, as desolate and gloomy as his own mind, called the Leech-pond, and " it was while I gazed on it," — he said to my brother and me, one happy morn- ing, — " that I determined to go to London and venture all." In one of his early note-books, under the date of December 31, 1779, I find the Ibllowing entry. It is one upon which I shall offer no comment: — " A thousand years, most adored Creator, are, in thy sight, as one day. So contract, in my sight, my calamities ! " The year of sorrow and care, of poverty and disgrace, of disappointment and wrong, is now passing on to join the Eternal. Now, O Lord ! let, I beseech thee, my afflictions and prayers be re- membered; — let my faults and follies be forgotten! •' O thou, who art the Fountain of Happiness, give me better submission to thy decrees ; better disposition to correct my flattering hopes ; better courage to bear up under my state of oppression. " The year past, my God ! let it not be to me again a torment — the year coming, if it is thy will, be it never such. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt. Whether 1 live or whether I die, whether 1 be poor or whether I be prosperous, my Saviour ! may I be thine! Amen." In the autobiographical sketch already quoted, my father thus continues his story: — "Mr. Crabbe, after as full and perfect a surve}' of the good and evil before him as his prejudices, incli- nations, and little knowledge of the world enabled him to take, finally resolved to abandon his profession. His health was not robust, his spirits were not equal ; assistance he could ex- pect none, and he was not so sanguine as to believe he could do without it. With the best verses he could write, and with very little more, he quitted the place of his birth ; not without the most serious apprehensions of the conse- quence of such a step — apprehensions which were conquered, and barely conquered, by the more certain evil of the prospect before him, should he remain where he was. " When he thus fled from a gloomy ])rospect to one as uncertain, he had not heard of a youth- fid adventurer, whose fate it is probable would, in some degree, have aft'ected his spirits, if it had not caused an alteration in his jiurpose. Of Chatterton, his e-vtraordinary abilities, ids enter- ])rising spirit, his writing in periodical publica- tions, his daring jjroject, and his melancholy fate, he had yet learned nothing ; otherwise it may be supposed that a warning of such a kind would have had no small influence upon a mind rather vexed with the present than expecting much from the future, and not sufficiently hajrpy and at ease to draw consolation from vanity — much less from a comparison in which vanity would have found no trifling mortification." * When his father was at length informed that he felt it to be of no use to struggle longer against the difficulties of his situation, the old man severely reproache^i him with the expenses thp family had incurred, in order to afford him an opening into a walk of life higher than their own ; but when he, in return, candidly explained how imperfectly he had ever been prepared for the exercise of his profession, the Salt-master in part admitted the validity of his representa- tion, and no further opposed his resolution. But the means of carrying this resolution into effect were still to seek. His friends were alias poor as himself; and he knew not where to apply for assistance. In this dilemma, he at length addressed a letter to the late Mr. Dudley North, brother to the candidate for Aldborough, requesting the loan of a small sum ; " and a very extraordinary letter it was," said Mr. North to his petitioner some years afterwards: "I did not hesitate for a moment," The sum advanced by Mr. North, in com- pliance with his request, wtis five pounds ; and, after settling his affairs at Aldborough, and em- barking himself and his whole worldly substance on board a sloop at Slaughden, to seek his for- tune in the Great City, he found himself master of a box of clothes, a small case of surgical in- struments, and three pounds in money. During the voyage he lived with the sailors of the vessel, and partook of their /are. In looking back to the trifling incidents which I have related in this chapter, I feel how inade- quate is the conception they will convey of feel- ings so deep and a mind so exuberant. These were the only circumstances that I heard him or others mention relative to that early period ; * but how different would have been the descrip- tion, had he himself recorded the strongest of his early impressions ! Joining much of his father's violence with a keen susceptibility of mortification, his mind must have been at times torn by tumultuous passions ; always tempered, however, by the exceeding kindness of his heart. There can scarcely be a more severe trial than for one conscious of general superiority to find himself an object of contempt, for some real and palpable defects. With a mind infinitely above his circumstances, he was yet incompetent to his duties, both in talent and knowledge ; and he felt that the opinion of the public, in this respect, ■• "Talking," says my brother John, "of the difficulties of his early years, when, with a declininj; practice, riding from one cottage to anotlier, and glad to relieve his mind by fixing it on the herbs tliat grew on tlie wayside, he often made the assertion, which I could never agree to, that it was necessity that drove him to be an author ; — and more tlian once he quoted the line — • Some fall so hard that they rebound again.' " was but too just. Nor were those the only trials he had to endure ; but the strong and painful feelings to which he was subjected in the very outset of life, however distressing then, were unquestionably favourable to his education as a poet, and his moral character as a man. The following lines, from a manuscript volume, appear to have been composed after he had, on this occasion, bidden farewell to Miss Elmy : — " Tlie hour arrived ! I sigh'd and said, How soon the happiest hours are fled ! On wings of down they lately flew, But then their moments passd with you ; And still with you could I but be, On downy wings they 'd always flee. " Say, did you not, the way you went, Feel the soft balm of gay content .' Say, did you not all pleasures find. Of w hich you left so few behind ? I think you did : for nell I know My parting prayer would make it so. " May she, I said, life's choicest goods partake, Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake — The bliss of one,- tli' esteem'd of many live. With all that Friendship would, and all tliat Love can give I " I shall conclude this chapter with the stronger verses in which he, some months after, expressed the gloomier side of his feelings on quitting his native place — the very verses, he had reason to believe, which first satisfied Burke that he was a true poet : — " Here wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields I sought the simple life that Nature yields ; Rapine, and wrong, and fear usurp'd her place. And a bold, artful, surly, saviige race. Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe. The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high. On the tost vessel bend their eager eve, Which, to their coast directs its vent'rous way, Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. " As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, And wait for favouring winds to leave the land. While still for fl ght the ready wing is spread — So waited I the favouring hour, and fled : Fled from these shores where guilt and rapine reign. And cried. Ah I hapless they who still remain, — Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore. Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway. Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away ; When the sad tenant weeps I'rora door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor." The Village. CHAPTER III. 1780. Mr. Crabbe's Difficulties and Distresses in London — Publica- tion of his Poem, "'The Candidate" — His unsuccessful Ap- plications to Lord North, Lord Shelburne, and other eminent Individuals — His " Journal to Mira." -Although the chance of his being so successful in his metropolitan debut as to find in his literary 14 LIFE or CRABBE. talents the means of subsistence must have ap- peared slender in the eyes of Mr. Crabbe's Sut- fblk friends, and although he himself was any- thing but sanguine in his anticipations ; — yet it nmst be acknowledged, that he arrived in London at a time not unfavourable for a new candidate in poetry. The field may be said to have lain open before him. The giants Swift and Pope had passed away, leaving each in his department examples never to be excelled ; but the style of each had been so long imitated by inferior per- sons, that the world was not unlikely to welcome some one who should strike into a newer path. The strong and powerful satirist Churchill, the classic Gray, and the inimitable Goldsmith, had also departed ; and, more recently still, Chat- terton had paid the bitter penalty of his impru- dence, under circumstances which must surely have rather disposed the patrons of talent to watch the next opportunity that might offer itself of encouraging genius " by poverty de- pressed." The stupendous Johnson, unrivalled in general literature, had, from an early period, withdrawn himself from poetry. Cowper, des- tined to fill so large a space in the public eye, somewhat later, had not as yet appeared as an author ;• and as for Burns, he was still unknown beyond the obscure circle of his fellow-villagers. The moment, therefore, might a])pear favourable for Mr. Crabbe's meditated appeal :* and yet, had he foreseen all the sorrows and disappoint- ments which awaited him in his new career, it is probable he would either have remained in his native place, or, if he had gone to London at all, engaged himself to beat the mortar in some dispensary. Happily his hopes ultimately prevailed over his fears : his Sarah cheered him by her ap])robation of his bold adventure ; and his mind soared and exulted when he suddenly felt himself freed from the drudgery and anxieties of his hated ])rofc!Ssion. In his own little biograiihical sketch he says, that, " on relinquishing every hope of rising in his ])rofession, he repaired to the metropolis, and resided in lodgings with a family in the city : ibr reasons which he might not himself be able to assign, he was afraid of going to the west end of the town, lie was placed, it is true, near to some friends of whose kindness he was assured, and was probably loth to lose that domestic and ' Cowpcr's first pulilication was in 1"S2, when he was in the tiftiiMh year of his ai;e. '■' I lind these lines in one ol'liis note-books for 1780. — " When summer's tribe, her rosy tri'be, are fled. And liroopiii^' beauty mourns lier blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler bc^auties deck the withering plain. And thus wlien Verse her wint'ry prospect weeps, When I'ope is ".'ono, and mi^'hty Milton sleeps, When Gray in loftv lines hits ceased to soar. And ;,"'ntle Goldsmith charms tlie town no more, An h\imlder Hard the widow'd Muse invites, Who led l)y hope and inclination writes : With hair their art he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain witli themes of love." cheerful society which he doubly felt in a world of strangers." The only acquaintance he had on entering London was a Mrs. Bureham, who had been in early youth a friend of Miss Elmy, and who was now the wife of a linen-draper in Cornhill. This worthy woman and her husband received him with cordial kindness ; they invited him to make their house his home whenever he chose ; and as often as he availed himself of this invita- tion, he was treated with that frank familiarity which cancels the appearance of obligation. It might be supposed, that with such friends to lean upon, he would have been secure against actual distress ; but his was, in some points, a proud spirit : he never disclosed to them the extent of his difficulties. Nothing but sheer starvation could ever have induced him to do so ; and not even that, as long as there was a poor-house in the land to afford him refuge. All they knew was, that he had come to town a literary adventurer : but though ignorant of the exact nature of his designs, as well as of the extreme narrowness of his pecuniary resources, they often warned him of the fate of Chatterton — of whose genius and misfortunes, as we have seen, he had never heard while he remained in Suffolk. To be near these friends, he took lodgings close to the Exchange, in the house of Mr. Vickery,^ a hair-dresser, then or soon afterwards of great celebrity in his calling ; and on the family's removing some months later to Bishops- gate-street, he accompanied them to their new residence. I may mention that, so little did he at first foresee the distress in which a shilling would be precious, that on taking up his quar- ters at Mr. Vickery's, he equipped himself with a fashionable tie-wig, which nmst have made a considerable hole in his three pounds. However, no sooner had he established himself here, than he applied, with the utmost diligence, to the pursuits for which he had sacrificed every other prosj)ect. He had soon transcribed and corrected the poetical pieces he had brought with him from the country ; and composed two dramas and a variety of j)rose essays, in imita- tion, some of Swift, others of Addison ; and he was ere long in connnunication with various booksellers with a view to pul)lication. " In this lodging," sa^'S the poet's own sketch, " he passed something more than one year, during which his chief study was to improve in versifi- cation, to read all such l)ooks as he could com- mand, and to take as ftdl and particular a view of mankind as his time and finances enabled him to do." While residing in the City he often spent his ' Mr. Vickery is still in life, a most respectable octoptenju-ian. He laments that his memory retains little of Mr. (.'rabbe, ex- cept that he was "n quiet, amiable, genteel youn;; man; much esteemed by Uie family for the regularity of all his conduct." LIFE OF CRABBE. 15 evening at a small coffee-house near the Ex- chanofe, where, it' prudence allowed only the most frugal refreshment, he had a more gratify- ing entertainment in the conversation of several young men, most of them teachers of mathema- tics, who, in his own words, " met after the studies and labours of the day, to commence other studies and labours of a lighter and more agreeable kind ; and then it was," he continues, "that Mr. Crabbe experienced the inestimable relief which one mind may administer to another. He particularly acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Bonnycastle, the (late) Master of the Military Academy at Woolwich, for many hours of consolation, amusement, and instruction." With Mr. Bonnycastle he Ibrmed a close inti- macy and attachment ; and those who are ac- quainted with the character of that respected man will easily imagine the pleasure and advan- tage Mr. Crabbe must have derived from his society. To eminence in his own vocation he joined much general knowledge, considerable taste in the fine arts,^ colloquial talents of a high order, and a warm and enlarged heart. Another of this little company was Mr. Isaac Dalby, afterwards professor of mathematics in the Military College at Marlow, and em- jiloyed by the Ordnance department on the trigonometrical survey of England and Wales ; and a third was the well-known mathematician, Reuben Burrow, originally a merchant's clerk in the City, who subsequently rose to high dis- tinction in the service of the East India Com- pany, and died in 1791, while engaged in the trigonometrical survey of Bengal. These then obscure but eminently gifted and worthy men were Mr. Crabbe's chosen com- panions, and to listen to their instructive talk was the most refi'eshing relaxation of his manly and vigorous mind : but bodily exercise was not' less necessary for a Ij-ame which, at that period, was anything but robust, and he often walked with Mr. Bonnycastle, when he went to the va- rious schools in the suburbs, but still more fre- quently strolled alone into the country, with a small edition of Ovid, or Horace, or Catullus, in his pocket. Two or three of these little vo- lumes remained in his possession in latter days, and he set a high value on them ; for, said he, " they were the companions of my adversity." His favourite haunt was Hornsey-wood, and there he often renewed his old occupation of searching for plants and insects. On one occa- sion, he had walked farther than usual into the country, and felt himself too nmch exh.austed to return to town. He could not afford to give himself any refreshment at a public-house, much less to pay for a lodging ; so he stretched liim- * At one time, Mr. Bonnycastle was employed to revise and correct a MS. of Cowper ; but lie and that poet did not a;,'ree in tlieir tastes^Mr. lionnyi-astle being a standi advo- cate for the finish and polish of Pope, while the other had lar dili'erent models in hi'dier estimation. self on a mow of hay, beguiled the evening with Tibullus, and, when he could read no longer, slept there till the morning. Such were his habits and amusements ; nor do I believe that he ever saw the inside of a theatre, or of any public building, but a church or chapel, until the press- ing difficulties of his situation had been over- come. When, man) years afterwards, Mr. Bonnycastle was sending his son to London, he strongly enforced upon the young gentleman the early example of his friend, Mr. Crabbe, then enjoying the success of his second series of poems. " Crabbe," said he, " never suffered his attention to be diverted for a moment by the novelties with which he was surrounded at that trying period ; but gave his whole mind to the pursuit by which he was then striving to live, and by which he in due time attained to com- petence and honour." When my father had completed some short pieces in verse, he offered them for publication ; but they were rejected. He says in his sketch, " he was not encouraged bv the reception which his manuscripts experienced from those who are said to be not the worst judges of literary com- position. He was, indeed, assured by a book- seller, who afterwards published for him, that he must not sui)pose that the refusal to purchase proceeded from a want of merit in the poems. Such, however, was his inference ; and that thought had the effect which it ought — he took more pains, and tried new subjects. In one re- spect he was unfortunate : while ])reparing a more favourable piece for the inspection of a gentleman whom he had then in view, he ha- zarded the publication of an anonymous perform- ance, and had the satisfaction of hearing, in due time, that something (not much, indeed — but a something was much) would arise from it ; but while he gathered encouragement, and looked forward to more than mere encouragement from this essay, the publisher failed, and his hope of profit was as transitoi-y as the fame of his name- less production." This productions was "The Candidate, a Poetical Epi.stle to the Authors of the Monthly Review," which was published early in 1780, by H. Payne, opposite Marlborough House, Pall-Mali ; a thin quarto of 34 pages, and bear- ing on the title-page a motto from Horace ; — " Multa quidem nobis facimus mala ssepe poe- tas," &c. It was a call on the attention, not an appeal from the verdict, of those who.n he consi- dered the mostinfiuential critics of the time ; and it received, accordingly, a very cold and brief notice in their number for August ; wherein, in- deed, nothing is dwelt upon but some incorrect- ness of rhymes, and "that material defect, the * There was no name in its title-page : the author, how- ever, huitcd his name : — " Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, And shepherds — though the harshest — envy mine." — p. 21. I 16 LIFE OF CRABBE. want of a proper subject." Nor wns the Gen- tleman's Magazine more courteous. •' If," said ]Mr. Urban, " the authors addressed agree with us in their estimate, they will not give this Can- didate much encouragement to stand a poll at Parnassus." Whether " The Candidate" did not deserve rather a more encouraging reception, the public will soon have an opportunity of judging, as this long-forgotten poem, with some other early pieces, will be included in the second volume of the present collection. The failure of Mr. Payne plunged the young poet into great perplexity. He was absolutely under the necessity of seeking some pecuniary aid ; and he cast his eyes in succession on seve- ral of those eminent individuals who were then generally considered as liberal patrons of litera- ture. Before he left Aldborough he had been advised to apply to the premier. Lord North ; Ijut he now apjjlied to him in vain. A second application to Lord Shelburne met with no better success : and he often expressed in later times the feelings with which he contrasted his recep- tion at this nobleman's door, in Berkeley- square, in 1780, ^^ ith the courteous welcome which he re- ceived at a subsequent period in that same man- sion, now Lansdowne House. He wrote also several times to the Lord Chancellor Thurlow ; but with little better fortune. To the first letter, which enclosed a copy of verses, his Lordship re- turned for answer a cold polite note, regretting that his avocations did not leave him leisure to read verses. The great talents and discriminating judgment of Thurlow made him feel this repulse witii double bitterness ; and he addressed to his Lordship some strong but not disrespectful lines, intimating that, in former times, the encourage- ment of literature had been considered as a duty appertaining to the illustrious station he held. Of this ettUsion the Clumcellor took no notice whatever. But I have it in my power to submit to the reader some fragments of a Journal which my father ke])t during this distressing period, for the perusal of his affianced wife. The manu- scri|)t was discovered lately in the possession of a sister of my mother's. My father had never mentioned tiie existence of any such treasure to Ills own family. It is headed " The Poet's Journal;" and I now transcribe it; interweav- ing, as it proceeds, a few observations, which occur to me as necessary to make it generally JnlL'lligible. " THE POET S JOURNAL." " ' Sunt lachrimtB rerum, et mentein mortalia tangunt.' " ' Me felt whate'er of sorrows wound the soul, Uut view'il Misfortune on her fairest side.' " Apiil -21, 1780, — I DKDicATE to you, my dear Mira, this Journal, and I hope it will be some amusement. Cod only knows what is to be my lot ; but I have, as far as I can, taken your old advice, and turned affliction's better part outward, and am dcterniined to reap as much consolation from my prospects as possible ; so that, whatever befalls me, I will endeavour to suppose it has its benefits, though I cannot immediately see them. " April 24. — Took lodgings at a Mr. Vickery's, near the Exchange : rather too expensive, bit very convenient — and here I, on reflec- tion, thought it best to publish, if I could do it with advantage, some little piece, before I attempted to introduce my principal work. Accordingly, I set about a poem, which I called ' The Hero, an Epistle to Prince Wil- liam Henry.' " [I must here interrupt the Journal for a mo- ment, to explain. The " ]>rincipal work" al- luded to in the above entry was a prose treatise, entitled " A Plan for the Examination of our Moral and Religious Opinions,'^ of which the first rough draft alone has been preserved : and to which, in one of his rhymed e])istles to Mira, composed in this same April, 1780, ni}' father thus alludes : — " Of substance I 've thought, and the varied disputes On the nature of man and the notions of brutes; Of systems confuted, and systems expbun'd, Of science disputed and tenets mamtain'd ... These, and such speculations on these kind of things, Have robh'd my poor Muse of her pbime and her wings ; Consumed the plilogiston you used to admire, 'riie spirit extracted, extin};uisli"d the fire ; Let out all tlie ether, so pure and refined, And left but a mere caput murtuum behini:c., and attempted to estahlisli a congregation, on the avowed principles of deism, in Mar,:aret-street, Cavendish-square : but this last plan soon failed, lie died in IHUi. 10 Ch'irlcs Lee I>ewis, the celebrated comedian, was at this time amusing the town with an evening entertainment of songs and recitations, iu the style of Dibdin. die in his sins, but, sinners as we are, we had rather die than part with them. The reason why few are chosen doth not depend upon him who calls, but upon those who are called. Complain not that you want an invitation to heaven, but complain that you want the inclination to obey it. Say not that you cannot go, but that you will not part with the objects which prevent your going. " Again : — To what are Me called ? and who are those who obey the call ? The last question is to us the most important, Tliose who obey the call are such as pay respect to it. Those who accept the invitation are such as go like guests. Tliose who think themselves honoured in the summons will have on their wedding garment; they will put off the filthy robes of their own righteousness, and much more will they put aside the garments spotted with iniquity. They consider themselves as called to faith, to thanksgiving, to justification, to sancti- fication, and they will, therefore, go in the dis- position and temper of men desirous of these immortal benefits: they know that he who had them not — and who, though but one, typifies all the rejected, all the not chosen — they know he was bound hand and foot, and thrust out for that reason : yet, mark you, my fellow sinners ! this man went to the wedding, he enrolled himself amongst the guests, he was of the profession, a nominal Christian. How many are there now who are such, deaf to the true end of their calling ! who love mercy, but not to use the means of attaining its blessing; who admire the robe of righteousness, but would wear it over the polluted weeds of depravity and hard- ness of heart. " But to what are we called ? To everlasting happiness ! Consider, I implore you, whether it is worth the trouble of looking after. Do by it as by your worldly bargains, which surely do not offer more. Examine the truths it is founded upon ; they will bear examination. Try its merits ; they will stand the trial. You would grieve to see thousands of saints in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves shut out : and yet. shut out you will be into everlasting darkness, unless you rightly obey the call which you have heard- It is not enough to be called; for that all are. It is not enough to obey the call, for he did so in part who was rejected from the wedding ; but to join the practice of religion to the profession of it, is truly to accept the invitation, and will, through our Lord Jesus Christ, entitle you to the mercy to which we are called, even the pleasures which are at the right hand of God the Father Almighty, to whom," &c. *' The foregoing, as near as I remember, was the substance of the good Doctor's dis- course. I have doubtless not done him justice in the expressions ; those it was impossible for me to retain ; but I have preserved, in a great measure, the manner, jjathos, and argument. Nor was the sermon nmch longer, though it took a long time to preach, for here we do not find a discourse run ott" as if they were the best teachers who say most upon a subject : here they dwell upon a sentence. LIFE OF CRABBE. 21 ;;nd often repeat it, till it shall hardly fail of making an impression. "1 have this night been drawing out my letter to Lord North. I have diligently read it over, and believe it far the most con- sequential piece I ever executed, whether in prose or poetry. Its success will soon j)rove whether it is in the power of my talents to obtain me favour. "To-morrow, my beloved Sally, I shall transcribe it for you and his Lordship ; and if I could suppose you both had the same o])inion of its writer, my business were done. You will perceive there is art in it, though art quite consistent with truth — for such is actually the case with me. My last shilling became eight-pence yesterday. The sim- plicity of the style is, I hope, not lost in endeavouring at the pathetic ; and if his Lord- ship is indeed a literary man, I am not without hope that it may be a means of obtaining for me a better fortune than hitherto has befallen us. " May 22. — I have just now finished my book, and, if I may so say, consecrated it, by beg- ging of Him, who alone can direct all things, to give me success in it, or patience under any disappointment I may meet with from its wanting that. I have good hope from my letter, which I shall probably copy for you to-morrow, for I find I can't to-day. This afternoon I propose to set out for Westmin- ster, and I hope shall not meet with much difficulty in getting the book delivered to his Lordship. — " — I am now returned from Downing Street, Lord North's place of residence. Every thing at this time becomes conse- quential. I plagued myself lest I should err in little things — often the causes of a person's doing wrong. The direction of the letter, and the place to call at, puzzled me ; I forgot his Lordship's name, and had no Court Ca- lendar. See how trifles perplex us ! How- ever, my book is safely delivered, and I shall call again on Wednesday, when I hope to be told something. " I know not how totally to banish hope, and yet can't encourage it. What a day will to-morrow be to me ! a day of dread and ex- pectation. Ah, dear Mira, my hopes are flying ; I see now my attempt in its darkest side — twice, nay, three times unsuccessful in a month I have been here — once in my appli- cation to the person advertising, and twice in the refusal of booksellers. God help me, my Sally, I have but a cowardly heart, yet I bear up as well as I can ; and if I had another sliilling would get something to-night to keep these gloomy thoughts at bay, but I must save what I have, in hopes of having a letter to j^ay for to-morrow. How, let me suppose, shall I be received ? The very worst I can possibly guess will be to have my book returned l)y the servant, and no message ; next to this a civil refusal. More than these I dare not dwell upon ; and yet these alone are uncomfortable things. " O ! what pains do we take, what anxiety do we feel, in our pursuit of worldly good — how reproachful a comparison does it make to our more important business! When was I thus solicitous for the truly valuable riches ? my God ! forgive a creature who is frailty itself — who is lost in his own vileness and littleness : who would be happy, and knows not the means. My God, direct me ! May 23. — Here follows, my dearest Sally, a copy of my letter. I am in tolerable spirits this morning, but my whole night has been spent in waking and sleeping visions, in ideas of the coming good or evil ; names, by the way, we learn early to misplace. Sometimes 1 have dwelt upon all my old views and romantic expectations ; have run from dis- appointment to disappointment ; and such as the past has been, so, said I, shall be the future. Then my vanity has told fairer things, and magnified my little talents, till I supposed they must be thought worthy of notice. So that from fear to flattery, and from hope to anxiety, I passed a varied and unquiet night. To-day I am at least more composed, and will give you the letter promised." [Some leaves are here torn out.] * • * * " Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, and my compass lost, jMv sails the coarsest, and too thin to last, Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast, My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay Wliere the strong current Grief sweeps all away, I sail along, unknowing how to steer, Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks appear. Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark, Tlie rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark, Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell. And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea ? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me .' A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears — Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings, Soothes me with song, and ftatters as she sings." " June 5. — Heaven and its Host witness to me that my soul is conscious of its own demerit. I deserve nothing. I do nothing but what is worthy reproof. I expect nothing from what is nearest in my thoughts or actions to virtue. All fall short of it ; much, very much, flies from it. " I make no comparison with the children oo LIFE OF CRABBE. of men. It matters not to me who is vile or who is virtuous. What I am is all to me ; and I am iiotliing but in my dcpondence. " O ! Thou, who searchest all hearts, who givest, and who hast given, more than I deserve, or can deserve — who withholdcst punishment, and proclaimest pardon — form my desires, that Thou mayest approve them, and approving gratify. My present, O ! forgive and pity, and as it seemeth good to Thee, so be it done unto me." " June 6. — I will now, my dearest Mira, give you my letter to Lord Shelburne, but cannot recollect an exact copy, as I altered much of it, and I believe, in point of expression, for the better. I want not, I know, your best wishes ; those and her prayers my Mira gives me. God will give us peace, my love, in his time : pray chiefly that we may acquiesce in his righteous determinations. " To the Right Honourable the Earl ofS/ielburne. " Ah ! SHELBt'RNE, blest with all that 's good or great, T' adorn a rich, or save a sinking state. If public Ills engross not all thy care, Let private Woe assail a patriots ear, Pity confined, but not less warm, impart. And unresisted win thy noble heart : Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share, Because I hope to have some interest there ; Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun. Though with more fav'ring beams enlight'ning one, — As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest. Yet still in general bounty feeds tlie rest. Oh hear the Virtue thou reverest plead ; She 'U swell thy Ijreast, and there applaud the deed. She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray, And leads thee on to fame a shorter way ; Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward. There 's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard ; A bard untrained in all but misery's school. Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool ; — 'T is Glory prompts, and as thou read'st attend, She dictates pity, and becomes my friend ; She bids each cold and dull reflection flee. And yields her Shelburne to distress and me ! — " Forgive, my I^ord, a free, and perhaps, unnsual address ; misfortune has in it, I hope, some excuse for presumption. Your Lordship will not, cannot, be greatly displeased with an unfortunate man, whose wants are the most urgent ; who wants a a friend to assist him, and bread. " I will not tire your Lordship with a recital of the various circumstances which have led to this situation. It would be too long a tale; though there are parts in it which, I will venture (o assure your Lordship, would not only affect your compas- sion, Imt, I hope, engage your approbation. It is too dull a view of the progression from pleasing, though moderate expectation, to unavoidable jienury. " Your Lordship will pardon me the relation of a late and unsuccessful attempt to become nsefiil to mysilf and the community 1 live in. Starving as an aputhecary, in a little venal borouL'h in Sufiblk, it was there suggested to me that Lord North, the prc.S(.nt minister, was a man of that liberal dispo- sition, that I might hope success from a representa- tion of my particular circumstances to liim. This I have done, and laid before his Lordship. I confess a dull, but a ftiithful account of my misfortunes. My request had bounds the most moderate. I asked not to feed upon the spoils of my country, but by an honest diligence and industry to earn the bread I needed. The most pressing part of my prayer entreated of his Lordship his speedy determination, as my little stock of money was exhausted, and I was reduced to live in misery and on credit. " Why I complain of his Lordship is not that he denied this, though an humble and moderate peti- tion, but for his cruel and unkind delay. My Lord, you will pardon me a resentment expressed in one of the little pieces I have taken the liberty of enclosing, when your Lordship considers the inhumanity I was treated with : my repeated prayers for my sentence were put off by a delay ; and at length a lingering refusal, brought me by an inso- lent domestic, determined my suit, and my opinion of his Lordship's private virtues. " My Lord, I now turn to your Lordship, and entreat to be heard. I am ignorant what to ask, but feel forcibly my wants — Patronage and Bread. I have no other claim on your Lordship than my necessities, but they are great, unless my Muse, and she has, I am afraid, as few charms ; nor is it a time for such to flourish : in serener days, my Lord, I have produced some poetical compositions the public might approve, and yoin" Lordship not disdain to patronise. I would not, my Lord, be vain farther than necessity warrants, and I pray your Lordship to pardon me this. May I not hope it will occur to you how I may be useful ? My heart is humbled to all but villainy, and would live, if honestly, in any situation. Your lordship has my fortune in your power, and I will, with respect and submission, await your determination. I am, my Lord, &c. &c." " — You see, my dear Mira, to what our situation here may reduce us. Yet am I not conscious of losing the dignity becoming a man : some respect is due to the superiority of station ; and that I will always pay, but I cannot flatter or fawn, nor shall my humblest request be so presented. If respect will not do, adulation shall not ; but I hope it will ; as I 'm sure he must have a poor idea of greatness, who delights in a supple knee bending to him, or a tongue voluble in paltry praise, which conscience says is totally un- deserved. One of the poetical pieces I sent to Lord Shelburne you have no copy of, and 1 will therefore give it you here. *' An Epistle to a Friend. " Why, true, thou say'st the fools at Court denied, (irowl vengeance,— and then t;ike tlie other side : Tlie unfed flatterer borrows satire's power. As sweets unsheltcr'd run to vapid sour. Hut thou, the counsel to my closest thought, (ieheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzjis wrought. I'he Muse I caught ne'er fawn'd on vonal souls. Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls ; She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream, Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. Kut when she sees a titled nothing stand Tlie ready ciplier of a trembling' land,— Not of that simple kind that placed alone Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none,— lint those which, join'd to figures, well express A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress. Grow in proportion to their number great. And help each other in the ranks of state ; — When this and more the pensive Muses see, They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee ; To Court on wings of agile anger speed, And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed. Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest, And fright base action from sin's wavering breast ; For though the knave may scorn the Muse's arts, Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Some, tliough they wish it, are not steel'd enough, Nor is each would-be villain conscience- proof. " And what, my friend, is left my song besides ? No school-day wealth that roU'd in silver tides, No dreams of hope tliat won my early will. Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill ; No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode, No friend to whisper peace, — to give me food ;— Poor to the World I 'd yet not live in vain. But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain. " Yet shall not Satire all my song engage In indiscriminate and idle rage ; True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line, And long — if Vanity deceives not — shine. For though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, And unadorn'd, my heart-felt murmurs flow. Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. A Man — for other title were too poor — Such as 't were almost virtue to adore, He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale. As the sun vapours from the dew-pressed vale ; Himself uninjuring shall new warmth infuse, And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse. Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice, His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice ; Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring, .\nd Suelbubne's fame tlirough laughing valleys ring." " Pay me, dear, for this long morning's work, with your patience, and, if you can, your approbation. I suppose we shall have nothing more of this riot in the city, and I hope now to entertain you with better things. God knows, and we will be happy that it is not the work of accident. Something will happen, and perhaps now. Angels guide and bless you ! " June 8. — Yesterday, my own business being decided, I was at Westminster at about three o'clock in the afternoon, and saw the members go to the House. The mob stopped many per- sons, but let all whom I saw pass, excepting Lord Sandwich, whom they treated roughly, broke his coach windows, cut his face, and turned him back. A guard ot horse antl foot were immediately sent ibr, who did no parti- cular service, the mob increasing and defeating them. " I left Westminster when ail the members, that were permitted, had entered the House and came home. In my way I met a resolute band of vile-looking fellows, ragged, dirty, and insolent, armed with clubs, going to join their companions. I since learned that there were eight or ten of these bodies in ditlerent parts of the City. " About seven o'clock in the evening I went out again. At Westminster the mob were few, and those quiet, and decent in ap- pearance. I crossed St. George's Fields, which were empty, and came home again by Blackfriars Bridge ; and in going from thence to the Exchange", you pass the Old Bailey ; and here it vvas that I saw the first scene of terror and riot ever presented to me. The new prison was a very large, strong, and beautiful building, having two wings, of which you can suppose the extent, when you consider their use ; besides these, were the keeper's (Mr. Akerman's) house, a strong intermediate work, and likewise other parts, of which I can give you lo description. Akerman had in his custody four prisoners, taken in the riot ; these the mob went to his house and demanded. He begged he might send to the sheriti^", but this was not permitted. How he escaped, or where he is gone, 1 kno\V not ; but just at the time I speak of they set fire to his house, broke in, and threw every piece of furniture they could find into the street, firing them also in an instant. The engines came, but were only sufi'ered to preserve the private houses near the prison, " As I was standing near the spot, there approached another body of men, 1 suppose 500, and Lord George Gordon in a coach, drawn by the mob towards Alderman Bulfs, bowing as he passed along. He is a lively- looking young man in appearance, and nothing more, though just now the reigning hero. " By eight o'clock, Akerman's house was in flames. I went close to it, and never saw any thing so dreadful. The prison was, as I said, a remarkably strong building ; but, determined to force it, they broke the gates with crows and other instruments, and climbed up the outside of the cell part, which joins the two great wings of the building, where the felons were confined ; and I stood where I plainly saw their operations. They broke the roof, tore away the rafters, and having got ladders they descended. Not Orpheus himself had more courage or better luck ; flames all around them, and a body of soldiers expected, they defied and laughed at all opposition. " The prisoners escaped. I stood and saw about twelve women and eight men ascena from their confinement to the open air, and they were conducted through the street in their chains. Three of these ■were to be hanged on Friday. You have no conception of the phrensy of the multitude. This being 24 LIFE OF CRABBE. done, and Akernian's house now a mere shell of brickwork, they kept a store of flame there for other purposes. It became red-hot, and the doors and windows appeared like the entrance to so many volcanoes. With some difficulty they then fired the debtor's prison — broke the doors— and they, too, all made their escape. " Tired of the scene, I went home, and returned again at eleven o'clock at night. I met large bodies of horse and foot soldiers coming to guard the Bank, and some houses of Roman Catholics near it. Newgate was at this time open to all ; any one might get in, and, what was never the case before, any one might get out. I did both ; for the j)eople were now chiefly lookers on. The mischief was done, and the doers of it gone to another part of the town. " But I must not omit what struck me most. About ten or twelve of the snob get- ting to the top of the debtors' prison, whilst it was burning, to halloo, they appeared rolled in black smoke mixed with sudden bursts of fire — like Milton's infernals, who were as familiar with flame as with each other. On comparing notes with my neighbours, I find 1 saw but a small part of the mischief. They say Lord Mansfield's house is now in flames." * * * * [Some leaves are here torn out.] t- # * * " June 11. — Sunday. — As I 'm afraid my ever ilearest friend, my Mira, has not a preacher so aft'ecting as my worthy rector, I shall not scruple to give his morning discourse in the way I have abstracted those before ; and I know my dear Sally will pardon, will be pleased with, the trouble I give her." With a short abstract of a sermon on the text " Awake, thou that slcepest," which I do not think it necessary to transcribe, the " Poet's Journal,'" as I have it, abruptly concludes. But my father kept, while resident in the City, another note-book, solely for himself, from which I consider it due to his memory — in order to (;omplete the reader's impression of his cha- racter and conduct at this, the most melancholy period of his life — to mak(! a very lew ex- tracts. I. " O gracious Redeemer ! fill me, I boseech thee, with Divine love ; li;t nie, O my Saviour ! set my affections on thee and tilings above ; take from me this over-carefulness and anxiety after the affairs of this mortal body, and deeply impress on my thouglits the care of my immortal soul. Let me love thee, blessed Lord ! desire thee, and embrace tliy cross when it is offered me. Set before me llie value of eternal happiness, and tlie true worth of human expectations. " O ! detach my heart from self-pleasing, from vanity, and all the busy passions that draw me from thee. Fix it on thy love ; let it be my joy to contemplate thy condescension and thy kindness to man ; may gratitude to my Kedeemer wean me from inclination for his foes ; may it draw me from the objects of the world, the dreams of the senses, 2nd all the power and temptation of the Devil and his angels. " IJemember me, Lord, at thy table ; behold I desire to be with thee : O be thou with me ! If thou art absent, 1 cannot receive comfort even there ; if thou art with me, I cannot miss it. The treasures of eternal life are thine ; O Lord ! give me of those treasures ; give me a foretaste of thy pleasures, that I may look more indifferently upon the earth and its enjoyments. Lord ! where are thy old loving-kindnesses ? Forgive me, most gracious Saviour ; and restore me to thy favour. give me the light of thy countenance, and I shall be whole. Amen !" II. " O, my I^ord God, I will plead my cause before thee, let me not be condemned ; behold, I desire to be thine. O, cast me not away from thee. My sins are great, and often repeated. They are a burthen to me, I sink under them ; Lord, save me, or I perish. Hold out thine hand; my faith trembles ; Lord, save me ere I sink. " I am afflicted in mind, in body, in estate ; Oh ! be thou be my refuge ! I look unto thee for help, from whence all help cometh ; I cast ofi' all depen- dence on the world or mine own endeavours : thou art my God, and I will trust in thee alone. " O Lord Jesus Christ, who didst deliver us from darkness and the shadow of death, illuminate, enlighten me ; comfort me, O Lord, for I go mourn- ing. O be thou with me, and I shall live. Behold, 1 trust in thee, Lord, forsake me not. Amen." III. " I look back on myself, — myself, an ample field of speculation for me. I see there the infant, the child, and all the rapid progress of human life ; the swifter progress of sin and folly, that came with every new day, but did not like the day depart to return no more. " If I die to-morrow — and it may be my lot — shall I not have cause to wish my death had hap- pened at a former period? at a time when I felt strong hope and lively faith ? and what inference will the wish lead me to draw, — a wish for stronger hope and livelier faith, an ardent prayer and due repentance? If not, my wishes will be my tor- ment. Never again to be cheered with the com- forts of divine grace, how sad ! to be totally for- saken of it, how tremendous ! " But I speak of to-morrow, why may it not be to-day ? why not now ? — this instant, I ask my heart the question, it may cease to beat. The thunderbolt may be si)ent on my head. The thunderbolt, did I say? O the importance of a worm's destruction ! A little artery may burst; a small vital chord drop its office ; an invisible organ LIFE OF CRABBE. 25 grow dormant in the brain, and all is over — all over with the clay, and with the immortal all to come. " Of the ten thousand vital vessels, the minute, intricate network of tender- framed machinery, how long have they wrought without destroying the machine ! How many parts necessary to being, liow long held in motion ! Our hours are miracles : shall we say that miracles cease, when, by being, we are marvellous ? No, I should not think the summons wonderful ; nor partial, for younger have been summoned ; nor cruel, for I have abused mercy ; nor tyrannical, for I am a creature, a vessel in the hands of the potter : neither am I without conviction that, if it be better for me to live another day, I shall not die this. " But what of a we, of fear, in such a call ? where is he wiio then tliinks not — if he has permission to think — solemnly ? God his Judge, and God his Redeemer; Terror visible, and Mercy slighted, are then to be heard : — the moment at hand that brings heaven, or hell ! where is an opiate for the soul that wakes then ? " O thou blessed Lord, who openedst the gate of life, let me live in true faith, in holy hope: and let not my end surprise me I Ten thousand thoughts disturb my soul : be, thou greatest and fairest among ten thousand, — be thou with me, O uiy Saviour ! Keturn I retui'n ! and bring nie hope !" IV. " Amid the errors of the best, how shall my soul find safety ? Even by thee, O Lord ! Where is imlettered Hope to cast her anchor ? Even in thy blessed Gospel ! Serious examination, deep humi- lity, earnest prayer, will obtain certainty. " God is good. Christ is our only Mediator and Advocate. He suffered for our sins. By his stripes we are healed. As in Adam all die, so in Christ all are made alive. Whoso believeth shall )e saved. But faith without works is dead. Yet it is the grace of God that worketh in us. Every good and every perfect work comcth from above. Man can do nothing of himself; but Christ is all iu all ; and, Whatsoever things ye shall ask in the name of Jesus, shall be granted. This is sufficient, this is plain ; I ask no philosophic researches, no learned definitions ; I want not to dispute, but to be saved. Lord ! save me, or I perish. I only know my own vileness ; I only know thy suffi- ciency ; these are enough ; witness Heaven and Earth, my trust is in God's mercy, through Jesus Christ, my blessed Redeemer. Amen !"' V. " My God, my God, I put my trust in thee; my troubles increase, my soul is dismayed, I am heavy and in distress; all day long 1 call upon thee : O be thou my helper iu the needful tiuie of trouble. " Why art thou so far from me, O my Lord ? why hidest thou thy face ? I am cast down, I am in poverty and in affliction : be thou with me, O my (Jod ; let me not be wholly forsaken, O njy Re- deemer ! " Behold, I trust in thee, blessed Lord. Guide me, and govern me unto the end. O Lord, my salvation, be thou ever with me. Amen."' ) CHAPTER IV. 178L Mr. Crabbe's Letter to Burke, and its Consequences — Tlie Publication of " The Library " — He is domesticated at Beaconsfield— Takes Orders — Is appointed Curate at Aid- borough. It is to be regretted that Mr. Crabbe's Journal docs not extend over more than three months of the miserable year that he spent in the City. During the whole of that time he experienced nothing but disappointments and repulses. His circumstanees were now, indeed, fearfully cri- tical : absolute want stared him in the face : a gaol seemed the only immediate refuge for his head ; and the best he could hope for was, dis- missing all his dreams of literary distinction, to find the means of daily bread in the capacity of a druggist's assistant. To borrow, without any prospect of repaying, was what his honesty shrunk from ; to beg was misery, and promised, moreover, to be fruitless. A spirit less manly and less religious must have sunk altogether under such an accumulation of sorrows. Mr. Crabbe made one eftbrt more. In his " sketch," he says : " He did not so far mistake as to believe that any name can give lasting re- putation to an undeserving work ; but he was fully persuaded, that it must be some very meri- torious and extraordinary performance, such as he had not the vanity to suppose himself capable of producing-, that would become popular, with- out the introductory j»?o6a^ of some well-known and distinguished character. Thus thinking, and having now his first serious attempt nearly completed, afraid of venturing without a guide, doubtful whom to select, knowing many by reputation, none personally — he fixed, impelled by some propitious influence, in some happy moment, upon Edmund Bukke — one of the first of Englishmen, and, in the capacity and energy of his mind, one of the greatest of human beings." The letter which the young poet addressed to Burke must have been seen by Mr. Prior, when he composed his Life of the great statesman ; but that work had been published for nine years before any of Mr. Crabbe's family were aware that a copy of it had been preserved ; nor had thej' any exact knowledge of the extremity of distress which this remarkable letter describes, until the hand that penned it was in the grave. It is as follows :— " To Edmund Burke, Esq. " Sir, — I am sensible that I need even your talents to apologise for the freedom I now take ; but 1 have a plea which, however simply urged, will, with a mind like yours. Sir, procure me pardon : I am one of those outcasts on the world who are without a friend, without employment, and without bread. 26 LIKE OF CRABBE. " Pardon me a sliort preface. I had a partial father, -who gave me a better education than his broken fortune would have allowed ; and a better than was necessary, as he could give me that only. I was designed for the profession of physic ; but not having wherewithal to complete the requisite studies, the design but served to convince me of a parent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last, I came to London, with three pounds, and tlattered myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries of life, till my abilities should procure me more ; of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity con- tributed to my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only : I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions ; when I wanted bread they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of reputation, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. " Time, reflection, and want, have shown me my mistake. I see my trifles in that which I think the true light ; and whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds them superior to the common run of poetical publications. " I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the brother of Lord Rochford ; in consequence of which I asked his Lordship's permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be free from all political allusions and personal abuse, it was no very material point to me to whom it was dedicated. His Lordship thought it none to him, and obligingly consented to my request. " I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable method for me, and therefore, en- deavoured to circulate copies of the enclosed Pro- posals. " I am afraid, Sir, I disgust you with this very dull narration, but believe me punished in the misery that occasions it. You will, conclude, that, during this time, 1 must have been at more expense than 1 could afford ; indeed, the most parsimonious could not have avoided it. The printer deceived me, and my little business has had every delay. The people with whom I live perceive my situation, and find me to be indigent and without friends. About ten days since, I was compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to avoid an arrest for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to every friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise; the time of payment approached, and I ventured to represent my case to Lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till I received it of my subscribers, which I believe will be within one month : l)ut to this letter 1 had no reply, and I have probably offended by my importunity. Having used every honest means in vain, I yesterday con- fessed my inability, and obtained, with nmcli en- treaty, and as the greatest favour, a week's forbear- ance, when I am positively told, that I must pay the money, or prepare for a prison. " You will guess the purpose of so long an in- troduction. I appeal to you. Sir, as a good and, let me add, a great man. I have no other pre- tensions to your favour tlian that I am an unhappy one. It is not easy to support the thoughts of con- finement ; and I am coward enough to dread such an end to my suspense. " Can you, Sir, in any degree, aid me with pro- priety ? — Will you ask any demonstrations of my veracity? I have imposed upon myself, but I have been guilty of no other imposition. Let me, if possible, interest your compassion. I know those of rank and fortune are teased with frequent petitions, and are compelled to refuse the requests even of those whom they know to be in distress : it is. therefore, with a distant hope I ventured to solicit such favour ; liut you will forgive me. Sir, if you do not think proper to relieve. It is impos- sible that sentiments like yours can proceed from any but a humane and generous heart. " I will call upon you. Sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my fate. My existence is a pain to myself, and every one near and dear to me are dis- tressed in my distresses. My connections, once the source of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my fortune, and I have only to hope a speedy end to a life so unpromisingly begun : in which (though it ought not to be boasted of) I can reap some con- solation from looking to the end of it. I am, Sir. with the greatest respect, your obedient and most humble servant, " George Crabbe." Mr. Burke was, at this period (1781), engaged in the hottest turmoils of jjarliamentary opposi- tion, and his own pecuniary circumstances were by no means vcr\f affluent : j'et he gave instant attention to this letter, and the verses which it enclosed. He immediately appointed an hour for my father to call upon him at his house in London ; and the short interview that ensued, entirely, and for ever, changed the nature of his worldly fortunes. He was, in the common phrase, "a made man" from that hour. He went into Mr. Burke's room, a poor young ad- venturer, spurned by the opulent, and rejected by the publishers, his last shilling gone, and all but his last hope with it : he came out vir- tually secure of almost all the good fortune that, by successive steps, afterwards fell to his lot — his genius acknowledged by one whose verdict could not be questioned — his character and man- ners appreciated and apjjroved by a noble and capacious heart, whose benevolence knew no limits but its power — that of a giant in intellect, who was, in feeling, an unsophisticated child — a bright example of the close afKnity between superlative talents and the warmth of the generous afiections. Mr. Crabbe had afterwards many other friends, kind, liberal, and powerful, who assisted him in his professional career ; but it was one hand alone that rescued him when he was sinJdng. In reflecting upon the conse- quences of the letter to Burke— the happiness, liie exultation, the inestimable benefits that re- sulted to my fatlier, ascribing, indeed, my own existence to that great and good man's conde- scension and pronqit kindness— I ma}' be par- doned for dwelling upon that interview with feelings t)f gratitude which I should but in vain endeavour to express. But sensible as 1 am of the importance ot LIFE OF CRABBE. 27 Mr. Burke's interference in my father's behalf, I would not imply that there was not ample desert to call it lorth. Enlarged as was Mr. Burke's benevolence, had not the writings which were submitted to his inspection possessed the marks of real genius, the applicant would pro- bably liave been dismissed with a little pecuniary assistance. I must add that, even had his poems been evidently meritorious, it is not to be sup- posed that the author would have at once excited the strongest personal interest in such a mind, unless he had, during this interview, exhibited the traits of a pure and worthy character. Nay, had there a]ipeared any offensive peculiarities of manner and address — either presumption or meanness— though the young poet might have received both kindness and patronage, can any one dream that Mr. Burke would have at once taken up his cause with the zeal of a friend, do- mesticated him under his own roof, and treated him like a son ? In mentioning his new protege, a few days afterwards, to Reynolds, Burke said, " He has the mind and feelings of a gentleman." Sir Joshua told this, years later, to my grateful father himself. The autobiographical sketch thus continues the narrative of this providential turn in his affairs : — " To Mr. Burke, the young man, with timidity, indeed, but with the strong and buoyant expectation of inexperience, submitted a large quantity of mis- cellaneous compositions, on a variety of subjects, which he was soon taught to appreciate at their proper "value : yet such was the feeling and tender- ness of his judge, that in the very act of condemna- tion, something was found for praise. Mr. Crabbe had sometimes the satisfaction of hearing, when the verses were bad, that the thoughts deserved better ; and that if he had the common faults of in- experienced writers, he had frequently the merit of thinking for himself. Among those compositions, were two poems of somewhat a superior kind, — 'The Library' and ' The Village:' these were selected by Mr. Burke : and with the benefit of his judgment, and the comfort of his encouraging and exhilarating predictions, Mr. Crabbe was desired to learn the duty of sitting in judgment upon his best efforts, and without mercy rejecting the rest. When all was done that his abilities permitted, and when Mr. Burke had patiently waited the progress of improvement in the man whom he conceived to be capable of it, he himself took ' The Library ' to Mr. Dodsley, then of Pall-Mall, and gave many lines the advantage of his own reading and com- ments. Mr. Dodsley listened with all the respect due to the reader of the verses, and all the apparent desire to be pleased that could be wished by the writer ; and he was as obliging in his reply as, in the very nature of things, a bookseller can be sup- posed to be towards a young candidate for poetical reputation : — ' He had declined the venturing upon anything himself: there was no judging of the probability of success. The taste of the town was exceedingly capricious and uncertain. He paid the greatest respect to Mr. Burke's opinion that the verses were good, and he did in part think so him- self: but he declined tlie hazard of publication; yet would do all he could for Mr. Crabbe, and take care that his poem should have all the benefit he could give it.' " The worthy man was mindful of his engage- ment : he became even solicitous for the success of the work ; and no doubt its speedy circulation was in some degree caused by his exertions. This he did ; and he did more ; — thoueh by no means in- sensible of the value of money, he gave to the author his profits as a publisher and vender of the pamphlet ; and Mr. Crabbe has seized every occa- sion which has offered to make acknowledgment for such disinterested conduct, at a period when it was more particularly acceptable and beneficial. The success of ' The Library ' gave some reputation to the author, and was the occasion of his second poem, ' The Village,' which was corrected, and a considerable portion of it written, in the house of his excellent friend, whose own activity and energy of mind would not permit a young man under his protection to cease from labour, and whose judg- ment directed that labour to its most useful attain- ments. " The exertions of this excellent friend in favour of a young writer were not confined to one mode of affording assistance. Mr. Crabbe was encouraged to lay open his views, past and present ; to display whatever reading and acquirements he possessed : to explain the causes of his disappointments, and the cloudiness of his prospects; in short, he con- cealed nothing from a friend so able to guide inex- perience, and so willing to pardon inadvertency. He was invited to Be acon sfield, the seat of his pro- tector, and was there placed in a convenient apart- ment, supplied with books for his information and amusement, and made a member of a family whom it was honour as well as pleasure to become in any degree associated with. If Mr. Crabbe, noticed by such a man, and received into such a family, should have given way to some emotions of vanity, and supposed there must have been merit on one part, as well as benevolence on the other, he has no slight plea to offer for his frailty, — especially as we conceive it may be added, that his vanity never at any time extinguished any portion of his grati- tude ; and that it has ever been his delight to think, as well as his pride to speak, of Mr. Burke as his father, guide, and friend ; nor did that gentleman ever disallow the name to which his conduct gave sanction and propriety." It was in the course of one of their walks amidst the classical shades of Beaconsfield, that Burke, after some conversation on general litera- ture, suggested by a passage of the Georgics, which he had happened to quote on observing something that was going on in his favourite farm, passed to a more minute inquiry into my father's early days in Suffolk than he had before made, and drew from him the avowal that, with respect to future affairs, he felt a strong partiality for the church. "It is most fortunate," said Mr. Burke, "that your father exerted himself to send you to that second school ; without a little Latin we should have made nothing of vou : 28 LIFE OF CRABBE. L now, I think \vc sliall succeed.'' The fund of general knowledge which my father gradually showed in tliese rambles, much sur])nsed his patron. " Mr. Crabbe," he said early to Sir Joshua Rpynohls, " ai)pcars to know something of everything." Burke himself was a strong advocate for storing the mind with multiform knowledge, rather than confining it to one nar- row line of study ; and he often remarked, that there was no profession in which diversity of information was more useful, and, indeed, ne- cessary, than that of a clergyman. Having rincely dignitj' and grandeur that have distinguished Belvoir in our own day — yet it could not but have been op- ])ressive to a person of Mr. Crabbe's education and disposition. He might not, I can well believe, catch readily the manners appropriate to his station, — his tact was not of that descrip- tion, — and he ever had an ardent passion for personal liberty, inconsistent with enjoyment under the constraint of ceremony. With great pleasure, then, did he always hear of the pre- parations for removing to Cheveley, about the periods of the Newmarket races ; for all there was freedom and ease ; that house was small, the servants few, and the habits domestic. There was another occasion, also, on which ceremony was given to the winds — when the family resorted to Croxton Park (a small seat near Belvoir), to fish in the extensive ponds, &c. These times of relaxation contrasted de- lightfully with the etiquette at the castle. After more than usual ceremony, or more abundant conviviality, I have heard him speak of the relief and pleasure of wandering through the deep glades and secluded paths of the woods, catching beetles, moths, butterflies, and collect- ing mosses, lichens, or other botanical speci- mens; for this employment carried his imagina- tion to those walks in which he had wandered so frequently with his best friend, his chosen companion ; and he already longed for the period when he could call a country |)arsonage his own : nay, he was sometimes tempted to wish to ex- change his station for a much more humble dwelling, and in this mood he once composed some verses, which I have heard him repeat, acknowledging they were not of the most bril- liant description : — " Oh ! had I but a little hut, That I might hide my head in ; Where never guest miijht dare molest Unwelcome or unbiiUlen. I \i take the jokes of other folks. And mine should then succeed 'em, Nor would I chide a little pride, Or heed a little freedom." S;c. &c. Such lines might easily run from the pen froui which ctune, in alter-days — " Strive not too much for favour — seem at ease, And rather pleased thyself, than bent to pledse. Upon tliy lord with decent care attend ; Ue not too near — thou canst not be a friend : . . . LIFE OF CRABBE. 