-■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 behin<l." 
 
 With respect to the " Epistle to Prince Wil- 
 liam Henry" — now King William IV., — I 
 need only remind the reader that his Royal 
 Highness had recently been serving with ho- 
 nour under Admiral Rodney, and was about to 
 return to sea. The Poet, after many cautions 
 against the flattery of courtiers, &c. &c. , thus con- 
 cluded his Epistle. I copy from his note-book : 
 
 " Who thus aspiring sings ? would'st tliou explore ; 
 A B^u'd replies, wlio ne'er assumed before, — 
 One taught in hard affliction's school to bear 
 Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear, 
 Who sees from thence, the proper point of view, 
 \Vh.it the wise heed not, and the weak pursue. 
 
 " And now farewell, the drooping Muse exclaims. 
 She lothiy leaves thee to the shock of war. 
 And fondly dwelling on her princely tar, 
 W'ishis the nolilest good her Harry's share, 
 Witliout her misery and without her care. 
 For, ah ! unknown to thee, a rueful train, 
 Iler hapless cliiUlrcn, sigh, and si^h in v:iin ; 
 A numerous band, denied the boon to die, 
 Ilalf-starveil, hall-fed by lils of charity. 
 Unknown to thee I and yet, perliap<, thj ear 
 \\33 chanced eacli sad, amusing ta.lu to bear, 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 17 
 
 IIow some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease ■,* 
 
 How some, like .Savage, sicken'd by degrees.; 
 
 How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed 
 
 The proud big tear on song-extorted bread ; 
 
 Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to nhooso 
 
 Contempt, and tor the mortar quit the Muse.' 
 
 " One of this train— and of these wretches one — 
 Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son — 
 Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed, 
 On Henry, laurels ; on his poet, bread ! 
 
 " Unhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse ; 
 Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse ; 
 Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex, 
 And every friend, and every brother vex ! 
 
 Kach fond companion ! No, I thank mv God ! 
 
 There rests my torment — tliere is hung the rod. 
 
 To friend, to fame, to family unknown, 
 
 Sour disappointments frown on me alone. 
 
 Who hates my song, and damns the poor design. 
 
 Shall wound no peace— shall grieve no heart but mine ! 
 
 " Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will in rude. 
 For want is absent, and dejection rude. 
 Metliinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame, 
 Kach jolly victor hail my Henry's name ; 
 And, Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day. 
 One British bard should grieve when all are gay. 
 No I let him find his country has redress. 
 And bid adieu to every fond distress ; 
 Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire. 
 Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire !" 
 
 We now return to my father's Journal.] 
 
 " April, 25. — Reading the 'Daily Advertiser ' of 
 the 22nd, I found the following: — ' Wanted 
 an amanuensis, of grrammatical education, and 
 endued with a genius capable of making ini- 
 jjrovements in the writings of a gentleman not 
 well versed in the English language.' Now, 
 Vanity having no doubt of my capacity, I sent 
 immediately the following note to a Mrs. 
 Brooke, Coventry-street, Haymarket, the 
 person at whose house I was to inquire: — 
 ' A person having the advantage of a gramma- 
 tical education, and who supposes himself 
 endowed with a genius capable of making 
 emendations to the writings of any gentleman 
 not perfectly acquainted with the English 
 language, would be very happy to act as an 
 amanuensis, where the confinement was not 
 too rigid,' &c. An answer was returned 
 verbally, by a porter, that the person should 
 call in a day or two 
 
 "April 27.— Called on Mrs. Brooke, from 
 whose husband or servant in the shop I had 
 the intelligence that the gentleman was pro- 
 vided — twelve long miles walked away, loss 
 
 " Kustace Budgell drowned himself in the Thames in 1736: 
 the miseries of Otway and Savage are familiar to every reader. 
 
 ' Goldsmith, on his return to England, was so poor that it 
 was with difficulty he was enabled to reach tlie metropolis 
 wi».n a few halfpence only in his pocket. He was an entire 
 stranger, and without anv recommendation. He olTered him- 
 self to several apothecaries, in the character of a journeyman, 
 but had the mortification to find every application witliout 
 succe^s._ At length he was admitted into the hoase of a clie- 
 mist. This example was often in my father's thoughts, as 
 the sei.und volume of this collection will show. 
 
 of time, and a little disappointment, thought 
 I : — now for my philosophy. Perhaps, then, 
 I reflected, the ' gentleman ' might not have 
 so very much of that character as I at first sup- 
 posed : he might be a sharper, and would not, 
 or an author himself, and consequently could 
 not, pay me. He might have employed me 
 seven hours in a day over law or politics, and 
 treated me at night with a Welsh rabbit and 
 porter! — It "s all well; I can at present buy 
 porter myself, and am my own amanuensis. 
 
 " N.B. Sent my poem to Dodsley, and 
 required him to return it to-morrow if not 
 approved, otherwise its author would call 
 upon him. 
 
 " April 28. — Judging it best to have two strings 
 to the bow, and fearing Mr. Dodsley's will 
 snap, I have finished another little work, from 
 that awkward-titled piece ' The Foes of 
 Mankind ;' have run it on to three hundred 
 and fifty lines, and given it a still more odd 
 name, ' An Epistle from the Devil.' To- 
 morrow I hope to transcribe it fair, and send 
 it by Monday. 
 
 " Mr. Dodsley's reply just received. ' Mr. 
 Dodsley presents his compliments to the 
 gentleman who favoured him with the en- 
 closed poem, which he has returned, as he 
 apprehends the sale of it would probably not 
 enable him to give any consideration. lie 
 does not mean by this to insinuate a want cf 
 merit in the poem, but rather a want of atten- 
 tion in the jniblic' 
 
 " Once more, my Mira, I '11 try, and write 
 to Mr. Becket : if he fails me ! — I know not 
 how I shall ever get sufficient time to go 
 through my principal design ; but I 've pro- 
 mised to keep up my spirits, and I will. God 
 help me ! 
 
 " April 28. — I thank Heaven my spirits are not 
 at all afiected by Dodsley's refusal. I have 
 not been able to get the poem ready for Mr. 
 Becket to-day, but will take some pains with it. 
 " I find myself under the disagreeable ne- 
 cessity of vending, or pawning, some of my 
 more useless articles : accordingly have put 
 into a paper such as cost about two or three 
 guineas, and, being silver, have not areatly 
 lessened in their value. The conscientious 
 pawnbroker allowed me — " he thought he 
 might " —\id\i a guinea for them. I took it 
 very •'eadily, being determined to call for 
 them very soon, and then, if I afterwards 
 wanted, carry them to some less voracious 
 animal of the kind. 
 
 " Maij 1. — Still in suspense ; but still resigned. 
 I think of sending Mr. Becket two or three 
 little pieces, large enough for an eighteen- 
 penny pamphlet : but. notwithstanding this, to 
 set about the book I chiefly depend upon. 
 My good broker's money reduced to five 
 
IS 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 shillings and sixpence, and no immediate pro- 
 spect of more. I have onlj' to keep up my 
 spirits as well as I can, and depend upon 
 the ])rotection of Providence, which has 
 hitherto hcl|)ed me in worse situations. 
 
 " Let me hope the last day of this month 
 may be a more smiling one than the first. 
 (Jod only knows, and to Him I readily, and 
 not unresignedly, leave it. 
 
 May 3.— Mr. Becket has just had my copy. 
 I have war/e about four hundred and fifty lines, 
 and entitled them ' Poetical Epistles, with a 
 Preface by the learned Martinus Scriblerus.' 
 I do not say it is chance whether they take or 
 not ; it is as God pleases, whatever wits may 
 say to the contrai-y. 
 
 " I this day met an old friend ; poor Mor- 
 ley 1 — not very clean ; ill, heavy, and dejected. 
 The poor fellow has had Fortune's smiles and 
 her i'rowns, and alas, lor him ! her smiles 
 came first. May I hope a happy prognostic 
 from this. No, I do not, cannot, will not 
 depend upon Fortune. 
 
 "N.B. The purse a little recruited, by 
 twenty-five shillings received for books. Now 
 then, when the spirits are tolerable, we '11 
 pursue our Work, and make hay while the 
 sun shines, for it 's i)laguy apt to be clouded. 
 
 May 6. — Having nearly finished my plan for 
 one volume, I hoj)e by next week to complete 
 it, and then try my fortune in earnest. INIr. 
 Becket, not yet called upon, has had a pretty 
 long time to deliberate upon my ' Epistles.' 
 If they will do, I shall continue them ; Lon- 
 don affording ample matter tor the smiles as 
 well as frowns of satire. 
 
 " Should I have time after my principal 
 business is completed, I don't know whether 
 I shall not write a Novel ; those things used 
 to sell, and perhajjs will now — but of this 
 hereafter. My spirits are marvellously good, 
 considering I 'm in the middle of the great 
 city, and a stranger, too, without money, — 
 but sometimes we have unaccountable fears, 
 and at other times unaccountable courage. 
 
 May 10. — Mr. Becket says just what Mr. 
 Dodsley wrote, 't was a very ])retty thing, 
 ' but, sir, these little pieces the town do not 
 regard : it has merit, — perhaps some other 
 may. — ' It will be offered to no other, sir! — 
 ' Well, sir, I am obliged to you, but,' &c. 
 — and so these little affairs have their end. 
 And are you not disheartened ? My dearest 
 Mira, not 1 ! The wanting a letter from you 
 to-day, and the knowing myself to be \w%- 
 .scssed but of sixpence-larlliiug in the world, 
 are much more consequential tilings. 
 
 " I have got pretty forward in my book, 
 and shall soon know its fate ; if bad, these 
 things will the better prepare me for it ; if 
 good, the contrasted fortune will be the more 
 
 agreeable. We arc helped, I 'm persuaded, 
 with spirits in our necessities. I did not, nor 
 could, conceive that, with a very uncertain 
 prospect before me, a very bleak one behind, 
 and a very poor one around me, I should be 
 so happy a fellow : I don't think there 's a 
 man in London worth but fourpence-halfpenny 
 — for I 've this moment sent seven farthings for 
 a pint of j)orter — who is so resigned to his 
 poverty. Hope, Vanity, and the Muse, will 
 certainly contribute something towards a light 
 heart ; but Love and the god of Love only 
 can throw a beam of gladness on a heavy 
 one. 
 
 " I am now debating whether an Ode or a 
 Song should have the next place in the col- 
 lection ; which being a matter of so great 
 consequence, we '11 bid our Mira good night. 
 
 May 12. — Perhaps it is the most difficult 
 thing in the world to tell how far a man's 
 vanity will run away with his passions. I 
 shall therefore not judge, at least not deter- 
 mine, how far my poeti(;al talents may or may 
 not merit applause. For the first time in my 
 life that I recollect, I have written three or 
 four stanzas that so far touched me in the 
 reading them, as to take off the consideration 
 that they were things of my own fancy. 
 Now, if I ever do succeed, I will take par- 
 ticular notice if this passage is remarked ; if 
 not, I shall conclude 't was mere self-love, — 
 but if so, 't was the strangest, and, at the same 
 time, strongest disguise she ever put on. 
 
 "You shall rarely find the same humour 
 hold two days. I 'm dull and heavy, nor can 
 go on with my work. The head and heart 
 are like children, who, being praised for their 
 good behaviour, will overact themselves ; and 
 so is the case with me. Oh! Sally, how I 
 want you ! 
 
 May 16. — O ! my dear Mira, how you dis- 
 tress me : you inquire into my affairs, and 
 love not to be denied, — yet you must. To 
 what purpose should I tell you the particulars 
 of my gloomy situation ; that I have parted 
 with my money, sold mj' wardrobe, pawned 
 my watch, am in debt to my landlord, and 
 finally, at some loss how to eat a week longer ? 
 Yet you say, tell me all. Ah, my dear Sally, 
 do not desire it ; you must not yet be told these 
 things. Appearance is what distresses me : 
 I must have dress, and therefore am horribly 
 fearful I shall accompany Fashion with fasting 
 — but a fortnight more will tell me of a cer- 
 tainty. 
 • May 18. — A day of bustle — twenty shillings 
 to pay a tailor, when the stock amounted to 
 thirteen and three-pence. Well, — there were 
 instruments to part with, that fetched no less 
 than eight shillings more ; but twenty-one 
 shillings and three-pence would yet be so poor 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 19 
 
 a superfluity, that the Muse would never visit 
 till the purse was recruited ; for, say men 
 what they will, she does not love empty 
 pockets nor poor living. Now, you must 
 know, my watch was mortgaged for less than 
 it ought ; so I redeemed and repledged it, 
 which has made me, — the tailor paid and the 
 day's expenses, — at this instant worth (let me 
 count my cash) ten shillings — a rare case, and 
 most bountiful provision of fortune ! 
 
 " Great God ! I thank thee for these happy 
 spirits : seldom they come, but coming, make 
 large amends for preceding gloom. 
 
 " I wonder what these people, my Mira, 
 think of me. Here 's Vickery, his wife, two 
 maids, and a shop full of men : the latter, 
 consequently, neither know nor care who I am. 
 A little pretty hawk-eyed girl, I 've a great 
 notion, thinks me a fool, for neglecting the 
 devoirs a lodger is supposed to pay to an at- 
 tendant in his house : I know but one way to 
 remove the suspicion, and that in the end 
 might tend to confirm it. 
 
 " Mrs. Vickery is a clear-sighted woman, 
 who appears to me a good wife, mother, and 
 friend. She thinks me a soft-tempered gen- 
 tleman — I 'm a gentleman here not quite 
 
 nice enough. 
 
 " Mr. Vickery is an honest fellow, hasty, 
 and not over distinguishing. He looks upon 
 me as a bookish young man, and so respects 
 me — for he is bookish himself — as one who is 
 not quite settled in the world, nor has much 
 knowledge of it; and as a careless easy-tem- 
 pered fellow, who never made an observation, 
 nor is ever likely to do so. 
 
 "Having thus got my character in the 
 family, ray employment remains (I suppose) 
 a secret, and I believe 't is a debate whether 
 I am copying briefs for an attorney, or songs 
 for ' the lady whose picture was found on the 
 pillow t' other day.' 
 
 " N.B. We remove to Bishopsgate-street 
 in a day or two. Not an unlucky circum- 
 stance ; as I shall then, concealing Vickery's 
 name, let my father know only the number of 
 my lodging. 
 
 *' May 20. — The cash, by a sad temptation, 
 greatly reduced. An unlucky book-stall pre- 
 sented to the eyes three volumes of Dryden's 
 works, octavo, five shillings. Prudence, how- 
 ever, got the better of the devil, when she 
 whispered me to bid three shillings and six- 
 pence : after some hesitation, that prevailed 
 with the woman, and I carried reluctantly 
 hom.e, I believe, a fair bargain, but a very ill- 
 judged one. 
 
 " It 's the vilest thing in the world to have 
 but one coat. My only one has happened 
 with a mischance, and how to manage it is 
 some difificulty. A confounded stove's modish 
 
 ornament caught its elbow, and rent it half- 
 way. Pinioned to the side it came home, and 
 I ran deploring to my loft. In the dilemma, it 
 occurred to me to turn tailor myself; but how 
 to get materials to work with puzzled me. 
 At last I went running down in a hurry, with 
 three or four sheets of paper in my hand, and 
 begged for a needle, &c., to sew them together. 
 This finished my job, and but that it is some- 
 what thicker, the elbow is a good one yet. 
 
 " These are foolish things, Mira, to write 
 or speak, and we may laugh at them ; but I '11 
 be bound to say they are much more likely to 
 make a man cry, where they happen, — though 
 I was too much of a philosopher for tliat, 
 however not one oF those who preferred a 
 ragged coat to a whole one. 
 
 " On Monday, I hope to finish my book 
 entirely, and perhaps send it. God Almighty 
 give it a better fate than the trifles tried 
 before ! 
 
 " Sometimes I think I cannot fail ; and 
 then, knowing how often I have thought so of 
 fallible things, I am again desponding. Yet, 
 within these three or four days, I 've been 
 remarkably high in spirits, and now am so, 
 though I 've somewhat exhausted them by 
 writing upwards of thirty pages. 
 
 " I am happy in being in the best family 
 you could conceive me to have been led to ; 
 — people of real good character and good 
 nature : whose circumstances are affluent above 
 their station, and their manners aflable beyond 
 their circumstances. Had I taken a lodging 
 at a different kind of house, I must have been 
 greatly distressed ; but now I shall, at all 
 events, not be so before 't is determined, one 
 way or other, what I am to expect. 
 
 " I keep too little of the journal form here, 
 for I always think I am writing to you for the 
 evening's post ; and, according to custom 
 then, shall bid my dear Sally good night, 
 and ask her prayers. 
 
 " J/oy21. — I give you, my dear Miss Elmy, 
 a short abstract of a Sermon, preached this 
 morning by my favourite clergyman, at St. 
 Dunstan's." There is nothing particular in 
 it, but had you heard the good man, reverend 
 in appearance, and with a hollow, slow voice, 
 deliver it — a man who seems as if already 
 half way to Heaven, — you would have joined 
 with me in wondering people call it dull and 
 disagreeable to hear such discourses, and run 
 from them to societies where Deists foolishly 
 blaspheme, or to pantomimes and farces, 
 where men seek to deform the creatures God 
 stamped his own image upon. What, I 
 
 " The Rev. Thomas Winstanley, of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, A.M., was appointed rector of St. Dunstan's in the 
 East, in January, 1771, — succeeding the celebrated Dr. Jortin, 
 author of the Life of Erasmus, &c. This eminently respect- 
 able clergyman died in February, 1789. 
 
 c2 
 
20 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 wonder, can Mr. Williams,^ as a free-thinker, 
 or Mr. Lee Lewis,'" as a free-speaker, find so 
 entertaining to produce, that their congre- 
 gations so far exceed those which grace, and 
 yet disgrace, our churches. 
 
 " Text. — ' For many are called, but few chosen.' 
 
 " Observe, my brethren, that many are called — 
 so many that who can say he is not ? Which of 
 you is not called ? Where is the man who neither 
 is, nor will be ? such neither is nor will be born. 
 The call is universal ; it is not confined to this or 
 that sect or country ; to this or that class of people : 
 every man shares in this blessed invitation — every 
 man is called. Some by outward, some by inward 
 means : to some, the happy news is proclaimed, 
 to some it is whispered. Some have the word 
 preached to their outward ears ; some have it sug- 
 gested, inwardly, in their hearts. None are omitted 
 in this universal invitation ; none shall say, ' I 
 came not, for I w-as not called.' But take notice — 
 when you have well considered the universality of 
 the call — pondered it, admired, wondered, been 
 lost in contemplation of the bounty ; take notice 
 how it is abused — ' Few are chosen.' Few ! but 
 that, you will say, is in comparison, not in reality; 
 — a sad interpretation ! degrading whilst it pal- 
 liates, still it sounds a lesson to pride; — still I 
 repeat it, ' Few are chosen.' How doubly lessen- 
 ing ! — many, yea, all, are called — are invited, are 
 entreated, are pressed to the wedding. Many, 
 yea, all — but a little remnant, — heed not, love not, 
 obey not the invitation. Many are called to the 
 choice of eternal happiness, and yet few will make 
 eternal happiness their choice. 
 
 " Brethren, what reasons may be assigned for 
 these things ? For the universality of the call ? 
 For the limitation of the choice ? "The reason why 
 all are called, is this : that God is no respecter of 
 persons. Shall any, in the last day, proclaim that 
 the Judge of the whole earth did not right ? Shall 
 any plead a want of this call, as a reason why he 
 came not ? Shall any be eternally miserable, 
 because he was i-efused the means of being happy ? 
 No ; not one. All require this mercy ; all have 
 this mercy granted them. Fi-om the first man 
 to the last, all are sinners ; from the first man to 
 the last, all are invited to be clean ; for, as in Adam 
 all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. 
 
 " The reason why many are called, is, because 
 the mercy of God is not confined, is unspeakable. 
 The reason why so few are chosen, is, because 
 man's depravity is so great, so extensive. The call 
 is God's ; the choice is ours ; — that we may be 
 happy, is liis, of his goodness ; that we will not, 
 is our own folly : lie wills not that a sinner should 
 
 • About til is time, David Williams, orijiiiiHUy a dissenting 
 minister in Glamortjansliire, published " l,ectures on the Uni- 
 vers:il Principles of Religion and Morality," "Apology for 
 professing the Religion of Nature," >i: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 
 <rone tlirough the form — for it was surely little 
 more - of making proper inquiries as to the im- 
 ])ression left of Mr. Crabbe's character in his 
 native ])lace— Mr. Burke, though well aware of 
 the difficulties of obtaining holy orders for anj' 
 jierson not regularly educated, exerted himself 
 to ))rocure the assent, in this instance, of Dr. 
 Yonge, the then Bishop of Norwich ; and in 
 this, backed by the favourable representations of 
 Mr. Dudley North and Mr. Charles Long, he 
 was eventually successful. 
 
 Meantime, nothing could be more cordial 
 than the kindness with which my father was 
 uniformly treated at Bcaconsfield. Let no one 
 say that ambition chills the heart to other 
 i'celings. This obscure young writer could con- 
 tribute in nothing to the reputation of a statesman 
 and orator, at the very apex of influence and re- 
 nown ; yet never had he been so aftectionately 
 received as when, a pennyless dependant, he 
 first entered the hall of that beautiful mansion , 
 and, during the whole of his stay, he was cheered 
 by a constancy of kind and jioiite attention, such 
 as I fear to describe, lest I should be suspected 
 of fond exaggeration. As a trivial specimen of 
 the conduct of the lady of the house, I may 
 mention, that, one day, some company of rank 
 tliat had been expected to dinner did not arrive, 
 and the servants, in consequence, reserved for 
 next day some costly dish that had been ordered. 
 Mrs. Burke happened to ask for it ; and the 
 butler saying, " It had been kept back, as the 
 company did not come" — she answered, " What ! 
 is not Mr. Crabbe here ? let it be brought up 
 immediately." It is not always that lacHcs enter 
 so warmly into the feelings of their husbands 
 on occasions of this sort. Mrs. Burke and her 
 niece were afterwards indefatigable in promoting 
 the sale of " The Library," both by letters and 
 by personal application. 
 ' My father was introduced, while under this 
 happy roof, to Mr. Fox, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 and many others of Mr. Burke's distinguished 
 friends, who, like himself, encouraged the young 
 adventurer with api)robation : and for Sir Joshua, 
 in particular, he (!onceived a warm and grateful 
 attacliment, which subse(|uent experience only 
 confirmed. When Mr. Bui ke's family returned 
 to London for the winter, my lather accom- 
 panied tbem; and, it being iuconvenient for 
 
 them to afford him an apartment at that time in 
 their town house, he took lodgings in its neigh- 
 bourhood. He, however, continued to dine 
 commonly at Mr. Burke's table, and was intro- 
 duced by him to several of the clubs of which 
 he was a member, and gradually, I believe, to 
 all those of his friends who took any interest in 
 literature. But it was at Sir Joshua's table that 
 he first had the honour of meeting Dr. Johnson ; 
 and I much regret that so little is in my power 
 to tell of their intercourse. My father, how- 
 ever, said, that, at this first interview, he was 
 particularly unfortunate : makinsr some trite re- 
 mark, or hazarding some injudicious question, 
 he brought on himself a specimen of that casti- 
 gation which the great literary bashaw was 
 commonly so ready to administer. He remem- 
 bered with half comic terror the Doctor's yrowl: 
 but this did not diminish Mr. Crabbe's respect 
 and veneration for the Doctor, nor did his rnal- 
 d-propos, on the other hand, ])revent Johnson 
 from giving him a most courteous reception, 
 when, at Burke's suggestion, he some days 
 afterwards called on him in Bolt Court. He 
 then expressed no little interest in his visiter's 
 success ; and proved his sincerity by the atten- 
 tion with which he subsequently read and re- 
 vised " The Village." Had 1 contemj^lated 
 this narrative somewhat earlier, and led mj' 
 father, with a view to it, to converse on the 
 great men he met with at this time of his life, I 
 might, no doubt, have obtained some curious in- 
 formation. But, in truth, he had neither the 
 turn nor much of the talent for the retention of 
 conversations ; and even what he did remember, 
 he was not always disposed to communicate. 
 One maxim of Johnson's, however, had made a 
 strong impression on him : " Never fear putting 
 the strongest and best things you can think of 
 into the moutii of your s|)eaker, whatever may 
 be his condition."' 
 
 When "The Library" was published, the 
 opinion of Burke had its efi'ect upon the con- 
 ductors of the various periodical works of the 
 time ; the poet received commendatory critiques 
 from the very gentlemen who had hitherto 
 treated liim with such contemptuous coldness ; 
 and though his name was not in the title-page, 
 it was universally known. 
 
 Burke rejoiced in the success of his protege ; 
 but, promising as the young author's prospects 
 now appeared to be, the profits of so small a 
 poem could not have been considerable ; and his 
 being accustomed to appear at such tables as 
 those of Mr. Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 implied a certain degree of expense in articles 
 of dress, so that, his modesty preventing him from 
 stating his exactcase to his ever-generous patron, 
 — w hile the patron on his part, having conferred 
 such substantial benefits, had too much delicacy 
 
 ' I owe tliis to tlie recollection of my "i'Jicr's friend, Miss 
 Uottie, of Ilamp»tfaii. 
 
to make him feel dependent for alms, — my father 
 was at this time occasionally reduced to distress 
 for an immediate supply of money. In an in- 
 terval of something like his former misery, — at 
 all events, of painful perplexity, — he received a 
 note from the Lord Chancellor, politely inviting 
 him to breakfast the next morning. His kind 
 patron had spoken of him in favourable terms to 
 the stern and formidable Thurlow, and his Lord- 
 ship was now anxious to atone for his previous 
 neglect. He received Mr. Crabbe with more 
 than courtesy, and most condescendingly said, 
 " The first poem you sent me. Sir, I ought to 
 have noticed — and I heartily forgive the second." 
 They breakfasted together, and, at parting, his 
 Lordship put a sealed paper into my father's 
 hand, saying, " Accept this trifle. Sir, in the 
 meantime, and rely on my embracing an early 
 opportunity to serve you more substantially vhen 
 1 hear that you are in orders." As soon as he 
 had left the house he opened the letter, expect- 
 ing to find a present of ten, or perhaps twenty 
 pounds : it contained a bank note for a hundred; 
 a supply which effectually relieved him from all 
 his present difficulties, while his new patron's 
 accompanying promise must have eased him of 
 any apprehensions which might yet haunt his 
 mind as to his future prospects in the world. 
 
 I am enabled to state — though the information 
 never came from my fathert — hat the first use 
 he made of this good fortune was, to seek out 
 and relieve some objects of real indigence — poor 
 scholars like himself, whom he had known when 
 sharing their wretchedness in the City : and I 
 must add, that whenever he visited London in 
 later years, he made it his business to inquire 
 after similar objects of charity, supposed to be of 
 respectable personal character, and to do by 
 them as, in his own hour of distress, he would 
 have been done by. But who knew better than 
 he, that the metropolis has always abundance of 
 such objects, if any one would search for them ? 
 or who, — I may safely appeal to all that knew 
 him, — ever sacrificed time and trouble in the 
 cause of benevolence, throughout every varying 
 scene of his life, more freely than Mr. Crabbe ? 
 No wonder it was his first thought, on finding 
 himself in possession of even a very slender 
 fund, to testify his thankfulness to that Being 
 who had rescued himself from the extreme of 
 destitution, and to begin as early as possible to 
 pay the debt he owed to misfortune. 
 
 Mr. Crabbe, having passed a very creditable 
 examination, was admitted to deacon's orders, in 
 London, on the 21st December, by the Bishop 
 of Norwich ; who ordained him a priest in 
 August of the year following, in his own cathe- 
 dral. Being licensed as curate to the Rev. Mr. 
 Bennett, rector of Aldborough, he immedi- 
 ately bade a grateful adieu to his illustrious pa- 
 tron and his other eminent benefactors — not 
 forgetting his kind and hospitable friends in 
 
 Cornhill — and went down to take up his resi- 
 dence once more in his native place. 
 
 The feelings with which he now returned to 
 Aldborough may easily be imagined. He must 
 have been more than man had he not exulted at 
 the change. He left his home a deserter from 
 his profession, with the imputation of having 
 failed in it from wanting even common abilities 
 for the discharge of its duties — in the estimation 
 of the ruder natives, who had witnessed his 
 manual awkwardness in the seafaring pursuits of 
 the place, "a lubber," and "a fool;" ])erhaps 
 considered even by those who recognised some- 
 thing of his literary talent, as a hare-brained 
 visionary, never destined to settle to anything 
 with steadiness and sober resolution ; on all 
 hands convicted certainly of the " crime of 
 poverty," and dismissed from view as a destitute 
 and hopeless outcast. He returned, a man of 
 acknowledged talents; a successful author, pa- 
 tronised and befriended by some of the leading 
 characters in the kingdom ; and a clergyman 
 with every prospect of preferment in the church. 
 His father had the candour to admit, that he 
 had underiated his poetical abilities, and that he 
 had acted judiciously in trusting to the bent of 
 nature, rather than persevering in an occupation 
 for which he was, from the outset, peculiarlv 
 disqualified. The old man now gloried in the 
 boldness of his adventure, and was proud of its 
 success : he fondly transcribed " The Library" 
 with his own hand ; and, in short, reaped the 
 reward of his own early exertions to give his 
 son a better education than his circumstances 
 could well aflbrd. 
 
 On the state of mind with which the young 
 clergyman now revisited Parham — on the beauti- 
 ful and retributive conclusion thusaflbrded to the 
 period of resignation and humble trust recorded 
 in his "Journal to Mira," — I shall not attempt 
 to comment. In the esteem of his ever encourag- 
 ing and confiding friend there, he could not 
 stand higher now than he had done when all the 
 the rest of the world despaired of or disowned 
 him ; but, with the hospitality and kindness he 
 had long experienced i'rom her relations, there 
 was now mingled a respect to which he had 
 previously been a stranger. He heard no more 
 taunts about that " d d learning." 
 
 On his first entrance, however, into his father's 
 house, at this time, his joyous feelings hwi to 
 undergo a painful revulsion. That affectionate 
 parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness 
 and suffering, had she witnessed his success, was 
 no more : she had sunk under the dropsy, in his 
 absence, with a fortitude of resignation closely 
 resembling that of his own last hours. It hap- 
 pened that a friend and neighbour was slowly 
 yielding at the same time to the same hopeless 
 disorder, and every morning she used to desire 
 her daughter to see if this sufferer's window 
 was opened ; saying, cheerfully, " she must make 
 
30 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 haste, or I shall be at rest before her." My 
 father has alluded to his feelings on this occasion 
 in the " Parish Register:"— 
 
 " Arrived at home, how then he gazed around 
 On every place where she no more was found ; 
 The seat at table she was wont to fill, 
 The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still ; 
 The Sunday pew she fill'd with all her race, 
 Kach Dlace of hers was now a sacred place." 
 
 And I find liim recurring to the same theme in 
 one of his manuscript pieces : — 
 
 " But oh I in after-years 
 Were other deaths tliat caird for other tears : — 
 No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint! 
 The patient sufferer ! the enduring saint ! 
 Holy and cheerful ! — but all words are faint !" 
 
 Mr. Crabbe's early religious impressions were, 
 no doubt, strongly influenced by those of his 
 mother ; and she was, as I have already said, a 
 deeply devout woman ; but her seriousness was 
 not of the kind that now almost exclusively 
 receives that designation. Among persons of 
 her class, at least, at that period, there was a 
 general impression that the doctrinal creed 
 ought rather to be considered the affair of the 
 pastor than of the humble and unlearned mem- 
 bers of his flock — that the former would be held 
 responsible for the tenets he inculcated — the 
 latter for the practical observance of those rules 
 of conduct and temper which good men of all 
 persuasions alike advocate and desire to exem- 
 plify. The controversial spirit, in a word, 
 lighted up by Whitfield and Wesley, had not as 
 yet reached the coast of Suffolk. Persons turned 
 through misfortune, sickness, or any other ex- 
 citing cause, to think with seriousness of secur- 
 ing their salvation, were used to say to them- 
 selves, " I must amend and correct whatever 
 in my lii'e and conversation does offend the eyes 
 of my Heavenly Father ; I must henceforth be 
 diligent in my duties, search out and oppose the 
 evil in my heart, and cultivate virtuous dispo- 
 sitions and devout afl^ections." Not from their 
 own strength, however, did they hope and 
 expect such improvement: they sought it from, 
 and ascribed it to, " Him from whom all good 
 counsels and works do proceed," and admitted, 
 without hesitation, that their own best services 
 could be made acceptable only through the 
 merits of their Redeemer. Thus far such per- 
 sons accorded with the mere serious of a later 
 period ; but the subtle distinction between 
 good works as necessary and yet not conditional 
 to salvation, and othcrsof alike kind, particularly 
 jjrevalent afterwards, were not then familiar; 
 nor was it at all common to believe, that Chris- 
 tians ought to renounce this world, in any other 
 sense than that of renouncing its wickedness, or 
 that they are called upon to shun any thing but 
 the excessive indulgence in amusements and 
 recreations not in tiicmselves palpably evil. 
 
 Sucli was the religion of Mrs. Crabbe ; and, 
 doubtless, her mildness, humility, patient endur- 
 ance of afflictions and sufferings, meek habits, 
 and devout spirit, strongly recommended her 
 example to her son, and impressed his young 
 mind with a deep belief that the principles 
 which led to such practice must be those of the 
 Scriptures of God. 
 
 It is true that neither the precepts nor the 
 example of his mother were able altogether to 
 preserve Mr. Crabbe from the snares that beset, 
 with peculiar strength, young men early removed 
 from the paternal roof. The juvenile apprentice 
 is, in many respects, too much his own master ; 
 and though my father, in his first service, escaped 
 with no worse injury than the association with 
 idle lads generally brings with it, yet, in his se- 
 cond apprenticeship, and afterwards, in the begin- 
 ning of liis own practice at Aldborough, he did not 
 scruple to confess that he was not always proof 
 against the temptations of a town. Where 
 
 " High in the street, o'erlooking all the place. 
 The rampant lion shows his kingly face " — 
 
 the Aldborough Boniface of the present day 
 shows, I am told, with no little exultation, an 
 old-fashioned room, the usual scene of convivial 
 meetings, not always remarkable for " mea- 
 sured merriment," in which the young doctor 
 had his share. It seems probable that the seri- 
 ousness and purity of his early impressions had, 
 for a season, been smothered : but they were 
 never obliterated ; and I believe I do not en* in 
 tracing to the severe illness which befell him 
 not long after he had commenced as surgeon at 
 Aldborough, their revival and confirmation — a 
 strong and a permanent change. On his reco- 
 very from an affliction, during which he had 
 felt that life hung by a thread, he told his 
 children that he made a solemn resolution 
 against all deliberate evil ; and those who ob- 
 served him after that period all concur in stating 
 his conduct and conversation to have been that 
 of a regular, temperate, and religious young 
 man. 
 
 When his sister and he kept house apart from 
 the rest of the family, it was their invariable 
 practice to read a portion of the Scrii)tures toge- 
 ther every evening ; and even while struggling 
 with the difficulties of his medical occupation, 
 poetry was not the only literary diversion he 
 indulged in. His early note-books now before 
 me, contain proofs that he was in the habit of 
 composing sermons, in imitation of Tillotson, 
 long before he could have had the least surmise 
 that he was ever to be a preacher. Indeed, the 
 "Journal to Mira" contains such evidence of 
 the purity of his conduct, and of the habitual 
 attention he paid to religious topics, that I need 
 not enlarge further upon the subject. He cer- 
 tainly was not guilty of rushing into the service 
 of the altar without having done his endeavour 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 31 
 
 to discipline himself for a due discharge of its 
 awful obligations, by cultivating the virtues of 
 Cliristianity in his heart, and, in as far as his 
 opportunities extended, making himself fit to 
 minister to the spiritual necessities of others. 
 But I am bound to add, that in a later period of 
 life, and more especially during the last ten 
 years of it, he became more conscious of the 
 importance of dwelling on the doctrines as well 
 as the practice of Christianity, than he had been 
 when he first took orders ; and when a selection 
 of his Sermons is placed, as I hope it ere long 
 will be, before the public, it will be seen that he 
 had gradually approached, in substantial matters, 
 though not exactly in certain jjeculiar ways of 
 expression, to that respected body usually deno- 
 minated Evangelical Christians of the Church 
 of England ; with whom, nevertheless, he was 
 never classed by others, nor, indeed, by himself. 
 And what, it will naturally be ask^d, was his 
 reception by the people of Aldboruugh, when 
 he re-a|)peared among them in this new charac- 
 ter? " The prophet is not without honour, 
 save in his own country :" — this Scriptural pro- 
 verb was entirely exemplified here. The whis- 
 per ran through the town, that a man who had 
 tailed in one calling, was not very likely to make 
 a great figure in a new one. Others revived, 
 most unjustly, old stories, in which my father 
 did not appear with quite clerical decorum : and 
 others again bruited about a most groundless 
 rumour that he had been, when in London, a 
 preacher among the Methodists. For this last 
 report there was, indeed, no foundation at all, 
 except that an Aldborough sailor, happening 
 one day to enter Mr. Wesley's chapel at Moor- 
 fields, had perceived my father, who had gone 
 thither, like himself, from pure curiosity, stand- 
 ing on the steps of the pulpit; the place being 
 so crowded that he could find no more convenient 
 situation. But perhaps the most common, as 
 well as unworthy, of all the rumours afloat, was, 
 that he had been spoiled by the notice of fine 
 folks in town, and would now be too proud to be 
 bearal)le among his old ecjuals. When I asked 
 him how he felt when he entered the pulpit at 
 Aldborough, for the first time, he answered, " I 
 had been unkindly received in the place — I saw 
 unfriendly countenances about me, and, I am 
 sorry to say, I had too much indignation, though 
 mingled, I hope, with better feelings, to care 
 what they thought of me or my sermon." Per- 
 haps, as he himself remarked, all this may have 
 been well ordered for my father. Had there 
 been nothing to operate as an antidote, the cir- 
 cumstances of his altered position in life might 
 have tempted human infirmity, even in him, to 
 a vain-glorious self esteem. 
 
 He appears to have ere long signified some 
 uneasiness of feeling to the Lord Chancellor, 
 whose very kind answer concluded in these 
 words: — " I can form no opinion of your pre- 
 
 sent situation or prospects, still less upon the 
 agrecableness of it ; but you may imagine that I 
 wish you well, and, if you make yourself capable 
 of preferment, that I shall try to find an early 
 opportunity of serving you. I am, with great 
 regard, dear Sir, your faithful friend and servant, 
 Ihurlow. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 1782—1783. 
 
 Mr. Crablje's Appointment as domestic Chaplain to the Duke 
 of Rutland — Removes to Belvoir Castle — Publication of 
 " The Village." 
 
 My father continued to be curate at Aldborough 
 for only a few months, during which his sister 
 resumed the charge of his domestic affairs, in a 
 small lodging ajjart from the rest of the iiimiiy. 
 His brother Robert, a man in many respects 
 closely resembling himself, of strong faculties 
 and amiable disposition, was now settled at 
 Southwold ; but the two brothers, much attached 
 to each other's society, made a point of meeting 
 one evening of each week at Blythborough, 
 about half way between their places of residence. 
 I need hardly add, that my father passed also a 
 considerable part of his time under the same 
 roof with Miss Elmy, who still prudently re- 
 sisted every proposition of immediate marriage, 
 being resolved not to take such a step until her 
 lover should have reached some position less 
 jjrecarious than that of a mere curate. 
 
 Most persons who had done as much for one 
 in my father's situation as Mr. Burke had already 
 accomplished, would, no doubt, have been dis- 
 posed to say, or to think, " Now, young man, 
 help yourself:" but it was far otherwise with 
 Mr. Crabbe's illustrious benefactor. He was 
 anxious to see his protege raised as high as his 
 friendship could elevate him ; and he soon was 
 the means of placing him in a station such as 
 has, in numerous instances, led to the first dig- 
 nities of the church. My father received a 
 letter from Mr. Burke, informing him that, in 
 consequence of some conversation he had held 
 with the Duke of Rutland, that nobleman would 
 willingly receive him as his domestic chaplain 
 at Belvoir Castle, so soon as he could get rid of 
 his existing engagements at Aldborough. This 
 was a very unusual occurrence, such situations 
 in the mansions of that rank being commonly 
 filled either by relations of the noble family 
 itself, or by college acquaintances, or dependants 
 recommended by political service and local 
 attachment. But, in spite of political dift'erencc, 
 the recommendation of Burke was all-powerful 
 with the late Duke of Rutland, the son of the 
 great Marquis of Granby ; for this nobleman, 
 though not what is usually called a literary man, 
 had a strong partiality for letters, a refined taste 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 for the arts, and felt that a young author of such 
 •renins as Burke had imputed to my father would 
 be a valuable acquisition to the society of his 
 mansion, where, like a genuine English peer of 
 the old school, he spent the greater portion of 
 his time in the exercise of boundless hospitality 
 and benevolence. ]My father did not hesitate, 
 of course, to accept the offered situation ; and, 
 having taken farewell for a season of his friends 
 at Parham, he once more quitted Aldborough, 
 but not now in the hold of a sloop, nor with 
 those gloomy fears and trembling anticipations 
 which had agitated his mind on a former occa- 
 sion. He was now morally sure of being, within 
 no long interval, placed in a situation that would 
 enable him to have a house of his own and to 
 settle for life in the enjoyment of at least a 
 moderate competency. 
 
 What his hopes exactly amounted to when 
 this change took place, or what apprehensions 
 chequered them when he approached Belvoir, 
 or what were his impressions on his first re- 
 ception there, are questions which I never ven- 
 tured to ask of him. It would have been highly 
 interesting, certainly, to have his remarks on 
 what now befell him at the opening of so new a 
 scene of life, recorded in another "Journal to 
 Mira;" but none such has been discovered. 
 He always seemed to shrink from going into 
 oral details on the subject. The numberless 
 allusions to the nature of a literary dependant's 
 existence in a great lord's house, which occur 
 in my father's writings, and especially in the 
 tale of " The Patron," are, however, quite 
 enough to lead any one who knew his character 
 and feelings to the conclusion that, notwith- 
 standing the kindness and condescension of the 
 Duke and Duchess themselves — which were, I 
 believe, uniform, and of which he always spoke 
 with gratitude — the situation he filled at Belvoir 
 was attended with many painful circumstances, 
 and productive in his mind of some of the 
 acutest sensations of wounded pride that have 
 ever been traced by any pen. 
 
 The Duchess ' was then the most celebrated 
 beauty in England ; and the fascinating grace 
 of her manners made the due impression on my 
 father. The Duke himself was a generous man, 
 "cordial, frank, and free;" and highly popular 
 with all classes. His establishments of race- 
 horses, hunters, and hounds were extensive, be- 
 cause it was then held a part of such a noble- 
 man's duty that they should be so ; but these 
 things were rather for the enjoyment of his 
 friends than ibr his own. He was sufficiently 
 interested in such recreations to join in them 
 occasionally ; but he would frequently dismiss a 
 splendid i)arty from his gates, and himself ride, 
 accompanied only by Mr. Crabbe, to some se- 
 questered part of his domain, to converse on 
 
 ' Ladv Marv-lsabelln .Somerset, daughter of the fourth 
 Duke of Beaufort. She died in 1831. 
 
 literary topics, quote verses, and criticise plays, i 
 Their Graces' children were at this period still 
 in the nursery. 
 
 The immediate chiefs of the place, then, were 
 all that my father could have desired to find 
 them ; but their guests, and, above all, perhaps, 
 their servants, might not always treat him with 
 equal respect. 1 nmst add, that although the 
 state at the castle was by no means more strict 
 than is usual in great establishments — and cer- 
 tainly not marked by the ]>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<//e/7?/ ; conveying the ideas of kind- 
 ness, intellect, and purity ; his manner grave, 
 manly, and cheerful, in unison with his high and 
 open forehead : his very attitudes, whether as he 
 sat absorbed in the arrangement of his minerals, 
 shells, and insects — or as he laboured in his 
 garden until his naturally pale conijjlexion ac- 
 quired a tinge of fresh healthy red ; or as, 
 coming lightly towards us with some unexpected 
 present, his smile of indescribable benevolence 
 spoke exultation in the foretaste of our rap- 
 tures. 
 
 But I think, even earlier than these are my 
 first recollections of my mother. I think the 
 very earliest is of her as combing my hair one 
 evening, by the liglit of the fire, which hardly 
 broke the long shadows of the room, and singing 
 the plaintive air of " Kitty Fell," till, though I 
 could not have been more than three years old, 
 the melody found its way into my heart, and the 
 tears dropped down so profusely that I was glad 
 the darkness concealed them. How mysterious 
 is shame without guilt ! 
 
 There are few situations on earth more en- 
 viable than that of a child on his first journey 
 witjj indulgent parents ; there is perpetual excite- 
 ment and novelty, — " omne ignotum pro mag- 
 nijico," — and at the same time a perfect freedom 
 from care. This blessed ignorance of limits and 
 boundaries, and absence of all forecast, form the 
 very charm of the enchantment ; each town 
 appears indefinitely vast, each day as if it were 
 never to have a close : no decline of any kind 
 being dreamt of, the present is enjoyed in a way 
 wholly impossible with those who have a long 
 past to remember, and a dark future to antici- 
 pate. Never can I forget my first excursion 
 into Suffolk, in company with my parents. It 
 was in the month of September, 1790 — (shortly 
 
40 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 after 1113' mother had recovered from her confine- 
 ment with her fourth son, Edmund Crabbc, who 
 died in his sixth year), — that, dressed in my 
 first suit of boy's clothes (and that scarlet), in 
 the height of a delicious season, I was mounted 
 beside them in their huge old gig, and visited 
 the scenes and the persons familiar to me, from 
 my earliest nursery days, in their conversation 
 and anecdotes. Sometimes, as we proceeded, my 
 father read aloud ; sometimes he left us for a 
 while to botanisc among the hedgerows, and 
 returned with some unsightly weed or bunch of 
 moss, to him precious. Tiien, in the evening, 
 when we had reached our inn, the happy child, 
 instead of being sent early as usual to bed, was 
 permitted to stretch himself on the carpet, while 
 the reading was resumed, blending with sounds 
 which, from novelty, appeared delightful, — the 
 buzzing of the bar, the rattling of wheels, the 
 horn of the mail-coach, the gay clamour of the 
 streets — everything to excite and astonish, in 
 tlie midst of safety and repose. My father's 
 countenance at such moments is still before me ; 
 — with what gentle sympathy did he seem to 
 enjoy the happiness of childhood ! 
 
 On the third day we reached Parham, and I 
 was introduced to a set of manners and customs, 
 of which there remains, perhaps, no counterpart 
 in the ])resent day-.-^My great-uncle's establish- 
 ment was that of the first-rate yeoman of that 
 period — the Yeoman that already began to be 
 styled by courtesy an Esquire. Mr. Tovell 
 might possess an estate of some eight hundred 
 pounds per annum, a portion of which be himself 
 cultivated. Educated at a mercantile school, he 
 often said of himself, " Jack will never make a 
 gentleman ;" yet he had a native dignity of mind 
 and of manners, which might have enabled him 
 to pass muster in that character with any but \ery 
 fastidious critics. His house was large, and the 
 surrounding moat, the rookery, the ancient dove- 
 cot, and the well-stored fishponds, were such as 
 might have suited a gentleman's seat of some 
 consequence ; but one side of the house imme- 
 diately overlooked a farm-yard, i'ull of all sorts 
 of domestic animals, and the scene of constant 
 bustle and noise. On entering the house, there 
 was notiiing at first sight to remind one of the 
 tarm:— a spacious hall, ])a\eil with black and 
 white marble, — at one extremity a very hand- 
 some drawing-room, and at the other a fine old 
 staircase of black oak, ])olished till it was as 
 slippery as ice, and having a chime-clock and a 
 barrel-organ on its landing-places. But this 
 <lrawing-room, a cori'csponding dining-purlour, 
 and a handsome sleeping apartment up stairs, 
 were all tabooed groinui, and made use of on 
 great and solenm occasions only — such as rent- 
 days, and an occasional visit with which Mr. 
 'I'ovcll was honoured by a neighbouring i)eer. 
 At all other times the family and their visiters 
 lived entirely ia the old-fashioned kitchen along 
 
 with the servants. My great-uncle occupied an 
 arm-chair, or, in attacks of gout, a couch on one 
 side of a large open chimney. Mrs. Tovell sat 
 at a small table, on which, in the evening, stood 
 one small candle, in an iron candlestick, plying 
 her needle by the feeble glimmer, surrounded 
 by her maids, all busy at the same employment; 
 but in winter a noble block of wood, sometimes 
 the whole circumference of a pollard, threw its 
 comfortable warmth and cheerful blaze over the 
 apartment. 
 
 At a very early hour in the morning, the 
 ala''um called the maids, and their mistress also ; 
 and if the former were tard3% a louder alarum, 
 and more formidable, was heard chiding the 
 delay — not that scolding was peculiar to any 
 occasion, it regularly ran on through all the day, 
 like bells on harness, in spiriting the work, 
 whether it were done ill or well. After the 
 important business of the dairy, and a hasty 
 breakfast, their respective emjjioyments were 
 again resumed ; that which the mistress took for 
 her especial privilege being the scrubbing of 
 the floors of the state apai'tments. A new 
 servant, ignorant of her presumption, was found 
 one morning on her knees, hard at work on the 
 floor of one of these preserves, and was thus 
 addressed by her mistress: — " low wash such 
 floors as these ? Give me the brush this instant, 
 and troop to the scullery and wash that, madam ! 
 
 As ti'uc as G — d 's in heaven, here 
 
 comes Lord Rochlbrd, to call on Mr. Tovell. — 
 Here, take my mantle (a blue woollen apron), 
 and I '11 go to the door! 
 
 If the sacred aj)artnients had not been opened, 
 the family dined oii this wise ; — the heads seated 
 in the kitchen at an old table ; the farm-men 
 standing in the adjoining scullery, door open — 
 the female servants at a side table, called a 
 bouter ; — with the principals, at the table, per- 
 chance some travelling rat-catcher, or tinker, or 
 farrier, or an occasional gardener in his shirt- 
 sleeves, his face probably streaming with perspi- 
 ration. My father well describes, in "The 
 Widovv's Tale," my mother's situation, when 
 living in her younger days at Parham : — 
 
 " But when the men beside tlieir station took, 
 The maidens witli them, and with these the cook ; 
 When one hu/^e wooden bowl belore them stood, 
 FiU'd with huije balls of farinaceous food ; 
 Witli bacon, mass saline ! where never lean 
 rjeneath the brown and bristly rind was seen . 
 When from a single hum tlio party drew 
 Tiieir copious drauglits of heavy ale and new ; 
 When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, 
 Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came afjain ; 
 She could not breathe, but, with a heavy sigh, 
 Kein'd the fair necU, and shut the oflended eye ; 
 She minced thesan;jHine flesh in frustums fine, 
 .'Vnd wondered much to see the creatures dine." 
 
 On ordinary days, when the dinner was over, 
 the nre replenished, the kitchen sanded and 
 lightly swc])! over in waves, mistress and maids. 
 
 Jj 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 41 
 
 taking off their shoes, retired to their chambers 
 for a nap of one hour to the minute. The dogs 
 and cats commenced their siesta by the fire. 
 Mr. Tovell dozed in his chair, and no noise was 
 heard, except the melancholy and monotonous 
 cooing of a turtle-dove, varied, however, by the 
 shrill treble of a canary. After the hour had 
 expired, the active part of the family were on 
 the alert, the bottles (Mr. Tovell's tea equipage) 
 placed on the table ; and as if by instinct some 
 old acquaintance would glide in for the evening's 
 carousal, and then another, and another. If 
 four or five arrived, the punchbowl was taken 
 down, and emptied and filled again. ,'fiut, who- 
 ever came, it was comparatively a dull even- 
 ing, unless two especial Knights Companions 
 wei'e of the party ; — one was a jolly old farmer, 
 with much of the person and humour of Falstafi", 
 a face as rosy as brandy could make it, and an 
 eye teeming with subdued merriment ; for he 
 had that prime quality of a joker, superficial 
 gravity : — the other was a relative of the family, 
 a wealthy yeoman, middle-aged, thin, and mus- 
 cular. He was a bachelor, and famed for his 
 indiscriminate attachment to all who bore the 
 name of woman, — young or aged, clean or dirty, 
 a lady or a gipsy, it mattered not to him ; all 
 were equally admired. He had peopled the 
 village green ; and it was remarked, that, who- 
 ever was the motlier, the children might be re- 
 cognised in an instant to belong to him. Such 
 was the strength of his constitution, that, though 
 he seldom went to bed sober, he retained a clear 
 eye and stentorian voice to his eightieth year, 
 and coursed when he was ninety. He some- 
 times rendered the colloquies over the bowl pe- 
 culiarly piquant ; and so soon as his voice began 
 to be elevated, one or two of the inmates, my 
 father and mother for example, withdrew with 
 Mrs. Tovell into her own sanctum sanctormn ; 
 but I, not being supposed capable of under- 
 standing much of what might be said, was 
 allowed to linger on the skirts of the festive 
 circle ; and the servants, being considered much 
 in the same point of view as the animals dozing 
 on the hearth, remained, to have the full benefit 
 of their wit, neither producing the slightest 
 restraint, nor feeling it themselves. 
 
 After we had spent some weeks amidst this 
 primitive set, we proceeded to Aldborough, 
 where we were received with the most cordial 
 welcome by my father's sister and her worthy 
 husband, Mr. Sparkes. How well do I remem- 
 ber that morning! — my father watching the 
 effect of the first view of the sea on my counte- 
 nance, the tempered joyfulness of his manner 
 when he carried me in his arms to the \erge of 
 the rippling waves, and the nameless delight 
 with which I fii-st inhaled the odours of the 
 beach. What variety of emotions had lie not 
 experienced on that spot! — how unmingled 
 would have been his happiness then, had his 
 
 mother survived to see him as a husband and 
 a father ! 
 
 We visited also on this occasion my grand- 
 mother Mrs. Elmy, and her two daughters, at 
 the delightful town of Beccles ; and never can I 
 forget the admiration with which I even then 
 viewed this gem of the Waveney, and the fine 
 old church (Beata Ecclesia), which gives name 
 to the place ; though, as there were no other 
 children in the house, there were abundant 
 attractions of another kind more suited to my 
 years. In fact, Beccles seemed a paradise, as 
 we visited from house to house with our kind 
 relations. From this town we proceeded to a 
 sweet little villa called Normanston, another of 
 the early resorts of my mother and her lover, in 
 the days of their anxious affection. Here four 
 or five spinsters of independent fortune had 
 formed a sort of Protestant nunnery, the abbess 
 being Miss Blacknell, who afterwards deserted 
 it to become the wife of the late Admiral Sir 
 Thomas Graves, a lady of distinguished elegance 
 in her tastes and manners. Another of the 
 sisterhood was Miss Waldron, late of Tani worth, 
 — dear, good-humoured, hearty, masculine Miss 
 Waldron, who could sing a jovial song like a 
 fox-hunter, and like him I had almost said toss 
 a glass ; and yet was there such an air of high 
 to7i, and such intellect mingled with these man- 
 ners, that the perfect lady was not veiled for 
 a moment, — no, not when, with a face rosy red, 
 and an eye beaming with mirth, she would seize 
 a cup and sing " Toby Fill pot," glorying as it 
 were in her own jollity. When we took our 
 morning rides, she generally drove my father in 
 her phaeton, and interested him exceedingly by 
 her strong understanding and conversational 
 powers. 
 
 After morning prayers read b}' their clei-ical 
 guest in the elegant boudoir, the carriages came 
 to the door, and we went to some neighbouring 
 town, or to the sea-side, or to a camp then 
 formed at Hopton, a few miles distant ; more 
 frequently to Lowestoft'; where, one evening, 
 all adjourned to a dissenting chapel, to hear the 
 venerable John Wesley on one of the last of his 
 peregrinations. He was exceedingly old and 
 infirm, and was attended, almost supported in 
 the pulpit, by a young minister on each side. 
 The chapel was crowded to suflTocation. In the 
 course of the sermon, he repeated, though with 
 an application of his own, the lines from Ana- 
 crcon — 
 
 " Oft am I by women toW, 
 
 Poor Ariacreon ! thou grow'st old ; 
 See, thine hairs are falling all. 
 Poor Anacreon ! how they fall ! 
 Whether I grow old or no, 
 By these signs I do not know ; 
 But this I need not to be told, 
 'T is time to live if I grow old." 
 
 My father was much struck by his reverend a.\)- 
 
42 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 pearance and his cheerful air, and the beautiful 
 cadence he gave to these lines ; and, after the 
 service, introduced himself to the patriarch, 
 who received him with benevolent politeness. 
 
 Shortly after our return from Suffolk, the par- 
 sonage at Muston was visited by the late Mi. 
 John Nichols, his son (the present " Mr. Ur- 
 ban"), and an artist engaged in making drawings 
 for the History of Leicestershire. Mr. Crabbe 
 on this occasion rendered what service he could 
 to a work for which he had previously, as I have 
 stated, undertaken to write a chapter of natural 
 history ; and was gratified, after his friend's re- 
 turn to London, by a j)resent of some very fine 
 Dutch engravings of plants, splendidly coloured. 
 
 In the spring of the next year (1792) my 
 father preached a sermon at the visitation at 
 Grantham, which so much struck the late Mr. 
 Turner, rector of Denton and Wing, who had 
 been commissioned to select a tutor for the sons 
 of the Earl of Bute, that he came up alter the 
 service and solicited the preacher to receive 
 these young noblemen into his family. But this 
 he at once declined ; and he never acted more 
 wisely than in so doing. Like the late Arch- 
 bishop Moore, when tutor to the sons of the 
 Duke of Marlborough, he might easily have 
 " read a-head " of his pupils, and thus concealed 
 or remedied the defects of his own education ; 
 but the restraint of strange inmates would have 
 been intolerable in my father's humble parson- 
 age, and nothing could have repaid him ibr sub- 
 mitting to such an interruption of all his domes- 
 tic habits and favourite pursuits. 
 
 About this time he became intimately ac- 
 quainted with the late Dr. Gordon, precentor of 
 Lincoln, father to the present dean, and my 
 mother and he jjassed some time with him at 
 his residence near the cathedral. This was 
 another of those manly, enlarged minds, for 
 which he ever felt a strong partiality ; and on 
 the same grounds he felt the same regard, many 
 years afterwards, for his son. 
 
 In October of this year Mr. Crabbe was en- 
 closing a new garden for botanic specimens, 
 and had just completed the walls, when he was 
 suddenly summoned into Suffolk to act as execu- 
 tor to Mr. Tovell, who had been carried off 
 before there was time to announce his illness ; 
 and on his return, after nnich deliberation (many 
 motives contending against very intelligii)le 
 scruples), my father determined to place a cu- 
 rate at Muston, and to go and reside at Parhani, 
 taking the charge of some church in that neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 Thougli tastes and affections, as well as 
 worldly interests, ])rompted this return to native 
 scenes and early acquaintances, it was a step re- 
 luctantly taken, and, I believe, sincerely re- 
 pented of. The beginning was ominous. As 
 we were slowly quitting the place, preceded by 
 our furniture, a stranger, though one who knew 
 
 my father's circumstances, called out in an im- 
 pressive tone, " You are wrong, you are w rong." 
 The sound, he said, found an echo in his own 
 conscience, and during the whole journey seemed 
 to ring in his ears like a supernatural voice. 
 
 CHAPTER VI L 
 
 1792—1804. 
 
 Mr. Crabbe's Residence in SulTolk — at Parliam — at Glem- 
 ham — and at Rendham. 
 
 I\ November, 1792, we arrived once more at 
 Parham ; — but how changed was every thing 
 since I had first visited that house, then the 
 scene of constant mirth and hospitality ! As I 
 got out of the chaise, I remember jumping foi" 
 very joy, and exclaiming, " Here we are — here 
 we are, little Willy' and all !" but my spirits 
 sunk into dismay when, on entering the well- 
 known kitchen, all there seemed desolate, dreary, 
 and silent. Mrs. Tovell and her sister-in-law, 
 sitting by the fireside weeping, did not even rise 
 up to welcome my parents, but uttered a few 
 chilling words, and wept again. All this ap- 
 peared to me as inexplicable as forbidding. How 
 little do children dream of the alterations that 
 elder people's feelings towards each other un- 
 dergo, when death has caused a transfer of pro- 
 perty ! Our arrival in Suffolk was by no means 
 palatable to all my mother s relations. 
 
 Mrs. Elmj' and her sister Miss Tovell, were 
 their brother's co-heiresses ; the latter was an 
 ancient maiden, living in a cottage hard by, and 
 persuaded that every thing ought to have been 
 left to her own management. I think I see her 
 now, with her ivory-tipped walking-cane, a foot, 
 at least, above her head, scolding about some 
 change tiiat would, as she said, have made 
 " Jacky " (her late brother), if he had seen it. 
 shake in his grave, — the said change being per- 
 haps, the removal of a print from one room to 
 another, and my father having purchased every 
 atom of the furniture when he came into the 
 house. 
 
 My father being at least as accessible to the 
 slightest mark of kindness as to any species of 
 oflence, tiie cool old dame used to boast, not 
 without reason, that she could " screw Crabbe 
 up and down like a fiddle." Every now and then 
 she screwed her violin a little too tightly ; but still 
 there was never any real malice on either side. 
 When, some time after, the hand of death was 
 on Miss Tovell, she sent for Mr. Crabbe, and 
 was attended by him with the greatest tender- 
 ness ; nor did she at last execute her oft-repented 
 threat of making a cadicy — Anglice, a codicil — 
 to her will. 
 
 In many circmnstanccs, besides, my father 
 
 ' My futlier's seventh and youngest child. 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE, 
 
 43 
 
 u 
 
 understand you," said my father, " perfectly ; 
 
 sir, I refuse this rate : take your remedy." 
 
 resisted this charge ; and the consequences 
 
 found the disadvantusre of succeeding- such a man 
 as Mr. Tovell. He invited none of the old com- 
 potators, and if they came received them but 
 coolly ; and it was soon said that " Parham had 
 passed away, and the glory thereof." When 
 the paper of parish rates came round, he per- 
 ceived that he was placed on a much higher 
 scale of payment than his wealthy predecessor 
 had ever been for the very same occupation ; 
 and when he complained of this, he was told 
 very plainly, — " Why, sir, Mr. Tovell was a 
 good neighbour : we all miss him sadly ; and so, 
 
 I suppose, do you, sir; and — and " " I 
 
 you, 
 now 
 He 
 may be guessed 
 
 Having detected the bailiff in some connection 
 with snmgglers, he charged him with the fact. 
 The man flew into a violent passion, gras))ed a 
 knife, and exclaimed with an inflamed counte- 
 nance, " No man shall call me a rogue !" My 
 father smiled at his rage, and said, in a quiet 
 tone, — " Now, Robert yon are too much for 
 me : put down your knife, and then we can 
 talk on equal terms." The man hesitated : my 
 father added, lifting his voice, " Get out of the 
 house, you scoundrel ! " and he was obeyed. On 
 all occasions, indeed, he appeared to have a per- 
 fect insensibility to physical danger. 
 
 I have said that Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe were 
 not in the habit of visiting. In fact, his father's 
 station and straitened circumstances, and the 
 customs of his native place, had prevented his 
 forming any early habit of such intercourse. His 
 own domestic and literary pursuits indisposed 
 him still further ; and my mother's ill health 
 combined to prevent any regular sociality with 
 the families in their neighbourhood ; but both 
 at Muston and Parham they had some valued 
 friends occasionally residing with them for many 
 weeks, especially an old lady of Aldborough, 
 who had been intimate with my fathers family, 
 and was fallen into poverty, and who was ever 
 received with cordiality and respect. But, at 
 one house in the vicinity of Parham, my father 
 was a frequent visiter. To Mr. Dudley North 
 he felt himself attached by the ties of gratitude, 
 and strongly attracted both by the mutual know- 
 ledge of Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, and other public 
 characters, and by his own superior mind and 
 manners ; for though, according to Mr. Bos- 
 well's account of a conversation, Dr. Johnson 
 mentions him somewhat lightly to Mrs. Thrale, 
 yet it is to be remembered that that lady ])ro- 
 voked him to it by her reiterated eulogium, and, 
 moreover, that Mr. North was a Whig. But 
 lie was distinguished, even among the eminent 
 characters of the day, for the high polish of his 
 manners and the brilliancy of his wit. Though 
 a silent member of the house (for he had a 
 strong impediment in his utterance), " yet," 
 
 said Mr. Fox, " we owe to Dudley's suggestions 
 some of the best hits we have made." 
 
 From this friend, whose seat (Little Glcm- 
 ham Hall) was within two miles of Parham, my 
 father received every kindness and attention. I 
 remember a M'ell-stnred medicine-chest arriving 
 one morning — for Mr. Crabbe still continued to 
 administer to the poor gratis — and game, fruit, 
 and other produce of his domain were sent in 
 profusion. It was in the autumn of 1794, or 
 1795, that he had the honour of meeting at Mr. 
 North's, a large part}' of some of the most emi- 
 nent men in the kingdom — the Honourable 
 Charles (now Earl) Grey, the Earl of Lauder- 
 dale, Mr. Fox, Mr. Roger Wilbraham, Dr. Parr, 
 Mr. St. John, and several other public charac- 
 ters. Mr. Fox, cordially recognising my father, 
 expressed his disappointment that his pen had 
 been so long unemployed ; and it was then that 
 he promised to revise any future poem which Mr. 
 Crabbe might prepare tor publication. One day, 
 — for it was a shooting party, and they stayed 
 about a fortnight, — in passing from the saloon 
 to the dining-room, while there was a mo- 
 mentary pause, Mr. Fox playfully pushed my 
 father first, saying, " If he had had his deserts,^ 
 he would have walked before us all." If this 
 was an unmerited compliment, it was assuredly 
 a very good humoured one. 
 
 Annoyances out of doors and within probably 
 induced him, shortly after his arrival in Suffolk, 
 to pay a visit of several months to his sister at 
 Aldborough ; and when there, he had the great 
 satisfaction of placing my brother John and my- 
 self under the tuition of one of the good old 
 dames who had taught himself his letters. On 
 returning to Parham, he undertook the charge 
 of Swefifing, for the respected incumbent of that 
 parish, the Reverend Richard Turner, of Great 
 Yarmouth. Another curacy (Great Glemham) 
 was shortly added to this ; and thenceforth, his 
 occupations and habits were very much what 
 they had used to be at Muston. 
 
 He had been about four years at Parham be- 
 fore another residence, quite suitable to his 
 views, presented itself: and the opportunity of 
 changing occurred at a moment when it was 
 more than ever to be desired. In March, 1796, 
 Mr. Crabbe lost his third son, a fine promising 
 lad, then in his sixth year. His family had been 
 seven, and they were now reduced to two. The 
 loss of this child was so severely felt by my mo- 
 ther, that it caused a nervous disorder, from 
 which she never entirely recovered ; and it be- 
 came my father's very earnest wish to quit Par- 
 ham, where the thoughts of that loss were un- 
 avoidably cherished. Great Glemham Hall, a 
 house belonging to Mr. North, becoming vacant 
 at that time, he very obligingly invited my 
 father to be his tenant, at a greatly reduced 
 
 2 Alluding to his station at Belvoir. 
 
44 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 rent; and, on tlic 17th of October, the lares 
 were removed from Pariiam, where they had 
 been always uiipropitious, to this beautiful resi- 
 dence, whore my parents remained for four or 
 five years, to their entire satisfaction. The 
 situation was delightful in itself, and extremely 
 convenient ibr the clerical duties my father had 
 to perform. I was now jilaced at school at Ips- 
 wich, unilor the care of the late excellent Mr. 
 King, in whom my father had the most perfect 
 confidence; but I passed, of course, my vaca- 
 tions at home ; and never can I cease to look 
 back to my days at Glemham as the golden spot 
 of my existence. 
 
 In June, 1798, on Mr. King's retiring from 
 the school at Ipswich, I returned home finally; 
 for it was soon resolved that I should not be 
 sent to any other master, but that my brother 
 and myself should prepare for tlie University 
 under our father's own care. If 1 except occa- 
 sional visits of a month or two to Muston, the 
 associations of our happiest years are all with 
 Glemham and other scenes in his native county. 
 Glemham itself is, and ever will be, the Alham- 
 bra of my imagination. That glorious ))alace 
 yet exists ; ours is levelled with the ground.-' 
 A small well-wooded park occupied the whole 
 mouth of the glen, whence, doubtless, the name 
 of the village was derived. In the lowest 
 ground stood the commodious mansion ; the ap- 
 proach wound down through a plantation on the 
 eminence in front. The opposite hill rose at 
 the back of it, rich and varied with trees and 
 shrubs scattered irregularly ; under this southern 
 hill ran a brook, and on the banks above it were 
 spots of great natural beauty, crowned by white- 
 thorn and oak. Here the purjile scented violet 
 perfumed the air, and in one place coloured the 
 ground. On the left of the front, in the nar- 
 rower portion of the glen, was the village ; on 
 the right, a confined view of richly wooded 
 fields. In fact, the whole ])arish and neigh- 
 bourhood resemble a combination of groves, in- 
 ters])ersed with fields cultivated like gardens, 
 and intersected with those green dry lanes which 
 tempt the walker in all weathers, esjjecially in 
 the evenings, when in the short grass of the 
 dry sandy banks lies every few yards a glow- 
 worm, and the nightingales are pouring forth 
 their melody in every direction. 
 
 My father was a skill'ul mathematician ; and 
 imperfectly as he had been grounded in the 
 classics at school, he liad, as I have stated, been 
 induced, i)y various motives, to become a very 
 respectable scholar ; and not the least of these 
 motives was his strong partiality for Latin 
 poetry, which continued to the last, his library 
 table, and even his I)ed-room, being seldom 
 without some favourite work of this description. 
 But there may be great defects in a domestic 
 
 ' A ni-A ;uid cU'gaTif mansion liiis been built on the liill, 
 by Dr. Kildcrbee, hIio buiiyht the cslate. 
 
 education, without any want of knowledge in 
 the master. Seldom is such tuition carried on 
 with strict regularity and jjerseverance, for 
 family interruptions unavoidabl}' occur daily ; 
 and such an indulgent mind as his, conscious, 
 too, of its own hatred to restraint, was not likely 
 to enforce the necessary discipline. So that, to 
 my infinite satisfaction, this new academy had 
 much more of vacation than term-time: con- 
 trasted with Ipswich, it seemed little else than 
 one glorious holiday. 
 
 The summer evenings especiall}', at this place, 
 dwell on my memory like a delightful dream. 
 When we had finished our lessons, if we did not 
 adjourn with my father to the garden to work in 
 our own plats, we generally took a family walk 
 through the green lanes around Glendiam ; 
 where, at every turn, stands a cottage or a farm, 
 and not collected into a street, as in some parts 
 of the kingdom, leaving the land naked and for- 
 lorn. Along these we wandered sometimes till 
 the moon had risen, my mother leading a fa- 
 vourite little niece who lived with us, my father 
 reading some novel aloud, while my brother and I 
 caught moths or other insects to add to his collec- 
 tion. Since I have mentioned novels, I may say 
 that even from the most trite of these fictions, he 
 could sometimes catch a train of ideas that \\as 
 turned to an excellent use ; so that he seldom 
 passed a day without reading part of some sucli 
 work, and was never very select in the choice of 
 them. To us they were all, in those days, inte- 
 resting, for they suggested some jjleasing ima- 
 ginings, the idea of some pretty little innocent- 
 looking village heroine, perhaps, whom we had 
 seen at church, or in a ramble; and while he 
 read Mrs. Inchbald's deeply pathetic stor\', 
 called " Nature and Art," one evening, I be- 
 lieve some such association almost broke om- 
 hearts. When it was too dark to see, he would 
 take a battledore and join us in the ])ursuit of 
 the moths, or carry his little favourite if she 
 wei-e tired, and so we ])roceeded homeward, 
 while on the right and left, before and be- 
 hind, the nightingales (I never heard so many 
 as among those woods) were jiouring out their 
 melody, sometimes three or four at once. And 
 now we fill the margin of our hats with glow- 
 worms to place upon the lawn before our win- 
 dows, and reach the house only in time tor 
 supper. 
 
 In the w inter evenings the reading was carried 
 on more systematically, and we had generally 
 books of a superior description ; for a friend lent 
 us every Christmas a large box of the most re- 
 putable works recently jjublishcd, especially of 
 travels ; and never can 1 forget the deep interest 
 with which w(> 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. 2<t, 1807. 
 " Dear Sir, — I could not resist the pleasure of 
 going completely through your delightful poems, 
 before I returned you, as I now do, my best thanks 
 for so truly valuable a proof of your remembrance. 
 The testimony of my opinion is but of small im- 
 portance, when set by the side of those which have 
 already been given of this accession to our standard 
 national poetry; but I must be allowed to say, that 
 so much have 1 been delighted with the perusal of 
 the incomparable descriptions which you have laid 
 before me ; with the easiness and purity of the 
 diction, the knowledge of life and manners, and the 
 vividness of that imagination which could produce, 
 and so well sustain and keep up such charming 
 scenes — that I have found it to be almost the only 
 book of late times which I could read through 
 without making it a sort of duty to do so. Once 
 more, dear Sir, accept of my best thanks for this 
 very flattering remembrance of me ; and be assured 
 of my being, with much regard, your faithful, &c. 
 
 " VV. L. Mansel." 
 
 From Earl Grey. 
 
 " Hertford Street, Feb. 28, 1808. 
 " Sir, — I have many excuses to offer for not 
 having sooner returned my thanks for your letter 
 of the lOlh of October, and the valuable present 
 which accompanied it. ] did not receive it till I 
 arrived in London, about the middle of the last 
 mouth, and I waited till I should have had time — 
 for which the first business of an opening session of 
 parliament was not favourable— to read a work 
 
 ' Of this lady, wlio died in 1812, Mr. Prior says :—" Added 
 toafTectionate admiration ol" Mr. Burke's talents, she possesseil 
 accomplisliments, good sense, goodness of heart, and a sweet- 
 ness of manners and disposition, which served to allay many 
 of the anxieties of his career. He repeatedly declared, that 
 'every care vanished the moment he entereil under his own 
 roof.' " J.i/c of Burltc. 
 
 3 Afterwards iii»hop of Bristol. His Lordship died in 1820. 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 53 
 
 from which I anticipated much pleasure. I am 
 now able, at the same time, to offer you my best 
 thanks in sending me the poems you have lately 
 published, and to say that my admiration of the 
 author of the ' Library,' has not been diminished 
 by the perusal of the ' Parish Register,' and the 
 other additional poems. But all other praise must 
 appear insipid after that of Mr. Fox; and I will 
 only add, that I think that highest praise, for such 
 I esteem it, was justly due to you. I well remember 
 the pleasure which 1 had in meeting you at Mr. 
 Dudley North's, and wish I could look to a revival 
 of it. I have the honour to be, with great regard, 
 Sir, &c. Grey." 
 
 From lioger Wilbraham, Esq. 
 
 "Stratton Street, May 23, 1808. 
 "Dear Sir,— Unless I had heard from our 
 friend, Mr. North, that you had received compli- 
 mentary letters from most of your friends on your 
 late publication, I should not have thought of adding 
 my name to the number. The only reason for my 
 silence was the fear of assuming much more of a 
 literary character than belongs to me ; though, on 
 the score of friendship for the author, and admi- 
 ration of his works, 1 will not yield to the most 
 intelligent and sagacious critic. Perhaps, indeed, 
 an earlier letter from me might have been autho- 
 rised by the various conversations we have had 
 together at Glemham, in which I so frequently took 
 the liberty to urge you not to rest contented with 
 that sprig of bays which your former publications 
 had justly acquired, but to aim at a larger branch 
 of thicker foliage. This I can truly say, my dear 
 Sir, you have obtained by universal consent ; and I 
 feel considerable pride in having the honour to be 
 known to a person who has afforded so much real 
 delight to a discerning public. — No, no, Sir, when 
 we thought you idle, you were by no means so ; you 
 were observing man, and studying his character 
 among the inferior orders of the community ; and 
 the varieties that belong to his character you have 
 now described with the most perfect truth, and in 
 the most captivating language. When I took up 
 your book, the novelties of it first attracted my 
 notice, and afterwards I visited my old acquaint- 
 ances with as much pleasure as ever. The only 
 regret I felt at the end was, that the book was not 
 marked Vol. I. ; but that may be amended. lu 
 which hope I take my leave, assuring you of the 
 very sincere regard, and real admiration of, yours 
 most truly and sincerely, Roger Wilbrahaji." 
 
 Fro7ii Mr. Canning. 
 
 "Stanhope Street, Nov. 13, 1807. 
 " Sir, — I have deferred acknowledging the civility 
 of your letter, until I should at the same time 
 acknowledge the pleasure which I had derived from 
 the perusal of the volume which accompanied it. 
 I have lately made that volume the companion of a 
 journey into the country. I am now therefore able 
 to appreciate the value of your present, as well as 
 to thank you for your obliging attention in sending 
 it to me. With some of the poems — the ' Village,' 
 particularly — I had been long acquainted; but I 
 was glad to have them brought back to my recol- 
 lection ; and I have read with no less pleasure and 
 
 admiration those which I now saw for the first time. 
 I have the honour to be, Sir, &c., &c. 
 
 " George Canning." 
 
 From Lord Holland. 
 
 " Sir, — Having been upon a tour in Scotland, I 
 did not receive your book till my arrival at York, 
 and was unwilling to answer your very obliging 
 letter till I had read the ' Parish Register ' in print. 
 I can assure you that its appearance in this dress 
 has increased my opinion of its beauty : and, as 
 you have done me, very undeservedly, the honour 
 of calling me a judge of such matters, I will venture 
 to say that it seems to me calculated to advance the 
 reputation of the author of the ' Library ' and the 
 ' Village,' which, to any one acquainted with those 
 two excellent poems, is saying a great deal. With 
 regard to the very flattering things you are pleased 
 to say of me, I am conscious that your willingness 
 to oblige has blinded your judgment ; but cannot 
 conclude my letter without returning you thanks 
 for such expressions of your partiality. I am, Sir, 
 &c. Holland." 
 
 To these I may add a letter from Mr. Walter 
 Scott, dated " Ashestiel, October 21st, 1809," 
 — acknowledging the receipt of a subsequent 
 edition of the same volume. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — I am just honoured with your 
 letter, which gives me the more sensible pleasure, 
 since it has gratified a wish of more than twenty 
 years' standing. It is, I think, fully that time since 
 I was, for great part of a very snowy winter, the 
 inhabitant of an old house in the country, in a 
 course of poetical study, so very like that of your 
 admirably painted ' Young Lad,' that I could hardly 
 help saying, ' That's me ! ' when I was reading the 
 tale to my family. Among the very few books which 
 fell under my hands was a volume or two of 
 Dodsley's Annual Register, one of which contained 
 copious extracts from 'The Village,' and 'The 
 Library,' particularly the conclusion of book first 
 of the former, and an extract from the latter, 
 beginning with the description of the old Romancers. 
 I committed them most faithfully to my memory, 
 where your verses must have felt themselves very 
 strangely lodged, in company with ghost stories, 
 border riding-ballads, scraps of old plays, and all 
 the miscellaneous stuff which a strong appetite for 
 reading, with neither means nor discrimination for 
 selection, had assembled in the head of a lad of 
 eighteen. New publications, at that time, were veiy 
 rare in Edinburgh, and my means of procuring them 
 very limited ; so that, after a long search for the 
 poems which contained these beautiful specimens, 
 and which had afforded me so muc'n delight, I was 
 fain to rest contented with the extracts from the 
 Register, which I could repeat at this moment. 
 You may, therefore, guess my sincere delight when 
 I saw your poems at a later period assume the rank 
 in the public consideration which they so well 
 deserve. It was a triumph to my own immature 
 taste to find I had anticipated the applause of the 
 learned and of the critical, and I became very 
 desirous to offer my gratulor, among the more im- 
 portant plaudits which jou have had from every 
 quarter. I should certainly have availed myself 
 
54 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 of the freemasonry of authorship (for our trade 
 may daim to be a mystery as well as Abhorson's) 
 to address to you a copy of a new poetical attempt, 
 which I have now upon the anvil, and I esteem 
 myself particularly obliged to Mr. Hatchard, and to 
 your goodness acting upon his information, for 
 giving me the opportunity of paving the way for 
 such a freedom. 1 am too proud of the compliments 
 you honour me with, to afi'ect to decline them : and 
 with respect to the comparative view I have of my 
 own labours and yours, I can only assure j'ou, that 
 none of my little folks, about the formation of 
 whose taste and principles I may be supposed na- 
 turally solicitous, have ever read any of my own 
 poems ; while yours have been our regular evening's 
 amusement. My eldest girl begins to read well, 
 and enters as well into the humour as into the sen- 
 timent of your admirable descriptions of human 
 life. As for rivalry, I think it has seldom existed 
 among those who know, by experience, that there 
 are much better things in the world than literary 
 reputation, and that one of the best of these good 
 things is the regard and friendship of those de- 
 servedly and generally esteemed for their worth or 
 their talents. I believe many dilettanti authors do 
 cocker themselves up into a great jealousy of any- 
 thing that interferes with what they are pleased to 
 call their fame; but I should as soon think of 
 nursing one of my own fingers into a whitlow for 
 my private amusement, as encouraging such a 
 feeling. I am truly sorry to observe you mention 
 bad health : those who contribute so much to the 
 improvement as well as the delight of society should 
 escape this evil. I hope, however, that one day 
 your state of health may permit you to view this 
 country. I have very few calls to London, but it 
 will greatly add to the interest of those which may 
 occur, that you will permit me the honour of waiting 
 upon you in my journey, and assuring you, in 
 person, of the early admiration and sincere respect 
 with which I have the honour to be, dear Sir, 
 yours, &c. Walter Scott." 
 
 In the manly and sensible views of literature 
 and literary fame expressed in the last of these 
 letters, Mr. Crabbe fully concurred. He en- 
 joyed the sweetness of well-earned credit ; but 
 at his mature years, and with his strong re- 
 ligious bias, he was little likely to be intoxi- 
 cated with the applause of critics. His feelings 
 on this occasion were cither not perceptible, 
 or only seen in those simple, open demonstra- 
 tions of satisfaction which show that no proud 
 exulting spirit lurks within. Of some men it is 
 said, that they arc too proud to be vain ; but of 
 him it might be said, that the candid manner in 
 which he testified his satisfaction at success, was 
 a proof that, while ho folt the jjlcasure, he felt 
 also its limited value — limited by the conscious- 
 ness of defects ; limited by the consciousness 
 that there were higher, nearer, and dearer in- 
 terests in life than those of poetical ambition. 
 How gratifying is the contem[)lation of such 
 success, when it is only accessory to the more 
 substantial pleasures of existence, namely, the 
 consciousness of having fulfilled the duties for 
 
 which that existence was especiall}'^ given, and 
 the brierht hope that higher and better things 
 than this world can aflTord await those who have 
 borne the trials of adversity and prosperity with 
 a humble and pious spirit ! How poor is such 
 success when it is made "the pearl of great 
 price !" 
 
 My brother now residing at Caius College, 
 Cambridge, Mr. Crabbe more than once went 
 thither, and remained a considerable time, 
 dining in that college or Trinity every day, and 
 passing his mornings chiefly in the botanic 
 garden. The new poems, and the remarks of 
 the Reviews, had brought him again under the 
 public eye ; so that he was now received, in 
 that seat of learning, not only as a man who 
 had formerly deserved the encouragements of 
 literature, but as one of the popular writers of 
 the day — became an object of attention and 
 curiosity, and added many distinguished names 
 to the number of his acquaintance. 
 
 On one occasion, happening to be at Cam- 
 bridge during the Newmarket season, my father 
 was driven by his son John in a tandem to the 
 course ; and though he booked no bets, I have 
 reason to think he enjoyed his ride quite as 
 much as many of the lads by whom he was sur- 
 rounded. Ever tenacious of important points of 
 morality, no one looked with a more enlarged 
 and benignant eye upon such juvenilities ; it 
 alwa}'s seemed to me as if his mind was in- 
 capable of seeing and apprehending the little in 
 anything. 
 
 Our respected friend Donn, being one of the 
 congregation of the celebrated Mr. Simeon, and 
 having a sincere regard for my father, persuaded 
 him to occupy his pew in Little St. Mary's ; 
 hoping, probably, that he might become a con- 
 vert to his own views of religion. Accordingly, 
 he took his seat there, and paid great attention 
 to the sermon, and on his return from church 
 wrote the substance of it, and preached it at 
 Muston the following Sunday ; telling his con- 
 gregation where he had heard it, in what points 
 he entirely assented to the opinions it contained, 
 and where he felt compelled to dift'er from the 
 pious author. 
 
 He also accompanied the worthy curator to 
 the Book Society, consisting chiefly of inha- 
 bitants of the town ; and they had the kindness 
 to enrol his name as an honorary member. But 
 few of his friends at Cambridge survive him ; 
 Dr. Mansel, Mr. Davis, Mr." Lambert, Mr. 
 Tavel, and Mr. Donn, all died before him. 
 Nowhere do we perceive the effects of time so 
 evidently as in a visit to the universities. 
 
 In the beginning of 1809, Dr. Cartwright ex- 
 pressed a wish that my father would prepare 
 some verses, to be repeated at the ensuing meet- 
 ing of that admirable institution for the behefit 
 of distressed authors, " The Literary Fund ;" 
 and it happened that a portion of a work then 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 55 
 
 on the stocks, "The Borough," was judged 
 suitable for the occasion : with some additions, 
 accordingly, it was sent, and S])oken at the 
 anniversary, with all the advantage that Mr. 
 Fitzgerald gave to whatever he recited. 
 
 Mr. Crabbe was now diligently occupied in 
 finishing this poem, which had been begun 
 while he lived at Rendham ; and as our kind 
 friends at Aldborough had invited us to taste the 
 sea air after four years' residence in the centre 
 of the kingdom, my father carried his manu- 
 script for completion, and for the inspection of 
 that judicious friend at Great Yarmouth, with- 
 out whose council he decided on nothing. Can 
 it be questioned that he trod that beach again, to 
 which he had so often returned after some 
 pleasing event, with somewhat more of honest 
 satisfaction, on account of the distinguished 
 success of his late poems ! The term exultation, 
 however, could no longer be applicable ; he was 
 now an elderly clergyman, and much too deeply 
 did he feel the responsibilities of life to be 
 " carried off his feet," as the Duchess of Gordon 
 playfully expressed it, by any worldly fascina- 
 tions. Mr. Turner's opinion of " The Borough," 
 was, upon the whole, highly favourable ; but he 
 intimated, that there were portions of the new 
 work which might be liable to rough treatment 
 from the critics, and his decision, in both its 
 parts, was confirmed by the public voice. As 
 soon as we returned to Muston, Mr. Hatchard 
 put it to the press: it was published in 1810, 
 and in J 816 it had attained its sixth edition. 
 
 The oi)inion of the leading Reviews was 
 again nearly unanimous; agreeing that " The 
 Borough" had greater beauties and greater 
 defects than its predecessor, " The Parish 
 Register." With such a decision an author 
 may always be well pleased ; for he is sure to 
 take his rank with posterity by his beauties ; 
 defects, where there are great and real excel- 
 lences, serve but to fill critical dissertations. In 
 fact, though the character was still the same, 
 and the blemishes sufficiently obvious, ■•' The 
 Borough " was a great spring upwards. The 
 incidents and characters in " The Parish Re- 
 gister " are but excellent sketches : — there is 
 hardly enough matter even in the most in- 
 teresting description, not even in the story of 
 Phoebe Dawson, to gain a firm hold of the 
 reader's mind : — but, in the new publication, 
 there was a sufiiCient evolution of event and 
 character, not only to please the fancy, but 
 grapple with the heart. I think the " High- 
 wayman's Tale," in the twenty-third letter 
 (Prisons), is an instance in point. We see the 
 virtuous young man, the happy lover, and the 
 despairing felon in succession, and enough of 
 each state to give full force to its contrasts. I 
 know that my father was himself much afi'ected 
 when he drew that picture, as he had been, by 
 his own confession, twice before ; once at a 
 
 very early period (see the " Journal to Mira"), 
 and again when he was describing the terrors of 
 a poor distracted mind, in his Sir Eustace Grey. 
 The tale of the Condemned Felon arose from 
 the following circumstances : — while he was 
 struggling with poverty in London, he had some 
 reason to fear that the brother of a very intimate 
 friend, a wild and desperate character, was in 
 Newgate under condemnation for a robbery, j 
 Having obtained permission to see the man 
 who bore the same name, a glance at once re- 
 lieved his mind from the dread of beholding his 
 friend's brother; but still he never forgot the 
 being he then saw before him. He was pacing 
 the cell, or small yard, with a quick and hurried 
 step ; his eye was as glazed and abstracted as 
 that of a corpse : — 
 
 " Since his dread sentence, notliing seem'd to be 
 As once it was ; seeing lie could not see, 
 Nor hearing hear aright .... 
 Each sense was palsied 1" 
 
 In the common-place book of the author the 
 following observations were found relative to 
 " The Borough ," and they api)ly perhaps with 
 still more propriety to his succeeding ])oems : — 
 " I have chiefly, 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 character, more variety 
 of fortune, vvill be met with ; because, on the 
 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 ; nei- 
 ther, on the other, are they debarred by their 
 want of means from the cultivation of mind and 
 the pursuits of wealth and ambition, which are 
 necessary to the development of character dis- 
 played in the variety of situations to which this 
 class is liable." 
 
 The preface to "The Borough" shows how 
 much his mind was engrossed and irritated, at 
 this period, by the prevalence of Mr. Hunting- 
 ton's injurious doctrines in his neighbourhood, 
 and even in his household. And his " Letter 
 on Sects " not only produced a ridiculous threat 
 from a Swedenborgian (dated from Peter- 
 borough) of personal chastisement ; but occa- 
 sioned a controversy between the writer and the 
 editor of the " Christian Observer," which ap- 
 peared likely to become public. It ended, how- 
 ever, in mutual expressions of entire respect ; 
 and I am happy to think that the difference in 
 their views was only such as different circum- 
 stances of education, &c. might cause between 
 two sincere Christians. 
 
 " The Borough " was dedicated, in very grate- 
 ful terms, to the present Duke of Rutland ; from 
 whom, and all the members of that noble family, 
 more especially the Duchess Dowager, my lather 
 continued to receive polite attention during the 
 
 V 
 
56 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 whole period of his residence at Muston. At 
 Belvoir he enjoyed from time to time the oppor- 
 tunity of mixing with many public characters, 
 who, if their pursuits and turn of mind differed 
 widely from his own, were marked by the stamp 
 and polish of perfect gentlemen ; and no one 
 could appreciate the charm of high manners 
 more fully than he whose muse chose to depict, 
 with rare exceptions, those of the humbler 
 classes of society. He was particularly pleased 
 and amused with the conversation of the cele- 
 brated " Beau Brummell." 
 
 My brother and I (now both clergymen), 
 having curacies in the neighbourhood, still lived 
 at Muston, and all the domestic habits which I 
 have described at Glemham were continued, 
 with little exception. My father having a larger 
 and better garden than in Suffolk, passed much 
 of his time amongst his choice weeds, and though 
 (my mother growing infirm) we did not take a 
 family walk as heretofore, yet in no other respect 
 was that perfect domestication invaded. When 
 the evening closed, winter or summer, my father 
 read aloud from the store which Mr. Colburn, 
 out of his circulating library, sent and renewed, 
 and nineteen in every twenty of these books 
 were, as of old, novels ; while, as regularly, my 
 brother took up his pencil, and amused our un- 
 occupied eyes by some design strikingly full of 
 character ; for he had an untaught talent in this 
 way, which wanted only the mechanical portion 
 of the art to give him a high name among the 
 masters of the time. One winter he copied 
 and coloured some hundreds of insects for his 
 father, from expensive plates sent for his in- 
 spection by the Vice-Master of Trinity ; and 
 tliis requiring no genius but pains only, I joined 
 in the employment. " Now, old fellows," said 
 my father, " it is my duty to read to you." 
 
 The landscape around Muston was open and 
 uninteresting. Here were no groves nor dry 
 green lanes, nor gravel roads to tempt the pe- 
 destrian in all weather ; but still the ])arsonage 
 and its premises formed a pretty little oasis in 
 the clayey desert. Our front windows looked 
 full on the churchyard, by no means like the 
 common forbidding receptacles of the dead, but 
 truly ornamental ground ; for some fine elms 
 partially concealed the small beautiful church 
 and its spire, while the eye, travelling through 
 tiieir stems, rested on the banks of a stream and 
 a ))icturesque old bridge.-' The garden en- 
 closed the other two sides of this churchyard ; 
 but the crown of the whole was a gothic arch- 
 way, 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 canvass, the unrivalled Belvoir. 
 
 ^ See the lines on Miist<in in " The Borough," Letter I. : — 
 " Seek then tliy garden's slirubby bound, and look 
 As it steals by, upon tlie borderin,' bro'ik ; 
 Tliat winding streamlet, limpid, Im^'erin;;, slow, 
 Wliere tlie reeds whisper when tlie /.ephyrs blow," &c. 
 
 Though we lived just in the same domestic 
 manner when alone, yet my father visited much 
 more frequently than in Suffolk : besides the 
 Castle, he occasionally dined at Sir Robert 
 Heron's, Sir William Welby's, with Dr. Gordon, 
 Dean of Lincoln, the Rector of the next village, 
 and with others of the neighbouring clergy. 
 And we had now and then a ])arty at our house ; 
 but where the mistress is always in ill-health 
 and the master a poet, there will seldom be 
 found the nice tact to conduct these things just 
 as they ought to be. My father was conscious 
 of this ; and it gave him an appearance of inhos- 
 pitality quite foreign to his nature. If he nei- 
 ther shot nor danced, he appeared well pleased 
 that we brought him a very respectable supply 
 of game, and that we sometimes passed an even- 
 ing at the assembly-room of our metropolis, 
 Grantham. My mother's declining state becom- 
 ing more evident, he was, if possible, more 
 attentive to her comforts than ever. He would 
 take up her meals when in her own room, and 
 sometimes cook her some little nicety for sup- 
 per, when he thought it would otherwise be 
 spoiled, " What a father you have !" was a 
 grateful exclamation often on her lips. 
 
 In the early part of the year 1812, Mr. 
 Crabbe published — (with a dedication to the 
 Duchess Dowager of Rutland)— his " Tales in 
 Verse ;" a work as striking as, and far less ob- 
 jectionable than, its predecessor, " The Bo- 
 rough;" for here no flimsy connection is at- 
 tempted between subjects naturally separate ; 
 nor consequently, was there such temptation to 
 compel into verse matters essentially prosaic. 
 The new tales had also the advantage of ampler 
 scope and development than his preceding ones. 
 The i)ublic voice was again highly favourable, 
 and some of these relations were spoken of with 
 the utmost warmth of commendation ; as, the 
 
 "Parting Hour,' "The Patron, 
 
 Edward 
 
 Shore," and "The Confidant." 
 
 My father wrote a letter at the time to Mr. 
 Scott, and sert him a co])y of all his works. His 
 brother poet honoured him with the following 
 beautiful reply : — 
 
 " Abbotsford, June 1, 1812. 
 
 " My Dear Sir, — I have too long delayed to 
 thank you for the most kind and acceptable present 
 of your three volumes. Now am 1 doubly armed, 
 since I have a set for my cabin at Abbotsford as 
 well as in town ; and, to say truth, the auxiliary 
 copy arrived in good time, for my original one 
 suffers as much by its general popularity among my 
 young people as a popular candidate from the hugs 
 and embraces of his democratical admirers. The 
 clearness and accuracy of your paiuting, whether na- 
 tural or moral, renders, I have often remarked, your 
 works generally delightful to those whose youth 
 might render them insensil)le to the other beauties 
 with which they abound. There are a sort of pic- 
 tures — surely the most valuable, were it but for that 
 reason — which strike the uninitiated as umch as 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 67 
 
 they do the connoisseur, though the last alone can 
 render reason for his admiration. Indeed, our old 
 friend Horace knew what he was saying, when he 
 chose to address his ode, " Viryinibus puerisque ;" 
 and so did Pope when he told somebody he had the 
 mob on the side of his version of Homer, and did 
 not mind the high-flying critics at Button's. After 
 all, if a faultless poem could be produced, I am satis- 
 fied it would tire the critics themselves, and annoy 
 the whole reading world with the spleen. 
 
 " You must be delightfully situated in the Vale 
 of Belvoir— a part of England for which I enter- 
 tain a special kindness, for the sake of the gallant 
 hero, Robin Hood, who, as probably you will 
 readily guess, is no small favourite of mine ; his in- 
 distinct ideas concerning the doctrine of meum and 
 tuum being no great objection to an outriding bor- 
 derer. I am happy to think that your station is 
 under the protection of the Rutland family, of 
 whom fame speaks highly. Our lord of the ' cairn 
 and the scaur ' waste wilderness and hundred hills, 
 for many a league round, is the Duke of Buccleugh, 
 the head of my clan ; a kind and benevolent land- 
 lord, a warm and zealous friend, and the husband 
 of a lady, ' comme il y en a pen.' They are both 
 great admirers of Mr. Crabbe's poetry, and would 
 be happy to know him, should he ever come to 
 Scotland, and venture into the Gothic halls of a 
 border chief. The early and uniform kindness of 
 this family, with the friendship of the late and pre- 
 sent Lord Melville, enabled me, some years ago, to 
 exchange my toils as a barrister for the lucrative 
 and respectable situation of one of the clerks of our 
 supreme court, which only requires a certain 
 routine of official duty, neither laborious nor call- 
 ing for any exertion of the mind. So that my 
 time is entirely at my own command, except when 
 I am attending the court, which seldom occupies 
 more than two hours of the morning during sitting. 
 I besides hold in comme ndani the sheriffdom of 
 Ettrick Forest, — which is now no forest ; — so that 
 I am a sort of pluralist as to law appointments, 
 and have, as Dogberry says, two gowns, and every 
 thing handsome about me. I have often thought 
 it is the most fortunate thing for bards like you 
 and me, to have an established profession and pro- 
 fessional character, to render us independent of 
 those worthy gentlemen, the i-etailers, or, as some 
 have called them, the midwives of literature, who 
 are so much taken up M'ith the abortions they 
 bring into the world, that they are scarcely able to 
 bestow the proper care upon young and flourishing 
 babes like ours. That, however, is only a mercan- 
 tile way of looking at the matter ; but did any of 
 my sons show poetical talent, of which, to my great 
 satisfaction, there are no appearances, the first 
 thing I should do, would be to inculcate upon him 
 the duty of cultivating some honourable profession, 
 and qualify himself to play a more respectable part 
 in society than the mere poet. And as the best co- 
 rollary of my doctrine, I would make him get your 
 tale of ' The Patron,' by heart from beginning to 
 end. It is curious enough that you should have 
 I'epublished the 'Village' for the purpose of send- 
 ing your young men to college, and 1 should have 
 written the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' for the pur- 
 pose of buying a new horse for the Volunteer 
 Cavalry. 1 must now send this scrawl into town to 
 
 get a frank, for God knows it is not worthy of postage. 
 With the warmest wishes for your health, pro- 
 sperity, and increase of fame — though it needs not, — 
 I remain most sincerely and affectionately, yours, 
 Walter Scott." 
 
 My father's answer to this kind communica- 
 tion has been placed in my hands ; and I feel 
 convinced that no offence will be taken by any 
 one at an extract which I am about to give from 
 it. The reader wull presently discover, that my 
 father had no real cause to doubt the regard of 
 tiie noble person to whom he alludes, and who 
 subsequently proved a most efficient patron and 
 friend, Mr. Crabbe says to Sir Walter, — 
 
 " Accept my very sincere congratulations on 
 your clerkship, and all things beside which you 
 have had the goodness to inform me of. It is in- 
 deed very pleasant to me to find that the author of 
 works that give me and thousands delight, is so 
 totally independent of the midwives you speak of. 
 Moreover, 1 give you joy of an honourable inter- 
 course with the noble family of Buccleugh, whom 
 you happily describe to me, and by whose notice 
 or rather notice of my book, I am much favoured. 
 With respect to my delightful situation in the Vale 
 of Belvoir, and under the very shade of the castle, 
 I will not say that your imagination has created its 
 beauties, but I must confess it has enlarged and 
 adorned them. The Vale of Belvoir is flat and 
 unwooded, and save that an artificial straight-lined 
 piece of water, and one or two small streams, in- 
 tersect it, there is no other variety than is made by 
 the different crops, wheat, barley, beans. The 
 castle, however, is a noble place, and stands on one 
 entire hill, taking up its whole surface, and has a 
 fine appearance from the window of my parsonage, 
 at which I now sit, at about a mile and a half 
 distance. The duke also is a duke-like man, and 
 the duchess a very excellent lady. They have 
 great possessions, and great patronage, but — you 
 see this unlucky particle, in one or other of Home 
 Tooke's senses, will occur — but I am now of the old 
 race. And what then ? — Well, I will explain. 
 Thirty years since I was taken to Belvoir by its 
 late possessor, as a domestic chaplain. I read the 
 service on a Sunday, and fared sumptuously every 
 day. At that time, the Chancellor, Lord Thurlow, 
 gave me a rectory in Dorsetshire, small, but a 
 living ; this the duke taught me to disregard as a 
 provision, and promised better things. While I 
 lived with him on this pleasant footing I observed 
 many persons in the neighbourhood who came 
 occasionally to dine, and were civilly received : 
 ' How do you do. Dr. Smith ? How is Mrs. Smith ?' 
 — ' 1 thank your Grace, well :' and so tliey took 
 their venison and claret, 'Who are these?' said 
 I to a young friend of the duke's. ' Men of the 
 old race, Sir ; people whom the old duke was in the 
 habit of seeing — for some of them he liad done 
 something, and had he yet lived all had their 
 chance. They now make way for us, but keep up 
 a sort of connection.' The son of the old duke of 
 that day and I were of an age to a week ; and with 
 the wisdom of a young man I looked distantly on 
 his death and my own. I went into Suffolk and 
 married, with decent views, and prospects of views 
 
58 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 more enlarging, 
 
 His Grace went into Ireland — 
 and died. Mrs. Crabbe and I philosophised as 
 •well as we could ; and after some three or four 
 years. Lord Thurlow, once more at the request of 
 the Duchess Dowager, gave me the crown livings 
 I now hold, on my resignation of that in Dorset- 
 shire. They were at that time worth about 70Z. or 
 80Z. a-year more than that, and now bring me 
 about 400Z. ; but a long minority ensued,— new con- 
 nections were formed ; and when, some few years 
 since, I came back into this country, and expressed 
 a desire of inscribing my verses to the duke, I 
 obtained leave, indeed, but I almost repented the 
 attempt, from the coldness of the reply. Yet, 
 recollecting that great men are beset with appli- 
 cants of all kinds, I acquitted the duke of injustice, 
 and determined to withdraw myself, as one of the 
 old race, and give way to stronger candidates for 
 notice. To this resolution I kept strictly, and left 
 it entirely to the family whether or no I should 
 consider myself as a stranger, who, having been 
 disappointed in his expectation, by unforeseen 
 events, must take his chance, and ought to take it 
 patiently. For reasons I have no inclination to 
 canvass, his Grace has obligingly invited me, and 
 I occasionally meet his friends at the castle, with- 
 out knowing whether I am to consider that notice 
 as the promise of favour, or as favour in itself. — I 
 have two sons, both in orders, partly from a pro- 
 mise given to Mrs. Crabbe's family that I would 
 bring them up precisely alike, and partly because 
 I did not know what else to do with them. They 
 will share a family property that will keep them 
 from pining upon a curacy. And what more ? — I 
 must not perplex myself with conjecturing. You 
 find, Sir, that you are much the greater man ; for 
 except what Mr. Hatchard puts into my privy 
 purse, I doubt whether (500/. be not my total 
 receipts; but he at present helps us, and my boys 
 being no longer at college, I can take my wine 
 without absolutely repining at the enormity of the 
 cost. I fully agree with you respecting the necessity 
 of a profession for a youth of moderate fortune. 
 Woe to the lad of genius without it! and I am flat- 
 tered by Avhat you mention of my Patron. Your 
 praise is current coin." 
 
 In the summer of 1813, my mother, though 
 in a very declining state of health, having a 
 strong inclination to see London once more, a 
 friend in town procured us those very eligible 
 rooms lor sight-seers, in Osborne's Hotel, Adel- 
 phi, which were afterwards occupied by their 
 sable majesties of Otaheite. We entered London 
 in the beginning of July, and returned at the 
 end of September. My mother being too infirm 
 to accompany us in our pedestrian expeditions, 
 they were sometimes protracted to a late hour, 
 and then wc dropped in and dined at any coffee- 
 house that was near. My father's f'avoiuito 
 resorts were the botanic gardens, where he jjassed 
 many hours ; and in the evenings he sometimes 
 accompanied us to one of the minor theatres, the 
 larger being closed. He did not seem so much 
 intiTCsfed by theatrical talent as I had expected ; 
 but he was one evening infinitelv diverted at 
 
 the Lyceum by Liston's Solomon Wiseacre, in 
 " Sharp and Flat," especially where he reads 
 the letter of his dear Dorothy Dimple, and ap- 
 plies his handkerchief to his eyes, saying, " It 
 is very foolish, but I cannot help it." He pro- 
 nounced Liston " a true genius in his way." 
 
 Mr. Dudley North called upon my father, 
 and he had again the pleasure of renewing his 
 intercourse with that early friend and patron, 
 dining with him several times during our stay. 
 
 One morning, to our great satisfaction, the 
 servant announced Mr. Bonnycastle. A fine, 
 tall, elderly man cordially shook hands with my 
 father ; and we had, for the first time, the satis- 
 faction of seeing one whose name had been from 
 chilhood familiar to us. He and my father had, 
 from some accidental impediment, not seen one 
 another since their days of poverty, and trial, 
 and drudgery ; and now, after thirty-three 
 years, when they met again, both were in com- 
 parative afflusnce, both had acquired a name and 
 re])utation, and both were in health. Such 
 meetings rarely occur. He entertained us with 
 a succession of anecdotes, admirably told, and 
 my father went as frequently to Woolwich as 
 other engagements would permit. 
 
 I have already mentioned, that, ever mindful 
 when in town of his earl}' struggle and pro- 
 vidential deliverance, he sedulously sought out 
 some objects of real distress. He now went to 
 the King's Bench, and heard the circumstances 
 that incarcerated several of the inmates, and re- 
 joiced in administering the little relief he could 
 afi^brd. We were not with him on these occa- 
 sions ; but I knew incidentally that he was 
 several mornings engaged in this way. 
 
 Soon after our return to Muston, my father 
 was requested bj' the Rev. Dr. Brunton, of 
 Edinburgh, the husband of the celebrated no- 
 velist, to contribute to a new collection of psal- 
 mody, then contemplated by some leading 
 clergymen of the Church of Scotland. He con- 
 sulted Sir Walter Scott, and received the fol- 
 lowing interesting letter : — 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I was favoured with your 
 kind letter some time ago. Of all people in the 
 world, I am least entitled to demand regularity of 
 correspondence ; for being, one way and another, 
 doomed to a great deal more writing than suits my 
 indolence, I am sometimes tempted to envy the 
 reverend hermit of Prague, confessor to the niece 
 of Queen Gorboduc, who never saw either pen or 
 ink. Mr. Brunton is a very respectable clergyman 
 of Edinburgh, and 1 believe the work in which 
 he has solicited your assistance is one adopted bj' 
 the General Assembly, or Convocation, of the Kirk. 
 I have no notion tliathe has any individual interest 
 in it: he is a well-educated and liberal-niinded 
 man, and generally esteemed. 1 have no particular 
 acquaintance with him myself, though we speak to- 
 gether, lie is at this very moment sitting on the 
 outside of the bar of our supreme court, within 
 which I am fagging as a clerk ; but as he is hear- 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 59 
 
 ing the opinion of the judges upon an action for 
 augmention of stipend to him and to his brethren, 
 it would not, I conceive, be a very favourable time 
 to canvass a literary topic. But you are quite safe 
 with him ; and having so much command of scrip- 
 tural language, which appears to me essential to 
 the devoti'onal poetry of Christians, I am sure you 
 can assist his purpose much more than any man 
 alive. 
 
 " I think those hymns -which do not immediately 
 recall the warm and exalted language of the Bible 
 are apt to be, however elegant, rather cold and flat 
 for the purposes of devotion. You will readily 
 believe that I do not approve of the vague and in- 
 discriminate scripture language which the fanatics 
 of old and the modern Methodists have adopted ; 
 but merely that solemnity and peculiarity of diction, 
 which at once puts the reader and hearer upon his 
 guard as to the purpose of the poetry. To my 
 Gothic ear. indeed, the Stahat Mater, the Dies Ira, 
 and some of the other hymns of the Catholic clmrch, 
 are more solemn and affecting than the fine classical 
 poetry of Buchanan : the one has the gloomy dig- 
 nity of a Gothic church, and reminds us instantly 
 of the worship to which it is dedicated ; the other 
 is more like a Pagan temple, recalling to our me- 
 mory the classical and fabulous deities. This is, 
 probably, all referable to the association of ideas — 
 that is, if ' the association of ideas ' continues to be the 
 universal pick-lock of all metaphysical difficulties, 
 as it was when I studied moral philosophy, — or 
 to any other more fashionable universal solvent 
 which may have succeeded to it in reputation. 
 Adieu, my dear Sir. I hope you and your family 
 will long enjoy all happiness aud prosperity. Never 
 be discouraged from the constant use of your charm- 
 ing talent. The opinions of reviewers are really 
 too contradictory to found anything upon them, 
 whether they are favourable or otherwise ; for it is 
 usually their principal object to display the abilities 
 of the writers of the critical lucubrations them- 
 selves. Your Tales are universally admired here. 
 I go but little out, but the few judges whose 
 opinions I have been accustomed to look up to are 
 unanimous. Ever yours, most truly, 
 
 " Walter Scott.'" 
 
 I know not whether my father ever ventured 
 to engage in the work patronised by Dr. Brun- 
 ton. That same autumn, an event occurred 
 which broke up the family, and spoiled, if it 
 did not entirely terminate, the domestic habits 
 of years. My mother died October 21st, in 
 her sixty-third year, and was buried in the 
 chancel of Muston. During a long period be- 
 fore her departure, her mind had been some- 
 what impaired by bodily infirmities ; and at last 
 it sank under the severity of the disease. She 
 possessed naturally a great share of penetration 
 and acuteness ; a firm unflinching spirit, and a 
 very warm and feeling heart. She knevv the 
 worth of her husband, and was grateful for his 
 kindness ; far she had only to express her wishes, 
 and his own inclinations, if at variance, were 
 cheerfully sacrificed. " Never," said her own 
 sister, " was there a better husband, except that 
 
 he was too indulgent." But so large a portion 
 of her married life was clouded by her lament- 
 able disorder, that I find written by my father 
 on the outside of a beautiful letter of her own, 
 dated long before this calamity, " Nothing can 
 be more sincere than this, nothing more reason- 
 able and affectionate ,; and yet happiness was 
 denied. ' 
 
 Perhaps, it was a fortunate circumstance for 
 my father, that anxiety and sorrow brought on 
 an alarming illness two days after her decease ; 
 for any other calamity occurring at the same 
 time with this heaviest of human ills, divides 
 and diverts its sting. And yet, I am not sure 
 that his own danger had this absorbing effiect ; 
 for he appeared regardless of life, and desired, 
 with the utmost coolness, that my mother's grave 
 might not be closed till it was seen whether he 
 should recover. The disease bore a consider- 
 able resemblance to acute cholera without sick- 
 ness, and was evidently, at last, carrying him oflf 
 rapidly. At length emetics were fortunately 
 tried, although he had always a great aversion 
 to this species of medicine, and the effect was 
 palpably beneficial, though his recovery was 
 very gradual. His demeanour, while the danger 
 lasted, was that of perfect humility, but of calm 
 hope, and unshaken firmness. 
 
 A very short time after he resumed his duties, 
 a letter arrived from the Duke of Rutland, 
 offering him the living of Trowbridge, in Wilt- 
 shire, of which his Grace had the alternate 
 presentation. To this offer, of which the Duke 
 had at first rather mistaken the value, as com- 
 pared with Muston, &c., and which my father 
 had, though with much gratitude, hesitated to 
 accept, his noble patron afterwards added that 
 of the incumbency of Croxton, near Bel voir ; 
 and, the proposition being then accepted, we 
 prepared to vacate Muston. And my father 
 looked to a new residence without that feeling 
 of regret which generally accompanies even an 
 advantageous removal in later life ; for, with a 
 strong attachment to some very friendly and 
 estimable individuals in the vicinity, he felt the 
 change produced by the late event in every part 
 of the house and premises. His garden had 
 become indifferent to him, nor was that occupa- 
 tion ever resumed again : besides, that diversity 
 of religious sentiment, which I mentioned before, 
 had produced a coolness in some of his parishion- 
 ers, which he fdt the more painfully, because, 
 whatever might be their difference of opinion, 
 he was ever ready to help and oblige them all 
 by medical and other ai<l to the utmost extent 
 of his power. They carried this unkind feeling 
 so far as to ring the bells for his successor, before 
 he himself had left the residence. 
 
 Before he quitted Leicestershire he witnessed 
 a scene of hospitality at the castle which has 
 not often been exceeded in magnificence. In 
 January, 1814, the infant heir of the House of 
 
Rutland was publicly baptized in the chapel of 
 Bclvoir, bv the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. 
 Manners Sutton, himself a near branch of the 
 (iuoal family, and of whom my father was 
 accustomed to say, that he carried as much per- 
 sonal jrrace and dignity about with him as any 
 individual he ever met with. On this high 
 occasion the Prince Regent and Duke of York 
 were present as sponsors. A variety of magni- 
 ficent entertainments ensued ; and my father, 
 who was one of the company, had the honour of 
 being presented, for the second time, to his late 
 Majesty, and to the Duke of York, by both of 
 whom he was received in a very flattering 
 manner. 
 
 Before finally quitting Leicestershire, my 
 father paid a short visit to his sister at Aid- 
 borough, from whom he was about to be still 
 more widely divided ; and one day was given to a 
 solitary ramble among the scenery of bygone 
 years— Parham and "the woods of Glemham, 
 then in the first blossom of May. He did not 
 return until night ; and in his note-book I find 
 the following" brief record of this mournful 
 visit : — 
 
 " Yes, I behold again the place, 
 
 The seat of joy, tlie source of pain ; 
 It brings in view the form and face 
 That I must never see again. 
 
 Tlie night-bird's song that sweetly floats 
 
 On this soft gloom — this balmy air, 
 Brings to the mind her s.veeter notes 
 
 That I again must never liear. 
 
 Lo ! yonder shines that window's light, 
 
 My guide, my token, heretofore ; 
 And now again it shines as bright, 
 
 When those dear eyes can shine no more. 
 
 Then hurry from this place away ! 
 
 It gives not now the bliss it gave ; 
 For Death has made its charm his prey, 
 
 And joy is buried in her grave." 
 
 I may introduce, in connection with the 
 above, some lines which were long afterwards 
 found written on a jjaper in which niy dear 
 mother's wedding-ring, nearly worn through 
 beibre she died, was wrapped : — 
 
 " The ring so worn, as you behold. 
 So thin, so pale, is yet of gold : 
 'I'iie passion such it was to prove ; 
 Worn with life's caies, love yet was love." 
 
 On the 3rd of Juno, 1814, he was inducted 
 to Trowbridge chuich by the Rev. Mr. Fletcher. 
 His liiary, has, among others, the following very 
 brief entries : — " 5th June, — first sermon at 
 Trowbridse. 8th, Evening,- -solitary walk — 
 night — cnange of opinion — easier, better, hap- 
 pier." To whnt these last words refer, 1 shall 
 not guess ; but 1 well remember that, even after 
 he had mingled with the lively society of Trow- 
 bridge, he was subject to very distressing fits of 
 melancholy. My brother and I did not for 
 
 some little time follow him to that place. The 
 evening of our arrival, seeing us conversing 
 cheerfully as we walked together in the garden 
 before his window, it seemed to have brought 
 back to his memory the times when he was not 
 alone : for happening to look up, I saw him 
 regarding us very earnestly, and he appeared 
 deeply affected. That connection had been 
 broken, which no other relationship can suppl}'. 
 These visitations of depression were, however, 
 gradually softened ; — he became contented and 
 cheerful, and I hope I may add, positively 
 happy. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 1814—1819. 
 
 Mr. Crabbe's Residence and Habits of Life at Trowbridge — 
 His Study of Fossils — His Correspondence with Mary Lead- 
 beater— His Journal kept during a Visit to London — Let- 
 ters to and from Mr. Crabbe— His " Tales of the Hall," 
 etc. 
 
 When my brother and myself arrived, on the 
 occasion already alluded to, within a mile of 
 Trowbridge, my father appeared on the road, 
 having walked out to meet us ; and, as he re- 
 turned with us in the chaise, the manner in 
 which he pointed out various houses to our 
 notice satisfied us that he had met with a very 
 gratifying reception among the principal inhabi- 
 tants of his new parish. On the very night of 
 his coming to Trowbridge, he had been most 
 cordially received by the family of the late Mr. 
 Waldron; and there, but not there only, we 
 found the foundations already laid of intimacy, 
 that soon ripened into friendship which death 
 alone could break ; for such casual variations of 
 humour as he was subject to, serve only to prove 
 the strength of the sentiment that survived 
 them. 
 
 We were soon satisfied that Mr. Crabbe had 
 made a wise and happy choice in this change of 
 residence. While my mother lived, her infirm 
 health forbade her mingling much in society, 
 nor, with her to care for, did he often miss it ; 
 but he was naturally disposed for, and calculated 
 to find pleasure in, social intercourse ; and after 
 his great loss, the loneliness of Muston began to 
 depress him seriously. In answering the Duke 
 of Rutland's kind letter, ollcring him the rectory 
 of Trowbridge, he said, '"It is too true that 
 Muston is no longer what it has been to me : 
 here I am now a solitiiry with a social dis|)Osi- 
 tion, — a hermit without a hermit's resignation.'' 
 What wonder that he was healthfully excited by 
 the warm reception he was now experiencing 
 among the most cultivated families of Trow- 
 bridge and its vicinity : bv the attractive atten- 
 tions of the young and gay among them, in par- 
 ticular, who, finding the old satirist in many 
 things very different from what they had looki'd 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 61 
 
 for, hastened to show a manifest partiality for 
 his manners, as well as admiration of his talents ? 
 We were surprised, certainly, as well as 
 delighted, to observe the tempered exuberance 
 to which, ere many weeks had passed, his 
 spirits, lately so sombre and desponding, were 
 raised, — how lively and cheerful he appeared in 
 every company, pleased with all about him, and 
 evidently imparting pleasure wherever he went. 
 
 But a physical change that occurred in his 
 constitution, at the time of the severe illness 
 that followed close on my mother's death, had, 
 I believe, a great share in all these happy symp- 
 toms. It always seemed to be his own opinion 
 that at that crisis his system had, by a violent 
 effort, thrown off some weight or obstruction 
 which had been, for many years previously, 
 giving his bodily condition the appearances of 
 a gradual decline, — afflicting him with occa- 
 sional fits of low fever, and vexatiously disor- 
 dering his digestive organs. In those days, 
 " life is as tedious as a twice-told tale," was an 
 expression not seldom in his mouth ; and he 
 once told me, he felt that he could not possibly 
 live more than six or seven years. But now it 
 seemed that he had recovered not only the enjoy- 
 ment of sound health, but much of the vigour 
 and spirit of youthful feelings. Such a renova- 
 tion of health and strength at sixty is rare 
 enough ; and never, I believe, occurs unless 
 there has been much temperance in the early 
 period of life. Perhaps, he had never looked 
 so well, in many respects, as he did about this 
 time ; his temples getting more bare, the height 
 of his well -developed forehead appeared as in- 
 creased, and more than ever like one of those 
 heads by which Wilkie makes so many converts 
 to the beauty of human decay. He became 
 stouter in person than he had been, though 
 without fatness ; and, although he began to 
 stoop, his limbs and motions were strong and 
 active. 
 
 Notwithstanding his flattering reception among 
 the principal people of the place, he was far 
 from being much liked, for some years, by his 
 new parishioners in general : nor, in truth, is it 
 at all difficult to account for this. His imme- 
 diate predecessor, the curate of the previous 
 rector, had been endeared to the more serious 
 inhabitants by warm zeal and a powerful talent 
 for preaching extempore, and had moreover, 
 been so universally respected, that the town 
 petitioned the Duke of Rutland to give him the 
 living. His Grace's refusal had irritated many 
 even of those who took little interest in the 
 qualifications of their pastor, and engendered a 
 feeling bordering on ill-will, towards Mr. 
 Crabbe himself, which was heightened by the 
 prevalence of some reports so ridiculous, that I 
 am almost ashamed to notice them ; such as, 
 that he was a dissipated man — a dandy — even a 
 gambler. And then, when he appeared among 
 
 them, the perfect openness of his nature,— that, 
 perhaps, impolitic frankness which made him at 
 all times scorn the assumption of a scruple which 
 he did not really feel, led him to violate occa- 
 sionally, what were considered, among many 
 classes in that neighbourhood, the settled laws 
 of clerical decorum. For example, though little 
 delighting in such scenes, except as they were 
 partaken by kind and partial friends, he might 
 be seen occasionally at a concert, a ball, or even 
 a play. Then, even in the exercise of his un- 
 wearied and extensive charity, he often so con- 
 ducted himself as to neutralise, in coarse and 
 bad minds, all the natural movements of grati- 
 tude ; mixing the clergyman too much with the 
 almsgiver, and reading a lecture, the severity of 
 which, however just, was more thought of than 
 the benefaction it accompanied. He, moreover, 
 soon after his arrival, espoused the cause of a 
 candidate for the county representation, to whom 
 the manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in 
 his parish, was extremely hostile. Lastly, to 
 conclude this long list, Mr. Crabbe, in a town 
 remarkable for diversity of sects and warmth of 
 discussion, adhered for a season unchanged to 
 the same view of scriptural doctrines which had 
 latterly found little favour even at Muston. As 
 he has told us of his own Rector, in the Tales 
 of the Hall :— 
 
 " ' A moral teacher I ' some contemptuous cried ; 
 Hi miled, but nothing of the fact denied ; 
 Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied. 
 Still, though he bade them not on aught rely 
 That was their own, but all their worth deny. 
 They call'd his pure advice his cold morality. 
 ' Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from wrong, 
 But to a Christian higher points belong.' " 
 
 But, while these things were against him, 
 there were two or three traits in his character 
 which wrought slowly, but steadily, in his favour. 
 One was his boldness and uncompromising per- 
 severance in the midst of opposition and reproach. 
 During the violence of that contested election, 
 while the few friends of Mr. Benett were almost 
 in danger of their lives, he was twice assailed 
 by a mob of his parishioners, with hisses and the 
 most virulent abuse. He replied to their for- 
 midable menaces by "rating them roundly;" 
 and though he was induced to retire by the 
 advice of some friends, who hastened to his 
 succour, yet this made no change in his vote, 
 habits, or conduct. He continued to support 
 Mr. Benett ; he walked in the streets always 
 alone, and just as frequently as before ; and 
 spoke as fearlessly. Mr. Canon Bowles says, 
 in a letter to the present writer, — 
 
 " A riotous, tumultuous, and most appalling 
 mob, at the time of election, besieged his house, 
 ■when a chaise was at the door, to prevent his going 
 to the poll and giving his vote in favour of my 
 most worthy friend, John Benett of Pyt House, 
 the present member for the county. The mob 
 
62 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 threatened to destroy the chaise and tear him to 
 pieces, if he attempted to set out. In the face of 
 the furious assemblage, he came out cahnly, told 
 them they might kill him if they chose, but, whilst 
 alive, nothmg should prevent his giving a vote at 
 the election, according to his promise and princi- 
 ples, and set off, undisturbed and unhurt, to vote 
 for Mr. Benett," 
 
 He manifested the same decision respecting 
 his religious opinions ; for one or two re- 
 proachful letters made no impression, nor 
 altered his language in the least. Such firmness, 
 where it is the efiect of principle, is sure to gain 
 respect from all Englishmen. But mildness 
 was as natural to him as his fortitude ; and this, 
 of course, had a tendency to appease enmity 
 even at its height. A benevolent gentle heart 
 was seen in his manner and countenance, and no 
 occasional hastiness of temper could conceal it ; 
 — and then it soon became known that no one 
 left his house unrelieved. 
 
 But, above all, the liberality of his conduct 
 with respect to dissenters brought a counter- 
 current in his favour. Though he was warmly 
 attached to the established church, he held that 
 
 " A man's opinion was his own, his due 
 
 And just possession, whether false or true ;"' 
 
 and in all his intercourse with his much-divided 
 parishioners he acted upon this principle, visit- 
 ing and dealing indiscriminately, and joining the 
 ministers of the various denominations in every 
 good work. In the course of a i'ew yeai's, there- 
 tore, not only all op])Osition died away, but he 
 became generally and cordially esteemed. They 
 who differed from him admitted that he had a 
 right also to his own religious and political o]n- 
 nions. His integrity and benevolence were justly 
 appreciated ; his talents acknowledged, and his 
 disposition loved. 
 
 In the spring of 1815, my brother and I, 
 thinking it probable that we might soon settle 
 for life, cacli in some village parsonage, and tiuit 
 this was the only opportunity of seeing some- 
 thing of our native country — leaving my father 
 in sound health and among attached friends, 
 absorbed by his duties, his new coimections and 
 amusements, — quitted Trowbridge about the 
 the same time, and continued absent from it, 
 sometimes in London together, sometimes apart 
 in distant places in the kingdom, for nearly two 
 
 ' He wrote tlins to a friend on the subject : — " Tliousands 
 nnd tens of tliousands of sincere and eirnest believers in the 
 Gospel of our Lord, and in the general contents of Scripture, 
 seekinj^ its meanin;; with veneration and prayer, a;,'ree, I cin- 
 not doubt, in essentials, but dilVer in n.any points, and in 
 some which unwise and uncliarllable persons deem of much 
 importance; nay, think that iliere is no salvation without 
 them.. Look at the good — goo'l, comparatively speakin;; — 
 just, pure, pious; tlie patient and sull'erin;,' amongst recorded 
 clKLTActers — and were not they of ilill'erent opinions in many 
 articles of their faith ? and can we suppose tlieir lieavenlv 
 Kather will select from this number a lew , a very few, and 
 that for their absent to certain tenetis, which causes, inde- 
 pendent of any merit of their own, in all probability, led 
 them to embrace i"' 
 
 u 
 
 years. In that interval, though we constantly 
 corresponded. I saw my lather only twice. 
 
 Calling, one day, at Mr. llatchard's, in-Pic- 
 cadilly, he said, " Look round," and pointed to 
 his inner room ; and there stood my father, 
 reading intently, as his manner was — with his 
 knees somewhat bent, insensible to all around 
 him. How homelike was the sight of that ve- 
 nerable white head among a world of strangers ! 
 He was engaged, and I was leaving town ; and, 
 after appointing a day to meet at Beccles, and 
 a short cheerful half hour, we parted. 
 
 When the time arrived, he joined my brother 
 and me at Beccles, at the house of his kind 
 sister-in-law, Miss Elmy ; where, after staying 
 about a-week, and being introduced to Lady 
 Byron, who attracted his just admiration, he left 
 us via, Aldborough, and returned into VViltshire. 
 This was about the end of October, 1816. 
 
 I cannot pass this date — October, 1816 — 
 without offering a remark or two, suggested by 
 my father's diary and note-book of that period. 
 He was peculiarly fond of the society and cor- 
 respondence of females : all his most intimate 
 friends, I think, were ladies ; and I believe no 
 better proof could be given of the delicacy and 
 purity of his mind and character. He loved the 
 very failings of the female mind : men in gene- 
 ral appeared to him too stern, reserved, unyield- 
 ing, and worldly ; and he ever found relief in 
 the gentleness, the tenderness, and the unselfish- 
 ness of woman. Many of his chosen female 
 friends were married, but this was not uniformly 
 the case ; and will it seem wonderful, when we 
 consider how he was situated at this time, that 
 with a most affectionate heart, a peculiar attach- 
 ment to female society, and with unwanted pas- 
 sions, Mr. Crabbe, though in his SiXty-sccond 
 year, should have again thought of marriage? 
 He could say with Shakspeare's good old Adam, 
 — I quote lines which, for their surpassing 
 beauty, ho himself never could read steadily, — 
 
 " Tliough I look old, yet am I strong and lusty ; 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood; 
 Nor did not with unbashlul forehead woo 
 The means of weakness and debility : 
 Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter. 
 Frosty but kindly." 
 
 Moreover, a poet's mind is proverbially always 
 young. If, therefore, youth and beauty could 
 more than once warm his imagination to outrun 
 his prudence — for, surely, the union of youth 
 and beauty with a man of such age can never 
 be wise — 1 feel satisfied that no one will be se- 
 riously shocked with such an evidence of the 
 freshness of his feelings. Tlie critics of his last 
 publication bestowed some good-natured raillery 
 on the warmth with which he there expressed 
 himself on certain subjects — the increased ten- 
 derness of his love-scenes especially — and there 
 occurred various incidents in his own later his- 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 63 
 
 tory that might afford his friends fair matter for 
 a little innocent jesting : but none that knew 
 him ever regarded him with less respect on ac- 
 count of this pardonable sort of weakness ; and 
 though loi'e might be out of the question, I be- 
 lieve he inspired feelings of no ordinary regard 
 in more than one of the fair objects of his vain 
 devotion. These things were so well known 
 among the circle of which at this period he 
 formed the delight and ornament, that I thought 
 it absurd not to allude to them. I have, how- 
 ever, no great wish to dwell on the subject ; 
 though, I must add, it was one that never for a 
 moment disturbed the tranquillity of his family ; 
 nay, that, on one occasion at least, my brother 
 and myself looked with sincere pleasure to the 
 prospect of seeing our father's happiness in- 
 creased by a new alliance. 
 
 Whether the two following sets of stanzas 
 refer to the same period, I have not been curious 
 to inquire. It is even possible that I may be 
 wrong in suspecting any allusion to his personal 
 feelings. 
 
 " Unhappy is tlie wretch who feels 
 The trembling lover's anient <lame. 
 And yet the treacherous hope conceals 
 By using Frieiidsliip's colder name. 
 
 He must the lover's panj;s endure, 
 And still the outward sign suppress ; 
 
 Nor may expect the smiles that cure 
 The wounded heart's conceiUed distress. 
 
 When her soft looks on others bend, 
 liy him discern'd, to him denied, 
 
 He must be then the silent friend, 
 And all his jealous tormenis hide. 
 
 When she shall one blest youth select, 
 His bleeding heart must still approve; 
 
 Must every angry thought correct, 
 
 And strive to like, where she can love. 
 
 Heaven from my heart such pangs remove, 
 And let these feverish sull'eriiigs cease — 
 
 These pains without tlie hope of love, 
 These cares of friendship, not its peace." 
 
 II. 
 
 " And viWt thou never smile again ; 
 Thy cruel purpose never shaken ? 
 Hast thou no feeling for ray pain, 
 Refused, disdain'd, despised, forsaken ? 
 
 Thy uncle, crafty, careful, cold. 
 
 His wealth upon my mind imprinted ; 
 
 His fields described, and praised his fold. 
 And jested, boasted, promised, hinted. 
 
 Thy aunt — I scorn'd tlie omen — spoke 
 Of lovers by thy scorn rejected ; 
 
 But I the warning never took 
 
 When chosen, cheer'd, received, respected. 
 
 Thy brother, too — but all was plann'd 
 To murder peace — all freely granted ; 
 
 And then I lived in fairy land. 
 
 Transported, bless'd, eiirapt, enchanted. 
 
 Oh, what a dream of happy love I 
 From which the wise in time awaken ; 
 
 While I must all its anguish prove. 
 Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken !" 
 
 I am persuaded that but few men have, even 
 in early life, tasted either of the happiness or the 
 pain which attend the most exquisite of passions, 
 in such extremes as my father experienced at 
 this period of his life. In his young " true 
 love," indeed, he was so soon assured of a full 
 return, that one side of the picture could scarcely 
 have been then revealed to his view ; and I 
 cannot but consider it as a very interesting trait 
 in the history of his mind, that he was capable at 
 so late a stage, of feeling, with regard to the 
 other side of it, so exactly as a man of five-and- 
 twenty would have done under the same cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 But my brother, in December, 1816, married, 
 with his entire approbation, the daughter of the 
 late William Crowfoot, Esq., and sister to the 
 present Dr. Crowfoot, of Beccles, and imme- 
 diately came to reside as his curate at Trow- 
 bridge , thus relieving him from much of the 
 fatigue of his professional duties, as well as from 
 domestic cares and the weariness of a solitary 
 house. Soon after this I again joined the fa- 
 mily ; and early in 1817, my lather had the sa- 
 tisfaction of marrying me to the daughter of the 
 late Thomas Timbrell, Esq., of Trowbridge, 
 and of seeing my wife and myself established, 
 within twenty miles of him, in the curacy of 
 Pucklechurch ; where, during the rest of his 
 life, he had always at his command a second, and, 
 what was often refreshing to him, a rural home. 
 
 In relating my own impressions of my father, 
 I have often been apprehensive that I have de- 
 scribed him in terms which those who did not 
 know him may deem exaggeration ; yet am I 
 supported by the testimony, not only of many 
 who were well acquainted with his worth, but 
 of one who knew him not, except by his publi- 
 cations and his letters. The talented individual 
 who began the following correspondence, which 
 was continued till her death in 1826, read and 
 appreciated his character nearly as well as the 
 most intimate of his friends. The daughter of 
 Richard Shackleton, the intimate friend of 
 Burke, had met my father at Mr. Burke's table 
 in the year 1784, when, just after his marriage, 
 he had the pleasure of introducing his bride to 
 his patron. This distinguished lady possessed 
 that superiority of intellect which marked her 
 family, and was evidently honoured by Mr. 
 Burke, not merely as the daughter of his old 
 friend, but as one worthy to enjoy that high 
 title herself. Her conespondence with Mr. 
 Burke forms an interesting feature in Mr. Prior's 
 able work. She was a poet, though not of the 
 highest class, and sent to her eminent I'riend 
 some pleasing verses on his residence at Beacons- 
 field, which drew forth a long and warm reply. 
 
How would he have been gratified had he lived 
 to read the very superior publications in prose, 
 " Cottage Dialogues," " Cottage Biography," 
 &c., which she gave to the world after she had 
 changed her name to Leadbeater ! This excel- 
 lent woman had not forgotten that early meeting 
 with Mr. Crabbe; and in November, 1816, he 
 had the unexpected pleasure of receiving from 
 her the first of a long series of letters; his 
 replies to which are rendered particularly in- 
 teresting by the playi'ul ingenuousness with which 
 he describes himself. They are, in fact, most 
 valuable additions to his auto-biographical sketch. 
 
 From Mrs. Leadbeater. 
 
 " Ballitore, 7th of 11th month, ISlc. 
 " I believe it will surprise Geoi'ge Crabbe to re- 
 ceive a letter from an entire stranger, whom, most 
 probably, he does not remember to have ever seen 
 or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him 
 at the house of Edmund Burke, Charles Street, 
 James's Square, in the year 1784. I was brought 
 thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the 
 friend, from their childhood, of Edmund Burke. 
 My dear father told thee, that ' Goldsmith's would 
 now be the deserted village.' Perhaps thou dost 
 not remember this compliment ; but I remember 
 the ingenuous modesty which disclaimed it. He 
 admired the ' Village,' the ' Library,' and the 
 ' Newspaper ' exceedingly ; and the delight with 
 which he read them to his family could not but be 
 acceptable to the author, had he known the sound 
 judgment and the exquisite taste which that excel- 
 lent man possessed. But he saw no more of the 
 productions of the Muse he admired, whose ori- 
 ginality was not the least chann. He is dead — the 
 friend whom he loved and honoured, and to whose 
 character thou dost so much justice in the Preface 
 to the ' Parish Register," is also gone to the house 
 appointed for all living. A splendid constellation 
 of poets arose in the literary horizon. I looked 
 around for Crabbe. ' Why does not he, who shines 
 as brightly as any of these, add his lustre ?' I had 
 not long thought thus, when, in an Edinburgh 
 Review, I met with reflections similar to my own, 
 which introduced the ' Parish Register.' Oh I it 
 was like the voice of a long-lost friend ; and glad 
 was I to hear that voice again in ' The Borough ! ' 
 — still more in the ' Tales,' which appear to me 
 excelling all that preceded them. Every work is 
 so much in unison with our own feelings, that a 
 wish for information concerning them and their au- 
 thor, received into our hearts, is strongly excited. 
 One of our friends. Dykes Alexander, who was in 
 Ballitore, in 1810 I think, said, he was personally 
 acquainted with thee, and spoke highly of thy cha- 
 racter. I regretted I had not an opportunity of 
 conversing with him on this subject, as perhaps he 
 would have been able to decide arguments which 
 have arisen ; namely, whether we owe to truth or 
 to fiction that 'ever new delight' which thy poetry 
 affords us ? Thy characters, however singular some 
 of them may be, are never unnatural ; and thy sen- 
 timents, so true to domestic and social feelings, as 
 well as to those of a higher nature, have the con- 
 vincing power of reality over the mind; and / 
 maintain that all thy pictures are drawn from life. 
 
 To inquire whether this be the case, is the excuse 
 which I make to myself for writing this letter. I 
 wish the excuse may be accepted by thee ; for I 
 greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable liberty 
 in making the inquiry. Though advanced in life, 
 yet, from an education of peculiar simplicity, and 
 from never having been long absent from my re- 
 tired native village, I am too little acquainted with 
 decorum. If I have now transgressed the rules it 
 prescribes, I appeal to the candour and liberality 
 of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by strong en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 " I am thy sincere friend, Mary Leaddeater." 
 
 " P.S. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund 
 Burke was educated by Abraham Shackleton, whose 
 pupil he became in 1741, and from whose school he 
 entered the college of Dublin in 1744. The school 
 is still flourishing." 
 
 To Mrs. Leadbeater. 
 "Trowbridge, 1st of 12th month, I8I6. 
 
 " Mart Leadbeater ! — Yes, indeed, I do well 
 remember you ! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty 
 demure lass, standing a timid auditor while her 
 own verses were read by a kind friend, but a keen 
 judge. And I have in my memory your father's 
 person and countenance, and you may be sure that 
 my vanity retained the compliment which he paid 
 me in the moment when he permitted his judgment 
 to slip behind his good humour and desire of giving 
 pleasure : — Yes, I remember all who were present: 
 and, of all, are not you and I the only survivors ? 
 It was the day — was it not ? — when I introduced 
 my wife to my friend. And now both are gone ! 
 and your father, and Richard Burke, who was pre- 
 sent (yet again I must ask — was he not?) — and 
 Mrs. Burke ! All departed - and so, by and by, 
 they will speak of us. But, in the mean time, it 
 was good of you to write. Oh very — very good. 
 
 " But, are you not your father's own daughter ? 
 Do you not flatter after his manner ? How do you 
 know the mischief that you may do in the mind of 
 a vain man, who is but too susceptible of praise, 
 even while he is conscious of so much to be placed 
 against it ? I am glad that you like my verses : it 
 would have mortified me much if you had not, for 
 
 you can judge as well as write Yours are 
 
 really very admirable things ; and the morality is 
 as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am 
 not sure that I have read all that you have given 
 us; but what I have read has really that rare and 
 almost undefinable quality — genius : that is to say, 
 it seizes on the mind, and commands attention ; and 
 on the heart, and compels its feelings. 
 
 " How could you imagine that 1 could be other- 
 wise than pleased — delighted rather—with your 
 letter ? And let me not omit the fact, that I reply 
 the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobing 
 myself for church. You are a child of simplicity. 
 I know, and do not love robing ; but you are a pupil 
 of liberality, and look upon such things with a large 
 mind, smiling in charity. Well ! I was putting on 
 the great black gown, when my servant — (you sec 
 I can be pompous, to write of gowns and servants 
 with such familiarity) — when he brought me a let- 
 ter first directed, the words yet legible, to ' George 
 Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle,' and then by Lord Mendi)) 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 65 
 
 to ' the Reverend ' at Trowbridge ; and at Trow- 
 bridge I hope again to receive these welcome evi- 
 dences of your remembrance, directed in all their 
 simplicity, and written, I trust, in all sincerity. The 
 delay was occasioned by a change in my place of 
 residence. I now dwell in the parsonage of a busy, 
 populous, clothing town, sent thither by ambition, 
 and the Duke of FaUland. It is situated in Wilt- 
 shire, not far from Bath. 
 
 "There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one 
 of whom you probably mean ; and as he knew very 
 little of me, I see no reason why he should not give 
 me a good character. Whether it was merited is 
 another point, and that will depend upon our ideas 
 of a good character. If it means, as it generally 
 does, that I paid my debts, and was guilty of 
 no glaring world-defying immorality — why yes ! 
 I was so far a good character. But before 
 the Searcher of Hearts what are our good cha- 
 racters ? 
 
 " But your motive for writing to me was your 
 desire of knowing whether my men and women 
 were really existing creatures, or beings of my own 
 imagination ? Nay, Mary Leadbeater, yours was 
 a better motive : you thought that you should give 
 pleasure by writing, and — yet you will think me 
 very vain — you felt some pleasure yourself in re- 
 newing the acquaintance that commenced under 
 such auspices ! Am I not right? My heart tells 
 me that I am, and hopes that you will confirm it. 
 Be assured that I feel a /ery cordial esteem for the 
 friend of my friend— the virtuous, the worthy cha- 
 racter whom I am addressing. Yes, I will tell you 
 readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured to 
 paint as nearly as I could and dared ; for, in some 
 cases, I dared not. This you will readily admit : be- 
 sides, charity bade me be cautious. Thus far you 
 are correct : there is not one of whom I had not in 
 my mind the original ; but I was obliged, in some 
 cases, to take them from their real situations, 
 in one or two instances to change even the sex, 
 and, in many, the circumstances. The nearest to 
 real life was the proud, ostentatious man in the 
 ' Borough,' who disguises an ordinary mind by doing 
 great things ; but the others approach to reality at 
 greater or less distances. Indeed, I do not know 
 that I could paint merely from my own fancy ; and 
 there is no cause why we should. Is there not 
 diversity sufficient in society ? and who can go, 
 even but a little, into the assemblies of our fellow- 
 wanderers from the way of perfect rectitude, and 
 not find characters so varied and so pointed, that 
 he need not call upon his imagination ? 
 
 " Will you not write again ? ' Write to thee, or 
 for the public ? ' wilt thou not ask ? To me and 
 for as many as love and can discern the union of 
 strength and simplicity, purity and good sense. 
 Our feeling and our hearts is the language you can 
 adopt. Alas, / cannot with propriety use it — our I 
 too could once say ; but I am alone now • and since 
 my removing into a busy town among the multi- 
 tude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more 
 melancholy. But this is only at certain times ; and 
 then I have, though at considerable distances, six 
 female friends unknown to each other, but all dear, 
 very dear, to me. With men I do not much asso- 
 ciate, not as deserting, and much less disliking, the 
 male part of society, but as being unfit for it ; not 
 
 hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor suf- 
 ficiently acquainted with the every-day concerns of 
 men. But my beloved creatures have minds with 
 which I can better assimilate. Think of you i 
 must ; and of me, I must entreat that you would 
 not be unmindful. Thine, dear lady, very truly, 
 
 " George Craebe." 
 
 I dare say no one will put an unfavourable 
 interpretation on my father's condescension to 
 Mrs. Leadbeater's feelings, if, indeed, it was 
 anything but a playful one, in dating the above 
 letter alter the Quaker fashion, " 1st of 12th 
 month." I need not transcribe the whole of 
 this excellent lady's next letter : but the first 
 and last paragraphs are as follow : — 
 
 " Ballitore, 29th of 12th month, 1816. 
 " Respected Friend, — I cannot describe the 
 sensations with which I began to read thy letter. 
 They overpowered me. I burst into tears, and, 
 even after I had recovered composure, found it 
 necessary frequently to wipe my spectacles before I 
 reached the conclusion. I felt astonishment mingled 
 with delight, to find that I, in my lonely valley, 
 was looked upon with such benevolence by him 
 who sits upon the top of the hill. That benevo- 
 lence encourages me again to take up the pen.— 
 That day on which I had the pleasure of seeing 
 thee and thy wife was the tenth day of the sixth 
 month (June), 1784. It was the day thou intro- 
 duced thy bride to thy friends. She sat on a sofa 
 with Jane Burke ; thou stood with Edmund near 
 the window. May I ask how long it is since thou 
 wast visited by the affliction of losing her, and how 
 many children are left to comfort thee ? But this 
 is a delicate chord, and perhaps I should not touch 
 it. The report of my having received a letter 
 from thee, quickly spread through Ballitore, and I 
 was congratulated by my family, fiiends, and 
 neighbours, with unfeigned cordiality, on this dis- 
 tinction ; for we partake in each ofliers joys and 
 sorrows, being closely united in friendship and 
 good neighbourhood. We are mostly a colony of 
 Quakers ; and those who are not of our profession, 
 in their social intercourse with us conform to our 
 sober habits. None of us are wealthy, all depend- 
 ing on industry for our humble competence, yet 
 we find time to recreate ourselves with books, and 
 generally see every publication which is proper for 
 our perusal. Some profess not to relish poetry ; 
 yet thou hast contrived to charm us all, and sorry 
 shall we be if thy next visit be to take leave. 
 Therefore do not mar the pleasure we anticipate by 
 a threat so alarming. In thy partiality for female 
 society, I discern a resemblance to dear Cowper, 
 our other moral poet, but enlivened by that flow of 
 cheerfulness, which he so sadly wanted, 
 
 ***** 
 " I cannot define my motives for writing to thee. 
 I perfectly recollect that one of them was the wish 
 to be assured of the reality of thy characters, I 
 suppose, also, I wished to know thy own ; but I 
 did not imagine I could give pleasure to thee by 
 such an address : indeed, I feared offending, though 
 that fear was dissipated when I opened one of thy 
 volumes. How condescending art thou to gratify 
 
GG 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE 
 
 my curiosity, and how glad am I to find myself 
 riifht in my conjecture! Hut I felt confident tluit 
 what impressed oin* hearts so deeply must be truth. 
 I could say much more, but I curb myself, con- 
 sidering who I am, and whom I address ; and am, 
 with sentiments of gratitude and respect, sincerely 
 thy friend, " Mary Leadbeater." 
 
 I am ajiproaching the period of my father's 
 return to the high society of London ; and, per- 
 haps, a few remarks on his qualifications for 
 mixing in such circles may, with propriety, 
 precede some extracts from the Journal which 
 he kept during his first season in the metropolis. 
 When he re-entered such society, his position 
 was very different from what it had been when 
 he sat at the tables of Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, and tiie Duke of Rutland. Then he 
 was under the avowed {)atronage of persons, 
 whose station must have ensured him easy ad- 
 mittance among their equals, whatever might 
 have been his own talents for society ; but when 
 he returned to high life, though his poetical 
 reputation would, no doubt, have procured him 
 an extensive introduction, nothing but his per- 
 sonal qualifications, agreeable or shining, could 
 have enabled him to retain his place— nay, con- 
 tinually to enlarge the circle of his acquaintance, 
 and see the cordiality of his distinguished ad- 
 mirers growing into the warmth and attachment 
 of friendship. 
 
 Now, certainly, all this was not to be attri- 
 buted to any very shining qualities in his 
 conversation. He had no talent for speaking — 
 never, except at one or two public meetings, 
 uttered a sentence in the form or tone of a 
 speech in his life, but said (as was admirably 
 remarked by Mr. Murray) " uncommon things 
 in so natural and easy a way, that he often lost 
 the credit of them." Nor were such conversa- 
 tional powers as he did possess always at his 
 command — they required to be drawn forth and 
 fostered. Perhaps, no man with an appearance 
 so prepossessing was ever more distrustful of his 
 powers to ])lease. Coldness and reserve would 
 benumb them ; and he would be abstracted and 
 even distressed. But where he was once re- 
 ceived warmly, he generally felt that strong 
 partiality which ever unlocked his heart and 
 drew forth his powers ; and under particular 
 circumstances, when his s|)irits were raised, he 
 could be the most delightful of companions. 
 
 Argument he sustained with great imj)atience : 
 he neither ke])t close to his point, nor preserved 
 his temper. Tiiis dislike of controversial dis- 
 course arose, in part, probably, from a conscious- 
 ness that he had not cultivated the fiiculty of 
 close logical reasoning ; but partly, also, from 
 an opinion, or rather feeling, that he had, against 
 nil pretence of colloquial equality, lie had seen 
 tlie submission jjaid to the oj)inions of Johnson 
 and Burke, and he always readily followed the 
 lead of any one whom he thought skilled on the 
 
 topic in <|uestion ; but when he ventured an 
 assertion himself, he expected similar defei-ence. 
 And, to be candid, though what he said was 
 pretty sure to be just, yet there was an unfair 
 and aristocratic principle in this expectation, 
 which I never could think quite in harmony 
 with the general modesty of his nature. 
 
 But he had a recommendation lor the best 
 society infinitely more availing than even the 
 brilliancy of wit. In appearance, manners, and 
 disposition, he was entirely the gentleman. Mr. 
 Burke had discovered this stamp when he had 
 recently left the warehouse at Slaughden, and 
 since that time his walk had been at Belvoir, 
 Glemham, and Cambridge ; and his profession, 
 his studies, his age, and his literary success had 
 fully ripened the character. Perhaps it niay be 
 said, that no one so humbly boin and bred, ever 
 retained so few traces of his origin. His person 
 and his countenance peculiarly led the mind 
 from the suspicion of any, but a highly 
 cultivated and polished education ; venerable, 
 clerical, intellectual, — it seemed a strange in- 
 consistency to imagine him, even in early youth, 
 occupied as a warehouseman ; and, in fact, there 
 was no company in which his appearance would 
 not have proclaimed him an equal. But, above 
 all, he had the disposition of a gentleman, the 
 genuine politeness of a virtuous mind, and a 
 warm and benevolent heart, ready to enter into 
 the interests of others, grateful for their atten- 
 tions, and happy in their happiness. 
 
 The vicinity of Trowbridge to Bath, Bowood, 
 &c. drew Mr. Crabbo by degrees into the dis- 
 tinguished society of London. He was first 
 introduced to the noble family of Lansdowne by 
 his brother poet, and, in latter days, attached 
 friend, the Reverend W. L. Bowles; and it was, 
 I believe, under that roof that he began an 
 acquaintance, which also soon ripened into a 
 strong friendship, with the author of the 
 " Pleasures of Memory." Mr. Rogers urged 
 him to ])ay a visit in the summer season to the 
 metropolis : he did so, and, taking lodgings near 
 his new friend's residence in St. James's Place, 
 was welcomed in the most cordial manner by the 
 whole of that wide circle, — including almost 
 every name distinguished in politics, fashion, 
 science, literature, and art, — of which Mr. 
 Rogers has so long been considered as the 
 brightest ornament. His reception at Holland 
 House was peculiarly warm, in consequence of 
 his early acquaintance with the late Mr. Fox ; 
 but, indeed, every mansion of that class was 
 now open to receive him with pride and pleasure : 
 nor were the attentions of royalty withheld. 
 In this brilliant society, to which after this time 
 he returned during some weeks for several 
 successive seasons, he became j)ersonally ac- 
 quainted with Mr. Moore, who soon afterwards 
 came to reside at no great distance from Trow- 
 bridge, and maintained an affectionate inter- 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 67 
 
 course with him to the last. He was also intro- 
 duced, on one of these London visits, by Mr. 
 Murray, of Albemarle Street, to his corre- 
 spondent Sir Walter Scott ; and the admiration 
 and respect they had long: felt for each other 
 were but heightened and confirmed by mutual 
 observation. I am happy to say, that among my 
 father's ])apers have been found several note- 
 books, containing short memoranda of these 
 exciting scenes, and from them I shall extract 
 various specimens. They will, however artless, 
 convey, perhaps, no inadequate impression of 
 the brilliant reception he met with. A friend 
 who saw much of him under these new circum- 
 stances, says, "It is not easy to conjecture the 
 effect which the modern world produced on one 
 who had associated with Burke, Reynolds, and 
 Johnson. As for himself, there can be no doubt 
 that he produced a very pleasing impression on 
 those who now, for the first time, beheld and 
 heard him. Tliere was much of the old school 
 in his manners, and even in the disposition of 
 his beautiful white hair; but this sat gracefully 
 on his time of life and professional character, 
 and an apparent simplicity, arising from his 
 strangeness to some of the recent modes of high 
 life, was mingled with so much shrewdness of 
 remark, that most people found his conversation 
 irresistibly amusing. When in society which he 
 particularly liked, he would manifest some of the 
 peculiar traits which distinguish his writings, in 
 keen pointed sarcastic humour, and pithy obser- 
 vations : and to this he joined, in the company 
 of ladies, such a spice of the old-fashioned 
 gallantry and politeness, as never fails to please 
 when it is unaffected and genuine." 
 
 I proceed to make some extracts from his 
 London Journal of 1817. He reached town in 
 company with his friend, Mr. W. Waldron, on 
 the 19th of June: — 
 
 " June 24th. — Mr. Rogers ; his brother, and 
 family. Mr. and Mrs. Moore, very agreeable and 
 pleasant people. Foscolo, the Italian gentleman. 
 Dante, &c. Play, Kemble in Coriolanus. 
 
 '■ 2iJth. — Mr. Itogers and the usual company at 
 breakfast. Lady Holland comes and takes me to 
 Holland House. The old building. Addison's 
 room. Bacon. Mr. Fox. The busts and statues. 
 Gardens very pleasant and walks extensive. Meet 
 at Holland House Mr. Allen. He appears equally 
 intelligent and affable. Must have a difficult part, 
 and executes it well. A young Grecian under 
 Lady Holland's protection. Meet Mr. Car.ipbell. 
 Mr. Moore with us. Mr. Rogers joins us in the 
 course of the day. Met Mr. Douglas,* in my way, 
 at the Horse Guards, and promised to dine with 
 him on Saturday. He says 1 cannot leave Holland 
 House ; that it is experimentum criicis. Dinner. 
 Mr. Brougham, who in some degree reminds me of 
 Mr. Burke. Ready at all subjects, and willing; 
 very friendly. Duchess of Bedford, daughter of 
 the Duchess of Gordon. The confidence of high 
 
 2 Tlie late Hon. Sylvester Douglas. 
 
 fashion. In the evening. Countess Besborough, a 
 frank and affectionate character, mother of Lady 
 Caroline Lamb, invites me to her house the next 
 evening. — Miss Fox.^ I remember meeting her 
 thirty years since ; but did not tell her so, and yet 
 could not help appearing to know her ; and she 
 questions me much on the subject. Parry it pretty 
 well.— Mrs. Fox.* All the remains of a fine person ; 
 aflfectionate manners and informed mind. Diffident 
 and retiring. Appeared to be much aflfected at 
 meeting a friend of her husband. Invites me to 
 her house ; and I am told she was much in earnest. 
 Retire very late. 
 
 " 21th. — Breakfast with Mr. Brougham and 
 Lady Holland. Lord Holland to speak at Kemble's 
 retiring, at the meeting at Freemasons' Tavern to- 
 morrow. Difficulty of procuring me an admission 
 ticket, as all are distributed. Trial made by some- 
 body. I knew not who, failed. This represented to 
 Lady Holland, who makes no reply. Morning 
 interview with Mr. Brougham. Mr. Campbell's 
 letter.* He invites us to Sydenham. I refer it to 
 Mr. Rogers and Mr. Moore. Return to town. The 
 porter delivers to me a paper ooufciiniug the admis- 
 sion ticket, procured by Lady Holland's means: 
 whether request or command I know not. Call on 
 Mr. Rogers. We go to the Freemasons' Tavern. 
 The room filled. We find a place about half-way 
 down the common seats, but not where the managers 
 dine, above the steps. By us Mr. Smith, one of the 
 authors of the Rejected Addresses. Known, but no 
 introduction. Mr. Perry, editor of the Morning 
 Chronicle, and Mr. Campbell, find us, and we are 
 invited into the Committee-room. Kemble, Perry, 
 Lord Erskine, Mr. Moore, Lord Holland, Lord 
 
 3 Sister to the late Mr. Fox. 
 
 •• Widow of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 
 
 5 I take (he liberty of inserting Mr. Campbells letter ; — a 
 letter full of what only a hi;;h mind in such eminent station 
 would express. My fatlier had found Mr. Campbell a much, 
 younger man than he had expected. 
 
 "Sydenham, June 25, 1817. 
 
 "My Dear Sir, — I sent an apology to Lady Holland for 
 not being able to dine at Holland House to-day ; and at that 
 very moment of writing, I felt that I owed also an apology 
 to you tor not testifying, by my acceptance of the invitation, 
 the high value which I attached to an opportunity of meeting 
 you. It was, indeed, an indispensable engagement that kept 
 me, otherwise it would have been an humiliating self- 
 reflection to have neglected such an occasion of being in the 
 company of Crabbe. You tliought me an old man ; but, in 
 addressing you, my dear Sir, I feel myself younger tlian even 
 tlie difference of our years might seem to justify. I have a 
 very youthful feeling of respect, — nay, if you will pardon me 
 for the hberty of saying so,— something" of a filial upward- 
 loi king affection for your matiured genius and patriarchal 
 reputation. This reverence for your classic name svould liave 
 been equally strong in njy mind if I had not been so fortu 
 nate as to form an acquaintance with you ; which your kind 
 manners have made a proud era in the little history of my 
 life. That time, and that spot, in the library of koIlanS 
 House, I shall never forget, w hen you shook me a second time 
 by the hand. It must be one of the most enviable privileges 
 of your senior and superior merit to confer pleasure on such 
 men as myself, by recoi,'nising them as younger brothers of 
 your vocation. One token o. your kindness was a promise to 
 give me a day of your society. I would not be importunate 
 on this bead ; but I cannot help reminding you of it, and 
 assuring you that Mrs. Campbell has a very proper sympathy 
 with me in the enthusiasm which I feel tohave the honour of 
 your presence under my roof. Our excellent friend, Mr. 
 Rogers, I trust, will accompany you, and you will have the 
 goodness to fix the day. Believe me, most estimable Sir, 
 yours truly, " T. Campbell." 
 
 F 2 
 
Ossory, whom I saw at Holland House. Dinner 
 announced. Music. Lord Erskine sits between me 
 and a young man, whom I found to be a son of 
 Boswell. Lord Holland's speech after dinner. The 
 Ode recited.* Campbell's speech. Kemble's— 
 Talma's. We leave the company, and go to Vaux- 
 hall to meet Miss Rogers and her party. Stay late. 
 
 « 28th.— Go to St. James's Place. Lord Byron's 
 new works, Manfred, and Tassos Lament. The 
 tragedy very fine — but very obscure in places. The 
 Lament more perspicuous, and more feeble. Seek 
 lodgings, 37, Bury Street. Females only visible. 
 Dine as agreed with Mr. Douglas. Chiefly strangers. 
 My new lodgings a little mysterious. 
 
 «i 29<A.— Breakfast at the Coflfee-house in Pall 
 Mall, and go to Mr. Rogers and family. Agree to 
 dine, and then join their party after dinner, Mr. 
 Stothard. Foscolo. Drive to Kensington Gardens 
 in their carriage. Grosvenor Gate. Effect new 
 and striking. Kensington Gardens have a very 
 peculiar effect ; not exhilarating, I think, yet alive 
 and pleasant. Return to my new lodgings. Inquire 
 for the master. There is one, I understand, in the 
 country. Am at a loss whether my damsel is 
 extremely simple, or too knowing, 
 
 "30<^.— Letter from Mrs, Norris.' Like herself. 
 First hour at Mr. Murray's. A much younger and 
 more lively man than I had imagined. — A handsome 
 drawing-room, where he receives his friends, usually 
 from two to five o'clock. Pictures by Phillips, of 
 Lord Byron, Mr. Scott, Mr. Southey, Mr. Campbell, 
 Rogers (yet unfinished), Moore, by Lawrence" 
 (his last picture). " Mr, Murray wishes me to sit. 
 Advise with Mr, Rogers, He recommends,** Dine 
 with Lord Ossory. Meet Marquis and Marchioness 
 of Lansdowne,* Engage to dine on Friday. Lord 
 Gower.'« 
 
 " July \st. — I foresee a long train of engage- 
 ments. Dine with Mr. Rogers. Company : Kemble, 
 Lord Erskine, Lord Ossory, Sir George Beaumont, 
 Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Moore. Miss R. retires 
 early, and is not seen any more at home. Meet her, 
 at the Gallery in Pall Mall, with Mr. Westall. 
 
 "2d. — Duke of Rutland. List of pictures burned 
 at Belvoir Castle. Dine at Sydenham, with Mr. 
 and Mrs. CampbeU. Mr. Mcore, and Mr. Rogers. 
 Poets' Club." 
 
 I here interrupt my father's Journal, in order 
 to give part of a letter with which I have lately 
 been honoured by Mr. Campbell. 
 
 " The first time I met Crabbe was at Holland 
 House, where he and Tom Moore and myself 
 lounged the better part of a morning about the park 
 
 « This beautiful OJe is now included in Mr. Campbell's 
 collective works. 
 
 ' Mr. Crabbe was on terms of intimate friendship with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Norris, of Hughenden Hall, near Wycombe, 
 Bucks. 
 
 " Mr. Crabbe did sit to Mr. Phillips. (See Frontispiece.) 
 
 9 I lake the lil)erty of insertinjj; the f(illo«in<» passage from 
 a letttr «ith wliirh I liave recently been honoured by the 
 noble marquess : — " Any testimony to your father's amiable 
 and unalTccted manners, and to that simplicity of character 
 which he united to the uncommon powers of minute obser- 
 vation, would indeed be uncalle<l for ; as it could only express 
 the common feeling of all »ho had access to hia society. 
 
 10 Now Duke of Sutherland. 
 
 and library ; and I can answer for one of the partj- 
 at least being very much pleased with it. Our con- 
 versation, I remember, was about novelists. Your 
 father was a strong Fieldingite, and I as sturdy a 
 SmoUettite. His mildness in literary argument 
 struck me with surprise in so stern a poet of nature, 
 and I could not but contrast the unassumingness 
 of his manners with the originality of his powers. 
 In what may be called the ready-money small-talk 
 of conversation, his facility might not perhaps seem 
 equal to the known calibre of his talents ; but in the 
 progress of conversation I recollect remarking that 
 there was a vigilant shrewdness that almost eluded 
 you by keeping its watch so quietly. Though an 
 oldish man when I saw him, he was not a ' laudator 
 temporis acti,' but a decided lover of later times. 
 
 " The part of the morning which I spent at Hol- 
 land House with him and Tom Moore, was one, to 
 me at least, of memorable agreeableness. He was 
 very frank, and even confidential, in speaking of 
 
 his own feelings. 
 
 Though in a serene tone of 
 
 spirits, he confessed to me that since the death of 
 his wife he had scarcely known positive happiness. 
 I told, him that in that respect, viz. the calculation 
 of our own happiness, we are apt to deceive our- 
 selves. The man whose manners are mild and tran- 
 quil, and whose conversation is amusing, cannot be 
 positively unhappy. 
 
 " When Moore left us we were joined by Fos- 
 colo ; and I remember as distinctly as if it had been 
 yesterday, the contrasted light in which Crabbe and 
 Foscolo struck me. It is not an invidious contrast 
 — at least my feelings towards Ugos memory in- 
 tend it not to be so, — yet it was to me morally in- 
 structive, and, I need hardly say, greatly in favour 
 of your father. They were both men of genius, and 
 both simple. But what a different sort of simpli- 
 city ! I felt myself between them as if 1 had been 
 standing between a roaring cataract and a placid 
 stream. Ugo raged and foamed in argument, to my 
 amusement, but not at all to your father's liking. 
 He could not abide him. What we talked about I 
 do not recollect ; but only that Ugo's impetuositj' 
 was a foil to the amenity of the elder bard. 
 
 " One day — and how can it fail to be memorable 
 to me when Moore has commemorated it ? — your 
 father, and Rogers, and Moore, came down to Syden- 
 ham pretty early in the forenoon, and stopped to 
 dine wiih me. We talked of founding a Poets' 
 Club, and even set about electing the members, not 
 by ballot, but viva voce. The scheme failed, I 
 scarcely know how ; but this I know, that a week 
 or so afterwards, I met with Perry, of the Morning 
 Chronicle, who asked me how our Poets' Club was 
 going on. I said, ' I don't know— we have some 
 difficulty of giving it a name,— we thought of call- 
 ing ourselves the Bees.' ' Ah.' said Perry, ' that 's a 
 little different from the common report, for they 
 say you are to be called the Wasps.' I was so stung 
 with this waspish report, that I thought no more of 
 the Poets' Club. 
 
 " The last time I saw Crabbe was, when I dined 
 witli him at I\Ir. Hoare's at Hampstead. He very 
 kindly came with me to the coach to see me off, and 
 I never pass tliat spot on the top of Hampstead 
 Heath without thinking of him. As to the force 
 and faith of his genius, it would he superfluous in 
 me to offer any opinion. Pray, pardon me for 
 
speaking of his memory in this very imperfect man- 
 ner, and believe me, dear sir, yours very truly, 
 
 « T. Campbell." 
 
 I return to Mr. Crabbe's Journal : — 
 
 " July 3d.— Letter from Trowbridge. I pity you, 
 my dear John, but I must plague you. Robert 
 Bloomfield. He had better rested as a shoemaker, 
 or even a farmer's boy ; for he would have been a 
 farmer perhaps in time, and now he is an unfor- 
 tunate poet. By the way, indiscretion did much. 
 It might be virtuous and affectionate in him to help 
 his thoughtless relations; but his more liberal 
 friends do not love to have their favours so disposed 
 of. He is, however, to be pitied and assisted. Note 
 from Mr. Murray respecting the picture. Go, with 
 Mr. Rogers, in his carriage, to Wimbledon. Earl 
 and Countess Spencer. The grounds more beauti- 
 ful than any I have yet seen ; more extensive, vari- 
 ous, rich. The profusion of roses extraordinary. 
 Dinner. Mr. Heber, to whom Mr. Scott addresses 
 one canto of Marmiou. Mr. Stanhope. A pleasant 
 day. Sleep at Wimbledon. 
 
 « ^th. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Heber 
 and Mr. Stanhope. Afterwards Mr. Rogers, Lady 
 S., Lady H. A good picture, if I dare draw it accu- 
 rately : to place in lower life, would lose the pecu- 
 liarities which depend upon their station ; yet, in 
 any station. Return with Mr. Rogers. Dine at 
 Lansdowne House. Sir James Mackintosh, Mr. 
 Grenville, elder brother to Lord Grenville. My 
 visit to Lord Lansdowne's father in this house, 
 thirty-seven years since! Porter's lodge. Mr. 
 Wynn. Lord Ossory. 
 
 " bth. — My thirty lines done ; but not well I fear ; 
 thirty daily is the self-engagement. Dine at 
 George's Coffee-house. Return. Stay late at 
 Holborn. The kind of shops open at so late an hour. 
 Purchase in one of them. Do not think they deceive 
 any person in particular. 
 
 " (>th. — 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. 
 
 " 8<A. — Mr. Phillips. Sit again. Begin to think 
 something may be made. Mrs. Phillips. Find a 
 stray child. Mrs. Phillips takes him home. Mr. 
 Murray's. Mr. Frere. To dine on Monday next. 
 Dine this day with Mr. North. Meet Lord Dundas. 
 Mrs. Wedall. Story of the poor weaver, who 
 begged his master to allow him a loom, for the work 
 of which he would charge nothing ; an instance 
 of distress. Thirty lines to-day; but not yester- 
 day : must work up. — I even still doubt whether it 
 be pure simplicity, a little romantic, or — a great deal 
 simplified. Yet I may, and it is likely do, mistake. 
 
 " 9<A. — Agree to dine with Mr. Phillips. A day 
 of indisposition unlike the former. Dine at George's 
 Coffee-house, and in a stupid humour. Go to a play 
 not very enlivening; yet the 'Magpie and Maid' 
 was, in some parts, affecting, till you reflected. 
 
 " \Oth. — Apology for last night. Maiden at a 
 ball ; I hope not mistress too. Rise early for the 
 coach to Twickenham, as 1 prefer going first to 
 Mr. Wilbraham, who first invited me. Ask what 
 is the name of every place except one, and that one 
 is Twickenham, and so go a mile at least beyond. 
 Walk back to Twickenham. Meet a man carrying 
 a child. He passed me, but with hesitation ; and 
 there was, as I believed, both distress and honesty. 
 As he watched my manner, he stopped, and I was 
 unwilling to disappoint him. The most accom- 
 plished actor could not counterfeit the joy and sur- 
 prise at first, and then the joy without the surprise 
 afterwards. The man was simple, and had no 
 roguish shrewdness. Pope's house. '^ Civil man, 
 and something more. Mr. Wilbraham. A drive 
 round the country three hours. Richmond Hill. 
 Recollect Sir Joshua's house. Hampton Court. 
 Petersham. In IMr. Wilbraham "s carriage to Brent- 
 ford. Take a chaise to Knightsbridge. Make up 
 my thirty lines for yesterday and to-day. Take a 
 story from the Dutch imposition, but with great 
 variation. 
 
 " 1 U/(.— Breakfast with Mr. Rogers : talk of Mr. 
 Frere. Mr. Douglas. Called for by Mr. Spencer. 
 This gentleman is grandson to the Duke of Marlbo- 
 rough. He married, at nineteen, a very beautiful 
 and most accomplished woman, in the court of the 
 Duke of Weimar. She was sixteen. His manner 
 is fascinating, and his temper all complacency and 
 kindness. His poetry far beyond that implied in 
 the character of Vers cle Society. I am informed 
 Mrs. S. has very extraordinary talents. Go in the 
 
 ' ^ Mr. Spencer, the well-known translator of " Leonora," 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 13 Pope's villa, now inhabited by Sir Watlien Waller, Bart., 
 and his lady, the Baroness Howe. 
 
70 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 carriage with his daughter to Petersham by Ham 
 House. Introduced to Mrs. Spencer, Sir Harry 
 Englefield, and Mr. Standish, a Bond-street man, 
 but of a superior kind ; and so is Sir Harry. A very 
 delightful morning. Gardens. Miss Spencer drives 
 me to Richmond iu her pony-chaise. The Duke 
 
 and Duchess of Cumberland and Madame W 
 
 came in the evening. The duchess very engaging. 
 Daughter of the Duke of Weimar, and sister to the 
 Queen of Prussia. Mr. Spencer with them at the 
 court. All this period pleasant, easy, gay, with a 
 tincture of melancholy that makes it delicious. A 
 drawback on mirth, but not on happiness, when our 
 affection has a mixture of regret and pity. 
 
 « i4th. — Some more intimate conversation this 
 morning with Mr. and Mrs. Moore. T'hey mean 
 to go to Trowbridge. He is going to Paris, but 
 will not stay long. Mrs. Spencer's album. Agree 
 to dine at Curzoa Street. A welcome letter from 
 . This makes the day more cheerful. Sup- 
 pose it were so. Well ! 't is not ! Go to Mr. 
 Rogers, and tal^e a farewell visit to Highbury. 
 
 Miss Rogers. Promise to go when . Return 
 
 early. Dine there, and purpose to see Mr. Moore 
 and Mr. Rogers in the morning when they set out 
 for Calais. 
 
 " 15^^. — Was too late this morning. Messrs. 
 Rogers and Moore were gone. Go to church at St. 
 James's. The sermon good; but the preacher 
 thought proper to apologise for a severity which 
 he had not used. Write some lines in the solitude 
 of Somerset House, not fifty yards from the Thames 
 on one side, and the Strand on the other ; but as 
 quiet as the sands of Arabia, I am not quite in 
 good humour with this day ; but, happily, I cannot 
 say why, 
 
 " \Gth. — Mr. Boswell the younger. Malone's 
 papers. He is an advocate, like most of his coun- 
 trymen, for Mary. Mr. Pre re's poem.'* Meet, at 
 Mr. Murray's, Mr. Heber. Mr. Douglas takes me 
 to Mr. Frere at Brompton. Meet Mr. Canning and 
 Lord Binning. Conversation on church affairs. 
 A little on the poem of the Stowmarket men. Go 
 home with Mr. Douglas, and call for the ladies at 
 St. James"s Place. Write about eighty verses. 
 Agree to stay over Sunday. 
 
 " I6th. — Picture finished, which allows me more 
 time. Lady Errol'* and Lady Holland. Invitation 
 from Lord Binning.'^ Write, in consequence of my 
 second delay, to Mrs. Norris and Anna. Resolve 
 not to stay beyond Tuesday. Farewell dinner with 
 Mr. Canning. Dine to-day with my friends in 
 Curzon Street. Pleasant, as all is there. Mrs. 
 Spencer the same agreeable young woman. Besides 
 the family. Sir Harry Englefield, a Catholic. His 
 character opens upon me very nmcli. He appeared 
 to be in earnest, and I hope he was. It would be 
 hard if we were judged by our youthful sins, or 
 even if sins necessarily implied unbelief. Meet in 
 my way Lady Besborougli, with a gentleman and 
 a young lady. She does not introduce me, and I 
 pass on ; but, describing the lady, I understand it 
 was Lady Caroline Lamb. Lady Besborough 
 
 '■• " TliP Monks nnd the Giants," published under the name 
 of Wlii.stlecraft, of ."^towmarket, Suffolk. 
 
 " The Countess Dowaifcr of Errol, wife of the Right Ho- 
 nourable .John Ilookham Frere. 
 
 I* Now Earl of Haddington. 
 
 comes at night to Mr. Spencer's, and confirms it. 
 She invites me to Roehanipton. Pleasant evening. 
 
 " nth. — Omitted a visit to the Duchess of Rut- 
 land at an earlier time. She invites me to dine : 
 but our days did not accord. Notes from Mr. 
 Frere and Mr. Canning. Dine with Mr. Douglas. 
 Mr. Boswell the younger : I met the elder in the 
 morning. Many gentlemen with us. Mr. Douglas 
 sends us home in his carriage. Good day, at least 
 as far as relates to Mr. Douglas, who is ever the 
 same. I wrote to Trowbridge. They are not cor- 
 rect in their opinion : yet I love London ; and who 
 does not, if not confined to it? A visit from Sir 
 Harry Englefield. There is an affectionate manner, 
 which almost hides his talents ; and they are not 
 trifling. Wrote my lines to-day, but no more. 
 
 " ISth. — Read the pamphlet Mr. Boswell recom- 
 mended : natural, certainly, and the man had too 
 much provocation for his act. There is the wish of 
 the heart to acquit itself, but that is very common. 
 Dine with Mr. Murray. Very fine day. Sir Harry 
 in good spirits, except during his vehemence. Mr. 
 Phillips. Mr. Chantry. His ' Mother and Infants ' 
 in the exhibition. Mr. and Mrs. Graham. The 
 Mrs. Graham'^ who wrote the lively India Journal, 
 a delightful woman ! Mr. Phillips argued, and 
 preserved his temper. Sir Harry was silent, for 
 fear of being tumultuous. The dinner in every 
 respect as in a nobleman's house. Join the ladies. 
 Mrs. Graham still lively. Sir Harry's account of 
 the Isle of Wight; a folio, with prints. At eleven 
 o'clock enters Lady Caroline Lamb. She offers to 
 take me on a visit to her company at twelve o'clock. 
 I hesitated, for I had curiosity ; but finally declined. 
 Mr. Wilkie. His picture in the exhibition much 
 admii-ed. 
 
 " I9th. — Agreed to sit half an hour, for Mr. 
 Phillips to retouch the picture. Breakfast with 
 them once more. — Leave them, and return to Bury 
 Street, and find a note ! ! What an unaccountable ! 
 It is so ridiculous ! — Foscoio ; who said he would 
 call, and I must go with him to his friends, Lady 
 Flint, and sister, and nieces. He came, and I 
 assented. I was paid for compliance. They are 
 very delightful women. Go and call on Mrs. 
 Spencer; find Sir Harry Englefield. These are 
 two favourite characters. Dine at Loi'd Binning"s. 
 Lady Binning with one visitor. She knows me, 
 and we are at ease. Mr. Canning more lively as 
 with his friends, and very pleasant. Mr. Frere 
 could not dine. Lady Errol indisposed. Mr. Robin- 
 son." Conceive J. B.'s size and good temper, with a 
 look of more understanding, and better manner. 
 Mr. Huskisson — countenance less open ; grew more 
 free, and became pleasant. The Speaker'" polite, 
 and rather cheerful ; a peculiar cast of the counte- 
 nance ; pleasing, certainly. Mrs. Canning I 
 thought reserved ; but all appearance of this retired. 
 I was too much a stranger among friends; but, 
 before we parted, all became easy. Lord Binning a 
 sensible, polite man. 
 
 " 20</(. — I wake ill this morning and nervous ; and 
 so little do we judge of the future, that I was half 
 inclined to make apologies, and not join the plea- 
 
 " Maria Graham, now Mrs. Calcot.t. 
 
 I" The Kight Honourable Frederick Robinson, nf -^arl of 
 Ripon. 
 
 '" The Ri''ht Honourable Charles Mannei-s .Sutton. 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 santest of all parties. I must go from this infatuat- 
 ing scene. — Walk in the Park, and in some degree 
 recover. Write two hours. At seven go to Sir 
 Harry Englefield. A large house that overlooks 
 the Park and Serpentine River. Disappointed of 
 Mr. Spencer; but Mrs. Spencer, and Miss Chur- 
 chill, and Miss Spencer dine with us. Mr. Murray 
 and Mr. Standish. Nothing particularly worthy of 
 remark at dinner ; but after dinner, one of the best 
 conversations since I came to town. Mr. Spencer 
 and Miss Churchill chiefly; on the effect of high 
 polish on minds ; chiefly female ; Sir Harry some- 
 times joining, and Miss Spencer. A very delight- 
 ful evening. Sir Harry's present of Ariosto's ink- 
 stand. Of a double value, as a gift, and from the 
 giver. Mr. Standish and Mr. Murray leave us. 
 Part painfully at one o'clock. Yes, there are at 
 Trowbridge two or three ; and it is well there are. 
 Promise (if I live) to return in the winter. Miss 
 Churchill a very superior and interesting woman. 
 Take leave of my friend Sir Harry. The impres- 
 sion rather nervous, and they will smile at , I 
 
 am afraid ; but 1 shall still feel. 1 shall think of 
 this evening. 
 