33 " When ladies sing, or in thy presence play, Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away : 'T is not thy part ; there will be listeners round To cry divine, and doat upon the sound ; Remember, too, that though the poor have ears, Tliey take not in the music of the spheres." I have heard my father mention but few oc- currences in this period of his life ; and if I had, the privacy of a family is not to be invaded because of its j)ublic station. But one incident I cannot forliear to mention, as it marked a trait in the Duke's mind peculiarly pleasing — his strong affection for his brother, Lord Robert Manners, who died of woimds received in lead- ing his Majesty's ship Resolution against the enemy's line, in the West Indies, on the me- morable 12th of April, 1782. Some short time previous to his Lordship's death, his hat, per- forated with balls, was sent at the Duke's re- quest to Belvoir Castle. The Duke first held it up with a shout of exultation and triumph — glorying in the bravery of his beloved brother ; and then, as the thought of his danger flashed suddenly into his mind, sank on his chair in a burst of natural and irrepressible feeling. Mr. Crabbe was particularly attached to the unfortunate Mr. Robert Thoroton, a relative of the family, who generally resided at the Castle. He was, it is true, a man of pleasure, and of the world, but distinguished by warm, frank-hearted kindness, and ever evinced a particular predi- lection to my father. He was remarked, even in the Belvoir hunt, for intrepid boldness, and once spurred his horse up the steep terraces to the castle- walls— a mad feat ! Nor was he much less rash when, as my father one day (in an unusual fit of juvenile merriment) was pursuing him, he sprang over the boundary of the glacis — a steep and formidable precipice. He afterwards accompanied the Duke to Ireland, and is men- tioned in the singular work of Sir Jonah Bar- rington. After the Duke's death, he was in- volved in difficulties ; and, under the maddening sufferings of an incurable disorder, he terminated his existence. Among the public characters of that time, the visiters at Belvoir who paid the most attention to Mr. Crabbe were the Duke of Queensberry, the Marquis of Lothian, Dr. Watson the celebrated Bishop of Llandaff, and Dr. Glynn. A few months after Lord Robert's death, my father accompanied his Grace for a few days to London, and went with him to the studio of the royal academician Stothard, where he consoled his sorrow by giving directions for the painting- of the beautiful picture from which the well- known print of the melancholy event is en- graved. It seems to have been on this occasion that he received the following letter — From Mr. Burke. " Dear Sir, — I do not know by what unlucky accident you missed the note I left for you at my house. I wrote besides to you at Belvoir. If you had received these two short letters, you could not want an invitation to a place where every one con- siders himself as infinitely honoured and pleased by your presence. " Mrs. Burke desires her best compliments, and trusts that you will not let the holidays pass over without a visit from you. I have got the poem ; but I have not yet opened it. I don't like the un- happy language you use about these matters. You do not easily please such a judgment as your own — that is natural ; but where you are difficult every one else will be charmed. I am, my dear sir, ever most affectionately yours, " Edmund Burke." By the time the family left Belvoir for the London season, my father had nearly completed for the press his poem of "The Village," the conclusion of which had been suggested by the untimely death of Lord* Robert Manners. Through Sir Joshua Reynolds, he transmitted it to Dr. Johnson, whose kindness was such that he revised it carefully, and whose opinion of its merits was expressed in a note which, though it has often been printed, I must allow myself the gratification of transcribing here. Dr. Johnson to Sir Joshua Reynolds. " March 4, 1783. " Sir, — I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elei;ant. The alterations which I have made I do not require him to adopt ; for my lines are, perhaps, not often better than his own : but he may take mine and his owu together, and, perhaps, between them, produce something better than either. He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced : a wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean. His dedication will be least liked : it were better to contract it into a short sprightly address. I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success, I am, sir, your most humble servant, " Samuel Johnson." Boswell says, " The sentiments of Mr. Crabbe's admirable poem, as to the false notions of rustic happiness and rustic virtue, were quite congenial with Dr. Johnson's own ; and he took the trouble not only to suggest slight cor- rections and variations, but to furnish some lines, when he thought he could give the writer's meaning better than in the words of the manu- script. I shall give an instance, marking the original by Roman, and Johnson's substitution in Italic characters :" " ' In fairer scenes, where peaceful pleasures spring, Tityrus the pride of Mantuan stains might sing ; But, charmed by him, or smitten with liis views, Shall modern poets court tlie Mantuan muse .' From Truth and Nature shall we w idely stra\ , Where Fancy leads, or Virgil led tlie way ? ' " ' On Mincio's banks, in Cfpsm-'s bounteous rciyn. If Tityrus found the golden age again, D 34 LIFE OF CRABBE. Must sleepy bards the Jlattering dream prolong, Meclianick echoes of the Mantuari song ? From Truth and Nature sluUl we widely stray. If 'here Virgil, not w/iere Fancy leads t/ie wayf " " Here," says Boswell, " we find Dr. John- son's poetical and critical powers undiminished. I must, however, observe, that the aids he gave to this poem, as to 'The Traveller' and * De- serted Village' of Goldsmith, were so small, as by no means to impair the distinguished merit of the author."' Mr. Boswell ought to have added, that the six lines he quotes formed the only passage in the poem that was not in sub- stance quite the author's own. The manuscript was also again submitted to the inspection of Mr. Burke ; and he proposed one or two trivial alterations, which my father's grateful feelings induced him to adopt, although they did not appear to himself hnprovenients. There were not wanting, I have heard, yo'e«cfe in Suffolk, who, when " The Village " came out, whispered that " the manuscript had been so cobbled by Burke and Johnson, that Crabbe did not know it again when it was returned to him." If these kind persons survived to read " The Parish Register," their amiable conjectures must have received a sufficient rebuke. " The Village" was published in May, 1783 ; and its success exceeded the author's utmost expectations. It was praised in the leading journals ; the sale was rapid and extensive ; and my father's reputation was, by universal con- sent, greatly raised, and permanently established by this poem. "The Library," and "The Village," are sufficient evidence of the care and zeal with which the young poet had studied Pope ; and, without doubt, he had gradually, though in part perhaps unconsciously, formed his own style mainly on that polished model. But even those early works, and especially " The Village," fairly entitled Mr. Crabbe to a place far above the " mechanick echoes" of the British Virgil. Both poems are framed on a regular and classical plan, — perhaps, in that respect, they may be considered more complete and faultless than any of his later pieces ; and though it is only here and there that they ex- hibit that rare union of force and minuteness for which the author was afterwards so highly dis- tinguished, yet such traces of that marked and extraordinary peculiarity appeared in detached places — above all, in the description of the Parish Workhouse in "The Village" — that it is no wonder the new poet should at once have l)een hailed as a genius of no slender preten- sions. The sudden popularity of " The Village " must have prothiced, after the numberless slights and disappointments already mentioned, and even after the tolerable success of " The ' Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. [>'j. Library," about as strong a revulsion in my father's mind as a ducal chaplaincy in his cir- cumstances ; but there was no change in his temper or manners. The successful author con- tinued as modest as the rejected candidate for publication had been patient and long-suftcr- ing. No sleeping apartment being vacant at the Duke of Rutland's residence in Arlington Street, Mr. Crabbe accidentally procured the very rooms shortly before occupied by the highly talented, but rash and miserable Hackman, the infatuated admirer and assassin of the l^eautiful mistress of the Earl of Sandwich. Here he again found himself in that distinguished society into which Mr. Burke had introduced him. He now very frequently passed his mornings at the easel of Sir Joshua Reynolds, conversing on a variety of subjects, while this distinguished artist was employed upon that celebrated paint- ing the Infant Hercules,^ then preparing for the Empress of Russia. I heard him speak of no public character of that time (except Mr. Burke) with that warmth of feeling with which he regarded Sir Joshua. I have no douljt but that, in some respects, there was a similarity of character — an enlarged mind, and the love of ease and freedom, were common to both ; but it is probable that those qualities also prepossessed my father greatly in his favour which he hinjself did not possess. Sir Joshua was never apparently discomposed by anything under the sun — under all circum- stances, and at all times, he was ever the same cheerful, mild companion, the same perfect gen- tleman — happy, serene, and undisturbed. JNI}' father spoke with particular pleasure of one day passed at that house, when his Grace of Rut- land and a select company dined there — Miss Palmer the great artist's niece, afterwards INIar- chioness of Thomond, presiding. The union of complete, and even homely, comfort and case with perfect polish and the highest manners, had in it a charm which impressed the day espe- cially on his memory. It was now considered desirable that Mr. Crabbe, as the chaplain to a nobleman, should have a university degree ; and the Bishoj) of Llandaff (Dr. Watson) very kindly entered his name on the boards of Trinity College, Cam- bridge, that he might have the privilege of a degree, after a certain number of terms, and without residence. This arrangement, however, had hardly been made, when he received an invitation to dine with Lord Timrlow ; and this is another of those incidents in his life, which I nuicii regret that he himself has given no account of; for I should suppose many expressions characteristic of the rough old Chancellor might have been re- * Sir .Toslina nicntioned tliat this was his fourtli paintiuj; on the Slime canviiss. LIFE OF CRABBE. =n corded. My father only said, that, before he left the house, his noble host, telling him, that, <'l)yG — d, he was as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen," gave him the small livings of Frome St. Quintin, and Evershot, in Dorset- shire ; and Mr. Crabbe, that he might be en- titled to hold this preferment, immediately ob- tained the degree of LL.B. from the Archbishop of Canterbury (Dr. Moore), instead of waiting for it at Cambridge. In the autumn of 1783, after a long absence, my father went to Suffolk ; and Miss Elmy being then at Beccles with her mother, he bent his steps thither; and it was in one of their rides in that neighbourhood, that they had the good fortune to view the great and memorable meteor which appeared in the month of August in that year. At that moment mj: mother and he were returning, in the evening, over a wide open common near Beccles. It was late, dull, and cloudy : in an instant the dark mass opened just in front of them. The clouds were rolled back like a scroll ; and the glorious phenomenon burst forth as large as the moon, but infinitely more brilliant ; majestically sailed across the heavens, varying its form every instant, and, as it were, unfolding its substance in successive sheaths of fire, and scattering lesser meteors, as it moved along. My mother, who happened to be riding behind, said that, even at that awful moment (for she concluded that the end of all things was at hand), she was irresistibly struck with my father's attitude. He had raised him- self from his horse, lifted his arm, and spread his hand towards the object of admiration and terror, and appeared transfixed witli astonish- ment. Mr. Crabbe returned from thence to Belvoir, and again went to London with the family at the latter end of the year. Being now in circum- stances which enabled him to atibrd himself a view of those spectacles which he had hitherto abstained I'rom, and with persons who invited him to accompany them, he went occasionally to the theatres, especially to see Mrs. Siddons. Of her talents he expressed, of course, the most un- bounded admiration ; but I have heard him also speak of Mrs. Abingdon and Mrs. Jordan (the latter especially, in the character of Sir Harry Wildair), in such terms as proved that he fully appreciated the exquisite grace, and then un- rivalled excellency, of those comic actresses. Being one night introduced by Mr. Thoroton into the box of the Prince of Wales's equerries, his royal highness inquired, with some displea- sure, who he was that had so intruded there ; but hearing it was the poetical chaplain of his friend the Duke of Rutland, he expressed him- self satisfied, and a short time after, Mr. Crabbe was presented to his I'oyal highness by his noble patron. Before the end of the year 1783, it was fixed that his Grace of Rutland should soon be ap- pointed liOrd-Lieutenant of Ireland. Had the Chancellor's livings, which Mr. Crabbe held, been of any considerable value, he would no doubt have embraced this opportunity to retire and settle ; but the income derived from them was very trifling, and, as it happened, no pre- ferment on the Belvoir list was then vacant; and therefore, when it was decided that he should remain on this side the (.'hannel and marry, the Duke very obligingly invited him to make the castle his home, till something permanent could be arranged. At parting, the Duke presented him with a portrait of Poi)e, by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and assured him it was his intention to place him in an eligible situation on the first opportunity. He little thought at that time (his Grace being by but a few months his senior) that he should never see his kind and noble patron again. By some it has been thought remarkable that Mr. Crabbe, recommended to the Duke of Rut- land by such a character as Mr. Burke, and afterwards by his own reputation and conduct, should not have accompanied his Grace to Dub- lin, and finally been installed in a dignitary's seat in some Irish cathedral. Whether he had theofi'erof proceeding to Ireland I do not know, but it would have been extremely inconsistent with his strong attachment to Miss Elmy, and his domestic disposition and habits, to have ac- cepted it ; and his irregular education was an efiiectual bar to any very high preferment in the church. That he should not desire to retain his chaplaincy, was not only to be attributed to his wish to settle, but his consciousness that he was by no means calculated to hold such an office. In fact, neither nature nor circumstances had qualified him for it. The aristocracy of genius approaches too near the aristocracy of station: siqjeriority of talent is apt, without in- tention, to betray occasional presumption. It is true, subserviency would be always despised ; but a cool, collected mind — never thrown oft' its guard — pleased with what passes — entering into the interests of the day, but never betrayed into enthusiasm, — is an indispensable qualification for that station. Mr. Crabbe could never con- ceal his I'eelings, and he felt strongly. He was not a stoic, and freedom of living was prevalent in almost all large establishments of that period ; and, when the conversation was interesting, he might not always retire as early as prudence might suggest ; nor, ])erha])s, did he at all times put a bridle to his tongue, for he might feel the riches of his intellect more than the poverty of his station. It is also probable that, brought up in the warehouse of Slaughdcn, and among the uneducated, though nature had given him the disposition of a gentleman — the polite- ness of a mild and Christian spirit — he may at that early period have retained some repulsive d2 marks of the degree from whence he had so lately risen ; he could hardly have acquired all at once the ease and self-possession for which he was afterwards distinguished. I must also add, that although he owed his introduction to Burke, his adherence, however mild, to the Whig tenets of Burke's party may not have much grati- fied the circles of Belvoir. These circumstances will easily account for his not accompanying the family into Ireland, without supposing the least neglect or unkind- ness in his patrons, or any insensibility on their part to his sterling merits : on the contrary, he never ceased to receive from every individual of that noble house the strongest testimonies of their regard ; and he was not only most amply satisfied with the favours they had conferred, but felt a strong personal attachment to the members of the family of both generations. A few weeks before the Duke embarked for Ireland, iny father once more repaired to Suf- folk, and hastened to Beccles with the grateful intelligence that he was at length entitled, with- out imprudence, to claim the long-pledged hand of Miss Elmy. CHAPTER VI. 1784-1792. Mr. Crabbe marries — He rcsitles successively at Belvoir Castle, at his Curacy of Statherii, ami at his Rectory of Muston — Increase of his Family — Publication of " The Newspaper " — Visits and .Tourneys — Ilis mode of Life, Occupations, and Amusements. In the month of December, 1783, my father and mother were married in the church of Beccles, by the Rev. Peter Routh, father to the learned and venerable president of Magdalen College, Oxford. Shortly after, they took up their resi- dence in the apartments destined lor their use, at Belvoir Castle ; but, although there were many obvious advantages to a couple of narrow income in this position, and although the noble owner of the seat had given the most strict orders that their convenience should be cou- sulted in every possible manner by his servants, it was soon Ibund to be a disagreeable thing to inhabit the house, and be attended b}' the do- mestics, of an absent family ; and Mr. Crabbe, before a year and a half had elapsed, took the neighbouring curacy of Stathern, and trans- ferred himself to the humble parsonage attached to that office, in the village of the same name. A child born to my parents, while still at Bel- voir, survived but a few hours ; their next, the writer of these pages, saw the light at Stathern, in November, 1785. They continued to reside in this obscure parsonage for foin- years ; during which two more children were added to their household, — John Crabbe, so long the affection- ate and unwearied assistant of his father in his latter days (born in 1787), — and a daughter (bom in 1789), who died in infancy. Of these i'our years, my father often said they were, on the whole, the very happiest in his life. My mother and he could now ramble together at their ease, amidst the rich woods of Belvoir, without any of the ])ainful feelings which had before checjuered his enjoyment of the place : at home, a garden afforded him healthful exercise and unfailing amusement ; and his situation as a curate prevented him from beinsj drawn into any sort of unpleasant disputes with the villagers about him. His great resource and employment was, I believe, from the first, the study of na- tural history : he cultivated botany, especially that of the grasses, with insatiable ardour. En- tomology was another especial favourite ; and he gradually made himself expert in some branches of geological science also. He copied with his own hand several expensive works on such sub- jects, of which his situation could only permit him to obtain a temporary loan ; and, though manual dexterity was never his forte, he even drew and coloured after the prints in some of these books with tolerable success : but this sort of labour, he, after a little while, discontinued, as an unprofitable waste of time. I may also add, that, in accordance with the usual habits of the clergy then resident in the vale of Belvoir, he made some efforts to become a sportsman ; but he wanted precision of eye and hand to use the gun with success. As to coursing, the cry of the first hare he saw killed, struck him as so like the wail of an infant, that he turned heart-sick from the spot: and, in a word, although Mr. Crabbe did, for a season, make his appearance now and then in a garb which none that knew him in his latter days could ever have suspected him of assuming, the velveteen jacket and all its appurtenances were soon laid aside for ever. He had another employment, which, indeed, he never laid aside until, many years after this time, he became the rector of a po[)ulous town. At Stathern, and at all liis successive country residences, my father continued to practise his original profession among such poor people as chose to solicit his aid. The contents of his medicine chest, and, among the rest, cordials, were ever at their service : lie grudged no per- sonal fatigue to attend the sick-bed of the pea- sant, in the double capacity of physician and priest ; and had often great difficulty in circum- scribing his practice strictly witliin the limits of the poor, for the farmers would willingly have been attended gratis also. On some occasions, he was obliged to act even as accoucheur. I cannot quit this matter without observing, that I have heard it said, by persons who had met my father in liumble abodes of distress, that, however nature might have disqualified him for the art of a surgeon, he exhibited a sagacity LIFE OF CRABBE. 37 which, under better circumstances, might have conducted him to no mean rank as a physician. In the course of 1784, my father contributed a brief memoir of Lord Robert Manners to the Annual Register, published by his friend, Mr. Dodsley ; and in 1785 he appeared again as a poet. " The Newspaper," then published, was considered as in all respects of the same class and merits with " The Library ;" and the au- thor was anew encouraged by the critics, and by the opinions of j\Ir. Burke and others of his eminent friends in London. Yet, successful as his poetical career had been, and highly flatter- ing as was the reception which his works had jjrocured him in the ])olished circles of life, if we except a valueless sermon ]iut forth on the death of his patron, the Duke of Rutland, in 1787, and a chapter on the Natural History of the Vale of Belvoir, which he contributed to Mr. Nichols's account of Leicestershire, shortly afterwards, he, from this time, withdrew entirely from the public view. His '• Parish Register " was published at the interval of tiventy-tivo years after "The Newspaper;" and, from his thirty- first year to his fifty-second, he buried himself completely in the obscurity of domestic and vil- lage life, hardly catching, from time to time, a single glimpse of the brilliant society in which he had for a season been welcomed, and gia- duaily forgotten as a living author by the puljiic, who only, generally speaking, continued to be acquainted with the name of Crabbe from the extended circulation of certain striking passages in his early poems, through their admission into " The Elegant Extracts." It might, under such circumstances, excite little surprise, if I should skip hastily over the whole interval from 1785 to 1807 — or even down to my father's sixtieth year (1813), when he at last reappeared in the metropolis, and figured as a member of various literary institutions there, and among the lions, as they are called, of fashionable life ; — but I feel that, in doing so, I should be guilty of a grave omission ; and I hope the son of such a father will be pardoned for desiring to dwell a little on him as he appeared in those relations which are the especial test of moral worth — which, if well sustained, can impart a brightness to the highest intellectual reputation, and which dwell on my memory as affording the most esti- mable traits of his character. Not long after his marriage, in ))assing through London, on his way to visit his livings in Dor- setshire, he had the satisfaction of presenting his wife to Mr. and Mrs. Burke, when he and she experienced the kindest reception ; but this was only a casual glimpse of his illustrious friend. I believe my father offered him the dedication of "The Newspaper," as well as of some of his earlier publications ; but that great man, proba- l)ly from modesty, declined anything of this kind ; and as for Dr. Johnson, who, no doubt, must have been the next in his view, that giant of literature was by this time lost to the world. In Doi'setshire, they were hospitably received by Mr. Baker, once a candidate for that county ; and they returned charmed with their excursion, yet resumed with undiminished zest the enjoy- ment of their own quiet little parsonage. Never, indeed, was any man more fitted for domestic life than my father ; and, but for cir- cumstances not under his control — especially the delicate state of health into which my mo- ther ere long declined — I am sure no man would have enjoyed a larger share of every sort of domestic happiness. His attachment to his family was boundless ; but his contentment under a long temporary oblivion may a'so, in great ])art, be accounted for, by the unwearied acti- vity of his mind. As the chief characteristic of his heart was benevolence, so that of his mind was a buoyant exuberance of thought and per- petual exercise of intellect. Thus he had an inexhaustible resource within himself, and never for a moment, I may say, suffered under that ennui which drives so many from solitude to the busy search for notoriety. I can safely assert, that, from the earliest time I recollect him, down to the fifth or sixth year before his death, I never saw him (unless in company) seated in a chair, enjoying what is called a lounge — that is to say, doing nothing. Out of doors he had always some object in view — a flower, or a pebble, or his note-book, in his hand ; and in the house, if he was not writing, he was read- ing. He read aloud very often, even when walking, or seated by the side of his wife, in the huge old fashioned one-horse chaise, heavier than a modern chariot, in which they usually were conveyed in their little excursions, and the conduct of which he, from awkwardness and absence of mind, prudently relinquished to my mother on all occasions. Some may be surprised to hear me speak of his writing so much ; but the fact is, that though he for so many years made no fresh appeal to the public voice,' he was all that time busily engaged in compositipn. Numberless were the manuscripts which he completed ; and not a few of them were never destined to see the light. I can well remember more than one grand incremation— not in the chimney, for the bulk of paper to be consumed would have endangered the house — but in the open air— and with what glee his children vied in assisting him, stirring up the fire, and bring- ing him Iresh loads of the fuel as fast as their little legs would enable them. What the various works thus destroyed treated of, I cannot tell ; but among them was an Essay on Botany in English ; which, after he had made great pro- gress in it, my lather laid aside, in consequence merely, I believe, of the remonstrances of the late Mr. Davies, vice-master of Trinity College, Cambridge, with whom he had become casually 38 LIFE OF CRABBE. acquainted, and who, though little tinged with academical ])eciiliarities, could not stomach the notion of degrading such a science by treating of it in a modern language. My father used to say that, had tills treatise come out at the time when his friend arrested its ))rogress, he might perhaps have had the honour of being considered as the first discoverer of more than one addition to the British Flora, since those days introduced to notice, classed and named, by other naturalists. I remember his mentioning, as one instance, the humble trefoil, now known as the Tiifolium siiffocutum. But, even if Mr. Crabbe had sent no " Parish Re- gister" before him, when he, after his long retirement, reappeared in the upper walks of life, there would have been no possibility of sus- pecting that his village existence had been one of intellectual torpor. He mixed, on that occa- sion, with a much wider circle than that to wliich Burke introduced him ; and it was obvious to the few who could compare what he then was with what he had been on his first debut, that all his social feelings had been quickened, all his mental powers expanded and strengthened, in the interval that had passed. Why, such being the case, he for so great a period of his life remained unmoved by the stinmli of reputation or money, or the pleasure of select society, is a question which will never, I suppose, be quite satisfactorily answered. It was, 1 think, in the summer of 1787, that my fatlier was seized, one fine summer's day, with so intense a longing to see the sea, from which he had never before been so long absent, that he mounted his horse, rode alone to the coast of Lincolnshire, sixty miles from his house, dip])ed in the waves that washed the beach of Aldborowgh, and retin-ned to Stathern. During my father's residence here, and also at his other country places, lu; very rarely either paid or received visits, except in his clerical ca- pacity ; but there was one friend whose expand- ing versatility of mind and rare colloquial talents made him a most welcome visiter at Stathern— and he was a very frequent one. I allude to Dr. Ednmnd Cartwright, a poet and a mecha- nist of no small eminence, who at this period was the incumbent of Goadby, and occasionally lived there, though his j)rincipal residence was at Doncaster, where vast machines were worked under his direction. Few persons could tell a good story so well ; no man could make more of a trite one. I can just remember him — th(; portly, dignified, oM gentleman of the last ge- neration — grav(' and j)olite, but lull of humour and spirit. In the sunmier of 1787, my father and mother paid Dr. Cartwright a visit at Don- caster; but when she entered the vast building, full of engines thundering with resistless ]»ower, yet under the apparent management of children, the bare idea of the inevitable hazard attendant on such stupendous undertakings, quite overcame her feelings, and she burst into tears. On their return, Mrs. Elmy paid them a visit, and remained for some months with them. My mo- ther's mother was a calm, composed, cheerful old lady, such as all admire, and as grandchildren adore. She had suHered many heavy afflictions, and had long made it her aim to suppress all violent emotions ; and she succeeded, if perfect serenity of appearance, and the ultimate age of ninety-two, be fair indications of the peace within. In October of the same year occurred a most unexpected event, to which I have already al- luded — the untimely death of the Duke of Rut- land, at the vice-regal palace, in Ireland. My father had a strong personal regard for his Grace, and grieved sincerely for the loss of a kind and condescending friend. Had he che- rished ambitious views, he might have grieved for himself too. I have stated, that the Duke's disposition was generous and social : these traits meeting the spirit of the Irish, whom it was his wish to attach, and the customs of that period unhappily tempting him to prolonged festivity, he became a j)rey to an attack of fever ; and the medical attendants were said to have overlooked that nice ])oint, in infiammatory cases, where re- duction should cease. He was only in the thirty-filth year of his age ; leaving a young and lovely widow, with six children, the eldest in his ninth year. His remains were brought to Belvoir Castle, to be interred in the ftimiiy vault at Bottesford, and my father, of course, was pre- sent at the melancholy solemnity. The widowed Duchess did not forget the pro- tege of her lamented husband : kindly desirous of retaining him in the neighbourhood, she gave him a letter to the Lord Chancellor, earnestly requesting him to exchange the two small liv- ings Mr. Crabbe held in Dorsetshire for two of superioi' value in the vale of Belvoir. My father ])roceeded to London, but was not, on this occa- sion, very courteously received by Lord Thurlow. " No," he growled ; " by G — d, I will not do this for any man in England." But he did it, nevertheless, for a woman in England. The good Duchess, on arriving in town, waited on him personally, to renew her request ; and he yielded. My father, having passed the neces- sary examination at Lambetli, reeeiwd a dispen- sation from the Archbishop, and became rector of Muston, in Leicestershire, and the neighbour- ing parish of .Vllington, in Lincolnshire. It was on the '25th of February, 1789, that Mr. Crabbe left Stathern, and brought his fa- mily to the parsonage of Muston. Soon after this his father died. My grandfather, soon after my grandmother's death, had married again ; and nis new wife bringing home with her several children by a former husband, the house became still more uncomfortable than it LIFE OF CRABP.E. 39 had for many years before been to the members of liis own family. It was on the appearance of these strangers that my uncle William, the hero of the " Farting Hour," went to sea, never to return. For many years, the old man's habits had been undermining his health ; but his end was sudden. I am now arrived at that period of my father's life, when I became conscious of existence : when, if the happiness I experienced was not quite perfect, there was only alloy enough to make it felt the more. The reader himself will judge what must have been the lot of a child of such parents — how indulgence and fondness were mingled with care and solicitude. What a pity it seems that the poignant feelings of early youth should ever be blunted, and, as it were, absorbed in the interests of manhood ; that they cannot remain, together with the stronger stimuli of mature passions — passions so liable to make the heart ultimately selfish and cold. It is true, no one could endure the thoughts of remaining a child for ever; but with all that we gain, as we advance, some of the finer and better spirit of the mind appears to evaporate ; seldom do we again feel those acute and innocent impressions, which recalling for a moment, one could almost cry to retain. Now and then, under peculiar circumstances, this youthl'ul tenderness of feeling docs return, when the spirits are depressed either by fatigue or illness, or some other softening circumstance ; and then, especially if we should ha])pen to hear some pleasing melody, even chimes or distant bells, a flood of early remembrances and warm aft'ections flows into the mind, and we dwell on the past with the fondest regret ; for such scenes are never to return: yet, though painful, these impressions are ever mingled with delight ; we are tenacious of their duration, and feel the better for the transient susceptibility : — indeed transient ; for soon the nnisio ceases, the fatigue yields to rest, the mind recovers its strength, and straightway all is (to such salutary sen- sations) cold and insensible as marble. Surely the most delightful ideas one could connect with this sublunary state would be a union of these vivid impressions of infancy witli the warmth and purity of passion in early youth, and the judgment of maturity : — perhaps such a union might faintly shadow the blessedness that may be hereafter. How delightful is it to recall the innocent feelings of unbounded love, confidence, and respect, associated with my earliest visions of my parents. They appeared to their children not only good, but free from any taint of the cor- ruption common to our nature ; and such was the strength of the impressions then received, that hardly could subsequent experience ever enable our judgments to modify them. Many a happy and indulged child has, no doubt, partaken in the same fond exaggeration ; but ours surely had every thing to excuse it. Alwaysvisibly happy in the happiness of others, especially of children, our father entered into all our pleasures, and soothed and cheered us in all our little griefs with such overflowing tenderness, that it was no wonder we almost worshipped him. My first recollection of him is of his carrying me up to his private room to prayers, in the summer evenings, about sunset, and reward- ing my silence and attention afterwards with a view of the flower-garden through his prism. Then I recall the delight it was to me to be permitted to sleep with him during a confine- ment of my mother's, — how I longed for the morning, because then he would be sure to tell me some fairy tale, of his own invention, all sparkling with gold and diamonds, magic foun- tains and enchanted princesses. In the eye of memory I can still see him as he was at that period of his life, — his fatherly countenance, unmixed with any of the less loveable expressions that, in too many faces, obscure that character — but pre- eminently _/a heard my father read Stednum's Surinau), Park's Africa. Macartney's China, and several similar publications of that jieriod. He read in that natural and easy manner, that permits the whole attention to be given to LIFE OF CRABBE. 45 the subject. Some (I think miscalled " good readers") are so wonderfully correct and em- phatic, that we are obliged to think of the rcad- intr, instead of the story. In repeating anything of a pathetic nature, I never heard his equal ; nay, there was a nameless something about his intonation which could sometimes make even a ludicrous stanza affecting. We had been staying a week at a friend's house (a very unusual circum- stance), and among his large and fine family was one daughter so eminently beautiful and graceful as to excite general admiration ; and the writer (now fifteen) very naturally fancied himself deeply in love with her. On returning home, my heart was too full to trust myself near the chaise, so I rode far behind, calling the setting sun and the golden tints of the west to witness my most solemn determination to raise myself to a rank worthy of this young enchantress. We stopped at an inn to rest the horses, and my father began to read aloud the well-known mock heroic from the " Anti-jacobin," — "Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift ye flew Her neat post-way:on trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view. Forlorn I lanj^uisli'd at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen." In itself the song is an exquisite burlesque ; but the cadence he gave it was entirely irresistible, and at the words, " Sweet, sweet, Matilda Pot- tingen," I could suppress the accumulated grief no longer. " O ho!" said he, " I see how the case is now !" and he shut the book, and soothed me with inexpressible kindness. My father, now about his forty-sixth year, was much more stout and healthy than when 1 first remember him. Soon after that early period, he became subject to vertigoes, which he thought indicative of a tendency to apoplexy ; and was occasionally bled rather profusely, which only increased the symptoms. When he preached his first sermon at Muston, in the year 1789, my mother foreboded, as she afterwards told us, that he would preach very few more : but it was on one of his early journeys into Suffolk, in passing through Ipswich, that he had the most alarming attack. Having left my mother at the inn, he walked into the town alone, and suddenly stag- gered in the street, and fell. He was lifted up by the passengers, and overheard some one say, significantly, " Let the gentleman alone, he will be better by and by ;" for his fall was attributed to the bottle. He was assisted to his room, and the late Dr. Clubbe was sent for, who, after a little examination, saw through the case with great judgment. " There is nothing the matter with your head," he observed, " nor any apo- plectic tendency ; let the digestive organs bear the whole blame : you must take opiates." From that time his health began to amend rapidly, and his constitution was renovated ; a rare effect of opium, for that drug almost always inflicts some partial injury, even when it is ne- cessary ; but to him it was only salutary, and to a constant but slightly increasing dose of it may be attributed his long and generally healthy life. His personal appearance also was improved with his health and his years. This is by no means an uncommon case : many an ordinary youth has widened and rounded into a well-looking digni- fied middle-aged man. His countenance was never ordinary, but health of itself gives a new charm to any features ; and his figure, which in his early years had been rather thin and weakly, was now muscular and almost athletic. During the whole time my father oiEciated in Suffolk, he was a popular preacher, and had always large congregations ; for, notwithstanding what I have observed on this subject, and that he adopted not what are called evangelical prin- ciples, yet was he deemed a gospel preacher : but this term, as it vvas applied then and there, fell short of the meaning it now conveys. It signified simply a minister who urges his flock to virtuous conduct, by placing a future award ever full in their view, instead of dwelling on the temporal motives rendered so prominent at that time by many of his brethren. His style of reading in the desk was easy and natural — at any rate, natural to him, though a fastidious ear might find in it a species of affecta- tion, something a little like assumed authority ; but there was no tone, nothing of sing-song. He read too rapidly, it is true : but surely this was an error on the right side. The extremely slow enunciation of matter so very familiar is enough to make piety itself impatient. In the pulpit he was entirely unafl^ected ; read his ser- mon with earnestness, and in a voice and manner, on some occasions, peculiarly affecting ; but he made no attempt at extempore preaching, and utterly disregarded all the mechanism of oratory. And he had at that time another trait, very desirable in a minister — the most coni])lete ex- emption from fear or solicitude. " I must have some money, gentlemen," he would say, in step- ping from the pulpit. This was his notice of tithe-day. Once or twice, finding it grow dark, he abruptly shut his sermon, saying, " Upon my vv'ord I cannot see ; I must give you the rest when we meet again." Or, he would walk into a pew near a window, and stand on the seat and finish his sermon, with the most admirable in- difference to the remarks of his congregation. He was always, like his own Author-Rector, in the Parish Register, " careless of hood and band," &c. I have mentioned that my mother was attacked, on the death of her son Edmund, by a nervous disorder ; and it proved of an increasing and very lamentable kind ; for, during the hotter months of almost every year, she was oppressed by the deepest dejection of spirits I ever wit- 46 LIFE OF CRABBE. L nessed in any one, and this circumstance alone was sufficient to iindcrniine the happiness of so feeling a mind as my father's. Fortunately for both, there were lonu: intervals, in which, if her spirits were a little too high, the relief to her- self and others was great indeed. Then she would sing over her old tunes again — and be the frank, cordial, charming woman of earlier days. This severe domestic affliction, however, did not seriously interrupt my father's pursuits and studies, although I think it jjrobable that it was one of tlie main causes of that long abstinence from society, which has already been alluded to as one of the most remarkable features in his personal history. He continued at Glemham, as he had done at Parham and Muston, the practice of literary composition. My brother says, in a memorandum now before me, " While searching for and examining plants or insects, he was moulding verses into measure and smooth- ness. No one who observed him at these times could doubt that he enjoyed exquisite pleasure in composing. He had a degree of action while thus walking and versifying, which I hardly ever observed when he was preaching or read- ing. The hand was moved up and down ; the pace quickened. He was, nevertheless, fond of considering poetical composition as a species of task and laboiu", and would say, ' I have been hard at work, and have had a good morn- ing.' " My father taught himself both French and Italian, so as to read and enjoy the best authors in either language, though he knew nothing of their pronunciation. He also continued all through his residence in Sutiblk the botanical and entomological studies to which he had been so early devoted. I rather think, indeed, that this was, of his whole life, the period during which he carried the greatest and most inde- fatigable zeal into his researches in Natural History. There was, jwrhaps, no one of its departments to which he did not, at some time or other, turn with peculiar ardour; but, gene- rally speaking, I should be inclined to say, that those usually considered as tlie least inviting had liie highest attractions for him. In botany, grasses, the most useful, but the least ornamental, were his favourites; in minerals, the earths and sands; in entomology, the minuter insects. His devotion to these pursuits a|jpeared to pioceed purely from the love of science and the increase of knowledge — at all events, he never seemed to be captivated with the mere beauty of natural objects, or even to catch any taste for the arrange- ment of his own spcciuicns. Within the house was a kind of scienliHc confusion ; in the ganien, the usual showy loreigncrs gave place to the most scarce flowers, and especially to the rarer weeds, of Hrituin ; and these were scattered iicre and there only for preservation. In fact, he neither loved order for its own sake, nor had any very high opinion of that passion in others ; witness his words, in the tale of Stephen Jones, the " Learned Boy,"— " The love nf order — I the thing receive From reverend men — and I in part believe— Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs This love, but seldom in the world succeeds. Still has tlie lure of order found a place With all that 's low, degradini;, mean, and base ; AVith all tliat merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace. In the cold miser of all cliange afraid, In pompous men in public seats obeyed. In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones, Kanciers of (lowers, and lads like Stephen Jones ; Order to these is armour and defence, And love of metliod serves for lack of sense." Whatever truth there may be in these lines, it is certain that this insensibility to the beauty of order was a defect in his own mind ; arising from what I must call his want of taste. There are, no doubt, very beautiful detached passages in his writings — passages apparently full of this very quality. It is not, however, in detached parti of a poem that the criterion of this principle properly lies, but in the conduct of the whole ; in the selection of the subject and its amplifica- tions ; in the relative disposition and com])arative prominency of the parts, and in the contrasts afforded by bqaring lightly or heavily on the pencil. In these things Mr. Crabbe is generally admitted to be not a little deficient ; and what can demonstrate the high rank of liis other quali- fications better than the fact, that he could acquire such a reputation in spite of so serious a disadvantage ? This view of his mind, I must add, is confirmed by his remarkable indifference to almost all the proper objects of taste. He had no i-eal love lor [jainting, or music, or archi- tecture, or for «hat a painter's eye considers as the beauties of landscape. But he had a passion for science — the science of the human mind, first ; then, that of nature in general ; and, lastly, that of abstract quantities. His powerful intellect did not seem to require the ideas of sense to move it to enjoyment, but he could xt all times find luxury in the most dry and forbid- ding calculations. One of his chief labours at this period was the completion of the 'English 1 realise on Botany, which I mentioned at an earlier jiage of this narrative, and the destruction of which I still think of with some regret. He had even gone so far as to propose its publication to Mr. Dodsley, before tlie scruples of another inter- fered, and made him put the manuscript into the fire. But amouir other ])rose writings of the same ])criod some were of a class which, \)cv- haps, few have ever suspected Mr. Crabbe of meddling with, though it be one in which so many of his poetical contemporaries have earned high distinction. During one or two of his winters in Sutiblk, he gave most of his evening LIFE OF CRABBE. 47 hours to the writing of Novels, and he brought not less than three such worics to a conclusion. The first was entitled "The Widow Grey;" but I recollect nothing of it except that the principal character was a benevolent humourist, a Dr. Allison. The next was called " Reginald Glanshaw, or the Man who commanded Suc- cess;" a portrait of an assuming, overbearing, ambitious mind, rendered interesting by some generous virtues, and gradually wearing down into idiotism. I cannot help thinking that this Glanshaw was drawn with very extraordinary power; but the stor}' was not well managed in the details. I forget the title of his third novel ; but I clearly remember that it opened with a description of a wretched room, similar to some that are presented in his poetry, and that, on my mother's telling him frankly that she thought the effect very inferior to that of the correspond- ing pieces in verse, he paused in his reading, and, after some reflection, said, " Your remark is just." The result was a leisurely examination of all these manuscript novels, and another of those grand incremations which, at an earlier period, had been sport to his children. The prefaces and dedications to his poems have been commended for simple elegance of language ; nor was it in point of diction, I believe, that his novels would have been found defective, but rather in that want of skill and taste for order and arrangement, which 1 have before noticed as displayed even in his physiological pursuits. He had now accumulated so many j)oetical pieces of various descriptions, that he began to think of appearing once more in the capacity which had first made him known to fame. In the course of the year 1799, he opened a com- munication with Mr. Ilatchard, the well-known bookseller, and was encouraged to prepare for publication a series of jjoems, sufficient to fill a volume — among others, one on the Scripture story of Naaman ; another, strange contrast ! entitled " Gipsy Will ;" and a third founded on the legend of the Pedlar of Swaffham. But before finally committing his reputation to the hazards of a new appearance, he judiciously paused to consult the well-known taste of the Reverend Richard Turner, already mentioned as rector of SwefHing. This friendly critic advised further revision, and his own mature opinion coinciding with that thus modestly hinted, he finally rejected the tales I have named altogether ; deferred for a further period of eight years his re-appearance as a poetical author ; and meantime began '* The Parish Register," and gradually finished it and the smaller pieces, which issued with it from the press in 1807. Since I have been led to mention Mr. Turner in this manner, let me be pardoned for adding, that one of the chief sources of comfort all through my father's residence in SuflPolk was his connection with this honoured man. He con- sidered his judgment a sure safeguard and reliance in all cases practical and literary. The ))eculiar characteristic of his vigorous mind being an interest, not a seeming, but a real interest, in every object of nature and art, he had stored it with multifarious knowledge, and had the faculty of imparting some portion of the interest he felt on all subjects, by the zeal and relish with which he discussed them. With my father he would converse on natural history, as if this had been his whole study ; with my mother, on mechanical contrivances and new inventions, for use or ornament, as if that were an exclusive taste ; while he would amuse us young folks with well-told anecdotes, and to walk or ride with him was considered our happiest privilege. Mr. Turner is too extensively and honourably known to need any such eulogy as I can offer ; but my fathers most intimate friend and chosen critic will forgive the efl['usion of my regard and respect. W^hile at Glernham, as at Parham, my father rarely visited any neighbours except Mr. North and his brother Mr. Long ; nor did he often receive any visiters. But one week in ever}' year was to him, and to all his household, a period of peculiar enjoyment— that during which he had Mr. Turner for his guest. About this time the bishops began very pro- perly to urge all non-resident incumbents to return to their livings ; and Mr. Dudley North, willing to retain my father in his neighbourhood, took the trouble to call upon the Bishop of Lin- coln, Dr. Prettyman, and to request that Mr. Crabbe might remain in Suffolk ; adding, as an argument in favour of the solicited indulgence, his kindness and attention to his present pa- rishioners. But his Lordship would not yield — observing that they of Muston and Allington had a prior claim. " Now," said Mr. North, when he reported his failure, " we must try and procure you an incumbency here ;" and one in his own gift becoming vacant, he very obligingly of- feied it to my father. This living^ was, however, too small to be held singly, and he prepared ulti- mately (having obtained an additional furlough of four years) to return to his own parishes. Ilis strong partiality to Suffolk was not the only motive for desiring to remain in that county, and near to all our relatives on both sides ; he would have sacrificed mere personal inclination without hesitation, but he was looking to the in- terests of his children. In the autumn of 1801, Mr. North and his brother, having a joint property in the Glemham estate, agreed to divide by selling it ; and in Oc- tober we left this sweet place, and entered a house at Rendhani, a neighbouring village, for the four years we were to remain in the East Angles. I * 'I'he two ttlemhams, both in tlie gift of Mrs. Nortli, were lately presented to my brother .John, w lio is now the incum- bent. 48 LIFE OF CRABBE. Ill July, 1802, my father paid his last visit to Muston, previous to his final return. We passed through Cambridge in the week of the com- mencement ; and he was introduced by the Vice-Master of Trinity to the present Duke of Rutland, whom he had not seen since he was a child, and to several other public characters. I then saw from the gallery of the Senate House the academical ceremonies in all their imposing effect, and viewed them with the more interest, because I was soon after to be admitted to Tri- nity. The area below was entirely filled. Tlie late Duchess of Rutland attracted much admira- tion. There were the Bishops of Lincoln and Bath and Wells, and many others of high rank ; but, conspicuous above all, the commanding height and noble bust, and intellectual and dig- nified countenance of Mr. Pitt. I fancied — perhaps it was onlv partiality — that there was, in that assembly, another high forehead very like his. My father haunted the Botanic Garden when- ever he was at Cambridge, and he had a strong partiality for the late worthy curator, Mr. James Donn. " Donn is — Donn is," said he one day, seeking an appropriate epithet, — " a man," said my mother ; and it was agreed that it was the very word. And, should any reader of these pages remember that independent, unassuming, but uncompromising character, he will assent to the distinction. He had no little-minded sus- picions, or narrow self interest. He read my lather's character at once — felt assured of his honour, and when he rang at the gate for ad- mission to pass the morning in selecting such duplicates of plants as could be well spared from the garden, Donn would receive us with a grave, benevolent smile, which said, " Dear Sir, you are freely welcome to wander where, and to se- lect what, you will — I am sure you will do us no injury." On our return through Cambridge, I was ex- amined, and entered ; and in October, 1803, went to reside. When I left college for the Christmas vacation, I found my father and mo- ther stationed at Aldborough for the winter, and was told of a very singular circumstance which had occurred while I was absent. My father had received a letter from a stranger, signing his name " Aldersey " (dated from Ludlow), stating that, having read his publications, he felt a strong inclination to have the pleasure of his so- ciety — that he possessed property enough for both, and requested him to relincjuish any en- gagements he might have of a professional nature, and reside with him. The most remarkable part of the matter was, the perfect coherency with which this strange offer was expressed. One day about this time, casually stepping into a bookseller's at Ipswich, my father first saw the " Lay of the last Minstrel." A few words only riveted his attention, and he read it nearly through while standing at the counter, observ- ing, *' a new and great poet has a|)peared I " How often have I heard iiiui repeat those striking lines near the commencement of that poem : — " The lady 's gone into lier secret cell, Jesu Maria ! shield us well! " He was for several years, like many other readers, a cool admirer of the earlier and shorter poems of what is called the Lake School ; but, even when he smiled at the exceeding simplicity of the language, evidently found something in it peculiarly attractive ; for there were few modern vvorks which he opened so frequently — and he soon felt and acknowledged, with the public, that in that simplicity was veiled genius of the greatest magnitude. Of Burns he was ever as enthusiastic an admirer as the warmest of his own countrymen. On his high appreciation of the more recent works of his distinguished con- temporaries, it is needless to dwell.* I have not much more to say with respect to my father's second residence in Suffolk ; but I must not dismiss this period— a considerable one in the sum of his life — without making some allu- sion to certain rumours which, long before it terminated, had reached his own parish of Muston, and disinclined the hearts of many of the country people thereto receive him, when he again returned among them, with all the warmth of former days. When first it was reported among those villagers by a casual traveller from •Suffolk, that Mr. Crabbe was a Jacobin, there were few to believe the story — " it must be a loy, for the rector had always been a good, kind genlleman, and much noticed ky (he Duke ;" but by degrees the tale was more and more dissem- inated, and at length it gained a jiretty general credence among a ])opulation which, being purely agricultural — and, therefore, connecting every notion of wiiat was praiseworthy with the maintenance of the war that, undoubtedly, had raised agricultural ])rices to an unprecedented scale — was affected in a manner extremely dis- agreeable to my father's feelings, and even worldly interests, by such an im])rcssion as thus * My brotlier says on this subject — " He heartily assented to the maxim, tliat — allowing a fair time, longer in some cases than in otliers — a. booli would lind its proper level ; and tliat a well-filled theatre would form a just opinion of a play or an actor. Yet lie would not timidly wait the decision of the public, but i;ive his opinion freely. Soon after Waverley ap- peared, he was in a company where a <;entleman of some literary wei^'lit was spe.ikinfj of it in a dispani^inf; tone. A lady tlefended the new novel, but with a timid reserve. Mr. Cral)l)e called out, ' Do not be frifjliten ■(!, Madam ; you are riglit : speak your opinion boldly.' Yet he did not alto'^ther like Sir Walter's principal male characlers. He tliouj^ht they wanted gentleness and urbanity ; especially Quentin Uiirward, Halbert Glendi'ining, and Nigel. He said t'olonel Manner- ing's age and tx-culiar situation excused his haughtiness ; but he disliked fierceness and glorving, and tlie trait lie especially admired in I'rince Henry, wasliis greatness of mind in yield- ing tlie credit of Hotspur's deatli to liis old companion Falstafi'. Henry, at Agincouxt, ' covetous of honour,' was ordinary, he said, to this." LIFE or CRABBE. 49 originated. The truth is, that my father never was a politician — that is to say, he never al- lowed political affairs to occupy much of his mind at any period of his life, or thought either better or worse of any individual ibr the bias he had received. But he did not, certainly, approve of the origin of the war that was raging while he lived at Parham, Glemham, and Rendham ; nor did he ever conceal his opinion, that this war might have been avoided — and hence, in pro- portion to the weight of his local character, he gave offence to persons maintaining the diametri- cally opposite view of public matters at that pecu- liar crisis. As to the term Jacobin, I shall say only one word. None could have been less fitly ap- plied to him at any period of his life. He was one of the innumerable good men who, indeed, hailed the beginning of the French Revolution, but who execrated its close. No syllable in ap- probation of Jacobins or Jacobinism ever came from his tongue or from his pen ; and as to the " child and champion of Jacobinism," Napoleon had not long pursued his career of ambition, be- fore my father was well convinced that to put him down was the first duty of every nation that wished to be happy and free. With respect to the gradual change which his early sentiments on political subjects in general unquestionably underwent, I may as well, per- haps, say a word or two here ; tor the topic is one I have no wish to recur to again. Perhaps the natural tendency of every young man who is conscious of powers and capabilities above his station, is, to adopt what are called popular or liberal opinions. He peculiarly feels the disadvantages of his own class, and is tempted to look with jealousy on all those who, with less natural talent, enjoy superior privileges. But, if this young man should succeed in raising him- self by his talents into a higher walk of society, it is perhaps equally natural that he should im- bibe aristocratic sentiments : feeling the reward of his exertions to be valuable in proportion to the superiority of his acquired station, he be- comes an advocate for the privileges of rank in general, reconciling his desertion of the exclusive interests of his former caste, by alleging the facility of his own rise. And if he should be assisted by patronage, and become acquainted with his patrons, the principle of gratitude, and the opportunity of witnessing the manners of the great, would contribute materially to this change in his feelings. Such is, probably, the natural tendency of such a rise in society; and, in truth, I do not think Mr. Crabbe's case was an excep- tion. The popular opinions of his father were, I think, originally embraced by him rather from the unconscious influence I have alluded to, than from the deliberate conviction of his judg- ment. But his was no ordinary mind, and ho did not desert them merely from the vulgar motive of interest. At Belvoir he had more than once to drink a glass of salt water, because he would not join in Tory toasts. He preserved his early partialities through all this trying time of Tory patronage ; and of course he felt, on the whole, a greater political accord with the owner of Glemham and his distinguished guests. But when, in the later portion of his life, he became still more intimate with the highest ranks of society, and mingled with them, not as a young person whose fortune was not made, and who had therefore to assert his independence, but as one whom talent had placed above the suspicion of subserviency ; when he felt the full advantages of his rise, and became the rector of a large town, and a magistrate, I think again, the aris- tocratic and Tory leanings he then showed were rather the effect of these circumstances than of any alteration of judgment founded upon de- liberate inquiry and reflection. But of this I am sure, that his own passions were never vio- lently enlisted in any political cause whatever ; and that to purely party questions he was, first and last, almost indifiierent. The dedication of his poems to persons of such opposite opinions arose entirely from motives of personal gratitude and attachment ; and he carried his impartiality so far, that I have heard him declare, he thought it very immaterial who were our representatives in parliament, provided they were men of in- tegrity, liberal education, and possessed an adequate stake in the country. I shall not attempt to defend this apathy on a point of such consequence, but it accounts for circumstances which those who feel no such moderation might consider as aggravated in- stances of inconsistency. He not only felt an equal regard ibr persons of both parties, but would willingly have given his vote to either ; and at one or two general elections, I believe he actually did so ; — for example, to Mr. Benett, the Whig candidate for Wiltshire, and to Lord Douro and Mr. Croker,® the Tory candidates at Aldborough. 6 I take the liberty of quoting what follows, from a letter with which I have lately been honoured by the Ri^ht Honour- able J. W. Croker : — " I have heard, from those who knew Mr. Crabbe earlier than I had the pleasure of doing (and his communications with me led to the same conclusion), that he never was a violent nor even a zealous politician. He was, as a conscientious clergyman might be expected to be, a church- and-king man ; but he seemed to me to think and care less about party politics than any man of his condition in life that I ever met. At one of my elections for Aldeburijh, he hap- pened to be in the neighbourhood, and he did me the honour of attending in the Town Hall, and proposing me. This was, I suppose, the last act of his life vviiich had any reference to politics — at least, to local politics; for it was, I believe, his last visit to the place of his nativity. My opinion of his admirable works, I took the liberty of recording in a note on Boswell's Johnson. To that opinion, on reconsideration, and frequent reperusalsof his poems, I adhere with increased con- fidence ; and I hope you will not think me presumptuous for adding, that I was scarcely more struck by his genius, than by the amiable simplicity of his manners, and the dignified modesty of his mind. With talents of a much hi;;her order, he realised all that we read of the personal amiability of Gay.' Tlie note on Boswell, to which Mr. Croker here refers, is in these terms : — " The w ritings of this amiable gentleman have placed him high on the roll of British poets ; though his E 50 LIFE OF CRABBE. lie says, in a letter on this subject, " With respect to the parties themselves, Whig and Tory, I can but think, two dispassionate, sensi- ble men, who have seen, read, and observed, will approximate in their sentiments more and more ; and if they conler together, and argue, — not to convince each other, but ibr pure informa- tion, and with a simple desire for the truth, — the ultimate difference will be small indeed. The Tory, for instance, would allow that, but for the Revolution in this country, and the noble stand against the arbitrary steps of the house of Stuart, the kingdom would have been in danger of becoming what France once was ; and the Whig must also grant, that there is at least an equal danger in an unsettled, undefined demo- cracy ; the ever-changing laws of a popular go- vernment. Every state is at times on the in- clination to change : either the monarchical or the })opular interest will predominate ; and in the former ca>e, I conceive, the well-meaning Tory will incline to Whiggism, — in the latter, the"^honest W^hig will take the part of declin- ing monarchy." I quote this as a proof of the political moderation I have ascribed to him ; and I may appeal with safety, on the same head, to the whole tenour, not only of his published works, but of his private conversations and pas- toral discourses. We happened to be on a visit at Aldborough, when the dread of a French invasion was at its height. The old artillery of the fort had been replaced by cannon of a large calibre ; and one, the most weighty I remember to have seen, was constantly primed, as an alarm gun. About one o'clock one dark morning, I heard a distant gun at sea ; in about ten minutes another, and at an equal interval a third : and then at last, the tre- mendous roar of the great gun on the fort, which shook every house in the town. After inquir- ing into the state of affairs, I went to my father's room, and, knocking at the door, with difficulty waked the inmates, and said, " Do not be alarmed, but the French are landing." I then mentioned that the alarm gun had been fired, that horsemen had been despatched for the troops at Ipswich, and that the drum on the quay was then beating to arms. He replied, " Well, my old fellow, you and I can do no good, or we would be among them ; we must wait the event." I returned to his door in about three quarters of an hour, to tell him that the agitation was subsiding, and found him fast asleep. Whether the atliiir was a mere blunder, havinif takfn a view of life too rainiitp, too liumiliatinf;, too painful, and too just, may have deprived his works of so ex- tensive, or, at least, so l)rilliaiil, a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attaiueil ; but I venture to believe that there is no poet of his limes who will stand hlj-her in the opinion of posterity. He generally deals with ' tlie short and simple annals of the poor ;' but tie exhibits them with such a deep knowled;.'e of human nature, with such general ease and simplicilv, and such accurate force of expression — whether gay or 'pathetical,— as, in my humble judgment, no poet except Sliukspeare, has excel. cd." or there had been a concerted manoeuvre to try the fencibles, we never could learn with cer- tainty ; but I remember that my father's cool- ness on the occasion, when we mentioned it next day, caused some suspicious shakings of the head among the ultra-loyalists of Aldborough. But the time was now at hand that we were all to return finally to Leicestershire ; and when, in the year 1805, we at length bade adieu to Suffolk, and travelled once more to Muston, my father had the full expectation that his changes of residence were at an end, and that he would finish his days in his own old parsonage. 1 must indulge myself, in closing this chapter, with part of the letter which he received, when on the eve of starting for Leicestershire, from the honoured rector of Sweffling : — " It would be very little to my credit, if I could close, without much concern, a connection which has lasted nearly twelve years, — no inconsiderable part of human life, — and never was attended with a cross word or a cross thought. My parish has been attended to with exemplary care ; 1 have ex- perienced the greatest friendship and hospitality from you and Mrs. Crabbe; and 1 have never visited or left you without bringing away with me the means of improvement. And all this must return no more ! Such are the awful conditions upon which the comforts of this life must be held. Accept, my dear sir, my best thanks for your whole conduct towards me, during the whole time of our connection, and my best wishes for a great increase of happiness to you and Mrs. Crabbe, iu your removal to the performance of more immediate duties. Your own parishioners will, I am per- suaded, be as much gratified by your residence amongst them as mine have been by your residence in Suffolk. Our personal intercourse must be some- what diminished ; yet, I hope, opportunities of seeing each other will arise, and if subjects of correspond- ence be less frequent, the knowledge of each other's and our families' welfare will always be acceptable information. Adieu, my dear sir, for the present. Your much obliged and faithful friend, R. Tubxeii." O CHAPTER VIII. 1805—1814. Mr. Crabbe's second Residence at Muston — Publication of " The Parish Register" — Letters from Imminent Individuals — Visit to Cambridge — Appearance of " The Borough," and of the " Tales in Verse" — Letters to and from Sir Walter Scott and others— A Month in London — The Prince Ite- gent .at Bel voir — Death of Mrs. Crabbe — Mr. Crabbe's Removal from Leicestershire— Lines written at Glemham after my Mother's decease. When, in October, 1805, Mr. Ciat>be resumed the charge of his own parish of Muston, he found some changes to vex him, and not the less, l)ccause he had too much reason to suspect that his long absence from his incumbency had been, partly at least, the cause of them. His cure had !)ccn served by respectable and diligent clergy- J LIFE OF CRABBE. 51 men, but they had been often changed, and some of them had never resided within the parish ; and he felt that the binding influence of a settled and permanent minister had not been withdrawn for twelve years with impunity. A Wesleyan missionary had formed a thriving establishment in Muston, and the congregations at the parish church were no longer such as they had been of old. This much annoyed my father ; and the warmth with which he began to preach against dissent only irritated himself and others, without bringing back disciples to the fold. But the progress of the Wesleyans, of all sects the least unfriendly in feeling, as well as the least dissimilar in tenets, to the established church, was, after all, a slight vexation com- pared to what he underwent from witnessing the much more limited success of a disciple of Huntington in spreading in the same neighbour- hood the pernicious fanaticism of his half-crazy master. The social and moral effects of that new mission were well calculated to excite not only regret, but indignation ; and, among other distressing incidents, was the departure from his own household of two servants, a woman and a man, one of whom had been employed by him for twenty years. The man, a conceited plough- man, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher him- self; and the woman, whose moral character had been sadly deteriorated since her adoption of the new lights, was at last obliged to be dis- missed, in consequence of intolerable insolence. I mention these things, because they may throw light on some passages in my father's later poetry. By the latter part of the year 1806, Mr. Crabbe had nearly completed his " Parish Re- gister," and the shorter poems that accompanied it, and had prepared to add them to a new edi- tion of his early works ; and his desire to give his second son also the benefits of an academical education was, I ought to add, a princij)al mo- tive for no longer delaying his re-appearance as a poet. He had been, as we have seen, pro- mised, years before, in Suffolk, the high advan- tage of Mr. Fox's criticism ; but now, when the manuscript was ready, he was in office, and in declining health ; so that my father felt great reluctance to remind him of his promise. He vv rote to the great statesman to say that he could not hope, under such circumstances, to occupy any portion of his valuable time, but that it would attbrd much gratification if he might be permitted to dedicate the forthcoming volume to Mr. Fox. That warm and energetic spirit, however, was not subdued by all the pressure of his high functions added to that of an incurable disease; and " he repeated an offer," says my father, in his preface, "which, though 1 had not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive." Tlie manuscript was immediately sent to him at St. Anne's Hill ; " and," continues Mr. Crabbe, " as I have the information from Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission to inform my readers, the poem which I have named ' The Parish Register,' was heard by Mr. Fox, and it excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the whole. Whatever he approved the reader will readily believe I carefully retained ; the parts he disliked are totally expunged, and others are substituted, which, I hope, resemble those more conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge. Nor can I deny mj'self the melancholy satisfac- tion of adding, that this poem (and more espe- cially the story of Phoebe Dawson, with some parts of the second book), were the last com- positions of their kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great man." In the same preface my father acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Tur- ner. " He, indeed," says Mr. Crabbe, " is the kind of critic for whom every poet should de- voutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be happy to acquire. To this gentleman I am indebted more than I am able to express, or than he is willing to allow, for the time he has bestowed upon the attemi)ts I have made." This preface is dated Muston, September, 1807 ; and in the same month the volume was published by Mr. Hatchard. It contained, with the earlier series, " The Parish Register," " Sir Eustace Grey," " The Birth of Flattery," and other minor pieces ; and its success was not only decided, but nearly unprecedented. By " The Parish Register," indeed, my father must be considered as having first assumed that station among British poets which the world has now settled to be peculiarly his own. The same character was afterwards still more strikingly exemplified and illustrated — but it was hence- forth the same ; whereas there was but little in the earlier series that could have led to the expectation of such a performance as " The Register." In the former works, a few minute descriptions had been introduced — but here there was nothing but a succession of such descriptions ; in them there had been no tale — this was a chain of stories ; they were didactic — here no moral inference is directly inculcated : finally, they were regularly constructed poems — this boldly defies any but the very slightest and most transparently artificial connections. Thus differing from his former self, his utter dissimilarity to any other author then enjoying public favour was still more striking ; the man- ner of expression was as entirely his own as the singular minuteness of his delineation, and the strictness of his adherence to the literal truth of nature ; and it was now universally admitted, that, with lesser peculiarities, he mingled the conscious strength, and, occasionally, the pro- found pathos, of a great original poet. Nor was '* Sir Eustace Grey " less admired E 2 62 LIFE OF CRABBE. on other grounds, than " The Parish Register" was for the singular combination of excellences which I have been faintly alluding to, and which called forth the warmest eulogy of the most powerful critical authority of the time, which was moreover considered as the severest. The other periodical critics of the day agreed sub- stantially with the " Edinburgh Review ;" and I believe that within two days after the appear- ance of Mr. Jeffrey's admirable and generous article, Mr. Hatchard sold off the whole of the first edition of these poems. Abundantly satisfied with the decision of pro- fessional critics, he was further encouraged by the approbation of some old friends and many distinguished individuals to whom he had sent copies of his work ; and I must gratify myself by inserting a few of their letters to him on this occasion. From Mr. Bonnycastle. " Woolwich Common, Oct. 24, 1807. " Deak Sir, — Being from home when your kind letter, with a copy of your Poems, arrived, I had no opportunity of answering it sooner, as I should cer- tainly otherwise have done. The pleasure of hear- ing from you, after a silence of more than twenty- eight years, made me little solicitous to inquire how it has happened that two persons, who have always mutually esteemed each other, should have no intercourse whatever for so long a period. It is sufBcient that you are well and happy, and that you have not forgot your old friend; who, you may be assured, has never ceased to cherish the same friendly remembrance of you. — You are as well known in my family as you are pleased to say I am in yours ; and whenever you may find it convenient to come to this part of the world, both you and yours may depend upon the most sincere and cor- dial reception. I have a daughter nearly twenty, a son upon the point of becoming an officer in the engineers, and two younger boys, who at this mo- ment are deeply engaged in your poems, and highly desirous of seeing the author, of whom they have so often heard me speak. They are, of course, no great critics ; but all beg me to say, that they are I much pleased with your beautiful verses, which I I promised to read to them again when they have done ; having conceded to their eagerness the pre- mices of the treat. It affords me the greatest grati- fication to find that, in this world of chances, you I are so comfortably and honourably established in j your profession, and I sincerely hope your sons 1 may be as well provided for. I spent a few days j at Cambridge a short time since, and had I known ] they had been there, I should not have failed mak- , ing myself known to them, as an old friend of their ! father's. For myself, I have had little to complain of, except the anxiety and fatigue attending the duties of my calling; l)ut as I have lately succeeded to the place of Dr. Hutton, who has resigned the attendance at the academy, this has made it more easy, and my situation as respectable and pleasant as I could have any reason to expect. Life, as my friend Fuseli constantly repeats, is very short, therefore do not delay coming to see us any longer than you can possibly help. Be assured we shall all rejoice at the event. In the mean time, believe me, my dear Sir, your truly sincere friend, J. Bonnycastle." From Mrs. Burked " Beacoiistleld, Nov. 30, 1807. " Sir, — I am much ashamed to find that your very kind letter and very valuable present have remained so long unacknowledged. But the truth is, when I received them, I was far from well ; and procrastination being one of my natural vices, I have deferred returning you my most sincere thanks for your gratifying my feelings, by your beautiful preface and poems. I have a full sense of their value and your attention. Your friend never lost sight of Avorth and abilities. He found them in you, and was most happy in having it in his power to bring them forward. I beg you. Sir, to believe, and to be assured, that your situation in life was not indifferent to me, and that it rejoices me to know that you are happy. I beg my compliments to Mrs. Crabbe, and my thanks for her remembering that I have had the pleasure of seeing her. I am. Sir, with great respect and esteem, &c. " ,Iane Burke." Fiom Dr. Mansel.^ "Trinity Lodge, Cambridge, Oct. 2th. — Call at Mr. Rogers's and go to Lady Spencer. Go with Mr. Rogers to dine at High- bury with his brother and family. Miss Rogers the same at Highbury as in town. Visit to Mr. John Nichols. He relates the story of our meeting at Muston, and inquires for John, &c. His daugh- ters agreeable women. Mr. Urban wealthy. Ar- rive at home in early time. Go to Pall Mall Coffee- house and dine. Feel hurt about Hampstead. Mr. Rogers says I must dine with him to-morrow, and that 1 consented when at Sydenham ; and now cer- tainly they expect me at Hampstead, though I have made no promise. •' 1th. — Abide by the promise, and take all pos- sible care to send my letter ; so that Mr. Hoare ' ' may receive it before dinner. Set out for Holborn Bridge to obtain assistance. In the way find the Hampstead stage, and obtain a promise of delivery in time. Prepare to meet our friends at Mr. Rogers's. Agree to go to Mr. Phillips, and sit two hours and a half. Mrs. Phillips a very agreeable and beautiful woman. Promise to breakfast next morning. Go to Holborn. Letter from Mr. Frere. Invited to meet Mr. Canning, &c. Letter from Mr. Wilbraham. Dinner at Mr. Rogers's with Mr. " The late Samuel Hoare, Ksq., of Hampstead. Moore and Mr. Campbell, Lord Strangford, and Mr. Spencer. Leave them, and go by engagement to see Miss O'Neil, in Lady Spencer's box. Meet there Lady Besborough, with whom I became ac- quainted at Holland House, and her married daugh- ter. Lady B. the same frank character ; Mr. Gren- ville the same gentle and polite one : Miss O'Neil natural, and I think excellent ; and even her ' Ca- therine,' especially in the act of yielding the supe- riority to the husband, well done and touching. Lady Besborough obligingly offers to set me down at twelve o'clock. Agreed to visit the Hon. W. Spencer '^ at his house at Petersham, and there to dine next day with Mr. Wilbraham. " 8ore for its truth than its elo- quence, I here venture to cite : ' Of Mr. Crabbe, the speaker would say, that the Musa severior which he worships has had no influence whatever on the kindly dispositions of his heart: but that, while, with the eye of a sage and a poet, he looks penetratingly into the darker region of human nature, he stands surrounded by its most genial light himself.' " In the summer of the year 1824, I passed a few days in his company at Longleat, the noble seat of the Marquis of Bath; and it was there, as we walked about those delicious gardens, that he, for the first timt, told me of an unpublished poem which he had by him, entitled, as I think he then said, the ' Departure and the Return,' and the same, doubtless, which you are now about to give to the world. Among the visiters at Longleat, at that time, was the beautiful Madame * * *, a Genoese lady, whose knowledge and love of English litera- ture rendered her admiration of Crabbe's genius doubly flattering. Nor was either the beauty or the praises of the fair Italian thrown away upon the venerable poet; among whose many amiable attri- butes a due appreciation of the charms of female society was not the least conspicuous. There was, indeed, in his manner to women, a sweetness bor- dering rather too much upon what the Fi'ench call doucereux, and I remember hearing Miss * * *, a lady known as the writer of some of the happiest jeux d'esprit of our day, say once of him, in allu- sion to this excessive courtesy — 'the cake is no doubt very good, but there is too much sugar to cut through in getting at it.' "In reference to his early intercourse with Mr. Burke, Sir James Mackintosh had, more than once, said to me, ' It is incumbent on you, Moore, who are Crabbe's neighbour, not to allow him to leave this world without putting on record, in some shape or other, all that he remembers of Burke.' On mentioning this to Mr. Kogers, when he came down to Bowood, one summer, to meet Mr. Crabbe, it was agreed between us that we should use our united efforts to sift him upon this subject, and endeavour to collect whatever traces of Beaconsfield might still have remained in his memory. But, beyond a few vague generalities, we could extract nothing from him whatever, and it was plain that, in his memory at least, the conversational powers of the great orator had left but little vestige. The range of subjects, indeed, in which INIr. Crabbe took any interest was, at all times of his life, very limited ; and, at the early period, when he became ac- quainted with Mr. Burke, when the power of poetry was but newly awakening within him, it may easily be conceived that whatever was unconnected with his own absorbing art, or even with his own peculiar pro-vince of that art, would leave but a feeble and transient impression upon his mind. " This indifi'erence to most of the general topics, whether of learning or politics, which diversify the conversation of men of the world, INIr. Crabbe re- tained through life; and in this peculiarity, I think, lay one of the causes of his comparative ineffi- ciency, as a member of society, — of that impression, so disproportionate to the real powers of his mhid, which he produced in ordinary life. Another cause, no doubt, of the inferiority of his conversa- tion to his writings is to be found in that fate which threw him, early in life, into a state of de- \ LIFE OF CRABCE. I pendent intercourse with persons far superior to him in rank, but immeasurably beneath him in intellect. The courteous policy which would then lead him to keep his conversation down to the level of those he lived with, afterwards grew into a habit which, in the commerce of the world, did injustice to his great powers. " You have here all that, at this moment, occurs to me, in the way either of recollection or remark, on the subject of our able and venerated friend. The delightful day which Mr. Eogers and myself passed with him, at Sydenham, you have already, I believe, an account of from my friend, Mr. Campbell, who was our host on the occasion. Mr. Lockhart has, I take for granted, communicated to you the amusing anecdote of Crabbe's interview with the two Scotch lairds — an anecdote which I cherish the more freshly and fondly in my memory, from its having been told me, with his own peculiar humour, by Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford. I have, therefore, nothing further left than to assure you how much and truly I am, yours, " Thomas Moore." During his first and second visits to London, my father spent a good deal of his time beneath the hospitable roof of the late Samuel Hoare, Esquire, on Hampstead Heath. He owed his introduction to this respected family to his friends, Mr. Bowles, and the author of the delightful " Excursions in the West," Mr. Warner ; and though Mr. Hoare was an invalid, and little disposed to form new connections, he was so much gratified with Mr. Crabbe's man- ners and conversation, that their acquaintance soon grew into an affectionate and lasting inti- macy.'^^ Mr. Crabbe, in subsequent years, made Hampstead his iiead-quartcrs on his spring visits, and only repaired i'rom thence occasionally to the brilliant circles of the metropolis. Ad- vancing age, failing health, the tortures of tic douloureux, with which he began to be afflicted about 1820, and, I may add, the increasing earnestness of his devotional feelings, rendered him, in his closing years, less and less anxious to mingle much in the scenes 'of gaiety and fashion. The following passage of a letter which he received, in April, 1821, from his amiable cor- res])ondent at Ballitore, descriptive of his re- ception at Ti-owbridge of her friend Lcckcy, is highly characteristic : — " When my feeble and simple efforts have ob- *' I quote what, follows from n letter wliicli I have recently been favoured with from Mr. Bowles: — " I'erhaps it miijht be stated in your memoir that, at Halli, I first introduced your fatlier to the estimable family of the I loans of Ilampste.id ; with whom, tlirouijh his subsequent life, lie was so intimate, and who contributed so mui-li to tlie lianpiness of all liis later days. I wish sincerely that any incident I could recollect mi^ht be such as would contribute to the illustration of his mind, and amiable, i^entle, nlVec'tionate character; but I never noted an expression or incident at the time, and only preserve an imj)re.ssion of his mild manner, his observations, playful, but often acute, his liiyh and steady principles of religious and moral obliijation, his warm feelin;;s against anjihint; wliich appp.ari'd liarsh or uiiit'..t, and lii; umieviatiiiy and steady al- tacliments." tained the approbation of the first moral poet of his time, is it surprising that 1 should be inflated thereby ? Yet thou art too benevolent to intend to turn the brain of a poor old woman, by commend- ation so valued, though thou has practised on my credulity by a little deception; and, from being always accustomed to matter of fact, I generally take what I hear in a literal sense. A gentlewoman once assured me that the husband of her waiting- woman came to her house stark naked — naked as he v/^as born. I said, ' O dear,' and reflected with pity on the poor man's situation ; certainly thinking him mad, as maniacs often throw away their clothes. My neighbour went on : — ' His coat was so ragged ! his hat so shabby ! ' — and, to my sur- prise, 1 found the man dressed, though in a garb ill-befitting the spouse of a lady's maid. And thou madest me believe thou wert in good case, by say- ing, 'Am I not a great fat rector?' We said, 'it was the exuberance of good humour that caused increase of flesh: but a curate, with six hungry children, staggered our belief. Now we know thy son is thy curate, and that thou art light and active in form, with looks irradiated, and accents modu- lated by genuine kindness of heart. Thus our friend John James Leckey describes thee; for I have seen his long letter to his mother on the sub- ject of his visit, which, with his letter to me, has placed thee so before our view, that we all but see and hear thee, frequently going out and coming into the room, with a book in thy hand, and a smile and friendly expression on thy lips, — the benevo- lence which swam in thy eyes, and the cordial shake of both hands with which thou partedst with him, — and thou came out with him in the damp night, and sent thy servant with him to the inn, where he should not have lodged, had there been room for liim in thy own house." It was during the last of my father's very active seasons in London (1822), that he had the satisfaction of meeting with Sir Walter Scott: and the baronet, who was evidently much afiected on seeing Mr. Crabbe, would not part with him until he had promised to visit him in Scotland the ensuing autumn. But I much regret that the invitation was accepted lor that particular occasion ; for, as it happened, the late king fixed on the same time for his northern ])rogrcs$ ; and, instead of finding Sir Walter in his own mansion in the country, when Mr. Crabbe reached Scotland, in August, the family had all repaired to Edinburgh, to be present amidst a scene of bustle and festivity little lavom'able to the sort of intercourse with a con- genial mind, to which he liad looked forward with such pleasing anticij)ations. He took uj) liis residence, however, in Sir Walter's house in North Castle Street, Edinburgh, and w;is treated by him and all his connections with the greatest kindness, respect, and attention ; and though the baronet's time was much occupied with the business of the royal visit, and he had to dine almost daily at his majesty's table, still my father had an opportimity not to be undervalued of seeing what was to him an aspect of society LIFE OF CRABBE. 77 wholly new. The Highlanders, in particular, their language, their dress, and their manners were contemplated with exceeding interest. I am enabled, by the kindness of one of my fathers female friends, to offer some extracts from a short Journal, which he kept for her amusement during his stay in the northern metropolis : — " Whilst it is fresh in my memory, I should de- scribe the day which I have just passed, but I do uot believe an accurate description to be possible. What avails it to say, for instance, that there met at the sumptuous dinner, in all the costume of the Highlanders, the great chief himself and officers of his company. This expresses uot the singularity of appearance and manners — the peculiarities of men, all gentlemen, but remote from our society — leaders of clans — joyous company. Then we had Sir ^Valter Scott's national songs and ballads, ex- hibiting all the feelings of clanship. I thought it an honour that Glengarry even took notice of me, for there were those, and gentlemen, too, who con- sidered themselves honoured by following in his train. There were, also, Lord Errol, and the Macleod, and the Frazer, and the Gordon, and the Ferguson ; and I conversed at dinner with Lady Glengarry, and did almost believe myself a harper, or bard, rather — for harp I cannot strike — and Sir Walter was the life and soul of the whole. It was a splendid festivity, and I felt I know not how much younger." The lady to whom he addressed the above journal says, — " A few more extracts will, per- haps, be interesting. It is not surprising that, under the guidance of Mr. Lockhart, Mr. Crabbe's walks should have been very interest- ing, and that all he saw should take an advan- tageous colouring from such society :" — " I went to the palace of Holyrood House, and was much interested ; — the rooms, indeed, did not affect me, — the old tapestry was such as I had seen before, and I did not much care about the leather chairs, with three legs each, nor the furniture, ex- cept in one room — that where Queen Mary slept. The bed has a canopy very rich, but time-stained. We went into the little room where the Queen and Rizzio sat, when his murderers broke in and cut him down as he struggled to escape : they show certain stains on the floor ; and I see no reason why you should not believe them made by his blood, if you can. " Edinburgh is really a very interesting place, — to me very singular. How can I describe the view from the hill that overlooks the palace— the fine group of buildings which form the castle; the bridges, uniting the two towns ; and the beautiful view of the Frith and its islands ? " But Sunday came, and the streets were for- saken; and silence reigned over the whole city. London has a diminished population on that day "u her streets ; but in Edinburgh it is a total stagna- tion — a quiet that is in itself devout. " A long walk through divers streets, lanes, and alleys, up to the Old Town, makes me better ac- quainted with it ; a lane of cobblers struck me par- ticularly ; and I could not but remark the civility and urbanity of the Scotch poor ; they certainly exceed ours in politeness, arising, probably, from minds more generally cultivated. " This day I dined with Mr. Mackenzie, the Man of Feeling, as he is commonly called. He has not the manner you would expect from his works ; but a rare sportsman, still enjoying the relation of a good day, though only the ghost of the pleasure remains. — What a discriminating and keen man is my friend ; and I am disposed to think highly of his son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart— of his heart — his understanding will not be disputed by any one." At the table of Mr. Lockhart, with whom he commonly dined when Sir Walter was engaged to the King, he one day sat down with three of the supposed writers or symposiasts of the in- imitable " Noctes Ambrosianee;" viz. his host himself — the far-famed Professor Wilson, whom he termed " that extraordinary man" — and the honest Shepherd of Ettrick, who amused him much by calling for a can of ale, while cham- pagne and claret, and othei* choice wines, were in full circulation. This must have been an evening cheaply purchased by a journey from Trowbridge. On the other hand, he was intro- duced, by a friend from the south, to the " Scottish Chiefs" of the opposite clan, though brothers in talent and fame — the present Lord Advocate Jeffrey, Mr. John Archibald Murray, Professor Leslie, and some other distinguished chai'acters. Before he retired at night, he had generally the pleasure of half an hour's confidential con- versation with Sir Walter, when he spoke occa- sionally of the Waverley Novels — though not as compositions of his own, for that was yet a secret — but without reserve upon all other sub- jects in which they had a common interest. These were evenings I I am enabled to present a few more particu- lars of my father's visit to Edinburgh, by the kindness of Mr. Lockhart, who has recently favoured me with the following letter : — " London, December 2Clh, 1833. " Dfar Sik,— I am sorry to tell you that Sir Walter Scott kept no diary during the time of your father's visit to Scotland, otherwise it would have given me pleasure to make extracts for the use of your memoirs. For myself, although it is true that, in consequence of Sir Walter's being constantly consulted about the details of every procession and festival of that busy fortnight, the pleasing task of showing to Mr. Crabbe the usual lions of Edinburgh fell principally to my share, I regret to say that my memory does not supply me with many traces of his conversation. The general impression, how- ever, that he left on my mind was strong, and, I think, indelible: while ail the mummeries and carousals of an interval, in which Edinburgh looked very unlike herself, have faded into a vague and dreamlike indistinctness, the image of your father, then first seen, but long before admired and revered in his works, remains as fresh as if the years that have now passed were but so many days. — His noble forehead, his bright beaiiiiii-:; eye, without aii}' thing of old age about it — though he was tliun, I presume, above seventy — his sweet, and, 1 would say, innocent smile, and the calm mellow tones of his voice — all are reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry : and how much better have I understood and enjoyed his poetiy, since I was able thus to connect with it the living presence of the man ! " The literary persons in company with whom 1 saw him the most frequently were Sir Walter and Henry Mackenzie ; and between two such thorough men of the world as they were, perhaps his appa- rent simplicity of look and manners struck one more than it might have done under diiferent cir- cumstances ; but all three harmonised admirably together — Mr. Crabbe's avowed ignorance about Gaels, and clans, and tartans, and everything that was at the moment uppermost in Sir Walter's thoughts, furnishing him with a welcome apology for dilating on such topics with enthusiastic minute- ness — while your father's countenance spoke the quiet delight he felt in opening his imagination to what was really a new world — and the venerable ' Man of Feeling,' though a fiery Highlander him- self at bottom, had the satisfaction of lying by and listening until some opportunity oifered itself of hooking in, between the links, perhaps, of some grand chain of poetical imagery, some small comic or sarcastic trait, which Sir Walter caught up, played with, and, with that art so peculiarly his own, forced into the service of the very impression it seemed meant to disturb. One evening, at Mr. Mackenzie's own house, I particularly remember, among the nodes cmnaque Deum. '• Mr. Crabbe had, I presume, read very little about Scotland before that excursion. It appeared to me that he confounded the Inchcolm of the Frith of Forth with the Icolinkill of the Hebrides; but John Kemble, I have heard, did the same. I be- lieve, he really never had known, until then, that a language radicallj' distinct from the English, was still actually spoken within the island. And this recals a scene of high merriment which occurred the very morning after his arrival. When he came down into the breakfast parlour. Sir Walter had not yet appeared there ; and Mr. Crabbe had before him two or three portly personages all in the full Highland garb. These gentlemen, arrayed in a costume so novel, were talking in a latiguage Mhich he did not understand ; so he never doubted that they were foreigners. The Celts, on their part, conceived Mr. Crabbe, dressed as he was in rather an old-fashioned style of clerical propriety, with buckles in his shoes for instance, to be some learned abb(!, who had come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Waverley ; and the result was, that when, a little afterwards, Sir Walter and his family entered the room, they found your father and these worthy lairds hammering awaj', with pain and labour, to make themselves mutually un(lerstood, in most execrable French. Great was the relief, and potent the laugh- ter, when the host interrupted their colloquy with his plain Knglish 'Good-morning.' " It surprised me, on taking Mr. Crabbe to see the house of Allan liamsay on the Castle Hill, to find that he had never heard of Allan's name ; or, at all events, Mas tmacquainted with his ^¥orks. The same evening, however, he perused ' The Gentle Shepherd," and he told me next morning, that he had been pleased with it, but added. ' there is a long step between Eamsay and Burns.' He then made Sir Walter read and interpret some of old Dunbar to him ; and said, ' I see that the Ayr- shire bard had one giant before him.' " Mr. Crabbe seemed to admire, like other people, the grand natural scenery about Fdinburgh; but when I walked with him to the Salisbury Craigs, where the superb view had then a lively foreground of tents and batteries, he appeared to be more in- terested with the stratification of the rocks about us, than with any other feature in the landscape. As to the city itself, he said he soon got wearied of the New Town, but could amuse himself for ever in the Old one. He was more than once detected rambling after nightfall by himself, among some of the obscurest wynds and closes ; and Sir Walter, fearing that, at a time of such confusion, he might get into some scene of trouble, took the precaution of desiring a friendly caddie (see Humphry Clinker), from the corner of Castle Street, to follow him the next time he went out alone in the evening. " Mr. Crabbe repeated his visits several times to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and expressed great admiration of the manner in which the patients were treated. He also examined jn-etty minutely the interior of the Bedlam. I went with him both to the Castle and Queen Mary's apart- ment in Holyrood House ; but he did not appear to care much about either. I I'emember, however, that when the old dame who showed us Darnley's armour and boots complained of the impudence, as she called it, of a preceding visiter, who had dis- covered these articles to be relics of a much later age, your father warmly entered into her feelings ; and said, as we came away, ' this pedantic puppyism was inhumane.' " The first Sunday he was in Edinburgh, my wife and her sister carried him to hear service in St. George's church, where the most popular of the Presbyterian clergy, the late Dr. Andrew Thom- son, then officiated. But he was little gratified either M'ith the aspect of the church, wluch is large without grandeur, or the style of the ceremonial, which he said was bald and had, or the eloquence of the sermon, which, however, might not be preached by Dr. Thomson himself. Next Sunday he went to the Episcopalian chapel, where Sir Walter Scott's family were in the habit of attend- ing. He said, however, in walking along the streets that day, ' this unusual decorum says not a little for the Scotch system : the silence of these well-dressed crowds is really grand.' King George the Fourth made the same remark. " Mr. Crabbe entered so far into the feelings of his host, and of the occasion, as to write a set of verses on the royal visit to Edinburgh ; they were printed along with many others, but 1 have no copy of the collection. (Mr. Murray can easily get one from Edinburgh, in case you wish to include those stanzas in your edition of his poetical works.) He also attended one of the king's levees at Holyrood, where his majesty appeared at once to recognise his person, and received him with attention. " All my friends who had formed acquaintance M ith Mr. Crabbe on this occasion appeared ever LIFE OF CRABBE. 79 afterwards to remember him with the same feeling of affectionate respect. Sir Walter Scott and his family parted with him most reluctantly. He had been quite domesticated under their roof, and treated the young people very much as if they had been his own. His unsophisticated, simple, and kind address put every body at ease with him ; and, indeed, one would have jjeen too apt to forget what lurked beneath that good-humoured unpre- tending aspect, but that every now and then he uttered some brief pithy remark, which showed how narrowly he had been scrutinising into what- ever might be said or done before him, and called us to remember, with some awe, that we were in the presence of the author of ' The Borough.' " I recollect that he used to have a lamp and writing materials placed by his bed-side every night; and when Lady Scott told him she wondered the day was not enough for authorship, he answered, ' Dear Lady, I should have lost many a good liit, had I not set down, at once, things that occurred to me in my dreams.' " I never could help regretting very strongly that Mr. Crabbe did not find Sir Walter at Abbots- ford as he had expected to do. The fortnight he passed in Edinburgh was one scene of noise, glare, and bustle — reviews, levees, banquets, and balls — and no person could either see or hear so much of him as might, under other circumstances, have been looked for. Sir Walter, himself, I think, took only one walk with Mr. Crabbe : it was to the ruins of St. Anthony's Chapel, at the foot of Arthur's Seat, which your father wished to see, as connected with part of the Heart of Mid- Lothian. I had the pleasure to accompany them on this occa- sion ; and it was the only one on which I heard your father enter into any details of his own per- sonal history. He told us, that during many months when he was toiling in early life in Lon- don, he hardly ever tasted butcher's meat, except ou a Sunday, when he dined usually with a tradesman's family, and thought their leg of nmtton, baked in the pan, the perfection of luxury. The tears stood in his eyes while he talked of Burke's kindness to him in his distress ; and I re- member he said, ' The night after I had delivered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of agitation, that I walked Westminster Bridge back- wards and forwards until day-light.' Believe me, dear Sir, your very faithful servant, '' J. G. LOCKHART." Shortly after his return from Scotland, Mr. Crabbe had a peculiarly severe fit of the tic douloureux, to which he thus alludes, in one of his letters to Mrs. Leadbeater : — " I am visited by a painfiil disorder, which, though it leaves me many intei'vals of ease and comfort, yet compels me to postpone much of what may be called the business of life ; and thus, having many things to do, and a comparatively short time in which they must be done, I too often defer what would be in itself a pleasing duty, and apply myself to what afibrds a satisfaction, only because it has been fiilfiUed." Ic was this affliction which prevented his complying with a kind invitation to spend the Christmas of 1822 at Belvoir ; on which occa- sion he received the following letter, which I select as indicating the esteem in which he was held, after his removal from Leicestershire, by the whole of the family of Rutland : — " Belvoir Castle, Deo. 16, 1822. " Dear Sir, — I was much disappointed to find, from your letter of the 11th instant, that you have been obliged once more to abandon (for the pre- sent) the idea of a visit to this place. I feel the more regret at this circumstance, from the cause which j'ou have to decline exposure to the cold weather of winter, and the fatigue of travelling. You have no two friends who wish you more cor- dially well than the Duchess and myself; and I can truly say that, whenever it may be convenient and pleasant to you to visit the castle, a hearty and sincere welcome will await you. I am, dear sir, &C., " RUTLAND." = 8 About the same time, having received an intel- ligible scrawl from my eldest girl Caroline, who was then in her fourth year, he addressed this letter to the child. Who will require to be told that bis coming to Pucklechurch was alwa3's looked foiward to by the young people as a vision of joy ? — " Trowbridge, 24th Dec, 1822. " My deak Carry, — Your very pretty letter gave me a great deal of pleasure; and I choose this, which is my birthday, that in it I may return you my best thanks for your kind remembrance of me ; and I will keep your letter laid up in my new Bible, where I shall often see it ; and then I shall say, ' This is from my dear little girl at Pucklechurch.' My face is not so painful as it was when I wrote to papa ; and I would set out immedi- ately, to see you all, with great pleasure, but I am forced, against my will, to remain at home this week by duty ; and that, you know, I must attend to : and then, there is an engagement to a family in this place, Waldron by name, who have friends in Salisbury, and among them a gentleman, who, though he is young, will have grandpapa's com- pany, and grandpapa, being a very old man, takes this for a compliment, and has given his promise, thougli he is vexed about it, that he will be in Trowbridge at that time ; and so he dares not yet fix the day for his visit to his dear Caroline, and her good mamma, and papa, and her little brothers ; but he is afraid that papa will not be pleased with this uncertainty ; yet I will write to papa the very first hour in which I can say when I shall be free to go after my own pleasure ; and I do hope that if it cannot be in the next week, it will be early in the following. And so, my dear, you will say to papa and mamma, ' You must forgive poor grandpapa, be- cause he is so puzzled that he does not know what he can do, and so vexed beside, that he cannot do as his wishes and his ali'ection would lead him; and 28 I extract what follows from a letter with which his Grace honoured me after my fatlier's death : — " It is indeed triie tliat ray lamented Ducliess vied wiili myself in sincere ailmi- ration of liis talents and virtues, and in warm and liearty esteem for your lather." 80 LIFE OF CRABBE. you know, dear papa and mamma, that he grows to be a very old man, and does not know how to get out of these difficulties, but I am sure that he loves to come to us, and will be here as soon as ever he can.' I hope, my dear Carry, that Master Davidson is well after the waltz, and his lady with whom he danced. I should have liked very much to have seen them. I gave your love to uncle John, and will to your other uncles when I see them : I dare say they all love you ; for good little girls, like my Carry, are much beloved. Pray, give my kind respects to Miss Joyces. You are well off in having such ladies to take so much pains with you ; and you improve very prettily under their care. I have written a very long letter to my Carry ; and I think we suit each other, and shall make tit correspondents :^tbat is, writers of letters, Caroline to grandpapa, and grandpapa to Caroline. God bless my dear little girl. I desire earnestly to see you, and am your very affectionate Grandpapa." I close this chapter with a fragment of a letter from his friend, Mr. Norris Clark, of Trowbridge : — " I wish it was in my power to furnish you with anything worth relating of your late father. The fault is in my memory ; for, if I could recollect them, hundreds of his conversations would be as valuable as Johnson's, though he never talked for effect. I will mention two which impressed me, as being the first and last I had with him. When I called on him, soon after his arrival, I remarked that his house and garden were pleasant and se- cluded : he replied that he preferred walking in the streets, and observing the faces of the passers- by, to the finest natural scene. The last time I spoke to him was at our amateur concert ; after it concluded, which was with the overture to Freys- chutz, he said, he used to prefer the simple ballad, but he now, by often hearing more scientific music, began to like it best. I have no doubt he had a most critical musical ear, as every one must have perceived who heard him read. I never heard more beautifully correct recitative." CHAPTER X. 1823—1832. 'Hie closing Years of Mr. Crabbe's Life — Annual Excursions — Domestic Habits — Visits to Pucklechiircli — His last Tour to Clifton, Bristol, &c. — His Illness and Death — His Funeral. It now remains to sum up this narrative with a few particulars respecting the closing years of Mr. Crabbe's henceforth retired life. Though he went every year to Mr. Iloare's, at Ilanip- stead (the death of the head of that family having rather increased than diminished his attachment for its other members), and each season accompanied them on some healthful excursion to the Isle of Wight, Ilcistings, Ilfra- combe, or Clifton ; and though, in their com- pany, ho saw occasionally not a little of persons peculiarly interesting to the public, as well as dear to himself, — as, for example, Mr. Wilber- force, Mrs. Joanna Bailiie, Miss Edgeworth, and Mrs. Siddons, — and though, in his ])assings through town, he generally dined with Mr. Ro- gers, Lord Holland, and Mr. Murray, and there met, from time to time, his great brothers in art, Wordsworth and Southey, — for both of whom he felt a cordial resj)ect and affection, — still, his journals, in those latter years, are so briefly drawn up, that, by printing them, I should be giving little more than a list of names. W^hile, at home, he seldom visited much beyond the limits of his parish — the houses of Mr. Waldron and Mr. Norris Clark being his more familiar haunts ; and in his own study he con- tinued, unless when interrupted by his painful disorder, much of the habits and occupations which have already been described, comprising poetry, and various theological essays, besides sermons ; of all of which specimens may here- after be made public. The manuscript volumes he left behind him at his death, not including those of the rough cojnesof his published works, amount in number to twenty-one. The gradual decline of his health, but unshaken vigour of his understanding, will be, perhaps, sufficiently illus- trated by the foliovving extracts from his note- books, and his own letters to his friends and family : — " Aldborough, October, 1S23. " Thus once again, my native place, I come Tliee to salute — my earliest, latest home : Much are we alter'd both, but I liehoUl In thee a youth renew'il — whilst I am old. Tile w orks of man from dyin;; we may save, • But man himself moves onward to tlie grave." To Mrs. Leadbeater. " Trowbridge, June, 182-1. " I must go to town, and there be stimulated by conversations on the subjects of authorships, and all that relates to the business of the press. 1 find, too, that I can dedicate more time to this employment in London than in this seat of business, where every body comes at their own time ; and, having driven the mind from its purposes, leave a man to waste no small portiou of it iu miscellaneous reading, and other amusement, such as nursing and construing the incipient meanings that come and go in the face of an infant. My grand-daughter and I begin to be companioiis; and the seven months and the seventy years accord very nicely, and will do so, probably (the parties living), for a year or two to come ; when, the man becoming weaker and the child stronger, there will come an inequality to dis- turb the friendship. " 1 think something more than two years have passed, since the disease, known by a very for- midable name, which I have never consented to adopt, attacked me. It came like momentary shocks of a grievous tooth-ache ; and, indeed, I was imprudent enough to have one tooth extracted which iippeared to be most affected ; but the loss of this guiltless and useful tooth had not one beneficial consequence. For many months the pain came, sometimes on a slight touch, as the application of LIFE OF CRABBE. 81 a towel or a razor, and it sometimes came -without any apparent cause, and certainly was at one time alarming, more especially when I heard of opera- tions, as cutting down and scraping the bone, &c. ; but these failing, and a mode of treating the disease being found,' I lost my fears, and took blue pills and medicines of like kind for a long season, and with good success." To a Lady at Trowbridge. " Beccles, May 10, 1825. " A letter from my son to-day, gives me pain, by its account of your illness : I had hope of better information ; and though he writes that there is amendment, yet he confesses it is slow, and your disorder is painful too. That men of free lives, and in habits of intemperance, should be ill, is to be expected ; but we are surprised, as well as grieved, when frequent attacks of this kind are the lot of the temperate, the young, and the careful : still, it is the will of Him who afflicts not his creatures with- out a cause, which we may not perceive, but must ■ believe ; for he is all wisdom and goodness, and sees the way to our final happiness, when we cannot. In all kinds of affliction, the Christian is consoled by the confiding hope, that such trials, well borne, will work for glory and happiness, as they work in us patience and resignation. In our pains and weak- ness we approach nearer, and learn to make our supplications to a merciful Being, as to a parent, who, if he doth not withdraw the evil from us, yet gives us strength to endure and be thankful. — I grant there is much that we cannot know nor com- prehend in the government of this world ; but we know that our duty is to submit, because there is enough we can see to make us rest in hope and com- fort, though there be much that we cannot under- stand. We know not why one in the prime of life should suffer long ; and, while suffering, should hear of threescore persons, of every age and station, and with minds, some devoted to their God, and others to this world altogether, all in one dreadful moment to be sunk in the ocean, and the stillness of death to surround them. But though this and a number of other things are mysteries to us, they are all open to Him from whom nothing can be hidden. Let us, then, my dear Miss W., have confidence in this, that we are tried, and disciplined, and pre- pared — for another state of being ; and let not our ignorance in what is not revealed, prevent our belief in what is. ' I do not know,' is a very good answer to most of the questions put to us by those who wish for help to unbelief. But why all this? will you ask : first, because I love you very much, and then you will recollect that I have had, of late, very strong admonition to be serious ; for though the pain of itself be not dangerous, yet the weakness it brought on, and still brings, persuades me that not many such strokes are needed to demolish a frame which has been seventy years moving, and not always regulated with due caution : but I will not fatigue you any more now, nor, I hope, at any future time. I trust, my dear friend, to see you in good health, cheerful and happy, relying entirely on that great and good Being, whose ways are not ours, neither can we comprehend them ; and our • Tlie kind and skilful physician on whose advice my father relied was Dr. Kerrison, of New Burlington Street. very ignorance should teach us perfect reliance on his wisdom and goodness. I had a troubled night, and am thinking of the time when you will kindly send, and sometimes call, to hear, ' how Mr. Crabbe does to-day, and how he rested;' for though we must all take the way of our friend departed, yet mine is the natural first turn; and you will not wonder that restless nights put me in mind of this." A friend having for the first time seen the " Rejected Addresses," had written with some soreness of the parody on my father's poetry ; he thus answers : — " You were more feeling than I was, when you read the excellent parodies of the young men who wrote the ' Rejected Addresses.' There is a little ill-nature — and, I take the liberty of adding, unde- served ill-nature — in their prefatory address; but in their versification, they have done me admirably. They are extraordinary men ; but it is easier to imitate style, than to furnish matter." ^ In June, 1825, he thus writes from Mr. Hoare's villa at Hampstead : — "Hampstead, June, 1825. " My time passes I cannot tell how pleasantly, when the pain leaves me. To-day I read one of my long stories to my friends, and Mrs. Joanna Baillie and her sister. It was a task; but they encouraged me, and were, or seemed, gratified. I rhyme at Hampstead with a great deal of facility, for nothing interrupts me but kind calls to some- thing pleasant ; and though all this makes parting painful, it will, I hope, make me resolute to enter upon my duties diligently when I return. — I am too much indulged. Except a return of pain, and that not severe, I have good health ; and if my walks are not so long, they are more Irequent. I have seen many things and many people ; have seen Mr. Southey and Mr. Wordsworth; have been some days with Mr. Eogers, and at last have been at the Athenaeum, and purpose to visit the Royal Institu- tion ; and have been to Richmond in a steam- boat ; seen, also, the picture galleries, and some other ex- 2 In the new edition of the " Rejected Addresses," I find a note, part of which is as follows: — "ThewTiler's first inter- view with the Poet Crabbe, who may be designated Pope in worsted stockings, took place at Wm. Spencer's villa at Petersham, close to what that gentleman called his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely three feet in diameter, throwing up a.jet-d'eau like a thread. The venerable bard, seizing both the hands of his satirist, exclaimed, with a good-humoured laugh, ' Ah, my old enemy, how do you do .' ' In the course of conversation he expressed great astonishment at liis popu- larity in London ; adding, • In my own village they think nothing of me.' The subject happening to be the inroads of time upon beauty, the writer quoted the following lines : — ' Six years had pass'd, and forty ere tlie six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight. Locks of pure brown, now felt th' encroaching white. Gradual eacli day I liked my horses less, My dinrer more — I learnt to play at chess.' •That's ver good!' cried the bard; 'whose is it?'— 'Your own.' — ' Indeed I hah ! well, I had quite forgotten it.' " The WTiter proceeds to insinuate, that tliis was a piece of alTi'Cta- tion on the part of my father. If Mr. Smith had written as many verses, and lived as long, as Mr. Crabbe, he would, I fancy, have been incapable of expressing such a suspicion. G 82 LIFE OF CRABBE. hibitions : but I passed one Sunday in London with discontent, doing no duty myself nor listening to another ; and I hope my uneasiness proceeded not merely from breaking a habit. We had a dinner social and pleasant, if the hours before it had been rightly spent: but I would not willingly pass ano- ther Sunday in the same manner. I have my home with my friends here (Mrs. Hoare's), and exchange it with reluctance for the Hummums 'occasionally. Such is the state of the garden here, in which I walk and read, that, in a morning like this, the smell of the flowers is fragrant beyond anything I ever perceived before. It is what I can suppose may be in Persia, or other Oriental countries — a Paradis- iacal sweetness. " I am told that I or my verses, or perhaps both, have abuse in a book of Mr. Colbum's publishing, called ' The Spirit of the Times.' I believe I felt something indignant : but my engraved seal dropped out of the socket and was lost, and I perceived this vexed me much more than the 'spirit' of Mr. Hazlitt." " Trowbridge, Feb. 3, 1826. "Your letter, my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, was dated the 9th of the tenth month of last year ; just at a time when I was confined in the house of friends, most attentive to me during the progress and termination of a painful disease to which I had been long subject, though I was not at any time before so suddenly and so alarmingly attacked. I had parted from my son, his wife, and child, about ten days before, and judged myself to be in posses- sion of health, strength, and good spirits fitted for my journey — one about 200 miles from this place, and in which I had pleased myself with the antici- pation of meeting with relatives dear to me, and many of the friends of my earlier days. I reached London with no other symptom of illness than fatigue ; but was indisposed on the second night, and glad to proceed to Hampstead on the third day, where I found my accustomed welcome in the house of two ladies, who have been long endeared to me by acts of unceasing kindness, which I can much better feel than describe. On the second evening after my arrival, Miss Uoare and I went to the place of worship to which she is accustomed, where, just as the service of the day terminated, a sudden and overpowering attack of the disease to which I allude was the commencement of an ill- ness which was troublesome to my friends about three weeks, but, as the pain gradually passed away, was scarcely to be esteemed as a trial to me, or to the resignation and patience which pain should give birth to. I am now— let me be thank- ful — in a great measure freed from pain, and have, probably, that degree of health, and even exertion, which, at my age, is a blessing rather to be desired than expected ; the allotted threescore and ten has passed over me, and I am now in my seventy- second year ! thankful, I hope, for much that I have, and, among other things, for the friendship of some very estimable beings. I feel the heavi- ness and languor of time, and that even in onr social visits at this season. I cannot enjoy fes- tivity ; with friends long known I can be easy, and even cheerful, — but the pain of exertion, which I think it a duty to make, has its influence over me, and I wonder — be assured that I am per- fectly sincere in this — I wonder when young people — and there are such — seem to desire that I should associate with them." " PucWechurch, 182G. " Caroline, now six years old, reads incessantly and insatiably. She has been travelling with John Bunyan's ' Pilgrim,' and enjoyed a pleasure never, perhaps, to be repeated. The veil of religious mystery, that so beautifully covers the outward and visible adventures, is quite enchanting. The dear child was caught reading by her sleeping maid, at five o'clock this morning, impatient — 't is our nature — to end her pleasure." "Trowbridge, 1827. " I often find such diflnculties in visiting the sick, that I am at a loss what thoughts to suggest to them, or to entertain of them. Home is not better (to the aged), but it is better loved and more desired ; for in other places we cannot indulge our humours and tastes so well, nor so well comply with those of other people. " In the last week was our fair ; and I am glad that quiet is restored. When I saw four or five human beings, with painted faces and crazy dresses and gestures, trying to engage and entice the idle spectators to enter their showhouse, I felt the degradation ; for it seemed like man reduced from his natural rank in the creation : and yet, probably, they would say, — 'What can we do? We were brought up to it, and we must eat.' " I think the state of an old but hale man is the most comfortable and least painful of any stage in life ; but it is always liable to infirmities : and this is as it should be. It would not be well to be in love with life when so little of it remains." The two following extracts arc from notes written to the same kind friend, on his birthday of 1827, and on that of 1828 :— " Parsonage, Dec. 24, 1827. — There can be only one reason for declining your obliging invitation ; and that is, the grievous stupidity that grows upon me daily. I have read of a country where they reckon all men after a certain period of life to be no longer fitted for companionship in business or pleasure, and so they put the poor useless beings out of their way. I think I am beyond that time ; but as we have no such prudent custom, I will not refuse myself the good you so kindly offer, and you will make due allowance for the stupidity aforesaid." "Parsonage, Dec. 24, 1828. — This has been a very busy day with me. My kind neighbours have found out that the 24th of this month is my birthday, and I have not only had music in the evening, but small requests all the day long, for ' Sure the minister will not mind giving us a trifle on his birthday '—and so they have done me the honour of making a ti-ial ; as if it were a joyftil thing for a man to enter into his seventy-sixth year ; and I grant it ought to be. But your time is precious, and I must not detain you. Mr. , I hear, luis liocn with you to-day. I have never yet been able to fulfil my engagements. He I LIFE OF CRABBE. 83 puzzles me. It is strange, I can but think, for a man of sense and reflection openly to avow disbelief of a religion that has satisfied the wisest, converted the most wicked, and consoled the most afflicted of our fellow-creatures. He says he is happy ; and it may be so. I am sure I should not, having the same opinions. Certainly, if we wait till all doubts be cleared away, we shall die doubt- ing. I ought to ask your pardon, and I do. How I came to be in a grave humour, I know not ; for I have been dancing with my little girl to all kinds of tunes, and, I dare say, with all kinds of steps, such as old men and children are likely to exhibit." In October, 1829, he thus writes to the pre- sent biographer : — " I am in truth not well. It is not pain, nor can I tell what it is. Probably when you reach the year I am arrived at, you will want no explana- tion. But I should be a burden to you : the dear girls and boys would not know what to make of a grandfather who could not i-omp nor play with them." In January, 1830, he thus addresses his grand-daughter : — " You and I both love reading, and it is well for me that I do ; but at your time reading is but one employment, whereas with me it is almost all. And yet I often ask myself, at the end of my volumes, — Well ! what am I the wiser, what the better, for this? Eeading for amusement only, and, as it is said, merely to kill time, is not the satisfaction of a reasonable being. At your age, my dear Caroline, I read every book which I could procure. Now, I should wish to procure only such as are worth reading ; but I confess I am frequently disappointed." Dining one day with a party at Pucklechurch, about this period, some one was mentioning a professor of gastronomy, who looked to the time when his art should get to such perfection as to keep people alive for ever. My father said, most emphatically, "God forbid!" He had begun to feel that old age, even without any very severe disease, is not a state to hold tena- ciously. Towards the latter end of the last year he had found a perceptible and general decline of the vital powers, without any specific com- plaint of any consequence ; and though there were intervals in which he felt peculiarly reno- vated, yet, from the autumn of 1828, he could trace a marked, though still very gradual change ; or, as he himself called it, a breaking up of the constitution; in which, however, the mind partook not, for there was no symptom of mental decay, except, and that only slightly and ])artially, in the memory. But the most remarkable characteristic of his decline was the unabated warmth of his affec- tions. In general, the feelings of old age are somewhat weakened and concentrated under the sense of a precarious life, and of personal de- privation ; but his interest in the welfare of others, his sympathy with the sufferings or hap- piness of his friends, and even in the amuse- ments of children, continued to the last as vivid as ever : and he thought, spoke, and wrote of his departure with such fortitude and cheerful resignation, that I have not that pain in recording his latter days which, under other circumstances, would have made the termination of this memoir a task scarcely to be endured. A most valued friend of my father describes his decline in terms so affectionate, beautiful, and original, that I have obtained her permission to add this to other passages from the same pen : — " Mr. Crabbe was so much beloved, that the ap- proaches of age were watched by his friends with jealousy, as an enemy undermining their own happiness; and the privations inflicted upon him by its infirmities were peculiarly distressing. There is sometimes an apathy attending advanced life, which makes its accompanying changes less perceptible; but when the dull ear, and dim eye, and lingering step, and trembling hand, are for ever interfering with the enjoyments of a man, who would otherwise delight in the society of the young and active — such a contrast between the body and mind can only be borne with fortitude by those who look hopefully for youth renewed in another state of existence, ' It cannot be supposed,' says the Eoman orator, ' that Nature, after having widely distributed to all the preceding periods of life their peculiar and proper enjoyments, should have neglected, like an indolent poet, the last act of the human drama, and left it destitute of suit- able advantages :' — and yet it would be difficult to point out in what these consist. On the contrary. Nature discovers her destitute state, and manifests it in peevishness and repining, unless a higher principle than Nature takes possession of the mind, and makes it sensible, that, ' though the outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.' It was by this principle that Mr. Crabbe was actuated ; and he at times gave such proofs of his confidence in the promises of the Gospel, that the spot on which he expressed these hopes with peculiar energy is now looked upon by the friend who conversed with him as holy ground. But he rarely spoke thus; for he had such an humble spirit, so much fear of conveying the impression that he believed himself accepted, that the extent of these enjoyments was known to few. Thus, however, the privations of age and frequent suffer- ing were converted into blessings, and he acknow- ledged their advantage in weaning him from the world. Considering life as the season of discipline, and looking back to the merciful restraints, and also acknowledging the many encouragements, which he had received from an over-ruling Provi- dence, he was not impatient under the most trouble- some and vexatious infirmity, or over-anxious to escape that evil which, if rightly received, might add to the evidence and security of the happiness hereafter. He had a notion, perhaps somewhat whimsical, that we shall be gainers in a future g2 84 LIFE OF CRABBE. state by tlie cultivation of the intellect, and always affixed a sense of this nature also to the more im- portant meaning of the word ' talents ' in the parable : and this stimulus doubtless increased his avidity for knowledge, at a period when such study was of little use besides the amusement of the pre- sent hour." Preparing to visit Hastings, in September, 1830, with his friends from Hampsteaa Heath, he says : — " I feel, in looking forward to this journey, as if there was a gulf fixed between us : and yet what are three or four weeks when passed ! When an- ticipated, they appear as if they might be pro- ductive of I know not what pleasures and adven- tures ; but when they are gone, we are almost at a loss to recollect any incident that occurred. My preaching days are almost over. On the Sunday evening I feel too much like a labourer who re- joices that his day's work is done, rather than one who reflects how it was performed." Some friends having offered a visit at the par- sonage during his absence on this occasion, he thus wrote to my brother : — " Now, my dear John, do remember that you must make the house what it should be. Do me honour, 1 pray you, till I can take it upon myself: all that the cellar can afford, or the market, rests with you and your guests, who know very well in what good living consists. I doubt if G drinks claret. Mr. Spackman, I think, does; at least he produces it, and to him it should be produced. Now do, my good fellow, go along with me in this matter : you know all I would have, as well as I do myself." This short extract will exemplify another characteristic. Always generous and liberal, I think he grew more so in the later portion of his life — not less careful, but more bountiful and charitable. He lived scrupulously within the limits of his income, increased by the produce of his literary exertions ; but he freely gave away all that he did not want for current ex- penses. I know not which of his relatives have not received some substantial proofs of this generous sjjirit. The following letter from Hastings, dated 28th September, 1830, produced in his par- sonage feelings which I shall not attempt to describe : — To the Itev. John Crahhe. " My dear Son, — I write (as soon as the post permits) to inform you that I arrived in the evening of yesterday, in nearly the same state as I left you, and full as well as I expecttd, though a rather alarming accident made me feel unpleasantly for some hours, and its effects in a sJigiit degree re- main. I had been out of the coach a very short time, while other passengers were leaving it on their arrival at their places; and, on getting into the coach agaiji, and close beside it, a gig, with two men in it, came on as fust as it could drive, which I neither saw nor heard till I felt the sliaft against my side. I fell, of course, and the wheel went over one foot and one arm. Twenty people were ready to assist a stranger, who in a few minutes was sensible that the alarm was all the injury. Ben- jamin was ready, and my friends took care that I should have all the indulgence that even a man frightened could require. Happily I found them well, and we are all this morning going to one of the churches, where 1 hope I shall remember that many persons, under like circumstances, have never survived to relate their adventure. 1 hope to learn verj' shortly that you are all well : remember me to all with you, and to our friends, westward and elsewhere. Write — briefly if you must, but write. From your affectionate father, Geo. Crabbe. " P.S. — You know my poor. Oram had a shil- ling on Sunday ; but Smith, the bed-ridden woman, Martin, and Gregory, the lame man, you will give to as I would ; nay, I must give somewhat more than usual ; and if you meet with my other poor people, think of my accident, and give a few ad- ditional shillings for me ; and I must also find some who want where I am, for my danger was great, and I must be thankful in every way I can." On the 2nd of the next month he thus writes : — " I do not eat yet with appetite, but am terribly dainty. I walk by the sea and inhale the breeze in the morning, and feel as if I were really hungry ; but it is not the true hunger, for, whatever the food, I am soon satisfied, or rather satiated : but all in good time ; I have yet been at Hastings but one week. Dear little Georgy ! I shall not forget her sympathy : my love to her, and to my two younger dears, not forgetting mamma." A friend, who was with him in this expe- dition, thus speaks of him : — " He was able, though with some effort, to join a party to Hastings in the autumn, and passed much of his time on the sea-shore, watching the objects familiar to him in early life. It was on a cold November morning that he took his last look at his favourite element, in full glorj', the waves foam- ing and dashing against the shore. He returned, with the friends whom he had been visiting, to town, and spent some weeks with them in its vici- nity, enjoying the society to which he was strongly attached, bul aware for how short a period those pleasures Avere to last. Having made a morning call in Cavendish Square, where he had met Mrs. Joanna Baillie, for whom he had a high esteem, and several members of her family, he was affected to tears, on getting into the carriage after taking leave of them, saying, ' I shall never meet this party again.' His affections knew no decline. He was never, appareu^'y, the least tenacious of a re- putation for talent; but most deeply sensible of every proof of regard and afl'ection. One day, when absent from home, and sufl'ering from severe illness, he received a letter from Miss Waldron, informing him of the heartfelt interest which many of his parishioners had ex])ressed for his welfare. Holding up this letter, he said, witli great emotion, ' Here is something worth living for !' " LIFE OF CRABBE. 85 I may, perhaps, as well insert in this place a kind letter with which I have lately been ho- noured by the great Poetess of the Passions : — From Mrs. Joanna Baillie. " I have often met your excellent father at Mr. Hoare's, and frequently elsewhere ; and he was always, when at Hampstead, kind enough to visit my sister and me ; but, excepting the good sense and gentle courtesy of his conversation and manners, I can scarcely remember anything to mention in particular. Well as he knew mankind under their least favourable aspect, he seemed never to forget that they were his brethren, and to love them even when most unloveahle — if I may be per- mitted to use the word. I have sometimes been almost provoked by the very charitable allowances which he made for the unworthy, so that it required my knowledge of the great benevolence of his own character, and to receive his sentiments as a fol- lower of Him who was the friend of publicans and sinners, to reconcile me to such lenity. On the other hand, I have sometimes remarked that, when a good or generous action has been much praised, he would say in a low voice, as to himself, some- thing that insinuated a more mingled and worldly cause for it. But this never, as it would have done from any other person, gave the least offence ; for you felt quite assured as he uttered it, that it pro- ! ceeded from a sagacious observance of mankind, and was spoken in sadness, not in the spirit of satire. " In regard to his courtesy relating to the feelings of others in smaller matters, a circumstance comes to my recollection, in which you will, perhaps, re- cognise your father. While he was staying with Mrs. Hoare a few years since, I sent him one day the present of a blackcock, and a message with it, that Mr. Crabbe should look at the bird before it was delivered to the cook, or something to that pur- pose. He looked at the bird as desired, and then went to Mrs. Hoare in some perplexity, to ask whether he ought not to have it stuffed, instead of eating it. She could not, in her own house, tell him that it was simply intended for the larder ; and he was at the trouble and expense of having it stufl'ed, lest I should think proper respect had not been put upon my present. This both vexed and amused me at the time, and was remembered as a pleasing and peculiar trait of his character. " He was a man fitted to engage the esteem and good-will of all who were fortunate enough to know him well ; and I have always considered it as one of the many obligations I owe to the friendship of Mrs. and Miss Hoare, that through them I first became acquainted with this distinguished and amiable poet. Believe me, with all good wishes, &c. " J. Baillie." I shall add here part of a letter which I have received from another of what I may call my father's Hampstead friends — Mr. Duncan, of Bath, well known for the extent and elegance of his accomplishments. He says : — " My first acquaintance with him was at the house of Mr. Hoare, at Hampstead ; by whose whole family he appeared to be regarded as a beloved and venerated relation. I was much struck, as I think every one who was ever in his company must have been, by his peculiar suavity, courtesy, and even humility of manner. There was a self-renunciation, a carelessness of attracting admiration, which formed a remarkable contrast with the ambitious style of conversation of some other literati, in whose com- pany I have occasionally seen him. I have often thought that a natural politeness and sensitive re- gard for the feelings of others occasioned him to reject opportunities of saying smart and pointed things, or of putting his remarks into that epigram- matic, and, perhaps, not always extemporaneous form, which supplies brilliant scraps for collectors of anecdotes. His conversation was easy, fluent, and abundant in correct information ; but distin- guished chiefly by good sense and good feeling. When the merits of contemporary authors were discussed, his disapprobation was rather to be col- lected from his unwillingness to dwell on obvious and too prominent faults, than from severity in the exposure of them. But his sympathy with good expression of good feelings, such as he found, for example, in the pages of Scott, roused him to occa- sional fervour. If he appeared at any time to show a wish that what he said might be remembered, it was when he endeavoured to place in a simple and clear point of view, for the information of a young person, some useful truth, whether historical, phy- siological, moral, or religious. He had much ac- quaintance with botany and geology ; and, as you know, was a successful collector of local specimens ; and as I, and doubtless many others, know, was a liberal imparter of his collected store. " The peculiar humour which gives brilliancy to his writings, gave a charm to his conversation : but its tendency was to excite pleasurable feeling, by affording indulgence to harmless curiosity by a peep behind the scenes of human nature, rather than to produce a laugh. I remember to have heard a country gentleman relate an instance of his good temper and self-command. They were tra- velling in a stage-coach from Bath ; and as they ap- proached Calne, the squire mentioned the names of certain poets of the neighbourhood ; expressed his admiration of your father's earlier works; — but ventured to hint that one of the latter, I forget which, was a failure, and that he would do well to lay his pen aside. ' Sir,' said your father, ' I am quite of your opinion. Artists and poets of all ages have fallen into the same error. Time creeps on so gently, that they never find out that they are growing old ! ' ' So,' said the squire, ' we talked of Gil Bias and the Archbishop, and soon digressed into talk of parish matters and justice business. I was delighted with my companion, who soon alighted ; and I only learned by inquiring of the coachman who had been my fellow-traveller.' I told this to your father, who laughed, remembered the incident, and said, 'the squire, perhaps, was right ; but you know I was an incompetent judge upon that subject.' " I have already mentioned his visits to Puckle- church. Greatwas the pleasure of our house- hold in expecting him, for his liberality left no domestic without an ample retnembrance. What 86 LIFE OF CRABBE. listonintr for the chaise among the children ! It is heard rattling through the street — it is in the churchyard — at the door. His pale face is lighted with jjlcasure — as benevolent, as warm- hearted as in his days of youth and strength ; but ase has sadly bent his once tall stature, and his hand trembles. What a package of books — what stores for the table — what presents for the nursery ! Little tales, as nearly resembling those which had delighted his own infancy as modern systems permit — one quite after his own heart— the German Nursery Stories.