 '•21st. — I would not appear to myself supersti- 
 tious. I returned late last night, and my reflections 
 were as cheerful as such company could make them, 
 and not, I am afraid, of the most humiliating kind ; 
 yet, for the first time these many nights, I was in- 
 commoded by dreams such as would cure vanity for 
 a time in any mind where they could gain admis- 
 sion. Some of Baxter's mortifying spirits whis- 
 pered very singular combinations. None, indeed, that 
 actually did happen in the very worst of times, but 
 still with a formidable resemblance. It is, doubt- 
 less, very proper to have the mind thus brought to 
 a sense of its real and possible alliances, and the 
 evils it has encountered, or might have had ; but 
 why these images should be given at a time when 
 the thoughts, the waking thoughts, were of so oppo- 
 site a nature, I cannot account. So it was. Awake, 
 I had been with the high, the apparently happy : 
 we were very pleasantly engaged, and my last 
 thoughts were cheerful. Asleep, all was misery 
 and degradation, not my own only, but of those 
 who had been. — That horrible image of servility 
 and baseness — that mercenary' and commercial 
 manner ! It is the work of imagination, I suppose ; 
 but it is very strange. I must leave it.*" — Walk to 
 Holborn. Call and pay for yesterday's coffee, 
 which, with a twentj'-pound note and some gold, I 
 could not discharge then. A letter from Mrs. 
 Norris ; like herself and all hers. Now for busi- 
 ness. Called at Holborn, and stayed an hour with 
 P — , York Coffee-house. Return and write. Go 
 to Oxford Street to take a place for Wycombe, a 
 mile and a half from Mr. Norris. After a short 
 delay, I pay my visit to Mrs. Spencer. Her hus- 
 band's note left with me. Find her and the young 
 people. Eeturu by Mr. Murray's, and send to Lady 
 Errol's from his house. He obligingly sent his 
 servant to Bury Street. Lady Errol much better. Muy 
 hope to meet Mr. Frere this day at dinner. Prepare to 
 go with Mr. Douglas to Mr. Canning's. — Mr. Can- 
 ning's dinner. Gardens and house in very beauti- 
 
 *" Mr. Moore, on reading this journal in MS., WTites thus : — 
 " The Journal of your lather is a most interesting document ; 
 and it is rather curious that some parts of it should so niucli 
 
 ful Style : doubly secluded, and yet very near town.^' 
 Mr. Huskisson, two younger gentlemen, Mr. Frere, 
 Mr. Canning, Mr. Douglas, and myself. Claret 
 more particularly excellent. Ministerial claret. A 
 lively day. Shakspeare. Eton and Westminster. 
 Mr. Canning. — This is the last evening in town, 
 notwithstanding the very kind invitation of Mr. 
 Douglas. And here I may close my journal, of 
 certainly the most active, and, with very little ex- 
 ception,— that is, the exception of one or two per- 
 sons, — the most agreeable of all excursions — 
 except ." 
 
 "2-2d. — Oxford Street politician, who assures me 
 nothing can be more true, than that ministers send 
 spies to Ireland with money to intoxicate the poor 
 people; who are persuaded to enter into treason 
 while drunk, are taken next morning to a magis- 
 trate, condemned on the evidence of the seducer, 
 and executed before noon ; and this man seemed 
 ready to testify on oath, as a major somebody had 
 testified to him. — Three o'clock for Wycombe. 
 Arrive at eiglit, and walk to the great house, as my 
 guide was proud to call it. Mrs. Norris : she look's 
 as one recovering, but not quite well. Her spirits 
 as usual. 
 
 " 23d. — A vile engagement to an oratorio at 
 church, by I know not how many noisy people ; 
 women as well as men. Luckily, I sat where I 
 could write unobserved, and wrote forty lines, only 
 interrupted by a song of Mrs. Brand — a hymn, I 
 believe. It was less doleful than the rest. Party 
 at dinner. Music after dinner, much more cheerful 
 and enlivening than at church. Solitary evening 
 walk. Things soon become familiarised, when the 
 persons are well known. Thought of Sunday next, 
 and wrote about half a sermon upon confirmation. 
 
 "24th.— Head Miss Edgeworth's dramas. Com- 
 pany at breakfast. Finish my sermon. — Must de- 
 termine to go to-morrow. Younger dear's birth- 
 day." 
 
 ****** 
 
 The following is an extract from a letter of 
 the 25tli :— 
 
 " This visit to London has, indeed, been a rich 
 one. I had new things to see, and was, perhaps, 
 something of a novelty myself. Mr. Rogers in- 
 troduced me to almost every man he is acquainted 
 with ; and ir^ this number were comprehended all 
 I was previously very desirous to obtain a know- 
 ledge of." 
 
 Shortly after his return to Trowbridge from 
 this excursion of 1817, my fotlier wrote as 
 follows to his friend at Ballitore : — 
 
 " A description of your village society would be 
 very gratifying to me— how the manners differ 
 from those in larger societies, or in those luider dif- 
 ferent circumstances. I have observed an extra- 
 ordinary difference in village manners in England, 
 especially between those places otherwise nearly 
 alike, when there was and when there was not a 
 
 resemble the journalising style of Byron, particularly that 
 describin;,' his frightful dream after a day of enjoyment." A 
 very striking poem, entitled " Dreams," &c., will be given 
 in the postliumous volume. 
 
 ■^' Mr. Canning, at this time, resided at Gloucester Lodge, 
 near Brompton. 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 leading man, or a squire's family, or a manufactory 
 near, or a populous, vitiated town, &c. All these, 
 and many other circumstances, have great in- 
 tiuence. Your quiet village, with such influencing 
 minds, I am disposed to think highly of. No one, 
 perhaps, very rich — none miserably poor. No 
 girls, from six years to sixteen, sent to a factory, 
 where men, women, and children of all ages are 
 continually with them breathing contagion. Not 
 all, however : we are not so evil — there is a resist- 
 ing power, and it is strong ; but the thing itself, 
 the congregation of so many minds, and the inter- 
 course it occasions, will have its powerful and 
 visible effect. But these you have not ; yet as you 
 mention your schools of both kinds, you must be 
 more populous and perhaps not so happy as I was 
 giving myself to believe. 
 
 " I will write my name and look for two lines ; 
 but complying with you, my dear lady, is a kind 
 of vanity.^'' I find, however, no particular eleva- 
 tion of spirit, and will do as you desire ; indeed, 
 your desire must be very unlike yours, if I were 
 not glad to comply with it ; for the world has not 
 spoiled you, Mary, I do believe : now it has me. I 
 have been absorbed in its mighty vortex, and gone 
 into the midst of its greatness, and joined in its 
 festivities and frivolities, and been intimate with 
 its children. You may like me very well, my kind 
 friend, while the purifying water, and your more 
 effectual imagination, is between us ; but come you 
 to England, or let me be in Ireland, and place us 
 where mind becomes acquainted with mind, — and 
 then ! ah, Mary Leadbeater ! you would have done 
 with your friendship with me ! Child of simpli- 
 city and virtue, how can you let yourself be so 
 deceived? Am I not a great fat Rector, living 
 upon a mighty income, while my poor curate 
 starves with six hungry children, upon the scraps 
 that fall from the luxurious table ? Do I not 
 visit that horrible London, and enter into its abo- 
 minable dissipations ? Am 1 not this day going to 
 dine on venison and drink claret ? *^ Have I not 
 
 ** Mrs. Leadbeater had requested Mr. Crabbe to give an 
 aiitofiraph for Mr. Wilkinson, the Quaker poet, the same 
 \iortliy man to whom Wordsworth refers in the verses, 
 
 " Spade with which Wilkinson hath till'd his lands," Sjc. 
 and he sent the following scrap : — 
 
 " Enclosed, at Mrs. Leadbeater's request, for Thomas Wil- 
 kinson's collection of handwritings : — 
 
 " One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high, 
 And rode sublime within the cloudy sky. 
 She Silt wit)iiri her lint, nor seemed to feci 
 Or cold, or want, but tnrn'd her idle whetd ; 
 And with sad song its melancholy tone 
 Mix'd — all unconscious that slie dwelt alone." 
 
 " The above six lines are from a discarded poem: thoy are 
 ;.'ood for little, and the epitliet 'idle' may not seem proper 
 for a spinning-wheel : but my poor heroine was discarded, 
 and, therefore, it was idle, because prolitless." 
 
 M Mrs. Leadbeater says, in her answer to this letter: — 
 "Mavel given too partial an account of our little community ? 
 Ask those who visit Hallitore ; who quit it with regret, and 
 return to it with deliglit ; some of whom call it the Classic 
 Vale, some the Vale of Tempe, some the Ilappv Valley, some 
 Simplicity's Vale ; while otbeis take a higher llight, and dig- 
 nify it bv the name of Athens : all agreeing, that we live like 
 one large family. Thus, from infancy to age preserved in 
 this 8;ife enclosure, surrounded by excellent examples, have 
 I not much to be accountalile for.' And yet how little am I 
 cleansi-d from secret faults, I shall not say, for 1 few oiii! of 
 thesi! is a desire to ajipear better tlian I am to him w liose 
 
 been at election dinners, and joined the Babel-con- 
 fusion of a town-hall? Child of simplicity ! am 1 
 fit to be a friend to you, and to the peaceful, mild, 
 pure, gentle people about you ? One thing only is 
 true, — I wish I had the qualification; but I am of 
 the world, Mary. Though I hope to procure a 
 free cover for you, yet I dare not be sure, and so 
 must husband my room I am sorry for your ac- 
 count of the fever among your poor. Would I 
 could suggest anything I I shall dine with one of 
 our representatives to-day; but such subjects pass 
 off: all say, ' Poor people, I am sorry,' and there 
 it ends. My new Tales are not yet entirely ready, 
 but do not want much that I can give them. I 
 return all }'our good wishes, think of you, and 
 M'ith much regard, more than, indeed, belongs to 
 a man of the world 1 Still, let me be permitted to 
 address thee. — O ! my dear Mrs. L., this is so 
 humble that I am afraid it is vain. Well ! write 
 soon, then, and believe me *o be most sincerely, 
 and afFectionately yours, George Crabbe." 
 
 I have introduced the above extract in this 
 place, on account of the allusions it contains to 
 my father's reception in the gay world of Lon- 
 don, — a reception of the nature of which his 
 own family, until his journals came to light 
 after his death, had never had an exact notion. 
 When he returned home after one of these in- 
 toxicating visits to the metropolis, no one could 
 trace the slightest difierence in his manners or 
 habits. He rarely spoke, even to his sons, of 
 the brilliant circles in which he had been figur- 
 ing ; and when some casual circumstance led to 
 the passing mention of some splendid connec- 
 tion, there was such unaffected simplicity in the 
 little vanit}' of his air, if I may so call it, that 
 it only served to show that he did appreciate 
 justly, what his natural good sense would not 
 permit him to value above its real worth, or to 
 dwell on so as to interfere with the usual duties 
 and pursuits of his own station and long-formed 
 tastes. He resumed next morning, just as if 
 nothing had happened, his visits among his pa- 
 rishioners, his care of parish business, his books 
 and papers, and last, not least, his long rambles 
 among the quarries near Trowbridge : for never, 
 after my mother's death, did he return seriously 
 to botany, the favourite study of his earlier life. 
 Fossils were thenceforth to him what weeds and 
 flowers had been : he would sjiend hours on 
 
 good opinion I do indeed highly value, and who, I believe, is 
 disposed to be more severe upon himself than upon another ; 
 but if the graceful ligure which I saw in London — designated 
 by my father ' the youth w itli the stmr name and the sweet 
 countenance' — has become somewhat corpulent, that is a 
 consequence of good humour as well as good living; and 
 w by not partake of venison and claret with the moderation 
 which such a mind will dictate? The sentiment expressed 
 in an old song has occurred to me, when too little allowance 
 has been made for those in exalted situations ; — 
 
 ' Deceit may dress in linen gown, 
 And truth in diamonds shine.' 
 
 From my own contracted sphere I have had some oppor- 
 tunities of perceiving the virtues which, beaming from the 
 zenilli of wealth and rank, dill'use their inlluenci' to a wide 
 extent." 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 73 
 
 hours hammer in hand, not much pleased if any 
 one interrupted him, rarely inviting either my 
 brother or myself to accompany him, and, in 
 short, solitary as far as he could manage to be so — 
 unless when some little boy or girl of a friend's 
 family pleaded hard to be allowed to attend 
 him, and mimic his labours with a tiny hammer. 
 To children he was ever the same. No word 
 or look of harshness ever drove them from his 
 side, "and I believe," says a friend '-^^ who 
 knew him well, " many a mother will bless, 
 many days hence, the accident that threw her 
 offspring into the way of his unlaboured and 
 paternal kindness and instruction." 
 
 To his proper ministerial duties he returned 
 with equal zeal. " To these," observes the 
 same dear friend of his, "Mr. Crabbe ever 
 attached great importance. He would put off a 
 meditated journey rather than leave a poor i)a- 
 rishioner who rec(uired his services ; and from 
 his knowledge of human nature, he was able, in 
 a remarkable manner, to throw himself into the 
 circumstances of those who needed his help — 
 no sympatliy if as like his; and no man, perhaps, 
 had the inmost feelings of others more frequentl}-^ 
 laid open to his inspection. He did not, how- 
 ever, enjoy the happiness which many pastors 
 express in being able to benefit their tiocks ; 
 never was satisfied that he used the l)est means ; 
 complained that men more imbued with a sense 
 of the terrors of the Lord and less with his 
 mercies, succeeded better ; and was glad to ask 
 advice of all in whose judgment and experience 
 he confided. Whatever might be the enjoy- 
 ments of his study, he never allowed any of the 
 numerous petitioners who called in the course 
 of the day to be dismissed by a servant. He 
 saw them all, and often gave them more pecu- 
 niary aid than he thought right ; and when the 
 duties of a magistrate were afterwards added to 
 those of a clergyman, these multiplied calls 
 scarcely allowed him necessary relaxation." 
 
 His then jjarishioner, Mr. Taylor, says '^* on 
 the same subject : — "His income amounted to 
 about 800/. per annum, a large portion of which 
 he spent in acts of charity. He was the com- 
 mon refuge of the unhappy — 
 
 ' In every family 
 Alike in every generation dear, 
 The children's Cavourite, and the ijrandsire's friend, 
 Tried, trusted, and beloved.' 
 
 To him it was recommendation enough to be 
 poor and wretched. He was extremely mode- 
 rate in the exaction of tithes. When told of 
 really poor defaulters, his reply was, ' Let it be 
 — they cannot afford to pay so well as I can to 
 want it— let it be.' His charity was so well 
 known that he was regularly visited by mendi- 
 cants of all grades. He listened to their long 
 stories of wants and woes, gave them a trifle, 
 
 '•' Miss Hoare. 
 
 ■-■' In a sliort sketch of his life, piiblislifil :it Hii!h. 
 
 and then would say, ' God save you, — I can do 
 no more for you ;' but he would sometimes 
 follow them, on reflection, and double or quad- 
 ruple his gift. He has been known to dive into 
 those obscure scenes of wretchedness and want, 
 where wandering paupers lodge, in order to 
 relieve them. He was, of course, often im- 
 posed upon ; which discovering, he merely said, 
 ' God forgive them, — I do.' 
 
 " He was anxious for the education of the 
 humbler classes. The Sunday-school was a fa- 
 vourite place of resort. When listening to the 
 children, he observed, ' I love to hear the little 
 dears, and now old age has made me a fit com- 
 panion for them.' He was much beloved by 
 the scholars : on leaving the school he would 
 give them a Bible, with suitable admonition. 
 His health was generally good, though he some- 
 times suffered from the tic douloureux. Not long 
 before his death he met a poor old woman in 
 the street, whom he had for some time missed at 
 church, and asked her if she had been ill. ' Lord 
 bless you, Sir — no,' was the answer, ' but it is 
 of no use going to your church, for 1 can't hear ; 
 you do speak so low.' — ' Well, well, my good 
 old friend,' said he, slipping half-a-crown into 
 her hand, ' you do quite right in going where 
 you can hear.' " 
 
 I may here add, that Mr. Crabbe was a 
 subscriber to most of our great charitable in- 
 stitutions, and, as a member of the British and 
 Foreign Bible Society, was prevailed upon to 
 take the chair at the meetings in Trowbridge ; 
 but his aversion to forms and ceremony, and to 
 set speeches, made it a very ])ainful station. 
 
 Mr. Crabbe was now (1817 and 1818) busily 
 engaged in finishing the last of his hitherto pub- 
 lished works — that which he originally entitled 
 " Remembrances," but which, by Mr. Murray's 
 advice, was produced as " Tales of the Hall." 
 His note-book was at this time ever with him 
 in his walks, and he would every now and then 
 lay down his hammer to insert a new or amended 
 couplet. Ho fancied that autunm was, on the 
 w hole, the most favourable season for him in the 
 com])Osition of poetry ; but there was something 
 in the effect of a sudden fall of snow that ap- 
 peared to stimulate him in a very extraordinary 
 manner. It was din-ing a great snow-storm that, 
 shut up in his room, he wrote almost citrrentc 
 calamo his Sir Eustace Grey. Latterly, he 
 worked chiefly at night, after the family had all 
 retired ; and in case any one should wish to be 
 informed of such important particulars, he had 
 generally by him a glass of very weak spirits 
 and water, or negus ; and at all times indulged 
 largely in snuff, which last habit somewhat in- 
 terfered, as he grew old, with the effects of his 
 remarkable attention to personal cleanliness and 
 neatness of dress. 
 
 Would the reader like to follow my father 
 into his library ? — a scene of unparalleled con- 
 
lifp: of crabbe. 
 
 fusion — windows rattling, paint in great request, 
 books in every direction but the right — the talkie 
 — but no, I cannot find ternistodescribc it, though 
 the counterpart might be seen, perhaps, not one 
 hundred miles from the study of the justly-famed 
 and beautiful rectory of Breudiiil. Once, when 
 we were staying at Trowbridge, in his absence for 
 a few days at Bath, my eldest girl thought she 
 should surprise and please him by putting every 
 book in perfect order, making the best bound 
 the most prominent ; but, on his return, thank- 
 ing her for her good intention, he replaced every 
 volume in its former state ; " for," said he, " my 
 dear, grandpapa understands his own confusion 
 better than your order and neatness." 
 
 The following is part of a letter to a female 
 friend at Trowbridge, written on the 7th of May, 
 1819, when Mr. Crabbe was again in London : — 
 
 " I came to town with a lady who resides near 
 
 W , and her husband is an agriculturist upon 
 
 a large scale ; tliat, I suppose, is the more conse- 
 quential name for a farmer ; but Mr. is a 
 
 reading and studying farmer, and upon another 
 scale than ordinary persons of that class ; and 
 
 Mrs. also reads, and knows what is read and 
 
 talked of. She spoke of most of those of whom 
 other people talk, and, among other things, asked 
 me if I knew Crabbe ? I did not act generously, 
 for I evaded the question : and then she told me 
 that she was invited to meet him at dinner at Mr. 
 Wesf s, the painter. 1 thought it proper to put the 
 lady right ; which, however, was a matter of no 
 importance : she went on in the same way ; but I, 
 of necessity, withdrew a part of my attention. 
 
 " If I could convey to you a good picture of the 
 Academical Dinner, I would try and paint one ; 
 but I can only say, it was singular and grand. We 
 dined in the gi-eat room, where the principal pic- 
 tures were placed, which covered every part of it. 
 Our inimber I judge about 180 or 200: we had one 
 royal duke, Sussex ; the duke of Wellington ; we 
 had four ambassadors (at whose table 1 was placed, 
 with two English gentlemen, luckily) ; and many 
 of our nobility. The dinner itself was like all very 
 large dinners : but the toasts, music, and speeches 
 after we had dined, were in a high style. Between 
 the healths were short pieces from a band of per- 
 formers, who were paid for attendance ; and there 
 was an imposing air of dignity during the whole 
 time. I had the pleasure of meeting several friends, 
 but Lord Holland was prevented by a lit of the 
 gout. I was not a little surprised to see my picture 
 by Phillips ;''' for, if any, I expected the other; — 
 and they all said that not only the likeness was 
 strong, but the picture good : and I believe it is so, 
 because Lord Holland is to have it copied, and 
 placed with those in his library. 1 slept two nights 
 at Holland House, and dined three times before 
 Lady II. was weary of nic, and even at last 1 was 
 treated with marvellous kindness. I shall be lec- 
 tured at ; but no matter : we mast pay for the 
 
 honours and emoluments whicli we gain in this 
 world of struggles. I am going to-day to dine at 
 
 " Mr. Crabbe had also sat for his portrait to Mr. I'lcki-rsgill. 
 
 the Thatched House, being elected a member of 
 the Literary Society. When I have seen my bre- 
 thren, and paid my subscription, I shall better judge 
 whether the honour makes amends for the costs." 
 
 In June, 1819, the " Tales of the Hall " were 
 published by Mr. Murray, who, for them and 
 the remaining copyright of all my father's jjro- 
 vious poen)S, gave the munificent sum of 3000/. 
 The new work had, at least, as general appro- 
 bation as any that had gone before it; and was 
 not the less liked for its o[)ening views of a 
 higher class of society than he had hitherto 
 dealt much in. But 1 reserve what particulars 
 I have to ofl'er with respect to the subjects of 
 these Tales for notes to its forthcoming repub- 
 lication in the collective edition, of which this 
 little narrative may be considered as the preface. 
 I shall, however, avail myself of the permission 
 to insert in this place a letter lately addressed 
 to Mr. Murray by Mr. Moore, which, among 
 other interesting particulars, gives a curious 
 enough account of some transactions respecting 
 the publication of the new work : — 
 
 "Sloperton Cottage, .January 1, 18:!4. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Murray, — Had I been aware 
 that your time of publication was so near, the few 
 scattered notices and recollections of Mr. Crabbe, 
 which it is in my power to furnish for his son's 
 memoir, should have been presented in a somewhat 
 less crude and careless shape than, in this hasty 
 replj' to your letter, 1 shall be able to give them. 
 
 " It was in the year 1817, if I recollect right, 
 that, during a visit of a few weeks to London, I 
 first became acquainted with Mr. Crabbe ; and my 
 opportunities of seeing him during that period, at 
 Mr. Rogers's and Holland House, were frequent. 
 The circumstance connected with him at that time, 
 which most dwelt upon my memory, was one in 
 which you yom-self were concerned ; as it occurred 
 in the course of the negotiation which led to your 
 purchase of the copyright of his poems. Though 
 to Crabbe himself, who had up to this period re- 
 ceived but little for his writings, the liberal sum 
 which you offered, namely, aoou/., appeared a 
 mine of wealth, the two friends whom he had em- 
 ployed to negotiate for him, and who, both exquisite 
 judges of literary merit, measured the marketable 
 value of his works by their own admiration of 
 them, thought that a bargain more advantageous 
 might be made, and (as you, probably, now for the 
 first time learn) applied to another eminent house 
 on tiie subject. Taking but too just a measure of 
 tile state of public taste at that moment, the respect- 
 able publishers to whom I allude named, as the 
 utmost wbieli they could afTord to give, but a third 
 of the sum which you had the day before offered. 
 In this predicament, the situation of poor CraM)e 
 was most critical. He had .seen within his reach a 
 prize far beyond his most sanguine hopes, and was 
 now, by the over-saiipuineness of friends, put in 
 danger of losing it. Change of mind, or a feeling 
 of mnbrage at this reference to other ])ubiishers, 
 might, not unnaturally, it was feared, induce you 
 to decline all further negotiation ; and that such 
 was likely to be the result there appeared every 
 
LIFE OF CRABBE. 
 
 lO 
 
 reason to apprehend, as a letter which Crabbe had 
 addressed to you, saying that he had made up his 
 miud to accept your offer, had not yet received 
 any answer. 
 
 •' In this crisis it was that Mr. Kogers and my- 
 self, anxious to relieve our poor friend from his 
 suspense, called upon you, as you must well re- 
 member, in Albermarle-Street; and seldom have I 
 watched a countenance with more solicitude, or 
 heard words that gave me much more pleasure, 
 than when, on the subject being mentioned, you 
 said, ' Oh yes — I have heard from Mr. Crabbe, and 
 look upon the matter as all settled.' I was rather 
 pi-essed, I recollect, for time that morning, having 
 an appointment on some business of my ovvn ; but 
 Mr. Eogefs insisted that I should accompany him 
 to Crabbe's lodgings, and enjoy the pleasure of 
 seeing him relieved from his suspense. We found 
 him sitting in his room, alone, and expecting the 
 worst; but soon dissipated all his fears by the 
 agreeable intelligence which we brought. 
 
 •' When he received the bills for 3000/., we 
 earnestly advised that he should, without delay, 
 deposit them in some safe hands ; but no — he must 
 ' take them with him to Trowbridge, and show 
 them to his sou John. They Avould hardly believe 
 in his good luck, at home, if they did not see the 
 bills.' On his way down to Trowbridge, a friend 
 at Salisbury, at whose house he rested (Mr. Everett, 
 the banker), seeing that he carried these bills 
 loosely in his waistcoat pocket, requested to be al- 
 lowed to take charge of them for him, but with 
 equal ill-success. ' There was no fear,' he said 
 ' of his losing them, and he must show them to his 
 son John. 
 
 " It was during the same visit of Mr. Crabbe to 
 Loudon that we enjoyed a very agreeable day to- 
 gether at Mr. Horace Twiss's ; — a day remarkable, 
 not only for the presence of this great poet, but for 
 the amusing assemblage of other remarkable cha- 
 racters who were there collected ; the dinner guests 
 being, besides the Dowager Countess of Cork and 
 the present Lord and Lady Clarendon, Mr. William 
 Spencer, Keau the actor, Colonel Berkeley, and 
 Lord Petersham. Between these two last-mentioned 
 gentlemen Mr. Crabbe got seated at dinner; and 
 though I was not near enough to hear distinctly their 
 conversation, I could see that he was alternately 
 edified and surprised by the information they were 
 giving him. 
 
 " In that same year I had the good luck to be 
 present with him at a dinner in celebration of the 
 memory of Burns, where he was one of a large 
 party (yourself among the numbei'), whom I was 
 the means of collecting for the occasion ; and who, 
 by the way, subscribed liberally towards a monu- 
 ment to the Scottish bard, of which we have heard 
 nothing ever since. Another public festival to 
 which I accompanied him was the annivei'sary of 
 the Wiltshire Society; where, on his health being- 
 proposed fiom the chair by Lord Lansdowne, he 
 returned thanks in a short speech, simply, but col- 
 lectedly, and with the manner of a man not deficient 
 in the nerve necessary for such displays. In look- 
 ing over an old newspaper report of that dinner, I 
 find, in a speech by one of the guests, the following- 
 passage, which, n>ore 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, rendHre<l him the 
 centre of a very great and unparalleled variety of agreeable 
 societies, «hich will be dissipated by his dealh. He had too 
 mucli merit not to provoke some jealousy, too much inno- 
 cence to provoke any enmity. The loss of no man of his time 
 can be felt with more sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow. 
 Hail! and farewell ! "— Bubke.J 
 
 9 [See ante, p. 33 ; and Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. 05.] 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 often -wearied by applications, and did not readily 
 comply Avith requests for his opinion ; not from any 
 unwillingness to oblige, but from a painful conten- 
 tion in his mind, between a desire of giving pleasure 
 and a determination to speak truth. No man can, I 
 think, publish a work without some expectation of 
 satisfying those who are to judge of its merit: but 
 I can, with the utmost regard to veracity, speak my 
 fears, as predominating over every pre-indulgcd 
 tliought of a more favourable nature, when I was 
 told that a judge so discerning had consented to read 
 and give his opinion of " The Village," the poem I 
 had prepared for publication. The time of suspense 
 was not long protracted ; I was soon favoured with 
 a few words from Sir Joshua, who observed, — " If 
 I knew how cautious Dr. Johnson was in giving 
 commendation, I should be well satisfied with the 
 portion dealt to me in his letter." Of that letter 
 the following is a copy : — 
 
 " Maich 4, 1783. 
 
 • Sir, 
 
 " I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem ; 
 which I read with great delight. It is original, 
 vigorous, and elegant. 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 own 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. Ilis Dedication '" will be 
 least liked : it were better to contract it into a short 
 sprightly address. — 1 do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's 
 success. I am. Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 " Sam. Johnson." 
 
 That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me 
 the justice to believe; and 1 hope they will pardon 
 me, if there should appear to them any impropriety 
 in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in a 
 private letter: they will judge, and truly, that by 
 so doing, I wish to bespeak their good opinion, but 
 have no design of extorting their applause. I would 
 not hazard an appearance so ostentatious to gratify 
 my vanity, but I venture to do it in compliance with 
 my fears. 
 
 After these was published " The Newspaper:" it 
 had not the advantage of such previous criticism 
 from any friends, nor perhaps so much of my own 
 attention as I ought to have given to it ; but the 
 impression was disposed of, and I will not pay so 
 little respect to the judgment of my readers as now 
 to suppress what they then approved. 
 
 Since the publication of this poem, more than 
 twenty years have elapsed ; and I am not without 
 apprehension, le.st so long a silence should be con- 
 strued into a blamable neglect of my own interest, 
 which those excellent friends were desirous of pro- 
 moting ; or, what is yet wor.se, into a want of 
 gratitude for their assistance ; since it becomes me 
 to sui)pose they considered these first attempts as 
 
 10 Neither of these were adopted. Tlic .Tiithor had written, 
 .ilioiH ilijitti mi', some verses to the memory of Lord Kol)Prt 
 Manners, brotlier to the late Duke of Kulland ; and these, by 
 
 promises of better things, and their favours as sti- 
 mulants to future exertion. And here, be the con- 
 struction put upon my apparent negligence what it 
 may, let nie not suppress my testimony to the libe- 
 rality of those who are looked up to as patrons and 
 encouragers of literary merit, or, indeed, of merit of 
 any kind : their patronage has never been refused, 
 I conceive, when it has been reasonably expected or 
 modestly required; and it would be difficult, pro- 
 bably, to instance, in these times and in this country, 
 any one who merited or was supposed to merit 
 assistance, but who nevertheless languished in ob- 
 scurity or necessity for want of it ; unless in those 
 cases where it was prevented by the resolution of 
 impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of 
 determined profligacy. And, while the subject is 
 before me, I am unwilling to pass silently over the 
 debt of gratitude which 1 owe to the memory of two 
 deceased noblemen, — His Grace the late Duke of 
 Rutland, and the Right Honourable the Lord 
 Thurlow : sensible of the honour done me by their 
 notice, and the benefits received from them, I trust 
 this acknowledgment will be imputed to its only 
 motive — a grateful sense of their favours. 
 
 Upon this subject I could dwell with much plea- 
 sure ; but, to give a reason for that appearance of 
 neglect, as it is more diflicult, so, happily, it is less 
 required. In truth, I have, for many years, in- 
 tended a republication of these poems, as soon as I 
 should be able to join with them such other of later 
 date as might not deprive me of the little credit 
 the former had obtained. Long, indeed, has this 
 purpose been procrastinated : and if the duties of 
 a profession, not before pressing upon me — if the 
 claims of a situation, at that time untried — if dif- 
 fidence of my own judgment, and the loss of my 
 earliest friends, — will not sufficiently account for 
 my delay, I nmst rely upon the good-nature of my 
 reader, that he will let them avail as far as he can, 
 and find an additional apology in my fears of his 
 censure. 
 
 These fears being so prevalent with me, I deter- 
 mined not to publish anything more, unless I could 
 first obtain the sanction of such an opinion as I 
 might with some confidence rely upon. I looked 
 for a friend who, having the discerning taste of 
 Mr. liurke, and the critical sagacity of Doctor 
 Johnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention 
 requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour 
 me with the result of his observations; and it was 
 my singular good fortune to gain such assistance; 
 the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a friend so 
 disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an 
 introduction to the Right Honourable Cliarles James 
 Fox some years before, at the seat of Mr. Burke; 
 and being again with him, I received a promise 
 that he would peruse any work I might send to him 
 previous to its publication, and would give me his 
 opinion. At that time, I did not think myself suffi- 
 ciently prejjared; and when, afterwards, I had 
 collected some poems for his inspection, I found my 
 right honourable friend engaged by the affairs of a 
 
 a junction, it is pri^snmed, not forced or unnatural, form the 
 concluding part of " The N'illage." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 99 
 
 great empire, and struggling with the inveteracy of 
 a fatal disease : at such time, upon such mind, ever 
 disposed to oblige as that mind was, I could not 
 obtrude the petty business of criticising verses ; but 
 he remembered the promise he had kindly given, 
 and repeated an offer, which though I had not pre- 
 sumed to expect, I was happy to receive. A copy 
 of the poems, now first published, was immediately 
 sent to him, and (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 have 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 1 deny myself the melancholy satisfaction 
 of adding, that this poem (and more especially the 
 history of Phoebe Dawson, with some parts of the 
 second book), were the last compositions of their 
 kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the 
 candid, the benevolent mind of this great man. 
 
 The above information I owe to the favour of the 
 Right Honourable Lord Holland ; nor this only, 
 but to his Lordship 1 am indebted for some 
 excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS. 
 It was not, indeed, my good fortune theu to know 
 that my verses were in the hands of a nobleman 
 who had given proof of his accurate judgment as a 
 critic, and his elegance as a writer, by favouring 
 the public with an easy and spirited translation of 
 some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet not often 
 read in this kingdom. The Life of Lope de Vega 
 was then unknown to me : I had, in common with 
 many English readers, heard of him ; but could 
 not judge whether his far-extended reputation was 
 caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius, 
 or the unequalled facility of a rapid composer, aided 
 by peculiar and fortunate circumstances. That any 
 part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks of 
 Lord Holland yields me ?. high degree of satis- 
 faction, and his Lordship will perceive the use I 
 have made of them ; but I must feel some regret 
 when I know to what small portion they were 
 limited ; and discerning, as I do, the taste and judg- 
 ment bestowed upon the verses of Lope de Vega, I 
 must perceive how much my own needed the 
 assistance afforded to one who cannot be sensible 
 of the benefit he has received. 
 
 But how much soever I may lament the advan- 
 tages lost, let me remember with gratitude the helps 
 I have obtained. With a single exception, every 
 poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to 
 the critical sagacity of a gentleman upon whose 
 skill and candour their author could rely. To pub- 
 lish by advice of friends has been severely ridiculed, 
 and that too by a poet who probably, without such 
 advice, never made public any verses of his own : 
 in fact it may not be easily determined who acts 
 with less discretion, — the writer who is encouraged 
 to publish his works merely by the advice of friends 
 whom he consulted, or he who, against advice, pub- 
 lishes from the sole encouragement of his own 
 
 opinion. These are deceptions to be carefully 
 avoided ; and I was happy to escape the latter by 
 the friendly attentions of the Reverend Richard 
 Turner, minister of Great Yarmouth. To this 
 gentleman I am indebted more than 1 am able to 
 describe, or than he is willing to allow, for the time 
 he has bestowed upon the attempts I have made. 
 He is, indeed, the kind of critic for whom every 
 poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom 
 every man would be happy to acquire ; he has taste 
 to discern all that is meritorious, and sagacity to 
 detect whatsoever should be discarded ; he gives 
 just the opinion an author's wisdom should covet, 
 however his vanity might prompt him to reject it ; 
 what altogether to expunge and what to improve he 
 has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed 
 him in the latter direction, as I invariably have in 
 the former, the public would have found this 
 collection more worthy its attention, and 1 should 
 have sought the opinion of the critic more void of 
 apprehension. 
 
 But, whatever I may hope or fear, whatever 
 assistance I have had or have needed, it becomes 
 me to leave my verses to the judgment of the reader, 
 without my endeavour to point out their merit, or 
 an apology for their defects: yet as, among the 
 poetical attempts of one who has been for many 
 years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for 
 the legitimate objects of his study, that nothing 
 occurs, unless it be incidentally, of the great subjects 
 of religion ; so it may appear a kind of ingratitude 
 of a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed 
 his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some 
 patriotic purpose ; as in celebrating the unsubdued 
 spirit of his countrymen in their glorious resistance 
 of those enemies wlio would have no peace through- 
 out the world, except that which is dictated to the 
 drooping spirit of suffering humanity by the tri- 
 umphant insolence of military success. 
 
 Credit will be given to me, I hope, when I affirm, 
 that subjects so interesting have the due weight with 
 me, which the sacred nature of the one, and the 
 national importance of the other, must impress upon 
 every mind not seduced into carelessness for religion 
 by the lethargic influence of a perverted philosophy, 
 nor into indifference for the cause of our country 
 by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of uni- 
 versal philanthropy; but, after many efforts to 
 satisfy myself, by vai'ious trials on these subjects, I 
 declined all further attempt, from a conviction that 
 I should not be able to give satisfaction to my 
 readers. Poetry of a religious nature must, indeed, 
 ever be clogged with almost insuperable diflSculty ; 
 but there are, doubtless, to be found poets who are 
 well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and 
 heroic spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in 
 appropriate colours some of those extraordinary 
 scenes which have been and are shifting in the face 
 of Europe with such dreadful celerity ; and to such 
 I relinquish the duty. 
 
 It remains for me to give the reader a brief view 
 of those articles in the following collection, which 
 for the first time solicit his attention. 
 
 In the "Parish Register" he will find an endea- 
 
 H 2 
 
ICO 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Tour once more to describe village manners, not by 
 adopting the notion of pastoral simplicity, or as- 
 suming ideas of rustic barbarity, but by more na- 
 tural views of the peasantry, considered as a mixed 
 body of persons, sober or profligate, and hence, in a 
 great measure, contented or miserable. To this 
 more general description are added the various 
 characters which occur in the three parts of a Re- 
 gister — Baptism, Marriages, and Burials. 
 
 If the " Birth of Flattery " offer no moral, as an 
 appendage to the fable, it is hoped that nothing of 
 an immoral, nothing of improper tendency, will be 
 imputed to apiece of poetical playfulness; in fact, 
 genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is 
 known by its bearing full investigation : it is what 
 the giver is happy that he can justly bestow, and 
 the receiver conscious that he may boldly accept ; 
 but adulation must ever be afraid of inquiry, and 
 must, in proportion to their degrees of moral sensi- 
 bility, 
 
 Be shame " to him that gives and him that takes." 
 
 The verses, " Wheti all the youtliful passions 
 cease," &c., want a title ; nor does the motto, al- 
 though it gave occasion to them, altogether express 
 the sense of the writer, who meant to observe, 
 that some of our best acquisitions, and some of 
 our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual by 
 the passing away of opportunity, and the changes 
 made by time; an argument that such acquire- 
 ments and moral habits are reserved for a state 
 of being in which they have the uses here denied 
 them. 
 
 In the story of " Sir Eustace Grey," an attempt 
 is made to describe the wanderings of a mind first 
 irritated by the consequences of error and mis- 
 fortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of 
 enthusiastic conversion, still keeping him insane — 
 a task very difficult ; and, if the presumption of the 
 attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused to 
 the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakspeare, 
 respecting madness, — 
 
 " In that circle none dare walk but he :" — ' 
 
 yet be it granted to one, who dares not to pass the 
 boundary fixed for common minds, at least to step 
 near to the tremendous verge, and form some idea 
 
 of the terrors that are stalking in the interdicted 
 space. 
 
 When first I had written " Aaron, or The Gipsy," 
 I had no unfavourable opinion of it ; and had I been 
 collecting my verses at that time for publication, 
 I should certainly have included this tale. Nine 
 years have since elapsed, and I continue to judge 
 the same of it ; thus literally obeying one of the 
 directions given by the prudence of criticism to the 
 eagerness of the poet : but how far I may have con- 
 formed to rules of more importance must be left to 
 the less partial judgment of the reader. 
 
 The concluding poem, entitled " Woman ! " was 
 written at the time when the quotation from Mr. 
 Ledyard was first made public : the expression has 
 since become hackneyed ; but the sentiment is con- 
 genial with our feelings, and, though somewhat 
 amplified in these verses, it is hoped they are not 
 so far extended as to become tedious. 
 
 . After this brief account of his subjects, the au- 
 thor leaves them to their fate, not presuming to 
 make any remarks upon the kinds of versification 
 he has chosen, or the merit of the execution: he 
 has, indeed, brought forward the favourable opinion 
 of his friends, and for that he earnestly hopes his 
 motives will be rightly understood ; it was a step 
 of which he felt the advantage, while he foresaw 
 the danger: he was aware of the benefit, if his 
 readers would consider him as one who puts on a 
 defensive armour against hasty and determined 
 severity ; but he feels also the hazard, lest they 
 should suppose he looks upon himself to be guarded 
 by his friends, and so secure in the defence, that 
 he may defy the fair judgment of legal criticism. 
 It will probably be said, " he has brought with him 
 his testimonials to the bar of the public ;" and he 
 must admit the truth of the remark ; but he begs 
 leave to observe in reply, that, of those who bear 
 testimonials of any kind, the greater number feel 
 apprehension, and not security ; they are, indeed, 
 so'far from the enjoyment of victory, of the exult- 
 ation of ti-iumph, that, with all they can do for 
 themselves, with all their friends have done for 
 them, they are, like him, in dread of examination, 
 and in fear of disappointment. 
 
 Muston, Leicestershire. 
 September, 1807. 
 
THE LIBRARY. 
 
 101 
 
 f 
 
 THE LIBRARY." 
 
 Books aflbrd Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substi- 
 tuting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own — Tliey are pro- 
 ductive of otlier Advantages — An Author's Hope of being 
 known in distant Times— Arrangement of the Library — 
 Size and Form of the Volumes — Tlie ancient Folio, clasped 
 and cliained — Fashion prevalent even in this Place — The 
 Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c. — Subjects 
 
 of the different Classes Divinity — Controversy — The 
 
 Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes — 
 Sceptical Authors — Reason too much rejected by the 
 former Converts ; exclusively relied upon by the latter — 
 Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to moral 
 Subjects — Books of Medicine ; their Variety, Variance, 
 and Proneness to System : the Evil of this, and the Diffi- 
 culty it causes — Farewell to this Study — Law : the increas- 
 ing Number of its Volumes — Supposed liappy State of Man 
 ■without Laws — Progress of Society — Historians : their 
 Subjects — Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic — Ancient 
 Romances — Tlie Captive Heroine — Happiness in the 
 Perusal of such Books : why — Criticism — Apprehensions 
 of the Author ; removed by the Appearance of the Genius 
 of the I'lace ; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude 
 the Subject. 
 
 When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd, 
 Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest ; 
 When every object that appears in view, 
 Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too ; 
 Where shall affliction from itself retire ? '^ 
 Where fade away and placidly expire ? 
 
 1 [For Mr. Crabbe's own account of the preparation of this 
 poem for the press, under Mr. Burke's eye, at Beaconsfield, 
 see ante, p. 27. " Tlie Library " appeared anonymously, in 
 June, 1781 ; but the author's name and designation as domes- 
 tic cliaplain to the Duke of Rutland were on the title-page of 
 a second edition published in 1783. J 
 
 2 [After line foiulh, the original MS. reads as follows : — 
 
 Where can the wretched lose their cares, and liide 
 
 The tears of sorrow' from the eyes of pride ? 
 Can they in silent sliades a refuge find 
 From all the scorn and malice of mankind ? 
 From wit's disdain, and wealth's provoking sneer. 
 From folly's grin, and humour's stupid leer, 
 And clamour's iron tongue, censorious and severe ? 
 Tliere can they see tlie scenes of nature gay, 
 And shake the gloomy dreams of life awaj' .-' 
 Without a sigh, the hope of youth give o'er, 
 And with aspiring honour climb no more. 
 Alas ! we lly to peaceful shades in vain ; 
 Peace dwells within, or all without is pain : 
 No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas — 
 He dreads a tempest, but desires a breeze. 
 The placid waves with silent swell disclose 
 A clearer view, and but rellect his w<ies. 
 So life has calms, in whicii we only see 
 A fuller prospect of our misery. 
 
 Alas ! we fly to silent scenes in vain ; 
 
 Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain : 
 
 Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, 
 
 Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream ; 
 
 For when the soul is labouring in despair, 
 
 In vain the body breathes a purer air : 
 
 No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas, — 
 
 He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze ; 
 
 On the smooth mirror of the deep resides 
 
 Reflected woe, and o'er unrufiled tides 
 
 The ghost of every former danger glides. 
 
 Thus, in the calms of life, we only see 
 
 A steadier image of our misery ; 
 
 But lively gales and gently clouded skies 
 
 Disperse the sad reflections as they rise ; 
 
 And busy thoughts and little cares avail 
 
 To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail. 
 
 When the dull thought, bj^ no designs employ'd, 
 
 Dwells on the past, or sufi'er'd or enjoy'd, 
 
 We bleed anew in every former grief, 
 
 And joys departed furnish no relief. 
 
 Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, 
 Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart : 
 The soul disdains each comfort she prepares. 
 And anxious searches for congenial cares ; 
 Those lenient cares, which with our own combined. 
 By mi.x'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind, 
 And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind ; 
 
 When the sick heart, by no design employ'd, 
 Throbs o'er the past, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd, 
 In former pleasures finding no relief. 
 And pain'd anew in every former grief, 
 I Can friends console us when our cares distress, 
 
 I Smile on our woes, and make misfortunes less .' 
 
 I Alus ! like winter'd leaves, they fall away, 
 
 j Or more disgrace our prospects by delay ; 
 
 The genial warmth, the fostering sap is past, 
 That kept them faithful, and that held them fast. 
 
 Where shall we lly .? — to yonder still retreat, 
 Tlio haunt of Genius and the Musps' seat. 
 Where all our griefs in others' strains rehearse. 
 Speak with old Time, and with the dead converse ; 
 Till Fancy, far in distant regions flown, 
 .\<lopts a thousand schemes, and quits her own ; 
 Skims every scene, aud plans with each design, 
 'J'owers in each thought, and lives in every line; 
 From clime to clime with rapid motion flies. 
 Weeps without woe, and without sorrow sighs ; 
 To all things yielding, and by all things sway'd, 
 To all obedient, and by all obey'd ; 
 The scource of pleasures, noble and refineo. 
 And the great empress of tlie Poet's mind. 
 
 Here led by thee, fair Fancy, I behold 
 The mighty heroes, and the bards of old, 
 For here the Muses sacred vigils keep. 
 Anil all the busy cares of being sleep ; 
 
102 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 ^\. Iigjite\ grjci ! . which feeling hearts endure 
 "Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. 
 
 But what strange art. what magic can dispose 
 The troubled mind to change its native woes ? 
 Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see 
 Others more ^^■l•etched, more undone than we ? 
 This Books can do ; — nor this alone ; they give 
 New views to life, and teach us how to live ; * 
 They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, 
 Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise : * 
 Their aid they yield to all : they never shun 
 The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone : 
 Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, 
 They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd ; 
 Nor tell to various people various things, 
 But show to subjects what they show to kings.'' 
 
 No monarch covets war, nor dreams of fame. 
 No subject bleeds to raise his tyrant's name. 
 No proud fjreat man, or man that would be great, 
 Drives modest merit from its proper state. 
 Nor rapine reaps the good by labour sown, 
 Nor envy blasts a laurel, but her own. 
 
 Yet Contemplation, silent goddess, here. 
 In her vast eye, makes all mankind appear, 
 All Nature's treasures, all the stores of Art, 
 That fire the fancy, or engage the heart, 
 Tlie world's vast views, the fancy's wild domain. 
 And all the motley objects of the brain : 
 Here mountains hurl'd on mountains proudly rise. 
 Far, far o'er Nature's dull realities ; 
 Eternal verdure decks a sacred clime. 
 Eternal spring for ever blooms in rhyme. 
 And heroes honour'd for imputed deeds, 
 And saints adored for visionary creeds. 
 Legends and tales, and solitude and sighs. 
 Poor doafing dreams, and miserable lies, 
 Tlie empty bubbles of a pensive mind, 
 And Spleen's sad effort to debase mankind. 
 
 Here Wonder gapes at Story's dreadful page. 
 And Valour mounts by true poetic rage. 
 And Pity weeps to hear the mourning maid. 
 And Envy saddens at the praise convey'd. 
 Devotion kindles at the pious strain. 
 And mocks the madness of the fool's disdain: 
 Here gentle Delicacy turns her eye 
 From the loose page', and blushes her reply, 
 Alone, unheeded, calls her soul to arms. 
 Fears every thought, and flies from all alarms. 
 Pale Study here, to one great point resigu'd. 
 Derides the various follies of mankind ; 
 As distant objects sees their several cares. 
 And w ith his own their trilling work compares ; 
 But still forgets like him men take their view, 
 And near their own, his works are trilling too :— 
 So suns and planets scarcely fill the eye 
 Wien earth's poor hills and man's poor huts are nigh ; 
 But, were the eye in airy regions tost. 
 The world would lessen, and h(>r 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<!ived bv Folly on the coast of France, 
 That now with ligli'er thought, and gentler fire, 
 L'surp the lionmirs of their drooping sire ; 
 And still fantastic, vain, and trilling, sing 
 ( If many a soft and inconsistent thing,— 
 (If rakes repenting, clogg'd in Hymen's chain— 
 or nymph recliiii'<l by unpresuming swain — 
 1 If captains, colonels, lords, and amorous kniglits, 
 Tliat find in humbler nymphs such chaste delijjhts, 
 
 But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,** 
 Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys ; 
 Too dearly bought : maturer judgment calls 
 My busied mind from talcs and madrigals ; 
 My doughty giants all are slain or fled. 
 And all my knights — blue, green, and yellow — dead ! 
 No more the midnight fairy tribe I view. 
 All in the merry moonshine tippling dew; 
 E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain, 
 The churchyard ghost, is now at rest again ; 
 And all these wayward wanderings of my youth 
 Fly Reason's power, and shun the light of Truth. 
 
 With Fiction** then does real joy reside. 
 And is our reason the delusive guide ? 
 Is it then right to dream the syrens sing ? 
 Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing ? 
 No ; 't is the infant mind, to care unknown. 
 That makes th' imagined paradise its o%vn ; 
 Soon as reflections in the bosom rise, 
 Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes : 
 The tear and smile, that once together rose. 
 Are then divorced ; the head and heart are foes : 
 Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan. 
 And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.*® 
 
 While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, 
 With various thoughts my mind I entertain ; 
 
 Such heavenly charms, so gentle, yet so gay, 
 
 That all their former follies tly away. 
 
 Honour springs up, where'er their looks impart 
 
 A moment's sunshine to the harden'd heart— 
 
 A virtue, just before the rover's jest, 
 
 Grows like a mushroom in his melting breast. 
 
 Much, too, they tell of cottages and shades, 
 
 Of balls, and routs, and midnight masquerades. 
 
 Where dangerous men and dangerous mirth reside, 
 
 And Virtue goes — on purpose to be tried. 
 
 These are the tales that wake the soul to life. 
 That charm the sprightly niece and forward wife, 
 That form the manners of a polish'd age. 
 And each pure easy moral of the Stage. 
 
 Thus to her friend the ever-faithful she— 
 The tender Delia — writes, securely tree — 
 Delia from school was lately bold to rove, 
 Wliere yet Lucinila meditated love — 
 
 " Oh thou, the partner of my pensive breast, 
 And, but for one ! its most delightful guest, 
 Hut for that one of whom 'twas joy to talk. 
 When (lie chaste moon gleam'd o'er our evening walk, 
 And, cooing fondly in the neighbouring groves, 
 The pretty songsters all enjov'd tlieir loves ; 
 Receive ! as witness all ye powers ! I send, 
 Witli melting heart, this token of thy friend. 
 
 " C^ilm was the night ! and every breeze was low ; 
 Swift ran the stream — liuf, ah I the moments slow! 
 Fly swift, ye monient-s! slowly run, thou stream, 
 An<t on thy margin let a maiden dream. 
 
 " Methouglit he came, my Harry, young and gay, 
 The very youth that stole my heart away. 
 I w ake. .Surprise I yet guess how blest was I ! 
 With looks of love — the very youth wiis by. 
 ' Whose is that forin my Delia's bosom hides? 
 What youth divinely blest within presides.'' 
 He spoke and sigh'il. His sii-hs my fear supprest. 
 He seized his angel form, and actions sjioke tlie rest. 
 
 " Oh, Virtue ! brighter th.in the noontide ray ! 
 Still guide my steps, and guide them nature's way ; 
 With sacred precepts till the youthful mind. 
 Soothe all it.s cares, and force it to be kind." 
 
 Thus, gentle passions wiirm the generous maid, 
 No more reluctant, and no more afraid ; 
 Thus Virtue shines, and in her loveliest dress 
 Not over nice, nor Virtue to exce.ss. 
 
 Near tliese I look, and lol n reptile race, 
 In goodly vest.s conceal the want of grace ; 
 The brood of Humour, Fancy, Frolic, Fun, 
 The tale obscene, the miserable pun I 
 
THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize. 
 
 Pleased with the pride that will not let them i^lease, 
 
 Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise, 
 
 And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes ; 
 
 For, lo ! while yet my heart admits the wound, 
 
 I see the Critic army ranged around.'*^ 
 
 Foes to our race ! if ever ye have known 
 A father's fears for offspring of your own ; ^^ 
 If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line. 
 Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine, 
 Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt, 
 With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out ;— 
 If, after fearing much and pausing long, 
 Ye ventured ou the world your labour'd song, 
 And from the crusty critics of those days 
 Implored the feeble tribute of their praise ; 
 Kemember now the fears that moved you then, 
 And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. 
 
 What vent'rous i-ace are ours! what mighty foes 
 Lie waiting all around them to oppose ! 
 
 The jest that Laujihter loves, he knows not why. 
 And Whim tells quaintly with distorted eye. 
 Here Languor, yawning, pays his first devoirs. 
 And skims sedately o'er his dear Memoirs; 
 Here trie< his tedious moments to employ. 
 And, palsied by enjoyment, dreams of joy ; 
 From all *he tribe liis little knowledge steals, 
 From dull " Torpedoes," and " Electric Eels ;" * 
 A nd every trille of a trifling age, 
 That shames the closet, or degrades the Stage.] 
 
 " [Original MS. :— 
 
 Here as I stand, of sovereign power possess'd, 
 A vast ambition tires my swelling breast ; 
 I deal destruction round, and, all severe, 
 Damn with a dash, and censure with a sneer ; 
 Or from the Critic wrest a sinking cause, 
 Uejudge his justice, and repeal his laws ; 
 Now half by judgment guided, half by whim, 
 1 grasp disputed power, and tyrannise like him ; 
 Food for tlie mind I seek ; but wlio shall find 
 The food that satisfies the craving mind ? 
 Like fire it rages ; and its fatal rage 
 What pains can deaden, and w hat care assuage ? 
 Choked by its fuel, though it clouded lies. 
 It soon eats througli, and craves for new supplies ; 
 Now here, now there, witli sudden fury breaks 
 And to its substance turns whate'er it takes. 
 To weighty themes I fly with eager haste, 
 And skim their treasures like the man of taste ; 
 From a few pages learn the whole design, 
 And damn a book for one suspicious line, 
 Or steals its sentiments, and call them mine !] 
 
 ■•s [" None but an author knows an author's cares, 
 Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears." — 
 
 So writes Cowper — and in illustration of his lines it may 
 be permitted to quote one of his own private letters in 1 782 :— 
 " Before I had published, 1 said to myself, ' You and I, Mr. 
 Cowper, will not concern ourselves much about what the cri- 
 tics may say of our book.' But, having once sent my wits 
 for a venture, I soon became anxious about the i^sue, and 
 found that I could not be satisfied with a warm place in my 
 own good graces, unless my friends were pleased with me as 
 much as I pleased myself. Meeting with their approbation, 
 I began to feel the workings of ambition. 'It is well,' said I, 
 ' that my friends are pleased ; but friends are sometimes par- 
 tial, and mine, I have reason to think, are not altogether free 
 from bias ; methinks I should like to hear a stranger or two 
 sppak well of me.' I was presently gratified by the approba- 
 tion of the London Magazine and the Gentleman's, and by 
 the plaudit of Dr. Franklin : but the Monthly Review, the 
 most formidable of all my judges, is still behind. What will 
 
 * [Two poems, designated, by the Monthly Reviewers, 
 " poetical smut — Rochester revived."] 
 
 What treacherous friends betray them to the fight ! 
 What dangers threaten them ! — yet still they write : 
 A hapless tribe ! to every evil born, 
 Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn : 
 Strangers they come, amid a world of woe. 
 And taste the largest portion ere they go.*^ 
 
 Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around ; 
 The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound ; 
 Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like 
 
 smoke, 
 From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke ; 
 Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem, 
 Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream ; 
 Like flowing robes they now appear, and t-wdne 
 Eound the large members of a form divine ; 
 His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, 
 His piercing eye, that inward light express'd, 
 Were seen, — but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest. 
 Fear chill'd my heart : to one of mortal race, 
 How awful seem'd the Genius of the place ! 
 
 this critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius 
 shall appear before him .-' Still he keeps me in hot water, and 
 I must wait another month for his award."] 
 
 ■■o [" Fortune has rarely condescended to be the companion 
 of genius : the dunce finds a hundred roads to her palace ; 
 there is but one open, and that a very indifferent one, for 
 men of letters. Why should we not erect an asylum for 
 venerable genius, as we do for the Ijrave and the lielpless part 
 of our citizens? When even fame will not protect the man 
 of genius from famine, charity ought. Nor should such an 
 act be considered as a debt incurred by the helpless member, 
 but a tribute we pay to genius. Even in these enlightened 
 times, such have lived in obscurity, while their reputation 
 was widely spread ; and have perished in poverty, while their 
 works were enriching the booksellers." — D'Iskaeli. 
 
 " We have living minds, wlio have done their duty to 
 their own age and to posterity. Such men complain not of 
 the age, but of an anomalous injustice in the laws. They 
 complain that authors are deprived of a perpetual property in 
 the produce of their own labours, w hen all other persons enjoy 
 it as an indefeasible and acknowledged right ;— and they ask, 
 upon what principle, with what equity, or under what pre- 
 tence of public good, they are subjected to this injurious 
 enactment ? Is it because their labour is so light, the endow- 
 ments which are required for it so common, the attainments 
 so cheaply and easily acquired, and the present remuneration 
 in all cases so adequate, so ample, and so certain ? The act is 
 so curiously injurious in its operation, that it bears with most 
 hardship upon the best works. For books of great immediate 
 popularity have their run, and come to a dead stop : the hard- 
 sliip is upon those which win their way slowly and difficultly, 
 but keep the field at last. In such cases, when the copyright, 
 as by the existing law, departs from the author's family at his 
 death, or at the end of twenty-eijiht years from the first pub- 
 lication of every work (if he dies before the expiration of that 
 term J, his representatives are deprived of their property just 
 as it would begin to prove a valuable inheritance. The last 
 descendants of Milton died in poverty. The descendants of 
 Shakspeare are living in poverty, and in the lowest condition 
 of life. Is this just to these individuals .' Is it grateful to the 
 memory of those who are the pride and boast of their coun- 
 try ? Is it honourable or becoming to us, as a nation, holding 
 the name of Shakspeare and Milton in veneration } To have 
 placed the descendants of Shakspeare and Milton in respec- 
 tability and comfort, simple justice was all that was required ; 
 — only that they should have possessed the perpetual copy- 
 right of their ancestors' works — only that they should not 
 have been deprived of their proper inheritance. Believing 
 as I do, that if society continues to improve, no injustice will 
 long be permitted to continue after it has been fairly exposed, 
 and is clearly apprehended, I cannot but believe that a time 
 must come when the rights of literature w ill be acknowledged, 
 and its wrong redressed ; and that those authors hereafter who 
 shall deserve well of posterity, will have no cause to reproach 
 themselves for having sacrificed the Interests of their children 
 when they disregarded the pursuit of fortune for themselves." 
 
 — SoUTHEY.] 
 
So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw 
 His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe ; ** 
 Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound, 
 When from the pitying power broke forth a so- 
 lemn sound : — 
 
 " Care lives with all ; " no rules, no precepts save 
 " The wise from woe, no fortitude the brave ; 
 " Grief is to man as certain as the grave : 
 " Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise, 
 " And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded 
 
 skies ; 
 " Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall, 
 " But showers of sorrow are the lot of all : '"^ 
 " Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw 
 " Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law ? 
 " Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, 
 " Life's little cares and little pains refuse ? 
 " Shall he not rather feel a double share 
 " Of mortal woe, when doubly arm'd to bear? 
 
 " Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind 
 " On the precarious mercy of mankind ; 
 " Who hopes for wild and visionary things, 
 " And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous 
 
 wings : 
 " But as, of various evils that befall 
 " The human race, some portion goes to all ; 
 " To him perhaps the milder lot 's assigned, 
 " Who feels his consolation in his mind • 
 
 50 [" Struck at the sight, I melt with filial woe. 
 
 And down ray cheek the pious sorrows flow." — 
 
 Pope's Homer.'] 
 
 51 [ " The canker-worm 
 Will feed iipon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
 
 As well as further drain the wither'd form. 
 Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
 
 His bills in, and, however we may storm, 
 They must be paid ; — though six days smoothly run, 
 The seventh will bring blue-devils, or a dun." — Byron.] 
 
 *' [" Cares, both in kind and degree, are as innumerable as 
 the sands of the sea-shore ; and the fable which Hyginus has 
 so pleasantly constructed on this subject, shows that man is 
 their proper prey. ' Care,' says he, ' crossing a dangerous 
 brook, collected a mass of the dirty slime which deformed its 
 banks, and moulded it into the image of an earthly being, 
 which Jupiter, on passing by soon afterwards, touched with 
 ethereal lire and warmed into animation ; but, being at a loss 
 wliat name to give this new production, and disputing to 
 whom of right it belonged, the matter was referred to .Saturn, 
 who decreed that his name should be man, Homo ab lmmi\ 
 from the dirt of which ho had been made ; that care should 
 entirely possess his mind while living; that Tellus, or the 
 earth, should receive his body when dead ; and that Jupiter 
 should dispose of his celestial essence according to his dis- 
 cretion. Thus was man made the property of care from his 
 original formation ; and discontent, the offspring of care, 
 has ever since been his inseparable companion.' " — Bur- 
 ton.] 
 
 >' [" 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, an<l by the uni- 
 form warmth of the poet Cowper, when alluding to the 
 •plendid career of the yreat man who had been, in early life, 
 
 liis fellow-pupil in a Solicitor's chambers. See, in particular, 
 
 the stanzas — 
 
 " Hound Thurlow's head, in early youth. 
 And in his sportive days, 
 Fair Science pour'd the light of Truth, 
 And Genius shed his rays," &c.] 
 
 2 Lord Tliurlow was appointed Lord High Chancellor in 
 1778, and continued in the situation tHl 1783; when, upon 
 the success of the Coalition ministry, he was ejected, and the 
 seals put in commission ; but, on the final triumph of Mr. 
 Pitt, in 1784, he was reinstated, and possessed the seals till 
 1793. His Lordship died in 1 BOG.] 
 
THE NEWSPAPER. 
 
 125 
 
 theme to theme in an easy and graceful succession ; but on quitting one thought, there will be an 
 unavoidable hiatus, and in general an awkward transition into that which follows. 
 
 That, in writing upon the subject of our Newspapers, I have avoided everything which might 
 appear like the opinion of a party, is to be accounted for from the knowledge I have gained from them ; 
 since, the more of these Instructors a man reads, the less he will infallibly understand : nor would it 
 have been very consistent in me, at the same time to censure their temerity and ignorance, and to adopt 
 their rage. 
 
 I should have been glad to have made some discrimination in my remarks on these productions. 
 There is, indeed, some difference ; and I have observed, that one editor will sometimes convey his 
 abuse with more decency, and colour his falsehood with more appearance of probability, than another : 
 but until I see that paper wherein no great character is wantonly abused, nor groundless insinuation 
 wilfully disseminated, I shall not make any distinction in my remarks upon them. 
 
 It must, however, be confessed, that these things have their use ; and are, besides, vehicles of much 
 amusement: but this does not outweigh the evil they do to society, and the irreparable injury they 
 bring upon the characters of individuals. In the following poem I have given those good properties 
 their due weight: they have changed indignation into mirth, and turned what would otherwise have 
 been abhorrence, into derision. 
 
 February, 1785.' 
 
 THE NEWSPAPER. 
 
 E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aiires : 
 Hi nariata ferunt alio ; mensuraque ficti 
 Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor : 
 lUic Credulitas, illic temerarius Krror, 
 Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique Timores, 
 Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri. 
 
 Ovid. Metamorph., lib. xii.'' 
 
 Tliis not a Time favourable to poetical Composition : and 
 why — Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general 
 Inliuenoe — Tlieir Numbers — The Sunday Monitor — Their 
 general Character— Their Effect upon Individuals — upon 
 Society— in the Country — The Village Freeholder — What 
 Kind of Composition a Newspaper is ; and the Amusement 
 it airords — Of what Parts it is chiefly composed — Articles of 
 Intelligence : Advertisements : The Stage : Quacks : Puf- 
 fing — The Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and 
 poetical — Advice to the latter — Conclusion. 
 
 A TIME like this, a busy, bustling time,* 
 Suits ill -n-ith writers, very ill with rhyme : 
 Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, 
 And mightier madness checks the flowing song : 
 
 , ^ [At this period party-spirit ran unusually high. TTie 
 Coalition ministry, of wliich Mr. Burke was a member, had 
 recently been removed — the India bills both of Fox and Pitt 
 had been thrown out, and tlie public mind was greatly in- 
 flamed by the events of the six weeks' Westminster election, 
 and the consequent scrutiny. Notwithstanding the philoso- 
 phical tone of his preface, it seems highly probable that Mr. 
 Crabbe had been moved to take up the subject by the indig- 
 nation he felt on seeing Mr. Burke daily abused, at " tliis 
 busy, bustling time," by one set of party writers, while the 
 Duke of Rutland was equally the victim of another. Mr. 
 Burke had, at this time, become extremely unpopular, both 
 in and out of the House. At the opening of the new parlia- 
 ment, in May, ITS-I, so strong was the combination against 
 him, that the moment of his rising became a signal for 
 coughings, or otlier symptoms of pointed dislike. On one 
 occasion he stopped shortin his argumentto remark, that " he 
 could teach a pack of liounds to yelp with more melody and 
 equal comprehension."] 
 
 * [" The courts are fiU'd with a tumultuous din 
 Of crowds, or issuing forth, or entering in 
 A thoroughfare of News : where some devise 
 Things never heard, some mingle truth with lies ; 
 The troubled air with empty sounds they beat, 
 Intent to hear, and eager to repeat. 
 
 but 
 
 we 
 
 Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to 
 
 wield 
 Her feeble arms amid the furious field, 
 "Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, 
 Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain ; 
 And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine, 
 Till serious vengeance pays an idle line : 
 For party-poets are like wasps, who dart 
 Death to themselves, and to their foes 
 smart. 
 Hard then our fate : if general themes 
 choose, 
 
 Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse ; 
 Or should we sing the subject of the day. 
 To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. 
 More blest the bards of that poetic time, 
 "When aU found readers who could find a rhyme ; ^ 
 Green grew the bays on every teeming head, 
 And Gibber was enthroned,^ and Settle ^ read. 
 Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy de- 
 cline ; 
 "Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine ? 
 Alas ! new charms the wavering many gain, 
 And rival sheets the reader's eye detain ; 
 
 Error sits brooding there, with added train 
 
 Of vain Credulity, and Joy as vain : 
 
 Suspicion, with Sedition joined, are near. 
 
 And Rumours raised, and Murmurs mix'd, and Fear." 
 
 Dryden.] 
 
 5 The greatest part of this poem was written immediately 
 after the dissolution of the late parliament. — [The parliament 
 was dissolved in March, 1784. See ante, note 3.] 
 
 6 [" Happy tiie soil where bards like mushrooms rise, 
 
 And ask no culture but wliat Byshe supplies I" 
 
 GiFFOKD.] 
 
 7 [On the death of Eusden, in 1730, the laureateship was 
 bestowed on Gibber. When, in 1743, Pope published a new 
 <!dition of the Dunciad, he degraded Theobald from his pain- 
 ful pre-eminence as hero of the poem, and entlironed Cibber 
 in his stead : — 
 
 " Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise ; 
 He sleeps among the dull of ancient days : 
 Thou, Cibber, thou his laurel shalt support. 
 Folly, my son, has still a friend at court."] 
 
 8 [A poetaster who made some noise in his day by the vio- 
 lence of his writings. For his factious audacity he was made 
 
126 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 A daily swarm, that banish every Muse, 
 
 Come tlying forth, and mortals call them News : • ' 
 
 For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie ; '" 
 
 For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die ; 
 
 L'nbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait 
 
 In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate. 
 
 Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes, 
 The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose ; 
 I,et us, with generous scorn, the taste deride. 
 And sing our rivals with a rival's pride. 
 
 Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain 
 That foul neglect is all your labours gain ; 
 That pity only checks your growing spite 
 To erring man, and prompts you still to write ; 
 That your choice works on humble stalls are laid, 
 Or vainly grace the windows of the trade ; " 
 Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm 
 Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm ; 
 Think of the common cause wherein we go. 
 Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe ; 
 Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame. 
 Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame ; 
 And let us join our forces to subdue 
 This bold assuming but successful crew. 
 
 I sing of News, and all those vapid sheets 
 The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets ;'* 
 "Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly. 
 Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye : 
 For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue, 
 The Herald of the mom arises too ; 
 Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long, 
 Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng. 
 When evening comes, she comes with all her train 
 Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again, 
 
 the city poet, whose annual office was to describe tlie glories 
 of the mayor's day. " Of these bards," says Dr. Johnson, 
 " lie was the last, 'and seems not to have deserved even this 
 dojjree of regard ; for he afterwards wrote a panegyric on tlie 
 vir'tues of Judge Jeffreys." He died, in 17:^3, a pensioner in 
 the Charter house.] 
 
 3 [" Quicquid agunt homines, votura, timor, ira, voluptas, 
 Gaudia, discursus, nostri farrago libelli." — Juvenal. 
 
 " Whate'er the busy bustling world employs, 
 O'Xt wants and wishes, pleasures, cares, and joys, 
 These tne historians of our times display, 
 •And call it News — the hodge-podge of a day." 
 
 Bonn EI. Thornton.] 
 
 '" [" How do I laugh when men of narrow souls, 
 Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls ; 
 Wlio, form'd to dullness from their very youth. 
 Lies of the day prefer to Gospel trutli, 
 Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, 
 And lay up all their stock of faith in News, 
 llail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime. 
 And hold not truth as truth, if told in rhyme." 
 
 CKtmCHILL.] 
 
 11 [Original edition : — 
 
 While vour choice works on quiet shelves remain. 
 Or ^'race the windows of the traitc in vain ; 
 Where e'en their fair and comely sculptures fail, 
 Engraved by Grignion, and design'd by Wale.] 
 
 12 [" We are indebted to the Italians for the idea of news- 
 papers. The title of their Gazettas was, perhaps, derived from 
 Ga/./.era, a magpie or chatterer ; or, more prohably, from a 
 farthing coin, peculiar to tlie city of ^ enice, called Gazetta, 
 which was the common price of the papers. Newspapers, 
 then, took their l>irth 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 maJ<e this king- 
 dom the region of health and lieauty, serve also to destrov 
 that muuvaiic liunlc, or timid bashfulness, so peculiar to the 
 
 Such help the stage affords : a larger space 
 Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race. 
 Physic had once alone the lofty style. 
 The well-knovsTi boast, that ceased to raise a 
 
 smile : 
 Now all the province of that tribe invade, 
 And we abound in quacks of every trade. 
 
 The simple barber, once an honest name, 
 Cervantes founded. Fielding raised his fame : ■** 
 Barber no more — a gay perfumer comes. 
 On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms ; 
 Here he appears, each simple mind to move. 
 And advertises beauty, grace, and love. 
 " Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew, 
 " And learn the wonders of Olympian dew; 
 " Restore the roses that begin to faint, 
 " Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint ; 
 " Your former features, airs, and arts assume, 
 " Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom. 
 " Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to 
 
 grey, 
 " And crop Discretion's lying badge away ; 
 " Read where they vend these smart engaging 
 
 things, 
 " These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs ; 
 " No female eye the fair deception sees, 
 " Not Nature's self so natural as these." *' 
 
 Such are their arts, but not confined to them. 
 The Muse impartial must her sons condemn : ''^ 
 For they, degenerate ! join the venal throng, 
 And pulF a lazy Pegasus along : 
 More guilty these, by Nature less design'd 
 For little arts that suit the vulgar kind. 
 That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance. 
 Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France ; 
 That he who builds a chop-house, on his door 
 Paints " The true old original Blue Boar ! " — 
 
 English ladies ; for which he at least deserves the warmest 
 acknowledgments from all parents and husbands." The 
 beautiful creature, afterwards so well known as Lord Nelson's 
 Lady Hamilton, used to personate the Goddess of Health at 
 this empiric's indecent exhibitions.] 
 
 <" [Mrs. Siddons made her first appearance on the London 
 boards in 1775, retired from the stage in 1B12, and died in 
 ls3i. See ante, p. 35.] 
 
 <i [Mrs. Abingdon appeared on the stage in 1751, and died 
 in 1815, at the age of eighty-four. For Mr. Crabbe's admira- 
 tion of iier acting, see ante, p. 35.] 
 
 ■«' [See Don Quixote, and Tom Jones.] 
 
 <3 [" Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
 
 'I'liere forests of no meaning spread the page, 
 
 In which all comprehension wanders lost, 
 
 While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
 
 With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
 
 The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
 
 Hut gay confusion ; roses for the clieeks. 
 
 And liiies for the brows of faded age. 
 
 Teeth for th ■ toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
 
 Ileav'n, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets, 
 
 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews. 
 
 Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, 
 
 Kthereal journeys, submarine exploits. 
 
 And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 
 
 At his own wonders, wondering for his bread." 
 
 Cowpia.] 
 
 ** [Original edition ; — 
 
 .Such are their pull's, and would they all were such ; 
 'I'hun should the verse no poet's lauiel touch.] 
 
THE NEWSPAPER. 
 
 131 
 
 These are the arts by which a thousand live, 
 Where Truth may smile, and Justice may for- 
 give :— 
 But when, amidst this rabble rout, we find 
 A puflSng poet to his honour blind : 
 Who slily drops quotations all about 
 Packet or post, and points their merit out ; 
 Who advertises what reviewers say, 
 With sham editions every second day ; 
 Who dares not trust his praises out of sight, 
 But hurries into fame with all his might ; 
 Although the verse some transient praise obtains. 
 Contempt is all the anxious poet gains. 
 
 Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past, 
 Their Correspondents stand exposed at last ; 
 These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown, 
 Who for the public good forego their own; 
 Who volunteers in paper-war engage. 
 With double portion of their party's rage : 
 Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear 
 Wooing the printer for admission here ; 
 AVhose generous souls can condescend to pray 
 For leave to throw their precious time away. 
 
 Oh ! cruel Woodfall ! when a patriot draws 
 His gray-goose quill in his dear country's cause. 
 To vex and maul a ministerial race, 
 Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place ? 
 Alas ! thou know'st not with what anxious heart 
 He longs his best-loved labours to impart; 
 How he has sent them to thy brethren round, 
 And still the same unkind reception found : 
 At length indignant will he damn the state, 
 Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate. 
 
 These Roman souls, like Rome's great sono, are 
 known 
 To live in cells on labours of their own. 
 Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief. 
 Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef: 
 Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay, 
 Yet fights the public battles twice a day 
 E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score 
 Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door : 
 Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you '11 
 
 see. 
 And Amor Patrice vending smuggled tea. 
 
 Last in these ranks, and least, their art's disgrace. 
 Neglected stand the Muses' meanest race ; 
 Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye 
 Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by : 
 
 *^ [See ante, p. 7. " He had," (says Mr. Crabbe, speaking 
 of himself,) "with youthful indiscretion, written for publica- 
 tions wherein Damons and Delias began the correspondence 
 that does not always end there, and where diffidence is nursed 
 till it becomes presumption."] 
 
 *^ [On the first appearance of " The Newspaper," in 1785, 
 the Critical Reviewers said, " Althou;;!! this performance does 
 not appear so highly finished as ' The Village,' it is certainly 
 entitled to rank in the first class of modern productions ;" 
 and The Monthly Reviewers thus opened their critique : — 
 " This poem is a satire on the newspapers of tlie preient day, 
 which are lashed by the author with much ingenuity. The 
 
 This Poet's Corner is the place they choose, 
 A fatal nursery for an infant Jluse ; 
 Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie, 
 These cannot live, and they shall never die ; 
 Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade, 
 And win to verse the talents due to trade. 
 
 Curb then, O youth ! these raptures as they rise. 
 Keep dovsTi the evil spirit and be wise ; 
 Follow your calling, think the Muses foes, , 
 Nor lean upon the pestle and compose. 
 
 I know your daj'-dreams, and I know the snare 
 Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry " Beware !" 
 Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind, 
 A sudden couplet rushes on your mind ; 
 Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes, 
 And read your first-born work a thousand times ; 
 Th' infection spreads, your couplet grows apace. 
 Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face : ■" 
 You take a name ; Philaiider's odes are seen, 
 Printed, and praised, in every magazine : 
 Diarian sages g."50t their brother sage. 
 And your dark pages please th' enlighten'd age. — 
 Alas ! what years you thus consume in vain. 
 Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain ! 
 
 Go ! to your desks and counters all return ; 
 Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn ; 
 Trade, and be rich ; or, should your careful sires 
 Bequeath you wealth, indulge the nobler fires ; 
 Should love of fame your youthful heart betray. 
 Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way, 
 Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray. 
 
 Of all the good that mortal men pursue. 
 The Muse has least to give, and gives to few ; 
 Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on, 
 With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone • 
 Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair 
 Forget how constant one, and one how fair : 
 Meanwhile, Ambition, Uke a blooming bride, 
 Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side ; 
 And though she smiles not with such flattering 
 
 charms. 
 The brave will sooner win her to their arms. 
 
 Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands. 
 Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands ; 
 Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn, 
 And let her foes lament that you were bom : 
 Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend. 
 Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend ; 
 Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage. 
 And rise the Thurlow of the future age.** 
 
 versification is at once easy and forcible, and the rhymes are 
 chaste and carefully cliosen. Mr. Crabbe seems to have se- 
 lected Pope as liis model, and many passages are strongly 
 marked imitations of the great poet. He has introduced the 
 Alexandrine — we do not say the 'needless Alexandrine' — 
 too frequently ; a custom which prevails too much among 
 modern poets. But still the poem has uncommon merit, and 
 sufficiently evinces that the author is possessed of genius, 
 taste, and imagination." 
 
 It may be obserxed, that, in 1 784, the newspapers published 
 in Great Britain and Ireland were only seventy-nine ; now 
 (1834), they amount to nearly four hundred.'] 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 THE PAEISH REGISTER. 
 
 IN THREE PARTS.^ 
 
 PART I, 
 
 Turn porro puer (ut saevis projectus ab undis, 
 Navita) nudus humi jacet infans indigus omni 
 
 Vitali auxilio, 
 
 Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut xquum est, 
 Cui tantum in vita restat transire malorum. 
 
 Lucbet. de Nut. Rerum, lib. 5.3 
 
 The Village Register considered, as containing principally the 
 Annals of the Poor — State of the Peasantry as meliorated 
 by Frugality and Industry — The Cottage of an industrious 
 Peasant; its Ornaments— Prints and Books— The Garden ; 
 its Satisfactions — The State of the Poor, wlien improvident 
 and vicious— The Row or Street, and its Inhabitants— The 
 Dwellings of one of these — A Public House — Garden and 
 its Appendages — Gamesters ; rustic Sharpers, &e. — Conclu- 
 sion of the Introductory Part. 
 
 BAPTISMS. 
 
 The ( 'liild of the Miller's Daughter, and Relation of her Mis- 
 fortune—A frugal Couple : their Kind of Frugality— Plea 
 of the Mother of a natural Child : her Churching — Large 
 Family of Gerard Ablett : his apprehensions : Comparison 
 between his state and that of the wealthy Farmer his iMaster : 
 his Consolation — An old Man's Anxiety for an Heir : the 
 Jealousy of another on having many— Characters of the 
 Grocer Dawkins and his Friend ; their different Kinds of 
 Disappointment— Three Infants named— An Orphan Girl 
 and Village Schoolmistress— Gardener's Child : Pedantry 
 and Conceit of the Father : his botanical Discourse : Method 
 of fixing the Embryo-fruit of Cucumbers— Absurd Effects of 
 Rustic Vanity : observed in the names of their Children- 
 Relation of the Vestry Debate on a Foundling : Sir Richard 
 Monday — Children of various Inhabitants — The poor 
 Farmer— Cliildren of a Profligate : his Character and Fate 
 — Conclusion. 
 
 The year revolves, and I again explore 
 The simple Annals of my Parish poor ; 
 
 1 [" The Parish Register" was first published in the collec- 
 tion of 18U7 ; the preface to which (see ante, pp. 98, go) gives 
 some particulars respecting the revision of this poem, in MS., 
 by Mr. Turmr and by Mr. Fox. A period of twenty-two 
 years had elapsed between the ;ippearance of " The News- 
 paper" and that of "The Parish Register: " as to this long 
 silence of the poet, see his Life, ante, pp. 47, 51 ; and the 
 Quarterly Review, No. C. p. 488.] 
 
 « ["This poem, like 'The Village," is dedicated to the de- 
 lineation of rural life and characters, and, upon a very simple 
 but singular plan, is diviiled into three parts. After an intro- 
 ductory and general view of villa.'e manners, tln' reverend 
 author proceeds to present his readers with an iirconnt of all 
 the remiu-kable baptisms, marria;,'es, ami funer Is that appear 
 on his register for the preceding year, with a sketch of the 
 character and behaviour of the respective parties, and such 
 reflections and exhortationa as are suggested by the subject. 
 
 I 
 
 What Infant-members in my flock appear. 
 What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year ; 
 And who, of Old or Young, or Kymphs or Swains, 
 Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains. 
 
 No Muse I ask, before my view to bring 
 The humble actions of the swains I sing. — 
 How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days ; 
 Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise ; 
 Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts, 
 What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their 
 
 parts ; 
 By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd, 
 Full well I know — these Records give the rest. 
 
 Is there a place, save one the poet sees, 
 A land of love, of liberty and ease ; 
 Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress 
 Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness ; 
 Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state, 
 Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate ; 
 Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng. 
 And half man's life is holiday and song ? 
 Vain search for scenes like these ! no view appears, 
 By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears ; 
 Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd, 
 Aaiimjn^^nd Eden can no more be found. 
 
 Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill 
 And power to part them, when he feels the will ! 
 Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few, 
 Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.* 
 
 Behold the Cot t where thrives th' industrious 
 swain. 
 Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain ; 
 Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray 
 Smiles on the window and prolongs the day ; 
 Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop, 
 And turn their blossoms to the casement's top : 
 
 The poem consists, therefore, of a series of Portraits, taken 
 from the middling and lower ranks of rustic life, and de- 
 lineated on occasions at once more common and more 
 interestini; than any other that could well be imagined. 
 Tliey are selected with great judgment, and drawn with 
 inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. They are 
 linislicd with mncli more minuteness and detail than the 
 more general pictures in 'The Village.'" — Jeffrey.] 
 
 2 [" A man, when first he leaves his primitive night. 
 Breaks from his mother's womb to view the light; 
 Like a poor carcass tumbled by the Hood, 
 He falls weak, naked, destitute of food ; 
 With tender cries the pitying air he fills, — 
 A lit presage for all his comin;/ ills." — Ckekch.] 
 
 ■■ [ " Sweet Aubuin I loveliest village of the plain 1" Ike. 
 
 Gor.DsnnTH.] 
 
 * [ " How evil came into the world— for what reason it is 
 
All need requires is in that cot contain'd, 
 -V-nd much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd 
 Surveys delighted ; there she loves to trace, 
 In one gay picture, all the royal race ; 
 Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings ; 
 The print that shows them and the verse that 
 sings. 
 
 Here the last Lewis on his throne is seen, 
 .\jid there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen ; '^ 
 vTo these the mother takes her child, and shows 
 What grateful duty to his God he owes; 
 Who gives to him a happy home, where he 
 Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free ; 
 ^V^len kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried, 
 Are all these blessings of the poor denied. 
 
 There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,? 
 Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools : 
 And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain, 
 Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain. 
 
 The Magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams 
 young, 
 Close at the side of kind Godiva ^ hung ; 
 She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, 
 Of charms at once most lavish and most coy, 
 By wanton act the purest fame could raise. 
 And give the boldest deed the chastest praise. 
 
 There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed : ^ 
 There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel bred ;"' 
 And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries Uve, 
 In all the joys that ale and skittles give.'' 
 
 Now lo ! on Egypt's coast that hostile fleet. 
 By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat;'^ 
 And here shall soon another triumph come, 
 A deed of glory in a day of gloom ; 
 Distressing glory ! grievous boon of fate ! 
 The proudest conquest, at the dearest rate.'* 
 
 On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock. 
 Of cottage-reading rests the chosen stock ; 
 Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind 
 For all our wauts, a meat for every mind . 
 
 that life is overspread with such boundless varieties of misery, 
 — why the only thinking being of this globe is doomed to 
 think, merely to be wretched, and to pass his time from 
 youth to age in fearing or in suffering calamities, — is a ques- 
 tion which philosophers have long asked, and which philo- 
 sophy could never answer. Religion informs us that misery 
 and sin were produced together. The depravation of human 
 will was followed by a disorder of the harmony of nature ; 
 and by that Providence which often places antidotes in the 
 neighbourhood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, lest it 
 should swell to universal and unlimited dominion. That 
 misery does not make all virtuous, experience too clearly 
 informs us : but it is no less certain that, of what virtue there 
 is, misery produces fax the greater part. Physical evil may 
 be, therefore, endured with patience, since it is the cause of 
 moral good ; and patience itself is one virtue by which we are 
 prepared for tliat state in which evil shall be no more." — 
 Johnson.] 
 
 * [Lewis the Sixteenth, and Marie Antoinette.] 
 
 7 [" 1, Urge no healths ; 2. Profane no divine ordinances ; 
 3. Touch no state matters ; 4. Reveal no secrets ; ."i. Pick no 
 quarrels ; 6. Make no comparisons; 7. Maintain no ill 
 opinions ; 8. Keep no bad company ; 9. Encourage no vice ; 
 lu. Make no long meals; U. Repeat no grievances ; 12, Lay 
 no wagers."] 
 
 8 [Wife of the Earl of Mercia, who, in the eleventh 
 century, is said to have ridden through Coventry naked, on 
 condition that her husband would remit certain heavy taxes, 
 with which he haid loaded the citizens.] 
 
 The tale for wonder and the joke for whim. 
 
 The hulf-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn. 
 
 No need of classing ; each within its place, 
 
 The feeling finger in the dark can trace ; 
 
 " First from the corner, farthest from the wall," 
 
 Such all the rules, and they suffice for all. 
 
 There pious works for Sunday's use are found , 
 Companions for that Bible newly bound ; 
 That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved, 
 Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved ; 
 Has choicest notes by many a famous head, 
 Such as to doubt have rustic readers led ; 
 Have made them stop to reason whi/ ? and how i 
 And, where they once agreed, to cavil now. 
 Oh ! rather give me commentators plain. 
 Who with no deep researches vex the brain ; 
 Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, 
 And bold their glimmering tapers to the sun ; 
 Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back, 
 And guard the point no enemies attack. 
 
 Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon, 
 A genius rare but rude was honest Jolin ; '* 
 Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled, 
 Drank from her well the waters undefiled ; 
 Not one who slowly gained the hiU subKme, 
 Then often sipp'd and little at a time ; 
 But one who dabbled in the sacred springs. 
 And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things. 
 
 Here to interpret dreams we read the rules, 
 Science our o^vn ! and never taught in schools ; 
 In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern, 
 And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings 
 learn. 
 
 Of Hermit Quarll we read, in island rare,'* 
 Far from mankind and seeming far from care ; 
 Safe from all want, and sound in every limb ; 
 Yes ! there was he, and there was care with him. 
 
 Unbound and heap'd, these valued tomes be- 
 side, 
 Lay humbler works, the pedlar's pack supplied : 
 
 * [The extraordinary Lancashire ox, sixteen hands in 
 height, and weighing 1568 lbs.] 
 
 '0 [Daniel Mendoza, the pugilist, who, in 1788, fought the 
 celebrated bruising-match with Humphreys.] 
 
 " [Saint Monday — a cant name, indicating the idleness 
 which too often characterises tlie Monday of artisans who have 
 been paid their week's wages on the Saturday night.] 
 
 '2 [The battle of the Nile, in 1798.] 
 
 '3 [Tlie battle of Trafalgar, in 1805, in which Nelson was 
 killed.] 
 
 '■* [" Ingenious Dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
 Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
 Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple stvle 
 May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
 Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 
 Speaking in parables his slighted word ; 
 I name thee not, lest so despised a name 
 Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame : 
 Yet e'en in transitory life's late day. 
 That mingles all my brown with sober gray, 
 Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road. 
 And guides the Peogress of the soul to God." 
 
 CoWPEE. 
 
 " If ever," says Mr. Southey, " there was a work which car- 
 ried with it the stamp of originality in all its parts, it is that 
 of John Bunyan."] 
 
 '5 [« The Hermit ; or, unparalleled Sufferings and sur- 
 prising Adventures of Philip Quarll."] 
 
134 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name ; 
 The "Wandering Jew has found his way to fame ; "* 
 And fame, denied to many a labour'd song, 
 Crowns Thumb the Great, '7 and Hickathrift the 
 strong.'^ 
 
 There too is he, by wizard-power upheld. 
 Jack,'* by whose arm the giant-brood were queU'd : 
 His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed ; 
 His coat of darkness on his loins he braced ; 
 His sword of sharpness in his hand he took. 
 And off the heads of doughty giants stroke : 
 Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near ; 
 No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear ; 
 No English blood their Pagan sense could smell, 
 But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they 
 fell. 
 
 These are tlie Peasant's joy, when, placed at 
 ease, 
 Half his delighted ofl'spring mount his knees. 
 
 To every cot the lord's indulgent mind 
 Has a small space for garden-ground assign'd ; 
 Here — till return of morn dismiss'd the farm — ■ 
 The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm, 
 Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around 
 On every foot of that improving ground : 
 It is his own he sees ; his master's eye 
 Peers not about, some secret fault to spy ; 
 Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known ; — - 
 Hope, profit, pleasure, — they are all his own. 
 Here grow the humble cives, and, hard by them, 
 The leek with crown globose and reedy stem ; 
 High climb his pulse iu many an even row, 
 Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below ; 
 And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste. 
 Give a warm relish to the night's repast. 
 
 Apples and cherries grafted by his hand, 
 And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand. 
 
 Nor thus concludes his labour ; near the cot. 
 The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot ; 
 Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes. 
 Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize, 
 Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas rise. 
 
 Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends, 
 Meet and rejoice a family of friends : 
 All speak aloud, are happy and are free. 
 And glad they seem, and gaily they agree. 
 
 "What, though fastidi()us ears may shun the 
 speech, 
 "Where all are talkers, and where none ran tcacli ; 
 "Where still tlie welcome and tlic words are old, 
 And the same stories are for ever told ; 
 Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart. 
 Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart ; 
 That forms these tones of gladness we despise, 
 That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes ; 
 That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or jilays, 
 And speaks in all their looks and all their ways. 
 
 Fair scenes of peace I yo miglit detain us long. 
 But vice and misery now deniaiid the song; 
 
 "'[The Icijc'nd oftlio H'ltin/iiini/ .Inr — i.e. ot'aii individual 
 who, insultin;; our .Saviour u hen oi: his way to (Jolgotha, was, 
 in piiiii.s)itn<Mit, doomed to survive on eiirOi until tlie second 
 coming' of .lesns Christ — was u I'iivoiirile tlienie ol'tlie monastic 
 literature in tlie middli- ajjes, and has hcen recently taken 
 up by writers olyreat talent in several countries — for example, 
 by LewiH. in " 'I'lie MonU "~liy 'iodwin, in " St. Leon " — in a 
 poem styled " 'I'lie Wanil.rin^r .lew," by 1". I! Slielley — anil 
 lastlv, bv the Uev. Dr. Crolv, in the rmntnev of " Sala- 
 
 And turn our view from dwellings simply neat. 
 To this infected How, we term our Street, 
 
 Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew 
 Each evening meet; the sot, the cheat, the shrew; 
 Riots are nightly heard : — the curse, the cries 
 Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies ; 
 While shrieking children hold each threat'ning 
 
 hand, 
 And sometimes life, and sometimes food demand : 
 Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin. 
 And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin : 
 Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide ; 
 Ensnaring females here their victims hide ; 
 And here is one, the Sibyl of the Row, 
 Who knows all secrets, or affects to know. 
 Seeking their fate, to her the simple run. 
 To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun ; 
 jNIistress of worthless arts, depraved in will, 
 Her care unblest and unrepaid her skill, 
 Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops, 
 jVnd poorer than the poorest maid she dupes. 
 
 Between the road-way and the walls, oflence 
 Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense : 
 There lie, obscene, at every open door. 
 Heaps fi'om the hearth and svseepings from the fl<Jor, 
 And day by day the mingled masses grow. 
 As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow. 
 
 There hungry dogs from hungry children steal ; 
 There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal ; 
 Their dropsied infants wail without redress, 
 And all is want and woe and wretchedness ; 
 Yet should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare, 
 High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care — 
 Forced on some farm, the unexerted strength. 
 Though loth to action, is compell'd at length, 
 When warm'd by health, as serpents in the spring. 
 Aside their slough of indolence they fling. 
 
 Yet, ere they go, a greater evil comes — - 
 See ! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms ; 
 Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen 
 Of paper'd lath, or curtain dropt between ; 
 Daugliters and sons to yon compartments creep. 
 And parents here beside their cliildren sleep : 
 Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part, 
 Nor let the ear be first to taint the heart. 
 
 Come ! search within, nor sight nor smell regard ; 
 The true physician walks the foulest ward. 
 See ! on the floor, what frousy patches rest ! 
 What nauseous fragments on yon fractured chest ! 
 What downy dust beneath yon window-seat ! 
 And round these posts that serve this bed for feet ; 
 This bed where all those tattcr'd garments lie. 
 Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by I 
 
 See ! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, 
 ficft by neglect and liurrow'd in that bed ; 
 'I'he jMotlier-gossip has the love suppressed 
 An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast ; 
 .\nd daily prattles, as her round she takes, 
 (With strong resentment) of the want she makes. 
 
 tliiel." 'I'he ballads and cimp-books on this fubject are itinn- 
 inerable.] 
 
 '■ [" Life of the renowned Tliomas Thumo the Great."] 
 
 ' [" History of Mr. Thomas Ilickathi 
 iinas Hickathrift, Knight."] 
 
 ' [" History of .lack the Giant Killer."] 
 
 !■-[" History of Mr. Thomas Hickathrift, afterwards Sir 
 Thomas Hickathrift, Knight."] 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 135 
 
 "Whence all these woes ? — From want of virtuous 
 will, 
 Of honest shame, of time-improving skill ; 
 From want of care t' employ the vacant hour, 
 And want of every kind but want of power. 
 
 Here are no wheels for either wool or tlax, 
 But packs of cards — made up of sundry packs. 
 Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass, 
 And see how swift th' important moments pass ; 
 Here are no books, but ballads on the wall, 
 Are some abusive, and indecent all ; 
 Pistols are here, unpair'd ; with nets and hooks. 
 Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks ; 
 An ample flask, that nightly rovers fiU 
 With recent poison from the Dutchman's still ; 
 A box of tools, with wires of various size. 
 Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, 
 And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. 
 
 To every house belongs a space of ground, 
 Of equal size, once fenced with paling round ; 
 That paling now by slothful waste destroy'd, 
 Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void ; 
 Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay 
 Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play : 
 A\'lthin, a board, beneath a tiled retreat. 
 Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat ; 
 AVhere heavy ale in spots like varnish shows, 
 AVhere chalky tallies yet remain in rows ; 
 Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile. 
 The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'niugs vile ; 
 Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door. 
 And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the 
 floor. 
 
 Here his poor bird th' inhuman Cocker brings. 
 Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings ; 
 With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds. 
 And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds.-" 
 Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes. 
 The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies ; 
 Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, 
 And reel and stagger at each feeble blow : 
 When fallen, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, 
 His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes ; 
 And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, 
 And only bled and ]3erish'd for his sake.=^' 
 
 20 [" ^Ve should find it hard to vindicate the destroying of 
 any tiling that has lite, merely out of wantonness ; yet on this 
 principle our chiliiren are bred up, and one of tlie first 
 pleasures we allow thera is, the licence of inllictint; pain upon 
 poor animals ; almost as soon as we are sensible wliat life is 
 ourselves, we make it our sport to take it Irom other crea- 
 tures." I'OPE.] 
 
 -' [" There is nothing comparable with the above descrip- 
 tion, but some of the prose sketclies of Mandeville." — 
 Jeffrey.] 
 
 '-- {^Burn's Justice oft/ie Peace and Parish Officer.^ 
 
 -3 ["Crabbe is confessedly the most original and vivid painter 
 of the vast varieties of common life, thnt England has ever 
 produced ; and while several living poets possess a more 
 splendid and imposing representation, we are greatly mis- 
 taken if he has not taken a firmer hold tnan any other, on tlie 
 melancholy convictions of men's hearts ruminating on tlie 
 good and evil of this mysterious world. Of all men of tliisage, 
 he is the best Portrait-painter : he is never contented with a 
 single flowing sketch of a cliaracter — they must all be drawn 
 full-length — to the very life — and witli all tlieir most minute 
 and characteristic features, even of dress and manners. He 
 seems to have known them all personally ; and when lie 
 
 Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield 
 Praise with relief, the fathers of the field ; 
 And these who take from our reluctant hands 
 What Burn advises ^- or the Bench commands. 
 
 Our Farmers round, well pleased with constant 
 gain. 
 Like other farmers, flourish and complain. — 
 These are our groups ; our Portraits next ajipear. 
 And close our Exhibition for the year.-^ 
 
 With evil omen we that year begin : 
 A Child of Shame, — stern Justice adds, of Sin, 
 Is first recorded ; — I would hide the deed, 
 But vain the wish ; I sigh and I proceed : 
 And could I well th' instructive truth convey, 
 'T would warn the giddy and awake the gay. 
 
 Of all the nymphs who gave our village grace, 
 The Miller's daughter had the fairest face : 
 Proud was the Miller ; money was his pride ; 
 He rode to market, as our farmers ride. 
 And 't was his boast, inspired by spirits, there, 
 His favourite Lucy should be rich as fair ; 
 But she must meek and still obedient prove. 
 And not presume, without his leave, to love. 
 
 A yovithful Sailor heard him ; — " Ha !" quoth he, 
 " This Miller's maiden is a prize for me ; 
 " Her charms 1 love, his riches I desire, 
 " And all his threats but fan the kindling fire ; 
 " My ebbing purse no more the foe shall fill, 
 " But Love's kind act and Lucy at the mill." 
 
 Thus thought the youth, and soon the chace 
 began, 
 Stretch'd all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan : 
 His trusty statf in his bold hand he took. 
 Like him and like his frigate, heart of oak ; 
 Fresh were his features, his attire was new ; 
 Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue : 
 Of finest jean, his trowsers, tight and trim, 
 Brush'd the large buckle at the silver rim. 
 
 He soon arrived, he traced the village-green. 
 There saw the maid, and was with pleasure seen; 
 Then talk'd of love, till Lucy's yielding heart 
 Confess'd 't was painful, though 't was right to part. 
 
 describes them, he does so as if he thought that lie would be 
 guilty of a kind of falsehood, in omitting the description of 
 a single peculiarity. Accustomed to look on men as they 
 exist and act, he not only does not fear, but he absolutely 
 loves to view their vices and their miseries ; and hence has his 
 poetry been accused of giving too dark a picture of life. Hut, 
 at the same time, we must remember what those haunts of life 
 are into which his spirit lias wandered. The power is almost 
 miraculous with which he has stirred up human nature from 
 its very dregs, and shown working in them the common spirit 
 of humanity. He lays before us scenes and characters from 
 which, in real life, we should turn our eyes with intolerant 
 disgust ; and yet he forces us to own, that on such scenes, and 
 by such diaracters, much the same kind of part is played that 
 ourselves play on another stage. He leaves it to other poets 
 to carry us into the company of shepherds and dalesmen, in 
 the heart of pastoral peace; and sets us down in crowds of 
 fierce and sullen men, contending against eacli other, in 
 lawful or in lawless life, with all the energies of exasperated 
 passion. To us it appears, that until Crabbe wrote, we knew 
 not what direful tragedies are for ever steeping in tears or in 
 blood the footsteps of the humblest of our race : and that he 
 has opened, as it were, a theatre, on which tlie homely actors 
 that pass before us assume no disguise — on wliicli every catas- 
 trophe borrows its terror from truth aiul every scene seems 
 shifted by the very h«nds of nature." — Wii.soN.] 
 
136 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 '' For ah ! my father has a haughty soul ; 
 '• Whom best he loves, he loves but to control ; 
 " Me to some churl in bargain he '11 consign, 
 •• And make some tyrant of the parish mine : 
 •• Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe 
 •' Has often forced but never shed the tear; 
 •• Save, when my mother died, some drops express'd 
 •• A kind of sorrow for a wife at rest : — 
 •■ To me a master's stern regard is shown, 
 •• 1 'm like his steed, prized highly as his o«ti ; 
 ■• Stroked but corrected, threatened when supplied, 
 •• His slave and boast, his victim and his pride." 
 
 " Cheer up, my lass ! I '11 to thy father go, 
 " The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe ; 
 " Both live by Heaven's free gale, that plays aloud 
 " In the stretch'd canvass and the piping shroud ; 
 '• The rush of winds, the flapping sails above, 
 '• And rattling planks within, are sounds st-e love; 
 '• Calms are our dread ; when tempests plough the 
 
 deep, 
 '• Vie take a reef, and to the rocking sleep." 
 
 *' Ha ! " quoth the Miller, moved at speech so 
 rash, 
 " Art thou like me ? then where thy notes and 
 
 cash? 
 " Away to Wapping, and a wife command, 
 " With all thy wealth, a guinea in thine hand ; 
 " There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer, 
 " And leave my Lucy for thy betters here." 
 
 " Kevenge ! revenge ! " the angry lover cried. 
 Then sought the nymph, and " Be thou now my 
 
 bride." 
 Bride had she been, but they no priest could move 
 To bind in law, the couple bound by love. 
 
 What sought these lovers then by day bj' night ? 
 But stolen moments of disturb'd delight ; 
 Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized, 
 Transports that paiu'd, and joys that agonised ; 
 Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim, 
 Awed by her parent, and enticed by him. 
 Her lovely form from savage power to save, 
 Gave — not her hand — but all rhe could she gave. 
 
 Then came the day of sliame, the grievous night. 
 The varying look, the wandering appetite ; 
 The joy assumed, while sorrow dimm'd the eyes. 
 The forced sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs ; 
 And every art, long used, but used in vain, 
 To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain. 
 
 Too eager caution shows some danger 's near. 
 The bully's bluster proves the coward's fear ; 
 His sober step the drunkard vainly tries. 
 And nymphs expose the failings they disguise. 
 
 First, whispering gossips were in parties seen. 
 Then louder Scandal walk'd the village-green ; 
 Next babbling Folly told the growing ill. 
 And busy Malice dropp'd it at the mill. 
 
 " Go ! to thy curse and mine," the Father said, 
 " Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed ; 
 " Want and a waihng brat thy portion be, 
 " Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me ; — 
 " Where skulks the villain J"' — 
 
 " On the ocean wide 
 " My AVilliam seeks a portion for his bride." — 
 
 " Vain be his search ! but, till the traitor come, 
 *' The higgler's cottage be thy future home ; 
 " 'J'here with his ancient shrew and care abide, 
 " And hide thy head, — thy shame thou caust not 
 hide." 
 
 Day after day was pass'd in pains and grief ; 
 Week follow'd week, — and still was no relief: 
 Her boy was born — no lads nor lasses came 
 To grace the rite or give the child a name ; 
 Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud. 
 Bore the young Christian roaring through the 
 
 crowd : 
 In a small chamber was my office done. 
 Where blinks through paper'd panes the setting 
 
 sun ; 
 Where noisy sparrows, p'erch'd on penthouse near, 
 Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear ; 
 Bats on their webby wings in darkness move, 
 And feebly shriek their melancholy love. 
 
 No Sailor came ; the months in terror fled ! 
 Then news arrived — He fought, and he was dead ! 
 
 At the lone cottage Lucy Uves, and still 
 Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill ; 
 A mean seraglio there her father keeps. 
 Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps ; 
 And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay, 
 Her father's pride, become his harlot's prey. 
 
 Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's 
 close. 
 And softly lulls her infant to repose ; 
 Then sits and gazes, but with \'iewless look, 
 As gilds the moon the rippling of the brook ; 
 And sings her vespers, but in voice so low, 
 She hears their murmurs as the waters flow : 
 And she too murmurs, and begins to find 
 The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind. 
 Visions of terror, views of woe succeed. 
 The mind's impatience, to the body's need ; 
 By turns to that, by turns to this a prey, 
 She knows what reason yields, and dreads what 
 madness may. 
 
 Next, with their boy, a decent couple came, 
 And call'd him Robert, 't was his father's name ; 
 Three girls preceded, all by time endear' d, 
 And future births were neither hoped nor fear'd : 
 Blest in each other, but to no excess, 
 Health, quiet, comfort, form'd their happiness; 
 Love all made up of torture and delight. 
 Was but mere madness in this couple's sight : 
 Susan could think, though not without a sigh. 
 If she were gone, who should her place supply ; 
 And Robert, half in earnest, half in jest. 
 Talk of her spouse when he should be at rest : 
 Yet strange would cither think it to be told. 
 Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold. 
 Few were their acres, — but, with these content, 
 They were, each pay-day, readj' with their rent : 
 And few their wishes — what their farm denied, 
 Tlie neighbouring to^^•n, at trifling cost, supplied. 
 If at the draper's window Susan cast 
 A longing look, as with her goods she pass'd. 
 And, with the produce of the wheel and churn. 
 Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return ; 
 True to her maxim, she would take no rest, 
 Till care repaid that portion to the chest : 
 Or if, when loitering at the Wliitsun-fair, 
 Her Robert spent some idle shillings there; 
 Up at the barn, befoi-e the break of day, 
 He made his labour for th' indulgence pay : 
 Thus both — that waste itself might work in 
 
 vain — 
 Wrought double tides, and all was well again. 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 187 
 
 Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy, 
 (The day they wed, the christening of the boy,) 
 When to the wealthier farmers there was shown 
 Welcome unfeign'd, and plenty like their own ; 
 For Susan served the great, and had some pride 
 Among our topmost people to preside : 
 Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free, 
 There was the guiding nice frugality, 
 That, in the festal as the frugal day. 
 Has, in a different mode, a sovereign sway ; 
 As tides the same attractive influence know, 
 In the least ebb and ia their proudest flow ; 
 The wise frugalit}', that does not give 
 A life to saving, but that saves to live ; 
 Sparing, not pinching, mindful though not mean, 
 O'er all presiding, yet in nothing seen. 
 
 Recorded next a babe of love I trace ! 
 Of many loves, the mother's fresh disgrace. — 
 
 " Again, thou harlot ! could not all thy pain, 
 " All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain ?" 
 
 " Alas ! your reverence, wanton thoughts, I 
 grant, 
 " Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want ; 
 " Women, like me, as ducks in a decoy, 
 " Swim down a stream, and seem to swim in joy. 
 '• Your sex pursue us, and our own disdain ; 
 " Return is dreadful, and escape is vain. 
 '• Would men forsake us, and would women strive 
 '' To help the fall'n, their virtue might revive." ** 
 
 For rite of churching soon she made her way. 
 In dread of scandal, should she miss the day : — 
 Two matrons came ! with them she humbly knelt, 
 Their action copied and their comforts felt, 
 From that great pain and peril to be free, 
 Though still in peril of that pain to be ; 
 Alas ! what numbers, like this amorous dame. 
 Are quick to censure, but are dead to shame ! 
 
 Twin-infants then appear ; a girl, a boy, 
 Th' o'erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett's joy : 
 One had I named in every year that passed 
 Since Gerard wed ! and twins behold at last ! 
 Well pleased, the bridegroom smiled to hear — " A 
 
 vine 
 " Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine, ^* 
 " And branch-like be thine ofi'spring!" — Gerard 
 
 then 
 Look'd joj'ful love, and softly said " Amen." 
 Now of that vine he 'd have no more increase, 
 Those playful branches now disturb his peace : 
 Them he beholds around his tables spread, 
 But finds, the more the branch, the less the bread ; 
 And while they run his humble walls about, 
 They keep the sunshine of good humour out. 
 
 Cease, man, to grieve I thy master's lot survey. 
 Whom wife and children, thou and thine obey ; 
 A farmer proud, bej'ond a farmer's pride, 
 Of all around the envy or the guide ; 
 Who trots to market on a steed so fine. 
 That when I meet him, I 'm ashamed of mine ; 
 
 2* ["Let the libertine rcllect a moment on tlie situation of 
 that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced 
 to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of 
 the enormity of his guilt by tlie evils which it produces. 
 Wliere can she hope for refuge ? ' The world k not her friend, 
 nor the world's law.' Siurcly those wliom passion or interest 
 
 Whose board is high up-heaved with generous fare. 
 Which five stout sons and three tall daughters 
 
 share. 
 Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care. 
 A few years fled, and all thy boys shall be 
 Lords of a cot, and labourers like thee : 
 Thy girls unportion'd neighb'ring youths shall lead 
 Brides from my church, and thenceforth thou art 
 
 freed : 
 But then thy master shall of cares complain, 
 Care after care, a long connected train ; 
 His sons for farms shall ask a large supply, 
 For farmers' sons each gentle miss shall sigh ; 
 Thy mistress, reasoning well of life's decay. 
 Shall ask a chaise, and hardly brook delay ; 
 The smart young cornet, who with so much grace 
 Rode in the ranks and betted at the race. 
 While the vex'd parent rails at deed so rash, 
 Shall d — n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash. 
 Sad troubles, Gerard ! now pertain to thee. 
 When thy rich master seems from trouble free ; 
 But 't is one fate at difierent times assign'd, 
 And thou shalt lose the cares that he must find. 
 
 " Ah !" quoth our village Grocer, rich and old, 
 " Would I might one such cause for care behold !" 
 To whom his Friend, " Mine greater bliss would be, 
 " A\^ould Heav'n take those my spouse assigns to 
 me." 
 
 Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchem this, 
 Who much of marriage thought, aud much amiss ; 
 Both would delay, the one, till — i-iches gain'd. 
 The son he wish'd might be to honour train'd ; 
 His Friend — lest fierce intruding heirs should 
 
 come, 
 To waste his hoard and vex his quiet home. 
 
 Dawkins, a dealer once, on burthen'd back 
 Bore his whole substance in a pedlar's pack ; 
 To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid, 
 His stores of lace and hyson he convey'd : 
 When thus enrich'd, he chose at home to stop, 
 And fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop ; 
 Then woo'd a spinster blithe, and hoped, when 
 
 wed, 
 For love's fair favours and a fruitful bed. 
 
 Not so his Friend ; — on widow fair and staid 
 He fix'd his eye, but he was much afraid ; 
 Yet woo'd ; while she his hair of silver hue 
 Demurely noticed, and her eye withdrew : 
 Doubtful he paused — " Ah ! were I sure," he cried, 
 " No craving children would my gains divide ; 
 " Fair as she is, I would my widow take, 
 " And live more largely for my partner's sake." 
 
 With such their views some thoughtful years 
 they pass'd, 
 And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last. 
 And what their fate ? Observe them as they go, 
 Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe. 
 " Humphrey !" said Dawkins, " envy in my breast 
 " Sickens to see thee in thy children blest ; 
 
 have already depraved, have some claim to compassion, from 
 beings equally frail and fallible with themselves!" — Johnson.] 
 
 25 [•' xhy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thy 
 house ; thy children like olive plants about thy table." — 
 Psalm cxxviii. 3.1 
 
138 
 
 CllABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " They are thy joys, while I go grieving home 
 
 " To a sad spouse, and our eternal gloom : 
 
 " "We look despondency ; no infant near, 
 
 " To bless the eye or win the parent's ear ; 
 
 " Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay, 
 
 " And soothe the petty sufferings of the day : 
 
 " Alike our want, yet both the want reprove ; 
 
 " Where are, I cry, these pledges of our love ? 
 
 " When she, like Jacob's wife, makes fierce reply, 
 
 " Yet fond — Oh ! give me children, or 1 die : ■"' 
 
 " And I return — ^still childless doom'd to live, 
 
 " Like the vex'd patriarch — -Are they mine to give ? 
 
 " Ah ! much I envy thee thy boys, who ridi,- 
 
 " On poplar branch, and canter at thy side ; 
 
 " And girls, whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness 
 
 know, 
 " And with fresh beauty at the contact glow." 
 " Oh ! simple friend," said Ditchem, '• wouldst 
 
 thou gain 
 " A father's pleasure by a husband's pain ? 
 " Alas ! what pleasure — when some vig'rous boy 
 " Should swell thy pride, some rosy girl thy joy ; 
 " Is it to doubt who grafted this sweet flower. 
 " Or whence arose that spirit and that power ? 
 "Four years I've wed; not one has passed in 
 
 vain ; 
 " Behold the fifth ! behold a babe again ! 
 " My wife's gay friends th' unwelcome imp admire. 
 " And fill the room with gratulation dire : 
 " While I in silence sate, revolving all 
 " That influence ancient men, or that befall ; 
 " A gay pert guest — -Ileav'n knows his business — • 
 
 came ; 
 " A glorious boy ! he cried, and what the name ? 
 " Angry I growl'd, — 'My spirit cease to tease, 
 " Name it yourselves, — Cain, .Tudas, if you please ; 
 " His father's give him, — should you that explore, 
 " The devil's or yours : — •! said, and sought the 
 
 door. 
 " My tender partner not a word or sigh 
 " Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply ; 
 " But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain, 
 " And looks undaunted for a birth again." 
 
 Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart, 
 And thus afforded, jealous pangs impart ; 
 Let, therefore, none avoid, and none demand 
 These arrows number'd for the giant's hand. 
 
 Then with their infants three, the parents came. 
 And each assign'd — 'twas all they had — a name ; ', 
 Names of no mark or price ; of them not one ] 
 
 Shall court our view on the sepulchral stone. i 
 
 Or stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell, I 
 
 Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell. ! 
 
 'jc [" Kachncl .said unto Jacob, (iive me children, or else 1 
 die." — Oen. xxx. 1.] 
 
 •7 [A genus of plants, class 0, Pentandria.] 
 
 S" [A plant so called, a.s the poets feisrn, from Ilyacvntliiis, 
 a beautiful yoiitli, wlio, being accidentally killed by Apollo, 
 was changed into a llower.] 
 
 '9 [The deadly nightshade, the Atropa belladonna of Lin- 
 nicus. J 
 
 ^o [In the Linnean sy.stem, a genus of plants, clivss ,5.] 
 " fOtherwiiie called laurel-bay.] 
 
 An orphan-girl succeeds : ere she was bom 
 Her father died, her mother on that morn: 
 The pious mistress of the school sustains 
 Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns. 
 But pitying feels : with due respect and joy, 
 I trace the matron at her loved employ ; 
 AVhat time the striplings, wearied e'en with play, 
 Part at the closing of the summer's day. 
 And each by difterent path returns the well-known 
 
 way — 
 Then I behold her at her cottage-door, 
 Frugal of light ;— her Bible laid before, 
 When on her double duty she proceeds, 
 Of time as frugal — knitting as she reads : 
 Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell 
 Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel 
 To hear reluctant, — while the lads who pass, 
 In pure respect, walk silent on the grass : 
 Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes, 
 Till solemn prayers the daily duties close. 
 
 But I digress, and lo ! an infant train 
 Appear, and call me to my task again. 
 
 " Why Lonicera wilt thoU name thy child ?" 
 I asked the Gardener's wife, in accents mild : 
 " We have a right," replied the sturdy dame ; — 
 And Lonicera '^ was the infant's name. 
 If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy, 
 Then Hyacinthus '^^ shall be that fair boy ; 
 And if a girl, they will at length agree 
 That Belladonna '^^ that fair maid shall be. 
 
 High-sounding words our M'orthy (jardener 
 gets, 
 And at his club to wondering swains repeats ; 
 He then of Khus ^** and Rhododendron '*' speaks, 
 And Allium calls his onions and his leeks ; 
 Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed. 
 Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers pro- 
 ceed ; 
 Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung, 
 (Gross names h»d they our plainer sires among.) 
 There Arums, there Leontodons we view. 
 And Artemisia grows where wormwood grew. 
 
 But though no weed exists his garden round. 
 From Rumex ^- strong our Gardener frees his 
 
 gi'ound, 
 Takes soft Senecio ^' from the yielding laud, 
 And grasps the arm'd Urtica^* in his hand. 
 
 Not Darwin's self had more delight to sing 
 Of floral courtship, in th' awaken'd Spring, 
 Than I'eter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell 
 How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell ; 
 How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse, 
 And give and take the vegetable vows ; '* 
 
 "^ [The I,apathum sylvestre of Pliny, when it grew wild.] 
 
 35 [So called, because it grows hoary, like the liaro, in ilie 
 spring.] 
 
 3< [The nettle: — 
 
 " \Vid(! o'er the madd'ning throng Urtica llings 
 Her barbed shafts, and darts her poison'd Ptiiips." 
 
 Uarwin.] 
 
 •'•■"' [" First the tall (Janna lifts his curled brow 
 
 Krci-t to Heaven, and pli^'hts his nuptial vow: 
 Hound the chill fair he folds his crimson vest, 
 .And clasps the timorous beauty to his breast." 
 
 Dauwin.] 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 139 
 
 How those esteem'd of old but tips and chives, 
 Are tender husbands and obedient wives ; 
 Who live and love within the sacred bower, — ■ 
 That bridal bed, the vulgar term a flower. 
 
 Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend, 
 A wondrous secret, in his science, lend : — 
 •' Would you advance the nuptial hour and bring 
 '■ The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring ; 
 •• View that light frame where Cucumis ^^ lies 
 
 spread, 
 " And trace the husbands in their golden bed, 
 " Three powder'd Anthers ; ®' — then no more delay, 
 " But to the Stigma's tip their dust convey ; 
 " Then by thyself, from prying glance secure, 
 " Twirl the fuU tip and make your purpose sure ; 
 " A long-abiding race the deed shall pay, 
 " Nor one unblest abortion pine away." 
 
 T' admire their friend's discourse our swains 
 
 agree. 
 And call it science and philosophy. 
 
 'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through tli' advancing 
 
 year, 
 To see unnumber'd growing forms appear ; 
 What leafy-life from Earth's broad bosom rise ! 
 What insect-myriads seek the summer skies ! 
 What scaly tribes in every streamlet move ; 
 What plumy people sing in every grove 1 
 All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love. 
 Then names are good ; for how, without their 
 
 aid, 
 Is knowledge, gain'd by man, to man convey'd ? 
 But from that source shall all our pleasures flow ? 
 Shall all our knowledge be those names to know ? 
 Then he, with memory blest, shall bear away 
 The palm from Grew,^^ and Middletoii.^'s and Kay ;•'» 
 No ! let us rather seek, in grove and field. 
 What food for wonder, what for use they yield ; 
 Some just remark from Nature's people bring. 
 And some new source of homage for her King. 
 
 Pride lives with all ; strange names our rustics 
 give 
 To helpless infants, that their own may live ; 
 Pleased to be known, they '11 some attention claim. 
 And find some by-way to the house of fame. 
 
 The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman's art. 
 The hat he gain'd has warmth for head and heart ; 
 The bowl that beats the greater number down 
 Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown ; 
 Or, foil'd in these, he opes his ample jaws. 
 And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause ; 
 Or grins for hours, or tijiples for a week, 
 Or challenges a well-pinch'd pig to squeak : 
 Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name. 
 Shall make him known, and give his folly fame. 
 
 To name an infant meet our village sires. 
 Assembled all as such event requires ; 
 
 ^ [The c\icumber.] 
 
 "' [Formerly called chives.] 
 
 '» [A distinguished botanist, and auttiur of the ' Aiiatoniv 
 of Plants.'] ' 
 
 33 [William Middleton, author of the ' Properties of Herbs," 
 itc Sec] 
 
 Frequent and full, the rural sages sate. 
 
 And speakers many urged the long debate, — 
 
 Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country 
 
 round, 
 Had left a babe within the parish-bound. — ■ 
 First, of the fact they question'd — " Was it true ? " 
 The child was brought — " What then remained to 
 
 do?" 
 " Was 't dead or living ? " This was fairly proved, — 
 'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt re- 
 moved. 
 Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call 
 Was long a question, and it posed them all ; 
 For he who lent U to a babe unknown. 
 Censorious men might take it for his own : 
 They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all, 
 And not one Richard answer'd to the call. 
 Next they inquired the day, when, passing by, 
 Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry : 
 This known, — how food and raiment they might 
 
 give, 
 Was next debated — for the rogue would live ; 
 At last, with all their words and work content. 
 Back to their homes the prudent vestry went, 
 And Richard Moiidai/'*^ to the workhouse sent. 
 There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and 
 
 fed, 
 And duly took his beatings and his bread ; 
 Patient in all control, in all abuse, 
 He found contempt and kicking have their use : 
 Sad, silent, supple ; bending to the blow, 
 A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low ; 
 Ills pliant soul gave way to all things base, 
 He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace. 
 It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd. 
 No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast ; 
 Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat, 
 He was a footstool for the beggar's feet ; 
 His were the legs that ran at all commands: 
 They used on all occasions Richard's hands : 
 His very soul was not his own ; he stole 
 As others order'd, and without a dole ; 
 In all disputes, on either part he lied. 
 And freely pledged his oath on cither side : 
 In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest. 
 In all detections Richard first confess'd : 
 Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so 
 
 well. 
 He rose in favour, when in fame he fell : 
 Base was his usage, vile his whole employ. 
 And all despised and fed the pliant boy. 
 At length, " Tis time he should abroad be sent," 
 Was whisper'd near him, — and abroad he went ; 
 One morn they call'd him, Richard answer'd not ;. 
 They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot, — 
 Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the 
 
 clan 
 Found he "had better !<pared a better man."''- 
 
 ■" [The eminent author of the ' Ilistoria Plantarum.' He 
 died in 1705.] 
 
 ^' [" First I made him know his name should be Friday, 
 «}iich was the day I saved his life, and I called him so for the 
 memory of the time." — Robinson Crusoe. J 
 
 *- " Poor Jack ! farewell ; 
 I could have better spared a better man." 
 
 Henri/ V. uf Falntq/f'. Shakspeark. 
 
140 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Now Richard's talents for the world were fit, 
 He 'd no small cunning, and had some small wit ; 
 Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent, 
 And that complacent speech which nothing meant : 
 He 'd but one care, and that he strove to hide — 
 How best for Richard Monday to provide. 
 Steel, through opposing plates, the magnet draws, 
 And steely atoms culls from dust and straws ; 
 And thus our hero, to his interest true. 
 Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew ; 
 But still more surely round the world to go, 
 This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe. 
 
 Long lost to us, at last our man we trace, — 
 " Sir Richard INIonday died at Monday-place :" 
 His lady's worth, his daughter's, we peruse. 
 And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews : 
 He gave reforming charities a sum. 
 And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb ; 
 Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks. 
 And Bibles issued from his private box ; 
 But to his native place severely just. 
 He left a pittance bound in rigid ti'ust ; — • 
 Tw© paltry pounds, on every quarter' s-day, 
 (At church produced) for forty loaves should 
 
 pay; 
 
 A stinted gift, that to the parish shows 
 
 He kept in mind their bounty and their blows ! 
 
 To farmers three, the year has given a son. 
 Finch on the Moor, and French, and Middlelon. 
 Twice in this year a female Giles I see, 
 A Spalding once, and once a Barnahy : — 
 A humble man is he, and when they meet, 
 Our farmers find him on a distant seat ; 
 There for their wit he serves a constant theme, — 
 " They praise his dairy, they extol his team, 
 " They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed, 
 " And whence his sheep, that admirable breed. 
 " His thriving arts they beg he would explain, 
 " And where he puts the money he must gain. 
 " They have their daughters, but they fear their 
 
 friend 
 " Would think his sons too much would con- 
 descend ; — 
 " They liave their sons who would their fortunes 
 
 try, 
 
 " But tear his daughters will their suit deny." 
 So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound, 
 And face of care, looks moveless on the ground ; 
 His cares, his siglis, pi'ovoke the insult more, 
 And point the jest — for Barnahy is poor. 
 
 Last in my list, five untaught lads appear ; 
 Their father dead, compassion sent them here, — 
 
 « [I'lie infidel poiiclier was drawn from a blacksmith 
 at Leiston, near Aldboroiigli, whom the author visited in 
 his Capacity of surgeon, in 1779, and whose hardened cha- 
 racter made a strong impression on his mind. Losing liis 
 Iiand by amputation, ho exclaimed, with a sneer, " I sup- 
 pose. Doctor Orabbe, I shall get it again at the resurrec- 
 tion !"J 
 
 For still that rustic infidel denied 
 
 To have their names with solemn rite applied : 
 
 His, a lone house, by Deadman's Dyke-way 
 
 stood ; 
 And his a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood : 
 Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast, 
 That he believed " in neither God nor ghost ; 
 " That when the sod upon the sinner press' d, 
 " He, like the saint, had everlasting rest ; 
 '• That never priest believed his doctrines true, 
 " But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, 
 " Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen 
 
 do ; 
 " That fools alone on future worlds rely, 
 " And all who die for faith, deserve to die." 
 
 These maxims, — ^part th' Attorney's Clerk pro- 
 fess'd. 
 His own transcendent genius found the rest. 
 Our pious matrons heard, and, much amazed, 
 Gazed on the man, and trembled as they gazed ; 
 And now his face explored, and now his feet, 
 Man's dreaded foe in this bad man to meet : 
 But him our drunkards as their champion raised. 
 Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised ; 
 Though most, when sober, and the rest, when 
 
 sick. 
 Had little question whence his bishopric. 
 
 But he, triumphant spirit ! all things dared ; 
 He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared ; 
 'T was his, at cards, each novice to trepan. 
 And call the want of rogues " the rights of 
 
 man ;" 
 Wild as the winds he let his ofispring rove. 
 And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love. 
 
 What age and sickness, for a man so bold, 
 Had done, we know not ; — none beheld him old : 
 By night, as business urged, 'he sought the wood ; — 
 The ditch was deep, — the rain had caused a flood, — 
 The foot-bridge fail'd, — he plunged beneath the 
 
 deep, 
 And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep. ""^ 
 
 These have we named ; on life's rough sea they 
 sail. 
 With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale ! 
 Where passion soon, like powerful winds, will rage, 
 And prudence, wearied, with their strength en- 
 gage : 
 Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask. 
 For help or comfort in the tedious task ; 
 And what that help — what joys from union flow, 
 Wliat good or ill, we next prepare to show ; 
 And row, meantime, our weary bark ashore. 
 As Spenser his — but not with Spenser's oar.** 
 
 ** Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy Queen. 
 See the end of tlie First Book, and other places. 
 
 [" Now strike your sailcs, ye jolly mariners ! 
 For wee be come into a quiet rode, 
 AVhere we must land some of our passengers, 
 And light this weiiry vessel of her lode,'" &c.] 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER 
 
 141 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Nubere si qua voles, quamvis properahitis ambo, 
 Differ ; habent parvae commoda magna morae. 
 
 Ovid. Fast. lib. iii.l 
 
 MARRIAGES. 
 
 Previous Consideration necessary : yet not too long Delay — 
 Imprudent Marriage of old Kirk and his Servant — Compa- 
 rison between an ancient and youtliful Partner to a young 
 Man — Prudence of Donald tlie Gardener — Parish Wedding : 
 the compelled Bridegroom : Day of Marriage, how spent — 
 Relation of the Accomplishments of Phoebe Dawson, .1 
 rustic Beauty : her Lover : his Courtship : their Marriage 
 — Misery of Precipitation— The wealthy Couple : Reluctance 
 in the Husband; why .'—Unusually fair Signatures in the 
 Register: the common Kind— Seduction of Lucy Collins 
 by Footman Daniel : her rustic Lover : her Return to him 
 — An ancient Couple : Comparisons on the Occasion — 
 More pleasant View of Village Matrimony : Farmers cele- 
 brating the Day of Marriage : their Wives — Reuben and 
 Rachael, a happy Pair : an example of prudent Delay — 
 Reflections on their State who were not so prudent, and its 
 Improvement towards the Termination of Life : an old 
 Man so circumstanced — Attempt to seduce a Village 
 Beauty : Persuasion and Reply : the Event. 
 
 Disposed to wed, e'en while you hasten, stay ; 
 There 's great advantage in a small delay : 
 Thus Ovid sang, and much the wise approve 
 This prudent maxim of the priest of Love ; 
 If poor, delay for future want prepares. 
 And eases humble life of half its cares ; 
 If rich, delay shall brace the thoughtful mind, 
 T' endure the ills that e'en the happiest find : 
 Delay shall knowledge yield on either part, 
 And show the value of the vanquish'd heart ; 
 The humours, passions, merits, failings prove, 
 And gently raise the veil that 's worn by Love ; 
 Love, that impatient guide ! — too proud to think 
 Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat and drink, 
 Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize, 
 And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees :- — 
 Yet not too long in cold debate remain ; 
 Till age refrain not — but if old, refrain. 
 
 By no such rule would Gaffer Kirk be tried ; 
 First in the year he led a blooming bride, 
 And stood a wither'd elder at her side. 
 Oh ! Nathan ! Nathan ! at thy years trepann'd, 
 To take a wanton harlot by the hand ! 
 Thou, who wert used so tartly to express 
 Thy sense of matrimonial happiness. 
 Till e^ery youth, whose bans at church were read, 
 Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head ; 
 And every lass forebore at thee to look, 
 A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook ; 
 
 ' [" Let lovers now, who burn with equal fires. 
 Put off awhile t' accomplish their desires : 
 A short delay will better omens give. 
 And you will more, and lasting joys receive."— Masskt.] 
 
 * [" If thou have a fair wife, and a poor one ; if thine own 
 estate be not great, assure thyself that love abideth not with 
 want ; for she is the companion of plenty and hououi." — Sir 
 W. Raleioh.] 
 
 And now at sixty, that pert dame to see, 
 Of all thy savings mistress, and of thee ; 
 Now will the lads, rememb'ring insults past. 
 Cry, " What, the wise one in the trap at last !" 
 
 i'ie I Nathan ! fie 1 to let an artful jade 
 The close recesses of thine heart invade ; ■' 
 What grievous pangs ! what suffering she '11 impart ! 
 And fill with anguish that rebellious heart ; 
 For thou wilt strive incessantly, in vain. 
 By threatening speech thy freedom to regain : 
 But she for conquest married, nor will prove 
 A dupe to thee, thine anger or thy love ; 
 Clamorous her tongue will be : — of either sex, 
 She '11 gather friends around thee and perplex 
 Thy doubtful soul ; — thy money she will waste 
 In the vain ramblings of a vulgar taste ; 
 And will bo happy to exert her power. 
 In every eye, in thine, at every hour. 
 
 Then wilt thou bluster — " No ! I will not rest, 
 " And see consumed each shilling of my chest : " 
 Thou wilt be valiant — " When thy cousins call, 
 " I will abuse and shut my door on all :" 
 Thou wilt be cruel ! — " What the law allows, 
 " That be thy portion, my ungrateful spouse ! 
 " Nor other shillings shalt thou then receive ; 
 " And when I die — What ! may I this believe ? 
 " Are these true tender tears ? and does my Kitty 
 
 grieve ? 
 " Ah ! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears ; 
 " But weep no more ! I 'm melted by thy tears ; 
 " Spare but my money ; thou shalt rule me still, 
 " And see thy cousins : — there ! I burn the will." 
 
 Thus, with example sad, our year began, 
 A wanton vixen and a weary man ; 
 " But had this tale in other guise been told," 
 Young let the lover be, the lady old. 
 And that disparity of years shall prove 
 No bane of peace, although some bar to love : 
 'T is not the worst, our nuptial ties among. 
 That joins the ancient bride and bridegroom 
 
 young ; — 
 Young wives, like changing winds, their power 
 
 display 
 By shifting points and varying day by day ; 
 Now zephyrs mild, now whirlwinds in their force. 
 They sometimes speed, but often thwart our course ; 
 And much experienced should that pilot be. 
 Who sails with them on life's tempestuous sea. 
 But like a trade-wind is the ancient dame, 
 Mild to your wish and every day the same ; 
 Steady as time, no sudden squalls you fear. 
 But set full sail and with assurance steer ; 
 Till every danger in your way be past. 
 And then she gently, mildly ijreathes her last ; 
 Rich you arrive, in port awhile remain. 
 And for a second venture sail again. 
 
 For this, blithe Donald southward made his way. 
 And left the lasses on the banks of Tay ; 
 
 3 [Original edition : — 
 
 Fie, Nathan ! fie ! to let a sprightly jade 
 
 Leer on thy bed, then ask thee ho" 't was made, 
 
 And lingering walk around at head and feet, 
 
 To see thy nightly comforts all complete ; 
 
 Then waiting seek — nor what she said she sought. 
 
 And bid a penny for her master's tliought.] 
 
142 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent, 
 AVliom we beheld, aspiriugly content : 
 Patient and mild he sought the dame to please. 
 Who ruled the kitchen and who bore the keys. 
 Fair Lucy first, the laundry's grace and prid<', 
 With smiles and gracious looks, her fortune tried ; 
 But all in vain she praised his " pawky eyne," ■* 
 AV^here never fondness was for Lucy seen : 
 Him the mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved, 
 And found him civil, cautious and unmoved : 
 From many a fragrant simple, Catherine's skill 
 Drew oil and essence from the boiling stiH ; 
 But not her warmth, nor all her winning ways. 
 From his cool phlegm could Donald's spirit raise : 
 Of beauty heedless, with the merry mute, 
 To Mistresx Dohson he preferr'd his suit ; 
 There proved his service, there address'd his vows, 
 And saw her roistress, — friend, — ^protectress, — 
 
 spouse ; 
 A butler now, he thanks his powerful bride. 
 And, like her keys, keeps constant at her side. 
 
 Next at our altar stood a luckless pair. 
 Brought by strong passions and a warrant there ; 
 By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride, 
 From every eye, what all perceived, to hide. 
 AVhile the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace. 
 Now hid awhile and then exposed his face ; 
 As shame alternately with anger strove, 
 The brain confused with muddy ale, to move 
 In haste and stammering he perform'd his part, 
 And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart ; 
 (So will each lover inly curse his fate. 
 Too soon made happy and made wise too late :) 
 I saw his features take a savage gloom. 
 And deeply threaten for the days to come. 
 Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the 
 
 while, 
 Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile ; 
 With soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove 
 To stir the embers of departed love : 
 While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before. 
 Felt the poor purse, and sought the public door. 
 She sadly following, in submission went. 
 And saw the final shilling foully spent; 
 Then to her father's hut the p.air withdrew. 
 And bade to love and comfort long adieu I * 
 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth, refrain ! refrain ! 
 
 I preach for ever ; but I preach in vain ! 
 
 Two summers since, I saw at Lammas Fair 
 The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there. 
 When Plnvbe Daicson gaily cross'd the Green, 
 In haste to see and happy to be seen : 
 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired ; 
 Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired ; 
 The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd. 
 And ease of heart her every look convey'd ; 
 A native skill her simple robes cxpress'd, 
 As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd ; 
 The lads around admired so fair a eight. 
 And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
 
 * ["Pawky, 08 applied to the eye, signifies w.inton." — 
 .Tamieson.j 
 
 * [" The abovfi picture is, we think, perfect in tliis style of 
 drawing."- Jeffrkv.] 
 
 Admirers soon of every age she gain'd. 
 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd ; 
 
 Envy itself could no contempt display. 
 
 They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. 
 
 Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place 
 
 Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 
 But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, 
 
 With secret joy she felt that beaut j''s power. 
 
 When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal. 
 
 That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
 
 At length the youth ordain'd to move her breast. 
 Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd ; 
 With looks less timid made his passion known. 
 And pleased by manners most unlike her own ; 
 Loud though in love, and confident though young ; 
 Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ; 
 By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade. 
 He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he 
 
 made. 
 Yet now, would Phcebe her consent afford. 
 Her slave alone, again he 'd mount the board ; 
 With her should years of growing love be spent. 
 And growing wealth ; — she sigh'd and look'd con- 
 sent. 
 Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the 
 green, 
 (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen — 
 Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) 
 Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid ; 
 Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile, 
 Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile ; 
 Where, as he painted every bhssful view. 
 And highly cclour'd what he strongly drew. 
 The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, 
 Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears. — 
 Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late. 
 The lover loiter'd at the master's gate ; 
 There he pronounced adieu ! and yet would stay. 
 Till chidden — soothed — entreated — forced awaj' ; 
 He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, 
 And oft retire, and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind. 
 The grief assumed, compell'd her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of plighted kindness crave. 
 That she i-esented first, and then forgave; 
 And to liis grief and penance yielded more 
 Than his presumption had required before.® 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain I refrain I 
 ICach yielding maid and each presuming swain ! 
 
 liO ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black. 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains. 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for I)rcad, 
 Whose cares are growing and whose liopes are fled ; 
 Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low. 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow ; 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she 's calm again ; — 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes. 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 
 " [" This is the taking side of tlie picture : nt. tlie end of 
 two years comes the reverse. Nothing cm be more touching 
 tlian the quiet suflering and solitiiry liysterics of this ill-fitled 
 young woman." — Jekkkky.] 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 143 
 
 For not alone that infant in her arms, 
 
 But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. 
 
 With water burthen'd, then she picks her way, 
 
 Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay ; 
 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, 
 
 And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ; 
 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 
 While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes: 
 
 For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, 
 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
 
 And now her path, but not her peace, she gains. 
 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains ; 
 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, 
 
 And placing first her infant on the floor, 
 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, 
 
 And sobbing struggles with the rising fits : 
 
 In vain they come, she feels the inflating grief. 
 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; 
 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd, 
 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be reprcss'd. 
 
 The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flics 
 
 With all the aid her poverty supplies ; 
 
 Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, 
 
 Not led by profit, not allur'd by praise ; 
 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease, 
 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid ; 
 She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 
 But who this child of weakness, want, and care ? 
 "T is PhcEle Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair ; 
 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, 
 l^xprcssions warm, and love-inspiring lies: 
 Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart. 
 For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart : 
 " And then his prayers ! they would a savage move, 
 " And win the coldest of the sex to love :" — 
 But ah ! too soon his looks success declared, 
 Too late her loss the marriage-rite rcpair'd ; 
 The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot : 
 If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd ; 
 If absent, spending what their labours gain'd ; 
 Till that fair form in want and sickness pined. 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, youth ; resist, refrain ! 
 
 Nor let me preach for ever and in vain ! " 
 
 Next came a well-dress'd pair, who left their 
 
 coach. 
 And made, in long procession, slow approach ; 
 For this gay bride had many a female friend, 
 And youths were there, this favour'd youth t' 
 
 attend : 
 
 ' [The tale of Phoebe Dawson, as the preface (ante, p. 99) 
 shows, was one of the passages in the Parish Register whicli 
 most interested Mr. Fox on his death-bed. The Montlilv 
 lleview of 1807 observes :—" The circumstance stated in the 
 preface to this poem, would, in our minds, communicate a 
 high degree of interest to compositions far inferior in 
 quality to those now before us It is no mean panegyric on a 
 literary effort, that it could at any period of his life command 
 the applause of Mr. Fox; but, to have amused and occupied 
 tlie painful leisure of his last illness, is as honourable to the 
 powers as it must be delightful to the feelings of the author. 
 If the beautiful dramas of Terence derive an additional power 
 of pleasing, from our knowledge that they were sanctioned 
 by the approbation and assistance of Scipio and I-ffilius, Eng- 
 lishmen will feel a similar predilection for world that have 
 
 Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd 
 
 Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd ; 
 
 But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd, 
 
 Not numerous friends, who praise and envymix'd, 
 
 Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride 
 
 Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride ; 
 
 Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace, 
 
 Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face, 
 
 Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase : 
 
 M'hy didst thou grieve ? wealth, pleasure, freedom 
 
 thine ; 
 Vox'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign ? 
 Spake Scandal truth ? " Thou didst not then intend 
 " So soon to bring thy wooing to an end ?" 
 Or, was it, as our prating rustics say, 
 To end as soon, but in a different w-ay ? 
 'Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame, 
 M'ho play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame ; 
 That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd, 
 And hid the snare for her affection laid, 
 Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch, 
 And at the amorous see-saw won the match : ^ 
 Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt ; 
 He 'd call thee brother, or he 'd call thee out : — 
 But rest the motive — all retreat too late, 
 Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate ; 
 The deed had then appear'd thine own intent, 
 A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent, 
 In each revolving year to be in triumph spent. 
 Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been 
 Without a wonder or a whisper seen ; 
 And none had been so weak as to inquire, 
 " Why pouts my Lady ?" or " Why frowns the 
 
 Squire ?" 
 
 How fair these names, how much unlike they look 
 To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book : 
 The bridegroom's letters stand in row above, 
 Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove ; 
 While free and fine the bride's appear below, 
 As light and slender as her jasmines grow. 
 Mark now in what confusion stoop or stand 
 The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand ; 
 Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise, 
 Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise ; 
 Ere j'et reform'd and modell'd by the drill, 
 The free-born legs stand striding as they will. 
 
 Jiluch have I tried to guide the fist along, 
 But still the blunderers placed their blottings 
 
 wrong : 
 Behold these marks uncouth ! how strange that 
 
 men 
 Who guide the plough, should fail to guide the 
 
 pen : 
 
 received praise and improvement from the m!tis snpientia of 
 the most amiable among the great men recorded in their 
 history ;" and Jlr. Lockhart, in the Quarterly Review, No. 
 C, says, " The last piece of poetry that soothed and occupied 
 the dying ear of Mr. Fox, was Crabbe's tale of Phoebe Daw- 
 son ; and we are enabled to offer testimony, not more equi- 
 vocal, of the sincerity of Sir Walter Scott's worship of his 
 genius. Crabbe's poems were at all times more frequ(mtly in 
 his hands than any othei work whatever, except Shakspeare ; 
 and during the few intervals after his return to Abbotsford, 
 in 1832, when he was sufficiently himself to ask his family to 
 read aloud to him, the only books lie ever called for were his 
 liible and his Crabbe."] 
 
 ' Clarissa, vol. vii. : Lovelace's Letters. 
 
144 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 For half a mile the furrows even lie ; 
 For half an inch the letters stand awry ; — 
 Our peasants, strong and sturdy in tlie field, 
 Cannot these arms of idle students wield : 
 Like them, in feudal days, their valiant lords 
 Kesign'd the pen and grasp'd their conqu'ring 
 
 swords ; 
 They to robed clerks and poor dependent men 
 Left the light duties of the peaceful pen ; 
 Nor to their ladies wrote, but sought to prove, 
 By deeds of death, their hearts were fiU'd with love. 
 But yet, small arts have charms for female eyes ; 
 Our rustic nymphs the beau and scholar prize ; 
 Unletter'd swains and ploughmen coarse they slight. 
 For those who dress, and amorous scrolls indite. 
 
 For Lucji Collins happier days had been. 
 Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green, 
 Or when he came an idle coxcomb down, 
 Had he his love reserved for lass in town ; 
 To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth, — 
 A sturdy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth ; 
 But from the day, that fatal day she spied 
 The pride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride. 
 In all concerns was Stephen just and true ; 
 But coarse his doublet was and patch'd in view. 
 And felt his stockings were, and blacker than his 
 
 shoe ; 
 While Daniel's linen all was fine and fair, — 
 His master wore it, and he deign'd to wear : 
 (To wear his livery, some respect might prove ; 
 To wear his linen, mu'-t be sign of love :) 
 Blue was his coat, unsoil'd by spot or stain ; 
 His hose were silk, his shoes of Spanish grain ; 
 A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore ; 
 A diamond buckle blazed his breast before — 
 Diamond he swore it was ! and show'd it as he swore ; 
 Rings on his fingers shone ; his milk-white hand 
 Could pick-tooth case and box for snuff command : 
 And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete, 
 He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street. 
 Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing, 
 Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing ; 
 Laugh with such glee, and trifle with such art. 
 That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield her heart. 
 
 Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous cares, 
 Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's affairs ; 
 Two pigs, a cow, and wethers half a score, 
 Increased his stock, and still he look'd for more. 
 He, for his acres few, so duly paid. 
 That yet more acres to his lot were laid ; 
 Till our chaste nymphs no longer felt disdain, 
 And prudent matrons praised the frugal swain ; 
 Who thriving well, through many a fruitful year, 
 Now clothed himself anew, and acted overseer. 
 
 Just then poor Lucy, from her friend in town 
 Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar down ; 
 Trembling, at Stephen's door she knock'd for 
 
 bread, — 
 Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed ; 
 Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Ste- 
 phen's bed : 
 All hope of marriage lost in her disgrace, 
 Ue mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace. 
 
 • [I.ui(,'i Galvani, professor of experimental philosophy at 
 Bologna, from whom Oalvanisin takes its name, died in 1798.] 
 
 Now to be wed a well-match'd couple came ; 
 Twice had old Lodge been tied, and twice the dame ; 
 Tottering they came and toying, (odious scene !) 
 And fond and simple, as they 'd always been. 
 Children from wedlock we by laws restrain ; 
 Why not prevent them when they 're such again ? 
 Why not forbid the doting souls to prove 
 Th' indecent fondling of preposterous love ? 
 In spite of prudence, uncontroll'd by shame, 
 The amorous senior woos the toothless dame, 
 Relating idly, at the closing eve. 
 The youthful follies he disdains to leave ; 
 Till youthful follies wake a transient fire. 
 When arm in arm they totter and retire. 
 
 So a fond pair of solemn birds, all day 
 Blink in their seat and doze the hours away ; 
 Then by the moon awaken'd, forth they move. 
 And fright the songsters with their cheerless love : 
 So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound. 
 Each other catch, when dropping to the ground : 
 Entwine their wither'd arms 'gainst wind and 
 
 weather. 
 And shake their leafless heads and drop together : 
 So two cold limbs, touch'd by Galvani's wire,' 
 Move with new life, and feel awaken'd fire ; 
 Quivering awhile, their flaccid forms remain. 
 Then turn to cold torpidity again. 
 
 " But ever frowns your Hymen ? man and maid, 
 " Are all repenting, suffering, or betray'd ? " 
 Forbid it. Love ! we have our couples here 
 Who hail the day in each revolving year : 
 These are with us, as in the world around ; 
 They are not frequent, but they may be found. 
 
 Our farmers too, what though they fail to prove. 
 In Hymen's bonds, the tenderest slaves of love, 
 (Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites, 
 Feel they the fervour of the mind's delights ;) 
 Yet coarsely kind and comfortably gay. 
 They heap the board and hail the happy day : 
 And though the bride, now freed from school, ad- 
 mits. 
 Of pride implanted tliere, some transient fits ; 
 Yet soon she casts her girlish flights aside. 
 And in substantial blessings rest her pride. 
 No more she moves in measured steps ; no more 
 Runs, with bewilder'd ear, her music o'er ; 
 No more recites her French the hinds among, 
 But chides her maidens in her mother-tongue ; 
 Her tambour-frame she leaves and diet spare, 
 Plain work and plenty with her house to share ; 
 Till, all her varnish lost in few short years. 
 In all her worth the farmer's wife appears. 
 
 Yet not the ancient kind ; nor she who gave 
 Her soul to gain — a mistress and a slave : 
 Who, not to sleep allow'd the needful time ; 
 To whom repose was loss, and sport a crime ; 
 Who, in her meanest room (and all were mean), 
 A noisy drudge, from morn till night was seen; — 
 But she, the daughter, boasts a decent room. 
 Adorned with carpet, formed in Wilton's loom ; 
 Fair prints along the paper'd wall are spread ; 
 There, Wertcr sees the sportive children fed,'* 
 And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead. 
 
 10 [" I saw sijt children, all jiimpinf^ round a young 
 woman, very elegantly siiaped, and dressed in a plain white 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 145 
 
 'T is here, assembled, while in space apart 
 Their husbands, drinking, warm the opening heart, 
 Our neighbouring dames, on festal days, unite. 
 With tongues more fluent and with hearts as 
 
 light ; 
 Theirs is that art, which English wives alone 
 Profess — a boast and privilege their own ; 
 An art it is where each at once attends 
 To all, and claims attention from her friends. 
 When they engage the tongue, the eye, the ear. 
 Reply when list'ning, and when speaking hear : 
 The ready converse knows no dull delays, 
 " But double are the pains, and double be the 
 
 praise." " 
 Yet not to those alone who bear command 
 Heaven gives a heart to hail the marriage band ; 
 Among their servants, we the pairs can show, 
 Who much to love and more to prudence owe : 
 Reuben and Eachel, though as fond as doves. 
 Were yet discreet and cautious in their loves ; 
 Nor would attend to Cupid's wild commands. 
 Till cool reflection bade them join their hands : 
 When both were poin-, they thought it argued ill 
 Of hasty love to make them poorer still ; 
 Year after year, with savings long laid by. 
 They bought the future dwelling's full supply ; 
 Her frugal fancj' cull'd the smaller ware, 
 The weightier purchase ask'd her Reuben's care ; 
 Together then their last year's gain they threw, 
 And lo ! an auction'd bed, with curtains neat and 
 
 new. 
 Thus both, as prudence counsell'd, wisely stay'd, 
 And cheerful then the calls of Love obey'd : 
 What if, when Rachael gave her hand, 't was one 
 Embrown'd by Winter's ice and Summer's sun ? 
 What if, in Reuben's hair the female eye 
 Usurping grey among the black could spy ? 
 What if, in both, life's bloomy flush was lost, 
 And their full autumn felt the mellowing frost ? 
 Yet time, who blow'd the rose of youth away. 
 Had left the vigorous stem without decay ; 
 Like those tall elms in Farmer Frankford's ground. 
 They'll grow no more, — but all their growth is 
 
 sound ; 
 By time confirm'd and rooted in the land. 
 The storms they 've stood, still promise they shall 
 
 stand. 
 
 These are the happier pairs, their life has rest. 
 Their hopes are strong, their humble portion blest. 
 While those more rash to hasty marriage led, 
 Lament th* impatience which now stints their 
 
 bread : 
 When such their union, years their cares increase, 
 Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease ; 
 In health just fed, in sickness just relieved ; 
 By hardships harass'd and by children grieved ; 
 In petty quarrels and in peevish strife 
 The once fond couple waste the spring of life ; 
 But when to age mature those children grown. 
 Find hopes and homes and hardships of their own, 
 The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes 
 Receding slowly, till they find repose. 
 
 ijown with pink ribands. She had a brown loaf in her hand, 
 and was cutting slices of bread and butter, which she distri- 
 biite'* .n a graceful manner, to the children. Eacli held up 
 
 Complaints and murmurs then are laid aside, 
 (By reason these subdued, and those by pride ;) 
 And, taught by care, the patient man and wife 
 Agree to share the bitter-sweet of life ; 
 (Life that has sorrow much and sorrow's cure. 
 Where they who most enjoy shall much endure :) 
 Their rest, their labours, duties, suff'erings, prayers, 
 Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares ; 
 Their graves before them and their griefs behind, 
 Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind ; 
 Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go, 
 Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe ; 
 But as he lends the strength that yet remains. 
 And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains, 
 (One with whom oft he whirl'd the bounding flail, 
 Toss'd the broad coit, or took th' inspiring ale,) 
 " For me," (he meditates,) " shall soon be done 
 " This friendly duty, when my race be run ; 
 " 'T was first in trouble as in error pass'd, 
 " Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years o'er- 
 
 cast, 
 " But calm my setting day, and sunshine smiles at 
 
 last: 
 " My vices punish'd and my follies spent, 
 " Not loth to die, but yet to live content, 
 " I rest :" — then casting on the grave his eye. 
 His friend compels a tear, and his own griefs a sigh. 
 
 Last on my list appears a match of love, 
 And one of virtue ; — happy may it prove ! — 
 Sir Kdward Archer is an amorous knight, 
 And maidens chaste and lovely shun his sight ; 
 His bailifi's daughter suited much his taste, 
 For Fanny Price was lovely and was chaste ; 
 To her the Knight with gentle looks drew near. 
 And timid voice assumed to banish fear : — 
 
 " Hope of my life, dear sovereign of my breast, 
 " Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor 
 
 rest; 
 " Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes, 
 " My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize ; 
 " And is that bosom — (what on earth so fair !) 
 " To cradle some coarse peasant's sprawling heir, 
 " To be that pillow wliich some surly swain 
 " May treat with scorn and agonise with pain ? 
 " Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's wants to 
 
 share, 
 " To dread his insult, to support his care ; 
 " To hear his follies, his contempt to prove, 
 " And (oh ! the torment !) to endure his love ; 
 " Till want and deep regret tiiose charms destroy, 
 " That time would spare, if time were pass'd in 
 
 " With him, in varied pains, from morn tiU night, 
 " Your hours shall pass ; yourself a ruflian's 
 
 right ; 
 " Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool ; 
 " Your purest drink the waters of the pool ; 
 " Your sweetest food will but your life sustain, 
 " And your best pleasure be a rest from pain ; 
 " While, through each year, as health and strength 
 
 abate, 
 " You '11 weep your woes and wonder at your fate ; 
 
 its little hands," &c. &c. — Werter.] 
 II Spenser. 
 
146 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " And cry, ' Behold,' as life's last cares come on, 
 " ' My burthens growing when my strength is 
 
 gone.' 
 " Now turn with me, and all the young desire, 
 " That taste can form, that fancy can require ; 
 " All that e.Kcites enjoyment, or procures 
 " "Wealth, health, respect, delight, and love, are 
 
 yours : 
 " Sparkling, in cups of gold, your wines shall flow, 
 " Grace that fair hand, in that dear bosom glow ; 
 " Fruits of each clime, and flowers, through all the 
 
 year, 
 " Shall on your walls and in your walks appear : 
 " Where all beholding, shall your praise repeat, 
 " No fruit so tempting and no flower so sweet : 
 " The softest carpets in your rooms shall lie, 
 " Pictures of happiest love shall meet your eye, 
 " And tallest mirrors, reaching to the floor, 
 " Shall show you all the object I adore ; 
 " Who, by the hands of wealth and fashion dress'd, 
 " By slaves attended and by friends caress'd, 
 " Shall move, a wonder, through the public ways, 
 " And hear the whispers of adoring praise. 
 " Your female friends, though gayest of the 
 
 gay, 
 " Shall see you liappy, and shall, sighing, say, 
 " While smother'd envy rises in the breast, — 
 " ' Oh ! that we lived so beauteous and so blest ! ' 
 " Come, then, my mistress, and my wife ; for 
 she, 
 " Who trusts my honour is the wife for me ; 
 " Your slave, your husband, and your friend em- 
 ploy 
 " In search of pleasures we may both enjoy." 
 To this the Damsel, meekly firm, replied : 
 " My mother loved, was married, toil'd, and died ; 
 " With joys, she 'd griefs, had troubles in her 
 
 course, 
 " But not one grief was pointed by remorse : 
 " My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign, 
 " And be her love, her life, her comforts mine." 
 Tyrants have wept ; and those with hearts of 
 steel. 
 Unused the anguish of the heart to heal. 
 Have yet the transient power of virtue known. 
 And felt th' imparted joy promote their own. 
 
 Our Knight relenting, now befriends a youth. 
 Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth ; 
 And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy, 
 That will not perish, and that cannot cloy; — 
 A living joy, that shall its spirits keep, 
 When every beauty fades, and all the passions 
 sleep. 
 
 1 [" 'Hiat man wlio fearetli not the fickle fates a straws, 
 
 The visage grim of Acheront wliose eyes yet never 
 
 saw, 
 That person is a prince's peere, and like the gods 
 in miglit." Nkwton, 1581.] 
 
 '^ ["There is nothing in history," says Addison, " which is 
 so improviii},' to tlie reader lis tliose accounts wliich we meet 
 with of tlie deatlis of eminent persons, and of their hehaviour 
 in that dri'adfiil season. I may also add, that there are no 
 parts in history which alTcct anil please the reader in so sen- 
 sible a manner. The reason I take to be this : there is no 
 other sin(;le circumstance in the story of any person, which 
 can possibly be tlie case of every one who reads it. I'he ge- 
 neral, tiie statesman, or tlie philosopher, are, porliaps, cha- 
 racters wliich we may nerer act in ; but tlie dying man is one 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Qui vultus Acherontis atri, 
 
 Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt,— 
 
 Par ille Regi, par Saperis erit. 
 
 Seneca in Agamem.i 
 
 BURIALS. 
 
 True Cliristian Resignation not frequently to be seen — The 
 Register a melancholy Record — A dying Man, who at 
 length sends for a Priest : for what Purpose ? answ ered — 
 Old CoUett of the Inn, an Instance of Dr. Young's slow- 
 sudden Death : his Character and Conduct — The Manners 
 and Management of the Widow Goe : her successful Atten- 
 tion to Business : her Decease unexpected — the Infant-Boy 
 of Gerard Ablett dies ; Reflections on his Death, and the 
 Survivor his Sister-Twin— The Funeral of the deceased 
 Laily of the Manor described : her neglected Mansion : Un- 
 dertaker and Train : the Character which her Monument 
 will hereafter display — Burial of an Ancient Maiden : some 
 former drawback on her Virgin Fame : Description of her 
 House and Household: her Manners, Apprehensions, 
 Death— Isaac Ashford, a virtuous I'easant, dies : his manly 
 Character : Reluctance to enter the Poor-House ; and why 
 — Misfortune and Derangement of Intellect in Robin 
 Dingley : w hence they proceeded : he is not restrained by 
 Misery from a wandering Life : his various returns to his 
 Parish ; his final Return — Wife of Farmer Frankford dies 
 in Prime of Life : Affliction in Consequence of such Death : 
 melancholy View of Her House, &c. on her Family's Re- 
 turn from her Funeral : Address to Sorrow — Leah Cousins, 
 a Midwife : her Character ; and successful Practice : at 
 length opposed by Dr. Glibb ; Opposition in the Parish : 
 Argument of the Doctor ; of Leah : her Failure and De- 
 cease—Burial of Roger Cutf, a Sailor : his Enmity to his 
 Family ; how it originated : — his Experiment and its Con- 
 sequence — The Register terminates — A Bell heard : Inquiry 
 for whom .' The Sexton — Character of old Dibble, and tlie 
 five Rectors whom he served — Reflections— Conclusion. 
 
 Theke was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time 
 When humble Christians died with views sublime ; 
 When all w ere ready for their faith to bleed. 
 But few to write or wrangle for their creed ; 
 When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart. 
 And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part ; 
 When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene, 
 And all was comfort in the death-bed scene." 
 
 Alas ! when now the gloomy king they wait, 
 'T is weakness yielding to resistless fate ; 
 Like wretched men upon the ocean cast, 
 They labour hard and struggle to the last ; 
 
 whom, sooner or later, we shall cert^ainly resemble. It is, 
 perhaps, for the same kind of reason that few books have been 
 so much perused as Dr. Sherlock's Discourse upon Death ; 
 though, at the same time, I must own, that he who has not 
 perused this excellent piece has not read one of the strongest 
 persuasives to a religious life that ever was written in any 
 language."— When Addison found the end of his own useful 
 life approaching, lie directed his son-in-law, the Earl of War- 
 wick, to be called ; and when the young lord desired, with 
 great tenderness, to hear his last injunctions, told nim, " I 
 have sent for you, that you may see how a Christian can die." 
 In Tickell's beautiful elegy on'his friend there are these lines 
 in allusion to this moving interview : — 
 
 " He taught us how to live ; and oh I too high 
 The price of knowledge I taught us how to die."] 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 147 
 
 " Hope against hope," and wildly gaze around, 
 In search of help that never shall be found : 
 Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath, 
 Will they believe them in the jaws of Death ! 
 
 When these my Records I reflecting read. 
 And find what ills these numerous births succeed ; 
 What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend ; 
 With what regret these painful journeys end ; 
 When from the cradle to the grave I look. 
 Mine I conceive a melancholy book. 
 
 Where now is perfect resignation seen? 
 Alas ! it is not on the village-green : — ■ 
 I 've seldom known, though I have often read, 
 Of happy peasants on their dying-bed ; 
 Whose looks proclaim'd that sunshine of the breast, 
 That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd. 
 
 What I behold are feverish fits of strife, 
 'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life : ^ 
 Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure ; 
 Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure ; 
 At best a sad submission to the doom, 
 Whicli, turning from the danger, lets it come.** 
 
 Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid, 
 His spirits vanquish'd and his strength decay'd ; 
 No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend — 
 " Call then a priest, and fit him for his end." 
 A priest is call'd ; 't is now, alas ! too late. 
 Death enters with him at the cottage-gate ; 
 Or time allow'd — he goes, assured to find 
 The self-commending, all-confiding mind ; 
 And sighs to hear, what we may justly call 
 Death's common-place, the train of thought in all. 
 
 " True I 'm a sinner," feebly he begins, 
 " But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins :" 
 (Such cool confession no past crimes excite ! 
 Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right !) 
 " I know mankind are frail, that God is just, 
 " And pardons those who in his mercy trust ; 
 " We 're sorely tempted in a world like this — 
 " xVll men have done, and I like all, amiss ; 
 " But now, if spared, it is my full intent 
 " On all the past to ponder and repent : 
 " Wrongs against me I pardon great and small, 
 " And if I die, I die in peace with all." 
 
 His merits thus and not his sins confess'd. 
 He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest. 
 Alas ! are these the prospects, dull and cold, 
 That dying Christians to their priests unfold .' 
 
 ' [" Suiely, to the sincere believer, death would be an ob- 
 ject of desire instead of dread, were it not for tlioseties — those 
 heart-strings - by which we are attached to life. Nor, indeed, 
 do I believe tliat it is natural to fear death, however generally 
 it may be thouijlit so. From my own feolin^js I have little 
 right to judge ; for, altliough habifually mindful that the hour 
 Cometh, and even now may be, it has never appeared actually 
 near enough to make me duly apprehend its effect upon my- 
 self. But from wliat I liave observed, and \vl\at I have heard 
 those persons say whose professions leil tliem to the dying, I 
 am induced to infer, that the fear of death is not common, 
 and that where it exists, it proceeds rather from a diseased or 
 enfeebled mind, than from any princip'-, in our nature. Cer- 
 tain it is, that among the poor the approach of dissolution is 
 usually regarded with a quiet and natural composure which it 
 is consolatory to contemplate, and which is as far removed from 
 the (le.id palsy of unbelief, as it is from the delirious raptures 
 of fanaticism. Theirs is a true unhesitating faith ; and they 
 are willing to lay down the burden of a weary life, in the sure 
 and certain hope of a blessed immortality ."-^Southe v.] 
 
 Or mends the prospect when th' enthusiast cries, 
 " I die assured ! " and in a rapture dies ? 
 
 Ah, where that humble, self-abasing mind. 
 With that confiding spirit, shall we find ; 
 The mind that, feeling what repentance brings. 
 Dejection's terrors and Contrition's stings, 
 Feels then the hope that mounts all care above. 
 And the pure joy that flows from pardoning love ? 
 
 Such have I seen in Death, and much deplore, 
 So many dying — that I see no more : 
 Lo ! now my Records, where I grieve to trace 
 How Death has triumph'd in so short a space ; 
 Who are the dead, how died they, I relate. 
 And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.* 
 
 With Andrew Collett ® we the year begin, 
 The blind, fat landlord of the Old Crowia Inn, — • 
 Big as his butt, and, for the self-same use. 
 To take in stores of strong fermenting juice. 
 On his huge chair beside the fire he sate. 
 In revel chief, and umpire in debate ; 
 Each night his string of vulgar tales he told. 
 When ale was cheap and bachelors were bold : 
 His heroes all were famous in their days. 
 Cheats were his boast and drunkards had his praise ; 
 " One, in three draughts, three mugs of ale took 
 
 down, 
 " As mugs were then — 'the champion of the Crown ; 
 " For thrice three days another lived on ale, 
 " And knew no change but that of mild and stale ; 
 " Two thirsty soakers watch'd a vessel's side, 
 " When he the tap, with de.xt'rous hand, applied ; 
 " Nor from their seats departed, till they found 
 " That butt was out and heard the mournful soun-d." 
 
 He praised a poacher, precious child of fun ! 
 Who shot the keeper with his own spring-gun ; 
 Nor less the smuggler who the exciseman tied. 
 And left him hanging at the birch-wood side, 
 There to expire ; — but one who saw him hang 
 Cut the good cord — a traitor of the gang. 
 
 His own exploits with boastful glee he told. 
 What ponds he emptied and what pikes he sold ; 
 And how, when blest with sight alert and gay. 
 The night's amusements kept him through the day. 
 
 He sang the praises of those times, when all 
 " For cards and dice, as for their drink, might call ; 
 " When justice wink'd on every jovial crew, 
 " And ten-pins tumbled in the parson's view." 
 
 He told, when angry wives, provoked to rail, 
 Or drive a third-day drunkard from his ale, 
 
 * [" Of the great number to whom it has been my painful 
 professional duty to have administered in the last hours of 
 their lives, I have sometimes felt surprised that so few have 
 appeared reluctant to go to ' the undiscovered country, from 
 whose bourne no traveller returns!' Many, we may easily 
 suppose, have manifested this willingness to die from an im pa- 
 tience of suffering, or from that passive inditference which is 
 sometimes the result of debility and extreme bodily exhaus- 
 tion. But I have seen those who have arrived at a fearless 
 contemplation of the future, from faith in the doctrine which 
 our religion teaches. Such men were not only calm and sup- 
 ported, but cheerful, in the hour of death ; and I never quitted 
 such a sick chamber, without a wish that ' my last end might 
 be like theirs.' " — Sir Henry Halford.] 
 
 ' [" OU ! snatch some portion of these acts from fate, 
 Celestial Muse ! and to our world relate." 
 
 Pove's Homcr.l 
 
 ' [Phoebe Dawson, Andrew Collett, and the Widow Goe, 
 were all portraits from the life.] 
 
 L 2 
 
]48 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 What were his triumphs, and how great the skill 
 That won the vex'd virago to his will ; 
 Who raving came; — then talked in milder strain, — 
 Then wept, then drank, and pledged her spouse 
 again. 
 Such were his themes : how knaves o'er laws pre- 
 vail, 
 Or, when made captives, how they fly from jail ; 
 The young how brave, how subtle were the old : 
 And oaths attested all that Folly told. 
 
 On death like his what name shall we bestow, 
 So very sudden ! yet so very slow ? 
 'T was slow : — Disease, augmenting year by year, 
 Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought 
 
 near : 
 'T was not less sudden ; in the night he died, 
 lie drank, he swore, he jested, and he lied; 
 Thus aiding folly with departing breath : — 
 " Beware, Lorenzo,' the slow-sudden death." ^ 
 
 Next died the Widoio Goe, an active dame. 
 Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her fame ; 
 She lost her husband when their loves were young, 
 But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue : 
 Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill. 
 With guiding judgment and resistless will ; 
 Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd, 
 And sons and servants bow'd at her behest. 
 Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came. 
 Were the strong words of this commanding dame ; — 
 " Come," if she said, they came ; if " Go," were 
 
 gone ; » 
 And if " Do this," — that instant it was done : 
 Her maidens told she was all eye and ear. 
 In darkness saw and could at distance hear ; 
 No parish-business in the place could stir, 
 Without direction or assent from her ; 
 In turn she took each office as it fell, 
 Knew all their duties and discharged them well ; 
 The lazy vagrants in her presence shook. 
 And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke ; 
 She look'd on want with judgment clear and cool. 
 And felt with reason and bestow'd by rule ; 
 She match'd both sons and daughters to her mind. 
 And lent them eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind ; 
 Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive, 
 The working bee, in full or empty hive ; 
 Busy and careful, like that working bee, 
 No time for love nor tender cares had she ; 
 But when our farmers made their amorous vows, 
 She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs. 
 Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away, 
 Amusement closed, as business waked the day ; 
 When to her toilet's brief concern she ran. 
 And conversation with her friends began, 
 Who all were welcome, what they saw, to share ; 
 And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas fare. 
 That none around might, in their scorn, complain 
 Of Gossip Goe as greedy in her gain. 
 
 ' [Young's Night Thonglits.J 
 
 " [" It has always appeared to me as one of the most strik- 
 ing passages in the visions of Qiievedo, tliat wliich stigmatises 
 those iLs fools wlio complain tliat they failed of happiness 
 by sudilcn death. 'How,' says he, 'can death be sudden 
 to a being who always knew that he must die, and that tlie 
 time of his death was uncertain ? ' " — Johnson.] 
 
 Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved ; 
 Praised, if not honour'd ; fear'd, if not beloved ; — 
 When, as the busy days of Spring drew near. 
 That call'd for all the forecast of the year ; 
 When lively hope the rising crops survey'd, 
 And April promised what September paid ; 
 When stray'd her lambs where gorse and greenweed 
 
 grow; 
 When rose her grass in richer vales below ; 
 When pleased she look'd on all the smihng land, 
 And view'd the hinds, who wrought at her com- 
 mand ; 
 (Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went ;) 
 Then dread o'ercame her, — that her days were 
 spent. 
 
 " Bless me ! I die, and not a warning giv'n, — 
 " With much to do on Earth, and all for Heav'nl — 
 " No reparation for my soul's affairs, 
 " No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs ; 
 " Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpaid, 
 " My mind unsettled, and my will unmade ; — 
 " A lawyer haste, and in your way, a priest ; 
 " And let me die in one good work at least." 
 She spake, and, trembling, dropp'd upon her knees. 
 Heaven in her ej'e and in her hand her keys ; 
 And still the more she found her life decay. 
 With greater force she grasp'd those signs of sway : 
 Then fell and died ! — In haste her sons drew near, 
 And dropp'd, in haste, the tributary tear ; 
 Then from th' adhering clasp the keys unbound, 
 And consolation for their sorrows found. 
 
 Death has his infant-train ; his bony arm 
 Strikes from the baby-cheek the rosy charm ; 
 The brightest eye his glazing film makes dim, 
 And his cold touch sets fast the lithest limb : 
 He seized the sick'ning boy to Gerard lent," 
 When three days' life, in feeble cries, were spent ; 
 In pain brought forth, those painful hours to stay, 
 To breathe in pain and sigh its soul away ! 
 
 " But why thus lent, if thus recall'd again, 
 " To cause and feel, to live and die in, pain ? " 
 Or rather say. Why grievous these appear. 
 If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year ; 
 If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure 
 Delights that live, when worlds no more endure ? 
 
 The sister-spirit long may lodge below. 
 And pains from nature, pains from reason, know ; 
 Through all the common ills of life may run. 
 By hope perverted and by love undone ; 
 A wife's distress, a mother's pangs, may dread. 
 And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed ; 
 May at old age arrive through numerous harms, 
 With children's children in those feeble arms : 
 Nor till by years of want and grief oppress'd 
 Shall the sad spirit flee and be at rest ! 
 
 Yet happier therefore shall we deem the boy, 
 Secured from anxious care and dangerous joy ? " 
 
 Not so ! for then would Love Divine in vain 
 Send all the burthens weary men sustain ; 
 
 » [" And I say to this man, Go, and he goeth ; and to ano- 
 ther, Come, and he cometh."— Jl/dtt. viii. 9.] 
 
 10 Gerard Ablett, see ante, p. 137. 
 
 11 [" ' \\Tiom the gods love, die young,* was said of yore. 
 
 And many deaths do tliey escape by this : 
 The death of friends, and that wliich slays even more, 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 149 
 
 All that now curb the passions when they rage, 
 The checks of youth and the regrets of age ; 
 All that now bid us hope, believe, endure. 
 Our sorrow's comfort and our vice's cure ; 
 All that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train, 
 And charity, the crown of all, were vain. 
 
 Say, will you call the breathless infant blest. 
 Because no cares the silent grave molest ? 
 So would you deem the nursling from the wing 
 Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing ; 
 But far more blest the bird whose grateful voice 
 Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice. 
 Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm'd the 
 
 ear, 
 Hard were his trials and his pains severe I 
 
 Next died the Lady who yon Hall possess'd. 
 And here they brought her noble bones to rest. 
 In Town she dwelt ; — forsaken stood the Hall : 
 "Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall : 
 No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd ; 
 No cheerful light the long-closed sash convey'd : 
 The crawling worm, that turns a summer fly. 
 Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die 
 The winter-death : — upon the bed of state. 
 The bat shrill shrieking woo'd his flickering mate ; 
 To empty rooms the curious came no more ; 
 From empty ceDars turn'd the angry poor, 
 And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door. 
 To one small room the steward found his way, 
 Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay;'- 
 Yet no complaint before the Lady came. 
 The feeling servant spared the feeble dame ; 
 "Who saw her farms with his observing eyes. 
 And answer'd all requests with his replies : — 
 She came not do-\^-n, her falling groves to view ; 
 Why should she know, what one so faithful knew ? 
 Why come, from many clamorous tongues to hear. 
 What one so just might whisper in her ear ? 
 Her oaks or acres, wliy with care explore ; 
 Why learn the wants, the sufi'erings of the poor ; 
 When one so knowing all their worth could ti-ace, 
 And one so piteous govern'd in her place ?'^ 
 
 Lo ! now, what dismal Sons of Darkness come, 
 To bear this Daughter of Indulgence home ; 
 Tragedians all, and well-aiTanged in black ! 
 Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack ; 
 "SVTio cause no teai% but gloomily pass by, 
 And shake their sables in the wearied eye, 
 That turns disgusted from the pompous scene, 
 Proud without grandeur, with profusion, mean ! 
 The tear for kindness past aff'ection owes ; 
 For worth deceased the sigh from reason flows ; 
 E'ea well-feign'd passion for our sorrows call. 
 And real tears for mimic miseries fall : 
 But this poor farce has neither truth nor art. 
 To please the fancy or to touch the heart ; 
 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent sliore 
 
 Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
 The old archer's arrow, perhaps the early grave 
 Which men weep over may be meant to save." 
 
 Byron.] 
 IS ['« This description of the lady of the manor's deserted 
 mansion is very striking, and in the good old taste of Pope 
 and Dryden." — Jeffrey.] 
 
 13 [" Absenteeism, all the world over, is the greatest of evils 
 that can befall a labouring population. "While," says Mr. 
 
 Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours 
 On the dry ground its fertilising shoM'ers ; 
 Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread. 
 When thunders roar and forky fires are shed ; 
 Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean. 
 With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene ; 
 Presents no objects tender or profound, 
 But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around. 
 
 When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms ap- 
 pear, 
 And oh ! how needless, when the woe 's sincere. 
 
 Slow to the vault they come, with heavy tread, 
 Bending beneath the Lady and her lead ; 
 A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest. 
 Close on that case the crimson velvet 's press'd ; 
 Ungenerous this, that to the worm denies. 
 With niggard-caution, his appointed prize ; 
 For now, ere yet he works his tedious way. 
 Through cloth and wood and metal to his prey, 
 That prey dissolving shall a mass remain. 
 That fancy loathes and worms themselves dis- 
 dain. 
 
 But see ! the master-mourner makes his way, 
 To end his otSce for the coffin'd clay ; 
 Pleased that our rustic men and maids behold 
 His plate like silver, and his studs like gold. 
 As they approach to spell the age, the name, 
 And all the titles of the illustrious dame. — 
 This as (my duty done) some scholar read, 
 A Village-father look'd disdain and said : 
 " Away, my friends ! why take such pains to know 
 "What some brave marble soon in church shall 
 
 show ? 
 " Where not alone her gracious name shall stand, 
 " But how she lived — the blessing of the land ; 
 " How much we all deplored the noble dead, 
 " What groans we utter'd and what tears we shed : 
 " Tears, true as those which in the sleepy eyes 
 " Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise ; 
 "Tears, true as those which, ere she found her 
 
 grave, 
 " The noble Lady to our sorrows gave." 
 
 DowTi by the church-way walk, and where the 
 
 brook 
 Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook ; 
 In that small house, with those green pales before. 
 Where jasmine trails on either side the door ; 
 Where those dark shrubs, that now grow wild at 
 
 will. 
 Were clipp'd in form and tantalised with skill ; 
 Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread. 
 Form'd shining borders for t)ie larkspurs' bed ; — 
 There lived a Lady, wise, austere, and nice. 
 Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice ; 
 In the dear fashions of her youth she dress'd, 
 A pea-green Joseph '^ was her favourite vest ; 
 
 Lewis, " I fancied my attorney to be resident on my estate, 
 he was attending to one of his ow n. During his absence, an 
 overseer was left in absolute power, which he abused to such 
 a degree, that the property was nearly ruined. Vet, while all 
 this was going on, my attorney WTOte'me letters filled with as- 
 surances of his perpetual vigilance for the poor creatures' w el- 
 fare ; nor, if I had not witnessed it myself, should I ever have 
 had the most distant idea how abominably thev had been 
 misused." — Quarterly Review, 1834.] 
 
 '■' [A lady's great-uoat 
 
 ■1 
 
150 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien, 
 Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and 
 lean. 
 
 There long she lived in maiden-state immured, 
 From looks of love and treacherous man secured ; 
 Though evil fame — -(but that was long before) 
 Had blown her dubious blast at Catherine's door : 
 A Captain thither, rich from India came. 
 And though a cousin call'd, it touch'd her fame : 
 Her annual stipend rose from his behest, 
 And all the long-prized treasures she possess'd : — 
 If aught like joy awhile appear'd to stay 
 In that stern face, and chase those frowns away, 
 'T was when her treasures she disposed for view 
 And heard the praises to their splendour due ; 
 Silks beyond price, so rich, they 'd stand alone, 
 And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone ; 
 Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set. 
 And bracelets fair in box of glossy jet; 
 Bright polish'd amber precious from its size, 
 Or forms the fairest fancy could devise : 
 Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs, 
 Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings ; 
 Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine 
 Round the pink'd rims of crisped Valentine. 
 Her china-closet, cause of daily care, 
 For woman's wonder held her pencill'd ware ; 
 That pictured wealth of China and Japan, 
 Like its cold mistress, shumi'd the eye of man. 
 
 Her neat small room, adom'd with maiden-taste, 
 A clipp'd French puppy, first of favourites, graced : 
 A parrot next, but dead and stuff 'd with art; 
 (For Poll, when living, lost the Lady's heart, 
 And then his life ; for he was heard to speak 
 Such frightful words as tinged his Lady's cheek :) 
 Unhappy bird ! who had no power to prove, 
 Save by such speech, his gratitude and love. 
 A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside ; 
 A tj'pe of sadness in the house of pride. 
 The polish'd surface of an India chest, 
 A glassy globe, in frame of ivory, press'd ; 
 Where swam two finny creatures ; one of gold. 
 Of silver one ; both beauteous to behold : — 
 All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit ; 
 The beast wcll-manner'd and the fishes mute. 
 A widow'd Aunt was there, compell'd by need 
 The nymph to flatter and her tribe to feed ; 
 Who veiling well her scorn, endured the clog, 
 Mute as the fish and fawning as the dog. 
 
 As years increased, these treasures, her delight. 
 Arose in value in their owner's sight : 
 A miser knows that, view it as he will, 
 A guinea kept is but a guinea still ; 
 And so he ])uts it to its projior use, 
 'J'liat something more this guinea may produce ; 
 But silks and rings, in the possessoi-'s eyes, 
 The oft'ner seen, the more in value rise. 
 And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow 
 The kind of pleasure that with years will grow. 
 
 But what avail'd tlieir worth — if worth had 
 they— 
 In the sad summer of her slow decay ? 
 
 Then we beheld her turn an anxious look 
 From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, — 
 A rich-bound Book of Prayer the Captain gave, 
 (Some Princess had it, or was said to have ;) 
 And then once more on all her stores look round. 
 And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, 
 
 Tliat told, " Alas ! how hard from these to part, 
 " And for new hopes and habits form the heart! 
 "What shall I do (she cried), my peace of mind 
 "To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?" 
 
 "Hear," we return'd ;—" these baubles cast 
 aside, 
 " Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride ; 
 " Thy closets shut, and ope thy kitchen's door ; 
 " There own thy failings, here invite the poor ; 
 " A friend of Mammon let thy bounty make ; 
 " For widow's prayers, thy vanities forsake ; 
 " And let the hungry of thy pride partake : 
 "Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey 
 " The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay !" 
 
 Alas ! 't was hard ; the treasures still had charms, 
 Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms ; 
 Still was tlie same unsettled, clouded view, 
 And the same plaintive cry, " What shall I do ?" 
 
 Nor change appear'd ; for when her race was 
 run. 
 Doubtful we all exclaim'd, " What has been done ?" 
 Apart she lived, and still she lies alone ; 
 Yon earthy heap awaits the flattering stone 
 On which invention shall be long employ'd, 
 To show the various worth of Catherine Lloijd. 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, 
 A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
 Noble he was, contemning all things mean. 
 His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene : 
 Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
 At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd : 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face : 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul approved. 
 Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved ; 
 To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd. 
 And with the firmest had the fondest mind : 
 AVere others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 
 And gave allowance where he needed none ; 
 Good he refused ■with future ill to buy. 
 Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ; 
 A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; 
 (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind. 
 To miss one favour, which their neighbours find :) 
 Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved: 
 I mark'd his action, when his infant died. 
 And his old neighbour for oflence was tried ; 
 The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek. 
 Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 
 If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride, 
 Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 
 Nor pride in learning, — though my Clerk agreed, 
 If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; 
 Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 
 None his sui)orior, and his equals few : — 
 But if that spirit in his soul had place, 
 It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 
 A pride in honest fume, by virtue gain'd, 
 In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd ; 
 Pride in the power that guar.ls his country's coast. 
 And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 
 Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, — 
 In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride. 
 
 He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim; 
 Christian and countrymen was all with him : 
 
THE PARISH REGISTER. 
 
 151 
 
 1^ 
 
 True to his church he came ; no Sunday-shower 
 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 
 Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
 
 By the strong glare of their new light direct ; — 
 
 " On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
 
 " But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." 
 
 In times sevei'e, when many a sturdy swain 
 Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; 
 Isaac their wants would soothe, his on^ti would 
 
 hide, 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 
 At length he found, when seventy years were 
 run, 
 His strength departed, and his labour done ; 
 When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more, 
 But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : 
 'T was then, a spark of — say not discontent — 
 Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : — 
 
 " Kind are your laws, ('t is not to be denied,) 
 " That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide, 
 " And they are just ;— when young we give you all, 
 " And for assistance in our weakness call. — 
 " Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
 •' To join your poor, and eat the parish-bread ? 
 •' But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, 
 " Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; 
 " He who, by contract, all your paupers took, 
 " And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
 " On some old master I could well depend ; 
 " See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; 
 '■ But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 ■' And counts our chances who at night may die : 
 " Yet help me, Heav'n ! and let me not complain 
 " Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." 
 
 Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew ; 
 Daily he placed the Workhouse in his view ! 
 But came not there, for sudden was his fate, 
 He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage-gate.'* 
 
 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer. 
 And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : 
 I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
 Round the bald polish of that honour'd head ; 
 No more that awful glance on playful wight, 
 Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
 To fold his fingers, all in dread the while. 
 Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile ; 
 No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there : — 
 But he is blest, and I lament no more 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. 
 
 Then died a Eambler : not the one who sails. 
 And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails ; 
 
 '5 [Isaac Ashford's prototype was honest John Jasper, the 
 parish-clerk of North Glerahara : of whose manly indepen- 
 lience of mind and integrity of conduct Mr. Crabbe often 
 spoke with cordial warmth and respect, long after he had left 
 Suffolk. John's only complaint was a dread of a workhouse, 
 when his ability to labour should be over.] 
 
 1° [Robin Dingley, the wandering pauper, was suggested 
 V>y 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 <lel't, 
 Foul-fiends and fear, — I 've felt ye all.] 
 
 " [" There is great force in these two lines ; but that which 
 gives the last finish to this vision of despair is contained in 
 these words : — 
 
 And then, ray dreams were such as nought 
 
 Could yield but my unhappy case ; 
 I 've been of thousand devils caught, 
 
 And thrust into that horrid place 
 ■^^here reign dismay, despair, disgrace ; 
 
 Furies with iron fangs were there. 
 To torture that accursed race 
 
 Doom'd to dismay, disgrace, despair. 
 
 Ilarmlcss I was; yet hunted down 
 
 For treasons, to my soul unfit ; 
 I 've been pursued through many a town, 
 
 For crimes that petty knaves commit ; 
 I 've been adjudged t' have lost my wit. 
 
 Because I preached so loud and well ; 
 And thro-vvn into the dungeon's pit, 
 
 For trampling on the pit of hell. 
 
 Such were the evils, man of sin, 
 
 That I was fated to sustain ; 
 And add to all, without — within, 
 
 A soul defiled with every stain 
 That man's reflecting mind can pain ; 
 
 That pride, wrong, rage, despair, can make ; 
 In fact, they 'd nearly touch'd my brain, 
 
 And reason on her throne would shake. 
 
 But pity will the vilest seek. 
 
 If punish'd guilt will not repine, — ■ 
 I heard a heavenly Teacher speak. 
 
 And felt the Sun of Meucy shine : 
 I hailed the light ! tlie birth divine ! 
 
 And then was seal'd among the fev/ ; 
 Those angry fiends beheld the sign. 
 
 And from me in an instant flew. 
 
 Come hear how thus the charmers cry 
 
 To wandering sheep, the strays of sin, 
 "While some the wicket-gate pass by. 
 
 And some will knock and enter in : 
 Full joyful 'tis a soul to win. 
 
 For he that winneth souls is wise ; 
 !Now haxk ! tho holy strains begin, 
 
 And thus the sainted proax^her cries ; '^ — 
 
 " Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin, 
 
 " Come the way to Zion's gate, 
 
 " There, tiU Mercy let thee in, 
 
 " Knock and weep and watch and wait. 
 " Knock ! — He knows the sinner's cry : 
 " Weep ! — He loves the mourner's tears : 
 " Watch ! — for saving grace is nigh : 
 " Wait, — till heavenly light appears. 
 
 ' And then, my dreams were such as naught 
 
 Could yield, but my unhappy case.' " — Gifforr.] 
 
 1' It has been suggested to me, that this change from rest- 
 lessness to repose, in the mind of Sir Eustace, is wrouglit by 
 a methodistic call ; and it is admitted to be such : a solier and 
 rational conversion could not have happened while the dis- 
 order of the brain continued : yet the verses which follow, in 
 a different measure, are not intended to make any religious 
 persuasion appear ridiculous ; they are to be supposed as the 
 effect of memory in the disordered mind of the speaker, and, 
 though evidently enthusiastic in respect to language, aie not 
 meant to convey any impropriety of sentiment. 
 
 I 
 
166 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 " llnrk ! it is the Bridegrroom's voice : 
 '•■Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest ; 
 " Now within tlie Rate rejoice, 
 '• Safe and seal'J and bought and blest ! 
 '• Safe — from all the lures of vice, 
 " Seal'd — by signs the chosen know, 
 " Bought — by love and life the price, 
 " Blest — the mighty debt to owe. 
 
 " Holy Pilgrim ! what for thee 
 " In a world like this remain ? 
 " From thy guarded breast shall flee 
 " Fear and shame, and doubt and pain. 
 " Fear — the hope of Heaven shall fly, 
 " Shame — from glory's view retire, 
 " Doubt — in certain rapture die, 
 *' Pain — in endless bliss expire." 
 
 But though ray day of grace was come, 
 
 Yet still my days of grief I find ; 
 The former clouds' collected gloom 
 
 Still sadden the reflecting mind ; 
 The soul, to evil things consign'd, 
 
 ■\Vill of their evil some retain ; 
 The man will seem to earth inclined, 
 
 And will not look erect again. 
 
 Thus, though elect, I feel it hard 
 
 To lose what I possess'd before, 
 To be from all my wealth debarr'd, — 
 
 The brave Sir Eustace is no more : 
 But old I wax, and passing poor. 
 
 Stem, rugged men my conduct view ; 
 They chide my wish, they bar my door, 
 
 'Tis hard — I weep — you see I do. — • 
 
 Must you, my friends, no longer stay ? 
 
 Thus quickly all my pleasures end ; 
 But I '11 remember, when I pray, 
 
 My kind physician and his friend ; 
 And those sad hours, you deign to spend 
 
 With me, I shall requite them all ; 
 Sir Eustace for his friends shall send, 
 
 And thank their love at Greyling Hall 
 
 visrroK. 
 
 The poor Sir Eustace ! — Yet his hope 
 
 Leads him to think of joys again ; 
 And when his earthly visions droop, 
 
 His views of heavenly kind remain : 
 But whence that meek and humbled strain, 
 
 That spirit wounded, lost, resign'd ? 
 Would not so proud a soul disdain 
 
 The madness of the poorest miud ? 
 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 No ! for the more he swell' d with pride, 
 
 The more he felt misfortune's blow ; 
 Disgrace and grief he could not hide. 
 
 And poverty had laid him low : 
 Thus shame and sorrow working slow, 
 
 At length this humble spirit gave ; 
 INIadness on these began to grow, 
 
 And bound him to his fiends a slave. 
 
 Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain. 
 
 Then was he free : — -So, forth he ran ; 
 To soothe or threat, alike were vain : 
 
 He spake of fiends ; look'd wild and wan ; 
 Year after year, the hurried man 
 
 Obey'd those fiends from place to place ; 
 Till his religious change began 
 
 To form a frenzied child of grace. 
 
 For, as the fury lost its strength, 
 
 The mind reposed ; by slow degrees 
 Came lingering hope, and brought at length, 
 
 To the tormented spirit, ease : 
 This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize, 
 
 Felt or believed their power had end ; — 
 " 'Tis faith," he cried, " my bosom frees, 
 
 " And now my Saviour is my friend." 
 
 But ah ! though time can yield relief, 
 
 And soften woes it cannot cure ; 
 AVould we not suffer pain and grief. 
 
 To have our reason sound and sure ? 
 Then let us keep our bosoms pure. 
 
 Our fancy's favourite flights suppress ; 
 Prepare the body to endure. 
 
 And bend the mind to meet distress ; 
 And then his guardian care implore. 
 
 Whom demons dread and men adore. 
 
THE HALL OF JUSTICE. 
 
 167 
 
 THE HALL OF JUSTICE, 
 
 IN TWO PAHTS.i 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Confiteor facere hoe annos; sed et altera causa est, 
 Anxietas animi, continuusque dolor. — Ovid. 
 
 MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &C. 
 
 VAGRANT. 
 
 Take, take away thy barbarous hand, 
 And. let me to thy Master speak ; 
 
 Remit awhile the harsh command, 
 And hear me, or my heart will break. 
 
 MAGISTRATE. 
 
 Fond wretch ! and what canst thou relate, 
 But deads of sorrow, shame, and sin? 
 
 Thy crime is proved, thou know'st thy fate ; 
 But come, thy tale ! — begin, begin I — 
 
 VAGRANT. 
 
 My crime ! This sick'ning child to feed, 
 
 I seized the food, your witness saw; 
 
 I knew your laws forbade the deed. 
 But yielded to a stronger law.^ 
 
 Know'st thou, to Nature's great command 
 All human laws are frail and weak ? 
 
 Nay ! frown not — stay his eager liand. 
 And hear me, or my heart will break. 
 
 In this, th' adopted babe I hold 
 
 With anxious fondness to my breast. 
 
 My heart's sole comfort I behold, 
 
 More dear than life, when life was blest ; 
 
 I saw her pining, fainting, cold, 
 
 I begg'd — but vain was my request. 
 
 ' [See Preface, ante, p. 100.] 
 
 2 [Original MS. :— Or, 
 
 What is my crime? — a deed of love ; 
 
 I fed my child with pilfer'd food : 
 Your laws will not the act approve; 
 Tlie law of Nature deems it good.J 
 
 I saw the tempting food, and seized — 
 My infant-sufferer found relief; 
 
 And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleased, 
 
 Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd my grief. 
 
 But I have griefs of other kind, 
 Troubles and sorrows more severe ; 
 
 Give me to ease my tortured mind. 
 Lend to my woes a patient ear ; 
 
 And let me — if I may not find 
 
 A friend to help — find one to hear. 
 
 Yet nameless let me plead — my name 
 Would only wake the cry of scorn ; 
 
 A child of sin, conceived in sliame, 
 Brought forth in woe, to misery born 
 
 My mother dead, my father lost, 
 I wander'd with a vagrant crew ; 
 
 A common care, a common cost ; 
 
 Their sorrows and their sins I knew ; 
 
 With them, by want on error forced. 
 Like them, I base and guilty grew. 
 
 Few are my years, not so my crimes : 
 The age, which these sad looks declare. 
 
 Is Sorrow's work, it is not Time's, 
 And I am old in shame and care.^ 
 
 Taught to believe the world a place 
 Where every stranger was a foe, 
 
 Train'd in the arts that mark our race, 
 To what new people could I go ? 
 
 Could I a better life embrace. 
 
 Or live as virtue dictates ? No I — 
 
 So through the land I wandering went. 
 And little found of grief or joy ; 
 
 But lost my bosom's sweet content 
 When first I loved — the Gipsy-Boy. 
 
 3 [Original MS. :— 
 
 My years, indeed, are sad and few. 
 
 Though weak these limbs, and shrunk thL* firame : 
 For Grief has done what Time should do; 
 
 And I am old in care and shame.] 
 
168 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 A sturdy youth he was and tall, 
 
 His looks would all his soul declare ; 
 
 His piercing eyes were deep and small, 
 And strongly curl'd his raven-hair. 
 
 Yes. Aakon had each manly charm, 
 All in the 3Iay of youthful pride, 
 
 He scarcely fear'd his fa tiler's arm, 
 And every other arm defied. — 
 
 Oft. when they grew in anger warm, 
 
 (Whom will not love and power divide ?) 
 
 I rose, their wrathful souls to calm, 
 2\ot yet in sinful combat tried. 
 
 His father was our party's chief, 
 
 And dark and dreadful was his look ; 
 
 His presence fiU'd my heart with grief. 
 Although to me he kindly spoke. 
 
 "With Aaron I delighted went, 
 
 His favour was my bliss and pride ; 
 
 In growing hope our days v,e spent. 
 Love growing charms in either spied ; 
 
 It saw them all which Nature lent. 
 It lent them all which she denied. 
 
 Could I the father's kindness prize, 
 Or grateful looks on him bestow. 
 
 Whom I beheld in wrath arise, 
 
 When Aaron sunk beneath his blow? 
 
 lie drove him down with wicked hand, 
 
 It was a dreadful sight to see ; 
 Then vex'd him, till he left the land, 
 
 And told his cruel love to me ; 
 The clan were all at his command, 
 
 "Whatever his command might be. 
 
 The night was dark, the lanes were deep. 
 And one by one they took their way ; 
 
 He bade me lay me down and sleep, 
 I only wept and wish'd for day. 
 
 Accursed be the love he bore. 
 Accursed was the force he used. 
 
 So let him of his God implore 
 For mercy, and be so refused ! 
 
 You frown again, — to show my wrong 
 Can I in gentle language speak ? 
 
 My woes are deep, my words arc strong, — 
 And hear mc, or my licart will break. 
 
 MAGISTHATE. 
 
 I hear thy words, I feel thy pain ; 
 
 Forbear awhile to speak thy woes; 
 Receive our ai<l, and then again 
 
 The story of thy life disclose. 
 
 For, thou.'^h seduced and led astray, 
 
 Thou'st travcll'd far and wander'd long; 
 
 Thy God hath seen thee nil the way. 
 And all the turns that led thee wrong. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Quondam ridentes oculi, nunc fonte perenni 
 Deplorant poenas nocte dieque suas. 
 
 Corn. Qaill Eli- 
 
 MAGISTRATE. 
 
 Come, now again thy woes impart, 
 Tell all thy sorrows, all thy sin ; 
 
 We cannot heal the throbbing heart 
 Till we discern the wounds within. 
 
 Compunction weeps our guilt away. 
 The sinner's safety is his pain ; 
 
 Such pangs for our offences pay. 
 And these severer griefs are gain. 
 
 A'AGRANT. 
 
 The son came back — he found us wed, 
 Then dreadful was the oath he swore ; — 
 
 His way through Blackburn Forest led, — 
 His father we beheld no more. 
 
 Of all our daring clan not one 
 
 Would on the doubtful subject dwell; 
 
 For all esteem'd the injured son. 
 
 And fear'd the tale which he could telL 
 
 But I had mightier cause for fear. 
 
 For slow and mournful round my bed 
 
 I saw a dreadful form appear, — 
 It came when I and Aaron wed. 
 
 Yes ! we were wed, I know my crime, — 
 We slept beneath the elm in tree ; 
 
 But I was grieving all the time. 
 
 And Aaron frown'd my tears to see. 
 
 For he not yet had felt the pain 
 That rankles in a wounded breast ; 
 
 He waked to sin, then slept again. 
 Forsook his God, yet took his rest. — 
 
 But I was forced to feign delight, 
 
 And joy in mirth and music sought, — 
 
 And mem'ry now recalls the niglit. 
 
 With such surprise and horror fraught, 
 
 That reason felt a moment's flight, 
 
 And left a mind to madness wrought.* 
 
 When waking, on my heaving breast 
 I felt a hand as cold as death : 
 
 A sudden fear my voice snppress'd, 
 A chilling terror stopp'd my breath. — 
 
 I scem'd — no words can utter how ! 
 For there my father-husband stood, — 
 
 * [Ori'inal MS. :— 
 
 Compi'll'il to feast, in full dcli^'lif, 
 \Vlien I MILS ami and wanted power. 
 
 Can I for^'et tliat dismal night? 
 All ! liow did I survive the hour ?] 
 
THE HALL OF JUSTICE. 
 
 1G9 
 
 And thus he said :— " Will God allow, 
 "The great Avenger just and Good, 
 
 " A wife to break her marriage vow ? 
 *' A son to shed his father's blood ?" ' 
 
 I trembled at the dismal sounds. 
 
 But vainly strove a word to say ; 
 So, pointing to his bleeding wounds, 
 
 The tlueat'ning spectre stalk'd away." 
 
 I brought a lovely daughter forth, 
 Ilis father's child, in Aaron's bed ; 
 
 lie took her from me in his wrath, 
 
 " Whers is my child ?"— " Thy child is dead." 
 
 'T was false — we wander'd far and wide. 
 Through town and country, field and fea, 
 
 Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died, 
 And I became a wife again. 
 
 I then was young : — my husband sold 
 My fancied charms for wicked price ; 
 
 He gave me oft for sinful gold. 
 
 The slave, but not the friend of vice : — 
 
 Behold me, Heaven ! my pains behold, 
 And let them for my sins suffice ! 
 
 The wretch who lent me thus for gain, 
 Despised me when my youth was fled ; 
 
 Then came disease, and brought me pain : — 
 Como, Death, and bear me to the dead ! 
 
 For though I grieve, my grief is vain, 
 And fruitless all the tears I shed. 
 
 True, I was not to virtue train'd. 
 Yet well I knew my deeds were ill; 
 
 By each olTence my heart was pain'd 
 I wept, but I offended still ; 
 
 My better thoughts my life disdain'd, 
 But yet the viler led my will. 
 
 My husband died, and now no more 
 
 ISIy smile was sought, or ask'd my hand, 
 
 A widow'd vagrant, vile and poor. 
 Beneath a vagrant's vile command. 
 
 Ceaseless I roved the country round. 
 To win my bread by fraudful arts, 
 And long a poor subsistence found. 
 By spreading nets for simple hearts. 
 
 Though poor, and abject, and despised, 
 Their fortunes to the crowd I told ; 
 
 I gave the young the love they prized. 
 And promised wealth to bless the old. 
 
 Schemes for the doubtful I devised. 
 And charms for the forsaken sold. 
 
 At length for arts like these confined 
 
 In prison with a lawless crew, 
 I soon perceived a kindred mind. 
 
 And there my long-lost daughter knew ; 
 
 * [MS. :-0r, 
 
 And there my father-husband stood— 
 I felt no words can tell you liow — 
 
 As he was wont in angrv linood, 
 
 And thus he cried, " Will (iod allow," &c.] 
 
 " Tlie state of mind liere described will account for a vision 
 
 His father's child, whom Aaron gave 
 To wander with a distant clan, 
 
 The miseries of the world to brave. 
 And be the slave of vice and man. 
 
 She knew my name — we met in pain. 
 
 Our parting pangs can I express ? 
 She sail'd a convict o'er the main, 
 And left an heir to her distress. 
 
 This is that heir to shame and pain, 
 
 For whom I only could descry 
 A world of trouble and disdain : 
 
 Yet, could I bear to see her die. 
 Or stretch her feeble hands in vain. 
 
 And, weeping, beg of me supply i 
 
 No ! though the fate thy mother knew 
 Was shameful ! shameful though thy race 
 
 Have wander'd all a lawless crew. 
 Outcasts despised in every place ; 
 
 Yet as the dark and muddy tide. 
 When far from its polluted source. 
 
 Becomes more pure and purified. 
 Flows in a clear and happy course ; 
 
 In thee, dear infant ! so may end 
 
 Our shame, in thee our sorrows cease ! 
 
 And thy pure course will then extend, 
 In floods of joy, o'er vales of peace. 
 
 Oh ! by the God who loves to spare. 
 Deny me not the boon I crave ; 
 
 Let this loved child your mercy share. 
 And let me find a peaceful grave ; 
 
 Make her yet spotless soul your care. 
 And let my sins their portion have ; 
 
 Her for a better fate prepare. 
 
 And punish whom 't were sin to save ! 
 
 MAGISTRATE. 
 
 Kecall the word, renounce the thought, 
 Command thy heart and bend thy knee. 
 
 There is to all a pardon brought, 
 A ransom rich, assured and free ; 
 
 'T is full when found, 't is found if sought, 
 Oh ! seek it, till 't is seal'd to thee. 
 
 VAGRANT. 
 
 But how my pardon shall I know ? 
 
 MAGISTRATE. 
 
 By feeling dread that't is not sent. 
 By tears for sin that freely flow. 
 
 By grief, that all thy tears are spent. 
 By thoughts on that great debt we owe, 
 
 With all the mercy God has lent. 
 By suffering what thou canst not show. 
 
 Yet showing how thine heart is rent, 
 Till thou canst feel thy bosom glow, 
 
 And say, " My Saviour, I Repent I" ? 
 
 of this nature, without having recourse to any supernatural 
 appearance. 
 
 ' ["The Hall of Justice, or the story of the Gipsy Convict, 
 is very nervous, — very shockinfj, — and very powerfully 
 represented. It is written with very unusual power of lan- 
 tjua^'e, and shows Mr. Crabbe to liave great ma-stcry over the 
 tragic passions of pity and horror." — jEFruEV.] 
 
170 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 WOMAN! 
 
 MR. LEDYARD, AS QUOTED BY MUNGO PAKKE IN HIS 
 TRAVELS INTO AFRICA : — 
 
 " To a Woman I never addressed myself in the lanfjuage of 
 " decency and friendship, without receiving a decent anil 
 " friendly answer. If I was hungry or thirsty, wet or sick, 
 " they did not hesitate, like Men, to perform a generous 
 " action : in so free and kind a manner did they contribute 
 " to my relief, that if I was dry, I drank the sweetest 
 " draught, and if hungry, I ate the coarsest morsel with a 
 " double relish." 
 
 Place the white man on Afric's coast, 
 
 AVhose swarthj' sons in blood delight, 
 Who of their scoi-n to Europe boast, 
 
 And i^aint their very demons white : 
 There, while the sterner sex disdains 
 
 To soothe the woes they cannot feel, 
 Woman will strive to heal his pains, 
 
 And weep for those she cannot heal : 
 Hers is warm pity's sacred glow ; 
 
 From all her stores she bears a part, 
 And bids the spring of liope re-flow, 
 
 That languish'd in the fainting heart. 
 
 " What though so pale his haggard face, 
 
 " So sunk and sad his looks," — she cries; 
 " And far unlike our nobler race, 
 
 " With crisped locks and rolling eyes ; 
 " Yet misery marks him of our kind : 
 
 " We see him lost, alone, afraid ; 
 " And pangs of body, griefs in mind, 
 " Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. 
 
 " Perhaps in some far-distant shore 
 
 " There are who in these forms delight ; 
 
 " Whose milky features please them more, 
 " Than ours of jet thus burnished bright; 
 
 ' [In .Mr. Crabbe's note-book, wliich contains the original 
 draught of " Woman," tliere occur also the followinir 
 stan^aa : — ° 
 
 A weary Traveller walk'il liis way, 
 
 Witli grief and want and pain opprest : 
 
 His looks were sad, his locks were grey ; 
 He sought for food, he sigh'd for rest.' 
 
 A wealthy gra/.ior pass'd— " Attend," 
 
 Tlie suiferer cried — "some aid allow : "— 
 
 " Thou art not of my p.u-ish. Friend ; 
 Nor am I in mine ollice now." 
 
 He driipt, and more impatient pray'd — 
 A mild adviser heard the word : 
 
 " Of such may be his weeping wife, 
 " Sucli children for their sire may call, 
 
 " And if we spare his ebbing life, 
 
 " Our kindness may preserve them all." 
 
 Thus her compassion Woman shows : 
 
 Beneath the line her acts are these ; 
 Is or the wide waste of Lapland-snows 
 Can her warm flow of pity freeze : — ■ 
 
 " From some sad land the stranger comes, 
 " AVhere joys like ours are never found ; 
 " Let 's soothe him in our happy homes, 
 " Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. 
 
 " 'T is good the fainting soul to cheer, 
 " To see the famish'd stranger fed ; 
 " To milk for him the mother-deer, 
 " To smooth for him the furry bed. 
 " The powers above our Lapland bless 
 " With good no other people know ; 
 " T' enlarge the joys that we possess, 
 " By feeling those that we bestow !" 
 
 Thus in extremes of cold and heat. 
 
 Where wandering man may trace his kind •, 
 
 Wherever grief and want retreat. 
 In AVoman they compassion find ; 
 
 She makes the female breast her scat, 
 And dictates mercy to the mind. 
 
 Man may the sterner virtues know, 
 
 Determined justice, truth severe ; 
 But female hearts with pity glow. 
 
 And AVoman holds affliction dear; 
 For guiltless woes her sorrows flow, 
 
 And suffering vice compels her tear ; 
 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below. 
 
 And bid life's fairer views appear: 
 To AVoman's gentle kind we owe 
 
 AVhat comforts and delights us here ; 
 They its gay hopes on youth bestow, 
 
 And care they soothe, and age they cheer.' 
 
 " Be patient. Friend!" ho kindlv said, 
 " And wait the leisure of tlie Lord." 
 
 Another comes ! — " Turn, stranger, turn I" 
 " Not so !" replied a voice : " I mean 
 
 " The ranille of the Lord to l)urn 
 
 " With mine own llock on Save-all Green. 
 
 " To war with Salan, thrust for thrust ; 
 
 " To gain my lamb he led iistr.ay ; 
 " The Spirit drives me : on I must— 
 
 " Vea, woe is me, if I delay! " 
 
 But VVoMAN came ! by Heaven dosign'd 
 To ense tlie heart tliat throl)s witli pain — 
 
 Slie gave relief — al)undant — kind - 
 .\nd bade liim go in peace again.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 171 
 
 THE BOKOUGH.' 
 
 Paulo majora canamus. — Viroil. 
 
 TO HIS GRACE 
 
 THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, MARQUIS OF GRANBY ; 
 
 recorder of cambridge and scarborough ; 
 liord-lieltenant and gustos rotulorum of the count? of leicester ; 
 
 k.g. and ll.d. 
 
 My Lord, 
 The Poem for which I have ventured to solicit your Grace's attention -was composed in a situation so 
 near to Belvoir Castle, that the author had all the advantage to be derived from prospects extensive 
 and beautiful, and from works of grandeur and sublimity : and though nothing of the influence arising 
 from such situation should be discernible in these verses, either from want of adequate powers in the 
 writer, or because his subjects do not assimilate with such views, yet would it be natural for him to 
 indulge a wish that he might inscribe his labours to the lord of a scene which perpetually excited his 
 admiration, and he would plead the propriety of placing the titles of the House of Rutland at the en- 
 trance of a volume written in the Vale of Belvoir.^ 
 
 But, my Lord, a motive much more powerful than a sense of propriety, a grateful remembrance of 
 benefits conferred by the noble family in which you preside, has been the great inducement for me to 
 wish that I might be permitted to inscribe this work to your Grace : the honours of that time were to 
 me unexpected, they were unmerited, and they were transitory : but since I am thus allowed to make 
 public my gratitude, I am in some degree restored to the honour of that period ; I have again the 
 happiness to find myself favoured, and my exertions stimulated, by the condescension of the Duke of 
 Rutland. 
 
 It was my fortune, in a poem which yet circulates, to write of the virtues, talents, and heroic death of 
 Lord Robert Manners, and to bear witness to the affection of a brother whose grief was poignant, and 
 to be soothed only by remembrance of his worth whom he so deeply deplored.^ In a patron thus 
 favourably predisposed, my Lord, I might look for much lenity, and could not fear the severity of cri- 
 
 1 [" The Borough," which was begun while Mr. Crabbe 
 resided at Rendham, was completed during a visit to liis 
 native town of Aldborougli, in the autumn of 1809, and pub- 
 lislied in February, 1810. In the preface he is found ascribing 
 tins new appearance to the extraordinary success of the 
 " Parish Register ;" and Mr. Jeffrey commenced his review 
 of the " Borough" in these terms {Edin. Rev. 1810):—" We 
 are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabbe so soon again ; and 
 particularly glad to find that his early return has been occa- 
 sioned, in part, by the encouragement he received on his last 
 appearance. This late spring of public favour, we hope, he 
 will yet live to see ripen into mature fame. We scarcely 
 know any poet who deserves it better; and are quite certain 
 there is none who is more secure of keeping with posterity 
 wliatever he may win from his contemporaries."] 
 
 * [Mr. Crabbe, in 1790, wrote, at Muston, an Ussay on the 
 Natural History of the Vale of Belvoir, which he contributed 
 to Mr. N ichols's History of Leicestershire. The motto is from 
 Drayton's Polyolbion : — 
 
 " Do but compare the country where I lie, 
 My hills and oulds will say, they are the island's eye ; 
 Consider next my site, and say it doth excel ; 
 Then come unto my soil, and you shall see it well, 
 With every grass and grain that Britain forth can bring ; 
 I challenge any vale to sliow me but tliat thing 
 I cannot show to her, that truly is my own."] 
 
 » [See ante, pp. 33, 119, 121.] 
 
172 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 tical examination: from your Grace, who, happily, have no sucli impediment to justice, I must not look 
 for the same kind of indulgence. I am assured, by those whose situation gave them opportunity for 
 knowledge, and whose abilities and attention guarded them from error, that I must not expect my fail- 
 ings will escape detection from want of discernment, neither am I to fear that any merit will be undis- 
 tinguished through deficiency of taste. It is from this information, my Lord, and a consciousness of 
 much which needs forgiveness, that I entreat your Grace to read my verses, with a wish, I had almost 
 added, with a purpose to be pleased, and to make every possible allowance for subjects not always 
 pleasing, for manners sometimes gross, and for language too frequently incorrect. 
 
 T\^ith the fullest confidence in your Grace's ability and favour, in the accuracy of your judgment, and 
 the lenity of your decision ; with grateful remembrance of benefits received, and due consciousness of 
 the little I could merit : with prayers that your Grace may long enjoy the dignities of the House of 
 Rutland, and continue to dictate improvement for the surrounding country ; — I terminate an address, 
 in which a fear of offending your Grace has made me so cautious in my expressions, that I may justly 
 fe^r to offend many of my readers, who will think that something more of animation should have been 
 excited by the objects I view, the benevolence I honour, and the gratitude I profess. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 My Loud, 
 
 Your Grace's most obliged 
 
 and obedient humble servant, 
 Maston, Dec. 1809. George CRABBr. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Whether, if I had not been encouraged by some 
 proofs of public favour, I should have written the 
 Poem now before the reader, is a question which I 
 cannot positively determine ; but 1 will venture to 
 assert that 1 should not, in that case, have com- 
 mitted the work to the press ; 1 should not have 
 allowed my own opinion of it to have led me into 
 further disappointment, against the voice of judges 
 impartial and indifferent, from whose sentence it 
 had been fruitless to appeal : the success of a late 
 publication, therefore, may be fairly assigned as 
 the principal cause for the appearance of this. 
 
 AVhen the ensuing Letters were so far written 
 that 1 could form an opinion of them, and when I 
 began to conceive that they might not be unac- 
 ceptable to tlie public, 1 felt myself prompted by 
 duty, as well as interest, to put them to the press ; 
 I considered myself bound, by gratitude for the 
 favourable treatment I had already received, to 
 show that I was not unmindful of it ; and, how- 
 ever this might be mixed with other motives, it 
 operated with considerable force upon my mind, 
 acting as a stimulus to exertions naturally tardy, 
 and to expectations easily checked. 
 
 It must nevertheless be acknowledged that, 
 although such favourable opinion had been formed, 
 1 was not able, with the requisite impartiality, to 
 determine the comparative value of an unpublished 
 manuscript and a work sent into the world. Books, 
 like children, wlicn established, have doubtless our 
 parental affection and good wishes ; we rejoice to 
 
 hear that they are doing well, and are received and 
 respected in good company ; but it is to manu- 
 scripts in the study, as to children in the nursery, 
 that our care, our anxiety, and our tenderness are 
 principally directed : they are fondled as our en- 
 dearing companions ; their faults are corrected 
 with the lenity of partial love, and their good 
 parts are exaggerated by the strength of parental 
 imagination ; nor is it easy even for the more cool 
 and reasonable among parents, thus circumstanced, 
 to decide upon the comparative merits of their 
 offspring, whether they be children of the bed or 
 issue of the brain. 
 
 But however favourable my own opinion may 
 have been, or may still be, I could not venture to 
 commit so long a Poem to the press without some 
 endeavour to obtain the more valuable opinion of 
 less partial judges : at the same time, 1 am willing 
 to confess that 1 have lost some portion of tlie 
 timidity once so painful, and that I am encouraged 
 to take upon myself the decision of various points 
 which heretofore 1 entreated my friends to decide. 
 Those friends were then my council whose opinion 
 I was implicitly to follow ; they are now advisers 
 whose ideas 1 am at liberty to reject. This will 
 not, I hope, seem like arrogance: it would be more 
 safe, it would be more pleasant, still to have that 
 reliance on the judgment of others; but it cannot 
 always be obtained : nor are thcj', however friendly 
 disposed, ever ready to lend a helping hand to him 
 whom thoy consider as one who ought by this time 
 to have cast away the timidity of inexperience, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 173 
 
 and to hnve acquired the courage that would enable 
 hiui to decide for himself. 
 
 "When it is confessed that I have less assistance 
 from my friends, and that the appearance of this 
 work is, in a great measure, occasioned by the 
 success of a former ; some readers will, I fear, 
 entertain the opinion that the book before them 
 was written in haste, and published without due 
 examination and revisal : should this opinion be 
 formed, there will doubtless occur many faults 
 which may appear as originating in neglect : Now, 
 readers are, 1 believe, disposed to treat with more 
 than common severity those writers who have been 
 led into presumption by the approbation bestowed 
 on their diffidence, and into idleness and uncon- 
 cern by the praises given to their attention. I am 
 therefore even anxious it should be generally 
 knoTiTi that sufficient time and application were 
 bestowed upon this woi'k, and by tliis I mean that 
 no material alteration would be effected by delay; 
 it is true that this confession removes one plea for 
 the errors of the book, want of time ; but, in my 
 opinion, there is not much consolation to be drawn 
 by reasonable minds from this resource : if a work 
 fails, it appears to be poor satisfaction vrhen it is 
 observed, that, if the author had taken more care, 
 the event had been less disgraceful. 
 
 "When the reader enters into the Poem, he will 
 find the author retired from view, and an imaginary 
 personage brought forward to describe his Borough 
 for him ; to him it seemed convenient to speak in 
 the first person : but the inhabitant of a village, 
 in the centre of the kingdom, could not appear in 
 the character of a residing burgess in a large sea- 
 port ; and when, with this point, was considered 
 what relations were to be given, what manners 
 delineated, and what situations described, no 
 method appeared to be so convenient as that of 
 
 ' [An intimate personal friend of Mr. Crabbe says : — 
 "Nevertheless the gmeral description of " The Borouf,'li " is 
 evidently that of Aldborough magnified — nay, by the poet's 
 own confession it is so : — 
 
 ' At lier old house, her dress, her air the same, 
 I see mine ancient letter-loving dame : 
 If critics pardon what my friends approved. 
 Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved ? 
 Shall I not think what pains the matron took, 
 When first I trembled o'er the gilded book,' ^c. 
 
 Letter 18. 
 
 Still is the imaijinarij town a vast enlargement of the real 
 one, containing little more than a thousand inhabitants, and 
 having neither hospital, nor alms-house, nor clubs; and, till 
 lately, neither sects nor schools."] 
 
 * [On this dictum there is a pretty paragraph or two in 
 " Tlie Doi-tor :" — " Tiie poet Crabbe has said tliat there sub- 
 sists an utter repugnancy between the studies of topography 
 and poetry. He must have intended by topography, wlien 
 he said so, the mere definition of boundaries and specification 
 of landmarks, such as are given in the advertisement of an 
 estate for sale ; and boys in certain parts of the country are 
 taught to bear in mind by a remembrance in tail, when the 
 bounds of a parish are walked by the local autliorities. Sucli 
 topography, indeed, bears as little relation to poetry as a map 
 or chart to a picture. But if he had any wider meanin-„', it is 
 evident, by the number of topographical poems, good, bad, 
 and indiff"erent, with which our language abounds, that Mr. 
 Crabbe's predecessors in verse, and his contemporaries also, 
 have difl'ered greatly from him in opinion upon this point. 
 
 borrowing the assistance of an ideal friend ; by 
 this means the reader is in some degree kept from 
 view of any particular place, nor will he perhaps 
 be so likely to determine where those persons 
 reside, and what their connections, who are so 
 intimately known to this man of straw.' 
 
 From the title of this Poem, some persons will, 
 I fear, expect a political satire, — an attack upon 
 corrupt principles in a general view, or upon the 
 customs and manners of some particular place ; of 
 these they will find nothing satirised, nothing re- 
 lated. It may be that graver readers would have 
 preferred a more historical account of so con- 
 siderable a Borough — its charter privileges, trade, 
 public structures, and subjects of this kind ; but I 
 have an apology for the omission of these things, in 
 the difficulty of describing them, and in the utter 
 repugnancy which subsists between the studies and 
 objects of topography and poetrj'."^ "What I thought 
 I could best describe, that I attempted : — the sea 
 and the country in the immediate vicinity ; the 
 dwellings, and the inhabitants ; some incidents and 
 characters, with an exhibition of morals and man- 
 ners, offensive perhaps to those of extremely deli- 
 cate feelings, but sometimes, I hope, neither un- 
 amiable nor unaffecting : an Election, indeed, 
 forms a part of one Letter, but the evil there de- 
 scribed is one not greatly nor generallj^ deplored, 
 and there are probably many places of this kind 
 where it is not felt. 
 
 From the variety of relations, characters, and 
 descriptions which a Borough affords, several 
 were rejected which a reader might reasonably 
 expect to have met vrith : in this case he is en- 
 treated to believe that these, if they occurred 
 to the author, were considered by him as beyond 
 his abilit}', as subjects which he could not treat in 
 a manner satisfactory to himself.^ Possibly, the 
 
 Tlie Polyolbion, notwithstanding its commonplace personi- 
 fications and its inartificial transitions, which are as abrupt as 
 tliose in the Metamorphoses or Fasti, and not so graceful, is, 
 nevertheless, a work as much to be valued by the students 
 and lovers of English literature as V>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 an<l 
 removing tliis kind of repetiliuns, my readers, I question 
 not, would, if disposed to seek them, find many remaining. 
 For these, I can only plead that common excuse — they are tlie 
 offences of a bad memory, and not of volunt.iry in.itiention ; 
 to which I must add the diflii-ultv (I liave alreadv nicnlioned) 
 of avoiding the error; this kind of plagiarism will tliircturc, 
 I conceive, be treated with lenity ; and of the more criminal 
 
 Death levels man, — the wicked and the jast, 
 The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust ; 
 And by the honours dealt to every name, 
 The King of Terrors seems to level fame. 
 — See ! liere lamented wives, and every wife 
 The pride and comfort of her husband's life ; 
 Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced, 
 His mournful widow has a trophy placed ; 
 And here 't is doubtful if the duteous son, 
 Or the good father, be in praise outdone. 
 
 This may be Nature : when our friends we 
 lose. 
 Our alter'd feelings alter too our views ; 
 What in their tempers teased us or distrcss'd. 
 Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest ; 
 And much we grieve, no longer trial made. 
 For that impatience which we then display'd ; 
 Now to their love and worth of every kind 
 A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind ; 
 Virtues neglected then, adored become. 
 And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb. 
 
 'T is well ; but let not love nor grief believe 
 That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve) 
 To all that praise which on the tomb is read, 
 To all that passion dictates for the dead ; 
 But more indignant, we the tomb deride. 
 Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.'® 
 
 Head of this Burgess — on the stone appear 
 How worthy he ! how virtuous ! and how dear I 
 What wailing was there when his spirit fled. 
 How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead, 
 And tears abundant through the town were shed ; 
 See ! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise, 
 And free from all disgrace and all disguise ; '* 
 
 kind — borrowing from others — I plead, with much confidence, 
 " Not guilty." But while I claim exemption from guilt, I 
 do not affirm that much of sentiment and much of expression 
 may not be detected in the vast collection of English poetry. 
 It is sufficient for an author, that he uses not the words or ideas 
 of another without acknowledgment; and this, and no more 
 than this, I mean, by disclaiming debts of the kind ; yet re- 
 semblances are sometimes so very striking, that it requires 
 faith in a reader to admit they were undesigned. .\ line in 
 this letter, 
 
 " .\nd monuments themselves memorials need," 
 was written long before the author, in an accidental recourse 
 to Juvenal, read — 
 
 " Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris."* 
 
 Silt. X. i4rt. 
 
 and for this, I believe, the reader will readily give me credit. 
 
 10 [" Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, 
 Kscape in monsters, and amaze the town : 
 Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines. 
 Hence journals, medleys, merc'ries, magazines, 
 SEruLCHRAL LIES, our holy Walls to grace," &c. — Popk. 
 
 " This," says Warburton, "is a just satire on the daftories 
 :.nd falsehoods admitted to be inscribed on the walls of 
 churches, in epitaphs. The following epigram alludes to the 
 too long and sometimes fulsome epitaphs written by Ur. 
 Friend, in pure Latinity indeed, but full of antitheses : — 
 ' Friend! in your epitaphs I'm griev'd 
 So very much is said : 
 One half will never be believ'd. 
 The other never read.' "] 
 
 " [" Poath," says Bishop Home, "may be said, wi'h 
 almost cquiil propri<>ty, 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 rea<l his poetry superlicially and 
 by snatches anil glances, it may seem to give too dark a 
 picture of life ; but this, we are convinced, is not the feeling 
 which the study of llii; ivhulc awakens. Hero and there he 
 presents us with images of almost perfect beauty, innocence, 
 and happiness ; but us such things are seldom seen, and soon 
 disappear in real life, it seems to be .Mr. Crabbe's oiiinion, 
 that so likewise ought they to start out with sudden and tran- 
 sitory smiles, among the darker, the more solemn, or the 
 gloomy pictures of liis poeiry. It is certain that there are, in 
 liis writings, pusaagcs of as pure and profound pathos as in 
 
 Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past^ 
 But take a slight memorial of the last. 
 
 To what famed college we our Vicar owe, 
 To what fair county, let historians show : 
 Few now remember when the mild young man, 
 Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began ; 
 Few live to speak of that soft sootliing look 
 He cast around, as he prepared his book ; 
 It was a kind of supplicating smile. 
 But nothing hopeless of applause the while ; 
 And when he finished, his corrected pride 
 Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied. 
 Thus he his race began, and to the end 
 His constant care was, no man to offend ; 
 No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind ; 
 Nor urged the Priest to leave the Flock be- 
 hind ; 
 He was his Master's Soldier, but not one 
 To lead an army of his Martyrs on : 
 Fear was his ruling passion ; yet was Love, 
 Of timid kind, once known his heart to move ; 
 It led his patient spirit where it paid 
 Its languid offerings to a listening Maid : 
 She, with her widow'd Mother, heard him speak, 
 And sought awhile to find what he would seek : 
 Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew, 
 And paid the same attention to the two ; 
 Meeting and parting without joy or pain. 
 He seem'd to come that he might go again. 
 
 The wondering girl, no prude, but something 
 nice. 
 At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice ; 
 She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace. 
 That she must turn and meet him in the chase : 
 This not approving, she withdrew, till one 
 Came who appear'd with livelier hope to run ; 
 Who sought a readier way the heart to move, 
 Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love. 
 
 Accuse me not that I approving paint 
 Impatient Hope or Love without restraint ; 
 Or think the Passions, a tumultuous throng. 
 Strong as they are, ungovernably strong : 
 But is the laurel to the soldier due. 
 Who, cautious, comes not into danger's view ? 
 What worth has Virtue by Desire untried. 
 When Nature's self enlists on duty's side ? 
 
 The married dame in vain assail'd the truth 
 And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth ; 
 But with the daugliter of the Priest of On i 
 The love was lawful, and the guard was gone ; 
 But Joseph's fame had lessened in our view, 
 Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too. 
 
 any English poet, that he dwells with as holy a delight as 
 any other on the settled countenance of peace, and that, in 
 hiswanderin^js tlirougli tlie mazes of human destiny, his heart 
 burns within him, when liis eyes are at times charmed away 
 from the troubles and wickedness of life to its repose and its 
 virtue." — Wilson.] 
 
 1* It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the 
 story, I have represented this young woman as resigned and 
 attentive to lier duties ; from which it would appear, that 
 the concluding advice is unnecessary : but if the reader will 
 construe the expression 'to the living live,' into the sense 
 — live entirely for them, attend to (bities only which are real, 
 and not tlioso imposed by tlie imagination, — I shall have no 
 reason to alter the line which terminates the story. 
 
 ' [" .'Vnd Pharaoh gave Joseph to wife Asensth, the 
 daughter of Potipherah, priest in On." — Gen. xli. 45.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 183 
 
 Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired, 
 As once rejecting what his heart desired ; 
 " I am escaped," he said, when none pursued ; 
 "When none attack'd him, " I am unsubdued ;" 
 " Oh pleasing pangs of love ! " he sang again, 
 Cold to the joj', and stranger to the pain. 
 E'en in his age would he address the young, 
 " I too have felt these fires, and they are strong ;" 
 But from the time he left his favourite maid, 
 To ancient females his devoirs were paid : 
 And still they miss him after Morning-prayer ; 
 Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair, 
 "Where kindred spirits in his praise agree, 
 A happj' few, as mild and cool as he ; 
 The easy followers in the female train, 
 Led without love, and captives without chain. 
 
 Ye Lilies male ! think (as your tea you sip, 
 While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip ; 
 Intrigues half-gather' d, conversation-scraps. 
 Kitchen cabals, and nursery-mishaps,) 
 If the vast world may not some scene produce, 
 Some state where your small talents might have 
 
 use; 
 "Within seraglios you might harmless move, 
 'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love ; 
 There from too daring man the treasures guard. 
 An easy duty, and its own reward ; 
 Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save 
 From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the 
 slave. 
 
 But let applause be dealt in all we may, 
 Our Priest was cheerful, and in season gay ; 
 His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please ; 
 Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease : 
 To a small garden with delight he came. 
 And gave successive flowers a summer's fame ; 
 These he presented, with a grace his own, 
 To his fair friends, and made their beauties known, 
 Not without moral compliment ; how they 
 " Like tlowers were sweet, and must like flowers 
 decay." 
 
 Simple he was, and loved the simple truth, 
 Yet had some useful cunning from his youth ; 
 A cunning never to dishonour lent. 
 And rather for defence than conquest meant ; 
 'T was fear of power, with some desire to rise. 
 But not enough to make him enemies ; 
 He ever aim'd to please; and to oflend 
 "Was ever cautious ; for he sought a friend ; 
 Yet for the friendship never much would pay. 
 Content t<5 bow, be silent, and obey, 
 And by a soothing sufi''rance find his way. 
 
 Fiddling and fishing were his arts : at times 
 lie alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes ; 
 And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards, 
 Oft he amused with riddles and charades. 
 
 2 [" Against the feast of Christmas," says Stow, "every 
 man's house, ns also their parisli cluirches, were decked with 
 holme, ivy, bases, berries, and whatever the season of the 
 year afforded to be green." Gay, in his Trivia, thus describes 
 Uie custom : — 
 
 " AAHien rosemary and bays, the poet's crown. 
 
 Are bawl'd in frequent cries through all the town, 
 Then judge the festival of Christmas near, 
 Christmas I the joyous period of the year ; 
 Now with bright holly all your temples strow. 
 With laurel green and sacred mistletoe."] 
 
 Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse 
 But gain'd in softness what it lost in force : 
 Kind his opinions ; he would not receive 
 An ill report, nor evil act believe ; 
 " If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or 
 
 small 
 " Have all mankind ; yea, sinners are we all." 
 
 If ever fretful thought disturb'd his breast. 
 If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd. 
 It sprang from innovation ; it was then 
 He spake of mischief made by restless men : 
 Not by new doctrines : never in his life 
 "Would he attend to controversial strife ; 
 For sects he cared not ; " They are not of us, 
 " Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss ; 
 " But 't is the change, the schism at home I feel ; 
 " Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal: 
 " Not at the altar our young brethren read 
 " (Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed ; 
 " But at their duty, in their desks they stand, 
 " With naked surplice, lacking hood and band : 
 " Churches are now of holy song bereft, 
 " And half our ancient customs changed or left ; 
 " Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen, 
 " Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green ; ' 
 " Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain 
 " Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain 
 " Comes flying forth from aisle to aisle about,^ 
 " Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out." * 
 
 These were to him essentials ; all things new 
 He deemed superfluous, useless, or untrue : 
 To all beside indifferent, easy, cold. 
 Here the fire kindled, and the woe was told. 
 
 Habit with him was all the test of truth : 
 " It must be right : I've done it from my youth." 
 Questions he answer'd in as brief a way : 
 " It must be wrong — it was of yesterday." 
 
 Though mild benevolence our Priest posscss'd, 
 'T was but by wishes or by words e.xpress'd. 
 Circles in water, as they wider flow. 
 The less conspicuous in their progress grow. 
 And when at last they touch upon the shore. 
 Distinction ceases, and they 're view'd no more. 
 His love, like that last circle, all embraced. 
 But with efiect that never could be traced.^ 
 
 Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him 
 best. 
 Proclaim his life t' have been entirely rest ; 
 Free from all ^'ils which disturb his mind. 
 Whom studies vex and conta:^:ersios blind. 
 
 The rich approved, — of tnem in awe he stood ; 
 The poor admired, — they all believed him good ; 
 The old and serious of his habits spoke ; 
 The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke ; 
 Mothers approved a safe contented guest. 
 And daughters one who back'd each small request ; 
 
 3 [" On cherub and on cherubim Full royally he rode, 
 
 And on the wings of mighty winds Came living .ill 
 
 abroad."] 
 
 * [" In notes with many a winding bout 
 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out." — Milton.] 
 
 5 [" Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. 
 As tlie small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; 
 The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, 
 Another still, and still another spreads ; 
 Friend, parent, neighbour, tirst it will embrace ; 
 His country next ; and next all human race." — Pope.] 
 
In liim liis flock found nothing to condemn ; 
 Him sectaries liked, — he never troubled them. 
 No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please, 
 And all his passions sunk in early ease ; 
 Nor one so old has left this world of sin, 
 More like the being that he enter'd in." 
 
 THE CURATE. 
 
 Ask you what lauds our Pastor tithes ? — Alas ! 
 
 But few our acres, andi but short our grass : 
 
 In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed, 
 
 May roll the single cow or favourite steed ; 
 
 "Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen. 
 
 His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green ; 
 
 But these, our hilly heath and common wide 
 
 Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide ; 
 
 No crops luxuriant in our borders stand, 
 
 For here we plough the ocean, not the land ; 
 
 Still reason wills that we our Pastor pay, 
 
 And custom does it on a certain day : 
 
 Much is the duty, small the legal due. 
 
 And this with grateful minds we keei) in view ; 
 
 Each makes his ofTring, some by habit led, 
 
 Some by the thought that all men must be fed ; 
 
 Duty and love, and piety and pride, 
 
 Have each their force, and for the Priest provide. 
 
 Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe 
 Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve ; 
 All see him poor, but e'en the vulgar know 
 He merits love, and their respect bestow. 
 A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see, 
 Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he ; — 
 Not grieved by years alone ; though his appear 
 Dark and more dark ; severer on severe : 
 Not in his need, — and yet we all must grant 
 How painful 'tis for feeling Age to want : 
 Nor in his body's sufferings ; yet we know 
 Where Time has ploughed, there Misery loves to 
 
 sow ; 
 But in tlie wearied mind, that all in vain 
 Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain. 
 
 His Father saw his powers — "I'll give," quoth 
 he, 
 " My first-born learning ; 't will a portion be :" 
 TJnhappj' gift ! a portion for a son ! 
 But all he had : — he learn'd, and was undone ! 
 
 Better, apprenticed to an humble trade, 
 Had he tlie cassock for the priesthood made, 
 Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped, 
 And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.' 
 He once had hope — Hope, ardent, lively, light; 
 His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright : 
 
 s [" nie Vicar is an admirablp sketch of wlint must be very 
 (liflicult to dr:iw ; a jjood, easy man, with no character at all. 
 Mis little, humhle vanity ; his constant care to ofl'end no 
 one ; liis mawkish and loehle (jallantry, indolent good-nature, 
 and love of gossiping and trilling — are all very exactly and 
 very pleasingly delineated." — Jkffiiey.] 
 
 7 [Original edition :— 
 
 Oh ! had lie learn'd to mal<n the w ig he wears, 
 'J"o throw till' shuttle, or command the sheers, 
 Or the strong lioar-sl<iii for the saddle shaped, 
 What pungs, what terrors, had the Man escaped I] 
 
 Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote, 
 Weigh'd tiie Greek page, and added note on note. 
 At morn, at evening, at his work was he, 
 And drcam'd what his Euripides would be. 
 
 Then care began : — he loved, he woo'd, he wed ; 
 Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed — 
 A curate's bed ! then came the woful years ; 
 The husband's terrors, and the father's tears ; 
 A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, ve.x'd 
 With wants and woes — by daily cares perplex'd ; 
 No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid. 
 But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid. 
 
 A kind phj'sician, and without a fee. 
 Gave his opinion — " Send her to the sea." 
 " Alas!" the good man answer'd, '"can I send 
 " A friendless woman ? Can I find a friend ? 
 " No ; I must with her, in her need, repair 
 " To that new place ; the poor lie everywhere ; — • 
 " Some priest will pay me for my pious pains :" — 
 He said, he came, and here he yet remains. 
 
 Behold his dwelling ! this poor hut he hires. 
 Where he from view, though not from want, retires ; 
 Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing 
 
 sons, 
 Partake his sufl'erings, and dismiss his duns ; 
 All join their efforts, and in patience learn 
 To want the comforts they aspire to earn ; 
 For the sick mother something they 'd obtain, 
 To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain ; 
 For the sad father something they 'd procure 
 To ease the burden they themselves endure. 
 
 Virtues like these at once delight and press 
 On the fond father with a proud distress ; 
 On all around he looks with care and love, 
 Grieved to behold, but happy to approve. 
 
 Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals, 
 And by himself an Author's pleasure feels : 
 Each line detains him; he omits not one, 
 And all the sorrows of his state are gone.* — 
 Alas ! even then, in that delicious hour. 
 He feels his fortune, and laments its power. 
 
 Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage. 
 Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and 
 
 page; 
 Some bold, loud i-apping at his humble door, 
 Some surly message he lias heard before, 
 Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor. 
 
 An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud, 
 Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud ; 
 The elder daughter meekly makes him way — 
 " I want my money, and 1 cannot stay : 
 " My mill is stopp'd ; what. Miss 1 I cannot grind; 
 " Go tell your father ho must raise the wind :" 
 Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid 
 Says, " Sir ! my father !" — and then stops afraid : 
 
 ' [" Tl\ero is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
 
 Tir expedients and inventions, multiform, 
 
 To which tlie mind resorts, in chase of terms 
 
 Though apt, yet coy, and difiicult to win. 
 
 T' arrest the ilceting images that liU 
 
 The mirror of the mind, and hold thorn fast — 
 
 Are occupations of the poet's mind 
 
 So ))ieasing, and that steal away the thought 
 
 With such address from themes of sad import, 
 
 That, lost in his own musings, happy maul 
 
 lie feels Ih' anxieties of life, denied 
 
 Their wonted entertainment, all retire." — CoWpiR.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 185 
 
 E'en his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears 
 Her voice with pity ; he respects her tears ; 
 His stubborn features half admit a smile, 
 And his tone softens—" Well ! I '11 wait awhile." 
 
 Pity ! a man so good, so mild, so meek. 
 At such an age, should have his bread to seek ; 
 And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread, 
 That are more harrowing than the want of bread ; 
 Ah ! who shall whisper to that misery peace ! 
 Ajid say that want and insolence shall cease ? 
 
 " But why not publish ? " — those who know too 
 well. 
 Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell; 
 Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow, 
 Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show ; 
 The hope of fame may in his heart have place, 
 But he has dread and horror of disgrace ; 
 Nor has he that confiding, easy way. 
 That might his learning and himself display ; 
 But to his work he from the world retreats. 
 And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets. 
 
 But see ! the Man himself; and sure I trace 
 Signs of new joy exulting in that face 
 O'er care that sleeps — we err, or we discern 
 Life in thy looks — ^the reason may we learn ? 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I 'm happy, I confess, 
 " To learn that some are pleased with happiness 
 " "Which others feel — there are who now combine 
 " The worthiest natures in the best design, 
 " To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as 
 
 mine. 
 " "We who more keenly feel the world's contempt, 
 " And from its miseries arc the least exempt ; 
 " Now Hope shall whispei to the wounded breast, 
 " And Grief, in soothing expectation, rest. 
 
 " Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel, 
 " Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal ; 
 " Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make 
 " The needy curse the benefits they take ; 
 " Not with the idle vanity that knows 
 " Only a selfish joy when it bestows ; 
 " Not with o'crbearing wealth, that, in disdain, 
 " Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain ; 
 " But these are men who yield such blest relief, 
 " That with the grievance they destroy the grief; 
 " Their timely aid the needy sufferers find, 
 " Their generous manner soothes the suffering 
 
 mind ; 
 " There is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise 
 " Him whom it aids ; their charity is praise ; 
 " A common bounty may relieve distress, 
 " But whom the Aiilgar succour they oppress ; 
 " This though a favour is an honour too, 
 " Though Mercy's duty, yet 't is Merit's due ; 
 " "When our relief from such resources rise, 
 " All painful sense of obligation dies; 
 
 " The wants and mortifications of a poor clcrgjinan are the 
 subjects of one portion of this Letter ; and lie beinjj repre- 
 sented as a stranger in tlie Horough, it may be necessary to 
 make some apology for his appearance in the poem. Previous 
 to a late meetinj; of a literary society, whose benevolent pur- 
 pose is well known to the public, [ was induced by a friend 
 to compose a few verses, in which, with the general commen- 
 dation of the design, should be introduced a hint that the 
 bounty might be farther extended ; these verses, a gentleman 
 did me the honour to recite at the meeting, and they were 
 printed as an extract from the poem, to which, in fact, they 
 may be called an appendage. 
 
 And grateful feelings in the bosom wake. 
 For 't is their offerings, not their alms we take. 
 " Long may these founts of Charity remain. 
 And never shrink, but to be fill'd again ; 
 True ! to the Author they are now confined, 
 To him who gave the treasure of his mind. 
 His time, his health, — and thankless found man- 
 kind : 
 But there is hope that from these founts may flow 
 A side-way stream, and equal good bestow ; 
 Good that my reach us, whom the day's distress 
 Keeps from the fame and perils of the Press ; 
 "W^hom Study beckons from the Ills of Life, 
 And they from Study ; melancholy strife ! 
 Who then can say, but bounty now so free, 
 And so diffused, may find its way to me ? 
 " Yes ! I may see my decent table yet 
 Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt ; 
 May talk of those to whom so much we owe. 
 And guess their names whom yet we may not 
 
 know ; 
 Blest, we shall say, are those who thus can give, 
 And next who thus upon the bounty live ; 
 Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal. 
 And feel so well— Oh, God ! how shall I feel ! " * 
 
 LETTER IV 
 
 I>TRODCCTIO>-. 
 
 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 hors<? for some time, and 
 riding a great deal every week, I soon wore my breeches out, 
 so that they were not lit to ride in. I hope the reader will 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 187 
 
 wonderful performance, which (according to the 
 turn of mind ii; the reader) will either highly ex- 
 cite or totally extinguish curiosity. In these works 
 will be abundantly seen, abuse and contempt of the 
 Church of England and its ministers ; vengeance 
 and virulent denunciation against all otfcnders ; 
 scorn for morality and heathen virtue, with that 
 kind of learning which the author possesses, and 
 his peculiar style of composition. A few of the 
 titles placed below will give some information to 
 the reader respecting the merit and design of 
 those performances.^ 
 
 As many of the preacher's subjects are contro- 
 verted and nice questions in divinity, he has some- 
 times allowed liimself relaxation from the severity 
 of study, and favoured his admirers with the 
 effects of an humbler kind of inspiration, viz. that 
 of the Muse. It must be confessed that these flights 
 of fancy are very humble, and have nothing of that 
 daring and mysterious nature which the prose of 
 the author leads us to e.xpect.* The Dimensions of 
 eternal Love is a title of one of his more learned 
 productions, with which might have been expected 
 (as a fit companion) Tlie Bounds of infinite Grace; 
 but no such work appears, and possibly the author 
 considered one attempt of this kind was suffi- 
 cient to prove the extent and direction of his 
 abilities. 
 
 Of the whole of this mass of inquiry and de- 
 cision, of denunciation and instruction (could we 
 suppose it read by intelligent persons), different 
 opinions would probably be formed : the more in- 
 dignant and severe would condemn the whole as 
 
 excuse my mentioning the word hreeclies, ^hich I sliouldhave 
 avoided, had not this passafje of scripture obtruded into my 
 mind, just as 1 had resolved in my own thoughts not to men- 
 tion this kind providence of God: 'And tliou shalt make 
 them linen breeches to cover their nakedness; from the loins 
 even unto the thiglis sliall they reacli ; and tliey shall be upon 
 Aaron and liis sons,' &c. Exod. xxviii. 42. By which and 
 three others, namely, Ezek. xliv. 18, Lev. vi. in, and Lev. 
 xvi. 4, 1 saw tliat it was no crime to mention the word breeches, 
 nor the way in which God sent them to me ; Aaron and his sons 
 being clothed entirely by Providence ; and as God himself 
 condescended to f,'ive orders wliat they should be made of, 
 and how they should be cut ; and 1 believe the same God 
 ordered mine. I often made very free in my prayers with 
 my invaluable master for this favour ; but he still kept me so 
 amazingly poor, that I could not get them at any rate. At 
 last I was determined to go to a friend of mine at Kingston, 
 who is of that branch of business, to bespeak a pair, and to 
 get him to trust me until my master sent me money to pay 
 him. I was that day going to London, fully determined to 
 bespeak them, as I rode through the town. However, « hen 
 I pa«ed the shop I forgot it ; but when I came to London, I 
 called on Mr. Crouclier, a shoemaker, in Shepherd's Market, 
 w ho told me a parcel was left there for me, but what it was 
 he knew not. I opened it, and behold there was a pair of 
 leather breeches, w ith a note in them ! the substance of which 
 was as follows : ' Sir, I liave sent you a pair of breeches, and 
 hope they will fit.' I wrote an answer to the note to this 
 effect : ' I received your present, and thank you for it. I was 
 going to order a pair of leather breeches to be made, because 
 I did not know that my Master had bespoke them of you. 
 They tit very well, which fully convinces me that the same 
 God who moved thy heart to give, guided thy hand to cut ; 
 because he perfectly knows my size, having clothed me 
 in a miraculous way for near live years !' The plan of 
 purveying for himself by prayer, with the help of hints in 
 the proper place and season, answered so well, that he soon 
 obtained, by the same means, a new bed, a rug, a pair of new 
 blankets, doe-skin gloves, and a liorscman's coat. His wife 
 also tried lier fortune, and with good success; t.'0'.vns came as 
 they were wanted, hampers of bacon and cheese, now and 
 then a large I'.am, and now and then a guinea ; all w hich tilings 
 
 the produce of craft and hypocrisy, while the 
 more lenient would allow that such things might 
 originate in the wandering imagination of a 
 dreaming enthusiast. 
 
 None of my readers will, I trust, do me so much 
 injustice as to suppose I have here any other motive 
 than a vindication of what I have advanced in the 
 verses which describe this kind of character, or 
 that I had there any other purpose than to express 
 (what I conceive to be) justifiable indignation 
 against the assurance, the malignity, and (what is 
 of more importance) the pernicious influence of 
 such sentiments on the minds of the simple and 
 ignorant, who, if they give credit to his relations, 
 must be no more than tools and instruments under 
 the control and management of one called to he 
 their Apostle. 
 
 Nothing would be more easy for me, as I have 
 observed, than to bring forward quotations such as 
 would justify all 1 have advanced ; but even had I 
 room, I cannot tell whether there be not some- 
 thing degrading in such kind of attack : the 
 reader might smile at those miraculous accounts, 
 but he would consider them and the language of 
 the author as beneath his further attention : I 
 therefore once more refer him to those pamphlets, 
 which will afford matter for pity and for contempt, 
 by which some would be amused and others 
 astonished — not without sorrow, when they reflect 
 that thousands look up to the writer as a man 
 literally inspired, to whose wants they administer 
 with their substance, and to whose guidance they 
 prostrate their spirit and understanding.* 
 
 he calls precious answers to grayer." — Quarterly Revieiu, vol. 
 xxiv.] 
 
 3 Barbar, in two parts ; Bond-Child ; Cry of Little Faith ; 
 Satan's I>awsuit ; 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, 
 An<l show to all men, by their powerful speech. 
 Who are appointed and inspired to teach : 
 Alas ! could we the dangerous rule believe. 
 Whom for their teacher should the crowd re- 
 ceive ? 
 Since all the varying kinds demand respect, 
 All press you on to join their chosen sect, 
 Although but in this single point agreed, 
 " Desert your churches and adopt our creed." 
 
 AVe know full well how much our forms offend 
 The burthen'd Papist and the simple Friend ; 
 Him, who new robes for every service takes. 
 And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes ; 
 He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn. 
 Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn ; 
 But him 1 would not for my friend and guide. 
 Who views such things with spleen, or wears with 
 pride. 
 See next our several Sects, — but first behold 
 The Church of Rome, who here is poor and 
 
 old: 
 Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least, 
 Let not thy mother be a whore and beast ; 
 Great was her pride indeed in ancient times, 
 Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes ? 
 Exalted high above all earthly things. 
 She placed her foot upon the neck of kings ; 
 But some have deeply since avenged the crown, 
 And thrown her glory and her honours down ; 
 Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command. 
 Nor place a foot upon her own fair laud. 
 Among her sons, with us a quiet few. 
 Obscure tfiemselves, her ancient state review, 
 
 in a dark tempestuous night, the inhabitants of the plain 
 were alarmed w ith a dreadful crash ; many of them w ere then 
 in the fields watching their cattle, lest the Ksk, which was 
 then rising violently in the storm, sliould carry them off. In 
 the meantime, the enormous mass of fluid substance, which 
 had burst from the moss, moved on, spreading itself more 
 and more as it got possession of the plain. Some of the in- 
 habitants, through the terror of the night, could plainly dis- 
 cover it advancing like a moving liill. This was, in fact, the 
 case ; for the gush of mud carried before it, through the tirst 
 two or three hundred yards of its course, a part of the breast- 
 work ; which, though low, was yet several feet in perpen- 
 dicular height ; but it soon deposited this solid mass, and 
 became a heavy fluid. One house after another it spread 
 round, filled, and crushed into ruins, just giving time to the 
 terrified inhabitants to escape. Scarcely any tiling was saved 
 except their lives ; nothing of their furniture, few of their 
 cattle. This dreadful inundation, though the first shock of it 
 was most tremendous, continued still spreading for many 
 weeks, till it covered the whole plain, an area of five hundred 
 acres, and like molten lead poured into a mould, filled all 
 the hollows of it, lying in some parts thirty or Ibrty feet deep, 
 reducing the whole to one level surface." — Ciilpin.] 
 
And fond and melancholy glances cast 
 
 On power insulted, and on triumph past : 
 
 They look, they can but look, with many a sigh, 
 
 On sacred buildings doorn'd in dust to lie ; 
 
 " On seats," they tell, " where priests mid tapers 
 
 dim 
 " Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight 
 
 hymn ; 
 " "Where trembling penitents their guilt confcss'd, 
 " "Where want had succour, and contrition rest ; 
 " There weary men from trouble found relief, 
 " There men in sorrow found repose from grief. 
 " To scenes like these the fainting soul retired ; 
 " Revenge and anger in these cells expired ; 
 " By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears, 
 " And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears. 
 
 " Then convent walls and nunnery spires arose, 
 " In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose ; 
 '' "When counts and barons saints devoted fed, 
 " And making cheap exchange, had pray'r for 
 bread. 
 
 " Now all is lost, the earth where abbeys stood 
 " Is layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the 
 
 wood : 
 " His oxen low where monks retired to eat, 
 " His cows repose upon the prior's seat: 
 " And wanton doves within the cloisters bill, 
 " Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton 
 will." 
 
 Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain 
 The rage of grief, and passively complain. 
 
 We've Baptists old and new;^ forbear to ask 
 What the distinction — I decline the task ; 
 Tliis I perceive, that wlien a sect grows old, 
 Converts are few, and the converted cold : 
 First comes the hot-bed heat, and while it glows 
 The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows : 
 Tlien comes the cooler day, and though awhile 
 The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile, 
 Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay, 
 Nor will the profits for the culture pay ; 
 The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops. 
 But turns to other beds for bearing crops. 
 
 Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found, 
 Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground. 
 Who in our world can other worlds survey. 
 And speak with spirits though confined in clay : 
 Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess. 
 Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess : 
 
 8 The English Baptists are divided into two classes : one, 
 that of tlie llKnend Baptists, or Remonstrants, because they 
 believe that (iod has excluded no man from salvation by any 
 sovereign decree ; the other are called Particular, or Calvi- 
 nistic Baptists, because they a^'ree very nearly with the Cal- 
 vinists, or Presbyterians, in their religious sentiments." — 
 
 MoSHKIM.] 
 
 9 [Baron Swedenborj;, the founder of the " New .Terusalem 
 Church," asserts, that in the year H'lli, the Lord manifested 
 himself to him in a personal appearance, and at the same 
 time opened his spiritual eyes, so tliat he was enabled con- 
 stantly to see and converse with celestial bein;,'s. " i^.s often," 
 savs he, " as I conversed with an;;els face to face, it was in their 
 lia'liitJit ions, which are like to our houses on earth, but far 
 more beautiful and ma^'nificont ; having rooms, chambers, 
 and apartments, in great variety, as also spacious courts be- 
 longing to them, together with gardens, parterres of (lowers, 
 fields, ic, whe^e the angels are formed into societies. They 
 dwell in contiguous habitations, disposed af'.?r the manner of 
 our cities, in streets, walks, and scjiiares. I have had the 
 privilege to walk through them, to examine all around them, 
 
 'T is theirs to see around, about, above, — • 
 How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move ; 
 Those whom our grosser views from us exclude, 
 To them appear — a heavenly midtitude ; 
 While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us, 
 Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss.' 
 
 But while these gifted men, a favour'd fold, 
 New powers exhibit and new worlds behold ; 
 Is there not danger lest their minds confound 
 The pure above them with tlie gross around ? 
 :May not these Phaetons, who thus contrive 
 'Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive. 
 When from their flaming chariots they descend, 
 The worlds they visit in their fancies blend ? 
 Alas ! too sure on both they bring disgrace. 
 Their earth is crazy, and their heaven is base. 
 
 We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well, 
 Of a chastising not awarding Hell ; 
 Who are assured that an offended God 
 Will cease to use the thunder and the rod ; 
 A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain'd. 
 When here corrected has improvement gain'd ; 
 In other state still more improved to grow. 
 And nobler powers in happier world to know ; 
 New strength to use in each divine employ, 
 And more enjoying, looking to more joy.'" 
 
 A pleasing vision \ could wo thus be sure 
 Polluted souls would be at length so pure ; 
 The view is happy, we may think it just, 
 It may be true — but who shall add, it must? 
 To the plain words and sense of Sacred Writ, 
 With all my heart I reverentlj' submit ; 
 But where it leaves me doubtful, I' m afraid 
 To call conjecture to my reason's aid ; 
 Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God ! are not as 
 
 mine. 
 And to thy mercy I my soul resign. 
 
 Jews are with us, but far unlike to those, 
 Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes ; 
 Unlike to those whom his imperial son 
 Taught truths divine — the Preacher Solomon ; 
 Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight ; 
 They will not study, and they dare not fight." 
 
 These are, with us, a slavish, knavish crew. 
 Shame and dishonour to the name of Jew ; 
 The poorest masters of the meanest arts, 
 "With cunning heads, and cold and cautious hearts ; 
 They grope their dirty way to pettj' gains. 
 While poorly paid for their nefarious pains. 
 
 and to enter their houses." The baron and his followers also 
 hold, that the sacred Scripture contains three distinct senses, 
 viz. the celestial, the spiritual, and the natural, all united by 
 correspondencies— of which correspondencies the Sweden- 
 borgians alone possess the key. See Ills ' Universal Theology,' 
 and ' Treatise concerning Heaven and Hell.'] 
 
 10 [" xhe Universalists teach the universal grace of God 
 towards all apostate men ; and consequently a universal 
 atonement, and a call to all men. They are divided into tw o 
 classes. .Some ascribe to tlie means of grace uhich God 
 affords, suflicient power to enligliten and sanctify all men ; 
 and teach, that it depends on the voluntary conduct of men, 
 whether the grace of God shall produce its effects on them or 
 not. t>tliers 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, <ts he wiis taking a pipe of tobacco, 
 I he Spirit set home upon him an absolute promise of free 
 grace, with such assurance and joy, that he had never since 
 doubted of his good estate, neither should he, whatever sins 
 he might fall into. And he endeavoured to prove, that, as 
 the Lord was pleased to convert Saul while lie was perse- 
 cuting, so he might manifest himself to him while making a 
 moderate use of the good creature tobacco." — Hki.knap's ^cw 
 llampihxTC .\ 
 
 " It is the Call ! till that proclaims us free, 
 " In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be ; 
 " Till that assures us, we 've in vain endured, 
 " And all is over when we 're once assured.'* 
 
 " This is Conversion : — First there comes a cry 
 " Which utters, ' Sinner, thou 'rt condemn'd to die;' 
 '■ Then the struck soul to every aid repairs, 
 " To church and altar, ministers and prayers ; 
 " In vain she strives, — involved, ingulf'd in sIb, 
 " She looks for hell, and seems already in : 
 " When in this travail, the New Birth comes on, 
 " And in an instant every pang is gone ; 
 " The mighty work is done without our pains, — 
 " Claim but a part, and not a part remains.'* 
 
 " All this experience tells the Soul, and yet 
 " These moral men their pence and farthings set 
 " Against the terrors of the countless Debt ; 
 " But such compounders, when they come to jail, 
 " Will find that Virtues never serve as bail. 
 
 " So much to duties : now to Learning look, 
 " And see their priesthood piling book on book ; 
 " Yea, books of infidels, we 're told, and plays, 
 " Put out by heathens in the wink'd-on days ; 
 " The very letters are of crooked kind, 
 " And show the strange perverseness of their mind. 
 " Have I this Learning ? When the Lord would 
 
 speak, 
 " Think ye he needs tlie Latin or the Greek? 
 " And lo ! with all their learning, when they rise 
 " To preach, in view the ready sermon lies ; 
 " Some low-prized stutf they purchased at the stalls, 
 " And more like Seneca's than mine or Paul's : 
 " Children of Bondage, how should they explain 
 " The Spirit's freedom, while they wear a chain ? 
 " They study words, for meanings grow perplex'd, 
 " And slowly hunt for truth from text to text, 
 " Through Greek and Hebrew : — we the meaning 
 
 seek 
 " Of that within, who every tongue can speak : 
 " This all can witness ; yet the more I know, 
 " The more a meek and humble mind I show. 
 
 " No ; let the Pope, the high and mighty priest, 
 " Lord to the poor, and servant to the Beast ; 
 " Let bishops, deans, and prebendaries swell 
 " With pride and fatness till their hearts rebel : 
 " I 'm meek and modest : — if I could be proud, 
 " This crowded meeting, lo ! th' amazing crowd ! 
 " Your mute attention, and your meek respect, 
 " My spirit's fervour, and my words' effect, 
 " Might stir th' unguarded soul ; and oft to me 
 " The Tempter speaks, whom I compel to flee ; 
 " He goes in fear, for he my force has tried, — 
 " Such is my power ! but can you call it pride ? 
 
 2" [The following is from Huntington's account of his own 
 conversion : — " I was standing on a ladder, in the act of 
 pruning a tree, in a miserable state of melancholy. Suddenly, 
 a great light shone around me; quick as lightning, and far 
 exceeding the sun in brightness. My hair stood upright, and 
 my blood rankled in my veins; and presently a voice from 
 lieaven said to me, in plain words, 'Lay by your forms of 
 prayer, and go pray to Jesus Christ : do not you see how 
 pitifully he speaks to sinners? ' These were the words ver- 
 batim. I immediately retired into the tool-house, pulled off 
 my blue apron, covered my lace with it, and prayed precisely 
 thus : ' O Lord, I am a sinner,' .*!:c. That moment the spirit 
 of grace and supplication was poured into my soul, and I 
 lurt'huith spake as the spirit gave me utterance. 1 fell on my 
 face, but the vision was still present; and when I arose all 
 my sins had spread their wings and taken lligliS."] 
 
" Iso, FeIIo-.v-Pilgrims ! of the things I 've sliown 
 " I might be proud, wore they indeed ray own ! 
 " But they are lent : and well you know the source 
 " Of all that 's mine, and must confide of course : 
 " Mine ! no, I err; 't is but consign'd to me, 
 " And I am nought but steward and trustee." 
 
 Far other Doctrines yon Arminian speaks ; 
 " Seek Grace," he cries, " for he shall find who 
 
 seeks." 
 This is the ancient stock by Wesley led ; 
 They the pure body, be the reverend head : 
 All innovation they with dread decline, 
 Their John the elder was the John divine. 
 Hence, still their moving prayer, the melting hymn, 
 The varied accent, and the active limb : 
 Hence that implicit faith in Satan's might, 
 And their own matchless prowess in the fight. 
 In every act they see that lurking foe, 
 I,et loose awhile, about the world to go ; 
 A dragon flying round the earth, to kill 
 The hcavcnlj' hope, and prompt the carnal will ; -' 
 "Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause, 
 And force the wounded victim from his paws ; 
 Who but for them would man's whole race subdue, 
 For not a hireling will the foe pursue. 
 
 " Show me one Churchman who will rise and pray 
 " Through half the night, though lab'ring all tlie 
 
 day, 
 " Always abounding — show me him, I say: " — 
 Thus cries the Preacher, and he adds, " Their 
 
 sheep 
 " Satan devours at leisure as they sleep. 
 " Not so with us ; we drive him from the fold, 
 " For ever barking and for ever bold : 
 " AVhile they securely slumber, all his schemes 
 " Take full effect, — the Devil never dreams : 
 " Watchful and changeful through the world he 
 
 goes, 
 " And few can trace this deadliest of their foes ; 
 " But I detect, and at his work surprise 
 " The subtle Scrjjent under all disguise. 
 
 " Thus to Man's soul the Foe of Souis will speak, 
 '■ — ' A Saint elect, you can have nought to seek ; 
 '' ' Why all this labour in so plain a case, 
 " ' Such care to run, when certain of the race ? ' 
 " All this he urges to the carnal will, 
 '• He knows you're slothful, and would have you 
 
 still : 
 '• Be this your answer, — ' Satan, I will keep 
 " ' Still on tlie watch till you are laid asleep.' 
 '• Thus too the Christian's progress he '11 retard : — 
 '• ' The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd ; 
 " ' And that Mith bolts so driven and so stout, 
 '• ' Ten thousand workmen cannot wrench them out.' 
 '• To this deceit you have but one reply, — 
 " Give to the Father of all Lies the lie. 
 
 " A Sister's weakness he '11 by fits surprise, 
 '■ His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries; 
 '• And should a pastor at her side attend, 
 '• lie '11 use her oi-gans to abuse her friend : 
 
 21 ["We cannot doubt," says Wesley, " but tlie moment 
 unholy spirits leave the body, they lind tliemselves surrounded 
 by spirits of their own kind, probably human as well as 
 diabolical. It is not impossible God may suffer Satan to 
 employ them in inflictini; evils of various kinds on the men 
 
 These are possessions — unbelieving wits 
 Impute them all to Nature : ' They 're her fits, 
 ' Caused by commotions in the nerves and 
 
 brains ; ' — 
 Vain talk ! but they "11 be fitted for their pains. 
 " These are in part the ills the Foe has wrought, 
 ■ And these the Churchman thinks not worth his 
 
 thought ; 
 They bid the troubled try for peace and rest, 
 Compose their minds, and be no more distress'd ; 
 As well might they commaiul the passive shore 
 To keep secure, and be o'erfiow'd no more ; 
 To the wrong subject is their skill applied, — 
 To act like workmen, they should stem the tide. 
 " These are the Church-Physicians : they are 
 
 paid 
 With noble fees for their advice and aid ; 
 Yet know they not the inward pulse to feel. 
 To ease the anguish, or the wound to heal. 
 With the sick Sinner, thus their work begins : 
 ' Do you repent you of your former sins ? 
 
 • Will you amend if you revive and live? 
 
 • And, pardon seeking, will you pardon give ? 
 
 ' Have you belief in what your Lord has done, 
 ' And are you thankful ? — all is well, my son." 
 " A way far different ours — we thus surprise 
 A soul with questions, and demand replies : 
 " • How dropp'd you first,' 1 ask, ' the legal 
 
 Yoke ? 
 ' What the first word the living Witness spoke ? 
 ' Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings 
 
 shine, 
 ' And tempests gathering ere the Birth divine ? 
 ' Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appear 
 ' Before that still small voice. What dost thou 
 
 here ? 
 ' Kast thou by day and night, and soon and late, 
 ' Waited and watch'd before Admission-gate ; 
 ' And so a pilgrim and a soldier pass'd 
 ' To Sion's hill through battle and through blast ? 
 ' Then in thy way didst thou thy foe attack, 
 
 • And mad'st thou proud ApoUyon turn his 
 
 back ? ' 
 " Heart-searching things are these, and shake 
 
 the mind. 
 Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind. 
 " Thus would I ask: — ' Nay, let me question 
 
 now, 
 ' How sink my saj'ings in your bosoms ? how ? 
 ' Feel you a quickening ? di-ops the subject 
 
 deep? 
 ' Stupid and stony, no ! you 're all asleep ; 
 ' Listless and lazy, waiting for a close, 
 ' As if at church ; — do I allow repose ? 
 ' Am I a legal minister ? do I 
 ' With form or rubrick, rule or rite comply* ? 
 ' Then whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech ? 
 ' One might believe you heard your Kector 
 
 preach, 
 ' Or his assistant dreamer : — Oh ! return, 
 ' Y'e times of burning, when the heart would 
 
 burn ; 
 
 tliat know not God. For this end, they may raise storms by 
 sea or land ; they may shoot meteors through the air ; they 
 may occasion earthquakes ; and in numberless ways afflict 
 those whom they are not suffered to destroy. May thev not 
 be employed in tempting wicked yea, good men to sin ? "] 
 
 O 
 
194 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 *' ' Now hearts arc ice, and you, my freezing fold, 
 " ' Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony- 
 cold.' 
 " Oh ! now again i'or those prevailing powers, 
 " Wliicli once began tl.is miglity work of ours ; 
 " "When the wide field, God's Temple, was the 
 
 place, 
 " And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace ; 
 " "When 'mid his timid fi'iends and threat'ning 
 
 foes, 
 " Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose : 
 " "When with infernal spite and knotty clubs 
 " The Ill-One arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs ; 
 " And there were flying all around the spot 
 " Brands at the Preacher, but they touch'd him 
 
 not : ^^2 
 " Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his 
 
 cause, 
 " And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause ; 
 " Louder and louder grew his awful tones, 
 " Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans ; 
 " Soft women fainted, prouder man express'd 
 " "Wonder and woe, and butchers smote the breast; 
 " Eyes wept, ears tingled ; stiff"ning on each head, 
 " The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and 
 
 fled.^' 
 " In that soft season when the gentle breeze 
 " Kises all i-ound, and swells by slow degrees ; 
 " Till tempests gather, when through all the sky 
 " The thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly ; 
 " "When rain in torrents wood and vale deform, 
 " And all is horroi\ hurricane, and storm : 
 
 " So, when the Preacher in that glorious time, 
 " Than clouds more melting, more than storm 
 
 sublime, 
 '■ Dropp'd the new "Word, there came a charm 
 
 around ; 
 " Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound ; 
 " The stubborn spirits by his force he broke, 
 " As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak : 
 '• Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace, 
 '• Chain'd every foot, or featured every face ; 
 '* Then took his sacred trump a louder swell, 
 " And now they groan'd, they sicken'd, and they 
 
 fell; 
 " Again he sounded, and we heard the cry 
 " Of the "Word-wounded, as about to die ; 
 " Further and further spread the conquering word, 
 " As loud he cried — ' tlie Battle of the Lord.' 
 " E'en those aj)art who were the sound denied, 
 " Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died. 
 " Is'or stay'd he yet — -his eye, his frown, his speech, 
 " His very gesture had a power to teach : 
 
 22 [" Rplicvin? himself," says Mr. Sonthey, " to be an ex- 
 traordinary person, and engaged in an enterprise of the most 
 important character, he lent a ready faith to « lia'.ever marvels 
 had a tendency to designate liim as the favourite of (iod, or 
 till; pecnliar olijei-t of Satan's fury. If any among his liearers 
 pretended lo visions, or to ho llie victim of diabolical posses- 
 .sion, he never seems to have llioiight it necessary to examine 
 into the truth of the ecstasies, but to have taken all for 
 granted. If his horses fell lame, it was the malice of ' tlie 
 old Murderer," which liad power over them. If his progress 
 was cheered by a favourabli! change of weather, he imme- 
 diately recognised the peculiar finger of Providence encou- 
 raging liim to persevere in liis labours."] 
 
 '■I [Wesley was not only an enthusiast himself, but the cause 
 of still greater enthusiasm in others, and had the unhappy 
 
 " AVith outstretch'd arms, strong voice, and pierc- 
 ing call, 
 " lie won the field, and made the Dagons fall; 
 " And thus in triumph took his glorious way, 
 " Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay." -* 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 .Say then which class to greater follv stoop, 
 The great in promise, or the poor in hope ? 
 
 Be brave, for your leader is brave, and vows reformation ; 
 there shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a 
 penny; and the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops. I 
 will make it felony to drink small beer ; all shall eat and 
 drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, 
 that they may agree like brothers ; and they shall all worship 
 me as their lord. — Shakspeake's Henry VI, 
 
 THE ELECTION. 
 The Evils of tlie Contest, and how in part to be avoided — Tlie 
 Miseries endured by a Friend of the Candidate — The 
 various Liberties taken with him, who has no personal In- 
 terest in the Success — The unreasonable Expectations of 
 Voters — The Censures of the opposing Party — Tlie Vices as 
 well as Follies shown in such Time of Contest — Plans and 
 Cunning of Electors — Evils which remain after the Deci- 
 sion, opposed in vain by the EITorts of the Friendly, and 
 of the Successful ; among whom is the Mayor — Story of 
 his Advancement till he was raised to the Government of 
 the liorough — These Evils not to be placed in Balance w ith 
 the Liberty of the People, but are yet Subjects of just 
 Complaint. 
 
 Yes, our Election 's past, and we 've been free, 
 Somewhat as madmen without keepers be ; 
 And such desire of Fi-eedom lias been shown. 
 That both the parties wish'd her all their own : 
 All our free smiths and cobblers in the town 
 "Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down ; 
 To put the bludgeon and cockade aside. 
 And let us pass unhurt and undefied. 
 
 True 1 you might then your party's sign produce. 
 And so escape with only half th' abuse : 
 With half the danger as you walk'd along. 
 With rage and threat'ning but from half the 
 
 throng. 
 This you might do, and not your fortune mend, 
 For whore you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend ; 
 And to distress you, ve.x you, and expose, 
 Election-friends are worse than any foes ; 
 
 art of inoculating his audience with conv^^lsions and frenzy, 
 surpassing the most extraordinary symptoms to which animnl 
 magnetism has given rise. Violent outcries, howling, gnash- 
 ing of teeth, frightful convulsions, frenzy, epileptic and 
 apoplectic symptoms, were excited, in turn, on dill'erent indi- 
 viduals. Cries were heard as of people being put to the 
 sword ; and tlie ravings ot' despair, whicli .seemeil to arise 
 from an actual foretaste of torment, were strangely blended 
 with ripturous shouts of ' Ulory 1 glory I ' — South kv.] 
 
 «' fSee the Life of Wesley by Sonthey, or John Wesley's 
 own .Tournals, jitissiin. Tlie reader will also lind many curious 
 details of the extravagance of methodistical fanaticism, in its 
 first period, in the autobiography of the late excellent and 
 learned Dr. Adam Clarke.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 195 
 
 The party-curse is with the canvass past, 
 But party-friendship, for your grief, will last. 
 
 Friends of all kinds ; the civil and the rude, 
 Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t' intrude : 
 These beg or take a liberty to come 
 (Friends should be free), and make your house 
 
 their home ; 
 They know that warmly you their cause espouse. 
 And come to make their boastings and their bows : 
 You scorn their manners, you tlieir words mistrust. 
 But you must hear them, and they know j'ou must. 
 
 One plainly sees a friendship firm and true, 
 Between the noble candidate and you ; 
 So humbly begs (and states at large the case), 
 " You'll think of Bobby and the little place." 
 
 Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come, 
 And prate your wife and daughter from the room : 
 In pain you hear him, and at heart despise, 
 Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise ; 
 And still in patience to the sot attend. 
 To show what man can bear to serve a friend. 
 
 One enters hungry — not to be denied, 
 And takes his place and jokes—" We 're of a side." 
 Yet worse, the proscr who, upon the strength 
 Of his one vote, has tales of three hours" length ; 
 This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise 
 Start at Iiis oaths, and sicken at his lies. 
 
 Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way 
 What the opponents in their anger say ; 
 All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse. 
 Will this kind friend in pure regard produce ; 
 And having through your own offences run. 
 Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done. 
 
 Has any female cousin made a trip 
 To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip? 
 Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son, 
 Done aught amiss, or is he thought t' have done ? 
 Is there of all j-our kindred some who lack 
 Vision direct, or have a gibbous back ? 
 P>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<s rirciimstance here related ii a fact ; aUliouuli it may 
 
 The warmest burgess wears a bodger's coat, 
 .\nd fashion gains less int'rest than a vote ; 
 Unclieck'd the vintner still liis poison vends, 
 For he too votes, and can command his friends. 
 
 But this admitted ; be it still agreed, 
 These ill eiiects from noble cause proceed ; 
 Though like some vile excrescences they be, 
 The tree they spring from is a sacred tree, 
 And its true produce, Strength and Liberty. 
 
 Yet if we could th' attendant ills suppress, 
 If we could make the sum of mischief less ; 
 If we could warm and angry men persuade 
 No more man's common comforts to invade ; 
 And that old ease and harmony re-seat, 
 In all our meetings, so in joy to meet ; 
 jMuch would of glory to the Muse ensue. 
 And our good Vicar would have less to do. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Quid leu'os sine moribus 
 Vanae proliciunt .' Horace. 
 
 Va- ! misero mihi, mea nunc facinora 
 Aperiuiiliir, clam qua; speravi fore. — Manilius. 
 
 PROFESSIONS— LAW. 
 
 Trades and Professions of every kind to bo found in the 
 Iiorough — Its Seamen and Soldiers — I^aw, the Danger of the 
 Subject — Coddrington's OITence — Attorneys increased; 
 tlieir splendid Appearance, how supported — Some worthy 
 Kxceplions— Spirit of Litigation, how stirred up — \ l$oy 
 articled as a Clerk ; his Ideaif — How this Profession perveits 
 the .Tudgment^ .Actions appear through this Medium in a 
 false Light — Success from honest Application— .\rcher, a 
 worthy Character— Swallow, a Character of dilTereut kind 
 —His Origin, Progress, Success, &c. 
 
 " TnADES and Professions " — these are themes the 
 
 Muse, 
 Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose ; 
 But to our Borough they in truth belong, 
 And we, perforce, must take them in our song. 
 Be it then known that we can boast of these 
 In all denominations, ranks, degrees ; 
 All who our numerous wants through life supply, 
 Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die, 
 Or for the dead their various talents try. 
 Then have we those who live by secret arts. 
 By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts; 
 Or who by nobler means themselves advance, 
 Or who subsist by charitj und chance. 
 
 appear to many almost incredible, that, in tliis country, and 
 but feu- vears since, a close and successful man should be a 
 stranger'to the metluid of increasing money l)y the loan of it. 
 The minister of ths place where the honest Fisherman re- 
 sided, has related to me lh<! apprehension and suspicion he 
 witnessed ; with trembling hand and dubious look, the care- 
 ful man received and surveyed the bond given to him, and, 
 afiiT a siiih or two of lingering mistrust, he placed it in the 
 culler whence he hail just before taken his cash; for which, 
 and for v.hose increase, he now- indulged a belief that it was 
 indeed both promise and security. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 197 
 
 Say, of our native heroes shall I boast, 
 Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast, 
 Our Borough-seamen ? Could the timid Muse 
 :More patriot-ardour in their breasts infuse ; 
 Or could she paint their merit or their skill, 
 She wants not love, alacrity, or will : 
 But needless all ; that ardour is their cwTi, 
 And for their deeds, themselves have made them 
 known. 
 
 Soldiers in arms ! Defenders of our soil ! 
 AVho from destruction save us ; who from spoil 
 Protect the sons of peace, who traffic, or who toil ; 
 AVould I could duly praise you ; that each deed 
 Your foes might honour, and your friends might 
 
 read : 
 This too is needless ; you 've imprinted well 
 Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell : 
 Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone, 
 AVould fail in themes where there is praise alone. 
 — Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs ? 
 Alas ! there may be danger in such songs ; 
 A foolish rhyme, 't is said, a trifling thing. 
 The law found treason, for it touch'd the King.' 
 But kings have mercy, in these happy times, 
 Or surely One'~ had suffered for his rhymes; 
 Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold, 
 So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold ; 
 But he escaj)'d, — nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I, 
 Who love my king, for such offence to die. 
 But I am taught the danger would be much, 
 If these poor lines should one attorncj/ touch — 
 (One of those Limbs of Law who 're always here ; 
 The Heads come down to guide them twice a year.) 
 I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport 
 "Would whip a rhymer on from court to court ; 
 Stop him in each, and make him pay for all 
 The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall : — 
 Then let my numbers flow discreetly on, 
 AVarn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington,^ 
 Lest some attoriiei/ (pardon me the name) 
 Should wound a poor solicitor for fame. 
 
 One Man of Law in George the Second's reign 
 "Was all our frugal fatliers woidd maintain ; 
 He too was kept for forms ; a man of peace, 
 To frame a contract, or to draw a lease : 
 
 ' [" It stiinils on recoril, tliaf in Riclianrs times 
 
 A man washang'd for very liouest rliymes." — Pope.] 
 
 ' [The poet no doubt allu<les to Dr. Wolcot, who, under 
 the well-known appellation of Peter I'indar, published various 
 satires calculated to brin;,' tlie person and cluiracter of (ieorge 
 the Tliird into contempt and hatred. He died in 1819.] 
 
 3 The account of Coddrinf,'ton occurs in " The Mirrour for 
 Mafjistrates." lie suffered in tliereijjn of Richard III. [The 
 execution of Coll'mgbourni; was under colour of rebellion, but 
 in reality on account of the dojjgerel couplet which he is 
 introduced as quoting in "Tlie Mirrour :" — 
 
 " They murdcr'd mee, for metring thin<;s amisse ; 
 For \\o!.st tliou what ? I am that CoUiu^bourne, 
 Which made the ryme, whereof I well may mourn^ — 
 ' The Cat, the Rat, and l/rccll our Diiij, 
 ' Do rule all Kngland, iindir a Hog!' 
 Whereof the meaninj? was so playue and true, 
 'I'hat every fool perceived it at furst : 
 Most liked it ; for most that most things knew 
 In hugger-mugger, mutter'd what they durst ; 
 The tyraunt Prince of most was held accurst, 
 IJoth for his own and for his counsayVs faulty. 
 Of whom were three, the naughtiest of the naughts, 
 (.'atesby was one, whom I called a Cat ; 
 A crafty lawyer, catching all hee could. 
 
 He had a clerk, with whom he used to write 
 All the day long, with whom he drank at night , 
 Spare was his visage, moderate his bill. 
 And he so kind, men doubted of his skill. 
 
 AVho thinks of this, with some amazement sees, 
 For one so poor, three flourishing at ease ; 
 Nay, one in splendoin- ! — see that mansion tall. 
 That lofty door, the far-resounding hall ; 
 "Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board, 
 Cay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored : 
 Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown 
 These sons of strife, these terrors of the town ? 
 
 Lo I that small Office ! there th' incautious guest 
 Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest ; 
 There in his web, th' observant spider lies, 
 And peers about for fat intruding flies ; 
 Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum, 
 xVnd feels them fluttering as they nearer come ; 
 They buzz and blink, and doubtfully tliey tread 
 On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread ; 
 But when they 're once entangled by the gin. 
 With what an eager clasp he draws them in ; 
 Nor shall they 'scape, till after long delay. 
 And all that sweetens life is drawn av\ay.'' 
 
 " Nay, this," you cry, " is common-place, the 
 tale 
 " Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening ale; 
 " There are who, living by the legal pen, 
 " Are held in honour, — 'honourable men.' " 
 
 Doubtless — there are who hold manorial courts, 
 Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports ; 
 Or who, by labouring through a length of time, 
 Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime. 
 These are the few — In this, in every place, 
 Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race ; 
 Who to contention as to trade are led. 
 To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread. 
 
 There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think 
 'T is not with us to give him meat and drink ; 
 There is a Child ; and 'tis not mighty clear 
 Whether the mother lived with us a year : 
 A Koad's indicted, and our seniors doubt 
 If in our proper boundary or v.ithout : 
 But what says our Attorney? He, our friend, 
 Tells us 't is just and manly to contend. 
 
 The second RatclilTe, whom I named a Kat, 
 A cruel beast to gnawe on whom liee should ; 
 Lord Lovell barkt and bit whom Kichard would. 
 
 Whom I therefore did rightly terme our Pog; 
 
 fVlicrewith to ryme I calde the King a Hog." 
 
 — Such are the verses headed " How Collingbourno was cruelly 
 executed for a foolish rhyme." The hog of the original rliynii! 
 is, however, an allusion to the well-known Slh-er Uuar of 
 Richard's cognizance ; whence also Gray's lines ; — 
 
 " Tlie bristled boar in infant gore 
 
 Wallows beneath the thorny shade," &c. &c.] 
 
 * [" He that with injury is grieved 
 .■\nd goes to law to be relieved, 
 Is sillier than a sottish chouse, 
 Who, when a thief has robb'd his house, 
 Applies himself to cunning men. 
 To help him to his goods again. 
 Others Ijelieve no voice t' an organ 
 So sweet as lawyer's in his bar gown, 
 Until with subtle cobweb-clicats 
 They're catchedin knotted law, like nets; 
 In which, when once they are imbranirled. 
 The mere they stir, the more they're tangled." 
 
 BUTLEH.] 
 
198 
 
 CllABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 '• Wliat ! to a neighbouring parish yield your 
 cause, 
 " Wliile you have money, and the nation laws ? 
 " AVhat ! lose \\ ithout a trial, that which, tried, 
 " Blay — nay it must — be given on our side ? 
 " All men of spirit would contend ; such men 
 " Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten. 
 '■ AVhat ! be imposed on? No ! a British soul 
 " Despises imposition, hates control : 
 " The law is open ; let them, if they dare, 
 " Support their cause ; the Borough need not spare. 
 " All I advise is vigour and good-will : 
 " Is it agreed then— Shall I file a bill? " 
 
 The trader, grazier, merchant, priest, and all, 
 Whose sons aspiring, to professions call, 
 Choose ft'om their lads some bold and subtle boy, 
 And judge him fitted for this gi-ave employ : 
 Him a keen old practitioner admits, 
 To write five years and exercise his wits : 
 The youth has heard — it is in fact his creed — 
 Mankind dispute, that Lawyers may be fee'd : 
 Jails, bailiffs, writs, all terms and threats of law, 
 Grow now familiar as once top and taw ; 
 Kage, hatred, fear, the mind's severer ills. 
 All bring employment, all augment his bills : 
 As feels the surgeon for the mangled limb. 
 The mangled mind is but a job for him ; 
 Thus taught to thiuk. those legal reasoners drav.' 
 Morals and maxims from their views of Law ; 
 They cease to judge by precepts taught in schools. 
 By man's plain sense, or by religious rules ; 
 No ! nor by law itself, in trutli discern'd, 
 But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd : 
 How they should judge of man ; his word and deed, 
 They in their books and not tlicir bosoms read : 
 Of some good act you speak with just applause ; 
 " No, no !" says he, " 'twould be a losing cause :" 
 Blame you some tyrant's deed ? — he answers, 
 
 " Nay, 
 " He '11 get a verdict; heed you what you say." 
 Thus to conclusions from examples led, 
 The heart resigns all judgment to the head ; 
 Law, law alone for ever kept in view. 
 His measures guides, and rules his conscience too; 
 Of ten commandments, he confesses three 
 Are yet in force, and tells you which they be, 
 
 5 [" Wlion money ^vill liiro you to plead for injustice 
 ;i2iiinst your own knowledfje, and to use your wits to defraud 
 tlie righteous and spoil liis cause, or vex liim with delays, for 
 tlie advanta;;e of your unri;,'litcous client — I would not have 
 your conscience for all your gains, nor your accompt to make 
 for all tlie world." — Uaxtku. 
 
 I a^ked him whether, as a moralist, he did not 
 
 think that tlie jiractice of the law, in some de^'ree, hurt the 
 nice feelin;,' of lionesty .' .Iomnson' ; ' \Vhy, no, sir, if you 
 act properly.' lioswKi.i, : ' Hut wliat do you think of sup- 
 j)ortinj( a cans*? wliicii you know to lie \y,v\ ? .Toiinsox : *Sir, 
 vou do not know it to be good or tiad till tlie jud^'e determines 
 it. I have said that you are to state facts fairly ; so that your 
 thiiikiii(;,or what you call kuowini;, a cause to be bad, must be 
 from re.xsoninx — must be I'roni your supposing yourar^'uments 
 to be weak and inconclusive. Hut, sir, that is not enoiish. 
 An argument which does not convince yourself, may convince 
 the Judge to whom you urge it ; and if it does convince him, 
 why then, sir, you .are wrong and hir is right. It is his busi- 
 ness to Jud^e; and you are not to De conlident in your own 
 opinion tliat a cause? is bad, but to say all you can for your 
 client, and then hear the juilgc's opinion.' lioswKLT. : ' Hiit, 
 Kir, does not aJVcci lug a warmth when you liave no warmth, 
 and appearing to Ije clearly of one opinion, wlun you are in 
 
 As Law instructs him, thus : " Your neighbour's 
 
 wife 
 " You must not take, his chattels, nor his life ; 
 " Break these decrees, for damage you must pay ; 
 " These you must reverence, and the rest — you 
 may." ^ 
 
 Law was design'd to keep a state in peace ; 
 To punish robbery, that wrong migltt cease ; 
 To be impregnable : a constant fort, 
 To whicli the weak and injured might resort : 
 But these perverted minds its force employ, 
 Not to protect mankind, but to annoy ; 
 And long as ammunition can be found. 
 Its lightning flashes and its thunders sotmd. 
 
 Or law with lawj'ers is an ample still, 
 "Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic skill : 
 "While the fire burns, the gains are quickly made, 
 And freely flow the profits of the trade ; 
 Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow 
 The dying fire, and make the embers glow, 
 As long as they can make the smaller profits flow : 
 At length the process of itself will stop. 
 When they perceive they 've drawn out every 
 drop.'' 
 
 Yet, I repeat, there arc, who nobly strive 
 To keep the sense of moral worth alive ; 
 Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live 
 On what deception and chican'ry give ; 
 And these at length succeed ; they have their strife, 
 Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life ; 
 But honour, application, care, and skill. 
 Shall bend opposing fortune to their will. 
 
 Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe 
 Contending parties by his threats of law : 
 He, roughly honest, has been long a guide 
 In Borough-business, on the conquering side ; 
 And seen so much of both sides, and so long. 
 He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong: 
 Thus, though he 's friendly, he is still severe, 
 Surly, though kind, suspiciously sincere : 
 So much he 's seen of baseness in the mind. 
 That, while a friend to man, he scorns mankind ; 
 He knows the human heart, and sees with dread. 
 By sliglit temptation, how the strong are led ; 
 He knows how interest can asunder rend 
 The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend, 
 
 reality of another, does not such dissimulation impair one's 
 honesty ? Is there not some danger that a lawyer may put 
 on the same mask in common life, in the intercourse witli his 
 friends ?' Johnson : ' Why, no, sir. Kvery body knows you 
 are paid for affecting warmth for your client ; and it is, there- 
 fore, no dissimulation ; the moment you come from the bar 
 you resume your usual behaviour Sir, a man will no more 
 carry the artifice of the bar into the common intercourse of 
 society, than a man who is paid fur tumbling upon his hands 
 will continue to tumble upon his hands when he should w alk 
 oil his feet.' " — CroUcr's Boswtil, vol. ii. p. 48.] 
 
 « [" Not one of all the trade tliat I know 
 K'er fails to take the riady rhino. 
 Which haply if his purse receive, 
 No human art can e'er retrieve ; 
 Sooner the daring wights who go 
 Down to the watery world below. 
 Shall fon'.c old Neptune to disgorge 
 And vomit up the Koyal (n'orge, 
 Tllan he wllo lialli his bar;,'ain made, 
 And legally his cash convcy'il, 
 .Shall e'er his poi-k'-t reimburse 
 IJy diving in a lawyer's purse." — .\.NSTKy.] 
 
To form a new and a degrading tie 
 'Tvf ixt needy vice and tempting villainy. 
 Sound in liimself, yet when such flaws appear, 
 He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear: 
 For where so dark the moral view is grown, 
 A timid conscience trembles for her own ; 
 The pitchy-taint of general vice is such 
 As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch. 
 I Far unlike him was one in former times. 
 Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes ; 
 Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey, 
 lie like an eagle seized and bore the whole away. 
 
 Swallow, a poor Attorney, brought his boy 
 Up at his desk, and gave him his employ ; 
 He would have bound him to an honest trade, 
 Could preparations have been duly made. 
 The clerkship ended, both the sire and son 
 Together did what business could be done ; 
 Sometimes they 'd luck to stir up small disputes 
 Among their friends, and raise them into suits : 
 Though close and hard, the father was content 
 With this resource, now old and indolent : 
 But his young Swallow, gaping and alive 
 To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive : — 
 " Father," he said, " but little can they win, 
 " Who hunt in couples where the game is thin ; 
 " Let 's part in peace, and each pursue his gain, 
 " Where it may start — our love may yet remain." 
 The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love 
 Made the young cockatrice his den remove ; 
 But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress'd, 
 Forced a frank look, and said he '' thought it 
 
 best." 
 Not long they 'd parted ere dispute arose ; 
 The game they hunted quickly made them foes : 
 Some house, the father by his art had won, 
 Seem'd a fit cause of contest to tlie son. 
 Who raised a claimant, and then found a way 
 By a staunch witness to secure his prey. 
 The people cursed him, but in times of need 
 Trusted in one so certain to succeed : 
 By Law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind 
 With wicked knowledge, how to cheai mankind. 
 Few are the freeholds in our ancient tovm. ; 
 A copj'right from heir to heir came down. 
 From whence some heat arose, when there was 
 
 doubt 
 In point of heirship ; hat the fire went out, 
 Till our Attorney had the art to raise 
 The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze : 
 For this he now began his friends to treat ; 
 His way to starve them was to make them eat. 
 And drink oblivious draughts — to his applause. 
 It must be said, he never starved a cause ; 
 He 'd roast and boil'd upon his board ; the hoast 
 Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast ; 
 And these at every hour : — he seldom took 
 Aside his client, till he 'd praised his cook ; 
 Nor to an office led him, there in pain 
 To give his story and go out again ; 
 But first, the brandy and the chine were seen, 
 And then the business came by starts between. 
 
 " Well, if 't is so, the house to you belongs; 
 " But have you money to redress these wrongs ? 
 " Nay, look not sad, my friend ; if ,you 're correct, 
 " You '11 find the friendship that you 'd not expect." 
 
 If right the man, the house was Swallow's own ; 
 If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown : 
 
 " Rogue ! " " Villain ! " " Scoundrel ! " cried the 
 
 losers all : 
 He let them cry, for what would that recall? 
 At length he left us, took a village seat. 
 And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat ; 
 The Eorough-hooty, give it all its praise, 
 Had only served the appetite to raise ; 
 But if from simple heirs he drew tlieir land, 
 He might a noble feast at will command ; 
 Still he proceeded by his former rules. 
 His bait, their pleasures, when lie fished for fools — 
 Flagons and haunches on his board were placed. 
 And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste : 
 Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled. 
 Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread ; 
 Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds, 
 And check'd their generous rage for steeds and 
 
 hounds ; 
 Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view 
 A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew : " 
 Some too had run upon Newmarket heath 
 With so much speed that tlicy were out of breath ; 
 Others had tasted claret, till they now 
 To humbler port would turn, and knew not how. 
 All these for favours would to Swallow run. 
 Who never sought their thanks for all he 'd done ; 
 He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd 
 Politely low, and thus his love avow'd — 
 (For he 'd a way that many judged polite, 
 A cunning dog — he 'd fawn before he 'd bite) — 
 
 " Observe, my friends, tlie frailty of our race 
 " When age unmans us — let me state a case : 
 " There 's our friend Bupert — we shall soon redress 
 " His present evil — drink to our success — 
 " I flatter not ; but did you ever see 
 " Limbs better turn'd ? a prettier boy than he ? 
 " His senses all acute, his passions such 
 " xVs nature gave — she never does too much ; 
 " His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain, 
 " And strength to bear it without qualm or pain. 
 
 " Now view his father as he dozing lies, 
 " M^hose senses wake not when he opes his eyes ; 
 " Who slips and shutfles when he moans to walk, 
 " And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk ; 
 " Feeling he 's none — he could as soon destroy 
 " The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy ; 
 " A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs, 
 " Present his gruel, and respect his whims : 
 " Now shall this dotard from our hero hold 
 " His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold ? 
 " That which he cannot use, and dare not show, 
 '• And will not give — why longer should he owe ? 
 " Yet, 't would be murder should we snap the locks, 
 '* And take the thing he worships from the box ; 
 '• So let him dote and dream : but, till he die, 
 " Shall not our generous heir receive supply ? 
 " For ever sitting on the river's brink ? 
 " And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink ? 
 " The means are simple, let him only wish, 
 " Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish." 
 
 They all applauded, and not least the boy. 
 Who now replied, " It fiU'd his heart with joy 
 " To find he needed not deliv'rance crave 
 " Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave ; 
 
 ' (Tlie boxiiis-match betwopii Humphreys and the .Tew 
 Men<loza took place in ITSS, and has already been alluded to, 
 (into, p. 133.] 
 
200 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Who, ■\vliiIo he spent, would every art retain, 
 " Of luring lionie the scatter'd gold again ; 
 " Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays 
 " With what returns in still and secret ways." 
 
 Short was the dream of bliss ; lie quickly found, 
 His father's acres all were Swallow's ground. 
 Yet to those arts would other heroes lend 
 A willing car, and Swallow was their friend ; 
 Ever successful, some began to think 
 That Satan help'd him to his pen and ink ; 
 And shrewd suspicions ran about the place, 
 " There was a compact" — I must leave the case. 
 But of the parties, had the fiend been one, 
 The business could not have been speedier done : 
 Still when a man has angled day and night, 
 The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite : 
 So Swalkjw tried no more : but if they came 
 To seek liis friendship, that remain'd the same : 
 Thus he retired in peace, and some would say 
 He 'd balk'd his partner, and had leai'n'd to j)ray. 
 To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought 
 IIow Swallow felt, then said " a change is wrought." 
 'T was true there wanted all the signs of grace, 
 But there were strong professions in their place ; 
 Then, too, the less that men from him expect, 
 The more the praise to the converting sect ; 
 He had not yet subscribed to all their creed, 
 Nor own'd a Call, but he confess'd the need : 
 His acquiescent speech, his gracious look, 
 That pure attention, when the brethren spoke. 
 Was all contrition, — he had felt the wound, 
 And with confession would again be sound. 
 
 True, Swallow's boai'd had still the sumptuouo 
 treat ; 
 But could they blame ? the warmest zealots eat : 
 He drank — 't was needful his poor nerves to brace ; 
 He swore — 'twas habit; he was grieved — 'twas 
 
 grace : 
 What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse ? 
 '• His wealth 's undoubted — let him hold our purse ; 
 " He '11 add his bounty, and the house we '11 raise 
 '' Hard by the church, and gather all her strays : 
 " We'll watch her sinners as they iiome retire, 
 " And pluck the brands from the devouring fire." 
 
 Alas ! such speech was but an empty boast ; 
 The good men reckon'd, but without their host; 
 Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store, 
 And own'd the sum : they did not ask for more. 
 Till more was needed ; when they call'd for aid— 
 And had it? — No, their agent was afraid : 
 " {"ould he but know to whom he should refund, 
 " lie would most gladly — nay, he 'd go beyond; 
 
 " [" Tlie cliaracirr of Arclior, tliy honest but stern and sus- 
 picious attorney, and also tliat of tlie cunning and unprin- 
 cipled Swallow, are ndmiraMy drawn; but in the latter Air. 
 Crablje takes cnre to throw in some sarcasms on tlie zealots 
 who were too ready to claim him as a convert, and trust him 
 as their treasurer." — Eclcclic Jievicw.] 
 
 ■' I entertain the slroni;est, because the most reasonable 
 Iiope, that no liberal practitioner in tile Law will be olTended 
 by the notice taken ol' dishonourable and crafty attorneys. 
 'i"he increased ilillicully of enteriu},' into the profession will 
 in time render it much more free than it now is, from those 
 who disgrace! it : at present such persons remain, and it would 
 not b(! diflicult to >;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 
 <lisclosed; wliereas, in my judgment, they ought both to 
 inquire the skill, and to 'give the attendances, for the fa- 
 
 These sound instruction from experience give. 
 The others show us how they mean to live. 
 That they have genius, and they hope mankind 
 "W'ili to its efforts be no longer blind. 
 
 There are, beside, whom powerful friends ad- 
 vance, 
 "Wliom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance : 
 And merit sighs to see a fortune made 
 By daring rashness or by dull parade. 
 
 But these are trifling evils ; there is one 
 "Wliich walks imcheck'd, and triumphs in tlie sun : 
 There was a time, when we beheld the Quack, 
 On public stage, the licensed trade attack ; 
 He made his labour'd speech with poor parade, 
 And then a laughing zany lent him aid : 
 Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while 
 Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile •, 
 Assured that fluent speech and ttow'ry vest 
 Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd ; — 
 
 But now our Quacks are gamesters, and they 
 play 
 "With craft and skill to ruin and betray ; 
 "With monstrous promise they delude the mind, 
 And thrive on all that tortures human-kind. 
 
 "Void of all honour, avaricious, rash, 
 The daring tribe compound their boasted trash — 
 Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill ; 
 All tempt the sick to trust the Ij'ing bill;® 
 And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires. 
 Aid the bold language of these blushless liars. 
 There are among them those who cannot read, 
 And yet they '11 buy a patent, and succeed ; 
 Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid. 
 For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid ? 
 With cruel avarice still they recommend 
 JMoi'e draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end : 
 " I feel it not;" — " Then take it every hour:" 
 " It makes me worse ;"' — " Why then it shows its 
 
 power :" 
 " I fear to die;" — " Let not your spirits sink, 
 " You 're always safe, while you believe and 
 drink." 
 
 cilitating and assuaging of the pains and agonies of death." — 
 Uacon.] 
 
 5 When I observe that the young and less experienced 
 physician will write rather with a view of making himself 
 known than to investigate and publish some useful fact, I 
 would not be thought to extend this remark to all the publi- 
 cations of such men. I could point out a work containing 
 experiments the most judicious, and conclusions the most 
 interesting, made by a gentleman, then young, which would 
 have given j'lst celebrity to a man after long practice. The 
 observation is nevertheless true : many opinions have been 
 adopted, and many books written, not that the theory might 
 be well defended, but that a young physician miglit be better 
 known. [The gentleman here alluded to is Dr. Edmund 
 Goodwyn. He «as assistant-surgeon to Mr. Page of Wood- 
 bridge when the Poet was apprentice there, and published, 
 in I'lSS, an ' Experimental Enquiry into the Ellects of Sub- 
 mersion, Strangulation, and several Kinds of noxious Airs on 
 Living Animals.'] 
 
 * [" I have hoard of a porter, who serves as a knight of the 
 post under one of these operators, and, though he was never 
 sick in his life, has been cured of all the diseases in the dis- 
 pensary. These are the men whose sagacity has invented 
 elixirs of all sorts, pills, and lozenges, and take it as an 
 affront if yon come to them liefore you are given over by 
 everybody else. Their medicines are infallible, and never 
 fail of success— that is, of enriching the doctor, and setting 
 the patient effectually at rest." — Uisuoh PtARCE.] 
 
202 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 IIow strange to add, in this nefarious trade, 
 That men of parts are dupes by dunces made : 7 
 That creatures, nature meant should dean our 
 
 streets, 
 Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and 
 
 scats ; 
 Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave 
 Their untaught sons their parents to deceive ; 
 And when they 're laid upon their dying-bed, 
 No thought of murder comes into their head, 
 Nor one revengeful ghost to them appears, 
 To fin the soul with penitential fears. 
 
 Yet not tlic whole of this imposing train 
 Their gardens, seats, and carriages obtain ; 
 Chiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall, 
 Who are most fitted to disgrace them all : 
 But there is hazard — patents must be bought. 
 Venders and pullers for the poison sought ; 
 And then in many a paper through the year, 
 Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear ; 
 Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping 
 
 in. 
 Their lungs cough'd up, their bon^s pierced 
 
 through their skin ; 
 Their liver all one schirrus, and the frame 
 Poison'd with evils which they dare not name ; 
 ]Men who spent all upon physicians' fees, 
 Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease. 
 Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as 
 
 bees.^ 
 If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend, 
 And come in shoals, the angler gains his end ; 
 But should the advertising cash be spent, 
 Ere yet the town has due attention lent. 
 Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat 
 Pines for the bread he ill deserves to eat ; 
 It is a lottery, and he shares perhaps 
 The rich man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps. 
 
 ' [" There is hardly a man in tho world, one would thin!:, 
 so ignorant as not to know that tlic ordinary quack-doctors, 
 wlio publish tlieir f,'reat abilities in little brown billets, dis- 
 tributed to all wlio pass by, are to a man impostors and mur- 
 derers. Yet sucli is tlie credulity of the vulgar, and the 
 impudence of those professors, that the alTair still goes on, 
 and new promises, of what was never before done, are made 
 every day. What aggravates the jest is, that even tliis promise 
 has been made as long as the memory of man can trace it, yet 
 nothing performed, and yet still prevails. As I was passing 
 along to-day, a paper given into my hand, by a fellow without 
 a nose, tells us as follows: — ' In Russel Court, over against 
 the Cannon l!all, at the .Surgeons' Arms, in Drury Lane, is 
 lately come from his travels a surgeon who hath practised 
 surgery and physic, botli by sea and land, these twenty-four 
 years. lie (by the blessing) cures the yellow-jaundice, 
 scurvy, dropsy, surfeits, long sea-voyages, campaigns, lying- 
 in. Sec, as some people that has been lame these tliirty ye.ars 
 can testify : in short, he cureth all diseases incident to men, 
 women, or children !' If a man could be so indolent as to 
 look upon this havoc of the human species, which is made by 
 vice and ignoranci-, it would be a good ridiculous work to 
 comment tipon tlie declaration of this accomplished traveller. 
 There is something unaccountably taking among the vulgar 
 in tliose who comi' from a great way oil'. Ignorant people of 
 quality, as many there are of such, <lole excessively that way. 
 The ignoranf^s of lower order, who cannot, like the upper 
 ones, l)e profuse of their money to those recommended by 
 coming from a distance, are no less complaisant than the 
 others ; for they venture their liv»>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<Miburgli was likewise a very good patient. The great 
 condescension of the doctor draws upon him much good-will 
 from his audience; and it is ten to one but, if any one of 
 them 1)0 troubled witli an aching tooth, his ambition will 
 prompt him to uet it drawn by a person who has had so 
 many jirinces, Kings, and emperors under his hands." — 
 Addison.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 t203 
 
 But can it please you, thus to league with all 
 Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl ? 
 Would you these wrappers with your name adorn, 
 Which hold the poison for the yet unborn ? 
 
 No class escapes them — from the poor man's pay, 
 The nostrum takes no trifling par* away : 
 See I those squai-e patent bottles from the shop, 
 Now decoration to the cupboard's top ; 
 And there a favourite hoard you'll find within, 
 Companions meet I the julep and the gin. 
 
 Time too with cash is wasted ; 't is the fate 
 Of real helpers to be call'd too late ; 
 This find the sick, when (time and patience gone) 
 Death with a tenfold terror hurries on. 
 
 Suppose the case surpasses human skill, 
 There comes a quack to flatter weakness still ; 
 What greater evil can a flatterer do, 
 Than from himself to take the sufierer's view ? 
 To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers. 
 And rob a sinner of his dying hours ? 
 Yet this they dare, and craving to the la?*'. 
 In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast : 
 Fc.r soul or body no concern have they. 
 All their inquiry, " Can the patient pay ? 
 " And will he swallow draughts until his dying 
 day ?" 
 
 Observe what ills to nervous females flow, 
 When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low ; 
 If once induced these cordial sips to try. 
 All feel the ease, and few the danger fly ; 
 For, while obtain'd, of drams they 've all the force, 
 And when denied, then drams are the resource. 
 
 Nor these the only evils — there are those 
 Who for the troubled mind prepare repose ; 
 They write : the young are tenderly address'd, 
 Much danger hinted, much concern express'd ; 
 They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take. 
 Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake ; 
 Still if the youthful patient will but trust 
 In one so kind, so pitiful, and just ; 
 If he vrill take the tonic all the time, 
 And hold but moderate intercourse with crime ; 
 The sage will gravely give his honest word, 
 That strength and spirits shall be both restored ; 
 In plainer English — if you mean to sin. 
 Fly to the drops, and instantly begin. 
 
 Who would not lend a sj'mpathising sigh, 
 To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry ? 
 That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note, 
 Which came with vigour from the op'ning throat ; 
 "When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes, 
 And there was life and spirit in the cries ; 
 Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep, 
 Is all we hear ; sensation is asleep : 
 The boy was healthy, and at first express'd 
 His feelings loudly when he fail'd to rest ; 
 When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb, 
 To cry aloud, was what pertain'd to him ; 
 Then the good nurse, (who, had she borne a brain, 
 Had sought the cause tliat made her babe complain,) 
 Has all her efforts, loving soul ! applied 
 To set the cry, and not the cause, aside ; 
 
 '" An empiric who Jluurlsltcd at tlie same time with this 
 great man. 
 
 '■ [" So great are the difficulties of tracing' out the hidden 
 causes of the evils to which the frame of man is subject, that 
 
 She gave her powerful sweet without remorse, 
 The sleeping cordial — she had tried its forcGj 
 Repeating oft : the infant, freed from pain, 
 Rejected food, but took the dose again. 
 Sinking to sleep ; while she lier joy express'd, 
 That her dear charge could sweetly take his 
 
 rest: 
 Soon may she spare her cordial ; not a doubt 
 Remains, but quickly ho will rest without. 
 
 This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh 
 To think what numbers from these causes die ; 
 But what contempt and anger sliould wc show, 
 Did we the lives of these impostors know ! 
 
 Ere for the world's I left the cares of school, 
 One I remember who assumed the fool ; 
 A part well suited — when the idler boys 
 Would shout around him, and he loved the noise ; 
 They called him Neddy ; — Neddy had the art 
 To play with skill his ignominious part ; 
 When he his trifles would for sale display, 
 And act the mimic for a schoolboy's pay. 
 For many years he plied his humble trade, 
 And used his tricks and talents to persuade ; 
 The fellow barely read, but chanced to look 
 Among the fragments of a tatter'd book ; 
 "Whore, after many efibrts made to spell 
 One puzzling word, he found it oxy?nel ; 
 A potent thing, 't was said to cure the ills 
 Of ailing lungs — the oxipnel of squills : 
 Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong 
 And most unpleasant ; none would take it long ; 
 But the pure acid and the sweet would make 
 A med'cine numbers would for pleasure take. 
 
 There was a fellow near, an artful knave, 
 Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave ; 
 He wrote the puflTs, and every talent plied 
 To make it sell : it sold, and then he died. 
 
 Now all the profit fell to Ned's control, 
 And Pride and Avarice quarrell'd for his soul ; 
 W^hen mighty profits by the trash were made, 
 Pride built a j)alace. Avarice groan'd and paid ; 
 Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about. 
 And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out. 
 
 Now see him Doctor ! yes, the idle fool. 
 The butt, the robber of the lads at school ; 
 Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired, 
 Became a doctor, honour'd and admired ; 
 His dress, his frown, his dignity were such, 
 Some who had kno^^■n him thought his knowledge 
 
 much ; 
 Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick. 
 Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick ; 
 Though he could neither reason, write, nor spell, 
 They yet had hope his trash would make them well ; 
 And while they scorn'd his parts, they took his 
 
 oxymel. 
 Oh ! when his ner^'es had once received a shock, 
 Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock :" 
 Hence impositions of the grossest kind. 
 Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind ; 
 Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made, 
 And deaths unnumber'd by their dreadful trade." 
 
 the most candid of the profession liave ever allowed and 
 lamented how unavoidably llioyare in the dark. So that the 
 best medicines, administered by the wisest heads, shall often 
 do the mischief they were intended to prevent. These are 
 misfortunes to which we are subject in this state of darkness ; 
 
204 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Alas ! in vain is my contempt express'd, 
 To stronger passions are their words address'd ; 
 To pain, to fear, to terror their appeal, 
 To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel. 
 What then our hopes ? — perhaps there may by 
 
 law 
 Be metliod found, these pests to curb and awe ; 
 Yet in this land of freedom law is slack 
 With any being to commence attack ; 
 Then let us trust to science — there are those 
 Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose. 
 All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks 
 
 expose ; 
 Perhaps their numbers may in time confound 
 Their arts — ^as scorpions give themselves the 
 
 wound : 
 For when these curers dwell in every place, 
 Wliile of the cured we not a man can trace, 
 Strong truth may then the public mind persuade, 
 And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Non possidentem multa vocaveris 
 llecte beatum : rectius occupat 
 Nomen Beati, qui Deorura 
 Munerihus sapienter uti, 
 Duraraque callet pauperiem pati. 
 
 HoR. lib. iv. Ode 9.' 
 
 Non propter vitam faciunt patrimonia quidam, 
 Sed vitio caeci propter patrimonia viviiiit. 
 
 Juvenal, Sat. 12.- 
 
 TRADES. 
 
 No extensive manufactories in the Bnrouf;li ; yet considerable 
 Fortunes made there — 111 Judgment of Parents in disposing 
 of tlieir Sons — The best educated not the most likely to 
 succeed — Instance — Want of Success compensated by the 
 lenient Power of some Avocations — the Naturalist — The 
 Vv'eaver an Entomologist, &c.— A Prise Flower— Story of 
 Walter and William. 
 
 Of manufactures, trade, inventions rare. 
 Steam-towers and looms, you'd know our Borough's 
 
 share — 
 ' T is small : we boast not these rich subjects here. 
 Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a year ; 
 AVe 've no huge buildings, where incessant noise 
 Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys ; 
 Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's 
 
 song 
 Is " Harmony in Uproar" ^ all day long. 
 
 but when men without skill, without education, without 
 knowledge eitlipr of the distemper, or even of wliat they sell, 
 make merchandise of llie miseral)lf, and, from a dishonest 
 princinle, trille with the pains of (lie unfortunate.— too often 
 with their lives, and from the mere motive of a <iishonest 
 gain,— every sucli instance of a person bereft of life by tlio 
 hand of ignorance can be considered in no other liglit than a 
 murder." — Sterne.] 
 
 ' [" Not ho, of wealth immense possess'd, 
 '1'a.steless wlio piles his massy gold, 
 Among tlie number of the blest 
 Sliould liave Iiis glorious name enroll'd. 
 
 Still common minds with us in common trade. 
 Have gain'd more wealth than ever student made ; 
 And yet a merchant, when he gives his son 
 His college-learning, thinks his duty done ; 
 A way to v.ealth he leaves his boy to find, 
 Just when he 's made for the discovery blind. 
 
 Junes and his wife perceived their elder boy 
 Took to his learning, and it gave them joy ; 
 This they encouraged, and were bloss'd to see 
 Their son a fellow with a high degree ; 
 A living fell, he married, and his sire 
 Declared 't was all a father could require ; 
 Children then blcss'd them, and when letters came. 
 The parents proudly told each grandchild's name. 
 
 Meantime the sons at home in trade Mere 
 placed. 
 Money their object — just the father's taste ; 
 Saving he lived and long, and when he died, 
 He gave them all his fortune to divide : 
 " Martin," said ho, " at vast expense was taught ; 
 " He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought." 
 
 Thus the good priest (the Christian scholar 1} 
 finds 
 What estimate is made by vulgar minds ; 
 He sees his brothers, who had every gift 
 Of thriving, now assisted in their thrift ; 
 While he whom learning, habits, all prevent, 
 Is largely mulct for each impediment. 
 
 Yet let us own that Trade has much of chance. 
 Not all the careful by their care advance ; 
 With the same parts and prospects, one a seat 
 Builds for himself; one finds it in the Fleet. 
 Then to the wealthy you will see denied 
 Comforts and joj-s that with the poor abide : 
 There are who labour through the year, and 
 
 yet 
 No more have gain'd than — not to be in debt : 
 Who still maintain the same laborious course, 
 Yet pleasure hails them from some favourite 
 
 source ; 
 And health, amusements, children, wife, or friend, 
 With life's dull viev.s their consolations blend. 
 
 Nor these alone possess the lenient power 
 Of soothing life in the desponding hour ; 
 Some favourite studios, some delightful care, 
 The mind with trouble and distresses share ; 
 And by a coin, a ilower, a verse, a boat. 
 The stagnant spirits have been set afloat ; 
 They pleased at first, and then the habit grew, 
 Till the fond heart no higher pleasure knew ; 
 Till, from all cares and other comforts freed, 
 Th' important nothing took in life the lead. 
 
 With all his phlegm, it broke a Dutchman's 
 heart. 
 At a vast price, with one loved root to part ; •• 
 
 lie better claims the glorious name, who knows 
 With wisdom to enjoy w liat Heaven bestows." 
 
 Francis. ] 
 
 - [" Few gain to live, Corvinus, few or none, 
 liut, blind with avarice, live to gain alone." 
 
 Gifford.] 
 
 ' 'J'he title of a short piece of humour, by .\rbuthnot. 
 
 •• Tlie tulip mania prevailed, in 1G37, to such an extent in 
 Holland, that a single root has been sold for five thousand 
 florins, together with a new carriage, two grey horses, and a 
 complete harness. The tulips, however, were seldom de- 
 
And toys like these fill many a British mind. 
 Although their hearts are found of firmer kind. 
 
 Oft have I smiled the happy pride to see 
 Of humble tradesmen, in their evening glee ; 
 "When of some pleasing fancied good possess'd, 
 l.ach grew alert, vras busy, and was bless'd: 
 Vv'hether the call-bird yield the hour's delight,' 
 Or, magnified in microscope, the mite ; 
 Or whether tumblei-s, croppers, carriers seize 
 The gentle mind, they rule it and they please. 
 
 There is mj' friend the Weaver ; strong desires 
 Ecign in his breast ; 't is beauty he admires : 
 See ! to the shady grove he wings his way, 
 And feels in hope the raptures of the day- 
 Eager he looks : and soon, to glad his eyes, 
 From the sweet bower, by nature form'd, arise 
 Bright troops of virgin moths and fresh-born 
 
 butterflies ; 
 Who broke that morning from their half-year's 
 
 sleep, 
 To fly o'er flowers where they were wont to creep. 
 
 Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims, 
 The purple Emp'ror, strong in wing and limbs : 
 There fair Camilla takes her flight serene, 
 Adonis blue, and Paphia silver-queen ; 
 With every filmy fly from mead or bower, 
 And hungry Sphin.x who threads the honey'd 
 
 flower ; 
 She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound, 
 Views ev'ry bell, and hums th' approving sound ; 
 Poised on her busy plumes, with feeling nice 
 She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret 
 
 twice. 
 He fears no bailiff"s wrath, no baron's blame, 
 Tlis is untax'd and undisputed game : 
 Is'or less the place of curious plant he knows ; * 
 He both his Flora and his Fauna shows : 
 For him is blooming in its rich array 
 The glorious flower which bore the palm away ; 
 In vain a rival tried his utmost art. 
 His was the prize, and joy o'erflow'd his heart. 
 " This, this I is beauty ; cast, I pray, your 
 
 eyes 
 " On this my glorj' ! see the grace I the size ! 
 " AVas ever stem so tall, so stout, so strong, 
 " Exact in breadth, in just proportion long ! 
 " These brilliant hues are all distinct and clean, 
 " No kindred tint, no blending streaks between : 
 " This in no shaded, run-off",^ pin-eyed ® thing ; 
 " A king of flowers, a flower for England's king : 
 
 livored. A nobleman bespoke of a merchant a tulip root, to 
 he delivered in six months, at the price of a thousand florins. 
 During tliese six months the price of tliat species of tulip 
 must have risen or fallen, or remained as it was. Hut instead 
 of demanding his tulip then, he paid or received the differ- 
 ence of price. Tliis singular species of gaming could, from 
 its nature, only go to a limited extent ; the value of tulip 
 roots began to fall. The sellers were then anxious to deliver 
 the roots in nalura, but the buyers would not receive them. 
 The consequence was, that tulips fell very speedily to their 
 intrinsic value, and the gambling was at an end. 
 
 * Different birds require different sorts of calli ; but they 
 are mostly composed of a pipe or reed, witli a litlle leathern 
 purse or bag, somewhat in the form of a bellows, which, by tlie 
 morion giver, thereto, yields a noise like that of the species 
 of bird to be taken. 
 
 6 In botanical language " l!ie habitat" tlie favourit'.' soil or 
 situation of the more scarce species. 
 
 " I own my pride, and thank the favouring star 
 " Which shed such beauty on my fair Bizarre." • 
 Thus may the poor the cheap indulgence seize. 
 While the most wealthy pine and pray for ease ; 
 Content not always waits upon success. 
 And more may he enjoy who profits less. 
 
 Walter and William took (their father dead) 
 Jointly the trade to which they both were bred ; 
 When fix'd, they married, and they quickly found 
 AVith due success their honest labours crowu'd : 
 Few were their losses, but although a few, 
 Walter was vex'd, and somewhat peevish grew: 
 " You put your trust in every pleading fool," 
 Said he to William, and grew strange and cool. 
 " Brother, forbear," he answer'd ; " take your due, 
 " Nor let my lack of caution injure you : " 
 Half friends they parted, — better so to close, 
 Than longer wait to part entirely foes. 
 
 Walter had knowledge, prudence, jealous care ; 
 He let no idle views his bosom share ; 
 He never thought nor felt for other men — ■ 
 •' Let one mind one, and all are minded then." 
 Friends he respected, and believed them just. 
 But they were men, and he would no man trust ; 
 He tried and watch'd his people day and night, — 
 The good it harm'd not; for the bad 'twas right: 
 He could their humours bear, nay disrespect, 
 But he could yield no pardon to neglect ; 
 That all about him were of him afraid, 
 " Was right," he said — " so should we be obey'd." 
 These merchant-maxims, much good fortune too. 
 And ever keeping one grand point in view, 
 To vast amount his once small portion drew. 
 William was kind and easy ; he complied 
 With all requests, or grieved when he denied; 
 To please his wife he made a costly trip, 
 To please his child he let a bargain slip ; 
 Prone to compassion, mild with the distress'd, 
 He bore with all who poverty profcss'd. 
 And some would he assist, nor one would he arrest. 
 He had some loss at sea, bad debts at land, 
 His clerk absconded with some bills in hand. 
 And plans so often fail'd, that he no longer plann'd. 
 To a small house (his brother's) he withdrew, 
 At easy rent — the man was not a Jew ; 
 And there his losses and his cares he bore. 
 Nor found that want of wealth could make him 
 poor. 
 No, he in fact was rich ; nor could he move. 
 But ho was foUow'd by the looks of love ; 
 
 " This, it must be acknowledged, is contrary to the opinion 
 of Tliomson, and I believe of some other poets, who, in de- 
 scribing the varying hues of our most beautiful (lowers, have 
 considered them as lost and blended with each other ; whereas 
 their beauty, in the eye of a florist (and, I conceive, in that 
 of the uninitiated also), depends upon the distinctness of 
 their colours ; the stronger the bounding line, and the less 
 they break into the neighbouring tint, so much the richer 
 and more valuable is the flower esteemed. 
 
 " An auricula, or any other single flower, is so called when 
 the stir/ma (the part which arises from the seed-vessel) is 
 protruded beyond the tube of the flower, and becomes 
 visible. 
 
 ' Tliis word, so far as it relates to flowers, means those 
 variegated with three or more colours irregularly and inde- 
 terminately. 
 
206 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 AH he had suffcr'd, every former grief, 
 Made those around more studious in relief; 
 He saw a clicerful smile in every face, 
 And lost all thoughts of error and disgrace. 
 Pleasant it was to see them in their walk 
 Round their small garden, and to hear tlicm talk ; 
 Free are their children, but their love refrains 
 From all offence — none murmurs, none complains ; 
 AVhether a book amused them, speech or play. 
 Their looks were lively, and their hearts were gay ; 
 There no forced efforts for delight were made, 
 Joy came with prudence, and witliout parade; 
 Their common comforts they had all in view, 
 Light were their troubles, and their wishes few : 
 Thrift made them easj' for the coming day, 
 Religion took the dread of death away ; 
 A cheerful spirit still ensured content. 
 And love smiled round them wheresoe'er they 
 went. 
 "Walter, meantime, with all his wealth's increase, 
 Gain'd many points, but could not purchase peace ; 
 When he withdrew from business for an hour. 
 Some fled his presenee, all confess'd his power ; 
 He sought affection, but received instead 
 Fear undisguised, and love-repelling dread ; 
 He look'd around him — " Harriet, dost thou 
 
 love ? " 
 " I do my duty," said the timid dove ; 
 " Good Heav'n, your duty ! prithee, tell me now — 
 " To love and honour— was not that your vow ? 
 " Come, my good Harriet, I would gladly seek 
 '• Your inmost thought— Why can't the woman 
 
 speak ? 
 " Have you not all things ? " — " Sir, do I com- 
 
 pfain ? "— 
 " No, that 's my part, which I perform in vain ; 
 " I want a simple answer, and direct — 
 " But you evade ; yes ! 't is as I suspect. 
 " Come then, my children ! Watt ! upon your 
 
 knees 
 " Vow that you love me." — " Yes, sir, if you 
 
 please." 
 '■ Again ! By Heav'n, it mads me ; I require 
 " Love, and they'll do whatever I desire : 
 '• Thus too my people shun me ; I would spend 
 " A thousand pounds to get a single friend ; 
 " I would be happy — I have means to pay 
 " For love and friendship, and you run away : 
 " Ungrateful creatures ! why, you seem to dread 
 " My very looks ; I know you wish me dead. 
 " Come hither, Nancy ! you must hold me dear ; 
 " Hither, I say ; why ! what have you to fear? 
 " You see I 'm gentle — Come, you tritier. come : 
 " ]My God ! she trembles ! — Idiot, leave the room ! 
 " ^ladam ! your children hate me ; I suppose 
 '• They know their cue ; you make them all my 
 
 foe?. : 
 " I've not a friend in all the worM — not one: 
 " I 'd be a bankrupt sooner ; nay, "t is done ; 
 " In every better hope of life I fail, 
 " You 're all tormentors, and my liouse a jail. 
 
 "• If I have in this letter praised the good-humour of a man 
 confessedly too innttentive to business, and if, in the one on 
 Amusements, 1 have written somewliat sarcastically of "the 
 brick-floored parlour which the butcher lets," be credit Kiven 
 to me, that, in the one case, I had no intention to apologise 
 for idleness, nor any design in tlie other to treat with con- 
 
 " Out of my sight ! I '11 sit and make my will — 
 
 " What, glad to go ? stay, devils, and be still ; 
 
 " 'T is to your Uncle's cot you wish to run, 
 
 " To learn to live at ease and be undone ; 
 
 " Him you can love, who lost his whole estate, 
 
 " And I, who gain you fortunes, liave j-our hate ; 
 
 " 'T is in my absence, you yourselves enjoy : 
 
 '• Tom ! are j'ou glad to lose me ? tell me, boy : 
 
 " Yes ! does he answer ? — Yes ! upon my soul ; 
 
 " No awe, no fear, no duty, no control ! 
 
 " Away ! away ! ten thousand devils seize 
 
 " All I possess, and plunder where they please ! 
 
 " What 's wealth to me ? — yes, yes ! it gives me 
 
 " sway, 
 " And you shall feel it — Go ! begone, I say."'** 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis 
 
 Ut possis animo quemvis sullerre laborem. 
 
 Catum,, lib. 3. 
 
 Nostra fatiscat 
 
 Ijaxaturque chelys, vires instigat alitque 
 Tempestiva quies, major post otia virtus. 
 
 Statius, Sylv. lib. 4. 
 
 .Tamque mare et tellits nullum discrimen habebant ; 
 Omnia puiitus erant : deerant quoque littora ponto. 
 
 Ovid. Metamurp/i. lib. !. 
 
 AMUSEMENTS. 
 
 Common Amusements of a Bathing-place — Alorning Rides, 
 Walks, &c. — Company resorting to the Town — Dilferent 
 Choice of Lodgings — Cheap Indulgences — Sea-side Walks 
 — Wealthy Invalid — Summer evening on the Sands — Sea 
 Productions — " Water parted from the Sea" — Winter Views 
 serene — In what cases to be avoided — Sailing upon the 
 River — A small Islet of Sand off the Coast— Visited by 
 Company — Covered by the Flowing of the Tide — Adven- 
 ture in that place. 
 
 Of our Amusements ask you ? — We amuse 
 Ourselves and friends with seaside walks and 
 
 views, 
 Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news ; 
 Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street, 
 And so engaged, with various parties meet ; 
 Awhile we stop, discourse of win<l and tide. 
 Bathing and books, the raffle, and the ride : 
 Thus, with the aid which shops and sailing give. 
 Life passes on ; 't is labour, but we live. 
 
 When evening comes, our invalids awake. 
 Nerves cease to tremble, heads forbear to ache ; 
 Then chearful meals the sunken spirits raise, 
 Cards or the dance, wine, visiting, or plays. 
 
 Soon as the season comes, and crowds arrive, 
 To their superior rooms the wealthy drive ; 
 
 tempt the resourc6s of the poor. The goo<l-humour is con- 
 sidered as the consolation of disappointment ; and the room 
 is so mentioned because the lodger is vain. Most of mv 
 readers will perceive this : but I shall be sorry if by any "1 
 am supposed to make pleas for the vices of men, or treat their 
 wants and infirmities with derision or with disdain. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 207 
 
 Others look round for lodging snug and small, 
 Such is their taste — they 've hatred to a hall : 
 Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets, 
 TJie brick-fioor'd parlour which the butcher lets ; 
 Where, through his single light, lie may regard 
 The various business of a common yard. 
 Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay, 
 By stable, sties, and coops, et cetera. 
 
 The needy-vain, themselves awhile to shun. 
 For dissipation to these dog-holes run ; 
 Where each (assuming petty pomp) appears. 
 And quite forgets the shopboard and the shears. 
 
 For them are cheap amusements : they may slip 
 Beyond the town and take a private dip ; 
 When they may urge that, to be safe they mean. 
 They 've heard there 's danger in a light machine ; 
 They too can gratis move the quays about, 
 And gather kind replies to every doubt ; 
 There they a pacing, lounging tribe may view, 
 The stranger's guides, who 've little else to do ; 
 The Borough's placemen, where no more they gain 
 Than keeps them idle, civil, poor, and vain. 
 Then may the poorest with the wealthy look 
 On ocean, glorious page of Kature's book ! 
 May see its varying views in every houi', 
 All softness now, then rising with all power. 
 As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour : 
 'T is this which gives us all our choicest views ; 
 Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse.' 
 
 See ! those fair nymphs upon that rising strand, 
 Yon long salt lake has parted from the land ; 
 Well pleased to press that path, so clean, so pure. 
 To seem in danger, yet to feel secure ; 
 Trifling with terror, while they strive to shun 
 The curling billows ; laughing as they run ; 
 They know the neck that joins the shore and sea. 
 Or, ah ! how changed that fearless laugh would be. 
 
 Observe how various Parties take their way, 
 By seaside walks, or make the sand-hills gay ; 
 There group'd are laughing maids and sighing 
 
 swains. 
 And some apart who feel unpitied pains ; 
 Pains from diseases, pains which those who feel, 
 To the physician, not the fair, reveal : 
 For nymphs (propitious to the lover's sigh) 
 Leave these poor patients to complain and die. 
 
 Lo ! where on that huge anchor sadly leans 
 That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes ; 
 
 I 
 
 ' [Original edition : — 
 
 'T is this wliicli gives us all our clioicest views ; 
 And dull the mind they never can amuse.] 
 
 " Some of the smaller species of the Medusa (sea-nettle) 
 are exquisitely beautiful ; their form is nearly oval, varied 
 with serrated longitudinal lines ; they are extremely tender, 
 i and by no means which I am acquainted witli can be pre- 
 served, fortliey soon dissolve in either spirit of wine or' water, 
 and lose every vestige of their shape, and indeed of tlieir 
 substance : the larger species are found in missliapen masses 
 of many pounds weight ; these, when handled, havetlieell'ect 
 of tlie nettle, and the stinging is often accompanied or suc- 
 ceeded by tlie more unpleasant feeling, perhaps in a sliglit 
 degree resembling that caused by the torpedo. 
 
 3 Various tribes and species of marine vermes are hero 
 meant ; that which so nearly resembles a vegetable in its 
 form, anil perhaps, in some degree, manner of growth, is tlie 
 coralline, called by naturalists .Sertularia, of wliich there are 
 many species in almost every part of the coiist. The animal 
 protrudes its many claws (apparently in search of prey) from 
 
 He late from India's clime impatient sail'd, 
 There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd ; 
 For each delight, in search of wealth he went, 
 For ease alone, the wealth acquired is spent — ■ 
 And spent in vain ; enrich'd, aggrieved, he sees 
 The envied poor possess'd of joy and ease : 
 And now he flies from place to place, to gain 
 Strength for enjoyment, and still flies in vain : 
 Mark 1 with what sadness, of that pleasant crew, 
 Boist'rous in mirth, he takes a transient view ; 
 And fixing then his eye upon the sea, 
 Thinks what has been and what must shortly be : 
 Is it not strange that man should health destroy, 
 For joys that come when he is dead to joy ? 
 
 Now is it pleasant in the Summer-eve, 
 When a broad shore retiring waters leave. 
 Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand. 
 When all is calm at sea, all still at land ; 
 And there the ocean's produce to explore, 
 As floating by, or rolling on the shore : 
 Those living jellies ^ which the flesh inflame, 
 Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name ; 
 Some in huge masses, some that you may bring 
 In the small compass of a lady's ring ; 
 Figured by hand divine — there 's not a gem 
 Wrought by man's art to be compared to them ; 
 Soft, brilliant, tender, tlirough the wave they glow, 
 And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow. 
 Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race, 
 Which science doubting, knows not where to place ; 
 On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed,'' 
 And quickly vegetates a vital breed.'' 
 
 While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect 
 Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject. 
 See as they float along th' entangled weeds 
 Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads ; 
 Wait till they land, and you shall then behold 
 The fiery sparks those tangled fronds infold. 
 Myriads of living points ;* th' unaided eye 
 Can but the fire and not the form descry. 
 And now your view upon the ocean turn, 
 And there the splendour of the waves discern ; 
 Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar, 
 And you shall flames within the deep explore ; 
 Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand. 
 And the cold flames shall flash along your hand ; 
 When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze 
 On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze.* 
 
 certain pellucid vesicles, whicli proceed from a horny, tena- 
 cious, branchy stem. 
 
 * [The topics which this evening view on tlie sea-shore 
 embraces have never, as far as we recollect, been so distinctly 
 treated of in poetry ; they are here recorded, too, in very 
 appropriate numbers. The versification, of the latter part of 
 the passage particularly, is brilliant and ereillce, and has some- 
 tliing of the pleasing restlessness of the ocean itself. — Gif- 
 
 FORU.] 
 
 ^ These are said to be a minute kind of animal of the same 
 class ; when it does not sliine, it is invisible to the naked eye. 
 
 <> For the cause or causes of this phenomenon, which is 
 sometimes, though rarely, observed on our coasts, 1 must refer 
 the reader to tlie writers on philosophy and natural history. 
 [There are few phenomena in nature much more striking 
 than the luminous appeaiance exhibited by the w-ater of the 
 ocean, particularly in tempestuous weather ; terrific, in par- 
 ticular, to landsmen in these cases, as it is resplendent and 
 beautiful in the calms of summer. It has accordingly not 
 
 =J 
 
208 
 
 CllABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The ocean too lins Winter views serene, 
 When all you see throu^li densest fog is seen ; 
 When you can hear the fishers near at hand 
 Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand ; 
 Or sometimes tiiera and not tlieir boat discern, 
 Or lialf-couccal'd some figure at the stern ; 
 The view 's all bounded, and from side to side 
 Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide ; 
 Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast, 
 Will hear it strike against the viewless mast ; 
 While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain. 
 At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vaiu. 
 
 'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past, 
 Net after net till you have seen the last: 
 And as j'ou wait till all beyond you slip, 
 A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship. 
 Breaking the silence with the dipping oar, 
 And their own tones, as labouring for the shore ; 
 Those measured tones which with the scene agree, 
 And give a sadness to serenity. 
 
 All scenes like these the tenderjMaid should shun, 
 Nor to a misty beach in autumn run ; 
 Much should slie guard against the evening cold. 
 And her slight shape with Meecy warmth infold ; 
 This she admits, but not with so much ease 
 Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants 
 
 please : 
 Iler have I seen, pale, vapour'd through the day, 
 Vi'ith crowded parties at the midnight play ; 
 Faint in the morn, no powers could she exert ; 
 At night with Pam delighted and alert ; 
 In a small shop she 's raffled with a crowd, 
 Breath'd the thick air, and cough'd and laugh'd 
 
 aloud ; 
 She M'ho will tremble if her eye explore 
 " The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on 
 
 floor ; " 
 Whom the kind doctor charged, with shaking head. 
 At early hour to quit the beaux for bed ; 
 She has, contemning fear, gone down the dance, 
 Till she perceived the rosy morn advance ; 
 Then has she wonder'd, fainting o'er her tea, 
 Her drops and julep should so useless be : 
 Ah ! sure her joys must ravish every sense, 
 Who buys a portion at such vast expense. 
 
 Among those joys, 't is one at eve to sail 
 On the broad Kiver with a favourite gale ; 
 When no rough waves upon the bosom ride, 
 But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide ; 
 Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands. 
 Where playful children trail their idle hands: 
 Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float 
 On either side of the impeded boat ; 
 
 only benn an objerf of much remnrU amon^ common obser- 
 vers, but has exciU'il llie aKentioii of naturalists at all times, 
 so as to liave Icil to much ilisciission. From the time of I'liny 
 (iownwarcis, frequent inquiries liave lieen maile respoctin;,' 
 llie cause, and ac-corilint;ly many dilVerent theories have been 
 proU'ered. It was lon^' Liken lor ^'ranted tliat this property 
 belon!,'cd to the water itself, not to any bodies containe<l in 
 it. Mayer, and otiiers who followed him, considere<l that 
 tills phenomenon depended on the same cause as the li^lit 
 emitted by the diamoml and other substances after exposure 
 to the sun's rays. Others weri! content with callin;,' the li^'lit 
 phosphoric, and with supposiii;,' tli.it M'a-water was endo\ved 
 with the property of phosphorescence. Ano:lier p.irtv at- 
 triliiited the li^;lit to the putrefirlion of sea-wati'r, althoir^'h 
 it w.xs nor, explained wh;it the eonnecti n was belueen pnlr"!'- 
 fuction and phosphorescence. The experiments of Dr. Iluliue 
 
 What time the moon arising shows the mud, 
 
 A shining border to the silver flood : 
 
 When, by her dubious light, the meanest vic^s. 
 
 Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the lichest .lucs ; 
 
 And when the cattle, as they gazing stand. 
 
 Seem nobler objects than when vicw'd from land : 
 
 Then anchor'd vessels in the waj' appear, 
 
 xVnd sea-boys greet them as they pass — " What 
 
 cheer ? " 
 The sleeping shcll-ducks at the sound arise, 
 And utter loud their unharmonious cries ; 
 Fluttering they move their weedy beds among, 
 Or instant diving, hide their plumeless young. 
 
 Along the Wall, returning from the town. 
 The weary rustic homeward wanders down : 
 Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew. 
 And feels his envy rising at the view ; 
 lie the light speech and laugh imlignant hears. 
 And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by 
 fears. 
 Ah ! go in peace, good fellovr, to thine home, 
 Nor fancy these escape the general doom : 
 Gay as they seem, be sure with them ai-e hearts 
 With sorrow tried ; there 's sadness in their parts : 
 If thou coiddst see them when they think alone, 
 IMirth, music, friends, and these amusements gone ; 
 Couldst thou discover every secret ill 
 That pains their spirit, or resists their will ; 
 Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress, 
 Or Envy's pang at glorj' and success. 
 Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time, 
 Or Guilt alarm'd when Memory shows the crime ; 
 All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom ; 
 Content would cheer thee trudging to thine 
 home.^ 
 There are, 't is true, who lay their cares aside. 
 And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide ; 
 Perchance some fair one to the sober night 
 Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight ; 
 And as the music on the water floats, 
 Some bolder shore returns the soften'd notes ; 
 Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire 
 To banish caution and to wake desire ; 
 The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wino. 
 These accents sweet and this soft hour combine, 
 When most unguarded, then to win that heart of 
 
 thine : 
 But see, they land ! the fond enchantment flics. 
 And in its place life's common views arise. 
 
 Sometinu'S a Party, row'd from town will land 
 On a small islet form'd of shelly sand. 
 Left by the water when the tides are low, 
 But which the floods in their return o'crflow : 
 
 made a nearer approximation to the true cause, by showing 
 that the luminous secretion or matter uttJiched to the mucus 
 of certain fishes was dilViisible in water. Later or more accu- 
 rate n.aturalisls, and seamen also, have, however, observed 
 that some m.arine worms and insects were luminous ; and 
 thus it was admitted that some, at least, of tlie luminous ap- 
 pearances of the sea mi^'ht be ))rodiiced by these: but to Dr. 
 MncL'iiUocli we are indebted for liaviii;» first brought the whole 
 of this question into one clear point of view, in his work on 
 the Western Islands of Scotland, and for sj gre.at an extension 
 of the luminous property to the marine species, as to have 
 erected this into a general law. — Ukkw-stku.] 
 
 ' This is not oHered as a reasoniible source of contentment, 
 bu! as one motive for resigualinn. There would not be so 
 much envv if there were more discernment. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 209 
 
 There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view 
 The watery waste, a prospect wild and new ; 
 The now receding billows give them space, 
 On either side the growing shores to pace ; 
 And then returning, they contract the scene, 
 Till small and smaller grows the walk between ; 
 As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores, 
 Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores. 
 
 Then what alarm ! what danger and dismay, 
 If all their trust, their boat should drift away ; 
 And once it happen'd — -Gay the friends advanced, 
 They walk'd, they ran, they play'd, they sang, 
 
 they danced ; 
 The urns were boiling, and the cups went round. 
 And not a grave or thoughtful face was found ; 
 On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet, 
 Dry shelly sand that made the summer-seat ; 
 The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head. 
 And waves ran softly up their shining bed. 
 
 Some form'd a party from the rest to stray. 
 Pleased to collect the trifles in their way ; 
 These to behold they call their friends around, 
 Ko friends can hear, or hear another sound ; 
 Alarm'd, they hasten, yet perceive not why, 
 But catch the fear that quickens as they fly. 
 
 For lo ! a lady sage, who paced the sand 
 "With her fair children, one in either hand. 
 Intent on home, had turn'd, and saw the boat 
 Slipp'd from her moorings, and now far afloat ; 
 She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call. 
 It seem'd, like thunder, to confound them all. 
 Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate. 
 Had drank, and slept regardless of their state : 
 " Awake !" they cried aloud ; " Alarm the shore ! 
 " Shout all, or never shall we reach it more ! " 
 Alas ! no shovit the distant land can reach. 
 Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach : 
 Again they join in one loud powerful cry, 
 Then cease, and eager listen for reply ; 
 None came — the rising wind blew sadly by : 
 They shout once more, and then they turn aside, 
 To see how quickly flow'd the coming tide ; 
 Between each cry they find the waters steal 
 On their strange prison, and new horrors feel ; 
 Foot after foot on the contracted ground 
 The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound ; 
 Less and yet less the sinking isle became, 
 And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame. 
 
 Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, 
 Who could observe, as he prepared to die. 
 He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, 
 And traced the movement of each different mind : 
 He might have seen, that not the gentle maid 
 "Was more than stern and haughty man afraid ; 
 Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress, 
 And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address ; 
 AVhile fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud. 
 Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd : 
 The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, 
 " Why would you urge me ? I at first denied." 
 Fiercely they answer'd, " Why will you complain, 
 " Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain ?" 
 
 ' [" Let 's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine, 
 Not when a yilt buffet's reflected pride 
 Turns vou from sound philosopliy aside ; 
 Not wlien from plate to plate your eyeballs roll. 
 And the brain dances to the mantling bowl." 
 
 Pope's Imit.'] 
 
 A few essay'd the troubled soul to calm. 
 But dread prevail'd, and anguish and alarm 
 
 Now rose the water through the lessening sand. 
 And they seem'd sinking while they j'et could stand. 
 The sun went down, they look'd from side to side. 
 Nor aught except the gathering sea descried ; 
 Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew. 
 And the most lively bade to hope adieu ; 
 Children by love then lifted from ii.\e seas. 
 Felt not the waters at the parents' knees. 
 But wept aloud ; the wind increased the sound, 
 And the cold billows as they broke around. 
 
 " Once more, yet once again, with all our 
 strength, 
 " Cry to the land — we may be heard at length." 
 Vain hope if yet unseen ! but hark ! an oar, 
 That sound of bliss ! comes dashing to their shore ; 
 Still, still the water rises ; " Haste ! " they cry, 
 " Oh ! hurry, seamen ; in delay we die : " 
 (Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived 
 The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) 
 And now the keel just cuts the cover'd sand, 
 Now to the gunwale stretches every hand : 
 With trembling pleasure all confused embark. 
 And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark ; 
 While the most giddy, as they reach the shore. 
 Think of their danger, and their God adore. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Non iter lances mensasque nitenfes, 
 Cum stupet insanis acies fiilj^oribus, et cum 
 .■Vcclinis falsis animus meliota recusat ; 
 V'erum hie impransi mecum disquirite. 
 
 IIoK. Sat. ii. lib. 2.' 
 
 O prodiga reriim 
 Luxuries, nunquam parvo contenta paratu, 
 Et qu.'psitorura terra pelagoque cibonim 
 .\mbitiosa fames, et lautuj gloria raenst-e. 
 
 Luc AN. lib. 4.2 
 
 CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS. 
 
 Desire of Country Gentlemen for Town Associations — IJook- 
 clubs — Too much of literary Character expected from them 
 — Literary Conversation prevented ; by Feasting, by Cards 
 — Good, notwithstanding, results — Card-club with Ea^'er- 
 ness resorted to — Players— Umpires at the Whist Table — 
 Petulances of Temper there discovered — Free-anc'.-Easy 
 Club ; not perfectly easy or free — Freedom, how interrupted 
 — The superior Member — Termination of the Evening — 
 Drinking and Smoking Clubs— The Midnight Conversation 
 of (he delaying Members — Society of the poorerlnhabitants ; 
 its Use ; gives Pride and Consequence to the humble Cha- 
 racter — Pleasant Habitations of the frugal Poor — Sailor re- 
 turning to his Family — Freemasons' Club — The Mysterv — 
 \Vliat its Origin — Its professed Advantages— Griggs and 
 Gregorians — A Kind of Masons — Reflections on t\iese 
 various Societies. 
 
 You say you envy in your calm retreat 
 
 Oar social Meetings ; — 't is with joy we meet 
 
 2 [" liehold ! ye sons of luxury, behold ! 
 Who scatter in excess your lavish g«ld ; 
 You who the wealth of frugal ages waste 
 T' indulge a wanton supercilious taste ; 
 For whom all earth, all ocean .ire explored, 
 To spread the various proud voluptuous board." — Kowe.] 
 
 P 
 
210 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 In these our parties you are pleased to find 
 Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind; 
 Composed of men who read, reflect, and write, 
 Who, when tliey meet, must yield and share 
 
 delight. 
 To you our Book-club has peculiar charm, 
 For which you sicken in your quiet farm ; 
 Here you suppose us at our leisure placed, 
 Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste : 
 With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay. 
 Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display. 
 
 If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom. 
 Give wings to fancy, and among us come. 
 We're now assembled ; you may soon attend — • 
 1 '11 introduce you — " Gentlemen, my friend." 
 
 " Now are you happy ? j'ou have pass'd a night 
 " In gay discourse, and rational delight." 
 
 " Alas ! not so: for how can mortals think, 
 " Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and 
 
 drink? 
 " No I I confess when we had fairly dined, 
 '• That was no time for intercourse of mind ; 
 " There was each dish prepared with skill t' invite, 
 " And to detain the struggling appetite ; 
 " On such occasions minds with one consent 
 " Are to the comforts of the body lent ; 
 " There was no pause — the M'ine went quickly 
 
 round, 
 " Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound ; 
 " AVine is to wit as water thrown on fire, 
 " By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher ; 
 " Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke, 
 " And all the genial flame goes off in smoke." 
 
 " But when no more your boards these loads 
 contain, 
 " When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring 
 
 brain, 
 " But serves, a gentle stimulus ; we know 
 " IIow wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow." 
 
 It might be so, but no such club-days come ; 
 We always find these dampers in the room : 
 If to converse were all that brought us here, 
 A few odd members would in turn appear ; 
 "Who dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out, 
 O'erlook the list, and toss the books about ; 
 Or yawning read them, walking up and down. 
 Just as the loungers in the shops in town ; 
 Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse. 
 They'd push them by, and go in search of news. 
 
 But our attractions are a stronger sort, 
 The earliest dainties and the oldest port ; 
 All enter then with glee in every look. 
 And not a member thinks about a book. 
 
 Still, let me own, there are some vacant hours. 
 When minds might work, and men exei-t their 
 
 powers : 
 Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest. 
 But gives to wit its vigour and its zest ; 
 Then might we reason, might in turn display 
 Our several talents, and be wisely gay ; 
 We might — but who a tame discourse regards. 
 When Whist is named, and we behold the Cards ? 
 
 We from that time arc neither grave nor gay. 
 Our thought, our care, our business is to play : 
 Fix'<l on these spots and figures, each attends 
 Much to his partners, nothing to his friends. 
 
 Our public cares, the long, the warm debate, 
 That ki'pt our patriots from their beds so late ; 
 
 War, peace, invasion, all we h< pe or dread, 
 Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed ; 
 And groaning nations and contending kings 
 Are all forgotten for these painted things : 
 Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots, 
 Level all minds, philosophers and sots; 
 And give an equal spirit, pause, and force, 
 Joiu'd with peculiar diction, to discourse : 
 " Who deals ? — ^you led — we 're three by cards — 
 
 had you 
 " Honour in hand?" — " Upon mj' honour, two." 
 Hour after hour, men thus contending sit. 
 Grave without sense, and pointed without wit. 
 
 Thus it appears these envied Clubs jjosscss 
 No certain means of social happiness ; 
 Yet there *s a good that flows from scenes like 
 
 these — 
 Man meets with man at leisure and at ease ; 
 We to our neighbours and our equals come. 
 And rub off pride that man contracts at home ; 
 For there, admitted master, he is prone 
 To claim attention and to talk alone : 
 But here he meets with neither son nor spouse ; 
 No humble cousin to his bidding bows ; 
 To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise. 
 To his high look as lofty look replies ; 
 When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed, 
 And certain signs inform him when he 's prosed ; 
 Here all the value of a listener know. 
 And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow. 
 
 No pleasure gives the speech, when all would 
 speak. 
 And all in vain a civil hearer seek. 
 To chance alone we owe the free discourse. 
 In vain you purpose what you cannot force ; 
 'T is when the favourite themes unbidden spring. 
 That fancy soars ■\vith such unwearied wing ; 
 Then may you call in aid the moderate glass. 
 But let it slowly and unprompted pass ; 
 So shall there all things for the end unite, 
 And give that hour of rational delight. 
 
 Men to their Clubs repair, themselves to please. 
 To care for nothing, and to take their ease ; 
 In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come : 
 Discourse is shared \vith friends or found at home. 
 
 But Cards with Books ai-e incidental things ; 
 We 've nights devoted to these queens and kings : 
 Then if we choose the social game, we may ; 
 Now 't is a duty, and we 're bound to play ; 
 Nor ever meeting of the social kind 
 Was more engaging, j-et had less of mind. 
 
 Our eager parties, when the lunar light 
 Throws its full radiance on the festive night. 
 Of either sex, with punctual hurry come, 
 And fill, with one accord, an ample room ; 
 Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they 
 
 see. 
 And seizing, handle with preluding glee ; 
 They draw, they sit, they shuflie, cut and deal ; 
 Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel : 
 But yet not all, — a happier few have joys 
 Of mere amusement, and their cards are toj's ; 
 No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they. 
 But while their friends arc gaming, laugh and play. 
 
 Others there are, the veterans of the game. 
 Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame; 
 Through many a year, with hard-contested strife, 
 Have they attain'd this glory of their life : 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 211 
 
 Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain 
 "Would gout and fever on his couch detain ; 
 And that large lady, who resolves to come, 
 Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom ! 
 These arc as oracles : in every cause 
 They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws ; 
 But all are troubled, when, -nith dubious look, 
 Diana questions what Apollo spoke. 
 
 Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain, 
 Rules in each heart, and works in every brain ; 
 Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel. 
 Nor care what greybeards or what striplings deal ; 
 Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view. 
 And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd 
 pursue. 
 
 Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep 
 A watchful eye on the beloved heap ; 
 iMeantime discretion bids the tongue be still. 
 And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will 
 Till prudence fails ; when, all impatient grown, 
 Tliey make their grief, by their suspicions, known. 
 
 '■ Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play, 
 '■ He 'd rave to see you throw your cards away ; 
 '■ Not that I care a button — not a pin 
 " For what I lose ; but we had cards to win : 
 " A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand 
 " Cut up by one who will not understand." 
 
 " Complain of me ! and so you might indeed 
 '• If I had ventured on that foolish lead, 
 " That fatal heart — but I forgot your play — 
 " Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away." 
 
 " Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one 
 '■ "Who made a beggar of an only son." 
 
 " Better a beggar, than to see him tied 
 '• To art and spite, to insolence and pride." 
 
 '• Sir, were I you, I 'd strive to be polite, 
 " Against my nature, for a single night." 
 
 " So did you strive, and, madam ! with success ; 
 '' I knew no being we could censure less !" ^ 
 
 Is this too much ? alas ! ray peaceful Muse 
 Cannot with half their virulence abuse.* 
 And hark ! at other tables discord reigns. 
 With feign'd contempt for losses and for gains ; 
 Passions awhile are bridled ; then they rage, 
 In waspish youth, and in resentful age ; * 
 "With scraps of insult — " Sir, when next you play, 
 " Reflect whose money 't is you throw away. 
 " No one on earth can less such things regard, 
 '■ But when one's partner doesn't know a card — 
 " I scorn suspicion, ma'am, but while you stand 
 " Behind that lady, pray keep down your hand." 
 
 3 [Original edition : — 
 
 " .\ffainst this nature they mip;ht show their skill 
 Witli small success, wlio 're maids against their will."] 
 
 * [" The common humour of all sjamesters is, whilst they 
 win, to be always jovial, merry, good-natured, and free ; but, 
 on the contrary, if they lose even the smallest trifle, a single 
 liit at backgammon, or a dealing at cards for twopence a 
 game, tliey are so choleric and testy, tliat they frequently 
 break into violent passions, utter the most impious oaths anil 
 horrid imprecations, and become so mad that no man dare speak 
 to tliem. But, alas ! tliey have in general, especially if tlieir 
 stakes be large and e.xcessive, more occasion to regret their 
 winning than losing: for, as Seneca truly observes, tlieir gains 
 are not ' munera fortun:p, sed insidiae ;' not fortune's gifts, but 
 misfortune's baits to lead them on to their common cata- 
 strophe, beggary and ruin." — Burtox.] 
 
 * It is probable, that really polite people, with cultivated 
 
 " Good heav'n, revoke ! remember, if the set 
 '■ Be lost, in honour you should pay the debt." 
 
 " There, there 's your money ; but, while I have 
 life, 
 " I '11 never more sit down with man and wife ; 
 " They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat 
 " Of all their spleen, their understandings meet , 
 " They are Freemasons, and have many a sign, 
 " That we, poor devils 1 never can divine : 
 " May it be told, do ye divide th' amount, 
 " Or goes it all to family account?"* 
 
 Next is the Club, where to their friends in town 
 Our country neighbours once a month come down; 
 "We term it Free-and-Easij, and yet we 
 Find it no easy matter to be free : 
 E'en in our small assembly, IVicnds among. 
 Are minds perverse, there 's something will be 
 
 ■\\Tong ; 
 !Mcn are not equal ; some will claim a right 
 To be the kings and heroes of the night ; 
 "Will their own favourite themes and notions start. 
 And you must hear, offend them, or depart. 
 
 There comes Sir Thomas from his village-seat, 
 Happy, he tells us, all his friends to meet ; 
 Ho brings the ruin'd brother of his wife. 
 Whom he supports, and makes him sick of life ; 
 A ready witness whom he can produce 
 Of all his deeds — a butt for his abuse ; 
 Soon as he enters, has the guests espied, 
 Drawn to the fire, and to the glass applied — 
 " Well, what 's the subject ? — what are you about ? 
 " The news, I take it — come, I '11 help you out : " — 
 And then, without one answer he bestows 
 Freely upon us all he hears and knows ; 
 Gives us opinions, tells us how he votes, 
 Recites the speeches, adds to them his notes ; 
 And gives old ill-told tales for new-born anecdotes : 
 Yet cares he nothing what we judge or think, 
 Our only duty 's to attend and drink : 
 At length, admonish'd by his gout he ends 
 The various speech, and leaves at peace his friends ; 
 But now, alas ! we 've lost the pleasant hour. 
 And wisdom flies from wine's superior power. 
 
 Wine, like the rising sun, possession gains. 
 And drives the mist of dulness from the brains ; 
 The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies, 
 And views of gaiety and gladness rise : 
 
 minds and harmonious tempers, may judge this description 
 of a Card-club conversation to be hi;;hly exaggerated, if not 
 totally fictitious ; and I acknowledge that the club must admit 
 a particular kind of members to afford such specimens of 
 acrimony and objurgation ; yet that sue!' language is spoken, 
 and such manners exhibited, is most certain, chielly among 
 those who, being successful in life, witliout previous education, 
 not very nice in their feelings, or very attentive to impro- 
 prieties, sit down to game with no other view than that of 
 adding the gain of the evening to the profits of the day ; 
 whom, therefore, disappointment itself makes angry, and, 
 when caused by another, resentful and vindictive. 
 
 ^ [For an easy vein of ridicule, terse expression, and just 
 strokes of character, this description of a Card Club is admi- 
 rable. It is one of those likenesses which, without knowing 
 the original, we may pronounce to be perfect. In another 
 tone of verse, but equally happy, is the Club of Smokers. — 
 
 GlFFORD,] 
 
 p 2 
 
»:'2 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 Still it proceeds ; till from the glowing heat, 
 
 The prudent calmly to their shades retreat: — 
 
 Then is the mind o'ercast — in wordy i-age 
 
 And loud contention angry men engage ; 
 
 Then spleen and pique, like fireworks thrown in 
 
 spite, 
 To mischief turn the pleasures of the night ; 
 Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails. 
 Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails : 
 Till wine, that raised the tempest, m.akes it cease. 
 And maudlin Love insists on instant peace ; 
 lie, noisy mirth and roaring song commands. 
 Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly hands : 
 Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps. 
 And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps. 
 
 A Club there is of Smokers — Dare you come 
 To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room ? 
 When, midnight past, the very candles seem 
 Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam ; 
 When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise. 
 And prosing topers rub their winking eyes ; 
 When the long tale, rcnew'd when last they met. 
 Is spliced anew, and is unfinish'd yet ; 
 When but a few are left the house to tire. 
 And they half sleeping by the sleepy fire ; 
 E'en the poor ventilating vane that flew 
 Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too ; 
 When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows. 
 Then thus the midnight conversation flows : — 
 
 " Then, as I said, and— mind me — -as I say, 
 " At our last meeting — -you remember " — " Aj'' ? " 
 " Well, very well — then freely as I drink 
 " I spoke my thought — j'ou take me — what I think. 
 " And, sir, said I, if I a freeman be, 
 " It is my bounden duty to be free." 
 
 " Ay, there you posed him : I respect the Chair, 
 " But man is man, although the man's a mayor ; 
 " If JIuggins live — no, no ! — if INIuggins die, 
 " He '11 quit his office — neighbour, shall I try? " 
 
 " I '11 speak my mind, for here are none but 
 friends : 
 " They 're all contending for their private ends ; 
 " No public spirit — once a vote would bring, 
 " I say a vote — was then a pretty thing ; 
 " It made a man to serve his country and his king : 
 " But for that place, that Muggins must resign, 
 " You 've mv advice — 'tis no affair of mine." 
 
 The Poor Man has his Club : he comes and spends 
 His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends ; 
 Nor this alone, — a monthly dole ho pays. 
 To be assisted wlion his health decays ; 
 Some part his prudence, from the day's supply, 
 For cares and troubles in his age, lays by ; 
 The printed rules he guards with painted frame. 
 And shows his children where to read his name : 
 'i'hose simple words his honest nature move, 
 1'hat bond of union tied by laws of love ; 
 'J'his is his jiridc, it gives to his employ 
 New value, to his home another joy ; 
 While a religious liope its balm applies 
 For all his fate inflicts, and all his state denies.^ 
 
 Much would it please you, sometimes to explore 
 The peaceful dwellings of our Borough poor : 
 To view a sailor just return'd from sea, 
 Ilis wife beside ; a child on either knee. 
 And others crowding near, that none may lose 
 The smallest portion of the welcome news ; 
 What dangers pass'd, " when seas ran mountains 
 
 high, 
 " When tempest raved, and horrors veil'd the sky ; 
 " When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dis- 
 
 may'd, 
 " When the strong fainted, and the wicked 
 
 pray'd, — 
 " Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove, 
 *' And gazed upon the billowy mount above ; 
 " Till up that mountain, swinging m ith tlic gale, 
 " We view'd the horrors of the watery vale." 
 