^ After dinner the children assemble round the dessert, and perhaps he reads them the story of the Fisherman, his greatest favourite. How often have I heard him repeat to them the invo- cation — " O, man of the sea, comn listen to me. For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life, Hatli sent me to beg a boon of thee." And he would excite their wonder and delight, with the same evident satisfaction, that I so well remembered in my early days. Of the morose feelings of age, repining for lost pleasures, he knew nothing ; for his youth had been virtuous, his middle age intellectual and manly, his de- cline honourable and honoured. Such minds covet not, envy not, the advantages of youth, but regard them with benevolent satisfaction — ])erhaps not unmixed with a species of appre- hensive pity ; for their fiery ordeal is not yet past. He loved, particularly at last, to converse on earlv scenes and occurrences ; and when we be- gan'that theme, it was generally a late hour be- fore we parted. Unfortunately, I meditated this record too recently to reap the full advantage. On these reminiscences, even at the date to which my narrative has now come, his spirits have risen, and his countenance has brightened into the very expression which marked his happiest mood in his most vigorous years. In the morning, even in the roughest weather, he went his way (always preferring to be alone) to some of our quarries of blue lias, abounding in fossils, stopping to cut up any herb not quite common, that grew in his ])ath ; and he would return loaded with them. The dirty fossils were placed in our best bod-room, to the great diver- sion of the female ))art of my family ; the herbs stuck in the borders, among my choice flowers, that he might see tiiem when he came again. I never displaced one of them. When we had friends to meet him, with what ease and cheerfulness would he enter into the sociality of the evening, taking his subject and his tone from those around him ; except when he was under the too frequently recurring pain, and then he was sometimes obliged to retire. I'cw aged persons so readily acquired an attach- 3 Tlie translation of Orimm's Kinder- und Haiis-M»rchen. ment to strangers : he was ever ready to think warmly of every one who treated him with kindness. There was no acrimony in him ; and to the end he had that accommodating mind in conversation which often marks the young, but which is rarely found at the age of threescore and ten. We dreaded his departure. It was justly re- marked by one of his nieces, that he left a feel- ing of more melancholy vacancy when he quitted a house than any other person, — even than those whose presence afforded more positive pleasure. " I hope," said she, one day, very earnestly, " that my uncle will not come into Suflblk this year ; for I shall dread his going away all the time he is with us." He generally left the young people all in tears — feeling strongly, and not having the power to conceal it. The stooping form, the trembling step, the tone and manner of his farewell, especially for the last few years, so hurried, so foreboding, so affectionate, over- came us all. My brother has the following observations on his perseverance in his clerical duties: — " With my father's active mind and rooted habits — for he did not omit the duty on one Sunday for nearly forty years — it would have been distress- ing to him to have ceased to officiate ; but the pain to which he was subject, was frequently very severe ; and when attacked during the service, he was obliged to stop and press his hand hard to his face, and then his pale countenance be- came flushed. Under these paroxysms, his con- gregation evidently felt much for him ; and he often hesitated whether he had not better give it up altogether. I was accustomed to join him in the vestry-room, after reading the prayers; and whilst sitting by the fire, waiting till the organ had ceased, I well recollect the tone of voice, firm and yet depressed, in which he would say, ' Well ! — one Sunday more ;' or, ' a few Sundays more, but not many.' I was astonished, however, to observe how much his spirits and strength were always renovated by an absence from home. He continued to officiate till the last two Sundays before his decease." In the midst of one of the radical tumults of this ))eriod, he thus wrote to Mr. Phillips, the eminent Academician, whose portrait of him had been recently re-engraved : — " Amid the roar of cannon, and that of a tumul- tuous populace, assembled to show their joy, and to demand shows of the same kind from tliose who re- side among them, I retire for a few minutes, to re- ply to your favour : and this must be my apology if I do not thank you as I ought, for the kindness you express, and your purpose to oblige me in my wishes to possess a few copies of the engraving, of wliicli I heard such a liighly-approving account, by my friend Mr. DaM'son Turner, of Yarmouth, a gentleman upon whose taste I can rely ; nor ought I to omit to mention tliat of his lady, who herself LIFE OF CRABBE. 87 designs in a superior manner, and is an excellent judge of all works of the kind. If I were sure of having a room to retire to on the morrow, with a whole window in it, I believe 1 should postpone my acknowledgment of your letter; but there is no setting bounds to the exertions of a crowd, in a place like this, when once they entertain the idea, be it right or wrong, that you are not of their opinion." On the 19th of January, 1831, he thus writes to Mr. Henchman Crowfoot, of Beccles, the relative of his son John's wife, and for whom he had a strong partiality : — " 19th January, 1831. " A long journey, as that would be into Suffolk, I contemplate with mixed feelings of hope and ap- prehension. After a freedom of several mouths' duration, I have once more to endure the almost continual attacks of the pain over which I boasted a victory, that, alas ! is by no means complete. Again I have recourse to steel, and again feel re- lief; but I am nearly convinced that travelling in stage-coaches, however good the roads, has a tend- ency to awaken this kind of disease, which (I speak reverendly) is not dead, but sleepeth. Yet I should rejoice to revisit Beccles, where every one is kind to me, and where every object I view has the ap- pearance of friendship and welcome. Beccles is the home of past years, and I could not walk through the streets as a stranger. It is not so at Aldborough : there a sadness mixes with all I see or hear ; not a man is living whom I knew in my early portion of life ; my contemporaries are gone, and their succes- sors are unknown to me and I to them. Yet, in my last visit, my niece and I passed an old man, and she said, 'There is one you should know; you played together as boys, and he looks as if he wanted to tell you so.' Of course, I stopped on my way, and Zekiel Thorpe and I became once more acquainted. This is sadly tedious to you ; but you need not be told that old men love to dwell upon their Recol- lections : and that, I suppose, is one reason for the many volumes published under that name. — Recol- lections of gentlemen who tell us what they please, and amuse us, in their old age, with the follieii of their youth ! " I beg to be remembered to and by Mrs. Crow- foot, Sen., my what shall I call the relation- ship ? We are the father and mother of our son and daughter, but in what legal affinity I cannot determine ; but I hope we may discuss that ques- tion, if it be necessary, at Trowbridge. And now, finally — in which way we close our sermons — once more accept my thanks, and those of my son and daughter. We have this day dined magnificently on your turkey, and drank our wine with remem- brances to our friends in Suffolk ? We are all — if I except my too frequently recurring pain — in good health; and — the indisposition of Mrs. George Crabbe excepted — so are the Gloucestershire part of my family : mine, I repeat with some pride and ■with more pleasure. I should much like an hour's conversation, inter nos, without participation, with- out interruption ; and I am fully persuaded that you would not reject it." The following is from a letter dated in the April of the same year — the last of his life : — " Comparing myself with myself, I have felt the weakening effect of time more within the last six months than I ever experienced before. I do not know that 1 am weaker than numbers are at my age, but I am sure that there is great difference between me at this time, and me (if 1 may so say) at Hastings last year. I cannot walk, no, not half the distance ; and then — (one more complaint, and I have done) — I cannot read, but for a short time at once : and now I would ask myself. What wotdd I do at Pucklechurch ? if my feet fail me when I walk, my sight when I read — why, I should be a perpetual incumbrance ? You will say. What, then, do you do at Trowbridge? There, you know, I have a number of small and often recurring duties, and I play with my fossils ; but still I am always purposing to come to you when I can." Again in May : — " I am still weak, and just, as I suppose, like other old declining people, without any particular dis- eases. But in the latter part of the day I become much renovated. Mr. Waldron and I talked of a London journey last evening, till 1 began to per- suade myself 1 was capable of the undertaking. A little serious consideration when I left him, and especially this morning's feelings, put to flight all such young man's fancies." Towards the close of this year he again visited his friends, his kind and attached friends, of Hampstead, at their residence at Clifton ; and this visit occurring at the memorable time of the Bristol riots, I will subjoin some extracts from his letters from thence — the last we ever re- ceived. "Clifton, October 24.— Assure our dear Caro- line,* that I feel pleasure in the thought of sitting in any room she assigns me ; there to employ my- self in my own way, without being troubled or interrupted by any one's business, as at Trowbridge, even by my own. You can scarcely believe how the love and enjoyment of quiet grows upon me. One of my great indulgences is to feel myself alone, but to know, and perhaps hear, that a whole family, little ones and great, are within a few paces of me, and that I can see them when I please — this is a grandpapa's luxury. Miss Caroline ! " I have to thank my friends for one of the most beautiful as well as comfortable rooms you could desire. I look from my window upon the Avon and its wooded and rocky bounds— the trees yet green. A vessel is sailing down, and here comes a steamer (Irish, I suppose). I have in view the end of the Cliff to the right, and on my left a wide and varied prospect over Bristol, as far as the eye can reach, and at present the novelty makes it very interesting. Clifton was always a favourite place with me. I have more strength and more spirits since my arrival at this place, and do not despair of giving a good account of my excursion on my return. " I believe there is a fund of good sense as well * His daughter-in-law. 88 LIFE OF CRABBE. as moral feeling in the people of this country ; and if ministers proceed steadily, give up some pomts, and be firm in essentials, there will be a union of sentiment on this great subject of reform by and by; at least, the good and well-meaning will drop their minor differences and be united. " So you have been reading my almost forgotten stories — Lady Barbara and Ellen ! I protest to you their origin is lost to me, and I must read them myself before I can apply your remarks. But I am glad you have mentioned the subject, because I have to observe that there are, in my recess at home, where they have been long undisturbed, another series of such stories, — in number and quantity sufficient for an octavo volume; and as 1 suppose they are much like the former in exe- cution, and sufficiently different in events and characters, they may hereafter, in peaceable times, be worth something to you ; and the more, because I shall, whatever is mortal of me, be at rest in the chancel of Trowbridge church ; for the works of authors departed are generally received with some favour, partly as they are old acquaintances, and in part because there can be no more of them." This letter was our first intimation that my father had any more poems quite prepared for the press ; — little did we at that moment dream that we should never have an opportunity of telling him, that since we knew of their exist- ence, he might as well indulge us with the pleasure of hearing them read by himself. On the 26th of the same October he thus wrote to me : — " I have been with Mrs. Hoare at Bristol, where all appears still : should any thing arise to alarm, you may rely upon our care to avoid danger. Sir es Wetherell, to be sure, is not popular, nor " -e Bishop, but I trust that both will be safe from violence — abuse they will not mind. The Bishop seems a good-humoured man, and, except by the populace, is greatly admired. — I am sorry to part with my friends, whom I cannot reasonably expect to meet often, — or, more reasonably yet, whom I ought to look upon as here taking our final leave ; but, happily, our ignorance of our time is in this our comfort, — that let friends part at any period of their lives, hope will whisper, ' We shall meet again.' " Happily, he knew not that this was their last meeting. In his next letter he speaks of the memorable riots of Bristol — the most alarming of the sort since those recorded in his own London diary, of 1780 — and which he had evidently anticipated. " Bristol, I suppose, never, in the most turbulent times of old, witnessed such outrage. Queen's Square is but half standing ; half is a smoking ruin. As you may be apprehensive for my safety, it is right to let you know that my friends and I are undisturbed, except by our fears for the progress of this mob-government, which is already some- what broken into parties, who wander stupidly about, or sleep wherever they fall Mearied with their work and their indulgence. The military are now in considerable force, and many men are sworn in as constables : many volunteers are met in Clifton churchyard, with white round one arm, to distinguish tliem ; some with guns, and the rest with bludgeons. The Mayor's house has been destroyed, — the Bishop's palace plundered, but whether burnt or not 1 do not know. This morn- ing, a party of soldiers attacked the crowd in the Square; some lives were lost, and the mob dis- persed, whether to meet again is doubtful. It has been a dreadful time, but we may reasonably hope it is now over. People are frightened certainly — and no wonder, for it is evident these poor wretches would plunder to the extent of their power. At- tempts were made to burn the cathedral, but failed. Many lives were lost. To attempt any other subject now would be fruitless. We can think, speak, and write only of our fears, hopes, or troubles. I would have gone to Bristol to-day, but Mrs. Hoare was unwilling that I should. She thought, and perhaps rightly, that clergymen were marked objects. I therefore only went about half way, and of course could learn but little. All now is quiet and well." Leaving his most valued friends in the begin- ning of November, my father came to Puckle- church, so improved in health and strength, that his description of himself would have been deemed the effect of mere ennui, except by those who know the variableness of age — the tem- porary strength, — the permanent weakness. He preached at both my churches the following Sunday, in a voice so firm and loud, and in a manner so impressive, that I was congratulated on the power he manifested at that advanced stage of life, and was much comforted with the indications of a long protracted decline. I said, " Why, Sir, I will venture a good sum that you will be assisting me ten years hence." — "Ten weeks," was his answer— and that was almost literally the period when he ceased to assist any one. He left us after a fortnight, and returned to Trowbridge. On the 7th of January he wrote, — " I do not like drowsiness— mine is an old man's natural infirmity, and that same old man creeps upon me more and more. I cannot walk him away : he gets old on the memory, and my poor little accounts never come right. Let me nevertheless be thankful : I have very little pain. 'T is true, from a stiffness in my mouth, I read prayers before we take our breakfast with some difficulty ; but that being over, I feel very little incommoded for the rest of the day. We are all in health, for 1 will not call my lassitude and stupidity by the name of illness. Like Lear, I am a poor old man and foolish, but happily I have no daughter who vexes me." In the course of this month, I paid him a visit, and stayed with him three or four days ; and if I had been satisfied with the indications of his improved health when at Pucklechurch, I was most agreeably surjjrised to find him still stronger and in bettor spirits than I had wit- LIFE OF CRABBE. 89 nessed for the last three years. He had become perceptibly stouter in that short interval : he took his meals with a keen appetite, and walked in a more upright position ; and there were no counter-tokens to excite our suspicions. It is true, he observed that he did not like the in- crease of flesh ; but this was said in that light cheerful manner, which imported no serious fears. On the 29th, I received a letter from my brother, stating that he had caught a sharp cold, accompanied with oppression in the chest and pain in the forehead, for which he had been bled. He added, that my father felt relieved, and that he would write again immediately ; but on the following morning, while I was expecting an account of his amendment, a chaise drove to the door, which my brother had sent me to save time. In fact, all hope of recovery was already over. I had once before seen him, as I have already described, under nearly similar circumstances, when, if he was not in extreme danger, he evidently thought he was. He had then said, " Unless some great change takes place, I cannot recover," and had ordered my mother's grave to be kept open to receive him. I asked myself, Will he bear the shock now as firmly as he did then ? I feared he would not ; because he must be aware that such a change as had then ensued was next to impossible under the present disorder at the age of seventy-seven ; and be- cause, whenever he had parted with any of us for the last four or five years, he had been much afiected, evidently from the thought that it might be the last meeting. I greatly feared, therefore, that his spirits would be woefully depressed — that the love of life might remain in all its force, and that the dread of death might be strong and distressing. I now state with feelings of indescribable thankfulness, that I had been foreboding a weight of evil that was not ; and that we had only to lament his bodily sufferings and our incalculable loss. During the days that preceded his departure, we had not one painful feeling arising from the state of his mind. That was more firm than I ever remembered under any circumstances. He knew there was no chance of his recovery, and yet he talked at intervals of his death, and of certain consequent arrangements, with a strong complacent voice ; and bade us all adieu without the least faltering of the tongue or moisture of the eye. The awfulness of death, apprehended by his capacious mind, must have had a tendency to absord other feelings ; yet was he calm and unappalled ; — and intervals of oblivion, under the appearance of sleep, softened his sufferings and administered an opiate to his faculties. One of his characteristics, — exuberance of thought, seemed sometimes, even when pleased, as if it oppressed him ; and in this last illness, when he was awake, his mind worked with astonishing rapidity. It was not delirium ; for on our re- calling his attention to present objects, he would speak with perfect rationality ; but, when un- interrupted, the greater portion of his waking hours were passed in rapid soliloquies on a variety of subjects, the chain of which, from his imperfect utterance (when he did not exert him- self), we were unable to follow. We seldom in- terrupted the course that nature was taking, or brought him to the effortof connected discourse, except to learn how we could assist or relieve him. But as in no instance (except in a final lapse of memory) did we discover the least irrationality — so there was no despondency ; on the contrary, the cheerful expressions which he had been accustomed to use, were heard from time to time ; nay, even that elevation of the inner side of the eyebrows, which occasionally accompanied some humorous observation in the days of his health, occurred once or twice after every hope of life was over. But, if we were thankful for his firmness of mind, we had to lament the strength of his constitution. I was not aware how powerful it was till tried by this disease. I said, " It is your great strength which causes this suffering." He replied, "But it is a great price to pay for it." On one essential subject it would be wrong to be silent. I have stated, that the most im- portant of all considerations had had an increas- ing influence over him mind. The growth had been ripening with his age, and was especially perceptible in his later years. With regard to the ordinances of religion, he was always mani- festly pained if, when absent from home on a Sunday, he had been induced to neglect either the morning or evening services : in his private devotions, as his household can testify, he was most exemplary and earnest up to the period of his attack ; yet at that time, when fear often causes the first real prayer to be uttered, then did he, as it were, confine himself to the inward wnrl- injT.: nf hin piniin nnrl vpc^j|Trpp,^[ ^j^ ^rif occa- sionally, however, betrayed by aspira,tions most applicable to his circumstances. Among the intel- ligible fragments that can never be forgotten, were frequent exclamations of, " My time is short ; it is well to be prepared for death." " Lucy," — this was the affectionate servant that attended along with his sons, — "dear Lucy, be earnest in prayer ! Ma}' you see your children's chil- dren." From time to time he expressed great fear that we were all over-exerting ourselves in sitting up at night with him ; but the last night he said, " Have patience witli me — it will soon be over.— Stay with me, Lucy, till I am dead, and then let others take care of me." This night was most distressing. The changes of posture sometimes necessary, gave him extreme pain, and he said, " This is shocking." Then again he became exhausted, or his mind wandereci in a troubled sleep. Awaking a little refreshed. 90 LIFE OF CRABBE. he hold out his hand to us, saying— as if he felt It might be the last opportunity, "God bless you— be good, and come to me !" Even then, "thou"-h we were all overpowered, and lost all self-command, he continued firm. His coun- tenance now began to vary and alter. Once, however, we had the satisfaction of seeing it lishted up with an indescribable expression of joy, as he appeared to be looking at something before him, and uttered these words, "That blessed book !" After another considerable interval of apparent insensibility, he awoke, and said, in a tone so melancholy, that it rang in my ears for weeks after, " I thought it had been all over," with such an emphasis on the all! Afterwards he said, " I cannot see you now." When I said, " We shall soon follow ;" he answered, " Yes, yes !" I mentioned his exemplary fortitude ; but he appeared unwilling to have any good ascribed to himself. When the incessant presents and enquiries of his friends in the town were mentioned, he said, " What a trouble I am to them all !" And in the course of the night, these most consolatory words were distinctfy heard, " All is well at last!" Soon after, he said, imperfectly, " You must make an entertainment ;" meaning for his kind Trowbridge friends after his departure. These were the last intelligible words 1 heard. Lucy, who could scarcely be persuaded to leave him, day or night, and was close by him when he died, says that the last words he uttered were, " God bless you— God bless you !" About one o'clock he became apparently torpid; and I left him with my brother, re- questing to be called instantly, in case of the least returnins sensibility,— but it never returned. As my brother was watching his countenance at seven o'clock in the morning, a rattlmg in the throat was heard once, and twice, but the third or Iburth time all was over. The shutters of the shops in the town were half closed, as soon as his death was known. On the day of his funeral, ninety-two of the principal inhabitants, including all the dissent- mg ministers, assembling of their own accord in the school-room, followed him to the grave. The shops on this day were again closed ; the streets crowded ; the three galleries and the or"-an-loft were hung with black cloth, as well as'the pulpit and chancel. The choir was in mourning — the other inhabitants of the town were in their seats and in mourning — the church was full- the effect appalling. The terrible so- lemnity seems yet recent while 1 write. The leader of the choir selected the following beau- tiful anthem : — " When the ear heard him, then it blegscd him ; And when tlie eye saw him, it ^ave witness of liim. lie ileliveri'd the poor that cried, tlie latherleas, and him thid had none to help him : Kindness and meekness and comfort herein his tongue." The worthy master of the Free and Sunday school at Trowbridge, Mr. Nightingale, on the Sunday after his funeral, delivered an impressive address to the numerous children under his care, on the death of their aged and affectionate minister. It was printed, and contains the fol- lowing passage: " ' Poor Mr. Crabbe,' said a little girl, the other day, very simply, ^ poo?- j\Tr. Crabbe will never go up in pulpit any more ivith his white head.' No ! my children, that hoary head — found, as niaj' yours and mine be found ! — in the ways of righteousness and peace, is gone to rest ; but his memory is embalmed in the house of our God. Sacred is the honoured dust that sleeps beside yonder altar. Is there one of you who has not experienced his kind- ness? — who has not seen his eyes beam with pleasure to hear you repeat ' Thy kingdom come ; Thy will be done ?' Religiously keep the Bibles he gave you ; and when you read these words of your Saviour — ' I go to prepare a place for you— and when I come, I will re- ceive you to myself — think of your affectionate minister, and that these were his dying words — ' Be good and come to me.' " Soon after his funeral, some of the principal parishioners met, in order to form a committee, to erect a monument over his grave in the chancel : and when his family begged to con- tribute to the generous undertaking, it was not permitted. " They desired," it was observed by their respected chairman,* " to testify their regard to him as a friend and a minister." And, I trust, his children's children will be taught to honour those who, by their deep sense of his worth, have given so strong a token of their own worthiness. The subscriptions to his monument being sufficiently large to sanction the commission of the work to the hands of Mr. Baillie, he finished it in July, and it was placed in the church, August, 1833. The eminent artist himself generously contributed the marble. A figure admirably represents the dying poet casting his eyes on the sacred volume ; two celestial beings are looking on, as if awaiting ills departure : on the opposite page is the short and beautiful inscription, judiciously expressed in his own native tongue. It is the custom to close a biographical work w ith a summary of character. I must leave the reader of these ])ages to supply this for himself. I conclude with simply transcribing a few verses —ascribed to an eminent pen,* — which appeared in ])rint shortly after my dear and venerated father's departure : — " Farewell, dear Chabbe ! thou meekest of mankind. With heart all ferrour, and all strength of mind. s Mr. Waldron, his young friend and adviser, now like himself numbered w ith the departed. He died, universally lieliived and lamented, April, 1833, a year and two months after mv father. 8 John Duneun, Ksq., of New College, Oxford. LIFE OF CRABBE. 91 With tonderest sympathy for others' woes. Fearless, all guile and malice to expose : Steadfast of purpose in pursuit of right, To drag forth dark hypot^risy to light. To brand th' oppressor, and to shame the proad. To shield the righteous from the slanderous crowd ; To error lenient and to frailty mild, Repentance ever was thy welcome child : In every state, as husband, parent, friend. Scholar, or bard, thou couldst the Christian blend. Thy verse from Nature's face each feature drew, Each lovely charm, each mole and wrinkle too. No dreamy incidents of wild romance. With whirling shadows, wilder'd minds entrance ; But plain realities the mind engage. With pictured warnings through each polished page. Hogarth of Song ! be this thy perfect praise : — Truth prompted, and Truth puriSed thy lays ; The God of Truth has given thy verse and thee Truth's holy palm — His Immortality." SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.B., WHO DIED FEBRUARY THE THIRD, 1832, IN THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, AND THE NINETEENTH OF HIS SERVICES AS RECTOR OF THIS PARISH. BORN IN HUMBLE UFE, HE MADE HIMSELF WHAT HE WAS. BY THE FORCE OF HIS GENIUS, HE BROKE THROUGH THE OBSCURITY OF HIS BIRTH YET NEVER CEASED TO FEEL FOR THE LESS FORTUNATE; ENTERING (AS HIS WORKS CAN TESTIFY) INTO THE SORROWS AND DEPRIVATIONS OF THE POOREST OF HIS PARISHIONERS ; AND SO DISCHARGING THE DUTIES OF HIS STATION AS A MINISTER AND A MAGISTRATE, AS TO ACQUIRE THE RESPECT AND ESTEEM OF ALL HIS NEIGHBOURS. AS A WRITER, HE IS WELL DESCRIBED BY A GREAT CONTEMPORARY AS " NATURE'S STERNEST PAINTER, YEP HER BEST." THE END OF THE LIFE. ( 93 ) THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. 94 CRABBE'S WORKS. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE POEMS The Poetical Works open with the Dedication prefixed to that collection of Poems, by Mr. Crabbe, which appeared in 1807; and which included " The Library," originally published in 1781; "The Village," in 1783; and " The Newspaper," in 1785; — together with four then new poems; viz., "The Parish Register," " The Birth of Flattery," " Sir Eustace Grey," and " The Hall of Justice." The Author's Preface to the same collection, of 1807, is next given; and then follow the Poems which it embraced ; now for the first time arranged in the order in which they were written. The original draft of " The Library," as first shown to Mr. Burke, has been found among Mr. Crabbe's MSS., and the various readings supplied from this and other sources, together with explanatory matter of different kinds, are appended to the present pages in notes distinguished by brackets. In imitation of the example given by Sir Walter Scott, in the collective edition of his Poetical Works, an Appendix is added to this volume, containing various juvenile Poems by Mr. Crabbe, some from his MSS., others from two anonymous publications which have now become extremely scarce. These early essays cannot detract from the fame of his maturer productions ; and illustrating, as they do, in a striking manner, the progress of the Author's taste and talents, they may furnish both encourage- ment and warning to the young aspirant in the art of poetry. They are, however, chiefly valuable for the light which they throw on the personal character of the author himself; the purification of his heart from youthful errors under the influence of virtuous love, and an awakened sense of religious obligation ; and the struggles of his mind during the period of what, like Dr. Johnson, he calls " his distress." Between the close of " The Borough," and the commencement of the " Tales," the Editor has been induced to insert a few Occasional Pieces, never before printed, which have been recently found among Mr. Crabbe's note-books, or supplied by the kind attention of his friends — and one poem of greater im- portance, composed in the same measure with " Sir Eustace Grey," and entitled " The World of Dreams." This performance, tliough it may not, perhaps, have received the last polish which the Author could have given it, appears to the Editor so characteristic of his highest genius, that it could not be omitted without injustice to his memory. POEMS. 95 POEMS. Ipse per Ausonias iEneia carmina gentes Qui sonat, ingenti qui nomine pulsat Olympum ; Maeoniumque senem Romano provocat ore : Forsitan illius nemoris latuisset in umbra Quod canit, et sterili tantum cantasset avena Ignotus populi ; si Maecenate careret. LucAN. Paneg. ad Pisones. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY-RICHARD FOX, LORD HOLLAND, OF HOLLAND IN LINCOLNSHIRE ; LORD HOLLAND, OF FOXLEY SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES. AND FELLOW OF THE My Lord, That the longest poem in this collection ' was honoured by the notice of your Lordship's right honour- able and ever-valued relation, Mr. Fox ; that it should be the last which engaged his attention ; and that some parts of it were marked with his approbation ; are circumstances productive of better hopes of ultimate success than I had dared to entertain before I was gratified with a knowledge of them : and the hope thus raised leads me to ask permission that I may dedicate this book to your Lordship, to whom that truly great and greatly lamented personage was so nearly allied in family, so closely bound in aflfection, and in whose mind presides the same critical taste which he exerted to the delight of all who heard him. He doubtless united with his unequalled abilities a fund of good-nature ; and this possibly led him to speak favourably of, and give satisfaction to, writers with whose productions he might not be entirely satisfied : nor must I allow myself to suppose his desire of obliging was with- holden, when he honoured any effort of mine with his approbation : but, my Lord, as there was discri- mination in the opinion he gave ; as he did not veil indifference for insipid mediocrity of composition under any general expression of cool approval : I allow myself to draw a favourable conclusion from the verdict of one who had the superiority of intellect few would dispute, which he made manifest by a force of eloquence peculiar to himself; whose excellent judgment no one of his friends found cause to distrust, and whose acknowledged candour no enemy had the temerity to deny.- ' ["The Parish Register" was the longest poem in the yolume, published in 1807, to wliich this dedication was prefixed.] 2 [" Mr. Fox's memory seems never to have been oppressed by the number, or distracted by the variety, of the materials which he had gradually accumulated. Never, indeed, will his companions forget the readiness, correctness, and glowing enthusiasm with which he repeated the noblest passages in the best English, French, and Italian poets, and in the best epic and dramatic writers of antiquity. He read the most celebrated authors of Greece and Rome, not only with exqui- site taste, but with philological precision ; and the mind which had been employed in balancing the fate of kingdoms, seemed occasionally, like that of Caesar, when he wrote upon grammatical analogy, to put forth its whole might upon the structure of sentences, the etymology of words, the import of particles, the quantity of syllables, and all the nicer distinc- tions of those metrical canons, which some of our ingenious countrymen have laid down for the different kinds of verse in the learned languages. Even in these subordinate accom- plishments, he was wholly exempt from pedantry. He could amuse without ostentation, while he instructed without arro- gance." — Park.] 96 CRABBE'S WORKS. With such encouragement, I present my book to your Lordship : the " Account of the Life and Writings of Lope de Yega " ^ has taught me what I am to expect ; I there perceive how your Lordship can write, and am there taught how you can judge of writers : my faults, however numerous, I know, will none of them escape through inattention, nor will any merit be lost for want of discernment : my verses are before him who has written elegantly, who has judged with accuracy, and who has given unequivocal proof of abilities in a work of difficulty, — a translation of poetry, which few persons in this kingdom are able to read,* and in the estimation of talents not hitherto justly appreciated. In this view, I cannot but feel some apprehension : but I know also, that your Lordship is apprised of the great difficulty of writing well ; that you will make much allowance for failures, if not too fre- quently repeated ; and, as you can accurately discern, so you will readily approve, all the better and more happy efforts of one, who places the highest value upon your Lordship's approbation, and who has the honour to be, Mt Lord, Your Lordship's most faithful and obliged humble servant, Geo. Crabbe. Muston, Sept. 1807. PREFACE TO POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1807. About twenty-five years since was published a poem called " The Library ;" which, in no long time, was followed by two others, " The Village," and " The Newspaper :" these, with a few altera- tions and additions, are here reprinted ; and are accompanied by a poem of greater length, and several shorter attempts, now, for the first time, before the public ; whose reception of them creates in their author something more than common soli- citude, because he conceives that, with the judg- ment to be formed of these latter productions, upon whatever may be found intrinsically meritorious or defective, there will be united an inquiry into the relative degree of praise or blame which they may be thought to deserve, when compared with the more early attempts of the same writer. And certainly, were it the principal employment of a man's life to compose verses, it might seem reasonable to expect that he would continue to im- ' [First published in 1806. A new edition appeared in 1817, to wliicli \v:is added "An Account of the Life and Writin(,'s of (Juillen de Castro." " No name among the Spanish poets." says Mr. Sonthey," is so generally known out of its own country as that of Lope de Vega, but it is only the name ; and perhaps no author, whose reputation is so widely extended, has been so little read. The good fortune, how- ever, of this ' phoenix of Spain' has not wholly forsaken him ; and he lias been as happy now in a biographer, as ho was during liis life in obtaining the patronage of the great and the favour of the public."] * T" For about a hundred years, French had been the only literature which obtained any attention in thiscountrv. Now and then some worthless production was 'done into ICnglish by a Person of Quality,' and a few sickly dramatists imported stace plotsand re-manufactured them for the I'^nglish m.irket ; making of less value, by tlieir bad workmanship, materials whirh wer" of lit lie enough value in tliemselves Hut at this time a revival was beginning ; it was brought about, not by the appearance of great andoriginal genius, but by awaken- ing the publin to the merits of our old writers, and of tliose of prove as long as he continued to live ; though, even then, there is some doubt whether such improve- ment would follow ; and, perhaps, proofs might be adduced to show it would not : but when, to this " idle trade, " is added some " calling," ' with superior claims upon his time and attention, his progress in the art of versification will probably be in proportion neither to the years he has lived, nor even to the attempts he has made. While composing the first published of these poenis,^ the author was honoured with the notice and assisted by the advice of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke : part of it was written in his pre- sence, and the whole submitted to his judgment ; receiving, in its progress, the benefit of his correc- tion : I hope, therefore, to obtain pardon of the reader, if I eagerly seize the occasion, and, after so long a silence, endeavour to express a grateful sense of the benefits I have received from this gentleman. other countries. The former task was efTected by Percy and Warton : the latter it wa.s Ilayley's fortune to perform. A greater effect was produced upon the rising generation of scholars, by the notes to his lisay on Epic Poetry, than by any other contemporary work, the Relics of Ancient Poetry alone excepted. A most gratifying proof of this was afforded him thirty years after these notes were published, when he received from I..ord Holland a present of the ' Life ot Lope de Vega,' and a letter saying, that what Hayley had there written concerning the Araurana, had induced him to learn the Spanish langu.ige. And this was followed by an act of substantial kindness on his Lordship's part, in procuring an appointment for one of the author's relations. There are many persons who might make the same acknowledgment as Loiil Holland, though few who have pursued the study of that fertile literature with such distinguished success." — SoUIHKY.J ' [" I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd.'* — Popk.] " [" The Library."] PREFACE. 97 ■who was solicitous for my more essential interests, as well as benevolently anxious for my credit as a writer. I will not enter upon the subject of his extra- ordinary abilities ; it would be vanity, it would be weakness, in me to believe that I could make them better known or more admired than they now are ; but of his private worth,* of his wishes to do good, of his affability and condescension ; his readi- ness to lend assistance when he knew it was wanted, and his delight to give praise where he thought it was d^iserved ; of these 1 may write with some pro- priety. All know that his powers were vast, his acquirements various; and I take leave to add, that he applied them with unremitted attention to those objects which he believed tended to the honour and welfare of his country. But it may not be so gene- rally understood, that he was ever assiduous in the more private duties of a benevolent nature; that he delighted to give encouragement to any promise 3 [Mrs. Montagu, who had tlie good fortune to know, and the good taste to admire, Mr. Burke in the very early part of his life, thus speaks of him in one of her letters :— " I shall send you a ' Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful,' by Mr. Burke, a friend of mine. I think you will lind him an ele- gant and ingenious writer. He is far from tlie pert pedantry and assuming ignorance of modern witlings, but in converia- tion and in writing an ingenious and ingenuous man, modest and delicate, and on great and serious subjects full of that re- spect and veneration wliicli a good mind and a great one is sure to feel, while fools rush btliind the altar at which wise men kneel and pay mysterious reverence."] * [While in Dublin, in 1763, Burke's attention was called to a friendless young adventurer, who had just arrived from Cork, to exliibit a picture. Tliis was Barry, the celebrated painter. Burke saw him frequently ; examined and praised his picture ; enquired into his views and future prospects ; offered him a passage to England ; received him, as he after- wards did t'rabbe, at his house in town ; introduced him to the principal artists ; and procured employment for him to copy pictures under Athenian Stuart, till a change in his own circumstances enabled liim to do still more. By his advice Barry went to Italy for improvement in his art, and while there the painter was cliietly supported by his munificence. Barry, like Crabbe, ackno>vledged the weight of his obliga- tions. " 1 am your property," he wrote to Burke ; '■ you ought surely to be free with a man of your own making, who has found in you, father, brotlier, friend, every thing." — See Pkior's IjiJ'e of Burke, and Cunningh.\ii's British I'uiuters.} * [Having already brought forward a painter and a poet of celebrity, he endeavoured to do the same by a sculptor. Writing to Lord Cliarlemont, in 178:i, he says, — " I find tliat Ireland, among otlier marks of her just gratitude to Mr. Grattan, intends to erect a monument to liis honour, which is to be decorated with sculpture. It will be a pleasure to you to know, that, at this time, a young man of Ireland is here, who, I really tliink, as far as my judgment goes, is fully equal to our best statuaries, both in taste and execution. If you employ liim, you will encourage the rising arts in the decora- tion of the rising virtue of Ireland; and though the former, in the scale of tilings, is infinitely below the latter, there is a kind of relationship between them. The young man's name who wishes to be employed is Hickey."] 6 ["Burke," said Johnson, "is never what we call hum- drum ; never in a hurry to begin conversation, at a loss to carry it on, or eager to have oiT. He does not talk from a desire of distinciion, but because his mind is full. ' The Doctor often delighted to say, " If a man were to go by chance, at the same time with Burke, under a shed to shun a snow er, he would say, ' This is an e.xtraordinary man I' " — 3rokkr's BosweU.'] 7 [The following affecting incident, detailed by Mrs. Burke to a friend, took place a few months before Mr. Burke's death, of ability,* and assistance to any appearance of desert : ' to what purposes he employed his pen, and with what eloquence he spake in the senate, will be told by many, who yet may be ignorant of the solid instruction, as well as the fascinating pleasantry, found in his common conversation, ^ amongst his friends ; and his affectionate manners, amiable disposition.' and zeal for their happiness, which he manifested in the hours of retirement with his family. To this gentleman I was indebted for my know- ledge of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was as well known to his friends for his perpetual fund of good humour and his unceasing wishes to oblige, as he was to the public for the extraordinary productions of his pencil and his pen.^ By him I was favoured with an introduction to Dr. Johnson, who honoured me with his notice, and assisted me, as Mr. Boswell has told, with remarks and emendations for a poem 1 was about to publish,* The Doctor had been in 1797: — "A feeble old horse, which had been a great favourite with the junior Mr. Burke, and his constant com- panion in all rural journeyings and sports wlien lioth were alike heathful and vigorous, was now, in liis age, and on the death of his master, turned out to take the run of the park for the remainder of his life at ease, with strict injunctions to the servants that he should neither be ridden nor molested by any one. While walking one day in solitary musing, Mr. Burke perceived this worn-out old servant come close up to him, and at length, after some moments spent in viewing him, followed by seeming recollection and confidence, deliberately rested its head upon his bosom. The singularity of the action itself; the remembrance of his dead son, its late master, who occupied much of his thoughts at all times ; and the apparent attachment and almost intelligence of the poor brute, as if it could sympathise with his inward sorrows; rushing at once into his mind, totally overpowered his firmness, and throwing his arms over its neck, he wept long and bitterly. "] ' [This great painter and most amiable gentleman died in 1792. " Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on very many accounts, one of the most memorable men of his time He was the first Englishman who added the praise of the elesant arts to the other glories of his country. In taste, in grace, in ficility, in happy invention, and in the richness and harmony of colour- ing, he was equal to the great masters of the renowned ages. In portrait he went beyond them ; for he communicated to that department of the art, in which Englisli artists are the most engaged, a variety, a fancy, and a dignity, derived from the higher branches, which even those who professed them in a superior manner, did not always preserve when thev delineated individual nature. His portraits remind the spectator of the invention of history, and of the amenity of landscape. In painting portraits, lie appears not to be raised upon that platlorm, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His paintings illustrate his lessons, and his lessons seem to have been derived from liis paintings. He possessed the theory as perfectly as the practice of his art. . .In lull happi- ness of foreign and domestic fame, admired In the expert in art, and by the learned in science, courted bv the great, caressed by sovereign powers, and celebrated by di-tingui,shed poets, his native liuraility, modesty, and candour never ' forsook him, even on surprise or provocation ; nor was tlie least degree of sirrogance or assumption visible to the most scrutinising eye in any part of his conduit or di course His talents of every Kind — powerful from nature, aiul not meanly cultivated by letters — his social virtues in all the re- lations and in all the habitudes of life, rendHrer hills be lost ; And were the mighty orbs above us known, No world would seem so trilling as our own. Here looking backj the wond'ring soul surveys The sacred relics of departed days. Where grace, ami trutli, and excellence reside, To claim our praise, and mortify our inide ; Favour'd by fate, our mighty fathers found The vir"in Muse, with every beauty crown'd • Thev woo'd and won ; ami, bani-ili'd their embrace, She comes a harlot to their feeliU-r rare : Deckd in false taste, witli gaudy shows of art. She charms the eye, but tuuclics not tlie heart ; By thousands courted, but by few carcss'd. False when pursued, and fatal when possess'd. From hence we rove, witli Fancy fi)r our guide. O'er this wide worUl, and other worlds more wide. Where other suns their vital power display, And round revolving planets dart the dav ; Where comets l)la7.c-, by mortals unsurvey'd. And stray where (Jalileo never stray'd ; Where Uod liiniself conducts each Viist machine, Uncensured bv mankind, because unaeeu. Come, Child of Care I to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene ; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul s best cure, in all her cares, behold I Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind ; See here the balms that passion's wounds as- suage ; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage ; Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul ; And round the heart and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.'' Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude : — Here, too, we trace the varied scenes of life. The tyrant husband, the retorting wife. The hero fearful to appear afraid. The thoughts of the deliberating maid ; The snares for virtue, and the turns of fate, The lie of trade, and madness of debate ; Here force deals death around, while fools applaud. And caution watches o'er the lips of fraud ; Whate'er the world can sliow, liere scorn derides. And here suspicion whispers what it hides — The secret thought, the counsel of the breast. The coming news, and the expected jest. , . . High panegyric, in exalted style. That smiles for ever, and provokes a smile. And Satire, w ith her fav'rite liandmaids by — Here loud abuse, there simpering irony. . . . All now display'd, without a mask are known. And every vice in nature, but our own. Yet Pleasure too, and Virtue, still more fair. To this blest seat w ith mutual speed repair ; The social sweets in life's securer road. Its bliss unenvied, its substantial good. The happy thought that conscious virtue gives. And all that ought to live, and all that lives.] ' ["Books without the knowledge of life are useless; for what should books teach but the art of living?" — John- son.] * [" These studies are the food of youth, and the conso- lation of age : they adorn prosperity, and are the comfort and refuge of adversity : they are pleasant at home, and are of no incumbrance abroad ; they accompany us at night on our travels, and in our rural retreats." — Cicero.] 5 [" Tlie learned world, as I take it, have ever allowed a liberty of thinking and of speaking one's sentiments. That serene repulilic knows none of the distance and distinctions which custom has introduced into all others. Tliere is a decent familiarity to be admitted between the greatest and the mean- est of it. This has often raised a thought in me, wliich has something w ild, and at the same time something very agree- able in it, when indulged to any degree. 'Tis in relation to the peculiar happiness of men of letters ; in that tliey can sit down in their closets, and converse with the greatest writers of every age and of any nation ; and that in as mucli freedom and intimacy as their nearest friends could ever use towards any of them when living. What an illustrious assemlily is there on these shelves ! The courts of Auirustus, Louis XIV., or Charles II., never beheld such a frequency of great geniuses as stand round a man in his own private study. How large a liappincss is it for a pt^rson to luive it in his power to say at any time, that he is going to siwnd an afternoon with the most agreeable and most improving companv he will choose out of all ages ! If lie is in a i;ny humour, perhaps « ith Horace and Anacreon and Lord Dorset; or, if more solid, either with Plato or Sir Isaac Newton." — Spence, Essny on Pope's Udi/ssit/.] ' [" A library pharmaceutically disposed would have the appearance of a dispensatory, and might be properly enough so called : and wlien I recollect how many of our eminent collectors of l)ooks have been of the medical faculty, I cannot but think it probable that tliuse great bruefactors to liter.ature, THE LIBRARY. 103 I Silent they are — but, though deprived of sound, liere all tlie living languages abound ; Here all that live no more ; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious cye.^ Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind ! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing. Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring ; But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend ; 'T is his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.^ In sweet repose, when Labour's children sleep, When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep, "When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast, And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest, Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care ? Because the hope is his, that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy ; That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days. Delightful prospect ! when we leave behind A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind ! Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day. Shall all our labour, all our care repay. Yet all are not these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigoi'ous mind ; But where the wisest should alone preside. The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide ; Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow ; Radcliire, Mead, Sloane, Hunter, and others, have had this very idea in their minds, whentliey founded their libraries." — Cumberland.] ' ["How often does the worm-eaten volume outlast the reputation of the worm-eaten author ? Some literary reputa- tions die in the birth ; a few are nibbled to death by critics — but they are weakly ones that perish thus; such only as must otherwise soon have come to a natural death. Somewhat more numerous are those which are overfed with praise, and die in the surfeit. Brisk reputations, indeed, are like bottled two- penny, or pop — 'they sparkle, are exhaled, and fly,' — not to heaven, but to the Limbo. To live among books is, in this respect, like being among the tombs; — you have in them speaking remembrances of mortality." — Southey.] s; 8 ["As the Supreme Being has expressed, and, as it were, irinted his ideas in the creation, men express their ideas in ooks — which, by this great invention of these latter ages, may last as long as the sun and moon, and perish only in the general wreck of nature. Thus Cowley, in his poem on the Kesurrection, mentioning the destruction of the universe, has these admirable lines : — ' Now all the wide extended sky. And all th' harmonious worlds on high, And Virgil's sacred Jl'urk, shall die.' There is no other method of fixing these thoughts which arise and disappear in the mind of men, and transmitting them to the la.st periods of time ; no other method of gi\-ing a per- manency to our ideas, and preserving the knowledge of any particular person, when his body is mixed with the common mass of matter, and his soul retired into the world of spirits. Statues c;in last but a few thousands of years, edili(.;.'j fiwer, and colours still fewer than edifices." — Addisox.] 9 [Here follows, in the original MS. : — Maxims I glean, of mighty pith and force, And moral themes to shine in a discourse ; Hut, tired with these, I take a lighter train, Tuned to the times, impertinent and vain. Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive, And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. But though imperfect all ; yet wisdom loves This seat serene, and virtue's self approves : — Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find ; The curious here to feed a craving mind ; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose ; And here the poet meets his favouring Muse.^ With awe, around these silent walks I tread ; These are the lasting mansions of the dead : — " The dead ! " methinks a thousand tongues reply ; " These are the tombs of such as cannot die ! " Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime, " And laugh at all the little strife of time." >" Hail, then, immortals ! ye who shine above. Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove ; And ye the common people of these skies, A humbler crowd of nameless deities ; Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind Through History's mazes, and the turnings find ; Or, whether led by Science, ye retire. Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire ; Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers. And crowns your placid brows with living flowers ; Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show The noblest road to happiness below ; Or men and manners prompt the easj' page To mark the flying follies of the age : Whatever good ye boast, that good impart ; Inform the head and rectify the heart. Lo, all in silence, all in order stand. And mighty folios ' ' first, a lordly band ; The tarts whicli wits provide for taste decay'd, And syllabubs by frothy witlings made. An easy, idle, thoughtless, graceless throng. Pun, jest, and quibble, epigram and song, Trifles to which declining genius bends, And steps by which aspiring wit ascends. Now sad and slow, with cautious step I tread. And view around the venerable dead ; For where in all her walks shall study seize Such monuments of human state as these ?J 10 [" Books are not absolutczy dead things, but do contain a progeny of life in them, to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragon's teeth ; and being sown up and down, may chance to bring up armed men. And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable crea- ture, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills tlie image of Goil, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose to a life beyond life. It is true, no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss; and revolutions of ages do not ott recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which whole nations fare the worse. We should be wary, therefore, \\ hat persecution we raise against the living labours of public men, how we spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in books ; since we see a kind of homicide may be thus com- mitted, sometimes a martyrdom ; and if it extend to the whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at the ethereal and fifth essence, the breadth of reason itself; slays an immortality rather than a life." — Milton.] 11 ['"No man,' Johnson used to say, 'reads long together yith a folio on his table. Books,' said he, ' that you may carry to the fire, and hold readily in your hand, are the most 104 CRABBE'S WORKS. Then quartos '* their well-order'd ranks maintain, And light octavos fill a spacious plain : See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, A humbler band of duodecimos ; "While undistinguish'd trifles swell the scene, The last new play and fritter'd magazine. Thus 't is in life, where first the proud, the great. In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state ; '^ Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread. Are much admired, and are but little read : The commons next, a middle rank, are found ; Professions fruitful pour their offspring round ; Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd, And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. First, let us view the form, the size, the dress ; '* For these the mannei's. nay the mind express : Tliat weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid ; Those ample clasps, of solid metal made ; The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for manj' an age ; The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page ; On the broad back the stubborn ridges roU'd, "Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold ; These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim, A painful candidate for lasting fame : No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk In the deep bosom of that weighty work ; No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style, Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile. Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality : They had their day, when, after all his toil, His moi-ning study, and liis midnight oil. At length an author's oxe great work appear'd, By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd : Expecting nations hail'd it from the press ; Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address ; useful after all. Such books form the mass of general and easy reading." He was a };reat friend to books like the French ' Esprits d'un Tel ;' for example ' lieauties of Watts,' &c., &:c., ' at wliich,' said he, ' a man will often look, and be tempted to go on, wlien he would have been frightened at books of a larger size, and of a more erudite appearance.' " — Haw- kins.] 1* [Horace Walpole says, " I prefer the quarto to the octavo. .\ quarto lies free and open before one : it is surprising how long the world was pestered with unwieldy folios. A French- man was asked if he liked books \n Julio'/ ' No,' said he, ' I like them in fructii.' " A quarto is now condemned as un- wieldy, as a folio was when ^Valpole wrote ; and, if matters go on as they are at present doiuLj, an octavo will be, fifty years hence, an unmanageable tome.] '3 [" It was the literary humour of a certain Maecenas, wlio cheered the lustre of his patronage with the st(«ms of a good dinner, to place his gucst.s according to the size and thickness of the books they had printed. At the head of the table sat those who had pul)lished in Jiiliu, Jiitissimo ; next the authors in quarto, then those in octavo. At that table Hlackmore would liave had the precedence of Gray. Addison, who found this anecdote in one of the An.xs, has seized tlie idea, and applied it, with his felicity of humour, in No. .'j2'J of tlie Spectator." — D'Iskaki.i.J 1* [" No sooner," says Boswell, " bad we made a bow to Mr. Cambridge, in his library, than .Tohuson ran eagerly to one side of the room, intent on poring over the liacUsof the books. .Mr. Cambridge jxilitcly said, ' It .seems odd that one should have such a desire to look at tlie backs of books.' Johnson, ever ready for contest, instantly answered, ' .Sir, the reason is very plain. Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a sub- ject ourselves, or we know wliere we can find inl'orniation upon it. When we inquire into any subject, the first thing we have to do, is to know what books have treated of it. 'I'his Princes end kings received the pond'rous gift, And ladies read the work they could not lift. Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools. Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules ; From crowds and courts to "Wisdom's seat she goes And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes. For lo ! these fav'rites of the ancient mode ^* Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode.'* Ah ! needless now this weight of massy chain ; '^ Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain ; No readers now invade their still retreat. None try to steal them from their parent-seat; Like ancient beauties, they may now discard Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by. And roU'd, o'er labour'd works, th' attentive eye : Page after page, the much-enduring men Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen ; Till, every former note antl comment known, They mark'd the spacious margin with their own;' Minute corrections proved their studious care ; The little index, pointing, told us where ; And many an emendation show'd the age Look'd far beyond the rubric title-page. Our nicer palates lighter labours seek, Cloy'd with a i'o\io-JVu7iiber once a week ; Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down : E'en light Voltaire is mimber'd through the town : Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law. From men of study, and from men of straw ; Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times. Pamphlets '^ and plays, and politics and rhymes ; But though to write be now a task of ease, The task is hard by manly arts to please, "When all our weakness is exposed to view And half our judges are our rivals too. leads us to look at catalogues, and the backs of books in libra- ries.' " — Choker's Busivell, vol. iii. p. 240.] '5 [Original MS. :— Yon folios, once the darlings of the mode, Now lie neglected like the IJirtliday Ode ; There Learning, stulT'd with maxims trite though sage, Makes bidigestion yaw n at every page. (Jhain'd like Prometheus, lo ! tlie mighty train lirave Time's fell tooth, and live and die again ; .'\.nd now the scorn of men, and now the pride, 'I'he sires respect them, and the sons deride.] ic [The first Poet-laureate who expressed liis wish to forego the regular production of an ode on the sovereign's birthday, to be set to music and publicly chanted in the royal presence, was Uobcrt Southey, appointed to that office in 1813; and his pro- posal was, without hesitation, agreed to by King George IV.] 17 In the more ancient libraries, works of value and impor- tance were fastened to their places by a length of chain ; and miiiht so be perused, but not taken away.— ["At the view of the liodleian Library, .lames the First exclaimed, ' Wore I not a king, I would lie an university man ; and, if it were so that 1 must be made a prisoner, I would have no other prison than this library, and be chained together with all these goodly authorsl ' In this exclamation, the king had in his mind the then prevalent custom of securing books by fastening them to the shelves by chains, long enough to reach to the reading-desks under them." — D'lsu aeli.J 18 f" From pamphlets may V>e learned the genius of the age, the debates of llie learned, the ii nivs of government, and mistakes of the courtiers. Pamphlets furnish beaus with their airs; coquettes with their charms. Pamplilets are .as modish ornaments to gentli'women's toilets, as to gentlemen's pocke's : they carry reputation of wit and learning to all that make them their coinpaiiiotis ; the poor find their account in THE LIBRARY. 105 Amid these works, on which the eager eye Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by, When all combined, their decent pomp display, Wliere shall we first our early ofi'ering pay ? — To thee, Divinity ! to thee, the light And guide of mortals, through their mental night ; By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide ; To bear with pain, and to contend with pride ; "When grieved, to pray ; when injured, to forgive ; And with the world in charity to live.'* Not truths like these inspired that numerous race, "Whose pious labours fill this ample space ; But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose. Awaked to war the long-contending foes. For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove. And wars on faith prevented works of love ; The brands of discord far around were hurl'd, And holy wrath inflamed a sinful Morld : — Dull though impatient, peevish though devout, "With wit disgusting, and despised without ; Saints in design, in execution men, Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.'^" Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight, Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight ; Spirits who prompted every damning page, "With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage : Lo ! how they stretch their gloomy wings around. And lash with fuiious strokes the trembling ground ! They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep, — Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners sheep ; stall-keeping and hawking them ; the ricli find in them their sliortest way to tlie secrets of churcli and state. In short, witli paraplilets, the booksellers adorn the gaiety of shop-gazing. Hence accrues to grocers, apothecaries, and cliandlers, good furniture, and supplies to necessary retreats. In pamplilets, lawyers meet witli tlieir chicanery, pliysicians with their cant, divines with their sliibboleth. Pamplilets become more and more daily amusements to the curious, idle, and inquisitive ; pastime to gallants and coquettes ; chat to the talkative ; catch-words to informers ; fuel to the envious ; poison to the unfortunate ; balsam to the wounded ; employment to the lazy ; and fabulous materials to romancers and novelists." — Myles Davies, Icuil LibcUorum, 1715.] '* [" It is not the reading many books which makes a man a divine, but the reading a few of the best books often over, and with attention : those, at least, who are beginning their theological studies should follow this rule." — Bishop Watson. " If the reader is disposed to attend to the humble sugges- tions of a very private layman, I think he would find great advantage in studying and considering the following works, in the order in which they are arranged: — 1. The View of the Internal lOvidence of the Christian Religion, by Soame .lenvns. 