 The trembling children look with steadfast ej^es. 
 And, panting, sob involuntary sighs : 
 Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays. 
 And all is joy and piety and praise. 
 
 Masons arc ours. Freemasons — but, alas ! 
 To their own bards I leave the mystic class : 
 In vain shall one, and not a gifted man, 
 Attempt to sing of this enlightened clan : 
 I know no AVord, boast no directing Sign, 
 And not one Token of the race is mine ; 
 Whether with Hiram, that wise widow's son, 
 They came from Tyre to royal Solomon, 
 Two pillars raising by their skill profound, 
 Boaz and Jachin through the East renown'd : 
 Whether the sacred Books their rise express. 
 Or books profane, 't is vain for me to guess: 
 It may be lost in date remote and high. 
 They know not what their own antiquity : 
 It may be, too, derived from cause so low, 
 They have no wish tlioir origin to show : 
 If, as Crusaders, they combined to wrest 
 From heathen lords the land thej' long possess'd ; 
 Or were at first some harmless club, who made 
 Their idle meetings solemn by parade ; 
 Is but conjecture — for the task unfit. 
 Awe-struck and mute, the puzzling theme I quit : 
 Yet, if such blessings from their Order flow, 
 We should be glad their moral code to know ; 
 Trowels of silver are but simple things. 
 And Aprons worthless as their apron-strings ; 
 But if indeed you have the skill to teach 
 A social spirit, now beyond our reach ; 
 If man's warm passions you can guide and bind, 
 And plant the virtues in the wayward mind ; 
 If you can wake to Christian love the heart, — 
 In mercy, something of your powers impart. 
 
 But, as it seems, we Masons must become 
 To know the Secret, and must then be dumb ; 
 And as we venture for uncertain gains, 
 Perhaps the profit is not worth the pains. 
 
 When Bruce, that dauntless traveller, thought 
 he stood 
 On Nile's first rise, the fountain of tlie flood, 
 
 7 fTIio poor mall's club, \vliicli pardikcs of the nature cf a 
 fiicndly society, is dcscriljcil willi t\int j,'ood-liparti'd in<lul- 
 gcnce wliitli marks all Mr. Crabbi'V writings. — Jeffbey.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 213 
 
 And drank exulting in the sacred spring, 
 The critics told him it was no such thing; 
 That springs unnumbcr'd round the country ran, 
 But none could show him where the first began : 
 So might we feel, should we our time bestow. 
 To gain these Secrets and these Signs to know ; 
 Might question still if all the truth we found, 
 And firmly stood upon the certain ground ; 
 We might our title to the Mystery dread. 
 And fear we drank not at the river-head. 
 
 Griggs and Gregorians here their meeting hold, 
 Convivial Sects, and Bucks alert and bold ; 
 A kind of Masons, but without their sign ; 
 The bonds of union — pleasure, song, and wine. 
 Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly 
 Where he the trackings of the hord can spy ; 
 Still to be one with many he desires, 
 Although it leads him through the thorns and 
 briers. 
 
 A few ! but few there are, who in the mind 
 Perpetual source of consolation find : 
 The weaker many to the world will come. 
 For comforts seldom to be found from home. 
 
 When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold, 
 When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold. 
 The breath impeded, and the bosom cold ; 
 When half the pillow'd man the palsy chains. 
 And the blood falters in the bloated veins, — ■ 
 Then, as our fi-iends no further aid supply 
 Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh, 
 We should that comfort for ourselves ensure. 
 Which friends could not, if we could friends pro- 
 cure. 
 
 Early in life, when we can laugh aloud. 
 There 's something pleasant in a social crowd. 
 Who laugh with us — but will such joy remain. 
 When we lie struggling on the bed of pain t 
 When our physician tells us with a sigh, 
 Iso more on hope and science to rely. 
 Life's staff is useless then ; with labouring breath 
 We pray for Hope divine — the staff of Deat'n ; — 
 This is a scene which few companions grace, 
 And where the heart's first favourites yield their 
 place. 
 
 Here all the aid of man to man must end, 
 Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend : 
 The tenderest love must here its tie resign, 
 And give th' aspiring heart to love divine. 
 
 Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run. 
 Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun ; 
 But though to this our weakness may be prone, 
 Let 's learn to live, for we must die, alone. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 "Sing, heavenly Muse I 
 Things unatlempted yet in prose or rhyme, 
 A shilling, breeches and chimeras dire." 
 
 PaiLipss Splendid Shilling. 
 
 " Lend me thy clarion. Goddess ! let me try 
 To sound the praise of merit ere it dies. 
 
 All the comforts of life in a Tavern are known, 
 
 'T is his home who possesses not one of his own ; 
 
 And to him who has rather too much of that one, 
 
 'T is the house of a friend where he 's w elcome to run ; 
 
 Tlie instant you enter my door you 're my Lord, 
 
 With whose taste and whose pleasure I 'm proud to accord ; 
 
 And the louder you call, and the lonf^er you stay, 
 
 The more I am happy to serve and obey. 
 
 To the house of a friend if you 're pleased to retire, 
 
 You must all thinijs admit, you must all tilings admire ; 
 
 You must pay with observance tlie price of your treat, 
 
 You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat; 
 
 But here you may come, and no tax we require, 
 
 You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire; 
 
 You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel. 
 
 And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well. 
 
 \t your wish we attend, and confess that your speech 
 On the nation's affairs might the minister teach ; 
 His views yoti may blame, and liis measures oppose, 
 There 's no Tavern-treason — you 're under the Hose ; 
 Should rebellions arise in your own little state, 
 With me you may safely their consequence wait ; 
 To recruit your lost spirits 't is prudent to come. 
 .\nd to fly to a friend when the devil 's at home. 
 
 That I 've faults is confess'd ; but it won't be denied , 
 
 'T is my interest the faults of my neighbours to hide ; 
 
 If 1 've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate, 
 
 I 've often conceal'd what she lov'd to relate ; 
 
 If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine, 
 
 'T was because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by their wine; 
 
 And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains, 
 
 That men drink shallow d/aa^Ati, and so madden their brains. 
 
 INNS. 
 
 A difficult Subject for Poetry — Invocation of the Muse — De- 
 scription of the principal Inn and those of the first Class — 
 'I'he large deserted Tavern — Those of a second Order — 
 Tlieir Company — One of particular Description — A lower 
 kind of Public-Houses ; yet distinguished among them- 
 selves — Houses on the Quays for Sailors— The Green Man ; 
 its Landlord, and the Adventure of his Marriage, &;c. 
 
 Mucn do I need, and therefore will I ask, 
 A Muse to aid me in my present task ; 
 For then with special cause we beg for aid, 
 When of our subject we are most afraid : 
 Inns are this subject — 't is an ill-drawn lot. 
 So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not ; 
 Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring 
 Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing : 
 Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid ; ' thou hast thrown 
 On humble themes the graces all thine own ; 
 By thee the Mistress of a Village-school 
 Became a queen enthroned upon her stool ;- 
 And far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shine 
 Belinda's Lock — that deathless work was thine. ^ 
 
 Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please. 
 These seats of revelry, these scenes of case ; 
 
 Such as I oft have chaunced to espy 
 
 Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity." 
 
 SHicNsro.Nh.'» Schoolmistress. 
 
 ' " This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame. 
 And 'raid^t the stars inscribe Helinda's name." 
 
 Port's Rape of the Loch, 
 
214 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread, 
 And needs assistance IVom the fountain-head. 
 
 High in the street, o'erlooking all the place, 
 The i-ampant Lion shows his kingly face ; 
 His ample jaws extend from side to side, 
 His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide ; 
 In silver shag the sovereign form is dress'd, 
 A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest ; 
 Elate with pride, he seems t' assert his reign, 
 And stands the glory of his wide domain. 
 
 Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight, 
 But sign and pledge of welcome and delight. 
 To him the noblest guest the town detains 
 Flies for repast, and in his court remains ; 
 Him too the crowd with longing looks admire, 
 Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire ; 
 Here not a comfort shall to them be lost 
 Who never ask or never feel the cost. 
 
 The ample j'ards on either side contain 
 Buildings where order and distinction reign ; — 
 The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest, 
 The ready chaise and driver smartly dress'd ; 
 Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there, 
 And high-fed prancers many a raw-boned pair. 
 On all without a lordly host sustains 
 The care of empire, and observant reigns ; 
 The parting guest beholds him at his side, 
 With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride ; 
 Round all the place his eyes all objects meet, 
 Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet. 
 O'er all within the lady-hostess rules. 
 Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools ; 
 To every guest th' appropriate speech is made. 
 And every duty with distinction paid ; 
 llespectful, easy, pleasant, or polite — 
 " Your honour's servant " — " Mister Smith, good 
 night." ■■ 
 
 Next, but not near, yet honour'd through the 
 town. 
 There swing, incongruous pair ! the Bear and 
 
 Crown : 
 That Crown suspended gems and ribands deck, 
 A golden chain hangs o'er that furry neck : 
 Unlike the nobler beast, the Bear is bound, 
 And with the Crown so near him, scowls uncrown'd •, 
 Less his dominion, but alert are all 
 Without, within, and ready for the call ; 
 Smart lads and light run nimbly here and there, 
 Nor for neglected duties mourns the Bear. 
 
 To his retreats, on the Election-day, 
 The losing party found their silent way; 
 There they partook of each consoling good, 
 Like him uncrown'd, like him in sullen mood — • 
 Threat'ning, but l)ound. — Here meet a social kind, 
 Our various clubs for various cause combined ; 
 Nor has he pride, but thankful takes as gain 
 The dew-drops shaken from the Lion's mane : 
 A thriving couple here their skill display. 
 And share the profits of no vulgar sway. 
 
 Third in our Borough's list appears the sign 
 Of a fair queen — the gracious Caniline ; 
 But in decay — each feature in the face 
 Has stain of Time, and token of disgrace. 
 
 ■* [Tlie Wliito Linn is one of the pnnripal inns nt AM 
 boroii^'li. Tlip landlord sliows, with no littl«,' cxiilliition, a: 
 olil-fiLsliioncd pdrlour, tlie \^^\v,\\ scni- of rnnviviiil mecliny! 
 ill \vlii(!h tlio poot Had his .share. .V'e (inli', \>. :ii).] 
 
 The storm of winter, and the summer-sun, 
 
 Have on that form their equal mischief done ; 
 
 The features now are all disfigured seen, 
 
 And not one charm adorns th' insulted queen :* 
 
 To this poor face was never paint applied, 
 
 Th' unseemly work of cruel Time to hide ; 
 
 Here we may rightly such neglect upbraid. 
 
 Paint on such faces is by prudence laid. 
 
 Large the domain, but all within combine 
 
 To correspond with the dishonour'd sign; 
 
 And all around dilapidates ; you call — ■ 
 
 But none replies — they 're inattentive all : 
 
 At length a ruin'd stable holds your steed, 
 
 While you through large and dirty rooms proceed, 
 
 Spacious and cold ; a proof they once had been 
 
 In honour, — now magnificently mean ; 
 
 Till in some small half-furnish'd room you rest, 
 
 Whose dying fire denotes it had a guest. 
 
 In those you pass'd, where former splendour 
 
 reign'd. 
 You saw the carpets torn, the paper stain'd ; 
 Squares of discordant glass in windows fix'd. 
 And paper oil'd in many a space betwi.xt ; 
 A soil'd and broken sconce, a mirror crack'd, 
 AVith table underprop'd, and chairs new back'd ; 
 A marble side-slab with ten thousand stains, 
 And all an ancient Tavern's poor remains. 
 
 With much entreaty, they your food prepare, 
 And acid wine afford, with meagre fare ; 
 Heartless you sup ; and when a dozen times 
 You 've read the fractured window's senseless 
 
 rhymes, 
 Have been assured that Phoebe Green was fair, 
 And Peter Jackson took his supper there ; 
 You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread 
 Damps, hot or cold, from a tremendous bed ; 
 Late comes your sleep, and you are waken'd soon 
 By rustling tatters of the old festoon. 
 
 O'er this large building, thus by time defaced, 
 A servile couple has its owTier placed. 
 Who not unmindful that its style is large. 
 To lost magnificence adapt their charge : 
 Thus an old beauty, who has long declined, 
 Keeps former dues and dignity in mind ; 
 And wills that all attention should be paid 
 For graces vanish'd and for charms decay'd. 
 
 Few years have pass'd, since brightly 'cross the 
 way, 
 Lights from each window shot the Icngthen'd ray. 
 And busy looks in every face were seen. 
 Through the warm precincts of the reigning Queen ; 
 There fires inviting blazed, and all around 
 Was heard the tinkling bells' seducing sound ; 
 The nimble waiters to that sound from far 
 Sprang to the call, then hastcu'd to the bar ; 
 Where a glad priestess of the temple sway'd, 
 The most obedient, and the most obey'd ; 
 Rosy and round, adorn'd in crimson vest, 
 And flaming ribands at her ample breast : 
 She, skill'd like Circe, tried her guests to move, 
 With looks of welcome and with words of love ; 
 And such her potent charms, that men unwise 
 Were soon transform'd and fitted for the sties. 
 
 * [Original edition : — 
 
 Have, like the guillotine, tlio royal necl: 
 I'artid in twain — the figure is a wreck.] 
 
Her port in bottles stood, a wcll-stain'd row, 
 Drawn for the evening from the pipe below ; 
 Three powerful spirits filled a parted case. 
 Some cordial bottles stood in secret place ; 
 Fair acid-fruits in nets above were seen, 
 Her plate was splendid, and her glasses clean ; 
 Basins and bowls were ready on the stand, 
 And measures clatter'd in her powerful hand. 
 
 Inferior Houses now our notice claim, 
 But who shall deal them tJieir appropriate fame ? 
 Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell, 
 Between the peel complete and single Bell ? 
 
 Determine ye, who on j'our shining nags 
 Wear oil-skin beavers, and bear seal-skin bags ; 
 Or ye, grave topers, who with coy delight 
 Snugly enjoy the sweetness of the night ; 
 Ye Travellers all, superior Inns denied 
 By moderate purse, the low by decent pride ; 
 Come and determine, — will you take your place 
 At the full Oi-b, or half ^^^® lunar Face ? 
 With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine ? 
 Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine ? 
 Horses the white or black will ye prefer ? 
 The Silver-Swan or Swan opposed to her — 
 Bare bird ! ^ whose form the raven-plumage 
 
 decks, 
 And graceful curve her three alluring necks ? 
 All these a decent entertainment give. 
 And by their comforts comfortably live. 
 
 Shall I pass by the Boar? — there are who cry, 
 " Beware the Boar," and pass determined by : 
 Those dreadful tusks, those little peering eyes 
 And churning chaps, are tokens to the wise. 
 There dwells a kind old Aunt, and there you see 
 Some kind young Nieces in her company; 
 Poor village nieces, whom the tender dame 
 Invites to town, and gives their beauty Fame ; 
 The grateful sisters feel th' important aid. 
 And the good Aunt is flatter'd and repaid. 
 
 What, though it may some cool observers strike. 
 That such fair sisters should be so unlike ; 
 That still another and another comes. 
 And at the matron's tables smiles and blooms ; 
 That all appear as if they meant to stay 
 Time undefined, nor name a parting day ; 
 And yet, though all are valued, all are dear. 
 Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear. 
 
 Yet let Suspicion hide her odious head. 
 And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread ; 
 A pious friend, who with the ancient dame 
 At sober cribbage takes an evening game ; 
 His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs. 
 And oft renews, and innocently laughs ; 
 Or growing serious, to the text resorts. 
 And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports ; 
 While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend, 
 A grave protector and a powerful friend : 
 But Slander says, who indistinctly sees. 
 Once he was caught with Sylvia on his knees ; — 
 A cautious burgess with a careful wife 
 To be so caught ! — 't is false upon my life. 
 
 Next are a lower kind, yet not so low 
 But they, among them, their distinctions know ; 
 And when a thriving landlord aims so high, 
 As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye, 
 
 * " Kara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno." — Juv. 
 
 Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs, 
 
 He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs. 
 
 Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to say 
 
 What favourite Inn shall share his evening's pay ; 
 
 Wliere he shall sit the social hour, and lose 
 
 His past day's labours and his next day's views. 
 
 Our Seamen too have choice ; one takes a trip 
 
 In the warm cabin of his favourite Ship ; 
 
 And on the morrow in the humbler Boat 
 
 He rows till fancy feels herself afloat ; 
 
 Can he the sign — Three Jolly Sailors— pass. 
 
 Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass ? 
 
 The Anchor too affords the seaman joys. 
 
 In small smoked room, aU clamour, crowd, and 
 noise ; 
 
 Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire. 
 
 Where fifty voices purl and punch require ; 
 
 They come for pleasure in their leisure hour. 
 
 And they enjoy it to their utmost power ; 
 
 Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while 
 
 all 
 Call, or make ready for a second call : 
 
 There is no time for trifling — " Do ye see ? 
 " We drink and drub the French extempore." 
 
 See ! round the room, on every beam and balk, 
 Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk; 
 Yet nothing heeded — would one stroke suffice 
 To blot out all, here honour is too nice, — • 
 " Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things, 
 " We 're British tars, and British tars are kings." 
 
 But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung, 
 Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung ? 
 His sign his image, — for he was once seen 
 A squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green ; 
 Ere yet with wages more, and honour less, 
 He stood behind me in a graver dress. 
 
 James in an evil hour went forth to woo 
 Young Juliet Hart, and was her Romeo : 
 They 'd seen the play, and thought it vastly swcot 
 For two young lovers by the moon to meet ; 
 The nymph was gentle, of her favours free. 
 E'en at a word — no Rosalind was she ; 
 Nor, like that other Juliet, tried his truth 
 With — ■' Be thy purpose marriage, gentle youth ? " 
 But him received, and heard his tender tale 
 AVhen sang the lark, and when the nightingale : 
 So in few months the generous lass was seen 
 I' the way that all the Capulets had been. 
 
 Then first repentance seized the amorous man, 
 And — shame on love ! — he reason'd and he ran ; 
 The thoughtful Romeo trembled for his purse, 
 And the sad sounds, " for better and for worse."' 
 
 Yet could the Lover not so far withdraw. 
 But he was haunted both by Love and Law ; 
 Now Law dismay'd him as he view'd its fangs, 
 Now Pity seized him for his Juliet's pangs ; 
 Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail, 
 Where all would blame him, and where none miglit 
 
 bail ; 
 These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appcar'd, 
 Whore love had drawn him when he should have 
 fear'd. 
 There sat the father in his wicker throne. 
 Uttering his curses in tremendous tone : 
 With foulest names his daughter he reviled, 
 And look'd a very Herod at the child : 
 Nor was she patient, but with equal scorn. 
 Bade him remember when his Joe was born : 
 
21(> 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Then rose the mother, eager to begin 
 Her plea for frailty, when the swain came in. 
 To him she turn'd, and other theme began, 
 ShowM him his boy, and bade him be a man ; 
 " An honest man, who, when he breaks the laws, 
 " Will make a woman honest if there 's cause." 
 With lengthen'd speech she proved what came to 
 
 pass 
 Was no reflection on a loving lass : 
 " If she 3'our love as wife and mother claim, 
 " What can it matter which was first the name ? 
 " But 'tis most base, 't is perjury and theft, 
 " When a lost girl is like a widow left ; 
 " The rogue who ruins — " here the father found 
 Ilis spouse was treading on forbidden ground. 
 " That's not the point," quoth he, — " I don't 
 suppose 
 " My good friend Fletcher to be one of those ; 
 " What 's done amiss he '11 mend in proper time — 
 " I hate to hear of villany and crime : 
 " 'T was my misfortune, in the daj's of youth, 
 " To find two lasses pleading for my truth ; 
 " The case was hard, I would with all my soul 
 " Have wedded both, hut law is our control ; 
 " So one I took, and when we gain'd a home, 
 " Her friend agreed — what could she more ? — to 
 
 come ; 
 " And when she found that I 'd a widow'd bed, 
 " Me she desired — what could I less ? — to wed. 
 " An easier case is yours : j'ou 've not the smart 
 " That two fond pleaders cause in one man's 
 
 heart. 
 " You 've not to wait from year to year distress'd, 
 " Before your conscience can be laid at rest ; 
 " There smiles your bride, there sprawls your 
 
 new-born son, 
 " — A ring, a licence, and the thing is done." — 
 
 " My loving James," — the Lass began her plea, 
 " I '11 make thy reason take a part with me ; 
 " Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind, 
 " Or to thy person or thy passion blind ; 
 " Had I refused, when 't was thy part to pray, 
 " Or put thee off with promise and delay ; 
 " Thou might'st in justice and in conscience fly, 
 " Denying her who tauglit thee to deny : 
 " But, James, with me thou hadst an easier 
 
 task, 
 " Bonds and conditions [ forbore to ask ; 
 " 1 laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans, 
 " Nor marriage named by licence or by banns ; 
 " Nor would I now the parson's aid employ, 
 " But for this cause," — and up she held her bo3% 
 
 INIotives like these could heart of flesh resist? 
 James took the infant and in triumpli kiss'd ; 
 Then to his mother's arms tlie child restored, 
 Made Jiis proud speech and pledged his worthy 
 word. 
 
 7 If tliis I.ottpr should he found to oontain nothing intor- 
 cstin;; or uncommon ; if it, describe things Hhicli we behold 
 every day, iiml som" wliicli we do not wish to behold at anv 
 time; let it be considered that it is one of the shortest, anil 
 that, from a poem whose subject was a Hi)rou(;h, populous and 
 wealthy, these places of public accommodation could not, 
 without some impropriety, be excluded. 
 
 ' Strolling' players are thus Iield in a legal sense. 
 
 2 " 'Hie sfrollini; tribi-, a despicable race I 
 
 Like wand'ring Arabs, shift from place to place : 
 
 " Three times at church our banns shall pub- 
 lish'd be, 
 " Thy health be drunk in bumpers three times 
 
 three ; 
 " And thou shalt grace (bedeck'd in garments gay) 
 " The christening-dinner on tlie wedding-day." 
 James at my door then made his parting bow, 
 Took the Green-]Man, and is a master now.'' 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Thpse are monarehs none respect, 
 
 Heroes, yet an humbled crew. 
 Nobles, wliom the crowd correct. 
 
 Wealthy men, wliom duns pur-iue ; 
 Beauties s^irinkin;; from the view 
 
 Of the day's detecting eye ; 
 Lovers, who with much ado 
 Long-forsaken damsels woo, 
 
 And heave the ill feign'd sigh. 
 
 Tliese are misers, cravinj means 
 
 Of existence throu^'h the day. 
 Famous scholars, conning' scenes 
 
 Of a dull bewildering play ; 
 Rairged beaux and misses grey, 
 
 AVhom the rabble praise and blame 
 Proud and mean, and sad and gay. 
 Toiling after ease, are they, 
 
 Infamous,' and boasting fame. 
 
 PLAYERS. 
 
 They arrive in the Borough — Welcomed by their former 
 Friends — Are better fitted for (Joniic than Tragic Scenes : 
 yet belter approved in the latter by one Part of their 
 Audience — Tlieir general Character and Pleasantry — 
 Particular Distresses and Labours — Their Fortitude ami 
 Patience — A private rehearsal — The Vanity of the aged 
 Actress — A Heroine from the Milliner's Shop — A deluded 
 Tradesman — Of what Persons the Company is composed — 
 Character and Adventures of Frederic Thompson. 
 
 Drawn by the annvial call, we now behold 
 Our Troop Dramatic, heroes known of old. 
 And those, since last they march'd, enlisted and 
 
 enroU'd : 
 Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some, 
 The rest on foot (the humbler bretliren) come.^ 
 Three favour'd places, an inicqual time, 
 Join to support this company sublime : 
 Ours for the longer period — see how light 
 Yon parties move, their former friends in sight. 
 Whose claims are all allow'd, and friendship glads 
 
 the night. 
 Now pulilic rooms shall sound with words divine, 
 And private lodgings hear how heroes shine ; 
 
 ^'agrantsby law, to justice open laid, 
 
 'I'hcy tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid. 
 
 And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 
 
 To Madam May'ress, or his Worship's wife. 
 
 'I'he mighty monarch, in theatric sack 
 
 (Carries his whole regalia at his back ; 
 
 His roy.'il consort heads the female band. 
 
 And leads tlu! hrir-apimrent in her hand ; 
 
 The pannier'd ass creeps on w itl. conscious pride. 
 
 Hearing a future prince on uitlier side." — Chukchii.t,. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 217 
 
 No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal, 
 But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal ; 
 "While o'er the social jug and decent cheer, 
 Shall be described the fortunes of the year. 
 
 Peruse these bills, and see what eacli can do, — 
 Behold ! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew ; 
 Change but the garment, and they '11 all engage 
 To take each part, and act in every age : 
 CuU'd from all houses, what a house are they ! 
 Swept from all barns, our Borough-critics say ; 
 But with some portion of a critic's ire, 
 "We all endure them ; there are some admire : 
 They might have praise, confined to farce alone ; 
 Full well they grin, they should not try to groan ; 
 But then our servants' and our seamen's wives 
 Love all that rant and rapture as their lives ; 
 He who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain,^ 
 Finds as King Richard he must roar amain — 
 " My horse ! my horse ! " — Lo ! now to their 
 
 abodes,* 
 Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods. 
 The master-mover of these scenes has made 
 No trifling gain in this adventurous trade ; 
 Trade we may term it, for he duly buys 
 Arms out of use and undirected eyes : 
 These he instructs, and guides them as he can, 
 And vends each night the manufactured man : 
 Long as our custom lasts they gladly stay. 
 Then strike their tents, like Tartars '. and away ! 
 The place grows bare where the}' too long remain, 
 But grass will rise ere they return again. 
 
 Children of Thespis, welcome ; knights and 
 queens ! 
 Counts ! barons ! beauties ! when before your 
 
 scenes. 
 And mighty monarchs thund' ring from your throne; 
 I'hen step behind, and all your glory 's gone : 
 Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft, 
 The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left.^ 
 Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel, 
 When the full house secures the plenteous meal ; 
 Flatt'ring and flatter'd, each attempts to raise 
 A brother's merits for a brother's praise : 
 For never liero shows a pi'ouder heart, 
 Than he who proudly acts a hero's part ; 
 Nor without cause ; the boards, we know, can yield 
 Place for fierce contest, like the tented field. 
 
 Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn 
 The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn ; 
 Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd, 
 The hiss tremendous, and the cen£ure loud : 
 These are their parts, — and he who tiiese sustains, 
 Deserves some praise and profit for his pains. 
 Heroes at least of gentler kind are they. 
 
 ' [In Vanbrugh's comedy of The Provoked Husbend.'] 
 
 * [" It IS true, indeed, that the principal actors on our 
 rustic boards have most of' tliem liad their education in Covent 
 (iarden or Drury Lane ; but they have been employed in tiie 
 business of the drama in a decree but just above a scene- 
 shifter. Tlie attendants on a monarcli strut monarclis them- 
 selves, mutes find their voices, and message-bearers rise into 
 heroes. The humour of our best comedian consists in shrugs 
 and grimaces ; lie jokes in a wry mouth, and repartees in a 
 grin; in short, lie practises on Congreve and Vanbrugh all 
 those distortions that gained him so much applause from the 
 galleries in tlie drubs which, lie was condemned to undergo 
 in pantomimes." — Thounhu.i..j 
 
 Against whose swords no weeping widows pray, 
 No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their 
 way. 
 
 Sad happy race ! soon raised and soon depress'd. 
 Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest ; 
 Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain, 
 Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain ; 
 Whom Justice, pitying, chides from place to place, 
 A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race. 
 Whose cheerful looks assume, and play the parts 
 Of happy rovers with repining hearts ; ^ 
 Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain 
 Of tragic woe feel spirits light and vain. 
 Distress and hope — the mind's, the body's wear, 
 The man's alBiction, and the actor's tear: 
 Alternate times of fasting and excess 
 Are yours, ye smiling children of distress. 
 
 Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom 
 seems. 
 And with your varying views and restless schemes, 
 Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams. 
 
 Yet keen those griefs — ah ! what avail thy 
 charms, 
 Fair Juliet I what that infant in thine arms ; 
 What those heroic lines thy patience learns, 
 What all the aid thy present Komeo earns. 
 Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain, 
 With all thy plaintive sisters to complain ? 
 
 Nor is there lack of labour — To rehearse, 
 Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse ; 
 To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite ; 
 To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night ; 
 To dress in gaudy patchwork, and to force 
 The mind to think on the appointed course ; — 
 This is laborious, and may be defined 
 The bootless labour of the thriftless mind. 
 
 There is a veteran Dame : I see her stand 
 Intent and pensive with her book in hand ; 
 Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part. 
 Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart; 
 Across the room she paces, gets her tone. 
 And fits licr features for the Danish throne ; 
 To-night a queen — ^I mark her motion slow, 
 I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know. 
 
 Methinks 't is pitiful to see her try 
 For strength of arms and energy of eye ; 
 With vigour lost, and spirits worn away, 
 Her pomp and pride she labours to display ; 
 And when awhile she 's tried her part to act. 
 To find her thoughts arrested by some fact ; 
 "When struggles more and more severe are seen. 
 In the plain actress than the Danish queen, — 
 At length she feels her part, she finds delight. 
 And fancies all the plaudits of the night : 
 
 ' In shabby state they stmt, in tatter'd robe. 
 The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe : 
 No high conceits their moderate wishes raise, 
 Content with humble profit, humble praise. 
 Let dowdies simper, and let Ijumpkins stare, 
 'I'he strolling pageant hero treads on air : 
 Pleased for his hour he to mankind gives law, 
 And snores the next out on a bed of straw." 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 £ " He who to-night is seated on a throne, 
 
 Calls subjects, empires, kingdoms, all his own, 
 W'lio weais the diadi'ni and regal robe, 
 Next morning shall awake as poor as Job." 
 
218 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 Old as she is, she smiles at every speech, 
 And tliinks no youthful part beyond her reach ; 
 But as the mist of vanity again 
 Is bloNvn away, by press of present pain, 
 Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies 
 For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies ; 
 Then to her task she sighing turns again— 
 " Oh ! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in 
 twain ! " 7 
 And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing, 
 Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing ? 
 Panting for breath and forced her voice to drop, 
 And far unlike the inmate of the shop, 
 "Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay, 
 Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day ; 
 "With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers, 
 And sister- converse pass'd the evening-hours : 
 But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong, 
 Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong; 
 The morning-call and counter were her dread, 
 And her contempt the needle and the thread: 
 But when she read a gentle damsel's part. 
 Her woe, her wish ! — she had them all by heart. 
 
 At length the hero of the boards drew nigh, 
 "Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh ; 
 He told in honcy'd words his deathless flame, 
 And she his o■^^'n by tender vows became ; 
 Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond, 
 Alfonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond : 
 And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd, 
 Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd. 
 
 Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope, 
 See her I the grief and scandal of the troop ; 
 A wretched martj'r to a childish pride. 
 Her woe insulted, and her praise denied : 
 Her humble talents, though derided, used, 
 Her prospects lost, her confidence abused ; 
 All that remains — for she not long can brave 
 Increase of evils — is an early grave. 
 
 Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed 
 "What dreams j'ou cherish, and what books ye read I 
 
 A decent sum had Peter Nottage made. 
 By joining bricks — to him a thriving trade: 
 Of his employment master and his wife, 
 This humble tradesman led a lordly life ; 
 The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs, 
 And Peter, though reluctant, served the Players : 
 Connected thus, he heard in way polite, — 
 " Come, Master Nottage, see us play to-night." 
 At first 't was folly, nonsense, idle stuff. 
 But seen for nothing it grew well enough ; 
 And better now — now best, and every night, 
 In this fool's paradise he drank delight ; 
 And as he felt the liliss, he wish'd to know 
 Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow ; 
 For if the seeing could such pleasure bring, 
 WlL-j-t must the feeling? — feeling like a king? 
 
 ' [This was written, in 1709, soon after Mr. Crabbe had 
 seen a rehearsal at tlie " Tlicatro Uoyal," AUlborough. The 
 " veteran dame" was tlie lady mana;;cr. wlio, seated in lier 
 chair of state, corrected the rest, as lar as lier evidently ab- 
 stracted attention would allow. Her husband enacted Othello, 
 and sliouted lustily lor the " hiinlicrc/iir."} 
 
 ' [The history of the stajie mii^ht afford many instances of 
 those who, in the trade of death, mii,'lit have slain men, yet 
 liave condescended to deal ciiiintcrrcit .slanf,'liter from their 
 right hands, and administer harmk.ss bowls ol' poison. We 
 
 In vain liis wife, his uncle, and his friend. 
 Cried — "Peter ! Peter! let such follies end; 
 " 'T is well enough these vagabonds to see, 
 " But would you partner with a showman be ?"" 
 
 ''Showman!" said Peter, "did not Quin and 
 Clive, 
 " And lloscius-Garrick, by the science thrive ? 
 " Showman ! — 't is scandal ; I 'm by genius led 
 " To join a class who 've Shakspeare at their 
 head." 
 
 Poor Peter thus by easy steps became 
 A dreaming candidate for scenic fame, 
 And, after years consumed, infirm and poor, 
 He sits and takes the tickets at the door. 
 
 Of various men these marching troops are made,— 
 Pen-spurning clerks, and lads contemning trade ; 
 AVaiters and servants by confinement teased. 
 And youths of wealth by dissipation eased ; 
 With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand. 
 Scorn to obey the rigour of command ; 
 Some, who from higher views by vice are won. 
 And some of either sex by love undone ; 
 The greater part lamenting as their fall, 
 What some an honour and advancement call.'' 
 
 There are who names in shame or fear assume. 
 And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come : 
 It honours him, from tailor's board kick'd down, 
 As Mister Dormer to amuse the town ; 
 Falling, he rises : but a kind there arc 
 AVho dwell on former prospects, and despair ; 
 Justly but vainly they their fate deplore. 
 And mourn their fall who fell to rise no more. 
 
 Our merchant Thompson, with his sons around, 
 Most mind and talent in his Frederick found : 
 He was so lively, that his mother knew, 
 If he were taught, that honour must ensue ; 
 The father's views were in a different Hne, — 
 But if at college he were sure to shine. 
 Then should he go — to prosper who could doubt ? — 
 When schoolboy stigmas would be all wash'd out. 
 For there were marks upon his youthful face, 
 'Twixt vice and error — a neglected case — 
 These would submit to skill ; a little time. 
 And none could trace the error or the crime ; 
 Then let him go, and once at college, he 
 Might choose Lis station — what would Frederick 
 be? 
 
 'T was soon determined — He could not descend 
 To pedant-laws and lectures without end ; 
 And then the chapel — night and morn to pray, 
 Or mulct and threatcn'd if he kept away ; 
 No I not to be a bishop — so he swore, 
 And at his college he was seen no more. 
 
 His debts all paid, the father, Mith a sigh. 
 Placed him in office — " Do, my Frederick, try : 
 " Confine thyself a few short months, and then — " 
 He tried a fortnight, and threw down the pen. 
 
 mi^ht read .ilso of persons wliose fists were intended to beat 
 ' the drum ecclesiastic,' who have themselves become theatri- 
 cal volunteers. In ro>;ard to the law, many who were orifiin- 
 ally desifj;ned to manifest their tabnts for elocution in West- 
 minster Mali, liave displayed tliem in Drury Lane; and it 
 may be added, on theatrical authority, that — 
 
 " Not e'en Attorneys have this raje withstood, 
 ]!ut chanijed their pens for truncheons, ink for blood. 
 And, strange reverse ! — died for their country's good." 
 
 'rHOUNHIM..] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 219 
 
 Again demands were hush'd : " My son, you 're 
 free, 
 " But you 're unsettled ; take your chance at sea :" 
 So in few days the midshipman, equipp'd, 
 Received the mother's blessing, and was shipp'd. 
 
 Hard was her fortune ! soon compell'd to meet 
 The wretched stripling staggering through the 
 
 street ; 
 For, rash, impetuous, insolent and vain, 
 The captain sent him to his friends again : 
 About the Borough roved th' unhappy boy, 
 And ate the bread of every chance-employ ! 
 Of friends he borrow'd, and the parents yet 
 In secret fondness authorised the debt ; 
 The younger sister, still a child, was taught 
 To give with feign'd affright the pittance sought ; 
 For now the father cried — ■" It is too late 
 " For trial more — I leave him to his fate," — 
 Yet left him not : and with a kind of joy, 
 The mother heard of her desponding boy ; 
 At length he sickcn'd, and he found, when sick. 
 All aid was ready, all attendance quick ; 
 A fever seized him, and at once was lost 
 The thought of trespass, error, crime, and cost : 
 Th' indulgent parents knelt beside the youth. 
 They heard his promise and believed his truth ; 
 And when the danger lessen'd on their view. 
 They cast off doubt, and hope assurance grew ; — 
 Nursed by his sisters, chei-ish'd by his sire, 
 Begg'd to be glad, encouraged to aspire. 
 His life, they said, would now all care repay, 
 And he might date his prospects from that day; 
 A son, a brother to his home received. 
 They hoped for all things, and in all believed. 
 
 And now will jjardon, comfort, kindness draw 
 The youth from vice ? will honour, duty, law ? 
 Alas ! not all : the more the trials lent, 
 The less he seem'd to ponder and repent ; 
 Headstrong, determined in his own career. 
 He thought reproof unjust and truth severe ; 
 The soul's disease was to its crisis come. 
 He first abused and then abjured his home ; 
 And when he chose a vagabond to be. 
 He made his shame his glory — '' I '11 be free." " 
 
 Friends, parents, relatives, hope, reason, love, 
 "With anxious ardour for that empire strove ; 
 In vain their strife, in vain the means applied, 
 They had no comfort, but that all were tried ; 
 One strong vain trial made, the mind to move. 
 Was the last effort of parental love. 
 
 E'en then he watch'd his father from his home, 
 And to his mother would for pity come, 
 Where, as he made her tender terrors rise. 
 He talk'd of death, and thrcaten'd for supplies. 
 
 Against a youth so vicious and undone. 
 All hearts were closed, and every door but one : 
 The Players received him ; they with open heart 
 Gave him his portion and assign'd his part ; 
 And ere three days were added to his life, 
 He found a home, a duty, and a wife. 
 
 His present friends, though they were nothing 
 nice. 
 Nor ask'd how vicious he, or v/hat his vice, 
 
 » [Original edition : — 
 
 Vice, dreadful habit! when assumed so lonsi. 
 Becomes at length inveterately strong ; 
 
 Still they expected he should now attend 
 
 To the joint duty as a useful friend ; 
 
 The leader too declared, with frown severe, 
 
 That none should pawn a robe that kings might 
 
 wear ; 
 And much it moved him, when he Hamlet play'd, 
 To see his Father's Ghost so drunken made : 
 Then too the temper, the unbending pride 
 Of this ally, would no reproof abide : — 
 So leaving these, he march'd away and join'd 
 Another troop, and other goods purloin'd ; 
 And other characters, both gay and sage, 
 Sober and sad, made stagger on the stage. 
 Then to rebuke with arrogant disdain, 
 He gave abuse, and sought a home again. 
 
 Thus changing scenes, but with unchanging 
 vice. 
 Engaged by many, but with no one twice : 
 Of this, a last and poor resource, bereft. 
 He to himself, unhappy guide ! was left — 
 And who shall say where guided ? to what seats 
 Of starving villany ? of thieves and cheats ? 
 
 In that sad time of many a dismal scene 
 Had he a witness, not inactive, been ; 
 Had leagued with petty pilferers, and had crept 
 Where of each sex degraded numbers slept : 
 With such associates he was long allied, 
 Where his capacity for ill was tried. 
 And that once lost, the wretch was cast aside. 
 For now, though willing with the worst to act, 
 He wanted powers for an important fact ; 
 And while he felt as lawless spirits feel, 
 His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal. 
 
 By these rejected, is their lot so strange. 
 So low ! that he could suffer by the change ? 
 Yes ! the new station as a fall we judge, — 
 He now became the harlots' humble drudge. 
 Their drudge in common ; they combined to save 
 Awhile from starving their submissive slave ; 
 For now his spirit left him, and his pride. 
 His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died ; 
 Few were his feelings — but the keenest these, 
 The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease ; 
 He who abused indulgence, now became 
 By want subservient, and by misery tame ; 
 A slave, he begg'd forbearance ; bent with pain, 
 He shunn'd the blow, — " Ah ! strike me not 
 again." 
 
 Thus was he found : the master of a hoy 
 Saw the sad wretch whom he had known a boy ; 
 At first in doubt, but Frederick laid aside 
 All shame, and humbly for his aid applied : 
 He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by, 
 Look'd for compassion through one living eye, 
 And strctch'd th' unpalsied hand : the seaman 
 
 felt 
 His honest heart with gentle pity melt, 
 And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt ; 
 Then made inquiries of th' unhappy youth, 
 Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth. 
 
 " Young Fi-ederick Thompson, to a chandler's 
 shop 
 " By harlots order'd, and afraid to stop ! — 
 
 As, more indulged, it gains the strength we lose, 
 Maintains its conquests and extends its views ; 
 Till, the whole soul submitting to its chains, 
 It talies possession, and for evir reigns.] 
 
220 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 *' What ! our good merchant's favourite to be seen 
 '* In state so loathsome and in dress so mean ?" — 
 
 So thought the seaman as he bade adieu, 
 And, when in port, related all he knew. 
 
 But time was lost, inquiry came too late. 
 Those whom he served knew nothing of his fate ; 
 No ! they had seized on what the sailor gave, 
 Nor bore resistance from their abject slave. 
 The spoil obtain'd, they cast him from the door, 
 Robb'd, beaten, hungry, pain'd, diseas'd, and 
 poor. 
 
 Then nature, pointing to the only spot 
 "Which still had comfort for so dire a lot, 
 Although so feeble, led him on the way, 
 And hope look'd forward to a happier day : 
 He thought, poor prodigal ! a father yet 
 His woes would pity and his crimes forget ; 
 Nor had he brother who with speech severe 
 Would check the pity or refrain the tear : 
 A lighter spirit in his bosom rose. 
 As near the road he sought an hour's repose. 
 
 And there he found it : he had left the town, 
 But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down ; 
 To one of these, half-ruin'd and half-built, 
 Was traced this child of wretchedness and guilt ; 
 There, on the remnant of a beggar's vest. 
 Thrown by in scorn, the sufferer sought for rest ; 
 There was this scene of vice and woe to close, 
 And there the wretched body found repose.'" 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. — Pope. 
 
 There are a sort of men whose visai^es 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pool, 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain ; 
 AVifli purpose to be dress'd in an opinion. 
 As who should say, " I am Sir Oracle, 
 " And when I ope my lips let no dog bark." 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Sum felix ; q-.iis enim neget ? felixque manebo : 
 Hoc quoque quis dubitet .' Tutum me copia fecit. 
 
 THE ALMS-nOUSE AND TRUSTEES. 
 
 Tlie frugal Merchant — Rivalship in Modes of Frugality — 
 Private Exceptions to the general Manners— Alms-house 
 built - Its Description — Founder dies — Six Trustees— Sir 
 Denys Brand, a Principal — Ilis Eulogium in the Chronicles 
 of the Day — Truth reckoned invidious on these Occasions 
 — An explanation of the Magnaminity and Wisdom of Sir 
 Deny8 — His kinds of Moderation and Humility — Laughton, 
 his Successor, a planning, ambitious, wealtliy Man— Ad- 
 vancement in Life his perpetual Object, and all things 
 made tlie means of it — His Idea of Falsehood — His Resent- 
 ment dangerous ; how removed — Success produces Love of 
 Flattery: his daily 'Jratidc.-ition — His Merits and Acts of 
 Kindness — His proper Choice of Almsmen— In this respect 
 meritorious — His Predecessor not so cautious. 
 
 Leave now our streets, and in yon plain beliold 
 Those pleasant Scats for the reduced and old ; 
 
 10 The I-etter on Itinerant Players will to some appear too 
 harshly written, their profligacy exaggerated, and their dis- 
 tre&se< ma;;nified ; but though the respectaliility of a part of 
 these people may give us a more favourable view of the whole 
 
 A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died. 
 
 When he to saving all his powers applied ; 
 
 He wore his coat till bare was every thread. 
 
 And with the meanest fare his body fed. 
 
 He had a female cousin, who with care 
 
 Walk'd in his steps, and learn'd of him to spare ; 
 
 With emulation and success they strove. 
 
 Improving still, still seeking to improve, 
 
 As if that useful knowledge they would gain — 
 
 How little food would human life sustain : 
 
 No pauper came their table's crumbs to crave ; 
 
 Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave : 
 
 When beggars saw the frugal Merchant pass. 
 
 It moved their pity, and they said, " Alas ! 
 
 " Hard is thy fate, my brother," and they felt 
 
 A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt. 
 
 The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor , 
 
 Bark'd him away from every decent door ; 
 
 While they who saw him bare, but thought liim 
 
 rich, 
 To show respect or scorn, they knew not which. 
 
 But while our Merchant seem'd so base and 
 mean, 
 He had his wanderings, sometimes " not unseen ;" 
 To give in secret was a favourite act, 
 Yet more than once they took him in the fact : 
 To scenes of various woe he nightly went. 
 And serious sums in healing misery spent ; 
 Oft has he cheer'd the wretched at a rate 
 For which he daily might have dined on plate ; 
 He has been seen — his hair all silver-white. 
 Shaking and shining — as he stole by night, 
 To feed unenvied on his still delight. 
 A twofold taste he had ; to give and spare. 
 Both were his duties, and had equal care ; 
 It was his joy to sit alone and fast. 
 Then send a widow and her boys repast : 
 Tears in his eyes, would spite of him, appear, 
 But he from other eyes has kept the tear : 
 All in a wint'ry night from far he came, 
 To soothe the sorrows of a suffering dame ; 
 Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant 
 A ling' ring, but reforming punishment : 
 Home tlien he walk'd, and found his anger rise 
 When fire and ruslilight met liis troubled eyes : 
 But these e.xtinguish'd, and liis prayer address'd 
 To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest. 
 
 His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen 
 A building rising on the northern green ; 
 There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes, 
 Or surely no one would have seen it rise : 
 Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near, 
 There men were placed, and sober matrons here : 
 There were behind small useful gardens made. 
 Benches before, and trees to give them shade ; 
 In the first room were seen above, below, 
 iSome marks of taste, a few attempts at show. 
 The founder's picture and his arms were there 
 (Not till he left us), and an clbow'd chair; 
 Tlicrc, 'mid these signs of his superior place, 
 Sat the mild ruler of tliis humble race. 
 
 Within the row arc men wlio strove in vain. 
 Through years of trouble, wealth and case to gain : 
 
 liody; though some actors be sober, and some managers prudent; 
 still there is vice and misery left more than sulTicient to justify 
 my description. Uut, if I could find only one woman (who pass- 
 ing forty years on many stages, and sustaining many princip.il 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 221 
 
 Less must they have than an appointed sum, 
 And freemen been, or hither must not come ; 
 They sliould be decent, and command respect, 
 (Though needing fortune), whom these doors pro- 
 tect, 
 And should for thirty dismal years have tried 
 For peace unfelt and competence denied. 
 
 Strange ! that o'er men thus train'd in sorrow's 
 school. 
 Power must be held, and they must live by rule ; 
 Infirm, corrected by misfortunes, old. 
 Their habits settled and their passions cold ; 
 Of health, wealth, power, and worldly cares bereft. 
 Still must they not at liberty be left ; 
 There must be one to rule them, to restrain 
 And guide the movements of his erring train. 
 
 If then control imperious, check severe. 
 Be needed where such reverend men appear ; 
 To what would youth, without such checks, 
 
 aspire. 
 Free the wild wish, uncurb'd the strong desire ? 
 And where (in college or in camp) they found 
 The heart ungovern'd and the hand unbound ? 
 
 His liouse endow'd, the generous man resign'd 
 All power to rule, nay power of choice declined ; 
 He and the female saint surs'ived to view 
 Their work complete, and bade the Morld adieu ! 
 
 Six are the Guardians of this happy seat. 
 And one presides when they on business meet ; 
 As each expires, the five a larother clioose ; 
 Kor would Sir Deiii/s Brand the charge refuse ; 
 True, 'twas beneath him, " but to do men good 
 '• Was motive never by his heart withstood :" 
 He too is gone, and they again must strive 
 To find a man in whom his gifts survive. 
 Now, in the various records of the dead. 
 Thy worth, Sir Denys, shall be weigh'd and read ; 
 There we the glory of thy house shall trace, 
 "With each alliance of thy noble race. 
 
 Yes ! here we have him ! — " Came in Yf illiam's 
 reign, 
 " The Norman Brand ; the blood without a stain ; 
 " From the fierce Dane and ruder Saxon clear, 
 " Pict, Irish, Scot, or Cambrian mountaineer : 
 '• But the pure Norman was the sacred spring, 
 " And he. Sir Denys, was in heart a king : 
 " Erect in person and so firm in soul, 
 " Fortune he seem'd to govern and control : 
 " Generous as he who gives his all away, 
 " Prudent as one who toils for weekly pay ; 
 " In him all merits were decreed to meet, 
 " Sincere though cautious, frank and yet discreet, 
 " Just all his dealings, faithful every word, 
 '• His passions' master, and his temper's lord." 
 
 Yet more, kind dealers in decaying fame ? 
 His magnanimity you next proclaim ; 
 You give him learning, join'd with sound good 
 
 sense. 
 And match his wealth with his benevolence ; 
 
 characters) laments in lier unrespected old age, tliat there 
 was no workhouse to which she could legally sue for admis- 
 sion ; if I could produce o'lly one female, seduced upon the 
 boards, and starved in her lodging, compelled by her poverty 
 to sing, and by her suflferings to weep, without any prospect 
 but misery, or any consolation but death ; if I co'ild exhibit 
 orily one youth who sought refuge from parental authority in 
 the licentious freedom of a wandering company ; yet, with 
 three such examples, I should feel myself justified in the ae- 
 
 What hides the multitude of sins, you add, 
 Yet seem to doubt if sins he ever had. 
 
 Poor honest Truth ! thou writ'st of living men, 
 And art a railer and detractor then ; 
 They die, again to be described, and now 
 A foe to merit and mankind art thou ! 
 
 Why banish Truth ? It injures not the dead, 
 It aids not them with flattery to be fed ; 
 And when mankind such perfect pictures view. 
 They copy less, the more they think them true. 
 Let us a mortal as he was behold. 
 And see the dross adhering to the gold ; 
 When we the errors of the virtuous state, 
 Then erring men their worth may emulate. 
 
 View then this picture of a noble mind. 
 Let him be wise, magnanimous, and kind ; 
 What was the wisdom ? Was it not the frown 
 That keeps all question, all inquiry down ? 
 His words were powerful and decisive all. 
 But his slow reasons came for no man's call. 
 " 'T is thus," he cried, no doubt with kind intent. 
 To give results and spare all argument : — 
 
 " Let it be spared — all men at least agree 
 " Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity : 
 " His were no vulgar charities; none saw 
 " Him like the ^Merchant to the hut withdraw; 
 " He left to meaner minds the simple deed, 
 " By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed ; 
 " His was a -ublic bounty vast and grand, 
 " 'T was not in him to work with viewless hand; 
 " He raised the Koom that towers above the 
 
 street, 
 " A public room where grateful parties meet ; 
 " He first the Life-boat plann'd ; to him the place 
 " Is deep in debt — 't was he revived the Kace ; 
 ■' To every public net this hearty friend 
 " Would give with freedom or with frankness 
 
 lend ; 
 " His money built the Jail, nor prisoner yet 
 " Sits at his ease, but he must feel the debt; 
 " To these let candour add his vast display ; 
 " Around his mansion all is grand and gay, 
 " And this is bounty with tJie name of pay." 
 
 I grant the whole, nor frt)m one deed retract. 
 But wish recorded too the private act : 
 All these were great, but still our hearts approve 
 Those simpler tokens of the Christian love ; 
 'T would give me joy some gracious deed to meet. 
 That has not call'd for glory through the street : 
 Who felt for many, could not always shun. 
 In some soft moment, to be kind to one ; 
 And yet they tell us, wlien Sir Denys died, 
 That not a widow in the Borough sigh'd ; 
 Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own. 
 But why describe what all the world has known ? 
 
 The rest is petty pride, the useless art 
 Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart : 
 Small was his private room : men found him there 
 By a plain table, on a paltry chair ; 
 
 count I have given : — but such characters and sufferings are 
 common, and there are few of these societies which could not 
 show members of this description. To some, indeed, the life 
 has its satisfactions : thev never expected to be free from 
 labour, and their present kind they think is light : they have 
 no delicate ideas of shame, and therefore duns and hisses give 
 them no other pain than what arises from the fear of not 
 being Irusted, joined with the apprehension that they may 
 have nothing to subsist upon except their credit. 
 
222 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around, 
 The easy purchase of a single pound : 
 These humble trifles and that study small 
 Make a strong contrast with the servants' hall ; 
 There barely comfort, here a proud excess. 
 The pompous seat of pampcr'd idleness. 
 Where the sleek rogues with one consent declare, 
 They would not live upon his honour's fare ; 
 He daily took but one half-hour to dine, 
 On one poor dish and some three sips of wine ; 
 Then he 'd abuse them for their sumptuous feasts. 
 And say, " My friends ! you make yourselves like 
 
 beasts ; 
 " One dish suffices any man to dine, 
 " But you are greedy as a herd of swine ; 
 " Learn to be temperate." — Had they dared t'obey, 
 He would have praised and turn'd them all away. 
 
 Friends met Sir Denys riding in his ground. 
 And there the meekness of his spirit found : ' 
 For that grey coat, not new for many a year, 
 Hides all that would like decent dress appear; 
 An old brown pony 't was his will to ride, 
 Who shufiled onward, and from side to side ; 
 A five-pound purchase, but so fat and sleek, 
 His very plenty made the creature weak. 
 
 " Sir Denys Brand ! and on so poor a steed I" 
 " Poor ! it may be — such things I never heed :" 
 And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien, 
 Equipp'd as one who wishes to be seen, 
 Upon a horse, twice victor for a plate, 
 A noble hunter, bought at dearest rate ? — 
 Him the lad fearing yet resolved to guide, 
 He curbs his spirit while he strokes his pride. 
 
 " A handsome youth, Sir Denys ; and a hoi'se 
 " Of finer figure never trod the course, — 
 " Yours, without question ?" — " Yes '. I think a 
 
 groom 
 " Bought me the beast ; I cannot say the sum : 
 " I ride him not ; it is a foolish pride 
 *' Men have in cattle — but my people ride ; 
 *' The boy is — hark j'e, sirrah ! what's your name? 
 " Ay, Jacob, yes ! I recollect — the same; 
 " As I bethink me now, a tenant's son — 
 *' I think a tenant, — is your father one ?" 
 
 There was an idle boy vvho ran about. 
 And found his master's humble spirit out ; 
 He would at awful distance snatch a look. 
 Then run away and hide him in some nook ; 
 " For oh !" quoth he, " I dare not fix my sight 
 " On him, his grandeur puts me in a fright; 
 " Oh ! Mister Jacob, when you wait on him, 
 " Do you not quake and tremble every limb ?" i 
 
 The Steward soon had orders — " Summers, sec 
 " That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me." 
 
 Sir Denys died, bequeathing all afflairii 
 In trust to Ixiufihlons long-experienced cares ; 
 Before a Guardian, and Sir Denys dead, 
 All rule and power devolved upon his head, 
 
 ' [Ori(,'inal edition : — 
 
 You M meet Sir Denys in a morning' ride, 
 And be convinced he 'J not a spark of pride.] 
 
 * [Sir Denys Brand is a portrait. A female servant of Mr. 
 
 Numbers are call'd to govern, but in fact 
 Only the powerful and assuming act. 
 
 Laughton, too wise to be a dupe to fame, 
 Cared not a whit of what descent he came. 
 Till he was rich ; he then conceived the thought 
 To fish for pedigree, but never caught : 
 All his desire, when he was young and poor, 
 Was to advance ; he never cared for more : 
 " Let me buy, sell, be factor, take a wife, 
 " Take any road, to get along in life." 
 
 Was he a miser then ? a robber ? foe 
 To those who trusted ? a deceiver ? — No ! 
 He was ambitious; all his powers of mind 
 Were to one end controU'd, improved, combined ; 
 Wit, learning, judgment, were, by his account. 
 Steps for the ladder he design'd to mount ; 
 Such step was money : wealth was but his slave, 
 For power he gain'd it, and for power he gave : 
 Full well the Borough knows that he 'd the art 
 Of bringing money to the surest mart ; 
 Friends too were aids, — tliey led to certain ends. 
 Increase of power and claim on other friends. 
 A favourite step was mai'riage : then he gain'd 
 Seat in our Hall, and o'er his party reign'd; 
 Houses and lands he bought, and long'd to buy, 
 But never drew the springs of purchase dry, 
 And thus at last they answer'd every call, 
 The failing found him ready for their fall : 
 He walks along the street, the mart, the quay. 
 And looks and mutters. " This belongs to me." 
 His passions all partook the general bent ; 
 Interest inform'd him when he should resent, 
 How long resist, and on what terms relent : 
 In points where he determined to succeed. 
 In vain miglit reason or compassion plead ; 
 But gain'd his point, he was the best of men, 
 'T was loss of time to be vexatious then : 
 Hence he was mild to all men whom he led, 
 Of all who dared resist, the scourge and dread. 
 
 Falsehood in him was not the useless lie 
 Of boasting pride or laughing vanity : 
 It was the gainful, the persuading art. 
 That made its way and won the doubting heart, 
 Which argued, soften'd, humbled, and prcvail'd, 
 Nor was it tried till cv'ry truth had fail'd ; 
 No sage on earth could more tlian he despise 
 Degrading, pool', unprofitable lies. 
 
 Though fond of gain, and grieved by wanton 
 waste. 
 To social parties he had no distaste ; 
 With one presiding purpose in his view. 
 He sometimes could descend to trifle too ! 
 Yet, in these moments, he had still the art 
 To ope the looks and close the guarded heart ; 
 And, like the public host, has sometimes made 
 A grand repast, for whicli the guests have paid. 
 
 At length, with power endued and wealthy grown. 
 Frailties and passions, long supprcss'd, were shown : 
 Then to provoke him was a dangerous thing. 
 His pride would punish, and his temper sting; 
 His powerful hatred sought th' avenging liour, 
 And his proud vengeance struck with all his power, 
 
 Crablic, who had previously lived with the original, with great 
 simplii-itv conlVssi'd that she trcniljlfd w henover she met him ; 
 and " was more afraid of him than she was of (Jod Almighty." 
 The name of the person is omitted — it would only serve to 
 wound the feelings of liis relatives yet surviving.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 223 
 
 Save when th' offender took a prudent way 
 
 The rising storm of fury to allay : 
 
 This might he do, and so in safety sleep. 
 
 By largely casting to the angry deep ; 
 
 Or, better yet (its swelling force t' assuage). 
 
 By pouring oil of flattery on its rage. 
 
 And now, of all the heart approved, possess'd, 
 Fear'd, favour'd, follow'd, dreaded and caress'd, 
 He gently yields to one mellitluous joy, 
 The only sweet that is not found to cloy, 
 Bland adulation I — other pleasures pall 
 On the sick taste, and transient arc they all ; 
 But this one sweet has such enchanting power, 
 The more we take, the faster we devour : 
 Nauseous to those who must the dose apply, 
 And most disgusting to the stauders-by ; 
 Yet in all companies will Laughton feed, 
 Nor care how^ grossly men perform the deed. 
 As gapes the nursUng, or, what comes more 
 
 near, 
 Some Friendly-Island chief, for hourly cheer ; 
 When wives and slaves, attending round his 
 
 seat. 
 Prepare by turns the masticated meat : 
 So for this master, husband, parent, friend. 
 His ready slaves their various efforts blend, 
 And, to their lord still eagerly inclined, 
 Pour the crude trash of a dependent mind. 
 But let the Muse assign the man his due, 
 "Worth he possess'd, nor wore his virtues few : — 
 He sometimes helj^'d the injured in their cause ; 
 His power and purse have back'd the failing 
 
 laws ; 
 He for religion has a due respect. 
 And all his serious notions are correct ; 
 Although he pray'd and kinguish'd for a son, 
 He grew resign'd when Heaven denied him 
 
 one ; 
 He never to this quiet mansion sends 
 Subject unfit, in comjiliment to friends; 
 Not so Sir Denys, who would yet protest 
 He always chose the worthiest and the best : 
 Not men in trade by various loss brought down. 
 But those whose glory once amazed the town, 
 "Who their last guinea in their pleasures spent. 
 Yet never fell so low as to repent : 
 To these his pity he could largely deal, 
 Wealth they had known, and therefore want could 
 
 feel. 
 Three seats were vacant while Sir Denys reign'd, 
 And three such favourites their admission gain'd ; 
 These let us view, still more to understand 
 The moral feelings of Sir Denys Brand.* 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 ^ For the Almshouse itself, its Governoi-s, and Inhabitants, 
 I hii'Ve not much to offer in lavour of the subject or of the 
 character. One of these, Sir Denys BranJ, may be considered 
 as too highly placed for an author, who seldom ventures above 
 middle life, to delineate; and, indeed, I had some idea of 
 reserving him for another occasion, where he might have ap- 
 peared with tiiose in liis own rank : but then it is most un- 
 certain whet'ner he would ever appear, and he has been so 
 
 Sed quia caucus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum 
 Despicitur ; suadent brevera praesentia fructum, 
 lit ruit in vetitum damni secura libido. 
 
 Claud, in Eutrop. 
 
 Nunquam parvo contenta paratu, 
 Et quaesitorum terra pelagoque ciborum 
 Ambitiosa fames, et lautaj gloria mensae. — LncAN. 
 
 Et Luxus, populator Opum, tibi semper adhaerens, 
 Infelix humili gressu coraitatur Egestas. 
 
 Claud, in Ruf. 
 
 Behold what blessing wealth to life can lend. — Pope. 
 
 LIFE OF BLANEY.' 
 
 Blaney, a wealthy Heir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty— 
 His fortune restored by Marriage ; again consumed — His 
 Mannei of Living in the West Indies — Recalled to a larger 
 Inheritance — His more refined and expensive Luxuries — 
 His metliod of quieting Conscience — Death of his \Vife— 
 Again become poor— His method of supporting Existence 
 — His Ideas of Reliiiion- His Habits and Connections when 
 old — Admitted into tlie Alms-house. 
 
 Observe that tall pale Veteran ! what a look 
 Of shame and guilt ! — who cannot read that book ? 
 jNIisery and mirth are blended in his face, 
 Much innate vileness and some outward grace ; 
 Tlierc wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen. 
 Looks ever changed, and never one serene : 
 Show not that manner, and these features all. 
 The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall ? 
 
 Hark to that laughter I — 't is the way he takes 
 To force applause for each vile jest he makes; 
 Such is yon man, by partial favour sent. 
 To these calm seats to ponder and rejient. 
 
 JBlanei/, a wealthy heir at twenty-one, 
 At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone. 
 These years with grievous crimes we need not load, 
 He found his ruin in the common road ! — 
 Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought. 
 Lent without love, and borrow' d without thought. 
 But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower 
 Of a kind wealthy widow in his power : 
 Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice, 
 To singing harlots of enormous price : 
 He took a jockey in his gig to buy 
 A horse, so valued, that a duke w as shy : 
 To gain the plaudits of the knowing few. 
 Gamblers and grooms, what would not Bianey do ? 
 His dearest friend, at that improving age. 
 Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage. 
 
 Cruel he was not — if he left his wife. 
 He left her to her ovm pursuits in life ; 
 
 many years prepared for the public, whenever opportunity- 
 might offer, that I have at length given him place, and though 
 with his inferiors, yet as a ruler over them. 
 
 1 [This character is drawn from real life ; though the 
 extreme degradation is exaggerated. The original has been 
 long dead — leaving no relatives. He was a half- pay Major 
 in a garrison tow n on the e:istern coast.] 
 
Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind, 
 Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind. 
 
 Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'd 
 In wasting guineas ere he saw his last ; 
 Then he began to reason, and to feel 
 He could not dig, nor liad he learn'd to steal; 
 And should he beg as long as he might live, 
 He justly fear'd that nobody would give : 
 But he could charge a pistol, and at will, 
 All that was mortal, by a bullet kill : 
 And he was taught, by those whom he would call 
 Man's surest guides — that he was mortal all. 
 
 While thus he thought, still waiting for the day 
 When he should dare to blow his brains away, 
 A place for him a kind relation found. 
 Where England's monarch ruled, but far from 
 
 English ground : 
 He gave employ that might for bi*ead suffice. 
 Correct his habits and restrain his vice. 
 
 Here Blaney tried (wliat such man's miseries 
 teach) 
 To find what pleasures were within his reach ; 
 These he enjuy'd, though not in just the style 
 He once possess'd them in liis native isle ; 
 Congenial souls he found in every place, 
 Vice in all soils, and charms in every race : 
 His lady took the same amusing way, 
 And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey ; 
 At length for England once again they steer'd, 
 By ancient views and new designs endear'd ; 
 His kindred died, and Blaney now became 
 An heir to one who never heard his name.- 
 
 What could he now ? — The man had tried before 
 The joys of youth, and they were joj-s no more ; 
 To vicious pleasure he was still inclined. 
 But vice must now be season'd and refined ; 
 Then as a swine he would on pleasure seize. 
 Now common pleasures had no power to please : 
 Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms. 
 He wanted beauty trembling with alarms : 
 His was no more a youtliful dream of joy, 
 The wretch desired to ruin and destroy ; 
 He bought indulgence with a boundless price, 
 Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice. 
 When a fair dame her husband's honour sold. 
 And a frail countess play'd for Blaney's gold. 
 
 " But did not conscience in her anger rise ? " 
 Yes ! and he learn'd her terrors to despise ; 
 When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled, 
 And grew composed and harden'd as he read ; 
 Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight. 
 Pleased him, and shone with their phosphoric light ; 
 Which, though it rose from objects vile and base. 
 Where'er it came threw splendour on the place. 
 And was that light which the deluded youth, 
 And this grey sinner, decm'd the light of trutli. 
 
 He different works for different cause admired, 
 Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired ; 
 
 * [To tlie character of Blaney we olijcct, as ofTensive from its 
 extreme and impotent depravity, 'i'lio lirst part of Ills his- 
 tory, liowivcr, in sketclied with a m:Lsterly hand, and affords 
 a good specimen of tliat sentenlioiis and antitlietical manner 
 by wliich Mr. Crabbe sometimes reminds us of tile style and 
 versification of Pope. — Jeffkey.] 
 
 5 [The autV jr of " The Omcles of Reason," and of an infidel 
 treatise entitl(Hl "Anima Mundi." He put an cud to liis 
 existence by shooting himself, in I(i93.] 
 
 To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame, 
 He had the books, decreed to lasting shame. 
 Which those who read are careful not to name : 
 These won to vicious act the yielding heart. 
 And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart. 
 
 He heard of Blount,^ and Mandeville,'* and 
 Chubb,' 
 How they the doctors of their day would drub ; 
 How Hume had dwelt on Miracles so well. 
 That none would now believe a miracle ; 
 And though he cared not works so grave to read. 
 He caught their faith, and sign'd the sinner's 
 creed. 
 
 Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side, 
 Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died ; 
 Y'et was he kind and careful of lier fame. 
 And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name ; 
 " A tender wife, respected, and so forth," 
 The marble still bears witness to the worth. 
 
 He has some children, but he knows not where ; 
 Something they cost, but neither love nor care ; 
 A father's feelings he has never known. 
 His joys, his sori'ows, have been all his own. 
 
 He now would build — and lofty seat he built. 
 And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt. 
 Restless, for ever anxious to obtain 
 Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain, 
 He would have pictures, and of course a Taste," 
 And found a thousand means his wealth to waste. 
 Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost ; 
 They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost. 
 
 Quick came his ruin, came when he had still 
 For life a relish, and in pleasui-e skill : 
 By his own idle reckoning he supposed 
 His wealth would last him till his life was closed ; 
 But no I he found this final hoard was spent, 
 While he had years to suffer and repent. 
 Y^et, at the last, his noble mind to show, 
 And in his misery how he bore the blow, 
 He viow'd his only guinea, then suppress'd. 
 For a short time, the tumults in his breast. 
 And mov'd by pride, by habit and despair, 
 Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air. 
 
 Come, ye ! who live for Pleasure, come, behold 
 A man of pleasure when he 's poor and old ; 
 When he looks back tlirough life, and cannot find 
 A single action to relieve his mind ; 
 When he looks forward, striving still to keep 
 A steady prospect of eternal sleep ; 
 When not one friend is left, of all the train 
 Whom 't was his pride and boast to entertain,— 
 Friends now employ'd from house to house to run, 
 And saj', " Alas ! poor Blaney is undone ! " — 
 Tliose whom he shook with ardour by the hand. 
 By whom he stood as long as he could stand. 
 Who seem'd to him from all deception clear, 
 And who, more strange ! might think themselves 
 sincere. 
 
 * [Author of " Tlip Fable of the ISees," written to prove 
 that moral virtue is tlie invention of tinaves, and Christian 
 virtue tlie imposition of fools ; that vice is necessary, and 
 alone suflicient to render society llouriihiiig and liappy.] 
 
 5 [ A noted dcistical writer. He died in 1716, leaving be- 
 hind him two Volumes of tracts, which were ufier»ards pub- 
 lished.] 
 
 « [" What broii;.'lit Sir Visto's ill-^'ot wealth to waste ? 
 ' Some demon whispered, ' Vislo! have aXaste.' " — ropE.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 2'25 
 
 Lo I now the hero shuffling through the tof\-n, 
 To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown ; 
 To tell an idle tale, tliat boys may smile ; 
 To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile ; 
 To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth 
 (With reverend view to both his taste and health) ; 
 To be a useful, needy thing between 
 Fear and desire — the pander and the screen ; 
 To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress. 
 The wildest fashion, or the worst excess ; 
 To be the grey seducer, and entice 
 Unbearded folly into acts of vice : 
 And then, to level every fence which law 
 And virtue fix to keep the mind in awe, 
 He first inveigles youth to walk astray. 
 Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal 
 
 way. 
 Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his 
 prey. 
 
 Unhappy man I what pains he takes to state — 
 (Proof of his fear !) that all below is fate ; 
 That all proceed in one appointed track, 
 T^here none can stop, or take their journey back : 
 Then what is vice or virtue ? — Yet he '11 rail 
 At priests till memory and quotation fail ; 
 He reads, to learn the various ills thej- 'vc done. 
 And calls them vipers, every mother's son. 
 
 He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling tries 
 To move her fiiend for vanity's supplies ; 
 To weak indulgence he allures the mind. 
 Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind ; 
 And if successful — what the labour pays ? 
 He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise, 
 AVho, in her triumph, condescends to say, 
 " AVhat a good creature Blaney was to-day ! " 
 
 Hear the poor demon when the young attend. 
 And willing ear to vile experience lend ; 
 "SVhen he relates (with laughing, learing eye) 
 The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy : 
 No genuine gladness his narrations cause, 
 The frailest heart denies sincere applause ; 
 And many a youth has turn'd him half aside, 
 And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide. 
 
 Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose. 
 Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious Muse ; 
 He borrows every help from every art. 
 To stir the passions and mislead the heart : 
 But from the subject let us soon escape, 
 Nor give this feature all its ugly shape ; 
 Some to their crimes escape from satire owe ; 
 "Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show ? 
 
 "While thus the man, to vice and passion slave, 
 Was, with his follies, moving to the grave, 
 The ancient ruler of this mansion died, 
 And Blaney boldly for the scat applied : 
 Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit : 
 " 'T is true," said he, " the fellow 's quite a brute — 
 
 ' Blaney and Clelia, a male and female inhabitant of this 
 mansion, are drawn at some length ; and I may te thought to 
 have given them attention which they do not merit. I plead 
 not for the ori:,'inality, but for the truth of the character ; and 
 thougli it may not be very pleasing, it may be useful to de- 
 lineate (for certain minds) these mixtures of levity and vice ; 
 people «ho are thus incurably vain and determinately 
 worldly ; thus devoted to enjoyment and insensible of shame, 
 and so miserably fond of their pleasures, that they court even 
 tlie remembrance with eager solicitation, by conjuring up the 
 gliosis of departed indulgences with all the aid that memory 
 
 " A very beast ; but yet, with all his sin, 
 '■ He has a manner — let the devil in." 
 
 They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat. 
 But raised a worthier to the vacant seat. 
 
 Thus forced on ways unlike each former way. 
 Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray, 
 He quits the gay and rich, the young and free, 
 Among the badge-men with a badge to be : 
 He sees an humble tradesman rais'd to rule 
 The grey-beard jjupils of this moral school ; 
 "^V'here he himself, an old licentious boy, 
 "Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy ; 
 In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink, 
 And, pain of pains ! must live alone and think. 
 
 In vain, by fortune's stniles, thrice affluent made. 
 Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid ; 
 Thrice into penury by error thrown. 
 Not one right maxim has he made his own ; 
 The old men shun him, — some his vices hate, 
 And all abhor his principles and prate ; 
 Nor love nor care for him will mortal show. 
 Save a frail sister in the female row.^ 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 Slie early found herself mis'.ress of herself. All she did 
 was right ;' all she said was admired. Early, very early, did 
 she dismiss blushes from her clieelv : she could not blush 
 because she could not doubt ; and silence, whatever was her 
 subject, was as much a stranger to her as diffidence. — 
 Richardson. 
 
 Quo fugit Venus .' heu ! Quove color .' decens 
 Quo motus ? Quid habes illius, illius, 
 QuiE spirabat amores, 
 Quae me surpuerat mihi ? 
 
 HoRAT. lib. iv. Od. 13. 
 
 CLELIA.i 
 
 Her lively and pleasant Manners— Her Reading and Decis'on 
 — Her Intercourse with different Classes of Society — Her 
 Kind of Character— The favoured Lover— Her Manage- 
 ment of him : his of her— After one Period, Clelia w ith an 
 Attorney : her Manner and Situation there— Another such 
 Period, when her Fortune still declines— Mistress of an Inn 
 — A Widow — Another such Interval : she becomes poor 
 and infirm, but still vain and frivolous — The fallen Vanity 
 — .admitted into the House : meets Blaney. 
 
 We had a sprightly nj-mph — in every town 
 Are some such sprights, who wander up and down ; 
 She had her useful arts, and could contrive. 
 In Time's despite, to stay at twenty-five ; — 
 " Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year, 
 " This is mine age, and I will rest me here." 
 
 can afford them. Tliese characters demand some attention, 
 because they hold out a warning to that numerous class of 
 young people who are too lively to be discreet ; to whom the 
 purpose of life is amusement, and who are always in danger 
 of tailing into vicious habits, because tliey have too much 
 activity to be quiet, and too little strength to be steady. 
 
 ' [Clelia, like Blaney, is a strong resemblance of an indi- 
 vidual known to Mr. C'rabbe in early life. She lias been dead 
 nearly half a century ; but, having relatives, it would be 
 wrong to be move pjurticular.] 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Arcli was licr look, and she had pleasant ways 
 Your good opinion of her heart to raise ; 
 Her speech was lively, and with ease expressM, 
 And well she judged the tempers she address'd : 
 If some soft stripling liad her keenness felt. 
 She knew the way to make his anger melt ; 
 "Wit was allow'd her, though hut few could bring 
 Direct example of a witty thing ; 
 'T was that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech, 
 Her beaux admired, and just within their reach ; 
 Not indiscreet, pcrliaps, but yet more free 
 Than prudish nymphs allow their wit to be. 
 
 Novels and plays, with poems old and new, 
 "Were all the books our nymph attended to ; 
 Yet from the press no treatise issued forth, 
 But she would speak precisely of its worth. 
 
 She with the London stage familiar grew, 
 And every actor's name and merit knew; 
 She told how this or that their part mistook, 
 And of the rival Romeos gave the look ; 
 Of either house 't was hers the strength to see, 
 Then judge with candour — " Drury Lane for me." 
 
 "What made this knowledge, what this skill com- 
 plete ? 
 A fortnight's visit in AVhitechapel Street. 
 
 Her place in life was rich and poor between, 
 "With those a favourite, and with these a queen ; 
 She could her parts assume, and condescend 
 To friends more humble while an humble friend ; 
 And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass. 
 Threading her pleasant way from class to class. 
 
 " Her reputation? " — That was like her wit, 
 And scem'd her manner and her state to fit ; 
 Something there was — what, none presumed to say ; 
 Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day, — 
 Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, 
 And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear. 
 
 But of each sex a friendly number press'd 
 To joyous banquets this alluring guest : 
 There, if indulging mirth, and freed from awe. 
 If pleasing all, and pleased with all she saw, 
 Her speech were free, and such as freely dwelt 
 On the same feelings all around her felt ; 
 Or if some fond presuming favourite tried 
 To come so near as once to be denied ; 
 Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice, 
 But that he ventured on denial twice : — 
 If these have been, and so has Scandal taught, 
 Yet Malice never found the proof she sought. 
 
 But then came one, the Lovelace of his day, 
 Kich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and 
 
 gay; 
 
 Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts. 
 But left the business to the ladies' hearts, 
 And when he found them in a proper train, 
 He thought all else superfluous and vain: 
 But in tliat training lie was deeply taught, 
 And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought ; 
 He knew how far directly on to go, 
 How to recede and dailj' to and fro; 
 How to make all the passions his allies, 
 And, wlien he saw them in contention rise. 
 To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by 
 surprise. 
 Our heroine fcar'd him not; it was her part. 
 To make sure conquest of such gentle heart — 
 Of one so mild and liumblc ; for slie saw 
 In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe. 
 
 Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime. 
 
 Nor virtuous all her tlioughts ; 't was now her time 
 
 To bait each hook, in every way to please. 
 
 And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize. 
 
 She had no virgin-terrors ; she could stray 
 
 In all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way ; 
 
 Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dread 
 
 A failing caution or a giddy head ; 
 
 She 'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood. 
 
 And dance upon the brink where danger stood. 
 
 'T was nature all, she judged, in one so young, 
 To drop the eye and falter in the tongue ; 
 To be about to take, and then command 
 His daring wish, and only view the hand : 
 Yes ! all was nature ; it became a maid 
 Of gentle soul t' encourage love afraid ; — 
 He, so unlike the confident and bold, 
 "Would fly in mute despair to find her cold : 
 The young and tender germ requires the sun 
 To make it spread ; it must be smiled upon. 
 Thus the kind virgin gentle means devised, 
 To gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized ; 
 More gentle still she grew, to change her way, 
 "Would cause confusion, danger, and delay : 
 Thus (an increase of gentleness her mode), 
 Shs took a plain, unvaried, certain road. 
 And every hour believed success was near, 
 Till there was nothing left to hope or fear. 
 
 It must be own'd that, in this strife of hearts, 
 INIan has advantage — has superior arts : 
 The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown. 
 Nor is she always certain of her own ; 
 Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise, 
 But he who searches, reads them in her eyes. 
 In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs : 
 These are his signals, and he learns to steer 
 The straighter course whenever they appear. 
 
 " Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate ? " 
 At an attorney's board alert she sate. 
 Not legal mistress : he with other men 
 Once sought her hand, but other views were then ; 
 And when he knew he might the bliss command. 
 He other blessing sought, without the hand ; 
 For still he felt alive tlie lambent flame. 
 And off'er'd her a home, — and home she came. 
 
 There, though lier higher friendships lived no 
 more, 
 She loved to speak of what she shared before — 
 " Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall, — 
 " Of good Sir Peter, — of their annual ball, 
 " And the fair countess ! — Oh ! she loved them all !" 
 The humbler clients of her friend Avould stare, 
 The knowing smile, — but neither caused her care ; 
 She brought her spirits to her humble state. 
 And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate. 
 
 " Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia 
 then ?"-- 
 Alas ! she suflTer'd in this trying ten ; 
 The pair had parted : who to him attend, 
 ^lust judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend ; 
 But who on lior would equal faith bestow, 
 "Would think him rash, — and surely she must know. 
 
 Then as a matron Clelia taught a school, 
 But nature gave not talents fit for rule : 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 227 
 
 ■Jet now, though marks of wasting years were seen, 
 Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen ; 
 Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay, 
 And livelj' speech and elegant ai-ray. 
 
 The GriflSn's landlord these allured so far, 
 lie made her mistress of his heart and bar ; 
 He had no idle retrospective whim. 
 Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him : 
 So far was well, — but Clelia thought not fit 
 (In all the Griffin needed) to submit : 
 Gaily to dress and in the bar preside, 
 Soothed tlie poor spirit of degraded pride ; 
 But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew 
 Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew : 
 Hence daily wars, with temporary truce, 
 His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse ; 
 And as their sjiirits wasted in the strife, 
 Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life ; 
 But she with greater prudence — Harrj' tried 
 3Iore powerful aid, and in the trial died ; 
 Yet drew down vengeance : in no distant time, 
 Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wings sublime ; — 
 Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen. 
 And show'd to frowning fate a look serene ; 
 Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired, 
 Kind without love, and vain if not admired. 
 
 Another term is past ; ten other years 
 In various trials, troubles, views, and fears : 
 Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade ; 
 Houses she kept for widowers lately made ; 
 For now she said, " They'll miss th'endearing friend, 
 " And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend :" 
 And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd — 
 The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand ; 
 She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said 
 The dedication was the best he read ; 
 But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Kadcliffes so engross'd 
 The public ear, that all her pains were lost. 
 To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last. 
 There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were 
 past. 
 
 Now friendless, sick, and old, and wanting bread. 
 The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed — 
 True, bitter tears ; and yet that wounded pride, 
 Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd. 
 Though now her tales were to her audience fit ; 
 Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit, 
 Though now her dress — (but let me not explain 
 The piteous patchwork of the needy-vain, 
 The flirtish form to coarse materials lent, 
 And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent) ; 
 Though all within was sad, without was mean, — 
 Still 't was her wish, her comfort, to be seen : 
 She would to plays on lowest terms resort, 
 "Where once her box was to the beaux a coiirt ; 
 And, strange delight ! to that same house where she 
 Joined in the dance, all gaiety and glee, 
 
 - [" Clelia is another worthless cliaractcr tnat is drawn 
 witli infinite spirit, anj a thorough knowledge of human 
 nature. She began life as a sprijjhtlv, talkin;:, flirting' girl, 
 who passed for a wit and a bsauty in the half-bred circle of 
 the Borough, and who, in laying herself out to entrap a youth 
 of distinction, unfortunately fell a victim to his superior art, 
 and forfeited her place in society. She then became the 
 
 Xow with the menials crowding to the wall. 
 
 She 'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball. 
 
 And -with degraded vanity imfold. 
 
 How she too triumph'd in the years of old. 
 
 To her poor friends 't is now her pride to tell. 
 
 On what a height she stood before she fell ; 
 
 At church she points to one tall seat, and " There 
 
 " "We sat," she cries, " when my papa was mayor." 
 
 Not quite correct in what she now relates. 
 
 She alters persons, and she'forges dates ; 
 
 And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd. 
 
 She boldly calls invention to her aid. 
 
 Touch'd by the pity he had felt before, 
 For her Sir Denys oped the Alms-house door : 
 " "With aU her faults," lie said, '' the woman knew 
 " How to distinguish — had a manner too ; 
 " And, as they say she is allied to some 
 " In decent station — let the creature come." 
 
 Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view 
 Of all the pleasures they would still pursue: 
 Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide 
 Of vices past ; their follies are their pride ; 
 "V\'hat to the sober and the cool are crimes. 
 They boast — exulting in those happy times ; 
 The darkest deeds no indignation raise, 
 The purest virtue never wins their praise ; 
 But still they on their ancient joys dilate. 
 Still with regret departed glories state, 
 And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their 
 rigorous fate.^ 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris 
 Circa te semper volitans Infaraia pennis. 
 
 SiLVIUS Italicits. 
 
 BENBOW. 
 
 Benbow, an improper Companion for the Badgemen of the 
 Alras-house — He resembles Bardolph — Left in Trade by 
 his Father— Contracts useless Fiiendships— His Friends 
 drink with him, and employ others — Called worthy and 
 honest! Why— Effect of Wine on the Mind of Man— 
 Benbow's common Subject — The Praise of departed Friends 
 and Patrons— 'Squire Asgill, at the Grange : his Manners, 
 Servants, Friends — True to his Church : ought therefore to 
 be spared — His Son's different Conduct — Vexation of the 
 Father's Spirit if admitted to see the Alteration — Captain 
 Dowling, a boon Companion, ready to drink at all Times, 
 and with any Company : famous in liis Club-room — His 
 easy Departure — Dolly Murray, a Maiden advanced in 
 Years : abides by Ratafia and Cards- Her free Manners — 
 Her Skill in the Game — Her Preparation and Death — • 
 Benbow, how interrupted : his Submission. 
 
 See ! j-onder badgeman with that glowing face, 
 A meteor shining in this sober place ! 
 
 smart mistress of a dashing attorney — tlicn tried to teach a 
 school — lived as the favourite of an innkeeper — let lodgings — • 
 wrote novels — set up a toy-shop— and, finally, was admitted 
 into the alms-house. There is nothing very interesting, 
 perhaps, in such a story ; but the details of it show the won- 
 derful accuracy of the author's observation of character, and 
 give it, and many of his other pieces, a value of the same 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Yast sums were paid, and many years -were past, 
 Ere gems so ricli around their radiance cast ! 
 Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore, 
 Cuidins his master to the tavern door ; ' 
 There first that meteor i-ose, and there alone, 
 In its due place, tlie rich effulgence shone : 
 But this strange fire the seat of peace invades 
 And shines portentous in these solemn shades. 
 
 JJeiiboir, a boon companion, long approved 
 By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved, 
 "Was judged as one to jo)' and friendship prone. 
 And deem'd injurious to himself alone : 
 Gen'rous and free, he paid hut small regard 
 To trade, and fail'd; and some declared '• 'twas 
 
 hard :" 
 These were his fi-iends — his foes conceived the case 
 Of common kind ; he sought and found disgrace : 
 The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved, 
 His feelings pitied and his faults reproved. 
 
 Benbow, the father, left possessions fair, 
 A worthy name and business to his heir ; 
 Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold, 
 And lost his credit, while he spent the gold : 
 He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd 
 The night with him ; his day was unemployed ; 
 So when his credit and his cash were spent, 
 Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent ; 
 Of late he came, with passions unsubdued, 
 And shared and cursed the hated solitude, 
 "Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous 
 cares intrude. 
 
 Known but in drink, — he found an easy friend, 
 AVell pleased his worth and honour to commend : 
 And thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust 
 Heard the applause and said the claim was just. 
 A worthy soul ! unfitted for the strife. 
 Care, and contention of a busy life ; — 
 "Worthy, and why ? — that o'er the midnight bowl 
 He made his friend the partner of his soul. 
 And any man his friend : — then thus in glee, 
 *' T speak my mind, I love the truth," quoth he ; 
 Till 't was his fate that useful truth to Cnd, 
 'T is sometimes prudent not to speak the mind. 
 
 "With wine inflated, man is all upblown, 
 Aiii feels a power which he believes his own ; 
 AVith fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks 
 His all the virtues all the while he drinks ; 
 But when the gas from tlie balloon is gone, 
 "When sober thoughts and serious cares come on, 
 "Where tlien the worth that in himself he found ? — 
 "Vanisli'd — and he sank grov'ling on the ground. 
 
 Still some conceit will Bcnbow's mind inflate, 
 Poor as he is, — 'tis pleasant to relate 
 The joys he once possess'd — it soothes his present 
 state. 
 
 Seated with some grey beadsman, he regrets 
 His former feasting, tliough it swell'd his debts ; 
 Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days. 
 Well he describes, and thinks description praise : 
 Each hero's worth with much delight ho paints ; 
 Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints. 
 
 kind tliat some pictures arc thought to derive from tlie truth 
 and minuteness of the anatomy which tlioy display. There 
 is sometliinL' ori(,'inal, too, and well conceived, in the tenacity 
 with whicli 111- represents this frivolous person as adhering to 
 her piiltry liiaractcristics under every chani^e of circum- 
 stances." — .Ikffrey.] 
 
 " Alas 1 alas ! " Old England now may saj', 
 " ]My glory vi ithers ; it has had its day : 
 " "We 're fallen on evil times ; men read and think ; 
 " Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink. 
 
 " Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill— what a 
 change 
 " Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange I 
 " He bravely thought it best became his rank, 
 '•' That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank ; 
 " He was delighted from his favourite room 
 " To see them 'cross the park go daily home 
 " Praising aloud the liquor and the host, 
 " And striving who should venerate him most. 
 
 " No pride had he, and there was difference 
 small 
 " Between the master's and the servants' hall: 
 " And here or there the guests were welcome all. 
 " Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care, 
 " He never quarrel'd for a simple hare ; 
 '• But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name, 
 " Himself a poacher, though at other game : 
 " He never planted nor enclosed — his trees 
 " Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease : 
 " Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt 
 " Chok'd and imprison'd in a modern belt, 
 " "Which some rare genius now has twined about 
 " The good old house, to keep old neighbours out. 
 " Along his valleys, in the evening-hours, 
 " The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowei-s, 
 " Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park, 
 " To take their pleasant rambles in the dark. 
 
 " Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call 
 " On the kind females — favourites at the liall ; 
 " But better nature saw, with much delight, 
 " The different orders of mankind unite : 
 " 'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait, 
 " Smile on his sister and receive her plate. 
 
 " His worship ever was a churchman true, 
 " He held in scorn the methodistic crew; 
 " May God defend the Church, and save the King, 
 " He 'd pray devoutly and divinely sing. 
 " Admit that he the holy day would spend 
 " As priests approved not, still he was a friend : 
 " Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice, 
 " To call such trifles by the name of vice ; 
 " Hinting, thougli gently and with cautious speech, 
 " Of good example — 'tis their trade to preach. 
 " But still 't was pity, when the worthy 'squire 
 " Stuck to the church, what more could they 
 
 require ? 
 " 'T was almost joining that fanatic crew, 
 " To throw such morals at his honour's pew ; 
 " A weaker man, had he been so reviled, 
 " Had left the place — he only swore and smiled. 
 
 " But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think, 
 " Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink ; 
 " Conceive not — mounted on your Sunday-throne, 
 " Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone ; 
 " They strike your patrons — and should all with- 
 draw, 
 " In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw. 
 
 1 " Thou art the Knight of the l?ciruin;' Lamp : if thou 
 wast any way given to virtue, 1 would swear by thy face ; 
 my oath should be by this lire. Oh ! thou 'rt. a perpetual 
 triumph, thou hast sa\ed me a thousand marks in links and 
 torches, walking in a night betwixt tavern and tavern."— 
 Shaksi'Eare. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 229 
 
 You would the flower of all your audience lose, 
 And spend your crackers on their empty pews. 
 " The father dead, the son has found a Mife, 
 And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life ; — • 
 The lands are now enclosed ; the tenants all. 
 Save at a rent-day, never see the hall ; 
 No lass is sufter'd o'er the walks to come, 
 And if there 's love, they have it all at home. 
 " Oh ! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise, 
 And see such change ; would it believe its eyes ? 
 "Would it not glide about from place to place. 
 And mourn the manners of a feebler race ? 
 At that long table, where the servants found 
 Mirth and abundance while the year went 
 
 round ; 
 Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire, 
 At a huge distance made them all retire ; 
 Where not a measure in the room was kept. 
 And but one rule — they tippled till they slept — 
 There would it see a pale old hag preside, 
 A thing made up of stinginess and pride ; 
 Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel ; 
 Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous 
 
 meal ; 
 Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold, 
 Not fit to keep one bodj' from the cold ; 
 Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay 
 To view a dull, dress'd company at play ; 
 All the old comfort, all the genial fare 
 For ever gone ! how sternly would it stare : 
 And though it might not to their view appear, 
 'T would cause among them lassitude and fear ; 
 Then wait to see — where he delight has seen — 
 The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen. 
 " Such were tlie worthies of these better days ; 
 We had theirblessings— they shall have our praise. 
 " Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak ? 
 I 'd sit and sing his pi-aises for a week : 
 He was a man, and man-like all his joy, — 
 I 'm led to question was he ever boy? 
 Beef was his breakfast ; — if from sea and salt. 
 It relish'd better with his wine of malt ; 
 Then, till he dined, if walking in or out, 
 Whether the gravel teased him or the gout, 
 Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb, 
 He drank with all who had concerns with him : 
 Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came. 
 They found him ready, every hour the same ; 
 Whatever liquors might between them pass. 
 He took them all, and never balk'd his glass : 
 Nay, with the seamen working in the ship. 
 At their request, he'd share the grog and flip. 
 But in the club-room was his chief delight. 
 And punch the favourite liquor of the niglit ; 
 Man after man they from the trial shrank, 
 And Dowling ever was the last who drank : 
 Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed, 
 With pipe and brandy would compose his head : 
 Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled, 
 When he retired as harmless as a child. 
 Set but aside the gravel and the gout. 
 And breathing short — his sand ran fairly out. 
 
 ^Original edition : — 
 
 She suffer' il no man licr free soul to vex, 
 Ker sex's pattprn, without thoughts of scs ; 
 Our tinr.:d cirls and lovers, ball' afraid, 
 Ml shunri'i'. the sncee>ies of t\:c fran> oM ranid.] 
 
 " At fifty-five we lost him — after that 
 Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat ; 
 He had indulged in all that man can have, 
 He did not drop a dotard to his grave ; 
 Still to the last, his feet upon the chair. 
 With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair ; 
 When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp, 
 And not a doctor could the body vamp ; 
 Still at the last, to his beloved bowl 
 He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul ; 
 For though a man may not have much to fear. 
 Yet death looks ugly when the view is near : 
 — ' I go,' he said, ' but still mj- friends shall say, 
 ' 'T was as a man — I did not sneak away ; 
 ' An honest life with worthy souls I 've spent, — 
 ' Come, fill my glass ;' he took it and he went. 
 " Poor Dolly Murray ! — I might live to see 
 My hundredth year, but no such lass as she. 
 Easy by nature, in her humour gay, 
 She chose her comforts, ratafia and play : 
 She loved the social game, the decent glass, 
 And was a jovial, friendlj', laughing lass ; 
 We sat not then at Whist demure and still. 
 But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille : 
 Lame in her side, we plac'd her in her seat. 
 Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet ; 
 As the game ended, came the glass around, 
 (So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd). 
 Mistress of secrets, both the young and old 
 In her confided — not a tale she told ; 
 Love never made impression on her mind. 
 She held him weak, and all his captives blind ; 
 She sufTerd no man her free soul to vex. 
 Free from the weakness of her gentle sex ; 
 One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate, 
 In cool discussion or in free debate."^ 
 " Once in her chair we 'd placed the good old 
 
 lass, 
 Where first she took her preparation-glass ; 
 By lucky thought she 'd been that day at prayers, 
 And long before had fix'd her small affairs ; 
 So all was easy — on her cards she cast 
 A smiling look ; I saw the thought that pass'd : 
 'A kins;,' she call'd — though conscious of her 
 
 skill, 
 ' Do more,' I answer'd — ' More,' she said, 
 
 will ;' 
 And more she did — cards answer'd to her call, 
 She saw the mighty to her mightier fall : 
 ' A vole ! a vole ! ' she cried, ' 't is fairly won, 
 ' My game is ended and my work is done ;' — 
 This said, she gently, with a single sigh, 
 Died as one taught and practised how to die. 
 " Such were the dead-departed ; I survive, 
 To breathe in pain among the dead-alive." 
 The bell then call'd these ancient men to praj'. 
 Again ! " said Benbow, — " tolls it every day? 
 Where is the life I led?" — He sigh'd and walk'd 
 
 his way.^ 
 
 I 
 
 3 I?en!)C\v may be thought too low and despicable to be 
 admitted here ; l)ut he is a borough-character, and however 
 disgiistinfj in somo respects a pic-tiire may be, it will please 
 some, and he tolerated by many, if it ran boast that one merit 
 of being a faithl'ii! likeness. 
 
230 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 L E T T E R XVII. 
 
 Blessed be the man who provideth for the sick and needy : 
 the Lord shall deliver him in time of trouble. 
 
 Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes. — Martiai,. 
 
 Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus oflTert. — Claudian. 
 
 Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno ; 
 
 Kam milii jam aotus dissimulator eris. — Martial. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS. 
 
 Christian Charity anxious to provide for future as well as 
 present Miseries — Ileuce the Hospital for the Diseased — 
 Description of a recovered Patient — Tlie Building : liow 
 erected — Tlie Patrons and Governors — Eusebius — Tlie more 
 active Manager of Business a moral and correct Contributor 
 — One of dill'erent Description — Good, the Result, however 
 intermixed with Imperfection. 
 
 An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love, 
 The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove ; 
 'T is not enough that we with sorrow sigh ; 
 That we the wants of pleading man supply, 
 That we in sympathy with sufferers feel, 
 Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal ; 
 Not these suffice — to sickness, pain, and woe, 
 The Christian spirit loves with aid to go ; 
 AVill not be sought, waits not for want to plead. 
 But seeks the duty — ^nay, prevents the need ; 
 Her utmost aid to every ill applies, 
 And plans relief for coming miseries. 
 
 Hence yonder Building rose : on either side 
 Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide ; 
 And every ward has beds by comfort spread, 
 jVud smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed : 
 There all have kindness, most relief, — for some 
 Is cure complete, — it is the sufferer's home : 
 Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains, 
 llach accidental mischief man sustains ; 
 Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and 
 
 lame, 
 With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame. 
 Have here attendance — here the sufferers lie, 
 (Where love and science everj' aid applj',) 
 And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort 
 die. 
 
 See ! one relieved fi'om 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 : 
 'T was in the spring, when carried to the place. 
 The snow fell down and melted in his face. 
 
 'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new. 
 Smiling alike the viewer and the view: 
 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 ; 
 
 ' [Califfula, being in a rage at the people for favouring a 
 party in the Circensian games in opposition to liim, cried out, 
 " I wish the Roman people had but one ncch."] 
 
 * [It was never doubted by Mr. Crabbe's family tliat 
 
 Easy himself, there 's nothing breathes or moves, 
 
 But he would cherish — all that lives he loves : 
 
 Observing every ward as round he goes. 
 
 He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose; 
 
 Warm in his wish for all who suffer there. 
 
 At every viev,- he meditates a prayer : 
 
 No evil counsels in his breast abide. 
 
 There joy and love, and gratitude reside. 
 
 The wish that Roman necks in one were found,' 
 That he who form'd the wish might deal the 
 
 wound, 
 This man had never heard ; but of the kind, 
 Is that desire which rises in his mind ; 
 He 'd have all English hands (for further be 
 Cannot conceive extends our charity), 
 All but his own, in one right-hand to grow. 
 And then what hearty shake would he bestow. 
 
 " How rose the Building ? " — Piety first laid 
 A strong foundation, but she wanted aid ; 
 To Wealth unwieldly vias her prayer address'd, 
 AVho largely gave, and she the donor bless'd : 
 Unwieldy ^\'ealtli then to his couch withdrew. 
 And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew. 
 
 Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part, 
 " And much," she said, " it moved her tender 
 
 heart ; 
 " To her all kinds of man's distress were known, 
 '• And all her heart adopted as its own." 
 
 Then Science came — his talents he display'd. 
 And Charity with joy the dome survey'd ; 
 Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame, 
 And Piety, the joy that makes no claim. 
 
 Patrons there are, and Governors, from whom 
 Tlie greater aid and guiding orders come ; 
 Who voluntary cares and labours take. 
 The sufferers' servants for the service' sake ; 
 Of these a part I give you — but a part, — 
 Some hearts are hidden, some have not a heart. 
 
 First let me praise — for so I best shall paint 
 That pious moralist, that reasoning saint ! 
 Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak ? - 
 The man is willing, but the IMuse is weak ; — 
 'T is thine to wait on woe ! to soothe ! to heal I 
 With learning social, and polite with zeal : 
 In thy pure breast although the passions dwell. 
 They 're train'd by virtue, and no more rebel ; 
 But have so long been active on her side. 
 That passion now might be itself the guide. 
 
 Law, ccmscience, honour, all obey'd ; all give 
 Th' appi oving voice, and make it bliss to live ; 
 While faith, when life can nothing more supply. 
 Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.-' 
 
 He preaches, speaks, and writes with manly 
 sense. 
 No weak neglect, no labour'd eloquence ; 
 Goodness and wisdom arc in all his ways. 
 The rude revere him and the wicked praise. 
 
 Upon humility his virtues grow. 
 And tower so higli because so fix'd below ; 
 As wider spreads tlie oak his bows around. 
 When deeper with his )-oots he digs tlic solid 
 ground. 
 
 Eusebius was designed for a portraiture of Burke.] 
 
 3 " Let us, since life can little more supply 
 Tlian just to look about us and to die." 
 
 POPK. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 231 
 
 By him, from ward to ward, is every aid 
 The sufferer needs, with every care convey'd : 
 l^ike the good tree he brings his treasure forth, 
 And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth: 
 Meek as the poorest Publican is he, 
 And strict as lives the straightest Pharisee : 
 Of both, in him unite the better part. 
 The blameless conduct and the humble heart.* 
 
 Yet he escapes not ; he, with some, is wise 
 In carnal things, and loves to moralize : 
 Others can doubt if all that Christian care 
 Has not its price — there 's something he may share : 
 But this and ill severer he sustains. 
 As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains ; 
 "When most reviled, although he feels the smart, 
 It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart, 
 As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit, 
 Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot. 
 
 A second Friend we have, whose cars and zeal 
 But few can equal — few indeed can feel ; 
 lie lived a life obscure, and profits made 
 In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade. 
 His brother, master of a hoy, he loved 
 So well, that he the calling disapproved : 
 " Alas ! poor Tom I " the landman oft would sigh 
 When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high ; 
 And when they parted, with a tear he 'd say, 
 " No more adventure I — here in safety staj'." 
 Nor did he feign ; with more than half he had 
 He would have kept the seaman, and been glad. 
 
 Alas ! how few resist, when strongly tried — 
 A rich relation's nearer kinsman died ; 
 He sicken'd, and to him the landman went, 
 And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent. 
 This Thomas heard, and cared not : " I," quoth he, 
 " Have one in port upon the watch for me." 
 So Ephraim died, and when the will was shown, 
 Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own : 
 "Who to his brother sent a moderate purse, 
 "Which he return'd in anger, with his curse .; 
 Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong, 
 He died before he could forgive the wrong. 
 
 The rich man built a house, both large and high, 
 lie enter'd in and set him down to sigh ; 
 He planted ample woods and gardens fair, 
 And walk'd with anguish and compunction there : 
 The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat, 
 He saw with pain, and he refused to eat ; 
 His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all 
 Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall : 
 The softest down by living body press'd, 
 The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest ; 
 But care had thorns upon his pillow spread. 
 And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed : 
 Nervous he grew, — would often sigh and groan, 
 He talk'd but little, and ho walk'd alone ; 
 Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed 
 Of genuine love would joy and health proceed, 
 He from that time with care and zeal began 
 To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man ; 
 
 * [In some of Mr. Crabbe's graver descriptions there is a 
 tone of chastised and unambitious serenity, which has a 
 po"erl'ul iiifliience on the heart, and affects it like the quiet 
 j^low of a mild evening. In readinfj of the passions of Eii- 
 sebius habitually rallying on the side of virtue, we are forcibly 
 reminded of one of the sublimest traits in modern writing. 
 It is the circumstance of the dying missionary in ' Elizabeth,' 
 who spends nis last breath in prayer, not for himself, but for 
 
 And as his hands their aid to grief apply, 
 He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh. 
 
 Now he can drink his wine and taste his food, 
 And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good ; 
 And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door, 
 He sleeps as soundly as when j'oung and poor. 
 
 Here much he gives — is urgent more to gain ; 
 He begs — rich beggars seldom sue in vain : 
 Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to 
 
 move, 
 And never wearies in the work of love : 
 He rules all business, settles all affairs; 
 He makes collections, he directs repairs ; 
 And if he wrong'd one brother, — Heav'n forgive 
 The man by whom so many brethren live ! 
 
 Then, 'mid our Signatures, a name appears. 
 Of one for wisdom famed above his years ; 
 And these were forty : he was from his youth 
 A patient searcher after useful truth : 
 To language little of his time he gave, 
 To science less, nor was the Muse's slave ; 
 Sober and grave, his college sent him down, 
 A fair example for his native town. 
 Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air, 
 You 'd think a Socrates or Solon there ; 
 For though a Christian, he 's disposed to draw 
 His rules from reason's and from nature's law. 
 " Know," he exclaims, " my fellow mortals, know, 
 " Virtue alone is happiness below ; 
 " And what is virtue ? prudence first to choose 
 " Life's real good, — the evil to refuse ; 
 " Add justice then, the eager hand to hold, 
 " To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold ; 
 " Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health en- 
 sures, 
 " And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or en- 
 dures." 
 
 He speaks, and lo I — the veiy man you see. 
 Prudent and temperate, just and patient he. 
 By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep. 
 No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap : 
 He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives ; 
 Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives ; 
 By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd. 
 His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd ; 
 Temp'rate in every place — abroad, at home. 
 Thence will applause, and hence will profit come ; 
 And health from either — he in time prepares 
 For sickness, age, and their attendant cares. 
 But not for fancy's ills ; — he never grieves 
 For love that wounds or friendship that deceives. 
 His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains, 
 But neither feels nor fears ideal pains. 
 
 " Is aught then wanted in a man so wise ? " — 
 Alas ! — I think he wants infirmities ; 
 He wants the ties that knit us to our kind — 
 The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind, 
 
 his orphan charge : — " II sembloit encore prier pour ellc, 
 quand deja la mort I'avoit frappe : tant etoit grande en son 
 ame I'habitude de 1;\ charite ; tant, diirant le cours do sa 
 longue vie, il avoit neglige scs propres interets, pour ne 
 songer qu'a ceux d'autrui, puisqu'au moment terrible de 
 comparoitre devant le trune du souverain .luge, et de tomber 
 pour toujours dans les abimes de I'eternite, ce n'etoit pas 
 encore a lui qu'il pensoit." — Gifford.] 
 
232 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite. 
 And make the virtues he approves delight ; 
 "What dying martj'rs, saints, and patriots feel, 
 The strength of action and the warmth of zeal. 
 
 Again attend ! — and see a man whose cares 
 Are nicely placed on either world's affairs, — 
 Merchant and saint ; 't is doubtful if he knows 
 To which account he most regard bestows ; 
 Of both he keeps his ledger : — there he reads 
 Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds ; 
 There all he gets or loses find a place, 
 A lucky bargain and a lack of grace. 
 
 The joj's above this prudent man invite 
 To pay his tax -devotion ! — day and night; 
 The pains of hell his timid bosom awe. 
 And force obedience to the church's law : 
 Hence that continual thought, — that solemn air. 
 Those sad good works, and tliat laborious prayer. 
 
 All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid, 
 To think how avarice calls and is obey'd) 
 He in his journal finds, and for his grief 
 Obtains the transient opium of relief. 
 
 " Sink not, my soul ! — my spirit, rise and look 
 " O'er the fair entries of this precious book : 
 " Here are the sins, our debts ; — this fairer side 
 " Has what to carnal wish our strength denied ; 
 " Has those religious duties every day 
 " Paid, — which so few upon the sabbath pay ; 
 " Here too are conquests over frail desires, 
 " Attendance due on all the church requires ; 
 " Then alms I give — for I believe the word 
 " Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord, 
 " And if not all th' importunate demand, 
 " The fear of want restrains my ready hand : 
 " — Behold ! what sums I to the poor resign, 
 " Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as 
 
 mine : 
 " Kest then, my spirit! — fastings, prayers, and 
 
 alms, 
 " Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms, 
 " And weigh'd against our frailties, set in view 
 " A noble balance in our favour due : 
 " Add that I yearly here affix my name, 
 " Pledge for large payment — not from love of 
 
 fame, 
 " But to make peace within ; — that peace to make, 
 " What sums I lavish ! and what gains forsake ! 
 " Cheer up, my lieart ! let 's cast off every doubt, 
 " Pray without dread, and place our money out." 
 
 Such the religion of a mind that steers 
 Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears ; 
 "Whose passions in due bounds each other keep, 
 And thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep ; 
 Whose virtues all their certain limits know. 
 Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow, 
 Who for success and safety ever tries. 
 And with both worlds alternately complies. 
 
 * The cliaraeters of the Hospital Directors were written 
 many years since, and, so far as I was capal)le of judging, are 
 drawn with fidcliti/. I mention tliis circumstance that, if any 
 reader should lind a difTerence in the versification or ex- 
 pression, he will be thus enabled to account for it. 
 
 J The Poor are liere almost of necessity introduced, for they 
 must be considered, in every place, as a lar(,'e and interesting 
 portion of its inliabitants. 1 am aware of the great difficulty 
 of acquiring just notions on the maintenance and manage- 
 ment of this class of oar fellow-subjects, and 1 forbear to ex- 
 
 Such arc the Guardians of this bless'd estate, 
 Whate'er without, they 're praised within the gate ; 
 That they are men, and have their faults, is true, 
 But here their worth alone appears in view : 
 The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast. 
 Has something of the secrets there cxpress'd, 
 But 3'et in charity ; — and when she sees 
 Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease. 
 And knows how much united minds effect, 
 She almost dreads their failings to detect ; 
 But Truth commands : — in man's erroneous kind, 
 Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind, 
 Happy ! — when fears to public spirit move, 
 And even vices do the work of love.* 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 Bene paupertas 
 Humili tecto contenta latet. — Skneca. 
 
 Ornnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundte, magi' sunt, nescio quo 
 
 modo, 
 Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis ; 
 Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi. 
 
 Tebent. 
 To quit of torpid sluggishness tlie cave, 
 And from the powerful arms of sloth be free, 
 'T is rising from the dead — Alas ! it cannot be. — Thomson. 
 
 THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS. " 
 
 The Method of treating the Borough Paupers— Many main- 
 tained at their own Dwellings- Some Characters of the 
 Poor — The School-mistress, when aged— The Idiot — The 
 poor Sailor — The declined Tradesman and his Companion 
 — This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a 
 common Mansion erected by the Hundred — The Objections 
 to this Method : Not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary 
 Evils of this Mode — What they are — Instances of the 
 Evil — .'V. Return to the Borough Poor— The Dwellings 
 of these— The Lanes and By-ways— No Attention here paid 
 to Convenience— The Pools in the Pathways— Amusements 
 of Sea-port Children — The Town-Flora— Herbs on Walls 
 and vacant Spaces— A female Inhabitant of an Alley — A 
 large Building let to several poor Inhabitants — Their Man- 
 ners and Habits. 
 
 Yes ! we 've our Borough-vices, and I know 
 How far they spread, how rapidly they grow ; 
 Yet think not virtue qtiits the busy place, 
 Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace. 
 
 " Our Poor, how feed we?" — To the most we 
 give 
 A weekly dole, and at their homes they live ; — 
 Others together dwell, — but when they come 
 To the low roof, they see a kind of home, 
 
 press any opinion of the various modi-s wliich have been dis- 
 cussed or adopted : of one method only I venture to give my 
 sentiments, — that of collecting tlie poor of a hundred into one 
 building. This admission of a vast number of persons, of all 
 ages and both sexes, of very dilVerent inclinations, habits, and 
 capacities, into a society, must, at a first view, I conceive, bo 
 looked upon as a cause of both vice and misery; nor does 
 any thing which I have heard or tom\ invalidate tlie opinion : 
 happily, the methoil is not a prevailing one, as these houses 
 are, I believe, still confined to that part of the kingdom where 
 they originated. 
 
IHE BOROUGH. 
 
 233 
 
 A social people whom tlicy 've ever known, 
 ■With their own thoughts, and niaunei's like their 
 own. 
 
 At her old house, her dress, her air the same, 
 I see mine ancient Letter-loving dame : 
 " Learning, my child," said she, " shall fame com- 
 mand ; 
 " Learning is better Avorth than house or land — 
 '' l''or houses perish, lands are gone and spent ; 
 " In learning then excel, for that 's most excellent." 
 
 " And what her learning?" — 'T is with awe to 
 look 
 In every verse throughout one sacred book ; 
 From this her joy, her hoj)e, her peace is sought ; 
 This she has learned, and she is nobly taught. 
 
 If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear ; 
 If Rutland deigns these humble Tales to hear ; 
 If critics pardon what my friends approved; 
 Can I mine ancient Widow pass unmoved ? 
 Shall I not think what pains the matron took. 
 When first I trembled o'er the gilded book ? 
 How she, all patient, both at eve and morn, 
 Her needle pointed at the guarding horn ; 
 And how she soothed me, when, with study sad, 
 I labour'd on to reach the final zad ? 
 Shall I not grateful still the dame survey. 
 And ask the Muse the poets debt to pay ? 
 
 Ts^or I alone, who hold a triflor's pen, 
 But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men, 
 AVho rule our Borough, who enforce our laws; 
 They own the matron as the leading cause, 
 And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just ap- 
 plause : 
 To her own house is borne the week's supply ; 
 There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die. 
 
 With her a harmless Idiot we behold. 
 Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold : 
 These he preserves, with imrcmitted care. 
 To buy a seat, and reign the Boi-cugh's mayor : 
 Alas I — who could th' ambitious changeling tell. 
 That what he sought our rulers dared to sell ? 
 
 Near these a ifailor, in that hut of thatch 
 (A fisli-boat's cabin is its nearest match). 
 Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat. 
 Large as he wishes — in his view complete : 
 A lockless coffer and a lidlcss hutch 
 That hold his stores, have room for t-',\ ice as much : 
 His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box, 
 Lie all in view ; no need has he for locks : 
 Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass, 
 He shows the shipping, he presents the glass ; 
 He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known, 
 And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own, 
 Of noble captains, lieroes every one, — - 
 You might as soon have made the steeple run; 
 And then his messmates, if you 're pleased to stay, 
 lie '11 one by one the gallant souls display. 
 And as the story verges to an end, 
 He '11 wind from deed to deed, from friend to 
 friend ; 
 
 - Show not to the poor thy pride, 
 
 I.et their home a cottage be ; 
 Nor the feeble body liide 
 
 In a palace lit for thee ; 
 
 I-et him not about him see 
 Lolly ceilinjjs, ample lialls. 
 
 Or a ^;ate his boundary be. 
 Where nor friend or kir.sman calls. 
 
 He '11 speak of those long lost, the brave of old, 
 As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold ; 
 Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace 
 Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly 
 
 face, — 
 And then a tear or two, wliich sting his pride ; 
 These he will dash indignantly aside. 
 And splice his tale ;— now take him from his cot. 
 And for some cleaner berth exchange his lot. 
 How will he all that cruel aid deplore? 
 His heart will break, and he will fight no more. 
 
 Here is the poor old Jlerchant : he declined, 
 And, as they say, is not in perfect mind ; 
 In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend. 
 Quiet he paces to his journey's end. 
 
 Rich in his youth, he traded and he faifd ; 
 Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd ; 
 His spirits low, and his exertions small. 
 He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall : 
 Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he. 
 But downward sank with sad alacrity. 
 A borough-place we gain'd him — in disgrace 
 For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place ; 
 But still he kept a kind of sullen pride. 
 Striving his wants to hinder or to hide ; 
 At length, compell'd by very need, in grief 
 He wrote a proud petition for relief. 
 
 " He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove 
 " Of force to wake their sympathy and love ; 
 " Would make them feel the changes all may 
 
 know, 
 " And stir them up a due regard to show." 
 
 His suit was granted ; — to an ancient maid. 
 Relieved herself, relief for him was paid : 
 Here they together (meet companions) dwell, 
 And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell : 
 " 'T was not a world for them, God help them, they 
 " Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray ; 
 " But there 's a happy change, a scene to come, 
 " And they, God help them I shall be soon at 
 home." 
 
 If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain. 
 Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain ; 
 They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain. 
 The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh, 
 Both when they know, and when they know not 
 
 why ; 
 But we our bounty with such care bestow, 
 That cause for grieving they shall seldom know. 
 
 Your Plan I love not ; — with a number you 
 Have placed your poor, your pitiable few : 
 There, in one house, throughout their lives to be. 
 The pauper-palace which they hate to see : 
 That giant-building, that high-bounding wall. 
 Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall, 
 That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded 
 
 hour. 
 Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power ; 
 It is a prison, with a milder name. 
 Which few inhabit without dread or sl'.rime.'- 
 
 Let him not one walk behold, 
 
 That only one which be must tread, 
 Nor a chamber large and cold, 
 
 Where tlie aged and sicU are led ; 
 
 Better ftir his humble slied, 
 Kumble sheds of neighbours by, 
 
 And the old and tatter'd bed. 
 Where he sleeps and hopes to die. 
 
234 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Be it agreed — the Poor •who hither come 
 Partake of plenty, seldom found at home ; 
 That airy x'ooms and decent beds are meant 
 To give the poor by day, by night, content : 
 That none are frighten'd, once admitted here, 
 By the stern looks of lordly Overseer : 
 Grant that the Guardians of the place attend, 
 And ready ear to each petition lend ; 
 That they desire the grieving poor to show 
 AVhat ills they feel, what partial acts they know, 
 ^ot without promise, nay desire to heal 
 Each wrong they sutler, and each woe they feel. 
 
 Alas I their sorrows in their bosoms dwell ; 
 They've much to suffer, but have nought, to 
 
 tell; 
 They have no evil in the place to state, 
 And dare not say it is the house they hate : 
 The_y own there 's granted all such place cau give. 
 But live repining, for 't is there they live. 
 
 Grandsires are there, who now no more must 
 see, 
 No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, 
 The lost loved daughter's infant progeny : 
 Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place 
 For joyful meetings of a kindred race. 
 
 Is not the matron there, to whom the son 
 Was wont at each declining day to run ? 
 He (v.iien his toil was over) gave delight. 
 By lifting up the latch, and one " Good night." 
 Yes, she is here ; but nightly to her door 
 The son, still lab'ring, can return no more. 
 "Widows are here, who in their huts were left. 
 Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft ; 
 Yet all that grief within the humble shed 
 "Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed : 
 But here, in all its force, remains the grief, 
 And not one soft'ning object for relief. 
 
 "Who can, wheu here, the social neigiibour 
 meet ? 
 "W'ho learn the storj- current in the street ? 
 "Who to the long-known intimate impart 
 Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart ? 
 They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend. 
 Or seek comj)anions at their journey's end ? 
 
 Here are not those whom they when infants 
 knew ; 
 "Who, with like tbrtune, up to manhood grew ; 
 AVho, with like troubles, at old age arrived ; 
 Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived ; 
 Wliom time and custom so familiar made, 
 That looks the meaning in the mind convcy'd : 
 But here to strangers, words nor looks impart 
 The various movements of the sulTering heart ; 
 jS'or will that heart with those alliance ovni. 
 To whom its views and hopes arc all unknown. 
 
 Wliat, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, 
 Is it not worse no prospects to enjoj' ? 
 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view. 
 With notliing dreadful, but with nothing new ; 
 Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, — 
 The day itself is, like tlie night, asleep ; 
 Or on the sameness if a break be made, 
 'T is by some pauper to his grave convey'd ; 
 
 * [A. (fpntleman intimately acqnsintod with the Poet and 
 his native county, says, "I liop(? this Letter may be read by 
 all those wlio liav<! tlie power to continue or suppress those 
 odious Houses of Industry, seen, thank God ! only in tiulVolk, 
 
 By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told, 
 News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old ; 
 Bv some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell. 
 Or justice come to see that all goes well ; 
 Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl 
 On the black footway winding with the ^^•all, 
 Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner 
 call. 
 
 Here too the mother sees her children train'd, 
 Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd : 
 Who govern here, bj- general rules must move, 
 Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love. 
 Nations we know have nature's law trangress'd. 
 And snatch'd the infant from the parcnfs breast ; 
 But still for public good the boy was train'd. 
 The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd : 
 Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid ; 
 The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made. 
 
 Then too I own, it grieves me to behold 
 Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old, 
 By all for care and industry approved. 
 For truth respected, and for temper loved ; 
 And who, by sickness and misfortune tried, 
 Gave want its worth and poverty its pride : 
 I own it grieves me to behold them sent 
 From their old home ; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment. 
 To leave each scene familiar, eveiy face, 
 For a new people and a stranger race ; 
 For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame, 
 From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came ; 
 Men, just and guileless, at such manners start, 
 And bless their God that time has fenced their 
 
 heart, 
 Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear 
 Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.^ 
 
 Here the good pauper, losing all the praise 
 By worthy deeds acquired in better days, 
 Breathes a few months, then, to his chamber led. 
 Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed. 
 
 The grateful hunter, when his horse is old, 
 Wills not the useless favourite to be sold ; 
 He knows his former v.orth, and gives him place 
 In some fair pasture, till he runs his race : 
 But has the labourer, has the seaman done 
 Less worthy service, though not dealt to one ? 
 Shall wc not then contribute to their ease, 
 In their old haimts, where ancient objects please ? 
 That, till their sight shall fail them, they may 
 
 trace 
 The wcll-kno^vn prospect and the long-loved face. 
 
 The noble oak, in distant ages seen, 
 With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and 
 
 green, 
 Tliough now its bare and forky branches show 
 How much it lacks the vital warmth below, 
 The stately ruin yet our wonder gains, 
 Naj's, moves our pity, without thought of pains : 
 3Iuch more shall real wants and cares of age 
 Our gentler passions in their cause engage ; — 
 Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years, 
 What venerable ruin man appears ! 
 How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief — 
 He claims protection — he compels relief; — 
 
 near the first founder's residence (one proof tliat thev are not 
 very beneficial), in which the poor of a whole huntlred are 
 collected in one liuililing — well fed and clotlied, I grant — but 
 imprisoned forlilel' ] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 2SL 
 
 And shall wc send him from our vie-\v, to brave 
 The storms abroad, whom we at home might save, 
 And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave ? 
 No ! we will shield him from the storm he fears, 
 And when he falls, embalm him with our tears. 
 
 Farewell to these ; but all our poor to know, 
 Let 's seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row, 
 Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops 
 To see the sloping tenement on props, 
 "W'ith building-yards immix'd, and humble sheds 
 
 and shops ; 
 AVhere the Cross-Keys and Plumber's- Arms invite 
 Laborious men to taste their coarse delight ; 
 Where the low porches, stretching from the door, 
 Gave some distinction in the days of yore, 
 Yet now neglected, more offend the eye, 
 Bj' gloom and ruin, than the cottage by : 
 Places like these the noblest town endures, 
 The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers. 
 
 Here is no pavement, no inviting shop, 
 To give us shelter when compell'd to stop ; 
 But plashy puddles stand along the way, 
 Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day ; 
 And these so closely to the buildings run. 
 That you must ford them, for you cannot shun ; 
 Though here and there convenient bricks are laid 
 And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid. 
 
 Lo ! yonder shed ; observe its garden-ground, 
 "With tlie low paling, form'd of wreck, around : 
 There dwells a Fisher ; if you view his boat. 
 With bed and barrel — 't is his house afloat ; 
 Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, 
 
 abound. 
 Tar, pitch, and oakum — 't is his boat aground : 
 That space enclosed, but little ho regards, 
 Spread o'er with relicts of masts, sails, and j'ards : 
 Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest. 
 Of all his food, the cheapest and the best, 
 By his own labour caught, for his own hunger 
 dress'd. 
 
 Here our reformers come not ; none object 
 To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect ; 
 None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast. 
 That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast : 
 None heed the stagnant pools on either side, 
 AVhere new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride : 
 Bodneys in rags here British valour boast. 
 And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast. 
 Thej' fix the rudder, sot the swelling sail. 
 They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale : 
 True to her port, the frigate scuds away. 
 And o'er that frowning ocean finds hor bay : 
 Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth, 
 And sees her, fearless, gunwalc-dcep go forth ; 
 Dreadloss he views his sea, by breezes curl'd. 
 When inch-high billows vex the waterj' world. 
 
 There, fed bj' food they love, to rankest size. 
 Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise ; 
 
 * The scenery is, I must, acknowledge, in a certain degree, 
 like that heretofore described in " Tiie Village ;" but that, 
 also, was a maritime country : if the objects be similar, the 
 pictures must (in their principal features) be alike, or be bad 
 pictures. I have varied them as much as I could, consistently 
 with my wish to be accurate. 
 
 Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root. 
 Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit : 
 On hills of dust the henbane's faded green. 
 And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen ; 
 At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs, 
 With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings ; 
 Above (the growth of many a j'ear) is spread 
 The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed : 
 In everj' cliink delights the fern to grow, 
 With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below ; ■* 
 These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down. 
 Form the contracted Flora * of the town. 
 
 Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know ? 
 Then will I lead thee down the dusty Row ; 
 By the warm alley and the long close lane, — 
 There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane. 
 Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass. 
 We fear to breathe the putrefying mass : 
 But fearless yonder matron ; she disdains 
 To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains ; 
 But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay 
 All in the stifling fervour of the day. 
 
 Her naked children round the alley run. 
 And roU'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun. 
 Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd, 
 Woos the coy breeze to fan the open breast : 
 She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art 
 To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart ; 
 Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean, 
 And fancy left to form the charms unseen. 
 
 But when a wife, she lost her former care, 
 Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could 
 
 spare ; 
 Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside, 
 No rival beauty kept alive her pride : 
 Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place. 
 But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace. 
 
 See that long boarded Building ! — By these stairs 
 Each humble tenant to that home repairs — 
 By one large window lighted — it was made 
 For some bold project, some design in trade : 
 This fail'd, — and one, a humourist in his way, 
 (111 was the humour,) bought it in decay ; 
 Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down ; 
 'T is his, — what cares he for the talk of town ? 
 " No ! he will let it to the poor ; — a home 
 " Where ho delights to see the creatures come :"' 
 " They may be thieves ;" — " AVcll, so are richer 
 
 men ;" 
 " Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes ;" — " What 
 
 then ? " 
 " Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base ;" — 
 " They need the more his pity and the place :" 
 Convert to system his vain mind has built, 
 He gives asylum to deceit and guilt. 
 
 In this vast room, each place by habit fi.x'd. 
 Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd — - 
 To union forced by crime, by fear, by need. 
 And all in morals and in modes agreed ; 
 Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove ; 
 Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love ; 
 
 ' The reader, unacquainted with the language of botany, is 
 informed that the Flora of a place means the vegetabl.' 
 species it contains, and is the title of a book which describes 
 them. 
 
'236 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 And some grown old in idleness — the prey 
 To vicious spleen, still railing through the day ; 
 And need and misery, vice and danger bind, 
 In sad alliance each degraded mind. 
 
 That -window view ! — oil'd paper and old gla^s 
 Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass. 
 And give a dusty warmth to that huge room. 
 The conquer'd sunsliine's melancholy gloom ; 
 AVhcn all those western rays, without so bright, 
 AVithin become a ghastly glimmering light, 
 As pale and faint upon the floor thej' fall. 
 Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall : 
 That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned. 
 Or, where not f)ioced, in places bored and stainM ; 
 That wall once whiten'd, now an odious sight, 
 Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white ; 
 The only door is fasten'd by a pin. 
 Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in : 
 For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride, 
 At times contains what prudent men would hide. 
 
 Where'er the floor allows an even space. 
 Chalking and marks of various games have place ; 
 Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing ; 
 On a fix'd hook rjen cast a flying ring ; 
 "While gin and snuff their female neighbours share, 
 And the black beverage in the fractured ware. 
 
 On swinging shelf are things incongruous 
 stored, — 
 Scraps of their food, — the cards and cribbage- 
 
 board, — ■ 
 "With pipes and pouches ; while on jJeg below, 
 Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow; 
 That still reminds them how he 'd dance and play. 
 Ere sent untimely to the Convicts' Bay. 
 
 Here by a curtain, by a blanket there. 
 Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care ; 
 "Where some by day and some by night, as best 
 Suit their emplojmcnts, seek uncertain rest ; 
 The drowsy children at their pleasure creep 
 To the known crib, and there securely sleep. 
 
 Each end contains a grate, and these beside 
 Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried — 
 All used at any hour, by night, by day. 
 As suit the jiurso, the 2)erson, or the prey. 
 
 Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains 
 Of china-ware some jjoor unmatch'd remains : 
 There many a tea-cup's gau-dy fragment stands. 
 All placed by vanity's unwearied hands ; 
 For here she lives, e'en here she looks about. 
 To find some small consoling objects out : 
 -vor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit 
 'iAIid cares domestic, — they nor sew nor knit ; 
 But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars, 
 With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars : 
 Tliesc lead to present evils, and a cup. 
 If fortune grant it, winds description up. 
 
 ' [Tlif' ;.'r.ipliic powers of Mr. Crabbe are too frequently 
 wasted on iinwortliy subjects. There is not, perhaps, in all 
 ICnftlish poetry, a more complete and higlily-finished piece 
 of painting than tliis dcirription of a vast old boarded room 
 or warehouse, which was let out, in the Uorough, as a kind 
 of undivided lodging, for beggars and vagabonds of every 
 description. No Dutch painter ever presented an interior 
 more distinctly to the eye, or ever gave half such a group to 
 ihe imagination.— Jeffkey.] 
 
 High hung at either end, and next the wall. 
 Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all, 
 In all their force ; — these aid them in their dress, 
 But v.ith the good, the evils too express. 
 Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.* 
 
 [- 
 
 • he who covets wealth, disdains to wait : 
 
 I/iw threatens, conscience calls, yet on he hies, 
 And this he silences, and that delies.] 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 THE rooK or ti:e Bonorcii. 
 
 Nam dives qui fieri vult, 
 Kt cito vult fieri ; sed quie revereutia legum. 
 Quia nietus, aut pudor est unqui-.m properantis avari ? 
 
 JtTv. Sat. xi 
 Nocte brevem si forte indulsi^ ( ura soporem, 
 Kt toto versita flioro jam membra quiescunt, 
 ("ontinuo templum et violati Numinis aras, 
 Kt quod praec.ipuis mentem sudoribus urget, 
 Te videt in somnis ; tua sacra et major imago 
 Humana turbat pavidura, cogitque fateri. 
 
 Juv. Sat. xi 
 
 THE PARISH-CLERK. 
 
 The Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave 
 and austere Man ; one fully orthodox ; a Detecter and Op- 
 poser of the Wiles of Satan— His Opinion of his own For- 
 titude—The more frail offended by these Professions— Ilis 
 good Advice gives further Provocation — They invent Strata- 
 gems to overcome his Virtue — Ilis Triumph — lie is vet not 
 invulnerable : is assaulted by fear of Want, and Avarice — 
 He gradually yields to the Seduction— He reasons with 
 himself, and is persuaded— He otfends, but with Terror; 
 repeats his Offence ; grows familiar with Crime; is defected 
 — Ilis Sufferings and Dealli. 
 
 Wrrii our late Vicar, and his age the same. 
 His Clerk, hight Jacliin, to his office came; 
 The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender 
 
 frame : 
 But Jachin was the gravest man on ground. 
 And heard his master's jokes with look profound ; 
 For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd. 
 And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride : 
 But he was sober, chaste, devout, and just. 
 One whom his neighbours could believe and trust : 
 Of none suspected, neither man nor maid 
 By him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid. 
 
 There was indeed a frown, a trick of state 
 In Jachin ; — formal was his air and gait : 
 But if he secm'd more solemn and less kind. 
 Than some light men to light aflairs confined. 
 Still 't was allow'd that he should so behave 
 As in high seat, and be severely grave. 
 
 This book-taught man, to man's first fue j)i'o- 
 fess'd 
 Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest ; * 
 
 ^ [.\t night, should sleep his harass'd limbs compose. 
 And steal him one short moment from his woes, 
 Tlien dreams invade ; sudden, before his eyes, 
 The violated fane and altar rise ; 
 And (what disturbs him most) your injured shade, 
 In more than mortal majesty nnay'd, 
 Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treach'rous rest, 
 And wrings the dreadful secret from his bre.ist. 
 
 GiFFonri.] 
 
 3 [Original edition : — 
 
 This book-tauglit man, with ready mind received 
 More than tlie fliurch commanded or believed.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 237 
 
 lie held that Satan, since the world began, 
 In every act, had strife with every man ; 
 That never evil deed on earth was done, 
 Eut of the acting parties he was one ; 
 The flattering guide to make ill prospects clear ; 
 To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer ; 
 The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power, 
 Iteady to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour. 
 
 " Me has the sly Seducer oft withstood," 
 Sr.id pious Jachin, — " but he gets no good ; 
 " I pass the house where swings the tempting sign, 
 " And pointing, tell him, ' Satan, that is thine :' 
 " I pass the damsels pacing down the street, 
 '■ And look more grave and solemn when Vi'c meet ; 
 " Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles, 
 •' Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles : 
 '• Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I view 
 " Those forms, I'm angry at the ills they do ; 
 " That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite, 
 " Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite.* 
 
 '' At feasts and banquets seldom am I found, 
 " And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound; 
 '■ To plays and shows I run not to and fro, 
 '• And where my master goes, foi-bear to go." 
 
 No wonder Satan took the thing amiss. 
 To be opposed by such a man as this — 
 A man so grave, important, cautious, wise, 
 "Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes ; 
 No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait. 
 Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait ; 
 Should on his movements keep a watchful eye ; 
 For he pursued a fish who led the fty. 
 
 "With his ov.n peace our Clerk was not content ; 
 He tried, good man ! to make his friends repent. 
 
 " Nay, nay, ray friends, from inns and taverns 
 
 fly; 
 
 '• You may suppress your thirst, but not supply : 
 " A foolish proverb says, ' the devil's at home ;' 
 " But he is there, and tempts in every room : 
 " Jlen feel, they know not why, such places 
 
 please : 
 "His are the spells — they 're idleness and ease ; 
 " Single of fatal kind he throws around, 
 ^- "Wlicre care is banish'd, but the heart is bound. 
 '• Think not of Beauty ; — when a maid you 
 
 meet, 
 " Turn from her view and step across the street ; 
 " Dread all the sex : their looks create a charm, 
 " A smile should flight you and a word alarm : 
 " E'en I myself, with all my watchful care, 
 " Have for an instant felt the insidious snare ; 
 " And caught my sinful eyes at the endang'riug 
 
 stare ; 
 " Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast 
 " "With forceful blow, and bid the bold-one rest. 
 "Go not with crowds when they to pleasure 
 
 run, 
 " But public joy in private safety shun : 
 " When bells, diverted from their true intent, 
 " lling loud for some deluded mortal sent 
 " To hear or make long speech in parliament ; 
 " What time the many, that unruly beast, 
 " Hoars its rough joy and shares the final feast ; 
 
 ■< .Tohn Bunyan, in one of the many productions of liis 7cal, 
 lias ventured to make public this extraordinary sentiment, 
 which the frigid piety of our Clerk so readily adopted. 
 
 " Then heed my counsel, shut thine cars and 
 
 eyes ; 
 " A few will hear me — for the few are viise." 
 
 Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear. 
 The cautious man who took of souls such care ; 
 An interloper, — one who, out of place. 
 Had volunteer'd upon the side of grace : 
 There was his master ready once a week 
 To give advice ; what further need he seek ? 
 " Amen, so be it :" — ^%vhat had he to do 
 "With more than this ? — 't was insolent and new ; 
 And some determined on a waj'^ to see 
 How frail he was, that so it might not be. 
 
 First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin. 
 By points of doctrine argued at an inn ; 
 Vrhere he might warmly reason, deeply drink. 
 Then lose all power to argue and to think. 
 
 In vain they tried ; ho took the question up, 
 Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup ; 
 By many a text he proved his doctrine sound. 
 And look'd in triumph on the tempters round. 
 
 Next 't was their care an artful lass to find, 
 Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind ; 
 She they conceived might put her case with fears, 
 W^ith tender tremblings and seducing tears ; 
 She might such charms of various kind display. 
 That he would feel their force and melt away : 
 For why of nymphs such caution and such dread. 
 Unless he felt, and fear'd to be misled ? 
 
 She came, she spake : he calmly heard her case, 
 And plainly told her 't was a want of grace ; 
 Bade her '' such fancies and affections check, 
 " And wear a thicker muslin on her neck." 
 Abased, his human foes the combat fled, 
 And the stern clerk yet higher held his head. 
 They were indeed a weak, impatient set, 
 But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet ; 
 Had various means to make a mortal trip. 
 Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip ; 
 And knew a thousand ways his heart to move, 
 Wlio flies from banquets and who laughs at love. 
 
 Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid, 
 But now departs, of graver theme afraid ; 
 Her may we seek in more appropriate time, — • 
 There is no jesting with distress and crime. 
 
 Our worthy Clerk had now arrived at fame. 
 Such as but few in his degree might claim ; 
 But he was poor, and wanted not the sense 
 That lowly rates the praise without the pence : 
 He saw the common herd with reverence treat 
 The weakest burgess whom they chanced to 
 
 meet ; 
 While few respected his exalted views. 
 And all beheld his doublet and his shoes : 
 None, when they meet, would to his parts allow 
 (Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow : 
 To this false judgment of the vulgar mind, 
 He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd ; 
 He found it much his jealous soul affect, 
 To fear derision and to find neglect. 
 
 The year was bad, the christening-fees were 
 small, 
 The weddings few, the parties paupers all : 
 Desire of gain with fear of want combined. 
 Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind ; 
 "Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his 
 
 dreams, 
 And prompted base desires and baseless schemes. 
 
238 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Alas I how often cniai; mortals keep 
 The strongest watch against the foes who sleep ; 
 While tlie more wakeful, hold, and artful foe 
 Is sulfer'd guardlcss and unmark'd to go. 
 Once in a month the sacramental bread 
 Our Clerk with wine upon the table spread : 
 The custom this, that as tlie vicar reads. 
 He for our ofi''rings round the church proceeds : 
 Tall spacious seats the wealthier people hid. 
 And none had view of wliat his neighbour did : 
 Laid on the box and mingled wlien they fell, 
 Who should the worth of each oblation tell ? 
 >«\')w as poor Jachin took the usual round. 
 And saw the alms and heard the metal sound. 
 He had a thought — at first it was no more 
 Than — •' these have cash and give it to the poor." 
 A second thought from this to work began — 
 '• And can they give it to a poorer man ?" 
 Proceeding thus, — " ]^^y merit could they know ; 
 " And knew my need, how freely thcj- 'd bestow ; 
 " But though they know not, these remain the 
 
 same, 
 " And are a strong, although a secret claim : 
 " To me, alas ! the want and worth are knowTi ; 
 " Why then, in fact, 't is but to take my own." 
 Thought after thought pour'd in, a tempting 
 train : — 
 " Suppose it done, — who is it could complain ? 
 " How could the poor ? for they such trifles share, 
 " As add no comfort, as suppress no care ; 
 " But many a pittance makes a worthy heap, — 
 " What says the law ? that silence puts to sleep : — 
 " Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun, 
 " And sure the business may be safely done. 
 
 " But am I earnest ? — earnest ? No. — I say, 
 " If such my mind, that I could plan a way ; 
 " Let me reflect ; — I 've not allow'd me time 
 " To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they 'd 
 
 chime :" 
 Fertile is evil in the soul of man, — • 
 He paused, — said Jachin, " They may drop on 
 
 bran. 
 " Why then 't is safe and (all consider' d) just, 
 '• The poor receive it, — 't is no breach of trust : 
 " The old and widows may tlicir trifles miss, 
 " There must be evil in a good like this : 
 •• But 1 '11 be kind — the sick I '11 visit twice, 
 '• When now but once, and freely give advice. 
 " Yet let me think again :" — Again he tried, 
 For stronger reasons on liis passion's side. 
 And quickly tliese were found, yet slowly he com- 
 plied. 
 The morning came : the common service done, 
 Shut every door, — the solemn rite begun. — 
 And, as the priest the sacred sayings read, 
 The clerk went forward, trembling as ho tread : 
 O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heard 
 The ofl'er'd piece, rejoicing as he fcar'd : 
 Just by the j)illar, as he cautious tripp'd, 
 And turn'd the aisle, he then a portion slipp'd 
 From the full store, and to the pocket sent. 
 But held a moment — and then down it went. 
 
 Tlie priest read on, on walk'd the man afraid, 
 Till a gold offering in the plate was laid : 
 Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd, 
 'J'lien down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd ; 
 Amazed he started, for th' aflVightcd man. 
 Lost and bcwilder'd, thought not of the bran. 
 
 But all were silent, all on things intent 
 
 Of high concern, none ear to money lent ; 
 
 So on he walk'd, more cautious than before, 
 
 And gain'd the purposed sum and one piece more. 
 
 •' Practice makes perfect:" when the mouth 
 came round, 
 He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound: 
 But yet, when last of all th' assembled flock 
 He ate and drank, — it gave th' electric shock: 
 Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat, 
 Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat ; 
 But custom soothed him — ere a single year' 
 All this was done without restraint or fear : 
 Cool and collected, easy and composed. 
 He was correct till all the service closed ; 
 Then to his home, without a groan or sigh, 
 Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by. 
 Want will complain : some widows had express'd 
 A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest ; 
 The rest described with like regret their dole. 
 And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole : 
 When all agreed some evil must be done, 
 Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone. 
 
 Our easy vicar cut the matter short ; 
 He would not listen to such vile refjort. 
 
 All were not thus — there govern'd in that year 
 A stern stout churl, an angry overseer ; 
 A tyrant fond of j)ower, loud, lewd, and most 
 
 severe : 
 Tlim the mild vicar, him the graver clerk, 
 Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark, 
 Save the disgrace ; " and that, mj' friends," said he, 
 " Will I avenge, whenever time may be." 
 And now, alas ! 't was time ; — from man to man 
 Doubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran. 
 
 With angry spirit and with sly intent, 
 This parish-ruler to the altar went : 
 A private mark he fix'd on shillings three. 
 And but one mark could in the money see : 
 Besides, in peering round, he chanced to note 
 A sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat : 
 All doubt was over : — when the flock were bless'd, 
 In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd : — 
 
 " Foul deeds are here !" and saying this, he 
 took 
 The Clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook : 
 His pocket then was emptied on the place ; 
 All saw his guilt ; all witness'd his disgi-ace : 
 He fell, he fainted, not a groan, a look. 
 Escaped the culprit ; 't was a final stroke — 
 A death-wound never to be heal'd — a fall 
 That all had witness'd, and amazed were all. 
 
 As he recover 'd, to his mind it came, 
 " I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame :" 
 All the seduction now appear'd in view ; 
 " Let me withdraw," he said, and he withdrew: 
 No one withheld him, all in union cried, 
 E'en the avenger, — " We are satisfied :" 
 For what has death in .any form to give, 
 Equal to that man's terrors, if he live? 
 
 He lived in freedom, but he liourly saw 
 How much more fatal justice is than law; 
 He saw another in his office reign, 
 And his mild master treat him with disdain : 
 He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled, 
 The harsh pass"d frowning, and the simple smiled ; 
 The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof, 
 " And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof." 
 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 239 
 
 In eacli lone place, dejected and dismay'd, 
 Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid : 
 Or to the restless sea and roaring wind 
 Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind : 
 On the broad beach, the silent summer-day, 
 Stretch'd on some wTeck, he wore his life away ; 
 Or where the river mingles with the sea, 
 Or on the mud-bank by the elder tree, 
 Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he : 
 And when unable to forsake the town. 
 In the blind courts he sate desponding down — 
 Always alone ; then feeblj' would he crawl 
 The church-way walk, and lean upon the wall : 
 Too ill for this, he lay beside the door, 
 Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor : 
 He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd 
 Their firm belief of his repentance vowd ; 
 They saw him then so ghastly and so thin, 
 That they exclaim'd, " Is this the work of sin?" 
 
 " Yes," in his better moments, he replied, 
 " Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride ; — 
 " While yet untempted, I was safe and well; 
 " Temptation came ; I reason'd, and I fell : 
 " To be man's guide and glory I design'd, 
 " A rare example for our sinful kind; 
 " But now my weakness aud my guilt I see, 
 •' And am a warning — man, be warn'd by me \" 
 
 He said, and saw no more the human face ; 
 To a lone loft he went, his dying place, 
 And, as the vicar of his state inquired, 
 Turn'd to the wall and silently expired ! * 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 THE POCK OF THE BOROUGH. 
 
 Patience and sorrow strove 
 Who should express her goodliest. — SiJAKSPEAKE. 
 
 " No charms she now can boast," — 't is true, 
 
 15ut other cliarraers wither too : 
 
 " And she is old," — the fact I know. 
 
 And old will other lieroines grow ; 
 
 But not like them has she been laid, 
 
 In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd ; 
 
 Where naughty man and ghostly spright 
 
 Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread, 
 Stalk'd round the room, put out the light, 
 
 And shook the curtains round her bed. 
 Xo cruel uncle kept her land, 
 No tyrant father forced her hand ; 
 
 5 It has been observed, that the story of the Parish Clerk 
 has a bad moral, as it insinuates that there are certain temp- 
 tations under which we cannot fail to yield, and, in fact, that 
 we are puppets of an overpowering destiny. The author is 
 sorry tliat any such inferences should be drawn from this re- 
 lation, or from any other part of his book : what he meant to 
 exhibit was, rather, the fall of a conceited and ostentatious 
 man, who, when tempted, liad not recourse to proper means 
 of resistance, and an illustration of tliat scripture precept, 
 " Let him who thinketh he standeth, lake heed lest he fall." 
 Neitlier did tlie author, on this or on any other occasion, 
 mean to deny the doctrine of seducing spirits, or one who is 
 the chief of them ; what he presumed to censure was the 
 enthusiasm and conceit of those who take every absurd or 
 perverse suggestion of their own spirits for the unquestion- 
 able temptation of the evil one, and every denial of a solicit- 
 ing appetite for a conquest over that enemy of souls ; thus 
 perpetually administering fresh food for enthusiastic delight, 
 and new triumph for spiritual pride. 
 
 She had no vixen virL'in-aunt, 
 Witliout whose aid she could not eat, 
 And yet who poison'd all her meat, 
 
 With gibe and sneer and taunt. 
 Yet of the heroine she 'd a share, — 
 She saved a lover from despair, 
 .4nd granted all his wish, in spite 
 Of what she knew and felt was right ; 
 
 15ut, heroine then no more. 
 She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd, 
 And humbly took the parish aid, 
 
 .\nd dwelt among the poor. 
 
 ELLEN OllFORD.i 
 
 The Widow's Cottage — Blind Ellen one — Hers not tlie 
 Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines — What these are, first 
 described — Deserted Wives; rash Lovers; courageous 
 Damsels : in desolated Mansions ; in grievous Perplexity — 
 These Evils, however severe, of short Duration — Ellen's 
 Story — Her Employment in Childhood — First Love ; first 
 Adventure ; its miserable Termination — An Idiot Daughter 
 — A Husband — Care in Business v.ithout Success — The 
 Men's Despondency and its Effect — Their Children : how 
 disposed of — One particularly nnfortunate — Fate of the 
 Daughter — Ellen keeps a School and is happy — becomes 
 blind ; loses her School — Her Consolations. 
 
 Observe yon tenement, apart and small, 
 Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall ; 
 Where the low benches lean beside the door, « 
 And the red paling bounds the space before ; 
 Where thrift and lavender, and lad's-love'-' bloom, — 
 That humble dwelling is the widow's home ; 
 There live a pair, for various fortunes known, 
 But the blind Ellen will relate her own ; — 
 Yet ere we hear the story she can tell, 
 On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell. 
 
 I 've often marvell'd, when, by niglit, by day, 
 I 've mark'd the manners moving in my way, 
 And heard the language and beheld the lives 
 Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives. 
 That books, which promise much of life to give, 
 Should show so little how we truly live.^ 
 
 To me, it seems, their females and their men 
 Are but the creatures of the author's pen ; 
 Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd 
 From book to book — the shadows of a shade : 
 Life, if they'd search, would show them many a 
 
 change ; 
 The ruin sudden, and the misery strange ! 
 
 1 The Life of Ellen Orford, though sufficiently burdened 
 with error and mi-fortune, has in it little besides which re- 
 sembles those of the unhappy men in the preceding Letters, 
 and is still more unlike that of Grimes, in a subsequent one. 
 There is in this cliaracter cheerfulness and resignation, a 
 more uniform piety, and an immovable trust in the aid of 
 religion. This, with the light texture of the introductory 
 part, will, I hope, take off from that idea of sameness which 
 the repetition of crimes and distresses is likely to create. 
 
 2 The lad's or boy's love, of some counties, is the plant 
 southern-wood, the Artemisia Abrotanum of botanists. 
 
 2 [" Tliat ' le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable,' we do 
 not deny ; but we are prepared to insist that, while ' le vrai ' 
 is the highest recommendation of the historian of real life, 
 the ' vraisemblable ' is the only legitimate province of the 
 novelist who aims at improving the understanding or touch- 
 ing the heart." — Giffoed.] 
 
240 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 "With more of gi-icvous, base, and dreadful things, 
 
 Than novelists relate or poet sings : ■* 
 
 liut thoy, who ought to look the world around. 
 
 Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground : 
 
 AVliere all, in turn, ideal forms behold, 
 
 And plots arc laid and histories are told. 
 
 Time have I lent — I would their debt were less — 
 To flow'ry pages of sublime distress ; 
 And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears 
 I early gave my sixpences and tears : 
 Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales, 
 To Danileji-Cottagcs^ and Maple- Vales,'^ 
 And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh, 
 AVhen Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by. 
 Till I beheld them pacing in the park. 
 Close by a coppice where 't was cold and dark ; 
 When such affection with such fate appcar'd, 
 "Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd, 
 Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash ; 
 That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash. 
 
 Now shifts the scene, — the fair in tower confined. 
 In all things suffers but in change of mind ; 
 Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state, 
 Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate ; 
 Till, suffering much, and being tried enough, 
 Sh% shines, triumphant maid ! — temptation-proof. 
 
 Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix 
 With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly 
 
 tricks ; 
 Then view'd banditti who in forest wide. 
 And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide ; 
 Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about. 
 Find some strange succour, and come virgins out. 
 
 [ 
 
 " Truth is always strange — 
 
 Si ranger than fiction. If it could be told. 
 Mow much would Novels gain by tlie — ' 
 
 See ante, p. 110.] 
 
 exchange ?" &c. 
 
 ISvBON. 
 
 ^ [The title of a novel, in three volumes, written liy Airs. 
 Klizalieth lionliote, the autlior also of ' Bungay Castle,' 'Ellen 
 Woodley,' ^c] 
 
 8 [' Maple Vale, or the History of Miss Sydney," was pub- 
 lished anonymously in 1790.] 
 
 ' [" This species of composition cannot be traced higher 
 than the '(Castle of Otranto,' by Horace Walpole. Tile fol- 
 lowing curious account of the origin and composition of this 
 romance is given by the author liimself, in a liitter to a 
 friend : — ' SliiiU I confess to you what was the origin of this 
 romance ? 1 waked one morning, in the beginning of last 
 .Tune, from a dream, of whicli all I could recover was, that I 
 liad tliought mysi'lf in an ancient castle (a very natural dream 
 for a head filled, lil<e mine, with Golhic story), and tliat on 
 llie uppermost banister of a great staiicase I saw a gigantic 
 liand in armour. In tlie evening I sat down and began to 
 write, without knowing in the least wliat I intended to say 
 or relate. The work grew on my bands, and I grew fond 
 of it. Add, that i was verv glad to think of anything rather 
 than poliiics. In short, 1 was so impressed with my tale, 
 v.liich I completed in less than two montlis, (hat one evening 
 I wrote from the time 1 had drunk tea, aljout six o'clock, till 
 half an hour after one in the morning, when my hand and 
 fingers were so weary that I could not hold the pen to finish 
 the .sentence, but left Matihla and Isabell.i talking, in the 
 middle of a paragraph.' 'I'lie work ij declared by Mr. Wal- 
 pole to be an attempt to blend the ancient romance and 
 modern novel ; but if by the ancient romance be meant the 
 laies of chivalry, the extravagance of the ' Castle of Utranto ' 
 
 I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls. 
 I 've stalk'd by moonlight tln-ough deserted halls, 
 And when the weary world Mas sunk to rest, 
 I 've had such sights as — may not be cxpress'd. ^ 
 
 Lo ! that chateau, the western tower decay'd, 
 The peasants shun it, — they arc all afraid; 
 For there was done a deed ! — could walls reveal, 
 Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel I 
 Most horrid was it: — for, behold, the floor 
 Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more : 
 Hark to the winds ! which through the wide 
 
 saloon 
 And the long passage send a dismal tune, — 
 Music that ghosts delight in; and now heed 
 Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the 
 
 deed ; 
 See '. with majestic sweep she swims alone. 
 Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan : 
 Though windows rattle, and though tap'ttiies 
 
 shake. 
 And the feet falter every step they take, 
 'Mid moans and gibing sprights she silent goes. 
 To find a something, which will soon expose 
 The villanics and wiles of her determined foes: 
 And, having thus adventured, thus endured. 
 Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.^ 
 Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid. 
 When some chaste beauty, by some wretch be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 Is drawn away with such distracted speed, 
 That she anticipates a dreadful deed : 
 Not so do I — Let solid walls impound 
 The captive fair, and dig a moat around ; 
 Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel. 
 And keepers cruel, such as never .feel ; 
 
 has no resemblance to their machinery. AVliat analogy have 
 skulls or skeletons, sliding panels, damp v^uilts, trap doors, 
 and dismal apEirtments, to the tented field of chivalry and its 
 airv enchantments ?" — I)r-xr.op.1 
 
 ami uismai apEiriments, to rne ren 
 airy enchantments ?" — Ui-nlop.] 
 
 " [" Tliere is a certain class of novelists in whose drama 
 nothing is real : their scenes are fancy, and their actors mere 
 essences. The hero and heroine are generally paragons of 
 courage, beauty, .ind virtue ; they reside in such castles as 
 never were built, in the midst of such forests as never grew, 
 infested l)y such hordes of robbers and murderers as were 
 never collected together. In the small number of those novels 
 which have any plan or meaning, all is modelled on a certain 
 princi|)le, and every event predisposed to conduce to a cer- 
 tain object. Virtue is to be always persecuted, never over- 
 powered, and, at the close, invariably rewarded ; while vice, 
 on tlie other liand, triumphant tlirough all (he previous 
 scenes, is sure to be immolated, in tl'.o la~t, by the s«ord of 
 retribution. This kind of novel is useless : the lessons it 
 teaches are mere enthusiasm and romance; for tlie every-day 
 occurrences of life there is inculcated a magnanimous eon- 
 tempt ; and the mind, taught to neglect or despise the com- 
 mon duties of so. iety, is eilher wound up to a pitch of 
 heroism which never can be tried, or fixed in erroneous prin- 
 ciples of morality and duty from which it is not easily re- 
 claimed." — GlFFOltO. 
 
 "t)n the contrary, in 'Sidney Uiddulph,' by Mrs. Sheridan, 
 every afiliction is accumulated on the innocent heroine, in 
 order (o show tliat neither prudence nor foresight, nor the 
 best disyiosition of the h'iman heart, are suflicient to defend 
 from the evils of life. This work, we are told, was written in 
 opposition to the moral system, then fashionable, that virtue 
 and hap))incss are constant concomitants, or, as expressed by 
 Congreve, in the conclusion of the ' Mourning liride,' — 
 ' That blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, 
 And, though a late, a sure leward succeeds.' " 
 
 Df.M.Ol'.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 241 
 
 With not a single note the purse supply, 
 And when she begs, let men and maids deny ; 
 Be windov.s those from which she dares not fall. 
 And help so distant, 't is in vain to call ; 
 Still means of freedom will some power devise. 
 And from the baffled rufiian snatch his prize. 
 
 To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot, 
 I 've follow'd fair Louisa to her cot :* 
 Where, then a wretched and deserted bride. 
 The injur'd fair-one wished from man to hide ; 
 Till by her fond repenting Belville found, 
 By some kind chance — the straying of a hound, 
 lie at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain, 
 For the relenting dove flew back again. 
 
 There 's something rapturous in distress, or, oh ! 
 Could Clementina bear her lot of woe ? 
 Or what she underwent could maiden undergo ? 
 The day was fix'd ; for so the lover sigh'd, 
 So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied ; 
 When, tale most dreadful ! every hope adieu, — • 
 For the fond lover is the brother too : 
 All other griefs abate ; this monstrous grief 
 Has no remission, comfort, or relief; 
 Four ample volumes, through each page disclose, — 
 Good Heaven protect us 1 only woes on woes ; 
 Till some strange means aflTord a sudden view 
 Of some vile plot, and every woe adieu ! '" 
 
 Now, should we grant these beauties all endure 
 Severest pangs, they 've still the speediest cure ; 
 Before one charm be wither'd from the face. 
 Except the bloom, which shall again have place. 
 In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all dis- 
 grace ; 
 And life to come, we fairly may suppose, 
 One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes. 
 
 These let us leave, and at her sorrows look, 
 Too often seen, but seldom in a book ; 
 Let her who felt, relate them ; — -on her chair 
 The heroine sits — in former years, the fair, 
 Now aged and poor ; but Ellen Orjord knows 
 That we should humbly take v,-hat Heaven besto^^ s. 
 
 " My father died — again my mother wed, 
 " And found the comforts of her life were fled ; 
 " Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years 
 •' By loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears : 
 " Their children many, and 'twas my poor place 
 " To nurse and wait on all the infant-race ; 
 " Labour and hunger were indeed my part, 
 " And should have strengthen'd an erroneousheart. 
 
 " Sore was the grief to sec him angry come, 
 " And teased with business, make distress at 
 home : 
 
 » '' Louisa, or the Cottage on the Moor,' by Mrs. lielmo ; 
 who also wrote ' Tlie I'armer of In^'li»«ood Forest,* ' St. Clair 
 of the Isles,' and many other novels.] 
 
 '" As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish 
 it to be remembered that the gloomy tenour, the querulous 
 melancholy of the story, is all I censure. 'I'he lan;,'uaj;e of 
 tlie writer is often *iimated, and is, I believe, correct ; the 
 characters well drawn, and the manners described iiom real 
 
 " The father's tury and the children's cries 
 " I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs ; 
 " For she look'd back on comforts, and would say, 
 " 'I wrong'd thee, Ellen,' and then turn away : 
 " Thus, for my age's good, my youth was tried, 
 ■' And this my fortune till my mother died. 
 
 " So, amid sorrow much and little cheer — 
 " A common case — I pass'd mj' twentieth year ; 
 " For these are frequent evils ; thousands share 
 •' An equal grief — the like domestic care. 
 
 " Then in my days of bloom, of health, and j'outh, 
 " One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth : 
 " We often met, he dreading to be seen, 
 " And much 1 question'd what such dread might 
 
 mean ; 
 " Yet I believed him true ; my simple heart 
 " And undirected reason took his part. 
 
 " Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive ? 
 " Can I such wrong of one so kind believe, 
 " Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when 1 
 grieve ? 
 
 " He dared not marry, but we met to prove 
 " AVhat sad encroachments and deceits has love : 
 " Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew, 
 " I let him see that I was wretched too ; 
 " When less my caution, I had still the pain 
 '' Of his or mine own weakness to complain. 
 
 " Happy the lovers class'd alike in life, 
 " Or happier yet the rich endowing wife ; 
 " But most aggrieved the fond believing maid, 
 " Of her rich lover tenderly afraid : 
 " You judge th' event ; for grievous was my fate, 
 " Painful to feel, and shameful to relate : 
 " Ah ! sad it was my burthen to sustain, 
 " When the least misery was the dread of pain ; 
 " When I have grieving told him my disgrace, 
 " And plainly mark'd indifference in his face. 
 
 " Hard ! with these fears and terrors to behold 
 " The cause of all, the faithless lover, cold; 
 " Impatient grown at every wish denied, 
 " And barely civil, soothed and gratified ; 
 " Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong, 
 " And angry when I spake of crime and wrong. 
 " All tliis I felt, and still the sorrow grew, 
 " Because I felt that I deserved it too, 
 " And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive 
 " The mother's shame, which in herself must live. 
 
 " When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from 
 
 home, 
 " With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom ; 
 " There barely fed — (what could I more rec^uest ?) 
 " My infant slumbercr sleeping at my breast, 
 
 life ; but the perpetual occuncnce of sad events, the pro- 
 tracted list of teasin-; and perplexing' mischances, joined uitli 
 much waspish invective, unallaycd by pleasantry or sprigh!- 
 liness, and these continued Ihrougli many hundred pa^'os, 
 render publications, intended (or amusement and executed 
 witli ability, heavy and displeasing : you find your favouriie 
 persons happy in the end ; but they have teased you so nn-.ch 
 with their perplexities by the way, tliat you were frequently 
 disposed to quit them in their distresses. 
 
 B 
 
242 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " I from my window saw his blooming bride, 
 
 " And my seducer smiling at her side ; 
 
 " Hope lived till then ; I sank upon the floor, 
 
 " And grief and thought and feeling were no more : 
 
 " Although revived, 1 judged that life would close, 
 
 " And went to rest, to wonder that I rose : 
 
 " My dreams were dismal, — wheresoe'er I straj-'d, 
 
 " I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd ; 
 
 " Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn, 
 
 " Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born ; 
 
 " The earth a desert, tumult in the sea, 
 
 " The birds afTrightcn'd fled from tree to tree, 
 
 " Obscured the setting sun, and every thins like 
 
 me. 
 " But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at length 
 " Urged me to labour, and renew'd my strength. 
 " I strove for patience as a sinner must, 
 " Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust : 
 " There was my lover, in his joj' esteem'd, 
 " And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd ; 
 " Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong 
 " To her who feels and suifers for the wrong : 
 " The cheat at play may use the wealth he 's won, 
 " But is not honour'd for the mischief done ; 
 " The cheat in love may use each villain art, 
 " And boast the deed that breaks the victim's 
 
 heart. 
 
 " Four years were past ; I might again have 
 found 
 " Some erring wisli, but for another wound : 
 " Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair, 
 " But no expression ever brighten'd there ; 
 " I doubted long, and vainly strove to make 
 " Some certain meaning of the words she spake ; 
 " But meaning there was none, and I survey'd 
 " "With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid. 
 " Still I submitted ; — Oh ! 't is meet and fit 
 " In all we feel to make the heart submit ; 
 " Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then, 
 " It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men : 
 " The sober master of a decent trade 
 " O'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made ; 
 " lleason assented : — true, my heart denied, 
 " ' But thou,' I said, ' shalt be no more my guide.' 
 
 " "When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and 
 
 care, 
 " Of means to live procured us humble share ; 
 " Five were our sons, — and we, though careful, 
 
 found 
 " Our hopes declining as the year came round : 
 " For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive, 
 " My husband stealing from my view to grieve : 
 " Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd, 
 " And surly look'd, and peevishly replied : 
 " Pensive by nature, he had gone of late 
 " To those who preach'd of destiny and fate, 
 " Of things fore-doom'd, and of election-grace, 
 " And how in vain we strive to run our race ; 
 " That all by works and moral worth we gain 
 " Is to perceive our care and labour vain ; 
 " That still the more we pay, our debts the more 
 
 remain : 
 " That he who feels not the mysterious call, 
 " Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall. 
 " My husband felt not: — our persuasion, prayer, 
 " And our best reason, darken'd liis despair ; 
 
 " His very nature changed ; he now i-eviled 
 
 " IMy former conduct, — he reproach'd my child : 
 
 " He talked of bastard slips, and cursed his bed, 
 
 " And from our kindness to concealment fled ; 
 
 " For ever to some evil change inclined, 
 
 " To every gloomy thought he lent his mind, 
 
 " Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could 
 
 find ; 
 " His son suspended saw him, long bereft 
 " Of life, nor prospect of revival left. 
 
 " With him died all our prospects, ami once 
 more 
 " I shared th' allotments of the parish poor ; 
 " They took my children too, and tliis 1 know 
 " Was just and lawful, but I felt the blo^^ : 
 " My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy 
 " Were left, a mother's misery and her joy. 
 
 " Three sons I foUow'd to the grave, and one — 
 " Oh ! can I speak of that unhappy son? 
 " Would all the memory of that time were fled, 
 " And all those horrors, with my child, were dead ! 
 " Before the world seduced him, what a grace 
 " And smile of gladness shone upon his face I 
 " Then, he had knowledge ; finely vrould he write ; 
 " Study to him was pleasure and delight ; 
 " Great was his courage, and but few could stand 
 " Against the sleight and vigour of his hand ; 
 " The maidens loved him ; — when he came to die, 
 " No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh : 
 " Here I must cease— how can I saj', my child, 
 " Was by the bad of either sex beguiled ? 
 " Worst of the bad — they taught him that the 
 
 laws 
 " Made wrong and right ; there was no other 
 
 cause, 
 " That all religion was the trade of priests, 
 " And men, when dead, must perish like the 
 
 beasts : — 
 
 '' And he, so lively and so gay before 
 
 " Ah ; spare a mother — I can tell no more. 
 
 " Int'rest was made that they should not destroy 
 " The comely form of my deluded boy — 
 " But pardon came not; damp the place and deep 
 " Where he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep ; 
 " For he, unhappy ! had before them all 
 " Vow'd he 'd escape, whatever might befall. 
 
 " He 'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his 
 
 means, 
 " And so to see him iu such dismal scenes, 
 " I cannot speak it — canni)t bear to tell 
 " Of that sad hour — I heard the passing bell I 
 
 " Slowly they went ; he smiled, and look'd so 
 smart, 
 " Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart, 
 '• And gave a look — until my dying day, 
 " That look will never from my mind away : 
 " Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams, 
 " I see that look, and they have heard my screams. 
 
 " Now let me speak no more — yet all declared 
 " That one so young, in pity, should be spared. 
 " And one so manly ; — on his graceful neck, 
 " That chains of jewels may be proud to deck. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 243 
 
 " To a smal' mole a mother's lips have press' d — 
 " And there the cord — my breath is sore oppress' d. 
 
 " I now can speak again : — my elder boy 
 " Was that year dro^vn'd, — a seaman in a hoy : 
 " He left a numerous race ; of these -would some 
 " In their young troubles to my cottage come, 
 " And these I taught — an humble teacher I — 
 " Upon their heavenly Parent to rely. 
 
 " Alas ! I needed such reliance more : 
 " My idiot-girl, so simply gay before, 
 " Now wept in pain : some wretch had found a 
 
 time, 
 " Depraved and wicked, for that coward crime ; 
 " I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'd 
 " The thought that day and night disturb'd my 
 
 rest; 
 " She and that sick-pale brother— but why strive 
 " To keep the terrors of that time alive ? 
 
 " The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain, 
 " That came with violence, and yet came in vain. 
 " I saw her die : her brother too is dead ; 
 " Nor own'd such crime — what is it that I dread ? 
 
 " The parish aid withdrawn, I look'd around, 
 " And in my school a bless'd subsistence found — 
 " My winter-calm of life : to be of use 
 " Would pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes 
 
 produce ; 
 " I loved them all ; it soothed me to presage 
 " The various trials of their riper age, 
 '• Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who 
 
 gave 
 '• Pains to correct us, and remorse to save. 
 
 " Yes ! these were days of peace, but they are 
 past, — 
 " A trial came, I will believe, a last ; 
 '• I lost my sight, and my employment gone, 
 " Useless I live, but to the day live on ; 
 " Those eyes, which long the light of heaven 
 
 enjoy'd, 
 " Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd : 
 " My senses fail not all ; I speak, I pray ; 
 " By night my rest, my food I take by day ; 
 " And, as my mind looks cheerful to my end, 
 " I love mankind, and call my God my friend." 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 THE POOR OF THE BOKOUGH. 
 
 Ccppis melius quam desines ; ultima primii 
 Cedunt. Dissimiles : hie vir et ille pucr. 
 
 Ovid. Deianlra Ilerculi.^ 
 
 Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, 
 some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing 
 spirits and doctrines of devils. — Epistle to Timulliij. 
 
 ABEL KEENE. 
 
 Abel, a poor man. Teacher of a School of the lower Order ; is 
 
 placed in the Office of a Merchant ; is alai'med by Discourses 
 
 of tlie Clerks ; unalde to reply ; becomes a Convert ; dresses, 
 
 drinks, and ridicules his former conduct— The Kemon- 
 
 strance of his Sister, a devout Maiden — Its Effect — The 
 Merchant dies— Abel returns to Povertv unpitied ; but re- 
 lieved—His abject Condition — His Melancholy — He wan- 
 ders about ; is found — His own Account of himself, and tlie 
 Revolutions in his Mind. 
 
 A QUIET, simple man was Abel Keene, 
 
 He meant no liarm, nor did he often mean : 
 
 He kept a school of loud rebellious boj's, 
 
 And growing old, grew nervous with the noise ; 
 
 When a kind Merchant hired his useful pen. 
 
 And made him happiest of accompting men ; 
 
 With glee he rose to every easy day. 
 
 When half the labour brought hira twice the paj-. 
 
 There were young clerks, and there the mer- 
 chant's son. 
 Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one ; 
 It must, no question, give them lively joy, 
 Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy ; 
 At these they levelled all their skill and strength, — 
 He fell not quickly, but he fell at length : 
 They quoted books, to him both bold and new. 
 And scorn'd as fables all he held as true ; 
 " Such monkish stories, and such nursery lies," 
 That he was struck with terror and surprise. 
 
 " What ! all his life had he the laws obey'd, 
 " Which they broke through and were not once 
 
 afraid ? 
 " Had he so long his evil passions check'd, 
 " And yet at last had nothing to expect ? 
 " While they their lives in joy and pleasure led, 
 " And then had nothing at the end to dread ? 
 " Was all his priest with so much zeal conve3''d 
 " A part ! a speech ! for which the man was paid ! 
 " And were his pious books, his solemn prayers, 
 " Not worth one tale of the admir'd Voltaire's ? 
 " Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd, 
 " To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd, 
 " And on all pleasures, which his purse could give, 
 " Freely to seize, and while he Uved, to live." 
 
 Much time he pass'd in this important strife, 
 The bliss or bane of his remaining life ; 
 For converts all are made with care and grief. 
 And pangs attend the birth of unbelief; 
 Nor pass they soon ; — with awe and fear he took 
 The flowery way, and cast back many a look. 
 
 The youths applauded mirch his wise design. 
 With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine ; 
 And much in private 't would their mirth improve, 
 To hear how Abel spake of life and love ; 
 To hear him own what grievous pains it cost, 
 Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost, 
 Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd, 
 By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd. 
 
 For Abel enter"d in his bold career. 
 Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear ; 
 Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he wcut, 
 Kepenting now, now dreading to repent : 
 With awkward pace, and with himself at war. 
 Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far; 
 
 1 [Your last deeds differ from your first success, 
 The infant makes the man appear the less.] 
 
 u 2 
 
244 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Oft for his efforts he 'd solicit praise, 
 And then proceed with blunders and delays : 
 The young more aptly passions' calls pursue, 
 But age and weakness start at scenes so new. 
 And tremble, when they 've done, for all they dared 
 to do. 
 
 At length example Abel's dread removed, 
 With small concern he sought the joys he loved ; 
 Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame. 
 And first their votary, then their wit became ; 
 His jest was bitter and his satire bold, 
 ^Vhen he his tales of formal brethren told ; 
 \Vhat time with pious neighbours he discuss'd, 
 Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust : 
 " Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried ; 
 " Awake and live," his youthful friends replied. 
 
 Now the gay Clerk a modest drab despised, 
 And clad him smartly, as his friends advised ; 
 So fine a coat upon his back he threw, 
 That not an alley-boy old Abel knew ; 
 Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon, 
 And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone, — 
 A splendid watch, that pointed out the time. 
 To fly from business and make free with crime : 
 The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose 
 liank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux : 
 Ills raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain. 
 And light elastic locks encased his brain : 
 More pliant pupil who could hope to find, 
 So deck'd in person and so changed in mind ? 
 
 When Abel walked the streets, with pleasant 
 mien 
 He met his friends, delighted to be seen ; 
 And when he rode along the public way, 
 No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay. 
 
 His picnis sister, now an ancient maid. 
 For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd ; 
 Then thus in love and scorn her notions she con- 
 vey'd. 
 
 " Alas ! my brother ! can I see thee pace 
 " Hoodwink'd to licU, and not lament thy case, 
 " Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop tliy headlong 
 
 race ? 
 " Lo ! tliou art bound ; a slave in Satan's chain, 
 " The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain ; 
 " His brother's blood agninst the murderer cried, 
 " Against thee thine, unhappy suicide ! 
 " Are all our pious niglits and peaceful days, 
 " Our evening readings and our morning praise, 
 " Our spirits' comfort in tlie trials sent, 
 " Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent, 
 " All that o'er grief a clieering influence shed, 
 " Are these for ever and for ever fled ? 
 
 " When in the years gone by, the trying j'cars, 
 " When faith and liopc liad strife with wants and 
 
 i'cars, 
 " Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not 
 
 eat 
 " (Drcss'd by this hand) thy mess of si. i pie 
 
 meat ; 
 " 'When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe, 
 " Slow pass'd the days of the successless year ; 
 
 " Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then 
 " Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men : 
 " And when thy heart has felt its wish denied, 
 " What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied ; 
 " Till thou hast cnter'd in thine humble bed, 
 " By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed ; 
 " Then I have seen thy lively looks express 
 " The spirit's comforts in the man's distress. 
 
 " Then didst thou cry, exulting, ' Yes, 't is fit, 
 " ' 'T is meet and right, my heart ! that we submit :' 
 " And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh 
 " Against such triumphs ? — Oh ! repent and pray. 
 
 " What are thy pleasures ? — with the gay to sit, 
 " And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit ; 
 " All tliy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to 
 
 restrain, 
 " And give a wicked pleasure to the vain ; 
 " Thy long, lean fi-ame by fashion to attire, 
 " That lads may laugh and wantons may admire ; 
 " To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see, 
 " Unhappy maniac ! that they laugh at thee. 
 
 " These boyish follies, which alone the boy 
 " Can idly act, or gracefully enjoy, 
 " Add new reproaches to thy fallen state, 
 " And make men scorn -what they would only hate. 
 
 " What pains, my brother, dost thou take to 
 pi'ove 
 " A taste for follies which thou canst not love ! 
 " Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride — 
 " That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride ? 
 " And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek) 
 " Dost thou by night in Diamond- Alley sneak ? 
 
 " Farewell ! the parish will thy sister keep, 
 " Where she in peace shall pray and sing and 
 
 sleep, 
 " Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, 
 
 wandering sheep ! 
 " Y/hen youth is fallen, there 's hope the young 
 
 may rise, 
 " But fallen age for ever hopeless lies ; 
 " Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once 
 
 more, 
 " The younger tree may sun and soil restore ; 
 " But when the old and sapless trunk lies low, 
 " No care or soil can former life bestow; 
 " Kcserved for burning is the worthless tree — 
 " And what, O Abel ! is reserved for thee ?" 
 
 These angry words our hero deeply felt, 
 Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt! 
 To gain relief he took a glass the more, 
 And then went on as careless as before ; 
 Thenceforth, unchcck'd, amusements he partook, 
 And (save Ids ledger) saw no decent book ; 
 Him found the Mcrcliant punctual at his task, 
 And that perform'd, he'd nothing more to ask; 
 He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool. 
 No master he, beyond the hours of school : 
 Thus they proceeding, had their wine ami joke, 
 Till merchant Dixon i'elt a warning stroke, 
 And, after struggling half a gloomy week, 
 Left his poor Clerk another friend to seek. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 245 
 
 Alas I the son, who led the saint astray, 
 Forgot the man whose follies made him gay ; 
 He cared no more for Abel in his need. 
 Than Abel cared about his hackney steed : 
 He now, alas ! had all his earnings spent. 
 And thus was left to languish and repent ; 
 No school nor clerkship found he in the place, 
 Now lost to fortune, as before to grace. 
 
 For town-relief the grieving man applied. 
 And begg'd with tears what some with scorn 
 
 denied ; 
 Others look'd down upon the glowing vest, 
 And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd ? 
 Happy for him his country's laws are mild, 
 They must support him, though they still reviled ; 
 Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd, 
 Of God unmindful, and of man afraid, — ■ 
 No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to 
 
 speak. 
 His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak. 
 His sister died with such serene delight, 
 He once again began to think her right; 
 Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay. 
 And sweet assurance bless'd her dj'ing-day : 
 Poor like the spinster, he, when death v.as nigh, 
 Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die. 
 Tlie cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door. 
 Just niention'd " Abel !" and then thought no more. 
 So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn, 
 Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn. 
 And now we saw him on the beach reclined, 
 Or causeless walking in the wintry wind ; 
 And when it raised a loud and angry sea, 
 He stood and gazed, in ■nTetched reverie : 
 He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow, 
 Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow : 
 Sometimes his frame through many an hour he 
 
 spread 
 Upon a tombstone, movekss as the dead ; 
 And was there found a sad and silent place, 
 There would he creep with slow and measured pace ; 
 Then would he wander by the river's side, 
 And fix his eyes upon the falling tide ; 
 The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen. 
 And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then : 
 There, to his discontented thought a prey, 
 The melancholy mortal pined away. 
 
 The ncighb'ring poor at length began to speak 
 Of Abel's ramblings — he 'd been gone a week ; 
 They knew not where, and little care they took 
 For one so friendless and so poor to look. 
 At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed. 
 Beheld him hanging — he had long been dead. 
 He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times, 
 Entitled thus — " JJy Groanings and my Crimes 1" 
 
 " I was a Christian man, and none could lay 
 " Aught to my charge ; I walk'd the narrow way : 
 " All then was simple faith, serene and pure, 
 " My hope was steadfast and my prospects sure ; 
 " Then was I tried by want and sickness sore, 
 " But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before, 
 " And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore : 
 " Alas ! new foes assail'd me ; I was vain, 
 " They stung my pride and they confused my 
 brain : 
 
 " Oh ! these deluders ! v.itli what glee they saw 
 " Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law ; 
 " 'T was joy to them to view that dreadful strife, 
 " When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life ; 
 " So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart, 
 " Then with their logic they allay'd the smart ; 
 " They proved (so thought I then) with reasons 
 
 strong, 
 " That no man's feelings ever lead him wrong : 
 " And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice, 
 " The smooth career of unbelief and vice. 
 " Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and 
 
 bold, 
 " Their wittj' tales of naughty priests unfold ; 
 " ' 'T was all a craft,' they said, ' a cunning trade ; 
 " ' Not she the priests, but priests Religion made.' 
 " So I believed :" — No, Abel ! to thy grief: 
 So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief: — 
 " I grew as very flint, and when the rest 
 " Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest ; 
 " But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew, 
 *' "When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew ; 
 " Yea ! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too. 
 
 " The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure 
 stole, 
 '• Found his lean body fitted to the hole ; 
 " Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay, 
 " And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away : 
 " Ah ! worse for me — grown poor, I yet remain 
 " In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain. 
 
 " At length I thought, although these friends of 
 
 sin 
 " Have spread their net, and caught their prey 
 
 therein ; 
 " Though my hard heart could not for mercy call, 
 " Because though great my grief, my faith was 
 
 small ; 
 " Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely, 
 " The soul diseased may to a doctor fly. 
 
 " A famous one there was, whose skill had 
 wrought 
 " Cures past belief, and him the sinners sought ; 
 " Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth, 
 " Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth : 
 " ' Come then,' I said, ' let me the man behold, 
 " ' And tell my case : ' — I saw him and I told. 
 
 " With trembling voice, ' Oh ! reverend sir,' I 
 said, 
 " ' I once believed, and I was then misled ; 
 " ' And now such doubts my sinful soul beset, 
 " ' I dare not say that I 'm a Christian yet ; 
 " ' Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill, 
 Inform my judgment and direct my will ? 
 Ah ! give thy cordial ; let my soul have rest. 
 And be the outward man alone distressed ; 
 For at my state I tremble.' — ' Tremble more,' 
 " Said the good man, ' and then rejoice therefore ! 
 Tis good to tremble ; prospects then are fair. 
 When the lost soul is plunged in deejj despair : 
 " ' Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure, 
 " ' Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a 
 
 cure : 
 " ' Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace, 
 " ' Now thou 'rt an object meet for healing grace ; 
 
 (I ( 
 (( ( 
 
 
246 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " ' No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief, 
 
 " ' Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief; 
 
 " ' The best, the only titles to relief.' 
 
 " ' Y»'hat must I do,' I said, ' my soul to freo ? ' — 
 " ' Do nothing, man ; it will be done for thee' 
 " ' But must I not, my reverend guide, be- 
 lieve ?'— 
 " ' If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive.' 
 " ' But 1 repent not.' — Angry he replied, 
 " ' If thou art call'd, though needest nought beside : 
 " ' Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree, 
 " ' The call will come, — if not, ah ! woe for thee.' 
 
 " There then I waited, ever on the watch, 
 " A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch ; 
 " His words fell softly like the flakes of snow, 
 " But I could never find my heart o'erflow : 
 " He cried aloud, till in the flock began 
 " The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man ; 
 " They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I 
 *' Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry : 
 " To me no tokens of the call would come, 
 " I felt my sentence, and received my doom ; 
 " But I complain'd — * Let thy repinings cease, 
 " ' Oh ! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase ; 
 " ' It bloweth where it listeth ; — die in peace.' 
 " — ' In peace, and perish ? ' I replied ; ' impart 
 " ' Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.' 
 " ' Alas ! ' the priest return'd, ' can I direct 
 " ' The heavenly call ? — Do I proclaim th' elect ? 
 " ' Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will, 
 '• ' But take thy part with sinners, and be still.'' 
 
 " Alas, for me ! no more the times of peace 
 " Are mine on earth — in death my pains may cease. 
 
 " Foes to my soul ! ye young ssducers, know 
 " What serious ills from your amusements flow ; 
 " Opinions you with so much ease profess, 
 " O'erwhelm the simple and their minds oppress : 
 
 2 In a periodical work [the Eclectic Review for June, 1810,] 
 the preceding; dialogue is pronounced to be a most abomin- 
 able caricature, if meant to be applied to Calvinistsin general, 
 and greatly distorted, if designed for an individual ; now the 
 author, in his preface, has declared, that he takes not upon 
 him the censure of anysect or society for their opinions; and 
 tlie lines themselves evidently point to an individual, whose 
 sentiments tliey very fairly represent, without any distortion 
 whatsoever. In a pamplilet entitled 'A Cordial for a Sin- 
 despairing Soul,' originally written by a teacher of religion, 
 and lately republished byanotlicr teacher of greater notoriety, 
 the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his 
 salvation, the Syiirit entered particularly into the subject witli 
 him ; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured 
 liim that " his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if tliey 
 liad neser been committed ; not for any act done by him, 
 whether believing in Christ, or repenting of sin ; nor yet lor 
 the sorrows and miseries he endured, nor for any service lie 
 should be called upon in liis militant state, but for his own 
 name and for his glory's sake," &c. And the whole diifr and 
 tenour of the book is to the same purpose, viz. the uselessness 
 of all religious duties, such as prayer, contrition, fasting, and 
 good works: he shows the evil done by reading such books as 
 tlie ' Wliole Duty of Man,' and tlie ' Practice of I'icty,' and 
 complains heavily of his relation, an Irisli bishop, w ho wanted 
 him to join witli the houseliold in family prayer; in fact, the 
 wliole work inculcates that sort of quietism which this 
 dialogue alludes to, and that without any recommendation of 
 attendance on tlie teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding 
 forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature ; liy 
 the information that he in vain looks for acceptance by I lie 
 
 Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong, 
 That make them wretched, prove their notions 
 
 wrong ; 
 Let them proceed in that they deem the way. 
 Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray : 
 
 ■ Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot, 
 
 ' And so had Dives, but it help'd him not : 
 
 ' And is it thus ? — -I 'm full of doubts : — Adieu ! 
 
 ■ Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too." ^ 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. 
 
 Methouglit the souls of all that I had murder'd 
 Jame to my tent, and every one did threat — 
 
 Shakspeare. Riclmrd III. 
 
 The times have been. 
 That, when the brains were out, the man would die, 
 And there an end : but now they rise again. 
 With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, 
 .\nd push us from our stools. 
 
 Macbeth, 
 
 PETER GRIMES.i 
 
 The Father of Peter a Fisherman— Peter's early Conduct— 
 His Grief for the old Man— He takes an Apprentice — The 
 lioy's Suffering and Fate— A second Boy : how he died — 
 Peter acquitted— A third Apprentice — A Voyage by Sea: 
 the Boy does not return— Evil Report on Peter : he is tried 
 and threatened — Lives alone — His JNIelancholy and in- 
 cipient Madness — Is observed and visited — He escapes and 
 is taken : is lodged in a paris'i-house : Women attend and 
 watch him — He speaks in a Delirium : grows more collected 
 — His Account of his Feelingsand visionary Terrors previous 
 to his Deatli. 
 
 Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ, 
 His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy, 
 And secm'd that life laborious to enjoy : 
 
 employment of his talents, and that his hopes of glory are 
 rather extinguished than raised by any application to the 
 means of grace. 
 
 ■' It has been a subject of greater vexation to me than such 
 trille ought to be, that I could not, without destroying all ap- 
 pearance of arrangement, separate these melancholy nar- 
 ratives, and place the fallen Clerk in Office at a greater dis- 
 tance from the Clerk of the Parish, especially as they re- 
 sembled each other in several particulars ; both being tempted, 
 seduced, and wretched. Yet are there, I conceive, consider- 
 able marks of distinction : their guilt is of different kind ; 
 nor would either have committed the offence of the other. 
 The Clerk of the Parish could break the commandment, but 
 he could not have been induced to have disowned an article 
 of that ercrd for which he had so bravely contended, and on 
 whieli lie fully relied ; and the upright mind of the Clerk in 
 Ollice would have secured him from being guilty of wrong 
 and robbery, though his weak and vacillating intellect could 
 not preserve him from inlidelity and profaneness. Their 
 melancholy is nearly alike, but not its consequences. Jiwhin 
 retained his belief, and though he hated life, he could never 
 be induced to quit it volunt:irily ; but Abii w:is driven to 
 terminate his misery in a way which the unlixedness of his 
 religious opinions rather accelerated than retarded. I am, 
 tlierpfore, not without liope, that the move observant of my 
 readers will perceive many marks of discrimination in these 
 characters. 
 
 • [Tlie original of Peter Grimes was an old fisherman of 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 247 
 
 To town came quiet Peter with liis fish, 
 
 And had of all a civil word and wish. 
 
 He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day, 
 
 And took young Peter in his hand to pray : 
 
 But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose. 
 
 At first refused, then added his abuse : 
 
 His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied, 
 
 But being drunk, wept sorely when he died. 
 
 Yes ! then he wept, and to his mind there came 
 Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, — 
 How he had oft the good old man reviled, 
 And never paid the duty of a child ; 
 How, when the father in his Bible read, 
 He in contempt and anger left the shed : 
 " It is the word of life," the parent ci'ied ; 
 — " This is the life itself," the boy replied. 
 And while old Peter in amazement stood. 
 Gave the hot spirit to his boiling blood : — 
 How he, with oath and furious speech, began 
 To prove his freedom and assert the man ; 
 And when the parent check'd his impious rage, 
 How he had cursed the tyranny of age,— 
 Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow 
 On his bare head, and laid his parent low ; 
 The father groan' d — " If thou art old," said he, 
 " And hast a son — thou wilt remember me : 
 " Thy mother left me in a happy time, 
 " Thou kill'dst not her — Heav'n spares the double 
 crime." 
 
 On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief, 
 This he revolved, and drank for his relief. 
 
 iSTow lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd 
 From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard ; 
 Hard that he could not every wish obey. 
 But must awhile relinquish ale and play ; 
 Hard I that he could not to his cards attend. 
 But must acquire the money he would spend. 
 
 "With greedy eye he look'd on all ho saw. 
 He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law ; 
 On all he mark'd, he stretch'd his ready hand ; 
 He fish'd by water and he filch'd by land : 
 Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar. 
 Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on slioi'e ; 
 Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back 
 Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack, 
 Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack ; 
 And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose, 
 The more he look'd on all men as his foes. 
 
 He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept 
 His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept ; 
 But no success could please his cruel soul. 
 He wish'd for one to trouble and control ; 
 He wanted some obedient boy to stand 
 And bear the blow of his outrageous hand ; 
 And hoped to find in some propitious hour 
 A feeling creature subject to his power. 
 
 Peter had heard there were in London then, — 
 Still have they being I — workhouse-clearing men, 
 
 Aldborough, while Mr. Crabbe was practising there as a sur- 
 geon. He had a succession of apprentices from London, and 
 a certain sum with each. As the boys all disappeared under 
 
 Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind, 
 Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind : 
 They in their want a trifling sum would take, 
 And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make. 
 
 Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found. 
 The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound. 
 Some few in town observed in Peters trap 
 A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap ; 
 But none inquired how Peter used the rope. 
 Or what the bruise that made the stripling stoop ; 
 None could the ridges on his back behold, 
 None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold ; 
 None put the question, — Peter, dost thou give 
 " The boy his food ? — What, man 1 the lad must 
 
 live : 
 " Consider, Peter, let the child have bread, 
 '' He '11 serve thee better if he 's stroked and fed." 
 None reason'd thus — and some, on hearing cries. 
 Said calmly, " Grimes is at his exercise." 
 
 Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch' d, threaten'd, and 
 abused — • 
 His efibrts punish'd and his food refused, — • 
 Awake tormented, — soon aroused from sleep, — 
 Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep. 
 The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray, 
 Keceived a blow, and trembling turn'd away. 
 Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face ; — while he, 
 The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee : 
 He 'd now the power he ever loved to show, 
 A feeling being subject to his blow. 
 
 Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain. 
 His tears despised, his supplications vain : 
 Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal, 
 His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal. 
 For three sad years the boy his tortures bore, 
 And then his pains and trials were no more. 
 
 " How died he, Peter?" when the people said. 
 He growl' d — " I found him lifeless in his bed ;" 
 Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, " Poor Sam 
 
 is dead." 
 Tet murmurs were there, and some questions 
 
 ask'd— 
 How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd ? 
 jMucli they suspected, but they little proved. 
 And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved. 
 
 Another boy with equal ease was found. 
 The money granted, and the victim bound ; 
 And what his fate ? — One night it chanced ho fell 
 From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well. 
 Where fish were living kept, and where the boy 
 (So reason'd men) could not himself destroy : — 
 
 " Yes ! so it was," said Peter, " in his play, 
 " (For he was idle both by night and day,) 
 •' He climb'd the main-mast and then fell be- 
 low,"— 
 Then show'd his corpse, and pointed to the blow. 
 " What said the jury ?" — they were long in doubt. 
 But sturdy Peter faced the matter out : 
 
 circumstances of stron-j suspicion, tlie man was warned by 
 some of tlie principal inhabitants that if another followed in 
 like manner, he should certainly be charged with murder.] 
 
248 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 So they dismissed him, saying at the time, 
 
 " Keep fast your hatchway when you 've boys who 
 
 climb." 
 This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more 
 Than for the closest questions put before. 
 
 Thus all his fears tlie verdict set aside. 
 And at the slave-shop Peter still applied. 
 
 Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild.— 
 Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child ; 
 All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one 
 Of gentle blood, some noble sinner's son, 
 Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid, 
 "Whom he had first seduced and then betray "d : — - 
 However this, he seem'd a gracious lad, 
 In grief submissive, and with patience sad. 
 
 Passive he labour'd, till his slender frame 
 Bent with his loads, and he at length was lame : 
 Strange that a frame so weak could bear 9o long 
 The grossest insult and the foulest wrong ; 
 But there were causes — in the town they gave 
 Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave ; 
 And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand, 
 And knotted roj)e, enforced the rude command. 
 Yet he consider'd what he 'd lately felt, 
 And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt. 
 
 One day such draughts the cruel fisher made. 
 He could not vend them in his borough-trade, 
 But sail'd for London-mart: the boy was ill, 
 But ever humbled to his master's will ; 
 And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd. 
 He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd ; 
 But new to danger on the angry sea, 
 He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee : 
 The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong, 
 Rough was the passage and the time was long ; 
 His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wrath arose, — 
 No more is known — the rest we must suppose. 
 Or learn of Peter : — Peter says, he " spied 
 " The stripling's danger and for harbour tried ; 
 " Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died." 
 
 The pitying women raised a clamour round. 
 And weeping said, " Thou hast thy 'prentice 
 dro%vn'd." 
 
 Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall, 
 To tell his tale before the burghers all : 
 He gave th' account; i)rofess'd the lad he loved, 
 And kept his brazen features all unmoved. 
 
 The mnyor himself with tone severe replied, — 
 " Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide; 
 " Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat, 
 " But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat : 
 " Free thou art now I — again shouldst thou appear, 
 " Thou 'It find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe." 
 
 Alas ! for Peter not a helping Iiand, 
 So was he hated, couUl he now command ; 
 
 2 Tlip rpaohes in a river are tlio-i'- p;irfs wliicli extend from 
 point to point. Jolmson Ii:is nut tlie word precisely in tliis 
 sense ; but it is very common, and, I l>elicvc, nscd where- 
 soever a navijjuble river can be found in tliis country. ["A 
 
 Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast 
 
 His nets beside, or made his anchor fast : 
 
 To hold a rope or hear a curse was none, — 
 
 He toil'd and rail'd ; lie groan'd and swore alone. 
 
 Thus by himself compell'd to live each day, 
 To wait for certain hours the tide's delay ; 
 At the same time the same dull views to see, 
 The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree ; 
 The water only, when the tides were high. 
 When low, the mud half cover'd and half-drj' ; 
 The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks, 
 And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks ; 
 Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float, 
 As the tide rolls by the impeded boat. 
 
 When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day, 
 Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their 
 
 way, 
 Which on each side rose swelling, and below 
 The dark warm flood ran silently and slow ; 
 There anchoring, Peter chose from man to liide. 
 There hang his head, and view the lazy tide 
 In its hot slimy channel slowly glide ; 
 Where the small eels that left the deeper way 
 For the warm shore, within the shallows play ; 
 Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud, 
 Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood ; — • 
 Here dull and hopeless he 'd lie down and trace 
 How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked 
 
 race. 
 Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry 
 Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye ; 
 What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come. 
 And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home. 
 Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom : 
 He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce, 
 And loved to stop beside the opening sluice ; 
 Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound, 
 Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound ; 
 Where all, presented to the eye or ear, 
 Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear. 
 
 Besides these objects, there were places three, 
 Which Peter seem'd ^vith certain dread to sec ; 
 Wlien he drew near them he would turn from 
 
 each, 
 And loudly whistle till he pass'd tlie reach.* 
 
 A change of scene to him brought no relief, 
 In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief: 
 The sailors' wives would stop him in the street. 
 And say, " Now, Peter, thou 'st no boy to beat : " 
 Infants at play when they perceived him, ran, 
 Warning each other — " That 's the wicked man : '" 
 He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone 
 Cursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone. 
 
 Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view, 
 And still more gloomy in his siglit they grew : 
 Though man he haled, yet einploy'd alone 
 At bootless labour, he would swear and groan, 
 
 reach is the line or distance comprehended between any two 
 p lints, or stations, on the lianUs of a rivfr, wherein the cur- 
 rent Mows in a stralfjlit uninterrupted course, as Woolwicli 
 J{each," &c.— HcuNEY.J 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 249 
 
 Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot. 
 And gulls that caught them when his arts could 
 not. 
 
 Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame, 
 And strange disease — he couldn't say the name ; 
 "Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright, 
 Waked by his view of horrors in the night, — 
 Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze. 
 Horrors that demons might be proud vo raise : 
 And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart, 
 To think he lived from all mankind apart ; 
 Yet, ii" a man approach'd, in terrors he would start. 
 
 A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town, 
 And summer lodgers were again come down ; 
 These, idly curious, vdth their glasses spied 
 The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide, — 
 The river's craft, — the bustle of the quay, — 
 And sea-port views, which landmen love to see. 
 
 One, up the river, had a man and boat 
 Seen daj- by day, now anchor'd, now afloat ; 
 Fisher he seem'd, j^et used no net nor hook ; 
 Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took, 
 But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look : 
 At certain stations he would view the stream. 
 As if he stood bewilderd in a dream. 
 Or that some power had chain'd him for a time. 
 To feel a curse or meditate on crime. 
 
 This known, some curious, some in pity went. 
 And others question'd — '' Wretch, dost thou re- 
 pent?" 
 He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd 
 His boat : new terror fill'd his restless mind : 
 Furious he grew, and up the country ran. 
 And there they seized him — a distemper'd man : — 
 Him we received, and to a parish-bed, 
 Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led. 
 
 Here when they saw him, whom they used to 
 
 shun, 
 A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone ; 
 Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel. 
 Perceived compassion on their anger steal ; 
 His crimes they could not from their memories 
 
 blot. 
 But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot. 
 
 A Priest too came, to whom his words are told ; 
 And all the signs they shudder'd to behold. 
 
 " Look ! look ! " they cried ; " his limbs with 
 
 horror shake, 
 " And as he grinds his teeth, what noise thej- 
 
 make ! 
 " How glare his angry eyes, and yet he 's not 
 
 awake : 
 '■ See ! what cold drops upon his forehead stand, 
 '• And how he clenches that broad bony hand." 
 
 The Priest attending, found he spoke at times 
 .Vs one alluding to his fears and crimes ; 
 '• It was the fall," he muttcr'd, " I can show 
 '• The manner how, — 1 never struck a blow : " — 
 And then aloud,— " unhand me, free my chain; 
 " On oath he fell — it struck him to the brain : — 
 
 " "WTiy ask my father ? — that old man will swear 
 " Against my life ; besides, he wasn't there : 
 " What, all agreed ?^Am I to die to-day ? — 
 " My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray.'' 
 
 Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became, 
 And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame. 
 But murmuring spake — while they could see and 
 
 hear 
 The start of ten-or and the groan of fear ; 
 See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise. 
 And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes : 
 Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force 
 Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse : 
 He knew not us, or with accustom'd art 
 He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart ; 
 'T was part confession and the rest defence, 
 A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense. 
 
 I " 
 
 " I '11 tell you all," he said, " the very day 
 When the old man first placed them in my way : 
 " IMy father's spirit — he who alwaj's tried 
 " To give me trouble, when he lived and died — 
 " When he was gone he could not be content 
 " To see my days in painful labour spent, 
 " But would appoint his meetings, and he made 
 " Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade. 
 
 " 'T was one hot noon, all silent, still, serene, 
 " Tso living being had 1 lately seen ; 
 " I paddled up and down and dipp'd ray net, 
 " But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get, — 
 " A father's pleasure, when his toil was done, 
 " To plague and torture thus an only son ! 
 " And so I sat and look'd upon the stream, 
 " How it ran on, and felt as in a dream : 
 " Cut dream it v.as not : No ! — I fi.x'd my eyes 
 " On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise : 
 " I saw my father on the water stand, 
 " And held a thin pale boy in either hand ; 
 " And there they glided ghastly on the top 
 " Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop : 
 " I would have struck them, but they knew th' 
 
 intent. 
 " And smiled upon the oar, and down they went. 
 
 " Now, from that day, whenever I began 
 " To dip my net, there stood the hard old man — 
 " He and those boys : I humbled me and pray'd 
 " They would be gone ; they heeded not, but 
 
 stay'd : 
 " Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by, 
 " But, gazing on the spirits, there was I : 
 " They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to 
 
 die : 
 " And every day, as sure as day arose, 
 " Would these three spirits meet mc ere the close; 
 " To hear and mark them daily was my doom. 
 " And ' Come,' thej' said, with weak, sad voices, 
 
 ' come.' 
 " To row awaj', with all my strength I tried, 
 '• But there were they, hard by me in the tide, 
 '• The three unbodied forms — and ' Come,' still 
 
 ' come,' tliey cried. 
 
 " Fathers should pity — but this old man shook 
 " His hoary locks, and froze mc by a look : 
 
•250 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 '' Thrice, -n-hcn I struck them, through the water 
 
 came 
 " A hollow groan, that weaken' J all my frame : 
 " ' Father ! ' said I, ' have mercy :' — he replied, 
 " I know not what — the angry spirit lied, — 
 " ' Didst thou not draw tliy knife?' said he :— 
 
 'T was true, 
 " But I had pity and ni}' arm withdrew : 
 " He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave, 
 " But he has no compassion in his grave. 
 
 " There were three places, where they ever 
 rose, — 
 " The whole long river has not such as those — 
 " Places accursed, where, if a man remain, 
 " He '11 see the things which strike him to the 
 
 brain ; 
 " And there they made me on my j)addle lean, 
 " And look at them for hours ; — accursed scene ! 
 '• When they would glide to that smooth eddy- 
 space, 
 " Then bid me leap and join them in the place; 
 " And at my groans each little villain sprite 
 " Enjoy'd my pains and vauish'd in delight. 
 
 " In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain 
 " Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain, 
 " Then came this father-foe. and there he stood 
 " With his two boys again upon the flood : 
 " There was more mischief in their eyes, more 
 
 glee 
 " In their pale faces, when they glared at me : * 
 " Still they did force me on the oar to rest, 
 " And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd, 
 " He viith his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood, 
 " And there came flame about him mix'd with 
 
 blood ; 
 " lie bade me stoop and look upon the place, 
 " Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face ; 
 " Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain, 
 " I thought the demons would have turn'd my 
 
 brain. 
 
 " Still there they stood, and forced me to behold 
 " A place of horrors— they can not be told — 
 
 •* [" Coiitinuo templum, et violati numinis aras," S:c. 
 
 Juv. Sat. xiii. 
 
 " sudden before his eyes, 
 
 The violated fine and altar rise ; 
 
 .\nd (wtiat disturbs liim most) that injured shade, 
 
 In more tlian mortal majesty array'd, 
 
 Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest. 
 
 And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast." 
 
 GiFFORD.] 
 
 * The character of Grimes, his obduracy and apparent want 
 of feeling, his gloomy kind of misanthropy, tlie progress of 
 his madness, and tlie liormrs of liis imagination, I must leave 
 to llie. judgment and observation of my readers. The mind 
 liere exhibited is one untouched liy y)ity, unstungby remorse, 
 and uncorrected by shame ; yet is tliis hardihood of temper 
 and spirit broken by want, disease, solitude, and disappoint- 
 ment : and he becomes the victim of a distempered and hor- 
 ror-stricken fancy. It is evident, therefore, tliat no feeble 
 vision, no half-visible ghost, not the momentary glance of an 
 unbodied being, nor tlie lialfaudible voice of an invisible 
 one, would be created by the continual workings of distress 
 on a mind so depraved and llinty. The ruflian of Mr. Scott* 
 has a mind of this nature ; he hits no shame or remorse, but 
 the corro-.ion of hopeless want, the wasting of iinabating 
 disease, and the gloom of unvaried solitude, will have tlieir 
 ciTect on every nature ; and the hMder that nature is, and tlie 
 
 " Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek 
 
 " Of tortured guilt — no earthly tongue can speak : 
 
 " ' All days alike ! for ever! ' did they say, 
 
 " ' And unremitted torments every day' — 
 
 " Yes, so they said" — But here he ceased, and 
 
 gazed 
 On all around, affrighten'd and amazed ; 
 And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread 
 Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed ; 
 Then dropp'd exhausted, and appear'd at rest, 
 Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd ; 
 Then with an inward, broken voice he cried, 
 '• Again they come ! " and muttcr'd as he died.'' 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 Poena autem vehemens ac multo sa?vior illis, 
 
 Quas et Ca:ditius gravis invenit ant Rhadamantlius, 
 
 Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem. 
 
 Juv. Sat. xiii.' 
 
 Think my former state a happy dream, 
 
 From which awaked, the truth of wliat we are 
 
 Shows us but this, — I am sworn brother now 
 
 'I'o grim Necessity, and he and I 
 
 Will keep a league till death. Ricfiard II. 
 
 PRIS0NS.2 
 
 The Jlind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations ; 
 Prisons otherwise would be intolerable — Debtors : their 
 ditferent kinds : three particularly described ; others more 
 brielly — An arrested Prisoner : his Account of his Feelings 
 and his Situation — The Alleviations of a Prison — Prisoners 
 for Crimes — Two condemned: a vindictive Female: a 
 Highwayman — The Interval between Condemnation and 
 Execution — His Feelings as the Time approaches — His 
 Dream. 
 
 'T IS well — that Man to all the varying states 
 Of good and ill his mind accommodates ; 
 lie not alone progressive grief sustains. 
 But soon submits to unexperienced pains : 
 
 longer time required to work upon it, so much the more strong 
 and indelible is the impression. TBis is all the reason I am 
 able to give, why a man of feeling so dull should yet become 
 insane, and why the visions of his distempered brain should 
 be of so horrible a nature. 
 
 1 [" Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign, 
 Can match the fierce, the unutterable pain 
 He feels, who, night and day, devoid of rest. 
 Carries his own accuser in his breast." — Gifford.] 
 
 - That a Letter on Prisons should follow the narratives of 
 sucli characters as Keene and Grimes is unfortunate, but not 
 to be easily avoided. I confess it is not pleasant to be de- 
 tained so long by subjects so repulsive to the feelings of 
 many as the suffering's of mankind ; but. though I assuredly 
 would have altered this iirrangement, had I been able to have 
 
 * was a sordid soid, 
 
 Such .as does murder lor a meed : 
 Who, but of foiu-, knows no control, 
 Jlecause his conscience, sear'd and foul, 
 
 Feels not tlie import of Iiis deed ; 
 One wliose brute feeling ne'er aspires 
 Beyond his ow n more brute desires. — MaRMioji. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 251 
 
 Change after change, all climes his body bears; 
 His mind repeated shocks of changing cares: 
 Faith and fair Virtue arm the nobler breast; 
 Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest. 
 
 Or who could bear to lose the balmy air 
 Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair, 
 ^Vith all that man admires or loves below ; 
 All earth and water, wood and vale bestow, 
 Where rosy pleasures smile, whence real blessings 
 
 flow ; 
 With sight and sound of every kind that lives, 
 And crowning all with joy that freedom gives ? 
 
 Who could from these, in some unhappy day, 
 Bear to be drawn by ruthless arms away, 
 To the vile nuisance of a noisome room, 
 AVhere only insolence and misery come ? 
 (Save that the curious will by chance appear, 
 Or some in pity drop a fruitless tear) ; 
 To a damp Prison, where the very sight 
 Of the warm sun is favour and not right ; 
 Where all we hear or see the feelings shock. 
 The oath and groan, the fetter and the lock ? 
 
 Who could bear this and live ? — Oh I many a 
 year 
 All this is borne, and miseries more severe ; 
 And some there are, familiar with the scene, 
 Who live in mirth, though few become serene. 
 
 Far as I might the inward man perceive, 
 There was a constant effort — not to grieve : 
 Not to despair, for better days would come, 
 And the freed debtor smile again at home : 
 Subdued his habits, he may peace regain. 
 And bless the woes that were not sent in vain. 
 
 Thus might we class the Debtors here confined. 
 The more deceived, the more deceitful kind ; 
 Here are the guilty race, who mean to live 
 (^n credit, that credulity will give ; 
 Who purchase, conscious they can never pay ; 
 Who know their fate, and traffic to betray ; 
 On whom no pity, fear, remorse, prevail. 
 Their aim a statute, their resource a jail ; — 
 These are the public spoilers we regard, 
 IS'o dun so harsh, no creditor so hard. 
 
 A second kind are they, who truly strive 
 To keep their sinking credit long aliVe ; 
 Success, nay prudence, they may want, but yet 
 They would be solvent, and deplore a debt ; 
 All means they use, to all expedients run. 
 And are by slow, sad steps, at last undone : 
 
 (lone it by substituting a better, yet am I not of opinion that 
 my verses, or, indeed, the verses of any otlier person, can so 
 represent the evils and distresses of life as to make any ma- 
 terial impression on the mind, and much less any of injurious 
 nature. Alas ! suirerini,'s real, evident, continually before us, 
 liave not efl'ects very serious or lasting', even in the minds of 
 tlie more reflecting and compassionate ; nor, indeed, does it 
 seem right that the pain caused by sympathy should serve for 
 more than a stimulus to benevolence. If, then, the strength 
 and solidity of truth phved before our eyes have effect so 
 tVeble and transitory, I need not be very apprehensive that 
 my representations of Poor-houses and Prisons, of wants and 
 
 Justly, perhaps, you blame their want of skill, 
 But mourn their feelings and absolve their will. 
 
 There is a Debtor, who his trifling all 
 Spreads in a shop ; it would not fill a stall : 
 There at one window his temptation lays. 
 And in new modes disposes and displays : 
 Above the door you shall his name behold, 
 And what he vends in ample letters told. 
 The words ' Repository,' ' Warehouse,' all 
 He uses to enlarge concerns so small: 
 He to his goods assigns some beauty's name. 
 Then in her reign, and hopes they '11 share her 
 
 fame. 
 And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade. 
 As one important by their profit made ; 
 But who can paint the vacancy, the gloom. 
 And spare dimensions of one backward room ? 
 Wherein he dines, if so 't is fit to speak 
 Of one day's herring and the morrow's steak : 
 An anchorite in diet, all his care 
 Is to display his stock and vend his ware. 
 
 Long waiting hopeless, then he tries to meet 
 A kinder fortune in a distant street ; 
 There he again displays, increasing yet 
 Corroding sorrow and consuming debt : 
 Alas ! he wants the requisites to rise — 
 The true connections, the availing ties : 
 They who proceed on certainties advance. 
 These are not times when men prevail by chance ; 
 But still he tries, till, after years of pain. 
 He finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain. 
 Debtors are these on whom 't is hard to press, 
 'T is base, impolitic, and merciless. 
 
 To these we add a miscellaneous kind, 
 By pleasure, pride, and indolence confined ; 
 Those whom no calls, no warnings could divert. 
 The unexperienced and the inexpert ; 
 The builder, idler, schemer, gamester, sot, — 
 The follies different, but the same their lot ; 
 Victims of horses, lasses, drinking, dice. 
 Of every passion, humour, whim, and vice. 
 
 See ! that sad Merchant, who but yesterday 
 Had a vast household in command and pay ; 
 He now entreats permission to employ 
 A boy he needs, and then entreats the boy. 
 
 And there sits one improvident but kind, 
 Bound for a friend, whom honour could not bind ; 
 Sighing, he speaks to any who appear, 
 " A treach'rous friend — 'twas that which sent mo 
 here : 
 
 sufferings, however faithfully taken, will excite anv feelings 
 which can be seriously lamented. It has always been held as 
 a salutary exercise of the mind to contemplate tlie evils and 
 miseries of our nature : I am not therefore without hope that 
 even this gloomy subject of Imprisonment, and more espe- 
 cially tlie Dream of the Condemned Higluvavman. will excite 
 in some minds that mingled pity and abliorrrnce whieli, 
 while it is not unpleasant to tlie feelings, is useful in its 
 operation. It ties and binds us to all mankind bv sensations 
 common to us all, and in some degree connects us, without 
 degradation, even to the most miserable and guilty of our 
 fellow-men. 
 
252 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " I was too kind, — I thought I could depend 
 
 " On his bare word — he was a treach'rous friend." 
 
 A Female too ! — it is to her a home, 
 She came before — and she again will come : 
 Ilcr friends have pity ; when their anger drops, 
 Tliey take her home ; — she 's tried her schools and 
 
 shops — 
 Plan after plan ; — but fortune would not mend. 
 She to herself was still the treach'rous friend ; 
 And wlieresoe'er began, all here was sure to end : 
 And there she sits, as thoughtless and as gay 
 As if she 'd means, or not a debt to pay — 
 Or knew to-morrow she 'd be call'd away — 
 Or felt a sliilling and could dine to-day. 
 
 "While thus observing, I began to trace 
 The sober'd features of a Mell-known face — 
 Looks once familiar, manners form'd to please, 
 And all illumined by a heart at ease : 
 But fraud and flattery ever claim'd a part 
 (Still unresisted) of that easy heart ; 
 But he at length beholds me — " All ! my friend ! 
 " And have thy pleasures this unlucky end ?" 
 
 " Too sure," he said, and smiling as he sigh'd ; 
 " I went astray, though Prudence seem'd my guide ; 
 " All she proposed 1 in my heart approved, 
 " And she was honour'd, but my pleasure loved — 
 " Pleasure, the mistress to whose arms I fled, 
 " From wife-like lectures angry Prudence read. 
 
 " Why speak the madness of a life like mine, 
 " The powers of beauty, novelty, and wine ? 
 " Why paint the wanton smile, the venal vow, 
 " Or friends whose worth I can appreciate now ; 
 " Oft I perccived.my fate, and then could say, 
 " I '11 think to-morruw, I must live to-day : 
 " So am I here — I own the laws are just — 
 " And here, where thought is painful, think I 
 
 must : 
 " But speech is pleasant ; this discourse with thee 
 " Brings to my mind the sweets of liberty, 
 " Breaks on the sameness of the place, and gives 
 " The doubtful heart conviction that it lives. 
 
 " Let me describe my anguish in tlie hour 
 " When law detain'd me and I felt its power. 
 
 " ^^'llcn, in that shipwreck, this I found my 
 
 shore, 
 " And joiu'd tlie wretched, who were wreck'd 
 
 before ; 
 " Wlien I perceived each feature in the face, 
 " Pinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace ; 
 " Wlien in these wasting forms affliction stood 
 " In my afflicted view, it chill'd my blood ; — 
 " And fortli I rush'd, a quick retreat to make, 
 " Till a loud hiugh prorhiim'd the dire mistake : 
 " But when tlie groan liad settled to a sigh, 
 '' When gloom became familiar to the eye, 
 " When I perceive how otliers seem to rest, 
 " With every evil rankling in my breast, — 
 " liCd by example, I luit on the man, 
 " Sing otfmy sighs, and trifle as I can. 
 
 • Odyssey, h, xi. 
 
 " Homer ! nay Pope ! (for never will I seek 
 " Applause for learning — nouglit have I with Greek) 
 " Gives us the secrets of his pagan hell, 
 " Where ghost with ghost in sad communion dwell ; 
 " Where shade meets shade, and round the gloomy 
 
 meads 
 " They glide, and speak of old heroic deeds, — 
 " What fields they conquer'd, and what foes they 
 
 slew, 
 " And sent to join the melancholy crew.^ 
 " When a new spirit in that world was found, 
 " A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round : 
 " Those who had known him, fond inquiries 
 
 made, — 
 " ' Of all M'e left, inform us, gentle shade, 
 " ' Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell. 
 " ' Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.' ■* 
 
 " What paints the poet, is our station liere, 
 " Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear : 
 " This is the hell he sings, and here we meet, 
 " And former deeds to new-made friends repeat ; 
 " Heroic deeds, whicla here obtain us fame, 
 '• And are in fact the causes why we came : 
 " Yes ! this dim region is old Homer's hell, 
 ''• Abate but groves and meads of asphodel. 
 " Here, when a stranger from your world we spy, 
 " We gather round him and for news apply ; 
 " He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure, 
 " But shivering gazes on the vast obscure : 
 " We smiling pity, and by kindness show 
 " We felt his feelings and his terrors know ; 
 " Then speak of comfort — time will give him sight, 
 " Where now 't is dark ; wliere now 't is woe — de- 
 light. 
 
 " ' Have hope,' we say, ' and soon the place to 
 thee 
 " ' Shall not a prison but a castle be : 
 " ' When to the M'retch whom care and guilt con- 
 found, 
 " ' The world 's a prison, with a wider bound : 
 " ' Go where he may, he feels himself confined, 
 " ' And wears the fetters of an abject mind.' 
 
 " But now adieu ! those giant-keys appear, 
 " Thou art not wortlij' to be inmate here : 
 " Go to thj' world, and to tlie young declare 
 " What we, our spirits and employments, are ; 
 " Tell tlieni how we the ills of life endure, 
 " Our empire stable, and our state secure ; 
 " Our dress, our diet, for their use describe, 
 " And !)id them haste to join the gen'i'ous tribe : 
 " Go to thj' world, and leave us here to dwell. 
 " Wlio to its joys and comforts bid farewell." 
 
 Farewell to these ; but other scenes I view. 
 And other griefs, and guilt of dcei)er hue ; 
 Where Conscience gives to outward ills her pain, 
 Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain: 
 Here separate cells awhile in misery keep 
 Two doom'd to suffer : there they strive for sleep ; 
 B}' day indulged, in larger space they range, 
 Tlieir l)()ndage certain, but their bounds have 
 change. 
 
 * f" Hy tlioso li.ijipy souls who dwoll 
 
 In ytUow mcaib orasphoik'l." — Popk.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 253 
 
 One -was a female, -who had gricvc-.is ill 
 Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still : 
 With death before her, and her fate in viev.', 
 Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew : 
 Sullen she was and threat'ning ; in her eye 
 Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die : 
 But first a being in the -.vorld must leave — 
 'T was once reproach ; 't was now a short reprieve. 
 
 She was a pauper bound, who early gave 
 Her mind to vice and doubly was a slave : 
 Upbraided, beaten, held by rough conti-ol. 
 Revenge sustain'd, inspired, and fill'd her soul: 
 She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact, 
 And laugh'd at law and justified the act : 
 Our gentle Vicar tried his powers in vain. 
 She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain ; 
 Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh. 
 And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die. 
 
 Not so he felt, who with her was to pay 
 The forfeit, life — with dread he view'd the day, 
 And that short space which yet for him remain'd. 
 Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd : 
 He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find. 
 But found it not, — no comfort reach'd his mind : 
 Each sense was palsied ; when he tasted food. 
 He sigh'd and said, " Enough — 't is very good." 
 Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be 
 As once it was — he seeing could not see. 
 Nor hearing, hear aright ; *— when first I came 
 Within his view, 1 fancied there was shame, 
 I judged resentment; I mistook the air, — • 
 These fainter passions live not with despair ; 
 Or but exist and die : — Hope, fear, and love, 
 Joy, doubt, antl hate, may other spirits move, 
 But touch not his, who every waking hour 
 Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power. 
 
 " But will not Mercy?" — No ! she cannot plead 
 For such an outrage ; — 't was a cruel deed : 
 He stopp'd a timid ti-aveller ; — to his breast. 
 With oaths and curses, was the danger press'd : — 
 No ! he must suffer : pity we may find 
 For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind. 
 
 Still I behold him, every thought employ'd 
 On one dire view !— all others are destroy'd ; 
 This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone 
 Of his few words resemblance to a groan ; 
 He takes his tasteless food, and when 't is done. 
 Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one ; 
 For expectation is on time intent, 
 Whether lie brings us joy or punishment. 
 
 Yes ! e'en in sleep tlie impressions all remain. 
 He hears the sentence and he feels the chain ; 
 He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes. 
 And loudly cries, " Not guilty," and awakes : 
 
 5 [Tlie tale of the Condomned Felon arose from the folknv- 
 jn<; circumstances :— While Mr. Crahbe was stniijgling with 
 poverty in London, he had some re;ison to tear that the 
 brother of a verv intimate friend, a wihl and desperate cha- 
 racter, was in Newf,'ate under condemnation for a robbery. 
 Having' obtained permission to see the man, wlio bore the 
 same n.ame, a (j'ance at, once relieved his mind from tlie 
 dread of beholding his friend's brother ; but still lie never 
 
 Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep, 
 Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep. 
 
 Now comes the dream again : it shows each 
 scene, 
 With each small circumstance that comes be- 
 tween — 
 The call to sufl^ering and the very deed — 
 There crowds go with him, follow, and precede ; 
 Some heartless shout, some pitj% all condemn. 
 While he in fancied envy looks at them : 
 He seems the place for that sad act to see, 
 And dreams the very thirst which then will be : 
 A priest attends — it seems, the one he knew 
 In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. 
 
 At this his terrors take a sudden flight, 
 He sees his native village v.ith delight; 
 The house, the chamber, where he once array'd 
 His youthful person ; where he knelt and pray'd : 
 Then too the comforts he enjoy"d at home. 
 The days of joy; the joys themselves are come ; — 
 The hours of innocence ; — the timid look 
 Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took, 
 And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears. 
 Her forced reserve and his retreating fears. 
 
 All now is present; — 't is a moment's gleam 
 Of former sunshine — stay, delightful dream 1 
 Let him witliin his pleasant garden walk. 
 Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk. 
 
 Yes ! all are with him now, and all the while 
 Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile : 
 Then come his sister and his village-friend. 
 And he will now the sweetest moments spend 
 Life has to yield; — No ! never will lie find 
 Again on earth such pleasure in his mind : 
 He goes through shrubby walks these friends 
 
 among, 
 Love in their looks and honour on the tongue : 
 Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows, 
 The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows ; — 
 Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire 
 For more than ti'ue and honest hearts require, 
 They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed 
 Through the green lane, — then linger in the 
 
 mead, — 
 Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, — 
 And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum , 
 Then through the broomy bound with ease they 
 
 pass. 
 And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass. 
 Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are 
 
 spread. 
 And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed ; 
 Tlien 'cross the bounding brook they make their 
 
 way 
 O'er its rough bridge — and there behold the bay I — 
 
 forgot the being he then saw before him. lie was p.acing the 
 cell, or small yard, willi a quick and )inrried step : his eye 
 was as glazed and abstiacted as that of a corpse : — 
 
 " Since his dread sentence, notliing seem'd to be 
 As once it was— he se"ing could not see, 
 Nor liearinj:, hear ati^'ht. . . . 
 Each sense was palsied ! " 
 See ante, p. 53.] 
 
254 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The ocean smiling to the fervid sun — • 
 
 The waves that faintly fall and slowly' run — 
 
 The ships at distance and the boats at hand ; 
 
 And now they walk upon the sca-sidc sand, 
 
 Counting the number and what kind they be, 
 
 Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea : 
 
 Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold 
 
 The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roU'd : 
 
 The timid girls, half dreading their design, 
 
 Dip the small foot in the retarded brine. 
 
 And search for crimson weeds, -which spreading 
 
 flow. 
 Or lie like pictures on the sand below : 
 With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun 
 Through the small waves so softly shines upon ; 
 And those live lucid jellies which the eye 
 Delights to trace as they swim glittering by : 
 Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire, 
 And will arrange above the parlour-fire, — 
 Tokens of bliss ! 6_" Oh ! horrible ! a wave 
 " Koars as it rises — save me, Edward ! save !" 
 She cries : — Alas ! the watchman on his way 
 Calls, and lets in — truth, terror, and the day ! 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 Tu quoquc tie metiias, quamvis schola verbere multo 
 Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister ; 
 Degeneres animos timor arguit ; at tibi consta 
 Intrepidus, nee te clamor plagacque sonantes. 
 Nee matutinis agitet formido stib lioris, 
 Quod sceptriim vibrat ferulae, quod multa supellex 
 Virgea, quod molis scuticam prajtexit aluta. 
 Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu, 
 Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur sc-ena timoris. 
 
 AusoNius in Prutrepticu ad Ncputcm. 
 
 SCHOOLS.' 
 
 Schools of every Kind to be found in tlie Borough— The 
 School for Infants^Tlie School I'reparatory : the Sagacity 
 of tlie Mistress in foreseeing Character — Day-Schools of 
 the lower Kind— A Master with Talents adapted to such 
 
 6 [" We have liere a description of the dream of a felon 
 under sentence of deatli ; and though Ihe requisite accuracy 
 and beauty of tlie landscape-painting are such as must have 
 recommended it to notice in poetry of any order, it derives 
 an unspeakable chnrm from the lowly simplicity and humble 
 content of the characters —at le;ist we cannot conceive any 
 walk ot ladies and pimtlemen that could furnish out so sweet a 
 picture as terminates this passage." — Jeffrey.] 
 
 ' Our concluding subject is Education ; and some attempt 
 is made to describe iLs various seminaries, from that of the 
 poor widow who pronounces tlie alphabet for infants, to seats 
 whence the light of learning is shed abroad on the world. 
 If, in tliis Letter, I describe the lives of literary men as em- 
 bittered by much evil; if they be often disappointed, and 
 sometimes unfitted for the world they improve ; let it be 
 considered that tliey are describc<l as nricn who possess that 
 great pleasure, the exercise of their own (alents, and the 
 delight which Hows from their own exertions : they have joy 
 in tlieir pursuits, and glory in their acquirements of know- 
 ledge. Their victory over diniculties allbrds the most rational 
 cause of triumpli, and the attainment of new ideas leads to 
 incalculable riches, mich ns gratify the glorious avarice of 
 aspiring and comprehensiv minds. Here, then, I place tlie 
 reward of Icarnin;;. Our Universities produce men of the 
 first scholastic attainments, who are heirs to largo possessions, 
 or descendant's from noble families. Now, to those so fa- 
 
 Pupils : one of superior Qualifications — Hoarding-Schools; 
 that for young Ladies ; one going first to the Governess, one 
 finally returning Home— School for Youth : Master and 
 Teacher ; various Dispositions and Capacities — The Miser- 
 l$oy— The Boy-Bully— Sons of Farmers : how amused— 
 What Study will eflect, examined— A College Life : one 
 sent from his College to a Benefice ; one retained there in 
 Dignity— The Advantages in either Case not considerable 
 —Where, then, the Good of a literary Life .'— Answered- 
 Conclusion. 
 
 To every class we have a School assigned. 
 Rules for all ranks and food for evcrj' mind : 
 Yet one there is, that small regard to rule 
 Or study pays, and still is deem'd a School : 
 That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits, 
 And awes some thirty infants as she knits ; 
 Infants of humble, busy wives, who paj"- 
 Some trifling price for freedom through the day : 
 At this good matron's hut the children meet. 
 Who thus becomes the mother of the street : 
 Her room is small, they cannot widely stray, — 
 Her threshold high, they cannot run away : 
 Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout, — ■ 
 Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about ; 
 With band of yarn she keeps ofienders in, 
 And to her gown the sturdiest rogue can pin : 
 Aided by these, and spells, and tell-tale birds. 
 Her po-ner they dread and reverence her words.-^ 
 
 To Learning's second seats we now proceed, 
 Where humming students gilded primers read ; 
 Or books with letters large and pictures gay. 
 To make their reading but a kind of play — 
 " Reading made Easy," so the titles tell ; 
 But they who read must first begin to spell : 
 There may be profit in these arts, but still 
 Learning is laboiu-, call it what you will ; 
 Upon the youthful mind a heavy load. 
 Nor must we hope to find the royal road. 
 Some Mill their easy steps to science show. 
 And some to heav'n itself their by-way know ; 
 Ah ! trust them not, — who fame or bliss would 
 
 share, 
 Must leam by labour, and must live by care. 
 
 voured, talents and acquirements are unquestionably means 
 of an-iving at the most elevated and important situations ; but 
 tliese must be the lot of a few: in general, the diligence, 
 acuteness, and perseverance of a youth at the University, have 
 no other reward than some college honours and emoluments, 
 which they desire to exchange, many of them, for very mode- 
 rate incomes in the obscurity of some distant village : so that, 
 in stating the reward of an ardent and powerful mind to con- 
 sist principally (I might have said entirely) in its own views, 
 eflbrts, and excursions, I place it upon a sure foundation, 
 though not one so elevated as the more ambitious aspire to. 
 It is surely some encouragement to a studious man to rellect 
 that, if he be disappointed, lie cannot be without gratifica- 
 tion ; and that, if he gets but a very humble portion of w bat 
 the world can give, he has a continual fruition of unwearying 
 enjoyment, of which it has not power to deprive him. 
 
 2 " In every village mark'd with little spire, 
 
 Kmbower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame; 
 'i'lieie dwells in lowly slipd and mean attire, 
 A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name ; 
 WIk boasts unruly brats with birch to tame. 
 They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
 Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
 -Vnd oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely sTient." 
 
 SlIENSTO.N'E. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 Another matron, of superior kind, 
 For higher schools prepares the rising mind ; 
 Freparatori/ she her Learning calls, 
 The step first made to colleges and halls. 
 
 She early sees to what the mind will grow, 
 Nor abler judge of infant-powers I know : ■' 
 She sees what soon the lively will impede. 
 And how the steadier will in turn succeed ; 
 Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy, taste. 
 And knows what parts wiU wear, and what will waste : 
 She marks the mind too lively, and at once 
 Sees the gay coxcomb and the rattling dunce. 
 
 Long has she lived, and much she loves to trace 
 Her former pupils, now a lordly race ; 
 Whom wlien she sees rich robes and furs bedeck, 
 She niai'ks the pride which once she strove to check. 
 A Burgess comes, and she remembers well 
 ]!ow hard her task to make his worship spell ; 
 Cold, selfish, dull, inanimate, unkind, 
 'T was but by anger he display'd a mind : 
 Now civil, smiling, complaisant, and gay. 
 The world has worn th' unsocial crust away : 
 That sullen spirit now a softness wears, 
 And, save by fits, e'en dulness disappears : 
 But still the matron can the man behold, 
 Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold. 
 A Merchant passes, — " Probity and truth, 
 " Prudence and patience, mark'd thee from thy 
 
 youth." 
 Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears 
 Por him, who now with name unstain'd appears ; 
 Nor hope relinquishes, for one who yet 
 Is lost in error and involved in debt ; 
 For latent evil in that heart she found. 
 More open here, but here the core was sound. 
 
 Various our Day-Schools : here behold we one 
 Empty and still : — the morning duties done, 
 Soil'd, tatter'd, worn, and throwTi in various heaps, 
 Appear their books, and there confusion sleeps ; 
 The workmen all are ft-om the Babel fled. 
 And lost their tools, till the return they dread : 
 Bleantime the master, with his wig awry. 
 Prepares his books for business by-and-by : 
 Now all th' insignia of the monarch laid 
 Beside him rest, and none stand by afraid ; 
 lie, while his troop light-hearted leap and play. 
 Is all intent on duties of the day ; 
 No more the tyrant stern or judge severe. 
 He feels the father's and the husband's fear. 
 
 Ah ! little think the timid trembling crowd, 
 That one so wise, so powerful, and so proud, 
 Should feel himself, and dread the humble ills 
 Of rent-day charges and of coalman's bills ; 
 That while they mercy from their judge implore, 
 He fears himself — a knocking at the door ; 
 And feels the burthen as his neighbour states 
 His humble portion to the parish-rates. 
 
 They sit th' allotted hours, then eager run, 
 Bushing to pleasure when the duty 's done ; 
 
 Yet, nursed with slcill, what dazzling fruits appear ! 
 K'on now sa^;acions Foresifjht points to sliow 
 A little bench of heedless bishops here, 
 
 His hour of leisure is of different kind, 
 Then cares domestic rush upon his mind, 
 And half the ease and comfort he enjoys, 
 Is when surrounded by slates, books, and boys. 
 
 Poor Iteuhen Dixon has the noisiest school 
 Of ragged lads, who ever bow'd to rule ; 
 Low in his price — the men who heave our coals, 
 And clean our causewaj's, send him boys in shoals ; 
 To see poor Reuben, with his fry beside, — 
 Their half-check'd rudeness and his half-scorn'd 
 
 pride, — 
 Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet. 
 In the close lane behind the Northgate-street ; 
 T' observe his vain attempts to keep the peace. 
 Till tolls the bell, and strife and troubles cease,— 
 Calls for our praise ; his labour praise deserves, 
 But not our pity ; Reuben has no nerves : 
 'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and 
 
 prate. 
 He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate. 
 
 But Leonard! — yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve, 
 "SVho loathes the station which he dares not leave : 
 He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread. 
 All his dependence rests upon his head ; 
 And deeply skill'd in sciences and arts. 
 On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts. 
 
 Alas ! what grief that feeling mind sustains. 
 In guiding hands and stirring torpid brains ; 
 He whose proud mind from pole to pole will move, 
 And view the wonders of the worlds above ; 
 "Who thinks and reasons strongly : — hard his fate, 
 Confined for ever to the pen and slate : 
 True, he submits, and when the long dull day 
 Has slowly pass'd, in weary tasks, away. 
 To other worlds with cheerful view he looks, 
 And parts the night between rej)ose and books. 
 
 Amid his labours, he has sometimes tried 
 To turn a little from his cares aside ; 
 Pope, Milton, Drydcn, with delight has seized. 
 His soul engaged and of his trouble eased : 
 "When, witli a heavy eye and ill-done sum, 
 No part conceived, a stupid boy will come ; 
 Tlien Leonard first subdues the rising frown, 
 And bids the blockhead lay his blunders down ; 
 O'er which disgusted he will turn his eye, 
 To his sad duty his sound mind apply. 
 And, vex'd in spirit, throw his pleasures by. 
 
 Turn we to Schools wliich more than these 
 
 afford — 
 The sound instruction and the wholesome board ; 
 And first our School for Ladies : — pity calls 
 For one soft sigh, when we behold these walls. 
 Placed near the town, and where, from window 
 
 high, 
 The fair, confined, may our free crowds espy, 
 AVith many a stranger gazing up and down, 
 And all the envied tumult of tlie town ; 
 
 And here a chancellor in embryo, 
 
 Or bard sublime, if bard may o'er be so." 
 
 Shkn'sto.vk. 
 
256 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 May, in the smiling summer-eve, -vvhcn thoy 
 Are sent to sleep the jileasant hours away, 
 Behold tlie poor (whom they conceive the bless'd) 
 Employ'd for hours, and grieved they cannot rest. 
 
 Here the fond girl, wliose days are sad and few 
 Since dear mamma pronounced the last adieu, 
 Looks to the road, and fondly tliinks she licars 
 The carriage-wheels, and struggles with her tears : 
 All yet is new, the misses great and small, 
 iMadam licrself, and teachers, odious all ; 
 From laughter, pity, nay command, she turns, 
 But melts in softness, or with anger burns ; 
 Nauseates her food, and wonders who can sleep 
 On such mean beds, where she can only weep : 
 She scorns condolence — but to all she hates 
 Slowly at length her mind accommodates ; 
 Then looks on bondage with the same concern 
 As others felt, and finds that she must learn 
 As others learn'd — the common lot to share, 
 To search for comfort and submit to care. 
 
 There are, 't is said, who on these seats attend, 
 And to these ductile minds destruction vend ; 
 Wretches — (to virtue, peace, and nature, foes) — 
 To these soft minds, their wicked trash expose ; 
 Seize on the soul, ere passions take the sway. 
 And lead tlie heart, ere yet it feels, astray : 
 Smugglers obscene ! — and can there be wlio take 
 Infernal pains the sleeping vice to wake ? 
 Can there be those by whom the thought defiled 
 Enters the spotless bosom of a child ? 
 By whom tlie ill is to the heart convey'd, 
 "Who lend the foe, not yet in amns, their aid. 
 And sap the city-walls before the siege be laid ? 
 
 Oh ! rather skulking in the by-ways steal, 
 And rob the poorest traveller of his meal ; 
 Burst throii;.;li the humblest trader's bolted door ; 
 Bear from tlie widow's hut her winter-store ; 
 With stolen steed, on liighways take your stand, 
 Your lips with curses arm'd, with death your 
 
 hand ;— 
 Take all but life — the virtuous more would say. 
 Take life itself, dear as it is, awaj'. 
 Rather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray. 
 
 Years pass away — let us suppose them juist, 
 Til' accomplish'd nj'mph for freedom looks at last ; 
 All hardships over, which a school contains. 
 The spirit's bondage and the body's pains ; 
 Where teachers make the heartless, trembling set 
 Of pupils suffer for their own regret; 
 Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire. 
 Chills the fair child, commanded to retire ; 
 She felt it keenly in the morning-air. 
 Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer. 
 More pleasant summer ; but tlien walks were made, 
 Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade ; 
 They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge. 
 Only to set their feelings on an edge ; 
 
 * " I!n it a weakness, it deserves some praise, — 
 W(! lovp till," play-plare of our enrly days ; 
 The scene is toui-liin;,', and the licart is stone 
 Tliat feels not at tliat si;,'lit— and feels at none. 
 The wall on whicli we tried our graving' skill ; 
 The very name we carved subsisting still ; 
 
 And now at eve, wlien all their spirits rise. 
 Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies ; 
 Where yet tliey all the town alert can see, 
 And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea. 
 
 These and the tasks successive masters brought — • 
 The French they conn'd, the curious works they 
 
 wrought; 
 The hours they made their taper fingers strike 
 Note after note, all dull to them alike ; 
 Their drawings, dancings on appointed days, 
 Playing with globes, and getting parts of plays : 
 The tender friendships made 'twixt heart and 
 
 heart, 
 When the dear friends had nothing to impart : — 
 
 All ! all ! are over ; — now th' accomplish'd maid 
 Ijongs for the world, of nothing there afraid: 
 Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast, 
 And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest; 
 At the paternal door a carriage stands, 
 Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their 
 hands. 
 
 Ah ! — world unknown ! how charming is thy 
 view, 
 Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new : 
 Ah ! — world experienced ! what of thee is told ? 
 How few thy pleasures, and those few how old ! 
 
 Within a silent street, and far apart 
 From noise of business, from a quay or mart. 
 Stands an old spacious building, and the din 
 You hear without, explains the work w jthin ; 
 Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise 
 Loudly proclaims a " Boarding-School for Boj's;" 
 The master heeds it not, for thirty years 
 Have rcnder'd all familiar to his cars; 
 Ko sits in comfort, 'mid the various sound 
 Of mingled tones for ever flowing round : 
 Day after day he to his task attends, — 
 Unvaried toil, and care that never ends: 
 Boys in their works proceed ; while his employ 
 Admits no change, or clianges but the boy ; 
 Yet time has made it easy ; — he beside 
 Has power supreme, and power is sweet to pride ' 
 But grant him pleasure ; what can teachers feel, 
 Dependent helpers always at the wheel ? 
 Their power despised, their compensation small, 
 Their labour dull, tlioir life Laborious all ; 
 Set after set the lower lads to make 
 Fit for the class which their superiors take ; 
 The road of learning for a time to track 
 In roughest state, and then again go back : 
 Just the same way, on other troops to wait, — 
 Attendants fi.x'd at learning's lower gate. 
 
 The Day-tasks now are over — to their ground 
 Bush the gay crowd with joy-compelling sound ; 
 Glad to elude the burthens of the day. 
 The eager parties hurry to their play:* 
 
 The liench on which we sat while deep employ'd, 
 'I'ljo'iijli mangled, liack'd, and hew'd, yet not destroy 'd. 
 Tlie litllo ones niilmtton'd, ;;lowiiig hot, 
 Playing our games, and on the very spot ; 
 \s happy as we once to Uncd and draw 
 The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw. 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 257 
 
 Then in these hours of liberty we find 
 
 The native bias of the opening mind ; 
 
 They yet possess not skill the mask to place, 
 
 And hide the passions glowing in the face ; 
 
 Yet some are found — the close, the sly, the mean, 
 
 Who know already all must not be seen. 
 
 Lo ! one who walks apart, although so young, 
 He lays restraint upon his eye and tongue,* 
 Nor will he into scrapes or dangers get. 
 And half the school are in the stripling's debt : 
 Suspicious, timid, he is much afraid 
 Of trick and plot : — he dreads to be betray'd : 
 He shuns all friendship, for he finds they lend, 
 "When lads begin to call each other friend : 
 Yet self with self has war ; the tempting sight 
 Of fruit on sale provokes his appetite ; — 
 See ! how he walks the sweet seduction by ; 
 That he is tempted, costs him first a sigh, — - 
 'T is dangerous to indulge, 't is grievous to deny ! 
 This he will choose, and whispering asks the price. 
 The purchase dreadful, but the portion nice : 
 "Within the pocket he explores the pence ; 
 Without, temptation strikes on either sense. 
 The sight, the smell ; — but then he thinks again 
 Of money gone ! while fruit nor taste remain. 
 Meantime there comes an eager thoughtless boy, 
 Who gives the price and only feels the joy : 
 Example dire ! the youthful miser stops 
 And slowly back the treasured coinage drops : 
 Heroic deed ! for should he now comply. 
 Can he to-morrow's appetite deny ? 
 Beside, these spendthrifts who so freely live, 
 Cloy'd with their purchase, will a portion give : — 
 Here ends debate, he buttons up his store. 
 And feels the comfort that it burns no more. 
 
 Unlike to him the Tyrant-boy,® whose sway 
 All hearts acknowledge ; him the crowds obey : 
 At his command they break through every rule ; 
 Whoever governs, he controls the school : 
 'T is not the distant emperor moves their fear, 
 But the proud viceroy who is ever near. 
 
 Verres could do that mischief in a day. 
 For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay ; 
 And these boy-tyrants will their slaves dijtress. 
 And do the wrongs no master can redress ; 
 The mind they load with fear ; it feels disdain 
 For its own baseness ; yet it tries in vain 
 To shake th' admitted power : — the coward comes 
 again : 
 
 Tliis fond attacliment to the well-known place. 
 When first we started into life's Ion;,' race. 
 Maintains its hold with such unfailing ssvay. 
 We feel it e'en in age and at our latest day." 
 
 CoWPER. 
 
 ' [In this description Mr. Crabbe condescended to borrow, 
 tliou;,'h probably with some alterations and improvements, 
 tlie ideas and the language of his second son ; whose ' School 
 Eclosjues,' written in boyhood, much struck and gratified his 
 father. Mr. John Crabbe has since written many imitations 
 ol' his father's poetry, some of which, it is hoped, may yet be 
 published.] 
 
 ^ [I'his schoolboy despot was drawn, Mr. Crabbe said, 
 from a tyrant who was his own terror in the school at 
 Stowmarket.] 
 
 'T is more than present pain these tyrants give. 
 Long as we 've life some strong impressions live ; 
 And these young ruffians in the soul will sow • 
 Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow. 
 
 Hark ! at his word the trembling younglings 
 flee. 
 Where he is walking none must walk but he ; 
 See ! from the winter fire the weak retreat. 
 His the warm comer, his the favourite seat. 
 Save when he yields it to some slave to keep 
 Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep : 
 At his command his poor dependants fly, 
 And humbly bribe him as a proud ally ; 
 Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows. 
 Is gross abuse, and bantering and blows ; 
 Yet he 's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame 
 Without the desk, within he feels his shame : 
 For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn. 
 For him corrects the blunders of the mom ; 
 And he is taught, unpleasant truth ! to find 
 The trembling body has the prouder mind. 
 
 Hark ! to that shout, that burst of empty noise, 
 From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boys ; 
 They who, Uke colts let loose, with vigour bound, 
 And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground ; 
 Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels 
 His Alma active in his hands and heels. 
 
 These are the sons of farmers, and they come 
 With partial fondness for the joys of home ; 
 Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields, 
 And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields ; 
 They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours, 
 And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers ; 
 They dance; but them can measured steps delight, 
 Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite ? 
 Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal. 
 Did they not slily to the chamber steal. 
 And there the produce of the basket seize. 
 The mother's gift ! still studious of their ease. 
 Poor Ahna, thus oppress'd forbears to rise, 
 But rests or revels in the arms and thighs.? 
 
 " But is it ture that study ■will repay 
 - The more attentive and forbearing?" — Kay! 
 The farm, the ship, the humble shop, have each 
 Gains which severest studies seldom reach. 
 
 At College place a youth, who means to raise 
 His state by merit and his name by praise ; 
 
 ' Should any of my readers find themselves at a loss in this 
 place, I beg leave to refer them to a poem of Prior, called 
 ' Alma, or the Progress of the Mind :' — 
 
 " My simple system shall suppose 
 That Alma enters at the toes ; 
 That then she mounts, by just degrees, 
 Up to the ankles, legs, and knees ; 
 Next, as the sap of life does rise, 
 She lends her vigour to the thighs ; 
 And, all these under-regions past. 
 She nestles somewhere near the waist ; 
 Gives pain or pleasure, grief or laughter 
 As we shall show at length hereafter. 
 Mature, if not improved by time, 
 Up to the heart she loves to climb ; 
 From thence, compell'd by craft and age, 
 She makes the head her latest stage." 
 
258 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Still much he hazards ; there is serious strife 
 In the contentions of a scliolar's life : 
 Not all the mind's attention, care, distress, 
 Nor dihgence itself, ensure success : 
 His jealous heart a rival's powers may dread. 
 Till its strong feelings have confused his head, 
 ;\jid, after days and months, nay, years of pain, 
 He finds just lost the object he would gain. 
 
 But grant him this and all such life can give, 
 For other prospects he begins to live ; 
 Begins to feel that man was form'd to look 
 And long for other objects than a book : 
 In his mind's eye his house and glebe he sees. 
 And farms and talks with farmers at his ease ; 
 And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth 
 To a rude world unconscious of his worth : 
 There in some petty parish to reside, 
 The college-boast, then turn'd the village guide : 
 And though awhile his flock and dairy please, 
 lie soon reverts to former joys and ease. 
 Glad when a friend shall come to break his rest, 
 And speak of all the pleasures they possess'd, 
 Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with M-hom 
 They shared those pleasures, never more to come f 
 Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd, 
 Which once so dismal and so dull appear'd. 
 
 But fix our Scholar, and suppose him crown'd 
 With all the glory gain'd on classic ground ; 
 Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd, 
 And to his college all his care confined ; 
 Give him all honours that such states allow. 
 The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow ; 
 l,ct his apartments with his taste agree. 
 And all his views be those he loves to see ; 
 Let him each day behold the savoury treat, 
 For which he pays not, but is paid to eat ; 
 These joys and glories soon delight no more, 
 Although, withheld, the mind is vex'd and sore ; 
 The honour too is to the place confined. 
 Abroad they know not each superior mind : 
 Strangers no wranglers in these figures see, 
 Nor give they worship to a high degree ; 
 Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case, 
 His honour all is in his dwelling-place: 
 And there such honours are familiar things ; 
 What is a monarch in a crowd of kings ? 
 lake other sovereigns he 's by forms address'd, 
 By statutes govcrn'd and with rules oppress'd. 
 
 When all these forms and duties die away. 
 And the day passes like the former day, 
 Then of exterior things at once bereft, 
 lie's to himself and one attendant left; 
 Ts'ay, John too goes;* nor aught of service more 
 liemains for him; he gladly quits the door, 
 
 * [ " if clirinoe some wdl-rcmnmlier'd face, 
 
 Some old compiinion of my early race. 
 Advanced to claim his friend, willi honest joy. 
 My eyes, my heart, proclaimd me still a boy ; 
 'I'lio jjlitterinjj si-ene, the llulteriti:; groups ;uound, 
 \Vere quite fori^oltcn when my friend was found : 
 The smiles of b<'ftiity, thoiiijh those smiles were dear, 
 Ccmld harilly charm me when that friend was neur ; 
 My thonglits bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
 'J'iie woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
 
 And, as he whistles to the college-gate, 
 Ue kindly pities his poor master's fate. 
 
 Books cannot always please, however good ; 
 Minds are not ever craving for their food ; 
 But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare 
 For cares to-morrow that were this day's care : 
 For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past. 
 And formal feasts that will for ever last. 
 
 " But then from Study will no comforts rise ? " — 
 Yes ! such as studious minds alone can prize ; 
 Comforts, yea ! — joys ineifable they find, 
 Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind : 
 Tlie soul, collected in those happy hours. 
 Then makes her efforts, then enjoj's her ])owers ; 
 And in those seasons feels herself repaid. 
 For labours past and honours long delay'd. 
 
 No ! 't is not worldlj' gain, althougli bj' chance 
 The sons of learning may to wealth advance ; 
 Nor station high, though in some favouring hour 
 The sons of learning may arrive at power ; 
 Nor is it glory, though the public voice 
 Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice : 
 But 't is the mind's own feelings give the joy. 
 Pleasures she gathers in her own employ — 
 Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow, 
 Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow. 
 
 For this the Poet looks the world around, 
 Where form and life and reasoning man are found ; 
 He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace, 
 And all the manners of the changing race ; 
 Silent he walks the road of life along. 
 And views the aims of its tumultuous throng: 
 He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take, 
 And what strange waste of life and joy they make. 
 And loves to show them in their varied way.-, 
 With honest blame or with unflattering praise : 
 'T is good to know, 't is pleasant to impart, 
 These turns and movements of the human heart : 
 The stronger features of the soul to paint. 
 And make distinct the latent and the faint ; 
 Man as he is, to place in all men's view, 
 Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue : 
 Nor be it ever of my Portraits told — 
 " Here the strong lines of malice we behold." 
 
 Tins let me hope, that when in public view 
 I bring my Pictures, men may feel them true : 
 " This is a likeness," may they all declare, 
 " And I have seen him, but 1 know not where : " 
 
 I saw the spri{;litly wanderers pour along, 
 
 I saw and join'd a^ain the joyous tlirong, 
 
 Tantini;, nj;ain I traced the lofty firove, 
 
 And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love." 
 
 UvRON. Childish liiculleclions. 
 
 ' [The sensation of loneliness felt by a fellow of a cellef'e 
 when his servant left him for the nlt,'lit, was very leelingly 
 described to Mr. frablie by the late Air. Lambert, one of the 
 senior fellows of Trinity ("olle;;e, Cambridge, and made a 
 strong impri'ssiou on the poet's mind.] 
 
THE BOROUGH. 
 
 259 
 
 For I should mourn the mischief I had done, 
 If as the lilieuess all would fix on one. 
 
 Man's Vice and Crime I combat as I can, 
 But to his God and conscience leave the Man ; 
 I search (a Quixote !) all the land about, 
 To find its Giants and Enchantei's out, — 
 (The Giant-Folly, the Enchanter- Vice, 
 Whom doubtless I shall vanquish in a trice ;) — 
 But is there man whom I would injure ? — No ! 
 I am to him a fellow, not a foe, — 
 
 10 [" < Tiig Boroiigli' contains a description, in twenty-four 
 letters, of a sea-port. A glance at the contents is sufficient to 
 prove tliat the author is far from having abjured the system 
 of delineating in verse subjects little grateful to poetry. No 
 themes surely can be more untunable than those to which he 
 has here attempered his lyre. It is observable, too, that they 
 are sought in a class of society yet lower than that which he 
 has hitherto represented. The impurities of a rural hamlet 
 were suificiently repulsive ; — what then must be those of a 
 maritime borough ? This gradual sinking in the scale of 
 realities seems to us a direct consequence of that principle 
 of Mr. Crabbe, on which we have hazarded some strictures. 
 ' The Borough' is purely the creature of tliat principle ; the 
 legitimate successor of ' The Village ' and ' The Parish Regis- 
 ter.' Indeed, if the checks of fancy and taste be removed 
 fi-om poetry, and admission be granted to images, of whatever 
 description, provided they have the passport of reality, it is 
 not easy to tell at what point the line of exclusion should be 
 drawn, or why it sliould be drawn at all. No image of de- 
 pravity, EG long as it answers to some archetype in nature or 
 
 A fellow-sinner, who must rather dread 
 The bolt, than hurl it at another's head. 
 
 No ! let the guiltless, if there such be found. 
 Launch forth the spear, and deal the deadly 
 
 wound. 
 How can I so the cause of Virtue aid, 
 Who am myself attainted and afraid ? 
 Yet as I can, I point the powers of rhyme, 
 And, sparing criminals, attack the crime.'* 
 
 art, can be refused the benefit of the general rule. It was 
 the misfortune of Mr. Crabbe's former poems that they were 
 restricted to a narrow range. They treated of a particular 
 class of men and manners, and therefore precluded those 
 representations of general nature which, it scarcely needs the 
 authority of Johnson to convince us, are the only things that 
 ' can please many and please long.' But, w ith respect to the 
 present poem, this circumstance prevails to a much greater 
 degree. In the inhabitants of a sea-port there are obviously 
 but few generic traces of nature to be detected. The mixed 
 character of their pursuits, and their amphibious sort of life, 
 tlirow their manners and customs into a striking cast of sin- 
 gularity, and make them almost a separate variety of the 
 human race. Among the existing modifications of society, it 
 may be questioned if there be one wliich is more distinctly 
 specified, we might say individualised." — Giffoed. The 
 reader will find Mr. Crabbe's own answer to the foregoing 
 criticism, in the preface to the " Tales, " in a subsequent page 
 of tliis volume.] 
 
260 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 THE LADIES OF THE LAKE. 
 
 [■WBITTEN ON VISITING NOEMANSTON IN 1785. '3 
 
 Shall I, who oft have woo'd the Muse 
 
 For gentle Ladies' sake, 
 So fair a theme as this refuse — 
 
 The Ladies of the Lake ? 
 
 Hail, happy pair ! 't is yours to share 
 
 Life's elegance and ease ; 
 The bliss of wealth without the care, 
 
 The will and power to please, — 
 
 To please, hut not alone our eyes. 
 
 Nor yet alone our mind ; 
 Tour taste, your goodness, charm the wise — 
 
 Your manners all mankind. 
 
 The pleasant scenes that round you glow, 
 Like caskets fraught with gold, 
 
 Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe 
 Their worth to what they hold. 
 
 Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair ; 
 
 Fresh lawns, and gardens green: 
 But where again the Sister-pair 
 
 Who animate the scene ? 
 
 Where sense of that superior kind, 
 
 Without man's haughty air ? 
 And where, without the trifling mind, 
 
 The softness of tlie fair ? 
 
 ' [" Normanston, a sweet little villa near Beccles, was one of 
 the early resorts of Mr. Cralibe and Miss Elmy in the days 
 of their anxious aireotion. Hero lour or live spinsters of in- 
 dependent fortune had formed a sort of Proteslant nunnery, 
 the abbess bein;,' Miss Hlacknell, wlio afterwards deserted it 
 to become the wife of tlie late Admiral Sir Thomas (iraves, 
 a lady of distin;,'ulshed eltijaiiLe in her tiistes and manners. 
 Another of the sisterliood was Miss VV.ildron, late of 'i'am- 
 worth dear, f,'ood-liumonred, hearty, m.Lsciiline Miss Wal- 
 dron, who could sin;,' a jovial son;,' like a fox hunter, and, like 
 him, 1 had almost said, loss a ^;lass •, and yet there was such 
 an air of hij,'h tun. and such inli-llect mingled wilh these 
 manners, that the perfect laily wiis not veiled for a monu'nt " 
 — /,iji: lif Crabhe, nnlr, p. 41. A lady of rank, in Nor- 
 folk, 1i;ls lately written as follows to the Poets hici;;raplier : 
 — " The enjoyment of your Memoir was much iniTeiused by 
 my kiiovvled;,'e of several of the fiarties mentioned in it. Miss 
 Illacknell and Miss Waldron were the acquaintance of my 
 early youth : a visit to Normanston uasalwaysa joyfid event; 
 and, notwithslandin;; the masiiiline deportment of MissWal- 
 dron, her excellent souse and yuoil nature caused her to be 
 
 Folly, with wealth, may idly raise 
 Her hopes to shine like you, 
 
 And humble flattery sound her praise. 
 Till she believes it true ; 
 
 But wealth no more can give that grace 
 
 To souls of meaner kind. 
 Than summer's fiery sun can chase 
 
 Their darkness from the blind. 
 
 But drop, you '11 say, the useless pen : 
 
 Reluctant — I obey. 
 Yet let me take it once again, 
 
 If not to praise, to pray — 
 
 That you, with partial grace, may deign 
 
 This poor attempt to take, 
 And I may oft behold again 
 
 The Ladies of the Lake. 
 
 INFANCY— A FRAGMENT.* 
 
 Who on the new-born light can back return. 
 And the first efforts of the soul discern — 
 Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more 
 To sleep so long or fondly as before ? 
 
 preferred, by many judges of character, to her more dignified 
 and graceful companion. I have in my possession a copy of 
 very appropriate verses which Mr. Crabbe addressed to Miss 
 B. and MissW., in the year 1785." ] 
 
 ' PMr. Crabbe's father possessed a small sailing-boat, in which 
 he delighted to navigate the river. The first event wliicli was 
 deeply impressed oti the Poet's memory was a voyage in this 
 vessel! A party of amateur sailors was formed — the yacht 
 club of Alrtborough — to try the new piirchiuse ; a jovial din- 
 ner prepared at Urford, and a merry return anticipated at 
 night ; and his fond mother obtained permission for George 
 to be one of the company. Soon after sunrise, in a finesum- 
 mer morning, they were seated in their P'spective vessels, and 
 started in gallant trim, tacking and manoeuvring on the 
 liosoin of the dickering water, as it wintLs gently towards its 
 junction with the sea, The freshness of tlie early dawn, the 
 anticipation of amusements at an unknown place, and no 
 little exultation in his father's crcwii vessel, " made it," he 
 said, " a morning of exquisite deliglit." Among his MSS. are 
 tlie following verses on this early incident. — Life, antl, p. -I.] 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 261 
 
 No ! Memory cannot reach, with all her power, 
 To that new birth, that life-awakening hour. 
 No ! all the traces of her first employ 
 Are keen perceptions of the senses' joy, 
 And their distaste — what then could they im- 
 part ? — 
 Tliat figs were luscious, and that rods had smart. 
 
 But, though the Memory in that dubious way 
 Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day. 
 And thus encounters, in the doubtful view. 
 With imperfection and distortion too ; 
 Can she not tell us, as she looks around. 
 Of good and evil, which the most abound ? 
 
 Alas ! and what is earthly good ? 't is lent 
 Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent. 
 By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye, 
 While the more pompous misery passes by ; 
 Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed, 
 And heads are turn'd, that bosoms may not bleed : 
 For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain ? 
 'T i8 but the slow or rapid flight of Pain. 
 Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain. 
 For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain : 
 Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting. 
 And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye 
 
 bring ? 
 No ! there is not a joy beneath the skies, 
 That from no grief nor trouble shall arise. 
 
 Why does the Lover with such rapture fly 
 To his dear mistress ? — He shall show us why : — 
 Because her absence is such cause of grief. 
 That her sweet smile alone can yield relief. 
 Why, then, that smile is Pleasure : — True, yet 
 
 still 
 'T is but the absence of the former ill : 
 For, married, soon at will he comes and goes; 
 Then pleasures die, and pains become repose. 
 And he has none of these, and tlierefore none of 
 
 those. 
 
 Yes ! looking back as early as I can, 
 I see the griefs that seize their subject Man, 
 That in the weeping Child their early reign began : 
 Yes ! though Pain softens, and is absent since. 
 He still controls me like my lawful prince. 
 Joys I remember, like phosphoric light, 
 Or squibs and crackers on a gala night. 
 Joys are like oil ; if thrown upon the tide 
 Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside : 
 Griefs are like waters on the river throMTi, 
 They mix entirely, and become its own. 
 Of all the good that grew of earlj' date, 
 I can but parts and incidents relate : 
 A guest arriving, or a borrow'd day 
 From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play : 
 And these from Pain may be deduced ; for these 
 Removed some ill, and hence their power to please. 
 
 But it was misery stung me in the day 
 Death of an infant sister made a prey ; 
 
 2 [Mr. Crabbe's early religions impressions were strongly 
 influenced by those of his mother, wlio was a deeply devout 
 woman. Her mildness, humility, patient endurance of afBic- 
 
 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-bom ill. 
 So new, so strange, that memory feels it still '. 
 
 That my first grief: but, oh ! in after-years 
 Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears. 
 No ! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint — 
 That patient sufierer, that enduring saint, 
 Holy and lovely — but all words are faint." 
 But here I dwell not — let me, while I can. 
 Go to the Child, and lose the sufi'ering Man. 
 
 Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide, 
 And our boat gliding, where alone could glide 
 Small craft — and they oft touch'd on either side. 
 It was my first-born joy. 1 heard them say, 
 " Let the child go ; he will enjoy the day." 
 For children ever feel delighted when 
 They take their portion, and enjoy with men. 
 Give him the pastime that the old partake. 
 And he will quickly top and taw forsake. 
 
 The linnet chirp'd upon the furze as well, 
 To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. 
 Without was paradise — because within 
 Was a keen relish, without taint of sin. 
 
 A town appear'd, — and where an infant went, 
 Could they determine, on themselves intent ? 
 I lost my way, and my companions me. 
 And all, their comforts and tranquillity. 
 Mid-day it was, and, 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 make them light ; 
 Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. 
 Their cheerfulness did but a moment last ; 
 Something fell short, or something overpast. 
 The lads play'd idly with the helm and oar. 
 And nervous women would be set on shore. 
 Till " civil dudgeon " grew, and peace would smile 
 no more. 
 
 Now on the colder water faintly shone 
 The sloping light — the cheerful day was gone ; 
 Frown'd every cloud, and from the gather'd frown 
 The thunder burst, and rain came pattering dowia. 
 My torpid senses now my fears obey'd. 
 When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play'd. 
 Now, all the freshness of the morning fled, 
 My spirits burden'd, and my heart was dead ; 
 The female servants show'd a child their fear, 
 And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer ; 
 And when, at length, the dreaded storm went 
 
 past. 
 And there was peace and quietness at last, 
 'T was not the morning's quiet — it was not 
 Pleasure revived, but Misery forgot : 
 It was not Joy that now commenced her reign, 
 But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain. 
 
 tions and sufferings, meek habits, and devout spirit, strongly 
 recommended her example to her son.— Life, antd, pp. 
 29, 30.] J ' y yy 
 
262 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 So many a day, in life's advance, I knew ; 
 So they commenced, and so they ended too. 
 All Promise they — all Joy as they began I 
 But Joy grew less, and vanish'd as they ran ! 
 Errors and evils came in many a form, — 
 The mind's delusion, and the passions' storm. 
 
 The promised joy, that like this morning rose, 
 Broke on my view, then clouded at its close ; 
 E'en Love himself, that promiser of bliss, 
 Made his best daj's of pleasure end like this : 
 He mix'd his bitters in the cup of joy. 
 Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy. 
 
 THE MAGNET. 
 
 Why force the backward heart on love, 
 That of itself the flame might feel ? 
 
 When you the Magnet's power would prove, 
 Say, would you strike it on the Steel ? 
 
 From common flints you may by force 
 Excite some transient sparks of fire ; 
 
 And so, in natures rude and coarse, 
 Compulsion may provoke desire. 
 
 But when, approaching by degrees, 
 The Magnet to the Steel draws nigh, 
 
 At once they feel, each other seize, 
 And rest in mutual sympathy. 
 
 So must the Lover find his way 
 
 To move the heart he hopes to win — 
 
 Must not in distant forms delay — 
 Must not in rude assaults begin. 
 
 For such attractive power has Love, 
 We justly each extreme may fear : 
 
 'T is lost when we too distant prove. 
 And when we rashly press too near. 
 
 STORM AND CALM. 
 
 [from the album of the duchess or UUTLAND.] 
 
 At sea when threatening tempests rise. 
 When angry winds the waves deform, 
 
 The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes. 
 And deprecates the dreaded storm. 
 
 " Ye furious powers, no more contend ; 
 
 " Ye winds and seas, your conflict end ; 
 
 " And on the mild sul)siding deep, 
 
 " Let Fear repose and Terror sleep !" 
 
 At length the waves arc hush'd in peace, 
 O'er flying clouds the sun prevails ; 
 
 The weary winds their efl'orts cease. 
 And fill no more the flagging sails : 
 
 Fix'd to the deep the vessel rides 
 
 Obedient to the changing tides ; 
 
 No helm she feels, no course she keeps. 
 
 But on the liquid marble sleeps. 
 
 Sick of a Calm the sailor lies, 
 
 And views the still, reflecting seas ; 
 
 Or, whistling to the burning skies. 
 
 He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze ; 
 
 The silent noon, the solemn night. 
 
 The same dull round of thoughts excite, 
 
 Till, tired of the revolving train, 
 
 He wishes for the Storm again. 
 
 Thus, when I felt the force of Love, 
 
 When all the passion fill'd my breast, — 
 When, trembling, with the storm I strove, 
 And pray'd, but vainly pray'd, for rest; 
 'T was tempest all, a dreadful strife 
 For ease, for joy, for more than life : 
 'T was every hour to groan and sigh 
 In grief, in fear, in jealousy. 
 
 I sufier'd much, but found at length 
 Composure in my wounded heart ; 
 The mind attain'd its former strength. 
 
 And bade the lingering hopes depart : 
 Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay, 
 I view'd her as the cheerful day ; 
 And if she frown'd, the clouded sky 
 Had greater terrors for mine eye. 
 
 I slept, I waked, and morn and eve. 
 
 The noon, the night, appear'd the same ; 
 No thought arose the soul to grieve. 
 
 To me no thought of pleasure came : 
 Doom'd the dull comforts to receive 
 Of wearied passions still and tame. 
 " Alas !" I cried, when years had flown — 
 " Must no awakening joy be known ? 
 " Must never Hope's inspiring breeze 
 " Sweep ofi" this dull and torpid ease — • 
 " Must never Love's all-cheering ray 
 " Upon the frozen fancy play — 
 " Unless they seize the passive soul, 
 " And with resistless power control ? 
 " Tlien let me all their force sustain, 
 " And bring me back the Storm again," 
 
 SATIRE. 
 
 I LOVE not the satiric Muse : 
 No man on earth would I abuse ; 
 Nor with empoison'd verses grieve 
 The most ofiending son of Eve. 
 Leave him to law, if he have done 
 What injures any other son : 
 It hardens man to see his name 
 Exposed to public mirth or shame ; 
 And rouses, as it spoils his rest, 
 The baser passions of his breast. 
 
 Attack a book — attack a song — • 
 You will not do essential wrong ; 
 You may their blemishes expose, 
 And yet not be the writer's foes. 
 But when the man you thus attack. 
 
 And him expose with critic art, 
 You put a creature to the rack — 
 
 You wring, you agonise, his honrt. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 2G3 
 
 iS'o farther honest Satire can 
 
 In all her enmity proceed, 
 Than passing by the wicked Man, 
 
 To execrate the wicked Deed. 
 
 If so much virtue yet remain 
 
 That he would feel the sting and pain. 
 
 That virtue is a reason why 
 
 The Muse her sting should not apply : 
 
 If no such Virtue yet survive. 
 
 What is your angry Satire worth, 
 But to arouse the sleeping hive. 
 
 And send the raging Passions forth, 
 In bold, vindictive, angry flight, 
 To sting wherever they alight ? 
 
 BEL VOIR CASTLE. 
 
 [WKITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE DUCHESS 
 
 DOM' ACER OF RUTLAND, AND INSCRIBED 
 
 IN HER ALBUM, 1812.] 
 
 "When native Britons British lands possess'd, 
 Their glory freedom — and their blessing rest — 
 A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey'd, 
 And here his mansion's strong foundation laid : 
 In his own ground the massy stone he sought, 
 From his own woods the rugged timbers brought ; 
 Rudeness and greatness in his work combined, — 
 An humble taste with an aspiring mind. 
 His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread ; 
 Warriors and vassals at his table fed ; 
 Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will, 
 And hailed his mansion on the mighty hill. 
 
 In a new age a Saxon Lord appear'd, 
 And on the lofty base his dwelling rear'd : 
 Then first the grand but threatening form was 
 
 known, 
 And to the subject-vale a Castle shown. 
 Where strength alone appear'd, — the gloomy wall 
 Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall ; 
 In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleam'd ; 
 On the rude board the common banquet steam'd ; 
 Astonish'd peasants fear'd the dreadful skill 
 That placed such wonders on their favourite hill : 
 The soldier praised it as he march'd around. 
 And the dark building o'er the valley frown'd. 
 
 A Norman Baron, in succeeding times. 
 Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes. 
 In feudal pomp appear'd. It was his praise 
 A loftier dome with happier skill to raise ; 
 His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose ; 
 Here friends were feasted, — here confined were 
 
 foes. 
 In distant chambers, with her female train, 
 Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign : 
 Curb'd by no laws, his vassal-tribe he swayM,— 
 The Lord commanded, and the slave obcy'd : 
 No soft'ning arts in those fierce times were found. 
 But rival Barons spread their terrors round ; 
 Kach in the fortress of his power, secure. 
 Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure ; 
 
 And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised. 
 Long held the Castle that his might had raised. 
 
 Came gentler times : — the Barons ceased ti; 
 strive 
 With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive ; 
 Impell'd by softening arts, by honour charm'd. 
 Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm'd. 
 The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view'd. 
 Strong without form, and dignified but rude ; 
 The dark long passage, and the chambers small, 
 Recess and secret hold, he banish'd all, 
 Took the rude gloom and terror from the place, 
 And bade it shine with majesty and grace. 
 
 Then arras first o'er rugged walls appear'd. 
 Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer'd : 
 In each superior room were polisli'd floors. 
 Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors : 
 All was improved within, and then below 
 Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow ; 
 The silver flagon on the table stood. 
 And to the vassal left the horn and wood. 
 Dress'd in his liveries, of his honours vain, 
 Came at the Baron's call a menial train ; 
 Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight ; 
 Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight. 
 
 Then every eye the stately fabric drew 
 To every part ; for all were fair to view : 
 The powerful chief the far-famed work descried. 
 And heard the public voice that waked his pride. 
 Pleased he began — " About, above, below, 
 " What more can wealth command, or science 
 
 show? 
 " Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength ; 
 " Slow comes perfection, but it comes at length. 
 " Still must I grieve : these halls and towers sub- 
 lime, 
 " Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time ; 
 " And, when decay'd, can future days repair 
 " What I in these have made so strong and fair ? 
 " My future heirs shall want of power deplore, 
 " When Time destroys what Time can not restore." 
 
 Sad in hisglory, serious in his pride, 
 At once the chief exulted and he sigh'd •, 
 Dreaming he sigh'd, and still in sleep profound. 
 His thoughts were fix'd within the favourite bound ; 
 When lo ! another Castle rose in view, 
 That in an instant all his pride o'erthrew. 
 In that he sa%v what massy strength bestows, 
 And what from grace and lighter beauty flows, 
 Yet all harmonious ; what was light and free, 
 Robb'd not the weightier parts of dignity — 
 Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace, 
 But all were just, and all in proper place : 
 Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen 
 Adorn'd with flowery knolls the sloping green, 
 Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown. 
 And all the nobler trees that grace our own. 
 
 Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend, 
 That seem'd the neighbouring beauty to defend 
 Of some light graceful dome, — " And this," he 
 
 cried, 
 " Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride." 
 
■2CA 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 lie saw apartments where appear'd to rise 
 
 "What seem'd as men, and fix'd on him their eyes — 
 
 Pictures that spoke ; and there were mirrors tall, 
 
 Doubling each wonder by refiecting all. 
 
 He saw the genial board, the massy plate, 
 
 Grace unaifected, unencumber'd state ; 
 
 And something reach'd him of the social arts, 
 
 That soften manners, and tliat conquer hearts. 
 
 Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw 
 A form of heav'nly kind, and bow'd in awe : 
 Tlic spirit view'd him with benignant grace. 
 And styled himself the Genius of the Place. 
 '• < ;aze, and be glad ! " he cried, " for this, indeed, 
 " ]s the fair Seat that shall to thine succeed, 
 '• When tnese famed kingdoms shall as sisters be, 
 '• And one great sovereign rule the powerful 
 
 three : 
 " Then you rich Vale, far stretching to the west, 
 " Beyond thy bound, shall be by one possess'd : 
 " Then shall true grace and dignity accord — 
 " With splendour, ease — the Castle with its Lord." 
 
 The Baron waked, — " It was," he cried, " a view 
 *' Lively as truth, and I will think it true : 
 " .Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought 
 " Forms of fair works to be hereafter wrought ; 
 " But yet of mine a part will then remain, 
 " Nor will tliat Lord its humbler worth disdain ; 
 " Jlix'dwith his mightier pile shall mine be found, 
 " By him protected, and with his renown'd ; 
 "lie who its full destruction could command, 
 '• A part shall save from the destroying hand, 
 " And say, ' It long has stood, — still honour'd let 
 it stand.' " 
 
 LINES IN LAURA'S ALBUM. 
 
 [Tliose linos were written at tlie desire of a young lady, 
 who requested some verses on a cameo in lier possession.] 
 
 See with what ease the child-like god 
 
 Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod ; 
 
 How gaily, like a smiling boy. 
 
 He seems his triumphs to enjoy. 
 
 And looks as innocently mild 
 
 •Vs if he were indeed a child ! 
 
 But in that meekness who shall tell 
 
 A\ hat vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell: 
 
 By him are tamed the fierce ; — the bold 
 Ami haughty are by him controU'd ; 
 'J'he hero of th' ensanguined field 
 Finds tliere is neither swonl nor shield 
 Availing here. Amid his books 
 The student thinks liow Laura looks; 
 T!i(! miser's self, with heart of lead, 
 AVith all the nobler feelings fled. 
 Has thrown his darling treasures by, 
 And sigh'd for something worth a sigh. 
 
 Love over gentle natures reigns 
 A }:cntle master; yet his pains 
 Arc felt by them, are felt by all, 
 The bitter sweet, the honied gall, 
 
 Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs, 
 Sweet pain, and joys that agonise. 
 Against a power like this, what arts. 
 What virtues, can secure our hearts ? 
 In vain are both — The good, the wise, 
 Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes : 
 And then, to banish Virtue's fear. 
 Like Virtue's self will Love appear ; 
 Bid every anxious feeling cease. 
 And all be confidence and peace. 
 
 He such insidious method takes, 
 He seems to heal the wound he makes, 
 Till, master of the human breast. 
 He shows himself the foe of rest. 
 Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains. 
 And now a very tyrant reigns. 
 
 If, then, his power we cannot shun. 
 And must endure — what can be done ? 
 To whom, thus bound, can we apply ? — 
 To Prudence, as our best ally : 
 For she, like Pallas, for the fight 
 Can arm our eye with clearer sight ; 
 Can teach the happy art that gains 
 A captive who will grace our chains ; 
 And, as we must the dart endure. 
 To bear the wound we cannot cure. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK. 
 
 " You tliat in warlike stories take delight," &c. 
 
 Hail I centre-county of our land, and known 
 For matchless worth and valour all thine own — ■ 
 Warwick ! renown'd for him who best could write, 
 .Shakspcare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight. 
 Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly. 
 And giants fall — Who has not heard of Guy ? 
 
 Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms, 
 To gain immortal glory by his arms, 
 Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain'd, 
 The prize of beauty over Venus gain'd ; 
 V'.r she, the goddess, had some trivial blot 
 j-iiUt marr'd some beauty, which our nymph had 
 
 not ; 
 But this apart, for in a fav'rite theme 
 Poets and lovers are allow'd to dream — 
 Still we believe the lady and her knight 
 Were matchless both : lie in the glorious fight. 
 She in the bower by day, and festive hall bj' night. 
 
 Urged by his love, th' adventurous Guy proceeds. 
 And J'^urope wonders at his warlike deeds ; 
 Whatever prince his potent arm sustains. 
 However weak, the certain conquest gains; 
 On every side the routed legions fly. 
 Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy : 
 To him the injured made their sufferings known, 
 And he relieved all sorrows, but his own : 
 Ladies who owed their freedom to liis might 
 Were grieved to find his heart another's right: 
 
The brood of giant-3, famous in those times, 
 Fell by his arm, and perish'd for their crimes. 
 Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, 
 When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, 
 Fell by the prowess of our champion brave. 
 And his huge body found an English grave. 
 
 But what to Guy were men, or great or small, 
 Or one or many ? — he despatch'd them all ; 
 A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around, 
 A master-spirit in our hero found : 
 'T was desolation all about her den — 
 Her sport was murder, and her meals were men. 
 At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail'd, 
 And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevail'd. 
 
 Nor fear'd he lions more than lions fear 
 Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear: 
 A fiery dragon, whether green or red 
 The story tells not, by his valour bled ; 
 "What more I know not, but by these 't is plain 
 That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain. 
 
 When much of life in martial deeds was spent, 
 His sovereign lady found her heart relent. 
 And gave her hand. Then, all was joy around. 
 And valiant Guy with love and glory crown' d ; 
 Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display'd. 
 And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made. 
 
 Alas ! not long — a hero knows not rest ; 
 A new sensation fill'd his anxious breast. 
 His fancy brought before his eyes a train 
 Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain ; 
 His dreams presented what his sword had done ; 
 He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run. 
 And dying men, with every ghastly wound. 
 Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine 
 ground. 
 
 Alarm'd at this, he dared no longer stay, 
 But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray. 
 With stafi" and beads, went forth to weep and fast 
 
 and pray. 
 In vain his Felice sigh'd — nay, smiled in vain ; 
 With all he loved he dare not long remain. 
 But roved he knew not where, nor said "I come 
 
 again." 
 
 The widow'd countess pass'd her j'cars in grief, 
 But sought in alms and holy deeds relief; 
 And many a pilgrim ask'd, with many a sigh. 
 To give her tidings of the wandering Guy. 
 
 Perverse and cruel ! could it conscience ease, 
 A wife so lovely and so fond to tease ? 
 Or could he not with her a saint become. 
 And, like a quiet man, repent at home ? 
 
 How diff'erent those who now this seat possess ! 
 No idle dreams disturb their happiness : 
 Tlip Lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers, 
 To nobler purpose dedicates his powers : 
 No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear, 
 Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear: 
 The lovely Felice of the present day 
 Dreads not her Lord should from her presence 
 stray ; 
 
 He feels the charm that binds him to a seat 
 Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet. 
 
 But forty days could Guy his fair afi"ord ; 
 Not forty years M'ould weary Wai'wick's lord : 
 He better knows how charms like hers control 
 All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul , 
 He better knows that not on mortal strife. 
 Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life ; 
 But on the ties that first the heart enchain. 
 And every grace that bids the charm remain : 
 Time will, we know, to beauty work despite, 
 And youthful bloom will take with him its flight; 
 But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay'd. 
 Feel not one change of all that Time has made. 
 
 ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE 
 
 UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD 
 
 SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OP 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 Is there one heart that beats on English ground, 
 One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round ; 
 One who had traced the progress of the foe, 
 And does not hail the field of Waterloo ? 
 Who o'er that field, if but in thought, has gone, 
 Without a grateful wish for Wellington ? 
 
 Within that field of glory rose a Tree 
 (Which a fair hand has given us here to see), 
 A noble tree, that, pierced by many a ball. 
 Fell not — decreed in time of peace to fall : 
 Nor shall it die unsung ; for there shall be 
 In many a noble verse the praise of thee. 
 With that heroic chief — reno\\-n'd and gloriotifl 
 tree ! — 
 
 Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part 
 Shall be to warm and stir the English heart ; 
 Form'd into shapes as fancy may design, 
 In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine. 
 The noblest ladies in the land with joy 
 Shall o\vn thy value in the slightest toy ; 
 Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove, 
 And left to friends, a legacy of love. 
 
 And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime, 
 Shalt a memorial be to distant time ; 
 Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart, 
 And noble thoughts to opening minds impart ; 
 NVho shall hereafter learn what deeds were done, 
 What nations freed by Heaven and Wellington. 
 
 Heroic tree we surely this may call — 
 Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn'd its fall ; 
 1 1 fell for many here, but there it stood for all. 
 
ON KECEIVING FROM A LADY A 
 PRESENT OF A RING. 
 
 A RING to me Cecilia sends — 
 
 And what to show ? — that we are friends ; 
 
 That she with favour reads my lays, 
 
 And sends a token of her praise ; 
 
 Such as the nun, with heart of snow, 
 
 Might on her confessor bestow ; 
 
 Or which some favourite nymph would pay, 
 
 Upon her grandsire's natal day. 
 
 And to his trembling hand impart 
 
 The offering of a feeling heart. 
 
 And what shall I return the fair 
 And flattering nymph ? — A verse ? — a prayer ? 
 For were a Ring my present too, 
 I see the smile that must ensue ; — 
 The smile that pleases tliough it stings, 
 And says — " No more of giving rings : 
 Remember, thirty years ai-e gone. 
 Old friend 1 since you presented one ! 
 
 Well ! one there is, or one shall be, 
 To give a ring instead of me ; 
 And with it sacred vows for life 
 To love the fair — the angel-wife ; 
 In that one act may every grace. 
 And every blessing have their place — 
 And give to future hours the bliss. 
 The charm of life, derived from this ; 
 And when even love no more supplies — 
 
 "When weary nature sinks to rest ; — 
 May brighter, steadier light arise, 
 
 And make the parting moment blest ! 
 
 'T is hers for woe the sullen smile to feign. 
 And Laughter lend to Envy's rankling pain ; 
 Soft i'ity's look to Scorn, mild Friendship's to 
 
 Disdain ; 
 Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils. 
 And weeps her transport, where expression fails. 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind, 
 Dwell on a work for thee alone design'd ? 
 Traced by my hand, selected by my heart, 
 "Will it not pleasure to a friend impart ; 
 And her dear smile an ample payment prove 
 For this light labour of aspiring love ? 
 
 Read, but with partial mind, the themes I 
 choose : 
 A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse : 
 This shall a charm to every verse impart, 
 And tlie cold line shall reach the willing heart : 
 For willing hearts the tamest song approve. 
 All read with pleasure when they read with love. 
 
 There are no passions to the Muse unknown, — 
 Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity, are her own : 
 She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power. 
 By varying moods to suit the varying hour ; 
 She plays with each, and veils in changing robes 
 The grief she pities and tlie love she probes. 
 
 TO A LADY ON LEAVING HER AT 
 SIDMOUTH. 
 
 Yes ! I must go — it is a part 
 
 That cruel Fortune has assign'd me, — 
 Must go, and leave, with aching heart, 
 
 What most that heart adores, behind me. 
 
 Still I shall see thee on the sand 
 Till o'er the space the water rises. 
 
 Still shall in thought behind thee stand. 
 And watch the look affection prizes. 
 
 But ah ! what youth attends thy side. 
 
 With eyes that speak his soul's devotion — 
 
 To thee as constant as the tide 
 
 That gives the restless wave its motion? 
 
 Still in thy train must he appear. 
 For ever gazing, smiling, talking? 
 
 Ah I would that he were sighing here. 
 And I were there beside thee walking ! 
 
 Wilt thou to him that arm resign. 
 Who is to that dear heart a stranger, 
 
 And with those matchless looks of thine 
 The peace of this poor youth endanger? 
 
 Away this fear that fancy makes 
 
 When night and death's dull image hide thee ; 
 In sleep, to thee my mind awakes ; 
 
 Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee. 
 
 Who could in absence bear the pain 
 Of all this fierce and jealous feeling, 
 
 But for the hope to meet again. 
 
 And see those smiles all sorrow healing ? 
 
 Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart. 
 Lament that fate such friends should sever, 
 
 And I shall say — " We must not part ;" 
 And thou wilt answer — " Never, never ! " 
 
 TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON 
 HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Of all the subjects poetry commands. 
 
 Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow ; 
 'T is like the streams in Afric's burning sands. 
 
 Exhausted now, and now they overflow. 
 As heaping fuel on a kindling fire, 
 
 So deals a thouglitless poet with his praise ; 
 For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, 
 
 He chokes the very thing ho hopes to raise. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 267 
 
 How shall I, then, the happy medium hit. 
 
 And give the just proportion to my song ? 
 How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit, 
 
 Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wrong ? 
 Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar, 
 
 And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare ; 
 Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore — 
 
 That all confess what I must not declare. 
 
 Yet, on this day, in every passing year, 
 
 Poets the tribute of their praise may bring ; 
 Nor should thy virtues then be so severe 
 
 As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 
 Still I forbear : for why should I portray 
 
 Those looks that seize — that mind that wins the 
 heart? — 
 Since all the world, on this propitious day, 
 
 Will tell how lovely and how good thou art. 
 
 TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES 
 AT PARTING. 
 
 Oh ! do not ask the Muse to show 
 
 Or how we met, or how we part : 
 The bliss, the pain, too well I know, 
 
 That seize in turn this faithful heart. 
 
 That meeting — it was tumult all — 
 
 The eye was pleased, the soul was glad ; 
 
 But thus to memory I recall. 
 
 And feel the parting doubly sad. 
 
 Yes, it was pleasant so to meet 
 
 For us, who fear'd to meet no more, 
 When every passing hour was sweet — 
 
 Sweeter, we thought, than all before, 
 Yv'hen eye from eye new meanings steal, 
 
 When hearts approach, and thoughts unite- 
 Then is indeed the time to feel, 
 
 But, Laura I not a time to write. 
 
 And when at length compell'd to part, 
 
 When fear is strong, and fancy weak, 
 When in some distant good the heart 
 
 For present ease is forced to seek, — 
 When hurried spirits fall and rise. 
 
 As on the changing views we dwell, 
 How vainly then the sufferer tries 
 
 In studied verse his pains to tell ! 
 
 Time brings, indeed, his slow relief, 
 
 In whom the passions live and die ; 
 He gives the bright'ning smile to grief, 
 
 And his the soft consoling sigh : 
 Till then, we vainly wish the power 
 
 To paint the grief or use the pen : 
 But distant far that quiet hour ; 
 
 And I must feel and grieve till then. 
 
268 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 
 
 And is thy soul so ■wrapt in sleep ? 
 
 Thy senses, thy affections, fled ? 
 No play of fancy thine, to keep 
 
 Oblivion from that grave, thy bed ? 
 Then art thou but the breathing dead 
 
 I envy, but I pity too : 
 The bravest may my terrors dread, 
 
 The happiest fain my joys pursue. 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon as the real World I lose, 
 
 Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 
 Or Baxter's sprites my soul abuse — 
 
 For how it is I cannot say. 
 Nor to what powers a passive prey, 
 
 I feel such bliss, I fear such pain ; 
 But all is gloom, or all is gay, 
 
 Soon as th' ideal World I gain. 
 
 Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sloep ! 
 
 Vain troubles of the world, farewell ! 
 Spirits of 111 ! your distance keep — 
 
 And in your own dominions dwell, 
 Ye, the sad emigrants from hell ! 
 
 Watch, dear seraphic beings, round, 
 And these black Enemies repel ; 
 
 Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In vain I pray ! It is my sin 
 
 That thus admits the shadowy throng. 
 Oh ! now they break tumultuous in — 
 
 Angels of darkness fierce and strong. 
 Oh ! I am borne of fate along ; 
 
 My soul, subdued, admits the foe, 
 Perceives and yet endures the wrong, 
 
 Resists, and yet prepares to go. 
 
 Where am I now ? and what to meet ? 
 
 Where I have been entrapt before ; 
 The wicked city's vilest street, — 
 
 I know what I must now explore, 
 'i'he dark-brow'd throng more near and more, 
 
 With murderous looks are on mc thrust, 
 And lo ! they ope the accursed door, 
 
 And I must go — I know 1 must I 
 
 VI. 
 
 That female fiend ! — Why is she there ? 
 
 Alas ! I know her. — Oh, begone ! 
 Why is that tainted bosom bare, 
 
 Why fix'd on me that eye of stone ? 
 Why have they left us thus alone ? 
 
 I saw the deed — why then appear ? 
 Thou art not form'd of blood and bone ! 
 
 Come not, dread being, come not near ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 So ! all is quiet, calm, serene ; 
 
 I walk a noble mansion round — 
 From room to room, from scene to scene, 
 
 I breathless pass, in gloom profound : 
 No human shape, no mortal sound — 
 
 I feel an awe, I own a dread. 
 And still proceed ! — nor stop nor bound — 
 
 And all is silent, all is dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now I'm hurried, borne along, 
 
 All is business ! all alive ! 
 Heavens ! how mighty is the throng. 
 
 Voices humming live a hive ! 
 Through the swelling crowd I strive. 
 
 Bustling forth my way to trace : 
 Never fated to arrive 
 
 At the still-expected place. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ah me ! how sweet the morning sun 
 
 Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine ! 
 How soft those far-off rivers run — 
 
 Those trees their leafy heads decline ! 
 Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine. 
 
 Their health-imparting influence give : 
 Now, all that earth allows is mine — 
 
 Now, now I dream not, but I live. 
 
 My friend, my brother, lost in youth, 
 
 I meet in doubtful, glad surprise. 
 In conscious love, in fearless truth : 
 
 What pleasures in the meeting rise ! 
 Ah ! brief enjoyment ! — Pleasure dies 
 
 E'en in its birth, and turns to paiu : 
 He meets me with hard glazed eyes ! 
 
 He quits mc — si)urns me — with disdain. 
 
THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 
 
 269 
 
 XI. 
 
 I sail the sea, I walk the land ; 
 
 In all the world am I alone : 
 Silent I pace the sea-worn sand. 
 
 Silent I view the princely throne ; 
 I listen heartless for the tone 
 
 Of winds and waters, but in vain ; 
 Creation dies without a groan ! 
 
 And I without a hope remain ! 
 
 xu. 
 
 Unnumber'd riches I behold, 
 
 Glorious untasted I survey : 
 My heart is sick, my bosom cold. 
 
 Friends ! neighbours ! kindred ! where are 
 they ? 
 In the sad, last, long, endless day ! 
 
 When I can neither pray nor weep, 
 Doom'd o'er the sleeping world to stray, 
 
 And not to die, and not to sleep. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Beside the summer sea I stand, 
 
 Where the slow billows swelling shine : 
 How beautiful this pearly sand. 
 
 That waves, and winds, and years refine : 
 Be this delicious quiet mine ! 
 
 The joy of youth ! so sweet before, 
 When I could thus my frame recline, 
 
 And watch th' entangled weeds ashore 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet, I remember not that sea. 
 
 That other shore on yonder side : 
 Between them narrow bound must be, 
 
 If equal rise the opposing tide — 
 Lo ! lo ! they rise — and I abide 
 
 The peril of the meeting flood : 
 Away, away, my footsteps slide — 
 
 I pant upon the clinging mud ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh, let me now possession take 
 
 Of this — it cannot be a dream. 
 Yes ! now the soul must be awake — 
 
 These pleasures are — they do not seem. 
 And is it true ? Oh, joy extreme ! 
 
 All whom I loved, and thought them dead, 
 Far down in Lethe's flowing stream. 
 
 And, with them, life's best pleasures fled : 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yes, many a tear for them I shed^ 
 
 Tears that relieve the anxious breast ; 
 And now, by heavenly favour led, 
 
 We meet — and One, the fairest, best, 
 Among them — ever-welcome guest ! 
 
 Within the room, that seem'd destroy'd — 
 This room endear'd, and still possess'd, 
 
 By this dear party still enjoy'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Speak to me '. speak ! that I may know 
 I am thus happy ! — dearest, speak I 
 
 Those smiles that haunt fond memory show ! 
 Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak ; 
 
 But yet 't is joy — And all I seek 
 
 Is mine 1 What glorious day is this ! 
 
 Now let me bear with spirit meek 
 An hour of pure and perfect bliss. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 But do ye look indeed as friends ? 
 
 Is there no change ? Are not ye cold ? 
 Oh ! I do dread that Fortune lends 
 
 Fictitious good ! — that I behold, 
 To lose, these treasures, which of old 
 
 Were all my glory, all my pride : 
 May not these arms that form infold ? 
 
 Is all affection asks denied ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Say, what is this ! — How are we tried. 
 
 In this sad world ! — I know not these — 
 All strangers, none to me allied — 
 
 Those aspects blood and spirit freeze : 
 Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare ; 
 
 And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 
 Resume thy wonted looks and air, 
 
 And break this melancholy charm. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And are they vanish'd ? Is she lost ? 
 
 Shall never day that form restore ? 
 Oh ! I am all by fears engross'd ; 
 
 Sad truth has broken in once more. 
 And I the brief delight deplore : 
 
 How durst they such resemblance take ? 
 Heavens ! with what grace the mask they wore ! 
 
 Oh, from what visions I awake I 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Once more, once more upon the shore ! 
 
 Now back the rolling ocean flows : 
 The rocky bed now far before 
 
 On the receding water grows — 
 The treasures and the wealth it owes 
 
 To human misery — all in view ; 
 Fate all on me at once bestows. 
 
 From thousands robb'd and murder'd too. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 But, lo ! whatever I can find 
 
 Grows mean and worthless as I view ; 
 They promise, but they cheat the mind. 
 
 As promises are boi-n to do. 
 How lovely every form and hue. 
 
 Till seiz'd and master'd — Then arise; 
 For all that admiration drew. 
 
 All that our senses can despise ! 
 
 xxm. 
 
 Within the basis of a tower, 
 
 I saw a plant — it graced the spot ; 
 There was within nor wind nor shower. 
 
 And this had life that flowers have not. 
 I drew it forth — Ah, luckless lot ! 
 
 It was the mandrake : nnd the sound 
 Of anguish deeply smother'd shot 
 
 Into my breast with pang profound. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 " I Mould I were a soaring bird," 
 
 Said Folljs " and I then would fly : 
 Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard — 
 
 " You can but fall — suppose you try ! 
 And though you may not mount the sky, 
 
 You will not grovel in the mire." 
 Hail, words of comfort ! Now can 1 
 
 Spurn earth, and to the air aspire. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And this, befoi-e, might I have done 
 
 If 1 had courage — that is all : 
 'T is easier now to soar than run ; 
 
 LTp ! up ! — we neither tire nor fall. 
 Children of dust, be yours to crawl 
 
 On the vile earth ! — while, happier, I 
 Must listen to an inward call, 
 
 That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I tumble from the loftiest tower, 
 
 Yet evil have I never found ; 
 Supported bj' some favouring power, 
 
 I come in safetj' to the ground. 
 I rest upon the sea, the sound 
 
 Of many waters in mine ear. 
 Yet have no dread of being drown'd, 
 
 But see my way, and cease to fear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Awake, there is no living man 
 
 "SVho majf my fixed spirit sliake ; 
 But, sleeping, there is one who can, 
 
 And oft does he the trial make : 
 Against his might resolves I take. 
 
 And him oppose with high disdain ; 
 But quickly all my powers forsake 
 
 ]Mj- mind, and 1 resume my chain. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I know not how, but I am brought 
 
 Into a large and Gothic hall. 
 Seated with those I never sought — 
 
 Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers, — silent all ; 
 Pale as the dead ; enrobed and tall, 
 
 Majestic, frozen, solemn, still ; 
 They wake my fears, my wits appal, 
 
 And with both scorn and terror fill. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Kow are they seated at a board 
 
 In that cold grandeur — I am there. 
 But what can mummied kings afford ? 
 
 This is their meagre ghostly fare. 
 And proves wliat fleshless things they stare I 
 
 Yes ! I am sedated with the dead : 
 How great, and yet liow mean they are ! 
 
 Y'es ! I can scorn them wliile I dread. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 They 're gone 1 — and in tlu»ir room I see 
 
 A fairy being, form and dress 
 Brilliant as light ; nor can there be 
 
 On eartli that heavenly loveliness ; 
 
 Nor words can that sweet look express, 
 Or tell what living gems adorn 
 
 That wond'rous beauty : who can guess 
 Where such celestial charms were born ? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Y'et, as I wonder and admire. 
 
 The gi-ace is gone, the glory dead ; 
 And now it is but mean attire 
 
 Upon a shrivel'd beldame spread, 
 Laid loathsome on a pauper's bed, 
 
 ■Where wretchedness and woe are found, 
 And tne faint putrid odour shed 
 
 By all that 's foul and base around ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A garden this ? oh ! lovely breeze ! 
 
 Oh ! flowers that with such freshness bloom !- 
 Flowers ^hall I call such forms as these, 
 
 Or this delicious air perfume? 
 Oh ! this form better worlds must come , 
 
 On earth such beauty who can meet? 
 No I this is not the native home 
 
 Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet I 
 
 XXXIIl. 
 
 Where ? where ? — am I reduced to this — 
 
 Thus sunk in poverty extreme ? 
 Can I not these vile things dismiss ? 
 
 No ! they are things that more than seem : 
 This room with that cross-parting beam 
 
 Holds yonder squalid tribe and me — 
 But they were ever thus, nor dream 
 
 Of being wealthy, favour'd, free I— 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Shall I a coat and badge receive. 
 
 And sit among these crippled men, 
 And not go forth without the leave 
 
 Of him — and ask it humbly then — 
 Who reigns in this infernal den — 
 
 Where all beside in woe repine ? 
 Yes, yes, I must : nor tongue nor pen 
 
 Can paint such miseiy as mine ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Wretches ! if ye were only poor, 
 
 You would my sympathy engage ; 
 Or were ye vicious, and no more, 
 
 I might be fiU'd with manly rage ; 
 Or had ye patience, wise and sage 
 
 AVe might such worthy suflferers call ; 
 But j'e arc birds that suit your cage — 
 
 Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 How came I hither ? Oh, that Hag ! 
 
 'T is she the enchanting spell prepares ; 
 By cruel witchcraft she can drag 
 
 My struggling being in her snares ; 
 Oh, how triumphantly she glares ! 
 
 But yet would leave me, could I make 
 Strong efi'ort to subdue my cares. — 
 
 'T IS MADE ! — and I to Ixecdom wake ! 
 
TALES. 
 
 271 
 
 TALES.' 
 
 TO HER GRACE 
 
 ISABELLA, DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND."- 
 
 Madam, 
 The dedication of works of literature to persons of superior worth and eminence appears to have been 
 a measure early adopted, and continued to the present time ; so that, A-ihatever objections have been 
 made to the language of dedicators, such addresses must be considered as perfectly' consistent with 
 reason and proprietj' ; in fact, superior rank and elevated situation in life naturally and justly claim 
 such respect ; and it is the prerogative of greatness to give countenance and favour to all who appear 
 to merit and to need them : it is likewise the prerogative of every kind of superioritj' and celebrity, of 
 personal merit when peculiar or extraordinary, of dignity, elegance, wealth, and beavity ; certainly of 
 superior intellect and intellectual acquirements : every such kind of eminence has its privilege, and 
 being itself an object of distinguished approbation, it gains attention for whomsoever its possessor dis- 
 tinguishes and approves. 
 
 Yet the causes and motives for an address of this kind rest not entirely Mith the merit of the 
 patron ; the feelings of the author himself having their weight and consideration in the choice he makes : 
 he may have gratitude for benefits received,^ or pride not illaudable in aspiring to the favour of those 
 whose notice confers honour ; or he may entertain a secret but strong desire of seing a name in the 
 entrance of his work, which he is accustomed to utter with peculiar satisi'action, and to hear mentioned 
 with veneration and delight. 
 
 Such, Madam, are the various kinds of eminence for which an author on these occasions would 
 probably seek, and they meet in your Grace : such too are the feelings by which he would be actuated, 
 and they centre in me : let me therefore entreat your Grace to take this book into your favour and pro- 
 tection, and to receive it as an offering of the utmost respect and duty, from. 
 
 May it please your Grace, 
 YouK Grace's 
 
 Most obedient, humble, 
 
 and devoted servant, 
 Miiston, July 31, 1812. . Geo. Ckabbe. 
 
 ' [First published in August, 1812. See ante, p. 56.] 
 
 2 [See ante, p. 32.] 
 
 3 [On the death of the Duke of Rutland, in 1787, the 
 Duchess, desirous of retaining in the neif;hbourhood the 
 j rotri/e of her lamented husband, gave Mr. I'rabbe a letter to 
 ihe Lord Chancellor, earnestly requesting him to exchange 
 
 two small livings held by the poet in Dorsetshire, for two of 
 superior value in the vale of Bel voir. Mr. Crabbe proceeded 
 to London, but was not, on this occasion, very courteously 
 received by Lord 'I'hurlow. " No," he growled ; " by G — d, 
 I will not do this for any man in England." Hut he did it, 
 nevertheless, for a w oman in Kngland. The good Duchess, 
 on arriving in town, waited on him personally to renew her 
 request, and he yielded. See ante, p. 38.] 
 
272 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 That the appearance of the present work before 
 the public is occasioned by a favourable reception 
 of the former two, I hesitate not to acknowledge : 
 because, while the confession may be regarded as 
 some proof of gratitude, or at least of attention, 
 from an author to his readers, it ought not to be 
 considered as an indication of vanity. It is un- 
 questionably very pleasant to be assured that our 
 labours are well received ; but, nevertheless, this 
 must not be taken for a just and full criterion of 
 their merit : publications of great intrinsic value 
 have been met with so much coolness, that a writer 
 who succeeds in obtaining some degree of notice 
 should look upon himself rather as one favoured 
 than meritorious, as gaining a prize from Fortune, 
 and not a recompense for desert ; and, on the con- 
 trary, as it is well known that books of very 
 inferior kind have been at once pushed into the 
 strong current of popularity, and are there kept 
 buoyant by the force of the stream, the writer 
 who acquires not this adventitious help may be 
 reckoned rather as unfortunate than undeserving : 
 and from these opposite considerations it follows, 
 that a man may speak of his success without in- 
 curring justly the odium of conceit, and may like- 
 ■B-ise acknowledge a disappointment without an 
 adequate cause for humiliation or self-reproach. 
 
 But were it true that something of the compla- 
 cency of self-approbation would insinuate itself 
 into an author's mind with the idea of success, the 
 sensation would not be that of unalloyed pleasure ; 
 it would perhaps assist him to bear, but it would 
 not enable him to escape, the mortification he must 
 encounter from censures, which, though he may be 
 unwilling to admit, yet he finds himself unable to 
 confute ; as well as from advice, which, at the 
 same time that he cannot but approve, he is com- 
 pelled to reject. 
 
 Reproof and advice, it is probable, every author 
 will receive, if we except those who merit so much 
 
 I [See Edinburgh Keview, vol. xvi. p. 55. " We own we 
 have a very stron;; desire to see Mr. Crabbe apply his yreat 
 powers to the const ruction of some interesting and connected 
 story. He has i;reat talent Tor narration ; and that unrivalled 
 gift in the delineation of cliaracter, wliii-h is now used only 
 lor the creation of detaclied portraits, mijjht be turned to ad- 
 mirable account in maintainin); the interests an<i enhancing 
 tiie probability of an extended train of adventures."] 
 
 '["We did not," say the Edinburj;!! Reviewers, "wish 
 Mr. Crabbe to write an Kpic— as he seems from his preface to 
 have imagined. We are perfectly satisfled with the lenyth of 
 
 (if tlie former, that the latter is contemptuously 
 denied them ; now, of these, reproof, though it 
 may cause more temporary uneasiness, will in 
 many cases create less difficulty, since errors may 
 be corrected when opportunity occurs : but advice, 
 I repeat, may be of such nature, that it will be 
 painful to reject and yet impossible to follow it ; 
 and in this predicament I conceive myself to be 
 placed. There has been recommended to me, and 
 from authority which neither inclination nor pru- 
 dence leads me to resist, in any new work I might 
 undertake, a unity of subject, and that arrange- 
 ment of my materials which connects the whole 
 and gives additional interest to every part ;' in 
 fact, if not an Epic Poem, strictly so denominated, 
 yet such composition as would possess a regular 
 succession of events, and a catastrophe to whicii 
 every incident should be subservient, and which 
 every character, in a greater or less degree, should 
 conspire to accomplish.^ 
 
 In a Poem of this natiu-e, the principal and in- 
 ferior characters in some degree resemble a general 
 and his army, where no one pursues his peculiar 
 objects and adventures, or pursues them in unison 
 with the movements and grand purposes of the 
 whole body; where there is a community of in- 
 terests and a subordination of actors : and it wns 
 upon this view of the subject, and of the necessity 
 for such distribution of persons and events, that I 
 found myself obliged to relinquish an undertakincr, 
 for which the characters I could command, and 
 the adventures I could describe, were altogetlicr 
 unfitted. 
 
 But if these characters wliicli seemed to be at 
 my disposal were not such as would coalesce into 
 one body, nor were of a nature to be commanded 
 by one mind, so neither on examination did tlioy 
 appear as an imconnected multitude, accidentally 
 collected, to be suddenly dispersed ; but rather 
 beings of whom might be formed groups and 
 
 the pieces he has given us, and delighted with tlieir number 
 and viu-iety. In tliese respects the volume is exactly as «e 
 could have wished it. lint we should have liked a little moie 
 of the deep and tragical passions — of those passions whi' h 
 exalt and overwhelm the soul — to whose stormy seat llie 
 modern muses can so rarely raise their lliyht — and which lie 
 hiis wielded with such terrilic force in his Sir Kustace Grey 
 and the Gipsy Woman. Wliat we wanted, in short, were tales 
 something in the style of those two singidar compositions — 
 with less jocularity than prevails in the rest of his writings — 
 rather more incidents, and rather fewer details."] 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 273 
 
 Binaller societies, the relations of whose adventures 
 and pursuits might bear that kind of similitude to 
 an Heroic Poem, which these minor associations of 
 men (as pilgrims on the way to their saint, or 
 parties in search of amusement, travellers excited 
 by curiosity, or adventurers in pursuit of gain) 
 have in points of connection and importance with 
 a regular and disciplined army. 
 
 Allowing this comparison, it is manifest that, 
 while much is lost for want of unity of subject and 
 grandeur of design, something is gained by greater 
 variety of incident and more minute display of 
 character, by accuracy of description and diversity 
 of scene : in these narratives we pass from gay to 
 grave, from lively to severe, not only without im- 
 propriety, but with manifest advantage. In one 
 continued and connected poem, the reader is, in 
 general, highly gratified or severely disappointed ; 
 by many independent narratives, he has thp reno- 
 vation of hope, although he has been dissatisfied, 
 and a prospect of reiterated pleasure, should he 
 find himself entertained. 
 
 I mean not, however, to compare these different 
 modes of writing as if I were balancing their ad- 
 vantages and defects before I could give preference 
 to either ; with me the way I take is not a matter of 
 choice, but of necessity : I present not my Tales to 
 the reader as if I had chosen the best method of 
 ensuring his approbation, but as using the only 
 means I possessed of engaging his attention. 
 
 It may probably be remarked, that Tales, how- 
 ever dissimilar, might have been connected by 
 some associating circumstances to which the whole 
 number might bear equal affinity, and that ex- 
 amples of such union are to be found in Chaucer, in 
 Boccace, and other collectors and inventors of 
 Tales, which, considered in themselves, are alto- 
 gether independent ; and to this idea I gave so 
 much consideration as convinced me that I could 
 not avail myself of the benefit of such artificial 
 mode of affinity. To imitate the English poet, 
 characters must be found adapted to their several 
 relations, and this is a point of great difficulty and 
 hazard : much allowance seems to be required 
 even for Chaucer himself; since it is difficult to 
 conceive that on any occasion the devout and 
 delicate Prioress, the courtly and valiant Ivnight, 
 and " the poure good Man the persone of a Towne," 
 would be the voluntary companions of the drunken 
 Miller, the licentious Sumpnour, and " the Wanton 
 Wife of Bath," and enter into that colloquial and 
 travelling intimacy which, if a common pilgrimage 
 to the shrine of St. Thomas may be said to excuse, 
 I know nothing beside (and certainly nothing in 
 these times) that would produce such effect. Boc- 
 cace, it is true, avoids all difficulty of this kind, 
 by not assigning to the ten relators of his hundred 
 Tales any marked or peculiar characters ; nor, 
 though there are male and female in company, can 
 the sex of the narrator be distinguished in the 
 narration. To have followed the method of 
 Chaucer might have been of use, but could scarcely 
 be adopted, from its difficulty ; and to have taken 
 that of the Italian writer would have been per- 
 
 fectly eas}', but could be of no service : the at- 
 tempt at union, therefore, has been relinquished, 
 and these relations are submitted to the public, 
 connected by no other circumstance than their 
 being the productions of the same author, and 
 devoted to the same purpose, the entertainment of 
 his readers. 
 
 It has been already acknowledged, that these 
 compositions have no pretensions to be estimated 
 with the more lofty and heroic kind of poems ; but 
 I feel great reluctance in admitting that they have 
 not a fair and legitimate claim to the poetic cha- 
 racter : in vulgar estimation, indeed, all that is 
 not prose passes for poetry ; but I have not ambi- 
 tion of so humble a kind as to be satisfied with a 
 concession which requires nothing in the poet ex- 
 cept his ability for counting syllables ; and I trust 
 something more of the poetic character will be 
 allowed to the succeeding pages than what the 
 heroes of the Dunciad might share \^^th the 
 author : nor was I aware that, by describing, as 
 faithfully as I could, men, manners, and things, I 
 was forfeiting a just title to a name which has been 
 freely granted to many, whom to equal, and even 
 to excel, is but very stinted commendation. 
 
 In this case it appears that the usual comparison 
 between Poetry and Painting entirely fails : the 
 artist who takes an accurate likeness of individuals, 
 or a faithful representation of scenery, may not 
 rank so high in the public estimation as one who 
 paints an historical event, or an heroic action ; but 
 he is nevertheless a painter, and his accuracy is so 
 far from diminishing his reputation, that it procures 
 for him in general both fame and emolument : nor 
 is it perhaps with strict justice determined that the 
 credit and reputation of those verses which strongly 
 and faithfully delineate character and manners, 
 should be lessened in the opinion of the public by 
 the very accuracy which gives value and distinction 
 to the productions of the pencil. 
 
 Nevertheless, it must be granted that the pre- 
 tensions of any composition to be regarded as poetry 
 wiU depend upon that definition of the poetic cha- 
 racter which he who undertakes to determine the 
 question has considered as decisive ; and it is con- 
 fessed also, that one of great authority may be 
 adopted, by which the verses now before the reader, 
 and many others wliich have probably amused and 
 delighted him, must be excluded : a definition like 
 this will be found in the words which the greatest 
 of poets, not divinely inspired, has given to t]:e 
 mjst noble and valiant Duke of Athens — ■ 
 
 " The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
 And as Imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation, and a name." ^ 
 
 Hence we observe the Poet is one who, in the 
 excursions of his fancy between heaven and earth, 
 
 * Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V. Scene 1. 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 lights upon a kind of fairy-land, in which he places 
 a creation of his own, where he embodies shapes, 
 and gives action and adventure to his ideal oil- 
 spring : taking captive the imagination of his 
 readers, he elevates them above the grossncss of 
 actual being into the soothing and pleasant atmo- 
 sphere of supramundane existence : there he ob- 
 tains for his visionary inhabitants the interest that 
 engages a reader's attention without ruffling his 
 feelings, and excites that moderate kind of sym- 
 pathy which the realities of nature oftentimes fail 
 to produce, either because they are so familiar and 
 insignificant that they excite no determinate emo- 
 tion, or are so harsh and powerful that the feelings 
 excited are grating and distasteful. 
 
 Be it then granted that (as Duke Theseus ob- 
 serves) " such tricks hath strong Imagination," and 
 that such poets " are of imagination all compact ;" 
 let it be further conceded, that theirs is a higher 
 and more dignified kind of composition, nay, the 
 only kind that has pretensions to inspiration ; still, 
 that these poets should so entirely engross the title 
 as to exclude those who address their productions 
 to the plain sense and sober judgment of their 
 readers, rather than to their fancy and imagination, 
 I must repeat that I am unwilling to admit — be- 
 cause I conceive that, by granting such right of 
 exclusion, a vast deal of what has been hitherto 
 received as genuine poetry would no longer be en- 
 titled to that appellation. 
 
 All that kind of satire wherein character is skil- 
 fully delineated must (this criterion being allowed) 
 no longer be esteemed as genuine poetry ; and for 
 the same reason many afi'ecting narratives which 
 are founded on real events, and borrow no aid 
 whatever from the imagination of the writer, must 
 likewise be rejected: a considerable part of the 
 poems, as they have hitherto been denominated, of 
 Chaucer, are of this naked and unveiled character : 
 and there are in his Tales many pages of coarse, 
 accurate, and minute, but very striking descrip- 
 tion. Many small poems in a subsequent age, of 
 most impressive kind, are adapted and addressed 
 to the common sense of the reader, and prevail 
 
 * [" Dryden, being unwillinu' to undertake a task upon 
 which he liaJ repeatedly laboured, deputed Nahum Tate to 
 be his assistant in a second part of Absalom and Achitophel ; 
 reserving for himself only the execution of certain particular 
 characters, and the general plan and rovisal of the poem. The 
 continuation owes all its spirit to the touches and additions of 
 the author of the first part. Those lines to the number of two 
 hundred, beginning — 
 
 ' Next these a tioop of busy spirits press,* 
 
 and concluding — 
 
 '.To talk like Doeg, and to write like thee,' 
 
 are entirely composed by Dryden, and contain some of the 
 most masterly strokes of liis pen." — Sia Walteii Scott.] 
 
 * [In one of Mr. Crabbe's note-books, containing the original 
 draft of this preface, there is the following passage : — " It has 
 been asked, if Pope was a poet? No one, I conceive, will 
 accuse me of vanity in bringing forv\ard this query, or sup- 
 pose m<,' capable of comparing myself with a man so eminent ; 
 but persons very unliUe in other respects may, in one par- 
 ticular, admit of comparison, or rather the same quesliiin niav 
 be applied to liolh. Now, wlio will comjilain that a definition 
 
 by the strong language of truth and nature : they 
 amused our ancestors, and they continue to engage 
 our interest, and excite our feelings, by the same 
 powerful appeals to the heart and aff'ections. In 
 times less remote, Dryden has given us much of 
 this poetry, in which the force of expression and 
 accuracy of description have neither needed nor 
 obtained assistance from the fancy of the writer ; 
 tlie characters in his Absalom and Achitophel are 
 instances of this, and more especially those of Doeg 
 and Og in the second part: these, with all their 
 grossness, and almost offensive accuracy, are found 
 to possess that strength and spirit which has pre- 
 served from utter annihilation the dead bodies of 
 Tate, to whom they were inhumanly bound, hap- 
 pily with a fate the reverse of that caused by the 
 cruelty of Mezentius ; for there the living perished 
 in the putrefaction of the dead, and here the dead 
 are preserved by the vitality of the living. "* .\nd 
 to bring forward one other example, it will be 
 found that Pope himself has no small portion of 
 this actuality of relation, this nudity of description, 
 and poetry without an atmosphere ; the lines be- 
 ginning " In the worst inn's worst room," are an 
 example, and many others may be seen in his 
 Satires, Imitations, and above all in his Dunciad : 
 the frequent absence of those " Sports of Fancy," 
 and " Tricks of strong Imagination," have been so 
 much observed, that some have ventured to ques- 
 tion whether even this writer were a poet; and 
 tliough, as Dr. Johnson has remarked, it would be 
 difficult to form a definition of one in which Pope 
 should not be admitted,* yet they who doubted 
 his claim had, it is likelj', provided for his exclu- 
 sion by forming that kind of character for their 
 Poet, in which this elegant versifier, for so he 
 must be then named, should not be comprehended.'' 
 
 These things considered, an author will find 
 comfort in his expulsion from the rank and society 
 of Poets, by reflecting that men much his superitn-s 
 were likewise shut out, and more especially when 
 he finds also that men not much his superiors are 
 entitled to admission. 
 
 But, in whatever degree I may venture to differ 
 
 of poetry, wnich excludes a great part of the writings of Pope, 
 will shut out him ? I do not lightly take up the idea, but I 
 conceive that by that kind of definition, one half of our moM 
 agreeable Knglish versification (most generally liehl, b\ 
 general readers, to be agreeable and good) will be e\clude(i, 
 and an equal quantity, at least of very moderate, or. to say 
 truly, of very wretched composition, will be taken in."] 
 
 6 [" The great cause of the present deplorable slate of 
 Knglish poetry is to be attributed to that absurd and sys- 
 tenuitic depreciation of Pope, in which, for the last few years, 
 there has been a kind of epidemical concurrence. Men of the 
 must opposite opinions have united upon this topic. Wartoii 
 and Churchill began it, having borrowed the hint probably 
 from the heroes of the Dunciad, and their own internal con- 
 viction that their proper reputation can be as notliing till tli<> 
 most perfect and harmonious of poets- he who, having no 
 iMiilt, has had Ukason made his reproach— was redncid ta 
 what they conceived to be his level ; but even tlwii dared not 
 degrade him below Dryden. Goldsmith and Rogers, ami 
 tlampbell, his most successful disciples; ami Ilaylev, who, 
 howev(!r feelile, has left one poem ' that will not be willingly 
 l.t die" (the Triumphs of Temper), kept up the reputation of 
 that pure and perlect style: and t'rabbe, tlie lirst of living 
 poets, has almost equalled the master."— Byron, iS20.] 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 275 
 
 from any others in my notions of the qualifications 
 and character of the true Poet, I most cordially 
 assent to their opinion who assert, that his prin- 
 cipal exertions must be made to engage the atten- 
 tion of his readers ; and further, I must allow that 
 the effect of poetry should be to lift the mind from 
 the painful realities of actual existence, from its 
 everyday concerns, and its perpetually-occurring 
 vexatious, and to give it repose by substituting 
 objects in their place which it may contemplate 
 with some degree of interest and satisfaction : but, 
 what is there iu all this, which may not be effected 
 by a fair representation of existing character? 
 nay, by a faithful delineation of those painful 
 realities, those every-day concerns, and those per- 
 petually-occurring vexations themselves, provided 
 they be not (which is hardly to be supposed) the 
 very concerns and distresses of the reader ? for 
 when it is admitted that they have no particular 
 relation to him, but are the troubles and anxieties 
 of other men, they excite and interest his feelings 
 as the imaginary exploits, adventures, and perils 
 of romance ;— they soothe his mind, and keep hie 
 curiosity pleasantly awake ; they appear to have 
 enough of reality to engage his sympathy, but 
 possess not interest sufficient to create painful sen- 
 sations. ? Fiction itself, we know, and every work 
 of fancy, must for a time have the effect of rea- 
 lities; nay, the very enchanters, spirits, and 
 monsters of Ariosto and Spenser must be present 
 in the mind of the reader while he is engaged by 
 their operations, or they would be as the objects 
 and incidents of a nursery tale to a rational under- 
 standing, altogether despised and neglected : in 
 truth, I can but consider this pleasant effect upon 
 the mind of a reader as depending neither upon 
 the events related (whether they be actual or 
 
 ' [Mr. Crabbe often expressed great admiration of the fol- 
 lowing lines by Mr. Matthias : — 
 
 " Tlie dread resistless pow'r 
 That %vorks deep-felt at inspiration's hour, 
 He claims alone — 
 
 Who claims ? 
 
 The favour 'd Bard, 
 Who, nobly conscious of his just reward, 
 With loftier soul, and undecaying might, 
 Paints what he feels, in characters of light. 
 He turns : and, instantaneous, all around, 
 OliH's whiten, waters murmur, voices sound ; 
 Portentous forms in heaven's aerial hall 
 Appear, as at some great supernal call. 
 
 " Thence oft in thought his steps ideal haste 
 To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste ; 
 To plains, where Tadmor's regal ruins lie 
 In desolation's sullen majesty ; 
 Or wliere Carthusian spires tlie pilgrim draw, 
 And how tlie soul with unresisted awe ; 
 Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad biow, 
 Survey'd the world's inglorious toil below ; 
 
 imaginarj'), nor upon the characters introduced 
 (whether taken from life or fancy), but upon the 
 the manner in which the poem itself is conducted ; 
 let that be judiciously managed, and the occur- 
 rences actually copied from life will have the same 
 happy effect as the inventions of a creative fancy ; 
 — while, on the other hand, the imaginary persons 
 and incidents to which the poet has given " a 
 local habitation and a name," will make upon the 
 concurring feelings of the reader the same impres- 
 sions with those taken from truth and nature, 
 because they will appear to be derived from that 
 source, and therefore of necessity will have a 
 similar effect. 
 
 Having thus far presumed to claim for the en- 
 suing pages the rank and title of poetry, I attempt 
 no more, nor venture to class or compare them 
 with any other kinds of poetical composition ; 
 their place will doubtless be found for them. 
 
 A principal view and wish of the poet must be 
 to engage the mind of his readers, as, failing in 
 that point, he will scarcely succeed in any other : 
 I therefore willingly confess that much of my time 
 and assiduity has been devoted to this purpose ; 
 but, to the ambition of pleasing, no other sacrifices 
 have, I trust, been made, than of my own labour 
 and care. Nothing will be found that militates 
 against the rules of projiriety and good manners, 
 nothing that offends against the more important 
 precepts of morality and religion ; and with this 
 negative kind of merit, I commit my book to the 
 judgment and taste of the reader — not being will- 
 ing to provoke his vigilance by professions of 
 accuracy, nor to solicit his indulgence by apologies 
 for mistakes. 
 
 Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd. 
 Prostrate great Nature's present God adored. 
 And bade, in solitude's extremest bourn, 
 Religion hallow the severe sojourn. 
 
 " Thence musing, lo, he bends his weary eyes 
 On Life, and ail its sad realities ; 
 Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear. 
 Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear, 
 'Mid forms that rise, and flutter tlirough the gloom. 
 Till Heath unbar the cold sepulchral room. 
 
 " Such is the Pokt ; such his claim divine 1 — 
 Imagination's ' charter'd libertine,' 
 He scorns, in apathy, to float or dream 
 On listless satisfaction's torpid stream. 
 But dares, ai.one, in venturous bark to ride 
 Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide ; 
 With thoughts encount'ring thoughts in conflict strong. 
 The deep Pierian thunder of the song 
 Rolls o er his raptured sense ; the realms on high 
 For him disclose their varied majesty ; 
 He feels the call — then bold, beyond control. 
 Stamps on the immortal page the visions of his soul \"1 
 
 r 2 
 
276 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 TALES/ 
 
 TALE I. 
 
 THE DUMB ORATORS; OR, THE 
 BENEFIT OF SOCIETY, 
 
 With feir round belly, with good capon lined. 
 
 With eyes severe 
 
 Full of wise saws and modem instances. 
 
 As Tou Like It. 
 
 Deep shame hath struck me dumb. — King John. 
 
 He gives the bastinado with liis tongue ; 
 Our ears are cudgell'd. — King John. 
 
 Let's kill all the lawyers ; 
 Now show yourselves men ; 't is lor liberty : 
 We will not leave one lord or gentleman. — 2 Henry VI. 
 
 And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 
 
 Twelfth Mght.^ 
 
 That all men would be cowards if they dare, 
 Some men we know have courage to declare ; 
 And this the life of many a hero shows. 
 That, like the tide, man's courage ebbs and flows : 
 With friends and gay companions round them, then 
 Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men ; 
 Who, with opponents seated, miss the aid 
 Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid ; 
 
 ' [" Tliese Tales may be considered as supplementary 
 chapters to ' The Parish' Register,' or ' The Uorougli.' Tli'e 
 same tone, the same subjects, the same linislied and minute 
 delineation of things quite ordinary and common ; the same 
 kindly sympatliy with the humble and innocent pleasures of 
 the Poor, and the same indulgence for their venial oflences, 
 contrasted with a strong sense of their frequent depravity, and 
 too constant a recollection of the sufferings it produces ; and, 
 finally, the same honours paid to the delicate afl'ect ions and 
 ennoljling passions of humble life, with tlie same generous 
 testimony to their frequent existence, mixed up iis bclore 
 with a reprobation sufliciently rigid, and a ridicule suflicicnily 
 severe, of their excesses and alTectations. If we were re- 
 quired to make a comparative estimate of the merits of the 
 present work, or to point out the shades of dilVcrence by 
 which it is distinguished from tlnse that have yone belore it, 
 "e should say, that there are in it a greater numher of in- 
 stances in which the poet has combined the natural language 
 and manners of humble life with the energy of true passion, 
 and the beauty of generous alfection — in wliicli he has traced 
 out the course of those rich and lovely veins even in the rude 
 and unpolished masses that lie at the bottom of society— and 
 
 Like timid trav'llers in the night, they fear 
 Th' assault of foes, when not a friend is near. 
 
 In contest mighty, and of conquest proud. 
 Was Justice Bolt,^ impetuous, warm, and loud ; 
 His fame, his prowess all the country knew, 
 And disputants, with one so fierce, were few : 
 He was a younger son, for law design'd. 
 With dauntless look and persevering mind ; 
 While yet a clerk, for disputation famed, 
 No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed. 
 Scarcely he bade his master's desk adieu, 
 When both his brothers from the world withdrew. 
 An ample fortune he from them possess'd, 
 And was with saving care and prudence bless'd. 
 Now would he go and to the country give 
 Example how an English 'squire should live ; 
 How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be. 
 By a well-order'd hospitality ; 
 He would the rights of all so well maintain. 
 That none should idle be, and none complain. 
 
 All this and more he purposed — and what man 
 Could do, he did to realise his plan ; 
 But time convinced him that we cannot kee^) 
 A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep ; 
 For they, so far from following as we lead, 
 Make that a cause why they will not proceed. 
 Man will not follow where a rule is shown, 
 But loves to take a method of his own : 
 Explain the way with all your care and skill, 
 This will he quit, if but to prove he will. — 
 
 unfolded, in the middling orders of the people, the workings 
 of tliose finer feelings, and the stirrings of those loftier 
 emotions, which the partiality of other poets had hitherto at- 
 tributed almost exclusively to actors on a higher scene. It 
 appears to us, that the volume now before us is more uni- 
 formly and directly moral and beneficial in its tendency, than 
 any of those which Mr. Crabbe has hitherto given to the pub- 
 lic — consists less of mere curious specimens of description and 
 gratuitous dissections of character, but inculcates, for the most 
 piu-t. some weighty and practical precept, and points right on 
 to the cheerful path by which duty leads us forward to enjoy- 
 ment." — Edinburgh Review, 1812.] 
 
 ^ These mottoes are many, because there is a reference in 
 them not only to the characters, but frequently to the inci- 
 dr'nts also : and they are all taken from Sliakspeare, because I 
 could more readily lind them in his scenes than in the works 
 of any other poet to whom I could have recourse. 
 
 ■■' [The original of Justice Bolt was Dr. Franks, of Alderlon, 
 on the Norfolk coast — a truly worthy man, but a rather pom- 
 pous magistrate.] 
 
TALE I.— THE DUMB ORATORS. 
 
 27' 
 
 Yet had our Justice honour — and the crowd, 
 Awed hy his presence, their respect avow'd. 
 
 In later years he found his heart incline. 
 More than in youth, to gen'rous food and wine ; 
 But no indulgence check'd the powerful love 
 He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove. 
 
 Meetings, or puhlic calls, he never miss'd — 
 To dictate often, always to assist. 
 Oft he the clergy join'd, and not a cause 
 Pertain'd to them hut he could quote the laws ; 
 He upon tithes and residence display'd 
 A fund of knowledge for the hearer's aid ; 
 And could on glebe and farming, wool and grain, 
 A long discourse, without a pause, maintain. 
 
 To his experience and his native sense 
 He join'd a bold imperious eloquence ; 
 The grave, stern look of men inform'd and wise, 
 A fuU command of feature, heart, and eyes. 
 An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size. 
 When at the table, not a guest was seen 
 With appetite so lingering, or so keen ; 
 But when the outer man no more required. 
 The inner waked, and he was man inspired. 
 His subjects then were those, a subject true 
 Presents in fairest form to public view; 
 Of church and state, of law, with mighty strength 
 Of words he spoke, in speech of mighty length : 
 And now, into the vale of years declined. 
 He hides too little of the monarch-mind : 
 He kindles anger by untimely jokes, 
 And opi^osition by contempt provokes ; 
 JMirth he suppresses by his awful frown. 
 And humble spirits, by disdain, keeps down ; 
 Blamed by the mild, approved by the severe, 
 The prudent fly him, and the vaUant fear. 
 
 For overbearing is his pi-oud discourse, 
 j\jid overwhelming of liis voice the force ; 
 And overpowering is he when he shows 
 What floats upon a mind that always overflows. 
 
 This ready man at every meeting rose. 
 Something to hint, determine, or propose ; 
 And grew so fond of teaching, that he taught 
 Those who instruction needed not or sought : 
 Happy our hero, when he could excite 
 Some thoughtless talker to the wordy fight : 
 Let him a subject at his pleasure choose. 
 Physic or law, religion or the muse ; 
 On all such themes he was prepared to shine, — 
 Physician, poet, lawyer, and divine. 
 Hemm'd in by some tough argument, borne do\^n 
 By press of language and the awful frown. 
 In vain for mercy shall the culprit plead ; 
 His crime is past, and sentence must proceed : 
 Ah ! suffering man, have patience, bear thy woes — 
 For lo ! the clock — at ten the Justice goes. 
 
 This powerful man, on business, or to please 
 A curious taste, or weary grown of ease, 
 ( )u a long journey travell'd many a mile 
 ■^Vestward, and halted midway in our isle ; 
 < 'ontent to view a city large and fair. 
 Though none had notice — what a man was there ' 
 
 Silent two days, he then began to long 
 Again to try a voice so loud and strong ; 
 To give his favourite topics some new grace. 
 And gain some glory in such distant place ; 
 To reap some present pleasure, and to sow 
 Seeds of fair fame, in after-time to grow: 
 Here will men say, " We heard, at such an hour, 
 " The best of speakers — wonderful his power." 
 
 Inquiry made, he found that day would meet 
 A learned club, and in the very street : 
 Knowledge to gain and give, was the design ; 
 To speak, to hearken, to debate, and dine : 
 This pleased our traveller, for he felt his force 
 In either way, to eat or to discourse. 
 
 Nothing more easy than to gain access 
 To men like these, with his polite address : 
 So he succeeded, and first look'd around, 
 To view his objects and to take his ground ; 
 And therefore silent chose awhile to sit. 
 Then enter boldly by some lucky hit ; 
 Some observation keen or stroke severe. 
 To cause some wonder or excite some fear. 
 
 Xow, dinner past, no longer he supprest 
 His strong dislike to be a silent guest ; 
 Subjects and words were now at his command — 
 When disappointment frowu'd on all he plann'd ; 
 For, hark I — he heard amazed, on every side, 
 His church insulted and her priests belied; 
 The laws reviled, the ruling power abused, 
 The land derided, and its foes excused : — 
 He heard and ponder'd — What, to men so vile. 
 Should be his language? — For his threat'ning style 
 They were too many ; — if his speech were meek. 
 They would despise such poor attempts to speak : 
 At other times with every word at will. 
 He now sat lost, perplex'd, astonish'd, still. 
 
 Here were Socinians, Deists, and indeed 
 All who, as foes to England's church, agreed ; 
 But still with creeds unlike, and some without a 
 
 creed : 
 Here, too, fierce friends of liberty he saw, 
 Who own'd no prince and who obey no law ; 
 There were reformers of each different sort. 
 Foes to the laws, the priesthood, and the court ; 
 Some on their favourite plans alone intent. 
 Some purely angry and malevolent : 
 The rash were proud to blame their country's laws; 
 The vain, to seem supjiorters of a cause ; 
 One call'd for change, that he would dread to see ; 
 A nother sigh'd for Gallic liberty ! 
 And numbers joining with tlie forward crew, 
 For no one reason — but that numbers do. 
 
 •■ How," said the Justice, "can this trouble rise, 
 " This shame and pain, from creatures I despise?" 
 And Conscience answer'd — " The prevailing cause 
 •' Is thy deUght in listening to applause ; 
 •• Here, thou art seated with a tribe, who spurn 
 ■' Thy favourite themes, and into laughter turn 
 ■• Thy fears and wishes : silent and obscure, 
 " Thyself, shalt thou the long harangue endure ; 
 ■' And learn, by feeling, what it is to force 
 " On thy unwilling friends the long discourse : 
 
278 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " What though thy thoughts be just, aud these, it 
 
 seems, 
 " Are traitors" projects, idiots' empty schemes ; 
 " Yet minds, like bodies, cramm'd, reject their food, 
 " Nor will be forced and tortured for their good ;" 
 
 At length, a sharp, shrewd, sallow man arose. 
 And begg'd he briefly might his mind disclose ; 
 " It was his duty, in these worst of times, 
 " T' inform the govern'd of their rulers' crimes : " 
 This pleasant subject to attend, they each 
 Prepare to listen, and forbore to teach. 
 
 Then voluble and fierce the wordy man 
 Through a long chain of favourite horrors ran : — 
 First of the Church, from whose enslaving power, 
 He was deUver'd, and he bless'd the hour : 
 " Bishops and deans, and prebendaries all," 
 He said, " were cattle fatt'ning in the stall ; 
 " Slothful and pursy, insolent and mean, 
 " Were every bishop, prebendary, dean, 
 " And wealthy rector : curates, poorly paid, 
 " Were only dull; — he would not them upbraid." 
 
 From priests he turn'd to canons, creeds, and 
 prayers, 
 Rubrics and rules, and all our Church afiairs ; 
 Churches themselves, desk, pulpit, altar, all 
 The Justice reverenced — and pronounced their fall. 
 
 Then from religion Hammond turn'd his ^iew 
 To give our Rulers the correction due ; 
 Not one wise action had these triflers plann'd ; 
 There was, it seem'd, no wisdom in tlie land, 
 Save in this patriot tribe, who meet at times 
 To show the statesman's errors and his crimes. 
 
 Now here was Justice Bolt compell'd to sit, 
 To hear the deist's scorn, the rebel's wit ; 
 The fact mis-stated, the envenom'd lie, 
 And, staring spell-bound, made not one reply. 
 
 Then were our Laws abused — and with the laws, 
 All who prepare, defend, or judge a cause : 
 " We have no lawyer whom a man can trust," 
 Proceeded Hammond — " if the laws were just ; 
 " But they are evil ; 't is the savage state 
 " Is only good, and ours sophisticate ! 
 " See ! the free creatures in their woods and plains, 
 " Where without laws each happy monarch reigns, 
 " King of himself — while we a number dread, 
 " By slaves commanded and by dunces led : 
 " Oh, let the name with either state agree — 
 " Savage our own we 'U name, and civil theirs shall 
 be." 
 
 'I'lie silent Justice still astonisli'd sat, 
 And wonder'd much whom he was gazing at; 
 Twice he essay'd to speak — but in a cough, 
 Thp faint, indignant, dying speech went off: 
 " But who is tills? " thought he — " a demon vile, 
 " "With wicked meaning and a vulgar style : 
 
 ■• The reader will perceive, in tliese and the prccedinj; 
 verses, allusions to the state of France, as that connlry was 
 circumstimced some years since, ratlier than as it appears to 
 be in the present date ; several years elapsing between the 
 
 " Hammond they call him : they can give the name 
 
 " Of man to devils. — "Why am I so tame ? 
 
 " Why crush I not the viper? " — Fear replied, 
 
 " Watch him awhile, and let his strength be tried : 
 
 " He will be foil'd, if man; but if his aid 
 
 " Be from beneath, 't is well to be afraid." 
 
 " We are caU'd free ! " said Hammond — " dole- 
 ful times, 
 " When rulers add their insvilt to their crimes ; 
 " For should our scorn expose each powerful vice, 
 " It would be libel, and we pay the price." 
 
 Thus with licentious words the man wont on, 
 Proving that liberty of speech was gone ; 
 That all were slaves — nor had we better chance 
 For better times, than as allies to France. 
 
 Loud groan'd the Stranger — Why, he must 
 
 relate. 
 And own'd, " In sorrow for his country's fate ; " 
 " Nay, she were safe," the ready man replied, 
 " Might patriots rule her, and could reasoners 
 
 guide ; 
 " When all to vote, to speak, to teach, arc free, 
 " Whate'er their creeds or their opinions be ; 
 " When books of statutes are consumed in flames, 
 " And courts and copyholds are empty names : 
 " Then will be times of joy — but ere they come, 
 " llavock, and war, and blood must be our doom." ' 
 
 The man here paused — then loudly for Reform 
 He call'd, and hail'd the prospect of the storm : 
 The wholesome blast, the fertilising flood — 
 Peace gain'd by tumult, plenty bought with blood : 
 Sharp means, he own'd ; but when the land's disease 
 Asks cure complete, no med'cines are like these. 
 
 Our Justice now, more led by fear than rage. 
 Saw it in vain with madness to engage ; 
 With imps of darkness no man seeks to fight. 
 Knaves to instruct, or set deceivers right : 
 Then as the daring speech denounced these \\ oes. 
 Sick at the soul, the grieving Guest arose ; 
 Quick on the board his ready cash he threw. 
 And from the demons to his closet flew : 
 There when secured, he pray'd with earnest zeal, 
 That all they wish'd, these patriot-souls might feel ; 
 " Let them to France, their darling country, haste, 
 " And all the comforts of a Frenchman taste ; 
 " Let them his safety, freedom, pleasure know. 
 " Feel all their rulers on the land bestow ; 
 " And be at length dismiss'd by one unerring 
 
 blow, — 
 " Not hack'd and hcw'd by one afi-aid to strike, 
 " But shorn by that which shears all men alike : 
 " Nor, as in Britain, let them curse delay 
 " Of law, but borne without a form away — 
 " Suspected, tried, condemn'd, and carted in a day; 
 " Oh! let them taste what they so much approve, 
 " These strong fierce freedoms of the land they 
 
 love." * 
 
 alarm of the loyal maijiNtrnte on the occasion now related, 
 and a. subsequent event that further illustrates the remark 
 with which tlie narrative commences. 
 
TALE I.— THE DUMB ORATORS. 
 
 279 
 
 Home came our hero, to forget no more 
 The fear he felt and ever must deplore : 
 For though he quickly join'd his friends again, 
 And could with decent force his themes maintain, 
 Still it occurr'd that, in a luckless time, 
 He fail'd to fight with heresy and crime ; 
 It was observed his words were not so strong, 
 His tones so powerful, his harangues so long, 
 As in old times — for he would often drop 
 The lofty look, and of a sudden stop ; 
 When conscience whisper'd, that he once was still, 
 And let the wicked triumph at their will ; 
 And therefore now, when not a foe was near, 
 He had no right so valiant to appear. , 
 
 Some years had pass'd, and he perceived his fears 
 Yield to the spirit of his earlier years — 
 "When at a meeting, with his friends beside. 
 He saw an object that awaked his pride ; 
 His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation — all 
 Man's harsher feelings did that sight recall. 
 
 For, lo ! beneath him fix'd, our Man of Law 
 That lawless man the Foe of Order saw ; 
 Once fear'd, now scorn'd ; once dreaded, now ab- 
 
 horr'd : 
 A wordy man, and evil every word : 
 Again he gazed — " It is," said he " the same ; 
 " Caught and secure : his master owes him shame :" 
 So thought our hero, who each instant found 
 •]His courage rising, from the numbers round. 
 
 As when a felon has escaped and fled, 
 I So long, that law conceives the culprit dead ; 
 1 And back recall'd her myrmidons, intent 
 ] On some new game, and with a stronger scent ; 
 i! Till she beholds him in a place, where none 
 
 Could have conceived the culprit would have 
 
 gone ; 
 There he sits upright in his seat, secure, 
 As one whose conscience is correct and pure ; 
 This rouses anger for the old offence, 
 And scorn for all such seeming and pretence : 
 ■So on this Hammond look'd our hero bold, 
 Kememb'ring well that vile offence of old ; 
 And now he saw the rebel dar'd t' intrude 
 Among the pure, the loyal, and the good ; 
 The crime provok'd his wrath, the folly stirr'd his 
 
 blood : 
 Nor wonder was it, if so strange a sight 
 Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight ; 
 Terror like this a tiger might create, 
 A joy like that to see his captive state, 
 At once to know his force and then decree his 
 fate. 
 
 Hammond, much praised by numerous friends, 
 was come 
 To read his lectures, so admired at home ; 
 Historic lectures, where he loved to mix 
 His free plain hints on modern politics : 
 Here, he had heard, that numbers had design. 
 Their business finish'd, to sit down and dine ; 
 This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right 
 To sliow by day that he could speak at night. 
 Hash the design — for he perceived, too late, 
 Not one approving friend beside him sate ; 
 
 The greater number, whom he traced around, 
 Were men in black, and he conceived they frown'd. 
 " I will not speak," he thought ; " no pearls of 
 
 mine 
 " Shall be presented to this herd of swine ;" 
 Not this avail'd him, when he cast his eye 
 On Justice Bolt ; he could not fight, nor fly : 
 He saw a man to whom he gave the pain. 
 Which now he felt must be return'd again ; 
 His conscience told him with what keen delight 
 He, at that time, enjoy'd a stranger's fright ; 
 That stranger now befriended — he alone. 
 For all his insult, friendless, to atone ; 
 Now he could feel it cruel that a heart 
 Should be distress'd, and none to take its part ; 
 " Though one by one," said Pride, " I would defy 
 " Much greater men, yet meeting every eye, 
 " I do confess a fear — but he will pass me by." 
 
 Vain hope ! the Justice saw the foe's distress. 
 With exultation he could not suppress ; 
 He felt the fish was hook' d— and so forbore. 
 In playful spite to draw it to the shore. 
 Hammond look'd round again ; but none were 
 
 near, 
 With friendly smile to still his growing fear ; 
 But all above him seem'd a solemn row 
 Of priests and deacons, so they seem'd below ; 
 He wonder'd who his right-hand man might be — 
 Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he ; 
 And who the man of that dark frown possess'd — 
 Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west ; 
 " A pluralist," he growl'd — but check'd the word. 
 That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr'd. 
 
 But now began the man above to show 
 Fierce looks and threat'nings to the man below ; 
 Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to 
 
 seek — 
 But how then lecture, if he dar'd not speak 1 — 
 
 Now as the Justice for the war prepared, 
 He seem'd just then to question if he dared : 
 " He may resist, although his power be small, 
 " And growing desperate may defy us all ; 
 " One dog attack, and he prepares for flight — • 
 " Resist another, and he strives to bite ; 
 " Nor can I saj', if this rebellious cur 
 " Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir." 
 Alarm'd by this, he lash'd his soul to rage, 
 Burn'd with strong shame, and hurried to engage. 
 
 As a male turkey straggling on the green. 
 When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen. 
 He feels the insult of the noisy train 
 And skulks aside, though moved by much <lisdain ; 
 But when that turkey, at his own barn-door, 
 Sees one poor straying puppy and no more. 
 (A foolish puppy who had left the pack, 
 Tliouglitless what foe was thrcafning at his back.) 
 He mof\'es about, as ship prepared to sail. 
 He hoists his proud rotundity of tail. 
 The half-seal'd eyes and changeful neck lie shows. 
 Where, in its quick'ning colours, vengeance glows ; 
 From red to blue the pendent wattles turn. 
 Blue mix'd with red, as matches when they burn ; 
 And thus th' intruding snarler to oppose. 
 Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes. 
 
So look'd our hero in his wrath, his cheeks 
 Flush'd with fresh fires and glow'd in tingling 
 
 streaks, 
 I lis breath by passion's force awhile restrain'd, 
 Like a stopp'd current greater force regain'd ; 
 So spoke, so look'd he, every eye and ear 
 AVere fix'd to view him, or were turn'd to hear. 
 
 " My friends, you know me, you can witness all, 
 " How, urged bj' passion, I restrain my gall ; 
 " And eveiy motive to revenge withstand — 
 '* Save when I hear abused my native land. 
 
 " Is it not known, agreed, confirm'd, confess'd, 
 " That, of all people, we are govern'd best ? 
 " We have the force of monarchies ; are free, 
 " As the most proud republicans can be ; 
 " And have those prudent counsels that arise 
 " In grave and cautious aristocracies ; 
 " And live there those, in such all-glorious state, 
 " Traitors protected in the land they hate ? 
 " Rebels, still warring with the laws that give 
 " To them subsistence ? — Yes, such wretches live. 
 
 " Ours is a Church reform'd, and now no more " 
 " Is aught for man to mend or to restore ; 
 " 'T is pure in doctrines, 't is correct in creeds, 
 " Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs ; 
 " No evil is tliereiu — no wrinkle, spot, 
 " Stain, blame, or blemish : — ^I affirm there 's not. 
 
 " All this you know — now mark what once 
 
 befell, 
 " With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell : 
 " I was entrapp'd — yes, so it came to pass, 
 " 'Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class ; 
 " Each to his counti-y bore a hellish mind, 
 " Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind ; 
 "The land that nursed them, they blasphemed ; 
 
 the laws, 
 " Tlieir sovereign's glory, and their country's 
 
 cause : 
 " And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and 
 
 who 
 " Rebellion's oracle ? You, caitiff, you !" 
 
 He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm 
 And fix'd the Man of Words, as by a charm. 
 
 " How i-aved that railer ! Sure some hellish power 
 " Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour, 
 " Or 1 Jiad hurl'd the shame and vengeance due 
 " On him, the guide of that infuriate crew; 
 " But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear'd, 
 " Sucli mingled yell of lying words I heard, 
 " That 1 conceived around wore demons all, 
 " And till I fled the house, I fcar'd its fall. 
 
 " Oil ! could our country from our coasts expel 
 " Such foes ! to nourish those who wish her well : 
 
 ' [This tale is not Judiciously placed at tlie portal io Icmpt 
 hcsitatiiif,' renders to po forward. The fault, however, is 
 fintirely in tlie suliject, whioli coinmancls no stroii;; or (jeiieral 
 interest; for it is perfectly well coni'i'ived and executed. 
 The object of it is to sliow , tliat a man's lliiency and force and 
 intrepidity of speech depend very inucli u]ion liis conlidence 
 of the approbation of his auditors ; and, accordingly it ex- 
 
 " This her mild laws forbid, but we may still 
 " From us eject them by our sovereign will ; 
 " This let us do." — He said, and then began 
 A gentler feeling for the silent man , 
 E'en in our hero's mighty soul arose 
 A touch of pity for experienced woes ; 
 But this was transient, and with angry eye 
 He sternly look'd, and paused for a reply. 
 
 'T was then the Man of many Words would 
 
 speak — 
 But, in his trial, had them all to seek : 
 To find a friend he look'd the circle round, 
 But joy or scorn in every feature found ; 
 Ho sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread 
 Wine only adds confusion to the head; " 
 In doubt he reason'd with himself — " And how 
 " Harangue at night, if I be silent now?" 
 From pride and praise received, he souglit to 
 
 draw 
 Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe ; 
 One moment rose he with a forced disdaiu. 
 And then, abash'd, sunk sadly down again ;' 
 While in our hero's glance he seem'd to read, 
 " Slave and insurgent ! what hast thou to plead ?" 
 
 By desperation urged, he now began : 
 " I seek no favour — I — the rights of man ! 
 " Claim ; and I — nay ! — but give me leave — and I 
 " Insist — a man — that is — and in reply, 
 " I speak." — Alas ! each new attempt was vain : 
 Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again ; 
 At length he growl' d defiance, sought the door. 
 Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more. 
 
 "Laud we," said Justice Bolt, "the Powers 
 above : 
 " Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove." 
 Exulting now he gain'd new strength of fame, 
 And lost all feelings of defeat and shame. 
 
 " He dared not strive, youwitness'd — dared not 
 lift 
 " His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift : 
 " So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose 
 " Our Church or State — thus be it to our foes." 
 
 He spoke, and, seated with his former air, 
 liOok'd his full self, and fiU'd his ample chair ; 
 Took one full bumper to each favourite cause, 
 And dwelt all night on politics and laws, 
 Witli high applauding voice, that gain'd hinrhigh 
 applause.* 
 
 liibits the orthodox, loyal, «utbora(ive Justice Bolt struck 
 (juite dumb in an assembly of Jacobins into which he happens 
 to stray ; and the J.icobin orator, in like manner reduced to 
 stammerin}; and imbecility, when detected at a dinner of 
 jiarsons. 'I'he description of Justice Holt is admirable, and 
 may stand for a portrait of more than one provincial dictator. 
 — Jeffrey.] 
 
'] ALE II.— THE PARTING HOUR. 
 
 281 
 
 TALE II. 
 
 THE PARTING U O U K.^ 
 
 .... I did not take my leave of him, but had 
 Most pretty thinjjs to say : ere I caukl tell liira 
 How i would think of him, at certain hours 
 Such thoii:.'hts and such ; — or ere I could 
 Give him that partin;^ kiss, which I had set 
 Betwixt two charming words — comes in my father. 
 
 Cymbcline. 
 
 Grief hath changed me since you saw me last. 
 And careful hours witli Time's deformed hand 
 Have written strange defeatures o"er my face. 
 
 Comedy of Errors. 
 
 Oh ! if thou be the same Egean, speak. 
 
 And speak unto the same Emilia. — Comedy of Errors, 
 
 I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days 
 
 To the very moment that she bade me tell it. 
 
 Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances. 
 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe. 
 
 And sold to slavery. Othello. 
 
 An old man, broken with the storms of fate, 
 Is come to lay liis weary bones among you ; 
 Give him a little earth tor charity. Henry VIII, 
 
 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 Unks that bind those various deeds are seen, 
 And no mysterious void is left between. 
 
 But let these binding links be all destroy' d, 
 AU that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd : 
 Let that vast gap be made, and then behold — 
 This was the youth, and he is thus when old ; 
 Then we at once the work of time survey, 
 And in an instant see a life's decay ; 
 Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise, 
 And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise. 
 
 Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair — 
 A sleeping man ; a woman in her chair, 
 Watching his looks with kind and pensive air ; 
 Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name 
 Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same ; 
 Yet so allied are they, that few can feel 
 Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal ; 
 Their years and woes, although they long have loved, 
 Keep tlieir good name and conduct unreproved : 
 Thus life's small comforts they together share, 
 And while life lingers for the grave prepare. 
 
 • [Mr. Crabbe's fourth brother, A\'illiam, taking to a sea- 
 faring life, was made prisoner by the .Spaniards : he was car- 
 ried to Mexico, where he became a silversmith, married, and 
 prospered, until his increasing riches attracted a charge of 
 Protestantism ; the consequence of which was much perse- 
 cution. He at last was obliged to abandon Alexico, his pro- 
 perty, and his family : and was discovered, in the year 1803, 
 by an Ahlborough sailor, on the coast of Honduras, where 
 again he seems to have found some success in business. This 
 
 No other subjects on their spirits press. 
 Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress : 
 Grievous events, that from the mem'ry di-ive 
 Life's common cares, and those alone survive, 
 Mix with each thought, in every action share, 
 Darken each dream, and blend with every prajcr. 
 
 To David Booth, his fourth and last-bom boy, 
 Allen his name, was more than common joy ; 
 And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him 
 A more than common life in every Umb ; 
 A strong and handsome stripling he became, 
 And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame ; 
 A lighter, happier lad was never seen, 
 For ever easy, cheerful, or serene ; 
 His early love he fix'd upon a fair 
 And gentle maid — they were a handsome pair. 
 
 They at an infant-school together play'd, 
 Where the foundation of their love was laid : 
 The boyish champion would his choice attend 
 In every sport, in every fray defend. 
 As prospects open'd, and as life advanced, 
 They walk'd together, they together danced ; 
 On all occasions, from their early years, 
 They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and 
 
 fears ; 
 Each heart was anxious, till it could impart 
 Its daily feelings to its kindred heart ; 
 As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars 
 Broke out between them ; jealousies and jars ; 
 Causeless indeed, and foUow'd by a peace, 
 That gave to love — growth, vigour, and increase. 
 Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void. 
 Domestic thoughts young Allen's hours employ'd. 
 Judith in gaining hearts had no concern, 
 llather intent the matron's part to learn ; 
 Thus early prudent and sedate they grew. 
 While lovers, thoughtful — and though children, 
 
 true. 
 To either parents not a day appear'd. 
 When with this love they might have interfered. 
 Childish at first, they cared not to restrain ; 
 And strong at last, they saw restriction vain ; 
 Nor knew they when that passion to reprove. 
 Now idle fondness, now resistless love. 
 
 So while the waters rise, the children tread 
 On the broad estuary's sandy bed ; 
 But soon the channel fills, from side to side 
 Comes danger rolling with the deep'ning tide ; 
 Yet none who saw the rapid current flow 
 Cotild the first instant of that danger know. 
 
 The lovers waited till the time should come 
 When they together could possess a home : 
 In either house were men and maids unwed, 
 Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led. 
 
 sailor was the only person he had seen for many a year who 
 could tell him any thing of Aldborough and hisfaniily ; and 
 great was his perplexity when he was informed that his 
 eldest brother, George, was a clergyman. " This cannot be 
 <'«r George," said the wanderer — " he was a doctor!" Tliis 
 was the first, and it was also the last, tidings that ever reached 
 Mr. Crabbe of his brother William ; and, upon the Ald- 
 borough sailor's storv of his casual interview, it is obvious that 
 he built this tale.— See ante, p. 8.] 
 
282 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Then Allen's mother of his favoui-ite maid 
 Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid : 
 " Dress and amusements were her sole employ," 
 She said — " entangling her deluded boy ; " 
 And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love 
 "Had much imagined and could little prove ; 
 Judith had beauty — and if vain, was kind, 
 Discreet and mild, and had a serious mind. 
 
 Dull was their prospect. — "When the lovers met. 
 They said, " We must not — dare not venture 
 
 yet." 
 " Oh ! could I labour for thee," Allen cried, 
 " Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied ; 
 " On my own arm I could depend, but they 
 " Still urge obedience — must I yet obey ? '' 
 Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd 
 delay. 
 
 At length a prospect came that secm'd to smile. 
 And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle ; 
 A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd, 
 " Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd ; 
 " Would some young Booth to his affairs attend, 
 " And wait awhile, he might expect a friend." 
 The elder brothers, who were not in love, 
 Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove ; 
 But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy, 
 Eager an independence to enjoy. 
 Would through all perils seek it,— by the sea, — 
 Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery. 
 The faithful Judith his design approved. 
 For both were sanguine, they were young, and 
 
 loved. 
 The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd ; 
 The time arrived, to part alone remain'd : 
 All things prepared, on the expected day 
 Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay. 
 From her would seamen in the evening come. 
 To take th' adventurous Allen from his home ; 
 With his own friends the final day he pass'd. 
 And every painful hour, except the last. 
 The grieving father urged the cheerful glass, 
 To make the moments with less sorrow pass ; 
 Intent the mother look'd upon her son. 
 And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed un- 
 done ; 
 The younger sister, as he took his way, 
 Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay : 
 But his own Judith call'd him to the shore. 
 Whom he must meet, for tliey might meet no 
 
 more ; — 
 And there he found her — faithful, mournful, true, 
 Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu 1 
 The ebbing tide liad left the sand, and there 
 Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair: 
 Sweet were the painful moments — but, how 
 
 sweet. 
 And without pain, when they again should meet I 
 Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd 
 Each their alternate triumph in the breast. 
 
 Distance alarm'd the maid— she cried, " 'T is 
 far !" 
 .\nd danger too — " it is a time of war : 
 " Then in those countries are diseases strange, 
 " And women gay, and men are prone to change : 
 
 " What tl'.en may happen in a year, when things 
 
 " Of vast importance every moment brings ! 
 
 " But liai-k ! an oar !" slie cried, yet none ap- 
 
 pear'd — 
 'T was love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd ; 
 And she continued — " Do, my Allen, keep 
 " Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep ; 
 " Believe it good, nay gloi-ious, to prevail, 
 " And stand in safety where so many fail ; 
 " And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride, 
 " Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide, 
 " Can I believe his love will lasting prove, 
 " Who has no rev'rence for the God I love ? 
 " I know thee well ! how good thou art and 
 
 kind ; 
 " But strong the passions that invade thy mind — 
 " Mow, what to me hath Allen to commend?" — 
 " Upon my mother," said the youth, " attend ; 
 " Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear, 
 " Her love to me will make my Judith dear, 
 " Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek), 
 " Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak ; 
 " Then write on all occasions, always dwell 
 ■' On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and 
 
 well, 
 " And ever choose the fondest, tendercst style." 
 She answer'd, " No," but answer'd with a smile. 
 '■ And now, my Judith, at so sad a time, 
 " Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime ; 
 " When with our youthful neighbours 't is thy 
 
 chance 
 " To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance, 
 " When every lad would on my lass attend, 
 " Choose not a smooth designer for a friend : 
 " That fawning Philip ! — nay, be not severe, 
 " A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear." 
 
 Displeased she felt, and might in her reply 
 Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh, 
 Now truly heard ! — it soon was full in sight ; — 
 Now the sad farewell, and the long good-niglit ; 
 For see ! — his friends come hastening to the beach, 
 And now the gunwale is within the reach : 
 " Adieu ! — farewell ! — remember !" — and what 
 
 more 
 Affection taught, was uttcr'd from the shore. 
 But Judith left them with a heavy heart, 
 Took a last view, and went to weep apart. 
 And now his friends went slowly from the place, 
 Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace. 
 Till all were silent ! — for the youth she pray'd, 
 And softly then rcturn'd the weexiing maid. 
 
 They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, 
 .Vnd Judith's hours in pensive pleasure tied ; 
 Hut when returnVl the youth ? — the youth no more 
 Ueturn'd exulting to his native sliore ; 
 But forty years were past, and then there came 
 A worn-out man with withcr'd limbs and lame. 
 Ills mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age 
 
 his frame : 
 Yes! old an<l grieved, and trembling with decay. 
 Was Allen landing in his native bay, 
 Willing his breathless form shouKl blend with 
 
 kindred clny. 
 In an autumnal eve he left the beach, 
 In such an eve he chanced the port to reach : 
 
TALE II.— THE PARTING HOUR. 
 
 283 
 
 He was alone ; he prcss'd the very place 
 
 Of the sad parting, of the last embrace "* 
 
 There stood his parents, there retired the maid, 
 
 So fond, so tender, and so much afraid ; 
 
 And on that spot, through many year, his mind 
 
 Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd. 
 
 No one was present ; of its crew bereft, 
 A single boat was in the billows left ; 
 Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay, 
 At the returning tide to sail away. 
 O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd. 
 The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade ; 
 All silent else on shore ; but from the town 
 A drowsy peal of distant bells came down : 
 From the tall houses here and there, a light 
 Served some confused remembrance to excite : 
 " There," he observed, and new emotions felt, 
 " Was my first home — and yonder Judith dwelt ; 
 " Dead ! dead are all ! I long — I fear to know," 
 He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow. 
 
 Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise 
 Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys : 
 Seamen returning to their ship, were come, 
 With idle numbers straying from their home ; 
 Allen among them mix'd, and in the old 
 Strove some familiar features to behold ; 
 While fancy aided memory : — " Man ! what 
 
 cheer ? " 
 A sailor cried ; " Art thou at anchor here ? " 
 Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace 
 Some youthful features in some aged face : 
 A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought 
 She might unfold the very truths he sought : 
 Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd : 
 " The Booths I yet live they ? " pausing and 
 
 oppress'd ; 
 Then spake again : — " Is there no ancient man, 
 " David his name ? — assist me, if you can. — 
 " Flemmings there were — and Judith, doth slie 
 
 live ? " 
 The woman gazed, nor could an answer give ; 
 Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by, 
 Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy. 
 The woman musing said — " She knew full well 
 " Where the old people came at last to dwell ; 
 " They had a married daughter, and a son, 
 " But they were dead, and now remain'd not 
 
 one." 
 
 " Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent 
 On days long past, " there was a sad event ; — 
 " One of these Booths — it was my mother's tale- 
 " Here left his lass, I know not where to sail : 
 " She saw their parting, and observed the pain 
 " But never came th' unhappy man again :" 
 " The ship was captured " — Allen meeklj' said, 
 " And what became of the forsaken maid ? " 
 The woman answer'd : " I remember now, 
 " She used to tell the lasses of her vow, 
 " And of her lover's loss, and I have seen 
 " The gayest hearts grow sad where she 
 
 been ; 
 " Yet in her grief she married, and was made 
 " Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd 
 " And early buried — but I know no more : 
 " And hark ! our friends are hast'ning to 
 shore." 
 
 has 
 
 the 
 
 Allen soon found a lodging in the town. 
 And walk'd, a man unnoticed up and down. 
 This house, and this, he knew, and thought a 
 
 face 
 He sometimes could among a number trace : 
 Of names remember'd there remain'd a few, 
 But of no favourites, and the rest were new : ^ 
 A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea, 
 Was reckon'd boundless. — Could he living be ? 
 Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir 
 To a vast business, and a fortune fair. 
 No ! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed. 
 With crutches went to take her dole of bread : 
 There was a friend whom he had left a boy, 
 With hope to sail the master of a hoy ; 
 Him, after many a stormy day. he found 
 With his great wish, his life's whole purpose, 
 
 crown'd. 
 This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face,— 
 " Yours is, my friend," said he, " a woeful case ; 
 " We cannot all succeed : I now command 
 " The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land : 
 " But when we meet, you shall your story tell 
 " Of foreign parts — I bid you now farewell !" 
 
 Allen so long had left his native shore,* 
 He saw but few whom he had seen before ,• 
 The older people, as they met him, cast 
 A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd — 
 " The man is Allen Booth, and it appears 
 I " He dwelt among us in his early years : 
 
 * [Original MS. :— 
 
 In a clear eve tlie lover sail'd, and one 
 As clear and bright on aged Allen shone : 
 On the spot sanctinn'd by the last embrace 
 The old man stood I and sigh'd upon the place.] 
 
 ' [" Last summer I went down to my native town, where t 
 found the streets much narrower and shorter than I thouglit 
 1 had left them, inhabited by a new race of people, to whom 
 I was very little known. My playfellows were grown old, 
 and forced me to suspect I was no longer young. My only 
 remaining friend had changed his principles, and was become 
 the tool of the predominant faction. I wandered about for 
 five days, and took the first convenient opportunity of 
 returning to a place where, if there is not much happiness, 
 there is, at least, such a diversity of good and evil, that 
 slight vexations do not fix upon the heart." — Dr. Johnson.] 
 
 * [Original MS. :— 
 
 Oft to his children had the father told 
 Where he resided in the years of old ; 
 When, without thought, his feeling and his pride 
 The native town adorn'd and magnified ; 
 The streets, the markets, and the quays were all 
 Spacious and grand, and every building tall : 
 The tower and church were sea-marksleiigues from land- 
 Men were amazed to see them look so grand I 
 His father's house was then in Allen's eyes, 
 But far increased in beauty and in size ; 
 And their small area where the schoolboys play'd, 
 Room for an army had his fancy made : 
 But now the dark and feeble mind debased, 
 Contracted, suUied all that fancy graced, 
 All spaces dwmdled — streets but alleys seem'd : 
 Tlien dreamt he now, or absent had lie dream d ? 
 The church itself, the lofty tower, the scene 
 Of so much glory, was debased and mean : 
 The mind each object in dull clothing dress'd. 
 And its own sadness on each scene impress'd ] 
 
284 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " We see the name engraved upon the stones, 
 
 " Where this poor wanderer means to lay his 
 
 bones." 
 Thus Avliere lie lived and loved — unhappy 
 
 change '. — 
 He seems a stranger, and finds all arc strange. 
 
 But now a Widow, in a village near, 
 Chanced of the melancholy man to liear; 
 Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came 
 Some strong emotions at the well-known name ; 
 He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd 
 Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid ; 
 Then was she wedded, of his death assured. 
 And much of mis'rj' in her lot endured ; 
 Her husband died ; her children sought their 
 
 bread 
 In various jjlaces, and to her were dead. 
 The once fond lovers met ; not grief nor age, 
 Sickness nor pain, their hearts could disengage : 
 Each had immediate confidence ; a friend 
 Both now beheld, on whom they might depend : 
 " Now is there one to whom I can express 
 " My nature's weakness, and mj^ soul's distress." 
 Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart — 
 " Let me not lose thee — never let us part : 
 " So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give, 
 " It is not all distress to think and live." 
 Thus Allen spoke — for time had not removed 
 The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved ; 
 Who with more health, the mistress of their cot. 
 Labours to soothe the evils of his lot. 
 To her, to her alone, his various fate. 
 At various times, 't is comfort to relate ; 
 And yet his sorrow — she too loves to hear 
 What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear. 
 
 First he related how he left the shore, 
 Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more. 
 Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed 
 
 course, 
 They met and yielded to the Spanish force ; 
 Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas tliey bore their prey, 
 Who grieving landed from their sultry bay : 
 And marching many a burning league, he found 
 Himself a slave upon a miner's ground : 
 There a good priest his native language spoke. 
 And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke ; 
 Kindly advanced him in his master's grace. 
 And he was station'd in an easier place : 
 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 ; 
 Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees. 
 Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries ; 
 E'en then he thought of England, nor could 
 
 sigh. 
 But his fond Isabel demanded, " Why ?" 
 Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid, 
 And wept in pity for the English maid : 
 Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his 
 
 views 
 Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose : 
 His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint 
 " His faith as tainted : he his spouse would taint ; 
 " Make all his children infidels, and found 
 " An Englisli heresy on Christian ground." 
 
 " Whilst I was poor," said Allen, " none would 
 care 
 " What my poor notions of religion were ; 
 " None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how 1 pray'd, 
 " If due obedience to the laws were paid : 
 " My good adviser taught me to be still, 
 " Nor to make converts had I power or \^'ill. 
 " I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my vrit'e, 
 " And never mention'd Luther in my life ; 
 '• I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd, 
 '• And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd : 
 '' Their forms I follow'd, whether M^ell or sick, 
 " And was a most obedient Catholic. 
 " But I had money, and these pastors found 
 '■ Mj' notions vague, heretical, unsound : 
 " A wicked book thej' seized ; the very Turk 
 " Could not have read a more pernicious work ; 
 " To me pernicious, who if it were good 
 " Or evil question'd not, nor understood : 
 " Oh ! had I little but the book possess' d, 
 " I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest." 
 
 Alas ! poor Allen — through his wealth was seen 
 Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been: 
 Faults that in dustj' pictures rest unknown, 
 Are in an instant through the varnish shown. 
 
 He told their cruel mercy ; how at last. 
 In Christian kindness for the merits past. 
 They sjiared his forfeit life, but bade him fly, 
 Or for liis crime and contumacy die ; 
 Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight : 
 His wife, his children, weeping in his sight. 
 All ui'ging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his flight. 
 
 He next related how he found a way, 
 Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy-Bay : 
 There in the woods he wrought, and there, among 
 Some lab'ring seamen, heard his native tongue : 
 The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain 
 With joyful force ; he long'd to hear again : 
 Again lie heard ; he seized an ofier'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 ; 
 Only one at his native port had been ; 
 He, landing once, the quay and church had seen. 
 For that esteem'd ; but nothing more he knew. 
 Still more to know, would AUen join the crew. 
 Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past. 
 They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast ; 
 But him tliey found not, nor could one relate 
 Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate. 
 This grieved not Allen ; then again he sail'd 
 For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd : 
 A\'ar raged, and he, an active man and strong, 
 Was soon impress'd, and served his country long. 
 By various shores he pass'd, on various seas, 
 Never so happy as when void of ease. — 
 And then he told how in a calm distress'd. 
 Day after day his soul was sick of rest ; 
 When, as a log upon the deep they stood, 
 Then roved his spirit to the inland wood; 
 Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas 
 Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the 
 
 trees : 
 He gazed, he pointed to the scenes : — " There stand 
 " My wife, my children • 'tis my lovely land. 
 
TALE III.— THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. 
 
 285 
 
 " See ! there my dwelling — oh ! delicious scene 
 " Of my best life ; — unhand me — are ye men?" 
 And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind 
 Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind. 
 
 He told of bloody fights, and how at length 
 The lage of battle gave his spirits strength : 
 'T was in the Indian seas his limb he lost, 
 And he was left half-dead upon the coast ; 
 But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men, 
 A fair subsistence by his ready pen. 
 " Thus," he continued, " pass'd unvaried years, 
 " Without events producing hopes or fears." 
 Augmented pay procured him decent wealth, 
 But years advancing undermined his health ; 
 Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew 
 To England's shore, and scenes his childhood 
 
 knew : 
 He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid, 
 No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd ; 
 And thus excited, in his bosom rose 
 A wish so strong, it baffled his repose : 
 Anxious he felt on English earth to lie ; 
 To view his native soil, and there to die. 
 He then described the gloom, the dread he found, 
 When first he landed on the chosen ground, 
 Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd. 
 And how confused and troubled all appear'd ; 
 His thoughts in past and pi-esent scenes employ'd, 
 Ail views in future blighted and destroy'd ; 
 His were a medley of bewild'ring themes. 
 Sad as realities, and wild as dreams. 
 
 Here his relation closes, but his mind 
 Flies back again some resting-place to find ; 
 Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees 
 His children sporting by those lofty trees, 
 Their mother singing in the shady scene, 
 Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively 
 
 green ; — 
 So strong his eager fancy, he affrights 
 The faithful widow by its powerful flights ; 
 For what disturbs him he aloud will tell. 
 And cry — " 'T is she, my wife ! my Isabel ! 
 " Where are my children?" — Judith grieves to hear 
 How the soul works in sorrows so severe ; 
 Assiduous all his wishes to attend. 
 Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend ; 
 Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes 
 Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes. 
 
 'T is now her ofiBce ; her attention see ! 
 While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree. 
 
 * [This tale contains passages of great beauty and pathos. 
 Tlie story is simply that of a youth and a maiden in humble 
 life, who' had loved each other from their childliood, but were 
 too poor to marry. The youth goes to the West Indies to 
 push liis fortune ; but is' captured by the Spaniards and 
 carried to Mexico, where, in the course of time, tliougli still 
 sighing for his first love, he marries a Spanish girl, and lives 
 twenty years with her and his children. He is then ira- 
 pressei and carried round the world for twenty years longer, 
 and is at last moved by an irresistible impulse, when old, and 
 shattered, and lonely, to seek his native town, and the scene 
 of his youthful vows. He comes and finds liis Judith, like 
 himself, in a state of widowhood ; liut still brooding, like 
 himself, over the memory of their early love. She had waittd 
 ten anxious years without tidings of him, and then married : 
 and now, when all passion and fuel for passion is extinguished 
 
 Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat. 
 And pensive muses at her Allen's feet. 
 
 And where is he ? Ah ! doubtless in those scenes 
 Of his best days, amid the vivid greens. 
 Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale 
 Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale. 
 Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes 
 The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms? 
 And as he sits with all these treasures nigh. 
 Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly, 
 W^hen like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by ? 
 This is the joy that now so plainly speaks 
 In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks ; 
 For he is list'ning to the fancied noise 
 Of his own children, eager in their joys : 
 All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss 
 Gives the expression, and the glow like this. 
 And now his Judith lays her knitting by, 
 These strong emotions in her friend to spy 
 For she can fully of their nature deem — 
 But see ! he breaks the long-protracted theme, 
 And wakes, and cries — " My God ! 't was but a 
 dream." * 
 
 TALE III. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. 
 
 Pause then, 
 ,\nd weigh thy value with an even hand ; 
 If thou beest rated by thy estimation, 
 Thou dost deserve enough. Merchant of Veniie. 
 
 Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do 
 myself the right to trust none ; and the fine is ( for which I 
 may go the finer), 1 will live a bachelor. — Much Ado abuui 
 Nothing. 
 
 Tlirow physic to the dogs, I '11 none of it. — Macbeth. 
 
 His promises are, as he then was, mighty ; 
 And his performance, as he now is, nothin,'. 
 
 Henry VIII. 
 
 GwYN was a farmer, whom the farmers all. 
 
 Who dwelt around, " the Gentleman " would call ; 
 
 Whether in pure humility or pride. 
 
 They only knew, and they would not decide. 
 
 within them, the memory of their young attachment endears 
 them to each other, anfl they still cling logether, in sad and 
 subdued affection, to the exclusion ol all the rest of the world. 
 The history of the growth and maturity of their earliest love 
 is beautifully given. The sad and long delayed return of 
 the adventurer is described in a tone of genuine patlios, and 
 in some places witli such truth and force of colouring, as to 
 outdo the efforts of the first dramatic representation. I'here 
 is something sweet and touching;, and in a high vein of 
 poetry, in the story which .Alien tells to .Iiiriitti of all his 
 adventures, and of those other ties, of «hic!i it still wrings 
 lier basom to hear liim speak. The close is exiremely beau- 
 tiful, and leaves upon the mind that impiession of sadness 
 which is both salutary and deliglitful, because it is akin to 
 pity, and mingled with admiration and esteem. — Jeffrey.] 
 
286 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 Far different he from that dull plodding tribe 
 "Whom it was his amusement to describe ; 
 Creatures no more cnliven'd than a clod, 
 But treading still as their dull fathers trod ; 
 Who lived in times when not a man had seen 
 Corn sown by drill, or thrcsh'd by a machine : 
 He was of those whose skill assigns the prize 
 For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties ; 
 And who, in places where improvers meet, 
 To fill the land with fatness, had a seat ; 
 Who in large mansions live like petty kings, 
 And speak of farms but as amusing things ; 
 Who plans encourage, and who journals keep, 
 And talk Mith lords about a breed of sheep. 
 
 Two are the species in this genus known ; 
 One, who is rich in his profession grown, 
 Who yearly finds his ample stores increase. 
 From fortune's favours and a favouiung lease ; 
 Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns ; 
 Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns ; 
 Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, — 
 This is the Farmer made the Gentleman. 
 
 The second species from the world is sent, 
 Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content ; 
 In books and men beyond the former read, 
 To farming solely by a passion led, 
 Or by a fashion ; curious in his land ; 
 Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd ; 
 Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd. 
 And ever certain to succeed the next ; 
 Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, — 
 This is the Gentleman, a Farmer made. 
 
 Gwyn was of these ; he from the world with- 
 drew 
 Early in life, his reasons known to few ; 
 Some disappointment said, some pure good sense, 
 The love of land, the press of indolence ; 
 His fortune known, and coming to retire, 
 If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire. 
 
 Forty and five his years, no child or wife 
 Cross'd the stiU tenour of his chosen life ; 
 IMuch land he purchased, planted far around, 
 And let some portions of superfluous ground 
 To farmers near him, not displeased to say 
 " My tenants," nor " our worthy landlord," they. 
 
 Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill 
 In small-boned Iambs, the horse-hoe, and the 
 
 driU; 
 From these he rose to themes of nobler kind. 
 And show'd the riches of a fertile mind ; 
 To all around their visits he repaid. 
 And thus his mansion and himself display'd. 
 His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat, 
 And guests politely call'd his house a Scat ; 
 At much expense was each apartment graced, 
 Mis taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste ; 
 Tn full festoons the crimson curtains fell, 
 Tlie sofas rose in bold clastic swell ; 
 Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints 
 Of glowing carpets and of colour'd ])rints ; 
 The weary eye saw every object shine, 
 And all waa costly, fanciful, and fine. 
 
 As with his friends he pass'd the social hours. 
 His generous spirit scorn'd to hide its powers ; 
 Powers unexpected, for his ej'e and air 
 Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there ; 
 Oft he began with sudden fire and force. 
 As loth to lose occasion for discourse ; 
 Some, 't is observed, who feel a wish to speak. 
 Will a due place for introduction seek ; 
 On to their pui'pose step by step they steal. 
 And all their way, by certain signals, feel ; 
 Others plunge in at once, and never heed 
 Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede ; 
 Eesolved to shine, they hasten to begin, 
 Of ending thoughtless — and of these was G\vyn. 
 And thus he spake : — 
 
 " It grieves me to the soul, 
 " To see how man submits to man's control ; 
 " How overpower'd and shackled minds arc led 
 " In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred ; 
 " The coward never on himself relies, 
 " But to an equal for assistance flies ; 
 " Man yields to custom, as he bows to fate, 
 " In all things ruled — mind, body, and estate ; 
 " In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply 
 " To them we know not, and we know not why ; 
 " But that the creature has some jargon read, 
 " And got some Scotchman's system in his head ; 
 " Some grave impostor, who will health ensure, 
 " Long as your patience or your wealth endure, 
 " But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew, 
 " They have not health, and can they give it you ? 
 " These solemn cheats their various methods 
 
 choose, 
 " A system fires them, as a bard his muse : 
 " Hence wordy wars arise ; the learn'd divide. 
 " And groaning patients curse each erring guide. 
 
 " Next, our afi'airs are govern'd, buy or sell, 
 " Upon the deed the law must fix its spell ; 
 " Whether we hire or let, we must have still 
 " The dubious aid of an attorney's skill ; 
 " They take a part in every man's affairs, 
 " And in all business some concern is theirs ; 
 " Because mankind in ways prescribed are found 
 " Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground, 
 " Each abject nature in the way proceeds, 
 " That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads.' 
 " Should you offend, though meaning no offence, 
 " You have no safety in your innocence ; 
 " The statute broken then is placed in view, 
 " And men must pay for crimes they never knew ; 
 " Who would by law regain his plunder'd store, 
 '' Would pick up fallen merc'ry from the floor ; 
 " If he pursue it, here and there it slides, 
 " He would collect it, but it more divides; 
 " This part and this he stops, but still in vain, 
 " It slips aside, and breaks in parts again ; 
 " Till, after time and pains, and care and cost, 
 " He finds his labour and his object lost. 
 " But most it grieves me (friends alone are round), 
 " To sec a man in priestly fetters bound ; 
 
 '[OrifennalMS. :— 
 
 Because in beaten ways we ever tread, 
 And man l)y m m, as slieep by slx'ep, is led, 
 None start aside, but in the patlis proceed, &c.'] 
 
TALE III.- THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. 
 
 287 
 
 Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven con 
 
 trive, 
 Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive : 
 Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin ; 
 Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin ; 
 Who needs no bond, must yet engage in vows ; 
 Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse : 
 Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules, 
 
 ■ Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools, 
 
 • And train'd in thraldom to be fit for tools : 
 The youth grown up, he now a partner needs, 
 
 ' And lo ! a priest, as soon as he succeeds. 
 
 ■ What man of sense can marriage-rites approve ? 
 
 • What man of spirit can be bound to love 'i 
 
 • Forced to be kind ! compell'd to be sincere ! 
 
 ■ Do chains and fetters make companions dear ? 
 
 • Fris'ners indeed we bind ; but though the bond 
 
 ■ May keep them safe, it does not make them 
 
 fond : 
 
 • The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, 
 
 ■ AH parties known ! made public all affairs ! 
 
 ■ Such forms men suffer, and from these they date 
 
 ■ A deed of love begun with all they hate : 
 
 • Absurd ! that none the beaten road should shun, 
 
 • But love to do what other dupes have done. 
 
 '• Well, now your priest has made you one of 
 twain, 
 '■ Look you for rest ? Alas ! you look in vain. 
 ' If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace, 
 ' Till he attends to witness your release ; 
 
 • To vex your soul, and urge you to confess 
 
 ' The sins j^ou feel, remember, or can guess ; 
 ' ^"ay, when departed, to your grave he goes — 
 
 • But there indeed he hurts not your repose. 
 
 '' Such are our burthens ; part we must sustain, 
 ' But need not link new grievance to the chain : 
 ' Yet men like idiots will their frames surround 
 
 • With these vile shackles, nor confess they 're 
 
 bound ; 
 ' In all that most confines them they confide, 
 ' Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their 
 
 pride ; 
 ' E'en as the pressure galls them, they declare 
 ' (Good souls !) how happy and how free they are ! 
 
 ■ As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells, 
 
 • Cry, 'Lo ! the palace where our honour dwells.' 
 
 " Such is our state : but I resolve to live 
 ' By rules my reason and my feelings give ; 
 ' No legal guards shall keep enthrall'd my mind, 
 ' No Slaves command me, and no teachers blind. 
 
 • Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy, 
 ' But have no second in a surplice by ; 
 
 ' No bottle-holder, with officious aid, 
 
 ' To comfort conscience, weaken'd and afraid : 
 
 • Then if I yield, my frailty is not known ; 
 ' And, if I stand, the glory is my own. 
 
 " When Truth and Reason are our friends, \\c 
 seem 
 
 • Alive ! awake ! — the superstitious dream. 
 
 * [" liO I, who erst beneath a tree 
 Sang Bumkinet and Bowzybee, 
 And Blouzelind, and Marian bright, 
 In apron blue, or apron white, 
 
 " Oh ! then, fair Truth, for thee alone I seek, 
 " Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak ; 
 " From thee we learn whate'er is right and just ; 
 " Forms to despise, professions to distrust ; 
 " Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride, 
 " And, following thee, to follow none beside." 
 
 Such was the speech : it struck upon the ear 
 Like sudden thunder none expect to hear, 
 lie saw men's wonder with a manly pride. 
 And gravely smiled at guest electrified. 
 " A farmer this ! " they said, " Oh ! let him seek 
 '' That place where he may for his country speak ; 
 " On some great question to harangue for hours, 
 " While speakers, hearing, envy nobler powers I " 
 
 Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare, 
 !Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care ; 
 In books he sought it, which his friends might view, 
 AVhen their kind host the guarding curtain drew. 
 There were historic works for graver hours. 
 And lighter verse to spur the languid powers ; 
 There metaphysics, logic there had place ; 
 But of devotion not a single trace — 
 Save what is taught in Gibbon's florid page. 
 And other guides of this inquiring age • 
 There Hume appear'd, and near a splendid book 
 Composed by Gay's " good lord of Bolingbroke :" ^ 
 With these were mix'd the light, the free, the 
 
 vain. 
 And from a comer peep'd the sage Tom Paine : 
 Here four neat volumes Chesterfield were named. 
 For manners much and easy morals famed ; 
 With chaste Memoirs of females, to be read 
 When deeper studies had confused the head. 
 
 Such his resources, treasures where he sought 
 For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught : 
 Then, when his friends were present, for their use 
 He would the riches he had stored produce ; 
 He found his lamp bum clearer when each day 
 He drew for all he purposed to display; 
 For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung, 
 As mustard quickens on a bed of dung : 
 All was prepared, and guests allow'd the praise 
 For what they saw he could so quickly raise. 
 
 Such this new friend ; and when the year came 
 round. 
 The same impressive, reasoning sage was found : 
 Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced 
 AN'ith a fair damsel — his no vulgar taste ; 
 TIic neat Jiebecca— sly, observant, still, 
 AA'atching his eye, and waiting on his will ; 
 Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek, 
 1 1 cr smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak : 
 But watch'd each look, each meaning to detect. 
 And (pleased with notice) felt for all neglect. 
 
 AVith her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life, 
 Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife : 
 The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law. 
 Affected scorn, and censured what they saw, 
 
 Now write my sonnets in a book, 
 For my good lord of Bolingbroke." 
 
 Gay, Prologue to Slwpherd's JVcch 
 
288 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 And what they saw not, fancied ; said 't was sin, 
 
 And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn : 
 
 But he despised their rudeness, and would prove 
 
 Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love ; 
 
 " Fools as they were ! could they conceive that 
 
 rings 
 " And parsons' blessings were substantial things ? " 
 They answer'd " Yes ;" while he contemptuous 
 
 spoke 
 Of the low notions held by simple folk ; 
 Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise 
 Should from the notions of these fools arise ; 
 Can they so vex us, whom we so despise ? 
 
 Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread 
 Lest those who saw him kind should think him led ; 
 If to his bosom fear a visit paid. 
 It was, lest he should be supposed afraid : 
 Hence sprang his orders ; not that he desired 
 The things when done : obedience he required ; 
 And thus, to prove his absolute command. 
 Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand ; 
 Assent he ask'd for every word and whim, 
 To prove that he alone was king of him. 
 
 The still Rebecca, who her station knew, 
 With ease resign'd the honours not her due : 
 Well pleased she saw that men her board would 
 
 grace. 
 And wish'd not there to see a female face ; 
 When by her lover she his spouse was styled. 
 Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled ; 
 But when he wanted wives and maidens round 
 So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd ; 
 And sometimes whisper'd — "Why should you 
 
 respect 
 " These people's notions, yet their forms reject ? " 
 
 Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter 
 
 free. 
 Still felt abridgment in his liberty ; 
 Something of hesitation he betray'd, 
 And in her presence thought of what he said. 
 Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd astray, 
 His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray, 
 To be at church, to sit with serious looks. 
 To read her Bible and her Sunday-books : 
 She hated all those new and daring themes, 
 And call'd his free conjectures " devil's dreams :" 
 She honour'd still the priesthood in her fall, 
 And claim'd respect and reverence for them all ; 
 Call'd them " of sin's destructive power the foes, 
 " And not such blockheads as he might suppose." 
 Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes 
 
 say, 
 " 'T is a kind fool ; why vex her in her way ?" 
 Her way she took, and still had more in view, 
 For she contrived tliat he should take it too. 
 The daring freedom of his soul, 'twas plain. 
 In part was lost in a divided reign ; 
 A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway'd 
 Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd. 
 
 Yet such our fate, that when wo plan the best, 
 Something arises to disturb our rest : 
 For though in spirits high, in body strong, 
 Gwyn something full — he knew not what — was 
 wrong ; 
 
 He wish'd to know, foi he believed the thing, 
 If unremoved, would other evil bring : 
 " She must perceive, of late he could not eat, 
 " And when he walk'd he trembled on his feet : 
 "He had forebodings, and he seem"d as one 
 " Stopp'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun ; 
 " He could not live, and yet, should he apply 
 " To those physicians — he must sooner die." 
 
 The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain. 
 And some distress, her friend and lord complain : 
 His death she fear'd not, but had painful doubt 
 What his distemper'd nerves might bring about ; 
 With power like hers she dreaded an ally, 
 And yet there was a person in her eye ; — 
 She thought, debated, fix'd— " Alas !" she said, 
 " A case like yours must be no more delay'd ; 
 " You hate these doctors ; well ! but were a friend 
 " And doctor one, your fears would have an end : 
 " My cousin Mallet — Scotland holds him now — 
 " Is above all men skilful, all allow ; 
 " Of late a Doctor, and within a while 
 " He means to settle in this favour'd isle : 
 " Should he attend you, with his skill profound, 
 " You must be safe, and shortly would be sound." 
 
 When men in health against Physicians rail, 
 They should consider that their nerves may fail ; 
 AVho calls a Lawyer rogue, may find, too late. 
 On one of these depends his whole estate ; 
 Nay, when the world can nothing more produce. 
 The Priest, th' insulted priest, may have his use : 
 Ease, health, and comfort lift a man so high. 
 These powers are dwarfs that he can scarcely spy ; 
 Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man so low. 
 That these neglected dwarfs to giants grow : 
 Happy is he who through the medium sees 
 Of clear good sense — but G^\-j'n was not of these. 
 
 He heard and he rejoiced : " Ah ! let him come, 
 " And till he fixes, make my house his home." 
 Home came the Doctor — he was much admired ; 
 He told the patient what his case required ; 
 His hours for sleep, his time to cat and drink. 
 When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or tliink. 
 Thus join'd peculiar skill and art profound. 
 To make the fancy-sick no more than fancy-sound. 
 
 With such attention, who could long be ill ? 
 Returning health proclaim'd the Doctor's skill. 
 Presents and praises from a grateful heart 
 Were freely otier'd on the patient's part ; 
 In high repute the Doctor seem'd to stand, 
 But still had got no footing in the land ; 
 And, as he saw the seat was rich and fair, 
 lie felt disposed to fix his station there : 
 To gain his purpose he perform'd the part 
 Of a good actor, and prepared to start ; 
 Not like a traveller in a day serene. 
 When the sun shone and when the roads wore 
 
 clean ; 
 Not like the pilgrim, when the morning grey, 
 The ruddy eve succeeding, sends his way ; 
 But in a season when the sharp cast wind 
 Had all its influence on a nervous mind ; 
 When past the parlour's front it fiercely blow. 
 And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew. 
 This strange physician said — " Adieu ! adieu ! 
 
TALE III.— THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. 
 
 280 
 
 " Farewell ! — Heaven bless you ! — if you should — 
 
 but no, 
 " You need not fear — farewell I 't is time to go." 
 
 The Doctor spoke ; and as the patient heard, 
 His old disorders (dreadful train !) appear'd ; 
 " He felt the tingling tremor, and the stress 
 " Upon his nerves that he could not express ; 
 " Should his good friend forsake him, he perhaps 
 ' Might meet his death, and surely a relapse." 
 
 So, as the Doctor seem'd intent to part, 
 He cried in terror — " Oh ! be where thou art : 
 " Come, thou art young, and unengaged ; oh I 
 
 come, 
 " Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine 
 
 home ; 
 " I have now symptoms that require thine aid, 
 " Do, Doctor, stay : " — th' obliging Doctor stay'd. 
 
 Thus Gwyn was happy ; he had now a friend, 
 And a meek spouse on whom he could depend : 
 But now possess'd of male and female guide, 
 Divided power he thus must subdivide : 
 In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease 
 Keclined, and having but himself to please ; 
 Now if he would a fav'rite nag bestride. 
 He sought permission — " Doctor, may I ride? " 
 (Rebecca's ej'e her sovereign pleasure told) — 
 " I think you may, but guarded from the cold, 
 '■ Hide forty minutes." — Free and happy soul, 
 He scorn'd submission, and a man's control ; 
 But where such friends in every care unite 
 All for his good, obedience is delight. 
 
 Now Gwyn a sultan bade affairs adieu. 
 Led and assisted by the faithful two ; 
 The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat. 
 And whisper'd whom to love, assist, or hate ; 
 Vi'hile the chief vizier eased his lord of cares, 
 And bore himself the burden of affairs : 
 No dangers could from such alliance flow. 
 But from that law that changes all below. 
 
 When wintry winds with leaves bestrew'd the 
 ground. 
 And men were coughing all the village round ; 
 When public papers of invasion told. 
 Diseases, famines, perils new and old ; 
 When philosophic writers fail'd to clear 
 'J'he mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer; 
 Then came fresh terrors on our hero's mind — ■ 
 Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined. 
 
 " In outward ills," he cried, " I rest assured 
 " Of my friend's aid ; they will in time be cured ; 
 " But can his art subdue, resist, control 
 " These inward griefs and troubles of the soul ? 
 " Oh ! my Rebecca ! my disorder'd mind 
 " No help in study, none in thought can find ; 
 " What must I do, Rebecca ? " She proposed 
 The Parish-guide ; but what could be disclosed 
 To a proud priest ? — " No ! him have I defied, 
 " Insulted, slighted— shall he be my guide ? 
 " But one there is, and if report be just, 
 " A wise good man, whom I may safely trust ; 
 " Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear. 
 
 " To make his truths, his Gospel-truths, appear ; 
 " True if indeed they be, 't is time that 1 should 
 
 hear : 
 " Send for that man ; and if report be just, 
 " I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust ; 
 " But if deceiver, I the vile deceit 
 " Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat." 
 
 To Doctor MoUet was the grief confess'd, 
 While Gwyn the freedom of his mind express'd ; 
 Yet own'd it was to ills and errors prone, 
 And he for guilt and frailty must atone. 
 " JMy books, perhaps," the wav'ring mortal cried, 
 " Like men deceive ; I would be satisfied ; — 
 " And to my soul the pious man may bring 
 " Comfort and light : — do let me try the thing." 
 
 The cousins met, what pass'd with Gwyn was 
 told: 
 " Alas ! " the Doctor said, " how hard to hold 
 " These easy minds, where all impressions made 
 " At fisst sink deeply, and then quickly fade ; 
 " For while so strong these new-born fancies reign, 
 " We must divert them, to oppose is vain : 
 " You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed 
 " The bigot's threat'nings or the zealot's creed ; 
 " Shook by a dream, he next for ti'uth receives 
 " What frenzy teaches, and what fear believes ; 
 " And this will place him in the power of one 
 " Whom we must seek, because we cannot shun." 
 
 W'isv had been ostler at a busy inn, 
 Wh-'. c he beheld and grew in dread of sin ; 
 Then to a Baptists' meeting foimd his waj^. 
 Became a convert, and was taught to pray ; 
 Then preach'd ; and, being earnest and sincere, 
 Brought other sinners to religious fear : 
 Together grew his influence and his fame, 
 Till our dejected hero heard his name : 
 His little failings were a grain of pride, 
 Raised by the numbers he presumed to guide; 
 A love of presents, and of lofty praise 
 For his meek spirit and his humble ways ; 
 But though this spirit would on flattery feed, 
 No praise could blind him and no arts mislead : — 
 To him the Doctor made the wishes kno-v^Ti 
 Of his good patron, but conceal'd his o^^•n ; 
 He of all teachers had distrust and doubt. 
 And was reserved in what he came about ; 
 Though on a plain and simple message sent, 
 He had a secret and a bold intent : 
 Their minds at first were deeply veil'd ; disguise 
 Form'd the slow speech, and oped the eager eyes ; 
 Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown 
 On every view, and all the business shown. 
 Wisp, as a skilful guide who led the blind. 
 Had powers to rule and awe the vapourish mind ; 
 But not the changeful will, the wavering fear to 
 
 bind : 
 And should his conscience give him leave to dwell 
 With Gwyn, and every rival power expel 
 (A dubious point), yet he, with every care, 
 flight soon the lot of the rejected share ; 
 And other Wisps he found like him to reign, 
 And then be thro^^'n upon the world again : 
 He thought it prudent then, and felt it just. 
 The present guides of his new friend to trust : 
 
 c 
 
290 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart 
 
 Of the cool Doctor, was beyond his art ; 
 
 But mild Kebecca lie could surely sway, 
 
 "While Gwyn would follow where she led the way: 
 
 So to do good, (and why a duty shun, 
 
 Because rewarded for the good when done ?) 
 
 He with his friends would join in all they plann'd, 
 
 Save when his faith or feelings should withstand ; 
 
 There he must rest sole judge of his affairs, 
 
 While they might rule exclusively in theirs. 
 
 When Gwj'n his message to the teacher sent, 
 He fear'd his friends would show their discontent ; 
 And prudent seem'd it to th' attendant pair, 
 Not all at once to show an aspect fair : 
 On Wisp they seem'd to look with jealous eye, 
 And fair Ilebecca was demure and shy ; 
 But by degrees the teacher's worth they knew, 
 And were so kind, they seem'd converted too. 
 
 Wisp took occasion to the nj'mph to say, 
 " You must be married : will you name tlie day?" 
 She smiled, — " 'T is well : but should he not 
 
 comply, 
 " Is it quite safe th' e.xperiment to try?" — 
 " My child," the teacher said, "who feels remorse, 
 " (And feels not he ?) must wish relief of course : 
 " And can he find it, while he fears tlie crime ? — 
 " You must be married ; will you name the time r" 
 
 Glad was the patron as a man could be, 
 Yet marvell'd too, to find his guides agree ; 
 " But what the cause ?" he cried; " 't is genuine 
 love for me." 
 
 Each found his part, and let one act describe 
 The powers and honours of th' accordant tribe : — 
 A man for favour to the mansion speeds. 
 And cons his threefold task as he proceeds ; 
 To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air. 
 And begs his interest for a barn's repair: 
 Then for the Doctor he inquires, who loves 
 To hear applause for what his skill improves, 
 And gives for praise, assent — and to the Fair 
 He brings of pullets a delicious pair ; 
 Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice, 
 A love of power, conceit, and avarice. 
 
 Lo ! now the change complete : the convert 
 Gwyn 
 Has Bold his books, and has renounced his sin ; 
 MoUet his body orders, Wisp his soul, 
 And o'er his purse the I^ady takes control ; 
 No friends beside he needs, and none attend — 
 Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend ; 
 And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life — 
 She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.' 
 
 ' [This tale is of a coarser texture than tlie procedinj,' ones, 
 though full of acute observation and grapliic delineation of 
 ordinary characters. The Ihto is not a IVirmi-r turned ;;entle- 
 man, but a gentleman turned farmer— a coneeiled, active, 
 talking, domineerinp; .sort of person — wlio plants, and eals, 
 and drinks willi (jreat vi;,'our — keeps a mistress, and speaks 
 with audacious scorn of tlie tyranny of wives, and Ilie impo- 
 sitions of j>riests, lawyers, and physicians. lleinj,' but a 
 shallow fellow, however, at bottom, his confidence in his 
 opinions declines ^jtadually as his health ilecays ; and being 
 
 TALE IV. 
 
 P R O C R A S T I N A T I O N.' 
 
 Heaven witness 
 I have been to von ever true and humble. 
 
 Jlcnnj Vni. 
 
 Gentle lady, 
 ^Vhen I did first impart mv love to vou, 
 I freely told you all the wealtli 1 hail. 
 
 Merchant <>/ Venitc. 
 
 The fatal time 
 Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love, 
 And ample interchanfre of sweet discourse, 
 Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell npon. 
 
 Richard III. 
 
 I know thee not, ohl man ; fall to thy prayers. 
 
 Henrt/ II'. 
 
 Farewell, 
 Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity, 
 For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love. 
 
 Much Ado about KsHhiiig. 
 
 Love will expire— the gay, the liappy dream 
 Will turn to scorn, indiff'rence, or esteem : 
 Some favour'd pairs, in this exchange, are blest. 
 Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest : 
 Others, ill match'd, with minds unpair'd, repent 
 At once the deed, and know no more content ; 
 From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline. 
 And, with their fondness, their esteem resign ; 
 3Iore luckless still their fate, who are the prey 
 Of long-protracted hope and dull delay : 
 'iSIid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on, 
 Till love is wither'd, and till joy is gone. 
 
 This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess'd, 
 The sweet disturber of unenvied rest : 
 The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved. 
 And the kind ]{itpert was the swain approved : 
 A wealthy Aunt her gentle niece sustain'<l, 
 He, with a father, at his desk remain'd ; 
 The youthful couple, to their vows sincere. 
 Thus loved expectant; year succeeding ye;ir. 
 With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect 
 
 near. 
 Rupert some comfort in his station saw. 
 But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe ; 
 Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled, 
 .\nd bade her wait, " for she was yet a child." 
 She for her neighbour had a due respect, 
 Nor would his son encourage or reject ; 
 
 seized with some maladies in his stomach, he ends witli m;ir- 
 rving his mistress, and submitting to be triply governed by 
 tlirce of lier confederates, in the respective characters of a 
 quack doctor, a methodist preacher, and a projecting laml 
 steward. — Jkffukv.] 
 
 ' [Mr. Crabbe's sons have no doubt but that tlieir mother's 
 residence, at one time, with her rich old aunt, who w;is very 
 partial to her, and abounded in trinkets, suggested this suji- 
 position.] 
 
TALE IV.— PROCRASTINATION. 
 
 291 
 
 And thus the pair, -svith expectations vain. 
 Beheld the seasons change and change again : 
 Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, 
 Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused : 
 AVhile liers, though teasing, boasted to be kind. 
 And she, resenting, to be all resign 'd. 
 
 The dame was sick, and when the joutli applied 
 For her consent, she groan'd, and cough'd, and 
 
 cried, 
 Talk'd of departing, and again her breath 
 Drew hard, and cough'd, and talk'd again of death : 
 " Here may you live, my Dinah I here the boy 
 " And you together mj' estate enjoy :" 
 Thus to the lovers was lier mind express'd. 
 Till they forbore to urge the fond request. 
 
 Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend, 
 Dinah had still some duty to attend ; 
 But yet their walk, when Rupert's evening call 
 Obtain'd an hour, made sweet amends for all ; 
 So long they now each other's thoughts had known. 
 That nothing seem'd exclusively their own : 
 But with the common wish, the mutual fear. 
 They now had travelled to their thirtieth year. 
 
 At length a prospect open'd — but alas ! 
 Long time must yet, before the union, pass. 
 Rupert was call'd, in other clime, t' increase 
 Another's wealth, and toil for future peace. ' 
 Loth were the lovers ; but the aunt declared 
 'T was fortune's call, and they must be prepared : 
 " You now are young, and for this brief delay, 
 " And Dinah's care, what I bequeath will pay ; 
 " All will be yours ; nay, love, suppress that sigh ; 
 " The kind must suiTer, and the best must die :" 
 Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave 
 Of holding long contention with the grave. 
 
 The lovers parted with a gloomy view, 
 And little comfort, but that both were true ; 
 He for uncertain duties doom'd to steer, 
 "Wliile hers remain'd too certain and severe. 
 
 Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told 
 " His cares were many, and his hopes were cold : 
 " The view more clouded, that was never fair, 
 " And love alone preserved him from despair ;" 
 In other letters brighter hopes he drew, 
 '• liis friends were kind, and he believed them true." 
 
 When the sage widow Dinah's grief descried, 
 She wonder'd much why one so happy sigh'd : 
 Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain'd 
 The ills of life, nor murmur'd nor complain'd. 
 
 '■' Allusion is here made, not to the well-known species of 
 sumach, called the poison-oak, toxicodendron, but to the upas, 
 or poison-tree of .lava : whether it be real or imaginary, this 
 is no proper place for inquiry. 
 
 ' [" Fierce in dread silence on the blasted heath 
 Fell Upas sits, the Hydra tree of death. 
 Lo! from one root, the envenom"d soil below, 
 A thousand vegetative serpents grow ; 
 In shining rays the scaly monster spreads 
 O'er ten square leagues his far diverging heads. 
 Or in one trunk entwists his tangled form. 
 Looks o'er the clouds, and hisses in the storm," &c. 
 
 Darwin's I-oves of the Plants. 
 
 To vary pleasures, from the lady's chest 
 Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest ; 
 Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown, 
 Witli the kind notice — " They will be your own." 
 
 This hope, these comforts, cherish'd day by day. 
 To Dinah's bosom made a gradual way ; 
 Till love of treasure liad as large a part. 
 As love of Rupert, in the virgin's heart. 
 Whether it be that tender passions fail. 
 From their own nature, while the strong prevail ; 
 Or whether av'rice, like the poison-tree,* 
 Kills all beside it, and alone will be ; ^ 
 Whatever cause prevail'd, the pleasure grew 
 In Dinah's soul, — she loved the hoards to view ; 
 With lively joy those comforts she survey'd. 
 And love grew languid in the careful maid. 
 
 Now the grave niece partook the widow's cares, 
 Look'd to the great, and ruled the small affairs ; 
 Saw clean'd the plate, arranged the china-show, 
 And felt her passion for a shilling grow : 
 Th' indulgent aunt increased the maid's delight. 
 By placing tokens of her wealth in sight ; 
 She loved the value of her bonds to tell, 
 And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell. 
 
 This passion grew, and gain'd at length such 
 
 sway, 
 That other passions shrank to make it waj' ; 
 Romantic notions now the heart forsook, 
 She read but seldom, and she changed her book ; 
 And for the verses she was wont to send. 
 Short was her prose, and she was Rupert's friend. 
 Seldom she WTote, and then the widow's cough. 
 And constant call, excused her breaking off; 
 Who now oppressed, no longer took the air, 
 But sat and dozed upon an easy chair. 
 The cautious doctor saw the case was clear, 
 But judged it best to have companions near; 
 They came, they reason'd, they prescribed, — at 
 
 last. 
 Like honest men, they said their hopes were past ; 
 Then came a priest — 't is comfort to reflect 
 When all is over, there was no neglect : 
 And all was over. — By her husband's bones, 
 The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones. 
 That yet record their fondness and their fame, 
 Wliile all they left the virgin's care became ; 
 Stock, bonds, and buildings ; it disturb'd her rest. 
 To think what load of troubles she possess'd : 
 Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take 
 Th' imjjortant duty for the donor's sake ; 
 She too was heiress to the widow's taste. 
 Her love of hoarding, and her dread of waste. 
 
 For an authentic refutation of the gross imposition prac- 
 tised on the people of Europe, by the romance of Foersch, 
 on the subject of this tree, see Kaffles's History of Java, vol. i., 
 p. 44. " Almost every one," says Sir Thomas, " has heard of 
 its fabulous history — a history which, from its extravagant 
 nature, its susceptibility of poetical ornament, its alliance 
 with the cruelties of a despotic government, and the spark- 
 ling genius of Darwin, whose purpose it answered to adopt 
 and personify it as a malignant spirit, has obtained almost 
 equal currency w ith the wonders of the Lerna hydra, the 
 Chimera, or anv other of the classic fictions of anti- 
 quity."] 
 
 U -i 
 
292 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Sometimes the past -would on her mind intrude, 
 And then a conflict full of care ensued ; 
 The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press, 
 His worth she knew, but doubted his success : 
 Of old she saw him heedless ; what the boy 
 Forebore to save, the man would not enjoy ; 
 Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize, 
 Willing to Uve, but more to live at ease : 
 Yet could she not a broken vow defend. 
 And Heav'n, perhaps, might yet enrich lier friend. 
 
 Month after month was pass'd, ami all were 
 spent 
 In quiet comfort, and in rich content ; 
 Miseries there were, and woes the world around. 
 But these had not her pleasant dwelling found ; 
 She knew that mothers grieved, and widows wept. 
 And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept : 
 Thus passed the seasons, and to Dinah's board 
 Gave what the seasons to tlie rich afford ; 
 For she indulged, nor was her heart so small, 
 That one strong passion should engross it all. 
 
 A love of splendour now with av'rice strove. 
 And oft appeared to be the stronger love : 
 A secret pleasure fiU'd the Widow's breast, 
 AVhen she reflected on the hoards possess'd ; 
 But livelier joy inspired th' ambitious IMaid, 
 When she the purchase of those hoards displayed : 
 In small but splendid room she loved to see 
 That all was placed in view and harmony. 
 There, as with eager glance she look'd around. 
 She much delight in every object found . 
 While books devout were near her — to destroy, 
 Should it arise, an overflow of joy. 
 
 Within that fair apartment guests might sec 
 The comforts cuU'd for wealth by vanity : 
 Around the room an Indian paper blazed. 
 With lively tint and figures boldly raised ; 
 Silky and soft upon the floor below, 
 Th' elastic carpet rose with crimson glow ; 
 All things around implied both cost and care, 
 What met the eye was elegant or rare : 
 Some curious trifles round the room were laid, 
 By hope presented to the wealthy Maid ; 
 Within a costly case of varnish'd wood, 
 In level rows, her jiolisli'd volumes stood ; 
 Sho%vn as a favour to a chosen few. 
 To prove what beauty for a book could do : 
 A silver urn with curious work was fraught ; 
 A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought : 
 Above her head, all gorgeous to behold, 
 A time-piece stood on feet of burnish'd gold ; 
 A stag's-head crest adorn'd tlie pictured case, 
 Through the pure crystal shone the cnamel'd face; 
 And wliile on brilliants moved the liauds of steel. 
 It click'd from pray'r to pray'r, from meal to meal. 
 
 Here as the lady sat, a friendl}- pair 
 Stept in t' admire the view, and took their chair : 
 They tlicn related how tlie young and guy 
 Were thoughtless wandering in tlio broad liighway : 
 IIow tender damsels sail'd in tilted boats. 
 And laugh'd with wicked men in scarlet coats ; 
 And how we live in such degen'rate times. 
 That men conceal their wants and show their 
 crimes ; 
 
 While vicious deeds are screen'd by fashion's name. 
 And what was once our pride is now our shame. 
 
 Dinah was musing, as her friends discoursed, 
 When these last words a sudden entrance forced 
 Upon her mind, and what was once her pride 
 And now her shame, some painful views supplied ; 
 Thoughts of the past within her bosom press'd. 
 And there a change was felt, and was confess'd : 
 While thus the Virgin strove with secret pain, 
 Her mind was wandering o'er the troubled main ; 
 Still she was silent, notliing seem'd to see, 
 IJut sat and siglrd in iiensive reverie. 
 
 The friends prepared new subjects to begin, 
 When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk'd in; 
 Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow. 
 As when she came, the mind she knew, to know ; 
 Nor as, when list'ning half an hour before. 
 She twice or thrice tapp'd gently at the door ; 
 But all decorum cast in wrath aside, 
 " I think the devil 's in the man ! " she cried ; 
 " A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek 
 " And pitted face, will with my lady speak ; 
 " He grinn'd an ugly smile, and said he knew, 
 " Please you, my lady, 't would be joy to you : 
 " What must I answer ? " — Trembling and distress'd 
 Sank the pale Dinah by her fears oppress'd ; 
 When thus alarm'd, and brooking no delay, 
 Swift to her room the stranger made his way. 
 
 " Revive, my love ! " said he, " I "ve done thee 
 harm ; 
 " Give me thy pardon," and he look'd alarm : 
 Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived 
 Her soul to question, and she then revived. 
 
 " See ! my good friend," and then she raised her 
 head, 
 " The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled : 
 " Living we die ; to us the world is dead ; 
 " We parted bless'd with health, and I am now 
 " Age-struck and feeble— so I find art thou ; 
 " Thine eye is sunken, furrow'd is thy face, 
 " And downward look'st thou — so we run our race ; 
 " And happier they whose race is nearly run, 
 " Their troubles over, and their duties done." 
 
 " True, lady, true — we are not girl and boj", 
 " But time has left us something to enjoy." 
 " What ! thou hast learn'd my fortune ?— yes, I 
 
 live 
 " To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give : 
 " Thou too perhaps art wealthy ; but our fate 
 " Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late." 
 
 " To me nor late nor early ; I am come 
 " Poor as I left thee to my native home : 
 " Nor yet," said Rupert, "will I grieve ; 't is mine 
 " To share thy comforts, and the glory thine : 
 " For thou wilt gladly take that generous part 
 " That both exalts and gratifies the heart ; 
 "While mine rejoices" — "Heavens!" rctum'd 
 
 the maid, 
 " Tliis talk to one so wither'd and decay'd ? 
 " No ! all my care is now to fit my mind 
 " For other spousal, and to die resigned : 
 
TALE IV.-PROCRASTINATION. 
 
 293 
 
 " As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see 
 " Tliese noble views, this pious love in thee ; 
 " That we together may the change await, 
 " Guides and spectators in each other's fate ; 
 " When fellow pilgrims, we shall daily crave 
 " The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave." 
 
 Half angiy, half in doubt, the lover gazed 
 On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed ; 
 " Dinah," said he, " dost thou respect thy vows ? 
 " What spousal meau'st thou ? — thou art Rupert's 
 
 spouse ; 
 " That chance is mine to take, and thine to give : 
 " But, trifling this, if we together live : 
 " Can I believe, that, after all the past, 
 " Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last ? 
 " Something thou hast — I know not what — in 
 
 view ; 
 " I find thee pious — let me find thee true." 
 
 " Ah ! cruel this ; but do, my friend, depart ; 
 " And to its feelings leave my wounded heart." 
 
 " Nay, speak at once ; and Dinah, let me know, 
 " Mean'st thou to take me, now I 'm wreck'd, in 
 
 tow ? 
 " Be fair ; nor longer keep me in the dark ; 
 " Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark ? 
 " Heaven's spouse thou art not ; nor can I believe 
 " That God accepts her who will man deceive : 
 " True I am shatter'd, I have service seen, 
 " And service done, and have in trouble been ; 
 " My cheek (it shames me not) has lost its red, 
 " And the brown buff is o'er my features spread : 
 " Perchance my speech is rude ; for I among 
 " Th' untamed have been, in temper and in tongue ; 
 " Have been trepann'd, have lived in toil and care, 
 " And WTought for wealth I was not doom'd to 
 
 share ; 
 " It touch'd me deeply, for I felt a pride 
 " In gaining riches for my destin'd bride : 
 " Speak then my fate; for these my sorrows past, 
 " Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last 
 " This doubt of thee — a childish thing to tell, 
 " But certain truth — my very throat they swell : 
 " They stop the breath, and but for shame could I 
 " Give way to weakness, and with passion cry ; 
 " These are unmanly struggles, but I feel 
 " This hour must end them, and perhaps will 
 
 heal." 
 
 Here Dinah sigh'd, as if afraid to speak — 
 And then repeated — " They were frail and weak : 
 " His soul she lov'd, and hoped he liad the grace 
 " To fix his thoughts upon a better place." 
 
 She ceased ; — with steady glance, as if to see 
 
 The very root of this hypocrisy, — ■ 
 
 He her small fingers moulded in Iiis hard 
 
 And bronzed broad hand ; then UU her his regard. 
 
 His best respect were gone, but love had still 
 
 Hold in his heart, and goveim'd yet the will — 
 
 * [Tin's tale lias sometliing of the character of tlie ' Parting 
 Hour;' but more painful and less relined. It is founded like 
 it on tlie story of a betrothed youth and maiden, whose mar- 
 ria;,'e is prevented by tlieir poverty; and the youth yoes to 
 pursue his fortune at sea, while the damsel auaits his return 
 
 Or he would curse her : — saying this, he threw 
 
 The hand in scorn away, and bade adieu 
 
 To every lingering hope, with every care in view. 
 
 Proud and indignant, suffering, sick, and poor. 
 He grieved unseen : and spoke of love no more — 
 Till all he felt in indignation died. 
 As hers had sunk in avarice and pride. 
 
 In health declining, as in mind distress'd, 
 To some in power his troubles he confess'd. 
 And shares a parish-gift ; — at prayers he sees 
 The pious Dinah dropp'd upon her knees ; 
 Thence as she walks the street with stately air 
 As chance directs, oft meet the parted pair ; 
 When he, with thickset coat of badgeman's blue, 
 Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue ; 
 When his thin locks of grey approach her braid, 
 A costly purchase made in Beauty's aid ; 
 AVhen his frank air, and his unstudied pace. 
 Are seen with her soft manner, air, and grace ; 
 And his plain artless look with her sharp meaning 
 
 face ; 
 It might some wonder in a stranger move. 
 How these together could have talk'd of love. 
 
 Behold them now ! — see there a tradesman stands. 
 
 And humbly hearkens to some fresh commands ; 
 
 He moves to speak, she interrupts him — " Stay," 
 
 Her air expresses, — " Hark to what I say ! " 
 
 Ten paces off, poor Rupert on a seat 
 
 Has taken refuge from the noon-day heat. 
 
 His eyes on her intent, as if to find 
 
 What were the movements of that subtle mind : 
 
 How still ! — 'how earnest is he ! — it appears 
 
 His thoughts are wand'ring through his earlier 
 
 years ; 
 Through years of fruitless labour, to the day 
 When all his earthly prospects died awaj' : 
 " Had I," he thinks, "been wealthier of the two, 
 " Would she have found me so unkind, untrue ? 
 " Or knows not man when poor, what man when 
 
 rich will do ? 
 " Yes, yes ! I feel that I had faithful proved, 
 " And should have soothed and raised her, bless'd 
 
 and loved." 
 
 But Dinah moves — she had observed before 
 The pensive Rupert at an humble door : 
 Some thoughts of pity raised by his distress. 
 Some feeling touch of ancient tenderness ; 
 Religion, duty urged the maid to speak, 
 In terms of kindness to a man so weak : 
 But pride forbade, and to return would prove 
 She felt the shame of his neglected love ; 
 Nor wrapp'd in silence could she pass, afraid 
 Each eye should see her, and each heart upbraid ; 
 One way remain'd — the way the Levite took, 
 AVho without mercy could on misery look ; 
 (A way perceiv'd by craft, approved by pride), 
 She cross'd and pass'd him on the other side.* 
 
 with an old female relation at home lie is crossed with many 
 disasters, and is not heard of for many years. In the mean 
 lime, the virgin gradually imbibes her aunt's paltry lovt^ for 
 wealtli and finery; and when she eonies, alter long sordid ex- 
 pectation, to inherit her hoard, feels that those new tastes 
 
TALE V. 
 
 THE PATRON.' 
 
 It were all one, 
 That I should love a brisht peculiar star. 
 And think to wed it ; she is so mucl; above me : 
 In her brisjht radiance and collateral heat 
 Must I be comforted, not in her sphere. 
 
 AU 's JrtU that Ends JVell. 
 
 Poor wretches, tliat depend 
 On greatness' favours, dream as I have done,— 
 Wake and find nothing. Cymhcime. 
 
 And since 
 
 Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which 
 
 I fear a madness held me. Tempest. 
 
 A BOROUGH-BAILIFF, wlio to law was train' d, 
 A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd ; 
 He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd. 
 And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd ; 
 He saw where others fail'd, and care had he, 
 Others in him should not such failings see : 
 His sons in various busy states were placed, 
 And all began the sweets of gain to taste, 
 Save Jolin, the younger, who, of sprightly parts, 
 Felt not a love for money-making arts : 
 In childhood feeble, he, for country air, 
 Had long resided with a rustic pair; 
 All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs, 
 Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs ; 
 Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight, 
 For breach of promise, guilty men to fright ; 
 Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with 
 
 these. 
 All that on idle, ardent spirits seize ; 
 Robbers at land and pirates on the main, 
 Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain ; 
 Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers. 
 Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice 
 
 flowers, 
 And all the hungry mind without a choice devours. 
 
 From village-children kept apart by pride, 
 With such enjoyments, and without a guide, 
 
 have supplanted every warmer emotion in her bosom ; and, 
 secretly hoping never more to see her youtlilul lover, fjivcs 
 herself up to comfortable KOfsiping anii formal ostentatious 
 devotion. At last, when she is set in her line parlour, with 
 her china, and toys, and prayer-books around her, the im- 
 patient man bursts into lier presence, anil reclaims her vows. 
 .She answers coldly, that she has now done witli the world, 
 and only studies how to prepare to die ; and exhorts him to 
 betake himself to the same needful meditations. Nothing; 
 can be more forcible or true to nature than the description of 
 the effect of this coldlilooiled cant on the warm and unsus- 
 pecting nature of her disappointed suitor.— Jeffrey.] 
 
 ' [The numberless allusions to the nature of a literary de- 
 ndant's existence in a yreat lord's house which 
 
 occur in 
 lie 
 
 peilUrtUb a v.M".! ^;iii.<; »i» « .i,.^"!. ../i-. .. ■i<rx...i. i.i(iv.tt i^k...iii i 
 
 Mr. Crabbc's writinjjs, and especially in the tale of ' Til 
 I'atron,' are quite enou;,'li to leail any one who knew his cha- 
 racter and feelings to the ooiiclusioii that, notv.ithstandiiig 
 the kindness and condesi'cMision of tin- Duke and Duchess of 
 Kutland, — v. Iiicli were iiniiorin, and of which he always spoke 
 
 Inspired by feelings all such works infused, 
 John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused : 
 AVith the like fancy he could make his knight 
 Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight ; 
 "Witli the like knowledgf he could make him ride 
 From isle to isle at Part/ienissa's '•' side ; 
 And with a heart j'et free, no busy brain 
 Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain. 
 The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain. 
 
 Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil — 
 Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil : 
 He nothing purposed but with vast delight. 
 Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at Iter flight : 
 His notions of poetic worth were liigh. 
 And of his own still-hoarded poetry ;— 
 These to his father's house he bore with pride, 
 A miser's treasure, in his room to hide ; 
 Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend 
 He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd : 
 With erring judgment, though with heart sincere. 
 That friend exclaim'd, " These beauties must 
 
 appear." 
 In magazines they claim'd their share of fame. 
 Though undistinguish'd by their author's name ; 
 And with delight the young enthusiast found 
 The muse of Marcus with applauses crown'd. 
 This lieard the father, and with some alarm ; 
 " The boy," said he, " will neither trade nor farm, 
 "He for both law and physic is unfit, 
 " Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit : 
 " Let him his talents then to learning give, 
 " Where verse is honour'd, and where poets live." 
 
 John kept his terms at college unrcproved, 
 Took his degree, and left the life he loved ; 
 Not yet ordain'd, his leisure he employ'd 
 In the light labours he so much enjoy'd ; 
 His favourite notions and his daring views 
 Were cherish'd still, and he adored the Muse. 
 
 " 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 his fame."' 
 When led by fancy, and from view retired, 
 He ciiU'd before him all his heart desired ; 
 " Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess, 
 " And beauty next an ardent lover bless ; 
 
 witli gratitude, — the situation he filled at Kelvoir was at- 
 tendeil witli many painful circumstances, ami productive in 
 his mind of some of the acutest sensations of wounded pride 
 that have ever been traced by any pen.— /.(/(■, iiiitr, p. 32. 
 
 " Ihd any of my sons show poetical talent, of w hicli. to ray 
 great satisfaction, there are no appearances, the lirst thing I 
 should do would be to inculcate upon him the duty of culti- 
 vating some honourable profession, and qualifying himself to 
 play a more respectable part in society than the mere poet. 
 .'Vnd as the liest corollary of my doctrine, I would muke him 
 get your tale of 'The Patron' by heart from beginning to 
 end." — >Si/- //'(tiler fe'cytt to Mr. Crabbe. See ante, p. .)".] 
 
 - [The til If of a romance written by Koger Hoyle, ICarl of 
 Orn'ry, and jJuMi'ihed in lUfiS. " Uudgell, in liis History ol 
 the lioyles, says that ' lew wlio can relish any romance Mill 
 dislike this :' and Langbane tells us that ' it yields not, either 
 in beauty, language, or desi:,'n, to the works of the famous 
 Scuderi or Calprenade, however famous they may be amongst 
 the French for piec -s of tliis nature.' " — /icy. Brit.] 
 
TALE v.— THE PATRON. 
 
 295 
 
 " For me the maid shall leave her nobler state, 
 " Happy to raise and share her poet's fate." 
 He saw each day his father's frugal board, 
 With simple fare by cautious prudence stored : 
 Where each indulgence was foreweigh'd with care, 
 And the grand maxims were to save and spare : 
 Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed. 
 All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled ; 
 And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind, 
 "Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind : 
 Slaves of the i-iiir; and lamp 1 ^ what need of you, 
 When Fancy's self such magic deeds can do ? 
 
 Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind, 
 To commoQ subjects stoop'd our poet's mind ; 
 And oft when wearied with more ardent tiight, 
 He felt a spur satiric song to write ; 
 A rival burgess his hold Muse attack'd, 
 And wliipp'd severely for a well known fact ; 
 For while he seem'd to all demure and shy, 
 Our poet gazed at what was passing by ; 
 And e'en his father smiled when playful wit. 
 From his young bard, some haughty object hit. 
 
 From ancient times, the borough where they 
 dwelt 
 Had mighty contests at elections felt : 
 Sir Godfrey Ball, 'tis true, had held in pay 
 FJectors many for the trying day ; 
 But in such golden chains to bind them all 
 Bequired too much for e'en Sir (Godfrey Ball. 
 A member died, and to supply his place 
 Two heroes enter'd for th' important race ; 
 Sir Godfrey's friend and Earl Fitzdonnel's son, 
 Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run ; 
 And partial numbers saw with vast delight 
 Their good young lord oppose the proud old kniglit. 
 
 Our poet's father, at a first request, 
 Gave the j'oung lord his vote and interest ; 
 And what he could our poet, for he stung 
 The foe by verse satiric, said and sung. 
 Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal. 
 And felt as lords upon a canvass feel ; 
 He read the satire, and he saw the use 
 That such cool insult, and such keen abuse, 
 ilight on the wavering minds of voting men 
 
 produce ; 
 Then too his praises were in contrast seen, 
 " A lord as noble as the knight was mean." 
 
 " I much rejoice," he cried, " such worth to find ; 
 " To this the world must be no longer blind : 
 " His glory will descend from sire to son, 
 " The Burns of English race, the happier Chat- 
 
 terton." 
 Our poet's mind, now hurried and elate, 
 Alarm'd the anxious parent for his fate ; 
 Who saw with sorrow, should tlieir friend succeed, 
 That much discretion would the poet need. 
 
 Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal 
 Tlie poet felt, and made opposers feel, 
 By praise (tVom lords how soothing and how sweet !) 
 An invitation to his noble seat. 
 
 ■' [See. in tlic Anibian Nisjlits' EntPrtainments, the History 
 of AladtUn, or tlie Wonderful Lamp.] 
 
 The father ponder'd, doubtful if the brain 
 Of his proud boy such honour could sustain ; 
 Pleased with the favours ofl'er'd to a son, 
 But seeing dangers few so ardent shun. 
 
 Thus when they parted, to the youthful breast 
 The father's fears were by his love impress'd : 
 " There will you find, my son, the courteous ease 
 " That must subdue the soul it means to please ; 
 " That soft attention which e'en beauty pays 
 " To wake our passions, or provoke our praise : 
 " There all the eye beholds will give delight, 
 " Where every sense is flatter'd like the sight; 
 " This is your peril ; can you from sucli scene 
 " Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene, 
 " And in the father's humble state resume 
 " The frugal diet and the narrow room ? " 
 To this the youth with cheerful heart replied. 
 Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried ; 
 And while professing patience, should he fail, 
 He sufiered hope o'er reason to prevail. 
 
 Impatient, by the morning mail conveyed. 
 The happy guest his promised visit paid ; 
 And now arriving at the Hall, he tried 
 For air composed, serene, and satisfied ; 
 As he had practised in his room alone. 
 And there acquired a free and easy tone : 
 There he had said, "Whatever the degree 
 " A man obtains, what more than man is he?" 
 And when arrived — " This room is but a room ; 
 " Can aught we sec the steady soul o'ercome ? 
 " Let me in all a manly firmness show, 
 " Upheld by talents, and their value know." 
 
 This reason urged ; but it surpassed his skill 
 To be in act as manly as in will : 
 When he his Lordship and the Lady saw. 
 Brave as he was, he felt oppress'd with awe : 
 And spite of verse, that so much praise had won, 
 The poet found he was the BaililTs son. 
 
 But dinner came, and the succeeding hours 
 Fix'd his weak nerves, and raised his failing 
 
 powers ; 
 Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice 
 On some remark, and bravely broke the ice ; 
 So that, at night, reflecting on his words. 
 He found, in time, he might converse v,-ith lords. 
 
 Now was the Sister of his Patrou seen — 
 A lovely creature, with majestic mien ; 
 Who, softly smiling, while she look'd so fair. 
 Praised the j'Oung poet with such friendly air; 
 Such winning frankness in her looks express'd, 
 And such attention to her brother's guest ; 
 That so much beauty, join'd with speech so kind, 
 Baised strong emotions in the poet's mind ; 
 Till reason fail'd his bosom to defend. 
 From the sweet power of this enchanting friend. — 
 Bash boy ! what hope thy frantic mind invades ? 
 What love confuses, and what pride persuades? 
 Awake to truth ! shouldst thou deluded feed 
 Ou hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed. 
 
 What say'st thou, wise one ? — '• that all powerful 
 Love 
 " Can fortune's strong impediments remove \ 
 
29G 
 
 CRABIJE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Nor is it strange that vorth should wed to worth, 
 " T]ie pride of genius with the pride of birth." 
 "While thou art dreaming thus, the Beauty spies 
 Love in tliy tremour, passion in thine eyes ; 
 And with th' amusement pleased, of conquest vain, 
 She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain ; 
 She gives thee praise to humble and confound, 
 Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound. 
 
 "Why has she said that in the lowest state 
 The noble mind ensures a noble fate ? 
 And why tliy daring mind to glory call ? — 
 That thou may'st dare and sutler, soar and fall. 
 Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign, 
 They have no feeling for their subjects' pain : 
 Their victim's anguish gives their charms applause. 
 And their chief glory is the woe they cause : 
 Something of this was felt, in spite of love, 
 Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove. 
 
 Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books. 
 And Lady Emma's soul-subduing looks : 
 Lost in delight, astonish'd at his lot, 
 All prudence banish'd, all advice forgot — 
 Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fi.\'d upon 
 the spot. 
 
 'T was autumn yet, and many a day must frown 
 On Brandon-Hall, ere went my Lord to town ; 
 Meantime the father, who had heard his boy 
 Lived in a round of luxury and joj^ 
 And justly thinking that the youth was one 
 Who, meeting danger, was unskill'd to shun ; 
 Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal. 
 How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel ; 
 These on the parent's soul their weight impress'd. 
 And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast : — 
 
 " John, thou 'rt a genius ; thou hast some 
 
 pretence, 
 " I think, to wit, — but hast thou sterling sense ? 
 " That which, like gold, may through the world 
 
 go forth, 
 " And alwaj's pass for what 't is truly worth : 
 " "Whereas this genius, like a bill must take 
 " Only the value our oi)inions make. 
 
 " Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain, 
 " Treat those of common parts with proud disdain ; 
 
 * [Goldsmitli. " Those who were in any way ilistiiijnishcd 
 excited envy in him to so riiiiciiloiis an excess, that the 
 instances of it are hardly credible." — Crukeu's liusiicll, 
 vol. i. p. 4-'2.] 
 
 5 [" Yes, I am proud ; I must be proud to see 
 Men not afraid oC Ood, afr.iid of me ; 
 Safe from the har, the |iiilp-t, and llif lliroiic>, 
 Yet touch'd and shamed liv riiiiculi- alone." 
 
 Port, Kijitiiym: Ui Salirci.] 
 
 8 <^f'hai-*re<: wai a man infamoiis for nil manner of vices. 
 He died in .Scotland, in IT.'il. The jiopulici' at his funeral 
 raised a (jreat riot, almost tore the hody out of the Collin, aiid 
 cast dead dogs, &c. into the yrave aloii« with il.] 
 
 ' Uohn Ward, of I lack MP V. Ilcin;; convicted of f ir^f-rv, he 
 was expelled the House of Commons, sulleri'd on thi> pillory, 
 anil alleruard» imprisoned. During his iniprisonnu-nt, his 
 
 " The powers that wisdom would, improvirxg, hide, 
 " Thej' blaze abroad with inconsid'rate pride ; 
 " While yet but mere probationers for fame, 
 " They seize the honour they should then disclaim : 
 " Honour so hurried to the light must fade, 
 " The lasting laurels flourish in the shade. 
 
 " Genius is jealous : I have heard of some 
 " Who, if. unnoticed, grew perversely dumb ; 
 " Naj', diSereut talents would their envy raise ; 
 " Poets have sicken'd at a dancer's praise ; 
 " And one, the happiest writer of his time,* 
 " Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime ; 
 " That liutlaud's Duchess wore a licavonly smile — 
 " ' And I,' said he, ' neglected all the while 1 ' 
 
 " A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings, 
 " Humming their lays, and brandishing their 
 
 stings : 
 " And thus they move their friends and foes among, 
 " Prepared for soothing or satiric soug. 
 
 " Hear me, mj' Boy ; thou hast a virtuous mind — 
 
 " But be thy virtues of the sober kind ; 
 
 " Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms 
 
 " To give the guilty and the great alarms : 
 
 " If never heeded, thy attack is vain ; 
 
 " And if they heed thee, they 'II attack agairj ; 
 
 " Then too in striking at that heedless rate, 
 
 " Thou in an instant may'st decide thy fate. 
 
 " Leave admonition — let the vicar give 
 " Rules how the nobles of his flock should live; 
 " Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain, 
 " That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain. 
 
 " Our Pope, they say, once entertain'd the whim, 
 " Who fear'd not God should be afraid of him ; ^ 
 " But grant they fear'd him, was it further s;»!d, 
 " That he rcform'd the hearts he made afraid ? 
 " Did Chartres mend ? ^ Ward,' Waters,'and a score 
 " Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore ? 
 '• Was Gibber silenced ? No ; with vigour blest, 
 " And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest, 
 " He dared the bard to battle, and was seen 
 " In all his glory match'd with Pope aud spleen ; 
 " Himself he stripp'd, the harder blow to hit, 
 " Then boldly match'd his ribaldry with wit ; 
 " The poet's conquest truth and time proclaim, 
 " But yet the battle hurt his peace aud fame.* 
 
 amusement was to give poison to do^ and cats, ami see them 
 expire by slower or quicker torments.] 
 
 * [A dexterous attorney, who, by a dilisent attendance on 
 the necessities of others, acquired an immense fortune, and 
 represented the borouyh of liridport in parliament. He died 
 in 17i;).] 
 
 ' [•' Pope, in 17 i'<, pul lished a ne«' edition of the Ilunciad, 
 
 in which he de;;radeil I'ilibald from his painful pre-eminence, 
 
 and enthroned llibber in his stead. CoUey resented the 
 
 alVront in a pamphlet, which. Pope said, ' would l)e as good as 
 
 a dose of liartshorn to him ;' but his tonfjue and his heart 
 
 were at variance. I have heard Mr. Kichardsiui rf'ra'e that 
 
 he iitteiuled his fa'her, tlie paintjr, on a visit, «hen C'lhber's 
 
 piunphlet came into the hands of Pope, who said, 'these 
 
 i tliin;,'s are ray diversion.' 'I hey sat bv him « Idle he perused 
 
 ■ it, and saw his features writhing with auguisli ; and young 
 
 [ liichardson said to his father, wiien thry lefurned, that he 
 
 hopi'd to be preserved from such diversion ,.s had that day 
 
 ; been the lot of Pope."— Jon nso.n.] 
 
TALE v.— THE PATRON. 
 
 '297 
 
 " Strive not too much for favour ; seem at ease, 
 " And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please : 
 " Upon thy lord with decent care attend, 
 " But not too near ; thou canst not be a friend ; 
 " And favourite be not, 't is a dangerous post — 
 " Is gain'd by labour, and by fortune lost : 
 " Talents like thine may make a man approved, 
 " But other talents trusted aud beloved. 
 " Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see 
 " The kind of man thou art not form'd to be. 
 
 " The real favourites of the great are they 
 " Who to their views and wants attention pay, 
 " And pay it ever ; who, with all their skill, 
 " Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will ; 
 " If that be vicious, soon can they provide 
 " The favourite ill, and o'er the soul preside ; 
 " For vice is weakness, and the artful know 
 " Their power increases as the passions grow ; 
 " If indolent the pupil, hard their task ; 
 " Such minds will ever for amusement ask ; 
 " And great the labour I for a man to choose 
 " Objects for one whom nothing can amuse ; 
 " For ere those objects can the soul delight, 
 " They must to joy the soul herself excite ; 
 " Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind 
 " With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind : 
 " Fix'd on their end, with caution they proceed, 
 " And sometimes give, and sometimes take the 
 
 lead ; 
 " Will now a hint convey, and then retire, 
 " And let the s»park awake the lingering fire ; 
 " Or seek new joys, and livelier pleasures bring 
 " To give the jaded sense a quick'ning spring. 
 
 " These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue •, 
 " Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do : 
 " It is not safe another's crimes to know, 
 " Nor is it wise our proper worth to show : — 
 " ' My lord, 'you say,' engaged me for that worth ;' — 
 " True, and preserve it ready to come forth : 
 " If questioned, fairly answei-, — and that done, 
 " Shrink back, be silent, and thy father's son ; 
 " For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast, 
 " But they who grant them will dislike thee most : 
 " Observe the prudent ; they in silence sit, 
 " Display no learning, and aifect no wit ; 
 " They hazard nothing, nothing they assume, 
 " But know the useful art of acting diinib. 
 " Yet to their eyes each varying look appears, 
 " And every word finds entrance at their ears. 
 
 " Thou art Keligion's advocate — take heed, 
 " Hurt not the cause, thy pleasure 't is to plead ; 
 " With wine before thee, and with wits beside, 
 " Do not in strength of reasoning po\^ ers confide ; 
 " What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain, 
 " They will deny, and dare tliee to maintain ; 
 " And thus will triumph o'er thy eager youth, 
 " While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth. 
 
 " With pain I 've seen, these wrangling wits 
 
 among, 
 " Faith's weak defenders, passionate and young ; 
 " Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard, 
 " Where wit and humour keep their watch and 
 
 ward : 
 
 " Men gay and noisy will o'erwhelm thy sense, 
 " Then loudly laugh at truth's and thy expense ; 
 " While the kind ladies will do all they can 
 " To check their mirth, aud cry, ' The tjood young 
 man !' 
 
 " Prudence, my Boy, forbids thee to commend 
 ' The cause or party of thy noble friend ; 
 ' What are his praises worth, who must be known 
 ' To take a Patron's maxims for his own ? 
 ' AVhen ladies sing, on in thy presence play, 
 ' Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away ; 
 ' 'T is not thy part, there will be list'ners round, 
 ' To cry JJivine! and dote upon the sound ; 
 ' Remember, too, that though the poor liave ears, 
 ' They take not in the music of the spheres ; 
 ' They must not feel the warble and tlu; thrill, 
 ' Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will ; 
 ' Beside, 't is freedom in a j'outh like thee 
 ' To drop his awe, and deal in ecstasy ! 
 
 " In silent ease, at least in silence, dine, 
 " Nor one opinion start of food or wine : 
 " Thou knowest that all the science thou can boast, 
 " Is of thy father's simple boil'd or roast ; 
 " Nor always these ; he sometimes saved his cash, 
 " By interlinear days of frugal hash : 
 " Wine hadst thou seldom ; wilt thou be so vain 
 " As to decide on claret or champagne .' 
 " Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime, 
 " Who order port the dozen at a time ? 
 " When (every glass held precious in our eyes) 
 " We judged the value by the bottle's size : 
 " Then never merit for thy praise assume, 
 " Its worth well knows each servant in the room. 
 
 " Hard, Boy, thy task, to steer thy way among 
 " That servile, supple, shrev.d, insidious tlirong ; 
 " Who look upon thee as of doubtful race, 
 " An interloper, one who wants a place : 
 " Freedom with these, let tliy free soul condemn, 
 " Nor with thy heart's concerns associate them. 
 
 " Of aU be cautious — but be most afraid 
 " Of the pale charms that grace Mj- Lady's Jlaid ; 
 " Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye, 
 " The frequent glance designed for thee to spy ; 
 " The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing 
 
 sigh : 
 " Let others frown and envy ; she the while 
 " (Insidious syren !) will demurely smile ; 
 " And for her gentle purpose, every day 
 " Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way ; 
 " She has her blandishments, and, though so weak, 
 " Her person pleases, and Iter actions speak: 
 " At first her lolly may her aim defeat ; 
 " But kindness shown, at length will kindness 
 
 meet : 
 " Have some offended ? them will she disdain, 
 " And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign ; 
 " She hates the vulgar, she admires to look 
 " On woods and groves, and dotes ujuiii a book ; 
 " Let her once see thee on her features dwell, 
 " And hear one sigh, then liberty farewell. 
 
 " But, John, remember we cannot maintain 
 " A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain. 
 
298 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Doubt much of friendship : shouldst tliou find 
 
 a friend 
 ■" Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend ; 
 " Should he tlie praises he has heard report, 
 " And confidence (in thee confiding) court ; 
 " JIuch of neglected Patrons should he say, 
 " And then exclaim — ' How long must merit stay ! ' 
 " Then show how high thy modest hopes may 
 
 stretch, 
 " And point to stations far beyond thy reach ; — 
 '* Let such designer, by thy conduct, see 
 " (Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee ; 
 " And he will quit thee, as a man too wise 
 " For him to ruin first, and then despise. 
 
 " Such are thy dangers : — yet, if thou canst 
 steer 
 " Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear, 
 " Then may'st thou profit ; but if storms prevail, 
 " If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail, — 
 " No more of winds or waters be the sport, 
 " But in thy father's mansion find a port." 
 
 Our poet read. — " It is in truth," said he, 
 " Correct in part, but what is this to me ? 
 " I love a foolish Abigail ! in base 
 " And sordid office ! fear not such disgrace : 
 " Am I so blind ? " " Or thou wouldst surely see 
 " That lady's fall, if she should stoop to thee ! " 
 " The cases differ." " True ! for what surprise 
 " Could from thy marriage with the maid arise ? 
 " But through the island would tlie shame be 
 
 spread, 
 " Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed." 
 
 John saw not this ; and many a week had pass'd, 
 "While the vain beauty held her victim fast ; 
 The Noble Friend still condescension show'd, 
 And, as before, with praises overflow'd ; 
 But his grave Lady took a silent view 
 Of all that pass'd, and smiling, pitied too. 
 
 Cold grew tlie foggy morn, the day was brief, 
 Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; 
 Tlie dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods 
 Itoar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the 
 
 floods : 
 All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew. 
 That still displayed their melanclioly hue ; 
 Save the green hollj' with its berries red. 
 And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread. 
 
 To public views my Lord must soon attend ; 
 And soon the ladies — would they leave their 
 
 friend ? 
 The time was fix'd — approach'd — was near — was 
 
 come ; 
 The trying time that filTd his soul with gloom : 
 Thoughtful our ])oet in tlic morning rose. 
 AikI cried, " Oik; hour my fdrlunt' will disclose ; 
 " Terrific hour ! from tlicc have 1 to date 
 " Life's loftier views, or my degraded state ; 
 " For now to be what I have l)een before 
 " Is so to fall, that I can rise no more." 
 
 The morning meal was past ; niid all around 
 The mansion rang with eacli discordant sound ; 
 
 Haste was in every foot, and every look 
 The trav'ller's joy for London-journey spoke : 
 Not so our youth ; whose feelings at the noise 
 Of preparation, had no touch of joys: 
 He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn, 
 "With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn : 
 The Ladies came ; and John in terror threw 
 One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew ; 
 Not with such speed, but he in other eyes 
 "With anguish read — " I pity, but despise — 
 " Unhappy boy I — presumptuous scribbler !— you. 
 " To dream such dreams ! — be sober, and adieu I" 
 
 Then came the Noble Friend — " And m ill my 
 Lord 
 " Vouchsafe no comfort ; drop no soothing word ? 
 " Yes, he must speak ;" he speaks, '■ My good 
 
 young friend, 
 " You know my views ; upon my care depend ; 
 " My hearty thanks to your good father pay, 
 " And be a student. — Harry, drive away." 
 
 Stillness reign'd all around ; of late so full 
 The busy scene, deserted now and dull : 
 Stern is liis nature who forbears to feel 
 Gloom o'er his spirits on such trials steal ; 
 Most keenly felt our poet as he went 
 From room to room without a fix'd intent ; 
 " And here," he thought, " I was earess'd ; admired 
 " "Were here my songs ; she smiled, and I aspired. 
 " The change how grievous !" As he mused, a 
 
 dame 
 Busy and peevish to her duties came ; 
 Aside the tables and the chairs she drew, 
 And sang and mutter'd in the poet's view : — 
 " This was her fortune ; liere they leave the poor ; 
 " Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more ; 
 " I had a promise " — here his pride and shame 
 Urged him to fly from this familiar dame ; 
 He gave one farewell look, and by a coach 
 Reach'd his own mansion at tlie night's approach. 
 
 His father met him with an anxious air, 
 Heard his sad tale, and chcck'd what seem'd de- 
 spair : 
 Hope was in him corrected, but alive ; 
 My lord would something for a friend contrive ; 
 His word was pledged : our hero's fevcrisli mind 
 Admitted this, and half his grief rcsign'd : 
 But, when three months had fled, and ever}' day 
 Drew from the sickening hopes their strength 
 
 away. 
 The j'outh became abstracted, pensive, dull ; 
 He utter'd nothing, tliough his heart was full ; 
 Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks. 
 And all forgetful of his Muse and books ; 
 Awake he nioiun'd, but in his sleep perceived 
 ,\ lovely vision tliat his jiain relieved : — 
 liis soul, transported, liail'd the happy seat, 
 AVhere once liis pleasure was so pure and sweet ; 
 AVhere joys departed came in blissful view, 
 Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew. 
 
 Questions now vex'd his spirit, most from those 
 Who are cnir<l friends, because they are nut foes : 
 
TALE v.— THE PATRON. 
 
 299 
 
 " John ? " they would say ; he, starting, turii'd 
 
 around ; 
 " John ! " there was something shocking in the 
 
 sound : 
 III brook'd he then tlie pert familiar phrase. 
 The untaught freedom, and th' inquiring gaze ; 
 Much was his temper touch'd, his spleen provoked, 
 "When ask'd how ladies talk'd, or walk'd, or look'd ? 
 " What said my Lord of politics ! how spent 
 " He there his time ? and was he glad he went ? " 
 
 At length a letter came, both cool and brief. 
 But still it gave the burthen'd heart relief : 
 Though not inspired by lofty hopes, tlie youth 
 Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick's truth ; 
 Summon'd to town, he thought the visit one 
 Where something fair and friendly would be done ; 
 Although he judged not, as before his fall. 
 When all was love and promise at the Hall. 
 
 Arrived in town, he early sought to know 
 The fate such dubious friendship would bestow ; 
 At a tall building trembling he appear'd. 
 And liis low rap was indistinctly heard ; 
 A well-known servant came — " Awhile," said he, 
 '• Be pleased to wait ; my Lord has company." 
 
 Alone our hero sat ; the news in hand. 
 Which though he read, he could not understand : 
 Cold was the day ; in days so cold as these 
 There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze ; 
 The vast and echoing room, the polish'd grate, 
 The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate ; 
 The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, 
 He then had thought it freedom to have prcss'd ; 
 The shining tables, curioub'.y inlaid. 
 Were all in comfortless proud style displaj^'d ; 
 And to the troubled feelings terror gave, 
 That made the once-dear friend the sick'ning slave. 
 
 " Was he forgotten ? " Thrice upon his ear 
 Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near : 
 Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke 
 On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke ; 
 Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, 
 " Brings he a message ? " no ! he pass'd the room : 
 At length 't is certain ; " Sir, you will attend 
 " At twelve on Thursday ! " Thus the day had 
 end. 
 
 Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain, 
 John left the noble mansion with disdain ; 
 For there was something in that still, cold place, 
 That seem'd to threaten and portend disgrace. 
 
 Punctual again the modest rap declared 
 The youth attended ; then was all prepared : 
 For the same servant, by his lord's command, 
 A paper ofTer'd to his trembling hand : 
 " No more ! " he cried ; " disdains he to afford 
 " One kind expression, one consoling word ? " 
 
 With troubled spirit he began to read 
 That " In the Church my lord could not succeed ; " 
 Who had " to peers of either kind applied, 
 " And was with dignity and grace denied ; 
 " While his own livings were by men possoss'd, 
 " Not likely in their chancels yet to rest ; 
 
 •' And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he, my lonl, 
 " Had done maturely, and he pledged his Word), 
 •' Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view 
 " To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu ! " 
 
 Here grieved the youth : he felt his father's pride 
 Must with his own be shock'd and mortified ; 
 But, when he found his future comforts placed 
 Where he, alas ! conceived himself disgraced — • 
 In some appointment on the London quays. 
 He bade farewell to honour and to ease ; 
 His spirit fell, and from that hour assured 
 How vain his dreams, he suff'er'd and was cured. 
 
 Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly 
 From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die. 
 Alas ! what hopes, what higli romantic views 
 Did that one visit to the soul infuse. 
 Which, cherish'd with such love, 't was worse than 
 
 death to lose I 
 Still he would strive, though painful was the strife. 
 To walk in this appointed road of life ; 
 On these low duties duteous he would Mait, 
 And patient bear the anguish of his fate. 
 Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind, 
 Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind ; 
 Whose heavy hours were pass'd with busy men, 
 In the dull practice of th' otBcial pen ; 
 Wlio to Superiors must in time impart 
 (The custom this) his progress in their art : 
 But, so had grief on his perception wrought, 
 That all unheeded were the duties taught ; 
 No answers gave he when his trial came, 
 Silent he stood, but suffering without shame ; 
 And they observed that words severe or kind 
 JMade no impression on his wounded mind : 
 For all perceived from whence his failure rose. 
 Some grief whose cause he deign'd not to disclose. 
 A soul averse from scenes and works so new. 
 Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew ; 
 Distaste for each mechanic law and rule. 
 Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool ; 
 A grieving parent, and a feeling mind. 
 Timid and ardent, tender and refined : 
 These all with mighty force the youth assail'd. 
 Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail'd : 
 When this was known, and some debate arose, 
 How they who saw it should the fact disclose, 
 He found their purpose, and in terror fled 
 From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread. 
 
 Meantime the parent was distress'd to find 
 His son no longer for a priest design'd ; 
 But still he gain'd some comfort by the news 
 Of John's promotion, though with humbler views ; 
 For he conceived that in no distant time 
 The boy would learn fo scramble and to climb ; 
 He little thought his son, his liope and pride. 
 His favour'd boy, was now a home denied : 
 Yes ! while the parent was intent to trace 
 How men in office climb fi-om place to place. 
 By day, by night, o'er moor, and heath, and hill. 
 Roved the sad youth, with cver-clianging will. 
 Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill. 
 
 Thus as he sat, absorb'd in all the care 
 And all the hope that anxioud fathers share. 
 
 J 
 
A friend abruptly to his presence brought, 
 With trembling hand, the subject of his thought ; 
 "Whom he had found afflicted and subdued 
 By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude. 
 
 Silent he enter'd the forgotten room, 
 As ghostly forms may be conceived to come ; 
 "With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright. 
 He look'd dismay, neglect, despair, affright ; 
 But, dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, 
 His parent's loss he felt not, nor his own. 
 
 The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud. 
 And drew around him an astonish 'd crowd ; 
 The sons and servants to the father ran. 
 To share the feelings of the griev'd old man. 
 
 " Our brother, speak I " they all exclaim'd ; 
 " explain 
 " Thy grief, thy suflfering :" — but they ask'd in 
 
 vain : 
 The friend told all he knew ; and all was kno\^-n, 
 Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown ; 
 But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed 
 From rest and kindness must the cure proceed : 
 And he was cured ; for quiet, love, and care. 
 Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair ; 
 Yet slow their progress, and, as vapours move 
 Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove ; 
 All is confusion, till the morning light 
 Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight ; 
 More and yet more defined the trunks appear. 
 Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear ; — 
 So the dark mind of our youjg poet grew 
 Clear and sedate ; the dreadful mist withdrew ; 
 And he resembled that bleak wintry scene, 
 Sad, though unclouded ; dismal, though serene. 
 
 At times he utter'd, " What a dream was mine ! 
 " And what a prospect ! glorious and divine ! 
 " Oh ! in that room, and on that night to see 
 " Those looks, that sweetness beaming aU ou me ; 
 " That syren-flattery — and to send me then, 
 " Hope-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men ; 
 " That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show 
 " Knowledge of subjects I disdain'd to know ; 
 " Cold and controlling — but 't is gone — 't is past ; 
 " I had my trial, and have peace at last." 
 
 Now grew the youth resigned : he bade adieu 
 To all that hope, to all that fancy drew ; 
 His frame was languid, and the hectic heat 
 Flush'd on his pallid face, and countless beat 
 The quick'nirig pulse, and faint the limbs that bore 
 The slender form that soon would breathe no more. 
 
 Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain'd 
 And not a lingering thought of earth remain'd ; 
 Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at Love, 
 And the wild sallies of his youth reprove ; 
 
 '"[" Let every man of IcIIit^, wlio wishrs for p:itrona<je, 
 read D'AIembert's ' Ivtsay on I.ivin),' with tlio (Jreat," before 
 he enters the house of a patron : nnil let him always remem- 
 ber the fate of Racine, wtio, liavin« ilriiwn np, at Madame de 
 Maintenon's socrrt request, a memorial tliat slroii^^ly painted 
 the distresses of the French nation, the wei(,-ht of thi-ir taxes, 
 and the expenses of the Court, slie could not resist the im- 
 
 Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, 
 The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise ; 
 Victorious now, his worldly views were closed. 
 And on the bed of death the youth reposed. 
 
 The father grieved — b *, as the poet's heart 
 Was all unfitted for his earthly part ; 
 As, he conceived, some other haughty fair 
 AA'ould, had he lived, have led him to despair ; 
 As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out 
 All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt ; 
 While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd, 
 His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest ; 
 Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy 
 For his aspiring and devoted boy. 
 
 Meantime the news through various channels 
 
 spread, 
 The youth, once favour'd with such praise, was 
 
 dead: 
 " Emma," the Lady cried, " my words attend, 
 " Your syren-smiles have kill'd your himible friend ; 
 " The hope you raised can now delude no more, 
 " Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore." 
 
 Faint was the flush of anger and of shame, 
 That o'er the cheek of conscious beauty came: 
 " You censure not," said she, " the sun's bright 
 
 rays, 
 " When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze ; 
 " And should a stripling look till he were blind, 
 " You would not justly call the light unkind: 
 " But is he dead ? and am I to suppose 
 " The power of poison in such looks as those ? " 
 She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast 
 A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass'd. 
 
 My Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told, 
 Was much afiected, for a man so cold : 
 " Dead ! " said his lordship, " run distracted, mad ! 
 " Upon my soul I 'm sorry for the lad ; 
 " And now, no doubt, th' obliging world will say 
 " That my harsh usage help'd him on his way : 
 " What ! I suppose, I should have nursed his 
 
 muse, 
 " And with champagne have brighten'd up his 
 
 views ; 
 " Then had he made me famed my whole life long, 
 " And stunn'd my ears with gratitude and song. 
 " Still should the father hear that I regret 
 " Our joint misfortune — Yes ! I '11 not forget." 
 
 Thus they : — the father to his grave convey *d 
 The sou he loved, and his last duties paid. 
 
 " There lies my Boy," he cried, " of care bereft, 
 " And, Heaven be praised, I 've not a genius left : 
 " No one among ye, sons ! is doomed to live 
 " On high-raised hopes of what the Great may 
 give ; '» 
 
 portunity of Louis XIV., but showed him her friend's paper, 
 a;,'ainst whom the king immediately conceived a violent 
 indignation, because a poet should dare to busy himself with 
 politics. Hacine had the weakness to take this anger so 
 much to lieart, that it brought on a low fever, which hastened 
 his deatli." — Wakto.v.] 
 
" None, with exalted views and fortunes mean, 
 
 " To die in anguish, or to live in spleen : 
 
 " Your pious brother soon escaped the strife 
 
 " Of such contention, but it cost his life ; 
 
 " You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend, 
 
 " And in your own exertions find the friend." '^ 
 
 TALE VI 
 
 THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 
 
 Yes, faith, it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsy, and say, 
 " Father, as it please you ;" but for all that, cousin, tt him 
 be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, 
 " Father, as it pleases me." — Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 He cannot flatter, he I 
 An honest mind and plain— he must speak truth. 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves 
 another ; you ji;^, you amble, you nick-name God's creatures, 
 and make your wantonness your ignorance. — Hamlet. 
 
 What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 
 Am 1 conteran'd for pride and scorn so much? 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire, 
 Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher ; 
 Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, 
 Who knew the man could never cease to know : 
 His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by, 
 Had a firm presence and a steady eye ; 
 But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone, 
 And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone. 
 
 He read, and oft would quote the sacred words, 
 How pious husbands of their wives were lords ; 
 Sarah called Abraham Lord ! and who could be, 
 So Jonas thought, a greater man than he ? 
 Himself he view'd with undisguised respect, 
 And never pardon'd freedom or neglect. 
 
 They had one daughter, and this favourite 
 child 
 Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled ; 
 
 " [' The Patron' contains specimens of very various excel- 
 lence. The story is that of a young man of humble birth, 
 who shows an early genius for poetry ; and having been, with 
 some inconvenience to his parents, provided with a frugal, 
 but regular education, is at last taken notice of by a noble- 
 man in the neighbourhood, who promises to promote hi.n in 
 the church, and invites him to pass an autumn with him nt 
 his seat in the country. Here the youth, in spite of the ad- 
 mirable admonitions of his father, is gradually overcome by 
 a taste for elegant enjoyments, and allows himself to fall in 
 love with the enchanting sister of his protector. When the 
 family leave him with indifference, to return to town, he 
 feels the first pang of humiliation and disappointment ; and 
 afterwards, when he finds that all his noble friend's fine pro- 
 mises end in obtaining for him a poor drudging place in the 
 
 Soothed by attention from her early j^ears. 
 She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears : 
 But Sijbil then was in that playful time, 
 AVhen contradiction is not held a crime ; 
 When parents yield their children idle praise 
 For faults corrected in their after days. 
 
 Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt, 
 Where each his duty and his station felt : 
 Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find, 
 In equal views and harmony of mind ; 
 Not the soft peace that blesses those who love, 
 Where all with one consent in union move ; 
 But it was that which one superior will 
 Commands, by making all inferiors still ; 
 Who bids all murmurs all objections cease. 
 And with imperious voice announces — Peace ! 
 
 They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew, 
 Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign 
 
 slew ; 
 An independent race, precise, correct. 
 Who ever married in the kindred sect : 
 No son or daughter of their order wed 
 A friend to England's king who lost his head ; 
 Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met. 
 They mourn'd that Saints' were not our rulers yet. 
 
 they arose betimes, 
 and sang their party- 
 
 Fix'd were their habits ; 
 Then pray'd their hour, 
 
 rhymes : 
 Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain; 
 The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain ; 
 Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn — 
 And, like his father, he was merchant born : 
 Neat was their house ; each table, chair, and 
 
 stool. 
 Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule ; 
 No lively print or picture graced the room ; 
 A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom ; 
 But here the eye, in glancing round, survey'd 
 A small recess that seem'd for china made ; 
 Such pleasing pictures seem'd this pencill'd ware, 
 That few would search for nobler objects there — 
 Yet, turn'd by chosen friends, and there appear'd 
 His stern, strong features, whom they aU revered ; 
 For there in lofty air was seen to stand 
 The bold Protector of the conqucr'd land ; 
 Drawn in that look with which he wept and 
 
 swore, 
 Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door, 
 Ridding the House of every knave and drone, 
 Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone. 
 
 Customs, he pines and pines till he falls into insanity ; and 
 recovers, only to die prematurely in tlie arms of his disap- 
 pointed parents. The history of the poet's progress, the 
 father's warnings, the blandishments of the careless syren 
 by whom he was enchanted, are all excellent. The descrip- 
 tion of the breaking up of that enchantment cannot fail to 
 strike, if it had no other merit, from its mere truth and accu- 
 racy. The humiliation and irritability of the youth on his 
 first return home are also represented with a thorough know- 
 ledge of human nature. — Jeffkey.] 
 
 ' This appellation is here used not ironically, nor with 
 malignity ; but it is taken merely to designate a morosely 
 devout people, with peculiar austerity of manners. 
 
The stern still smile each friend approving gave, 
 Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave. "•' 
 
 There stood a clock, though small the owTicr's 
 need, 
 For habit told when all things should proceed ; 
 Few their amusements, but when friends appear'd. 
 They with the world's distress their spirits clicer'd ; 
 The nation's guilt, that would not long endure 
 The reign of men so modest and so pure : 
 Their town was large, and seldom pass'd a day 
 But some had fail'd, and others gone astray ; 
 Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown 
 To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown ; 
 Quarrels and fires arose ; — and it was plain 
 The times were bad ; the Saints had ceased to 
 
 reign ! 
 A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn 
 For good old manners never to return. 
 
 Jonas had sisters, and of these was one 
 Who lost a husband and an only son : 
 Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore, 
 And mourn'd so long that she could mourn no 
 
 more. 
 Distant from Jonas, and from all her race, 
 She now resided in a lively place ; 
 There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play'd, 
 Nor was of cliurclimen or their church afraid : 
 If much of this the graver brother heard. 
 He something censured, but he little fear'd ; 
 He knew her rich and frugal ; for the rest. 
 He felt no care, or, if ho felt, supprcss'd : 
 Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece, 
 Had he suspicions tliat disturb'd his peace ; 
 Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm 
 Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm ; 
 An infant yet, she soon would home return, 
 Nor stay the manners of the world to learn ; 
 Meantime his boys would all his care engross, 
 And be his comforts if he felt the loss. 
 
 The sprightly iS';//n7, pleased and unconfincd, 
 Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind : 
 All here was gay and cheerful — all at home 
 Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom : 
 There were no changes, and amusements few ; — 
 Here all was varied, wonderful, and new ; 
 There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave 
 
 looks — ■ 
 Here, gay companions and amusing books ; 
 And the young Beauty soon began to taste 
 The light vocations of the scene she graced. 
 
 A man of business feels it as a crime 
 
 On calls domestic to consume his time ; 
 
 Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart. 
 
 But with his daughter he was grieved to part : 
 
 And he demanded that in every year 
 
 The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear. 
 
 " Yes ! we must go, my child, and by our dross 
 " A grave conformity of mind express ; 
 
 » [Such was tlie actual consolation of a small knot of Pres- 
 byterians in a couniry town, about sixty years ago.] 
 
 " Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, 
 " Tlie more t' enjoy when we return again." 
 
 Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child 
 Was pleased to leai-n how fathers are beguiled. 
 Her artful part the young dissembler took, 
 And from the matron cauglit th' approving look : 
 When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent 
 For more delay, and Jonas was content ; 
 Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen. 
 In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen ; 
 He gazed admiring ; — she, with visage prim, 
 Glanced an arch look of gravity on liim ; 
 For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise, 
 And stood a vestal in her father's eyes : 
 Pure, pensive, simple, sad ; the damsel's heart. 
 When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part ; 
 For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light, 
 Had still a secret bias to the right ; 
 Vain as she was — and flattery made her vain — 
 Her simulation gave her bosom pain. 
 
 Again return'd, the Matron and the Niece 
 Found the late quiet gave their joy increase ; 
 The aunt infirm, no more her visits paid, 
 But still witli her sojourn'd the favourite maid. 
 Letters were sent when franks could be procured, 
 And when they could not, silence was endured ; 
 All were in health, and if they older grew. 
 It seem'd a fact that none among them knew ; 
 The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life, 
 And quiet days had Jonas and his wife. 
 
 Near him a Widow dwelt of worthy fame. 
 Like his her manners, and her creed the same ; 
 The wealth her husband left, her care retain'd 
 For one tall Youth, and widow slie remain'd ; 
 His love respectful all her care repaid. 
 Her wishes watch'd, and her commands obey'd. 
 
 Sober he was and grave from early j'outh. 
 Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth ; 
 In a liglit drab he uniformly dress'd. 
 And look ser{'ne th' unruffled mind express'd ; 
 A hat with ample verge Ids brows o'crspread. 
 And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head ; 
 Yet might observers in his speaking eye 
 Some observation, some acutcncss spy ; 
 The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous 
 
 deem'd it sly ; 
 Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect. 
 His actions all were, like his speech, correct ; 
 And they who jested on a mine so sound. 
 Upon his virtues must their laugliter found ; 
 Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named 
 Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed. 
 
 Such were the virtues Jonas found in one 
 In whom he warmly wish'd to find a son : 
 Three years had pass'd since he had Sybil seen ; 
 But she was doubtless what she once had been, 
 Lovely and mild, obedient anil discreet ; 
 The pair must love whenovia- they should meet ; 
 Then ere the widow or lier son should choose 
 Some happier maid, lie would explain his views: 
 Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, 
 With strong desire of lawful gain embucd ; 
 
TALE VI.— THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 
 
 303 
 
 To all he said, she bow'd with mtich respect, 
 Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject ; 
 Cool and yet eager, each admired the strength 
 Of the opponent, and agreed at length : 
 As a drawn battle shows to each a force. 
 Powerful as his, he honours it of course ; 
 So in these neighbours, each the power discernM, 
 And gave the praise that was to each return'd. 
 
 Jonas now ask'd his daughter— and the Aunt, 
 Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant : — ■ 
 But would not Sybil to the matron cling. 
 And fear to leave the shelter of her wing ? 
 No ! in the young there lives a love of change. 
 And to the easy they prefer the strange ! 
 Then, too, the joys she once pursued with zeal, 
 From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel : 
 When with the matrons Sybil first sat down, 
 To cut for partners and to stake her crown, 
 This to the youthful maid preferment seem'd, 
 "Who thought what woman she was then esteem'd ; 
 But in few years, when she perceived, indeed, 
 The real woman to the girl succeed, 
 No longer tricks and honours fill'd her mind, 
 But other feelings, not so well defined ; 
 She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard 
 To sit and ponder o'er an ugly card ; 
 Bather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr'd. 
 Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird ; 
 Thither, from company retired, she took 
 The silent walk, or read the fav'rite book. 
 
 The father's letter, sudden, short, and kind. 
 Awaked her wonder, and disturb'd her mind ; 
 She found new dreams upon her fancy seize, 
 Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries : 
 Tlie parting came ; — and when the Aunt perceived 
 The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved — 
 To love for her tliat tender grief she laid, 
 That various, soft, contending passions made. 
 
 When Sybil rested iu her father's arms, 
 His pride exulted in a daughter's charms ; 
 A maid accomplish'd he was pleased to find. 
 Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mini : 
 But when the fit of pride and fondness fled, 
 He saw his judgment by his hopes misled; 
 High were the lady's spirits, far more free 
 Her mode of speaking than a maid's should be ; 
 Too much, as Jonas thought, slic seem'd to know, 
 And all her knowledge was disposed to show ; 
 " Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote 
 " On a young coxcomb, or a coxcomb's coat ; 
 " In foolish spirits when our friends appear, 
 " And vainly grave wlien not a man is near." 
 
 Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame, 
 And terms disdainful to a Sister's name : — 
 " The sinful wretch has by her arts defiled 
 " The ductile spirit of my darling child." 
 
 " The maid is virtuous," said the dame — Quoth 
 he, 
 " Let her give proof, by acting virtuously : 
 " Is it in gaping when the Elders pray ? 
 " In reading nonsense half a summer's day ? 
 " In those mock forms that slic delights to trace, 
 " Or her loud laughs in llezekiah's face? 
 
 " She — O Susannah ! — to the world belongs; 
 
 " She loves the follies of its idle throngs, 
 
 " And reads soft tales of love, and sings love's 
 
 soft'ning songs. 
 " But, as our friend is yet delay'd in town, 
 " We must prepare her till the Youtli comes down : 
 " You shall advise the maiden ; I will threat; 
 " Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet."' 
 
 Now the grave father took the lass aside. 
 Demanding sternly, "Wilt thou be a bride?" 
 She answerd, calling up an air sedate, 
 " I have not vow'd against the holy state." 
 
 " No folly, Sybil," said tlie parent ; " know 
 " What to their parents virtuous maidens owe : 
 " A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve, 
 " Must thou prepare to honour and to love. 
 " Formal to thee his air and dress may seem, 
 " But the good youth is worthy of esteem : 
 " Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him'^ of disdain 
 " Should he with justice or of slight complain, 
 " Or of one taunting speech give certain proof, 
 " Girl ! I reject thee from my sober roof." 
 
 "Jly aunt," said Sybil, " will with pride protect 
 " One whom a father can for this reject ; 
 " Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy 
 " jMy manners alter, or my views destroy !" 
 
 Jonas then lifted up his hands on high, 
 And, utt'ring something 'twixt a groan and sigh. 
 Left the determined maid, her doubtful mother by. 
 
 " Hear me," she said ; " incline thy heart, my 
 child, 
 " And fix thy fancy on a man so mild : 
 " Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved 
 " By one who loved him, or by one he loved. 
 " Union like ours is but a bargain made 
 " By slave and tyrant — he will be obey'd ; 
 " Then calls the quiet, comfort — -but tliy Youth 
 " Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth." 
 
 " But will he love ?" said Sybil; " I am told 
 " That these mild creatures are by nature cold." 
 
 " Alas !" the matron answer'd, " much I dread 
 '• That dangerous love by which the young are led I 
 " That love is earthy ; you the creature prize, 
 " And trust your feelings and believe your eyes : 
 '' Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry ? 
 " No ! my fair daughter, on our clioice rely ! 
 " Your love, like tliat display'd upon the stage, 
 " Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage ;— 
 " INIore prudent love our sober couples show, 
 " All that to mortal beings, mortals owe ; 
 
 All flesh is grass — before you give a heart. 
 
 Remember, Sybil, that in death you part ; 
 
 And should your husband die before your love, 
 ' What needless anguish must a widow prove ! 
 
 No ! my fair child, let all such visions cease ; 
 
 Yield but esteem, and only try for peace." 
 
 " I must be loved," said Sybil ; "I must see 
 The man in terrors who aspires to me ; 
 
 I " 
 
304 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, 
 " His tongue must falter, and his frame must 
 
 shake : 
 " And if I grant him at my feet to kneel, 
 " What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel ; 
 " Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, 
 " That reason's self must for a time retire." 
 
 " Alas ! for good JosiaJi." said the dame, 
 " These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with 
 
 shame ; 
 " He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust ! 
 " He cannot, child :" — the Child replied, " He 
 
 must." 
 
 They ceased : the matron left her with a frown ; 
 So Jonas met her when the Youth came down : 
 " Behold," said he, " thy future spouse attends ; 
 " Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends ; 
 " Observe, respect him — humble be each word, 
 " That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord." 
 
 Forewarn'd, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile, 
 I shall prepare my manner and my style. 
 
 Ere yet Josiah enter'd on his task, 
 The father met him — " Deign to wear a mask 
 " A few dull days, Josiah — but a few — 
 " It is our duty, and the sex's due ; 
 *' I wore it once, and every grateful wife 
 " Repays it with obedience through her life : 
 " Have no regard to Sybil's dress, have none 
 " To her pert language, to her flippant tone ; 
 " Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion'd and 
 
 alone ; 
 " And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek — • 
 " How she shall dress, and whether she may speak." 
 
 A sober smile return'd the Youth, and said, 
 " Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid ?" 
 
 Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room. 
 And often wonder'd — " Will the creature come ? 
 " Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow 
 *' My hand upon him, — yet I wish to know." 
 
 The door unclosed, and she beheld lier sire 
 Lead in the Youth, then hasten to retire ; 
 " Daughter, my friend — my daughter, friend," 
 
 he cried, 
 And gave a meaning look, and stepp'd aside : 
 That look contain'd a mingled threat and prayer, 
 " Do take him, child — offend him, if you dare." 
 
 The couple gazed — were silent, and the maid 
 Look'd in his face, to make the man afraid ; 
 The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast 
 A steady view — so salutation pass'd : 
 But in this instant Sybil's eye had seen 
 The tall fair person, and the still staid mien ; 
 The glow that temp'rance o'er tlie cheek had 
 
 spread. 
 Where the soft down half veil'd the jiurest red; 
 And the serene deportment that proclaim'd 
 A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed : 
 But then with these she saw attire too plairf. 
 The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain ; 
 
 The formal air, and something of the pride 
 That indicates the wealth it seems to hide ; 
 And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt 
 From a proud pity, or a sly contempt. 
 
 Josiah's eyes had their employment too, 
 Engaged and soften'd by so bright a view ; 
 A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire. 
 That check'd the bold, and made the free retire : 
 But then with these he mark'd the studied dress 
 And lofty air, that scorn or pride express ; 
 With that insidious look, that seem'd to hide 
 In an aff'ected smile the scorn and pride ; 
 And if his mind the virgin's meaning caught. 
 He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught — 
 Captive the heart to take, and to reject it, caught. 
 
 Silent they sat — thought Sybil, that he seeks 
 Something, no doubt ; I wonder if he speaks : 
 Scarcely she wonder'd, when these accents fell 
 Slow in her ear — '" Fair maiden, art thou well ?" 
 " Art thou physician ?" she replied ; " my hand, 
 " My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command." 
 
 She said — and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel, 
 And gave his lips the offer'd pulse to feel ; 
 The rosy colour rising in her cheek, 
 Seem'd that surprise unmix'd with wrath to speak; 
 Then sternness she assumed, and — " Doctor, tell ; 
 " Thy words cannot alarm me — am I well ?" 
 
 " Thou art," said he ; " and yet thy dress so 
 
 light, 
 " I do conceive, some danger must excite :" 
 " In whom ?" said Sybil, with a look demure : 
 " In more," said he, " than I expect to cure ; — 
 " I, in thy light luxuriant robe, behold 
 " W^ant and excess, abounding and yet cold ; 
 " Here needed, there display'd, in many a wanton 
 
 fold: 
 " Both health and beauty, learned authors show, 
 " Fi'om a just medium in our clothing flow." 
 
 " Proceed, good doctor ; if so great my need, 
 " What is thy fee ? Good doctor ! pray proceed." 
 
 " Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take 
 " None till some progress in my cure I make : 
 " Thou hast disease, fair maiden ; thou art vain ; 
 " Within that face sit insult and disdain ; 
 " Thou art enamour'd of thyself ; my art 
 " Can see the naughty malice of thy heart : 
 " With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move, 
 " Were I to own thy power, and ask thj' love ; 
 " And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might, 
 " But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight, 
 " And lose my present peace in dreams of vain 
 delight." 
 
 " And can thy patients," said the nymph, 
 " endure 
 " Physic like this ? and will it work a cure ?" 
 
 " Such is my hope, fair damsel ; thou, I find, 
 " Hast the .rue tokens of a noble mind ; 
 " But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys 
 " Arc placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys ; 
 
TALE \^I.-THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 
 
 305 
 
 " Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around, 
 " That in thine own pure bosom should be found ; 
 " Did all that world admire thee, praise and love, 
 " Could it the least of nature's pains remove ? 
 " Could it for errors, follies, sins atone, 
 " Or give thee comfort, thoughtful and alone ? 
 " It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm 
 " Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm : 
 " Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin, 
 " And seek the jewel happiness within." 
 
 " Speak'st thou at meeting ?" said the nymph ; 
 " thy speech 
 " Is that of mortal very prone to teach ; 
 " But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn 
 " Thine own disease ? — The cure is thy concern." 
 
 " Yea, with good will." — "Then know 'tis thy 
 complaint, 
 " That, for a sinner, thou 'rt too much a saint ; 
 " Hast too much show of the sedate and pure, 
 " And without cause art formal and demure : 
 " This makes a man unsocial, unpolite ; 
 " Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. 
 " Thou mayst be good, but why should goodness be 
 " Wrapt in a garb of such formality ? 
 " Thy person well might please a damsel's eye, 
 " In decent habit with a scarlet dye ; 
 " But, jest apart — what virtue canst thou trace 
 " In that broad brim tliat hides thy sober face? 
 " Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice 
 " And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice ? 
 '' Then for thine accent — what in sound can be 
 " So void of grace as dull monotony ? 
 " Love has a thousand varied notes to move 
 " The human heart : — thou maj'st not speak of love 
 " Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, 
 " And those becoming youth and nature tried : 
 " Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease, 
 " Prove it thy study and delight to please ; 
 " Not till these follies meet thy just disdain, 
 " While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain." 
 
 " This is severe ! — Oh I maiden, wilt not thou 
 " Something for habits, manners, modes, allow ?" — 
 " Yes ! but allowing much, I much require, 
 " In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire ! " 
 
 " True, lovely Sybil ; and, this point agreed, 
 " Let me to those of greater weight proceed : 
 " Thy father !" — " Nay," she quickly interposed, 
 " Good doctor, here our conference is closed !" 
 
 Then left the Youth, who, lost in his retreat, 
 Pass'd the good matron on her garden-seat ; 
 His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild 
 And calm, was hurried : — " My audacious child !" 
 Exclaim'd the dame, " I read what she has done 
 " In thy displeasure — Ah ! the thoughtless one : 
 
 ' [" Tlie Frank Courtship" is rather in the merry vein ; 
 and contains even less than Mr. Crabbe's usual moderate 
 allowance of incident. The whole of the story is, that the 
 dau^'hter of a rigid Quaker, having been educated from liome, 
 conceives a slight prejudice against the ungallant manners of 
 tlie sect, and is prepared to be very contemptuous and un- 
 complying when her father proposes a sober youth of the 
 
 " But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man 
 " Speak of the maid as mildly as j'ou can : 
 " Can you not seem to woo a little while 
 " The daughter's will, the father to beguile ? 
 " So that his wrath in time may wear away ; 
 " Will you preserve our peace, Josiah ? say." 
 
 " Yes ! my good neighbour," said the gentle 
 youth, 
 " Rely securely on my care and truth ; 
 " And should thy comfort with my efforts cease, 
 " And only then, — perpetual is thy peace." 
 
 The dame had doubts : she well his virtues 
 
 knew. 
 His deeds were friendly, and his words were true : 
 " But to address this vixen is a task 
 " He is ashamed to take, and I to ask." 
 Soon as the father from Josiah learn'd 
 What pass'd with Sybil, he the truth discern'd. 
 " He loves," the man exclaim'd, "he loves, 'tis 
 
 plain, 
 " The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain ? 
 " She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, 
 " Born as she is of wilfulness and pride." 
 
 With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, 
 The wrathful father met the smiling maid : 
 " Sybil," said he, " I long, and yet I dread 
 " To know thy conduct — hath Josiah fled ? 
 " And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, 
 " For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer ? 
 " Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress 
 " By vile remarks upon his speech, address, 
 " Attire, and voice 'i " — " AH this I must con- 
 fess." 
 " Unhappy child ! what labour will it cost 
 "To win him back!" — "I do not think him 
 
 lost." 
 " Courts he then (trifler !) insult and disdain ?"— 
 " No ; but from these he courts me to refrain." 
 " Then hear me, Sybil : should Josiah leave 
 " Thy father's house ?"— " My father's child would 
 
 grieve." 
 " That is of grace, and if he come again 
 "To speak of love?" — ''I might from grief 
 
 refrain." 
 " Then wilt thou, daughter, our design em- 
 brace ?" — 
 " Can I resist it, if it be of grace ?" 
 " Dear child ! ic three plain words thy mind ex- 
 press -• 
 " Wilt thou have this good youth?"—" Dear 
 father ! yes." ^ 
 
 persuasion for a busba) d; hut is so much struck with the 
 beauty of his person, and the cheerful reasonableness of his 
 deportment, at tlieir first interview, that she instantly yields 
 her consent. There is an excellent description of the father, 
 and the unbending elders of his tribe ; and some fine traits of 
 natural coquetry. — Jeffrey.] 
 
306 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 TALE VII. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S TALE. 
 
 Ah me I for aught that I could ever read, 
 
 Or ever hear by tale or history, 
 
 The course of true love never did run smooth ; 
 
 But either it was different in blood. 
 
 Or else misgrafted in respect of \ears , 
 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 
 
 Or, if there were a sympatliy in choice. 
 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. 
 
 Midsummer Nigftt's Dream. 
 
 Oh 1 thou didst tlien ne'er love so lieartily, 
 If thou rememberest not the slif,'htest folly 
 That ever love did make thee run into. 
 
 As Tou Like It. 
 
 Cry the man mercy ! love him, take his offer. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 To Farmer Moss, ia Langar Vale, came down, 
 His only Daughter, from her school in town ; 
 A tender, timid maid ! who knew not how 
 To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow : 
 Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, 
 A fair complexion, and a slender waist. 
 
 Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure, 
 Her father's kitchen she could ill endure : 
 Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, 
 And laid at once a pound upon his plate ; 
 Hot from the field, her eager brother seized 
 An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased ; 
 The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around, 
 And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd ; 
 The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid. 
 And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid : 
 But when the men beside their station took. 
 The maidens with them, and with these the cook ; 
 When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, 
 Fill'd -with huge balls of farinaceous food ; 
 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean 
 Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen ; 
 When from a single horn the party drew 
 Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new ; 
 When the coarse cloth slie saw, with many a stain 
 Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again — 
 She could not breathe ; but with a heavy sigh, 
 lleia'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye ; 
 She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine. 
 And wondcr'd mucli to see the creatures dine ; 
 When she resolved her father's heart to move. 
 If hearts of farmers were alive to love. 
 
 She now entreated by herself to sit 
 In the small parlour, if papa thought fit. 
 And there to dine, to read, to work alone : — 
 " No I" said tlie Farmer, in an angry tone ; 
 " These are your scliool-taught airs ; your mother's 
 
 pride 
 " Would send you tlicro ; but I am now your 
 
 guide. — 
 " Arise betimes, our early mnnl prepare, 
 " And, this despatcli'd, let business be your care ; 
 
 " Look to the lasses, let there not be one 
 " Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done ; 
 " In every household work your portion take, 
 " And what you make not, see that others make : 
 " At leisure times attend the wheel, and see 
 " The whit'ning web besprinkled on the lea; 
 " When thus employ'd, should our young neigh- 
 bours view, 
 " A useful lass, — you may have more to do." 
 
 Dreadful were these commands ; but ^^■orse than 
 these 
 The parting hint — a Farmer could not please : 
 'T is true she had without abhorrence seen 
 Young flarri] Carr, when he was smart and clean : 
 But, to be married — be a farmer's wife — 
 A slave ! a drudge ! — she could not, for her life. 
 
 With smimming eyes the fretful nymph with- 
 drew. 
 And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew ; 
 TJiere on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray'd 
 For change of prospect to a tortured maid. 
 
 Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire 
 Had left him all industrious men require. 
 Saw the pale Beauty, — and her shape and air 
 Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear : 
 " For my small farm what can the damsel do ?" 
 He said, — then stopp'd to take another view : 
 " Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn 
 " Of household cares, — for what can beauty earn 
 " By those small arts which they at school attain, 
 " That keep them useless, and yet make them 
 vain ? 
 
 This luckless Damsel look'd the village round, 
 To find a friend, and one was quickly found : 
 A pensive AVidow, whose mild air and dress 
 Pleased the sad nymph, who wish'd her soul's 
 
 distress 
 To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess. 
 
 " What Lady that ?" the anxious lass inquired. 
 Who then beheld the one she most admired : 
 " Here," said the Brother, " are no ladies seen — 
 " That is a widow dwelling on the Green ; 
 " A dainty dame, who can but barely live 
 " On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give ; 
 " She happier days has known, but seems at ease, 
 " And you may call her lady if you please : 
 " But if you wish, good sister, to improve, 
 " You shall see twenty better worth your love." 
 
 These Nancij met ; but, spite of all they taught. 
 This useless Widow was the one she sought : 
 The father growl'd ; but said he knew no harm 
 In such connexion that could give alarm ; 
 " And if we thwart the trifler in her course, 
 " 'T is odds against us she will take a worse." 
 
 Then met the friends; the Widow heard tJie 
 sigh 
 That ask'd at once compassion and reply : — 
 '• Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, 
 " Yours were the kindness — yonder is my door* 
 " And, save the time that we in public pray, 
 " From that poor cottage I but rarely stray." 
 
 I 
 
TALE VII.— THE WIDOW'S TALE. 
 
 507 
 
 There went the nymph, and made her strong 
 complaints, 
 Painting her woe as injured feeling paints. 
 
 " Oh, dearest friend ! do think how one must 
 feel, 
 " Shock'd all day long, and sicken'd every meal ; 
 " Could you behold our kitchen (and to you 
 " A scene so shocking must indeed be new), 
 " A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, 
 " Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste : 
 " And yet, in truth, from such a polish'd mind 
 " All base ideas must resistance find, 
 " And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, 
 " As the breath startles from the polish'd glass. 
 
 " Here you enjoy a sweet I'omantic scene, 
 " "Without so pleasant, and within so clean ; 
 " These twining jess'mines, what delicious gloom 
 " And soothing fragrance yield they to the room ! 
 " What lovely garden ! there you oft retire, 
 " And tales of woe and tenderness admire: 
 " In that neat case your books, in order placed, 
 " Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur'd 
 
 taste ; 
 " And thus, while all about you wears a charm, 
 " How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm ! " 
 
 The "Widow smiled, and " Know you not," said 
 
 she, 
 " How much these farmers scorn or pity me ; 
 " Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they 
 
 see? 
 " True, their opinion alters not my fate, 
 " By falsely judging of an humble state : 
 " This garden you with such delight behold, 
 " Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold ; 
 " These plants which please so well your livelier 
 
 sense, 
 " To mine but little of their sweets dispense : 
 " Books soon are painful to my failing sight, 
 " And oftener read from duty than delight ; 
 " (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find 
 " Both joy and duty in the act combined ;) 
 " But view me rightly, you will see no more 
 " Than a poor female, •nailing to be poor ; 
 " Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, 
 " Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, 
 " Of never-tasted joys ; — such visions shun, 
 " My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer's Son." 
 
 " Nay," said the Damsel, nothing pleased to 
 see 
 A friend's advice could like a Father's be, 
 " Bless'd in your cottage, you must surely smile 
 " At those who live in our detested style : 
 " To my Lucinda's sympathising heart 
 " Could I my prospects and my griefs impart, 
 " She would console me ; but I dare not show 
 " Ills that would wound her tender soul to know : 
 " And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell 
 " The secrets of the prison where I dwell ; 
 " For that dear maiden would be shock'd to feel 
 " The secrets 1 should shudder to reveal ; 
 " When told her friend was by a parent ask'd, 
 " ' Fed you the swine ? '— Good heaven ! how I 
 am task'd ! — 
 
 " What ! can you smile ? Ah ! smile not at the 
 
 grief 
 " That woos your pity and demands relief." 
 
 " Trifles, my love : j'ou take a false alarm ; 
 " Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm : 
 " Duties in every state demand j'our care, 
 " And light are those that will require it there. 
 " Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these, 
 " To him pertaining, or as his, will please." 
 
 " AVhat words," the Lass replied, " offend my 
 
 ear ! 
 '• Try you my patience ? Can you be sincere ? 
 " And am I told a willing hand to give 
 " To a rude farmer, and with rustics live ? 
 " Far other fate was yours ; — some gentle youth 
 " Admir'd your beauty, and avow'd his truth ; 
 " The power of love prevail'd, and freely both 
 " Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding 
 
 oath ; 
 " And then the rival's plot, the parent's power, 
 " And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour : 
 " Ah ! let not memory lose the blissful view, 
 " But fairly show what love has done for you." 
 
 " Agreed, my daughter ; what my heart has 
 
 known 
 " Of Love's strange power, shall be with frankness 
 
 shown : 
 " But let me warn you, that experience finds 
 " Few of the scenes that lively hope designs." 
 
 " Mysterious all," said Nancy ; " you, I know, 
 " Have sufi'er'd much ; now deign the grief to 
 
 show ; — • 
 " I am your friend, and so prepare my heart 
 " In all your sorrows to receive a part." 
 
 The Widow answer'd : " I had once, like you. 
 " Such thoughts of love ; no dream is more untrue ; 
 *' You judge it fated, and decreed to dwell 
 " In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, 
 " A passion doom'd to reign, and irresistible. 
 " The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain 
 " Rejects the fury or defies the pain ; 
 " The strongest reason fails the flame t' allay, 
 " And resolution droops and faints away : 
 " Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they 
 
 prove 
 " At once the force of this all-powerful love ; 
 " Each from that period feels the mutual smart, 
 " Nor seeks to cure it — heart is changed for heart ; 
 " Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, 
 " And, at the altar — hand is join'd to hand. 
 
 " Alas ! my child, there are who, dreaming so, 
 " Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe. 
 " There is no spirit sent the heart to move 
 " With such prevailing and alarming love ; 
 " Passion to reason will submit — or why 
 " Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny ? 
 " Or how could classes and degrees create 
 " The slightest bar to such resistless fate ? 
 " Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix ; 
 " No beggars' ©yes the heart of kings transfix ; 
 " And who but am'sous peers or nobles sigh, 
 " When titled beauties pass triumphant by ? 
 
 X 2 
 
308 
 
 CRABBS'S WORKS. 
 
 " For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove ; 
 " You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love ; 
 " All would be safe, did we at first inquire — 
 " ' Does reason sanction what our hearts desire ? ' 
 " But quitting precept, let example show 
 " What joys from Love uncheck'd by prudence 
 flow. 
 
 " A Youth my father in his office placed, 
 " Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste ; 
 " But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks : 
 " He studied much, and pored upon his books : 
 " Confused he was when seen, and, when he saw 
 " Me or my sisters, would in liaste withdraw ; 
 " And had this youth departed with the year, 
 " His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. 
 
 " But with my father still the youth remain'd, 
 " And more reward and kinder notice gain'd : 
 " He often, reading, to tlie garden stray'd, 
 " Where I by books or musing was delay'd ; 
 " This to discourse in summer evenings led, 
 " Of these same evenings, or of what we read : 
 " On such occasions we were much alone ; 
 " But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, 
 " (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss'd 
 " We could with pleasure to a parent trust. 
 
 " At length 't was friendship — and my Friend 
 
 and I 
 Said we were happy, and began to sigh ; 
 My sisters first, and then my father, found 
 That we were wandering o'er enchanted ground : 
 But he had troubles in his own affairs. 
 And would not bear addition to his cares : 
 With pity moved, yet angry, ' Child,' said he, 
 ' Will you embrace contempt and beggary ? 
 ' Can you endure to see each other cursed 
 ' By want, of every human woe the worst ? 
 ' Warring for ever with distress, in dread 
 ' Either of begging or of wanting bread ; 
 ' While poverty, with unrelenting force, 
 ' Will your own ofi'spring from your love divorce ; 
 ' They, through your folly, must be doom'd to 
 
 pine, 
 ' And you deplore your passion, or resign ; 
 ' For if it die, what good will then remain ? 
 ' And if it live, it doubles every pain.' " 
 
 " But you were true," exclaim'd the Lass, " and 
 
 fled 
 " The tyrant's power who ill'd your soul with 
 
 dread ? " 
 " But," said the smiling Friend, " he fill'd my mouth 
 
 with bread : 
 " And in what other place that bread to gain 
 " We long consider'd, and we sought in vain : 
 " This was my twentieth year, — at thirty-five 
 " Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive ; 
 " So many years in anxious doubt had pass'd." 
 " Then," said the Damsel, " you were bless'd at 
 
 last ?" 
 A smile again adorn'd the AVidow's face, 
 But soon a starting tear usurp'd its place. 
 
 " Slow pass'd the heavy years, and each had 
 more 
 " Pains and vexations than the years before. 
 
 " My father fail'd ; his family was rent, 
 
 " And to new states his grieving daughters sent : 
 
 " Each to more thriving kindred found a way, 
 
 " Guests without welcome,^servants without pay ; 
 
 " Our parting hour was grievous ; still I feel 
 
 " The sad, sweet converse at our final meal ; 
 
 " Our father then reveal'd his former fears, 
 
 " Cause of his sternness, and thenjoin'd our tears : 
 
 " Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, 
 
 " But died, and left us heirs to his distress. 
 
 " The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; 
 
 " I with a wealthy widow sought repose ; 
 
 " Who with a chilling frown her friend received, 
 
 " Bade me rejoice, and wonder'd that I grieved : 
 
 " In vain my anxious lover tried his skill 
 
 " To rise in life, he was dependent still : 
 
 " We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears 
 
 " Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years : 
 
 " Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, 
 
 " We felt no season peaceful or serene ; 
 
 " Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, 
 
 " Shone on our gloom with inauspicious fight ; 
 
 " And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, 
 
 " Worn with distresses, to despair inclined ; 
 
 " Add too the ill that from the passion flows, 
 
 " When its contemptuous frown the world bestows, 
 
 " The peevish spirit caused by long delay, 
 
 " When, being gloomy, we contemn the gay, 
 
 " When, being wretched, we incline to hate 
 
 " And censure others in a happier state ; 
 
 " Yet loving still, and still compell'd to move 
 
 " In the sad labyrinth of lingering love : 
 
 " While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, 
 
 " May wed — oh ! take the Farmer and the Farm." 
 
 " Nay," said the Nymph, "joy smiled on you at 
 
 last ? " 
 " Smiled for a moment," she replied, " and pass'd : 
 " My lover still the same dull means pursued, 
 " Assistant call'd, but kept in servitude ; 
 " His spirits wearied in the prime of life, 
 " By fears and wishes in eternal strife ; 
 " At length he urged impatient — ' Now consent ; 
 " ' With thee united. Fortune may relent.' 
 " I paused, consenting ; but a Friend arose, 
 " Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose ; 
 " From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam 
 " Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream ; 
 " By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, 
 " And sail'd — was wounded — reach'd us — and 
 
 expired ! 
 " You shall behold his grave ; and when I die, 
 " There— but 't is folly— I request to lie." 
 
 " Thus," said the Lass, " to joy you bade adieu ! 
 " But how a widow? — that cannot be true : 
 " Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, 
 " That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant's power ? " 
 
 " Force, my young friend, when forty years are 
 fled, 
 " Is what a woman seldom has to dread ; 
 " She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, 
 " And seldom comes a lover though she calls : 
 " Yet, moved by fancy, one approved my face, 
 " Though time and tears had wrought it much dis- 
 grace. 
 
TALE VII.— THE WIDOW'S TALE. 
 
 309 
 
 " The man I married was sedate and meek, 
 " And spoke of love as men in earnest speak ; 
 " Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years, 
 " A heart in sorrow and a face in tears : 
 " That heart I gave not ; and 't was long before 
 " I gave attention, and then nothing more : 
 " But in my breast some grateful feeling rose, 
 " For one whose love so sad a subject chose ; 
 " Till long delaying, fearing to repent, 
 " But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. 
 
 *' Thus we were wed ; no fault had I to find, 
 " And he but one : my heart could not be kind : 
 " Alas ! of every early hope bereft, 
 " There was no fondness in my bosom left ; 
 " So had I told him, but had told in vain, 
 " He lived but to indulge me and complain : 
 " His M'as this cottage ; he inclosed this ground, 
 " And planted all these blooming shrubs around ; 
 " He to my room these curious trifles bi'ought, 
 " And with assiduous love my pleasure sought ; 
 " He lived to please me, and I ofttimes strove, 
 " Smiling, to thank his unrequited love : 
 " * Teach me,' he cried, ' that pensive mind to 
 
 ease, 
 " ' For all my pleasure is the hope to please.' 
 
 " Serene, though heavy, were the days we 
 spent, 
 " Yet kind each word, and gen'rous each intent ; 
 " But his dejection lessen'd every day, 
 " And to a placid kindness died away : 
 " In tranquil ease we pass'd our latter years, 
 " By griefs untroubled, unassail'd by fears. 
 
 " Let not romantic views j-onr bosom sway; 
 " Yield to your duties, and their call obey : 
 " Fly not a Youth, frank, honest, and sincere ; 
 " Observe his merits, and his passion hear ! 
 " 'T is true, no hero, but a farmer, sues — 
 " Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views ; 
 " With him you cannot that affliction prove, 
 " That rends the bosom of the poor, in love : 
 " Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful 
 
 days, 
 " Your friends' approval, and your father's praise, 
 " Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate 
 " Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late." 
 
 The Damsel heard ; at first tli' advice was strange. 
 Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change : 
 " I have no care," she said, when next they 
 
 met, 
 " But one may wonder, he is silent yet ; 
 " He looks around him with his usual stare, 
 " And utters nothing — not that I shall care." 
 
 This pettish humour pleased th' experienced 
 Friend — 
 
 None need despair, whose silence can oficnd ; 
 
 " Should I," resumed the thoughtful Lass, " con- 
 sent 
 
 " To hear the man, the man may now repent : 
 
 " Think you my sighs shall call him from the 
 plough, 
 
 " Or give one hint, that ' You may woo me now ?' " 
 
 " Persist, my love," replied the Friend, " and 
 
 gain 
 A parent's praise, that cannot be in vain." 
 
 The father saw the change, but not the cause, 
 And gave the alter' d maid his fond applause : 
 The coarser manners she in part removed. 
 In part endured, improving and improved ; 
 She spoke of household works, she rose betimes. 
 And said neglect and indolence were crimes ; 
 The various duties of their life she weigh'd. 
 And strict attention to her dairy paid ; 
 The names of servants now familiar grew. 
 And fair Lucinda's from her mind withdrew ; 
 As prudent travellers for their case assume 
 Their modes and language to whose lands thej' 
 
 come ; 
 So to the Farmer this fair Lass inclined. 
 Gave to the business of the Farm her mind ; 
 To useful arts she turn'd her hand and eye ; 
 And by her manners told him — " You may 
 
 try." 
 
 Th' observing Lover more attention paid. 
 With growing pleasure, to the alter'd maid ; 
 He fear'd to lose her, and began to see 
 That a slim beauty might a helpmate be : 
 'Twixt hope and fear he now the Lass address'd, 
 And in his Sunday robe his love express'd : 
 She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy. 
 Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy ; 
 But still she lent an unreluctant ear 
 To all the rural business of the year ; 
 Till love's strong hopes endured no more delay. 
 And Harry ask'd, and Nancy named the day. 
 
 " A happy change ! my Boy," the father cried : 
 " How lost your sister all her school-day pride ? " 
 The Youth replied, " It is the Widow's deed ; 
 " The cure is perfect, and was wrought with 
 
 speed." 
 " And comes there. Boy, this benefit of books, 
 " Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks ? 
 " We must be kind — some offerings from the 
 
 Farm 
 " To the White Cot will speak our feelings warm ; 
 " Will show that people, when they know the 
 
 fact, 
 '■• Where they have judged severely, can retract. 
 " Oft have I smiled, when I beheld her pass 
 " With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass ; 
 •' Where, if a snail's retreat she chanced to 
 
 storm, 
 " She look'd as begging pardon of the worm ; 
 " And what, said 1, still laughing at the view, 
 " Have these weak creatures in the world to 
 
 do? 
 " But some are made for action, some to speak ; 
 " And, while she looks so pitiful and meek, 
 " Her words are weighty, though her nerves are 
 
 weak." 
 
 Soon told the village-bells the rite was done. 
 That join'd the school-bred Miss and Farmer's 
 Son ; 
 
310 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Her former habits some slight scandal raised, 
 But real worth was soon perceived and praised : 
 She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm, 
 And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.' 
 
 TALE VIII. 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 Wliat though yon have beauty. 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 I would not marry her, though she v ere endowed with ;iU 
 that Adam had left him before he transgressed. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 Wilt thou love such a woman ? What ! to make thee an 
 instrument, and play false strains upon thee ! — Not to be 
 endured. — As You Like It. 
 
 Your son, 
 As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know 
 Her estimation hence. All 's Jfell that Ends JJ'ell. 
 
 Be this sweet Helen's knell ; 
 He left a wife whose words all ears took captive, 
 Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve 
 Humbly call'd Mistress. All 's fFell that Ends /Fell. 
 
 There was a worthy, but a simple Pair, 
 Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair : 
 Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd. 
 Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd ; 
 Heir to the fortune they design'd for all. 
 Nor had th' allotted portion then been small ; 
 But now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare. 
 They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care : 
 The fairest features they could early trace, 
 And, blind with love, saw merit in her face — 
 Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace ; 
 And Dorothea, from her infant years, 
 Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears ; 
 She wTote a billet, and a novel read. 
 And with her fame her vanity was fed ; 
 Each word, each look, each action was a cause 
 For flattering wonder and for fond applause ; 
 She rode or danced, and ever glanced around. 
 Seeking for praise, and "smiling when she found. 
 The yielding pair to her petitions gave 
 An humble friend to be a civil slave, 
 Who for a poor support herself rcsign'd 
 To the base toil of a dependent mind : 
 By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art, 
 To gain the credit of a tender heart. 
 Hence at her door miLst suppliant paupers stand, 
 To bless the bounty of her beauteous liand : 
 
 ' [" ' The Widow's Talo ' is rather of the facetious order. 
 It contains tlie history of a farmer's ilaiiglitrr, who comes 
 liome from hoarding-scliool a ;;ri"at deal too line to tolerate 
 the Kross habit.s, or sulimit to the lilthy drndyerv, of her 
 father's house ; but in induced, by the warning history and 
 sensible exhortations of a neighbouring widow, in whom she 
 
 And now, her education all complete, 
 
 Slie talk'd of virtiKius love and union sweet ; 
 
 She was indeed by no soft passion moved. 
 
 But wish'd, with all her soul, to be beloved. 
 
 Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled; 
 
 Her chosen Husband was a man so mild, 
 
 So humbly temper'd, so intent to please. 
 
 It quite distress'd her to remain at ease, 
 
 AVithout a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease : 
 
 She tried his patience in a thousand modes. 
 
 And tired it not upon the roughest roads. 
 
 Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh'd 
 
 For joys, she said, '' to her alone denied ;" 
 
 And she was " sure her parents, if alive, 
 
 " Would many comforts for their child contrive :" 
 
 The gentle Husband bade her name him one ; 
 
 " No — that," she answered, " should for her be 
 
 done ; 
 " How could she say what pleasures were arosmd ? 
 " But she was certain many might be found." 
 " Would she some seaport, Weymouth, Scar- 
 borough, grace ? " — 
 " He knew she hated every watering-place." 
 " The town?" — "What! now 'twas empty, joy- 
 less, dull?" 
 "In winter?" — "No; she liked it worse when 
 
 full." 
 She talk'd of building — " Would she plan a 
 
 room ? " — 
 " No ! she could live, as he desired, in gloom." 
 " Call then our friends and neighbours." — " He 
 
 might call, 
 " And they might come and fill his ugly hall ; 
 " A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn'd them 
 
 all." 
 " Then might their two dear girls the time employ, 
 " And their improvement yield a solid joy." — 
 " Solid indeed ! and heavy — oh ! the bliss 
 " Of teaching letters to a lisping miss ! " 
 " My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, 
 " Can I oblige you ? " — '' You may go away." 
 
 Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain'd 
 This wasp's attacks, and then her praise obtain'd. 
 Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace 
 remain'd. 
 
 Two daughters wept their loss ; the one a child 
 With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild, 
 Who keenly felt the INIother's angry taunt, 
 " Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt :"' 
 Long time had Litci/ wept her slighted face, 
 And then began to smile at her disgrace. 
 Her father's sister, who the world had seen 
 Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen, 
 Begg'd the plaiu girl: the gracious Mother smiled, 
 And freely gave her grieved but passive child ; 
 And with her elder-born, the beauty bless'd, 
 This parent rested, if such minds can rest : 
 No miss her waxen babe could so admire. 
 Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire ; 
 
 expected to find a sentimental companion, to reconcile her- 
 .self to all those abominations, ami marry a jolly young 
 farmer in the neighbourliood. Tlie account of lior horrors, 
 on lirst coming down, is in Mr. Crabbe's best style of Dutch 
 painting — a little coarse, and needlessly minute, but per- 
 fectly true, and marvellously coloured."— .Ieffkey.] 
 
TALE VIII.— THE MOTHER. 
 
 311 
 
 They were companions meet, with equal mind, 
 Bless'd with one love, and to one point inclined ; 
 Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard. 
 Was their sole care, and had its full reward : 
 In rising splendour with the one it reign'd, 
 And in the other was by care sustain'd. 
 The daughter's charms increased, tlie parent's yet 
 remain'd. 
 
 Leave we these ladies to their daily care. 
 To see how meekness and discretion fare : — 
 A village maid, unvex'd by want or love, 
 Could not with more delight than Lucy move ; 
 The village lark, high mounted in the spring, 
 Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing ; 
 Iler cares all light, her pleasures all sincere. 
 Her duty joy, and her companion dear ; 
 In tender friendship and in true respect 
 Lived Aunt and Isiece, no flattery, no neglect— 
 They read, walk'd, visited — together pray'd, 
 Together slept the matron and the maid : 
 There was such goodness, such pure nature seen 
 In Lucy's looks, a manner so serene ; 
 Such harmony in motion, speech, and air, 
 That without fairness she was more than fair. 
 Had more than beauty in each speaking ^race, 
 That lent their cloudless glory to the face ; 
 "Where mild good sense in placid looks were 
 
 shown, 
 And felt in every bosom but her own. 
 The one presiding feature in her mind 
 ^Yas the pure meekness of a will resign'tl ; 
 A tender spirit, freed from all pretence 
 Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence ; 
 Bless'd in protecting fondness she reposed, 
 With every wish indulged though undisclosed ; 
 But Love, like zephyr on the limpid lake. 
 Was now the bosom of the maid to shake. 
 And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make. 
 
 Among their chosen friends, a favour'd few 
 The aunt and niece a youthful Kector knew ; 
 Who, though a younger brother, might address 
 A younger sister, fearless of success ; 
 His friends, a lofty race, their native pride 
 At first display'd, and their assent denied : 
 But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace, 
 They own'd she would adorn the loftiest race. 
 The Aunt, a mother's caution to supply. 
 Had watch'd the youthful priest with jealous 
 
 eye ; 
 And, anxious for her charge, had view'd unseen 
 The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean : 
 In all she found liim all she wish'd to find. 
 With slight exception of a lofty mind : 
 A certain manner that express'd desire 
 To be received as brother to the 'Squire. 
 Lucy's meek eye had beam'd with many a tear, 
 Lucy's soft heart had beat with many a fear, 
 Before he told (although his looks, slie thought. 
 Had oft confess'd) that he her favotir souglit; 
 But when he kneel'd, (she wish'd him not to 
 
 kneel,) 
 And spoke tlie fears and hopes that lovers feel ; 
 AVhen too the prudent aunt herself confess'd 
 Her wishes on tlie gentle youth would rest ; 
 The maiden's eye with tender passion beam'd, 
 She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed ; 
 
 The household cares, the soft and lasting ties 
 Of love, with all his binding charities ; 
 Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed, 
 Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed. 
 
 But would her Mother ? Ah ! she fear'd it 
 
 wrong 
 To have indulged these forward hopes so long ; 
 Her mother loved, but was not used to grant 
 Favours so freely as her gentle aunt. — 
 Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear, 
 Dispell'd her Lucy's apprehensive tear: 
 Her prudent foresight the request had made 
 To one whom none could govern, few persuade ; 
 She doubted much if one in earnest woo'd 
 A girl with not a single charm endued ; 
 The Sister's nobler views she then declared. 
 And what small sum for Lucy could be spared ; 
 " If more than this the foolish priest requires, 
 " Tell him," she wrote, " to check his vain 
 
 desires." 
 At length, with many a cold expression mix'd. 
 With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix'd. 
 There came a promise — should they not repent. 
 But take with grateful minds the portion meant. 
 And wait the Sister's day — tlie Mother might 
 
 consent. 
 
 And here, might pitying hope o'er truth prevail, 
 Or love o'er fortune, we would end our tale ; 
 For who more bless'd than youtliful pair removed 
 From fear of want — by mutual friends approved — • 
 Short time to wait, and in tliat time to live 
 With all the pleasures hope and fancy give ; 
 Their equal passion raised on just esteem, 
 AVhen reason sanctions all that love can dream ? 
 
 Yes ! reason sanctions what stern fate denies : 
 The early prospect in the glory dies. 
 As the soft smiles on dying infants play 
 In their mild features, and then pass away. 
 
 The Beauty died ere she could j-icld her hand 
 In the high marriage by the Mother plann'd ; 
 Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief 
 In a cold heart, that ever warr'd with grief. 
 
 Lucy was present when her sister died, 
 Heiress to duties that she ill supplied : 
 There were no mutual feelings, sister arts, 
 No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts : 
 When in the mirror play'd the matron's smile, 
 The maiden's thoughts were trav'Hing all the 
 
 while ; 
 And when desired to speak, she sigh'd to find 
 Her pause offended ; " F.nvy made her blind : 
 '• Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life 
 " Above the station of a rector's wife ; 
 '• Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace, 
 " Although no heiress to her motlier's face : 
 " It is your duty," said th' imperious dame, 
 '• (Advanced your fortune,) to advance your name, 
 " And with superior rank, superior oftcrs claim : 
 " Your sister's lover, when his sorrows die, 
 " May look upon you, and for favour sigh ; 
 " Nor can you offer a reluctant hand; 
 " His birth is noble, and his seat is grand." 
 
3I-; 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Alarm'd was Lucy, was in tears — " A fool ! 
 " Was she a child in love ? — a miss at school ? 
 " Doubts anj' mortal, if a change of state 
 " Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date ?" 
 
 The Rector doubted, for he came to mourn 
 A sister dead, and with a wife return : 
 Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth, 
 True in herself, confiding in his truth ; 
 But own'd her mother's change; the haughty 
 
 dame 
 Pour'd strong contempt upon the youthful flame ; 
 She firmly vow'd her purpose to pursue, 
 Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu I 
 The lover begg'd, insisted, urged his pain, 
 His brother wrote to threaten and complain ; 
 Her sister reasoning proved the promise made, 
 Lucy appealing to a parent pray'd ; 
 But all opposed the event that she design'd. 
 And all in vain — she never changed her mind ; 
 But coldly answer'd in her wonted way. 
 That she "would rule, and Lucy must obey." 
 
 "With peevish fear, she saw her health decline. 
 And cried, " Oh ! monstrous, for a man to pine I 
 " But if your foolish heart must yield to love, 
 " Let him possess it whom I now approve ; 
 " This is my pleasure." — Still the Rector came 
 With larger offers and with bolder claim ; 
 But the stern lady would attend no more — 
 She fro\vn'd, and rudely pointed to the door ; 
 Whate'er he wrote, he saw unread return'd, 
 And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn'd : 
 Nay, fi.K'd suspicion where he might confido, 
 And sacrificed his passion to his pride. 
 
 Lucy, meantime, though threaten'd and distress'd ; 
 
 Against her marriage made a strong protest : 
 
 All was domestic war ; the Aunt rebell'd 
 
 Against the sovereign will, and was e.xpell'd ; 
 
 And every power was tried, and every art, 
 
 To bend to falsehood one determined heart ; 
 
 Assail'd, in patience it received the shock, 
 
 Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock : 
 
 But while th' unconquer d soul endures the storm 
 
 Of angrj' fate, it preys upon the form ; 
 
 With conscious virtue she resisted still. 
 
 And conscious love gave vigour to her will : 
 
 But Lucy's trial was at hand ; with joy 
 
 The Mother cried — " Behold your constant boy — 
 
 "Thursday — was married: — take the paper, 
 
 sweet, 
 " And read tlic conduct of your reverend cheat ; 
 " See with wliat pomp of coaches, in what crowd 
 " The creature married — of his falsehood proud ! 
 " False, did 1 say ? — at least no whining fool ; 
 " And thus will liopelcss passions ever cool : 
 " But shall his bride your single state reproach? 
 " No ! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for 
 
 coach. 
 " Oh ! you retire ; reflect then, gentle miss, 
 " And gain some spirit in a cause like this.'' 
 
 ' [Tliose wcrp tlip very words of Mr. CraMio's own mollior 
 (Inriiiir lier last illness. It lia])p(>iiint; tli:it a rriciul ami 
 nniglibonr wtn slowly yielflin<; at the same time to the same 
 hopeless disorder as herself, she every morning used to desire 
 
 Some spirit Luoy gain'd ; a steady soul, 
 Defying all persuasion, all control : 
 In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried ; 
 The constant mind all outward force defied, 
 By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail'd by 
 
 pride ; 
 Fix'd in her purpose, perfect in her part. 
 She felt the courage of a wounded heart ; 
 The world receded from her rising view, 
 When heaven approach'd as earthly things with- 
 drew ; 
 Not strange before, for in the days of love, 
 Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above, 
 Pious when most of worldly prospects fond, 
 When they best pleased her slie could look be- 
 yond : 
 Had the young priest a faithful lover died, 
 Something had been her bosom to divide ; 
 Now heaven had all, for in her holiest views 
 She saw the matron whom she foar'd to lose ; 
 While from her parent, the dejected maid 
 Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking 
 pray'd. 
 
 Surprised, the Mother saw the languid frame, 
 And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame ; 
 Once with a frown slie cried, " And do you mean 
 " To die of love — the folly of fifteen ?" 
 But as her anger met with no reply. 
 She let the gentle girl in quiet die ; 
 And to her sister wrote, impell'd by pain, 
 " Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain." 
 Lucy meantime profess'd with joy sincere. 
 That nothing held, employ'd, engaged her here. 
 
 " I am an humble actor, doom'd to play 
 " A part obscure, and then to glide away : 
 " Incurious how the great or happy shine, 
 " Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine ; 
 " In its best prospect I but wish'd for life, 
 " To be th' assiduous, gentle, useful wife ; 
 " That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor, 
 " I drop my efforts, and can act no more ; 
 " With growing joy I feel my spirits tend 
 " To that last scene where all my duties end." 
 
 Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying 
 
 gave. 
 Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave ; 
 She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm, 
 And said, " She left but little for the worm :" 
 As toU'd the bell, '' There's one," she said, '' hath 
 
 press'd 
 " Awhile before me to the bed of rest :" ' 
 And she beside her with attention spread 
 The decorations of the maiden dead. 
 
 While quickly thus the mortal part declin'd. 
 The happiest visions fill'd the active mind : 
 A soft, religious melancholy gain'd 
 Entire possession, and for ever reign'd : 
 On Holy Writ her mind reposing dwelt. 
 She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt, 
 
 ner (laiij,'l:tpr to sec if this sufferer's window was opened ; 
 saying' ehrorfiiUy, " .Slie must make haste, or I shall be at 
 rest before her."— See ante, pp. 29, :iO.] 
 
TALE IX.— ARABELLA. 
 
 313 
 
 Till, in a bless'd and glorious reverie, 
 
 She seem'd the Saviour as on earth to see, 
 
 And, fiU'd with love divine, th' attending friend 
 
 to be; 
 Or she who trembling, yet confiding, stole 
 Near to the garment, touch'd it, and was whole ; 
 When, such th' intenseness of the working thought, 
 On her it seem'd the very deed was wrought ; 
 She the glad patient's fear and rapture found, 
 The holy transport, and the healing wound ; 
 This was so fix'd, so grafted in the heart, 
 That she adopted, nay became the part : 
 But one chief scene was present to her sight. 
 Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night ; 
 Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind 
 Was to that scene, that hallow'd cave, confin'd — 
 Where in the shade of death the body laid. 
 There watch'd the spirit of the wandering maid ; 
 H€r looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene, 
 In the still glory of the midnight scene : 
 There at her Saviour's feet, in visions bless'd, 
 Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd ; 
 In patience waiting for the first-bom ray 
 Of that all-glorious and triumphant day : 
 To this idea all her soul she gave, 
 Her mind reposing by the sacred grave ; 
 Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close, 
 And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose. 
 
 Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers 
 Again restored, illumed the dying hours ; 
 But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before. 
 And the mind wandor'd from its views no more ; 
 Till death approach'd, when every look express'd 
 A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. 
 
 The mother lives, and has enough to buy 
 Th' attentive ear and the submissive eye 
 Of abject natures — these are daily told. 
 How triumph'd beauty in the days of old ; 
 How, by her window seated, crowds have cast 
 Admiring glances, wondering as they pass'd ; 
 How from her carriage as she stepp'd to pray. 
 Divided ranks would humbly make her way ; 
 And how each voice in the astonish'd throng 
 Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. 
 
 Her picture then the greedy Dame displays ; 
 Touch'd by no shame, she now demands its praise ; 
 In her tall mirror then she shows a face, 
 Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace ; 
 These she compares : " It has the form," she 
 
 cries, 
 " But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes ; 
 " This, as a likeness, is correct and true, 
 " But there alone the living grace we view." 
 This said, th' applauding voice the Dame roquir'd. 
 And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired. 
 
 TALE IX. 
 
 ' [A surgeon of Ipswich had an addition to his family just 
 as he had obtained the consent of a young lady to marry him. 
 The breaking off of the match, by the good principle and 
 delicacy of the intended bride, gave rise to much difference 
 of opinion at the time, and suggested this tale.] 
 
 ARABELLA. 
 
 Thrice blessed they that master so their blood — 
 But earthly happier is the rose distill'd, 
 Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn. 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 
 
 Midsummer Wight's Dream. 
 
 I something do excuse the thing I hate, 
 For his advantage whom I dearly love. 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 Contempt, farewell I and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Or a fair town where Doctor liach was guide. 
 
 His only daughter was the boast and pride — 
 
 Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone. 
 
 She like a bright and polish'd brilliant shone ; 
 
 Her father own'd her for his prop and staj'. 
 
 Able to guide, yet willing to obey ; 
 
 Pleased with her learning while discourse could 
 
 please. 
 And with her love in languor and disease : 
 To every mother were her virtues known, 
 And to their daughters as a pattern sho^'iTi ; 
 Who in her youth had all that age requires. 
 And with her prudence all that youth admires : 
 These odious praises made the damsels try 
 Not to obtain such merits, but deny ; 
 For, whatsoever wise mammas might say. 
 To guide a daughter, this was not the way ; 
 From such applause disdain and anger rise, 
 And envy lives where emulation dies. 
 In all his strength, contends the noble horse 
 With one who just precedes him on the course ; 
 But when the rival flies too far before, 
 His spirit fails, and he attempts no more. 
 
 This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread. 
 Had dared to read, and dared to say she read ; 
 Not the last novel, not the new-born play ; 
 Not the mere trash and scandal of the day ; 
 But (though her young companions ielt the 
 
 shock) 
 She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Ilobbes, and Locke : 
 Her mind within the maze of history dwelt, 
 And of the moral JMuse the beauty felt; 
 The merits of the Roman page she knew. 
 And could converse with ]\Iore * and Montague : 
 Thus she became the wonder of the to-H-n, 
 From that she reap'd, to that she gave renown ; 
 And strangers coming, all were taught t' admire 
 The learned lady, and the lofty spire. 
 
 * [Hannah More, authoress of ' Crrlebs in Search of a 
 Wife,' &c. &c. &c., died at the age of eighty-six, in 183:>: 
 the celebrated Mrs. Montague died, aged eighty, in 1800.] 
 
Thus Fame in public fix'd the Maid where all 
 Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall : 
 A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen, 
 From tongues envenom'd, and from arms unseen ; 
 A thousand eyes were fix'd upon the place, 
 That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace : 
 But malice vainly throws the poison'd dart. 
 Unless our frailty shows the peccant part ; 
 And Arabella still preserved her name 
 Untouch'd, and shone with undisputed fame ; 
 Her very notice some respect would cause, 
 And her esteem was honour and applause. 
 
 Men she avoided ; not in childish fear, 
 As if she thought some savage foe was near ; 
 Not as a prude, wlio hides that man should seek, 
 Or who by silence hints that they should speak ; 
 But with discretion all the sex she vicw'd. 
 Ere yet engaged pursuing or pursued ; 
 Ere love had made her to his vices blind, 
 Or hid the favourite's failings from her mind. 
 
 Thus was the picture of the man portray'd. 
 By merit destined for so rare a maid ; 
 At whose request she might exchange her slate, 
 Or still be happj' in a virgin's fate : — 
 He must be one with manners like her own. 
 His life unquestion'd, his opinions kno-\'ni ; 
 His stainless virtue must all tests endure. 
 His honour spotless, and his bosom pure ; 
 She no allowance made for sex or times, 
 Of lax opinion — crimes were ever crimes ; 
 No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse, 
 No spurious offspring drain liis private purse : 
 He at all times his passions must command. 
 And yet possess — or be refused her hand. 
 
 All this without reserve the maiden told, 
 And some began to weigh the rector's gold ; 
 'J'o ask what sum a prudent man might gain, 
 Who had such store of virtues to maintain ? 
 
 A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth, 
 Declared his passion, and proclaim'd his worth ; 
 Not unapproved, for he had much to say 
 On every cause, and in a pleasant way ; 
 Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue. 
 His form was good, and ruddy he, and young : 
 But though the doctor was a man of parts. 
 He read not deeply male or female hearts ; 
 But judged that all whom he estccm'd as wise 
 Must think alike, though some assumed disguise ; 
 That every reasoning Braniin, Christian, Jew, 
 Of all religions took their liberal view; 
 And of her own, no doubt, this learned Maid 
 Denied the substance, and tlie forms obcy'd : 
 And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express'd 
 Of her opinions, au<l his own profoss'd : 
 " All states demand this aid, the vulgar need 
 " Their priests and pray'rs, their sci-mons and 
 
 their creed ; 
 " And those of stronger minds should never speak 
 " (In his opinion) what niiglit hurt the weak : 
 " A man may smile, but still he should attend 
 " His hour at cliurch, and be the Church's friend, 
 " "What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears 
 
 commend." 
 
 Frank was the speech, but heard with high dis- 
 dain. 
 Nor had the doctor leave to speak again ; 
 A man who own'd, nay gloried in deceit, 
 " He might despise her, but he should not cheat." 
 
 The Vicar Holmes appear'd : he heard it said 
 That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid ; 
 And true it was her ancient friends she loved. 
 Servants when old she favour'd and approved ; 
 Age in her pious parents she revered. 
 And neighbours were by length of days endear' d ; 
 But, if her husband too must ancient be. 
 The good old vicar found it was not he. 
 
 On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung — 
 Though valiant, modest ; and reserved, though 
 
 young : 
 Against these merits must defects be set — 
 Though poor, imprudent ; and though proud, in 
 
 debt: 
 In vain the captain close attention paid ; 
 She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh'd. 
 
 Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed 
 That Edward Hiintljj was the man indeed ; 
 Respectful duty he had paid awhile. 
 Then ask'd her hand, and had a gracious smile : 
 A lover now declared, he led the fair 
 To woods and fields, to visits, and to pray'r ; 
 Then whisper'd softly — " Will you name the 
 
 day ? " 
 She softly whisper'd — '• If you love me, stay." 
 " Oh ! try me not beyond my strength," he cried : 
 " Oh ! be not weak," the prudent Maid replied; 
 " But by some trial your aftection prove — 
 " Respect, and not impatience, argues love : 
 " And love no more is by impatience known, 
 " Than ocean's depth is by its tempests shown : 
 " He whom a weak and fond impatience sways, 
 " But for himself with all his fervour prays, 
 " And not the maid he woos, but liis own will 
 
 obeys ; 
 " And will she love the being who prefers, 
 " "With so much oi'dour^ his desire to hers ? " 
 
 Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be 
 
 seen ; 
 He knew obedience pleased his fancy's queen : 
 Awhile he waited, and then cried — " Behold ! 
 " The year advancing, be no longer cold ! " 
 For she had promised — "Let the flowers appear, 
 " iVnd I will pass with thee the smiling year : " 
 Then pressing grew the youth ; the more he 
 
 press'd. 
 The loss inclined the maid to his request : 
 " ]^et June arrive." — ,Vlas ! when April came, 
 It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame ; 
 Nor could the I^over from his house persuade 
 A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made ; 
 Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved. 
 She told her story to the Fair beloved ; 
 In strongest words th' imwelcome truth was sliown. 
 To blight his prospects, careless of her own. 
 
 Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart 
 For him to soften, when she swore to part; 
 In vain his seeming peuitcucc and jiray'r. 
 His vows, his tears; she left him in despair: 
 
TALE IX.— ARABELLA. 
 
 315 
 
 llis mother fondly laid her grief aside, 
 And to the reason of the nymph applied. — 
 
 " It well becomes thee, lady, to appear, 
 " But not to be, in very truth, severe ; 
 " Although the crime be odious in thy sight, 
 " That daring sex is taught such things to slight : 
 " His heart is thine, although it once was frail ; 
 " Think of his grief, and let his love prevail ! " 
 
 " Plead thou no more," the lofty lass return'd : 
 " Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn'd : 
 " Say that the crime is common — shall I take 
 " A common man my wedded lord to make ? 
 " See ! a weak woman by his arts betray'd, 
 " An infant born his father to upbraid ; 
 " Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name, 
 " Sanction his error, and partake his shame ? 
 " No ! this assent would kindred frailty prove, 
 " A love for him would be a vicious love : 
 " Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold 
 " With one whose crime by every mouth is told ? 
 " Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride •, 
 " He must despise me, were he not denied : 
 '• The way from vice the erring mind to win 
 '• Is with presuming sinners to begin, 
 " And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for 
 sin." 
 
 The youth, repulsed, to one more mild convey'd 
 His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid ; 
 The maid, remorseless in her pride, the while 
 Despised the insult, and return'd the smile. 
 
 First to admire, to praise her, and defend, 
 "Was (now in j'ears advanced) a virgin-friend : 
 jMuch she preferr'd, she cried, the single state, 
 " It was her choice" — it surely was her fate ; 
 And much it pleased her in the train to view 
 A maiden vot'ress, wise and lovely too. 
 
 Time to the yielding mind his change imparts, 
 He varies notions, and he alters hearts ; 
 'T is right, 't is just to feel contempt for vice, 
 But he that shows it may be over-nice : 
 There are who feel, when young, the false sublime, 
 And proudly love to show disdain for crime ; 
 To whom the future will new thoughts supply, 
 The pride will soften, and the scorn will die ; 
 Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn. 
 They bear the vicious, and consort with them : 
 Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his 
 
 side. 
 Despised the venal turncoat, and defied ; 
 Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand. 
 Though he who bribes may still his vote command. 
 Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak, 
 When she had flo-wn to London for a week, 
 And then return'd, to every friend's surprise. 
 With twice the spirit, and with half the size ? 
 She spoke not then — but, after years had tiown, 
 A better friend had Ellen never known : 
 Was it the lady her mistake had seen ? 
 Or had she also such a journey been ? 
 No : 't was the gradual change in bu'iftan hearts, 
 That time, in commerce with the world, imparts; 
 That on the roughest temper throws disguise. 
 And steals from virtue her asperities. 
 
 The j'oung and ardent, who with glowing zeal 
 Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel, 
 Now find those trifles all the mind engage. 
 To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age; 
 As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress, 
 Disdain'd each varying fashion's vile excess^ 
 And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze. 
 Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze : 
 Changes like these 't is folly to condemn, 
 So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them. 
 
 Let us proceed : — Twelve brilliant years were 
 past. 
 Yet each with less of glorj' than the last. 
 Whether these years to this fair virgin gave 
 A softer mind — effect they often have ; 
 Whether the virgin-state was not so bless'd 
 As that good maiden in her zeal profess'd ; 
 Or M'hcther lovers falling from her train. 
 Gave greater price to those she could retain. 
 Is all unknown ; — but Arabella now 
 Was kindly listening to a Merchant's vow, 
 Who ofFer'd terms so fair, against his love 
 To strive was folly, so she never strove. — 
 Man in his earlier days we often find 
 With a too easy and unguarded mind ; 
 But by increasing years and prudence taught, 
 He grows reserved, and locks up every thought: 
 Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth 
 She hides her -thought and guards the tender 
 
 truth : 
 This, when no longer young, no more she hides, 
 But frankly in the favour'd swain confides : 
 Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree, 
 That, longer standing, still will harder be ; 
 And like its fi-uit, the virgin, first austere. 
 Then kindly softening with the ripening year. 
 
 Now Avas the lover urgent, and the kind 
 And yielding lady to his suit inclined : 
 " A little time, my friend, is just, is right ; 
 " We must be decent in our neighbours' sight :" 
 Still she allow'd him of his hopes to speak. 
 And in compassion took oflT week by week ; 
 Till few remain'd, when, wearied with delay, 
 She kindly meant to take off day by day. 
 
 That female Friend who gave our virgin praise 
 For flying man and all his treacherous ways. 
 Now heard with mingled anger, shame, and fear, 
 Of one accepted, and a wedding near ; 
 But she resolved again with friendly zeal 
 To make the maid her scorn of wedlock feel ; 
 For she was grieved to find her work undone, 
 And like a sister mourn'd the failing nun. 
 
 Why are these gentle maidens prone to make 
 Their sister-doves the tempting world forsake ? 
 Why all their triumph when a maid disdains 
 The tyrant sex, and scorns to wear its chains ? 
 Is it pure joy to see a sister fljjwn 
 From the false pleasures they themselves have 
 
 knoAvn ? 
 Or do they, as the call-birds in the cage, 
 Try, in pure envy, others to engage ? 
 And therefore paint their native woods and groves. 
 As scenes of dangerous joys and naughty loves ? 
 
316 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Strong was the maiden's hope ; her friend was 
 proud, 
 And had her notions to the world avow'd ; 
 And, could she find the Merchant weak and frail, 
 With power to prove it, then she must prevail : 
 For she aloud would publish his disgrace, 
 And save his victim from a man so base. 
 
 "When all inquiries had been dulj' made. 
 Came the kind Friend her burthen to unlade : — 
 " Alas ! mj' dear ! not all our care and art 
 " Can thread the maze of man's deceitful heart : 
 " Look not surprise — nor let resentment swell 
 " Those lovely features, all will yet be well ; 
 " And thou, from love's and man's deceptions free, 
 " Wilt dwell in virgin-state, and walk to Heaven 
 with me." 
 
 The Maiden frown'd, and then conceived " that 
 wives 
 " Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives, 
 " As angry prudes who scorn'd the marriage-chain, 
 " Or luckless maids, who sought it still in vain." 
 
 The Friend was vex'd — she paused : at length 
 she cried, 
 " Know your o^ti danger, then your lot decide : 
 " That traitor Beswell, while he seeks your hand, 
 " Has, I affirm, a wanton at command ; 
 " A slave, a creature from a foreign place, 
 " The nurse and motlier of a spurious race ; 
 " Brown ugly bastards (Heaven the word forgive, 
 " And the deed punish !) in his cottage live ; 
 " To town if business calls him, there he stays 
 " In sinful pleasures wasting countless days. 
 " Nor doubt the facts, for 1 can witness call, 
 " For every crime, and prove them one and all." 
 
 Here ceased th' informer ; Arabella's look 
 Was like a schoolboy's puzzled by his book ; 
 Intent she cast her eyes ujjon the floor. 
 Paused — then replied— 
 
 " I vyish to know no more : 
 " I question not your motive, zeal, or love, 
 " But must decline such dubious points to prove. 
 " All is not true, I judge, for who can guess 
 " Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress ? 
 " He brought a slave perhaps to England's coast, 
 " And made her free ; it is our country's boast ! 
 " And she perchance too grateful — good and ill 
 " Were sown at first, and grow together still ; 
 " The colour'd infants on the village green, 
 " What are tliey more than we have often seen ? 
 " Children half-clothed wlio round their village 
 
 stray, 
 " In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they 
 " Will the dark colour of their fate betray : 
 
 3 As tlie author's purpose in this tnle may be mistaken, he 
 wishes to observe tliat conduct like tliat oC tlie laily's liore 
 described must be meritoriuus or censurable jusf as tlie 
 motives to it are pure or selfuli ; that these motives may in a 
 great measure be concealed from the mind of the ajjent '; and 
 that we often take credit to our virtue for actions which 
 sprinj; ori;,'inally from our tempers, inclinations, or our in- 
 dillerencc. It cannot tbcrel'ore i)e imnroper, much less im- 
 moral, to give an instance of such self-deception. 
 
 ' [" It was in his walks between AMborou;,'h and lieccles 
 that Mr, Crabbe passed tlirough the very scenery described 
 
 " Let us in Christian love for all account, 
 
 " And then behold to what such tales amount." 
 
 " His heart is evil," said the impatient Friend : 
 " My duty bids me try that heart to mend," 
 Replied the virgin ; " we may be too nice 
 " And lose a soul in our contempt of vice ; 
 *' If false the charge, I then shall show regard 
 " For a good man, and be his just reward : 
 " And what for virtue can I better do 
 " Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true ? " 
 
 She spoke, nor more her holy work delay'd ; 
 'T was time to lend an erring mortal aid : 
 " The noblest way," she judged, " a soul to win, 
 " Was with an act of kindness to begin, 
 " To make the sinner sure, and then t' attack the 
 sin." » 
 
 TALE X. 
 
 THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. 
 
 The sun is in the heavens, and the proud day, 
 
 Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
 
 Is all too wanton. King Ju/iii, 
 
 Tlie lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
 .4re of imagination all compact. 
 
 Midsummer Aiij/it's Dream. 
 
 Oh I how this sprin;; of love resembletli 
 
 Th" uncertain fflory of an .\pril dav. 
 Which now shows all her beauty to the sun, 
 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away. 
 
 'fuv Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 And happily I have arrived at last 
 Unto the w ished haven of my bliss. 
 
 Tiimintf of the Shrew. 
 
 It is the Soul that sees : the outward eyes 
 
 Present the object, but the Mind descries ; 
 
 And thence delight, disgust, or cool iudiflfrencc 
 
 rise : 
 Wlien minds are joyful, then we look around, 
 Antl what is seen is all on fairy ground ; 
 Again they sicken, and on every view 
 Cast their own dull and melancholy hue ; 
 Or, if absorb'd by their peculiar cares. 
 The vacant eye on viewless matter glares. 
 
 in the first part of 'Tlie Lover's .Tourney ;' while near Deccles, 
 in another direction, he found tlie contrast of ricli vef,'('tation 
 introduced in the latter part of that tale ; nor have I any 
 doubt that the d(so/)poiHtm('H( of the story llfjures out some- 
 thing' that, on one of these visits, befell himself, and the 
 feelings with wliicli he received it. 
 
 ' Gone to a friend, she tells me ; — I commend 
 Iler purpose : — means she to & female friend? ' Sic, 
 
 For truth compels me to say (hat lie was by no means free 
 I'rom the less amiable sign of a strong attachment — jealousy." 
 — J^ife, ante, p. 11.] 
 
TALE X.— THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. 
 
 317 
 
 Our feelings still upon our views attend, 
 And their own natures to the objects lend : 
 Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure, 
 Long as the passion reigns th' efTects endure ; 
 But Love in minds his various changes makes, 
 And clothes each object with the change he takes ; 
 His light and shade on every view he throws, 
 And on each object what he feels bestows. 
 
 Fair was the morning, and the montli was June, 
 When rose a Lover ; — love awakens soon : 
 Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while 
 Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile : 
 Fancy and love that name assign'd to her, 
 Call'd Susan in the parish-register ; 
 And he no more was John — his Laura gave 
 The name Orlando to her faithful slave. 
 
 Bright shone the glory of the rising day. 
 When the fond traveller took his favourite way ; 
 He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light. 
 And all he saw was pleasing in his sight. 
 
 " Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, 
 " And bring on hours of bless'd reality ; 
 " "When I shall Laura see, beside her stand, 
 " Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded 
 hand." 
 
 First o'er a barren heath beside the coast 
 Orlando rode, and joy began to boast. 
 
 " This neat low gorse," said he, " with golden 
 bloom, 
 " Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume ; 
 " And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers, 
 " A man at leisure might admire for hours ; 
 " This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip, 
 " That yields to nothing but my Laura's lip ; 
 " And then how fine this herbage ! men may say 
 " A heatli is barren ; nothing is so gay : 
 " Barren or bare to call such charming scene 
 " Argues a mind possess'd by care and spleen." 
 
 Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat, 
 Dust rose in clouds before the horse's feet ; 
 For now he pass'd through lanes of burning sand. 
 Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land ; 
 Where the dark poppy flourish'd on the dry 
 And sterile soil, and mock'd the thin-set rye. 
 
 " How lovely this ! " the rapt Orlando said ; 
 " With what delight is labouring man repaid ! 
 " The very lane has sweets that all admire, 
 " The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier; 
 " See ! wholesome wormwood grows beside the 
 
 way, 
 " Where dew-press'd yet the dog-rose bends the 
 
 spray ; 
 " Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks 
 
 adorn, 
 " AsiA snow-white bloom falls flaky from the 
 
 thorn ; 
 
 2 [" Gamblers or sharpers on the turf or in the cock-pit ; 
 so called, perhaps, from their appearing generally in boots, 
 
 " No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall, 
 " They spring uncultured, and they bloom for all." 
 
 The Lover rode as hasty lovers ride. 
 And reach'd a jommon pasture wild and wide ; 
 Small black-legg'd sheep devour with hunger 
 
 keen 
 The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean: 
 Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket ! stray, 
 And there, with other black-legs^'- find their prey. 
 He saw some scattcr'd hovels ; turf was piled 
 In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and 
 
 wild ! 
 A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, 
 With short sear herbage withering all around ; 
 A smith's black shed opposed a Wright's long shop. 
 And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop. 
 
 " Ay, this is Nature," said the gentle 'Squire ; 
 " This ease, peace, pleasure — who would not ad- 
 mire ? 
 " With what delight these sturdy children play, 
 " And joyful rustics at the close of day ; 
 " Sport follows labour ; on this even space 
 " Will soon commence the wrestling and the 
 
 race ; 
 " Then will the village-maidens leave their home, 
 " And to the dance with buoyant spirits come ; 
 " No affectation in their looks is seen, 
 " Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean ; 
 " Nor aught to move an envious pang they see, 
 " Easy their service, and their love is free ; 
 " Hence early springs that love, it long endures, 
 " And life's first comfort, while they live, en- 
 sures : 
 " They the low roof and rustic comforts prize, 
 " Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes : 
 " Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, 
 " And learn what busier mortals feel and fear ; 
 " Secure themselves, although by tales amazed 
 " Of towns bombarded and of cities razed ; 
 " As if they doubted, in their still retreat, 
 " The very news that makes their quiet sweet, 
 " And their days happy— happier only knows 
 " He on whom Laura her regard bestows." 
 
 On rode Orlando, counting all the while 
 The miles he pass'd, and every coming mile ; 
 Like all attracted things, he quicker flies. 
 The place approaching where th' attraction lies ; 
 When next appear'd a dam — so call the place — 
 Where lies a road confined in narrow space ; 
 A work of labour, for on either side 
 Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide. 
 With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied : 
 Far on the right the distant sea is seen, 
 And salt the springs that feed the marsh between ; 
 Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood 
 Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud ; 
 Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, 
 That frets and hurries to th' opposing side ; 
 The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow, 
 Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below. 
 Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow : 
 
 or else from game-cocks, whose legs are always black." — 
 Grose.] 
 
318 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Here a grave Flora* scarcely deigns to bloom, 
 Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume : 
 The few dull flowers that o'er the place are 
 
 spread 
 Partake the nature of their fenny bed ; 
 Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 
 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume ; 
 Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh. 
 And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; 
 Low on the ear the distant billows sound, 
 And just in view appears their stony bound ; 
 No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, 
 Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun. 
 Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters 
 
 " Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face," 
 Exclaim'd Orlando : " all that grows has grace : 
 " All are appropriate — -bog, and marsh, and fen, 
 " Are only poor to undiscei-ning men ; 
 ■" Here may the nice and curious eye explore 
 *' How Natdre's hand adorns the rushy moor ; 
 " Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, 
 " Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground ; 
 " Beauties are these that from the view retire, 
 " But well repay th' attention they require ; 
 " For these my Laura will her home forsake, 
 " And all the pleasures they afford partake." 
 