2. The Evidences of Christianity, by Dr. Paley. 3. Grotius on the Truth of the Christian Religion. 4. Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion, by Dr. Samuel Clarke. 5. Locke's Reasonableness of Christianity. 6. Rishop Hurd's Introduction to the Study of the Prophecies. 7. Lord Lyttel- fon's Dissertation on the Conversion of St. Paul ; and 8. Dr. Rutler's Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature. From these few volumes, if they are studied with care and an upright intention, I think il may be said, that ' They shall see to whom He was not (before) spoken of ; and they that have not (before) heard, shall understand.' " — Matthiae.] •20 j^" xhe history of the scholastic philosophy might fur- nish a philosophical writer with an instructive theme ; it would enter into the history of the human mind, and liU a nifhe in our literary annals ; the works of the stdiolastios, with the controversies of these Quodlibrtlnars, woidd at once testify all the greatness and the littleness of the human intel- lect. Of these scholastic divines, the most illustrious was Saint Thomas Aquinas, styled the angelical doctor. Seventeen Too well they act the prophet's fatal part, Denouncing evil with a zealous heart ; And each, like Jonah, is displeased if God Kepent his anger, or withhold his rod."^^ But here the dormant fury rests unsought, And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought ; Here all the rage of controversy ends, And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends : An Athanasian here, in deep repose, Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes ; Socinians here with Calvinists abide, And thin partitions angry chiefs divide ; Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.^^ Great authors, for the church's glory fired, Are for the church's peace, to rest retired ; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race. Lie " Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."-® Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends ; If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads, And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads : But most she fears the controversial pen, The holy strife of disputatious men ; ^* Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore. Only to fight against its precepts more.^* Near to these seats behold yon slender frames, All closely fiU'd and mark'd with modern names ; Where no fair science ever shows her face, Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace ; folio volumes not only testify his industry, but even his genius. He was a great man busied all his life with making a charade of metaphysics. His ' Sum of all Theology,' a meta- physicological treatise, occupies above 1 250 folio pages, of very close print in double columns." — D'Israeli.] 21 f " And God saw their works, that they turned from their evil way ; and God repented of the evil, that lie had said that he would do unto them ; and he did it not. But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was very angry."— Jo«a/i, iii. 10.] s* [Original MS. :— Calvin grows gentle in this silent coast, Nor finds a single heretic to roast ; Here, their fierce rage subdued, and lost their pride. The Pope and Luther slumber side by side.] 23 [" How peaceably they stand together : Papists and Pro- testants side by side ! Tlieir very dust reposes not more quietly in the cemetery. Ancient and modern, Jew and Gentile, Mohammedan and Crusader, French and English, Spaniards and Portuguese, Dutch and Brazilians, fighting their old battles, silently now.upon the same shelf : Fernam Lopez and Pedro de Ayala; John de Laet and Barlaeus, with the historians of Joam Fernandez Viera : Fox's Martyrs and the Three Conversions of Father Parsons: Cranmer and Stephen Gardiner ; Dominican and Franciscan ; Jesuit and Philosophe ; Churchmen and Sectarians ; Roundheads and Cavaliers !" — South E v.] 2-* ["Your whole school is nothing but a stinking sty of pigs. Dog ! do you understand me .'' Do you understand me, madman ? Do you understand me, you great beast ? " — Cal- vin to Luther.] SS [" These controversial divines have changed the rule of life into a standard of disputation. Thev have employed the temple of the Most High as a fencing-school, where gymnastic exercises are daily exhibited, and where victory serves only to excite new contests ; slighting the bulwarks wherewith He who bestowed religion on mankind had secured it, they have encompasaed it with various minute outworks, which an army of warriors can with difliculty defend." — Sir D. Dai.- RVMPLE.] I 106 CRABBE'S WORKS. There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng, And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong ; Some in close fight their dubious claims main- tain; Some skirmish lightly, flj% and fight again ; Coldly profane, and impiously gay, Their end the same, though various in their way. When first Religion came to bless the laud, Her friends were then a firm believing band ; To doubt was then to plunge in guilt extreme, And all was gospel that a monk could dream ; Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul. For Fear to guide, and visions to control : But now, when Reason has assumed her throne. She, in her turn, demands to reign alone ; Rejecting all that lies beyond her view, And, being judge, will be a witness too : Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind, To seek for truth, without a power to find : Ah ! when will both in friendly beams unite. And pour on erring man resistless light ? Next to the seats, well stored with works divine. An ample space. Philosophy ! is thine ; "^ Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light We trace the moral bounds of v^Tong and right ; Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay, To the bright orbs of yon celestial way ! 'T is thine, the great, the golden chain to trace. Which runs through all, connecting race with race ; Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, Which thy inferior light pursues in vain : — • »» [The edition of 1781 reads as follows : — To thee, Philosophy ! to thee, the light, The guide of mortals through tlieir mental night, By whom the world in all its views is shown, Our guide through Nature's works, and in our own Who place in order Being's wondrous chain, Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, By art divine involved, wliicli man can ne'er explain. These are thy volumes ; and in these we look, As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book ; Here first described the humble glebe appears, Unconscious of the gaudy robe it wears. All tliat the earth's profound recesses liide, And all that roll beneath the raging tide ; The sullen gem that yet disdains to sliine, And all the ductile matter of the mine. Next to the vegetable tribes they lead. Whose fruitful beds o'er every balmy mead Teem with new life ; and hills, and vales, and groves. Feed the still flame, and nurse the silent loves ; Wliich, when the Spring calls forth tlieir genial power, Swell with the seed, and flourish in the flower : There,* with the husband-slaves, in royal pride. Queens, like the Amsizons of old, reside ; There, like tlie Turk, tlie lordly husband lives, And joy to all the gay seraglio gives ; There,t in the secret chambers, veil'd from sight, A bashful tribe in hidden flames delight ; There,! in the open day, and gaily deck'd. The bolder brides their distant lords expect ; Wlio with the wings of love instinctive rise, And on prolific winds each ardent bridegroom flics. Next are that tribe whom life and sense inform, The torpid beetle, and the shrinking worm ; And insects, proud to spread tlieir brilliant wing, To catch the fostering sunbeams of tlie spring ; * Alluding to the sexual system of Linnaeus. + Tlie class cryptogamia. J The class dioccia. How vice and virtue in the soul contend ; How widely differ, yet how nearly blend ; What various passions war on either part, ^\jid now confirm, now melt the yielding heart : How Fancy loves around the world to stray. While Judgment slowly picks his sober way ; The stores of memory, and tlie flights sublime Of genius, bound by neither space nor time ; — AH these divine Philosophy explores. Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. From these, descending to the earth, she turns, And matter, in its various form, discerns ; She parts the beamy light with skill profound. Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound ; 'T is hers the lightning fi-om the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall."'' Yet more her volumes teach, — on these we look As abstracts drawn trom Nature's larger book : Here, first described, the torpid earth appears. And next, the vegetable robe it wears ; Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields, and groves, Jsurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves ; Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain. Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain ; But as the green blood moves along the blade, The bed of Flora on the branch is made ; AVhere, without passion, love instinctive lives. And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. -^ Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace. In dens and burning plains, her savage race ; With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, And find, in man, a master and a friend ; Tliat feather'd race, which late from winter fled, To dream a half-existence with the dead ; Who now, returning from their six montlis' sleep. Dip their black pinions in the slumbering deep ; Where, feeling life from stronger beams of day. The scaly myriads of the ocean play. Then led by Art through Nature's maze we trace Tlie sullen people of the savaije race ; And see a favourite tribe mankind attend. And in the fawning follower find the friend : Man crowns the scene, Jic] •7 [" Dr. Franklin was the first who found out that lightning consisted of electric matter. This great discovery taught us to defend liouses and ships and temples from light- ning ; and also to understand, that people are always perfectly safe in a room during a thunder-storm, if they keep themselves at three or four feet distance from the walls." — Dakwin.] -" [Dr. Darwin's imitation of Mr. Crabbe, in his Botanic Garden, published in 1792, is obvious : — " Descend, ye hovering Sylphs ! aerial choirs. And sweep with little hands your silver lyres ; With fairy footsteps print your grassy rings. Ye (oionies! accordant to the tinkling strings, While, in soft notes, I tune to oaten reed (i.'iy hopes, and amorous sorrows of the mead, From giant oaks, that wave their branches dark. To the dwarf moss, that clings upon their biirk ; ^^■hat beaux and beauties crowd the gaudy groves, .\iid woo and win their vegetable loves : How snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed harebells Mend Their tender tears, as o'er tlie stream they bend ; The lovesick violet, and the primrose pale, How their sweet head.s, and whisper to the gale ; With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, .\nd Jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups ; How the young rose, in be.iuty's damask pride. Drinks the warm blushes of his b.ashful bride : With lioney'd lips enamour'd woodbines meet ; Cliisp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet."] Man ** crowns the scene, a -world of wonders new, A moral world, that well demands our view. This world is here ; for, of more lofty kind, These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind ; They paint the state of man ere yet endued "With knowledge ; — man, poor, ignorant, and rude ; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell. And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell : Here we behold how inexperience buys. At little price, the wisdom of the wise ; "Without the troubles of an active state, "Without the cares and dangers of the great, "Without the miseries of the poor, we know "What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow ; We see how reason calms the raging mind. And how contending passions urge mankind : Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire ; Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire ; "Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view ; For ever wretched, -with themselves at strife. They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life ; Por transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain, "Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. "Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control : Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief. But here the tortured body finds relief ; For see where yonder sage Arachne shapes Her subtile gin, that not a Hj escapes ! There Physic fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile her learned works abound : Glorious their aim — to ease the labouring heart ; To war with death, and stop his flying dart ; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew. And life's short lease on easier terms renew ; 2' [" It was from out the riiul of one apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, leaped forth into the world. And perhaps, this is tliat doom wliich Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, that is, of knowing good by evil. As, therefore, the state of man now is — what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of evil .' He that can appre- hend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming plea- sures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is tlie true wart'aring Christian. I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue imexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of tlie race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not witliout dust and heat. Assuredly we liring not innocence into the world ; we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary. That virtue, therefore, whicli is but a youngling in the con- templation of evil, and linows not the utmost that vice pro- mises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not a pure; her whiteness is but an excroraeutal whiteness; whicli was the reason why our sage and serious poet Spenser (whom I dare be known to tliink a better teacher than Scotns or Aquinas), describing true temperance under the person of Guion, brings him in with liis palmer through the cave of Mammon and the bower of earthly bliss, that he might see and know, and yet abstain. Since, therefore, the knowledge and survey of vice is in tliis world so necessary to the constitut- ing of human virtue, and tlie scanning oferrour to the confir- mation of truth, how can we more safely, and with less dan- ger, scout into the regions of sin and falsity, than by read- ing all manner of tractates, and hearing all manner." — Mil- ton.] *> [Sir Henry ITalford, in the " Kssay on the lafiuence of Disease on the Mind," has the following striking passages on tlie conduct proper to be observed by a physician, in « ith- holding, or making his patient acquainted with, his opinion To calm the phrensy of the burning brain ; To heal the tortures of imploring pain ; Or, when more powerful ills all eflbrts brave, To ease the victim no device can save. And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. ^^ But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure, Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure ; For grave deceivers lodge their labours here. And cloud the science they pretend to clear ; Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent ; Like fire and storms, they call us to repent ; But storms subside, and fires forget to rage. These are eternal scourges of the age : 'T is not enough that each terrific hand Spreads desolation round a guilty land ; But train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes. Their pen relentless kills through future times. Say, ye, who search these records of the dead — Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read ; Can all the real knowledge ye possess. Or those — if such there are — who more than guess. Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes. And mend the blunders pride or folly makes ? "What thought so wild, what airy dream so light. That will not prompt a theorist to write ? What art so prevalent, what proof so strong. That will convince him his attempt is wrong ? One in the solids finds each lurking ill. Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill ; A learned friend some subtler reason brings. Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs ; The subtile nei'ves, that shun the doctor's eye, Escape no more his subtler theory ; The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart, Lends a fair system to these sons of art ; of the probable issue of a malady manifesting mortal symp- toms : — " I own, I think it my first duty to protract his life by all practicable means, and to interpose myself between him and every thing which may possibly aggravate his danger. And unless I shall have found him averse from doing what was necessary in aid of my remedies, from a w ant of a proper sense of his perilous situation, I forbear to step out of the bounds of my province, in order to ofi'er any advice which is not necessary to promote his cure. At the same time, I think it indispensable to let his friends know the danger ofhi^ ca.se, tlie instant 1 discover it. .\n arrangement of his worldly atl'airs, in which the comfort or unhappiness of those who are to come after him is involved, may be necessary ; and a sug- gestion of his danger, by which the accomplishment of this object is to be obtained, naturally induces a contemplation of his more important spiritual concerns. If friends can do their good offices at a proper time, and under the suggestion of the physician, it is far better that they should undertake them, than the medical adviser. But friends may be absent, and nobody near the patient, in his extremity, of sufficient influence or pretension to inform him of his dangerous con- dition ; and surely it is lamentalile to think that any human being should leave the world unprepared to meet his Creator. Rather than so, I have departed from my strict professional duty, done tliat whicli I would have done by myself, and apprised my patient of the great change he was about to undergo Lord Bacon encourages physicians to make it a p;irt of their art to smootli the bed of death, and to render the departure from life easy, placid, and gentle. This doctrine, so accordant with the best principles of our nature, commended not only by the wisdom of tills consummate philosopher, but also by the experience of one of the most judicious and con- scientious physicians of modern times — the late Dr. Heberden — was practised with such happy success in the case of our late lamented sovereign (George the Fourth), that at the close of his painful disease ' non tam mori videretur (as was said of a Roman emperor), quam duici et alto sopore excipi.'"] 108 CRABBES WORKS. The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, Serres a foundation for an airy scheme. Assists the doctor, and supports his dream. Some have their favourite ills, and each disease Is but a younger branch that kills from these ; One to the gout contracts all human pain ; He views it raging in the frantic brain ; Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar. And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh : Bilious by some, by others nervous seen, Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen ; And every symptom of the strange disease With every system of the sage agrees. Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song ; ^^ Ye first seducers of my easy heart, Who promised knowledge ye could not impart ; Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes ; Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose ; Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt, Light up false fires, and send us far about ; — ■ Still may yon spider round your pages spin, Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin ! Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell, Most potent, grave, and reverend friends — fare- well ! ^-^ Near these, and where the setting sun displays. Through the dim window, his departing rays, And gilds yon columns, there, on either side. The huge Abridgments of the Law abide ; ^^ Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand. And spread their guardian terrors round the land ; Yet, as the best that human care can do, Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too, Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade. Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made. And justice vainly each expedient tries. While art eludes it, or while power defies. " Ah ! happy age," the youthful poet sings,^* " When the free nations knew not laws nor kings ; 3' ["The time had come, when Mr. Crabhe was told, and believed, that he had more important concerns to engage him than verse ; and therefore, for some years, though lie occa- sionally founil time to write lines upon ' Mira's Birtliday ' and ' Silvia's L;ipdog,' tliough lie composed enigmas and solved reliuses, he liad some degree of forbearance, and did not believe that the knowledge of diseases, and the sciences of anatomy and physiology, were to be acquired by the perusal of Pope's Homer, a Dictionary of Uhymes, and a Treatise on the Art of Poetry." — See ante, p. 9.] '« [" About the end of the year 1 779, Mr. Crabbe, after as full and perfect a survey of the good and evil before him as his pre- judices, inclinations, and little knowledgeof the world enabled him to take, linally resolved to ab.indon his profession. His health was not robust, his spirits were not equal ; assistance he could expect noni', and lie was not so .sanguine as to believe he could do u itliout it. With the best verses he could write, and with very little more, he quitted tlie place of his birth ; not without the most serious apprehensions of the con- sequence of sufh a step,— appn'liensions which were con- quered, and hari'ly conquered, by the more certain evil of the prospect before liim, should he remain where he was." — See (mtc, p. 12.] S3 p< \VIio are they, whose unadorned riiiment bespeaks their inward simplicity? These are law-books, statutes, and commentari(-s on statutes — whom nil men must obey, and yet few only can purchase. Like the .Spliynx in antiquity, they speak in enigmas, and yet devour the unhappy wretches " When all were blest to share a common store, " And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor; " No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain, " No thirst of empire, no desire of gain ; " No proud great man, nor one who would be great, " Drove modest merit from its proper state ; " Nor into distant climes would Avarice roam, " To fetch delights for Luxuiy at home : " Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe, " They dwelt at liberty, and love was law ! " " Mistaken youth ! each nation first was rude, " Each man a cheerless son of solitude, " To whom no joys of social life were known, " None felt a care that was not all his own ; " Or in some languid clime his abject soul " Bow'd to a little tyrant's stem control ; " A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised, " And in rude song his ruder idol praised ; " The meaner cares of life were all he knew ; " Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few ; " But when by slow degrees the Arts arose, " And Science waken'd from her long repose ; " When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease, " Kan round the land, and pointed to the seas ; " When Emulation, bom with jealous eye, . " And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry ; " Then one by one the numerous laws were made, " Those to control, and these to succour trade ; " To curb the insolence of rude command, " To snatch the victim frqpi the usurer's hand ; " To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress, " And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." ^* Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong. His nature leads ungovern'd man along ; Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide. The laws are form'd, and placed on ev'ry side ; Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed, New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed ; More and more gentle grows the dying stream, More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem ; who comprehend them not. Behold, for our comfort, ' An Abridgment of Law and Equity !' It consists not of many \olumes ; it extends only to twenty-two folios ; yet as a few thin cakes may contain the whole nutritive substance of a stalled ox, so may this compendium contain the essential gravy of miiiy a report and adjudged case. The sages of the law recommend this Abridgment to our perusal. Let us, with all thankfulness of heart, receive their counsel. Much are we beholden to physicians, who only prescribe the bark of the quinquina, when they might oblige their patients to swallow the whole tree!" — Sir D. 1)alrviMI'Lk.] 3' [The original MS., in place of the next lines, reads : — " Ah ! happy ago," the youthful poet cries, " Ere laws arose — ere tyrants bade them rise : No land marks then the happy swain beheld. Nor lords walk'd proudly o'er the fiirrow'd tield ; Nor tlirougli distorted ways did .\varice roam, To fetch delights for Luxury at home : But mutual joy the friends of .Nature proved, .^nd swains were faitliful to the nymphs they loved." '• Mistaken bardsl all nations lirst were rude ; Man I proud, unsocial, prone to solitude. O'er hills, or vales, or Hoods, was fond to roam — 'I'he mead his garden, and the rock his home ; I'or flying prey he search'd a savage coast — \\ ant was his sjjur, and liberty his bo.nst."J ** [See Blackstone's Commentaries, i. 131, 359 ; iv. 4."J2.] THE LIBRARY. 109 Till, like a miner working sure and slow, Luzury creeps on, and ruins all below ; The basis sinks, the ample piles decay ; The stately fabric shakes and falls away ; Primeval want and ignorance come on, But Freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone." Next, History ranks ; — there full in front she lies, And every nation her dread tale supplies ; Yet History has her doubts, and every age "With sceptic queries marks the passing page ; Records of old nor later date are clear, Too distant those, and these are placed too near ; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our owti passions and a writer's too : ^' Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose I Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes ; Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, Lo ! how they sunk to slavery again ! Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd, A nation grows too glorious to be blest ; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, his glory,^* his disgrace ; The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run. How soon triumphant, and how soon undone ; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale. And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.^' Lo ! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood. Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood ; There, such the taste of our degenerate age. Stand the profane delusions of the Stage : Yet virtue owns the Tragic Muse a friend, Fable her means, morality her end ; *'^ For this she rules all passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns ; 26 [See Montesquieu's Esprit des Lois, liv. xxii. ch. 22.] 37 [" Malheureux sort de I'histoire ! Les spectateurs sent trop peu instruits, et les acteurs trop interesses pourque nous puissions compter sur les recits des uns ou des autres !" — Gibbon.] 33 [ " glorj/ long has made the sages smile ; 'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — Depending more upon the historian's style. Than on the name a person leaves beliind : Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe." — Byron.] S9 [« Though the most sagacious author that ever deduced maxims of policy from the experience of former ages has said, that the misgovernraent of states, and the evils consequent thereon, have arisen more from historical ignorance than from any other cause, the sum and substance of historical knowledge for practical purposes consists in certain general principles ; and he who understands those principles, and has a due sense of their importance, lias always, in the darkest circumstances, a star in sight by which he may direct his course." — Southey.] ■"•["Tragedies, as they are now made, are good, instruc- tive, moral sermons enough ; and it would be a fault not to be pleased with good things. There I learn several great truths : as that it is impossible to see info the ways of futurity ; that punishment always attends tlie villain ; that love is tlie fond soother of the human breast ; that we should not resist Heaven's will, for in resisting Heaven's will, Heaven's will is resisted ; with several other sentiments equally new, delicate, and striking. Every new tragedy, therefore, I go to see ; for Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl. Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul ; She makes the vile to virtue yield applause. And o\vn her sceptre while they break her laws ; *' For vice in others is abhorr'd of all, And villains triumph when the worthless fall. Not thus her sister Comedy prevails, Who shoots at Folly, for her arrow fails ; Folly, by Dullness arm'd, eludes the wound. And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound ; Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill, Laughs at her malice, and is Folly still. Yet well the Muse portrays, in fancied scenes. What pride will stoop to, what profession means ; How formal fools the farce of state applaud ; How caution watches at the lips of fraud ; The wordy variance of domestic life ; The tyrant husband, the retorting wife ; The snares for innocence, the lie of trade. And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.''* With her the Virtues too obtain a place. Each gentle passion, each becoming grace ; The social joy in life's securer road. Its easy pleasure, its substantial good ; The happy thought that conscious virtue gives. And all that ought to live, and all that lives. But who are these ? Methinks a noble mien And awful grandeur in their form are seen. Now in disgrace : what though by time is spread Polluting dust o'er every reverend head ; What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie, And dull observers pass insulting by : Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe, What seems so grave, should no attention draw ! Come, let us then with reverend step advance. And greet — the ancient worthies of Romance.''^ reflections of this nature make a foleiable harmony, when mixed up with a proper quiintity of drum, trumpet, thunder, lightning, or the scene-shifter's whistle." — Goldsmith.] 41 [" For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage. Commanding tears to stream through every age ; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept." — Pope.] 42 [^" The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete; Society is smooth'd to that excess. That manners hardly dill'er more than dress." — Byron.] ''•' [" In the view taken by Hurd, Percy, and other older authorities of thu origin and liistory of romantic (iction, their attentions were so exclusively fixed upon the romance of chivalry alone, that they .seem to have forgotten that, how- ever interesting and pecidiar, it formed only one species of a very numerous and extensive genus. the progress of romance, in fact, keeps pace with that of society, which cannot long exist, even in the simplest state, witliout t-xliibitingsome specimens of this attractive style of composition. It is not meant, by this assertion, that in early ages such narratives were invented in tlie character of mere fictions, devised to pass away the leisure of those who have time enough to read and attend to them. On the contrary, romance and real history have the same common origin. It is tlie aim of the former to maintain as long as possible tlie mask of veracity ; and, indeed, the traditional memorials of all earlier ages par- take in such a varied and doubtful degree of the qualities essential to those opposite lines of composition, that they form a mixed class between them : and may be termed either romantic histories, or historical romances, according to the proportion in which their truth is debased by fiction, or their fiction mingled with truth." — Sir W.^lter Scott.] I 110 CRABBE'S WORKS. Ilcnce, ye profane ! I feel a former dread, A thousaiul visions float ai'ound my head : Hark 1 hollow blasts through empty courts resound, And shado^^y forms with staring eyes stalk round ; See ! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes : Lo ! magic verse inscribed on golden gate. And bloody hand that beckons on to fate : — " And who art thou, thou little page, unfold? " Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold ? " Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must re- sign •' The captive queen ; — for Claribel is mine." Away ho flics ; and now for bloody deeds, Blaciv suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds ; The giant falls ; his recreant throat I seize, And from his corslet take the massy keys : — Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move, Keleased from bondage with my virgin love : — She comes ! she comes ! in all the charms of youth, Unequall'd love, and unsuspected truth ! Ah ! happy he who thus, in magic themes. O'er worlds bewitch'd, in early rapture dreams, Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand, And Fancy's beauties till her fairy land ; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. ••I [Original MS. :— Ah ! lost, for ever lost, to me these charms, These lofty notions and divine Blarms, Too dearly bouijht — maturer judgment calls My pensive soul from tales and madrigals — Fur "ho so blest or wlio so great as I, Wing"d round the globe with Rowland or Sir Guy ? Alas ! no more I see my queen repair To lialmy bowers tliat blossom in tlie air, Where on tlieir rosy beds tlie Graces rest, And not a care lies heavy on the breast. No more the hermit's mossy cave I choose, Nor o'er the babbling brook delight to muse ; Mv doii^'litv giants all are slain or fled, And alfmy knights— blue, green, and yellow— dead ! Magicians cease to charm me with their art. And not a griffin llies to glad my heart, No more the midnight fairy tribe I view. All in the merry moonshine tippling dew. The easv joys that charm'd my sportive youth, Fly l\<'ason's power, and shun tlie voice of Truth. Maturer thouglits severer taste prepares, Ami hafiV's every spell that charm'd my cares. Can Fiction, then, the noblest bliss supply, Or joy reside in inconsistency ? Is it then right, &c.] ••5 [" Truth is always strange — Stranger than Fiction. If it could be told. How much would Novels gain by the exchange! IIdw dilferfntly the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change ! The new world would be nothing to the old. If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls' antipodes."— 'ivRON.] 40 [Here follows, in the original draft :— Hut who are these, a tribe that soar above, .\nd tell more tender tales of modern love ? ,\ No. Ki. train ! the brood of old Homance, Conc' [" It is to liter.atnre, humanly speakly, that I am beholden for every blessini; which i enjoy, — health of mind and activity of mind, contentment, chcerfuluess, continued employment, and therewith continual pleiusure. ' In omnibus requiem quiesivi,' said Thomas a Kempis, 'sed non inveni nisi in angulis et libellis.' I too have found repose where he did, in books. Wherever these books of mine may be dispersed, there is not one among them that will ever be more com- fortably lodiied, or more highly prized by its possessor; and (fenerations mav pass awav before some of them will ajjain lind a reader, k is well that we do not moralise too much upon such subjects — ' For foresight is p melancholy gift, Which bares the bald, and speeds the all-too-swift.' And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about A mental charm for every care without.** E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief, Or health or vigorous hope aflbrds relief; And every wound the tortured bosom feols. Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals ; Some generous friend of ample power possess'd ; Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the dis- tress'd ; Some breast that glows with virtues all divine ; Some noble RUTLAND,'* misery's friend and thine. " Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen. Merit the scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, Not wildly high, nor pitifully low ; If vice alone their honest aims oppose. Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes? Happy for men in every age and clime. If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme. Go on, then. Son of Vision ! still pursue Thy airy dreams ; the world is dreaming too. Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state. The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great, Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles knowii, Are visions far less happy than thy own : But the dispersion of a library, whether in retrospect or in anticipation, is always to me a melancholy thing. How many such dispersions must have taken place to have made it pos- sible that these books should thus be brouglit together here among the Cumberland mountains I Not a few of these volumes have been cast up from the wreck of the family or conve\it libraries during the late revolution I am sorry when I see the name of a former ow ner obliterated in a book, or the plate of his arms defaced. Poor memorials though they be, yet they are something saved for a while from ob- livion ; and I should be almost as unwilling to destroy them, as to eiface the Hie jacet of a tombstone. There may be some- times a pleasure in recognising them, sometimes a salutary sadness." — Southey.] 51 [Charles, fourth Duke of Rutland, died in 1787. See anic, p. ;il. The following eulogium on his Grace was delivered by Bishop Watson, in the House of Peers : — " The dead, my lords, listen not to the commendation of the living ; or, greatly as I loved him, I would not now have praised him. The world was not aware of half his ability — was not conscious of half his worth. I had long and intimate experience of them both. His judgment in the conduct of public affairs was, I verily believe, equalled by few men of his age ; his probity and disinterestedness were exceeded by none. All the letters which I received from him respecting the public state of Ireland (and they were not a few ) were written with profound good sense : they all breathe the same liberal spirit, have all the same common tendency : not that of aggran- dising Great Britain by the ruin of Ireland — not that of benefiting Ireland at the expense of Great Britain— but that of promotin;; the united interests of both countries, as essen- tial parts of the common empire. In private life, 1 know that he had a strong sense of religion : he showed it in imitatiug his illustrious father in one of its mo»t characteristic parts, that of bein^ alive to every impulse of compassion. His family, his friends, his dependants, all his connections, can witness for me the wiirmth and sincerity of his pei-soual attach- ments. Kver since he was admitted as a pupil under me at t.ambridgi', 1 have loved him with the affection of a brother. Ills memory, I trust, will be long revered by the people of this country— long held dear by the people of Ireland — and by myself I know it will lie liild most dear ils long as I live.'' From" the introdiu'tion of the Duke of Hutland's name in " The Library," it may be inferred that Mr. Burke had pre- sented Mr. Crabbe to his Grace at least a year before his ap- pointment as Domestic Chaplain at Belvoir.] Go on ! and, while the sons of care complain, Be wisely gay and innocently vain ; "While serious souls are by their fears undone, Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun. 55 [On the appearance of " The Library" in 1781, it was pro- nounced by the Monthly Review to be " the production of no common pen:" and the Critical Review said — "A vein of good sense and philosophic reflection runs through this little performance, which distinguishes it ft-om most modern poems. The rhymes are correct, and the versification smooth and har- monious. It is observable that the author, in his account of all the numerous volumes in every science, has nevi.r charao- " And call them worlds ! and ))id the greatest show " More radiant colours in their worlds below : " Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove, " And tell them, Such are all the toys they love." ^' terised or entered into the merits of any particular writer, though he had so ftiir an opportunity from the nature of his subject." The reader of IVIr. Crabbe's Life can be at no loss to account for his abstinence from such details asarehere alluded to. The author, when he wrote this poem, had probably neverseen any considerable collection of books, except in his melancholy visits to the shops of booksellers in London in lYSO-Sl.] THE VILLAGE. IN TWO BOOKS. BOOK I.' ' The Subject proposed — llemarks upon Pastoral Poetry — A Tract of Country npar th'' Coast described — An impoverished Borough — Smugglers and their Assistants — Uude Manners of the Inliabitants — Kuinous Effects of a high Tide — The Village Life more generally considered : Evils of it — Tlie youthful Labourer — The old Man : his Soliloquy — Tlie Parish Workhouse: its Inhabitants — The sick Poor: their Apothecary — The dyiug Pauper — The Village Priest. The Village L ife, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains ; AVhat labour yields, and what, tiiat labour past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last ; What form the real Picture of the Poor, Demand a song — the Muse can give no more. Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains, The rustic poet praised his native plains : No "shep | herds no,w , in smooth alternate verse, Tlieir country's Beauty or their nymphs rehearse ; ^ ' [The first edition of " The Village" appeared in May, ] 783. See ante, p. 34, and the Author's preface, p. 06.] ^ {^Strephoit. " In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love. At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, 15ut Delia always ; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. DapJmis. Sylvia 's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, Jlore bright than noon, yet fresh as early day," &c. — Poi'E.] " [" In order to form a right judgment of pastoral poetry, it will be necessary to cast hack oiir eyes on tlie lirst ages of tlie world. The abund;iiice they were possessed of, secured them from avarice, ambition, or envy ; tiiey could suarce have any anxieties or contentions, where every one had more than lie could tell what to do willi. Love, indeed, mightoccasion siiine rivalships amongst them, because niiiny lovers fix upon one subject, for the loss of which they will be satisfied with no compensation. Otherwise it was a siale of ease, innocence, and contentment ; where plenty hegot pleasure, and plea- sure begot singing, and singing begot poetry, and poetry begot pleasure again. An author, therefore, that would write pastorals should form in liis fancy a rural scene of perfect ease and trantiuillity, where innocence, simplicity, and joy abound. It is not enough that he « riles about the country'; he must giv us what is agreeable in that scene, and bide what is wretched. Let the tranquillity of (he pastoral lite apjieur full and plain, but hide the meanness of it ; represent itji simplicity ;ls clear as win jih^a.se, bin cover its misery. As there is no condition exempt from anxiety, I will allow sliep- lierds to be afflicted with such misfortunes as the loss of a favourite lamb, or a faithless mistress. He may, if you please, jjick a thorn out of his foot, or vent his grief for losing the prize in dancinjj ; but these heing small torments, they recommend that stale nhi ■). only produces such trilling oviU." — Steele.' Yet still for these we frame the tender sti'ain, Still in our lays fond Corydons complain. And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, The only pains,^ alas ! they never feel. On Mincio's banks, in Cassar's bounteous rcign,'- If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, "NA'licre Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way ? ■* Yes, thus the Muses sing of hapi^y swains, Because the Mu ses never knew their pam s : They boast tlieir peasants' pipes ; but peasants now Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough ; And few, amid the rural tribe, have tiipe To number syllables and play with rhyme ; Save honest Duck,* what son of verse could sliare The poet's rapture and the peasant's care ? < ["This year (1783) I had," says Boswell, "an oppor- tunity of seeing, by means of one of his friends, a proof that Dr. Johnson's talents, as well as his obliging services to authors, were ready as ever. He had revised 'The Village,' an admirable poem, by the Rev. Mr. Crabbe. Its sentiments as to the false notions of rustic happiness and rustic virtue were quite congenial with his own ; and he took the trouble, not only to suggest slight corrections and variations, but to furnish some lines, when he thought he could give the writer's meaning better than in the words of the manuscript. I shall give an instance, marking the original by Roman, aud John- son's substitution in Italic characters : " ' In fairer scenes, where peaceful pleasures spring, Tityrus, the pride of Mantuan ssvains, might sing : Hut, charm'd by him, or smitten with his views, Shall modern poet.s court the Mantuiin muse ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Fancy leads, or Virgil led the way f ' " ' On Mincio's banJiS, in Ccesar's bounteous reign,' S/c. Here we find Dr. Johnson's poetical aud critical powers undiminished. 1 must, liowever, observe, that the aids he gave to this poem were so small as by no means to impair the distinguished merit of the author." — Ckokkr's BuswcII. vol. v. p. 5j.] ^ [Stephen Duck, the poetical thresher. " It was his lot,'' says Mr. Southey, "to be duck-peck'd by his lawful wife, who told all the neighbourhood that her husband dealt with the devil, or w:is going mad ; for lie did nothing but talk to liiinself and tell his fingers." Some of his verseshaving been shown to Queen Caroline, she settled twelve shillings a week upon him, and appointed him keeper of her select library at Hiclimond, called Merlin's (Dave. Ho afterwards took orders and obtained the living of Uyfieet, in Surrey. Gay, in a let ihvn ty CSr.xAiA,^-R.J. ^t^ J 1 iv E. Fus-l A IL © JS (© JR © 117 © ]HI , si~rFoi.n. TUf Birii place of Crab'be. J,i,.rJv,^lVaiwrZc SW££t.l360. I >■ Or the great labours of the field degrade, With the new peril of a poorer trade ? ^ '- From this chief cause these idle praises spring, That themes so easj' few forbear to sing ; For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; To sing o f shepherds is an easy ta sk : ' The happy youth assumes the common strain, A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain ; With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, But all, to look like her, is painted fair. I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms For him that grazes or for him that farms ; But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace The poor laborious natives of the place. And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray, On their bare heads and dewy temples play ; While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts. Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts — Then shall I dare these real ills to hide In tinsel trappings of poetic pride ? No ; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast. Which neither groves nor happy vallej's boast ; ^ Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates ; By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, ' As Truth ivill_paint it, and as Baxds will not : Nor you, ye Poor, of letter'd scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ; O'ercome bj' labour, and bow'd down by time. Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ?. Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread. By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed ? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour ? Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er. Lends the light turf that^annaJJifi-iLfiigMiflUiiag poor; Fi-om thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war ; • There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade. And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; '" ter to Swift, says, " I do not envy Stephen Duck, who is the favourite poet of the court ;" and Swift wrote upon him the following epigram : — " The thresher. Duck, could o'er the Queen prevail ; The proverb says, ' no fence against a flail.' From threshing corn, lie turns to tliresli liis brains. For » hich lier Majesty allows him grains ; Though 't is confest, that those who ever saw His poem^j, think them all not worth a straw. Tlirice liappy Duck! employ'd in threshing stubble, Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double." Stephen's end was an unhappy oi»e. Growing melancholy, in 1750, h" lirew himself into the river near Heading, and A»as drow-iied. i ^ [" Uobert Bloomfield had better have remained a shoe- malietj , or even ;\ furmer's boy ; for he would have been a I'aruijjr perhaps in time ; and now he is an unfortunate poet." — C'Jj^bbe's Jotirnat, 1817.] r With mingled tiiits the rocky coasts abound. And a sad splendour' vainly shines around. So looks the nj^mph whom wretched arts adorn, Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn ; Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose. While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose ; Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress. Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With sullen woe display'd in every face ; Who, far from civil arts and social fly. And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. Here too the lawless merchant of the main Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain ; W ant only claim' d the labour of tli e day. But vice now steals his nightly rest away. WEere are the swains, wno, daily^labour done, With rural games play'd do%^-n the setting sun ; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball. Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall ; While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, E njjn^pfl Finmf nrtfnl ntrippHng of the tVirnno-. And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound ?'^ Where now are these ? — Beneath yon cUfi'they stand, To show the freighted pinnace where to land ; To load the ready steed with guilty haste, To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste. Or, when detected, in their straggling course. To foil their foes by cunning or by force ; Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand). To gain a lawless passport through the laud. Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields, I sought the simple life that Nature yields ; Rapine and Wronp; and Fen r nsurp' d her pl^ cp. And a bold, artful, surly, savage race ; Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe, / The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe. Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, On the tost vessel bend their eager eye. Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way ; Theirs, or the ocean's , miserable nre-^: . As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand. And wait for favouring winds to leave the land ; While still for flight the ready wing is spread : So waited I the favouring hour, and fled ; Fled from these shores wherp pnilt: nn^ famine reign. And cried. Ah ! hapless they who still remain ; ' [Original edition : — They ask no thought, requirejio deep design. But swell the song, and liquefy tli9 line.] 5 [ Aldborough was, half a century ago, a poor and wretched place. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved streets, run- ning between mean and scrambling houses, the abodes of sea- faring men, pilots, and iishers. . . . Such was the squalid scene that tirst opened on the author of " The Village." See ante, p. 3.] 9 [This picture was copied, in every respect, from the scene of the poet's nativity and boyish days. See ojite, p. 3.] 10 ^t' This is a line description of that peculiar sort of bar- renness wliicli prevails along tlie sandy and thinly inhabited shores of the channel." — Jeffrey.] 11 [Original MS. :— And foil'd beneath the young Ulysses fell. When peals of praise the merry mischief tell .'] 1 9 Tf=:= -t^ 116 CRABBE'S WORKS. Who still remain to hear the oceaa roar, Whose greeiy waves devour the lessening shore ; T\]l pynjp tjf /'o firlp,'^ with more jnip priniif; swny, S w eep" t^fi hv hv^ n^fi nil it h"'^^'' away ; WEen the sad tenant weeps from door to door ; Aud begs a p oor protection from the po or !'^ But these are scenes where Nature s niggard hand Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land ; Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain Of fruitless toil an d In.hmir spent ix \ Y"'" 'i But yet in other scenes more fair in view, When plenty smiles — alas ! she smiles for few — And those who taste not, yet behold her store, Are as the slaves that di°; t.hp p^nUlfin ore — T he wealth arounil them mnkea them doubly po or. / Or \sill you deem them amply paid in health, ^Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth ? Xto then ! and see them rising with the sun, ' Through a long course of dailj' toil to run ; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat ; i'* Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er • The labour past, and toils to come explore ; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age ; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew ; Then own that labour may as fatal be To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.'* Amid this tribe toA oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide ; There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ; Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field : Till long-contending nature droops at last, Declining health rejects his poor repast. His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees. And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell. Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare. Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share ! Oh I trifle not with wants you cannot feel. Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal ; Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such As you who praise would never deign to touch. -2 [Mr. Crabhe was often heard to describe a remarkable sprinj^-tide, in January, 1779, when eleven houses at Aldbo- rou^'h were at once demolished.] " [Tliese lines, expressive of Mr. Crabbe's feelings on qnifling his native place, were, he had reason to believe, the verv verses which lirst satisQed Burke that he was a poet. See' ante, p. 13.] i« [Original MS. :— Like him to make tlie plenteous harvest grow, And yet not share the plenty they bestow.] 'S [" Let tliose who feast at ease on dainty fare Pity tlie ri^apers, who tlieir feasts prejiare: For toils scarce ever ccfasiiit; press us now — Rest never does but on the Siibliath show ; And barely that our ma.sters will allow. Think what a painful life we daily lead ; Vjtch morning early ri^e^o late to bed ; Nii» when asleep are we secure from pain — We th^n perform our labours o'er agaio. Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease. Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please ; Go ! if the peaceful cot your praises share. Go look within, and ask if peace be there ; If peace be his — that drooping weary sire. Or theirs, that offspring roimd their feeble fire ; Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand t Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease ; For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except its own engage ; Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see The bare arms broken from the withering tree, On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough. Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. He once was chief in all the rustic trade ; His steady hand the straightest furrow made *, Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allowed ; '^ A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes. He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs : For now he journeys to his grave in pain ; The rich disdain him ; nay the poor disdain : Alternate masters now their slave command, Urge the weak efforts of his feeble liand. And, when his age attempts its task in vain. With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain."' Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep ; Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, When, rous'd by rage and muttering in the morn, He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn : — " Why do I live, when I desire to bn " At once from life and Ufe's long labour free ? " Like leaves in spring , the young are blown awaj-, " Without the sorrows of a slow decay ; " I, like yon wither'd leaf remain behind, " Nipt by the frost, and shivering in the wind ; " There it abides till younger buds come on, " As I, now all my feUow-swains are gone ; " Then from the rising generation thrust, " It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. f^ " These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, " Are others' gain, but killing cares to me ; Hard fate! our labours even in sleep don't cease; Scarce Hercules e'er felt such toils as these!" — Duck.] 16 [" Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people of England pretty much as they are, and as they must appear to every one who will tiike the trouble of examining into their con- dition ; at the same time that he renders his sketches in a very high degree interesting and beautiful, —by selecting what is most lit for description ; by grouping lliem in such forms as must catch the attention or awake the memory ; and b\ scattering over the whole, such traits of mo al sensibility, oi' sarcasm, and of useful rillection, as every on. must feel to be natural, and own to bo powerful. In slin t, he shows us somethinj,' which we have all seen, or may si e, in real life ; and draws from it such /'oelings and suoli ivttn tions, as every human being must acknowledge that it is calculated to excite, lie delights us by the truth, and vivid and iiioturesqui- beauty, of his representations, and by the force ;ind ^athos of the sensations with whicli we feel that they ouglit to ^^ con- nected." — JBrriiEv.j 17 A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is emp) "y*"^ by dill'prcnt ma.iter8 for a length of time, proportionet ^ '° their occupalions. f/-^ i f^e*- ^/:^i>A-*t^«-<^J«^ THE YILLAtE. 117 " To me the children of my yoTith are lords, " Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words : '^ '' Wants of their own demand their care ; and who " Feels his own want and succours others too ? " A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, •' None need my help, and none relieve my woe ; ■' Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, " And men forget the wretch they would not aid." Thus groan the old, tiU by disease oppress'd, They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; — There children dwell who know no parents' care ; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ! ileart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.'^ Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve. Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Tilixt with the clamours of the crowd below ; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. And the cold charities of man to man : Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide. And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride ; Uut still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. f Say, ye, opprest by some fantastic woes. Pome jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; /| AVho press the downy couch, while slaves advance ^Vith timid eye to read the distant glance ; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease. To name the nameless ever new disease ; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, [ Which real pain and that alone can cure ; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, i — l)espised, neglected, left alone to die ? 18 [Original MS. :— Slow in their gifts, but hasty in their words.] '9 [This description of the Parish Poor-house, and that of the Village Apothecary, lower down, were inserted by Burke in tlie Annual Register, and afterwards by Dr. Vicesimus Knox ill the Elegant Extracts, along witli the lines on the old 1 Dinahcers from " The Library." Tlie effect produced by these specimens has been already illustrated by a letter from Sir W. Scott to Mr. Crabbe, written in 18119. See ante, p. 53. 'I'lie poet Wordsworth, on reading that letter, has said : — " I lirst became acquainted with Mr. Cralibe's works in the same way, and about the same time, as did Sir Walter Scott, as appears from his letter ; and the extracts made such an im- l-ression upon me, that / can also repeat them. The two lines, — ' 'I'he lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they 1 The moping idiot, and the madman gay, — struck my youtliful feelings particularly ; though facts, as far as they liad then come under my knowledge, did not support 1 he description ; inasmuch as idiots and lunatics, among the luimbler classes of society, were not to be found in work- houses, in aie parts of the north where I was brought up, but Mere n^ostly at large, and too often the butt of thoughtless children. Any testimony from me to the merit of your re- s-red father's works would, I feel, be superliuous, if not irajjiertinent. They will last, from their combined merits as Po«try and Truth, lull as long as anything that has been ex- How would ye bear to draw your latest breath Where all that's wretched paves the way for death ? 2" Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; SoTro (^r.f. H..11 pfj^^^ that, coarsely patch'd, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread. The drooping wretch reclines his languid head ; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Or promise hope, till sickness wears a smile. But soon a loud and hasty summons calls. Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls ; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, All pride and business, bustle and conceit ; With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe. With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go. He bids the gazing throng around him fly, And carries fate and physic in his eye : A potent quack, long versed in human ills, Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect, And whose most tender mercy is neglect. Paid by the parish for attendance here. He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer ; I n haste he seeks the bed where Misery l ^gj, I mpatience mark'd in hia aver ted ey es ; And, some habitual queries Hurried o'er, Without reply, he rushes on the door : His drooping patient, long inured to pain. And long unheeded, knows remonstance vain ; He ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man ; and silent sinks into the grave.*' But ere his death some pious doubts arise. Some simple fears, which " bold bad " men despise ; Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove His title certain to the joys above : pressed in verse since tliey first made their appearance." — Letter dated Feb. 1834.] 20 [« There is a truth and a force in these descriptiona of rural life, which is calculated to sink deep into the memory; and, being confirmed by daily observation, they are recalled upon innumerable occasions, when the ideal pictures o*' more fanciful authors have lost all their interest. For ourselves at least, we profess to be indebted to Mr. Crabbe for many of these strong impressions ; and have known more than one of our unpoetical acquaintances who declared they could ne'er pass by a parish workliouse without thinking of the descrip- tion of it they had read at school in the ' Poetical Extracts.' " — Edinburgh Review, 1807. " Tlie vulgar impression that Crabbe is throughout a gloomy author, we ascribe to the choice of certain specimens of hig earliest poetry in the ' Elegant Extracts,'— the only specimens of him that had been at all generally known at tlie time when most of those w ho have criticised his later works were young. Tliat exquisitely-finished, but heart-sickening description, in particular, of the poor-house in ' The Village," fixed itself on every imagination ; and when ' The Register ' and ' Borough ' came out, the reviewers, unconscious, perhaps, of the early prejudice that was influencing them, selected quotations mainly of the same class." — Quarterly Review, 1834.] SI [" The consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described." — Jeffbey.3 118 CRABBE'S WORKS. For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls The holy stranger to these dismal walls : And d oth not he . t he pious pnn, ppppnr. He, " passing riclL wi lh forty pounds a v^g x, ? " *^ Ah ! no ; . a shepherd of a dili'crent stocJ c. And far unlike ^l im. fe eds this little flock : A iovialyouthj wh o thinks his Sund ajf^sjtask As much as God or man can fairly ask ; The rest he gives to loves and labours light, To fields the morning, and to feasts the night ; None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chace, to cheer them or to chide ; A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day," And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play : ^* Then, while such honours bloom around his head. Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed. To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that e'en the pious feel ? '^^ Now once again the gloomy scene explore. Less gloomy now ; the bitter hour is o'er, The man of many sorrows sighs no more.— Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below : There lie the happy dead, from trouble free. And the glad parish pays the frugal fee : No more, O Death ! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer ; No more the farmer claims his humble bow, Thou art his lord, the best of tj'rants thou ! Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb ; The village children now their games suspend. To see the bier that bears their ancient friend : For he was one in all their idle sport. And like a monarch ruled their little court ; The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball. The bat, the wicket, were his labours all ; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand, Silent and sad, and gazing hand in hand ; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relicts of the parish poor. The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound ; The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer ; -^ And, waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest."^' v2 [" A man lie was, to all tlie country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year." Goldsmith.] ^' [Original Edition : — Sure in liis sliot, his game he seldom mist. And seldom fuil'd to win his game at whist.] 2* [" Mr. Crabbe told me, that when he first published his poem 'Tlie V^illage," the letters he received were innumerable from a particular class of relii;io»s riaders, who were warm in commendation, most particularly of the lines, — ' Sure in his shot, his game he seldom mist, And seldom fail'd to win his game at whist.' The letters of remonstrance were as innumerable, when, in his poem, * The Library,' the lines were read, — ' Calvin grows gentle on tliis silent coast, Nor finds a single heretic to roast." " — IJowLus.] ''=• [" Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful Jest, A cassock'd huntsman, and a liddling priest! BOOK II. There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious Life, some Views of Trinquillity and Happiness — The Repose and Pleasu re of a Summer Sabb ath : interrupted by Intoxication a nd Disp ute — Village Be taction — Complaints of the 'Squire— Tlie Evening Riots — Justice — Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life : the Effect it should have iij )on the Lower Cl asses ; and the Higher^These last have their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in the Life and heroic Death of Lord Robert Manners — Concluding Address to His Grace the Duke of Rutland. No longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain, B ut, own the Village T.ife a life of pain : I too must yield, that oft amid those woes .A.re gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet repose. Such as you find on yonder sportive Green, The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk be- tween ; Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends, On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends : Then rural beaux their best attire put on, To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won : While those long wed go plain, and by degrees, Like other husbands, quit their care to please. Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd, And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud ; Some on the labours of the week look round. Feel their own worth, and think their toil re- nown'd ; While some, whose hopes to no renown extend, Are only pleased to find their labours end. v» /riius, as their hours glide on, with pleasure frauglit Their careful masters brood the painful thought •, Much in their mind thej' murmur and lament, That one fair day should be so idly spent ; And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store And tax their time for preachers and the poor, Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour, This is your portion, yet unclaim'd of power ; This is Heaven's gift to weary men oppress'd. And seems the type of their expected rest : But yours, alas ! are joys that soon decay ; Frail joys, begun and ended with the day ; He takes the field. The master of the pack Caries, ' Well done, saint !' and ciaps him on the back. Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this To stand a w ay-mark in the road to bliss ? Himst'lf a wand'rer from the narrow way. His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray.'" COWPER.] '•"> Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common. 'I'liat it has been a subject for com- plaint in any place, is a sufTicient reason for its being reckoned among the evils whicli may happen to the poor, and which must happen to them e.xclusively ; nevertheless, it is just to remark, that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many pMls is totally unknown. " [" In this part ul' the poem there is a great di nl . t paint- ing that is tnilv rlmraeteristir ; and had not tlni. indis- pensable rule, «liich both painters and poets should ecjually attend to, l)een reversed, namely, to form their indiviii'', i* from ideas of general nature, it would have been uaexi>wt>- kionable.-— J/oNf/i/i/ Itet: r,8:i.] | «>■ T n L\ Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign, The village vices drive them from the plain. See the stout churl, in drunken fury great. Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate ! His naked vices, rude and um-efined. Exert their open empire o'er the mind ; But can we less the senseless rage despise, Because the savage acts without disguise ? Yet here Disguise, the city's vice, is seen, And Slander steals along and taints the Green : At her approach domestic peace is gone, Domestic broils at her approach come on ; She to the wife the husband's crime conveys, She tells the husband when his consort strays ; Her busy tongue, through all the little state, Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate ; Peace, tim'rous goddess ! quits her old domain, In sentiment and song content to reign. Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair : ' These to the town afford each fresher face. And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace ;, From whom, should chance again convey her down. The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown. Here too the 'squire, or 'squire-like farmer, talk,:> How round their regions nightly pilferers walk ; How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all The rip'ning treasures from their lofty wall ; How meaner rivals in their sports delight. Just right enough to claim a doubtful right ; ' "Who take a licence round their fields to stray, A mongrel race ! the poachers of the day. And hark ! the riots of the Green begin. That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn ; What time the weekly pay was vanish'd all. And the slow hostess scoi-ed the thlreafning wall ; What time they ask'd, their friendly feast to close, A final cup, and that will make them foes ; When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. Save when to yonder Hall they bend their waj', Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray ; He who recites, to keep the poor in awe. The law's vast volume — for he knoMS the law : — ■ 1 [Original MS. :— How tlieir maids languish, wliile their men run loose. And leave tlieiu scarce a damsel to seduce.] S [" It is good for the proprietor of an estate to know that such things are, and at his own doors. He might have guessed, indeed, as a general truth, even whilst movng in his own exclusive sphere, that many a story of intense interest might be supplied by the annals of his parish. Crabbe would have taught him thus much, had he been a reader of that most sagacious of observers, most searching of moral anatomists, most graphic of poets ; and we reverence this great writer not less for his genius than for his patriotism, in bravely lifting up the veil which is spread between the upper classes and the working day world, and letting one half of mankind know what the other is about. This effect alone gives a dignity to his poetry, which poems constructed after a more Arcadian model wouU' never have in our eyes, how- ever pleasingly they may baljble of green fields. But such wholesome incideW^reach the eiirs of the landlord in his own particular case, most commonly through the clergyman — they fall rather within his department tlian another's — they lie upon his beat— through /lis representations the sym- pathies of the landlord are profitably drawn out, and judi- ciously directed to the individual^and aftottier thread is added to those cords of a man, bv which the owner and l\... To him with anger or with shame repair The injured peasant and deluded fair. Lo ! at his throne the silent njTnph appears, Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears ; And while she stands abash'd, with conscious eye, Some favourite female of her judge glides by. Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, And thanks the stars that made her keeper great : Near her the swain, about to bear for life One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife ; But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, Consents to wed, and so secures them both. Yet w-hy, you ask, these humble crimes relate, Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great? To show the great, those mightier sons of pride. How near in vice the lowest are allied ; Such are their natures and their passions such. But these disguise too little, those too much : ^ So shall the man of power and pleasure see In his own slave as vile a wretch as he ; In his luxurious lord the servant find His o'wn low pleasures and degenerate mind : And each in all the kindred vices trace. Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd erring race, AVho, a short time in varied fortune past, Die, and are equal in the dust at last.^ ' And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate, Forbear to envy those you call the Great ; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress ; AVhile Sloth -with many a pang torments her slave, Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the brave. Oh ! if in life one noble chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his years ; Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd ; Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown, For pains and dangers greater than your own : If such there be, then let your murmurs cease. Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace. And such there w-as : — Oh ! grief, that checks our pride. Weeping we say there was, — for Manners died : Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive, That sing of Thee,* and thus aspire to live. occupant of the soil are knit together, and society is inter- laced." — Quarter/)/ Review, 1S33.] 3 [" A rich man, what is he ? Has he a frame Distinct from others ? or a better name .' Has he more legs, more arms, more eyes, more brains? Has he less care, less crosses, or less pains ? Can riches keep the mortal wretch from death ? Or can new treasures purchase a new breath ? Or does Heaven send its love and mercy more To Mammon's pamper'd sons than to the poor .' If not, why should the fool take so much state, Exalt himself, and others under-rate ? 'Tis senseless ignorance tliat soothes his pride. And makes him laugh at all the world beside ; But when excesses bring on gout or stone, All his vain mirth and gaiety are gone : And when he dies, for all he looks so liigh, He 'U make as vile a skeleton as I." — Tom Browne.] ■• I.ord Kobert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquess of Granby and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles duke of Somerset, was born on tlie ,/th of February, 17d8; and was placed with his brother, tlie late duke of Rutland, at Eton School, where lie acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors 120 CRABBE'S WORKS. As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form An ample shade and brave the wildost storm, High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow. The guard and glory of the trees below ; Till on its head the fiery bolt descends, And o'er the plain the shattered trunk extends ; Yet then it lies, all wond'rous as before. And still the glory, though the guard no more : So THOU, when every virtue, every grace, Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face ; AVhen, though the son of Granbt,* thou wert known Less by thy father's glory than thy own ; When Honour loved and gave thee every charm, Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm ; Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes, Fate and thy virtues call'd thee to the skies ; Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame, And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name. Oh ! ever houour'd, ever valued ! say, What verse can praise thee, or what work repay ? Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays. Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days : — Honours for thee thy country shall prepare, Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear ; To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire, The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire. In future times, when smit with Glory's charms. The untried youth first quits a father's arms ; — " Oh ! be like him," the weeping sire shall say ; " Like Manners walk, who walk'd in Honour's way; " In danger foremost, yet in death sedate, " Oh ! be like him in all things, but his fate ! " If for that fate such public tears be shed, That Victory seems to die now thou art dead ; How shall a friend his nearer hope resign. That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine ? By what bold lines shall we his grief express, Or by what soothing numbers make it less ? 'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song. Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong. Words aptly cuU'd, and meanings well express'd. Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast ; But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.® Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on board difterent ships, was made captain of the Resolution, and commanded her in nine different actions, besides the last memorable one on the 12th of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French line of battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the twenty-fourth year of his age. See the Annual Register. — [This article in the Annual llegistei was written by Mr. Crabbe, and is now reprinted as an Ap- pendix to " The Village."] •■* [.lohn, Marquess of Granby, the illustrious commander- in-cliief of the British forces in Germany during the Seven Ye.irs' War, died in 1770, before his father, the thirteenth Earl and third Duke of Rutland.] « [Original MS. :— Hut Rutland's virtues shall his griefs restrain, And join to heal the bosom where they reign. See some anecdotes illustrative of the Duke's lender affec- tion for his gallant brother, ante, p. 3a.] ' [Original edition : — Victims victorious, wlio with him shall stand In Fame's fair book, the guardians of the Und.j Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart, To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart, Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh, And curb rebellious passion, with reply ; Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before, And yet to know that all shall please nc more ; — Oh ! glorious labour of the soul, to sa^ e Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give— »Life is not measui-ed by the time we live : 'Tis not an even course of threescore years, — A life of narrow views and paltry fears, Grey hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring, That take from Death the terrors or the sting ; But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high Above the world, that native of the sky ; The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave : — Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath, If in a glorious, then a timely death. Cease then that grief, and let those tears subside ; If Passion rule us, be that passion pride ; If Reason, reason bids us strive to raise Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise ; Or if Afl^ection still the soul subdue. Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view, And let Affection find its comfort too : For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart, When Admiration claims so large a part ? Grief is a foe — expel him then thy soul ; Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control ! Oh ! make the age to come thy better care, See other Rutlands, other Granbys there I And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide, See other heroes die as Manners died : '' And from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow, As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below ; Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, Sees his young streams run warbling at his side ; Though some, by art cut off, no longer run. And some are lost beneath the summer sun — Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves. Its power increases and its use improves ; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow. Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.* * [" It has been objected to the pastoral muse, that her principal employment is to delineate scenes that never ex- isted, and to cheat the imagination by descriptions of plea- sure that never can be enjoyed. Sensible of lier deviation from nature and propriety, the autlinr of the present poem has endeavoured to bring her back into the sober paths of truth and reality. It is not, however, improbable that he may have erred as much as tliose whom he condemns. For it may be questioned, whether he who represents a peasant's life as a life of unremitting labour and remediless anxiety; who de- scribes his best years us embittered by insult and oppression, and his old age as squalid, comfortless, and destitute, gives a jtister representation of rural enjoyments than they who, run- ning into a contrary extreme, yjaint the face of the country as wearing a perpetual smile, and its inhabitants as passing away their hours in uninterrupted pleasuio and unvaried tran- quillity."— Jl/ont/;/// litiv. 17Sa. " ' The Village ' is a very classical composition. It seems designed as a contrast lo Goldsmith's' Deserted Village ' in one point of view ; that is, so far ;us Goldsmith expatiates on the felicities and inconveniences of rural life. Tlie author of I' The Village ' takes the dark side of the question : he paints all with a sombre pencil ; too justly, perliaps, but, to me at least, unpleasingly. We know there is no unmixed Iiappiness in any state of life ; but one does not wish to be perpetually told so." — ScoTT qf'Amweil, Letttr to Dr. Beanie, Aug. 1783.] THE VILLAGE. 121 APPENDIX. From the Annual Register for 1783. See ante, p. 27. CHARACTER OF LORD ROBERT MANNERS, LATE COM- MANDER OF HIS majesty's SHIP THE RESOLUTION, OF SEVENTY-FOUR GUNS. [WRITTEN BY MR. CRABBE.] In a country, like this, which has long laboured under the calamities of war, it is but natural to look back upon the events by which it was termi- nated, and to make some inquiry after those to whom we are indebted for the return of peace ; and this not with the view of informing ourselves whether the conditions by which it was obtained were or were not adequate to our situation, but with a grateful remembrance of those without whose signal courage and vigorous exertions we might not have been able to have insisted on any conditions whatsoever. The victory gained by the British fleet, on the 12th of April, 1782, was unquestionably of the greatest importance to this kingdom, and in the highest degree contributed to our present re- pose : those brave men, therefore, who then fell in the service of their countiy, claim our most grate- ful remembrance, and all the honourable testimony which the living can pay to departed worth. Among these was Lord Robert Manners ; a yovmg nobleman, remarkable for his military genius, and the many excellent endowments both of his person and mind. In the following pages, it is my design to lay befere the public some anecdotes of this heroic young commander, who fell in their service ; sacrificing the ease of his former situation, the in- dulgences of a splendid fortune, and the pleasures of private society, to the dangers of a perilous element, and the honourable hazards of a military life. Lord Robert Manners was the youngest son of the late Marquis of Granby, by the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles Duke of Somerset. He was born on the 5th of February, 1758, and placed with his brother, the present Duke of Rut- land, at Eton school ; in which great seminary of education he acquired a competent knowledge of the classic authors, for which he ever after retained an excellent taste, and bestowed many hours in the perusal of their most admired compositions. His mind, however, was found to be active, vigorous, and enterprising, and his genius evidently mili- tary : his entreaties, when he was fourteen years old, prevailed over the apprehensions of his grand- father, the late Duke of Rutland, and obtained his permission to enter upon his professici in the navy — giving that the preference to the land service, to which he might be conceived to have had an hereditary bias, as his father so long commanded the army of Great Britain, with singular reputa- tion. So early a dedication of himself to the severity of naval discipline, and so full a resignation of all the pleasures which his age and rank might have led him to expect, in places where he was admired for his accomplishments and beloved for his dis- position, is of itself a subject of no inferior praise, and ought to be distinguished from the reluctant compliance of tliose who are called into danger by the urgency of their circumstances or the im- portunity of their friends : this alone might secure him from the oblivion which waits upon the many millions who, in every century, take their turns upon this stage of human life, and depart undis- tinguished by the performance of any actions eminently great or good. The first three voyages of Lord Robert were made to Newfoundland, with Lord Schuldham, to whose care he was committed, and under whom he served as a midshipman ; after which, he went in the same capacity to the ]Mediterranean, in a fri- gate, and visited many of the different courts of Italy : on his return to England, he was appointed lieutenant on board the Ocean, a ninety-gun ship, commanded by Captain Lafory, in which rank he was present at the action of the 27th of July, off Ushant, under Admiral Keppel, who, a few days after the action, took him to his own ship. His next appointment was to a lieutenancy on board the Alcide, in which he served in the action off Gibraltar, when Lord Rodney gained a com- plete victory over the Sj)anish fleet, commanded by Don Juan de Langara ; and, immediately after this. Lord Robert was appointed Captain of the Resolution, which ship he commanded in nine separate actions, before that glorious but fatal one which put a period to his life. There is perhaps but little to be gathered from this account of his various promotions, and the steps of an almost certain advancement, in the line of his profession ; but it is necessary to remark, what all with whom he sailed are unanimous in declaring, that Lord Robert was equally excellent, if not equally conspicuous, in the inferior stations, as in the more exalted : a continual attention to his duty, joined with a real knowledge of the ser- vice, were his claims to promotion ; and a constant care and precision in the discharge of his subor- dinate stations, were the great causes of his speedy progress to the rank of a commander. Lord Robert, in his return from Gibraltar, in the Resolution, engaged and took the Prothee, a French line-of-battle ship, going to the East Indies : the Resolution was then ordered to America, and continued there till Lord Rodney sent for her to the West Indies : at St. Eustatius, the Mars, a Dutch frigate, struck to the Resolution ; after which, she was detached, with the squadron under Lord Hood, to cruite off Martinique. Some time after this, in an engagement between Admiral Greaves and the French fleet off Mar- tinique, on a confusion of signals, which prevented the rear of our fleet coming to action. Lord Robert broke the line of battle, bore his ship into the centre of the enemy, and so narrowly escaped in this dangerous attempt, that a part of his hat M'as struck off by a grape-shot. In one of the three engagements off St. Kitt's (in all which he was eminently distinguished), he, together with Captain Comwallis, supported the commander of his division, Commodore AtHeck, 122 CRABBE'S WORKS. with such unsliaken fortitude and perseverance, that those three ships l)eat off the whole French fleet, and protected the rest of their own : — a cir- cumstance which Lord Hood mentions, in his letter to the Admiralty, with high terms of eulogium. His last action was that memorable one on the 12th of April, when the Resolution engaged very desperately nine or ten of the enemy, in breaking through their line, which she did, the third ship to the admiral. It was in this attempt that Lord Robert had both his legs shattered, and his right arm broken at the same instant, the former by a cannon shot, and the latter by a splinter : his mind, however, remained unsubdued ; for neither at that nor at any future period, neither when he was under the most painful operations, nor when he became sensible of his approaching fate, did he betray one symptom of fear or regret : " Non laudis Amor nee Glorise cessit Pulsa metu " It was with great reluctance he suffered himself to be carried to the surgeon's apartment, and he ob- jected to the amputation of liis leg, because he had conceived it would prevent his continuance on board his ship ; but being assured to the contrary, his objections ceased, and he permitted the surgeon to proceed. At this time all his thoughts and in- quiries were directed to the event of the day ; which being soon after announced to him, every consideration of his own misfortune was suspended, and he both felt and expressed the greatest joy and exultation in a victory so important to his country, and so fatal to himself. Being persuaded to return to England, he was removed on board the Andromache frigate ; but before he quitted the Resolution, he ordered every man whose good conduct had been remai-kable during his command, to come into his cabin, where he thanked him for his attention to his duty, and gave each a present of money, as a token of his particular regard. On his leaving his ship, he asked whether the colours of those which had struck to the Resolution, during his command, were in his baggage ; but suddenly recollecting himself, and being conscious that his motives for the question might be imputed to vanity and ostentation, he begged leave to retract it, hoping that an idea so weak would be buried in oblivion. It was natural for a young hero to make such an inquiry, and his reflection on having made it would have done honour to the oldest. Lord Robert's behaviour, during the short re- mainder of his life, was singularly great : his con- versation was cheerful, and his mind serene ; his fortitude never forsook him ; he betrayed no signs of impatience, nor suffered his resignation to be broken by ineffectual wishes or melancholy regret ; these he left to his survivors, who deeply feel them ; he had given himself to the service of his country, and forbore to indulge any fruitless ex- pectations of living, when the purposes of life were completed, and the measure of his glory filled up, His attention to the lives of his seamen had made him previously acquainted witli the nature of his own case, and the fatal symptoms that so frequently follow : before these appeared, he was busied in planning future regulations and improve- ments on board his ship ; and afterwards, lie him- self first acquainted his surgeon with their appear- ance. He prepared for his approaching fate with the utmost calmness and composure of mind ; and having settled his worldly affairs with his accus- tomed regularity and despatch, he ended a life of glory with resignation and prayer. So fell this brave young nobleman, on the 24th day of April, 1782 ; having, at the age of twenty- four years, served his country in eleven general actions : — " Ostendent terris lumc tantum Fata, neque ultra Kssesinent" Vibgii.. His eulogium was loudly uttered in the grief and lamentation of the whole navy : victory appeared too dearly bought, while they considered the price which was paid for it ; and, indeed, such was the attention of this nobleman to the welfare of his seamen, as well as to the order and regularity of the fleet ; such was his skill to find out, and reso- lution to reform abuses, that the loss of such a commander may be regretted, when the victory in which he fell shall cease to be mentioned. The person of Lord Robert Manners was worthy of such a mind : he was tall and graceful, strong and active ; his features were regular, and his countenance beautiful, without effeminacy ; his eyes were large, dark, and most expressive ; his complexion inclined to brown, with much colour, which remained imimpaired by the West India climate ; ind(»ed, his whole appearance commanded love and respect, and was a strong indication of superior mei-it. Lord Robert possessed, in an eminent degree, the happy art of gaining the affections of his men, while he preserved the strictest discipline among them ; nor is this his greatest praise ; for, while he was admired by the otficers of every rank, for his affability and engaging deportment, he was trusted by the highest in command, and consulted by many, who judged his great skill and attention, in the line of his profession, more than balanced their longer experience. The bravery of Lord Robert was accompanied by a disposition tender and merciful : his obliga- tions to use severity were punishments to himself; and he was always unhappy in feeling the necessity of bestowing correction ; yet his lenity was always judicious, and seldom ineffectual : he had once the opportunity of pronouncing pardon on thirteen offenders (who were a part of sixty-four condemned in sevei-al ships for mutiny) ; on which occasion his feelings overcame his power of utterance : he began with representing to thcni (who were igno- rant of the intended grace) the nature of their crime, and the punishment due to it ; but when he came to speak of the offered mercy, he partook of their sensations, and could only deliver it by bursting into tears. It is but just to remark, that these men wore truly sensible of the worth of such a conmiauder, and were afterwards conspicuous for their good behaviour among the best seamen of the navy. Lord Robert, however he possessed the virtue, was without the weakness of a tender disposition : he was grave, prudent, and reserved, never speak- ing his opinion but upon sure grounds, and then at THE VILLAGE. 123 proper times, in the company of his select friends, or when truth and justice called upon him to rescue an action or a character from suspicion or reproach ; yet his reserve was not of that kind which damped his love for society ; he was of a convivial turn, generous, condescending, and benevolent ; emula- ting the humanity, as well as bravery, of his father and his father's house. His chief study was that of his profession, in which he read and perfectly understood the most approved authors, not neglecting other kinds of reading, in some of which he was peculiarly and wonderfully versed ; some, indeed, which might be thought foreign to his pursuits, if any can be so thought, to the vigorous and comprehensive mind which he possessed : in short, he seemed to be de- ficient in no qualification which might render him the best private friend, and one of the greatest and ablest officers this or any other country has produced. To cro%A'n all his virtues, he had that of un- afiected diffidence ; being perfectly modest in his opinion of himself, and an enemy to all ostentation : he never listened to his own praise, but either for- bad any to speak of the honour he so well deserved, or withdrew from the applause which he could not suppress. This disposition continued to the last, when he conversed with the same unafi"ected ease ; and, wishing to -viTite to a friend, he made use of his left hand, and gave him an account of his situa- tion, in terms brief, easy, and affecting, because most unaffected, discovering the greatest magna- nimity of soul, by not taking any pains to have it discovered by others. Nor is this eulogium to be considered as pro- ceeding from any partial regard or preposses- sion : the testimony of public gratitude, which was voted in the House of Commons, is a suffi- cient proof of the national sense of his merit ; but the many private relations of his virtues, could they be universally diffused, would place him in a still stronger point of view : these are given by men whose testimony is voluntary and disinterested, whose experience could not be de- ceived, and whose eminence in their profession must entitle them to every degree of credit and attention. Such is the character of Lord Robert Manners ; and these anecdotes of him I have related from the best authority. Those who knew him, ■will, I am sure, think themselves indebted to me for the in- tention ; and to those who did not, little apology will, I hope, be wanted, for making them ac- quainted with the worth of a brave and heroic young nobleman, who was an ornament to their country and died in its defence. 124 CRABBE'S WORKS. THE NEWSPAPER. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD LORD THURLOW, LOKD HIGH CHANCELLOK OF GREAT BRITAIN;^ ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOUUABLE I'RIVV COUNCII-, ETC., ETC. 3Iy LOKD, My obligations to your Lordship, great as they are, have not induced me to prefix your name to the following poem : nor is it your Lordship's station, exalted as that is, which prevailed upon me to solicit the honour of your protection for it. But when I considered your Lordship's great abilities and good taste, so well known and so universally acknowledged, I became anxious for the privilege with which you have indulged me ; well knowing that the Public would not be easily persuaded to disregard a performance marked, in any degree, with your Lordship's approb'ation. It is, My Lord, the province of superior rank, in general, to bestow this kind of patronage ; but superior talents only can render it valuable. Of the value of your Lordship's I am fuUy sensible ; and, while I make my acknowledgments for that, and for many other favours, I cannot suppress the pride I have in thus publishing my gratitude, and declaring how much I have the honour to be, My Lorb, Your Lordship's most obedient, Belvoir Castle, most obliged, and devoted servant, Fehruary 20, 1 785. George Crabbe. TO THE READER. The Poem which I now offer to the public, is, I believe, the only one written on the subject ; at least, it is the only one which I have any knowledge of: and, fearing there may not be found in it many things to engage the Reader's attention, I am willing to take the strongest hold I can upon liim, by offering something which has the claim of novelty. When the subject first occurred to me, I meant, in a few lines only, to give some description of that variety of dissociating articles which are huddled together in our Daily Papers. As the thought dwelt upon me, I conceived this might be done methodically, and with some connection of parts, by taking a larger scope ; which notwithstanding I have done, I must still apologise for a want of union and coherence in my poem. Subjects like this will not easily admit of them: we cannot slide from ' [This poem was first published in a thin quarto, in March, 1785. The dedication to Lord Tliurlow, the preface, and some of the autlior's foot-notes, omitted in the collection of 1807, are now restored from the oritjinal edition ; wlii'ih has also supplied several various readin:,'s. The oblijjations under which Mr. Crabbe had been laid by Lord Thurlow, previous to, and after, the publication of " The Newspaper," are de- tailed ante', pp. 32, 34. That the poet did not stoop to un- worthy (lattery, in the expressions he uses respecting' the lite- rary attainments of the Chancellor, is sufficicntlv proved by the high testimony of bishop Horsley, in his lissay on the Prosody of the Greek and Latin Lanjjuagi's, anirth in that principal land of modern poli- ticians, Italy, and under the government of that aristoi-ratical republic. The lirst paper was a Venetian one, and only Like bats, appearing, when the sun goes down, From holes obscure and comers of the town.'* Of all these triflers, all like these, I write ; Oh ! like my subject could my song delight. The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise, And all the Alley echo to his praise. In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring, Like insects waking to th' advancing spring ; Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky : Such are these base ephemeras,'* so born / To die before the next revolving morn. / Yet thus they differ : insect-tribes are lost In the first visit of a winter's frost ; While these remain, a base but constant breed. Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires suc- ceed ; No changing season makes their number less, Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press ! '* Then lo ! the sainted Mottor is bom, Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn : '" As artful sinners cloak the secret sin. To veil with seeming grace the guile within ; So Moral Essays on his front appear, But all is carnal business in the rear ; The fresh-coin'd Ue, the secret whisper'd last, And all the gleanings of the six days past. With these retired, through half the Sabbath- day, The London lounger yawns his hours away : Not so, my little flock ! your preacher fly. Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy ; But let the decent maid and sober clown Pray for these idlers of the sinful town : monthly ; but it was the newspaper of the government only. Other governments afterwards adopted the Venetian plan of a newspaper, with the Venetian name for it; and from one solitary government gazette, we see what an inundation of newspapers has burst upon us in this country." — D'Iskaeli.] '3 [" Curiosity is the appetite of the mind : it must be satis- fied, or we perish. Amongst the improvements, therefore, of modern times, there is none on which I find more reason to congratulate my countrymen, than the increase of knowledge by tlie multiplication of newspapers. With whata mixture of horror and commiseration do we now look back to tliat period of our history when a written letter came down once a week to the coffee-house, where a proper person, with a clear and strong voice, was pitched upon to read it aloud to the company as- sembled upon tlie occasion! How earnestly did they isten ! How greedily did they suck down every drop of intelligence that fell within their reach! Happy the man that carried oil" but half a sentence ! It was his employment for the rest of the evening, to imagine what the other half might liave been. At present, tlie provision made for us is ample. There are morn- ing papers for breakfast ; there are evening papers for supper, — I beg pardon, I mean dinner ; and, lest during the interval, wind should get into the .stomach, there is a paper published, by way of luncheon, about noon." — Bishop IIoiine, 1787.] •< Tlie ephemera, or May fly, is an insect remarked by na- turalists for the very sliort time it lives after assuming its last and more perfect form. '5 [" No place is sacred, not tlie church is free, li'eu Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me." — Pope.] '* [The original edition reads here : — The OoMo now appears, a rival name Of bolder manners, though of younger fame. The Oglio lierc alluded to was a Sunday print, of brief dura- tion, which began in October, 1784.] THE NEWSPAPER. 127 This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow, Nor give to Woodfall, or the world below.'? But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then. What wondrous labours of the press and pen ; Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords, Some only once, — O avarice of words ! "When thousand starving minds such manna seek, '^ To drop the precious food but once a week. Endless it were to sing the powers of all. Their names, their numbers ; how they rise and fall: Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize. Rush to the head, and poison where they please : '^ Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train. They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain : That genial soil receives the fruitful store, And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.-" Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose A cause and party, as the bard his Muse ; Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they crj', And through the town their dreams and omens fly; So the Sibylline leaves^' were blo-svn about. Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt ; So idle dreams, the journals of the night. Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right. — Some champions for the rights that prop the crown, Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down ; Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught, Wishing for war, but willing to be bought : While some to every side and party go. Shift every friend, and join with every foe ; •7 Henry Samson WoodCall, proprietor of the Public Ad- vertiser, ill which Junius appeared, was the author of a most important ciiange in the character and influence of the newspaper press. In the conduct of liis journal he was strictly impartial ; and, notwithstanding the great popularity of Junius, by a reference to his papers of that day, it will be seen that as many essays were admitted on the ministerial side of the question as on that of the opposition. Mr. Wood- i'all was a man of high personal character : he died in 1805. See Nichols's Anecdotes, vol. i. p. 301.] IS [" I sit in window, dry as ark. And on the drowning world remark; Or to some coffee-house I stray For news — the mamia ufthe day." — Green's Spleen."] 39 ["If any read now-a-days, it isaplay-book,orapamphlet of news." — Burton, ICH.] '^0 I" Pcnni/-boi/, JHii. In truth they are dainty rooms ; what place is this ? Cymbal. This is the outer room, where my clerks sit And keep their sides, the Register in the midst ; The Examiner, he sits private there within ; And here I have my several rolls and files Of news by the alphabet, and all put up Under their heads. P.juii. But those, too, subdivided.' Ci/mb. Into authentical and apocryphal — FitUm. Or news ol' doubtful credit ; as barbers' news— Ct/rnb. And tailors' news, porters', and watermen's news — Fit. Whereto, l)esides the Coranti and Gazetti Ct/mb. I have the news of the season. . . Together witli the names of special friends — Fit. And men of correspondence in the country — Cymb. Yes ; of all ranks, and all religions— Fit. Factors and agents — Cymb. Liegers that lie out Through all the shires of the kingdom. P.j""- This is fine I I Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike This side and that, the foes of both alike ; A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times, Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes. Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail, Fickle and false, they veer with every gale ; ^^ As birds that migrate from a freezing shore In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er. Some bold adventurers first prepare to try The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky ; But soon the growing Summer's certain sun Wins more and more, till all at last are won : So, on the early prospect of disgrace, Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race ; Instinctive tribes ! their failing food they dread, And buy, with timely change, their future bread. '^' Such are our guides ; how many a peaceful head, Born to be still, have they to wrangling led ! How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade. And factious tools of pious pastors made ! With clews like these they thread the maze of state, These oracles explore, to learn our fate ; Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive, AVho cannot lie so fast as they believe. Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear, (For we who vdW not speak are doom'd to hear) ; While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought. Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught. Or idiot hope ; for each his mind assails. As Lloyd's court-light ^* or Stockdale's ^' gloom prevails. And bears a brave relation ! But what says Mercurius Britannicus to this.-'" &c. &c. — Ben Jonson's Staple of News, 1625 ; Gifford's edit. vol. v. p. 185. " Pamphlets are the weekly almanacks, showing what weather is in the state, which, like the doves of Aleppo, carry news to everv part of the kingdom. They are the silent traitors that affront majesty, and abuse all authority, under the c(dour of an imprimatur. Ubiquitary flies, that have, of late, so blistered the ears of all men, that they cannot endiure any solid truth. The echoes, whereby whai is done in every part of the kingdom is heard all over. They are like the mush- rooms ; spring up in a night, and dead in a day : and such is the greediness of man's nature (in these Athenian days) of news, that thev will rather i'eign than want it." — T. Ford, 1647.] 21 [" in foliis descripsit carmina Virgo ; — et teneres turbavit janua frondes." ViRO. ^n. lib. iii.] "^ [Original edition : — Soon as the chiefs, whom once they choose, lie low, Their praise too slackens, and their aid moves slow ; Not so when leagued with rising powers, their rage Then wounds the unwary foe, and burns along the page.] ■■'^ [Original edition : — Or are there those, who ne'er their friends forsook. Lured by no promise, by no danger shook? Then bolder bribes the venal aid procuie. And golden fetters make the faithless sure ; For those who deal in flattery or abuse, Will sell tliem where they can the most produce.] ^* [Lloyd's Evening Post — at this time a ministerial journal, published three times a week.] 2* [Mr Stockdale was, during the Coalition administration, an opposition boolvseller.] 123 CRABBE'S WORKS. Yet stand I patient while but one declaims, Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims : But oh ! ye Muses, keep your votary's feet From tavern-haunts where politicians meet ; Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause, First on each parish, then each public cause : Indited roads, and rates that still increase ; The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace ; Election zeal and friendship, since declined ; A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind ; The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife ; Dull port and poachers vile ; the serious ills of life. Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleased to guide His little club, and in the chair preside. In private business his commands prevail, On public themes his reasoning turns the scale ; Assenting silence soothes his happy ear. And, in or out, his party triumphs here. Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops, But flits along from palaces to shops ; Our weekly journals o'er the land abound, And spread their plague and influenzas round ; The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain, Breeds the "Whig farmer and the Tory swain ; Brookes' and St. Alban's ^^ boasts not, but, instead, Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head : — Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he "Who owns the little hut that makes him free ; Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile Of mightier men, and never waste the while ; Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate, A little prop and pillar of the state. Here he delights the weekly news to con, And mingle comments as he blunders on ; To swallow all their varying authors teach, To spell a title, and confound a speech : Till with a muddled mind he quits the news, And claims his nation's licence to abuse ; Then joins the cry, " That all the courtly race " Are venal candidates for power and place ; " *^ Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice, That his own vote will bring its wonted price. These are the ills the teeming Press supplies. The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain rise ; 20 [Brookes's club, in James's Street, still flourishes — the great rendezvous of Whig politicians. The St. Alban's club, an association of the same kind on the Tory side, was broken up when old St. Albans Street was cleared away among otlier improvements in the west end of London.] *' [Ori^'in.il edition : — Strive but for power, and parley but for place ; Yet liopcs, good man ! " that all may still be well," And tlianks the stjirs he lias a vote to sell : While thus he reads or raves, around him wait A rustic band, and join in each debate ; Partake Ills manly spirit, and delight To praise or blame, to jurige of wrong or right ; Measures to mend, and ministers to make. Till all go madding for their country's sake.] 88 [" The spirit of defamation, by which a newspaper is often possessed, lias now found its own remedy in the diyer- sity of them ; for tliough a gentleman may read that he him- self is a scoundrel and his wife no better tlian she should be to-day, he will be sure to read that both of them are very good sort of people to-morrow. In the same manner, if one paper, through mistake or design, kill his friend, there is another Not there the wise alone their entrance find, Imparting useful light to mortals blind ; But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out Alluring lights to lead us far about ; Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her quill, Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will ; Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive. And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.-' Such, sons of Britain ! arc the guides ye trust ; So wise their counsel, their reports so just ! — Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure, Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure ; Merit they have to mightier works unknown, A style, a manner, and a fate their own. We, who for longer fame with labour strive, Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive ; Studious we toil, with patient care refine. Nor let our love protect one languid line.-' Severe ourselves, at last otir works appear. When, ah ! we find our readers more severe ; For, after aU our care and pains, how few Acquire applause, or keep it if they do ! — Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate, Praised through their day, and but that day their date ; Their careless authors only strive to join As many words as make an even line ; ''" | As many lines as fill a row complete ; | As many rows as furnish up a sheet : i From side to side, with ready types they run, j The measure 's ended, and the work is done ; i Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest ! . Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest. To you all readers turn, and they can look Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book ; Those who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse. Would think it hard to be denied their News ; Sinners and saints, the vrisest with the weak, Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek ; This, like the public inn, provides a treat. Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat ; And such this mental food, as we may call Something to all men, and to some men all.*' Next, in what rare production shall we trace Such various subjects in so small a space ? ready to fetch him to life ; nay, if he have good luck in the order of his reading, he may be informed that his friend is alive again before he had perused the account of his death." — Bishop Hokne.] ^^ [Original edition : — Studious we toil, correct, amend, retouch. Take much away, yet mostly leave too much.] 30 " How many hours bring about the day? How many days will finish up the ye^ir? How many years a mortal man may live !" Shakspeare, Henry " [ " How shall I speak thee, or thv pow'r address, Thou God of our idolatry, the Press? By thee religion, liberty, and laws, Kxcrt their influence, and advance their cause ; By thee, worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befell, IlilTused, make earth the vestibule of hell ; Thou fountJiin, at which drink the good and wi«e ; T\\ou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; Like Eden's dread probationary tree. Knowledge of good and evil is from thee I VI. ! As the first ship upon the waters bore Incongruous kinds who never met before ; Or as some curious virtuoso joins In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins, Birds, beasts, and fishes ; nor refuses place To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race ; So here, compress'd within a single sheet, Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet. 'T is this which makes all Europe's business known, j Yet here a private man may place his own : j And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he ; May tell their honours that he sells rappee. ,' Add next th' amusement which the motley page Affords to either sex and every age : Lo ! where it comes before the cheerful fire, — Damps from the press in smoky curls aspii-e (As from the earth the sun exhales the dew). Ere we can read the wonders that ensue : Then eager every eye surveys the part That brings its favourite subject to the heart ; Grave politicians look for facts alone, And gravely add conjectures of their ovra : The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest For tottering cro^^•n3 or mighty lands oppress'd, Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball : The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale For " Monies wanted," and " Estates on Sale ; " '- "While some vnth equal minds to all attend, Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end.33 So charm the News ; but we, who far from town Wait till the postman ^* brings the packet down. Once in the week, a vacant day behold. And stay for tidings, till they 're three days old : That day arrives ; no welcome post appears. But the dull mom a sullen aspect wears : We meet, but ah ! without our wonted smile, To talk of headaches, and complain of bile ; Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast, Nor feast the body while the mind must fast. No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, Till half mankind were like himself possessed ; Philosophers, who darken and put out Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ; Church quacks, with passions under no command, Who till the world with doctrines contraband, Discoverers of they know not what, confined Within no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ; To streams of popular opinion drawn. Deposit in tliose shallows all their spawn." — Cowpek.] 32 [« Whilst the sages are puffing off our d'stempers in one page of a newspaper, the auctioneers are pufilng off our pro- perty in another. If this island of ours is to be credited for tlieir description of it, it must pass for a terrestrial paradise : it makes an English ear tingle to hear of the boundless va- riety of lawns, groves, and parks ; lakes, rivers, and rivulets ; decorated farms and fruitful g:trdens ; superb and matchless collections of pictures, Jewels, plate, furniture, and equipages ; town liouses and country houses ; hot-houses and ice-houses ; observatories and conservatories ; offices attached and de- tached ; with all the numerous et-ceteras that glitter down the columns of our public prints. What is the harp of an Orpheus compared to the hammer of an auctioneer ?" — Cum- r.fRLAND.] 33 [Original edition : — While the sly widow, and the coxcomb sleek, D-ve deep for scandal through a hint oblique.] A master-passion is the love of news. Not music 30 commands, nor so the Muse : Give poets claret, they grow idle soon ; Feed the musician, and he 's out of tune ; But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd. Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.^* Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose These rival sheets of politics and prose. First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw, A mutual theft that never fear'd a law ; Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall, And read it once, you read it through them all : For this their runners ramble day and night. To drag each lurking deed to open light ; For daily bread the dirty trade they ply, Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie : Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring, — Industrious creatures ! ever on the wing ; Home to their several cells they bear the store, CuU'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more. No anxious virgin tlics to " fair Tweed-side ; " No injured husband mourns his faithless bride ; 'So duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed; But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed. Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair Where rival peers contend to please the fair ; When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes, And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys : Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels. Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels. To these a thousand idle themes succeed. Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed. Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view. That rise or fall by causes known to few ; ' '' Promotion's ladder who goes up or down ; Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the tovm ; What new-born heir has made his father blest ; What heir exults, his father now at rest ; That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives. And each known knave, who still forTyburn lives.'^ ^ [" He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strappVl waist, and frozen locks ; News from all nations lumb'ring at his back, He whistles as he goes, lii;ht-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful ; messenger of grief. Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some." &c. — Cowpta.] 35 [Original edition : — Such restless passion is the love of News, Worse than an itch for music or the Muse : But the sick mind, of this disease possessed, Has neither chance for cur" nor intervals of rest. Such powers have things so vile, and they can boast That those peruse them who despise them most.] 3S [Original edition : — Such tales as these with joy the many read, And paragraphs on paragraphs succeed ; Then add the common themes that never cease, The tide like stocks, their ebb and their increase.] 3' [" From these daily registers, you may not only learn when anybody is married or hanged, but you have immediate notice whenever his grace goes to Newmarket, or her lady- ship sets out for Batli ; and but last week, at the same time that the gentlemen of the law were told that the Lord Chan- cellor could not sit in the Court of Chancery, people of fashion had the melancholy news, that 'Jiinor Kiccirelli was notable to sing. Nor is that part of the journal which is al- K 130 CRABBE'S WORKS. So grows the work, and now the printer tries His powers no more, but leans on his allies. "When lo ! the advertising tribe succeed, Pay to be read, yet find but few will read ; And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills Have patent powers to vanquish human ills : These, with their cures, a constant aid remain, To bless the pale composer's fertile brain ; Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil Requires some pause, some intervals from toil ; And they at least a certain ease obtain From Katterfelto's sk.ill,^8 and Graham's glowing strain.^^ I too must aid, and pay to see my name Hung in these dirty avenues to fame ; Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen. And sung, could make these avenues more clean ; Could stop one slander ere it found its way. And gave to public scorn its helpless prey. By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends. And kindly tells the banquet she intends ; Thither from real life the many run, With Siddons '"' weep, or laugh with Abingdon ; ■*' Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to see The mimic passion with their own agree ; To steal a few enchanted hours away From self, and drop the curtain on the day. But who can steal from self that wretched wight Whose darling work is tried, some fatal night ? JMost wretched man ! when, bane to every bliss, He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss ; Then groans succeed ; nor traitors on the wheel Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel. Nor end they here : next day he reads his fall In every paper ; critics are they all : He sees his branded name with wild affright, And hears again the cat-calls of the night. lotted to advertisements less amusing. Not only are the public transactions of auctioneers and horse-dealers, but the most private concerns of pleasure and gallantry carried on by their means. Assignations are here made, and the most secret intrigues formed, at the expense of two shillings. If a genteel young lady, who can do all kinds of work, wants a place, she will be sure to hear of a master by advertising. llow many gentlemen have made open professions of the strictest honour and secrecy ! And how many ladies dressed in such a manner, and seen at sucli a place, have been de- sired to leave a line for A. H.! The Daily Advertiser is, therefore, become the universal register for new faces." — UoNNAi. Thornton.] 38 ["'Hie science of adorning and be.antifying the human form seems to be systematically cultivated by many artists of .ill denominations. The professors of the cosmetic art offer innumeralile pastes, washes, pommades, and perfumes, by which the ravages of time are prevented or counteracted. Kven our public spectacles bespeak a degree of improvement liitherto unknown. Witness that wondiTfiil wonder of all wonders, the brave soldier and learned doctor Katterfelto, whose courage and learning are only equalled by his honesty and love for this country, in remaining here nnpensioned, notwithstanding the many ofl'ers from the Queen of Krance, the request of his friend and correspondent, Dr. Franklin, and the positive commands of the King of Prussia." — Gkose.] 39 pul " [Captain Grose says—" Highly eminent in the class of iildic exhibitors stands the learned Dr (irahnm, wliose phi- iosopliic researches and lectures, at the same time that they tend to improve our futup.' progeny, and to maJy Richard Wilkinson, a parishioner of Muston, who every now and then disappeared, like some migratory birds, no one < ould conjecture whither, and, just as his existence was for- L'Otten, home c;ime Richard to be again clothed and fed at I he expense of the parish.] '^ [The Old man of Verona, " qui suburbium nunquam Not one who posts from place to place — of men And manners treating with a flying pen ; Not he who climbs, for prospects, Snowdon's height. And chides the clouds that intercept the sight ; No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar, Enticed our traveller from his house so far ; But all the reason, by himself assign'd For so much rambling, was, a restless mind ; As on, from place to place, without intent, Without reflection, Robin Dingleij '® went. Not thus by natui-e : — never man was found Less prone to wander from his parish bound : Claudian's Old Man, to whom all scenes were new,'? Save those where he and where his apples grew, Resembled Robin, who around would look, And his horizon for the earth's mistook. To this poor swain a keen Attorney came ; — " I give thee joy, good fellow ! on thy name ; " The rich old Dingley's dead ; — no child has he, " Nor wife, nor will ; his all is left for thee : '• To be his fortune's heir thy claim is good ; " Thou hast the name, and we will prove the blood." The claim was made ; 'twas tried, — it would not stand ; They proved the blood, but were refused the land. Assured of wealth, this man of simple heart To every friend had predisposed a part ; His wife had hopes indulged of various kind ; The three Miss Dinglej's had their school assign'd, Masters were sought for what they each required. And books were bought and harpsichords were hired ; So high was hope : — the failure touch'd his brain, And Robin never was himself again ; Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express'd, But tried, in vain, to labour or to rest ; Then cast his bundle on his back, and went He knew not whither, nor for what intent. Years fled ; — of Robin all remembrance past. When home he wander'd in his rags at last : A sailor's jacket on his limbs was thrown, A sailor's storj' he had made his own ; Had suffer'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms. Encountering death in all his ugliest forms : His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye. Where madness lurk'd, conceal'd in misery ; Want, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part. And prompted cunning to that simple heart : " He now bethought him, he would roam no more, "But live at home and labour as before." Here clothed and fed, no sooner he began To round and redden, then away he ran ; egressus est. Cowley : — C'laudian's verses are tluis imitated by " Happy the man wlio Iiis whole life doth bound Within th' enclosure of his little ground ; Ilappy tile man whom the same liumble place (Tlr hereditary cottage of liis race) From liis first rising infancy has known. And, by dejjrees, sees gently bending down, Willi natural propension, to tlxat earth W'liich botli preserved !iis life and gave him bir;Ii. Him no false distant lights, by fortune set. Could ever into foolisli wanderings get ; \o ciiange of consuls marks to iiim the year; The change cf seasons is his calendar," &c,J 152 CRABBE'S WORKS. His wife was dead, their children past his aid. So, unmolested, from his home he sti-ay'd : Six years elapsed, when, woru with want and pain. Came llobin, wrapt in all his rags, again : AVe chide, we pity ; — placed among our poor, He fed again, and was a man once more. As when a gaunt and hungry fox is found, Entrapp'd alive in some rich hunter's ground ; Fed for the field, although each day 's a feast, Fatten you may, but never tame the beast ; A house protects him, savoury viands sustain ; — But loose his neck and off he goes again ; So stole our Vagrant from his warm retreat, To rove a prowler and be deemed a cheat. Hard was his fare ; for him at length we saw In cart convey'd and laid supine on straw. His feeble voice now spoke a sinking heart ; His groans now told the motions of the cart ; And when it stopp'd, he tried in vain to stand ; Closed was his eye, and clench'd his clammy hand ; Life ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more Could his weak sense or dying heart restore : But now he fell, a victim to the snare That vile attorneys for the weak prepare ; — They who, when profit or resentment call, Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall. Then died lamented, in the strength of life, A valued Mother and a faithful Wife ; Call'd not away when time had loosed each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold ; But when, to all that knit us to our kind. She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind ; — Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care. The drooping spirit for its fate prepare ; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart ; But all her ties the strong invader broke. In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke ! Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew, till every hope was gone ; Still those around appear'd for hope to seek ! But view'd the sick and were afraid to speak. Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead ; When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed. My part began ; a crowd drew near the place, Awe in each eye, alai-m in every face : So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind. That fear with pity mingled in each mind ; Friends with the husband came their griefs to blend ; For good-man Franhford was to all a friend. The last-born boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, but cries express'd liis fear ; "* [It has been told (.ante, p. a9), that Mr. Crabbc, on returnint; to Aldhorouf^h, after tho publication of "The Library," found that his mother had diod while he was in London. " Tliat aflectionate parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness and sull'erin),', had slie witnessed liis success, was no more : she liad sunk under the dropsy, in his absence, with a fortitude of resignation closely reseml)lin>,' that of his own last liours. It happened that a friend and neighbour was slowly vieldin;; at the same time to the same liopcless disorder, and every mornin({ she used to desire her da\i;,'hter to see if this sufl"erer's window was opened ; sayinji, clieer- fuUy, ' She must make haste, or I sliall be at rest before her.' Each difi'erent age and sex reveal'd its pain, In now a louder, now a lower strain ; While the meek father, hstening to their tones, Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans. The elder sister strove her pangs to hide. And soothing words to younger minds applied : " Be still, be patient ; " oft she strove to stay ; But fail'd as oft, and weeping tum'd away. Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill The village lads stood melancholy still ; And idle children, wandering to and fro, As Nature guided, took the tone of woe. Arrived at home, how then they gazed around On every place — where she — no more was found ; — The seat at table she was wont to fill ; The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still ; The garden-walks, a labotir all her own ; The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'er- grown ; The Sunday-pew she fill'd with all her race, — Each place of hers, was now a sacred place.'* That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the fuU heart and forced them still to rise. Oh sacred sorrow ! by vihom souls are tried, Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; If thou art mine, (and who shall proudly dare To tell his Maker, he has had his share i) Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent, And be my guide, and not my punishment ! Of Leah Cousins next the name appears, With honoiu's crown'd and blest with length of years, Save that she lived to feel, in life's decay, The pleasure die, the honours drop away ; A matron she, whom every village-wife View'd as the help and guardian of her life ; Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid, llespect to her and her profession paid ; Who in the house of plenty largely fed. Yet took her station at the pauper's bed ; Nor from that duty could be bribed again, While fear or danger urged her to remain : In her experience all her friends relied. Heaven was her help and nature was her guide. Thus Leah lived ; long-trusted, much caress'd, Till a Town-Dame a youthful Farmer bless'd ; A gay vain bride, who would example give To that poor village where she deign'd to live ; Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need, For Doctor Glibh, who came with wond'i-ous speed : Two days he waited, all his art applied, To save the mother when her infant died : — " 'Twas well I came," at last he deign'd to say ; " 'T was wondrous well ; " — and proudly rode away. My father has alluded to his feelings on this occasion in " The Parish Rei^ister : "— Arrived at home, how then he ga/ed around On every place — where she — no mure was found ; And I find him recurring to the same theme in one of liia manuscript pieces : — But oh ! in after-years Were other deaths, that call'd for other fears : — No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint! The patient sufferer! tlie enduring saint I Holy and cheerful I but all words are faint !] THE PARISH REGISTER. 153 The news ran round ; — " How vast the Doctor's pow'r ! " " He saved the Lady in the trying hour ; " Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope, " And her foud husband had resign'd her up : " So all, like her, may evil fate defy, " If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh." Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim. And fashion, sent the varying sex to him : From this, contention in the village rose ; And these the Dame espoused ; the Doctor those ; The wealthier part to him and science went ; With luck and her the poor remain'd content. The Matron sigh'd ; for she was vex'd at heart, "With so much profit, so much fame, to part : " So long successful in my art," she cried, " And this proud man, so young and so untried ! " " Nay," said the Doctor, " dare you trust your wives, " The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives, " To one who acts and knows no reason why, " But trusts, poor hag ! to luck for an ally ? — " Who, on experience, can her claims advance, " And own the powers of accident and chance ? " A whining dame, who prays in danger's view, " (A proof she knows not what beside to do ;) " What 's her experience ? In the time that 's gone, " Blundering she wrought and still she blunders on: — " And what is Nature ? One who acts in aid " Of gossips half asleep and half afraid : " With such allies I scorn my fame to blend, " Skill is my luck and courage is my friend : " No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight " To win my way and act in her despite : — " Trust then my art, that, in itself complete, " Needs no assistance and fears no defeat." Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pijje, The angry Matron grew for contest ripe. " Can you," she said, " ungrateful and unjust, " Before experience, ostentation trust ! " What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell ? " If safe, you 're certain ; if secure, you 're well : " That I have luck must friend and foe confess, " And what 's good judgment but a lucky guess ? " He boasts, but what he can do : — will you run " From me, your friend I who, all he boasts, liave done ? " By proud and learned words his powers are known ; " By healthy boys and handsome girls my own : " Wives ! fathers ! children ! by my help you live ; " Has this pale Doctor more than hfe to give ? " No stunted cripple hops the village round ; " Your hands are active and your heads are sound ; " IMy lads are all your fields and flocks require ; " My lasses all those sturdy lads admire. " Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill, " Amend the soul or body, wit or will ? " Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame, " Or make the daughter difier from the dame ? " Or, whom ho brings into this world of woe, " Prepares ho them their part to undergo ? "If not, this stranger from your doors repel, " And be content to be and to be well." She spake ; but, ah ! with words too strong and plain ; Her warmth offeuded, and her truth was vain : The many left hei, and the friendly yi'ti'. If never colder, yet they older grew ; Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop, And took, insidious aid ! th' inspiring cup ; Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd. And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid. Then died ! I saw our careful swains convey. From this our changeful world, the Matron's claj-, Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill to share. Now to his grave was lloger Cuff conveyW, And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid. Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found His brethren three — and thrice they wisb'd him drown' d. " Is this a landsman's love ? Be certain then, " We part for ever ! " — and they cried, " Amen ! " His words were truth's: — Some forty summers fled. His brethren died ; his kin supposed him dead : Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one, Less near in blood — tliey call'd him stirl/j John ; He work'd in woods apart from all his kind. Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind. For home the sailor now began to sigh : — " The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die ; " When all I have, my gains, in years of care, " The younger Cuffs with kinder souls shall share — " Yet hold! I'm rich; — with one consent they'll say, " ' You 're welcome. Uncle, as the flowers in May. "No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd, " And best befriend the lads who treat me best." Now all his kindred, — neither rich nor poor, — Kept the wolf want some distance from the door. In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate. And begg'd for aid, as he described his state : — But stern was George ; — " Let them who had thee strong, " Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along ; " To us a stranger, while your limbs would move, " From us depart, and try a stranger's love : — " Ha ! dost thou murmur ?" — for, in Koger's throat. Was " Rascal ! " rising with disdainful note. To pious James he then his praj'er address'd ; — " Good-lack," quoth James, " thy sorrows pierce my breast ; " And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain, " One board should feed us and one roof contain : " But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray : " And so farewell ! Heaven help thee on thy way !" " Scoundrel !" said Roger (but apart) ; — and told His case to Peter ; — Peter too was cold ; — " The rates are high ; we have a-many poor; " But I will think," — he said, and shut the door. Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd ; — " Tui'n, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd : " Akin to thine is this declining frame, " And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name." " Avaunt I begone ! " the courteous maiden said, " Thou vile impostor ! Uncle Roger's dead : " I hate thee, beast ; thy look my spirit shocks ; "Oh! " My gentle niece wood. — " I hunger, fellow ; prithee, give me food ! " " Give ! am I rich ? This hatchet take, and try " Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie ; that I saw thee starving in the stocks ! ' ! " he said — and sought the 154 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal, " Nor whine out woes, thine own right-hand can heal ; " And while that hand is thine and thine a leg, " Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg." " Come, surhj John, thy wealthy kinsman view," Old Roger said ; — " thy words are brave and true ; " Come, live with me : we 'U vex those scoundrel- boys, " And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys.— " Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share, " With beef and bi-andy kill all kinds of care ; " We '11 beer and biscuit on our table heajj, " And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep." Such was their life ; but when the woodman died, His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied — In vain ; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door, And dying, built a refuge for the poor. With this restriction. That no Cuff shouldi share One meal, or shelter for one moment there. My Record ends : — But hark ! e'en now I hear The bell of death, and know not whose to fear :'• Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well ; In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell : — Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times. " Go ; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped ? — " What ! he, himself !— and is old Dibble dead ?" His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay'd. And rectors five to one close vault convey'd :— But he is gone ; his care and skill I lose. And gain a mournful subject for my Muse : His masters lost, he 'd oft in turn deplore. And kindly add, — " Heaven grant, I lose no more !" Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance Appear'd at variance with his complaisance : For, as he told their fate and varying worth. He archly look'd, — " I j'et may bear thee forth." " When first " — (he so began) — " my trade I plied, " Good master Addle was the parish-guide ; " His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear, " His stride majestic, and his frown severe ; " A noble pillar of the church he stood, " Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood : " Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about, " He fiU'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out ! '' But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer, " He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair ; " For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased, " Th' expecting people view'd their slumbering priest : " Who, dozing, died. — Our Parson Peele was next ; *' ' I will not spare you,' was his favourite text ; " Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound ; " E'en me he mulct for my poor rood of gi-ound ; " Yet cared he nouglit, but with a gibing speech, " ' What should I do,' quoth lie, ' but what I preach ? ' 13 [" As if an anyel spoke, I feel tlie solemn sound. If heard arit/lit. It is tlie knell of my departed hours." — YouNO.] *" [Dr. (Jrandspear is a rou;,'h outline of Dr. Bacon, the poet's predec-cssor at Muston.] " His piercing jokes (and he 'd a plenteous store) " Were daily ofier'd both to rich and poor ; " His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke ; " His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke : " But though so young and blest with spirits high, " He died as grave as any judge could die : " The strong attack subdued his lively powers, — " His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours'^* " Then were there golden times the village round; " In his abundance all appear'd t' abound; " Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread, " E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed ; " Who wish'd and hoped, — ^and thought a man so kind " A way to Heaven,though not their own,might find. " To them, to all, he was polite and free, " Kind to the poor, and, ah ! most kind to me ! " ' lialph,' would he say, ' Ralph Dibble, thou art old; " ' That doublet fit, 't will keep thee from the cold : " ' How does my sexton ? — What ! the times are hard ; " ' Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.' " But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest : — " ' Thy coat is thin ; why, man, thou 'rt barely dress'd ; " ' It 's worn to th' thread : but I have nappy beer ; " ' Clap that within, and see how they will wear ! ' " Gay days were these ; but they were quickly past : " When first he came, we found he cou'dn't last: " A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf) " Upset him quite ; — but what 's the gain of grief.'' "Then came the Author- Rector :'^'^ his delight " Was all in books ; to read them or to write : " AVomen and men he strove alike to shun, " And hurried homeward when his tasks were done ; " Courteous enough, but careless what he said, " For points of learning he reserved his head ; " And when addressing either poor or rich, " He knew no better than his cassock which : " He, like an osier, was of pliant kind, " Erect by nature, but to bend inclined ; " Not like a creeper falling to the ground, " Or meanly catching on the neighbours round : — " Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band,** — " And kindly took them as they came to hand, " Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat, " As if he sought for dignity in that : " He talk'd, he gave, but not witli cautious rules ; " Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools ; " It was his nature, but they thought it whim, " And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him. "Of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark, — " How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark; " From what far land the queen of Sheba came ; " Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name ; " He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield, " And Revelations, to the world, reveal'd. " [The Autlior-Uector is, at all points, the similitude of Mr. Crabbe himself, except in the subject of his lucubra- tions.] *'^ [See ante, p. 4G.j THE PARISH REGISTER. ]55 " He sleeps i' the aisle, — but not a stone records " His name or fame, his actions or his words : " And truth, your reverence, when I look around, " And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground " (Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt), " I 'd join the party who repose without. " Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in truth " He was a sober and a comely youth ; " He blush'd in meekness as a modest man, " And gain'd attention ere his task began ; *' "When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof, " But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough. *' Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd, " Advised and censured, fiatter'd, — and prevail'd. — " Then did he much his sober hearers vex, " Confound the simple, and the sad perplex; " To a new style his reverence rashly took ; " Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd his look ; " Above, below, on either side he gazed, " Amazing all, and most himself amazed : " No more he read his preachments pure and plain, " But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again : " At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept, " And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept, " That our blest sleepers started as they slept. " ' Conviction comes like lightning,' he would ci-y; " ' In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly ; " ' 'T is like the rushing of the mighty wind, " ' Unseen its progress, but its power you find ; " ' It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes ; " ' His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes ; " ' The proud, learn'd man, and him wlio loves to know " ' How and from whence these gusts of grace will blow, " ' It shuns, — but sinners in their way impedes, " 'And sots and harlots visits in their deeds: " ' Of faith and penance it supplies the place ; " 'Assures the vilest that they live by grace, " ' And, without running, makes them win the race.' " Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught ; " And here conviction, there confusion wrought ; '3 [" Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground," &c. Pope's Humcr.} ■* ["On the whole, the Parish Register deserves very su- perior commendation, as well for the llow of verse and for the lani^'iiage, which is manly and powerful, equally remote from vicious ornament and the still more disgusting cant of idiot simplicity, as for the sterling poetry, and original powers of thought, of which it contains unquestionable proofs. One remark we add with ple'asure, as prophetic of a still higher degree of excellence which the author may hereafter attain : his later productions are, in every respect, better and more perfect than those by which he first became known as a poet." — Monthly Eevieiv, ISO". " The characteristic of Crabbe is force, and truth of descrip- tion, joined for the most part to great selection and condensa- tion of expression ; that kind of strength and originality which we meet with in Cowper, and that sort of diction and versifi- cation which we admire in Goldsmith. If he can be said to haveimitated the manner of any author, it is Goldsmith ; and yet his general train of thinking, and his views of society, are so extremely opposite, that, wlien 'The Village' was first published, it was commonly considered as an antidote, or answer, to the more captivating representations of the ' De- serted Village. Compared with this celebrated author, he will be found to have more vigour and less delicacy ; and, while lie murt be admitted to be inferior in the fine linisli " When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue, " And all the rose to one small spot withdrew, " They call'd it hectic ; 't was a fiery flush, " More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush ; " His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed, " And lab'ring lungs the lenth'niug speech opposed. " No more his span-girth shanks and qui v'ring thighs " Upheld a body of the smaller size ; " But down he sank upon his dying bed, " And gloomy crotchets fiU'd his wandering head. — " ' Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried, " ' I fear of worldly works the wicked pride ; " ' Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind, " ' The good I 've wrought still rankles in my mind ; " ' ]My alms-deeds all, and every deed I 've done ; " ' My moral-rags defile me every one ; " It should not be : — what say'st thou ! tell me, Ralph.' " Quoth I, ' Your reverence, I believe, you 're safe ; " ' Your faith 's your prop, nor have you pass'd such time " ' In life's good-works as swell them to a crime. " ' If I of pardon for my sins wei-e sure, " ' About my goodness I would rest secure.' " Such was his end ; and mine approaches fast ; " I 've seen my best of preachers, — and my last." — He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said, Civil but sly :— " And is old Dibble dead ?" Yes ; he is gone : and we are going all ; Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall ;^' — Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come. Then bear the new-made Christian to its home : A few short years and we behold him stand To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand : A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier : — Tlius, as the months succeed, shall infants take Their names : thus parents shall the child forsake ; Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel. By love or law compell'd their vows to seal. Ere I again, or one like me, explore These simple Annals of the Village Poor. and uniform beauty of his composition, we cannot help con- sidering him as superior both in the variety and the truth of his pictures. Instead of that uniform tint of pensive tender- ness which overspreads tlie whole poetry of Goldsmith, we find in Mr. Crabbe many gleams of gaiety and humour. Thoujfh his habitual views of life are more gloomy than those of his rival, his poetical temperament seems more cheerful ; and when the occasions of sorrow and rebuke are gone by, he can collect himself for sarcastic pleasantries, or unbend in innocent playfulness. . . .We part from him with regret ; but we liope to meet him again. If his muse, to be sure, is pro- lific only once in twenty-two years, we can scarcely expect to live long enough to pass our judgment on his progeny ; but we trust that a larger portiori of public favour than has hitherto been dealt to him, will encourage him to greater eHbrts ; and that he will soon appear again among the worthy supporters of the old poetical establishment." — Jeffkev, 1807. " Tliere be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, That splendid lies are all tlie Poet's praise ; That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 'Tis true, that all who rhyme— nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest tires. And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact, in Virtue's name, let Cradue attest; Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best." Byron, 1808.' 156 CRABBES WORKS. THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY." THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY. Omnia habeo, nee quicquam habeo ; Quidquid dicunt, laudo ; id nirsum si negant, laudo id quoque : Neijat quis, nego ; ait, aio : Postremo imperav'i egonaet mihi Omnia assentari. Tekent. hi Eunuch.'''^ 'T is an old maxim in the schools, That (lattery is the food of fools ; Yet now and then your men of wit Will condescend to taste a bit.— Swift. The Subject — Poverty and Cunning described— When united, a jarring Couple — Mutual Reproof — the Wife consoled by a Dream— ]?irth of a Daughter— Description and Prediction of Envy — How to be rendered inetiectual, explained in a Vision— Simulation foretells the future Success and Triumphs of Flattery —Her Power over various Characters and Dif- ferent Minds ; over certain Classes of Men ; over Envy himself — Her successful Art of softening the Evils of Life ; of changing Characters ; of meliorating Prospects, and afllx- ing Value to Possessions, Pictures, &c, — Conclusion. Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing The passions all, their bearings and their ties ; Who could in view those shadowy beings bring, And with bold hand remove each dark disguise, Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies : Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends That way his flight ; assist him as he flies, To mark those passions, Virtue's foes and friends, By whom when led she droojDS, when leading she ascends. 1 ISeeante, p. lOu.] * L"I 've every thing, though nothing ; nought possess, Yet nouglit 1 ever want. — Wliate cr tliey say, I praise it ; if again Tliey contradict, I praise that too : does any Deny ? I too deny : Afhrm ? I too. And, in a word, 1 've brought myself To say, unsay, swear, .ind forsw t'iir, at pleasure." CoLMAN.] » [Original MS. :— Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing The i'ii.ssion», and the sourros whence they spring ; Wlio taught the Vjirtli, the bearings, and tile ties, The strong cuiinectiuns, nice dependencies, Yes ! they appear, I see the fairy train ! And who that modest nymph of meek address ? Not Vanity, though loved by all the vain ; Not Hope, though promising to all success ; Not Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress ; Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose, Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess ; 'T is not in thy mild nature to refuse, When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.^ In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain, Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain ; A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil, Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil, And to a master left the mingled joy And anxious care that follow'd his employ. SuUen and patient he at once appear'd. As one who murmur'd, yet as one who fear'd ; Th' attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy frame, Rude his address, and Poverty his name. In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste, A cottage (plann'd, with all her skill) had placed ; Strange the materials, and for what dcsign'd The various parts, no simple man might find ; What seem'd the door, each entering guest with- stood, What seem'd a window was but painted wood ; But by a secret spring tlie wall would move, And daylight drop througli glassy door above : 'T was all her pride, new traps for praise to lay, And all her wisdom was to hide her way ; In small attempts incessant were her pains, And Cunniny was her name among the swains.* Of these the Foes of Virtue and the Priends, With w liom she rises and with w horn descends — A Syren's birth, a Syren's power I trace, .'Vid me, oh ! Herald of the Fairy-race ; .Say whence slie sprang, to wliat stranL'C fortune born, .Villi why we love and hate, desire and storii.j •' [Original MS. .— From w hom she sprang, not one around lier knew, Nor w liy she came, nor w hat she had in view ; Labour she loved not, had no wealth in store. Pursued no calling, yet w,is never poor; A thousand gifts her various arts repaid, \w\ bounti'ous fairies blest the thriving maid ; l''or she li.id secret means of easy gains. And Cunning was her name among tlie swiiiiis.] THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY. 157 Now, whether fate decreed this pair sliould wed, And blindly drove tliem to the marriage bed ; Or whether love in some soft hour inclined The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind. Is yet unsung : they were an ill-match'd pair, But both disposed to wed — and wed they were. Yet, though united in their fortune, still Their ways were diverse ; varying was their will ; Nor long the maid had bless'd the simple man, Before dissensions i-ose, and she began : — " Wretch that I am ! since to thy fortune bound, " What plan, what project, with success is crown'd 'i " I, who a thousand secret arts possess, " Who every rank approach with right address ; " Who 've loosed a guinea from a miser's chest, " And worm'd his secret from a traitor's breast ; " Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small, " Have brought to thee, and thou consum'st them all; " For want like thine — a bog without a base — " Ingulfs all gains I gather for the jilace ; " Feeding, unfiU'd ; destroying, undestroy'd ; " It craves for ever, and is ever void : — " Wretch that I am ! what misery have I found, " Since my sure craft was to thy calling bound I" " Oh ! A'aunt of worthless ai't," the swain replied, Scowling contempt, " how pitiful this pride ! " What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains, " But base rewards for ignominious pains ? " With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive, " Thine is, proud wretch ! the care that cannot thrive ; " By all thy boasted skill and bafiled hooks, " Thou gain'st no more than students by their books. " No more than I for my poor deeds am paid, " Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid. " Call this our need, a bog that all devours, — " Then what thy petty arts, but summer-flowers, " Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray " The place they make unprofitably gay ? " Who know it not, some useless beauties see, — " But ah ! to prove it was reserved for me." Unhappy state ! that, in decay of love, Permits harsh truth his errors to disprove ; While he remains, to wrangle and to jar, Is friendly tournament, not fatal war ; Love in his play will borrow arms of hate, Anger and rage, upbraiding and debate ; And by his power the desperate weapons thrown, Become as safe and pleasant as his own ; But left by him, their natures they assume, And fatal, in their poisoning force, become. Time fled, and now the swain compell'd to see New cause for fear — " Is this thy thrift ?" quoth he. To whom the wife with cheerful voice replied : — ■ " Thou moody man, lay all thy fears aside ; " I 've seen a vision — they, from whom I came, " A daughter promise, promise wealth and fame ; " Born with my features, with my arts, yet she ' Shall patient, pliant, persevering be, " And in thy better ways resemble thee. " The fairies round shall at her birtli attend, " The friend of all in all shall find a friend, " And save that one sad star that hour must gleam " On our fair child, how glorious were my dream !" This heard the husband, and, in surly smile, Aim'd at contempt, but yet he hoped the while : For as, when sinking, wretched men are found To catch at rushes rather than be drown'd ; So on a dream our peasant placed his hope, And found that rush as valid as a rope. Swift fled the days, for now in hope they fled, When a fair daughter bless'd the nuptial bed ; Her infant-face the mother's pains beguiled. She look'd so pleasing and so softly smiled ; Those smiles, those looks, with sweet sensations moved The gazer's soul, and as he look'd he loved. And now the fairies came with gifts, to grace So mild a nature, and so fair a face. They gave, with beauty, that bewitching art, That holds in easy chains the human heart ; They gave her skill to win the stubborn mind, To make the suffering to their sorrows blind. To bring on pensive looks the pleasing smile. And Cai'e's stern brow of every frown beguile. These magic favours graced the infant-maid. Whose more enlivening smile the charming gifts repaid. Now Fortune changed, who, were she constant long. Would leave us few adventures for our song. A wicked elfin roved this land around. Whose joys proceeded from the griefs he found ; Ji!iivi/ his name : — his fascinating eye From the light bosom drew the sudden sigh ; Unsocial he, but with malignant mind, lie dwelt with man, that he miglit curse man- kind ; Like the first foe, he sought th' abode of Joy, Grieved to behold, but eager to destroy ; Bound blooming beauty, like the wasp, he flew, Soil'd the fresh sweet, and changed the rosy hue ; The wise, the good, with anxious heart he saw, And here a failing found, and there a flaw ; Discord in families 't was his to move, Distrust in friendship, jealousy in love ; He told the poor, what joys the great possess'd ; The great, what calm content the cottage bless'd : To part the learned and the rich he tried. Till their slow friendship perish'd in their pride. Such was the fiend, and so secure of prey, That only Misery pass'd unstung away. Soon as he heard the fairy-babe was born. Scornful he smiled, but felt no more than scorn : For why, when Fortune placed her state so low, In useless spite his lofty malice shovr ? Why, in a mischief of the meaner kind. Exhaust the vigour of a ranc'rous mind ; But, soon as Fame the fairy-gifts proclaim'd, Quick-rising wrath his ready soul inflamed To swear, by vows that e'en the wicked tie, The nymph should weep her varied destiny ; That every gift, that now appear'd to shine In her fair face, and make her smiles divine, 158 CRABBE'S WORKS. Should all the poison of his magic prove, And they should scorn her, whom she sought for love. His spell prepared, in form an ancient dame, A fiend in spirit, to the cot he came ; There gain'd admittance, and the infant press'd (Muttering his wicked magic) to his breast ; And thus he said : — " Of all the powers who wait '• On Jove's decrees, and do the work of fate, " Was I, alone, despised or worthless, found, " Weak to protect, or impotent to wound ? " See then thy foe, regret the friendship lost, " And learn my skill, but learn it at your cost. " Know, then, O child ! devote to fates severe, " The good shall hate thy name, the wise shall fear ; " Wit shall deride, and no protecting friend " Thy shame shall cover, or thy name defend. " Thy gentle sex, who, more than ours, should spare " A humble foe, will greater scorn declare ; " The base alone thy advocates shall be, " Or boast alliance with a wretch like thee." He spake, and vanish'd, other prey to find. And waste in slow disease the conquer'd mind. Awed by the elfin's threats, and fill'd with dread The parents wept, and sought their infant's bed : Despair alone the father's soul possess'd ; But hope rose gently in the mother's breast ; For well she knew that neither grief nor joy Pain'd without hope, or pleased without alloy ; And while these hopes and fears her heart divide, A cheerful vision bade the fears subside. She saw descending to the world below An ancient form, with solemn pace and slow. " Daughter, no more be sad " (the phantom cried), " Success is seldom to the wise denied ; " In idle wishes fools supinely stay, " Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way : " Why art thou grieved ? Be rather glad, that he " Who hates the happy, aims his darts at thee, " But aims in vain ; thy favour'd daughter lies " Serenely blest, and shall to joy arise. " For, grant that curses on her name shall wait, " (So Envy wills, and such the voice of Fate,) " Yet if that name be prudently suppress'd, " She shall bo courted, favour'd, and caress'd. " For what are names? and where agree man- kind, " In those to persons or to acts assign'd ? " Brave, learn'd, or wise, if some their favourites call, " Have they the titles or the praise from all ? " Not so, but others will the brave disdain " As rash, and deem the sons of wisdom vain ; " The self-same mind shall scorn or kindness move, " And the same deed attract contempt and love. " So all the powers who move the human soul, " With all the passions who the will control, " Have various names — One giv'n by Truth Divine, " (As Simulation thus was fixed for mine,) " The rest by man, who now, as wisdom's prize " My secret counsels, now as art despise ; " One hour, as just, those counsels they embrace, " And spurn, the next, as pitiful and base. " Thee, too, my child, those fools as Cunning fly, " Who on thy counsel and thy craft rely ; " That worthy craft in others they condemn, " But 't is their prudence, while conducting them. " Be Flattery, then, thy happy infant's name, " Let Honour scorn her and let \Vit defame ; " Let all be true that Envy dooms, yet all, " Not on herself, but on her name, shall fall; " While she thy fortune and her own shall raise, " And decent Truth be call'd, and loved as, modest Praise. " O happy child ! the glorious day shall shine, " When every ear shall to thy speech incline, " Thy words alluring and thy voice divine : " The sullen pedant and the sprightly wit, " To hear thy soothing eloquence shall sit ; " And both, abjuring Flattery, will agree " That Truth inspires, and they must honour thee. '• Envij himself shall to thy accents bend, " Force a faint smile, and sullenly attend, " When tliou shaltcall him Virtue's jealous friend, " Whose bosom glows with generous rage to find " How fools and knaves are flatter'd bj' mankind. " The sage retired, who spends alone his days, " And flies th' obstreperous voice of public praise ; " The vain, the vulgar cry, — shall gladly meet, " And bid thee welcome to his still retreat ; " Much will he wonder, how thou cam'st to find " A man to glory dead, to peace consign'd. " O Fame ! he '11 cry (for he will call thee Fame), " From thee I fly, from thee conceal my name ; " But thou shalt say. Though Genius takes his flight, " He leaves behind a glorious train of light, " And hides in vain : — yet prudent he that flies " The flatterer's art, and for himself is wise. " Yes, happy child ! I mark th' approaching day, " When warring natures will confess thy sway ; " AVhen thou shalt Saturn's golden reign restore, " And vice and folly shall be known no more. " Pride shall not then in human-kind have place, " Changed by thy skill, to Uignitu and Grace ; " While Sfiame, who now betrays the inward sense " Of secret ill, shall be thy Diffidence ; " Avarice shall thenceforth prudent Forecast be, " And bloody Vengeance, Ma(/na7iiniiti/ ; " The lavish tongue shall honest truths impart, " The lavish hand shall show the generous heart, " And Indiscretion be. contempt of art ; " Folly and Vice shall then, no longer known, " Be, this as Virtue, that as Wisdom, shown. " Then shall the Robber, as the Hero, rise " To seize the good that churlish law denies ; " Throughout the world shall rove the generous band, " And deal the gifts of Heaven from hand to hand. " In thy blest days no tyrant shall be seen, " Thy gracious king shall rule contented men ; " In tliy blest days shall not a rebel be, " But patriots all and well-approved of thee. " Such powers are thine, that man by thee shall wrest " The gainful secret from the cautious breast ; " Nor then, with all his care, the good retain, " But yield to thee the secret and the gain. " In vain shall much experience guard the heart " Against the charm of thy prevailing art ; THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY. 159 ' Admitted once, so soothing is thy strain, ' It comes the sweeter, when it comes again ; ' And when confess'd as thine, what mind so strong ' Forbears the pleasure it indulged so long ? " Softener of every ill ! of all our woes ' The balmy solace ! friend of fiercest foes ! ' Begin thy reign, and like the morning rise ! ' Bring joy, bring beauty, to our eager eyes ; ' Break on the drowsy world like opening day, ' While grace and gladness join thy flow'ry way ; ' While every voice is praise, while every heart is gay- " From thee all prospects shall new beauties take, ' 'T is thine to seek them and 't is thine to make ; ' On the cold fen I see thee turn thine eyes, ' Its mists recede, its chilling vapour flies ; ' Th' enraptured lord th' improving ground sur- veys, ' And for his Eden asks the traveller's praise, ' Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been, ' Where spungy rushes hide the plashy green. " I see thee breathing on the barren moor, ' That seems to bloom although so bleak before ; ' There, if beneath the gorse the primrose spring, ' Or the pied daisy smile below the ling, ' They shall new charms, at thy command disclose, ' And none shall miss the myrtle or the rose. ' The wiry moss, that whitens all the hill, ' Shall live a beauty by thy matchless skill ; ' Gale ' from the bog shall yield Arabian balm, ' And the grey willow wave a golden palm. " I see thee smiling in the pictured room, ' Now breathing beauty, now reviving bloom ; ' There, each immortal name 't is thine to give, ' To graceless forms, and bid the lumber live. ' Should'st thou coarse boors or gloomy martyrs see, ' These shall thy Guidos, those thy Teniers be ; 5 [" Myrica gale," a shrub growing in boggy and fenny grounds.] 8 [" With many nervous lines and ingenious allusions, this " There shalt thou Raphael's saints and angels trace, " There make for Rubens and for Reynolds place, " And all the pride of art shall find, in her dis- grace. " Delight of either sex ! thy reign commence ; " With balmy sweetness soothe the weary sense, " And to the sickening soul thy cheering aid dis- pense. " Queen of the mind ! thy golden age begin ; " In mortal bosoms varnish shame and sin ; " Let all be fair without, let all be calm within." The vision fled, the happy mother rose, Kiss'd the fair infant, smiled at all her foes. And Flattery made her name : — her reign began : Her own dear sex she ruled, then vanquish'd man : A smiling friend, to every class she spoke. Assumed their manners, and their habits took ; Her, for her humble mien, the modest loved ; Her cheerful looks the light and gay approved ; The just beheld her, firm ; the valiant, brave ; Her mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave ; Zeal heard her voice, and, as he preach'd aloud, Well pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd (Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear, Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear) : Shame fled her presence ; at her gentle strain. Care softly smiled, and Guilt forgot its pain ; The wretched thought, the happy found, her true. The learn'd confess'd that she their merits knew ; The rich — could they a constant friend condemn ? The poor believed — for who should flatter them ? Thus on her name though all disgrace attend. In every creature she beholds a friend.^ poem has something of the languor which seems inseparable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram." — Jeffery.] 160 CRABBES WORKS. E F, F L E C T I N 8 UPON THE SUBJECT— Quid jurat errores, mersa jam puppe, faterif Quid tacryaue delicta juvant commissa secutcs ? Claudian. in Eutropium, lib. ii. lin. 7. W)iat avails it, when shipwreck'd, tliat error appears ? Are tlie crimes we commit wash'd away by our tears ?' 1 When all the fiercer passions cease 1 1 Relentless hatred, erring love, (The glory and disgrace of youth) ; We can for sacred truth forego ; "When the deluded soul, in peace, We can the warmest friend reprove, Can listen to the voice of truth ; And bear to praise the fiercest foe : When Tv-e are taught in whom to trust, To what effect ? Our friends are gone And how to spare, to spend, to give, Beyond reproof, regard, or care ; (Our prudence kind, our pity just,) And of our foes remains there one. 'T is then we rightly learn to live. The mild relenting thoughts to share ? Its weakness when the body feels, Now 't is our boast that we can quell Nor danger in contempt defies; The wildest passions in their rage ; To reason when desire appeals. Can their destructive force repel. When, on experience, hope relies ; And their impetuous wrath assuage : When every passing hour we prize, Ah ! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now Nor rashly on our follies spend ; This bold rebellious race are fled ; But use it, as it quickly flics, When all these tyrants rest, and thou With sober aim to serious end ; Art warring with the mighty dead ? When prudence bounds our utmost views, Revenge, ambition, scorn, and pride, And bids us wrath and wrong forgive ; And strong desire, and fierce disdain, When we can cahnly gain or lose, — The giant-brood by thee defied. 'T is then we rightly learn to live. Lo ! Time's resistless strokes have slain. Yet thus, when we our waj^ discern, Yet Time, who could that race subdue. And can upon our care depend, (O'erpowering strength, appeasing rage,) To travel safely, when wc learn, Leaves yet a persevering crew. Behold ! wc 're near our journey's end. To try the failing pow crs of age. We 've trod the maze of error round, Vex'd by the constant call of these, Long wanil'ring in the winding glade ; Virtue awhile for conquest tries ; And, now the torch of truth is found, But weary grown and fond of ease. It only shows us where we stray'd : She makes with them a compromise : Light for ourselves, what is it worth. Av'ricc himself she gives to rest. When we no more our way can choose ? But rules him with her strict commands ; For others, when we hold it forth, Bids Pity touch his torpid breast, They, in their pride, the boon refuse. And .lustice hold his eager hands. By long experience taught, we now Yet is there nothing men can do. Can rightly judge of friends and foes, When chilling Age comes creeping on ? Can nil the worth of these allow. Cannot wc yet some good pursue ? And all their faults discern in those ; Are talents buried ? genius gone ? » [See Preface .ante, p. 100.] 1 REFLECTIONS. 161 If passions slumber in the breast, If follies from the heart be fled ; Of laurels let us go in quest, And place them on the poet's head. Yes, v,c '11 redeem the wasted time, And to neglected studies flee ; "We '11 build again the lofty rhyme, Or live, Philosophy, with thee : For reasoning clear, for flight sublime. Eternal fame reward shall be ; And to what glorious heights we '11 climb. The admiring crowd shall envying see. Begin the song ! begin the theme ! — Alas ! and is Invention dead ? Dream we no more the golden dream ? Is IMem'ry with her treasures fled ? Yes, 'tis too late, — now Reason guidns The mind, S'A'i judge in all debate , And thus the important point decides, For laurels, 't is, alas ! too late. What is possess'd we may retain, But for new conquests sti'ive in vain. Beware then. Age, that what was won. If life's past labours, studies, views, Be lost not, now the labour 's done. When all thy part is, — not to lose : When thou canst toil or gain no more. Destroy not what was gain'd before. For, all that 's gain'd of all that 's good. When time shall his weak frame destroy (Their use then rightly understood), Shall man, in happier state, enjoy. Oh ! argument for truth divine. For study's cares, for virtue's strife ; To know the enjoyment will be thine, In that renew'd, that endless life I M 162 CRABBE'S WORKS. SIR EUSTACE GREY.^ Scene. — A Madhouse. Persons — Visitor, Physician, and Patient. " Veris miscens falsa." Seneca, in Herc.furente.' VISITOR. I'll kaow no more ; — the heart is torn By views of woe we cannot heal ; Long shall I see these things forlorn, And oft again their griefs shall feel, As each upon the mind shall steal ; That wan projector's mystic style, That lumpish idiot leering by, That peevish idler's ceaseless wile, And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile, WJiile struggling for tlie full-drawn sigh !- I 'II know no more. PHYSICLA-N. Yes, turn again; Then speed to happier scenes thy way. When thou hast view'd, what yet remain, The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey, The sport of madness, misery's prey : But he will no historian need, His cares, his crimes, will he display, And show (as one from frenzy freed) The proud lost mind, the rash-done deed. That cell to him is Grcyling Ilall : — Approach ; he '11 bid tliee welcome there ; Will sometimes for his servant caU, And sometimes point the vacant chair; He can, with free and easy air. Appear attentive and polite ; Can veil his woes in manners fair, And pity witli respect e-xcitc. 1 [Tliis poem '.vas composed at Mnston, in the winter of 1804-.'), during a great snow-storm (see Life, ante, p. r.]). For the Author's account of his design in the piece, sfe Pre- face, antr, p. 100.] » [«' With truth mingling the false."— HfvwooD, 1581.] PATIENT. Who comes ? — Approach I — 't is kindly done : My leam'd physician, and a friend, Their pleasures quit, to visit one Who cannot to their ease attend,^ Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend, As when I lived so blest, so weU, And dreamt not I must soon contend With those malignant powers of hell. pnrsiciAN. " Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go." PATIENT. See ! I am calm as infant-love, A very child, but one of woo. Whom you should pity, not reprove : But men at ease, who never strove With passions wild, will calmly show How soon we may their ills remove. And masters of their madness grow. Some twenty years, I think, are gone, — (Time flies I know not how, away,) The sun upon no happier shone, Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grej'. Ask where you would, and all would say, The man admired and praised of all, By rich and poor, by gra\e and gay. Was the young lord of Greyling Hall. Yes ! I had youth and rosy health ; Was nobly form'd, as man might be ; For sickness, then, of all my wealth, I never gave a single fee : The ladies fair, the maidens free, Were all accustom'd then to say. Who would a handsome figure see Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey. ^ [Original MS. :— Who comes ?— Approach ! — 't is liindly dcae— The worthy doctor, and a friend. "T is more than kind to visit one Who has not now to spare or spend, As wlicn I lived so blest, so well !] SIR EUSTACE GREY. 163 He had a frank and pleasant look, A cheerful eye and accent bland ; His very speech and manner spoke The generous heart, the open hand ; About him all was gay or grand, He had the praise of great and small ; He bought, improved, projected, plann'd, And reign'd a prince at Greyling Hall. 3Iy lady I — she was all we love ; All praise (to speak her worth) is faint ; Her manners show'd the yielding dove, Her morals, the seraphic saint : She never breath"d nor look'd complaint; No equal upon earth had she : — Now, what is this fair thing I paint ? Alas ! as all that live shall be.* There was, beside, a gallant youth, And him my bosom's friend I had ; — Oh ! I was rich in very truth, It made me proud — it made me mad ! — Yes, I was lost — but there was cause ! — Where stood my tale ? — I cannot find — But I had all mankind's applause, And all the smiles of womankind. There were two cherub-things beside, A gracious girl, a glorious boy ; Yet more to swell my full-blo^^^l pride, To varnish higher my fading joy, Pleasures were ours without alloy, Nay, Paradise, — till my frail Eve Our bliss was tempted to destroy — Deceived and fated to deceive. But I deserved ; — for all that time, When I was loved, admired, caress'd, There was within, each secret crime, TJnfclt, uncancell'd, unconfess'd : I never then my God address'd, In grateful praise or humble prayer ; And if His Word was not my jest — (Dread thought !) it never was my care. I doubted : — -fool I was to doubt ! If that all-piercing eye could see, — If He who looks all worlds throughout, Would so minute and careful be As to perceive and punish me : — With man I would be great and high, But with my God so lost, that He, In his large view, should pass me by.j Thus blest with children, friend, and wife. Blest far beyond the vulgar lot ; Of all that gladdens human life, Where was the good that I had not ? ■• [Original MS. :— Worms, doctor, worms, and, so are we.] [^ Here follows, in the original MS. : — Madman I shall He who made this all. The parts that form the whole reject .' Is au;;ht with him so great or small, He cannot punish or protect ? But my vile heart had sinful spot. And Heaven beheld its deep'ning stain ; Eternal justice I forgot. And mercy sought not to obtain. Come near, — I '11 softly speak the rest 1 — Alas ! 't is kno\^^l to all the crowd, Her guilty love was all confess'd ; And his, who so much truth avow'd. My faithless friend's. — In pleasure proud I sat, when these cursed tidings came ; Their guilt, their flight was told aloud. And Envy smiled to hear my shame ! I call'd on Vengeance ; at the word She came : — Can I the deed forget ? I held the sword — the accursed sword The blood of his false heart made wet ; And that fair victim paid her debt. She pined, she died, she loath'd to live ;- I saw her dying — see her yet : my rage forgive 1 Fair fallen thing .' Those cherubs still, my life to bless, Were left ; could I my fears remove. Sad fears that check'd each fond caress, And poison'd all parental love ? Yet that with jealous feelings strove. And would at last have won my will. Had I not, wretch ! been doom'd to prove Th' extremes of mortal good and ill. In youth ! health ! joy ! in beauty's pride ! 'They droop'd — as flowers when blighted bow The dire infection came : — they died. And I \^as cursed — as I am now ; — Nay, frown not, angry friend, — allow That I was deeply, sorely tried ; Hear then, and you must wonder how I could such storms and strifes abide.® Storms ! — not that clouds embattled make. When they afflict this earthly globe ; But such as with their terrors shake Man's breast, and to the bottom probe ; They make the hypocrite disrobe. They try us all, if false or true ; For this one Devil had power on Job ; And I was long the slave of two. PHYSICIAN. Peace, peace, my friend ; these subjects fly ; Collect thy thoughts — go calmly on. — Man's folly may his crimes neglect, And hope the eye of God to shun ; But there 's of all the account correct — Not one omitted — no, not one ] 6 [MS. :— Nay, frown not — chide not — but allow i'ity to one so sorely tried : Sut I am calm — to fate I bow. And all the storms of life abide.] M 2 PATIENT. And shall I then the fact deny ? I was, — thou know'st, — I was begone, Like him who fiU'd the eastern throne. To whom the Watcher cried aloud ; ' That royal wretch of Babylon, "NVho was so guilty and so proud. Like him, with haughty, stubborn mind, I, in my state, ray comforts sought ; Delight and praise I hoped to find, In what I builded, planted ! bought ! Oh ! arrogance ! by misery taught — Soon came a voice ! I felt it come ; " Full be his cup, with evil fraught, " Demons his guides, and death his doom 1" Then was I cast from out my state ; Two fiends of darkness led my way ; They waked me earlj', watch'd me late. My dread by night, my plague by day ! Oh ! I was made their sport, their play, Through many a stormy troubled year ; And how they used their passive prey Is sad to tell : — but you shall hear. And first before they sent me forth. Through this unpitying world to run, They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth. Lands, manors, lordships, every one ; So was that gracious man undone, "Was spum'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor, Whom every former friend would shun. And menials drove from every door. Then those ill-favour'd Ones,^ whom none But my unhappy eyes could view, Led me, with wild emotion, on, And, with resistless terror, drew. Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew, And halted on a boundless plain ; Where nothing fed, nor breathed, nor grew, But silence ruled the still domain. Upon that boundless plain, below. The setting sun's last rays were shed. And gave a mild and sober glow. Where all were still, asleep, or dead ; Vast ruins in the midst were spread. Pillars and pediments sublime. Where the grey moss had form'd a bed. And clothed the crumbling spoils of time. There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay : Yet years were not ; — one dreadful Now Endured no change of night or day ; " " And the kin^ (Nebucliadnez/.ar) saw a watcher and nn holy one come down from heaven," &c. — Din. iv. 23. 8 See Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. » [" There is great foree, both of lansna^e and conception, in the wihl narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy ; though we are not sure whether tliere is not something too elaborate, andtiio mucli worked-up in tlie picture." — Jeitkky. " In the struggle of the passions, we deliglit to (race the The same mild evening's sleeping ray Shone softly solemn and serene, And all that time I gazed away. The setting sun's sad rays were seen.® At length a moment's sleep stole on, — Again came my commission'd foes ; Again through sea and land we 're gone. No peace, no respite, no repose : Above the dark broad sea we rose. We ran through bleak and frozen land ; I l;ad no strength their strength t' oppose, An infant in a giant's hand. They placed me where those streamers play. Those nimble beams of brilliant light ; It would the stoutest heart dismay. To see, to feel, that dreadful sight : So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierced my frame with icy wound ; And all that half-year's j)olar night. Those dancing streamers wrapp'd me round. Slowly that darkness pass'd away. When do\\Ti upon the earth I fell, — Some hurried sleep was mine by day ; But, soon as toll'd the evening bell. They forced me on, where ever dwell Far-distant men in cities fair, Cities of whom no travellers tell. Nor feet but mine were wanderers there. Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast, As on we hurry through the dark ; Tlie watch-light blinks as we go past, The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark ; The watch-tower's bell sounds shrill; and, hark The free wind blows — we 've left the town — A wide sepulchral ground I mark. And on a tombstone place me do\Tn. What monuments of mighty dead ! What tombs of various kind are found ! And stones erect their shadows shed On humble graves, with wickers bound, Some risen fresh, above the ground. Some level with the native clay : What sleeping millions wait the sound, " Arise, ye dead, and come away ! " Alas ! they stay not for that call ; Spare me this woe ! ye demons, spare ! — They come ! the shrouded shadows all, — 'Tis more than mortal brain can bear; Rustling they rise, they sternly glare At man upheld by vital breath ; Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare To join the shadowy troops of death I workings of tlic soul ; we love to mark the swell of every vein, and the throb of every pulse ; every strode that searches a new sonrce of pitv and terror we pursue with a busy and in- nuisitivo sympathy. It is from tliis cause that Mr. Crabbe's dolincationa of tlie passions are so just— so touching of the gentle, and of the awful so tremendous. Hcmorse and mad- ness have been rirely portrayed by a more powerful hand. ]''or feeling, imagery,' and agitation of thoughts, the lines in which Sir Eustace Grey tells the story of his insanity are second to few moilern productions. The contrast between the state of the madness, and the evening scene on which he was SIR EUSTACE GREY. 165 Yes, I have felt all man can feel, Till he shall pay his nature's debt ; Ills that no hope has strength to heal, No mind the comfort to forget : "Whatever cares the heart can fret. The spirits wear, the temper gall, AVoe, want, dread, anguish, all beset My sinful soul ! — together all ! '" Those fiends upon a shaking fen Fix'd me, in dark tempestuous night ; There never trod the foot of men. There flock'd the fowl in wint'ry flight ; There danced the moor's deceitful light Above the pool where sedges grow ; And when the morning-sun shone bright, It shone upon a field of snow. They hung me on a bough so small, The rook could built her nest no higher ; They fix'd me on the trembling ball That crowns the steeple's quiv'ring spire ; They set me where the seas retire. But d^o^^'n with their returning tide ; And made me flee the mountain's fire, When rolling from its burning side. I 've hung upon the ridgy steep Of cliff's, and held the rambling brier ; I "ve plunged below the billowy deep, "Where air was sent me to respire ; I 've been where hungry wolves retire ; And (to complete my woes) I 've raa "Where Bedlam's crazy crew conspire Against the life of reasoning man. I 've furl'd in storms the flapping sail, By hanging from the topmast-head ; I 've served the vilest slaves in jail. And pick'd the dunghill's spoil for bread ; I 've made the badger's hole my bed ; I 've wander'd with a gipsy crew ; I've dreaded all the guilty dread, And done what they would fear to do.'^ On sand, where ebbs and flows the flood, Midway they placed and bade me die ; Propp'd on my staff, I stoutly stood "When the swift waves came rolling by ; And high they rose, and still more high, Till my lips drank the bitter brine ; I sobb'd convulsed, then cast mine eye, And saw the tide's re-flowing sign. condemned to gaxe, gives a tone of penetrating anguish to these verses." — Uifford.] 1" [MS. : — Ills that no medicines can heal, And griefs that no man can forget ; Whatever cares the mind can fret, Tlie spirits wear, tlie bosom gall — Pain, hunger, prison, duns, and y tlie writers of local history. Drayton liimself, whose great talents were de- servedly esteemed by the ablest of his contemporaries in the richest age of English poetry, thought he could not be more worthily employed tlian in what he calls the herculean task of this topographical poem ; and in that belief lie was en- couraged by his friend and commentator Selden, to whose name the epithet of learned was, in old times, always and deservedly affixed. With liow becoming a sense of its dignity and variety the poet entered upon his subject, these lines may show ; — ^ 'Tliou powerful god of flames, in verse divinely great, Touch my invention so with thy true genuine heat, That high and noble things I slightly may not tell. Nor light and idle toys my lines mav vainly swell,' " ^^c. 'The Doctor, 1834.] •■ [" Mr. Crabbe is distinguished from all other poets, both by the choice of his subjects, and by his manner of treating them. All his persons are taken from the lower ranks of life ; and all his scenery from the most ordinary and familiar objects of nature or art. His characters and incidents, too, are as common as the elements out of which they are com- pounded are humble; and not only has he nothing prodigious or astonishing in any of his representations, but he has not even attempted to impart any of the ordinary colours of poetry to tnose vulgar materials. He lias no moralising swains or sentimental tradesmen ; and scarcely ever seeks to 174 CRABBES WORKS. admission of some will be thought to require more apology than the rejection of otiiers: in sucli varietj-, it is to be apprehended, that almost every reader will find somethincj not according with his ideas of propriety, or something repulsive to tlie tone of his feelings : nor could tliis be avoided but by the sacrifice of every event, opinion, and even expression, which could be thought liable to charm us by tlie artless manners or lowly virtues of his per- sonages. On the contrary, he lias represented liis villagers and humble burgliers as altogether as dissipated, and more dishonest and discontented, than the prolligates of higher life ; and, instead of conducting us through blooming groves and pastoral meadows, has led us along fdthy lanes and crowded wharfs, to hospitals, almsliouses, and gin-shops. In some of these delineations he may be considered as the satirist of low life— an occupation sufficiently arduous, and in a great degree new and original in our language. By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his style, he compels us to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which we are in general but too eager to escape ; and then trusts to nature for the eftect of tlie repre- sentation. It is obvious that this is not a task for an ordinary hand, and that many ingenious writers, who make a very good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight landscapes. produce such effect ; and this casting away so largely of our cargo, through fears of danger, though it might help us to clear it, would render our vessel of little worth when she came into port. I may likewise entertain a hope, that this very variety, which gives scope to objection and censure, will also afford a better chance for approval and satisfaction.* would find themselves quite helpless if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns." — Jeffrey.] * [In one of Mr. Crahbe's note-books we find the following observations relative to the Borough : — " I have chiellv, if not exclusively, taken my subjects and characters from that order of society where the least display of vanity is generally to be found, which is placed between the humble and the great. It is in this class of mankind that more originality of cha- racter, more variety of fortune, will be met w ith ; because, on tlie one hand, they do not live in the eye of the world, and therefore are not kept in awe by the dread of observation and indecorum ; neither, on the other, are they debarred by their want of means from the cultivation of mind and the pursuits of wealtli and ambition, which are necessary to the develop- ment of character displayed in tlie variety of situations to which tliis class is liable."] THE BOROUGH. 175 THE BOROUGH. LETTER I. These diJ the ruler of the deep ordain, To build proud navies, and to rule the main. Pope's Homer's Iliad, b. vi. Such scenes lias Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch ; Such Lambeth, envy of eacli band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich. Pope's Imitation of Spenser. Et cum coslestibus undis yEquorea? miscentur aquse : caret ignibus aether, ClBcaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque ; Discutient famen has, prffibentque micantia lumen Fulmina : fulraineis ardescunt ignibus undse. Ovir>. Metnmurpli. lib, xi.' GENERAL DESCRIPTION. Tlie DilTiculty of describing Town Scenery — A Comparison with certain Views in the Country — The River and Quay — The Shipping and Business — Ship-building — Sea-Boys and Port-Views — Village and Town Scenery again compared — • Walks from Town — Cottage and adjoining Heath, X:c. — House of Sunday Entertainment — The Sea : a Summer and Winter View — A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on Shore — Evening Amusements in the Borough — An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of tliese Subjects. " Describe the Borough "—though our idle tribe IMay love description, can we so describe, That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace, And all that gives distinction to a place ? This cannot be ; yet moved by j^our request A part I paint — let Fancy form the rest. Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil ; they defy the pen : Could he who sang so well the Grecian fleet, So well have sung of alley, lane, or street ? Can measured lines these various buildings show, The To\^"n-IIall Turning, or the Prospect How? ' [" Sweet waters mingle with the briny main : No star appears to lend his friendly light ; Darkness and tempest make a double night : But Hashing tires disclose the deep by turns. And while the lightnings blaze, tlie water burns." Dryden.] 2 [See ante, p. 56. The parsonage at Muston, here alluded to, looked full on the churchyard, by no means like tlie common forbidding receptacles of the dead, but truly orna- mental ground ; for some fine elms partially concealed the small beautiful church and its spire, while the eye, travelling through their stems, rested on the banks of a stream and a Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door ? Then let thy Fancy aid me — I repair From this tall mansion of our last year's Mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach, "Where hang at open doors the net and cork, "While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work ; Till through the thy comes the hour when fishinc: tide The weary husband throws his freight aside ; A living mass which now demands the wife, Th' alternate labours of their humble life. Can scenes like these withdraw thee from wood, Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood ? Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look, As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ; - That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering slow, "Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow; "Where in the midst, upon a throne of green, Sits the large Lily ^ as the water's queen ; And makes the current, forced awhile to stay, jMurmur and bubble as it shoots away ; Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream. And our broad river will before thee seem. "With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide, Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide ; Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep ; Here Samphire-banks •* and Salt-wort ' bound the flood, There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud ; And higher up, a ridge of all things base, AVhich some strong tide has roU'd upon the place. Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat : "While at her stern an angler takes his stand. And marks the fish he purposes to land ; From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. picturesque old bridge : the garden enclosed the other two sides of this churchyard ; but the crown of the whole was a gothic archway, cut through a thick liedge and many boughs, for through this opening, as in the deep frame of a picture, appeared, in the centre of the aerial canvas, the unrivalled Belvoir.] 3 The white water-lily, Nymphoea alba. ■• The jointed glasswort, Salicornia, is licre meant, not the true sampliire, the Crithmum maritimum. * The Salsola of botanists. 176 CllABBE'S WORKS. Far otlier craft our prouder river shows, Iloys,° pinks,^ and sloops : brigs, brigantines," and snows : ' Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, But one poor dredger where his oj'Sters lie : lie, coid and wet, and driving with the tide, Beats his weak arms against his tarry side. Then drains the remnant of diluted gin, To aid the warmth that languishes within ; Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat His tingling fingers into gathering heat. He shall again be seen when evening comes. And social parties crowd their favourite rooms : "Where on the table pipes and papers lie, The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by ; 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around, They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound ; And few themselves the savoury boon deny. The food that feeds, the living luxury. Yon is our Quay ! '" those smaller hoys from town, Its various ware, for country-use, bring down ; Those laden waggons, in return, impart The country-produce to the cit}' mart ; Hark ! to tlie clamour in that miry road, Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load ; The lumbering wealth she empties round the place. Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case : "While the loud seaman and the angry hind, iMingling in business, bellow to the wind. Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks. Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks : See ! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide ; See ! the strong ribs which form the roomy side ; Bolts yielding slowlj' to the sturdiest stroke. And planks " which curve and crackle in the smoke. Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar. Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd. Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud ; Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles plaj', And grow familiar ^^•ith the watery way : Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, Thej' know what British seamen do and dare ; Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy The rustic wonder of the village-boy. Before you bid these busy scones adieu, Behold the wealth that lies in public view, 'J'hose far e-xtendcd heaps of coal and coke, AVhcre frcsh-fiU'd lime-kilns breath their stifling smoke. <• [A small vessel, usually rig^eil as a sloop, and employed in c:irryin},' passcn^'ers and !,'Oods from one place to another, particularly on tlie sea-coast. 7 The name given to ships with a very narrow stern. * Small merchant ships with two masts. " A vessel equipped with two masts, resembling the main and foremtists ol'a ship, and a third small mast just abaft the mainmast.— ISuknev. J 10 [Tlie Quay of Slaui;Iiden, where the poet, in earlv life, was employed by his father in piling' up butter-casks, &c., in tlie dress of a common warehouseman ; and whence, in tlie year 177fi, he emimrked on board a sloop, with three pounds in his pocket, to seek his fortune in the metropolis. See ante, pp. 6, 9, Ki.] " The curvature of planks for the sides of a ship, &c., is. This shall pass off, and you behold, instead. The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed ; When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise. To show the shipman where Jie shallow lies. Tliy walks are ever pleasant ; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene Rich — is that varied view with woods around. Seen from the scat within the shrubb'ry bound ; "Where shines the distant lake, and where appear From ruins bolting, unmolested deer ; T.,ively — the village-green, the inn, the place, "Where the good widow schools her infant-race. Shoj^s, whence are heard tlic hammer and the saw. And village-j)leasurcs unreproved by law : Then how serene ! when in your favourite room. Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom ; When from your upland paddock you look down. And just perceive the smoke which hiiles the town ; When weary peasants at the close of day Walk to their cots, and part upon the way ; When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook, And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook. '^ W'e prune our hedges, prime our slender trees, And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease. On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale, We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale ; Broad-beaten paths lead on from stilo to stile. And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile ; Our guarded fields a sense of danger show. Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow ; Fences are form'd of wreck and placed around, (W^ith tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound ; W^ide and deep ditches by the gardens run, And there in ambush lie the trap and gun ; Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize, " Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies." '^ There stands a cottage with an open door, Its garden undefended blooms before : Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool. While the lone Widow seeks the ncighb'ring pool : This gives us hope, all views of town to shun — No ! here are tokens of the Sailor-son ; That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check. And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck ; Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore, And furry robe from frozen Labrador. Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between. Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene ; Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashj' base. To some enrich th' uncultivated space : I am informed, now generally made by the power of steam. Fire is nevertheless still used for boats and vessels of the smaller kind. I'-J [" Without the romantic mellowness which envelopes the landscape of (Joldsmith, or the freshness and hilarity of colouring which breathe in that of Graham, this sketch is, perliaps, superior to both in distinctness, animation, aiul firmness of touch ; and to these is added a peculiiu- air of facility and freedom." — Gikfoui).] 13 ['< Where London's column, pointing to the skies. Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies." — Pope's allusion being to the anti-rnthollc inscription on the monument erected alter the groat lire of London.] THE BOROUGH. 177 I For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush, The gale's '■* rich balm, and sun-dew"s crimson blush, Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd, Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast. Not distant far, a house commodious made, (Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday-trade ; Thither, for this day free, gay parties go, Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous ; There humble couples sit in corner-bowers, Or gaily ramble for tli' allotted hours ; Sailors and lasses from the town attend, The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend ; With all the idle social tribes who seek And find their humble pleasures once a week. Turn to the watery world ! — but who to thee (A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint — the Sea? Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, "When luU'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,'^ Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun Shades after shades upon the surface run ; Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene, In limpid blue, and evanescent green ; And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,'® Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.'^ Be it the summer-noon : a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above. Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends) — Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking ; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. And back return in silence, smooth and slow. Ships in the calm seem anchor'd ; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide : Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Where all beside is pebbly length of shore. And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more ? i*" [Another name for the candle-berry.] '5 [" Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty form (ilasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed— in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime llark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Kternity — the tlirone Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each /one Obeys tliee ; lliou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone." Byron.] "J Of the effect of these mists, known by the name of fog- banks, wonderful and indeed incredible relations are given ; but their property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and to bring them in view, is, I believe, generally acknowledged. " [One of the most remarkable facts respecting aerial images presented itself to Mr. Scoresby, in a voyage to Green- land, in 1S22. Having seen an inverted image of a ship in tli3 air, he directed to it his telescope ; he was able to discover it to be his father's sliip, which was at the time below tlie horizon. " It was,'' says he, "so well defined, tliat I could distinguish by a telescope every sail, the general rig of the ship, and its particular character ; insomuch that I confidently pronounced it to be my father's ship, the Fame, which it afterwards proved to be; though, on comparing notes with my father, I found that our relative position at tlie time gave a distance from one another of very nearly thirty miles, being Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; As an awaken'd giant with a frown Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud : Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roU'd in view of boding men on shore; And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads to ream. The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change ; the waves soswell'd and steep. Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells. Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : But nearer land you may the billows trace. As if contending in their watery chase ; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force, And then re-flowing, take their grating course. Baking the rounded flints, which ages past IloU'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.'* Far off the Petrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spraj' ; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.'* High o'er the restless deep, above the reach Of gunner's hope, vast flights of Wild-ducks stretch ; Far as the eye can glance on either side, In a broad space and level line they glide ; All in their wedge-like figures from the north. Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.-' In-shore their passage tribes of Sea-gulls urge. And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force applj'. While to the storm they give their weak complain- ing cry ; about seventeen miles beyond the horizon, and some leagues beyond the limit of direct vision." — Brewster.] '8 ["A prospect of the ocean inspires Mr. Crabbe with con- genial sublimity. The winter-storm is detailed with a mas- terly and interesting exactness." — Gifford.j 19 [The storm-petrel is the true " Mother Carey's chicken " of the sailors, and also the "witch," the "spency," the " storm-finch," and a variety of other names, the abundance of which shows that it is at once a bird of common occur- rence and of some interest. During its Pelasgic period, it is seen on most parts of the seas, especially those on the north, west, and south-west of Britain, where it is the last bird to leave the outward-bound ship, and the first to meet ships re- turning home. It plays about the vessels, and outstrips their swiftest course, skimming the surface of the water with equal ease and grace, and tipping so regularly with wings and feet, that slie appears to be running on all-fours. The wings do not, however, get wet or splasli, and the bird can make wing in any direction of a moderate wind, apparently with very little fatigue. — Mudie.] 2" [Wild-ducks fly at a considerable lieight in tlie air, and in the form of inclined lines or triangles. When they rest or sleep on tlie water, some of the band are always awake, to watch for the common safety, and to sound the alarm on the approach of danger. Hence they are with difiiculty surprised ; and hence the fowler, who goes in pursuit ot them, requires to exert all his cunning, and frequently no inconsiderable degree of toil and patience. — Shaw.] N 178 CRABBE'S WORKS. Or clap the sleek ■white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest.-' Darkness begins to reign ; the louder wind Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind ; But frights not him, whom evening and the spray lu part conceal — yon Prowler on his way : Lo I he has something seen ; he runs apace, As if he fcar'd companion in the chase ; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Slowly and sorrovving — " AVas your search in vain ?" Gruffly he answers, " 'T is a sorry sight ! " A seaman's body : there '11 be more to-night ! " Hark ! to those sounds ! they 're from distress at sea : How quick they come ! What terrors may there be ! Yes, 't is a driven vessel : I discern Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern ; Others behold them too, and from the town In various parties seamen hurry down ; Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread. Lest men so dear be into danger led ; Their head the gown has hooded, and their call In this sad night is piercing like the squall ; They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet. Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat. See one poor girl, all terror and alarm. Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm ; " Thou shalt not venture ; " and he answers " No ! " I will not:" — still she cries, "Thou shalt not go." No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float, Yet may they view these lights upon the beach. Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach. From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws On the wild waves, and all the danger shows ; But shows them beaming in her shining vest. Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress'd ! This for a moment, and then clouds again Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.