 Again, the country was enclosed, a wide 
 And sandy road has banks on either side ; 
 Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appear'd. 
 And there a gipsj' tribe their tent had rear'd ; 
 'T was open spread, to catch the morning sun, 
 And they had now their early meal begun, 
 "When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, 
 The early Trav'Uer with their prayers to greet : 
 "While yet Orlando lield his pence in hand. 
 He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 
 Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly. 
 Prepared the force of early powers to try ; 
 Sudden a look of languor he descries, 
 And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; 
 Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face 
 He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; 
 When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed 
 The vice implanted in her youtliful breast : 
 Forth from the tent her elder brother came. 
 Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame 
 The young designer, but could only trace 
 The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face : 
 
 ' Tlie ditclics of a fen so nrar the ocean are lined with 
 irregular patches of a coarse and stained lava ; a muddy sedi- 
 ment resti on tlie liorse-tail and other perennial herbs, wliicli 
 in part conceal the sliallowness of llie stream; a fat-leaved 
 pale-llowering scurvy-Kra<3 appears early in the year, and the 
 razor-ed(,'ed bulrush in the summer and autumn. The fen 
 itself has a dark and saline lierba^e ; there are rushes and 
 arrow-liead, and in a fi^w patches the Hakes of the cotton-grass 
 are seen, but more commonly the sca-ii.stiT, the dullest of 
 that numerous and hardy genus ; the thrift, blue in flower, 
 but withering and remaining withered till the winter scatters 
 it; the sa/(M'(/rt, both simple and shrubby; a few kinds of 
 grass clianged by tlieir soil and atmosphere, and low plants of 
 two or three denominations undistinguished in a general view 
 of the scenery ;— such is the vegetatiou of the fen when it 
 is at a small ifistance from the ocean ; and in this case there 
 arise from it effluvia strong and peculiar, half saline, half 
 putrid, which would be considered by most people as offensive, 
 
 Within, the Father, who from fences nigh 
 Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, 
 Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected 
 
 by. 
 On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, 
 And by tlie hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
 In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd. 
 Reclined the Wife, an infant at her breast ; 
 In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, 
 Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; 
 Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
 Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to 
 
 state. 
 Cursing his tardy aid — her Mother there 
 With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair ; 
 Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands. 
 And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, 
 Tracing the lines of life ; assumed through years. 
 Each feature now the steady falsehood wears : 
 With hard and savage eye she views the food. 
 And grudging pinches their intruding brood ; 
 Last in the group, the worn-out Gi-andsire sits 
 Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : 
 Useless, despised, his worthless labours done. 
 And half protected by the vicious Son, 
 Who half supports him ; he with heavy glance 
 Views the young ruffians who around him dance ; 
 And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
 To trace the progress of their future years : 
 Through what strange course of misery, vice, 
 
 deceit, 
 Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat ! 
 W^hat shame and grief, what punishment and 
 
 pain, 
 Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — 
 Ere they like him approach their latter end, 
 Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! * 
 
 But this Orlando felt not; "Rogues," said he, 
 " Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they bo ; 
 " They wander round the land, and be it true 
 " They break the laws — then let the laws pursue 
 " The wanton idlers ; for the life they live, 
 " Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive." 
 This said, a portion from his purse was thrown, 
 And every heart seem'd happy like his own. 
 
 He hurried forth, for now the town was nigli — 
 " The happiest man of mortal men am I." 
 Thou art ! but change in every state is near 
 (So while the wretched hope, the bless'd may fear) : 
 
 and by some as dangerous ; but tliere are others to w horn 
 singularity of taste or association of ideas has rendered it 
 agreeable and pleasant. 
 
 * [This picture of a fen is what few other artists would have 
 thought of attempting, and no other tlian Mr. Crabbo could 
 possibly have executed. The features of the fine country 
 are less perfectly drawn : but, what, indeed, could be made 
 of the vulgar fine country of ^/ig/aiirf? If Mr. Crabbe had 
 had the good fortune to live among our Highland hills, and 
 lakes, and upland woods — our living floods sweeping the 
 forests of pine — our lonely vales and rough copse-covered 
 clilfs ; whrit a delicious picture would his unrivalled powers 
 have enabled him lo give to the world. — Jekkkkv.] 
 
 ' [This picture is evidently finished cnn amnre, and appears 
 to us to be absolutely perfect, both in its moral and its phy- 
 sical expression. — Jeffkev.] 
 
TALE X.— THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. 
 
 319 
 
 " Say, where is Laura ?" — " That her words must 
 
 show," 
 A lass replied ; " read this, and thou shalt know !" 
 
 " "What, gone I — ' Tier friend insisted — forced 
 
 to go : — 
 " Is vex'd, was teased, could not refuse her !' — ■ 
 
 No? 
 " ' But you can follow.' Yes ! ' The miles are 
 
 few, 
 " The way is pleasant ; will you come ? — Adieu ! 
 " Thy Laura !' No I I feel I must resign 
 " The pleasing hope ; thou hadst been here, if 
 
 mine. 
 " A ladj' was it ? — "Was no brother there ? 
 " But whj' should I afflict me, if there were? 
 " ' The way is pleasant.' "What to me the way ? 
 " I cannot reach her till the close of da}'. 
 " My dumb companion ! is it thus we speed ? 
 " Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed; 
 " Still art thou doom'd to travel and to pine, 
 " For my vexation — "Wliat a fate is mine ! 
 
 " Gone to a friend, she tells me ; — I commend 
 " Her purpose : means she to a female friend ? 
 " By Heaven, I wish she sufTer'd half the pain 
 " Of hope protracted through the day in vain. 
 " Shall 1 persist to see th' ungrateful maid ? 
 " Yes, I will see her, slight her, and iipbraid. 
 " "What! in the very hour? Slie knew the time, 
 " And doubtless chose it to increase her crime." 
 
 Forth rode Orlando by a river's side. 
 Inland and winding, smooth, and full, and wide. 
 That roUd majestic on, in one soft-tlowing tide ; 
 The bottom gravel, flow'ry were the banks. 
 Tall willows waving in their broken ranks ; 
 The road, now near, now distant, winding led 
 By lovely meadows which the waters fed ; 
 lie pass'd the way-side inn, the village spire, 
 Nor stopp'd to gaze, to question, or admire ; 
 On either side the rural mansions stood. 
 With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crown'd with 
 
 wood, 
 And many a devious stream that reach'd the nobler 
 
 flood. 
 
 " I hate these scenes," Orlando angry cried. 
 And these proud farmers ! yes, I hate their 
 
 pride. 
 See ! that sleek fellow, how he strides along, 
 Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong ; 
 Can yon close crops a single eye detain 
 But he who counts the profits of the grain ? 
 And these vile beans with deleterious smell, 
 "Where is their beauty ? can a mortal tell ? 
 These deep fat meadows I detest ; it shocks 
 One's feelings there to see the grazing ox : — 
 For slaughter fatted, as a lady's smile 
 Rejoices man, and means his death the while. 
 Lo ! now the sons of labour ! every day 
 Employ'd in toil, and vex'd in every way ; 
 Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal. 
 In their affected joys, the ills they feel : 
 I hate these long green lanes; there's nothing 
 
 seen 
 In this vile country but eternal green ; 
 
 ""Woods! waters! meadows! "Will they never 
 
 end ? 
 '• 'T is a vile prospect : — Gone to see a friend !" 
 
 Still on he rode ! a mansion fair and tall 
 Rose on his view — the pride of Loddon Hall : 
 Spread o'er the park he saw the grazing steer. 
 The full-fed steed, and herds of bounding deer : 
 On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams play'd. 
 Through noble elms, and on the surface made 
 That moving picture, checker'd light and shade ; 
 Th' attended children, there indulged to stray, 
 Enjoy'd and gave new beauty to the day ; 
 Whoso happy parents from their room were seen 
 Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green. 
 
 " Well!" said Orlando, "and for one sobless'd, 
 " A thousand reasoning wretches are distress'd ; 
 " Nay, these, so seeming glad, are grieving like the 
 
 rest: 
 " !Man is a cheat — and all but strive to hide 
 " Their inward misery by their outward pride. 
 ■' What do yon lofty gates and walls contain, 
 " But fruitless means to soothe unconquer'd pain ? 
 " The parents read each infant daughter's smile, 
 " Form'd to seduce, encouraged to beguile ; 
 " They view the boys unconscious of their fate, 
 " Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait; 
 " These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these — 
 " There 's guilt and grief in all one hears and sees." 
 
 Our Trav'llei", lab'ring up a hill, look'd down 
 Upon a lively, busj', pleasant town ; 
 All he beheld were there alert, alive. 
 The busiest bees tliat ever stock'd a hive : 
 A pair were married, and the bells aloud 
 Proclaim'd their joy, and joj'ful seem'd the crowd ; 
 And now, proceeding on his way, he spied, 
 Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the 
 
 bride ; 
 Each by some friends attended, near they drew, 
 And spleen beheld them with prophetic view. 
 
 " Married ! nay, mad!" Orlando cried in scorn ; 
 " Another wretch on this unlucky morn : 
 " What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys? 
 " Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise ; 
 " Tome these robes, expressive of delight, 
 " Foreshow distress, and only grief excite ; 
 " And for these cheerful friends, will they behold 
 " Their wailing brood in sickness, want, and cold ; 
 " And his proud look, and her soft languid air 
 " Will — but I spare you — go, unhappy pair !" 
 
 And now, approaching to the Journey's end. 
 His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend, 
 He less offended feels, and rather fears t' offend : 
 Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt, 
 And casts a sunshine on the views without ; 
 And still reviving joy and lingering gloom 
 Alternate empire o'er his soul assume ; 
 Till, long perplex'd, he now began to find 
 Tlio softer thoughts engross the settling mind : 
 He saw the mansion, and should quickly see 
 His Laura's self — and angry could he be ? 
 
 No ! the resentment melted all away 
 
 '• For this my griei a single smile will pay," 
 
320 
 
 Cll ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Our trav'ller cried ; — " And why should it offend, 
 " That one so good should liave a pressing friend ? 
 " Grieve not, my heart ! to find a favourite guest 
 " Thy pride and boast — ye selfish sorrows, rest ; 
 " She will be kind, and 1 again be bless'd." 
 
 While gentler passions thus his bosom sway'd, 
 lie reach'd the mansion, and he saw the maid ; 
 " My Laura ! " — " Jly Orlando !— this is kind ; 
 " In truth I came persuaded, not inclined : 
 " Our friends' amusement let us now pursue, 
 " And I to-morrow will return with you." 
 
 Like man entranced the happy Lover stood — 
 " As Laura wills, for she is kind and good ; 
 " Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best — 
 " As Laura wills : I see her and am bless'd." 
 
 Home went the Lovers through that busy place. 
 By Loddon Hall, the country's pride and grace ; 
 By the rich meadows where the oxen fed. 
 Through the green vale that form'd the river's bed ; 
 And by unnumber'd cottages and farms. 
 That have for musing minds unnumber'd charms ; 
 And how affected by the view of these 
 Was then Orlando ?— did they pain or please ? 
 
 Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield — and 
 
 why ? 
 The mind was fill'd, was happy, and the eye 
 Roved o'er the fleeting views, that but appcar'd to 
 
 die. 
 
 Alone Orlando on the morrow paced 
 The well-known road ; the gipsy-tent he traced ; 
 The dam high-raised, the reedy dykes between, 
 The scatter'd hovels on the barren green. 
 The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye, 
 Mock'd by the useless Flora, blooming by ; 
 And last the heath with all its various bloom. 
 And the close lanes that led the trav'llei home. 
 
 Then could these scenes the former joys renew? 
 Or was there now dejection in the view ? — 
 Nor one or other would they yield — and why ? 
 The mind was absent, and the vacant eye 
 Wander'd o'er viewless scenes, that but appear'd to 
 die.^ 
 
 TALE XI. 
 
 • l' 'riie Lover's Journey ' is a pretty fancy, and well exe- 
 cuted :— at least as to the description it contains. A lover 
 takes a long ride to see liis mistress; and, pa.ssin<; in full 
 hope and joy through a barren and fenny country, linds 
 beauty in everything. IJeing put out of humour, however, 
 bv missing the ladv at the end of this stage, he proceeds 
 tlirough a lovely landscape, and finds everything Uf-ly and 
 disagreeable. At last he meets his fair one-is reconciled— 
 and returns along with her ; when the landscape presents 
 neither beauty nor deformity, and excites no emotion wliut- 
 ever in a mind engrossed with more lively sensations. Tliere 
 is nothing in any part of Mr. Crabbe's writings more exquisite 
 than some of the descriptions in this story.— JtFrREY.] 
 
 EDWARD SHORE. 
 
 .Seem they grave or learned ? 
 Why, so didst thou. — Seem they religious.'' 
 Wiiy, so didst thou ; or are they spare in diet. 
 Free from gross passion, or of mirth or anger, 
 t'onstant in spirit, not swerving w ith the bloo<l, 
 Garnish'd anddeck'd in modest compliment, 
 Not working with the eye without the ear. 
 And but with purged judgment trusting neither.' 
 Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. — Henry I', 
 
 Better I were distract. 
 So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, 
 .^nd woes by strong imagination lose 
 The knowledge of themselves. Lear, 
 
 Genius ! thou gift of Heav'n ! thou light di^^nc I 
 Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine ! 
 Oft will the body's weakness check thy force, 
 Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course ; 
 And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain 
 Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain ; 
 Or Want (sad guest !) will in thy presence come, 
 And breathe around her melancholy gloom : 
 To life's low cares will tliy proud thought con- 
 fine, 
 And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine.* 
 
 Evil and strong, seducing passions prey 
 On soaring minds, and win them from their 
 
 way. 
 Who then to Vice the subject spirits give, 
 And in the service of the conqu'ror live ; 
 Like captive Samson making sport for all. 
 Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall. 
 
 Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid 
 Implored by humble minds, and hearts afraid ; 
 May leave to timid souls the shield and sword 
 Of the tried Faith, and the resistless Word ; 
 Amid a world of dangers venturing forth, 
 Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth. 
 Till strong temptation, in sonin fatal time, 
 Assails the heart, and wins tne soul to crime ; 
 When left by honour, and by sorrow spent, 
 Unused to pray, unable to repent, 
 The nobler powers, that once exalted high 
 Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie : 
 
 ' [What Shakspearc says of the course of true love may be 
 applied to the course of genius. How seldom it runs smooth 
 — how seldom it linds a free channel ! and what obstacles <ire 
 to be overcome before it can make one, even if it have 
 strength and fortune linally to force its way I To say nothing 
 of the " mute inglorious Miltons " w ho lie in many a church- 
 y.-u-d — the mighty spirits which have never found opportuni- 
 ties to unfold themselves— it is but too true that tlie greatest 
 efforts of learning and industry and intellect have been pro- 
 duced by men who were strng:;liiig with difliculties of every 
 kinil ;— such is the inelanihnly sum of what tlie biography of 
 men of genius almost unil'ormiy presents. — Southkv.] 
 
TALE XI.— EDWARD SHORE. 
 
 321 
 
 Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake. 
 And strength of mind but stronger madness make. 
 
 When Edward Shore had reach'd his twentieth 
 year, 
 lie felt his bosom light, his conscience clear ; 
 Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd. 
 And trials there with manlj' strength sustain'd : 
 With prospects bright upon the world he came, 
 Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame : 
 JMen watoh'd the way his lofty mind would take. 
 And all foretold the progress he would make. 
 
 Boast of these friends, to older men a guide. 
 Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride ; 
 He bore a gay good-nature in his face. 
 And in his air were dignity and grace ; 
 Dress that became his state and years he wore. 
 And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore. 
 
 Thus, while admiring friends the Youth beheld, 
 His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd ; 
 For he unfix'd, unfixing, look'd around, 
 And no employment but in seeking found • 
 He gave his restless thoughts to views re"ned, 
 And shrank from worldly cares with wounded 
 mind. 
 
 Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws, 
 " But wlio could plead, if uuapjiroved the cause ?"^ 
 A doubting, dismal tribe physicians seem'd ; 
 Divines o'er texts and disputations dream'd ; 
 War and its glory he perhaps could love, 
 But there again he must the cause approve. 
 
 Our hero thought no deed should gain appiause 
 Where timid virtue found support in laws ; 
 He to all good would soar, would fly all sin, 
 By the pure prompting of the will within ; 
 " Who needs a law that binds him not to steal," 
 Ask'd the young teacher, " can he rightly feel ? 
 " To curb the will, or arm in honour's cause, 
 " Or aid the weak — are these enforced by laws ? 
 " Should we a foul, ungenerous action dread, 
 " Because a law condemns th' adulterous bed? 
 " Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain, 
 " But that some statute tells us to refrain ? 
 " The grosser herd in ties like these we bind, 
 " In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'dmind." 
 
 " Man's heart deceives him," said a friend. — 
 " Of course," 
 Replied the Youth ; " but has it power to force ? 
 '• Unless it forces, call it as you will, 
 " It is but wish, and proneness to the ill." 
 
 " Art thou not tempted ?"— " Do I fall ?" said 
 Shore. 
 " The pure have fallen." — " Then are pure no 
 more. 
 
 2 [Seeantij, p. 197.] 
 
 ' [" Reason, the power 
 To guess at right and wroni;, the twinkling lamp 
 Of wand'ring life, that winks and wakes by turns, 
 Fooling the follower betwixt shade and shining." 
 
 CoNORF.VE.] 
 
 " While reason guides me, I shall walk aright, 
 " Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light ; 
 " Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd 
 " For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind ; 
 " But that, engaged by thoughts and views 
 
 sublime, 
 " I wage free war with grossness and with crime." 
 Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew, 
 Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue. 
 
 Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd, 
 But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest ; 
 Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show 
 Light through the mazes of the world below : ^ 
 Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill 
 Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still ; 
 These to discuss he sought no common guide. 
 But to the doubters in his doubts applied ; 
 When all together might in freedom speak. 
 And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek. 
 Alas ! though men who feel their eyes decay 
 Take more than common pains to find their way, 
 Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid. 
 Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd : 
 Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one. 
 Still the same spots were present in the sun ; 
 Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind. 
 Who found no rest, nor took the means to find. 
 
 But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame. 
 Vain and aspiring on the world he came. 
 Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave. 
 No passion's victim, and no system's slave : 
 Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd. 
 And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd. 
 
 AVho often reads will sometimes wish to write, 
 And Shore would yield instruction and delight : 
 A serious drama he design'd, but found 
 'T was tedious travelling in that gloomy ground ; 
 A deep and solemn story he would try. 
 But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by ; 
 Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed, 
 Or knew it not, were ill-disposed to read ; 
 And he would lastly be the nation's guide. 
 But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side ; 
 Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd, 
 But loved not labour, though he could not rest, 
 Nor firmly fix the vascillating mind. 
 That, ever working, could no centre find. 
 
 'T is thus a sanguine reader loves to trace 
 The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race ; 
 Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes 
 Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes ; 
 He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands, 
 Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands ; 
 Fasils * and Michaels, and the robbers all, 
 Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call : 
 
 < Fasil was a rebel chief, and Miehael the general of the 
 royal army in Abyssinia, when Mr. Uruce visited that country. 
 In all other respects their characters were nearly similar. 
 They are both represented as cruel and treacherous ; and 
 even the apparently strong distinction of loyal and rebellious 
 is in a great measure set aside, when we are informed that 
 Fasil was an open enemy, and Michael an insolent and am- 
 bitious controller of the royal person and family. 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 He of success alone delights to think, 
 He views that fount, he stands upon the brink, 
 And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to 
 drink. 
 
 In his own room, and with his books around. 
 His lively mind its chief employment found ; 
 Then idly busy, quietly employ'd. 
 And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy'd : 
 Yet still he took a keen inquiring view 
 Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue ; 
 And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene, 
 He, unemploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene ; 
 Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares, 
 Still more unfitted for the world's affairs. 
 
 There was a house where Edward ofttimes 
 went. 
 And social hours in pleasant trifling spent ; 
 He read, conversed, and reason'd, sang and play'd, 
 And all were happy while the idler stay'd ; 
 Too happy one ! for thence arose the pain, 
 Till this engaging trifler came again. 
 
 But did he love ? "We answer, day by day. 
 The loving feet would take th' accustom'd way, 
 The amorous eye would rove as if in quest 
 Of something rare, and on the mansion rest ; 
 The same soft passion touch'd the gentle tongue. 
 And Anna's charms in tender notes were sung ; 
 The ear, too, secm'd to feel the common flame. 
 Soothed and delighted with tlie fair one's name ; 
 .•Vnd thus, as love each other part possess'd. 
 The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power con- 
 fess' d. 
 
 Pleased in her sight, the Youth required no 
 more ; 
 Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor ; 
 And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved. 
 To pain the being whom .'tis soul approved. 
 
 A serious Friend our cautious Youth possess'd. 
 And at his table sat a welcome guest : 
 Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight 
 To read what free and daring authors write ; 
 Authors who loved from common views to soar, 
 And seek tlie fountains never traced before : 
 Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true 
 And beaten prospect, for the wild and new. 
 His chosen friend his fiftietli year had seen. 
 His fortune easy, and his air serene; 
 Deist and atlieist call'd ; for few agreed 
 What were his notions, principles, or creed ; 
 His mind reposed not, for he hated rest. 
 But all things made a query or a jest ; 
 Perplex'd liimself, he ever sought to prove 
 That man is doom'd in endless doubt to rove ; 
 Himself in darkness he profess'd to be. 
 And would maintain that not a man could see. 
 
 The youthful Friend, dissentient, reason'd still 
 Of the soul's prowess, and the suhjcct-will ; 
 Of virtue's beauty, an<l of honour's force, 
 And a warm zeal gave life to his discourse : 
 Since from his feelings all his fire arose, 
 And he had interest in the themes he chose. 
 
 The Friend, indulging a sarcastic smile. 
 Said, " Dear enthusiast ! thou wilt change thy 
 
 style, 
 " When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit, 
 " No more distress thee, and no longer cheat." 
 
 Yet, lo I this cautious man, so coolly wise, 
 On a young Beauty fix'd unguarded eyes ; 
 And her he married : Edward at the view 
 Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu ; 
 But haply err'd, for this engaging bride 
 No mirth suppress'd, but ratlier cause suijplied : 
 And when she saw the friends, by reasoning long. 
 Confused if right, and positive if wrong, 
 With playful speech, and smile that spoke delight, 
 She made them careless both of wrong and right. 
 
 This gentle damsel gave consent to wed. 
 With school and school-day dinners in her head : 
 She now was promised choice of daintiest food, 
 And costly dress, that made her sovereign good •, 
 With walks on hilly heath to banish spleen. 
 And summer-visits when the roads were clean. 
 All these she loved, to these she gave consent. 
 And she was married to her heart's content. 
 
 Their manner this — the Friends together read. 
 Till books a cause for disputation bred ; 
 Debate then follow'd, and the vapour'd child 
 Declared they argued till her head was wild ; 
 And strange to her it was that mortal brain 
 Could seek the trial, or endure the pain. 
 
 Then, as the Friend reposed, the younger pair 
 Sat down to cai'ds, and play'd beside his chair ; 
 Till he, awaking, to his books applied. 
 Or heard the music of th' obedient bride : 
 If mild the evening, in the fields they stray'd. 
 And their own flock with partial eye survey'd ; 
 But oft the husband, to indulgence prone. 
 Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone. 
 
 " Do, my kind Edward — I must take mine ease — 
 " Name the dear girl the planets and the trees : 
 " Tell her wliat warblers pour their evening song, 
 " What insects flutter, as you walk along ; 
 " Teach her to fix the roving thoughts, to bind 
 " The wandering sense, and methodise the mind." 
 
 This was obey'd ; and oft when this was done. 
 They calmly gazed on the declining sun ; 
 In silence saw the glowing landscape fade. 
 Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade : 
 Till rose the moon, and on each youtliful face 
 Shed a soft beauty and a dangerous grace. 
 
 When the young Wife beheld in long debate 
 The friends, all careless as she seeming sate, 
 It soon appear'd there was in one combined 
 The nobler person and the richer mind : 
 He wore no wig, no grisly beard was seen, 
 And none beheld him careless or unclean. 
 Or watch'd him sleeping. We indeed have heard 
 Of sleeping beauty, and it has appear'd ; 
 'T is seen in infants — there indeed wc find 
 The features softcn'd by the slumbering mind ; 
 But other beauties, when disposed to sleep. 
 Should from the eye of keen inspector keep : 
 
TALE XI.— EDWARD SHORE. 
 
 323 
 
 The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise, 
 May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes ; 
 Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, 
 And all the homely features homelier makes : 
 So thought our wife, beholding with a sigh 
 Her sleeping spouse, and Edward smiling by. 
 
 A sick relation for the husband sent ; 
 Without delay the friendly sceptic went ; 
 Nor fear'd the youthful pair, for he had seen 
 The wife untroubled, and the friend serene ; 
 No selfish purpose in his roving eyes. 
 No vile deception in her fond replies : 
 So judged the husband, and with judgment true, 
 For neither yet the guilt or danger knew. 
 
 "What now remain'd ? but they again should play 
 Th' accustom'd game, and walk th' accustom'd 
 
 way; 
 "With careless freedom should converse or read. 
 And the Friend's absence neither fear nor heed : 
 But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd ; 
 "Within their room still restless they remain'd. 
 And painfully they felt, and knew each other 
 
 pain'd. 
 Ah, foolish men I how could ye thus depend, 
 One on himself, the other on his friend ? 
 
 The Youth with troubled eye the lady saw, 
 Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw ; 
 "While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys 
 Touching, was not one moment at her ease : 
 Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide, 
 Now speak of rain, and cast her cloak aside ; 
 Seize on a book, unconscious what she read, 
 And restless still to new resources fled ; 
 Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene ; 
 And ever changed, and every change was seen. 
 
 Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame — ■ 
 The trying day was past, another came ; 
 The third was all remorse, confusion, dread, 
 And (all too late !) the fallen hero fled. 
 
 Then felt the Youth, in that seducing time, 
 How feebly Honour guards the heart from crime : 
 Small is his native strength ; man needs the stay. 
 The strength imparted in the trying day ; 
 For all that Honour brings against the force 
 Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course ; 
 Its slight resistance but provokes the fire. 
 As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it 
 higher. 
 
 The Husband came ; a wife by guilt made bold 
 Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old ; 
 But soon this fact transpired ; her strong distress, 
 And his Friend's absence, left him nought to guess. 
 
 Still cool, though grieved, thus prudence bade 
 him write — 
 " I cannot pardon, and I will not fight ; 
 " Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws, 
 " And I too faulty to support my cause : 
 " All must be punish'd ; I mast sigh alone, 
 " At home thy victim for her guilt atone ; 
 " And thou, unhappy ! virtuous now no more, 
 " Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore ; 
 
 " Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart, 
 " And saints, deriding, tell thee what thou art." 
 
 Such was his fall ; and Edward, from that time, 
 Felt in full force the censure and the crime — 
 Despised, ashamed ; his noble views before, 
 And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more : 
 Should he repent— would that conceal his shame ? 
 Could peace be his ? It perish'd with his fame : 
 Himself he scorn'd, nor could his crime forgive ; 
 He fear'd to die, yet felt ashamed to live : 
 Grieved, but not contrite, was his heart ; oppress'd. 
 Not broken ; not converted, but distress'd ; 
 He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee, 
 He wanted light the cause of ill to see. 
 To learn how frail is man, how humble then 
 
 should be ; 
 For faith he had not, or a faith too weak 
 To gain the help that humbled sinners seek ; 
 Else had he pray'd — to an oflTended God 
 His tears had flown a penitential flood ; 
 Though far astray, he would have heard the call 
 Of mercy — " Come ! return, thou prodigal :" 
 Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid, 
 Still had the trembling penitent obey'd ; 
 Though faith had fainted, when assail'd by fear, 
 Hope to the soul had whisper'd, " Persevere !" 
 Till in his Father's house, an humbled guest. 
 He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest. 
 
 But all this joj' was to our Youth denied 
 By his fierce passions and his daring pride ; 
 And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course. 
 Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force. 
 Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes op- 
 press. 
 Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress ; 
 So found our fallen Youth a short relief 
 In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief, — 
 From fleeting mirth that o'er the bottle lives, 
 From the false joy its inspiration gives, — 
 And from associates pleased to find a friend 
 "With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend, 
 In all those scenes where transient ease is found, 
 For minds whom sins oppress and sorrows wound. 
 
 "Wine is like anger ; for it makes us strong, 
 Blind, and impatient, and it leads us wrong ; 
 The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error 
 
 long : 
 Thus led, thus strengthen'd, in an evil cause. 
 For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause ; 
 Sad for a time, tlien eloquently wild. 
 He gaily spoke as his companions smiled ; 
 Lightly he rose, and \\itli liis former grace 
 Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case ; 
 Fate and foreknowledge were his favourite 
 
 themes^ 
 How vain man's purpose, how absurd his schemes : 
 " Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed ; 
 " We think our actions from ourselves proceed, 
 " And idly we lament th' inevitable deed ; 
 " It seems our own, but there 's a power above 
 " Directs the motion, nay, that makes us move ; 
 " Nor good nor evil can you beings name, 
 " Who are but rooks and castles in the game ; 
 " Superior natures with their puppets play, 
 " Till, bagg'd or buried, all are swept away." 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Such were the notions of a mind to ill 
 Now prone, but ardent and determined still : 
 Of joy now eager, as before of fame, 
 And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame, 
 Deeply he sank ; obey'd each passion's call, 
 And used his reason to defend them all. 
 
 Shall I proceed, and step by step relate 
 The odious progress of a Sinner's fate ? 
 No — let me rather hasten to the time 
 (Sure to arrive !) when misery waits on crime. 
 
 With Virtue, prudence fled ; what Shore pos- 
 sess'd 
 Was sold, was spent, and he was now distress'd : 
 And Want, unwelcome stranger, pale and wan. 
 Met with her haggard looks the hurried man : 
 His pride felt keenly what he must expect 
 From useless pity and from cold neglect. 
 
 Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled, 
 And wept his woes upon a restless bed ; 
 Eetiring late, at early hour to rise. 
 With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes : 
 If sleep one moment closed the dismal view. 
 Fancy her terrors built upon the true : 
 And night and day had their alternate woes, 
 That balfled pleasure, and that mock'd repose ; 
 Till to despair and anguish was consign'd 
 The wreck and ruin of a noble mind. 
 
 Now seized for debt, and lodged within a jail. 
 He tried his friendships, and he found them fail ; 
 Then fail'd his spirits, and his thoughts were all 
 Fix'd on his sins, his sufferings, and his fall : 
 His ruffled mind was pictured in his face. 
 Once the fair seat of dignity and grace : 
 Great was the danger of a man so prone 
 To think of madness, and to think alone ; 
 Yet pride still lived, and struggled to sustain 
 The drooping spirit and the roving brain ; 
 But this too fail'd : a Friend his freedom gave. 
 And sent him help the threat'ning world to brave ; 
 Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee, 
 But still would stranger to his person be : 
 In vain ! the truth determined to explore, 
 He traced the Friend whom he had wrong'd be- 
 fore. 
 
 This was too much ; both aided and advised 
 By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised : 
 He bore it not ; 't was a deciding stroke, 
 And on his reason like a torrent broke : 
 In dreadful stillness he appear'd a while, 
 With vacant liorror and a ghastly smile ; 
 Then rose at once into the frantic rage, 
 That force controU'd not, nor could love assuage. 
 
 Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen 
 The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien ; 
 
 9 [This tale contains many passages of exqnisite beauty. 
 The hero is a younj' man of as|)irin)j (,'onins and enthusiastic 
 tKmper, with an arannt lovo of virtue, but no settled prin- 
 ciples either of conduct or opinion. lie first conceives an 
 attacliment for an iimiable >;irl, wlio is captivated with his 
 conversation ; hut, bein:,' too poor to marry, soon comes to 
 spend more of his time in the family of an elderly sceptic of 
 
 Too late their pity gave to care and skill 
 The hurried mind and ever-wandering will : 
 Unnoticed pass'd all time, and not a ray 
 Of reason broke on his benighted way ; 
 But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain, 
 And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain. 
 
 Then, as its wrath subsided by degrees, 
 The mind sank slowly to infantine ease, 
 To playful folly, and to causeless joy. 
 Speech without aim, and without end, employ ; 
 He drew fantastic figures on the wall. 
 And gave some wild relation of them all ; 
 With brutal shape he join'd the human face, 
 And idiot smiles approved the motley race. 
 
 Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found, 
 The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd ; 
 And all the dreadful tempest died away 
 To the dull stillness of the misty day. 
 
 And now his freedom he attain'd — if free 
 The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be ; 
 His friends, or wearied with the charge, or sure 
 The harmless wretch was now beyond a cure. 
 Gave him to wander where he pleased, and find 
 His own resources for the eager mind : 
 The playful children of the place he meets. 
 Playful with them he rambles through the streets ; 
 In all they need, his stronger arm he lends. 
 And his lost mind to these approving friends. 
 
 That gentle Maid, whom once the Youth had 
 loved. 
 Is now with mild religious pity moved ; 
 Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he 
 Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be ; 
 And as; she trembling speaks, his lively eyes 
 Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs ; 
 Charm'd by her voice, th' harmonious sounds in- 
 vade 
 His clouded mind, and for a time persuade : 
 Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught 
 From the maternal glance a gleam of thought, 
 He stands enrapt, the half-kno\iTi voice to hear, 
 And starts, half conscious, at the falling tear. 
 
 Karely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, 
 In darker mood, as if to hide his woes ; 
 Keturning soon, he with impatience seeks 
 His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, anil 
 
 speaks ; 
 Speaks a wild speech with action all as wild — 
 The children's leader, and himself a child ; 
 He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends 
 His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends ; 
 Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more. 
 And heedless children call him isilli/ S/tore.^ 
 
 Iiis acquaintance, who had recently married .1 youn" wife, and 
 placed unbounded confidence in her virtue and the honour 
 of his friend. In a moment of temptation they abuse tliis 
 confidence. The husband renounces him with di^'nifieil com- 
 posnre; and lie falls at once from tlie romantic pride of his 
 virtue. Me then seeks tlie company of the dissipated and 
 gay, and ruins Ids health and fortune, without regaining his 
 
TALE XII.— 'SQUIRE THOMAS. 
 
 325 
 
 TALE XI L 
 
 'SQUIRE THOMAS ; OR, THE PRECIPITATE 
 CHOICE. 
 
 Siicli smiling rogues as these, 
 Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain, 
 Too intrinsicate f unloose. Lear. 
 
 My other self, my counsel's consistory, 
 
 My oracle, mv prophet, 
 
 1 as a child will go by thy direction. Richard III. 
 
 If I do not have pity upon her, I'm s villain : If I do not 
 love her, I am a Jew. — Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible ; 
 
 But thou art obdurate, liinty, rough, remorseless. 
 
 Henri/ T'l. 
 
 He mnst be told of it, and he shall ; the ofTice 
 Uecomes a woman best ; I'll take it upon me ; 
 If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister. 
 
 fFinter's Talc. 
 
 Dis"uise, I see thou art a w ickedness. 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 'Squire Thomas flatter'd long a wealthy Aunt, 
 Who left him all that she could give or grant ; 
 Ten years he tried, with all his craft and skill, 
 To fix the sovereign lady's varying will ; 
 Ten years enduring at her board to sit, 
 He meekly listen'd to her tales and wit: 
 He took the meanest office man can take. 
 And his aunt's vices for her money's sake : 
 By many a threat'ning hint she waked his fear, 
 And he was pain'd to see a rival near : 
 Yet all the taunts of her contemptuous pride 
 He bore, nor found his grov'ling spirit tried ; 
 Nay, when she wish'd his parents to traduce, 
 Fawning he smiled, and justice call'd th' abuse : 
 " They taught you nothing: arc you not, at best," 
 Said the proud Dame, "a trifler, and a jest? 
 " Confess you are a fool ! " — he bow'd and he 
 confess'd. 
 
 This vex'd him much, but could not always last : 
 The dame is buried, and the trial past. 
 
 There was a female, who had courted long 
 Her cousin's gifts, and deeply felt the wrong; 
 By a vain boy forbidden to attend 
 The private councils of her wealthy friend, 
 She vow'd revenge, nor should that crafty boy 
 In triumph undisturb'd his spoils enjoy : 
 
 tranquillity. When in gaol and miserable he is relieve d by 
 an unknown hand, and traces the benefaction to tlie iriond 
 whose former kindness he had so ill repaid. Tliis humiliation 
 falls upon his proud spirit and shattered nerves with an over- 
 whelmini; force, and his reason fails beneath it. lie is for 
 some time a raving maniac, and then falls into a state cf gay 
 and corapassionable imbecility, which is described with in- 
 
 He heard, he smiled, and when the Will was read, 
 Kindly dismiss'd the Kindred of the dead ; 
 " The dear deceased " he call'd her, and the crowd 
 Moved off with curses deep and threat'nings loud. 
 
 The youth retired, and, with a mind at ease, 
 Found he was rich, and fancied he must please : 
 He might have pleased, and to his comfort found 
 The wife he wish'd, if he had sought around ; 
 For there were lasses of his own degree, 
 With no more hatred to the state than he ; 
 But he had courted spleen and age so long, 
 His heart refased to woo the fair and young ; 
 So long attended on caprice and whim. 
 He thought attention now was due to him ; 
 And as his flattery pleased the wealthy Dame, 
 Heir to the wealth, he might the flattery claim : 
 But this the fair, with one accord, denied, 
 Kor waved for man's caprice the sex's pride. 
 There is a season when to them is due 
 Worship and awe, and they will claim it too : 
 " Fathers," they cry, " long hold us in their 
 
 chain, 
 " Nay, tyrant brothers claim a right to reign ; 
 " Uncles and guardians we in turn obey, 
 " And husbands rule with ever-during sway ; 
 " Short is the time when lovers at the feet 
 " Of beauty kneel, and own the slavery sweet ; 
 " And shall we this our triumph, this the aim 
 " And boast of female power, forbear to claim ? 
 " No ! we demand that homage, that respect, 
 " Or the proud rebel punish and reject." 
 
 Our Hero, still too indolent, too nice, 
 To pay for beauty the accustom'd price, 
 No less forbore t' address the humbler maid, 
 Who might have yielded with the price unpaid ; 
 But lived, himself to humour and to please, 
 To count his money, and enjoy his ease. 
 
 It pleased a neighbouring 'squire to recommend 
 A faithful youth as servant to his friend ; 
 Nay, more than servant, whom he praised for 
 
 parts 
 Ductile yet strong, and for the best of hearts : 
 One who might ease him in his small affairs, 
 With tenants, tradesmen, taxes, and repairs ; 
 Answer his letters, look to all his dues, 
 And entertain him with discourse and news. 
 
 The 'Squire believed, and found the trusted 
 youth 
 A very pattern for his care and truth ; 
 Net for his virtues to be praised alone. 
 But for a modest mien and humble tone ; 
 Assenting alwaj'S, but as if he meant 
 Only to strength of reasons to assent : 
 For was he stubborn, and retain'd his doubt. 
 Till the more subtle 'Squire had forced it out ; 
 
 iinitable beautv in the close of this story. Tlie ultimate down- 
 fall of this lofty mind, with its a^onisinf; gleams of transitory 
 recollection, form a picture, than which we do not know if 
 the whole range of our poetry, rich as it is in representations 
 of disordered intellect, furnishes anything more touching, or 
 delineated with more truth and delicacy. — Jeffrey.] 
 
826 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Nay, still was right, but he perceived that strong 
 And powerful minds could make the right the 
 wrong. 
 
 ■\Vhcn the 'Squire's thoughts on some fair damsel 
 dwelt, 
 The faithful Friend his apprehensions felt ; 
 It would rejoice his faithful heart to find 
 A lady suited to his master's mind ; 
 But who deserved that master ? who would prove 
 That hers was pure, uninterested love ? 
 Although a servant, he would scorn to take 
 A countess, till she sufTer'd for his sake ; 
 Some tender spirit, humble, faithful, true, 
 Such, my dear master I must be sought for you. 
 
 Six months had pass'd, and not a lady seen, 
 With just this love, 'twixt fifty and fifteen ; 
 All secm'd his doctrine or his pride to shun, 
 All would be woo'd before they would be won ; 
 "When the chance naming of a race and fair 
 Our 'Squire disposed to take his pleasure there, 
 The Friend profess'd, '• although he first began 
 " To hint the thing, it seem'd a thoughtless plan ; 
 " The roads, he fear'd, M'ere foul, the days were 
 
 short, 
 " The village far, and yet there might be sport." 
 
 " "What ! you of roads and starless nights afraid ? 
 " You think to govern ! you to be obey'd !" 
 Smiling he spoke : the humble Friend declared 
 His soul's obedience, and to go prepared. 
 
 The place was distant, but with great delight 
 They saw a race, and hail'd the glorious sight : 
 The 'Squire exulted, and declared the ride 
 Had amply paid, and he was satisfied. 
 They gazed, they feasted, and, in happy mood, 
 Homeward rcturn'd, and hastening as they rode ; 
 For short the day, and sudden was the change 
 From light to darkness, and the way was strange : 
 Our hero soon grew peevish, then distress'd ; 
 He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest : 
 Going, they pass'd a village ; but, alas ! 
 Returning saw no village to repass ; 
 The 'Squire remomber'd too a noble hall, 
 Large as a church, and whiter than its wall : 
 This he had noticed as they rode along. 
 And justly reason'd that their road was wrong. 
 George, full of awe, was modest in reply — 
 " The fault was his, 't was folly to deny ; 
 " And of his master's safety were he sure, 
 " There was no grievance he would not endure." 
 This made his peace with the relenting 'Squire, 
 Whose thoughts j'ct dwelt on supper and a fire ; 
 When, as they reacli'd a long and pleasant green. 
 Dwellings of men, and next a man, were seen. 
 
 " My friend," said George, " to travellers 
 astray 
 " Point out an inn, and guide us on the way." 
 
 The man look'd up ; " Surprising ! can it be 
 " My master's son ? as I 'ni alive, 't is he '." 
 
 " How ! Robin ?" (Jcorge replied, " and are wo near 
 " My father's house ? how strangely things ap- 
 pear !^ 
 
 " Dear sir, though wanderers, we at last are 
 
 right : 
 " Let us proceed, and glad my fathers sight : 
 " AVe shall at least be fairly lodged and fed, 
 " I can ensure a supper and a bed ; 
 " Let us this night as one of pleasure date, 
 " And of surprise : it is an act of Fate." 
 " Go on," the 'Squire in happj^ temper cried ; 
 " I like such blunder ! I a^jprove such guide." 
 
 They ride, they halt, the Farmer comes in haste, 
 Then tells his wife how much their liouse is graced ; 
 They bless the chance, they praise the lucky son. 
 That caused the error — Nay ! it was not one. 
 But their good fortune : cheerful grew the 'Squire, 
 Who found dependants, flattery, wine, and fire ; 
 He heard the jack turn round ; the busy dame 
 Produced her damask ; and with supper came 
 The Daughter, dress'd with care, and full of maiden 
 shame. 
 
 Surprised, our hero saw the air and dress. 
 And strove his admiration to express ; 
 Nay ! felt it too — for Harriot was in truth 
 A tall fair beauty in the bloom of youth ; 
 And from the pleasure and surprise, a grace 
 Adorn'd the blooming damsel's form and face ; 
 Then, too, such high respect and duty paid 
 By all — such silent reverence in the maid ; 
 Vent'ring with caution, yet with haste, a glance. 
 Loth to retire, yet trembling to advance, 
 Appear'd the nymph, and in her gentle guest 
 Stirr'd soft emotions till the hour of rest : 
 Sweet was his sleep, and in the morn again 
 He felt a mixture of delight and pain : 
 " How fair, how gentle," said the 'Squire, '" how 
 
 meek, 
 " And yet how sprightly, when disposed to speak ! 
 " Nature has bless'd her form, and Heaven her 
 
 mind, 
 " But in her favours Fortune is unkind ; 
 " Poor is the maid — nay, poor she cannot prove 
 " Who is enrich'd with beauty, worth, and love." 
 
 The 'Squire arose, with no precise intent 
 To go or stay — uncertain what he meant : 
 He moved to part — -they begg'd him first to dine ; 
 And who could then escape from Love and Wine ? 
 As came the night, more charming grew the Fair, 
 And seem'd to watch him with a twofold care : 
 Ou the third morn, resolving not to stay. 
 Though urged by Love, he bravely rode awaj-. 
 
 Arrived at home, three pensive days he gave 
 To feelings fond and meditations grave ; 
 Lovely she was, and, if he did not err, 
 As fond of him as his fond heart of her ; 
 Still he delay'd, unable to decide. 
 Which was the master-passion, Love or Pride : 
 He sometimes wonder'd how his friend could make, 
 And then exulted in, the night's mistake ; 
 Had she but fortune, " Doubtless then," he cried, 
 " Some happier man liad won the wealthy bride." 
 
 While thus he hung in balance, now inclined 
 To change his state, and then to change his mind. 
 That careless George dropp'd idly on the ground 
 A letter, which his crafty master found ; 
 
TALE XII.— 'SQUIRE THOMAS. 
 
 327 
 
 The stupid youth confess'd his fault, and pray'd 
 The generous 'Squire to spare a gentle maid, 
 Of whom her tender mother, full of fears. 
 Had written much — " She caught her oft in 
 
 tears, 
 " For ever thinking on a youth above 
 " Her humble fortune — still she own'd not love ; 
 " Nor can define, dear girl ! the cherish'd pain, 
 " But would rejoice to see the cause again : 
 " That neigliboui-ing youth, whom she endured 
 
 before, 
 " She now rejects, and will behold no more ; 
 " Eaised by her passion, she no longer stoops 
 " To her own equals, but she pines and droops, 
 " Like to a lily, on whose sweets the sun 
 " Has withei'ing gazed — she saw and was undone : 
 " His wealth allured her not — nor was she moved 
 " By his superior state, himself she loved ; 
 " So mild, so good, so gracious, so genteel, — 
 " But spare your sister, and her love conceal ; 
 " AVe must the fault forgive, since she the pain 
 
 must feel." 
 
 " Fault ! " said the 'Squire, " there 's coarseness 
 
 in the mind 
 " That thus conceives of feelings so refined ; 
 " Here end my doubts, nor blame j'ourself, my 
 
 friend, 
 " Fate made you careless — here my doubts have 
 
 end." 
 
 The way is plain before us — there is now 
 The Lover's visit first, and then the vow, 
 Mutual and fond, the marriage-rite, the Bride 
 Brought to her home with all a husband's pride : 
 The 'Squire receives the prize his merits won, 
 And the glad parents leave the patron-son. 
 
 But in short time he saw, with much surprise. 
 First gloom, then grief, and then resentment rise, 
 From proud, commanding frowns, and anger- 
 darting eyes : 
 " Is there in Harriot's humble mind this fire, 
 " This fierce impatience ? " ask'd the puzzled 
 
 'Squire ; 
 " Has marriage changed her ? or the mask she 
 
 wore 
 " Has she thrown by, and is herself once more ? " 
 
 Hour after hour, wlien clouds on clouds appear, 
 Dark and more dark, we know the tempest near ; 
 And thus the frowning brow, the restless form. 
 And threat'ning glance, forerun domestic storm : 
 So read the Husband, and, with troubled mind, 
 Keveal'd his fears — " My Love, I hope you find 
 " All here is pleasant — but I must confess 
 " You seem oflended, or in some distress : 
 " Explain the grief you feel, and leave me to 
 redress." 
 
 "Leave it to you?" replied the Nymph — 
 " indeed I 
 " What ! to the cause from whence the ills proceed ? 
 " Good Heaven ! to take me from a place where I 
 " Had every comfort underneath the sky ; 
 " And then immure me in a gloomy place, 
 " With the grim monsters of your ugly race, 
 
 " That, from their canvas staring, make me dread 
 " Through the dark chambers, where they hang, 
 
 to tread ! 
 " No friend nor neighbour comes to give that joy 
 " Which all things here must banish or destroy. 
 " Where is the promised coach ? the pleasant ride ? 
 " Oh ! what a fortune has a Farmer's bride ! 
 " Your sordid pride has placed me just above 
 " Your hired domestics — and what pays me ? 
 
 Love ! 
 " A selfish fondness I endure each hour, 
 " And share unwitness'd pomp, unenvied power. 
 " I hear your folly, smile at your parade, 
 " And see your favourite dishes duly made ; 
 " Then am I richly drcss'd for you t' admire, 
 " Such is my duty and my Lord's desire : 
 " Is this a life for youth, for health, for joy ? 
 " Are these my duties — this my base employ ? 
 " No ! to my father's house will I repair, 
 " And make your idle wealth support me there. 
 " AVas it your wish to have an humble bride, 
 " For bondage thankful ? Curse upon your pride ! 
 " Was it a slave you wanted ? You shall see, 
 " That, if not happy, I at least am free : 
 " Well, sir ! your answer." — Silent stood the 
 
 'Squire, 
 As looks a miser at his house on fire ; 
 Where all he deems is vanish'd in that flame, 
 Swept from the earth his substance and his name : 
 So, lost to every promised joy of life. 
 Our 'Squire stood gaping at his angry wife ; — 
 His fate, his ruin, where he saw it vain 
 To hope for peace, pray, threaten, or complain ; 
 And thus, betwixt his wonder at the ill 
 And his despair, there stood he gaping still. 
 
 " Your answer, sir ! — Shall I depart a spot 
 " I thus detest?" — "Oh, miserable lot!" 
 Exclaim'd the man. " Go, serpent ! nor remain 
 " To sharpen woe by insult and disdain : 
 " A nest of harpies was I doom'd to meet ; 
 " What plots, what combinations of deceit ! 
 " I see it now — all plann'd, design'd, contrived ; 
 " Served by that villain — by this fury wived — 
 " What fate is mine ! AVhat wisdom, virtue, truth, 
 " Can stand, if demons set their traps for youth ? 
 " He lose his way? vile dog! he cannot lose 
 " The way a villain through his life pursues ; 
 " And thou, deceiver ! thou afraid to move, 
 " And hiding close the serpent in the dove ! 
 " I saw — but, fated to endure disgrace, 
 '• Unheeding saw — the fury in thy face, 
 " And call'd it spirit. Oh ! I might have found 
 " Fraud and imposture all the kindred round ! 
 " A nest of vipers " 
 
 " Sir, I '11 not admit 
 " These wild effusions of your angry wit : 
 " Have you that value, that we all should use 
 " Such mighty arts for such important views ? 
 " Are you such prize — and is my state so fair, 
 " That they should sell their souls to get me there ? 
 " Think you that we alone our thoughts disguise ? 
 " AVhen, in pursuit of some contended prize, 
 " jNIask Me alone the heart, and soothe whom we 
 
 despise ? 
 " Speak you of craft and subtle schemes, who know 
 " That all your wealth you to deception owe ; 
 
328 
 
 CRABBE S WORKS. 
 
 " Who play'd for ten dull yoars a scoundrel part, 
 " To worm yourself into a Widow's heart? 
 '■ ^"o^v, when j-ou guarded, with superior skill, 
 •' That lady's closet, and preserved her Will, 
 '' Blind in your craft, you baw not one of those 
 " Opposed by you might you in turn oppose, 
 " Or watch your motions, and by art obtain 
 " Share of that wealth you gave your peace to 
 
 gain. 
 " Did conscience never " 
 
 " Cease, tormcntoi-, cease — - 
 " Or reach me poison ; — let me rest in peace !" 
 
 " Agreed — but hear me — let the truth ap- 
 pear." — 
 " Then stale your purpose — 1 '11 be calm and 
 
 hear." 
 " Know then, this wealth, sole object of your care, 
 " I had some right, without your hand, to share ; 
 " My mother's claim was just — but soon she saw 
 " Your power, compcll'd, insulted, to withdraw : 
 " 'T was then my father, in his anger, swore 
 " You should divide the fortune, or restore. 
 " Long we debated — and you find me now 
 " Heroic victim to a father's vow ; 
 " Like Jephtha's daughter, but in different state, 
 " And both decreed to mourn our early fate ; 
 " Hence was my brother servant to your pride, 
 " Vengeance made him your slave, and me your 
 
 bride. 
 " Now all is known — a dreadful price I pay 
 " For our revenge — but still we have our day : 
 " All that you love you must with others share, 
 " Or all you dread from their resentment dare : — 
 " Yet terms I offer — let contention cease ; 
 " Divide the spoil, and let us part in peace." 
 
 Our Hero trembling heard — he sat — he rose — 
 Nor could his motions nor his mind compose ; 
 He paced the room— and, stalking to her side. 
 Gazed on the face of his undaunted bride. 
 And nothing there but scorn and calm aversion 
 
 spied. 
 He would have vengep.nce, yet ho fearM the law ; 
 Her friends would threaten, and their power lie 
 
 saw; 
 " Then let her go :" but, oh ! a mighty sum 
 Would that demand, since he had let her come ; 
 Nor from his sorrows could he find redress, 
 Save that which led him to a like distress ; 
 And all his case was in his wife to see 
 A wretch as anxious and distrcss'd as he : 
 Her strongest wish, the fortune to divide, 
 And part in peace, his avarice denied ; 
 And thus it happen'd, as in all deceit. 
 The cheater found the evil of the clieat ; 
 The Husband griev'd-nor was tlie Wife at rest; 
 Him she could vex, and he could her molest ; 
 
 ' [In ''Sqniro Tliomas ' wo have the history of a mran 
 (lominferiny spirit, wlio, Imvinj,' scpurcd the sucrossion of a 
 rich relation by assiduou-i llatlery, looks about for some ob- 
 sequious and yicldinf,' f.iir one, from wliom lie may exact 
 homajje in his turn. lie thinks he lias found such a one in 
 ft lowly damsel in his iieighlxjiirhood, and marries her with- 
 out much premeditation ; when he discovers, to his con- 
 sternation, not only that she has the spirit of a virayo, but 
 
 She could his passion into frenzy raise, 
 But, when the fire was kindled, fear'd the blaze; 
 As much they studied, so in time they found 
 The easiest way to give the deepest wound ; 
 But then, like fencers, they were equal still, — 
 Both lost in danger what they gain'd in skill ; 
 Each heart a keener kind of rancour gain'd, 
 And, paining more, was more severely painVl ; 
 And thus by both was equal vengeance dealt 
 And both the anguish they inflicted felt.' 
 
 TALE XIII. 
 
 JESSE AND COLIN. 
 
 Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and 
 what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will 
 break their hearts but they will effect. 
 
 Merry f Fives of fFindsor. 
 
 She hath spoken that she should not, I am sure of that ; 
 Heaven knows what she hath known. — Macbeth. 
 
 Our house is hell, and tlioa a merry devil. 
 
 MercJiant of Venice. 
 
 And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick tliat surfeit of too 
 muoh, as they that starve with nothing ; it is no mean 
 happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. 
 
 Mercliant of Venice. 
 
 A Vicar died and left his Daughter poor — 
 It hurt her not, she was not rich before : 
 Her humble share of worldly goods she sold, 
 Paid every debt, and then her fortune told ; 
 And found, with youth and beauty, hoj)e and 
 
 health. 
 Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth ; 
 It then remain'd to choose her path in life, 
 And first, said Jesse, " Shall I be a wife ? — 
 " Colin is mild and civil, kind and just, 
 " I know his love, his temper I can trust ; 
 " But small his farm, it asks perpetual care, 
 " And we must toil as well as trouble share : 
 " True, he was taught in all the gentle arts 
 " That raise the soul and soften human hearts ; 
 " And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine 
 " In higher class, and I could wish her mine ; 
 " Nor wants he will his station to improve, 
 " A just ambition waked by faithful love ; 
 " Still is he poor — and here mj' Fatlier's Friend 
 " Deigns for his Daughter, as her own, to send : 
 " A worthy lady, who it seems has known 
 " A world of griefs and troubles of her own: 
 
 that she and her family have decoyed him into the match, to 
 revenue or indemnify themselves for his havinf; run away 
 with the whole inlieritance of their common relative, i^he 
 hopes to bully him into a sejmrate maintenance; but his 
 avarice refuses to buy his peace at such a price ; and they 
 continue to live toj^ether on a very successful systsm of 
 mutual tormenting. — Jkkfkkt.] 
 
TALE XIII.— JESSE AND COLIN. 
 
 329 
 
 " I was an infant when she came a guest 
 
 " Beneath my father's humble roof to rest ; 
 
 '' Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes, 
 
 ■' Such her complaint, and there she found repose ; 
 
 " Enrich'd by fortune, now she nobly lives, 
 
 " And nobly, from the bless'd abundance, gives ; 
 
 •■ The grief, the want, of human life, she knows, 
 
 " And comfort there and here relief bestows : 
 
 " But are they not dependants ? — foolish pride I 
 
 *■• Am I not honour'd by such friend and guide ? 
 
 '• Have I a home " (here Jesse dropp'd a tear), 
 
 " Or friend beside ?" — A faithful friend was near. 
 
 Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay 
 Ills heart before her, and to urge her stay : 
 True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove, 
 An humble farmer with aspiring love ; 
 Who, urged by passion, never dared till now, 
 Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow : 
 Her father's glebe he managed ; every year 
 The grateful Vicar held the youth more dear ; 
 He saw indeed the prize in Colin's view, 
 And wish'd his Jesse with a man so true : 
 Timid as true, he urged with anxious air 
 His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer; 
 When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see, 
 Such fond respect, such tried sincerity ; 
 Grateful for favours to her father dealt, 
 She more than grateful for his passion felt ; 
 IS' or could she frown on one so good and kind. 
 Yet fear'd to smile, and was unfix'd in mind ; 
 But prudence placed the Female Friend in view — 
 What might not one so I'ich and grateful do? 
 So lately, too, the good old Vicar died. 
 His faithful daughter must not cast aside 
 The signs of filial grief, and be a ready bride. 
 Thus, led by prudence, to the Lady's seat 
 The Village-Beauty purposed to retreat ; 
 But, as in hard-fought fields the victor knows 
 What to the vanquish'd he in honour owes, 
 So, in this conquest over powerful love, 
 Prudence resolved a generous foe to prove ; 
 And Jesse felt a mingled fear and pain 
 In her dismission of a faithful swain. 
 Gave her kind thanks, and when she saw his woe, 
 Kindly betray'd that she was loth to go ; 
 " But would she promise, if abroad she met 
 " A frowning world, she would remember yet 
 " Where dwelt a friend?"— "That could she not 
 
 forget." 
 And thus they parted ; but each faithful heart 
 Felt the compulsion, and refused to part. 
 
 Now, by the morning mail the timid Maid 
 Was to that kind and wealthy Dame convey'd ; 
 Whose invitation, when her father died, 
 Jesse as comfort to her heart applied ; 
 She knew the days her generous Friend had seen — 
 As wife and widow, evil days had been ; 
 She married early, and for half her life 
 Was an insulted and forsaken wife ; 
 Widow'd and poor, her angry father gave, 
 Mix'd with reproach, the pittance of a slave ; 
 Forgetful brothers pass'd her, but she knew 
 Her humbler friends, and to their home with- 
 drew : 
 The good old Vicar to licr sire applied 
 For help, and help'd her when her sire denied. 
 
 When in few years Death stalk'd through bower 
 
 and hall. 
 Sires, sous, and sons of sons, were buried all, 
 She then abounded, and had wealth to spare 
 For softening grief she once was doom'd to share ; 
 Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to feel. 
 She would rejoice an orphan's woes to heal : — 
 So Jesse thought, who look'd within her breast. 
 And thence conceived how bounteous minds are 
 
 bless'd. 
 
 From her vast mansion look'd the Lady down 
 On humbler buildings of a busy town ; 
 Thence came her friends of either sex, and all 
 W^ith whom she lived on terms reciprocal : 
 They pass'd the hours with their accustom'd ease. 
 As guests inclined, but not compell'd, to please ; 
 But there were others in the mansion found. 
 For ofiice chosen, and by duties bound ; 
 Three female rivals, each of power possess'd, 
 Th' attendant Maid, poor Friend, and kindred 
 Guest. 
 
 To these came Jesse, as a seaman thrown 
 By the rude storm upon a coast unknown : 
 The view was flattering, civil secm'd the race. 
 But all unknown the dangers of the place. 
 
 Few hours had pass'd, when, from attendants 
 freed, 
 The Lady utter'd, " This is kind indeed ; 
 " Believe me, love ! that I for one like you 
 " Have daily pray'd, a friend discreet and true ; 
 " Oh ! wonder not that I on you depend, 
 " You are mine own hereditary friend : 
 " Hearken, my Jesse, never can I trust 
 " Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust ; 
 " But you are present, and my load of care 
 " Y^our love will serve to lighten and to share : 
 " Come near me, Jesse — let not those below 
 " Of my reliance on your friendship know ; 
 " Look as they look, be in their freedoms free — 
 " But all they say do you convey to me." 
 
 Here Jesse's thoughts to Colin's cottage flew. 
 And with such speed she scarce their absence 
 knew. 
 
 " Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart, 
 " I lose her service, and she breaks her heart ; 
 " My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts, she 
 
 knows, 
 " And duteous care by close attention shows : 
 " But is she faithful ? in temptation strong, 
 " W'ill she not wrong me ? ah ! I fear the wrong ; 
 " Your father loved me ; now, in time of need, 
 " Watch for my good, and to his place succeed. 
 
 " Blood does n't bind — that Girl, who every day 
 " Eats of my bread, would wish my life away ; 
 " I am her dear relation, and she thinks 
 " To make her fortune, an ambitious minx ! 
 " She only courts me for the prospect's sake, 
 " Because she knows I have a"\Mll to make : 
 " Yes, love ! my Will delay'd, I know not how — 
 " But you are here, and I will make it now. 
 
330 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " That idle creature, keep lier in your view, 
 " See what she does, what she desires to do ; 
 " On her young mind may artful villains prey, 
 " And to my plate and jewels find a way : 
 " A pleasant humour has the girl ; her smile, 
 " And cheerful manner, tedious hours beguile : 
 " But Avell observe her, ever near her be, 
 " Close in your thoughts, in your professions free. 
 
 " Again, my Jesse, hear what I advise, 
 " And watch a woman ever in disguise ; 
 " Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly — 
 " But what of this ? — I must have company : 
 " She markets for me, and although she makes 
 " Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes, 
 " Yet she is one I can to all produce, 
 " And all her talents are in daily use : 
 " Deprived of her, I may another find 
 " As sly and selfish, with a weaker mind : 
 " But never trust her, she is full of art, 
 " And worms herself into the closest heart ; 
 " Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight, 
 " Nor let her know, my love, how we unite. 
 
 " Do, my good Jesse, cast a view around, 
 " And let no wrong within my house be found ; 
 
 " That Girl associates with I know not who 
 
 " Are her companions, nor what ill they do ; 
 " 'T is then the Widow plans, 't is then she tries 
 " Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies : 
 " 'T is then, if ever, Jane her duty quits, 
 " And, whom I know not, favours and admits : 
 " Oh ! watch their movements all ; for me 't is 
 
 hard, 
 " Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard ; 
 " And I, when none your watchful glance deceive, 
 " May make my "Will, and think what I shall leave." 
 
 Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise, 
 Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes; 
 Heard by what service slie must gain her bread, 
 And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed. 
 
 Jane was a servant fitted for her place. 
 Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base ; 
 Skill'd in those mean humiliating arts 
 That make their way to proud and selfish hearts : 
 By instinct taught, slic felt an awe, a fear, 
 For Jesse's upright, simple character ; 
 Whom with gross flattery she a while assail'd. 
 And then beheld with hatred when it fail'd ; 
 Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold, 
 She all the secrets of the mansion told ; 
 And, to invite an equal trust, slie drew 
 Of every mind a bold and rapid view; 
 But on the widow'd l-'ricud with deep disdain. 
 And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous 
 
 Jane : 
 In vain such arts ; — without deceit or pride, 
 With a just taste and fcojing for her guide. 
 From all contagion Jesse k('])t apart, 
 Free in her manners, guarded in lier heart. 
 
 Jesse one morn wns thouglitfiil, and her sigh 
 The Widow Jicnrd as she was passing by; 
 And — "Well!" she said, "is that some distant 
 
 swain, 
 " Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain ? 
 
 " Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall, 
 
 " And tasks and griefs are common to us all ; 
 
 " Think not my frankness strange : they love to 
 
 paint 
 " Their state with freedom, who endure restraint ; 
 " And there is something in that speaking eye 
 " And sober mien that prove I maj' rely : 
 " You came a stranger; to my words attend, 
 " Accept my offer, and you find a friend ; 
 " It is a labyrinth in which you stray, 
 " Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way. 
 
 " Good Heav'n! that one so jealous, envious, 
 
 base, 
 Should be the mistress of so sweet a place ; 
 She, who so long herself was low and poor. 
 Now broods suspicious on her useless store ; 
 She loves to see us abject, loves to deal 
 Her insult round, and then pretends to feel : 
 Prepare to cast all dignity aside. 
 For know, your talents will be quickly tried ; 
 Nor think, from favours past, a friend to gain, — 
 'T is but by duties we our posts maintain : 
 I read her novels, gossip through the town. 
 And daily go, for idle stories, down ; 
 I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse 
 Of honest tradesmen for my niggard purse ; 
 And, when for her this meanness I display, 
 She cries, ' I heed not what I throw away ; ' 
 Of secret bargains I endure the shame. 
 And stake my credit for our fish and game ; 
 Oft has she smiled to hear 'her generous soul 
 ' Would gladly give, but stoops to my control : ' 
 Nay ! I have heard hei-, when she chanced to 
 
 come 
 Where I contended for a petty sum. 
 Affirm 't was painful to behold such care, 
 ' But Issop's nature is to pinch and spare : ' 
 Thus all the meanness of the house is mine, 
 And my reward — to scorn her. and to dine. 
 
 " See next that giddy thing, with neither pride 
 " To keep her safe, nor principle to guide : 
 " Poor, idle, simple flirt ! as sure as fate 
 " Her maiden-fame will have an earlj' date : 
 " Of her beware ; for all who live below 
 " Have faults they wish not all tlie world to know ; 
 " And she is fond of listening, full of doubt, 
 " And stoops to guilt to find an error out. 
 
 " And now once more observe the artful Maid, 
 " A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade ; 
 " I think, my love, you would not condescend 
 " To call a low, illiterate girl your friend : 
 " But in our troubles we are apt, you know, 
 " To lean on all who some compassion show; 
 " And she has flexile features, acting eyes, 
 " And seems with every look to sympathise ; 
 " No mirror can a mortal's grief express 
 " With more precision, or can feel it less; 
 " That proud, mean spirit, she by fawning courts 
 " By vulgar flattery, and by vile reports ; 
 " And by that proof she every instant gives 
 " To one so mean, that yet a meaner lives. 
 
 " Come, I have drawn the curtain, and you see 
 " Your fellow-actors, all our company ; 
 
TALE XIII.— JESSE AND COLIN. 
 
 331 
 
 " Should you incline to throw reserve aside, 
 " And in mj' judgment and my love confide, 
 " I could some prospects open to your view, 
 " That ask attention — and, till then, adieu." 
 
 " Farewell ! " said Jesse, hastening to her room. 
 Where all she saw within, without, was gloom : 
 Confused, perplex'd, she pass'd a dreary hour. 
 Before her reason could exert its power ; 
 To her all seem'd mysterious, all allied 
 To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride ; 
 "Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden's 
 
 air. 
 Then came the laughing Lass, and join'd her there. 
 
 " My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week, 
 " And does she love us ? be sincere and speak ; 
 " My Aunt you cannot — Lord ! how I should hate 
 " To be like her, all misery and state ; 
 " Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees 
 " All who are happy, and who look at ease. 
 " Let friendship bind us, I will quickly show 
 " Some favourites near us you'll be bless'd to know ; 
 " My aunt forbids it — but, can she expect, 
 " To soothe her spleen, we shall ourselves neglect ? 
 " Jane and the Widow were to watch and stay 
 " My free-born feet ; I watch'd as well as they : 
 " Lo ! what is this ? — this simple key explores 
 " The dark recess that holds the Spinster's stores : 
 " And, led by her ill star, I chanced to see 
 " Where Issop keeps her stock of ratafie ; 
 " Used in the hours of anger and alarm, 
 " It makes her civil, and it keeps her warm : 
 " Thus bless'd with secrets both would choose to 
 
 hide, 
 " Their fears now grant me what thei» scorn 
 
 denied. 
 
 " My freedom thus by their assent secured, 
 " Bad as it is, the place may be endured ; 
 " And bad it is, but her estates, you know, 
 " And her beloved hoards, she must bestow ; 
 " So we can slily our amusements take, 
 " And friends of demons, if they help us, make." 
 
 " Strange creatures these," thought Jesse, half 
 inclined 
 To smile at one malicious and yet kind ; 
 Frank and yet cunning, with a heart to love 
 And malice prompt — the serpent and the dove; 
 Here could she dwell ? or could she yet depart ? 
 Could she be artful ? could she bear with art ? — 
 This splendid mansion gave the cottage grace. 
 She thought a dungeon was a happier place ; 
 And Colin pleading, when he pleaded best. 
 Wrought not such sudden change in Jesse's breast. 
 
 The wondering maiden, who had only read 
 Of such vile beings, saw them now with dread ; 
 Safe in themselves — for nature has design'd 
 The creature's poison harmless to the kind ; 
 But all beside who in the haunts are found 
 Must dread the poison, and must feel the wound. 
 
 Days full of care, slow weary weeks pass'd on, 
 Eager to go, still Jesse was not gone ; 
 Her time in trifling, or in tears, she spent. 
 She never gave, she never felt, content : 
 
 The Lady wonder'd that her humble guest 
 
 Strove not to please, would neither lie nor jest ; 
 
 She sought no news, no scandal would convey, 
 
 But walk'd for health, and was at church to pray : 
 
 All this displeased, and soon the Widow cried, 
 
 " Let me be frank — I am not satisfied ; 
 
 " You know my wishes, I your judgment trust ; 
 
 " You can be useful, Jesse, and you must ; 
 
 " Let me be plainer, child — I want an ear, 
 
 " AVhen I am deaf, instead of mine to hear ; 
 
 " When mine is sleeping, let your eye awake ; 
 
 " When I observe not, observation take : 
 
 " Alas ! I rest not on my pillow laid, 
 
 " Then threat'ning whispers make my soul afraid ; 
 
 " The tread of strangers to my ear ascends, 
 
 " Fed at my cost, the minions of my friends ; 
 
 " While you, without a care, a wish to please, 
 
 " Eat the vile bread of idleness and ease." 
 
 Th' indignant Girl, astonish'd, answer'd — " Nay ! 
 " This instant, madam, let me haste away : 
 " Thus speaks my father's, thus an orphan's 
 
 friend ? 
 " This instant, lady, let your bounty end." 
 
 The Lady frown'd indignant — " What !" she 
 cried, 
 " A vicar's daughter with a princess' pride 
 " And pauper's lot ! but pitying I forgive ; 
 " How, simple Jesse, do you think to live? 
 " Have I not power to help you, foolish maid? 
 " To my concerns be your attention paid ; 
 " With cheerful mind th' allotted duties take, 
 " And recollect I have a Will to make." 
 
 Jesse, who felt as liberal natures feel, 
 When thus the baser their designs reveal. 
 Replied — " Those duties were to her unfit, 
 " Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit." 
 
 In silent scorn the Lady sat awhile, 
 And then replied with stern contemptuous smile— 
 
 " Think you, fair madam, that you came to 
 
 share 
 " Fortunes like mine without a thought or care ? 
 " A guest, indeed ! from every trouble free, 
 " Dress'd by my hclji, with not a care for me ; 
 " When I a visit to your father made, 
 " I for the poor assistance largely paid ; 
 " To his domestics I their tasks assign'd, 
 " I fix'd the portion for his hungry hind ; 
 " And had your father (simple man !) obey'd 
 " My good advice, and watch'd as well as pray'd, 
 " He might have left you something with his 
 
 prayers, 
 " And lent some colour for these lofty airs. — 
 
 " In tears, my love ! Oh, then my soften'd 
 heart 
 " Cannot resist — we never more will part ; 
 " I need your friendship — 1 will be your friend, 
 " And, thus determined, to my Will attend."' 
 
 Jesse went forth, but with determined soul 
 To fly such love, to break from such control : 
 " I hear enough," the trembling damsel cried ; 
 " Flight be my care, and Providence my guide : 
 
332 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make ; 
 " AVill, thus display'd, th' insidious arts forsake, 
 " And, as tlie rattle sounds, will fly the fatal 
 snake." 
 
 Jesse her thanks upon the morrow paid, 
 Prepared to go, determined though afraid. 
 
 " Ungrateful creature !" said the Lady, " this 
 " Could I imagine ? — are you frantic, miss ? 
 " What ! leave your friend, your prospects — is it 
 
 true?" 
 This Jesse answer'd by a mild " Adieu !" 
 
 The Dame replied, '" Then houseless may you 
 
 rove, 
 " The starving victim to a guilty love ; 
 " Branded with sliame, in sickness doom'd to nurse 
 " An ill-form'd cub, your scandal and your curse : 
 " Spum'd by its scoundrel father, and ill fed 
 " By surly rustics with the parish-bread ! — 
 " Relent you not ? — speak — yet I can forgive ; 
 "Still live with me."— " With you," said Jesse, 
 
 " live ? 
 " No ! I would first endure what you describe, 
 " Rather than breathe with your detested tribe ; 
 " Who long have fcign'd, till now their very hearts 
 " Are firmly fix'd in their accursed parts ; 
 " Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain, 
 " And all, with justice, of deceit complain ; 
 " Whom I could pity, but that, while 1 stay, 
 " My terror drives all kinder thoughts away ; 
 " Grateful for this, that, when I think of you, 
 " I little fear what poverty can do." 
 
 The angry matron her attendant Jane 
 Summon'd in haste to soothe the fierce disdain : — 
 
 " A vile detested wretch !" the Lady cried, 
 " Yet shall she be by many an effort tried, 
 " And, clogg'd with debt and fear, against her will 
 
 abide ; 
 " And, once secured, she never shall depart 
 " Till I have proved the firmness of her heart : 
 " Then when she dares not, would not, cannot 
 
 go, 
 " I'll make her feel what 'tis to use me so." 
 
 The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd, 
 But felt not then the beauties it display'd ; 
 There many a pleasant object met his view, 
 A rising wood of oaks behind it grew ; 
 A stream ran by it, and the village-green 
 And public road were from the garden seen; 
 Save where the pine and larch the bound'ry made, 
 And on the rosc-bcds threw a softening shade. 
 
 The Mother sat beside the garden-door, 
 Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor; 
 The broad-laccd cap was knowu iu ancient diiys. 
 When madam's dress compcllM the village praise ; 
 And still she look'd as in the times of old, 
 Kre his last farm the erring husband sold ; 
 While yet the mansion stood in decent state. 
 And paupers waited at the well-known gate. 
 
 " Alas, my son!" the IMotlier cried, "and why 
 " That silent grief and oft-icpeated sigh ? 
 
 " True we are poor, but thou hast never felt 
 " Pangs to thy father for his error dealt ; 
 " Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain, 
 " For ever raised, and ever found in vain. 
 " lie rose unhappy from his fruitless schemes, 
 " As guilt}' wretches from their blissful dreams ; 
 " But thou wert then, my son, a playful child, 
 " Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild ; 
 " Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs 
 " With curious looks and innocent surprise ; 
 " Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy, 
 " My comfort always, waked my soul to joy ; 
 " With the poor remnant of our fortune left, 
 " Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft : 
 " Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air, 
 " Have cast a smile on sadness and despair ; 
 " Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space 
 " The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace ; 
 " And all around us wonder when they find 
 " Such taste and strength, such skill and power 
 
 combined ; 
 " There is no mother, Colin, no not one, 
 " But envies me so kind, so good a son ; 
 " By thee supported on this failing side, 
 " Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride : 
 " I bless the stroke that was my grief before, 
 " And feel such joy that 't is disease no more ; 
 " Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth, 
 " And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health ; 
 " The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise, 
 " And say, like thee were youth in earlier days ; 
 " ^\ hile every village-maiden cries, ' How gay, 
 " ' How smart, how brave, how good is Colin 
 
 Grey ! ' 
 
 " Yet art thou sad ; alas ! my son, I know 
 " Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow ; 
 " Fain would I think that Jesse still may come 
 " To share the comforts of our rustic home : 
 " She surely loved thee ; I have seen the maid, 
 " When thou hast kindly brought the Vicar aid — 
 " When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain, 
 " Oh ! I have seen her — she Mill come again." 
 
 The Matron ceased ; and Colin stood the while 
 Silent, but striving for a grateful smile ; 
 He then replied — " Ah ! sure, had Jesse stay'd, 
 " And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade, 
 " The tenderest duty and the fondest love 
 " Would not have t'ail'd that generous heart to 
 
 move ; 
 " A grateful pity would have ruled her breast, 
 " And my distresses would have made me bless'd. 
 
 " But she is gone, and ever has in view 
 " Grandeur and taste, — and what will then ensue ? 
 " Surprise and then delight in scenes so fair and 
 
 new ; 
 " For many a day, perhaps for many a week, 
 " Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak ; 
 " But thoughtless case, and aftlucnce, and pride, 
 " Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside : 
 " And she at length, though gentle and sincere, 
 " Will think no more of our enjoyments here." 
 
 Sighing he spake — but hark I he hears th' ap- 
 proach 
 Of rattling wheels ! and, lo I the evening coach ; 
 
TALE XIV.— THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 333 
 
 Once more the movement of the horses' feet 
 Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat : 
 Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight 
 Brazil him to gaze beside his gate at night ; 
 And when with rapid wheels it hurried by, 
 He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh ; 
 And could the blessing have been bought— what 
 
 sum 
 Had he not ofTer'd to have Jesse come ! 
 
 She came — he saw her bending from the door, 
 Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more ; 
 Lost in his joy — the mother lent her aid 
 T' assist and to detain the willing Maid ; 
 Who thought her late, her present home to make. 
 Sure of a welcome for the Vicar's sake : 
 But the good parent was so pleased, so kind. 
 So pressing Colin, she so much inclined, 
 That night advanced ; and then, so long detain'd. 
 No wishes to depart she felt, or feign'd ; 
 Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce 
 remain' d. 
 
 Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere ; 
 Here was content and joy, for she w as here : 
 In the mild evening, in the scene around. 
 The Maid, now free, peculiar beauties found ; 
 Blended with village-tones, the evening gale 
 Gave the sweet night-bird's warblings to 
 
 vale : 
 Tlie Youth, embolden'd, yet abash'd, now told 
 His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold ; 
 The Mother smiling whisper'd, " Let him go 
 " And fieek the licence I" Jesse answer'd, 
 
 "No:" 
 But Colin went. — I know not if they live 
 AVith all the comforts wealth and plenty give ; 
 But with pure joy to envious souls denied, 
 To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride ; 
 And village-maids of happy couples say, 
 " They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey." ' 
 
 the 
 
 1 [" Jesse is the orphan of a poor clergyman, who goes, 
 upon her father's death, to live « ith a ricli old lady who had 
 been his friend ; and Colin is a young farmer, whose f ither 
 had speculated awav a handsome property, and who, though 
 living in a good degree hy his own labour, vet wished the 
 damsel (who half wished it also) to remain "and share his 
 humble lot. The rich lady proves to be suspicious, over- 
 bearing, and selfish: and sets Jesse upon the ignoble duty of 
 acting the spy and informer over the other dependants of "her 
 
 PALE XI v. 
 
 THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 I am a villain ; yet I lie, I am not : 
 Fool! of thyself speak well :— Fool ! do not Qatter. 
 My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
 And every tongue brings in a several tale. 
 
 Richard III. 
 
 My conscience is but a kind of hard conscience The 
 
 fiend gives the more friendly counseV.— Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Thou hast it now — and I fear 
 
 Thou play'dst most foully for it.— Macbeth. 
 
 Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 
 Hase out the written troubles of the brain, 
 And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
 Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff 
 ■\^■hich weighs upon the heart ? Macbeth. 
 
 .'^oft ! I did but dream. 
 Oh ! coward conscience, how dost thou aftlict me ! 
 
 Richard III. 
 
 A SERIOUS Toyman in the city dwelt, 
 
 Who much concern for his religion felt ; 
 
 Beading, he changed his tenets, read again. 
 
 And various questions could with skill maintain ; 
 
 Papist and Quaker if we set aside, 
 
 lie had the road of every traveller tried ; 
 
 There walk'd a while, and on a sudden turn'd 
 
 Into some by-way he had just discern'd : 
 
 He had a nephew, Fulham : — Fulham went 
 
 His Uncle's waj% with every turn content ; 
 
 He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care, 
 
 And thought such anxious pains his own might 
 
 spare, 
 And he the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might 
 
 share. 
 In fact, young Fulham, though he little read, 
 Perceived his uncle was by fancy led ; 
 And smiled to see the constant care he took. 
 Collating creed with creed, and book \vith book. 
 
 At length the senior fix'd ; I pass tlie sect 
 He call'd a Church, 't was precious and elect ; 
 Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil, 
 For few disciples paid the preacher's toil ; 
 All in an attic-room were wont to meet. 
 These few disciples, at their pastor's feet ; 
 With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave, 
 Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave ; 
 Till a warm Preacher found a way t' impart 
 Awakening feelings to his torpid heart : 
 
 household ; on tlie delineation of whose characters Mr. Crabb? 
 has lavished a prodigious power of observation and correct 
 description. But this not suiting her pure and ingenuous 
 mind, she suddenly leaves tlie splendid mansion, and returns 
 to her native village, where Colin and his mother soon per- 
 suade her to form one of their happy family. There is a great 
 deal of goodheartedness in this talc, and a kind of moral 
 beauty, which has lent more than usual elegance to the simple 
 pictures it presents." — Jeffkev.] 
 
334 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind, 
 Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind : 
 He wish'd to fly them, hut, compell'd to stay, 
 Truth to the waking Conscience found her way ;! 
 For though the Youth was call'd a prudent lad, 
 And prudent was, yet serious faults he had — 
 Who now reflected — " Much am I surprised ; 
 " I find these notions cannot be despised : 
 " No ! there is something I peixeive at last, 
 '■ Althougli my uncle cannot hold it fast ; 
 " Though I tlie strictness of these men reject, 
 " Yet I determine to he circumspect : 
 " This man alarms me, and I must begin 
 " To look more closely to the things within : 
 " These sons of zeal have I derided long, 
 " But now begin to think the laugher 's wrong : 
 " Nay, my good uncle, by all teachers moved, 
 " Will be preferr'd to him who none approved ; — 
 " Better to love amiss than nothing to have 
 loved." 
 
 Such were his thoughts, when Conscience first 
 
 began 
 To hold close converse with tli' awaken'd man : 
 He from that time reserved and cautious grew, 
 And for his duties felt obedience due ; 
 Pious he was not, but he fear'd the pain 
 Of sins committed, nor would sin again : 
 Whene'er he stray'd, he found his Conscience 
 
 rose, 
 Like one determined what was ill t' oppose, 
 What wrong t' accuse, what secret to disclose ; 
 To drag forth every latent act to light. 
 And fix them fully in the actor's sight : 
 This gave him trouble, but he still confess'd 
 The labour useful, for it brought him rest. 
 
 The Uncle died, and when the Nephew read 
 The will, and saw the substance of the dead — 
 Five hundred guineas, with a stock in trade — 
 He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made ; 
 Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight, 
 And for increase, increasing appetite : 
 Desire of profit idle habits check'd 
 (For Fulham's virtue was to be correct) ; 
 He and his Conscience had their compact made — 
 " Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade ; 
 But not," he cried, " for mere ideal things 
 " Give me to feel those terroi'-breeding stings." 
 
 " Let not such thoughts," she said, " your mind 
 confound ; 
 " Trifles may wake me, but they never wound ; 
 " In them indeed tlierc is a wrong and right, 
 " But you will find me jjliant and polite ; 
 " Not like a Conscience of tlic dotard kind, 
 " Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind : 
 *' Let all within be pure, in all beside 
 " Be your own master, governor, and guide ; 
 
 ' [" fJiiy was originally a bookseller, and inhaliitrd tho 
 lious(! wliicli forms the anj,'!'-' between Cornhill and Lonihanl 
 Street. IJein;; a sinijle man, and very peniirions, lie soon 
 be;;an fo accumulate money. Me was sc^venty-six years of 
 ai;e when he formed the; desij»n of buildin:; (he liospilal near 
 St. Thomas's which hears his name. Tlie charge of i recting 
 this vast pile amounted to lK,7<).t/., besides 21!i,4!i9/. which he 
 left to endow it ; and he just lived fo see it roofed in. He 
 died in I'l'^i, in his eiyhty-lirst ycjir, after having dedicated 
 
 " Alive to danger, in temptation strong, 
 
 " And I shall sleep our whole existence long." 
 
 " Sweet be thy sleep," said Fulham ; " strong 
 must be 
 " The tempting ill that gains access to me : 
 " Never will I to evil deed consent; 
 " Or, if surprised, oh ! how will I repent ! 
 " Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore 
 " The dangerous good, or give it to the poor ; 
 " Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy, 
 " Or build — who knows?— an hospital like Guy.' 
 " Y'et why such means to soothe tlie smart within, 
 " While firmly purposed to renounce the sin ? " 
 
 Thus our young Trader and his Conscience 
 dwelt 
 In mutual love, and great the joy they felt ; 
 But yet in small concerns, in trivial things, 
 " She was," he said, " too ready with the stings;" 
 And he too apt, in search of growing gains. 
 To lose the fear of penalties and pains : 
 Yet these wore trifling bickerings, petty jars, 
 Domestic strifes, preliminary wars ; 
 He ventured little, little she express'd 
 Of indignation, and they both had rest. 
 
 Thus was he fix'd to walk the worthy way, 
 When profit urged him to a bold essay : — 
 A time was that when all at pleasure gamed 
 In lottery cliances, yet a law unblamed : - 
 This Fulham tried ; who would to liim advance 
 A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance 
 For weighty prize — and should they notliing share. 
 They had their crown or pound in Fulham's ware ; 
 Thus the old stores within the shop were sold 
 For that which none refuses, new or old. 
 
 W^as this unjust ? yet Conscience could not rest. 
 But made a mighty struggle in the breast. 
 And gave th' aspiring man an early proof 
 That should they war he would have work enough : 
 " Suppose," said she, " your vended numbers rise 
 " The same witli those wliioh gain each real prize, 
 " (Such your proposal.) can you ruin shun ? " — • 
 " A hundred thousand," he replied, '• to one." 
 " Still it may happen." — "I the sum must pay." 
 " You know you cannot." — " I can run away." 
 " That is dishonest." — ^" Nay, but you must wink 
 " At a chance hit: it cannot be, I think. 
 " Upon my conduct as a whole decide, 
 '' Sucli trilling errors let my virtues hide. 
 " Fail I at meeting ? am 1 sleepy there ? 
 " My purse refuse I with tlie priest to share? 
 " Do 1 deny the poor a lielping hand ? 
 " Or stop the wicked women in the Strand? 
 
 Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch ? 
 
 Which are your 
 whicli ?"" 
 
 charges ? Conscience, tell me 
 
 to charitable purposes more than any other priTate person 
 upon record in this kin;,'dom."' — Nichols.] 
 
 " [The first lottery was sanctioned in 1569. According to 
 Stow it was begun to lie drawn, at the west door of St. I'aiiVs 
 cathedral, on tlie 1 Itli of .lunuary, and continued incessantlv 
 drawing, day and night, till the c.tli of -May. Lotteries were 
 abolished by tlie legislature in 1S2G.] 
 
TALE XIV.— THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 335 
 
 " 'T is well," said she, " but—" " Nay, I pray, 
 have done : 
 " Trust me, I will not into danger run." 
 
 The lottery drawn, not one demand was made ; 
 Fulham gain'd profit and increase of trade. 
 '• See now," said he — for Conscience yet arose — 
 " How foolish 'tis such measures to oppose : 
 " Have I not blameless thus my state advanced ? " 
 " Still," mutter'd Conscience, " still it might have 
 
 chanced." 
 " Might ! " said our hero ; " who is so exact 
 " As to inquire what might have been a fact ? " 
 
 Now Fulham's shop contain' d a curious view 
 Of costly trifles elegant and new : 
 The papers told where kind mammas might buy 
 The gayest toys to charm an infant's eye ; 
 Where generous beaux might gentle damsels please. 
 And travellers call who cross the land or seas, 
 And find the curious art, the neat device. 
 Of precious value and of trifling price. 
 
 Here Conscience rested, she was pleased to find 
 No less an active than an honest mind ; 
 But when he named his price, and when he swore 
 His Conscience check'd him that he ask'd no 
 
 more, 
 "When half he sought had been a large increase 
 On fair demand, she could not rest in peace : 
 (Beside th' affront to call th' adviser in, 
 Who would prevent, to justify the sin :) 
 She therefore told him that " he vainly tried 
 " To soothe her anger, conscious that he lied ; 
 " If thus he grasp"d at such usurious gains, 
 " He must deserve, and should expect her pains."' 
 
 The charge was strong ; he would in part con- 
 fess 
 
 Offence there was — But, who offended less ? 
 
 '• What ! is a mere assertion call'd a lie ? 
 
 " And if it be, are men compell'd to buy? 
 
 " 'T was sti'ange that Conscience on such points 
 should dwell, 
 
 " While he was acting (he would call it) well ; 
 
 " He bought as others buy, he sold as others sell ; 
 
 " There was no fraud, and he demanded cause 
 
 " Why he was troubled when he kept the laws ? " 
 
 " My laws ! " said Conscience. " What," said 
 he, *' are thine ? 
 " Oral or written, human or divine ? 
 " Show me the chapter, let me see the text ; 
 " By laws uncertain subjects are pcrplex'd : 
 " Let mc my finger on the statute lay, 
 " And I shall feel it duty to obey." 
 
 " Reflect," said Conscience, " 't was your own 
 desire 
 " That I should warn you — does the compact tire ? 
 •• Kepent you this ? then bid me not advise, 
 •• And rather hear your passions as they rise : 
 
 ^ [" Still there whispers tlie small voice within, 
 Heiird tlirou^'h Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's ilin : 
 Whatever creed be tauijht, or land be trod — 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God." — Byron. , 
 
 " So you may counsel and remonstrance shun ; 
 
 " But then remember it is war begun ; 
 
 " And you may judge from some attacks, my 
 
 friend, 
 " What serious conflicts will on war attend." 
 
 " Nay, but," at length the thoughtful man 
 
 replied, 
 " I say not that ; I wish you for my guide ; 
 " Wish for your checks and your reproofs — but 
 
 then 
 " Be like a Conscience of my fellow-men ; 
 " Worthy I mean, and men of good report, 
 " And not the wretches who Mith Conscience sport: 
 " There 's Bice, my friend, who passes off" his grease 
 " Of pigs for bears', in pots a crown apiece ; 
 " His Conscience never checks him when he 
 
 swears 
 " The fat he sells is honest fat of bears ; 
 " And so it is, for he contrives to give 
 " A drachm to each — "t is tlius that tradesmen 
 
 live ; 
 " Now why should you and I be over-nice ? * 
 " What man is held in more repute than Bice ?" 
 
 Here ended the dispute ; but yet 't was plain 
 The parties both expected strife again : 
 Their friendship cool'd, he look'd about and saw 
 Numbers who seem'd unshackled by his awe ; 
 While like a schoolboy he was threaten'd still, 
 Now for the deed, now only for the will : 
 Here Conscience answer'd, '• To thy neighbour's 
 
 guide 
 " Thy neighbour leave, and in thine own confide." 
 
 Such were each day the charges and replies, 
 When a new object caught the trader's eyes ; 
 A Vestry-patriot, could he gain the name. 
 Would famous make him, and would pay the fame. 
 He knew full well the sums bequeatli'd in charge 
 For schools, for almsmen, for the poor, were large ; 
 Report had told, and he could feel it true. 
 That most unfairly dealt the trusted few ; 
 No partners would they in their office take. 
 Nor clear accounts at annual meetings make. 
 Aloud our hero in the vestry spoke 
 Of hidden deeds, and vow'd to draw the cloak ; 
 It was the poor man's cause, and he for one 
 Was quite determined to see justice done : 
 His foes affected laughter, then disdain. 
 They too were loud and threat'ning, but in vain ; 
 The pauper's friend, their foe, arose and spoke 
 
 again : 
 Fiercely he cried, '• Your garbled statements show 
 " That you determine we shall nothing know ; 
 " But we shall bring your hidden crimes to light, 
 " Give you to shame, and to the poor their right." 
 
 Virtue like this might some approval ask — 
 But Conscience sternly said, " You wear a mask !" 
 " At least," said Fulham, " if I have a view 
 " To serve myself, I serve the public too." 
 
 [" Why should not Conscience have vacation. 
 As well as other courts o' tli' nation .-' 
 Have equal power to adjourn, 
 Appoint appearance, and return ?" — Butler.] 
 
336 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Fulham, though check'd, retain'd his former zeal, 
 And this tlie cautious rogues began to feel : 
 " Thus will he ever bark," in peevish tone 
 An elder cried — " the cur must have a bone." 
 They then began to hint, and to begin 
 Was all they needed — it was felt within : 
 In terms less veil'd an offer then was made ; 
 Though distant still, it fail'd not to persuade : 
 More plainly then was every point proposed, 
 Approved, accepted, and the bargain closed. 
 The exulting paupers hail'd their Friend's success, 
 And bade adieu to murmurs and distress. 
 
 • 
 Alas ! their Friend had now superior light, 
 And, view"d by that, he found that all was riglit ; 
 " There were no errors, the disbursements small ; 
 " This was the truth, and truth was due to all." 
 
 And rested Conscience ? No ! she would not 
 rest. 
 Yet was content with making a protest : 
 Some acts she now with less resistance bore. 
 Nor took alarm so quickly as before : 
 Like those in towns besieged, who every ball 
 At first with terror view, and dread them all ; 
 But, gro^^-n familiar with the scenes, they fear 
 The danger less, as it approaches near ; 
 So Conscience, more familiar with the view 
 Of growing evils, less attentive grew : 
 Yet he, who felt some pain and dreaded more. 
 Gave a peace-offering to the angry poor. 
 
 Thus had he quiet — ^but the time was brief; 
 From his new triumph sprang a cause of grief : 
 In office join'd, and acting with the rest, 
 He must admit the sacramental test. 
 Now, as a sectary, he had all his life, 
 As he supposed, been with the Church at strife ; — 
 No rules of hers, no laws had he perused. 
 Nor knew the tenets he by rote abused ; 
 Yet Conscience here arose more fierce and strong 
 Than when she told of robbery and wTong. 
 " Change his religion ! No ! he must be sure 
 " That was a blow no Conscience could endure." 
 
 Though friend to Virtue, yet she oft abides 
 In early notions, fi.\'d by erring guides ; 
 And is more startled by a call from those. 
 Than when the foulest crimes her rest oppose : 
 By error taught, by prejudice misled. 
 She yields her rights, and Fancy rules instead ; 
 "When Conscience all her stings and terror deals. 
 Not as Truth dictates, but as Fancy feels : 
 And thus within our liero's troubled breast, 
 Crime was less torture than the odious test. 
 New forms, new measures, he must now embrace, 
 With sad conviction that tlioy warr'd with grace ; 
 To his new cliurch no former friend would come, 
 They scarce preferr'd lier to the church of Rome : 
 
 " [" N.im quis 
 IVccandi fincm posiiit sihi ? <Jimn<lo rocopit 
 Ijectum scmel attritii du froiite rulwrcm ?" &c. 
 
 .luVKNAI., 
 
 '• Nevpr yet 
 Could sinner to his sin a pt-riod set : 
 
 But thinking much, and weighing guilt and gain, 
 Conscience and he commuted for her pain ; 
 Then promised Fulham to retain his creed, 
 And their peculiar paupers still to feed ; 
 Their attic-room (in secret) to attend, 
 And not forget he was the preacher's friend : 
 Thus he proposed, and Conscience, troubled, tried, 
 And wanting peace, reluctantly complied. 
 
 Now, care subdued, and apprehensions gone, 
 In peace our hero went aspiring on ; 
 But short the period — soon a quarrel rose, 
 Fierce in the birth, and fatal in the close ; 
 With times of truce between, which rather proved 
 That both were weary, than that either loved. 
 
 Fulham e'en now disliked the heavy thrall, 
 And for her death would in his anguish call, 
 As Rome's mistaken friend exclaim'd, Ze< Car- j 
 thage/ulU I 
 
 So felt our hero, so his wish express'd. 
 Against this powerful sprite — delenda est: 
 Rome in her conquest saw not danger near. 
 Freed from her rival and without a fear ; , 
 
 So, Conscience conquer'd, men perceive how free. 
 But not how fatal, such a state must be. 
 Fatal, not free, our hero's ; foe or friend. 
 Conscience on him was destined to attend : 
 She dozed indeed, grew dull, nor seem'd to spy 
 Crime following crime, and each of deeper dye ; 
 But all were noticed, and the reckoning time 
 With her account came on — crime following crime.'* 
 
 This, once a foe, now Brother in the Trust, 
 Whom Fulham late described as fair and just. 
 Was the sole Guardian of a wealthy maid. 
 Placed in his power, and of his frown afraid : 
 Not quite an idiot, for her busy brain 
 Sought, by poor cunning, trifling points to gain ; 
 Success iw childish projects her delight. 
 She took no heed of each important right. 
 
 The fi-icndly parties met — the Guardian cried, 
 " I am too old ; my sons have each a bride : 
 " Martha, my ward, would make an easy wife ; 
 " On easy terms V 11 make lier yours for life ; 
 " And then the creature is so weak and mild, 
 " She may be soothed and threatcn'd as a child." 
 " Yet not obey," said Fulham, " for j-our fools, 
 " Female and male, are obstinate as mules." 
 
 Some points adjusted, these new friends agreed. 
 Proposed the day, and hurried on the deed. 
 
 " 'T is a vile act," said Conscience. — " It will 
 prove," 
 Replied the bolder man, " an act of love : 
 " Her wicked guardian might the girl have sold 
 " To endless misery for a tyrant's gold ; 
 
 Wicn did tlie flush of modest lilood infl.tme 
 The cheek, once harden'd to the sense of sliame .' 
 Or when the olVender, since tlie birth of time, 
 Retire, contented with a single crime ? " 
 
 GiFFOBD.] 
 
TALE XIV.— THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 337 
 
 " Now may hor life he happy — for I mean 
 " To keep my temper even and serene." 
 " I cannot thus compound," the spirit cried, 
 " Nor have ray laws thus broken and defied : 
 " This is a fraud, a bargain for a wife ; 
 " Expect my vengeance, or amend your life." 
 
 The Wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak ; 
 She could not think, but would not cease to speak : 
 This he forbade — she took the caution ill, 
 And boldly rose against his sovereign will ; 
 With idiot-cunning she would watch the hour, 
 When friends were present, to dispute his power : 
 With tyrant-craft, he then was still and ca4m. 
 But raised in private terror and alarm : 
 By many trials, she perceived how far 
 To vex and tease, without an open war ; 
 And he discover'd that so weak a mind 
 No art could lead, and no compulsion bind ; 
 The rudest force would fail such mind to tame, 
 And she was callous to rebuke and shame ; 
 Proud of her wealth, the power of law she knew. 
 And would assist hira in the spending too : 
 His threat'ning words with insult she defied, 
 •To all his reasoning with a stare replied ; 
 And when he begg'd her to attend, would say, 
 " Attend I will — ^but let me have my way." 
 
 Nor rest had Conscience : " While you merit 
 pain 
 " From me," she cried, " you seek redress in vain." 
 His thoughts were grievous : " All that I possess 
 " From this vile bargain adds to my distress ; 
 " To pass a life with one who will not mend, 
 " Who cannot love, nor save, nor wisely spend, 
 " Is a vile prospect, and I see no end : 
 " For if we part, I must of course restore 
 " JMuch of her money, and must wed no more. 
 
 " Is there no way ?" — Here Conscience rose in 
 power, — 
 " Oh ! fly the danger of this fatal hour ; 
 " I am thy Conscience, faithful, fond, and true : 
 " Ah, fly this thought, or evil must ensue ; 
 " Fall on thy knees, and pray with all thy soul, 
 " Thy purpose banish, thy design control : 
 " Let every hope of such advantage cease, 
 " Or never more e.xpect a moment's peace." 
 
 Th' aflTrighten'd man a due attention paid, 
 Felt the rebuke, and the command obey'd. 
 
 Again the wife rebell'd, again cxpress'd 
 A love for pleasure — a contempt of rest ; 
 " She whom she pleased would visit, would receive 
 " Those who pleased her, nor deign to ask for 
 leave." 
 
 " One way there is," said he ; '• 1 might contrive 
 " Into a trap this foolish thing to drive : 
 " Who pleased her, said she ?— I'll be ccrtj.".i 
 
 who." 
 " Take heed," said Conscience, " what thou r.ican'st 
 
 to do: 
 '' Ensnare thy wife ?" — " Why, yes," he must con- 
 fess, 
 " It might be wrong, but there was no redress ; 
 
 " Beside, to think," said he, " is not to sin." 
 " Mistaken man ! " replied the power within. 
 
 No guest unnoticed to the lady came, 
 He judged th' event with mingled joy and shame ; 
 Oft he ■withdrew, and secm'd to leave her free, 
 But still as watchful as a lynx was he ; 
 Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay. 
 And, without virtue, had no wish to stray. 
 
 Though thus opposed, his plans were not re- 
 
 sign'd ; 
 " Revenge," said he, " will prompt that daring 
 
 mind ; 
 " Refused supplies, insulted and distress'd, 
 " Enraged with me, and near a favourite guest — • 
 '' Then will her vengeance prompt the daring deed, 
 " And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed." 
 
 There was a youth — but let me hide the name, 
 With all the progress of this deed of shame ; 
 He had his views — on him the husband cast 
 His net, and saw him in his trammels fast. 
 
 " Pause but a moment — think what you intend," 
 Said the roused Sleeper : " I am yet a friend. 
 " Must all our days in enmity be spent ?" 
 " No ! " and he paused — " I surely shall repent :" 
 Then hurried on — the evil plan was laid. 
 The wife was guilty, and her friend betray'd. 
 And Fulham gain'd his wish, and for his will was 
 paid. 
 
 Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press'd. 
 This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest ; 
 And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace, 
 By a false promise, that offence should cease ; 
 Past faults had seem'd familiar to the view, 
 Confused if many, and obscure though true ; 
 And Conscience, troubled with the dull account, 
 Had dropp'd her tale, and slumber'd o'er th' 
 
 amount : 
 But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose, 
 Disturb'd, alarm' d, and could no more repose ; 
 All hopes of friendship and of iJeacc were past, 
 And every view with gloom was overcast. 
 Hence from that day, that day of shame and sin. 
 Arose the restless enmity within : 
 On no resource could Fulham now rely, 
 Doom'd all expedients, and in vain, to try ; 
 For Conscience, roused, sat boldly on her throne, 
 Watch'd every thought, attack'd the foe alone, 
 And with envenom'd sting drew forth the inward 
 
 groan : 
 Expedients fail'd that brought relief before, 
 In vain his alms gave comfort to the poor. 
 Give what he would, to him the comfort came no 
 
 more : 
 Not prayer avail'd, and when (his crimes confess'd) 
 He felt some ease, she said, " Are they redress'd ? 
 " You still retain the profit, and be sure, 
 " Long as it lasts, this anguish shall endure." 
 
 Fulham still tried to soothe her, cheat, mislead, 
 But Conscience laid her finger on the deed, 
 And read th:, crime with power, and all that must 
 succeed : 
 
 z 
 
338 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 He tried t* expel her, but was sure to find 
 Her strength increased by all that he design'd ; 
 Nor ever was his groan more loud and deep 
 Than when- refresh'd she rose from momentary 
 sleep. 
 
 Now desperate grown, weak, harass'd, and afraid. 
 From new allies he sought for doubtful aid ; 
 To thought itself he strove to bid adieu. 
 And from devotions to diversions flew ; 
 He took a poor domestic for a slave 
 (Though avarice grieved to see the price he gave) ; 
 Upon his board, once frugal, press'd a load 
 Of viands rich, the appetite to goad ; 
 The long-protracted meal, the sparkling cup, 
 Fought with his gloom, and kept his courage up : 
 Soon as the morning came, there met his eyes 
 Accounts of wealth, that he might reading rise ; 
 To profit then he gave some active hours, 
 Till food and wine again should renovate his 
 
 powers : 
 Yet, spite of all defence, of every aid. 
 The watchful Foe her close attention paid ; 
 In every thoughtful moment on she press'd, 
 And gave at once her dagger to his breast ; 
 He waked at midnight, and the fears of sin, 
 As waters through a burstcn dam, broke in ; 
 Nay, in the banquet, with his friends around, 
 When all their cares and half their crimes were 
 
 drown'd. 
 Would some chance act awake the slumbering fear, 
 And care and crime in all their strength appear : 
 The news is read, a guilty victim swings, 
 And troubled looks pn)claim the bosom-stings : 
 Some pair are wed ; this brings the wife in view ; 
 And some divorced ; this shows the parting too ; 
 Nor can he hear of evil word or deed. 
 But they to thought, and thought to sufferings lead. 
 
 Such was his life — no other changes came. 
 The hurrying day, the conscious night the same ; 
 The night of horror — when he starting cried 
 To the poor startled sinner at his side, 
 " Is it in law ? am I condemn'd to die ? 
 
 " Let me escape ! 1 '11 give — oh ! let me fly — 
 
 " How ! but a dream ! — no judges ! dungeon ! chain! 
 " Or these grim men I — -I will not sleep again. — 
 " Wilt thou, dread being ! thus thy promise keep ? 
 " Day is thy time — and wilt thou murder sleep ? 
 " Sorrow and want repose, and wilt thou come, 
 " Nor give one hour of pure untroubled gloom ? 
 
 " Oh I Conscience ! 
 faithful friend, 
 
 Conscience ! man's most 
 
 , 
 
 " Ilim canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend ; 
 
 " But if he will thy friendly checks forego, 
 
 " Thou art, oh ! woe for me, his deadliest foe !" ^ 
 
 TALE XV 
 
 ' [" Couscien/a I'assicuM, 
 I.a buon;i compa^'na die I'uom franeliegiji* 
 Sotto I'usbergo del esser puro." — Dantk. 
 
 He that has light within his own cle.ir breut 
 
 ADVICE; OK, THE 'SQUIKE AND 
 THE PRIEST. 
 
 His hours fill'd tip with riots, banquets, sports — 
 
 And never noted in him any study. 
 
 Any retirement, any sequestration. Hcnrij I'. 
 
 I will converse with iron-witted fools, 
 
 With unrespective boys ; none are for me, 
 
 Who look into me with considerate eyes. — Richard III. 
 
 You cram these words into mine ears, against 
 The stomach of my sense. Tempest. 
 
 A WEALTHY Lord of far-extended land 
 
 Had all that pleased him placed at his command ; 
 
 Widow'd of late, but, finding much relief 
 
 In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief; 
 
 He was by marriage of his daughters eased, 
 
 And knew his sons could marry if they pleased ; 
 
 Meantime in travel he indulged the boys, 
 
 And kept no spy nor partner of his joys. 
 
 These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind, 
 That fed the cravings of an earthly mind ; 
 A mind that, conscious of its own excess, 
 Felt the reproach his neighbours would express. 
 Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit, 
 Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit ; 
 And such the guest and manners of the Hall, 
 No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call : 
 Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd 
 O'er other favourites who before had reign'd ; 
 Reserved and modest sccm'd the nymph to be, 
 Knowing her lord was charm'd with modesty ; 
 For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd, 
 The greater value had the thing dcstroy'd. 
 
 Our 'Squire declared, that, from a wife released, 
 He would no more give trouble to a Priest ; 
 Scem'd it not, then, ungrateful and unkind 
 That he should trouble from the priesthood find ? 
 The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due 
 And full respect to every son he knew; 
 But envied those who had the luck to meet 
 A gentle pastor, civil, and discreet ; 
 Who never bold and hostile sermon pcnn'd, 
 To wound a sinner, or to slianic a friend ; 
 One whom no being either shunn'd or fcar'd : 
 Such must be loved wherever they appear'd. 
 
 Not such the stern old Rector of the time, 
 Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime ; 
 Who would his fears and his contempt express 
 For irreligion and licentiousness ; 
 
 May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bri^'ht day . 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, 
 Hcnighted walks under the miil-day sun ; 
 Himself is his own dungeon." — Milton.] 
 
TALE XV.— ADVICE; OR, THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST. 
 
 339 
 
 Of him our Village Lord, his guests among, 
 By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung. 
 
 " "Were he a bigot," said the 'Squire, " vhose 
 
 zeal 
 " Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel : 
 " But when a man of parts, in college train'd, 
 " Prates of our conduct, who would not be pain'd ? 
 " While he declaims (where no one dares reply) 
 " On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty 
 " (Like beasts in human shape) of shameless 
 
 luxurj'. 
 " Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock 
 " Of vile rebuke, example to his flock : 
 " But let this Kector, thus severe and proud, 
 " Change his wide surplice for a narrow shroud, 
 " And I will place within his scat a youth, 
 '■ Train'd by the Graces to explain the Truth ; 
 " Then shall the flock with gentle hand be led, 
 " By wisdom won, and by compassion fed." 
 
 This purposed Teacher was a sister's son. 
 Who of her children gave the priesthood one ; 
 And she had early train'd for this employ 
 The pliant talents of her college-boy : 
 At various times her letters paintetl all 
 Her brother's views — the manners of the Hall; 
 The rector's harshness, and the mischief made 
 By chiding those whom preachers should persuade : 
 This led the youth to views of easy life, 
 A friendly patron, an obliging wife ; 
 His tithe, his glebe, the garden, and the steed. 
 With books as many as ho wish'd to read. 
 
 All this accorded with the Uncle's will : 
 He loved a priest compliant, easy, still ; 
 Sums he had often to his favourite sent, 
 " To be," he wrote, "in manly freedom jpent; 
 " For well it pleased his spirit to assist 
 " An honest lad, who scorn'd a Methodist." 
 His mother, too, in her matei-nal care. 
 Bade him of canting hypocrites beware ; 
 Who from his duties would his heart seduce, 
 And make his talents of no earthly use. 
 
 Soon must a trial of his worth be made — 
 The ancient priest is to the tomb convey'd ; 
 And the Youth summon'd from a sei'ious friend. 
 His guide and host, new duties to attend. 
 
 Three months before, the nephew and the 
 'Squire 
 Saw mutual worth to praise and to admire ; 
 And though the one too early left his wine. 
 The other still exclaim'd — " My boy will shine : 
 " Yes, I perceive that he will soon improve, 
 " And I shall form the very guide I love ; 
 " Decent abroad, he will my name defend, 
 " And when at home, be social and unbend." 
 
 The plan was specious, for the mind of James 
 Accorded duly with his uncle's schemes : 
 He then aspired not to a higher name 
 Than sober clerks of moderate talents claim ; 
 Gravely to pray, and rev'rendly to preach, 
 V/as all he saw, good youth ! within his reach : 
 Thus may a mass of sulphur long abide. 
 Cold and inert, but, to the flame applied, 
 
 Kindling it blazes, and consuming turns 
 To smoke and poison, as it boils and burns. 
 
 .Tames, leaving college, to a Preacher stray'd ; 
 What call'd he knew not— but the call obey'd : 
 Mild, idle, pensive, ever led by those 
 Who could some specious novelty propose ; 
 Humbly he listen'd, while the preacher dwelt 
 On touching themes, and strong emotions felt ; 
 And in this night was fix'd that pliant will 
 To one sole point, and he retains it still. 
 
 At first his care was to himself confined ; 
 Himself assured, he gave it to mankind : 
 His zeal grew active — honest, earnest zeal, 
 And comfort dealt to him, he long'd to deal ; 
 He to his favourite preacher now withdrew, 
 Was taught to teach, instructed to subdue, 
 And train'd for ghostly warfare, when the call 
 Of his new duties reach'd him from the Hall. 
 
 Now to the 'Squire, although alert and stout, 
 Came unexpected an attack of gout ; 
 And the grieved patron felt such serious pain, 
 He never thought to see a church again : 
 Thrice had the youthful rector taught the crowd. 
 Whose growing numbers spoko his powers aloud. 
 Before the patron could himself rejoice 
 (His pain still lingering) in the general voice; 
 For he imputed all this early fame 
 To graceful manner and the well-known name : 
 And to himself assumed a share of praise, 
 For worth and talents he was pleased to raise. 
 
 A month had flown, and with it fled disease ; 
 What pleased before, began again to please ; 
 Emerging daily from his chamber's gloom, 
 He found his old sensations hurrying home ; 
 Then call'd his nephew, and exclaim'd, " My boy, 
 " Let us again the balm of life enjoy ; 
 " The foe has left me, and I deem it right, 
 " Should he return, to arm me for the fight." 
 
 Thus spoke the 'Squire, the favourite nymph 
 stood by, 
 And view'd the priest with insult in her eye ; 
 She thrice had heard him when he boldly spoke 
 On dangerous points, and fear'd he would revoke : 
 For James she loved not — and her manner told, 
 " This warm afi"ection will be quickly cold :" 
 And still she fear'd impression might be made 
 Upon a subject nervous and decaj'd ; 
 She knew her danger, and had no desire 
 Of reformation in the gallant 'Squire; 
 And felt an envious pleasure in her breast 
 To see the rector daunted and distress'd. 
 
 Again the Uncle to the youth applied — • 
 " Cast, my dear lad, that cursed gloom aside : 
 " There are for all tilings time and place ; appear 
 " Grave in your pulpit, and be merry here : 
 " Now take your wine — for woes a sure resource, 
 " And the best prelude to a long discourse." 
 
 James half obey'd, but cast an angrj' eye 
 On the fair lass, who still stood watchful by ; 
 Resolving thus, " I have my fears — but still 
 " I must perform my duties, and I will : 
 
340 
 
 CR.ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 *' No love, no interest, shall my mind control ; 
 " Better to lose my comforts than my soul ; 
 " Better my uncle's favour to abjure, 
 '• Than the upbraidings of my heart endure." 
 
 He took his glass, and then address'd the 'Squire : 
 " I feel not well, permit me to retire." 
 The 'Squire conceived that the ensuing day 
 Gave him these terrors for the grand essay, 
 When he himself should this young preacher try, 
 And stand before him with observant eye ; 
 This raised compassion in his manly breast, 
 And he would send the rector to his rest : 
 Yet first, in soothing voice — " A moment staj', 
 " And these suggestions of a friend obey ; 
 " Treasure these hints, if fame or peace you 
 
 prize, — 
 " The bottle emptied, I shall close my eyes. 
 
 " On every priest a twofold care attends, 
 " To prove his talents, and insure his friends : 
 " First, of the first — your stores at once produce ; 
 " And bring yonr reading to its proper use : 
 " On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce 
 " By quoting much, the scholar's sure resoui'ce ; 
 " For he alone can show us on each head 
 " AVhat ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said : 
 " No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show 
 '' How well you studied and how much you know ; 
 " Is faith j'our subject, and you judge it right 
 " On theme so dark to cast a ray of light, 
 " Be it that faith the orthodox maintain, 
 " Found in the rubric, what the creeds explain ; 
 " Fail not to show us on this ancient faith 
 " (And quote the passage) what some martyr 
 
 saith : 
 " Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks 
 " The minds of men sincere and orthodox; 
 " That gloomy faith, that robs the wounded mind 
 " Of all the comfort it was wont to find 
 " From virtuous acts, and to the soul denies 
 " Its proper due for alms and charities ; 
 " That partial faith, that, weighing sins alone, 
 " Lets not a virtue for a fault atone ; 
 " That starving faith, that would our tables clear, 
 " And make one dreadful Lent of all the year ; 
 " And cruel too, for this is faith that rends 
 " Confiding beauties fi-om protecting friends ; 
 " A faith that all embracing, what a gloom 
 " Deep and terrific o'er tlie land would come ! 
 " What scenes of horror would that time disclose I 
 " No sight but misery, and no sound but woes ; 
 " Your nobler faith, in loftier stylo convey'd, 
 " Shall be with praise and admiration paid : 
 " On points like these your hearers all admire 
 " A preacher's depth, and nothing more require. 
 " Shall we a studious youth to college send, 
 " That every clown his Mords may comprehend ? 
 " 'Tis for your glory, when your hearers own 
 " Your learning matchless, but the sense unknoMn. 
 
 " Thus honour gain'd, learn now to gain a 
 friend, 
 " And the sure way is — never to offend ; 
 " For, James, consider — what your neighbours do 
 " Is their own business, and concerns not you : 
 " Shun all resemblance to that forward race 
 " Who preach of sins before a sinner's face ; 
 
 " And seem as if thej' overlook'd a pew, 
 " Only to drag a failing man in view : 
 " Much should I feel, when groaning in disease, 
 " If a rough hand upon my limb should seize ; 
 " But great my anger, if this hand were found 
 " Tlie very doctor's who should make it sound : 
 " So feel our minds, young Priest, so doubly feel, 
 " When hurt by those whose office is to heal. 
 
 " Yet of our duties you must something tell, 
 " And must at times on sin and frailty dwell ; 
 " Here you may preach in easy, flowing style, 
 " How errors cloud us, and how sins defile : 
 " Here bring persuasive tropes and figures forth, 
 " To show the poor that wealth is nothing worth ; 
 " That they, in fact, possess an ample share 
 " Of the world's good, and feel not half its care ; 
 " Give them this comfort, and, indeed, my gout 
 " Tn its full vigour causes me some doubt ; 
 " And let it always, for your zeal, suffice 
 " That vice you combat, in the abstract — vice : 
 " The very captious will be quiet then ; 
 " We all confess we are ofiending men : 
 " In lashing sin, of every stroke beware, 
 " For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare ; 
 " In general satire, every man perceives 
 " A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves ; 
 " But name th' offence, and you absolve the rest, 
 " And point the dagger at a single breast. 
 
 " Yet are there sinners of a class so low, 
 " That you with safety may the lash bestow; 
 " Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed 
 " At others' cost, a mark'd correction need : 
 " And all the better sort, who see your zeal, 
 " Will love and reverence for their pastor feel ; 
 " Reverence for one who can inflict the smart, 
 " And love, because he deals them not a part. 
 
 " Remember well what love and age advise ; 
 " A quiet rector is a parish prize, 
 " Who in his learning has a decent pride ; 
 " Who to his people is a gentle guide ; 
 " Who only hints at failings that he sees ; 
 " Who loves his glebe, his patron, and his ease, 
 " And finds the way to fame and profit is to 
 please." 
 
 The Nephew answer'd not, except a sigh 
 And look of sorrow might be term'd reply ; 
 He saw the fearful hazard of his state. 
 And held with truth and safety strong debate; 
 Nor long he reason'd, for the zealous youth 
 Resolved, though timid, to profess the truth ; 
 And though his friend should like a lion roar. 
 Truth would he preach, and neither less nor more. 
 
 The bells had toU'd — arrived the time of prayer. 
 The flock assembled, and the 'Squire was there : 
 And now can poet sing, or proseman say, 
 The disappointment of that trying day ? 
 
 As he who long had train'd a favourite steed, 
 (Whose blood and bone gave promise of his speed,) 
 Sanguine with hope, he runs with partial eye 
 O'er every feature, and his bets are high; 
 Of triumph sure, he sees the rivals start. 
 And waits their coming with exulting heart; 
 
TALE XV.— ADVICE; OR, THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST. 341 
 
 Forestalling glory, with impatient glance, 
 And sure to see his conquering steed advance ; 
 The conquering steed advances — luckless day I 
 A rival's Herod bears the prize away, 
 Nor second his, nor third, but lagging last, 
 With hanging head he comes, by all surpass'd : 
 Surprise and wrath the owner's mind intiame, 
 Love turns to scorn, and glory ends in shame ; — 
 Thus waited, high in hope, the partial 'Squire, 
 Eager to hear, impatient to admire ; 
 When the young Preacher, in the tones that find 
 A certain passage to the kindling mind. 
 With air and accent strange, impressive, sad, 
 Alarm'd the judge — he trembled for the lad ; 
 But when the text announced the power of grace, 
 Amazement scowl'd upon his clouded face 
 At this degenerate son of his illustrious race ; 
 Staring he stood, till hope again arose 
 That James might well define the words he chose : 
 For this he listen'd — but, alas ! he found 
 The preacher always on forbidden ground. 
 
 And now the Uncle left the hated pew. 
 With James, and James's conduct, in his view ; 
 A long farewell to all his favourite schemes ! 
 For now no crazed fanatic's frantic dreams 
 Seera'd vile as James's conduct, or as James : 
 All he had long derided, hated, fear'd. 
 This, from the chosen youth, the uncle heard ; — 
 The needless pause, the fierce disorder'd air, 
 The groan for sin, the vehemence of prayer, 
 Gave birth to wrath, that, in a long discourse 
 Of grace triumphant, rose to fourfold force : 
 lie found his thoughts despised, his rules trans- 
 
 gress'd, 
 And while the anger kindled in his breast. 
 The pain must be endured that could not be 
 
 express'd : 
 Each new idea more inflamed his ire, 
 As fuel thro'mi upon a rising fire : 
 A hearer yet, he sought by threatening sign 
 To ease his heart, and awe the young divine ; 
 But James refused those angi-y looks to meet, 
 Till he dismiss'd his flock, and left his seat : 
 Exhausted then he felt his trembling frame. 
 But fix'd his soul, — his sentiments the same ; 
 And therefore wise it seem'd to fly from rage, 
 And seek for shelter in his parsonage : 
 There, if forsaken, yet consoled to find 
 Some comforts left, thougli not a few resign'd ; 
 There, if he lost an erring parent's love. 
 An honest conscience must the cause approve ; 
 If the nice palate were no longer fed. 
 The mind enjoy'd delicious thoughts instead ; 
 And if some part of earthly good was flown, 
 Still was the tithe of ten good farms his own. 
 
 Fear now, and discord, in the village reign. 
 The cool remonstrate, and the meek complain ; 
 But there is war within, and wisdom pleads in vain. 
 Now dreads the Uncle, and proclaims his dread. 
 Lest the Boy-priest should turn each rustic head ; 
 The certain converts cost him certain woe, 
 The doubtful fear lest they should join the foe : 
 Matrons of old, with whom he used to joke, 
 Now pass his Honour with a pious look ; 
 Lasses, who met him once with lively airs, 
 Now cross ills way, and gravely walk to prayers : 
 
 An old companion, whom he long has loved, 
 
 By coward fears confess'd his conscience moved ; 
 
 As the third bottle gave its spirit forth. 
 
 And they bore witness to departing worth. 
 
 The friend arose, and he too would depart : — 
 
 " Man," said the 'Squire, " thou wert not wont to 
 
 start ; 
 " Hast thou attended to that foolish boy, 
 " Who would abridge all comforts, or destroy ?" 
 
 Yes, he had listen'd, who had slumber'd long, 
 Aud was convinced that something must be 
 
 wrong : 
 But, though affected, still his yielding heart. 
 And craving palate, took the Uncle's part ; 
 Wine now oppress'd him, wlio, when free from 
 
 wine. 
 Could seldom clearly utter his design ; 
 But though by nature and indulgence weak, 
 Yet, half converted, he resolved to speak ; 
 And, speaking, own'd, " that in his mind the 
 
 Youth 
 " Had gifts and learning, and that truth was truth : 
 " The 'Squire he honour'd, and, for his poor part, 
 " He hated nothing like a hollow heart : 
 " But 't was a maxim he had often tried, 
 " That right was right, and there he would abide ; 
 " He honour'd learning, and he would confess 
 " The preacher had his talents — more or less : 
 " Why not agree ? he thought the young divine 
 " Had no such strictness — they might drink and 
 
 dine ; 
 " For them sufficient — but he said before, 
 " That truth was truth, and he would drink no 
 
 more." 
 
 This heard the 'Squire with mix'd contempt and 
 
 pain ; 
 He fear'd the Priest this recreant sot would gain. 
 The favourite Nymph, though not a convert made. 
 Conceived the man she scorn'd her cause would 
 
 aid, 
 And when the spirits of her lord were low. 
 The lass presumed the wicked cause to show ; 
 " It was the wretched life his Honour led, 
 " And would draw vengeance on his guiltj' head ; 
 " Their loves (Heav'n knew how dreadfully 
 
 distress'd 
 " The thought had made her I) were as yet 
 
 unbless'd : 
 " And till the church had sanction'd " — Here she 
 
 saw 
 The wrath that forced her trembling to withdraw. 
 
 Add to these outward ills some inward light, 
 That show'd him all was not correct and right : 
 Though now he less indulged — and to the poor. 
 From day to day, sent alms from door to door ; 
 Though he some ease from easy virtues found. 
 Yet conscience told him lie could not compound, 
 But must himself the darling sin deny. 
 Change the whole heart, — but here a heavy sigh 
 Proclaim'd, " How vast the toil ! and, ah ! how 
 weak am I !" 
 
 James too has trouble — he divided sees 
 A parish, once harmonious and at case ; 
 
342 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 "With him united arc the simply meek. 
 The warm, the sad, tlic nervous, and the weak ; 
 The rest his Uncle's, save the few beside, 
 Who own no doctrine, and obey no guide ; 
 ■With stragglers of eacli adverse camp, who lend 
 Their aid to both, but each in turn offend. 
 
 Though zealous still, yet he begins to feci 
 The heat too fierce that glows in vulgar zeal ; 
 With pain he hears his simple friends relate 
 Their week's experience, and their woful state ; 
 With small temptation struggling every hour, 
 And bravely battling with the tempting power ; 
 His native sense is hurt by strange complaints 
 Of inward motions in these warring saints ; 
 AVho never cast on sinful bait a look, 
 But they perceive the devil at the hook : 
 Grieved, yet compell'd to smile, he finds it hard 
 Against the blunders of conceit to guard ; 
 He sighs to hear the jests his converts cause, 
 He cannot give their erring zeal applause ; 
 But finds it inconsistent to condemn 
 The flights and follies he has nursed in them : 
 These, in opposing minds, contempt produce, 
 Or mirth occasion, or provoke abuse ; 
 On each momentous theme disgrace they brii g, 
 And give to Scorn her poison and her sting. 
 
 TALE XVI. 
 
 THE CO>FIDANT.' 
 
 Think'st tl)oii I 'il make a life of jealousy, 
 
 To follow still t!ie clianges of tlie moon 
 
 With fresh suspicion ;' OtheH'^. 
 
 Why hast thou lost tlie fresh blood in thy cheeks, 
 And },'iven my treasure and my rights in tliee 
 To tliick-eyed musins; and cursed melanchdiy? 
 
 1 Hennj IV. 
 
 It is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength, but tyrannous 
 To use it as a giant. Measure for Measure. 
 
 Anna was young and lovely — in her eye 
 The glance of beauty, in her cheek the dye : 
 Her shape was slender, and her features small, 
 But graceful, easy, unatVoctcd all : 
 The liveliest tints her youthful face disclosed ; 
 There beauty sparkled, and there health reposed ; 
 For the pure blood that flush'd that rosy cheek 
 Spoke what the heart forbade the tongue to speak 
 And told the feelings of that heart as well 
 Nay, with more candour than the tongue could tell. 
 Though this fair lass had with the wealthy dwelt. 
 Yet like the damsel of the cot she felt ; 
 
 ' [The reader will find tlie talo of ' Tlie Confidant ' thrown 
 into a little drama of seven scenes, by Mr. Charles Lamb 
 author of Klia's Essays,' il;c. &c., in vol.'xxiv. of lilackwoocrs 
 Ma-azine, p. 704. 'J'lje version is so close tliat we need not 
 
 And, at the distant hint or dark surmise. 
 The blood into the mantling cheek would rise. 
 
 Now Anna's station frequent terrors wrought 
 In one whose looks were with such meaning fraught , 
 For on a Lady, as an humble friend, 
 It was her painful office to attend. 
 
 Her duties here were of the usual kind — 
 And some the body harass'd, some the mind : 
 ]5illets she wrote, and tender stories read, 
 To make the Lady sleepy in her bed ; 
 She play'd at whist, but with inferior skill, 
 And heard the summons as a call to drill : 
 Music was ever pleasant till she play'd 
 At a request that no request convey'd ; 
 The Lady's tales with anxious looks she heard. 
 For she must witness what her Friend averr'd ; 
 The Lady's taste she must in all approve, 
 Hate whom she hated, whom she lov'd must love ; 
 These, with the various duties of her place, 
 AVith care she studied, and perform'd with grace : 
 She veil'd her troubles in a mask of ease, 
 And show'd her pleasure was a power to please. 
 
 Such were the damsel's duties : she was poor — 
 Above a servant, but with service more : 
 Men on her face with careless freedom gaz'd. 
 Nor thought how painful was the glow they raised. 
 A wealthy few to gain her favour tried, 
 But not the favour of a grateful bride ; 
 They spoke their purpose with an easy air. 
 That shamed and frighten'd the dependent fair ; 
 Past time she view'd, the passing time to cheat, 
 But nothing found to make the present sweet: 
 Witli pensive soul she read life's future page, 
 And saw dependent, poor, repining age. 
 
 But who shall dare t' assert what years may bring, 
 When wonders from the passing Jiour may spring ? 
 There dwelt a Yeoman in the place, whose mind 
 Was gentle, generous, cultivated, kind ; 
 For thirty years he labour'd ; fortune then 
 Placed the mild rustic with superior men ; 
 A richer Stafford who had liv'd to save. 
 What he had treasured to the poorer gave ; 
 Who with a sober mind that treasure view'd, 
 And the slight studies of his youth renew'd : 
 He not profoundly, but discreetly read. 
 And a fair mind with useful culture fed ; 
 Then thought of marriage — " But the great," said 
 
 he, 
 " I shall not suit, nor will the meaner me." 
 Anna, he saw, admired her modest air ; 
 He thought her virtuous, and he knew her fair; 
 Love raiised his pity for her humble state. 
 And prompted wishes for her hnpi)ier fate ; 
 No pride in money would his feelings wound. 
 Nor vulgar manners hurt him and confound : 
 He then the Lady at the Hall address'd. 
 Sought her consent, and his regard express'd : 
 Yet if some cause his earnest wish denied, 
 He bcgg'd to know it, and he bow'd and sigh'd. 
 
 quote specimens of it here ; but the whole will certainly 
 reward an attentive perusal. Our wonder is, that so little use 
 has hitherto been made of our poet's tiiles as materials for 
 dramatic composition.] 
 
The Lady o^^^l'(i that she was loth to part, 
 But praised the damsel for her gentle heart, 
 Her pleasing person, and her blooming health, 
 But ended thus, " Her virtue is her wealth." 
 
 " Then is she rich !" he cried with lively air ; 
 " But whence, so please you, came a lass so fair ?" 
 
 " A placeman's child was Anna, one who died 
 " And left a widow by afflictions tried ; 
 " She to support her infant daughter strove, 
 " But early left the object of her love : 
 " Her youth, her beauty, and her orphan state 
 " Gave a kind countess interest in her fate : 
 " With her she dwelt and still might dwelling be, 
 " When the earl's folly caused tlie lass to flee ; 
 " A second friend was she compell'd to shun, 
 " By the rude offers of an uncheck'd son ; 
 " I found her then, and with a mother's love 
 " Regard the gentle girl whom you approve : 
 " Yet e'en with me protection is not peace, 
 " Nor man's designs nor beauty's trials cease : 
 " Like sordid boys by costly fruit they feel — 
 " They will not purchase, but they try to steal." 
 
 Now this good Lady, like a witness true, 
 Told but the truth, and all the truth she knew ; 
 And 't is our duty and our pain to sliow 
 Truth this good lady had not means to know. 
 Yes, there was lock'd within the damsel's breast 
 A fact important to be now confess'd ; 
 Gently, my muse, th' afflicting tale relate, 
 And have some feeling for a sister's fate. 
 
 Where Anna dwelt, a conquering hero came, — 
 An Irish captain, Sedlei/ was his name ; 
 And he too had that same prevailing art, 
 That gave soft wishes to the virgin's heart : 
 In years they differ'd ; he had tliirty seen 
 When this young beauty counted just fifteen ; 
 But still they were a lovely lively paii-, 
 And trod on earth as if they trod on air. 
 
 On love, delightful theme ! the captain dwelt 
 With force still growing with the hopes he felt ; 
 But with some caution and reluctance told. 
 He had a father crafty, harsh, and old ; 
 Who, as possessing much, would much expect. 
 Or both, for ever, from his love reject : 
 Why then offence to one so powerful give, 
 Who (for their comfort) had not long to live ? 
 
 With this poor prospect the deluded maid, 
 In words confiding, was indeed betray'd ; 
 And, soon as terrors in her bosom rose. 
 The hero fled ; they hinder'd his repose. 
 Deprived of him, she to a parent's breast 
 Her secret trusted, and her pains impress'd ; 
 Let her to toviTi (so prudence urged) repair, 
 To shun disgrace, at least to hide it there ; 
 But ere she went, the luckless damsel pray'd 
 A chosen friend might lend her timely aid : 
 " Yes! my soul's sistei, my Eliza, come, 
 " Hear her last sigh, and ease thy Anna's doom." 
 " 'T is a fool's wish," the angry father cried, 
 But, lost in troubles of his own, complied ; 
 And dear Eliza to her friend was sent, 
 T' indulge that wish, and be her punishment. 
 
 The time arrived, and brought a tenfold dread ; 
 The time was past, and all the ten-or fled ; 
 The infant died ; the face resumed each charm. 
 And reason now brought trouble and alarm. 
 
 Should her Eliza- — no ! she was too just, 
 " Too good and kind — but ah ! too young to trust." 
 Anna return'd, her former place resumed, 
 And faded beauty with new grace re-bloom'd ; 
 And if some whispers of the past were heard. 
 They died innoxious, as no cause appear'd ; 
 But other cares on Anna's bosom press'd. 
 She saw her father gloomy and distress'd ; 
 He died o'erwhelm'd with debt, and soon was shed 
 The filial sorrow o'er a mother dead : 
 She sought Eliza's arms — that faithful friend was 
 
 wed ; 
 Then was compassion by the countess shown. 
 And all th' adventures of her life are known. 
 
 And now, beyond her hopes — no longer tried 
 Bj' slavish awe — she lived a Yeoman's bride ; 
 Then bless'd her lot, and with a grateful mind 
 Was careful, cheerful, vigilant, and kind : 
 The gentle husband felt supreme delight, 
 Bless'd by her joy, and happy in her sight ; 
 He saw with pride in every friend and guest 
 High admiration and regard express'd : 
 AVith greater pride, and with superior joy, 
 He look'd exulting on his first-born boy ; 
 To her fond breast the wife her infant strain'd, 
 Some feelings utter'd, some were not explain'd ; 
 And she enraptured with her treasure grew, 
 The sight familiar, but the pleasure new. 
 
 Yet there appear'd within that tranquil state 
 Some threat'ning prospect of uncertain fate ; 
 Between the Jiarried when a secret lies, 
 It wakes suspicion from enforced disguise : 
 Still thought the Wife upon her absent friend, 
 With all that must upon her truth depend. 
 " There is no being in the world beside 
 " Who can discover what that friend will hide ; 
 " Who knew the fact, knew not my name or state, 
 " Who these can tell cannot the fact relate ; 
 " But thou, Eliza, canst the whole impart, 
 " And all my safety is thy generous heart." 
 
 Mix'd with these fears — but light and transient 
 
 these — 
 Fled years of peace, prosperity, and ease ; 
 So tranquil all, that scarce a gloomy day 
 For days of gloom unmix'd prepared the way : 
 One eve, the Wife, still happy in her state. 
 Sang gaily, thoughtless of approaching fate ; 
 Then came a letter, that (received in dread 
 Not unobserved) she in confusion read ; 
 The substance this — " Her friend rejoiced to find 
 " That she had riches with a grateful mind ; 
 " While poor Eliza had, from place to place, 
 " Been lured by hope to labour for disgrace ; 
 " That every scheme her wandering husband tried, 
 " Pain'd while he lived, and perish'd when he 
 
 died." 
 She then of want in angry style complain'd, 
 Her child a burthen to her life remain'd, 
 Her kindred sluinn'd her prayers, no friend her 
 
 so,il sustain'd. 
 
344 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Yet why neglected ? Dearest Anna knew 
 " Her worth once tried, her friendship ever true ; 
 " She hoped, she trusted, though by wants op- 
 
 press'd, 
 " To lock the treasured secret in her breast ; 
 " Yet, vex'd by trouble, must apply to one, 
 " For kindness due to her for kindness done." 
 
 In Anna's mind was tumult, in her face 
 Flushings of dread had momentary place : 
 " I must," she judged, " these cruel lines expose, 
 " Or fears, or worse than fears, my crime disclose." 
 
 The letter shown, he said, with sober smile, — 
 " Anna, your Friend has not a friendly style : 
 *' Say, where could you with this fair lady dwell, 
 " Who boasts of secrets that she scorns to tell?" 
 " At school," she answer'd : he " At school !" 
 
 replied ; 
 " Nay, then I know the secrets you would hide ; 
 " Some early longings these, witliout dispute, 
 " Some youthful gaspings for forbidden fruit : 
 " Why so disorder'd, love ? are such the crimes 
 " That give us sorrow in our graver times ? 
 " Come, take a present for your friend, and rest 
 " In perfect peace — you find you are confess'd." 
 
 This cloud, though past, alarm'd the conscious 
 wife, 
 Presaging gloom and sorrow for her life ; 
 Who to her answer join'd a fervent prayer 
 That her Eliza would a sister spare : 
 If she again — but was there cause? — should send. 
 Let her direct — and then she named a friend : 
 A sad expedient untried friends to trust. 
 And still to fear the tried may be unjust : 
 Such is his pain, who, by his debt oppress'd, 
 Seeks by new bonds a temporary rest. 
 
 Few were her peaceful days till Anna read 
 The words she dreaded, and had cause to dread : — 
 
 " Did she believe, did she, unkind, suppose 
 " That thus Eliza's friendship was to close ? 
 " No, though she tried, and her desire was plain, 
 " To break the friendly bond, she strove in 
 
 vain : 
 " Ask'd she for silence ? why so loud the call, 
 " And yet the token of her love so small? 
 " By means like these will you attempt to bind 
 " And check the movements of an injured mind ? 
 " Poor as I am, I shall be proiid to show 
 " Wliat dangerous secrets I may safely know : 
 " Secrets to men of jealous minds convcy'd 
 " Have many a noble house in ruins laid ; 
 " Anna, I trust, although with wrongs beset, 
 " And urged by want, I shall be faithful yet ; 
 " But what temptation may from these arise, 
 " To take a slighted woman by suri)risc, 
 " Becomes a subject for your iicrious care — 
 " For who offends, must for offence prepare." 
 
 Pcrplex'd, dismay'd, the AVifc foi'csaw her 
 doom ; 
 A day dcferr'd was yet a day to come ; 
 But still, though painful her suspemlod state, 
 She dreaded more the crisis of her fate ; 
 
 Better to die than Stafford's scorn to meet. 
 
 And her strange friend perhaps would be discreet : 
 
 Presents she sent, and made a strong appeal 
 
 To woman's feelings, begging her to feel ; 
 
 With too much force she ^vTote of jealous men, 
 
 And her tears falling spoke beyond the pen ; 
 
 Eliza's silence she again implored. 
 
 And promised all that prudence could afford. 
 
 For looks composed and careless Anna tried ; 
 She seem'd in trouble, and unconscious sigh'd: 
 The faithful Husband, who devoutly loved 
 His silent partner, with concern reproved : 
 " What secret sorrows on my Anna press, 
 " That love may not partake, nor care redress ?" 
 " None, none," she answer'd, with a look so 
 
 kind. 
 That the fond man determined to be blind. 
 
 A few succeeding weeks of brief repose 
 In Anna's cheek revived the faded rose ; 
 A hue like this the western sky displays, 
 That glows awhile, and withers as we gaze. 
 
 Again the Friend's tormenting letter came — 
 " The wants she suffer'd were affection's shame ; 
 " She with her child a life of terrors led, 
 " Unhappy fruit, but of a lawful bed : 
 •■' Her friend was tasting every bliss in life, 
 " The joyful mother, and the wealthy wife ; 
 " While she was placed in doubt, in fear, in want, 
 " To starve on trifles that the happy grant ; 
 " Poorly for all her faithful silence paid, 
 "And tantalized by ineffectual aid : 
 "She could not thus a beggar's lot endure ; 
 " She wanted something permanent and sure : 
 " If they were friends, then equal be their lot, 
 " xVnd she was free to speak if they were not." 
 
 Despair and terror seized the Wife, to find 
 The artful workings of a vulgar mind : 
 Money she had not, but the hint of dress 
 Taught her new bribes, new terrors to redress: 
 She with such feeling then described her woes, 
 That envy's self might on the view repose ; 
 Then to a mother's pains she made appeal, 
 And painted grief like one compell'd to feel. 
 
 Yes ! so she felt, that in her air, her face. 
 In every purpose, and in everj' place. 
 In her slow motion, in her languid mien. 
 The grief, the sickness of her soul, were seen. 
 
 Of some mysterious ill, the Husband sure. 
 Desired to trace it, for he hoped to cure ; 
 Something he knew obscurely, and had seen 
 His wife attend a cottage on the green ; 
 Love, loth to wound, endured conjecture long, 
 Till fear would speak, and spoke in language 
 strong. 
 
 " AH I must know, my Anna — tiaily know 
 "Whence these emotions, terrors, troubles flow: 
 " Give me thj' grief, and I will fairly prove 
 " Mine is no selfish, no ungenerous love." 
 
TALE XVI.— THE CONFIDANT. 
 
 345 
 
 Now Anna's soul the seat of strife became, 
 Fear with respect contended, love with shame : 
 But fear prevailing was the ruling guide. 
 Prescribing what to show and what to hide. 
 
 " It is my friend," she said — " but why disclose 
 " A woman's weakness struggling with her woes ? 
 " Yes, she has grieved me by her fond complaints, 
 " The wrongs she suffers, the distress she paints : 
 " Something we do — but she afflicts me still, 
 " And says, with power to help, I want the will ; 
 " This plaintive style I pity and excuse, 
 " Help when I can, and grieve when I refuse ; 
 " But here my useless sorrows I resign, 
 " And will be happy in a love like thine." 
 
 The Husband doubted : he was kind but cool : — 
 " 'T is a strong friendship to arise at school ; 
 " Once more then, love, once more the sufferer 
 
 aid, — 
 " I too can pity, but I must upbraid : 
 " Of these vain feelings then thy bosom free, 
 " Nor be o'erwhelm'd by useless sympathy." 
 
 The Wife again despatch'd the useless bribe. 
 Again essay'd her terrors to describe ; 
 Again witli kindest words entreated peace. 
 And begg'd her offerings for a time might cease. 
 
 A calm succeeded, but too like the one 
 That causes terror ere the storm comes on : 
 A secret sorrow lived in Anna's heart, 
 In Stafford's mind a secret fear of art ; 
 Not long they lasted— this determined foe 
 Knew all her claims, and nothing would forego ; 
 Again her letter came, where Anna read, 
 " My child, one cause of my distress, is dead : 
 " Ilcav'n has my infant." — •" Heartless wretch !" 
 
 she cried, 
 " Is this thj' joy ? " — " I am no longer tied : 
 " Now will I, hast'ning to my friend, partake 
 " Her cares and comforts, and no more forsake ; 
 " Now shall we both in equal station move, 
 " Save that my friend enjoys a husband's love." 
 
 Complaint and threats so strong the Wife 
 amazed. 
 Who wildly on her cottage-neighbour gazed ; 
 Her tones, her trembling, first betray'd her grief, 
 When floods of tears gave anguish its relief. 
 
 She fear'd that Stafford would refuse assent. 
 And knew her selfish Friend would not relent ; 
 She must petition, yet delay'd the task, 
 Ashamed, afraid, and yet compell'd to ask ; 
 Unknown to him some object fill'd her mind, 
 And, once suspicious, he became unkind : 
 They sat one evening, each absorb'd in gloom. 
 When, hark ! a noise ; and, rushing to tlie room, 
 The Friend tripp'd lightly in, and laughing said, 
 "I come." 
 
 Anna received her with an anxious mind. 
 And meeting whisper'd, " Is Eliza kind ?" 
 Reserved and cool the Husband sought to prove 
 The depth and force of this mysterious love. 
 To nought that pass'd between the Stranger-friend 
 And his meek partner seem'd he to attend ; 
 
 But, anxious, listen'd to the lightest word 
 That might some knowledge of his guest afford ; 
 And learn the reason one to him so dear 
 Should feel such fondness, yet betray such fear. 
 
 Soon he perceived this uninvited guest, 
 Unwelcome too, a sovereign power possess'd ; 
 Lofty she was and careless, while the meek 
 And humbled Anna was afraid to speak : 
 As mute she listen'd with a painful smile, 
 Her friend sat laughing, and at ease the while, 
 Telling her idle tales with all the glee 
 Of careless and unfeeling levity. 
 With calm good sense he knew his Wife endued. 
 And now with wounded pride her conduct view'd ; 
 Her speech was low, her every look convey'd — 
 " I am a slave, subservient and afraid." 
 All trace of comfort vanish'd ; if she spoke. 
 The noisy friend upon her purpose broke ; 
 To her remarks with insolence replied, 
 And her assertions doubted or denied : 
 While the meek Anna like an infant shook, 
 Woe-struck and trembling at the serpent's look 
 
 " There is," said Stafford, " yes, there is a 
 cause — 
 " This creature frights her, overpowers, and awes." 
 Six weeks had pass'd — " In truth, my love, this 
 
 friend 
 " Has liberal notions ; what does she intend ? 
 " Without a hint she came, and will she stay 
 " Till she receives the hint to go away ?" 
 
 Confused the Wife replied, in spite of truth, 
 " I love the dear companion of my youth." 
 " 'T is well," said Stafford ; " then your loves re- 
 new: 
 " Trust me, your rivals, Anna, will be few." 
 
 Though playful this, she felt too much distress'd 
 T' admit the consolation of a jest. 
 Ill she reposed, and in her dreams would sigh, 
 And, murmuring forth her anguish, beg to die ; 
 With sunken eye, slow pace, and pallid check. 
 She look'd confusion, and she fear'd to speak. 
 
 All this the Friend beheld, for, quick of sight, 
 She knew the husband eager for her flight ; 
 And that by force alone she could retain 
 The lasting comforts she had hope to gain. 
 She now perceived, to win her post for life, 
 She must infuse fresh terrors in the wife ; 
 Must bid to friendship's feebler ties adieu. 
 And boldly claim the object in her view : 
 She saw the husband's love, and knew the power 
 Her friend might use in some propitious hour. 
 
 IMcantime the anxious Wife, from pure distress 
 Assuming courage, said, " I will confess;" 
 But with her children felt a parent's pride. 
 And sought once more the hated truth to hide. 
 
 Offended, grieved, impatient, Stafford bore 
 The odious change, till he could bear no more : 
 A friend to truth, in speech and action plain, 
 He held all fraud and cunning in disdain ; 
 But fraud to find, and falsehood to detect. 
 For once he fled to measures indirect. 
 
346 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 One day the Friends were seated in that room 
 The Guest with care adorn'd, and named her liome : 
 To please the eye, there curious prints were placed, 
 And some light volumes to amuse the taste ; 
 Letters and music on a table laid, 
 The favourite studies of the fair betray 'd ; 
 Beneath the window was the toilet spread, 
 And the fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed. 
 
 In Anna's looks and falling tears were seen 
 How interesting had their subjects been : 
 " Oh ! then," resumed the Friend, " I plainly find 
 " That you and Stafford know each other's mind ; 
 " I must depart, must on the world be thrown, 
 " Like one discarded, worthless, and unknown ; 
 " But, shall I carry, and to please a foe, 
 " A painful secret in my bosom ? No ! 
 " Think not your Friend a reptile you may tread 
 " Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead • 
 " I have some feeling, and will not be made 
 " The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade : 
 " Would not your word, your slightest wish, effect 
 " All that I hope, petition, or expect ? 
 " The power you have, but you the use decline — 
 " Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine. 
 " There was a time when I, a tender maid, 
 " Flew at a call, and your desires obej-'d ; 
 " A very mother to the child became, 
 " Consoled your sorrow, and conceal'd your shame ; 
 " But now, grown rich and happj', from the door 
 " You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor ; 
 " That child alive, its mother might have known 
 " The hard, ungrateful spirit she has shown." 
 
 Here paused the Guest, and Anna ci-ied at 
 length — 
 " You try me, cruel friend ! beyond my strength : 
 " AVould I had been beside my infant laid, 
 " "Where none would ve.K me, threaten, or up- 
 braid ! " 
 
 In Anna's looks the Friend beheld despair ; 
 Her speech she soften'd, and composed her air ; 
 Yet, while professing love, she answer'd still — 
 " You can befi-iend me, but you want the will." 
 They parted thus, and Anna went her way, 
 To shed her secret sorrovrs, and to pray. 
 
 Stafibrd, amused with books, and fond of home 
 By reading oft dispell'd the evening gloom ; 
 History or tale— all heard him with deliglit. 
 And thus was pass'd this memorable niglit. 
 
 The listening Friend bestow'd a flattering smile : 
 A sleeping boy the mother held the while ; 
 And ere she fondly bore him to his bed. 
 On his fair face the tear of anguish shed. 
 
 And now his task resumed, " My tale," said he 
 " Is short and sad, short may our sadness be !" 
 
 " The Caliph Harun," as historians tell, 
 " Kuled, for a tyrant, admirably well ; 
 
 "> The sovcrei(;n linro me.-int is thr Ilaroun Alrnscliiil, or 
 Ilanin al Kasiliid, who (lied early in the ninth century : lie 
 
 " Where his own pleasures were not touch'd, to men 
 
 " Ue was humane, and sometimes even then. 
 
 *' Ilarun was fond of fruits and gardens fair, 
 
 " And woe to all whom, he found poaching there : 
 
 " Among his pages was a lively Boy, 
 
 " Eager in search of every trifling joy ; 
 
 " His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong, 
 
 " He sigh'd for pleasure while he shrank from 
 
 MTong : 
 " When by the Caliph in the garden placed, 
 " He saw the treasures which he long'd to taste ; 
 " And oft alone he ventured to behold 
 " Ilich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold ; 
 " Too long he stay'd forbidden bliss to view, 
 " His virtue failing as his longirtgs grew ; 
 " Athirst and wearied with the noontide heat, 
 " Fate to the garden led his luckless feet ; 
 " With eager eyes and open mouth he stood, 
 " Smelt the sweet breath, and touch'd the fragrant 
 
 food ; 
 " The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun 
 " Charm'd his young sense — he ate, and was un- 
 done ; 
 " When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around 
 " He turn'd, and eyes upon him turning found; 
 " Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page, 
 '• A fi'iend allied in office and in age ; 
 " Who promised much that secret he would be, 
 " But high the price he fi.\'d on secrecy. 
 
 " ' Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,' 
 " Began the Boy, ' where would your sorrows end ? 
 " ' In all the palace there is not a page 
 " ' The Caliph would not torture in his rage : 
 " ' I think I see thee now impaled alive, 
 "'Writhing in pangs — but come, my friend! 
 
 revive ; 
 " ' Had some beheld you, all your purse contains 
 " ' Could not have saved j'ou from terrific pains ; 
 " ' I scorn such meanness ; and, if not in debt, 
 " ' AVould not an asper on your folly set.' 
 
 " The hint was strong ; young Osmyn search'd 
 
 his store 
 " For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no 
 
 more ; 
 " That time arrived, for Osmyn's stock M'as small, 
 " And the young tyrant now posscss'd it all ; 
 " The cruel youth, with his companions near, 
 " Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear ; 
 " Th' ungenerous insult now was daily shown, 
 " And Osmyn's peace and honest pride were flown ; 
 " Then came augmenting woes, and fancy strong 
 " Drew forms of suffering, a tormenting throng ; 
 " He felt degraded, and the struggling mind 
 " Dar-od not be free, and could not be resign'd ; 
 " And all his pains and fervent prayers obtain'd 
 " Was truce from insult, while the fears remain'd. 
 
 " One day it chanced that this degraded Boy 
 " And Tj'rant-friend were fi.x'd at their employ ; 
 " Who now had thrown restraint and form aside, 
 " And for his bribe in plainer speech applied : 
 
 is often the hearer, and sometimes the hero, of a tale in the 
 
 Arabian Niglits' Entertainments. 
 
TALE XVII.-RESENTMENT. 
 
 347 
 
 " * Long have I waited, and the last supply 
 " ' Was but a pittance, j'et how patient I ! 
 " ' But give me now what thy first terrors gave, 
 " ' My speech shall praise thee, and my silence 
 save.' 
 
 " Osmyn had found, in many a dreadful day, 
 " The tyrant fiercer when he seem'd in play : 
 " He begg'd forbearance : ' I have not to give ; 
 " ' Spare mc awhile, although 't is pain to live : 
 " ' Oh ! had that stolen fruit the power possess'd 
 " ' To war with life, I now had been at rest.' 
 
 " ' So fond of death,' replied the Boy, ' 't is plain 
 " ' Thou hast no certain notion of the pain ; 
 '• ' But to the Caliph were a secret shown, 
 " ' Death has no pain that would be then un- 
 known.' 
 
 " Now," says the story, " in a closet near, 
 " The monarch seated, chanced the boys to hear ; 
 '' There oft he came, when wearied on his throne, 
 '• To read, sleep, listen, pray, or be alone. 
 
 " The tale proceeds, when first the Caliph 
 found 
 " That he was robb'd, although alone, he fro^vn'd ; 
 " And swore in wrath that he would send the boy 
 " Far from his notice, favour, or employ ; 
 " But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind, 
 " And his own failings taught him to be kind. 
 
 " Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young, 
 " His passion urgent, and temptation strong ; 
 " And that he sufFer'd from that villain-Spy 
 " Pains worse than death, till he desired to die ; 
 " Then if his morals had received a stain, 
 " His bitter sorrows made him pure agaiu : 
 '• To reason, pity lent her powerful aid, 
 " For one so tempted, troubled, and betray'd: 
 " And a free pardon the glad Boy restored 
 '• To the kind presence of a gentle lord ; 
 " "Who from his office and his country drove 
 " That traitor-Friend, whom pains nor j)ray'rs 
 
 could move : 
 " Who raised the fears no mortal could endure, 
 " And then with cruel av'rice sold the cure. 
 
 " My tale is ended ; but, to be applied, 
 " I must describe the place where Caliphs hide." 
 
 Here both the females look'd alarm'd, distress'd, 
 With hurried passions hard to be express'd. 
 
 " It was a closet by a chamber placed, 
 •' Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste ; 
 
 ^ [" ' The Confidant' is interesting, though not altCf<ether 
 pleasing. A fair one makes a slip at the early af;e of lifteen, 
 which is concealed from every one but her mother and a 
 sentimental friend from whom she could conceal nothinj;. 
 Her after life is pure and exemplary ; and at twenty-five she 
 is married to a worthy man, with whom she lives in perfect 
 innocence and concord for many happy years. At last the 
 confidantof her childhood, whose lot has been less prosperous, 
 starts up and importunes her for money — not forgetting to 
 liint at the fatal secret of which she is the depository. After 
 :u,'onizing and plundering her for years, slie at last comes and 
 settles herself in her liouse, and embitters lier whole existence 
 by her selfish threats and ungenerous extortions. The hus- 
 
 " Her friend attended in that chosen room 
 
 " That she had honour'd and proclaim'd her 
 
 home ; 
 " To please the eye were chosen pictures placed, 
 " And some light volumes to amuse the taste ; 
 " Letters and music on a table laid, 
 " For much the lady wrote, and often play'd : 
 " Beneath the window was a toilet spread, 
 " And a fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed." 
 
 He paused, he rose ; with troubled joy the Wife 
 Felt the new era of her changeful life ; 
 Frankness and love appear'd in Stafford's face, 
 And all her trouble to delight gave place. 
 
 Twice made the Guest an effort to sustain 
 Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain. 
 Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support 
 
 her pain : 
 Quick she retired, and all the dismal night 
 Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight ; 
 Then sought unseen her miserable home. 
 To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to 
 
 come.^ 
 
 TALE XVIL 
 
 RESENTMENT. 
 
 She hath a tear for pity, and a hand 
 
 Open as day for melting charity ; 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, is flint : 
 
 Her temper, therefore, must be well observed. 
 
 2 Henry ir. 
 
 Three or four wenches where I stood cried— " Alas ! good 
 soul !" and forgave him with all tlieir hearts ; but there is 
 no heed to be taken of them ; if Ciusar had stabbed their 
 mothers, tliey would have done no less." — Julius Ccaar. 
 
 How dost ? Art cold ? 
 I'm cold myself. — Where is the straw, my fellow ? 
 The art of our necessities is strange. 
 That can make vile things precious. Lear. 
 
 Females there are of unsuspicious mind. 
 Easy and soft, and credulous and kind ; 
 Who, when offended for the twentieth time. 
 Will hear th' ofi"ender and forgive the crime : 
 And there are others whom, like these to cheat. 
 Asks but the humblest effort of deceit ; 
 
 band, who had been greatly disturbed at the change in his 
 w ife's temper and spirits, at last accidentally overhears enough 
 to put him in possession of the fact ; and resolving to forgi\ e 
 a fault so long past and so well repaired, takes occasion to 
 intimate his knowledge of it, and his disdain of the false 
 conlidant, in an ingenious apologue, — which, however, is 
 plain enough to drive the pestilent visitor from his house, 
 and to restore peace and confidence to the bosom of his grate- 
 ful wife." — Jeffeky.] 
 
 1 [It is understood that this tale was suggested by some 
 realities in the history of Mrs. Elmy, the mother of the 
 Poet's wife.] 
 
348 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 But the}', once injured, feci a strong disdain, 
 And, seldom pardoning, never trust again ; 
 Urged by religion, they forgive — but yet 
 Guard the warm heart, and never more forget : 
 Those are like Max — apply them to the fire, 
 Melting, they take th' impressions you desire ; 
 Easy to mould and fashion as you please, 
 And again moulded with an equal ease : 
 Like smelted iron tliese the forms retain, 
 But, once impress'd, will never melt again. 
 
 A busy port a serious Merchant made 
 His chosen place to recommence his trads ; 
 And brought his Lady, who, their children dead, 
 Their native seat of recent sorrow fled : 
 The husband duly on the quay was seen, 
 The wife at home became at length serene ; 
 There in short time the social couple grew 
 "With all acquainted, friendly with a few ; 
 \Vhen the good lady, by disease assail'd, 
 In vain resisted — hope and science fail'd : 
 Then spake the female friends, by pity led, 
 " Poor merchant Paul I what think ye ? will he 
 
 wed ? 
 " A quiet, easy, kind, religious man, 
 " Thus can he rest ? — I wonder if he can." 
 
 He too, as grief subsided in his mind, 
 Gave place to notions of congenial kind : 
 Grave was the man, as we have told before ; 
 His years were forty — he might pass for more ; 
 Composed his features were, his stature low, 
 His air important, and his motion slow : 
 His dress became him, it was neat and plain. 
 The colour purple, and without a stain ; 
 His words were few, and special was his care 
 In simplest terms his purpose to declare ; 
 A man more civil, sober, and discreet, 
 More grave and courteous, you could seldom 
 
 meet: 
 Though frugal he, yet sumptuous was his board. 
 As if to prove how much he could afford ; 
 For thougli reserved himself, he loved to see 
 His table plenteous, and his neighbours free : 
 Among these friends he sat in solemn style. 
 And rarely soften'd to a sober smile : 
 For this, observant friends their reasons gave — 
 " Concerns so vast would make the idlest grave ; 
 " And for such man to be of language free, 
 " Would seem incongruous as a singing tree : 
 " Trees have their music, but tlie birds they 
 
 sliield 
 " The pleasing tribute for protection yield ; 
 " Each ample tree the tuneful choir defends, 
 " As this rich Merchant cheers his happy 
 
 friends !" 
 
 In the same town it was his chance to meet 
 A gentle Lady, with a mind discreet; 
 Neither in life's decline, nor bloom of youth. 
 One famed for maiden modesty and truth : 
 By nature cool, in pious habits bred. 
 She look'd on lovers with a virgin's dread: 
 Deceivers, rakes, and libertines were they. 
 And harmless beauty their pursuit and prey ; 
 As bad as giants in the ancient times 
 AVere modern lovers, and the same their crimes : 
 
 Soon as she heard of her all-conquering charms, 
 At once she fled to her defensive arms ; 
 Conn'd o'er the talcs her maiden aunt had told, 
 And, statue like, was motionless and cold : 
 From prayer of love, like that Pygmalion pray'd. 
 Ere the hard stone became the j'ielding maid,'- 
 A different change in this chaste nymph ensued, 
 And turn'd to stone the breathing flesh and blood : 
 "Whatever youth described his wounded heart, 
 " He came to rob her, and she scorn'd his art ; 
 " And who of raptures once presumed to speak, 
 " Told listening maids he thought them fond and 
 
 weak ; 
 " But should a worthy man his hopes display 
 " In few plain words, and beg a yes or way, 
 " He would deserve an answer just and plain, 
 " Since adulation only moved disdain — 
 " Sir, if my friends object not, come again." 
 
 Hence, our grave Lover, though he liked the 
 
 face. 
 Praised not a feature — dwelt not on a grace ; 
 But in the simplest terms declared his state : 
 " A widow'd man, v\-ho wish'd a virtuous mate ; 
 " "Who fear'd neglect, and was compell'd to trust 
 " Dependants wasteful, idle, or unjust ; 
 " Or should they not the trusted stores destroy, 
 " At best, they could not help him to enjoy ; 
 " But with her person and her prudence bless'd, 
 " His acts would prosper, and his soul have rest : 
 " "Would she be his?" — " Why, that was much to 
 
 say ; 
 " She would consider; lie awhile might stay : 
 " She liked his manners, and believed his word ; 
 " He did not flatter, flattery she abhorr'd : 
 " It was her happy lot in peace to dwell — 
 " Would change make better what was now so 
 
 well 'i 
 " But she would ponder." " This," he said, " was 
 
 kind ;" 
 And begg'd to know " when she had fi.x'd her 
 
 mind." 
 
 Romantic maidens would have scorn'd the air, 
 And the cool prudence of a mind so fair ; 
 But well it pleased this wiser maid to find 
 Her own mild virtues in her lover's mind. 
 
 His worldly wealth she sought, and quickly grew 
 Pleased with her search, and happy in the view 
 Of vessels freighted with abundant stores, 
 Of rooms whose treasures press'd the groaning 
 
 floors ; 
 And he of clerks and servants could display 
 A little army on a public day : 
 Was this a man like needy bard to speak 
 Of balmy lip, bright eye, or rosy cheek ? 
 
 The sum appointed for her widow'd state, 
 Fix'd by her friend, excited no debate ; 
 Then the kind lady gave her hand and heart. 
 And, never finding, njver dealt with art : 
 
 ' " Almighty {rods, if all wc mortnls want, 
 If .ill we can reiiuiri', )«• yours to ^ruit ; 
 Make this fair statue mine, lie woulil liave said, 
 Hut cliauijcd liis words for shame, and only pray'd — 
 Give me the likeness of ray ivory maid." — DavDJiN. 
 
TALE XVII.— RESENTMENT. 
 
 349 
 
 In his engagements she had no concern ; 
 
 He taught her not, nor had she wish to learn : 
 
 On him in all occasions she relied, 
 
 llis word her surety, and his worth her pride. 
 
 When ship was launch'd, and merchant Paul had 
 share, 
 A bounteous feast became the lady's care ; 
 Who then her entry to the dinner made, 
 lu costly raiment, and witli kind parade. 
 
 Call'd by this duty on a certain day. 
 And robed to grace it in a rich array. 
 Forth from her room, with measured step she 
 
 came. 
 Proud of th' event, and stately look'd the dame : 
 The husband met her at his study-door — 
 " This w'ay, my love — one moment, and no more : 
 " A trifling business — you will understand — 
 " The law requires that you affix your hand ; 
 " But first attend, and you shall learn the cause 
 " AVhy forms like these have been prescribed by 
 
 laws." 
 Then from his chair a man in black arose. 
 And with much quickness hurried off his prose — 
 Tliat " Ellen Paul, the wife, and so forth, freed 
 " From all control, her own the act and deed, 
 
 " And forasmuch" said she, "I've no distrust, 
 
 " For he that asks it is discreet and just ; 
 
 '■ Our friends are waiting — where am I to sign ? — 
 
 " There ! Now be ready when we meet to 
 
 dine." 
 
 This said, she hurried off in great delight. 
 The ship was launch'd, and joyful was the night. 
 
 Now, says the reader, and in much disdain. 
 This serious Merchant was a rogue in grain ; 
 A treacherous wretch, an artful sober knave. 
 And ten times worse for manners cool and grave ; 
 And she devoid of sense, to set her hand 
 To scoundrel deeds she could not understand. 
 
 Alas ! 't is true ; and I in vain had tried 
 To soften crime that cannot be denied ; 
 And might have labour'd many a tedious verse 
 The latent cause of mischief to rehearse : 
 Be it confess'd, that long, with troubled look. 
 This Trader view'd a huge accompting-book ; 
 (His former marriage for a time delay'd 
 The dreaded hour, the present lent its aid ;) 
 But he too clearly saw the evil day. 
 And put the terror, by deceit, away ; 
 Thus, by connecting with his sorrows crime. 
 He gain'd a portion of uneasy time. — 
 All this too late the injured Lady saw ; 
 What law had given, again she gave to law ; 
 llis guilt, her folly — these at once impress'd 
 Their lasting feelings on her guileless breast. 
 
 " Shame I can bear," she cried, "and want sus- 
 tain, 
 " But will not see this guilty wretch again :" 
 I'or all was lost, and he with many a tear 
 Confess'd the fault — she turning scorn'd to hear. 
 To legal claims he yielded all his worth. 
 But small the portion, and the wrong'd were wroth, 
 
 Tsor to their debtor would a part allow ; 
 
 And where to live he knew not — knew not how. 
 
 The Wife a cottage found, and thither went 
 The suppliant man, but she would not relent : 
 Thenceforth she utter'd with indignant tone, 
 " I feel the misery, and will feel alone." 
 He would turn servant for her sake, would keep 
 The poorest school, the very streets would sweep. 
 To show his love. " It was already shown, 
 " And her afiiiction should be all her own : 
 " His wants and weakness might ha^'e touch'd her 
 
 heart, 
 " But from his meanness she resolved to part." 
 
 In a small alley was she lodged, beside 
 Its humblest poor, and at the view she cried, 
 " Welcome — yes ! let me welcome, if I can, 
 " The fortune dealt me by this cruel man : 
 " Welcome this low thatch'd roof, this shatter'd 
 
 door, 
 " These walls of clay, this miserable floor ; 
 " Welcome my envied neighbours ; this to you 
 " Is all familiar — all to me is new : 
 " You have no hatred to the loathsome meal, 
 " Your firmer nerves no trembling terrors feel, 
 " Nor, what you must expose, desire you to con- 
 ceal ; 
 " What your coarse feelings bear without offence, 
 " Disgusts my taste and poisons every sense : 
 " Daily shall I your sad relations hear 
 " Of wanton women and of men severe ; 
 " There will dire curses, dreadful oaths abound, 
 " And vile expressions shock me and confound : 
 " Noise of dull wheels, and songs with horrid words, 
 " Will be the music that this lane affords ; 
 " Mirth that disgusts, and quarrels that degrade 
 " The human mind, must my retreat invade : 
 " Hard is my fate ! j'et easier to sustain, 
 " Than to abide with guilt and fraud again ; 
 " A grave impostor ! who expects to meet, 
 " In such grey locks and gravity, deceit? 
 " AVhere the sea rages and the billows roar, 
 " INlen know the danger, and they quit the shore ; 
 " But, be there nothing in the way descried, 
 " When o'er the rocks smooth runs the wicked 
 
 tide — 
 " Sinking unwarn'd, they execrate the shock 
 " And the dread peril of the sunken rock." 
 
 A frowning world had now the man to dread, 
 Taught in no arts, to no profession bred : 
 Pining in grief, beset with constant care. 
 Wandering he went, to rest he knew not where. 
 
 Meantime the Wife — but she abjured the name — 
 Endured her lot, and struggled with the shame ; 
 When, lo I an uncle on the mother's side. 
 In nature something, as in blood allied, 
 Admired her firmness, his protection gave. 
 And show'd a kindness she disdain'd to crave. 
 
 Frugal and rich the man, and frugal grew 
 The sister-mind without a selfish view ; 
 And further still — the temp'rate pair agreed 
 With what they saved the patient poor to feed : 
 His whole estate, when to the grave consign'd. 
 Left the good kinsman to the kindred mind ; 
 
350 
 
 CIIABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Assured that law, witli spell securo and tight, 
 Had fix'd it as her own peculiar right. 
 
 Now to her ancient residence removed. 
 She lived as widow, well endowed and loved ; 
 Decent her table was, and to her door 
 Came daily welcomed the neglected poor : 
 The absen . sick were soothed by her relief. 
 As her free bounty sought the haunts of grief ; 
 A plain and homely charity had she, 
 And loved tlie objects of her alms to see ; 
 With her own hands she dress'd the savoury meat, 
 "With her own fingers wrote the choice receipt ; 
 She heard all tides that injured wives relate, 
 And took a dou ble interest in their fate ; 
 But of all husbtnds not a wretch was known 
 So vile, so mear, so cruel as her own. 
 
 This bounteous Lady kept an active spy, 
 To search th' abodes of want, and to supply ; 
 The gentle Susdii served the liberal dame — 
 Unlike their notions, yet their deeds the same : 
 No practised villain could a victim find 
 Than this stern Lady more completely blind ; 
 Nor (if detected in his fraud) could meet 
 One less disposed to pardon a deceit ; 
 The MTong she treasured, and on no pretence 
 Keceived th' offender, or forgot th' offence : 
 But the kind Servant, to the thrice-proved knave 
 A fourth time listen'd, and the past forgave. 
 
 First in her youth, when she was blithe and gay, 
 Came a smooth rogue, and stole her love away ; 
 Then to another and another flew, 
 To boast the wanton mischief he could do : 
 Yet she forgave him, though so great her pain. 
 That she was never blithe or gay again. 
 
 Then came a spoiler, who, with villain-art, 
 Implored her hand, and agonized her heart ; 
 He seized her purse, in idle waste to spend 
 With a vile wanton, whom she call'd her friend ; 
 Five years she suffer'd — he had revell'd five — 
 Then came to show her he was just alive ; 
 Alone he came, his vile companion dead. 
 And he, a wand'ring pauper, wanting bread ; 
 His body wasted, wither'd life and limb. 
 When this kind soul became a slave to him : 
 Nay, she was sure that, should he now survive, 
 No better husband would be left alive ; 
 For him she mourn'd, and then, alone and poor. 
 Sought and found comfort at her Lady's door : 
 Ten years she serveil, and, mercy her employ, 
 Her tasks were pleasure, and her duty joy. 
 
 Thus lived the Mistress and the Maid, design'd 
 Each other's aid — one cautious, and botli kind : 
 f)ft at their window, working, they would sigh 
 To see the aged and the sick go by ; 
 Like wounded bees, that at their home arrive 
 Slowly and weak, but labouring for the hive. 
 
 The busy people of a mason's yard 
 The curious Lady view'd witli much regard : 
 With steady motion she perceived them draw 
 Through blocks of stone the slowly-workiug saw ; 
 ]t gave her pleasure and surprise to see 
 Among these men the signs of revelry : 
 
 Cold was the season, and confined their view. 
 Tedious their tasks, but merry were the crew: 
 There she beheld an aged pauper wait, 
 Patient and still, to take an humble freight ; 
 Within the panniers on an ass he laid 
 The ponderous grit, and for the portion paid ; 
 This he re-sold, and, with each trifling gift. 
 Made shift to live, and wretched was the shift. 
 
 Now will it be by every reader told 
 Who was this humble trader, poor and old. — 
 In vain an author would a name suppress, 
 Fi'om the least hint a reader leai-ns to guess ; 
 Of children lost, our novels sometimes treat. 
 We never care — assured again to meet : 
 In vain the writer for concealment tries. 
 We trace his purpose under all disguise ; 
 Nay, though he tells us they are dead and gone. 
 Of whom we wot, they will appear anon ; 
 Our favourites fight, are wounded, hopeless lie. 
 Survive they cannot — nay, they cannot die ; 
 Now, as these tricks and stratagems are known, 
 'Tis best, at once, the simple truth to own. 
 
 This was the Husband — in an humble shed 
 He nightlj' slept, and daily sought his bread : 
 Once for relief the weary man applied ; 
 " Your wife is rich," the angry vestry cried : 
 Alas ! he dared not to his wife complain, 
 Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain : 
 By various methods he had tried to live. 
 But not one effort would subsistence give : 
 He was an usher in a school, till noise 
 Made him less able than the weaker boys ; 
 On messages he went, till he in vain 
 Strove names, or words, or meanings to retain; 
 Each small employment in each neighbouring 
 
 town. 
 By turn he took, to lay as quickly do^vn : 
 For, such his fate, he fail'd in all he plaun'd. 
 And nothing prosper'd in his luckless hand. 
 
 At his old home, his motive half supprcss'd, 
 He sought no more for riches, but for rest : 
 There lived the bounteous Wife, and at her gate 
 He saw in cheerful gi'oups the needy wait ; 
 " Had he a right with bolder hope t' apply ?" 
 He ask'd — was answer'd, and went groaning by : 
 For some remains of spirit, temper, pride. 
 Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied. 
 
 Thus was the grieving man, with burthen'd ass, 
 Seen day by day along the street to pass : 
 " Who is he, Susan ? who the poor old man ? 
 " He never calls — do make him, if you can." 
 The conscious damsel still delay'd to speak, 
 She stopp'd confused, and had her words to seek ; 
 From Susan's fears the fact her mistress knew. 
 And cried — " The \\Tetch ! what scheme has he in 
 
 view ? 
 " Is this his lot? — but let him, let him feel — 
 " Wlio wants the courage, not the will, to steal." 
 
 A dreadful winter came, each day severe, 
 IMisty when mild, and icy cold when clear; 
 And still the humble dealer took his load, 
 Returning slow, and shivering on the road : 
 
TALE XVII.— RESENTMENT. 
 
 351 
 
 Tlic Lady, still relentless, saw him come, 
 And said — " I wonder, has the wretch a home ? " — 
 " A hut ! a hovel !" " Then his fate appears 
 " To suit his crime." — " Yes, lady, not his 
 years ; — 
 
 No! 
 
 nor 
 
 his 
 
 sufferings- 
 
 -nor that form de- 
 
 cay'd." 
 
 " Well ! let the parish give its paupers aid : 
 " You must the vileness of his acts allow." — 
 " And you, dear lady, that he feels it now." 
 " When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect, 
 " Can they the pity they refused expect ? 
 " He that doth evil, evil shall he dread." — 
 " The snow," quoth Susan, " falls upon his bed — 
 " It blows beside the thatch — it melts upon his 
 
 head." 
 " 'Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to 
 
 feel."— 
 " Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal ; 
 " Through his bare dress appears his shrivell'd 
 
 skin, 
 " And ill he fares without, and worse within : 
 " With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow, 
 " What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer 
 
 know I" 
 " Think on his crime." — " Yes, sure 't was very 
 
 wrong ; 
 " But look (God bless him !) how he gropes 
 
 along." 
 " Brought me to shame." — " Oh ! yes, I know it 
 
 all— 
 " What cutting blast ! and he can scarcely crawl ; 
 " He freezes as he moves — he dies ! if he should 
 
 fall : 
 " With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet — 
 " And must a Christian perish in the street, 
 " In sight of Christians? — There! at last, he 
 
 lies ; — 
 " Nor unsupported can he ever rise : 
 " He cannot live." " But is he fit to die ?"— 
 Here Susan softlj' mutter'd a reply, 
 Look'd round the room — said something of its 
 
 state, 
 Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate ; 
 And then aloud — " In pity do behold 
 " The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold : 
 " Oh ! how those flakes of snow their entrance win 
 " Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within. 
 " His very heart seems frozen as he goes, 
 " Leading that starved companion of his woes : 
 " He tried to pray — his lips, I saw them move, 
 " And he so turn'd his piteous looks above ; 
 " But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed, 
 " And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed : 
 " Poor suffering object ! yes, for ease you pray'd, 
 " And God will hear — He only, I'm afraid." 
 
 " Peace ! Susan, peace ! pain ever follows sin." — 
 "Ah! then," thought Susan, "when will ours 
 
 begin ? 
 "When reach'd his home, to what a cheerless fire 
 " And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire ! 
 " Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed 
 " Takes half the space of his contracted shed ; 
 " I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate, 
 " With straw collected in a putrid state : 
 " There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise, 
 " And that will warm him, rather than the blaze : 
 
 " The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last 
 
 " One moment after his attem])t is past : 
 
 " And I so warmly and so purely laid, 
 
 " To sink to rest — indeed, I am afraid." 
 
 " Know you his conduct ?" — " Yes, indeed I 
 
 know, 
 " And how he wanders in the wind and snow ; 
 " Safe in our rooms the threat'ning storm we hear, 
 " But he feels strongly what we faintly fear." 
 " Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied ; 
 " Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide," 
 Said the stern Lady ; " 't is in vain to feel ; 
 " Go and prepare the chicken for our meal." 
 
 Susan her task reluctantly began. 
 And utter'd as she went — " The poor old man !" 
 But while her soft and ever-yielding heart 
 Made strong protest against her lady's part, 
 The lady's self began to think it wrong 
 To feel so wrathful and resent so long. 
 
 " No more the wretch would she receive again, 
 " No more behold him — but she would sustain ; 
 " Great his offence, and evil was his mind — 
 " But he had suffer'd, and she would be kind : 
 " She spurn'd such baseness, and she found within 
 " A fair acquittal from so foul a sin ; 
 " Yet she too err'd, and must of Heaven expect 
 " To be rejected, him should she reject." 
 
 Susan was summon'd — " I'm about to do 
 A foolish act, in part seduced by you ; 
 Go to the creature — say that I intend. 
 Foe to his sins, to be his sorrow's friend : 
 Take, for his present comforts, food and wine. 
 And mark his feelings at this act of mine : 
 Observe if shame be o'er his features spread, 
 By his own victim to be soothed and fed ; 
 But, this inform him, that it is not love 
 That prompts my heart, that duties only move : 
 Say, that no merits in his favour plead. 
 But miseries only, and his abject need ; 
 Nor bring me grov'ling thanks, nor high-flown 
 
 praise ; 
 I would his spirits, not his fancy, raise : 
 Give him no hope that 1 shall ever more 
 A man so vile to my esteem restore ; 
 But warn him rather, that, in time of rest, 
 His crimes be all remember'd and confess'd : 
 I know not all that form the sinner's debt. 
 But there is one that he must not forget." 
 
 The mind of Susan prompted her with speed 
 To act her part in every courteous deed : 
 All that was kind she was prepared to say. 
 And keep the lecture for a future day ; 
 When he had all life's comforts by his side. 
 Pity might sleep, and good advice be tried. 
 
 This done, the mistress felt disposed to look, 
 As self-approving, on a pious book ; 
 Y'et, to her native bias still inclined. 
 She felt her act too merciful and kind : 
 But M'hcn, long musing on the chilling scene 
 So lately past — the frost and sleet so keen — 
 The man's whole misery in a smgle view — 
 Yes ! she could think some pity was his due. 
 
S£2 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Thus fix'd, she heard not her attendant glide 
 "With soft slow step — till, standing by her side, 
 The trembling servant gasp'd for breath, and shed 
 Relieving tears, then utter'd, " He is dead !" 
 
 " Dead !" said the startled Lady. — " Yes, he fell 
 " Close at the door where he was wont to dwell ; 
 " There his sole friend, the Ass, was standing by, 
 " Half dead himself, to see his Master die." 
 