** But hear we not those sounds ? Do lights appear ? I sec them not ! the storm alone I hear : And lo ! the sailors homeward take their way ; Man must endure — let us submit and pray. Such are our Winter-views : but night comes on — Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone ; Now parties form, and some their friends assist To waste the idle hours at sober whist ; The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm : Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite. To pass ofF one dread portion of the night ; •' [Water-fowl, in a peculiar manner, discover, in tlieir flight, some determined aim. They eagerly coast the river, or return to the sea ; bent on some purpose of which they never lose sight. But the evolutions of the gull appear capricious and undirected, both when she flies alone and in large com- panies. The more, however, her character suffers as a loiterer, the more it is raised in picturesque value by her continuing longer before the eye, and displaying, in her ele- gant sweeps along the air, her sharp-pointed wings and her bright silvery hue. Slie is beautiful, also, not only on the wing, but when she floats, in numerous assemblies, on the water; or when she rests uu tlie shore, dotting either one or the otlier with white spots, which, minute as they are, are very picturesque. — Gilpin.] *- [" The signals of distress are heard — the inhabitants of the Jiorough crowd to the strand ; but the boisterousness of the sea precludes all possibility of afl'ordiny assistance to the crew of the distressed vessel. ' Yet,' observes the poet, in lines uf dreadful meaning,— And show and song and luxury combined, Lift off from man this burthen of mankind. Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet Returning parties pacing through the street, When various voices, in the dying day. Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way ; When tavern-lights flit on from room to room. And guide the tippling sailor staggering home : There as we pass, the jingling bells betray How business rises with the closing day : Now walking silent, by the river's side. The ear perceives the rippling of the tide ; Or measured cadence of the lads who tow Some enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row ; Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell To some departed spirit bids farewell ! Thus shall you something of our Borough know, Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show. Of Sea or River, of a Quay or Street, The best description must be incomplete. But when a happier theme succeeds, and when Men are our subjects and the deeds of men ; Then may we find the Muse in happier style. And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.-' LETTER II. .... Festinat enim decurrere velox Flosculus angustae raiseraeque brevissiraa vita? Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus. — Juv. Sat. ix. ' And when at last thy Love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath .' Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death .' — Perct. THE CHURCH. Several Meanings of the Word Churcli — The Building so called, here intended — Its Antiquity and (irandeur — Columns and Aisles — The Tower : the Stains made by Time compared with the mock antiquity of the Artist — Progress of Vegetation on such Buildings — Bells — Tombs: one in decay — Mural Monuments, and the Nature of their In- scriptions — An Instance in a departed Burgess — Church- yard Graves — Mourners for the Dead — \ Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Eflects of Grief in the Survivor. " What is a Church ? " — Let Truth and Reason speak. They would reply, " The faithful, pure, and meek ; • Yet may they view those lights upon the beacli, Wliich yield them hope, whom help can never reach. Tlie sudden appearance of the moon, breaking at such a moment from a cloud over the tempestuous waste, is super- latively described. The imposing tumult of these scenes scarcely permits us to remark how finely in these passages the grandeur of the subject is supported by that of the verse." — GiFFOKD.] ^' This promise to the reader, that he should both smile and sigh in the perusal of the following Letters may appear vain, and more than an author ought to promise ; but let it be considered that the character assumed is that of a friend, who gives an account of objects, persons, and events to his cor- respondent, and who was therefore at liberty, without any imputation of this kind, to suppose in what manner he would be all'ected by such descriptions. ' ["Lo! while wi- give the unregarded hour To revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower. lh.it*-n Jnj C.StafiJiLei^A.R.A, En/frti il-t/ E S'lnd^m. Xli^rc l-ij-j^'i- pLiiiL ciilmrL-Qa ilse iu Rdb^mii stvl^. You'll ]ii\T tlif o1/i(TiLi iliov niMliT' jji I'iflier aile - " 11 OG©. THE BOROUGH. 179 " From Christian folds, the one selected race, " Of all professions, and in every place." " What is a Church?" — "A flock," our Vicar cries, " Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise ; " Wherein are various states and due degrees, " The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease ; " That ease be mine, which, after all his cares, " The pious, peaceful prebendary shares." " What is a Church ? " — Our honest Sexton tells, " 'T is a tall building, with a Tower and bells ; " Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive " To keep the ardour of their flock alive ; " That, by its periods eloquent and grave ; " This, by responses, and a well-set stave : " These for the living ; but when life be fled, " I toll myself the requiem for the dead." '^ 'T is to this Church I call thee, and that place Where slept our fathers when they 'd run their race : We too shall rest, and then our children keep Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep ; Meanwhile the building slowly falls away. And, like the builders, M^ll in time decay. The old Foundation — but it is not clear When it was laid — you care not for the year ; On this, as parts decayed by time and storms. Arose these various disproportion'd forms ; Yet Gothic all — the learn'd who visit us (And our small wonders) have decided thus : — " Yon noble Gothic arch," " That Gothic door ; " So have they said ; of proof you '11 need no more. Here large plain columns rise in solemn style. You 'd love the gloom they make in either aisle ; When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass (And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass, Faintly display the figures on the floor, AVhich pleased distinctly in their place before. But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey, Tall and entire, and venerably grey, For time has soften'd what was harsh when new, And now the stains are all of sober hue ; While now, for rosy wreatlis our brows to twine, And now for nymphs we call, and now for wine ; The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by, And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh. — " I believe that there was no translation of this satire in Shakspeare's time ; yet he has given, with kindred genius, a copy o[ obrepit non intellecta scnectus : — ' on our quick'st attempts, Tlie noiseless and inaudible foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them.' " — Gifford.] ' [Tlie following description has always been considered a correct one of Aldborough churcli, where Mr. Crabbe lirst officiated as a clergyman.] 3 Nothing, I trust, in this and the preceding paragraph, which relates to the imitation of what are called weather- stains on buildings, will seem to any invidious or offensive. I wislied to make a comparison between those minute and curious bodies w hich cover the surface of some edifices, and tliose kinds of stains which are formed of boles and ochres, and laid on with a brush. Now, as tlie work of time cannot be anticipated in such cases, it may be very judicious to liave recourse to such expedients as will give to a recent structure the venerable appearance of antiquity ; and in this case, though I might still observe the vast difference between the living varieties of nature and the distant imitation of the artist, yet I could not forbear to make use of his dexterity, because he could not clothe my freestone with mucor, lichen, and iyssus. —[Tliere is much characteristic simplicity in this apology. About the period at wliich this Letter was The living stains which Kature's hand alone. Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone : For ever growing ; where the common eye Can but the bare and rocky bed descry ; There Science loves to trace her tribes minute, The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit ; There she perceives them round the surface creep, And while they meet their due distinction keep ; Mix'd but not blended ; eacli its name retains, And these are Nature's ever-during stains. And wouldst thou. Artist ! with thy tints and brush. Form shades like these ? Pretender, where thy blush ? 3 In three short hours shall thy presuming hand Th' effect of three slow centuries command ? * Thou may'st thy various greens and greys con- trive ; They are not Lichens,* nor like aught alive ; — But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost. Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost ; When all thy work is done away as clean As if thou never spread'st thy grey and green ; Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done, How slowly true she lays her colours on ; When her least speck upon the hardest flint Has mark and form, and is a living tint ; And so embodied with the rock, that few Can the small germ upon the substance view.'' Seeds, to our eyes invisible, will find On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind ; There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell, Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell. And spread th' enduring foliage ; — then we trace The freckled flower upon the flinty base ; These all increase, till in unnoticed years The stony tower as grey with age appears ; With coats of vegetation, thinly spread. Coat above coat, the living on the dead : These then dissolve to dust, and make a way For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay : written, Mr. Crabbe had called upon the Itev. ,1. Kendall, rector of Barrowby, who had shown liim an imitation on liis own walls, which, in tlie judgment of some, appear prefer- able to the actual mucor, &c.] * If it should be objected, that centuries are not slowerthan hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slow er in no other sense than because they are not finished so soon. 5 [In botany, a genus of the class Cryptogamia. Since the publication of the Species Plantarum of Linnanis, in which he described only eighty-one species of lie-hens, more than a thousand new ones have been discovered, 'liieir places of growth are various ; some on tlie most elevated and exposed rocks, others on the trunks of trees, and some on the surface of the ground.] 5 Tliis kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. Tlie byssus jolithus of Linnneus (lepraria jolithus of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of tlie coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undis- turbed, and exposed to every change of weather ; in this situation the different species of lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those wlio are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the cause. N 2 180 CRABBE'S WORKS. The long-enduring Ferns ^ in time will all Die and depose their dust upon the wall ; Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower. But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd For size magnificent and solemn sound ; Each has its motto : some contrived to tell, In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell ; ^ Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing. Entcr'd the Church — we to a tomb proceed, Whose names and titles few attempt to read ; Old English letters, and those half pick'd out, Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt ; Our sons shall see its more degraded state ; The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate ; That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show, AVith all those ruff 'd and painted pairs below : The noble Lady and the Lord who rest Supine, as courtly dame and warrior drest ; All are departed from their state sublime. ]Mangled and wounded in their war with Time Colleagued with mischief: here a leg is fled. And lo ! the Barou with but half a head : INIidway is cleft the arch ; the very base Is batter'd round and shifted from its place. Wonder not, JEortal, at thy quick decay — See ! men of marble piecemeal melt away ; When whose the image we no longer read, But monuments themselves memorials need.' With few such stately proofs of grief or pride, By wealth erected, is our Church supplied ; But we have mural tablets, every size, That woe could wish, or vanity devise. ' [" We have the receipt of fern-seed ; we walk invisible." ShakspeaRE, Hen. /(•^.'J * [Tlie baptism of church bells was anciently common in En^'land, ami is still practised in many Kbraan Catholic countries. '• The priest," says Lord Kaimes, " assisted by some of his brethren, mumbles over some prayers ana sprinliles the outside with holy-water, while thev wash tKo inside with the same precious liquor. The priest then draws seven crosses on the outside, and four on the inside, with consecrated oil. Tlien a censer of frankincense is put under the bell to smoke it ; and the whole concludes with a prayer." (Skttclies of Man, vol. iv. p. 381.) Tlie bell, thus christened and consecrated, was esteemed to be endued with great po\iers. Its " uses " and faculties are six in number, which are thus enumerated and translated by old Fuller : — " Funeraplango . . . Men's death I tell by doleful knell. Fulmina frango . . I.ightningand thunderl break asunder. Sabbata pango . . . On sabbath all to church I call. Kxcito lentos . . . The sleepy head I raise from bed. Dissipo ventos . . . The winds so fiercel doe disperse. Paco cruentos . . . Men's cruel rage I doe asswage." " The passing-bell," says Grose, " was anciently rung for two purposes: one to bespeak the prayers of all good Christians for a soul just departing ; the other, to drive away the evil spirits who stood at the bed's foot, and about the house, ready to seize their prey, or at least to terrify and molest the soul in its passage; but by the ringing of that bell (for Ourandus informs us evil spirits are much afraid of bells) they were kept aloof."] ' In the course of a long pnem, it is very dillicult to avoid a recurrence of the same thoughts, and of similar expressions ; and, however careful 1 have been myself in detecting anty, to confer as well as to level all dis- tinctions. In consequence of that event, a kind of chemical * [" For, like their mouldering tenants, tombs decay, .■\nd, with the dust they hiue, are swept away." GlFFORn.j His sterling worth, which words cannot express, Lives with his friends, their pride and their dis- tress. All this of Jacob Holmes ? for his the name ; He thus kind, liberal, just, religious ? — Shame ! What is the truth ? Old Jacob married thrice ; He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice ; He ruled the Borough when his year came on, And some forget, and some are glad he 's gone ; For never yet with shilling could he part. But when it left his hand it struck his heart. Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay, And place memorials on these beds of clay. Large level stones lie flat upon the grave. And half a century's sun and tempest brave ; But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie ; Of these what numbers rest on every side ! "Without one token left by grief or pride ; Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then "Will other hillocks rise o'er other men ; Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust, And generations follow, " dust to dust." '^ Yes ! there are real Mourners — I have seen A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd, And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd : Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep : Then to her mind was all the past Usplay'd, That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid ; For then she thought on one regretted Youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth ; In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they 'd been, And sadly sacred held the parting scene ; ■^'here last for sea he took his leave — that place "VMth double interest would she nightly trace ; For long the courtship was, and he would say. Each time he saild, — " This once, and then the day :"' Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went, He drew from pitying love a full consent. Happy he saild, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; "White was his better linen, and his check AVas made more trim than any on the deck ; And every comfort men at sea can know "Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : For lie to Greenland sail'd, and much she told How he should guard against the climate's cold ; Yet saw not danger ; dangers he 'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood : His messmates smiled at flushings in his check, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; operation takes place ; for tliose characters which were mixed with the gjross particles of vice, by being thrown into the alembic of flattery, are siiljlimated into tlie essence of virtue. He who, durins the peiformance of his part upon the stage of the world, was little, if at all, applauded, after the close of the drama is portrayed as the favourite of every virtue under heaven. To save tlie opulent from oblivion the sculptor unites his labours with the scholar or the poet, whilst tlie rustic is indebted for his mite of posthumous renown to the carpenter, the painter, or the mason. The structures of fame are, in both cases, built with materials whose duration is short. It may check the sallies of pride to reflect on the mortality of men; but for its complete luimiliation let it be remem- bered that epitaphs and monuments decay."] For now he found the danger, felt the pain, "With grievous symptoms he could not explain ; Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd. But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd. He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message — " Thomas, I must die : " Would I could see my Sally, and could rest " JMy throbbing temples on her faithful breast, " And gazing go ! — if not, this trifle take, " And say, till death I wore it for her sake : " Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! " Give me one look before my life be gone, " Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair, " One last fond look — and now repeat the prayer." He had his wish, had more : I will not paint The Lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint.— With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, " Yes ! I must die ; " and hope for ever fled. Still long she nursed him : tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime : To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away ; With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read. Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head : She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer : Apart she sigh'd ; alone, she shed the tear : Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so — " Perhaps he will not sink :" A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard, — She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. The friendly many, and the favourite few ; Nor one that day did he to mind recall But she has treasured, and she loves them all : When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people — death has made them dear. He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd, And fondly whisper'd, " Thou must go to rest ; " '" I go," he said : but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound I Then gazed affrighten'd ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, — and all was past 1 She placed a decent stone his grave above. Neatly engraved — an offering of her love ; For that she wrouglit, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead ; [" 'T is strange, the sliortest letter that man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages : to what ^traits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this — Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's liis. And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration ; Some dull MS. oblivion long lias sank. Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging tlie foundation of a closet, May turn his name up as a rare deposit. — Bykon.1 182 CRABBE'S WORKS. She would have grieved,had friends presum'd to spare The least assistance — 'twas her proper care. Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit ; But if observer pass, will take her round. And careless seem, for she would not be found ; Then go again, and thus her hour employ, "While visions please her, and while woes destroy.'^ Forbear, sweet Maid ! nor be by Fancy led, To hold mysterious converse with the dead : For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain, In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain ; All have their tasks and trials ; thine are hard, But short the time, and glorious the reward ; Thy patient spirit to thy duties give. Regard the dead, but to the living live.'* LETTER III. And telling me the sov'rei^n'st thing on earth Was pajraacity for an inward bruise. ShAKSPKARE.— //enri/ IV. I'art I. Act I. So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet, So lit to prattle at a lady's feet.— Chukchili-. Much are tlie precious hours of youtli mispent In climbing leaminfj's rugged, steep ascent ; Wlien to tlie top the bold adventurer 's got, lie reigns vain monarch of a barren spot ; While in tlie vale of ignorance below, Folly and vice to ranli luxuriance grow ; Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud preferment rolls her golden tide. — Chukchill. THE VICAR— THE CURATE, ETC. Tlie lately departed Minister of the Borough — Ilia soothing and supplicatory Manners — His cool and timid Affections — No praise due to sudi negative Virtue— Address to Cha- racters of this kind — The Vicar's Employments — His Talents and moderate Ambition — His Dislike of Innova- tion — His mild but inetfectual Benevolence — -A Summary of liis Cliaracter. Mode of paying the Borou.;h-Minister — Tlie Curate has no such liesources — His Learning and Poverty — Erroneous Idea of his Parent— His Feeling9 as a Husband and Father — tlie Dutiful Regard of liis numerous Family — His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted— No Resource in the Press — Vulgar Insult— His Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for tlie Relief of indigent Authors, &c. THE VICAR. Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space, Sleep the dex^artcd Vicars of the place ; '■S [" Longinus somewhere mentions, that it was a question among tlie critics of liis ago whether tlie sublime could be produced by tenderness. If this question had not been already determined, tliis history would liave gone far to bring it to a decision." — Gikfohd. " .Mr. Crabbe has been called a gloomy, which must mean, if any accusation is implied in the term, a false moralist. No doul>t, to persons who reaTRODCCTIO>-. I Asi now arrived at that part of my work which I may expect will bring upon me some animadver- sion. Religion is a subject deeply interesting to the minds of many, and when these minds are weak, they are often led by a warmth of feeling into the violence of causeless resentment : I am therefore anxious that my purpose shall be understood ; and I wish to point out what things they are which an author may hold up to ridicule and be blameless. In referring to the two principal divisions of enthu- siastical teachers, I have denominated them, as I conceive they are generally called, Calvinistic and Arminian Methodists. The Arminians, though divided and perhaps subdivided, are still, when particular accuracy is not intended, considered as one body, having had, for many years, one head, who is yet held in high respect by the varying members of the present day : but the Calvinistic societies are to be looked upon rather as separate and independent congregations ; and it is to one of these (unconnected, as is supposed, with any other) [In the beginning of 1809, Dr. CartwTiglit having expressed a wish that Mr. Crabbe would prepare some verses to be re- peated at the ensuing meeting of the Literary Fund, and a portion of" The Borough," then in progress, being judged suit- able f.r the occasion, it was accordingly forwarded to the Society, and recited at the anniversary, in April, by Matthew Browne, Esq. In the May following, the council and com- mittee resolved, that a learned and officiating clergyman in distress, or an ofliciating clergyman, reduced and rendered in- capable of duty, by age or infirmity, should be considered as a claimant on the ftind.] 186 CRABBE'S WORKS. I more particularly allude. But while I am mak- ing use of this division, I must entreat that I may not be considered as one who takes upon him to censure the religious opinions of any society or individual : the reader will find that the spirit of the enthusiast, and not his opinions, his manners, and not his creed, have engaged my attention. I have nothing to observe of the Calvinist and Arminian, considered as such ; but my remarks are pointed at the enthusiast and the bigot, at their folly and their craft. To those readers who have seen the journals of the first Methodists, or the extracts quoted from them by their opposers ' in the early times of this spiritual influenza, are sufficiently known all their leading notions and peculiarities ; so that I have no need to enter into such unpleasant inquiries in this place. I have only to observe, that their tenets re- main the same, and have still the former etfect on the minds of the converted : there is yet that ima- gined contention with the powers of darkness that is at once so lamentable and so ludicrous : there is the same offensive familiarity with the Deity, with a full trust and confidence both in the immediate efficacy of their miserably delivered supplications, I and in the reality of numberless small miracles wrought at their request and for their convenience ; there still exists that delusion, by which some of the most common diseases of the body are regarded as proofs of the malignity of Satan contending for dominion over the soul; and there still remains the same wretched jargon, composed of scriptural language, debased by vulgar expressions, which has a kind of mystic influence on the minds of the ignorant. It will be recollected that it is the abuse of those scriptural terms which I conceive to be improper : they are doubtless most significant and efficacious when used with propriety ; but it is painful to the mind of a soberly devout person, when he hears every rise and fall of the animal spirits, every whim and notion of enthusiastic ignorance, expressed in the venerable language of the Apostles and Evangelists. The success of these people is great, but not sur- prising : as the powers they claim arc given, and come not of education, many may, and therefore do, fancy they are endowed with them : so that they ' Methodists and Papists compared ; Treatise on Grace by Bishop Warburton, &c. 8 f'Tlie Works of the Rev. William Hun(in-ton, S. S., MiniskT of tlie Gospel, at Providence Cliapel, (iravs Inn Lane," were published in 18a0, in twenty vohimt's octavo; the most extraordinary part of their contents being the tract entitled " Gud the Gimrdian of the I'uur and the Bank of Faith : or, a Disjiln;/ (f the Providences of God, which have, at sundry times, attended the Author." " fim," says Soutliey, "in a production equally sinfnilar and curious'. There is nothin;; like it in tlie whole bibliotheca of knavery and fa- naticism. One day, when he had nothinf,' but bread in the house, he was moved by the Spirit to take a bye path, wli.re he had never gone l)cfore • but tVw reason wiilt, that a stoat WM to kill a line large raoliit, just ii. time for him to secure his prey. At one time, «hen there was no tea in the liouse, and they liad neither money nor credit, his w ife bade the nurse set the kettle on in faith, and before it boiled, a stranger brought a present of lea to the door. At another time" a friend, without solicitation, gives liim half a guinea when he was penniless; and, lest ho should have any dilTlcnlty in obtaining change for it, when hi? crossed Kingston Uridge, he cast his eyes on tlie ground, and finds a penny to pay the toll. who do not venture to become preachers, yet exert the minor gifts, and gain reputation for the faculty of prayer, as soon as they can address the Creator in daring flights of unpremeditated absurdity. The less indigent gain the praise of hospitality, and the more harmonious become distinguished in their choirs; curiosity is kept alive by succession of ministers, and self-love is flattered by the con- sideration that they are the persons at whom the world wonders ; add to this, that, in many of them pride is gratified by their consequence as new members of a sect whom their conversion pleases, and by the liberty, which as seceders they take of speaking contemptuously of the Church and ministers whom they have relinquished. Of those denominated Calcinislic Methodists, I had principally one sect in view, or, to adopt the term of its founder, a church. This church con- sists of several congregations in town and country, unknown perhaps in many parts of the kingdom, but, where known, the cause of much curiosity and some amusement. To such of my readers as may judge an enthusiastic teacher and his peculiarities to be unworthy any serious attention, I would ob- serve, that there is something unusually daring in the boast of this man, who claims the authority of a messenger sent from God, and declares without hesitation that his call was immediate ; that he is assisted by the sensible influence of the Spirit, and that miracles are perpetually \\'rought in his favour and for his convenience. As it was and continues to be my desire to give proof that I had advanced nothing respecting this extraordinary person, his operations or assertions, which might not be readily justified bj' quotations from his ovra. writings, I had collected several of these, and disposed them under certain heads ; but I found that by this means a very disproportioned share of attention must be given to the subject, and, after some considei'ation, I have determined to re- linquish the design ; and should any have curiosity to search whether my representation of the temper and disposition, the spirit and manners, the know- ledge and capacity, of a very popular teacher be correct, he is referred to about fourscore jiam- phlets,* whose titles will be found on the covers of the late editions of the Bank of Faith, itself a He wants a new parsonic livery; ' wherefore,' says he, ' in humble prayer I told my most blessed Lord and master that my year was out, and my apparel bad ; that I had nowhere to go for these things btit to him ; and as he had promised to give his servants food and raiment, I hoped he would fulfil his promise to me, though one of the worst of them.' So he called upon a certain person, and the raggcdness of his ap- parel led to a conversation which ended in the olfer of a new suit, and a great-coat to boot. Being now in much request, and having ' many doors open to him for preaching the gospel very wide apart,' lie began to want a horse, then to wish, and lastly to pray for one. 'I used my prayers,' lie says, '.as gunners use their swivels, turning them every way as the various cases required ;" before the day was over, he was pre- sented with a horse. ' I told God," says he, ' that I had more work for my faith now than heretofore ; for the hors>e would cost half as mucli to keep him us my whcde family. In answer to which, this scripture came to mv mind w ilh power and comfort, ' Dwell in the lanil and do f;ood, and verily thou shalt be fed.' This was a bank note put into the hand of my faith, which, when I got poor, I pU.ided before God, and ho answered it. Having now had my horsawsuit ; Forty Stripes for Satan ; Myrrh and Odour of Saints; the Naked Bow of God; Kule and Riddle; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men ; Utility of the Books and Ex- cellency of the Parchments ; Correspondence betw een Nuctua, Aurita, {the words so separated,) and Philomela, &c. ■» [One of his poetical productions is described in the title- page as " A clownish poem on the Shunamite, A sinner calld to be the Lord's delight ; By the despised William Huntington, Both known and trusted now in Paddington."] 5 [" Wlien, in October, 1805, Mr. Crabbe resumed (he charge of his own parish of Miiston, he found some changes to vex him, and not the less because he had too much reason to suspect that his long absence from his incumbency had been, partly at least, the cause of them. His cure had been served by respectable and diligent clergymen, but they had been often changed, and some of them had never resided within the parish ; and he felt that the binding influence of a settled and permanent minister had not been withdrawn for twelve years with impunity. A Wesleyan missionary had formed a thriving establishment in Muston, and the congre- gations at the parish church were no longer such as they had been of old. This much annoyed him; and the warmth with which he began to preach against dissent only irritated him- self and others, witliout bringing back disciples to tlie fold. But the progress of the Wesleyans, of all sects the least un- friendly in feeling, as well as the least dissimilar in tenets, to the established clmrch, was, after all, a slight vexation com- pared to what he underwent from witnessing the much more limited success of a disciple of Huntington in spreading in the same neighbourhood the pernicious fanaticism of his half- crazy master. The social and moral effects of that new mis- sion were well calculated to excite not only regret, but indig- nation ; and, among other distressing incidents, was the de- 188 CRABBE'S WORKS. LETTER IV. But cHst your eyes again And View those errors which now sects maintain, Or which of old disturb'd tlie Cluirch's peaceful rei^n ; And we can point each period of the time When they be;ran and who be^'at the crime ; Can calculate how Ion;; tli' eclipse endured ; Who interposed ; what digits were obscured ; Of all which are already passM away, We knew the rise, the progress, and decay. Dbyden. — Hind and Panther. OK, said the Hind, how many sons have you Wlio call vou mother, whom you never knew ! But most "of them who that relation plead Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead ; They gape at rich revenues which you hold, Arid fain would nibble at your grandame gold. Hind and Panther. SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION. Sects and Professions in Religion are numerous and suc- cessive—General Efl'ect of false Zeal— Deists— Fanatical Idea of Cliurch Reformers— The Church of Rome — Baptists — Swedenborgians— Unlversalists— Jews. Methodists of two Kinds ; Calvinistic and Arminian. The Preaching of a Calvinistic Enthusiast — His Contempt of I>earning— Dislike to sound Morality ; why — His Idea of Conversion— His Success and Pretensions to Humility. The Arminian Teacher of the older Flock— Their Notions of the Operations and Power of Satan — Description of his Devices— Their Opinion of regular Ministers — Comparison of these with the Preacher liimsel."— A Rebuke to his Hearers; introduces a Description of the powerful Effects of the Word in the early and awakening Days of Methodism. "Sects in Religion?" — Yes, of every race "We nurse some portion in our favour'd place ; Not one warm preacher of one growing sect Can say our Borough treats him with neglect ; parture from his own household of two servants, a woman and a man, one of whom had been employed by liim for twenty years. Tlie man, a conceited ploughman, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher liimself; and the woman, whose moral character had been sadly deteriorated since her adoption of the new liglits, was at last obliged to be dismissed, in con- sequence of intolerable insolence." — Ante, p. 50. On the passages in Letter IV., treating of Methodism, tlie ' Eclectic Review ' said : — " Mr. Crabbe's representation of the Methodists in general, as addressing the Creator with daring flights of unpremeditated absurdity, if intended to apply indiscriminately, can only be excused by supposing the writer ignorant and rxsh, instead of malicious and unprincipled. There is too much truth in his strictures on the author of the ' Bank of Faith.' Tlie Arminian Methodists all'ord liim as much amusement as the CalviuisU. He makes no scruple of turning their internal conllict.s, as well .xs tlie tenour and in- fluence of tlieir leader's preac-hing, into general and unquali- fied ridicule. 1'lie ' truth divine' is not secured from his satire by the supreme .authority of that ' Teacher ' who thought proper to illustrate the spiritual change by tliis striking figure ; and the evil spirit, solemnly described by an apostle as 'a roaring lion seeking whom lie may devour,' is ludicrously exiiibited in Mr. Crabbe's verse as a dragon of romance, ' Whom sainted knight.s attack in sinners' cause. And force the wounded victim from his paws.' " With reference to tlie above strictures, the Poet added the following note in his third edition of" The IJorougli :" — " An objection iu made to the levity with which the subject of Frequent as fashions they with us appear, And you might ask, " how think we for the year ? " They come to us as riders in a trade,® And with much art exhibit and persuade. Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed, As difF'rent soils are formed for ditf'rent seed ; Some when converted sigh in sore amaze, And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze ; Others again will change to each extreme, They know not why — as hurried in a dream ; Unstable, they, like water, take all Ibrnis, Are quick and stagnant ; have their calms and storms ; High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow, Then muddily they move debased and slow ; Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow. Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize. On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies ; With passions ready primed such guide they meet, And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat ; 'T is he who wakes the nameless strong desire, The melting rapture and the glowing fire ; 'T is lie who pierces deep the tortured breast, And stirs the terrors never more to rest. Opposed to these we have a prouder kind, Rash without heat, and without raptures blind; These our Glad Tidiuys unconcern'd peruse, Search without awe, and without fear refuse ; The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ, Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit ; Respect from these nor saints nor martj'rs gain, The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain : And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view. Of that which must be tried, and doubtless nuiij be true. Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like these. And keen remarks, and bold objections please ; They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd. Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest. religion is said to be treated in this letter. This the author cannot admit : it is not relif^ion, but wliat hurts religion, what is injurious to all true devotion, and at enmity with all sober sense, which is thus unceremoniously treated : false and bigoted zeal ; weak and obstinate enthusiasm ; ignorance that presumes to teach, and intolerant pride that boasts of hu- mility ; these alone are objects of his attack. .\n author has not the less reverence for religion because, in warring with fanaticism, he uses the only weapons by which it is said to be vulnerable ; and he doubts not but he shall be excused (nay, approved, so far as respects liis intention) by the public in general, and more especially by that part of it (and that by no means a small part), who think the persons so de- scribed, while they are themselves — ' Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and tlie Throne,' are the very people from whom, did their power correspond with their wishes, neither the Pulpit nor the Throne (if the IJar should escape) would remain in safety."] '' [" The fact is curious in the history of trade, and little known, that the practice of travelling about the country to solicit orders for goods, began among the Quakers, as an incidental consequence of the life led by their errant- preachers : Francis Bugg, of unsavoury name, tells us this : ' We no sooner had our liberty,' he says, ' but all our London preachers spread themselves, like locusts, all over England and Wales. Some went e.tst, some west, yea, north and south ; and, being gener.illy tradesmen, we not only got our quarters free, our horses free and well maintained in our travels ; n silver watch here, a beaver there, a piece of liair- camblet, and sometimes other things; but, moreover, we got THE BOROUGH. 189 "But still," they cry, " let none their censures spare, " They but confirm the glorious hopes we share ; " From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies, " With five-told triumph sacred Truth shall rise." Yes ! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last, And gain fresh glory by the conflict past : — As Sohvay-Moss (a barren mass and cold, Death to the seed, and poison to the fold), The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid, Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing blade ; That, changed by culture, may in time be seen Enrich'd by golden grain and pasture green ; And these fair acres rented and enjoy'd May those excel by Sohvay-^Ioss destroy'd.' Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day, For hopes destroy'd, and harvests swept away ; To him the gain of future years unkno\\-n, The instant grief and sufl'ering were his o^mi : So must I grieve for many a wounded heart, Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds im- part : Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear, But sad the darkness till those times appear ; Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yield Glory and joy to those who gain the field : But still the Christian must in pity sigh For all who sutier, and uncertain die. Here are, who all the Church maintains approve, But yet the Church herself they will not love ; In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie, Which pure Keligion lost her spirit by ; What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led, She slumber'd careless in a royal bed ; To make, they add, the Church's glory shine. Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine. " In pomp," they cry, '• is England's Church array'd, •' Her cool Keformers wTought like men afraid ; " We would have pull'd her gorgeous temples down, " And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown : " We would have trodden low both bench and stall, " Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small." Let us be serious — Should such trials come, Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom ? It seems to us that our reformers knew Th' important work they undertook to do ; into great trades ; arnl, by spreading ourselves in the country, into great acquaintance, and thereby received orders of the best of the country tradesmen for parcels, whilst the Pro- testant tradesmen in Loridon, who had not this advantage, stood still, and in their shops had little to do, whilst we filled our coffers. Witness Thomas Greene, wiiose wife would scarce sutler him at home, she being willing (according to the proverb), to make hay whilst the sun shines. Thomas died worth, as is said, six or eight thousand pounds, who was a poor mason w hen he set up for a preaching Quaker.' " — SOUTHEY.] ' [" Sohvay-Moss is a flat area, about seven miles in cir- cumference. The substance of it is a gross lliiid, composed of mud and tlie putrid fibres of heath, diluted by internal springs, which arise in every part. 'J'he surface is a dry crust, covered with moss and rushes, offering a fair appear- ance over an unsound bottom. On the south, the ^ioss is bounded by a cultivated plain, which declines gently through the space of ii mile to the river Esk. Tliis plain is lower than the moss, being separated from it by a breastwork, formed by digging peat, w hich makes an irregular, though perpendicular, line of low black boundary. On tlie 13th of November, 1771, An equal priesthood they were loth to try, Lest zeal and care should with ambition die ; To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away. Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay : Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn. Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn ? Would they all, gratis, watch and tend the fold. Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold? Men are not equal, and 'tis meet and right That robes and titles our respect excite ; Order requires it; 'tis by vulgar pride That such regard is censured and denied ; Or by that false enthusiastic zeal. That thinks the Spirit will the priest reveal, Antliers maintain, that God indeed wishes to make all men happy, only on the condition of their believing; and tliat this faith origin.ites from the sovereign and irresistible operation of God." — Mosheim.] " [Some may object to this assertion ; to whom I beg leave to answer that 1 do not use the word Jiijht in tlie sense of the Jew MendoAa. THE BOROUGH. 191 A mazing race ! deprived of land and laws, A general language and a public cause ; "With a religion none can now obey, With a reproach that none can take awaj- : A people still, whose common ties are gone ; AVho, mix'd with every race, are lost in none. What said their Prophet ? — " Shouldst thou disobey, " The Lord shall take thee from thy land away ; " Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be, " And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee ; " Daughter and son, shalt thou, while captive, have, " And see them made the bond-maid and the slave ; " He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall bring " War to thy country on an eagle-wing. " A people strong and dreadful to behold, " Stern to the young, remorseless to the old ; " Masters whose speech thou canst not understand, " lly cruel signs shall give the harsh command : " Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day, " For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away ; " Thy evening wish, — Would God I saw the sun ! " Thy morning sigh, — Would God the day were done ! '^ " Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times " Regret thy misery, and lament thy crimes." A part there arc, whom doubtless man might trust. Worthy as wealthy, pure, religious, just ; They who with patience, yet with rapture, look On the strong promise of the Sacred Book : '2 See the Book of Deuteronomy, chap, xxviii.- — [" If thou wilt not hearken unto the voice of tlie Lord thy God, tliou shalt be removed into all the kingdoms of the earth ; and thou shalt become an astonishment, a proverb, and a by-word among all nations, whither the Lord shall lead thee. 'Hiy sons and thy daughters shall go into captivity. The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from afar, as swift a.s the eagle flieth ; a nation w hose tongue thou shalt not understand ; a nation of fierce countenance, whicli shall not regard the person of tlie old, nor .show favour to the young ; and thy life shall hang in doubt before thee ; and thou shalt fear day and night, and shalt have none assurance of thy life ; in the morning thou sh.ilt say. Would God it were even ! and at even thou shalt say, Would God it were morning !"] '3 [When I turn my thoughts to the past and present situ- ation of this peculiar people, I do not see how any Christian nation, according to the spirit of their religion, can refuse ad- mission to the Jews, who, in completion of those very pro- phecies on which Christianity rests, are to be scattered and disseminated amongst all people and nations over the face of the earth. The sin and obd\iracy of their forefathers are amongst the undoubted records of our gospel ; but I doubt if this can be a sufficient reason why we should hold them in such general odium through so many ages, seeing how natu- rally the son follows the faith of the father, and how much too general a thing it is amongst mankind to profess any par- ticular form of religion, tliat devolves upon them by inheri- tance, rather than by free election and conviction of reason, founded upon examination. — CuiVibekland.] '< His boast, th.it he would rebuild the Temple of .Terusalem ; his fate (whatever becomes of the miraculous part of the story), that he died before the foundation was laid. [" An edict was issued by Julian for the rebuilding of the Temple on Mount Moriali, and the restoration of the Jewish worship in its original splendour. The whole Jewish world was in ■commotion ; they crowded from the most distant quarters to be present and assist in the great national work. Their wealth was poured forth in lavish profusion. Men cheerfully sur- rendered the hard-won treasures of their avarice ; women offered up the ornaments of tlieir vanity. Already was the As unfulfiU'd th' endearing words they view, And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true ; '' Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state. Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate.''' INIore might I add : I might describe the flocks Made by Seceders from the ancient stocks ; Those who will not to any guide submit, Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit — Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray. And every church has lost the certain way ! '* Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws, And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws. A Sect remains, which, though divided long In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong, ^Vnd into each enlists a warm and zealous throng. Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose. The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those ; With Wesley some remain'd, the remnant Whitfield chose. Now various leaders both the parties take. And the divided hosts their new divisions make.'® See yonder Preacher ! '^ to his people pass, Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas : Much he discourses, and of various points. All unconnected, void of limbs and joints ; He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill. " That Gospel, Paul with zeal and love main- tain'd, " To others lost, to you is now e.xplain'd ; " No worldly learning can these points discuss, " Books teach them not as they are taught to us. work commenced ; already had they dug down to a consider- able depth, and were preparing to lay the foundation, when suddenly flames of fire came bursting from the centre of the hill, accompanied with terrific explosions. The affrighted workmen fled on all sides, and the labours were suspended at once by this unforeseen and awful sign. Tlie discomfiture of the .Jews was completed ; and the resumption of their labours, could they have recovered from their panic, was for ever broken olV by the death of Julian." — Mii.man.] '^ [Original edition : — True Independents : while they Calvin hate, Tliey heed as little what Socinians state ; They judge Arminians, Antinomians stray. Nor England's Church, nor Church on earth obey.] '15 [While Weslev was actively engaged in establishing the influence of the Methodists, and extending the number of his converts, he received a painful wound in an unexpected quarter, from the pertinacity with which Whitfield and a considerable proportion of his disciples adhered to the pecu- liar doctrine of Calvin, and opposed Wesley's extravagant notion of the possibility of sinless perfection being attained in the present life. They were, Iiowever, soon personally reconciled ; but the difl'erence remained as to doctrine ; their respective followers were, according to custom, less charitable than themselves ; and never Mas man more bitterly reviled, insulted, and misrepresented, than Wesley was through the remainder of his life by the Calvinistic Methodists. — SoUTHEY.] '" [William Huntington was the son of a day-labourer in the Weald of Kent. 'I'lio early part of his life was passed in menial service, and other humble occupations. After rioting in every low vice for several years, he was, according to his own account, suddenly and miraculously converted, and became a preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists. Having lost his fu-st wife, he married the rich widow of Sir James Saunderson, a London alderman, and passed the latter part of his life in affluence. He died in 1813. See ante, p. 186, and Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv.] 192 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Illiterate call us ! — let their wisest man " Draw forth his thousands as your Teacher can : •' They give their moral precepts : so, they say, " Did Epictetus once, and Seneca ; " One was a slave, and slaves we all must be, " Until the Spii'it comes and sets us free. " Yet hear you nothing from such man but works; " They make the Christian service like the Turks. " Hark to the Churchman : day by day he cries, " ' Children of Men, be virtuous and be wise : " ' Seek patience, justice, temp'rauce, meekness, truth ; " ' In age be courteous, be sedate in youth.'— " So they advise, and when such things be read, " How can we wonder that their flocks are dead ? " The Heathens wrote of Virtue : they could dwell " On such light points : in them it might be well ; " They might for virtue strive ; but I maintain, " Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain. " When Samson carried Gaza's gates so far, " Lack'd he a helping hand to bear the bar ? " Thus the most virtuous must in bondage groan : " Samson is grace, and carries all alone. '^ " Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend, " In bidding Sinners turn to God, and mend ; " To check their passions and to walk ariglit, " To run the Kace, and fight the glorious Fight ? " Nay more — to pray, to study, to improve, " To grow in goodness, to advance in love ? " Oh ! Babes and Sucklings, dull of heart and slow, " Can Grace be gradual ? Can Conversion grow ? " The work is done by instantaneous call ; " Converts at once are made, or not at all ; " Nothing is left to grow, reform, amend, " The first emotion is the Movement's end : " If once forgiven, Debt can be no more ; " If once adopted, will the heir be poor ? " The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize, " Does he by little and by little rise ? " There can no fortune for the Soul be made, " By peddling cares and savings in her trade. " Why are our sins forgiven 'i — Priests reply, " — Because by Faith on Mercy we rely ; " ' Because, believing, we repent and pray.' " Is this their doctrine? — then they go astray; " We're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed, " For faith nor practice, principle nor creed ; " Nor for our sorrow for our former sin, " Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin ; " Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail, " All strong remorse, all soft contrition fail : '8 ^VIloever has attended to the books or preacliing of tliese enthusiastic people, must liave observed much of tliis kind of absurd and foolisli application of scripture history ; it seems to them as reasoning. If [" A certain captain .John TJnderhill affirmed, that, having long lain under a spirit of bondage, he could get no assurance ; till, at length, om your unlucky name may quips and puns Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns ? To some great public character have you Assign'd the fame to worth and talents due, Proud of your praise ? — In this, in any case, Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace, These friends will smiling bring it, and the while You silent sit, and practise for a smile. Vain of their power, and of their value sure, They nearly guess the tortures you endure ; Nor spare one pang — for they perceive your heart Goes with the cause ; you 'd die before you 'd start ; Do what they may, they 're sure you '11 not offend Men who have pledged their honours to your friend. Those friends indeed, who start as in a race. May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace ; They have in view the glory and the prize, Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise : But we their poor associates lose the fame. Though more than partners in the toil and shame. Were this the whole ; and did the time produce But shame and toil, but riot and abuse ; AVe might be then from serious griefs exempt, And view the whole with pity and contempt. Alas ! but here the vilest passions rule ; ' I am informed that some explanation is here necessary, though I am ignorant for what class of readers it can be re- It is Seduction's, is Temptation's school ; Where vices mingle in the oddest ways. The grossest slander and the dirtiest praise ; Flattery enough to make the vainest sick. And clumsy stratagem, and scoundrel trick : Nay more, your anger and contempt to cause. These, M-hile they fish for profit, claim applause ; Bribed, bought, and bound, they banish shame and fear; Tell you they 're staunch, and have a soul sincere ; Then talk of honour, and, if doubt 's express'd, Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast. Among these worthies, some at first declare For whom they vote : he then has most to spare ; Others hang off — when coming to the post Is spurring time, and then he'll spare the most: While some demurring, wait, and find at last The bidding languish, and the market past ; These will affect all bribery to condemn. And be it Satan laughs, he laughs at them. Some too are pious — One desired the Lord To teach him where "to drop his little word ; " To lend his vote where it will profit best ; " Promotion came not from the east or west; " But as their freedom had promoted some, " He should be glad to know which way 't would come. " It was a naughty world, and where to sell " His precious charge, was more than he could tell." " But you succeeded? " — True, at mighty cost, And our good friend, I fear, will think he 's lost : Inns, horses, chaises, dinners, balls, and notes ; What fiU'd their purses, and what drench'd their throats ; The private pension, and indulgent lease, — Have all been granted to these friends who fleece ; Friends who will hang like burs upon his coat, And boundless judge the value of a vote. And though the terrors of the time be pass'd, There still remain the scatterings of the blast ; The boughs are parted that entwined before, And ancient harmony exists no more ; The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform, And sadly flows the sighing of the storm : Those who have gain'd are sorry for the gloom. But they who lost, unwilling peace should come ; There open envy, here suppress'd delight, Yet live till time shall better thoughts excite, And so prepare us, by a six-years' truce, Again for riot, insult, and abuse. Our worthy Mayor, on the victorious part. Cries out for peace, and cries with all his heart : He, civil creature ! ever does his best To banish wrath from every voter's breast ; " For where," says he, with reason strong and plain, " Where is the profit ? what will anger gain ? " His short stout person he is wont to brace In good brown broad-cloth, cdg'd with two-inch lace, When in his seat ; and still the coat seems new, Preserved by common use of seaman's blue. He was a fisher from his earliest day. And placed his nets within the Borough's bay ; Where, by his skates, his herrings, and his soles. He lived, nor dream'd of Corporation-Doles;' quired. Some corporate bodies have actual property, as appears by their receiving rents; and they obtain money on 196 CRABBE'S WORKS. But toiling saved, and saving, never ceased Till lie had box'd up twelvescore pounds at least : He knew not money's power, but judged it best Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest; Yet to a friend complain'd : '*Sad charge, to keep " So many pounds ; and then I cannot sleep : " " Then put it out," replied the friend : — " What, give " IVFy monej^ up ? why then I could not live : " " Nay, but for interest place it in his hands " Who '11 give you mortgage on his house or lands." " Oh but," said Daniel, "that's a dangerous plan; " He may be robb'd like any other man : " " Still he is bound, and you may be at rest, " More safe the money than within your chest ; " And you '11 receive, from all deductions cleai", " Five pounds for every hundred, every year." " What good in that?" quoth Daniel, "for 'tis plain, " If part I take, there can but part remain : " " What! you, my friend, so skill'd in gainful things, " Have you to learn what Interest money brings ? " " Not so." saiil Daniel, " perfectly I know, " lie 's the most interest who has most to show." " True ! and he '11 sliow the more, the more he lends ; " Thus he his -weight and consequence extends ; " For they who borrow must restore each sum, " And pay for use. What, Daniel, art thou dumb ? " For much amazed was tliat good man. — " In- deed ! " Said he with glad'ning eye, " will money breed? * " How have I lived ? I grieve, -with all my heart, " For my late knowledge in this precious art : — " Five pounds for every hundred will he give ? " And then the hundred ? — I begin to live." — So he began, and other means he found, As he went on, to multiply a pound : Though blind so long to Interest, all allow That no man better understands it now : Him in our Body-Corporate we chose. And once among us, he above us rose ; Stepping from post to post, he reach'd the Chair, And there he now reposes — that 's the Mayor.^ But 'tis not he, 'tis not the kinder few, The mild, the good, who can our peace renew; A peevish humour swells in every eye. The warm are angry, and the cool are shy ; There is no more the social board at whist, The good old partners are with scorn dismiss'd ; No more with dog and lantern comes the maid. To guide the mistress wlien the rubber' s play'd ; Sad shifts arc made lest ribands blue and green Should at one table, at one time, be seen : On care and merit none will now rely, 'T is Party sells what party-friends must buy ; tlm Milinission oF mnmbers into their sncicty ; tliis tlicy may hvw I'lilly sliarf, yir-rliiips. 'I'li^Ti- arc, moreover, oilier doles, of .slill groHler value, of which it is not necessary for mu to ex- plain tlie iiHture or inquire into tlie legality. - [Oriu'inal edition : — 111 fact, the I'ishor was ama/.'d ; .is soon Co.ild he liave jiidiied yold issueit from the moon ; lint hein^' tau;!lit, he fjrievod witli all his heart Fur lack of knowlcdye in this [irecioiis act. J • Th;ive instances of ncj^'lccf, cruidty, oppres- sion, and <'hiranery; nor are they by any means conliiied to one part of the country. (Quacks and impostors an.' indeed in every profession, as well with a licence as without one. 'I'lie character and actions of Swallow mi;,'lit doubtless be C(ni- ' But when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone, " .\nd others going — ho must hold it on ; " The Lord would help them " — Loud their anger grew, And v,hile they threat'ning from his door withdre^v, He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu,** But lives the man by whom such deeds are done ? Yes, many such — but Swallow's race is run ; His name is lost, — for though his sons have name, It is not his, they all escape the shame ; Nor is there vestige now of all he had, His means are wasted, for his heir was mad: Still we of Swallow as a monster speak, A hard bad man, who prcy'd upon the weak.' LETTER VII. Finirent multi letlio mala ; credula vitam Spes alit, et melius eras fore semper ait. — ^TiBULLUs. lie fell to juggle, cant, and cheat For as those fowls that live in water Are never wet, he did but smatter; Whate'er he labour'd to appear, His understanding still was clear. A paltry wretch he had, half-starved, That him in place of zany served. — Bt7Tij;R's Hudihms. PROFESSIONS— PHYSIC. The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician — Merit, not the sole Cause of Success — Modes of advancing Ueputation — Motives of medical Men for publishing their Works — llie great Evil of Quackery — Present State of advertising Quacks — Their Hazard— Some fail, and why — Causes of .Success — How Men of understanding are prevailed upon to have recourse to Empirics, and to permit their Names to be advertised — Evils of Quackery : to nervous Females : to Youth : to Infants — History of an advertising Empiric, &c. Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view. And yield the praise to worth and science due ; But this with serious words and sober style. For these are friends with whom we seldom smile :' Helpers of men * tliey 're call'd, and we confess Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess; AVe own that numbers join with care and skill, A temperate judgment, a devoted will : Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel The painful symptoms they delight to heal ; ^ trasted by the delineation of an able and upright solicitor : but this letter is of sulUcient lengtti, and such persons, without iluc.4tion, are already known to my readers. 1 [Original edition : — From Law to Physic, stepping at our ease. We find a way to' liiiish — by degrees ; Forgive the quibble, and in graver style, We '11 sing of these with whom we seldom smile.] 2 Opiferque per orbem dicnr. ^ [" I feel not in me those sordid and unchristian desires of niv profession. I do not secretly implore and wish for plagues, reioice at famines, revolve epiienii'rides and alnianai'ks in expectation of malignant cll'ects, fatal conjunc- tions, and eclipses; I rejoice not at unwholesome springs, nor unseasonable winters ; my prayer goes with the husband- THE BOROUGH. 201 Patient in all their trials, they sustain The starts of passion, the reproach of pain ; With hearts affected, but with looks serene, Intent they wait through all the solemn scene ; Glad if a hope should rise from nature's strife, To aid their skill and save the lingering life ; But this must virtue's generous etFort be. And spring from nobler motives than a fee : To the Physician of the Soul, and these. Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease.'' But as physicians of that nobler kind Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind ; So among these for knowledge most renowned, Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found : Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name. Have, without learning, found a way to fame ; And some by learning — young physicians write, To set their merit in the fairest light ; "With them a treatise in a bait that draws Approving voices — 't is to gain applause, And to exalt them in the public view, More than a life of worthy toil could do. "When 't is proposed to make the man renown'd. In every age, convenient doubts abound ; Convenient themes in every period start, "Which he may treat with all the pomp of art ; Curious conjectures he may always make. And cither side of dubious questions take ; lie may a system broach, or, if he please, Start new opinions of an old disease : Or may some simple in the woodland trace, And be its patron, till it runs its race ; As rustic damsels from tlicir woods are won. And live in splendour till their race be run; It weiglis not much on what their powers be sho^'^^l, AVhen all his purpose is to make them kno\Nii. To show the world what long experience gains, Eequires not courage, tliough it calls for pains ; But at life's outset to inform mankind, Is a bold effort of a valiant mind.* The great good man, for noblest cause displays "^'hat many labours taught, and many days ; man's. I desire every tiling in its proper se.^on, that neither man nor the times be out of temper. Let me be sick myself if sometimes the malady of my patient be not a disease tome. I ilesire rather to cure his infirmities than my own necessi- ties : where 1 do him no f|ood, raethinks it is no honest gain, thiuigh I confess it to be the worthy salary of our well- intended endeavours ; I iim not only ashamed, but heartily S'Try, that, besides deatli, there are diseases incurable, yet not fur mine own sake, but for tlie i»eneral cause and sake of hu- manity, whose common cause I apprehend as mine own." — Siu Thomas Bkowne.] ■* [" I esteem it the office of a physician not only to restore health, but to mitigate pain and dolours ; and not onlv when such mitigation may conduce to recovery, but when'it may serve to make a fair and e:isy passage ; for it is no small felicity which Augustus C<-Rsar was wont to wish to himself, lluit same 'culhanasia ;' and what was specially noted iu the death of .\ntoninus I'ius, whose death was after the f;ishion and semblance of a kindly and pleasant sleep. So it is writ- ten of Epicurus, that, after his disease was judged de.-perate, he drowned his stomach and senses with a large draught and iugurgitation of wine ; whereupon the epigram was made : — ' Hinc Stygias ebrius hansit aquas.' He was not sober enough to taste any bitterness of the Stygian water, liut the physicians, contrariwise, do make a kind of simple religion to stay with the patient after the disease is s from tlie same adniiraiion. Hut the art of man:i;;JMg mankind is only to mak(! them si an? a little, to keep up their astonislimeut, to let notliing be familiar to them, but ever to have something in their sleeve, in which they must think you are deeper tlian they are. There is a doctor in Mann .\lley, near Wapping, who sets up From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains, Man's love of life, his wealnioss, and his pains ; These first induce him the vile trash to trj% Then lend his name, that other men may buy : This love of life, which in our nature rules. To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools ; • Then pain compels th' impatient soul to seize On promised hopes of instantaneous ease ; And weakness too with every wish complies, Worn out and won by importunities. Troubled with something in your bile or blood, You think your doctor does you little good; And grown impatient, you require in haste The nervous cordial, nor dislike tlie tsiste ; It comforts, heals, and strengthens ; nay, you think It makes you better every time you drink ; " Then lend your name " — j'ou 're loth, but yet confess Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce : Yet think a moment, ere your name you lend. With whose 't is placed, and what you recommend ; Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel, But will he to the med'cine set his seal ? Wait, and you '11 find the cordial you admire Has added fuel to your fever's fire : Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare. Would you the honour of tlie man declare ? Would you assist his purpose ? swell his crime ? Besides, he might not spare a second time. Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign, The man was poor, and humbly begg'd a line ; Else how should noble names and titles back The spreading praise of some advcnt'rous quack ? But he the moment watches, and entreats Your honour's name, — your honour joins the cheats; You judged the med'cine harmless, and j'ou lent What help you could, and with the best intent ; for curing cataracts, upon the credit of having, as his bill sets forth, lost an eye in the emperor's service. Ilis patients come in upon this, and he shows the muster-roll, which con- firms that he was in his Imperial Majesty's troops ; and he puts out their eyes with great success. Who would believe that a man should be a doctor for the cure of bursten cliildren, by declaring that his father and grandfather were botli bursten ? Vet Charles Ingolston, next iloor to the Harp, in ISarbican, has made a pretty penny by this operation."— Stkele.] 8 [In an admirable section of the ' Miseries of Human Life,' a patient, now quite recovered, is made to describe himself as having been, befare he met with his favourite duclur, "an ulcer rather than a man."] ' [" There would be no end of enumerating the several imaginary perfections, and unaccountable artifices, by which this tribe of men ensnare the minds of the vulgar, and gain crowds of admirers. I have seen tlie whole front of a mnunte- bank's stage, from one end to the other, faced with patents, certificates, medals, and great seals, liy which the several princes of Eiiro])e have testilied their particular respect and esteem for the doctor. Kvery great man with a sounding title h;is been his patient, l believe I have seen twenty mountebanks tliat have given physic to the Czar of Muscovy. The great Duke of Tuscany escapes no better. The Elector of lJrand