 " Expired he then, good Heaven ! for want of 
 food ?"— 
 " No ! crusts and water in a comer stood : — 
 " To have this plenty, and to wait so long, 
 " And to be right too late, is doubly wrong : 
 " Then, every day to see him totter by, 
 " And to forbear— Oh ! what a heart had I !" 
 
 " Blame me not, child ; I tremble at the news." 
 " 'T is my own heart," said Susan, " I accuse : 
 " To have this money in my purse — to know 
 " "What grief was his, and what to grief we owe ; 
 " To see him often, always to conceive 
 " How he must pine and languish, groan and grieve, 
 " And every day in case and peace to dine, 
 " And rest in comfort ! — Vriiat a heart is mine !" ^ 
 
 TALE XVIII. 
 
 THE WAGER. 
 
 "Tis thought your deer doth liold you at a bay. 
 
 I choose her for myself; 
 If she and I are pleased, what 's that to you ? 
 
 Let 's send each one to liis wife, 
 And he whose wife is most obedient 
 Sliall win the wager. 
 
 Now by the world it is a lusty wencli, 
 I love ner ten times more than e'er I did. 
 
 Tarn ing of the Shrew. 
 
 Counter and Clubb were men in trade, whose 
 
 pains, 
 Credit, and prudence, brought them constant gains; 
 Partners and punctual, every friend agreed 
 Counter and Clubb were men who must succeed. 
 
 3 [' Resentment' is one of the pieces in wliich Mr. Crabbe 
 has exercised his extraordinary i;o»ers of givinj^ pain, — ttiougii 
 not gratuitouslv in tliis instance, nor witliout inculcating a 
 strons; lesson of forgiveness and compassion. A middle-aged 
 merchant marries a lady of good fortune, and persuades her 
 to make it all over to him when he is on the eve of 
 bankruptcy. He is reduced to niter begg^iry : and his wife, 
 bitterly and deeply resentinj; the wrony he had done her, 
 renounces all connection with him, and endures her own 
 reverses with magnanimity. At last a distant relation leaves 
 her his fortune ; and she returns to the enjoyment of mo- 
 derate wealth, and the exercise of charity to all but her 
 miserable husband. Broken by age and disease, he now begs 
 the wa-ste sand from the gtone-cuttcrs, and sells it on an lus 
 tliKMigli tho streets : — 
 
 When they had fix'd some little time in life. 
 
 Each thought of taking to himself a wife : 
 
 As men in trade alike, as men in love, 
 
 They seem'd with no according views to move; 
 
 As certain ores in outward view the same. 
 
 They show'd their difference when the magnet 
 
 came. 
 Counter was vain : with spirit strong and high, 
 'T was not in him like suppliant swain to sigh : 
 " His wife might o'er his men and maids preside, 
 '' And in her province be a judge and guide ; 
 " But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do, 
 " She must not know, or censure if she knew ; 
 " At home, abroad, by day, by night, if he 
 " On aught dolermined, so it was to be : 
 '• How is a man," he ask'd, " for business fit, 
 " Who to a female can his will submit ? 
 " Absent a while, let no inquiring eye 
 " Or plainer speech presume to question why : 
 " But all be silent , and, when seen again, 
 " Let all be cheerful — shall a wife complain ? 
 " Friends I invite, and who shall dare t' object, 
 " Or look on them with coolness or neglect ? 
 " No ! I must ever of my house be head, 
 " And, thus obey'd, I condescend to wed." 
 
 Clubb heard the speech — " My friend is nice, 
 said he ; 
 " A wife with less respect will do for me : 
 " How is he certain such a prize to gain ? 
 " What he approves, a lass may learn to feign, 
 " And so affect t' obey till she begins to reign ; 
 " A while complying, she may vary then, 
 " And be as wives of more unwary men ; 
 " Beside, to him who plays such lordly part, 
 " How shall a tender creature j'ield her heart ; 
 '• Should he the promised confidence refuse, 
 " She may another more confiding choose ; 
 " May show her anger, yet her purpose hide, 
 " And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride. 
 " In one so humbled, who can trace the friend ? 
 " I on an equal, not a slave, depend ; 
 " If true, my confidence is wisely placed, 
 " And being false, she only is disgraced." 
 
 Clubb, Avith these notions, cast his eye around 
 And one so easy soon a partner found. 
 The lady chosen was of good repute ; 
 Meekness she had not, and was seldom mute ; 
 Though quick to anger, still slie loved to smile. 
 And would be calm if men would wait a while : 
 She knew her duty, and she loved her way. 
 More pleased in truth to govern than obey ; 
 
 " And from each trifling gift 
 Made shift to live — and wretched was the shift." 
 
 TTie unrelenting wife descries him creeping through the wet 
 at this miserable employment ; but still withholds all relief, 
 in spite of the touching entreaties of her compassionate 
 handmaid, whose nature is as kind and yielding, as that ol 
 her mistress is hard and inllexible. Of all tho pictures 
 of mendicant poverty that have ever been brouglit forward 
 in prose or verse — in charity sermons or popuhu' harangues 
 — wo know of none half so moving or complete, so powerful, 
 and so true, as is contained in sundry passages of this tale. — 
 Jepfbey.] 
 
TALE XVIII.— THE WAGER. 
 
 353 
 
 She heard her priest with reverence, and her 
 
 spouse 
 As one who felt the pressure of her vows ; 
 Useful and civil, all her friends confess'd — 
 Give her her way, and she would choose the best ; 
 Though some indeed a sly remark would make — 
 Give it her not, and she would choose to take. 
 
 All this, when Clubb some cheerful months had 
 spent, 
 lie saw, confess'd, and said he was content. 
 
 Counter meantime selected, doubted, weighed, 
 And then brought home a young complying maid ; 
 A tender creature, full of fears as charms, 
 A beauteous nursling from its mother's arms ; 
 A soft, sweet blossom, such as men must love, 
 But to preserve must keep it in the stove : 
 She had a mild, subdued, expiring look — 
 liaise but the voice, and this fair creature shook ; 
 Leave her alone, she felt a thousand fears — 
 Chide, and she melted into tioods of tears ; 
 Fondly she pleaded, and would gently sigh, 
 For very pity, or she knew not why ; 
 One whom to govern none could be afraid — 
 Hold up the fiager, this meek thing obey'd ; 
 Her happy husband had the easiest task — 
 Say but liis will, no question would slie ask ; 
 She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew. 
 Of business spoke not, and had nought to do. 
 
 Oft he exclaim'd, " How meek I how mild ! Iiow 
 kind : 
 '• With her 'twere cruel but to seem unkind : 
 " Tliougli ever silent when I take my leave, 
 " It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve ; 
 " 'T is heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell, 
 " I am in raptures to have sped so well ; 
 '• But let me not, my friend, your envy raise, 
 " No ! on my life, your patience has my praise." 
 
 His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn im- 
 plied — 
 " What need of patience ? " to himself he cried : 
 " Betttr a woman o'er her house to rule, 
 " Than a poor child just hurried from her school ; 
 " Who has no care, yet never lives at case ; 
 " Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please. 
 " What if he govern, there his boast should end ; 
 " No husband's power can make a slave his 
 friend." 
 
 It was the custom of these Friends to meet 
 AVitli a few neighbours in a neighbouring street ; 
 Where Counter ofttimcs would occasion seize 
 I'o move his silent Friend by words like these : 
 " A man," said lie, " if govern'd by his wife, 
 " Gives up his rank and dignity in life ; 
 " Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me." — 
 He spoke, and look'd th' approving smile to see. 
 
 Tlio quiet partner, when he chose to speak. 
 Desired his friend " another theme to seek ; 
 " When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs 
 " And such important su'ojects should be theirs : " 
 But sti'l the partner, in his lighter vein. 
 Would c!i,'je in Clubb affliction or disdain; 
 
 It made him an.xious to detect the cause 
 
 Of all that boasting : — " Wants my friend applause ? 
 
 " This plainly proves him not at perfect ease, 
 
 " For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please. 
 
 " These triumphs here for some regrets atone — 
 
 " Men who are bless'd let other men alone." 
 
 Thus made suspicious, he observed and saw 
 
 His friend each night at early hour withdraw ; 
 
 He sometimes mention'd Juliet's tender nerves. 
 
 And what attention such a wife deserves : 
 
 " In this," thought Clubb, " full sure some mystery 
 
 lies — 
 " He laughs at me, yet he with much complies, 
 " And all his vaunts of bliss are proud apologies." 
 
 With such ideas treasured in his breast. 
 He grew composed, and let his anger rest ; 
 Till Counter once (when wine so long went round. 
 That friendship and discretion both were drown'd) 
 Began, in teasing and triumpliant mood. 
 His evening banter : — " Of all earthly good, 
 " The best," he said, '• M-as an obedient spouse, 
 " Such as my friend's — that every one allows : 
 " What if she wishes his designs to know? 
 " It is because she would her praise bestow ; 
 " What if she wills that he remain at home ? 
 " She knows that mischief may from travel come. 
 " I, who am free to venture where I please, 
 " Have no such kind preventing checks as these ; 
 " But mine is double duty, first to guide 
 " Myself aright, then rule a house beside ; 
 " While this our friend, more happy tlian the free, 
 " Kesigns all power, and laughs at liberty." 
 
 " By Heaven I" said Clubb, " excuse me if I 
 swear, 
 " I '11 bet a hundred guineas, if he dare, 
 " That uncontroll'd I will such freedoms take 
 " That he will fear to equal — there 's my stake." 
 
 " A match !" said Counter, mucli by wine in- 
 flamed ; 
 " But we are friends — let smaller stake be named : 
 " Wine for our future meeting, that will I 
 " Take and no more — what peril shall we try ?" 
 " Let 's to Newmarket," Clubb replied ; " or choose 
 " Yourself the place, and what you like to lose ; 
 
 And he who first returns, or fears to go, 
 
 Forfeits his cash. 
 
 -Said Counter, " Be it so. 
 
 The friends around them saw with much delight 
 The social war, and hail'd the pleasant aight ; 
 Kor would they further hear the cause discuss'd. 
 Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to 'trust. 
 
 Now sober thoughts return'd as each withdrew, 
 And of the subject took a serious view ; 
 " 'T was wrong," thought Counter, " and will grieve 
 
 my love ;" 
 " 'T was wrong," thought Clubb, " my wife will not 
 
 approve : 
 " But friends were present ; I must trj' the thing, 
 " Or with my folly half tlie town will ring." 
 
 He sought his lady — " Jladam, I 'm to blame, 
 " But was reproach'd, and could not hottV tho 
 shame ; 
 
 2A 
 
354 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 " Here in my folly— for 't is best to say 
 " The very truth — I 've sworn to have my way ; 
 " To that Newmarket — (though I hate the place, 
 " And have no taste or talents for a race, 
 " Yet so it is — well, now prepare to chide) — 
 " I laid a wager that I dared to ride ; 
 " And I must go : by Heaven, if j'ou resist 
 " I shall be scorn'd, and ridiculed, and hiss'd ; 
 " Let me with grace before my friends appear, 
 " You know the truth, and must not be severe : 
 " He too must go, but that he will of course : 
 " Do 3'ou consent? — -I never think of force.'" 
 
 " You never need," the worthy Dame replied ; 
 " The husband's honour is the woman's pride : 
 " If I in trifles be the wilful wife, 
 " Still for your credit I would lose my life. 
 '• Go ! and when fix'd the day of your return, 
 '■ Stay longer yet, and let the blockheads learn 
 " That though a wife may sometimes wish to rule, 
 " She would not make th' indulgent man a fool ; 
 " I would at times advise — but idle they 
 " Who think th' assenting husband must obey." 
 
 The happj' man, who thought his lady right 
 In other cases, was assured to-night ; 
 Then for the day with proud delight prepared. 
 To show liis doubting friends how much he dared. 
 
 Counter — who grieving sought his bed, his rest 
 Broken by pictures of his love distress'd — 
 With soft and winning speech the fair prepared : 
 •' She all Ids councils, comforts, pleasures shared : 
 " She w-as assured he loved her from his soul, 
 " She never knew and need not fear control ; 
 " But so it happen'd — he was grieved at heart, 
 " It happen'd so, that they awhile must part — 
 " A little time — the distance was but short, 
 •' And business call'd him — he despised the sport ; 
 '• But to Newmarket he engaged to ride 
 " AVith his friend Clubb :" and there lie stopp'd 
 and sigh'd. 
 
 Awhile the tender creature look'd dismay'd. 
 Then floods of tears the call of grief obcy'd :— 
 
 " She an objection ! No ! " she sobb'd, " not one ; 
 " Her work was finish'd, and lier race was run; 
 " For die she must, indeed she would not live 
 " A week alone, for all the world could give ; 
 " He too must die in that same wicked place ; 
 " It always happen'd — was a common case ; 
 " .Vmong those horrid horses, jockeys, crowds. 
 " 'T was certain death — they might bespeak their 
 
 shrouds ; 
 " He would attempt a race, be sure to fall — 
 " And she expire with terror — that was all : 
 " With love like hers she was indeed unfit 
 " To bear such horrors, but she must submit." 
 
 " But for three days, my love ! three days at 
 most." 
 " Enough for me ; I then shall be a ghost." 
 " 'My honour's pledgetl !" — " Oh ! yes, my dearest 
 
 life, 
 " I know your honour must outweigh your wife ; 
 *' But ere this absence have you souglit a friend ? 
 " I shall be dead— on whom can you depend? 
 
 " Let me one favour of your kindness crave, 
 " Grant me the stone I meution'dfor my grave." 
 
 " Nay, love, attend — why, bless my soul — I say 
 " I will return — there — weep no longer — nay !" 
 " Well ! I obey, and to the last am true, 
 " But spirits fail me ; I must die ; t.dieu !" 
 
 " What, Madam I must ? — ^'t is wrong — I 'm 
 angry — zounds ! 
 " Can I remain and lose a thousand pounds ?" 
 
 " Go then, my love ! it is a monstrous sum, 
 " AVorth twenty wives — go, love I and I am dumb ; 
 " Nor be displeased — had I the power to live, 
 " You might be angry, now you must forgive : 
 " Alas ! I faint — ah ! cruel — there's no need 
 " Of wounds or fevers — this has done the deed." 
 
 The lady fainted, and the husband sent 
 For every aid, for every comfort went ; 
 Strong terror seized him : " Oh ! she loved so 
 
 M-ell, 
 " And who th' eff"ect of tenderness could tell?" 
 
 She now recovcr'd, and again began 
 With accent querulous—" Ah ! cruel man I" 
 Till the sad husband, conscience-struck, confess'd, 
 'T was very wicked with his friend to jest ; 
 For now he saw that those who were oboy'd. 
 Could like the most subservient feel afraid : 
 And though a wife might not dispute the will 
 Of her liege lord, she could prevent it still. 
 
 The morning came, and Clubb prepared to ride 
 With a smart boy, his servant, and his guide ; 
 When, ere he mounted on his ready steed, 
 Arrived a letter, and he stopp'd to read. 
 
 " My friend," he read, " our journey I decline, 
 " A heart too tender for such strife is mine ; 
 " Yours is the triumph, be you so inclined ; 
 " But j'ou are too considerate and kind : 
 " In tender pity to my Juliet's fears 
 " I thus relent, o'ercome by love and tears ; 
 " She knows your kindness ; I have heard her saj-, 
 " A man like you 't is pleasure to obey: 
 " Each faithful wife, like ours, must disa]iprove 
 " Such dangerous trifling with connubial love ; 
 " What has the idle world, my friend, to do 
 " With our affairs ? they envy me and you: 
 " What if I could my gentle spouse command — 
 '• Is that a cause I should her tears withstand ? 
 " And what if you, a friend of peace, submit 
 " To one you love — is that a theme for wit ? 
 "'Twas wrong, and I shall henceforth judge it 
 
 weak 
 " Both of submission and control to speak : 
 " Be it agreed that all contention cease, 
 " And no such follies vex our future peace ; 
 " Let each keep guard against domestic strife, 
 " And find nor slave nor tyrant in his wife." 
 
 " Agreed," said Clubb, " with all my soul 
 agreed ;" — 
 And to the boy, delighted, gave his steed. 
 " I think my friend has well his mind exprcss'd, 
 " And I assent ; such things are not a jcst." 
 
talp: XIX.— the convert. 
 
 355 
 
 True," said the Wife, " no longer he can hide 
 The truth that pains him by his wounded pride : 
 Your friend has found it not an easy thing, 
 Beneath his yoke this yielding soul to bring : 
 These weeping willows, though they seem inclined 
 By every breeze, yet not the strongest wind 
 Can from their bent divert this weak but stub- 
 born kind ; 
 Drooping they seek your pity to excite. 
 But 't is at once their nature and delight ; 
 Such women feel not; while they sigh and weep, 
 'T is but their habit — their affections sleep ; 
 They are like ice that in the hand we hold, 
 So very melting, yet so very cold ; 
 On such affection let not man rely. 
 The husbands suffer, and the ladies sigh : 
 But your friend's offer let us kindly take. 
 And spare his pride for his vexation's sake ; 
 For he has found, and through his life will find, 
 ' 'T is easiest dealing with the firmest mind — 
 ]More just when it resists, and, when it yields, 
 more kind." 
 
 TALE XIX. 
 
 THE CONVERT. 1 
 
 A tapster is a Rood trade, and an old cloak makes a new 
 jerkin ; a withered serving-man, a I'resli capster.— ilerry IFivis 
 I'f /rindsut\ 
 
 A rellow, sir, tliat I liave known go about witli my troll- 
 njy-dames. — IVinter's Tide. 
 
 1 myself, sometimes leavini; tlie fear of Heaven on the 
 lelt liand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am forced 
 to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch.— jl/tcry IFivcs iif H'iiidsur. 
 
 Yea, and at that very moment, 
 (Consideration like an angel came, 
 And whipp'd th' offending Adam out of liim.- 
 
 -Hcnrij V, 
 
 I have lived long enough : my way of life 
 
 Is fall'n into tlie sear, the yellow leaf; 
 
 And tliat wliich shouUl accompany old age, 
 
 As lionour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 
 I must not look to have. Macbeth. 
 
 So:Mn to our Hero have a hero's name 
 Denied, because no i'ather's he could claim ; 
 ?\or could his mother with precision state 
 A full fair claim to her certificate ; 
 
 ' [This tale was suggested by some passages in that, extra- 
 ordiii;iry work, ' Tlic Memoirs of the Forty-five lirst Years 
 of tlie Life of .lames Lackington, liookseller, written by 
 llnnself,' London, »vo. 1791.1 
 
 - [" Neither myself, my brothers, or sisters, are indebted to 
 a fatlier scarcely for anytliing that can endear liis memory, or 
 lause us to reflect on him with pleasure. His habitual 
 drunkenness shortened his days. My motlier then became 
 
 On her own word the marriage must depend — ■ 
 A point she was not eager to defend : 
 But who, without a father's name, can raise 
 His o\vn so high, deserves the greater praise : 
 The less advantage to the strife he brought. 
 The greater wonders has his prowess wrought ; 
 lie who depends upon his wind and limbs. 
 Needs neither cork or bladder when he swims ; 
 Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along. 
 As not himself — but in his helpers — strong. 
 
 Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear, 
 For, call John JJighton, and he answer'd "Here I" 
 But who that name in early life assign'd 
 He never found, he never tried to find : 
 "Whether his kindred were to John disgrace. 
 Or John to them, is a disputed case ; 
 His infant-state owed nothing to their care — 
 His mind neglected, and his body bare ; * 
 All his success must on himself depend. 
 He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend ; 
 But in a market-town an active boy 
 Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ ; 
 "Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began 
 To show the talents of a thriving man. 
 
 "With spirit high John learn'd the world to brave, 
 And in both senses was a ready knave ; 
 Knave as of old, obedient, keen, and quick, 
 Knave as at present, skill'd to shift and trick ; 
 Some humble part of many trades he caught. 
 He for the builder and the painter wrought ; 
 For serving-maids on secret errands ran. 
 The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man ; 
 And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to 
 
 lose. 
 His varying genius shone in blacking shoes : 
 A midnight fisher by the pond he stood. 
 Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood ; 
 At an election John's impartial mind 
 AVas to no cause nor candidate confined ; 
 To all in turn he full allegiance swore. 
 And in his hat the various badges bore : 
 liis liberal soul with every sect agreed. 
 Unheard their reasons, he received their creed ; 
 At church he deign'd the organ-pipes to fill, 
 And at the meeting sang both loud and shrill : 
 But the full purse these different merits gain'd. 
 By strong demaitds his lively passions drain'd ; 
 Liquors he loved of each inflaming kind. 
 To midnight revels flew with ardent mind : 
 Too warm at cards, a losing game he play'd. 
 To fleecing beauty his attention paid ; ^ 
 His l)oiling passions were by oaths express'd, 
 And lies he made his profit and his jest. 
 
 Such was the boy, and such the man had been. 
 But fate or happier fortune changed the scene ; 
 
 so poor, that she could not afford two pence per week for my 
 schooling." — Lackinqtox, p. 3!!.] 
 
 S I" I w;>s first converted to Methodism at sixteen, and 
 from that time until I was twenty-one I was a sincere enthu- 
 siast, meeting in societies, learning hymns. Sec. But, alas ! my 
 godly life at length sullered interruption, and I entered into 
 scenes of riot and dissipation. I became acquainted with, or 
 infatuated by, the beautiful Nancy Trott, and could not 
 resist the fair tempter," &c. — lotd., p. "9.] 
 
 •2 A 2 
 
356 
 
 CIl ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 A fever seized him, "lie should surely die — " 
 Tie fear'd, and lo ! a friend was praying by; 
 AVith terror moved, this Teacher he address'd. 
 And all the errors of his youtli confess'd : 
 The good man kindly clear'd the Sinner's way 
 To lively hope, and counscU'd him to pray ; 
 "Who tlien resolved, should he from sickness rise. 
 To quit cards, liquors, poaching, oaths, and lies : 
 His healtli restored, he yet resolved, and grew 
 True to his masters, to their INIecting true ; 
 His old companions at his sober face 
 Laugh'd loud, while he, attesting it was grace, 
 With tears besought them all his calling to em- 
 brace : * 
 To his new friends such Convert gave applause, 
 Life to their zeal, and glory to their cause : 
 Though terror wrought the mighty change, yet 
 
 strong 
 Was the impression, and it lasted long ; 
 John at the lectures due attendance paid, 
 A convert meek, obedient, and afraid ; 
 His manners strict, thougli form'd on fear alone, 
 Pleased the grave friends, nor less his solemn tone, 
 Tiie lengthen'd face of care, the low and inward 
 
 groan ; 
 The stern good men exulted when they saw 
 Those timid looks of penitence and awe ; 
 I'vor thought that one so passive, humble, meek. 
 Had yet a creed and principles to seek. 
 
 The Faith that Reason finds, confii-ms, avows, 
 Tlie hopes, the views, the comforts she allows — 
 These were not his, who by his feelings found. 
 And by them only, that his faith was sound ; 
 Feelings of terror these, for evil past. 
 Feelings of hope to be received at last ; 
 IS'ow weak, now lively, changing 'with the day — 
 These were his feelings, and he felt his way. 
 
 Sprung from such sources, will this faith remain 
 Wliile these supporters can their strength retain : 
 As heaviest weights the deepest rivers pass. 
 While icy chains fast bind the solid mass ; 
 i'o, born of feelings, faith remains secure, 
 I-ong as their firmness and their strength endure ; 
 But when the waters in their channel glide, 
 A bridge must bear us o'er the threat'ning tide ; 
 Euch bridge is Keason, and there Faith relies, 
 Whether the varying spirits fall or rise. 
 
 His patrons, still disposed their aid to lend, 
 Behind a counter placed tlieir humble friend, 
 ^V'here pens and jKiper were on shelves display'd, 
 And piouj: pamphlets on the windows laid : * 
 By nature active, and from vice restrain'd, 
 Increasing trade his bolder views sustain'd ; 
 His friends and teachers, finding so much zeal 
 In that young convert whom they taught to feel. 
 
 * [" I now Krew weary of dissipating my time, and, for 
 want of stmietl ling plsi- lo do, I went one evcnin;,' to muetiny ; 
 and as tlierc \4iLj a kind of vacuity in my mind, when I came 
 to hear tlie preaclier, all my fanatical notions returned lull 
 npon me, and I was once more canied away by the tide of 
 cntliiisiasm. My friends saw with indignation tlie wonderful 
 alteration in me, who from a gay, dissipated, youn;j fellow, 
 w:is at once metamorpliosed into a dull, mopin;;, prayinf;, 
 j)salin-singin({ fanatic, continually repreliending all about 
 
 His trade encouraged, and were pleased to find 
 A hand so ready, with such humble mind. 
 
 Anil now, his health restored, his spirits eased. 
 He wish'd to marry, if the teachers pleased. 
 They, not unwilling, from the virgin-class 
 Took him a comely and a courteous lass ; 
 Simple and civil, loving and beloved. 
 She long a fond and faithful partner proved ; 
 In every year the elders and the priest 
 W^ere duly summon'd to a christening feast ; 
 Nor came a babe, but by his growing trade 
 John had provision for the coming made ; 
 P'or friends and strangers all were pleased to deal 
 With one whose care was equal to his zeal. 
 
 In human friendships, it compels a sigh 
 To think what trifles will dissolve the tie. 
 John, now become a master of his trade, 
 Perceived how much improvement might be 
 
 made ; 
 And as this prospect open'd to his view, 
 A certain portion of his zeal withdrew ; 
 His fear abated — " What had he to fear — 
 " His profits certain, and his conscience clear?" 
 Above his door a board was placed by John, 
 And " Dighton, Stationer," was gilt thereon ; 
 His window next, enlarged to twice the size, 
 Shone -with such trinkets as the simple prize ; 
 While in the shop v.ith pious works were seen 
 The last new play, review, or magazine : 
 In orders punctual, he observed — " The books 
 " He never read, and could he judge their looks ? 
 " Readers and critics should their merits try, 
 " lie had no ofiice but to sell and buy ; 
 " Like other traders, profit was his care ; 
 " Of what they print, the authors must beware." 
 He held his patrons and his teachers dear. 
 But with his trade they must not interfere. 
 
 'T was certain now that John had lost the 
 dread 
 And pious thoughts that once such terrors bred ; 
 His habits varied, and he more inclined 
 To the vain world, which he had half resign'd : 
 He had moreover in his brethren seen. 
 Or he imagined, craft, conceit, and spleen: 
 " They are but men," said John, " and shall I tlien 
 " Fear man's control, or stand in awe of nun ? 
 " 'T is their advice (tlieir Convert's rule and law), 
 " And good it is — I will not stand in awe." 
 
 Moreover Dighton, though he thought of books 
 As one who chiefly on the title looks. 
 Yet sometimes ponder'd o'er a page to find, 
 When ve.\'d witli cares, amusement for his mind : 
 And by degrees that mind had treasured much 
 From works his teachers were afraid to touch : 
 
 me for their harmless niirtli and gaiety." — Lackinoton, 
 page U4.] 
 
 * [" As we sat at work in our room, Mr. fSoyd, one of Mr. 
 Wesley's people, palled and informed me tliat a little shop 
 was to be let I observed to him that I loved books, and that 
 if I could but be a bookseller I should then have plenty of 
 books to read. On this, he a.ssured me that he would get 
 the shop for me," &c. — Ibid., p. KiO.] 
 
TALE XIX.— THE CONVERT. 
 
 357 
 
 Satiric novels, poets bold and free, 
 
 And what their writers term philosophy ; ^ 
 
 All these were read, and he began to feel 
 
 Some self-approval on his bosom steal. 
 
 "Wisdom creates humility, but he 
 
 Who thus collects it will not humble be : 
 
 Ko longer John was fiU'd with pure delight 
 
 And humble reverence in a pastor's sight ; 
 
 Who, like a grateful zealot, listening stood, 
 
 To hear a man so friendly and so good ; 
 
 But felt the dignity of one who made 
 
 Himself important by a thriving trade : 
 
 And growing pride in Dighton's mind was bred 
 
 By the strange food on which it coarsely fed. 
 
 TheirBrother's fall the grieving Brethren heard — 
 His pride indeed to all around appear'd ; 
 The world, his friends agreed, had won the soul 
 From its best hopes, the man from their control. 
 To make him humble, and confine his views 
 Within their bounds, and books which they peruse, 
 A deputation from these friends select 
 !Might reason with him to some good effect ; 
 Arm'd with autliority, and led by love, 
 They might those follies from his mind remove. 
 Deciding thus, and with this kind intent, 
 A chosen body with its speaker went. 
 
 " John," said the Teacher, " John, with great 
 
 concern 
 " We see thy frailty, and thy fate discern — 
 " Satan with toils thy simple soul beset, 
 '■ And thou art careless slumbering in the net : 
 " Unmindful art thou of thy early vow, 
 " Who at the morning meeting sees thee now? 
 '■ Who at the evening? 'Where is brother John?' 
 " We ask ; — are answer'd, ' To the tavern gone.' 
 " Tliee on the sabbath seldom we behold ; 
 " Thou canst not sing, thou'rt nui*sing for a cold : 
 " This from the churchmen thou hast learn'd, for 
 
 they 
 " Have colds and fevers on the sabbath-day ; 
 " When in some snug warm room they sit, and pen 
 '■ Bills from their ledgers — world-entangled men ! 
 
 " See with what pride thou hast enlarged tliy 
 
 shop ; 
 '' To view tliy tempting stores the heedless stop.^ 
 '' By what strange names dost thou these baubles 
 
 know, 
 " Which wantons wear, to make a sinful show ? 
 
 '"' [-'My mind now began to expand; intellectual li;,lit and 
 pli'iisure broke in, and dispelled the gloom of fanatical me- 
 lancholy. It was in one of these cheerful moods that I one 
 day took up the 'Life of .lohn Buncle ;' I also received 
 Kreat benefits from reading Coventry's ' Philemon to Hy- 
 <laspes ;' and began to enjoy many innocent pleasures and 
 recreations in life, without the f'-ar of being eternally damned 
 for a laugh, a joke, or for spending a sociable evening with a 
 few friends, going to the playhouse, &c. In a year or two 
 after, I began with metaphysics, in the intricate though 
 pleasing labyrinths of which I have occasionally since 
 wandered. Having begun to think rationally, and reason 
 freely on religious matters, I did not long remain with the 
 Methodists," Sic. — Ib'uL, p. 155.] 
 
 ' [" I had no sooner left the Society than I found that I 
 had incurred the hatred of some, the envy of many, and the 
 displeasure of all ; so that for a long time I was constantly 
 teamed with their impertinent nonsense. I believe that never 
 
 Hast thou in view these idle volumes placed 
 
 To be the pander of a vicious taste ? 
 
 What 's here ? a book of dances I — you advance 
 
 In goodly knowledge — John, wilt learn to dance ? 
 
 How ! ' Go,' it says, and ' to the devil go ! 
 
 ' And shake thyself!' I tremble — but 't is so. 
 
 Wretch as thou art, what answer canst tliou 
 
 make ? 
 Oh I without question, thou wilt go and shake. 
 What's here ? ' The School for Scandal '^ — pretty 
 
 schools ! 
 Well, and art thou proficient in the rules ? 
 Art thou a pupil ? Is it thy design 
 To make our names contemptible as thine ? 
 ' Old Nick, a novel V^ oh '. 'tis mighty well — 
 A fool has courage when he laughs at hell ; 
 ' Frolic and Fun ;' the ' Humours of Tim Grin ;' 
 Why, John, thou, grow'st facetious in thy sin ; 
 And what ? — ' The Archdeacon s Charye ' 1 — 't is 
 
 mighty well — 
 If Satan publisli'd, thou wouldst doubtless sell ; 
 Jests, novels, dances, and this precious stuff 
 To crown thy folly — we have seen enough ; 
 We find thee fitted for each evil work : 
 Do print the Koran and become a Turk. 
 
 " John, thou art lost ; success and worldly pride 
 O'er all thy thoughts and purposes preside, 
 Have bound thee fast, and drawn thee far aside : 
 Yet turn ; these sin-traps from thy shop expel, 
 llepent and pray, and all may yet be well. 
 
 " And here thy wife, thy Dorothj' behold. 
 How fashion's wanton robes her form infold ! 
 Can grace, can goodness with such trappings 
 
 dwell ? 
 John, thou hast made thy wife a Jezebel : 
 See ! on her bosom rests the sign of sin. 
 The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within : 
 What ! 't is a cross : come hither — as a friend. 
 Thus from thy neck the shameful badge I rend." 
 
 " Bend, if you dare," said Dighton ; "vou shall 
 
 find 
 A man of spirit, though to peace inclined ; 
 Call me ungrateful ! have 1 not my pay 
 At all times ready for the expected day ? 
 To share my plenteous board you deign to come, 
 Myself your pupil, and my house your home : 
 And shall the persons who my meat enjoy 
 Talk of my faults, and treat me as a boy ? 
 
 " as poor devil so plagued. Some as they passed by my door, 
 in their way to the tabernacle, would only make a stop and 
 lift up their hands, turn up the whites of their eyes, shake 
 their heads, groan, and pass on. Many would call in and take 
 me aside, and, alter making rueful faces, address me with, 
 ' Oh, brother Lackington ! I am very sorry to find that you, who 
 began in the spirit, are now like to end in the flesh. Pray, 
 brother, do remember Lot's wife.' Others called to know if I 
 was as happy then as I was when I constantly sought the 
 Lord with my brethren, in prayer-meeting, in cla.ss, and in 
 band. One preacher assured me that I w.is lost, and that the 
 devil would soon toss me about the tkimes of hell with a pitch- 
 fork."— iiiV., p. 162.] 
 
 " [' The School for Scandal,' a celebrated comedy by 
 Sheridan.] 
 
 9 ['Old Nick,' a satirical story, in three volume* 'y 
 Edward Du liuis, Esq.] 
 
** Have you not told how Rome's insulting priests 
 " Led their meek laymen like a herd of beasts ; 
 " And by their fleecing and their forgerj- made 
 " Their holy calling an accursed trade ? 
 " Can you such acts and insolence condemn. 
 '• Who to your utmost power resemble them ? 
 
 " Concerns it you what books I set for sale ? 
 " The tale perchance may be a virtuous tale ; 
 '• And for the rest, 'tis neither wise nor just 
 '' In you, who read not, to condemn on trust ; 
 " Why should th' Archdeacon's Charge your spleen 
 
 excite ? 
 '' lie. or perchance th' Archbishop, may be right. 
 
 '• That from your meetings I refrain is true : 
 '■ I meet with nothing pleasant — nothing new ; 
 *' But the same proofs, that not one text explain. 
 '• And the same lights, where all things dark 
 
 remain ; 
 " I thought you saints on earth — but I have found 
 " Some sins among you, and the best unsound : 
 '* You have your failings, like the crowds below 
 " And at your pleasure hot and cold can blow : 
 '• When I at first your grave deportment saw. 
 '• (I own mj' folly,) I was fiU'd with awe ; 
 " You spoke so warmly, and it seem'd so well, 
 " I should have thought it treason to rebel. 
 " Is it a wonder that a man like me 
 " Should such perfection in such teachers see — 
 •• Nay, should conceive you sent from Ileav'n to 
 
 brave 
 '• Tb.e host of sin. and sinful souls to save ? 
 '• But as our reason wakes, our prospects clear, 
 '• And failings, flaws, and blemishes appear. 
 
 " "When you were moiuited in your rostrum higli, 
 " We shrank beneath your tone, your frown, your 
 
 eye : 
 " Then you beheld us abject, fallen, low, 
 '■ And felt your glory from our baseness grow ; 
 " Touch'd by your words, I trembled like the rest, 
 '• And my own vilcness and your power confess'd : 
 '■ These, I exclaim'd, are men divine, and gazed 
 " On liim who taught, delighted and amazed ; 
 " Glad when he finish'd, if by chance he cast 
 '■ One look on such a sinner as he pass'd. 
 
 •* But when I view'd you in a clearer light, 
 " .-Vnd saw the frail and carnal appetite ; 
 ' When, at his humble pray'r. you deign'd to cat, 
 
 • Saints as you are, a civil sinner's meat ; 
 
 • When, as you sat contented and at ease, 
 
 ■ Nibbling at leisure on the ducks and peas,'" 
 
 • .\nd, iilcascd some comforts in such place to find, 
 
 • You could descend to be a little kind ; 
 
 ' And gave us hope in heaven there might be room 
 
 • For a few souls beside your own to come ; 
 
 • While this world's good engaged your carnal view, 
 ' And like a sinner you enjoy'd it too ; 
 
 10 ["The preacliers were rontimmlly re pri ili.it in:; llic prac- 
 tice of masters and mistresses keeping servants at home on 
 Siin.lavs to dress dinners. lint ^'reat was my surprise on dis- 
 covering that tliese verv men, who were continually preacli- 
 int; up faslini;, alisti'nence, &c., to thfir congregHtion, 
 ■nd who w.inted others to dine off cold dinners, or eat 
 
 " All this perceiving, can you think it strange 
 " That change in you should work an equal 
 change ?" 
 
 " Wietch that tliou art," an elder cried, "and 
 gone 
 
 ■ For everlasting !" " — " Go thyself," said John ; 
 
 ■ Depart this instant, let me hear no more ; 
 ]My house my castle is, and that my door." 
 
 The hint they took, and from the door with- 
 drew. 
 And John to meeting bade a long adieu ; 
 Attach'd to business, he in time became 
 A wealthy man of no inferior name. 
 It seem'd, alas I in John's deluded sight. 
 That all was wrong because not all was right : 
 And when he found his teachers had their stains. 
 Resentment and not reason broke his chains : 
 Thus on his feelings he again I'elied, 
 And never look'd to reason for his guide : 
 Could he have wiselj' view'd the frailty shown. 
 And rightlj' wcigh'd their wanderings and his 
 
 own. 
 He might have known that men may be sincere. 
 Though gay and feasting on the savoury cheer ; 
 That doctrines sound and sober they may teach. 
 Who love to eat with all the glee they preach ; 
 Kay ! who believe the duck, the grape, the pine, . 
 Were not intended for the dog and swine : 
 But Dighton's hasty mind on every theme 
 Ban from the truth, and rested in th' extreme : 
 Flaws in his friends he found, and then withdrew 
 (Vain of his knowledge) from their virtues too. 
 Best of his books lie loved the liberal kind, 
 That, if they improve not, still enlarge the mind ; 
 And found himself, with such advisers, free 
 From a fix'd creed, as mind enlarged could be. 
 His humble wife at these opinions sigh'd. 
 But her he never lieeded till she died : 
 He then assented to a last request. 
 And by the meeting-window let her rest : 
 And on her stone the sacred text was seen. 
 Which had her comfort in departing been. 
 
 Dighton vith joy beheld his trade advance, 
 Yet seldom publish'd, lotli to trust to chance : 
 Then wed a doctor's sister — poor indeed, 
 But skill'd in works her husband could not read ; 
 Who, if he wish'd new ways of wealth to seek. 
 Could make her half-crown pamphlet in a week : 
 This he rejected, though without disdain. 
 And chose the old and certain way to gain. 
 
 Thus he proceeded : trade increased the while. 
 And fortune woo'd him with perpetual smile : 
 On early scenes he sometimes cast a thouglit. 
 When on his heart the mighty change was 
 wrought ; 
 
 bread and cheese, tt<iuld themselves not even sup w ithout 
 roasted fowls," &c. — Lackinoton, p. 158.] 
 
 ' ' [" They piously and charitnlily consi;;ned me over to be 
 tormented by the devil, and everywhere declared that I was 
 turned a do-Vnright atheist." — Ibid., p. ItiS.] 
 
And all the ease and comfort Converts find 
 
 Was magnified in his reflecting mind : 
 
 Then on the teacher's priestly pride he dwelt, 
 
 That caused his freedom, but with this he felt 
 
 The danger of the free — for since that day 
 
 No guide had shown, no brethren join'd his way ; 
 
 Forsaking one, he found no second creed, 
 
 But reading doubted, doubting what to read. 
 
 Still, though reproof had brought some present 
 pain. 
 The gain he made was fair and honest gain ; 
 He laid his wares indeed in public view, 
 But that all traders claim a right to do : 
 By means like these, he saw his wealth increase, 
 And felt his consequence, and dwelt in peace. 
 
 Our Hero's ago was threescore years and five. 
 When he exclaim'd, " Why longer should I strive ? 
 " Why more amass, who never must behold 
 " A young John Dighton to make glad the old ?" 
 (The sons he had to early graves were gone, 
 And girls were burdens to the mind of John.) 
 '• Had I a boy, he would our name sustain, 
 " That now to nothing must return again ; 
 " But what are all my profits, credit, trade, 
 •' And parish honours ? — folly and parade." 
 
 TIius Dighton thought, and in his looks appear'd 
 Fadness, increased by much he saw and heard : 
 Tlic Brethren often at the shop would stay. 
 And make their comments ere they walk'd away ; 
 They mark'd the window, fill'd in every pane 
 With lawless prints of reputations slain ; 
 Pistorted forms of men with honours graced. 
 And otir chief rulers in derision placed : 
 Amazed thej' stood, remembering well the days 
 When to be humble was their brother's praise ; 
 Wlien at the dwelling of their friend they stopp'd 
 To drop a word, or to receive it dropp'd ; 
 Where they beheld the prints of men renown'd 
 And far-famed preachers pasted all around 
 (Such mouths ! eyes ! hair ! so prim ! so fierce ! so 
 
 sleek ! 
 They look'd as speaking what is woe to speak) : 
 On these the passing brethren loved to dwell — 
 How long they spake ! how strongly ! warmly I 
 
 well ! 
 What power liad each to dive in mysteries dee]i, 
 To warm the cold, to make the harden'd weep ; 
 To lure, to fright, to soothe, to awe the soul, 
 And lisfning flocks to lead and to control 1 
 
 But now discoursing, as they linger'd near. 
 They tempted John (whom they accused) to hear 
 Their weighty charge — '" And can the lost one feel, 
 •' As in the time of duty, love, and zeal : 
 '■ Wlien all were summon'd at the rising sun, 
 " And he was ready with his friends to run ; 
 •' When he, partaking with a chosen few, 
 " Felt the great change, sensation rich and new? 
 " No ! all is lost ; lier favours Fortune shower'd 
 " Upon the man, and he is ovcrpower'd ; 
 
 '■-' [•' Tlie Convert' teaclies a useful lesson. John Disjhion 
 \v:i3 bred a blacki-UHril {anA we have here a most lively and 
 complete desciiplioii of ihe items th.it j,'o to the composition 
 of tliat miscellaneous character), but, beiny sore reduceil by 
 
 " The world has won him with its tempting store 
 " Of needless wealth, and that has made him poor . 
 " Success undoes him ; he has risen to fall, 
 " Has gain'd a fortune, and has lost his all ; 
 " Gone back from Sion, he will find his age 
 " Loth to commence a second pilgrimage ; 
 *' He has retreated from the chosen track, 
 " And now must ever bear the burden on his 
 back." 
 
 Hurt by such censure, John began to find 
 Fresh revolutions working in his mind ; 
 He sought for comfort in his books, but read 
 Without a plan or method in his head ; 
 What once amused, now rather made him sad ; 
 What should inform, increased the doubts he 
 
 had: 
 Shame would not let him seek at Church a guide, 
 And from his Meeting he was held by pride ; 
 His wife derided fears she never felt. 
 And passing brethren daily censures dealt ; 
 Hope for a son was now for ever past. 
 He was the first John Dighton and the last ; 
 His stomach fail'd, his case the doctor knew. 
 But said, " he still might hold a year or two." 
 '' No more ! " he said ; " but why should I com- 
 plain ? 
 " A life of doubt must be a life of pain : 
 " Could I be sure — but why should I despair ? 
 " I 'm sure my conduct has been just and fair ; 
 " In youth, indeed, I had a wicked will, 
 •■ But I repented, and have sorrow still: 
 '• I had my comforts, and a growing trade 
 " Gave greater pleasure than a fortune made ; 
 " And as I more possess'd, and reason'd more, 
 " I lost those comforts I enjoy 'd before, 
 " When reverend guides I saw my table round, 
 ■• And in my guardian guest my safety found : 
 " Now sick a!id sad, no appetite, no ease, 
 " Nor pleasures have I, nor a wish to please ; 
 " Nor views, nor hopes, nor plans, nor taste have I ; 
 " Yet, sick of life, have no desire to die." 
 
 He said, and died : his trade, his name is gone, 
 And all that once gave consequence to John. 
 
 Unhappy Dighton ! had he found a friend 
 When conscience told him it was time to mend — 
 A friend discreet, considerate, kind, sincere, 
 Who would have shown the grounds of hope and 
 
 fear, 
 And proved that spirits, whether high or low, 
 No certain tokens of man's safety show — 
 Had Reason ruled him in her proper place, 
 And Virtue led him while he lean'd on grace — - 
 Had he while zealous been discreet and pure. 
 His knowledge humble, and his hope secure ; — 
 These guides had placed him on the solid rock. 
 Where Faith had rested, nor received a shock ; 
 But his, alas ! was placed upon the sand, 
 AVhere long it stood not, and where none can 
 
 stand. '- 
 
 a lonK fever, falls into the liands of the Methodists, and 
 becomes an exemplary convert. He is then set up by the 
 con^rcfjation in a small stationer's sliop; and, as he begins 
 to tlirive in business, adds worldly literature to the evangelical 
 
3G0 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 TALE XX. 
 
 THE BROTHERS.! 
 
 A brother noble, 
 Whose nature is so far from doing harms. 
 That he suspects none ; on whose foolish honesty 
 My practice may ride easy. Lear. 
 
 [le lets me feed with hinris, 
 Bars me the place of brother. As You Like It. 
 
 'Twas I, but 't is not I : I do not shame 
 To tell vou «liat I was, bein^ "hat I am. 
 
 As You LUie It. 
 
 Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast 
 Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast : 
 Kind, simple, and sincere — he seldom spoke, 
 But sometimes sang and chorus'd — " Hearts of 
 
 oak !" 
 In dangers steadj', with his lot content. 
 His days in labour and in love were spent. 
 
 He left a Son so like him, that the old 
 With joy exclaim'd, " 'T is Fletcher we behold ;" 
 But to his Brother, when tlie kinsmen came 
 And view'd his form, they grudged the father's 
 name. 
 
 George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad, 
 With jiist the failings that liis father had ; 
 Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact, 
 With just the virtues that his father lack'd. 
 
 George lived at sea : upon the land a guest — 
 He sought for recreation, not for rest ; 
 While, far unlike, his brother's feebler form 
 Shrank from the cold, and slmdder'd at the storm ; 
 Still M-ith the Seaman's to connect his trade, 
 The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were 
 made. 
 
 George, strong and sturdj', had a tender mind, 
 And was to Isaac pitiful and kind ; 
 A very father, till his art was gain'd. 
 And then a friend imwearied he remain'd ; 
 He saw his brother w-as of spirit low. 
 His temper peevisli, and his motions slow ; 
 Not fit to bustle in a world, or make 
 Friends to his fortune for his merit's sake ; 
 
 tractswlilcli composed his ori;;innl stock in trade. This scan- 
 dalizes tlie brethren : and John, having no principles or 
 knowledge, falls out with the sect, and can never settle in the 
 creed of any other ; an<l so lives perplexed and discontented, 
 and dies in'ayitation and terror. — Jeffrev. 
 
 Such was not, however, the ultimate fate of I.ackin^ton. In 
 1798 he retired from his shop in Kinshury Square, to whii-li 
 he liad jjiven tlie title of " Temple of the Muses," and went 
 fo spend the evenin-; of life at Thornbnry, in (Jloucestershire. 
 In 1X1).'! ho puMished his ' Confessions,' in which lie {,'ive3 a 
 detail of his ncunrersiim to Metlioilism. Itelon? his death, 
 which took place in 181&, he expended 3000/. upon the erec- 
 
 But the kind sailor could not boast the art 
 Of looking deeply in the human heart ; 
 Else had he seen that this weak brother knew 
 What men to court — what objects to pursue; 
 That he to distant gain the way discern'd. 
 And none so crooked but his genius learn'd. 
 
 Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt ; 
 He hired a house, and there the Landman dwelt, 
 Wrought at his trade, and had an easy liome. 
 For there would George with cash and comforts 
 
 come ; 
 And when they parted, Isaac look'd around 
 Where other friends and helpers might be found. 
 
 He wish'd for some port-place, and one might 
 fall, 
 He wisely thought, if he should try for v.W; 
 He had a vote — and were it well applied. 
 Might have its worth — and he had views beside ; 
 Old Burgess Steel was able to promote 
 An humble man who served him with a vote ; 
 For Isaac felt not what some tempers feel. 
 But bow'd and bent the neck to Burgess Steel ; 
 And great attention to a Lady gave, 
 His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave ; 
 One whom the visage long and look demure 
 Of Isaac pleased — he seem'd sedate and pure; 
 And his soft heart conceived a gentle flame 
 For lier who waited on this virtuous dame ; 
 Not an outrageous love, a scorching fire. 
 But friendly liking and chastised desire ; 
 And thus he waited, patient in delay. 
 In present favour and in fortune's way. 
 
 George then was coasting — war was j'et delay'd, 
 And what he gain'd was to his brother paid; 
 Nor ask'd the Seaman what he saved or spent. 
 But took his grog, wrought hard, and was con- 
 tent ; 
 Till war awaked the land, and George began 
 To think what part became a useful man : 
 " Press'd, I must go ; why, then, 't is better far 
 " At once to enter like a British tar, 
 " Than a brave cajitain and the foe to shun, 
 " As if I fear'd tlic music of a gun." 
 " Go not 1" said Isaac — " you shall wear dis- 
 guise." 
 " What!" said the Seaman, " clothe myself with 
 
 lies !" 
 " Oh ! but there 's danger." — " Danger in the 
 
 fleet? 
 " You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat ; 
 " And other dangers I at land must share — 
 " So now adieu ! and trust a brotlicr's care."' 
 
 tion of a AVesleyan chapel, to which he added a salary of \:mI. 
 per annum for the preacher In the front of the bui'.ding ap- 
 pears this inscription : — " This Temple is ereiMed as a monu- 
 ment of God's mercy, in convincing an Inlidel of the import- 
 ant Truths of Christianity."] 
 
 ' [Mr. Crabbe, ever a tendiT and beneficent brother, sent 
 his sister, tlu; late Mrs. SparKes, to a millinery est.iblishment 
 at Ipswich, with the (irst money he received at lielvoir; and, 
 gratefully attached as she was in return, there is reitson to 
 believe that tliis tale was composeil durin;; a little transitory 
 coldness, which— how originating it is now forgotten— had 
 interrupted their affection.] 
 
Isaac awhile deniurrM — but, in his heart, 
 So might he share, he was disposed to part : 
 The better mind will sometimes feel the paiu 
 Of benefactions — favour is a chain ; 
 But they the feeling scorn, and what they wish, 
 
 disdain ; — 
 While beings form'd in coarser mould will hate 
 The helping hand they ought to venerate : 
 No wonder George should in this cause prevail, 
 "With one contending who was glad to fail : 
 " Isaac, farewell '. do wipe tliat doleful eye ; 
 " Crj'ing we came, and groaning we may die ; 
 " Let us do somctliing 'twixt the groan and 
 
 cry: 
 " And hear me, brother, whether pay or prize, 
 " One half to thee I give and I devise ; 
 " For thou hast oft occasion for the aid 
 " Of learn'd physicians, and they will be paid ; 
 " Their wives and children men support at sea, 
 " And thou, my lad, art wife and child to me : 
 " Farewell ! 1 go where hope and honour call, 
 " Nor does it follow that who fights must fall." 
 
 Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak. 
 And a huge tear moved slowly down his cheek ; 
 Like Pluto's iron drop, hard sign of grace, 
 It slowly roll'd vij^on the rueful face, 
 Forced by the striving will alone its way to 
 trace. 
 
 Years fled — war lasted — George at sea rcmain'd, 
 AVhile the slow Landman still his profits gain'd : 
 An humble place was vacant — he besought 
 His patron's interest, and tlie office caught ; 
 For still the Virgin was his faitliful friend, 
 And one so sober could with truth commend. 
 Who of his own defects most humbly thought. 
 And their advice with zeal and reverence sought : 
 Whom thus the Mistress praised, the Maid ap- 
 proved. 
 And her he wedded whom he wisely loved. 
 
 No more he needs assistance — but, alas ! 
 lie fears the money will for liquor pass ; 
 Or that the Seaman might to flatterers lend. 
 Or give support to some pretended friend : 
 Still he must v.ritc — he wrote, and he confess'd 
 Tliat, till absolved, he should be sore distress'd ; 
 But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive 
 The hasty deed — Heav'n knew how he should 
 
 live ; 
 " But you," he added, "as a man of sense, 
 " Have well consider'd danger and expense : 
 " I ran, alas ! into the fatal snare, 
 " And now for troulile must my mind prepare ; 
 " And how, with children, I shall pick my way 
 " Through a hard world, is more than I can say : 
 " Then change not, Brother, your more happy 
 
 state, 
 " Cr on the hazard long deliberate." 
 
 George answer'd gravety, " It is right and fit, 
 " In all our crosses, humbly to submit : 
 " Your apprehensions are unwise, unjust ; 
 " Forbear repining, and expel distrust." 
 He added, " Marriage was the joy of life," 
 And gave his service to his brother's wife ; 
 
 Then vow'd to bear in all expense a part, 
 And thus concluded, " Have a cheerful heart." 
 
 Had the glad Isaac been his brother's guide, 
 In the same terms the Seaman had replied ; 
 At such reproofs the crafty Landman smiled, 
 And softly said, "This creature is a child." 
 
 Twice had the gallant ship a capture made — 
 And when in port the happy crew were paid. 
 Home went the Sailor, with his pockets stored, 
 Ease to enjoy, and pleasure to atlbrd ; 
 His time was short, joy shone in every face, 
 Isaac half fainted in the fond embrace : 
 The wife resolved her honour'd guest to please. 
 The children clung upon their uncle's knees ; 
 The grog went round, the neighbours drank his 
 
 health. 
 And George exclaim'd, " .\li ! what to this is 
 
 wealth ? 
 " Better," said he, " to bear a loving heart, 
 " Than roll in ri(;hes but we now must part !" 
 
 All yet is still — but hark ! the winds o'ersweep 
 The rising waves, and howl upon the deep ; 
 Ships late becalm'd on mountain-billows ride — 
 So life is threaten'd and so man is tried. 
 
 Ill were the tidings that arrived from sea, 
 The worthy George must now a cripple be ; 
 His leg was lopp'd ; and though his heart was 
 
 sound. 
 Though his brave captain was ^^■ith glory crown'u, 
 Yet much it vex'd him to repose on shore. 
 An idle log, and be of use no more : 
 True, he was sure that Isaac wou'.d receive 
 All of his Brother that the foe might leave ; 
 To whom the Seaman his design had sent, 
 Ere from the port the wounded hero went : 
 His wealth and expectations told, he " knew 
 " Wherein they fail'd, what Isaac's love would do ; 
 " That he the grog and cabin would supply, 
 " Where George at anchor during life would lie." 
 
 The Landman read — and, reading, grew dis- 
 tress'd : — 
 " Could he resolve t' admit so poor a guest? 
 " Better at Greenwich miglit the Sailor stay, 
 " Unless his purse could for his comforts pay." 
 So Isaac judged, and to his wife appeal'd, 
 But yet acknowledged it was best to yield : 
 " Perhaps his pension, with what suras remain 
 " Due or unsquander'd, may the man maintain ; 
 " Kefuse we must not." — With a heavy sigh 
 The lady heard, and made her kind reply : — 
 " Nor would I wish it, Isaac, were we sure 
 " How long this crazy building will endure ; 
 " Like an old house, that every day appears 
 " About to fall, he may be propp'd for years ; 
 " For a few months, indeed, we might comply, 
 " But these old batter'd fellows never die." 
 
 The hand of Isaac, George on entering took, 
 With love and resignation in his look ; 
 Declared his comfort in the fortune past, 
 And joy to find his anchor safely cast ; 
 " Call then my nephews, let the grog be brought, 
 " And I will tell them how the ship was fought." 
 
362 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 Alas ! our simple Seaman should have known, 
 That all the care, the kindness, he had shown, 
 Were from his Brother's heart, if not his memory, 
 
 llown : 
 All swept away, to be perceived no more, 
 Like idle structures on the sandy shore, 
 The chance amusement of the playful boy. 
 That the rude billows in their rage destroy. 
 
 Poor George confess'd, though loth the truth to 
 
 find, 
 Siiglit was his knowledge of a Brother's mind : 
 Tlie vulgar ]'ipc was to the wife ofl'ence, 
 The frequent grog to Isaac an expense ; 
 AVould friends like hers, she question'd, " choose 
 
 to come, 
 '■ "Where clouds of poison'd fume defiled a room? 
 " This could their Lady-friend, and Burgess Steel. 
 " (Teased witJi his worsliip's asthma,) bear to feel? 
 " Could they associate or converse with him — 
 '■ A loud rough sailor with a timber limb?" 
 
 Cold as he grew, still Isaac strove to show. 
 By well-feign'd care, that cold he could not grow ; 
 And when he saw his brother look djstress'd. 
 He strove some petty comforts to suggest ; 
 On his wife solely their neglect to lay. 
 And then t' exc::se it, as a woman's waj' ; 
 He too was chidden when her rules he broke. 
 And then she sicken'd at the scent of smoke. 
 
 George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find 
 His Brother wishing to be rcckon'd kind : 
 That Isaac seem'd concern'd by his distress, 
 (jave to his injured feelings some redress; 
 But none he found disposed to lend an ear 
 To stories, all were once intent to hear: 
 Except his nephew, seateil on his knee. 
 He found no creature cared about the sea ; 
 But George indeed — for George they call'd the boj-, 
 ^Vhen his good uncle was their boast and joj' — 
 AVould listen long, and would contend with sleep. 
 To hear the woes and wonders of the deep : 
 Till the fond motlier cried — '"That man will teach 
 '■ The foolisli boy his loud and Itoisterous speech." 
 So judged the father — and the hoy was taught 
 To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought. 
 
 The mask of kindness now but seldom worn. 
 George felt each evil harder to be borne : 
 And cried (vexation growing day by day), 
 '' .'Vh ! brother Isaac I— AVhat ! I 'ni in the way I" 
 " Ko I on my credit, look j^e, IS'o ! but I 
 " Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy 
 " On any terms — in short, we must comply : 
 " My spouse liad money — she must have her will — 
 " Ah ! Brother, marriage is a bitter pill." 
 
 George tried the lady — " Sister, T offend." 
 "]Me?" she replied— " Oh no ! you may depend 
 " On my regard — but watch your Brother's way, 
 " Whom I, like you, must study and obey." 
 
 " Ah !" thought the Seaman, " what a head was 
 mine, 
 " That easy berth at Greenwich to resign ! 
 
 " I '11 to the parish " but a little pride. 
 
 And some oficction, put the thought aside. 
 
 Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore 
 In silent sorrow — but he felt the more : 
 The odious pipe he to the kitchen took, 
 Or strove to profit by some pious book. 
 
 When the mind stoops to this degraded state, 
 New griefs will darken the dependant's fate ; 
 " Brother I " said Is.aac, " you will sure excuse 
 " Tlie little freedom I 'm compell'd to use : 
 " My wife's relations — (curse tlie haughty crew!) — 
 " AtTect such niceness, and such dread of you : 
 "' You speak so loud — and they have natures 
 
 soft — 
 " Brother 1 wish do go upon the loft I" 
 
 Poor (ieorge obcy'd, and to the garret fled, 
 I ^^^lere not a being saw t'^e teai's he shed : 
 1 But more was yet required, for guests were come, 
 
 Who could not dine if he disgraced the I'oom. 
 ■ It shock'd his spirit to be esteem'd unfit 
 I With an own brother and his wife to sit ; 
 He grew rebellious — at the vestry spoke 
 
 For wecl.-ly aid they heard it as a joke : 
 
 '' So kind a brother, and so wealthy you 
 
 ' " Apply to ns ? No ! this will never do ; 
 
 I " Good neighbour Fletcher," said the Overseer, 
 j '' We are engaged — you can have nothing here 1" 
 
 George mutterd something in despairing tone. 
 Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone ; 
 '. Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed, 
 ; With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed ; 
 1 Yet was he pleased that hours fj>r play design'd 
 , Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind ; 
 j The child still listen'd with increasing joy. 
 And he was sooth'd by the attentive boj'. 
 
 I At lengtli he sicken'd, and this duteous child 
 Watch'd o'er his sickness, and his pains beguiled ; 
 Tlie mother bade him from the loft refrain. 
 But, though with caution, yet he went again ; 
 And now his tales the Sailor feebly told. 
 His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold : 
 The tender boy came often to entreat 
 Mis good kind friend would of his presents cat ; 
 Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shaine, 
 The food luitouch'd that to his uncle came ; 
 Who, sick in body and in mind, received 
 The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved. 
 
 j " ITncle will die I" said George : — the piteous 
 
 I wife 
 
 Exclaini'd. "she saw no value in his life: 
 •• But, sick or well, to my commands attend. 
 '' And go no more to your complaining friend." 
 The boy was vex'd, he felt his heart reprove 
 The stern decree. — What ! punish'd for his love '. 
 No ! he would go, but softly, to the i-oom. 
 Stealing in silence — for he kue^^• his doom. 
 
 Once in a week the falluu- came to say, 
 •• (George, are you ill ?" — and hurried him nway ; 
 Yet to ids wife would on their duties dwell. 
 And often cry, '• Do use my brother well :" 
 And somethifig bind, no question, Isaac meant, 
 Who took vast crcd.'t for the vague intent. 
 
TALE XX.— THE BROTHERS. 
 
 363 
 
 But. truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd 
 To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid ; 
 But now the father caught him at the door. 
 And, swearing — yes, the man in office swore. 
 And cried, " Away ! How ! Brother, I 'm sur- 
 prised 
 " That one so old can be so ill advised : 
 •■ Let him not dare to visit you again, 
 " Your cursed stories will disturb his brain : 
 •• Is it not vile to court a foolish boy, 
 " Your own absurd narrations to enjoy ? 
 " What ! sullen ! — ha, George Fletcher ! you shall 
 
 see, 
 •■ Proud as you are, your broad depends on me 
 
 lie spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went. j 
 Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent : j 
 And thought on times when he compell'd his son 
 To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one ; 
 But the M-ife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain. 
 And shame was felt, and conscience rose, in vain. 
 
 George yet stole up ; he saw his TJncle lie 
 Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh : 
 So he resolved, before he went to rest. 
 To comfort one so dear and so distress'd : 
 Then watch'd his time, but, with a child-like art, 
 Betray'd a something treasured at his heart : 
 Th' observant wife remark'd, " The boy is grown 
 •* So like your brother, that he seems his own : 
 " So close and sullen ! and I still suspect 
 " They often meet : — do watch them and detect." 
 
 George now remark'd that all was still as night. 
 And hastcn'd up witlx terror and delight ; 
 " Uncle I" he cried, and softly tapp'd the door, 
 " Do let me in" — but he could add no more ; 
 The careful father caught him in the fact. 
 And cried, — " You serpent ! is it thus you act ? 
 " Back to your mother ! " — -and, with hasty blow. 
 He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below ; 
 Then at the door an angry speech began — 
 " Is this your conduct ? — Is it thus you plan ? 
 " Seduce my child, and make my house a scene 
 
 " Of vile dispute •^Vhat is it that you mean? 
 
 " George, are you dumb ? do learn to know your 
 
 friends, 
 " And think awhile on whom your bread depends. 
 " What ! not a word 'i be thankful 1 am cool — 
 " But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool. 
 '• Come ! brother, come I what is it that you seek 
 " By this rebellion? — Speak, you villain, speak I 
 " Weeping I I warrant — sorrow makes you dumb : 
 " I '11 ope your mouth, impostor ! if I come : 
 " Let me approach — I '11 shake you from the bed, 
 
 " Y'ou stubborn dog Oh God ! my Brother's 
 
 dead !" 
 
 Timid was Isaac, and in all the past 
 He felt a purpose to be kind at last ; 
 jSor did he mean his brother to depart. 
 Till he had shown this kindness of his heart ; 
 
 2 fThe characters in this talc, thouj;h humble, are admira- 
 bly dnuvn, and the lia^erof them, we fear, the most strikingly 
 natural. An open-liearted genernns sailor had a poor, sneak- 
 ing, cunnini,', sellish brother, to whom he remitted all his 
 
 But day by day he put tlie cause aside, 
 induced by av'rice, peevishness, or pride. 
 
 But now awaken'd, from this fatal time 
 His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime : 
 He raised to George a monumental stone, 
 And there retired to sigh at;d think alone ; 
 An ague seized him. he grew pale, and shook- 
 " So," said his son. "would my poor Uncle look." 
 " And so, my child, shall I like him expire." 
 " ?Co ! you have phj-sic and a cheerful fire." 
 " Unhappy sinner I yes, 1 'm well supplied 
 1 " With every comfort my cold heart denied.' 
 I 
 
 I He view'd his Brother now, but not as on(> 
 I W'ho vex'd his wife by fondness for her son ; 
 ! Not as M-ith wooden limb, and seaman's tale, 
 j The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale : 
 ! He now the worth and grief alone can view 
 I Of one so mild, so generous, and so true ; 
 i '■ The frank, kind Brother, with such open heart, — 
 " And I to break it 't was a demon's jsart !" 
 
 So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels, 
 Xor his unkindness palliates or conceals ; 
 '■ This is your folly," said his heartless wife : 
 " Alas ! my folly cost my Brother's life ; 
 " It sufTer'd him to languish and decay — 
 " !My gentle brother, whom 1 could not pay, 
 •• And therefore left to pine, and fret his life 
 away 1" 
 
 He takes his Son, and bids the boy luifold 
 All the good Uncle of his feelings told. 
 All he lamented — and the ready tear 
 Falls" as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear. 
 
 " Did he not curse me, child ?" — '• He never 
 
 cursed, 
 •• But could not breathe, and said his heart would 
 
 burst." 
 '' And so will mine :" — '• Then, father, you must 
 
 pray : 
 " j\ly uncle said it took his pains awaj-." 
 
 Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac sliows 
 That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes, 
 -Vnd from this source alone his every comfort flows. 
 He takes no joy in office, honours, gain; 
 They make him humble, nay, they give him pain : 
 '• These from my heart," he cries, '• all feeling 
 
 drove ; 
 •• They made me cold to nature, dead to love." 
 lie takes no joy in home, but sighing, sees 
 .\ son in sorrow, and a wife at ease ; 
 lie takes no joy in office — see him now. 
 And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow ; 
 Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possessed. 
 He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest — 
 Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best. 
 And thus he lives, if living be to sigh. 
 And from all comforts of the world to fly. 
 Without a hope in life — without a wish to die.- 
 
 prize-money, and gave all the arrears of his pay — receiving, 
 in return, vehement professions of gratitude and false pro- 
 testations of regard. At last, the sailor is disabled in action, 
 and discharged just as his licartU-ss brother hns secured a 
 
TALE XXI. 
 
 THE LEARNED BOY. 
 
 Like one well studied in a sad ostent, 
 
 'l°o please his grandara. 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel 
 And shining' muniing face, creeping, like snail. 
 Unwillingly to school. y^s You Lilts It. 
 
 He is a better scholar tliani thonght he was ; lie has a good 
 sprag memory. — ilcrrij /f'a-ts o/ ff'iitdsor. 
 
 One that feeds 
 On objects, arts, and imitations, 
 Wliich out of use, and staled by otlier men, 
 Begin his (asliion. Julius Cwsar. 
 
 Oh ! torture me no more — I will confess.— 2 Henri/ VI. 
 
 An honest man w.aa Farmer Jones^ and true ; 
 
 He did by all as all by him should do ; 
 
 Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he, 
 
 Yet famed for rustic hospitality : 
 
 Left with his children in a widow'd state, 
 
 The quiet man submitted to his fate ; 
 
 Though prudent matrons waited for his call, 
 
 Witli cool forbearance he avoided all ; 
 
 Tliough each profeEs'd a pure maternal joy, 
 
 By kind attention to his feeble boy ; 
 
 And though a friendly Widow knew no rest, 
 
 AVhilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd ; 
 
 Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone 
 
 Their hearts' concern to see him left alone, 
 
 .Tones still persisted in that cheerless liic, 
 
 As if 't were sin to take a second wife. 
 
 Oh 1 't is a precious thing, when wives are dead, 
 To find sucli numb(!rs who will serve instead ; 
 And in whatever state a man be thrown, 
 'T is that precisely they would wish their own ; 
 Left the departed infants — then their joy 
 Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy : 
 Whatever calling his, whatever trade. 
 To that their chief attention has been paid ; 
 His hapjiy taste in all things they approve. 
 His friends they lionour, and liis food they love ; 
 His wish i'or order, prudence in affairs, 
 An equal temper (lliank their stars !), arc theirs ; 
 In fact, it scem'd to be a thing decreed. 
 And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed : 
 
 small oflioe by sycophancy, and made a prudent marriage with 
 a coiigeni.al temper. He s<>eks tlie shelter of his brother's 
 liouse as freely as lie wniibl liave given it; and docs not at 
 lirst perceive llie coldness of liis reccpliDn. Hut mnrtifica- 
 tions grow upon him diiy bv day. His grog is expensive, and 
 his pipe makes the wife sick ; then liis voice is so loud, and his 
 manners so rough, tliat Iht friends cannot visit her if he ap- 
 pears .at talile; so he is banislieil by (h'grecs to a g.arret, 
 where he falls sick, and has no consolaiion liut in the kindness 
 of one of his nephews, a little Imv, who ndiiiiiiistrrs to liis com- 
 fort, and listens to his stories witli adrdighlcd attention. Tliis 
 too, however, is interdicted by his haid-hejirled parents; and 
 
 Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and 
 
 hard, 
 Can hear such claims and show them no regard. 
 
 Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found 
 By what strong foes lie was encompass'd round, 
 Engage he dared not, and he conld not fly. 
 But saw his hope in gentle parley lie ; 
 With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart. 
 He met the foe, and art opposed to art. 
 
 Now spoke that foe insidious — gentle tones, 
 And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones : 
 " Three girls," the Widow cried, " a lively three 
 " To govern well — indeed it cannot be." 
 " Yes," he replied, " it calls for pains and care : 
 " But I must bear it." — " Sir, you cannot bear; 
 " Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye :" 
 '• That, my kind friend, a father's may supply." 
 " Such growing griefs your very soul will tease :" 
 " To grieve another would not give me ease — 
 " I have a mother " — " She, poor ancient soul ! 
 " Can she the spirits of the young control? 
 " Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care, 
 " Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share ? 
 " Age is itself impatient, uncontroU'd :" 
 " But wives like mothers must at length be old." 
 " Thou hast shrewd servants — they are evils sore :" 
 " Yet a shrewd mistress might afilict me mure." 
 " Wilt thou not be a weary, wailing man ?"' 
 " Alas ! and I must bear it as I can." 
 
 Resisted thus, the Widow soon withdrew. 
 That in his pride the Hero might pursue ; 
 And off his wonted guard, in some retreat. 
 Find from a foe prepared entire defeat : 
 But he was prudent ; for he knew in flight 
 These Parthian warriors turn again and fight :' 
 Pie but at freedom, not at glory .lim'd. 
 And only safety by his caution claim'd. 
 
 Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees 
 Upon a small one, in its love, to seize — 
 It vows in kindness, to protect, defend. 
 And be the fond ally, the faithful friend ; 
 It therefore wills that humbler state to place 
 Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace ; 
 Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove, 
 By kind rejection of such pressing love ; 
 Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence, 
 And stand collected in its own defence : 
 Our Farmer thus the profTer'd kindness fled. 
 And shunn'd the love that into bondage led. 
 
 The AVidow failing, fresh besiegers enme. 
 To share the fate of this retiring dame : 
 
 the boy is obliged to steal privately to his disconsolate uncle. 
 One day his father catches him at his door ; and, after be.aliug 
 liiiii back, proceeds to deliver a severe rebuke to his bro'her 
 for encouraging tlie child in disobedience, wlien he finds the 
 unconscious culprit released Ia aealh from his despicable in- 
 sults and reproaclies. The great art of the story consists in 
 the plausible excuses with which the ungrateful brother 
 always contrives to cover liis wickedness. After the catastro- 
 phe, he endures deserved remorse and anguish. — Jeffrey.] 
 
 ' The Partliians were so skilled in the art of the bow, that 
 they could shoot with elfect flying. 
 
TALE XXI.— THE LEARNED BOY. 
 
 365 
 
 And each foresaw a Ihousatid ills attend 
 The man that fled from so discreet a friend ; 
 And pray'd, kind soul ! that no event might make 
 The harden'd lieart of Farmer Jones to ache. 
 
 But he still govern'd with resistless hand. 
 And wliere he could not guide he would command : 
 ^Vith steady view in course direct he steer'd, 
 And his fair daughters loved him, though they 
 
 fear'd ; 
 Each had her school, and as his wealth was known, 
 Each had in time a household of her o\ui. 
 
 The Boy indeed was at the Grandam's side 
 HumourM and train'd, her trouble and her pride : 
 Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild, 
 The childish widow and the vapourish child ; 
 This nature prompts ; minds uninform'd and weak 
 In such alliance ease and comfort seek : 
 Push'd by tlic levity of youth aside, 
 The cares of man, his humour, or his pi'idc, 
 They feel, in their defenceless state, allied : 
 The child is pleased to meet regard from age, 
 The old are pleased e'en children to engage ; 
 And all their wisdom, scorn'd by proud mankind. 
 They love to pour into the ductile mind, 
 By its own weakness into error led. 
 And by fond age with prejudices fed. 
 
 The Father, thankful for the good he had, 
 Yet saw with pain a whining, timid Lad ; 
 Whom he instructing led through cultured fields. 
 To show what IMan performs, wliat Nature yields : 
 But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view, 
 From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew. 
 And idly gazed about in search of something new. 
 The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play 
 "With things so mild, so harmless, and so gaj' ; 
 Best jjleased the weakest of the flock to see, 
 With whom he felt a sickly sympathy. 
 
 Jleantime the Dame was anxious, day and night. 
 To guide the notions of her babe aright, 
 And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering 
 
 light ; 
 Her Bible-stories she impress'd betimes. 
 And fiU'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes ; 
 On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt, 
 And the poor Boy mysterious terrors felt; 
 From frightful dreams he waking sobb'd in dread. 
 Till the good lady came to guard his bed. 
 
 The Father wish'd such errors to correct. 
 But let them pass in duty and respect : 
 But more it grieved his worthy mind to see 
 That Steijhen never would a farmer be ; 
 In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide. 
 And yet 't was time that something should be 
 
 tried : 
 He at the village-school perchance might gain 
 All that such mind could gather and retain ; 
 Yet the good Dame afiBrm'd her favourite child 
 Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild ; 
 "■ That he on many a learned point could speak, 
 " And that his body, not his mind, was weak." 
 
 The Father doubted — but to school was sent 
 The timid Stephen, weeping as he went : 
 
 There the rude lads compcU'd the child to fight, 
 And sent him bleeding to his home at night ; 
 At this the Grandam more indulgent grew, 
 And bade her Darling " slum the beastly crew ; 
 "■ Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie 
 '• Howling in torments, when they came to die." 
 This was such comfort, that in high disdain 
 He told their fate, and felt their blows again : 
 Yet if the Boy had not a hero's heart, 
 Within the school he play'd a better part; 
 He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate 
 With more success than many a hero sate ; 
 He thought not much indeed — but what depends 
 On pains and care was at his fingers' ends. 
 
 Tins had his Father's praise, who now espied 
 A spark of merit, w ith a blaze of pride ; 
 And though a farmer he would never make, 
 He might a pen with some advantage take ; 
 And as a clerk that instrument employ, 
 So well adapted to a timid boy. 
 
 A London Cousin soon a place obtain'd, 
 Easy but humble — little could be gain'd : 
 The time arrived when youth and age must part, 
 Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart ; 
 Tlie careful Father bade his Son attend 
 To all his duties and obey his Friend ; 
 To keep his church and there behave aright, 
 As one existing in his Maker's sight. 
 Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight : 
 " Then try, my hoj, as quickly as you can, 
 " T' assume the looks and spirit of a man ; 
 " I say, be honest, faithful, civil, ti-ue, 
 " And this you may, and yet have courage too : 
 " Heroic men, their countrj^'s boast and pride, 
 " Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside ; 
 " While others daring, yet imbecile, fly 
 '' The power of man, and that of God defy : 
 " Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate, 
 " Thou art, my Stephen, too cfteminate ; 
 " Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use 
 " ('T is fairly stock'd) of what it will produce : 
 " And now my blessing, not as any charm 
 '• Or conjuration ; but 't will do no harm." 
 
 Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and 
 
 down, 
 Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town, 
 Now loth to leave his Grandam — lost the force, 
 The drift and tenor of this grave discourse ; 
 But, in a general way, he understood 
 'T was good advice, and meant, " JMy son, be 
 
 good;" 
 And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean 
 That lads should read their Bible, and be clean. 
 
 The good old Lady, though in some distress, 
 Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress : 
 " Nay, dry those eyes, my child — and, first of all, 
 " Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall : 
 " Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text 
 " For meditation till j'ou hear the next ; 
 " Within j'our Bible night and morning look — 
 *' There is your duty, read no other book ; 
 " Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen, 
 " And keep your conscience and your Linen clean : 
 
366 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Be you a Joseph, and tlic time may be 
 
 *' ^Vhon kings and rulers will be ruled by thee." 
 
 " >'ay," said the Father " Hush, my son!" 
 
 replied 
 The Dame " the Scriptures must not be de- 
 nied." 
 
 The Lad, still weeping, heard the wheels ap- 
 proach, 
 And took his place within tlie evening coach. 
 With heart quite rent asunder : on one side 
 Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried; 
 Wilil-beasts and wax-work fiU'd the happier part 
 Of Stephen's varying and divided heart : 
 This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange, 
 Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange. 
 
 Soon at his desk was placed the curious Boy, 
 Demure and silent at his new employ ; 
 Yet as he could he much attention paid 
 To all around him, cautious and afraid ; 
 On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd, 
 But Stephen never in their council mix'd : 
 !Much their contempt lie fear'd, for if like them, 
 He felt assured he should himself contemn ; 
 -' Oh ! they were all so eloquent, so free, 
 " No ! he was nothing— nothing could he be : 
 " They dress so smartly, and so boldly look, 
 " And talk as if they read it from a book ; 
 " But I," said Stephen, " will forbear to speak, 
 " And they will think me prudent and not weak. 
 " They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the 
 
 pen, 
 " Of singing- women and of acting-men ; 
 "Of plays and places where at night tliey walk 
 " Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk ; 
 " AVhile other ladies for their pleasure sing, — 
 "Oil ! 'tis a glorious and a happy thing: 
 "They would despise me, did they understand 
 " I dare not look upon a scene so grand ; 
 " Or see tlie i)lays when critics rise and roar, 
 " And hiss and groan, and cry — Encore ! en- 
 core ! 
 " There's one among them looks a little kind ; 
 " H"more encouraged, I would ope my mind." 
 
 Alas I poor Stephen, happier had he kept 
 His purpose secret, while his envy slept; 
 Virtue perhaps had conquer'd, or his shame 
 At least jireserved him simple as he came. 
 A year elapsed before this Clerk began 
 To treat the rustic something like a man ; 
 He then in trifling points the youth advised, 
 Talk'd of his coat, and had it modernised ; 
 Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take, 
 And kindly strive his passions to awake ; 
 Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw, 
 Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe; 
 To a neat garden near the town they stray'd. 
 Where the Lad felt delighted and afraid ; 
 Tlierc all he saw was smart, and line, and fair — • 
 He could but marvel how he ventured there : 
 Soon lie observed, with terror and alarm. 
 His friend onlocked within a Lady's arm, 
 And freely talking—" But it is," said he, 
 "A near relation, and that makes him free ;" 
 
 And much amazed was Stephen when he knew 
 This was the first and only interview : 
 Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized, 
 The lovely owner had been highly pleased. 
 " Alas !" he sigh'd, "I never can contrive 
 " At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive ; 
 " Never shall I such happy courage boast, 
 " I dare as soon encounter with a ghost." 
 
 Now to a play the friendly couple went, 
 
 But the Boy munnur'd at the money spent ; 
 
 " He loved," he said, " to buy, but not to 
 
 spend — 
 " They only talk awhile, and there 's an end." 
 
 " Come, you shall purchase books," the Friend 
 replied ; 
 " You are bewilder'd, and you want a guide ; 
 " To me refer the choice, and you shall find 
 " The light break in upon your stagnant mind 1" 
 
 The cooler Clerks exclaim'd, " In vain your 
 
 art 
 " To improve a cub without a head or heart ; 
 " Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though 
 
 wild, 
 " Our cares may render liberal and mild; 
 " But what, my friend, can How from all these 
 
 pains ? 
 " There is no dealing with a lack of brains." 
 
 " True I am hopeless to behold him man, 
 " But let me make the booby what I can : 
 " Though the rude stone no polish will display, 
 " Y'et you may strip the rugged coat away." 
 
 Stephen beheld liis books — " I love to know 
 " How money goes — now here is that to show : 
 " And now," he cried, " I shall be pleased to get 
 " Beyond the Bible — there 1 puzzle yet." 
 
 He spoke abash'd. — " Nay, nay I" the friend 
 replied, 
 " You need not lay the good old book aside ; 
 " Antique and curious, 1 myself indeed 
 " Bead it at times, but as a man should read ; 
 " A fine old work it is, and I protest 
 " I hate to hear it treated as a jest ; 
 " The book has wistlom in it, if you look 
 " Wisely upon it, as another book : 
 " For superstition (as our priests of sin 
 " Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within ; 
 " Of this hereafter— we will now select 
 " Some works to please yon, others to direct : 
 " Tales and romances sliall your fancy feed, 
 " And reasoners form your morals and your 
 creed." 
 
 The books were vicw'd, the price was fairly paid, 
 And Stephen read undaunted, nndismay'd : 
 But not till first he papered all the row, 
 And placed in order to enjoy the show ; 
 Next Ictter'd all the backs with care and speed. 
 Set them in ranks, and then began to rcail. 
 
 The love of Order — I the thing receive 
 From reverend men, and I in part believe — 
 
TALE XXL— THE LEARNED BOY. 
 
 367 
 
 Shows a clear mind ami clean, and whoso needs 
 This love, but seldom in the world succeeds ; 
 And yet with this some other love must be, 
 Ere I can fully to the fact agree ; 
 Valour and study may by order gain. 
 By order sovereigns hold more steady reign ; 
 Through all the tribes of nature order runs, 
 And rules around in sj'stems and in suns : 
 Still has the love of order found a place, 
 M'ith all that 's low, degrading, mean, and base, 
 With all that merits scorn, and all that meets dis- 
 grace — 
 In the cold miser, of all change afraid ; 
 In pompous men in public seats obey'd ; 
 In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones. 
 Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones : 
 Order to these is armour and defence, 
 And love of method serves in lack of sense."' 
 
 For rustic j'outli could I a list produce 
 Of Stephen's books, how great might be the use '. 
 13ut evil fate was theirs — survey'd, enjoy'd 
 Some happy months, and then by force destroy'd : 
 So will'd the Fates — but these with patience read 
 Had vast effect on Stephen's heart and head. 
 
 This soon appear'd : within a single week 
 lie opeil his lips, and made attempt to speak : 
 He iail'd indeed — but still his Friend confess'd 
 The best have fail'd, and he had done his best: 
 Tlie first of swimmers, when at first he swims, 
 Has little use or freedom in his limbs ; 
 iS'ny, when at length he strikes with manly force. 
 The cramp may seize him, and impede his course. 
 
 Encouraged thus, our Clerk again essay'd 
 The daring act, though daunted and afraid ; 
 Succeeding now, though partial his success. 
 And pertness mark'd his manner and address, 
 Yet such improvement issued from his books, 
 That all discern'd it in his speech and looks : 
 lie ventured then on every theme to speak, 
 And i'elt no feverish tingling in his cheek ; 
 His friend, approving, hail'd the happy change. 
 The Clerks exclaim'd — -" 'T is famous, and 't is 
 strange." 
 
 Two years had pass'd ; the Youth attended still 
 (Though thus accomplish'd) with a ready quill ; 
 He sat th' allotted hours, though hard the case. 
 While timid prudence ruled in virtue's place ; 
 By promise bound, the Son his letters penn'd 
 To his good parent at the quarter's end. 
 At first he sent those lines, the state to tell 
 Of his own health, and hoped his friends were 
 
 well ; 
 He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind. 
 And needed nothing — then his name was sigu'd : 
 
 " [" Mr. Cralibe continued all through liis residence in 
 SufTolk the botanical and entomological studies to which lie 
 liad been so early devoted. This devotion appeared to pro- 
 ceed purely from the love of science and tlie 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 arrangement of his own specimens. Within the 
 house was a kind of scientific confusion ; in the garden the 
 usual showy foreigners gave place to the most scarce flowers, 
 and especially to the rarer weeds, of Britain ; and these were 
 
 But now he wrote of Sunday-walks and views. 
 
 Of actors' names, choice novels, and strange news ; 
 
 How coats were cut, and of his urgent need 
 
 For fresh supplj', which he desired with speed. 
 
 The Father doubted, when these letters came, 
 
 To what they tended, yet was loth to blame 
 
 " Stephen was once mij duteous son, and now 
 
 " 3Ii/ most obedient — this can I allow ? 
 
 " Can I with pleasure or with patience see 
 
 '' A boy at once so heartless and so free?" 
 
 But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told. 
 That love and prudence could no more withhold : 
 " Stephen, though steady at his des-k, was grown 
 " A rake and coxcomb — this he grieved to own ; 
 " His cousin left his church, and spent the day 
 " Lounging about in quite a heathen way ; 
 " Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace 
 " To show the shame imprinted on his face : 
 " T search'd his room, and in his absence read 
 '• Books that I knew would turn a stronger head ; 
 " The works of atheists half the number made, 
 " The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade ; 
 '■ AVhich neither man nor boy would deign to read, 
 " If from the scandal and pollution freed : 
 " I sometimes threaten'd, and w-ould fairly state 
 " My sense of things so vile and profligate ; 
 ■' But I 'm a cit, such works arc lost on me — 
 " They 're knowledge, and (good Lord !) phi- 
 losophy." 
 
 " Oh, send him down," the Father soon replied ; 
 " Let me behold him, and my skill be tried : 
 " If care and kindness lose their wonted use, 
 " Some rougher medicine will the end produce." 
 
 Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom — 
 " Go to the farmer ? to the rustic's home ? 
 " Curse the base threat'ning — " " Nay, child, 
 
 never curse ; 
 " Corrupted long, your case is growing worse." 
 '• I ! " quoth the youth ; " I challenge all man- 
 kind 
 " To find a fault ; what fault have you to find ? 
 '• Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace ? 
 " Inquire — my friends will tell it to your face ; 
 " Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep ? 
 '• A man like me has other things to keep ; 
 " This let him know." — '• It would his wrath 
 
 excite : 
 " But come, prepare, you must away to-night." 
 '' What I leave my studies, my improvements 
 
 leave, 
 " My faithful friends and intimates to grieve ?" — ■ 
 " Go to your father, Stephen, let him see 
 " All these improvements ; they are lost on me." 
 
 scattered here and there only for preservation. In fact, ho 
 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 13oy,' — 
 
 ' The love of order — I the thing receive,' S:c. 
 
 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."— 
 LiJ'i; ante, p. 4fi.] 
 
368 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The Youth, (hough loth, ohey'd, and soon he 
 saw 
 The Farmer-father, with some signs of awe; 
 Who, kind, yet silent, waited to behold 
 How one would act, so daring, yet so cold : 
 And soon lie found, between the friendly pair 
 That secrets pass'd which he was not to share ; 
 But he resolved those secrets to obtain. 
 And quash rebellion in his lawful reign. 
 
 Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute ; 
 lie fcar'd a crisis, and lie shunn'd dispute ; 
 And yet he long'd with youthful pride to show 
 He knew such things as farmers could not know ; 
 These to the Grandam he with freedom spoke. 
 Saw her amazement, and eujoy'd the joke : 
 But on the father when he cast his eye. 
 Something he found that made his valour shy ; 
 And thus there scem'd to be a hollow truce. 
 Still threat'ning something dismal to produce. 
 
 Ere this the Father at his leisure read 
 The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled ; 
 He saw how wrought the works of either kind 
 On so presuming, yet so weak a mind ; 
 These in a chosen hour he made his prey, 
 CondeninM, and bore with vengeful thoughts 
 
 ^ away ; 
 Then in a close recess the couple near, 
 He sat unseen to sec, unheard to hear. 
 
 Tliere soon a trial for his patience came ; 
 Beneath were placed the Youth and ancient Dame, 
 Each on a purpose fix'd — but neither thought 
 How near a foe, with power and vengeance 
 fraught. 
 
 And now the matron told, as tidings sad, 
 "What she had heard of her beloved lad ; 
 How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed. 
 And wicked books would night and morning read ; 
 Some former lectures she again began. 
 And begg'd attention of her little man ; 
 She brought, witli many a pious boast, in view 
 Ills former studies, and condemn'd the new: 
 Once lie the names of saints and patriarchs old. 
 Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told ; 
 Then lie in winter-nights the Bible took. 
 To count how often in tlie sacred book 
 The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse 
 Whicli were the middle chapter, word, and verse, 
 The very letter in tlic middle placed, 
 And so empluy'd the hours that others waste. 
 
 " Such wert thou once ; and now, my child, they 
 say 
 " Thy faith like water runni'th fast away ; 
 " The ])riMce of d(!vi!s hatli, 1 fear, beguiled 
 " The ready wit of my backsliding child." 
 
 On this, witli lofty looks, our Clerk began 
 His grave rebuke, as he assuine<l the man. — 
 
 " Tliere is no devil," said the liopeful youth, 
 " Nor prince of devils : that I know for truth. 
 " Have I not told you how my books describe 
 " The arts of priests, and all the canting tril>e ? 
 
 " Your Bible mentions Egypt, ^vhere it seems 
 
 " "Was Joseph found when Pharaoh dream'd his 
 
 dreams : 
 " Now in that place, in some bewilder'd head, 
 " (The learned write,) religious di'eams were bred ; 
 " AVhence through the earth, with various forms 
 
 combined, 
 " They came to frighten and afflict mankind, 
 " I'rone (so I read) to let a priest invade 
 " Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made 
 " Slave to his will, and profit to his trade : 
 " So say my books, and how the rogues agreed 
 " To blind the victims, to defraud and lead ; 
 " When joys above to ready dupes were sold, 
 " And hell was threaten'd to the shy and cold. 
 
 " "Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray ? 
 " As if a Being heard a word we say : 
 " This may surprise you ; I myself began 
 " To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran ; 
 " I now am wiser — yet agree in this, 
 " The book has things that are not much amiss ; 
 " It is a fine old work, and I protest 
 " I hate to hear it treated as a jest : 
 '' The book has wisdom in it, if you look 
 " Wisely upon it as another book." 
 
 " Oh ! wicked ! wicked ! my unhappy child, 
 " How hast thou been by evil men beguiled !" 
 
 " How ! wicked, say you ? You can little guess 
 " The gain of that which you call wickedness : 
 " Why, sins you think it sinful but to name 
 " Have gain'd both wives and widows wealth and 
 
 fame ; 
 " And this because such people never dread 
 '■ Those threaten'd pains ; hell conies not in their 
 
 head : 
 " Love is our nature, wealth we all desire, 
 " And what we wish 't is lawful to acquire ; 
 " So s.ny my books — and what beside they show 
 " 'T is time to let this honest Farmer know. 
 " Nay, look not grave ; am I commanded down 
 " To feed his cattle and become his clown ? 
 " Is such his purpose ? then he shall be told 
 " The vulgar insult — 
 
 Hold, in mercy hold ! — 
 " Father, oh ! father ! throw the whip away ; 
 " I was but jesting : on my knees I pray — 
 " There, hold his arm — oh ! leave us not alone : 
 " In pity cease, aiid I will yet atone 
 
 " For all my sin." In vain; stoke after sti-oke. 
 
 On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke ; 
 tjuick as tlie patient's pulse, who trembling cried, 
 And still the parent with a stroke replied; 
 Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt, 
 And every bone tlie precious influence felt ; 
 Till all the panting flesh was red and raw, 
 And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe ; 
 Till every doubt to due respect gave place. — 
 Such cures are done when doctors know the case. 
 
 " Oil ! 1 shall (lie — my father ! do receive 
 " I\Iy dying words; indeed I do believe. 
 " The books are lying books, I know it well ; 
 " There is a devil, oh I there is a hell ; 
 " And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young, 
 " My sinful words were only on my tongue ; 
 
TALE XXL— THE LEARNED BOY. 
 
 869 
 
 " My heart consented not ; 't is all a lie : 
 
 ■' Oh ! spare me then, I 'm not prepared to die." 
 
 " Vain, worthless, stupid wretch !" the Father 
 cried ; 
 " Dost thou presume to teach ? art thou a guide ? 
 " Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distress 
 " To hear tljy tlioughts in their religious dress ; 
 " Tliy pious folly moved my strong disdain, 
 " Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain ; 
 " But Job in patience must the man exceed 
 " "Who could endure thee iu thy present creed. 
 " Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend 
 " The wicked cause a helping hand to lend ? 
 " Canst thou a judge in any question be ? 
 " Atheists themselves would scorna friend like thee. 
 
 " Lo ! yonder blaze thy worthies ; in one heap 
 " Thy scoundrel favourites must for ever sleep : 
 " Each yields its poison to the flame in turn, 
 " Vv'here wliores and infidels are doom'd to burn ; 
 
 " Two noble fagots made the flame you see, 
 
 " Reserving only two fair twigs for thee ; 
 
 •• That in thy view the instruments may standj 
 
 " And be in future ready for my hand : 
 
 " The just mementos that, though silent, show 
 
 " "Whence thy correction and improvements flow ; 
 
 " Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power, 
 
 •' And feel the shame of this important hour. 
 
 " Hadst thou beon humble, I had first design'd 
 " By care from folly to have freed thy mind ; 
 " And when a clean foundation had been laid, 
 " Oiir priest, more able, would have lent his aid : 
 " But thou art weak, and force must folly guide ; 
 " And thou art vain, and pain must humble 
 
 pride : 
 '• Teachers men honour, learners they allure ; 
 •'• But learners teaching, of contempt are sure ; 
 " Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only 
 
 cure !" 
 
 END OF THE TALES.' 
 
 •' [The ele^'.int and jiulicious critic of these Tales in the 
 ' Edintnirgh Review' for 1812 thus concludes liis article: — ■ 
 " The last tale is the liistory of a poor, weakly, paltry lad, 
 who is sent up from the country to be a clerk in town ; and 
 learns by slow degrees to alfect freethinking, and to practise 
 dissipation. Upon the tidings of which happy conversion, his 
 father, a worthy old farmer, orders liim down again to the 
 country, where he harrows up the soul of his pious grand- 
 mother by his infidel pratin;: — and Ids father reforms him at 
 once by burning his idol book, and treating him with a 
 vigorous course of horsewhipping. Tliere is some humour in 
 this tale, and a t;reat deal of nature and art, especially in the 
 delineation of this slender clerk's gradual corruption, and in 
 the constant and constitutional predominance of weakness 
 and foUv in all his vice and virtue, his piety and profaneness. 
 " We have thus gone through tliese tales with minuteness. 
 Considering Mr. Crabbe as, upon the whole, the most original 
 writer that has ever come before us, and being at the same 
 time of opinion that his writings are destined to a still more 
 extensive popularity than they have yet obtained, we could 
 not resist the temptation of contributing our little aid to th.e 
 fuinimentof that destiny. It is chielly for the same reason 
 tliat we have directed our remarks rather to the moral than 
 the literary qualities of his works — to his genius, at least, 
 ratlier than his taste — and to his thoughts rather than his 
 fii,nires of speec',1. l?y far the most remar-able thing in his 
 writings is the prodigious mass of original observations and 
 rellections they everywhere exhibit, and that extraordinary 
 power of conceiving and representing an iraai;inarv object, 
 wliether physic d or intellectual, with such a rich and com- 
 plete accompaniment of circumstances and details as few 
 ordinary observers either perceive or remember in realities — 
 a power which must for ever entitle him to the very lirst 
 rank among descriptive poets, and, when directed to worthv 
 ohject<, to a rank inferior to none in the highest departments 
 of poetry. 
 
 " We think that many of Mr. Crable's stories may be 
 ranked by the side of the inimitable tales of Miss Kdgertorth, 
 and are calculated to do nearly as much good among that part 
 of the population with which they are principally occupied, 
 liut it is not only on account of the mural benefit which we 
 tliink they may derive from them that we would peculiarly 
 recommend the writings of Mr. Crabbe to that great propor- 
 tion of our readers which must necess:irily belong to the 
 middlinj or humbler classes of the community : we are 
 pprsuaded that they will derive more pleasure from them 
 than readers of any other description. Those who do not 
 belong to that rank of society with which this powerful 
 writer is chielly conversant in his poetry, or wlio have not at 
 least gone much among them, and attended diligently to 
 their characters and occupations, can neither be half aware 
 of tlie exquisite lidelity of his delineations, nor feel in their 
 full force the better part of the emotions which he has 
 sugges'ed. Vehement passion, indeed, is of all ranks and 
 conditions, and its language and extern;il indications nearly 
 
 the same in all. Like liighly rectified spirit, it blazes and 
 inflames with equal force and brightness from whatever ma- 
 terials it is extracted. Hut all the softer and kindlier affec- 
 tions, all the social anxieties that mix with our daily hopes, 
 and endear our home, and colour our existence, wear a ditl'er- 
 ent livery, and are written in a dilTerent character, in almost 
 every great caste or division of society ; and the heart is 
 warmed and the spirit is touched by their delineation, ex- 
 actly in the same proportion in which we are familiar with 
 the types by which they are represented. When Burns, in 
 his better days, walked out on a fine summer morning with 
 Dugald Stewart, and the latter observed to him what a beauty 
 the scattered cottages, with their white walls and curlin" 
 smoke shining in the silent sun, imparted to the landscape, 
 the peasant-poet observed that /le felt that beauty ten times 
 more strongly than his companion, and that it was necessary 
 to be a cottager to know what pure and tranquil pleasures 
 nestled below those lowly roofs, or to read in their external 
 appearance the signs of so many heartfelt and long-remem- 
 bered enjoyments. In the same way, the humble and patient 
 hopes, the depressing embarrassments, the little mortifica- 
 tions, the slender triumphs, and strange temptations which 
 occur in middling life, and are the theme of Mr. Crabbe's 
 finest and most touching representations, can only be guessed 
 at by those who glitter in the higher walks of existence; 
 wlnle tliey must raise a tumultuous throb and many a fond 
 recollection in the breasts of those to whom they reflect so 
 truly the image of their own estate, and reveal so clearly the 
 secrets of their habitual sensations. 
 
 We cannot help thinking, therefore, that, though such 
 writings as are now before us must give pleasure to all per- 
 sons of taste and sensibility, they will give by far the greatest 
 pleasure to those whose condition is least remote from that of 
 the beings with whom they are occupied. But we think also 
 that it was wise and meritorious in Mr. Crabbe to orcupy 
 himself with such beings. In this country there probably are 
 not less than tuo liundred ihuiisnnd persons who read for 
 amusement or instruction among the middling classes of so- 
 ciety. In the higher classes there are not as many as twenti/ 
 thousand. It is easy to see therefore whicli a poet should 
 choose to please for his own glory and emolument, and which 
 he should wish to delight and amend out of mere philan- 
 thropy. The fact too, we believe, is, that a great part of the 
 larger body are to the full as well educated and as high- 
 minded as the smaller ; and, though their taste may not be 
 so correct and fastidious, we are persuaded tliat their sensi- 
 bility is greater." 
 
 It may be proper to observe, by the way, that, in anotlier 
 part of the same paper, the writer (probably Mr. .TelTrey) 
 explains the sense he attaches to a vague phrase in the last 
 of these interesting paragrsphs. He says, — " liy t/te midddnij 
 classes we mean almost all those w ho are below the sphere of 
 what is called fashionable or public life, and who do not aim 
 at distinction or notoriety beyond the circle of tlieir equals in 
 fortune and situation."'' 
 
 2b 
 
370 
 
 CRABBE'S "WORKS. 
 
 FLIRTATION 
 
 A DIALOGUE.' 
 
 From her own room, in summer's softest eve, 
 Stepp'd Celia forth her Delia to receive, — 
 Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared. 
 
 C. — War and the waves my fav'rite Youth have 
 
 spared ; 
 Faithful and fond, through many a painful year. 
 My Charles will come Do give me joy, my dear. 
 
 D. — I give you joy, and so may ho ; but still, 
 'T is right to (question if 't is sure he will ; 
 A sailor's open honest heart we prize. 
 But honest sailors have their ears and eyes. 
 
 C. — Oh ! but he surely will on me depend, 
 Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend. 
 
 D. — Be not secure ; the very best have foes. 
 And facts they would not to the world expose ; 
 And these he may be told, if he converse with 
 those. 
 
 C. — Speak you in friendship ? — let it be sincere 
 And na'Kcd truth, — and wliat have I to fear ? 
 
 D. — I speak in friendship ; and I do confess, 
 If I were you, the Truth sliould wear a dress : 
 If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind, 
 "Would you to him present the naked mind ? 
 If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks 
 One's joy to think that he may fancy specks ; 
 And now, in five long years, wo scarcely know 
 How the mind gets tlicm, and how large they grow. 
 Let woman be as rigid as a nun, 
 She cannot censures and surmises shun. 
 Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells — 
 Your father's rooms were not like sisters' cells ; 
 Nor pious monks came tliere, nor prosing friars. 
 But well-dress'd captains and approving squires. 
 
 C. — What these to mo, admit th' account be 
 true? 
 
 D. — Nay, that yourself describe— they came to 
 
 you: 
 
 « [Written in May, 1«16.] 
 
 C — Well ! to my friend I may the truth confess, 
 Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess ; 
 Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote 
 Those pretty verses, he began to dote ; 
 That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop 
 A moment with him, at my feet would drop ; 
 Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake, 
 I to my favour often used to take : 
 And was, vile world ! my character at stake ? 
 If such reports my Sailor's ear sliould reach. 
 What jealous tlioughts and fancies may tliey teach ! 
 If without cause ill-judging men suspect. 
 What may not all these harmless truths eficct ? 
 And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail, 
 What must we fear if conscious we are frail ? 
 And well you know, my friend, nor fear t' impart, 
 The tender frailties of the yielding heart. 
 
 -D. — Speak for yourself, fair lady ! speak with 
 care ; 
 I, not your frailties, but your suffering share : 
 You may my counsel, if you will, refuse ; 
 But pray beware how j'ou my name accuse. 
 
 C. — Accuse you ! No ! there is no need of one 
 To do what long the public voice has done ! 
 Wliat misses then at school forget the fall 
 Of Ensign Bloomer wlien he leap'd the ^^all ? 
 That was a first exploit, and we were witness all ; 
 And that sad night, upon my faithful breast, 
 We wept together till we sank to rest ; 
 You own'd your love 
 
 D. — A girl, a chit, a child ! 
 Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled ? 
 
 C. — Then lay your hand, fair creature I on your 
 heart, 
 And say how many there have had a part : 
 Six I remember ; and, if Fame be true. 
 The handsome Serjeant had his portion too. 
 
 D, — A Serjeant ! Madam, if I might advise, 
 Do Yise some small discretion in such lies : 
 A Serjeant, Celia ? 
 
 C. — Handsome, smart, and clean. 
 Yes ! and the fellow had a noble mien. 
 
FLIRTATION— A DIALOGUE. 
 
 371 
 
 That might excuse you had you giv'n your hand, — 
 But this your father could not understand. 
 
 J). — 3Iercy ! how pert and flippant arc you 
 grown, 
 As if you 'd not a secret of your ovra ! 
 Yet would j-ou tremble should your Sailor know 
 "What I or my small cabinet could show : 
 He might suspect a heart with many a wound, 
 Shallow and deep, could never more be sound ; 
 That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled. 
 The feeling ceases and the love is dead ; 
 But sense exists, and passion serves instead. 
 
 C. — Injurious Delia I cold, reproachful maid I 
 Is thus my confidential faith repaid ? 
 Is this the counsel that we two have held 
 "When duty trembled and desire rebeU'd ; 
 The sister-vows we made, through many a night. 
 To aid each other in the arduous fight 
 "With the harsh-minded powers who never think 
 "What nature needs, nor Mill at weakness wink ? 
 And now, thou cruel girl ! is all forgot. 
 The wish oft whisper'd, the imagined lot. 
 The secret Hymen, the sequester'd cot ? 
 And will you thus our bond of friendship rend, 
 And join the world in censure of your friend ? 
 Oh ! 't is not right ! as all with scorn must see, 
 Although the certain mischief falls on mc. 
 
 D. — >'ay, never weep ! but let this kiss restore, 
 And make our friendship perfect as before ; 
 Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn ? 
 And yet we dearly love their faults and them. 
 »So our reproofs to tender minds are shown, 
 "We treat their wanderings as we treat our own ; 
 "We are each other's conscience, and we tell 
 Our friend her fault, because we wish her well ; 
 '•'• e judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case, 
 Fore-arm tlie soul, and shield her from disgrace. 
 Creatures in prison, ere the trj-ing daj', 
 Their answers practise, and their powers essay. 
 By means Hko these they guard against surprise, 
 And all the puzzling questions that may rise. 
 
 " Guilty or not?" His lawyer thus address'd 
 A wealthy rogue. " Not guilty, I protest." 
 ■• Why, then, my friend, we 've nothing here to 
 
 say, 
 '■' But you 're in danger I prithee heed your m ; y : 
 *• You know your truth, / where your error lies : 
 '• From your ' A'oi guilty' will your danger rise." 
 '• Oh ! but I am, and I have here the gain 
 '• Of wicked craft." — " Then let it here remain ; 
 '• For we must guard it by a sure defence, 
 " And not professions of your innocence ; 
 '• For that's the way, whatever you suppose, 
 " To slip your neck within the ready noose." 
 
 Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise. 
 Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies. 
 It is confessed, that not the good and pure 
 Are in this world of calumny secure ; 
 And therefore never let a lass rely 
 I'pon her goodness and her chastity : 
 Her very virtue makes her heedless : youth 
 Ileveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth ; 
 
 "Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame, 
 She grows discreet, and well defends her fame ; 
 And thus, oflFending, better makes her way — 
 As Joseph Surface argues in the play — 
 Than when in virtue's strength she proudly stood. 
 So wrongly right, and so absurdly good. 
 
 Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, 
 and try 
 His own dear damsel — questioning how and why — 
 Let her be ready, arm'd with prompt reply ; 
 No hesitation let the man discern. 
 But answer boldlj', then accuse in turn ; 
 Some trifling points with candid speech confess' d, 
 You gain a monstrous credit for the rest. 
 Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown, 
 And with your anger keep his malice down ; 
 Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart 
 To sue for pardon when j-ou come to part ; 
 But let him have it ; let him go in peace. 
 And all inquiries of themselves will cease ; 
 To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast, 
 Have a few tears in petto at the last ; 
 But, this with care ! for 'tis a point of doubt, 
 If you should end with weeping or without. 
 'T is true you much affect him by your pain, 
 But he may want to prove his power again ; 
 And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes — 
 A girl is never handsome when she cries. 
 Take it for granted, in a general way. 
 The more you weep for men, the more you may. 
 Save your resources ; for though now you cry 
 AVith good effect, you may not by and by. 
 It is a knack ; and there are those that weep 
 "Without emotion that a man may sleep ; 
 Others disgust — t' is genius, not advice, 
 That will avail us in a thing so nice. 
 If you should love him, you have greater need 
 Of all your care, and may not then succeed : — 
 For that 's our bane — we should be conquerors all 
 "With hearts untouch'd — our feelings cause our fall. 
 But your experience aids you : you can hide 
 Your real weakness in your borro\\''d pride. 
 
 But to the point : should so the Charge be laid. 
 That nought against it fairly can be said — 
 How would you act ? You would not then con- 
 fess? 
 
 C. — Oh I never I no I — nor even my Truth pro- 
 fess I 
 To mute contempt I would alone resort 
 For the Reporters, and for their Report. 
 If he profess'd forgiveness, I would cry — 
 " Forgive such faithlessness ! so would not I. 
 " Such errors pardon ! he that so would act 
 " AVould, I am sure, be guilty of the fact ; 
 " Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean, 
 " I would not longer in your walks be seen : 
 " Could you such woman for a moment prize ? 
 " You might forgive her, but you must despise." 
 
 D. — Bravo, my girl I 't is then our sex com- 
 mand, 
 "NVhen we can seize the weapon in tlieir hand, 
 "When we their charge po manage, that 't is found 
 To save the credit it was meant to wound. 
 
 2 u2 
 
372 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Those who by reasons their acquittal seek, 
 ]Make the whole sex contemptible and weak ; 
 This, too, observe — that men of sense in love 
 Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads 
 
 prove ; 
 For all that knowledge, lent them as a guide, 
 Goes off entirely to the lady's side ; 
 "Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more, 
 And gains perception that lie lack'd before. 
 His honest passion blinds the man of sense, 
 While want of feeling is the fool's defence ; 
 Arm'd with insensibility he comes. 
 When more repcU'd he but the more assumes, 
 And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit ; 
 For where we cannot conquer we submit. 
 
 But come, my love ! let us examine now 
 These Charges all ; — say, what shall we avow. 
 Admit, deny ; and which defend, and how ? 
 That old affair between your friend and you. 
 When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu, 
 3Iay be forgotten ; yet we should prepare 
 For all events : and are you guarded there ? 
 
 C.—Oh 1 't is long since — I might the whole 
 deny — 
 " So poor and so contemptible a lie ! 
 " Charles, if 'tis pleasant to abuse your friend, 
 " Let there be something that she may defend ; 
 " This is too silly — " 
 
 D. — Well you may appear 
 With so much spirit — not a witness near ; 
 Time puzzles judgment, and, when none explain. 
 You may assume the airs of high disdain. 
 But for my Brother : night and morn were you 
 Together found, th' inseparable two, 
 Far from t'.ie haunts of vulgar prying men — ■ 
 In the old abbey — in tlie lonely glen — 
 In the beech-wood — witliin the quarry made 
 By hands long dead — within the silent glade. 
 Where the moon gleams upon the spring that 
 
 flows 
 By the grey willows as they stand in rows — 
 Shall I proceed? there's not a quiet spot 
 In all the parish where the pair were not. 
 Oft watch'd, oft seen. You must not so dcsi)ise 
 This weighty charge — Now, what will you devise ? 
 
 C. — " Her brother! What, sir? jealous of a 
 child ! 
 " A friend's relation ! Why, the man is wild ! 
 " A boy not yet at college ! Come, this proves 
 " Some truth in you !-%I'his is a freak of Love's : 
 " I must forgive it, though I know not how 
 " A tiling so very simple to allow. 
 " Pray, if I meet my cousin's little boy, 
 " And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy? 
 " But I remember Delia — yet to give 
 " A thought to this is folly, as I live — 
 " But I remember Delia made her prayer 
 " That I would try and give the Boy an air; 
 " Yet awkward he, fcr all the pains wo took — ■ 
 " A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book ; 
 " And since the lad is grown to man's estate, 
 " V^e never speak — your bookish youth I hate." 
 
 IJ. — Right! and he cannot tell, with all his 
 art. 
 Our father's will compell'd you both to part. 
 
 C. — Nay, this is needless — 
 
 D. — Oh ! when you are tried, 
 And taught for trial, must I feed your pride ? 
 Oh ! that 's the vice of which I still complain : 
 Men could not triumph were not women vain. 
 But now proceed — say boyhood in this case 
 (The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace. 
 But what of Shelley ? all your foes can prove, 
 And all your friends, that here indeed was love. 
 For three long months you met as lovers meet, 
 And half the town has seen him at your feet ; 
 Then, on the evil day that saw you part. 
 Your ashy looks betray'd your aching heart. 
 With this against you 
 
 C. This, my watchful friend, 
 Confess I cannot ; therefore must defend. 
 
 " Shelley ! dear Charles, how enter'd he your 
 
 mind ? 
 " Well may they say that jealousy is blind ! 
 " Of all the men who talk'd with me of love, 
 " His were the offers I could least approve ; 
 " My father's choice — and, Charles, you must 
 
 agree 
 " That my good father seldom thinks with me — 
 " Or his had been the grief, while thou wert toss'd 
 
 at sea ! 
 " It was so odious — when that man was near, 
 " My father never could himself appear ; 
 " Had I received his fav'rite with a frown, 
 " Upon my word he would have knock'd me down. 
 
 D. — Well ! grant you durst not frown — but 
 people say 
 That you were dying when he went away : — 
 Y'es ! you were ill ! of that no doubts remain ; 
 And how explain it ? — 
 
 C. — Oh ! I '11 soon explain : — 
 
 " I sicken'd, say j'ou, when the man was gone ? 
 " Could I be well, if sickness would come on ? 
 " Fact follows fact : but is 't of Nature's laws 
 " That one of course must be the other's cause ? 
 " Just as her husband tried his fav'rite gun, 
 " My cousin brought him forth his first-born 
 
 son. 
 " The birth might either flash or fright succeed, 
 " But neither, sure, were causes of the deed. 
 " That Shelley loft us, it is very true— 
 " Tliat sickness i'ound me, I confess it too •, 
 " But that the one was cause, and one effect, 
 " Is a conceit I utterly reject. 
 
 " You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please, 
 " That disappointment will bring on disease ; 
 " But, if it siiould, I would be glad to know 
 " If 't is a quinsy that such griefs bestow ? 
 " A heart may suli'or. if a lady dote ; 
 " But will she feel her anguish in the throat? 
 " I 've heard of pangs that tender folks endure, 
 " But not that liuctuscs and blisters cure." 
 
FLIRTATION— A DIALOGUE. 
 
 373 
 
 Your thoughts, my Delia ? — 
 
 X>.— What I think of this ? 
 "Why I if he smile, it is not much amiss : 
 But there are humours ; and, by them possess'd, 
 A lover will not hearken to a jest. 
 
 "Well, let this pass ! — but, for the next affair : 
 We know your father was indignant there ; 
 lie hated Miller. Say ! if Charles should press 
 For explanation, what would you confess ? 
 You cannot there on his commands presume ; 
 Besides, you fainted in a public room ; 
 There own'd your flame, and, like heroic maid, 
 The sovereign impulse of your will obey'd. 
 AVhat, to your thinking, was the world's disdain ? 
 You could retort its insolence again : 
 Your boundless passion boldly you avow'd, 
 And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud : 
 Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove 
 The world-defying force of Celia's love. 
 Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her 
 Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer ? 
 And then that frantic quarrel at the ball — 
 It must be known, and he will hear it all. 
 jS'ay ! never frown, but cast about, in time, 
 How best to answer what he thinks a crime : 
 For what he thinks might have but little weight, 
 If you could answer — 
 
 C— Then I '11 answer straight — 
 Not without Truth ; for who would vainly tell 
 A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well ? 
 Had I not fever ? Is not that the bane 
 Of human wisdom ? Was I not insane ? 
 
 " Oh ! Charles, no moi'e ! would you recall the 
 day 
 " When it pleased Fate to take my wits away ? 
 " How can I answer for a thousand things 
 " That this disorder to the sufferer brings ? 
 " Is it not known, the men whom you dislike 
 " Are those whom now the erring fancy strike ? 
 " Nor would it much surprise rae, if 'twere true, 
 " That in those days of dread I slighted you : 
 " When the poor mind, illumined by no spark 
 '' Of reason's light, was wandering in the dark, 
 " You must not Vionder, if the vilest train 
 " Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain ; 
 '■ Nor if tlie loyal and the faithful prove 
 " False to their king, and faithless to their 
 
 love." 
 Your thoughts on this ? 
 
 D. — With some you may succeed 
 By such bold strokes ; but they must love indeed. 
 
 C. — Doubt you his passion ? — 
 
 D. — But, in five long years 
 The passion settles — then the reason clears : 
 Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined, 
 But by and by grows sober and refined. 
 And peers for facts ; but if one can't rely 
 On truth, one takes one's chance — you can but 
 try. 
 
 Yet once again I must attention ask 
 To a new Charge, and then resign my task. 
 I would not hurt you ; but confess at least 
 That you were partial to that handsome Priest ; 
 Say what they will of his religious mind. 
 He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind ; 
 Now, with his reverence you were daily seen, 
 When it was winter and the weather keen ; 
 Traced to the mountains when the winds were 
 
 strong. 
 And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along — 
 That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal, 
 You were too faithful or too fond to feel. 
 Shielded from inward and from outward harm 
 By the strong spirit and the fleshly arm — ■ 
 The winter-garden you could both admire. 
 And leave his sisters at the parlour fire ; 
 You trusted not ycnr speech these dames among — 
 Better the teeth should chatter than the tongue ! 
 Did not your father stop the pure delight 
 Of this perambulating Love at night ? 
 It is reported that his craft contrived 
 To get the Priest with expedition wived 
 And sent away ; for fathers will suspect 
 Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect. 
 Patience, my dear ! your Lover will appear ; 
 At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer ? 
 
 " I hear," says he, — and he will look as grim 
 As if he heard his lass accusing him — 
 " I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks 
 " Kept the young Curate from his holy books ; 
 " Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; 
 " But 't is their duty — not the better they ; 
 " 'T is done for policy, for praise, for pay : 
 " Or, let the very best be understood, 
 " They 're men, j-ou know, and men are flesh and 
 
 blood. 
 " Now, they do say — but let me not offend— 
 " You were too often with this pious friend, 
 " And spent j-our time" 
 
 C. — " As people ought to spend. 
 " And, sir, if you of some divine would ask 
 " Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task ; 
 '' But you — alas, the while ! — are not perplex'd 
 " By the dark meaning of a threat "ning text ; 
 " You rather censure her who spends her time 
 " In search of Truth, as if it were a crime ! 
 " Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel, 
 " To whom should J, in my distress, appeal ? 
 " A time there may be, Charles, indeed there 
 
 must, 
 " When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, 
 " In conscience tender, but in counsel just. 
 " Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence 
 
 strive, 
 •' And, if I could, would keep your Love alive ; 
 " But there arc things that our attention claim, 
 " More near than Love, and more desired than 
 
 Fame !" 
 
 D. — " But why in secret?" he will ask you — 
 
 C— " Why ? 
 " Oh ! Charles, could j-ou the doubting spirit spy, 
 " Had you such fears, all hearers yciu would shun; 
 " What one confesses should be heard by one. 
 
374 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long 
 " "With such companions, that you will be wrong: 
 " We fill our minds from those witli whom we live, 
 " And as your fears are Nature's, I forgive ; 
 " But learn your peace and my good name to 
 
 prize, 
 " And fears of fancy let us both despise." 
 
 D, — Enough, my friend ! Now let the man 
 advance — 
 You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance : 
 'T is not suificient that we 're pure and just ; 
 The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust. 
 
 Will he himself appear, or will he send. 
 Duteous as warm ! and not alarm my friend ? 
 
 We need not ask — behold ! his servant comes : 
 His father's livery ! no fond heart presumes : 
 
 Thus he prepares you — kindly gives you space 
 To arm your mind and rectify your face. 
 Now, read your letter — while my faitliful heart 
 Feels all that his can dictate or impart. 
 
 Nay ! bless you, love ! what melancholy tale 
 Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale? 
 It is his sister's writing, but the seal 
 Is red : he lives. What is it that you feel ? 
 
 C- 
 
 dear friend ! let us from man 
 
 -0! my 
 
 retreat, 
 Or never trust him if we chance to meet — 
 The fickle wretch ! that from our jircsence flies 
 To any flirt that any place supplies. 
 And laughs at vows ! — but see the Letter ! — here — 
 ''Married at Guernseij l '. '."—Oh', the Villain, 
 
 dear ! 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 375 
 
 TALES OF THE HALL.' 
 
 TO HER GRACE 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND. 
 
 Madam, 
 It is the privilege of those who are placed in that elevated situation to which your Grace is an 
 ornament, that they give honour to the person upon whom they confer a favour. When I dedicate to 
 your Grace the fruits of many years, and speak of my debt to the House of Kutland, I feel that I am 
 not without pride in the confession, nor insensible to the honour which such gratitude implies. Forty 
 years have elapsed since this debt commenced. On my entrance into the cares of life, and while con- 
 tending with its difficulties, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland observed and protected me — in my pro- 
 gress, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland favoured and assisted me — and, when I am retiring from the 
 world, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland receive my thanks, and accept my oflTering. All, even in this 
 world of mutability, is not change. I have experienced unvaried favour — I have felt undiminished 
 respect. 
 
 With the most grateful remembrance of what I owe, and the most sincere conviction of the 
 little I can return, "I present these pages to your Grace's acceptance, and bog leave to subscribe 
 rnvFclf, 
 
 May it please your Grace, 
 
 With respect and gratitude, 
 Your Grace's 
 
 Most obedient and devoted servant, 
 Trowbridge, June, 1819. Geokge Craeee.' 
 
 ' [The ' Talks of thk Halt/ were first published in June 
 iRly, by Mr. Murray, wlio gave for tliem, and the copyri<,'ht 
 of tlie author's previous works, the sum of tliree thousand 
 pounds. The reader will lind some interesting particulars 
 rpspecting this purchase in a letter by Mr. Moore, printed in 
 the present collection (pp. 74-76). 
 
 These 'Tales' occupied Mr. Crabbe during the years 1817 
 and 181S ; and it appears, from a letter to Jlrs. Leadbeater, 
 dated oOth Uctolier, 1817, that he originally designed to put 
 tliem forth under another title. — " 1 know not," he writes, 
 "how to describe the new, and proliably (most probably) 
 the last work I shall publish. My friends decided that 'Re- 
 membrances ' should be the title. Though a villa:;e is tlie 
 scene of meeting between my two principal characters, and 
 gives occasion to other characters and relations in general, 
 yet I no more describe t!ie manners of village inhabitants. 
 My people are of superior classes, though not the most ele- 
 vated, and, with a few exceptions, are of educated and 
 cultivated minds and habits. I do not know, on a general 
 view, whether my tragic or lighter Tales, &c., are most in 
 number. Of those equally well executed, the tragic will, I 
 suppose, make the greater impression ; but 1 know not that 
 
 it requires more attention." — The title under wliich the Talcs 
 eventually appeared was suggested by Mr. Murray ; and the 
 reception of the work was highly favourable. — E.] 
 
 2 [Lady Elizabetli Howard, daughter of Frederick, fifth Earl 
 of Carlisle. Her Grace died, at ISelvoir Castle, ia November, 
 
 1820.1 
 
 3 [Tlie following is an extract of a letter written by Mr. 
 Crabbe to the Uuke of Rutland e:irly in 1 820 ; — " 1 am always 
 ylad of an occasion for repeating my most sincere acknow- 
 ledgments of the benefits your Grace has conferred upon me : 
 you have given me all I could desire, and more than I could 
 expect ; and though the painful disorder with which I am 
 afflicted allows me but short intervals of relief, and unfits 
 me for many of the enjoyments which I might othern ise take, 
 yet have I, by your Grace's favour, all the comforts that decent 
 c rcumstances and a respectable situation can aft'ord. Tlure 
 is a subject upon which I dare iiot enter, tliough I have never 
 ceased to think of it — nor, pardon me, my Lord, if I add, to 
 pray to the Giver of all cood things for that consolation which 
 I trust will be granted."] 
 
P R E F A C E. 
 
 If I did not fear that it would appear to my 
 readers like arrogancy, or if it did not seem to 
 myself indecorous to send three volumes of con- 
 siderable magnitude from the press without pre- 
 face or apology, without one petition for the 
 reader's attention, or one plea for the writer's 
 defects, I would most willingly spare myself an 
 address of this kiad, and more especially for these 
 reasons : first, because a preface is a part of a 
 book seldom honoured by a reader's perusal ; 
 secondly, because it is both difficult and distress- 
 ing to write that which we think will be disre- 
 garded ; and thirdly, because I do not conceive 
 that I am called upon for such introductory mat- 
 ter bj' any of the motives which usually in- 
 fluence an author when he composes his prefatory 
 address. 
 
 Yc'hen a writer, whether of poetry or prose, first 
 addresses the public, he has generally something 
 to offer which relates to himself or to his work, 
 and which he considers as a necessary prelude to 
 the work itself, to prepare his readers for the en- 
 tertainment or the instruction they may expect to 
 receive ; for one of these every man who pub- 
 lishes must suppose he affords. This the act it- 
 self implies ; and in proportion to his conviction 
 of this fac(. must be liis feeling of the difficulty in 
 which he has placed himself: the difficulty con- 
 sists in reconciling tiio implied presumption of 
 the undertaking, whether to please or to in- 
 struct mankind, with the diffidence and modesty 
 of an untried candidate for fame or favour. 
 Hence originate the many reasons an author as- 
 signs for his appearance in that character, whether 
 they actually exist or are merely offered to hide 
 the motives which cannot be openly avowed; 
 namely, the want or the vanity of the man, as his 
 wishes for profit or reputation may most prevail 
 with liim. 
 
 Now, reasons of this kind, whatever they may 
 be, cannot be availing beyond their first appear- 
 ance. An author, it is true, may again feel his 
 
 ' [Tlie following is extracted from a letter of Mr. Crabbe's, 
 writtpn in 1817 :— "Thoro is, in Dr. Youn)»'s life anil charac- 
 ter, somethin;; not easily rcconrilable with our ri'spect and 
 veneration. Tliat excessive gloom, with that play of words 
 and tliat fals" wit— the dreadful Citimate of life, witli tliat per- 
 petual Ncekin;; after iU emolumpnts — that stron;: a.spiration 
 after the fiituro enjoyments of the goul, with that cheerful, 
 not to say light, spirit which led him into common and frivo- 
 loiu society — all these have much of that incongruity which 
 
 former apprehensions, may again be elevated or 
 depressed by the suggestions of vanity and diffi- 
 dence, and may be again subject to the cold and 
 hot fit of aguish expectation ; but he is no more a 
 stranger to the press, nor has the motives or pri- 
 vileges of one who is. With respect to myself, it 
 is certain they belong not to me. Many years 
 have elapsed since I became a candidate for in- 
 dulgence, as an inexperienced writer ; and to as- 
 sume the language of such writer now, and to 
 plead for his indulgences, would be proof of my ig- 
 norance of the place assigned to me, and the de- 
 gree of favour which I have experienced ; but of 
 that place I am not uninformed, and with that 
 degree of favour I have no reason to be dissatis- 
 fied. 
 
 It was the remark of the pious, but on some 
 occasions the querulous, author of the ' Night 
 Thoughts,' that he had " been so long remembered, 
 he was forgotten ;" an expression in which there 
 is more appearance of discontent than of sub- 
 mission ;' if he had patience, it was not the 
 patience that smiles at griefs- It is not therefore 
 entirely in the sense of the good Doctor that I 
 apply tliese words to myself or to my more early 
 publications. So many years indeed have passed 
 since their first appearance, that I have no reason 
 to complain on that account if they be now slum- 
 bering with other poems of decent reputation in 
 tlieir day — not dead indeed, nor entirely forgotten, 
 but certainly not the subjects of discussion or con- 
 versation, as when first introduced to the notice 
 of the public by those whom the public will not 
 forget, whose protection was credit to their author, 
 and whose approbation was fame to them. Still 
 these early publications had so long preceded any 
 other, that, if not altogether unknown, I was when 
 I came again before the public in a situation 
 which excused, and perhaps rendered necessary, 
 some explanation ; but this also has passed away, 
 and none of my readers will now take the trouble 
 of making any inquiries respecting my motives for 
 writing or for publishing these Tales, or verses of 
 
 the children of infirmity possess, but from which we reason- 
 ably expect some to be, in a great measure, free. Youn^ tires 
 in some of the later Nights, I think, but he has line passages 
 everywhere."] 
 
 S [" She pined in Ihoiight ; 
 And, with s green and yellow melancholy, 
 She sat like Patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at Gri.-I." Twd/t/i Nig^it.'] 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 377 
 
 any description. Known to each otlier as readers 
 and author are known, they will require no preface 
 to bespeak their good will, nor shall I be under 
 the necessity of soliciting the kindness which, ex- 
 perience has taught me, endeavouring to merit, I 
 shall not fail to receive. 
 
 There is one motive — and it is a powerful one — 
 which sometimes induces an author, and more par- 
 ticularly a poet, to ask the attention of his readers 
 to his prefatory address. This is when he has 
 some favourite and peculiar style or manner which 
 he would explain and defend, and chiefly if he 
 should have adopted a mode of versification oi 
 which an uninitiated reader was not likely to per- 
 ceive cither the merit or the beauty. In such case 
 it is natural, and surely jiardonable, to assert and 
 to prove, as far as reason will bear us on, tliat 
 such method of writing has both ; to show in what 
 the beauty consists, and what peculiar difficulty 
 there is, which, when conquered, creates the merit. 
 IIow far any particular poet has or has not suc- 
 ceeded in such attempt is not my business nor mj^ 
 purpose to inquire. I have no peculiar notion to 
 defend, no poetical lieterodoxy to support, nor 
 theorj' of any kind to vindicate or oppose. That 
 which I have used is probably the most common 
 measure in our language ; and therefore, whatever 
 be its advantages or defects, they are too well 
 known to require from me a description of the one 
 or an apology for the other. 
 
 Perhaps still more frequent than any explanation 
 of the work is an account of the author himself, 
 the situation in which he is placed, or some cir- 
 cumstances of peculiar kind in his life, education, 
 or emploj'ment. How often has youth been 
 pleaded for deficiencies or redundancies, for the 
 existence of which j'outh may be an excuse, and 
 yet be none for their exposure ! Age, too, has 
 been pleaded for the errors and failings in a work 
 which the octogenarian had the discernment to 
 perceive, and yet had not the fortitude to sup- 
 press. Many other circum.stances are made apo- 
 logies for a writer's infirmities — his much employ- 
 ment and many avocations, adversity, necessity, 
 and the good of mankind. These, or any of them, 
 liowever availing in themselves, avail not me. 
 I am neither so young nor so old, so much engaged 
 by one pursuit or by many, — I am not so urged by 
 want, or so stimulated by a desire of public bene- 
 fit, — that I can borrow one apology from the many 
 which I have named. How far they prevail with 
 our readers or with our judges I cannot tell ; and 
 it is luinecessary for me to inquire into the validitj' 
 of arguments which I have not to produce. 
 
 If there be any combination of circumstances 
 which may be supposed to affect tlio mind of a 
 reader, and in some degree to influence his judg- 
 ment, the junction of youth, beauty, and merit in 
 a female writer may be allowed to do this ; and 
 yet one of the most forbidding of titles is ' Poems 
 by a very young Lady,' and this although beauty 
 and merit were largely insinuated. Ladies, it is 
 true, have of late little need of any indulgence as 
 authors, and names may readily be found which 
 rather excite the envy of man than plead for his 
 
 lenity. Our estimation of title, also, in a writer 
 has materially varied from that of our prede- 
 cessors : ' Poems by a Nobleman ' would create a 
 very different sensation in our minds from that 
 which was formerly excited when they were so 
 announced. A noble author had then no preten- 
 sions to a seat so secure on the " sacred hill " that 
 authors not noble, and critics not gentle, dared 
 not attack : and they delighted to take revenge, 
 by their contempt and derision of the poet, for 
 the pain which their submission and respect to the 
 man had cost them. But in our times we find that 
 a nobleman writes, not merely as well, but better 
 than other men ; insomuch that readers in general 
 begin to fancy that the Muses have relinquished 
 their old partiality for rags and a garret, and are 
 become altogether aristocratical in their choice. 
 A conceit so well supported by fact would be 
 readily admitted, did it not appear at the same 
 time that there were in the higher ranks of society 
 men who could write as tamely or as absurdly as 
 they had ever been accused of doing. We may 
 therefore regard the works of any noble author as 
 exti'aordinary productions, but must not found any 
 theory upon them ; and, notwithstanding their ap- 
 pearance, must look on genius and talent as we are 
 wont to do on time and chance, that happen in- 
 differently to all mankind. 
 
 But, whatever influence any peculiar situation 
 of a writer might haVe, it cannot be a benefit to 
 me, who have no such peculiarity. I must rely 
 upon the willingness of my readers to be pleased 
 with that which was designed to give them plea- 
 sure, and upon the cordiality which naturally 
 springs from a remembrance of our having before 
 parted without any feelings of disgust on the one 
 side, or of mortification on the other. 
 
 AVith this hope I would conclude the present 
 subject ; but I am called upon by duty to acknow- 
 ledge ray obligations, and more especially for two 
 of the following Talcs — the Story of Lady Bar- 
 bara in Book XYI., and that of Ellen in Book 
 XVIII. The first of these I owe to the kindness 
 of a fair friend, who will, I hope, accept the 
 thanks which I very gratefully pay, and pardon 
 me if 1 have not given to her relation the advan- 
 tages which she had so much reason to expect. 
 The other storj', that of Ellen, could I give it in 
 the language of him who related it to me, would 
 please and affect my readers. It is by no means 
 my onlj' debt, though the one I now more particu- 
 larly acknowledge ; for who shall describe all that 
 he gains in the social, the unrestrained, and the 
 f're(iuent conversations with a friend who is at 
 once communicative and judicious ? — whose opi- 
 nions, on all subjects of literary kind, are founded 
 on good taste and exquisite feeling? It is one of 
 the greatest " pleasures of my memory" to recall in 
 absence those conversations ; and if I do not in 
 direct terms mention with whom I conversed, it is 
 both because I have no permission, and my readers 
 will have no doubt. 
 
 The first intention of the poet must be to please ; 
 for, if he means to instruct, he must render the 
 instruction which he hopes to convey palatable aud 
 
378 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 pleasant. I will not assume the tone of a moralist, 
 nor promise that my relations shall be beneficial to 
 mankind ; but I liavc endeavoured, not unsuccess- 
 fully I trust, that, in whatsoever I have related or 
 described, there should be nothing introduced 
 which has a tendency to excuse the vices of man, 
 by associating with them sentiments that demand 
 our respect, and talents tliut compel our admiration. 
 I'here is nothing in these pages wliich has the nus- 
 chievous effect of confounding truth and error, or 
 confusing our ideas of right and wrong." I know 
 not which is most injurious to the yielding minds 
 of the young — to render virtue less respectable by 
 making its possessors ridiculous, or by describing 
 vice with so many fascinating qualities that it is 
 cither lost in the assemblage, or pai-doncil by the 
 association. Man's heart is sufficiently prone to 
 make excuse for man's infirmity, and needs not the 
 aid of poetry or eloquence to take from vice its 
 native deformity. A character may be respectable 
 with all its faults, but it must not be made respect- 
 able bj' them. It is grievous when genius will 
 condescend to place strong and evil spirits in a 
 commanding view, or excite our pity and admira- 
 
 ' [" Crabbe is the most moral of all modtTii poets ; Cowpcr 
 himself was not more so. He lias tlie cause of religion and 
 virtue on his lips and in his henrt. The cause for wliich he 
 pleads has in him an advocate thorou^'lily sincere and zealous. 
 We know indeed no writer more thoroughly practical. No 
 man who feels the stirrings of evil within him can rise from 
 tlie perusal of such volumes as these without saying to him- 
 self, ' Here is my own individual case; tliis is the very march 
 of my own feelings and wishes ; liere is my own precise 
 danger; here I must seek to plant a guard, or this very guilt 
 and misery will be mine.' " — jEFFEF.y. 
 
 " In all the poetry of this extraordinary man we see a con- 
 stant display of the passions iis they are excited and exacer- 
 bated by tlie customs, and laws, and institutions of society. 
 Love, anger, hatred, melancholy, despair, and remorse, in 
 all tlieir inlinite modilications, as exhihited by dilTerent 
 natures and undi-r dill'erent circumstances, are rife lliroughout 
 all his works; and a perpetual conliict is seen carried on 
 among all the feelings and principles of our nature that can 
 render that nature happy or miserable. We see love breaking 
 through in desperation, but never with impunity, the barriers 
 of human laws; or in hopelessness dviug beneath them, with 
 or without its victim. The stream of life Hows over a rugged 
 and precipitous channel in the poetry of Crabbe, and we are 
 rarely indeed allowed to sail down it in a reverie or a dream. 
 The pleasure he excites is almost always a troubled pleasure. 
 
 tion for men of talents, degraded by crime, when 
 struggling with misfortune. It is but too true that 
 great and wicked men may be so presented to us 
 as to demand onr applause, when they should 
 excite our abhorrence ; but it is surely for the in- 
 terest of mankind, and our own self-direction, that 
 we should ever keep at unapproachable distance 
 our respect and our reproach. 
 
 I have one observation more to offer. It maj' 
 appear to some that a minister of religion, in the 
 decline of life, should have no leisure for such 
 amtisements as these ; and for them I have no 
 reply ; — but to those who are more indulgent to 
 the propensities, the studies, and the habits of 
 mankind, I offer some apology when I produce 
 these volumes, not as the occupations of my life, 
 but the fruits of my leisure, the employment of 
 that time which, if not given to them, had passed 
 in the vacuity of unrecorded idleness, or had 
 been lost in tlie indulgence of unregistered 
 thoughts and fancies, that melt awaj'in the instant 
 they are conceived, and '" leave not a wreck be- 
 hind:' 
 
 and accompanied with tears and sighs, or with tlieprofounder 
 agitation of a sorrow that springs out of tlie conviction, 
 forced upon us, of the most imperfect nature, and therefore 
 the most imperfect happiness, of man. Now, if all this were 
 done in the mere pride of genius and power, we should look 
 on Mr. Crabbe in any other light than as the benefactor of his 
 species. But in the midst of all his skill — all his art — we 
 always see the tenderness of the man's heart; and we hear 
 him, with a broken and melancholy voice, mourning over the 
 woe and wickedness whose picture he h:is so faithfully drawn. 
 Never in any one instance (and he claims this most lioldly in 
 his preface) has he souglit to veil or to varnish vice ; to con- 
 fuse our notions of riglit and wrong ; to depreciate moral 
 worth, or exaggerate the value of worldly accomplishments ; 
 to cheat us out of our highest sympathies due to defeated or 
 victorious virtue ; or to induce us, in blindfolded folly, to 
 bestow them on splendid guilt and dazzling crime. It is his 
 to read aloud to ns the records of our own hearts — the book of 
 fate ; and he does not close the leaves because too often stained 
 with rueful tears. This world is a world of sin and sorrow ; 
 and he thinks, and thinks rightly, that it becomes him who 
 luis a gifted sight into its inmost heart to speak of the triumphs 
 of that sin, and 'he wretdiedness of that sorrow, to beings 
 who are all born to pass under that twofold yoke. We do 
 not believe that a bad, or even an imperfect, moral can be le- 
 gitimately drawn from the spirit of any of Mr. Crabbe's 
 poetry.'" — Wilson.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 379 
 
 TALES OF THE HALL 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 The Meeting of the Brothers, Geor;;e and Richard — The Re- 
 tirement of thp elder to liis native Village — Objects and 
 Persons whom lu° found there — The Brother described in 
 various particulars — The Invitation and Journey of the 
 younger — His Soliloquy and Arrival. 
 
 The Brothers met, who many a year had pass'd 
 Since their last meeting, and that scem'd their last : 
 They had no parent then or common friend 
 Who might their hearts to mutu;il kindness bend ; 
 Who, touching both in their divided state. 
 Might generous thoughts and warm desires create : 
 For there are minds wliom we must first excite 
 And urge to feeling, ere they can unite : 
 As we may hard and stubborn metals beat 
 And blend together, if we duly lieat. 
 
 The elder, George, had pass'd liis threescore 
 years, 
 A busy actor, sway'd by hopes and fears 
 Of powerful kind ; and he had fill'd the parts 
 That trj' our strength and agitate our hearts. 
 He married not, and yet he well approved 
 The social state ; but then he rashly loved ; 
 Gave to a strong delusion all his youth. 
 Led by a vision till alarm'd by trutli : 
 That vision pass'd, and of that truth possess'd. 
 His passions wearied and disposed to rest, 
 George yet had will and power a place to choose, 
 Where Hope might sleep, and terminate her 
 views. 
 
 ' [" The plan of the work — for it has more of plan and 
 unity than any of Mr. Crabbe's former productions— is abun- 
 dantly simple. Two brothers, both past middle age, meet 
 together, for the first time since tlieir infancy, in the Hall of 
 tlieir native parish, which tlie elder and richer liad purchased 
 as a place of retirement for his declining age ; and there tell 
 each other their own history, and then that of their guests, 
 neighbours, and acquaintances. The senior is much tlie 
 richer, and a bachelor— having b^en a little distasted with the 
 sex by the unlucky result of u very extravagant passion. He 
 is, moreover, rather too reserved, and somewhat Toryisli, 
 tliough with an excellent heart and a powerful understanding. 
 Tlie younger is very sensible also, liut more open, social, :ind 
 talkative; a happy husband and fatlier, witli a tendency to 
 Whiggism, and some notion of reform, and a disposition to 
 
 He chose his native village, and the hill 
 He climb'd a boy had its attraction still; 
 With that small brook beneath, where he would 
 
 stand 
 And stooping fill the hollow of his hand 
 To quench th' impatient thirst — then stop awhile 
 To see the sun upon the waters smile, 
 In tliat sweet weariness, when, long denied. 
 We drink and view the fountain that supplied 
 The sparkling bhss — and feel, if not express, 
 Our perfect ease in tliat sweet weariness. 
 
 The oaks yet flourish'd in that fertile ground. 
 Where still the church with lofty tower was found ; 
 jVnd still that Hall, a first, a favourite view, 
 But not the elms that form'd its avenue ; 
 They fell ere George arrived, or yet had stood, 
 For he in reverence held the living wood. 
 That widely spreads in earth the deepening root, 
 And lifts to heaven the still aspiring shoot : 
 From age to age they fill'd a growing space. 
 But hid the mansion they were meant to grace. 
 
 It was an ancient, venerable Hall, 
 And once surrounded by a moat and wall ; 
 A part was added by a squire of taste. 
 Who, while imvalued acres ran to waste. 
 Made spacious rooms, whence he could look about 
 And mark improvements as they rose without : 
 He fill'd the moat, he took the wall awaj% 
 He thinn'd the park, and bade the view be gay : 
 The scene was rich, but lie who should behold 
 Its worth was poor, and so the whole was sold. 
 
 .Tust then the Merchant from his desk retired, 
 And made the purchase that his heart desired ; 
 
 lliink well both of men and women. Tlie visit lasts two or 
 three weeks in autumn ; and the Tales are told in the after- 
 dinner (etes-d-(("tc'S tliat t.vke place ill that time between tlie 
 worthy brothers over their botile. 
 
 " The married man, however, wearies at leiiglh for his wife 
 and children ; and his brother lels him go witli more coldness 
 than he iiad expected. He goes witli him a stage on tlie way ; 
 and, inviting him to turn aside a little to look at a new pur- 
 chase he had made of a sweet farm wilh a neat mansion, he 
 finds his wife and children comfortably settled there, and all 
 ready to receive them ; and speedily discovers that he is, by 
 his brother's bounty, the proprietor of a fair domain within 
 a morning's ride of the Hall, where they may discuss politics 
 and tell tales any afternoon they may think proper." — Ediu- 
 burij/i Review, 1819.] 
 
380 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The Hall of Binning, liis delight a boy, 
 
 That gave his fancy in her flight employ ; 
 
 Here, from his father's modest home, he gazed, 
 
 Its grandeur charm'd him, and its height amazed : 
 
 "Work of past ages ; and the brick-built place 
 
 "Where he resided was in mucli disgrace ; 
 
 But never in his fancy's proudest dream 
 
 Did he the master of that mansion seem : 
 
 Young was he tlicn, and little did he know 
 
 AVhat years on care and diligence bestow ; 
 
 Now young no more, retired to views well known, 
 
 He finds that object of his awe his own : 
 
 The Hall nt B^pninp- ! — how he loves the gloom 
 
 That sun-excluding window gives the room ; 
 
 Those broad brown stairs on which he loves to 
 
 tread ; 
 Those beams within ; without, that length of lead. 
 On which the names of wanton boj's appear, 
 "Who died old men, and left memorials here. 
 Carvings of feet and hands, and knots and flowers, 
 The fruits of busy minds in idle hours ! 
 Here, while our squire the modern part possessM, 
 His partial eye upon the old would rest ; 
 That best his comforts gave — this sooth'd his 
 
 feelings best. 
 
 Here, day by day, withdrawn from busy life. 
 No child t' awake him, to engage no wife, 
 AVhen friends were absent, not to books inclined, 
 He found a sadness steal upon his mind ; 
 Sighing, the works of former lords to see, 
 " I follow them," he cried, " but who will follow 
 me ? " 
 
 Some ancient men whom he a boy had known 
 He knew again, their changes were his o-mi; 
 Comparing now he view'd them, and he felt 
 That time with him in lenient mood had dealt : 
 AVliile some the half-distinguish'd features bore 
 That he was doubtful if he saw before, 
 And some in memory lived whom he must see no 
 more. 
 
 Here George had found, yet scarcely hoped to 
 find. 
 Companions meet, minds fitted to his mind; 
 Here, late and lotli, tlie worthy Rector came. 
 From College dinners and a Fellow's fame ; 
 Yet, here wlien fix'd, was happy to behold 
 So near a neighbour iu a friend so old : 
 Boys on one form they parted, now to meet 
 In equal state, their "Worships on one seat. 
 
 Here were a Sister-pair, who seem'd to live 
 With more respect than afiluence can give ; 
 Although not niiiuent, tlioy, by nature graced, 
 Had sense and virtue, dignity and taste; 
 Their minds by sorrows, by misfortunes tried. 
 Were vex'd and heal'd, were pain'd and purified. 
 
 s [" Tliousands and tens oflhmisands of sincere and earnest 
 bclievors in ihe Gospel of our Lord, and in llie gencr.il contents 
 of ."Scripture, seeking' ils mismin;; willi vi-ncration and prayer, 
 agree, 1 cannot doiilit, in essculials, liiit dillVr in m:iny points, 
 and in snme wliicli iinwi-ie ;ind iini-lmrilahlc ]>rrsiitis(leeni of 
 much importance ; nay, think tli.it there is no salvation with- 
 out them. Look at the good— yood, comparatively speak- 
 
 Hither a sage Phj'sician came, and plann'd, 
 "V\'ith books his guides, improvements on his land ; 
 Nor less to mind than matter would he give 
 His noble thoughts, to know how spirits live, 
 And what is spirit ; him his friends advised 
 To think with fear, but caution he despised, 
 And hints of fear provoked him till he dared 
 Beyond himself, nor bold assertion spared, 
 But fiercely spoke, like those who strongly feel, 
 " Priests and their craft, enthusiasts and their 
 zeal." 
 
 Blore yet appoar'd, of whom as we proceed — ■ 
 Ah ! yield i.ot yet to languor — you shall read. 
 
 But ere tbo events that from this meeting rose, 
 Be they of pain or pleasure, we disclose, 
 It is of custom, doubtless is of use. 
 That we our heroes first should introduce. 
 
 Come, then, fair Truth ! and let me clearly see 
 The minds I paint, as they are seen in thee ; 
 To me their merits and their faults impart ; 
 Give me to say, " Frail being ! such thou art," 
 And closely let me view the naked human heart, 
 
 George loved to think ; but as he late began 
 To muse on all the grander thoughts of man, 
 He took a solemn and a serious view 
 Of his religion, and he found it true ; 
 Firmly, yet meekly, he his mind applied 
 To this great subject, and was satisfied. 
 
 He then proceeded, not so much intent. 
 But still in earnest, and to church he went : 
 Although they found some difference in their 
 
 creed, 
 He and his pastor cordially agreed ; 
 Convinced that they who would the truth obtain 
 By disputation, find their etTorts vain ; - 
 The church he view'd as liberal minds will view, 
 And there he fi.\'d his principles and pew. 
 
 He saw, he thought he saw, Iiow "Weakness, 
 Pride, 
 And Habit, draw seceding crowds aside : 
 Weakness that loves on trifling points to dwell. 
 Pride that at first from Heaven's own worship fell. 
 And habit, going where it went before. 
 Or to the meeting or the tavern-door. 
 
 George loved the cause of freedom, but i-c- 
 provcd 
 All who with wild and boyish ardour loved ; 
 Those who believed thoy never could be free, 
 Kxcept when fighting for their liberty ; 
 "Who by their very clamour and complaint 
 Invite coercion or enforce restraint: 
 He thought a ti-ust so great, so good a cause, 
 A\as only to be kept by guarding laws ; 
 
 in;; — just, pure, pious— the patient and sulTerlni.' amoncst 
 recorded characters ;— and were not they of dill'erent opinions 
 in many articles of their faith .'' and can we suppose their 
 Ili'iivenlv Father vill select from this number a few, a very 
 few ; and that for their ju-sent to certain tenets, which causes, 
 independent of any merit of their own, in all probabilit.s, 
 led tiiera to embrace ?" — CR.Miuk's Letters.] 
 
 J 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 381 
 
 For, public blessings firmly to secure, 
 ^Vc must a lesscniug of the good endure. 
 The public waters are to none denied — 
 All drink the stream, but only few must guide ; 
 There must be reservoirs to hold supplj^, 
 And channels form'd to send the blessing by ; 
 The public good must be a private care, 
 Kone all they would may have, but all a share : 
 So we must freedom with restraint enjcy, 
 "What crowds possess they will, uncheck'd, de- 
 stroy ; 
 And hence, that fi-eedom may to all be dealt. 
 Guards must be fix'd, and safety must be felt. 
 So thought our squire, nor wish'd the guards t' ap- 
 pear 
 So strong, that safety might be bought too dear ; 
 The Constitution was the ark that he 
 .Toin'd to support with zeal and sanctity, 
 Nor would expose it, as th' accursed son 
 His father's weakness, to be gazed upon.' 
 
 I for that Freedom make, said he, my prayer, 
 That suits with all, like atmospheric air ; 
 That is to mortal man by heaven assign'd, 
 "Who cannot bear a pure and perfect kind : 
 The lighter gas, that, taken in the frame. 
 The spirit heats, and sets the blood in flame ; 
 Such is the freedom which when men approve. 
 They know not what a dangerous tiling thoy 
 love."* 
 
 George chose the company of men of sense. 
 But could with wit in moderate share dispense ; 
 He wish'd in social ease his friends to meet, 
 AVhcn still he thought the female accent sweet ; 
 "Well from the ancient, better from the young. 
 He loved the lispings of the mother tongue. 
 
 He ate and drank, as much as men who think 
 Of life's best pleasures ought to eat or drink ; 
 Men purely temperate might have taken less. 
 But still he loved indulgence, not excess; 
 Nor would alone the grants of Fortune taste. 
 But shared the yi-calth he judged it crime to waste ; 
 And thus obtain'd the sure reward of care ; 
 For none can spend like him who learns to spare. 
 
 Time, thought, and trouble made the man ap- 
 pear — 
 By nature siircwd — sarcastic and severe ; 
 Still lie was one whom those who fully knew 
 Esteem'd and trusted, one correct and true ; 
 
 ' Genesis, di. ix. ver. 25. 
 
 ■• [" With respect to the parties themselves, Whi;^ and 
 Tory, I can but tliiiik, two dispassionate, sensilile men, wlio 
 have seen, read, and observed, will approximate in their sen- 
 timents more and more; ami if they confer together, and 
 ari:ue — not to convince each otiier, but for pure information, 
 and with a simple<lesire I'or the truth — the ultimate dilVerence 
 will be small indeed. The 'lory, for instance, would allow 
 that, but tor the Revolution in this country, and the nol)le 
 stand a^'ainst the arbitrary steps of the house of Stuart, the 
 kini,'dom 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, undelined demo- 
 cracy, the ever-changing laws of a popular government. 
 Every state is, at times, on the inclination to change ; either 
 the moriarchical or the popuhir interest will predominate ; 
 nud in the former case, I conceive, the well-meaning Tory 
 
 All on his word with surety might depend. 
 Kind as a man, and faithful as a friend : 
 But him the many know not, knew not cause 
 In their new squire for censure or applause ; 
 Ask them, " "Who dwelt within that lofty wall ?" 
 And they would say, " The gentleman was tall ; 
 " Look'd old when follovv'd, but alert when met, 
 " And had some vigour in his movements yet ; 
 " He stoops, but not as one infirm ; and wears 
 " Dress that becomes his station and his years." 
 
 Such -was the man who from the world return'd, 
 Nor friend nor foe ; he prized it not, nor spurn'd ; 
 But came and sat him in his village down. 
 Safe from its smile, and careless of its frown : 
 He, fairly looking into life's account, 
 Saw frowns and favours were of like amount ; 
 And viewing all— his perils, prospects, purse, 
 He said, " Content ! 't is well it is no worse." 
 
 Through wavs more rough had fortune Richard 
 led, 
 The world he traversed was the book he read ; 
 Hence clashing notions and opinions strange 
 Lodged in his mind, all liable to change. 
 By nature generous, open, daring, free, 
 The vice he hated was hypocrisy ; 
 Ileligious notions, in her latter years. 
 His mother gave, admonish'd by her fears ; 
 To these he added, as he chanced to read 
 A j)ious work or learn a Christian creed : 
 He lieard the preacher by the highway side. 
 The church s teacher and the meeting's guide ; 
 And, mixing all their matters in his brain, 
 Distill'd a something he could ill explain ; 
 But still it served him for his dailj' use, 
 And kept his lively passions from abuse ; 
 For he believed, and held in reverence high. 
 The truth so dear to man — "not all shall die."' 
 The minor portions of his creed hung loose, 
 For time to shapen and a whole produce : 
 This Love effected, and a favourite maid, 
 With clearer views, his honest flame repaid ; 
 Hers was the thought correct, the hope sublime. 
 She shaped his creed, and did the work of time." 
 
 He spake of freedom as a nation's cause, 
 And loved, like George, our liberty and laws, 
 But had more youthful ardour to be free. 
 And stronger fears for injured liberty : 
 With him, on various questions that arose, 
 The monarch's servants were the people's foes ; 
 
 will incline to Whiggism, — in the latter, tlie honest Wliig 
 will take the part of declining monarchy. " — Chabbe's 
 Z,ctters.2 
 
 5 [" Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei 
 Vitabit Libilinam.'' — Hor.] 
 
 ^ [" Mr. Crabbe remained at Woodbridge from 1770 to 
 1775 ; and while here he formed an attachment to Miss Sarah 
 Klmy, the niece of a wealthy yeoman in tlie ne-ghbouring 
 village of I'arham, an amiable and beautiful girl, who returned 
 his alfection, and after a lapse of twelve troubb d yeiirs became 
 his wife. This virtuous attachment appears to have had the 
 strongest and most beneficial intluence on his mind and 
 manners, and consequently on his fortunes. It sustained 
 him through miseries such as few young literary adventurers 
 have ever gone through— it purilied his feelings — fixed and 
 enlarged his heart — and inspired his first poetry." — Quarterly 
 licvicw, Jan. 1834.] 
 
582 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 And though he fought with all a Briton's zeal, 
 lie felt for France as Freedom's children feel ; 
 AVent far with her in wh.at she thouglit reform, 
 And hail'd the revolutionary storm ; 
 Yet would not hero, where there was least to win, 
 And most to lose, the doubtful work begin ; 
 But look'd on change with some religious fear. 
 And cried, with filial dread, " Ah ! come not 
 here." 
 
 His friends he did not as the thoughtful choose ; 
 Long to deliberate was, he judged, to lose : 
 Frankly he join'd the free, nor sutTer'd pride 
 Or doubt to part them whom their fate allied ; 
 Men with such minds at once each other aid, 
 " Frankness," they cry, " with frankness is 
 
 repaid ; 
 " If honest, why suspect ? if poor, of what afraid ? 
 " Wealth's timid votaries may with caution move ; 
 " Be it our wisdom to confide and love." 
 
 So pleasures came, not purchased first or 
 plann'd. 
 But the chance pleasures that the poor command ; 
 They came but seldom, they I'emain'd not long, 
 Nor gave him time to question " Are they wrong ?" 
 These he enjoy'd, and left to after time 
 To judge the f'ollj' or decide the crime ; 
 Sure had he been, he had perhaps been pure 
 From this reproach — but Kichard was not sure ; 
 Yet from the sordid vice, the mean, the base. 
 He stood aloof — death frown'd not like disgrace. 
 
 With handsome figure, and with manly air. 
 He pleased the sex. who all to him were fair ; 
 With filial love he look'd on forms decay'd, 
 And Admiration's debt to Beauty paid ; 
 On sea or land, wherever Richard went, 
 He felt affection, and he found content ; 
 There was in him a strong presiding hope 
 In Fortune's tempests, and it bore him up : 
 But when that mystic vine his mansion graced, 
 A\'licn numerous branches round his board were 
 
 placed, 
 AVhen sighs of apprehensive love were heard, 
 Then first the spirit of the hero fear'd ; 
 Then he reflected on the father's part. 
 And all a husband's sorrow touch'd his heart ; 
 Then thouglit he, " Who will their assistance 
 
 lend, 
 " And be the children's guide, the parent's friend ? 
 " Wlio shall their guardian, their protector be ? 
 " I have a brother — Well ! — and so has he." 
 
 And now they met : a message — kind, 't is true, 
 But verbal only — ask'd an interview ; 
 And man}' a mile, perplox'd by doubt and fear, 
 Ila<l ]{icb-ird pass'il. unwilling to appear: 
 " How shall I now my unknown way explore — 
 " He proud and rich — I very proud and poor? 
 
 7 [" The charac'crs of tin? two brotlirrs are admiriibly dcli- 
 rieatcd ; the eldiT bcin^'u urave, ami somewliat t'ormal bache- 
 lor, with most of tln^ peculiarities iif thit chi.s< of men — but 
 sensitive, alTectionate, and thoii;;htfiil ; the voiinL'er a j;enc- 
 roiis seaman, wlio, having' Ion;; bnH'led witli t'ortone, and 
 learned many line virtues in the scliool of advirsity, had 
 ratliiT imj)rovidentially but lmpi)ily married, an<l had visited 
 his ri?h brother with many niis^ivinys of mind and doubts ol 
 
 " Perhaps my friend a dubious speech mistook, 
 " And George may meet me with a stranger's 
 
 look ; 
 " Then to my home when I return again. 
 " How shall I bear this business to explain, 
 " And tell of hopes raised high, and feelings hurt, 
 
 in vain ? 
 
 " How stands the case ? My brother's friend and 
 mine 
 " Met at an inn and sat them do^vn to dine : 
 " When, having settled all their own affairs. 
 " And kindly canvass'd such as were not theirs, 
 " Just as my friend was going to retire, 
 " ' Stay I — you will see the brother of our squire,' 
 " Said his companion : ' be his friend, and tell 
 " ' The captain that his brother loves him well, 
 " ' And, when he has no better thing in view, 
 " ' Will be rejoiced to see him — Now, adieu I' 
 
 '• Well ! here I am ; and. Brother, take you heed, 
 " I am not come to flatter you and feed ; 
 " You shall no soother, fawner, hearer find. 
 " I will not brush your coat, nor smooth your 
 
 mind ; 
 " I will not hear your tales the whole day long. 
 " Nor swear you 're right if I believe you wrong : 
 " Nor be a witness of the facts you state, 
 " Nor as my own adopt your love or hate : 
 " I will not earn my dinner when I dine 
 " By taking all your sentiments for mine ; 
 " Nor watch the guiding motions of your eye 
 " Before I venture question or replj- ; 
 " Nor when you speak affect an awe profound, 
 " Sinking my voice as if I fear'd the sound ; 
 " Nor to your looks obediently attend, 
 " The poor, the humble, the dependent friend : 
 " Y'et son of that dear mother could I meet — 
 " But lo ! the mansion — 't is a fine old scat !" 
 
 The Brothers met, with both too much at heart 
 To be observant of each other's part ; 
 " Brother, I 'm glad," was all that George could 
 
 say, 
 Then stretch'd his haiul, and turn'd his head 
 
 away ; 
 For he in lender tears had no delight. 
 But scorn'd the thouglit and ridicided the sight ; 
 Yet now with pleasure, though with some surprise. 
 He felt his heart o'erflowing at his eyes. 
 
 Eichard, meantime, made some attempts to 
 speak. 
 Strong in his purpose, in his trial weak : 
 We cannot nature by our wishes rule. 
 Nor at our will her warm emotions cool : — 
 At length affection, like a risen tide. 
 Stood still, and then sccm'd slowly to subside ; 
 Each on the other's looks had power to dwell. 
 And Brother Brother greeted passing well.' 
 
 brotherly reception. Tlu*re is ^reat tenderness and beauty in 
 all tliat relates to the alTeclion of these brothers, and the con- 
 triLst of tlieir cliaractirs is throui:hout admirably sustained. 
 .'VU they liave to tell of each other is new, and, consequently, 
 all th"ir relations are ;;iven with earnestness and vivacity. 
 Mr. Crabbe lets us in at once to their chiiracters ; ana, lovin? 
 the men, we listen w ilh the ea^-er attention of friends to the 
 varied story of tlieir lives."— Wii.soN.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 383 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Furtlier Account of the Meetinj; — Of the Men — The Motlier — 
 The Uncle — Tlie Private Tutor — Tlie Second Husband — 
 Dinner Conversation — School ot'the Rector and Squire — The 
 
 Master. 
 
 At length the Brothers met, no longer tried 
 By those strong feelings that in time subside ; 
 Not fluent yet their language, but the eye 
 And action spoke both question and reply ; 
 Till the heart rested and could calmly feel, 
 Till the shook compass felt the settling steel ; 
 Till playful smiles on graver converse broke, 
 And either speaker less abruptly spoke : 
 Still was there ofttimes silence, silence bless'd, 
 Expressive,* thoughtful — their emotions' rest ; 
 Pauses that came not from a want of thought. 
 But want of ease, by wearied passion sought ; 
 For souls, when hurried by such powerful force, 
 Rest, and retrace the pleasure of the course. 
 They differ'd much, yet might observers trace 
 Likeness of features both in mind and face ; '^ 
 Pride they possess'd, that neither strove to hide, 
 But not offensive, not obtrusive pride : 
 Unlike had been their life, unlike the fruits, 
 Of diiferent tempers, studies, and pursuits ; 
 Nay, in such varjdng scenes the men had moved, 
 'T was passing strange that aught alike they loved : 
 But all distinction now was thrown apart, 
 While these strong feelings ruled in either heart. 
 
 As various colours in a painted ball 
 While it has rest are seen distinctly all ; 
 Till, whirl'd around by some exterior force, 
 They all are blended in the rapid course : ^ 
 So in repose, and not l)y passion sway'd, 
 We saw the difference by their habits made ; 
 But, tried by strong emotions, they became 
 Fill'd with one love, and were in heart the same ; 
 Joy to the face its own expression sent, 
 And gave a likeness in the looks it lent. 
 All now was sober certainty ; the joj 
 That no strong passions swell till they destroy : 
 For they, like wine, our pleasures raise so high, 
 That they subdue our strength, and then they die. 
 George in his brother felt a growing pride. 
 He wonder'd who that fertile mind supplied — 
 " Where could the wanderer gather on his road 
 " Knowledge so various? how the mind this food? 
 
 ' [" (-ome then, expressive Silence ' muse Ilis praise." — 
 Thomson.] 
 
 2 [Ori-inal MS. :— 
 
 Yet with this diflerence mi^ht observers find 
 Some kindred powers and features of the mind. 
 A love of honour in both spirits ruled, 
 ]'ut here by temper, there by trouble cool'd ; 
 Their favourite objects, studies, themes, pursuits. 
 Had various beauties, merits, ends, and fruits.] 
 
 ' [■' Crabbe's similes are almost all elaborate and in-je- 
 I nious ; and rather seem to be furnished from the elfectsofa 
 
 " No college train'd him, guideless through his life, 
 ■' Without a friend— not so ! he has a wife. 
 " Ah ! had I married, I might now have seen 
 
 " My No ! it never, never could have been : 
 
 " That long enchantment, that pernicious state ! — 
 " True, I recover'd, but alas I too late. 
 " And here is Richard, poor indeed — but — nay ! 
 " This is self-torment— foolish thoughts, away ! " 
 
 Ease leads to habit, as success to ease. 
 He lives by rule who lives himself to please ; 
 For change is trouble, and a man of wealth 
 Consults his quiet as he guards his health ; 
 And habit now on George had sovereign power. 
 His actions all had their accustom'd hour : 
 At the fix'd time he slept, he walk'd, he read. 
 Or sought his grounds, his gruel, and his bed ; 
 For every season he with caution dress'd, 
 And morn and eve had the appropriate vest ; 
 He talk'd of early mists, and night's cold air, 
 And in one spot was fix'd his worship's chair. 
 But not a custom yet on Richard's mind 
 Had force, or him to certain modes confined ; 
 To him no joy such frequent visits paid. 
 That habit by its beaten track was made : * 
 He was not one who at his ease could say, 
 " We '11 live to-morrow as we lived to-day ;" 
 But he and his were as the ravens fed, 
 As the day came it brought the daily bread. 
 
 George, born to fortune, though of moderate 
 
 kind, 
 W^as not in haste his road through life to faid : 
 His father early lost, his mother tried 
 To live without him, liked it not, and — sigh'd 
 When for her widow'd hand an amorous youth 
 
 applied : 
 She still was young, and felt that she could share 
 A lover's passion, and a husband's care ; 
 Yet pass'd twelve years before her son was told, 
 To his surprise, " Your father you behold." 
 But he beheld not with his mother's eye 
 The new relation, and would not comply; 
 But all obedience, all connexion spurn'd. 
 And fled their home, where he no more return'd. 
 
 His father's brother was a man whose mind 
 Was to his business and his bank confined; 
 His guardian care the captious nephew sought. 
 And was received, caress'd, advised, and taught. 
 
 " That Irish beggar, whom your mother took, 
 " Does you this good — he sends you to your book ; 
 
 fanciful mind, than to be exhaled by the spontaneous ferment 
 of a heated imayinatiou." — Kdinhurgh Review. Mr. Crabljc 
 was much struck with tlie sa;,'acity of this emark. On reading' 
 it, he said, "Jeffrey is quite rij;ht : my usual method has been 
 to tliink of such illustrations, and insert tliera after jinishing 
 a tale."] 
 
 * [MS. :— 
 
 .Toel nor time nor seasons could command, 
 lie took his comforts as they came to hand : 
 Nor came they often, nor delay'd so lon^j, 
 That they were hal)it.s either weak or strong; 
 What seem'd habitual was the ur^'ent force 
 Of stern necessity that shaped his course.] 
 
3S4 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Yet love not books beyond their proper worth, 
 " But, when they fit you for the world, go forth : 
 " They are like beauties, and may blessings prove, 
 " "When we with caution study them, or love ; 
 " But when to either we our souls devote, 
 " We grow vinfitted for that world, and dote." 
 
 George to a school of higher class was sent, 
 But he was ever grieving that he went : 
 A still, retiring, musing, dreaming boy. 
 He rclish'd not their sudden bursts of joy, 
 Nor the tumultuous pleasures of a rude, 
 A noisy, careless, fearless multitude : 
 He had his own delights, as one who flies 
 From every pleasure that a crowd supplies : 
 Thrice he rcturn'd, but then was weary grown, 
 And was indulged with studies of his own. 
 Still could the Rector and his Friend relate 
 The small adventures of that distant date ; 
 And Kichard listen'd as they spake of time 
 Pass'd in that world of misery and crime. 
 
 Freed from his school, a priest of gentle kind 
 The uncle found to guide tlie nephew's mind ; 
 Pleased with his teacher, George so long remaiii'd. 
 The mind was weaken'd by the store it gain'd. 
 
 His guardian uncle, then on foreign ground. 
 No time to think of his improvements found ; 
 Nor had the nephew, now to manhood grown. 
 Talents or taste for trade or commerce shown, 
 But shunn'd a world of which he little knew, 
 Nor of that little did he like the view. 
 
 His mother chose, nor I the choice upbraid. 
 An Irish soldier of a house dccay'd, 
 And passing poor, but precious in her eyes 
 As she in his ; they both obtnin'd a prize. 
 To do the cajitain ju.stice, she might share 
 \Vhat of her jointure his aflairs could spare: 
 Irish he was in his profusion — true, 
 But he was Irish in aflcction too ; 
 And though he spent her wealth and made her 
 
 grieve. 
 He always said " Sly dear," and " "SVith your leave." 
 Him she survived : she saw his boy possoss'd 
 Of manly spirit, and then sank to rest. 
 
 Her sons thus left, some legal cause required 
 That they should meet, but neither this desired : 
 George, a recluse, with mind engaged, was one 
 "Who did no business, with whom none was done ; 
 Whose heart, cngross'd by its peculiar care. 
 Shared no one's counsel — no one his might share. 
 
 Richard, a boy, a lively boy, was told 
 Of his lialf-brothcr, haughty, stern, and cold ; 
 
 •■> ['flio fdllowin^' is from n lotlerliy one of tlio Poot's family : 
 "In the idi'ii of on(* brotlicr relalin;; (o hhoIIht various par- 
 ticulars of liis nci:'lil>oiirs, I ran recall the iilcasurc and in- 
 terest wliieli my fi'lier himself eviilently fi'lt, in our visits to 
 Aldljorough, as his sister related lo him tlie proceediti;;s 
 of those «hom he had known in his youth — wlien, after 
 a delightful day of fuci hunting, we all met over a li^'lit 
 supper of delic^alo fish, then i>hinned some amusement for 
 the morrow, and then sank to );leep, within two hundred 
 yards of the breakers, soothed by the deep, hollow roar, 
 
 And his boy folly, or his manlj- pride. 
 
 Made him on measures cool and harsh decide : 
 
 So, when they met, a distant cold salute 
 
 Was of a long-expected day the fruit ; 
 
 The rest by pro.xies managed, each withdrew, 
 
 Ve.x'd by the business and the brother too : 
 
 But now they met when time had calm'd the 
 
 mind. 
 Both wish'd for kindness, and it made them kind : 
 George had no wife or child, and was disposed 
 To love the man on whom his hope reposed : 
 Richard had both ; and those so well beloved. 
 Husband and father were to kindness moved ; 
 And thus th' affections, check'd, subdued, re- 
 
 strain'd. 
 Rose in their force, and in their fulness rcign'd. 
 
 The bell now bids to dine : the friendly priest, 
 Social and shrewd, the day's delight increased : 
 Brief and abrupt their speeches while they dined, 
 Nor were their themes of intellectual kind ; 
 Nor, dinner past, did they to these advance, 
 But left the subjects they discuss'd to chance. 
 
 Richard, whose boyhood in the place was spent, 
 Profound attention to the speakers lent, 
 Who spake of men ; and, as he heard a name, 
 Actors and actions to his memory came ; ^ 
 Then, too, the scenes he could distinctly trace — 
 Here he had fought, and there had gain'd a race ; 
 In that church-walk he had affrighted been. 
 In that old tower he had a something seen ; 
 W"hat time, dismiss'd from school, he upward cast 
 A fearful look, and trembled as he pass'd. 
 
 No private tutor Richard's parents sought. 
 Made keen by hardship, and by trouble taught : 
 They might have sent him — some the counsel 
 
 gave — 
 Seven gloomy winters of the North to brave. 
 Where a fcv.- pounds would pay for board and bed, 
 While the poor frozen boy was taught and fed ; 
 When, say he lives, fair, freckled, lank, and lean, 
 The lad returns shrewd, subtle, close, and keen ; 
 With all the northern virtues, and the rules 
 Taught to the thrifty in these thriving schools : 
 There had he gone, and borne this tryin;,' part. 
 But Richard's mother had a mother's heart. 
 
 Now squire and rector were rcturn'il to scliool. 
 And spoke of him who there had sovereign rule : 
 He was, it secm'd, a tyrant of the sort 
 Who make the cries of tortured boys his sport ; 
 One <ii a race, if not extingiusli'd, tamed — 
 The llogger now is of the act ashameii ; 
 But this great mind all mercy's calls withstood. 
 This iloloferncs^ was a mau of blood. 
 
 now loud and near, then rolling along the shore like distant 
 tliunder."] 
 
 8 [»'en Love's Labour 's Lost, act iv. se. 2. Pr. Warburton 
 says, "that by Ilolofernes was desi;;nrd a particular charac- 
 ter, a pedant and n schooliniuster, in Siiakspeare's time, one 
 .lohn I'lorio. a teacher of the halian l;>.i;,Miage." In 1D7« 
 Florio published 'Kiist l''ruits, which yielde familiar speech, 
 merrie proverbes, wittie sentences, and golden sayings;' 
 he also translated .Montaigne's Essays. He died in 1G2J.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 385 
 
 " Students," he said, " like horses on the road, 
 " Must well be lash'd before they take the load ; 
 " They may be willing for a time to run, 
 " But you must whip them ere the work be done : 
 " To tell a boy, that, if he will improve, 
 " His friends will praise him, and his parents love, 
 " Is doing nothing — he has not a doubt 
 " But they will love him, nay, applaud, without : 
 " Let no fond sire a boy's ambition trust 
 " To make him study — let him see he must." 
 Such his opinion ; and to prove it true. 
 At least sincere, it was his practice too : 
 Pluto they call'd him, and they named him well, 
 'T was not a heaven where he was pleased to 
 
 dwell : 
 From him a smile was like the Greenland sun, 
 Surprising, nay portentous, when it shone ; 
 Or like the lightning, for the sudden flash 
 Prepared the children for the thunder's crash. 
 
 O ! had Narcissa, when she fondly kiss'd 
 The weeping boj' whom she to school dismiss'd, 
 Had she beheld him shrinking from the arm 
 Uplifted high to do the greater harm. 
 Then seen her darling stripp'd, and that pure white, 
 And — O ! her soul had fainted at the sight ; 
 And with those looks that love could not withstand, 
 She would have cried, " Barbarian, hold thy 
 
 hand !" 
 In vain ! no grief to this stem soul could speak, 
 No iron tear roll down this Pluto's cheek. 
 
 Thus far thej' went, half earnest, half in jest. 
 Then turn'd to themes of deeper interest ; 
 While Richard's mind, that for a while had stray'd, 
 Call'd home its powers, and due attention paid. 
 
 BOOK IIL 
 
 BOYS AT SCHOOL. 
 
 The School— Schoolboys— The Boy Tyrant— Sir Hector Blane 
 — Schoolboys in after life how changed — how the same — 
 Tlie patjonised Boy, his Life and Death — Reflections — Story 
 of Harry Bland. 
 
 We name the world a school, — for day by day 
 We something learn, till we are call'd away ; 
 The school we name a world, — for vice and pain. 
 Fraud and contention, there begin to reign ; 
 
 1 [MS. :— 
 " Oh 1 there 's a wicked little world in schools, 
 " Where mischief suffers and oppression rules; 
 " Where mild, quiescent children oft endure 
 " What a long placid life shall fail to cure : 
 " Where virtuous boys, who shrink from early sin, 
 " Meet guilty rogues, who love to draw them in, 
 " Who take a pleasure at their just surprise, 
 " Who make them wicked, and proclaim them wise."] 
 
 5 [MS. :— 
 " Behold him now, without the least pretence 
 " To such command— behold him five years hence ; 
 
 And much, in fact, this lesser world can show 
 Of grief and crime that in the greater grow. 
 
 " You saw," said George, " in that still-hated 
 
 school, 
 " How the meek suffer, how the haughty rule ; 
 " There soft, ingenuous, gentle minds endure 
 " Ills that ease, time, and friendship fail to cure : 
 " There the best hearts, and those who shrink from 
 
 sin, 
 " Find some seducing imp to draw them in ; * 
 " Who takes infernal pleasure to impart 
 " The strongest poison to the purest heart. 
 
 " Call to your mind this scene Yon boy 
 
 behold : 
 '• How hot the vengeance of a heart so cold ! 
 " See how he beats, whom he had just reviled 
 '• And made rebellious — that imploring child : 
 " How tierce his eye, how merciless his blows, 
 " And how his anger on his insult grows : 
 " You saw this Hector and his patient slave, 
 " Th' insulting speech, the cruel blows he gave.^ 
 
 " Mix'd with mankind, his interest in his sight, 
 " We found this Nimrod civil and polite ; 
 " There was no triumph in his manner seen, 
 " He waa so humble you might think him mean : 
 " Those angry passions slept till he attain'd 
 " His purposed wealth, and waked when that was 
 
 gain'd : 
 " He then resumed the native wrath and pride, 
 " The more indulged, as longer laid aside; 
 " Wife, children, servants, all obedience pay, 
 " The slaves at school no greater slaves than 
 
 they. 
 " No more dependent, he resumes the rein, 
 " And shows the schoolboy turbulence again. 
 " Were I a poet, I would say, he brings 
 " To recollection some impetuous springs : 
 " See ! one that issues from its humble source, 
 " To gain new powers, and run its noisy course ; 
 " Frothy and fierce among the rocks it goes, 
 " And threatens all that bound it or oppose : 
 " Till wider grown, and finding large increase, 
 " Though bounded still, it moves along in peace ; 
 " And as its waters to the ocean glide, 
 " They bear a busy people on its tide ; 
 " But there arrived, and from its channel free, 
 " Those swelling waters meet the mighty sea ; 
 " AVith threat'ning force the new-form'd billows 
 
 swell, 
 " And now affright the crowd they bore so well." 
 
 " Yet," said the Rector, " all these early signs 
 " Of vice are lost, and vice itself declines ; 
 " Religion counsels ; troubles — sorrows — rise, 
 " And the vile spirit in the conflict dies. 
 
 " Mix'd in the world, his interest in his sight, 
 " How smooth he looks, his language how polite ! 
 " No signs of anger, insult, scorn, are seen ; 
 " The address is mild, the temper is serene, 
 " His fiery passions are resi;;n'd and still, 
 " They yield to reason, or obey his will ; 
 " But are they dead .•' — Not so : should he attain 
 " The wish'd-for fortune, they will live again ; 
 " Then shall the Tyrant be once mire obey'd, 
 " And all be Fags whom he can make afraid." 
 
 2 C 
 
3S6 
 
 CRABBE S WORKS. 
 
 " Sir Hector Blane, i\\c eliampion of the school, 
 " Was very blockhead, tut was form'd for rule : 
 " Learn he could not; he said he could not learn, 
 " But he profess'd it gave him no concern : 
 " Books were his horror, dinner his delight, 
 " And his amusement to shake hands and fight ; 
 " Argue he could not, but in case of doubt, 
 •' Or disputation, fairly box'd it out ; 
 " This was his logic, and, his arm so strong, 
 " His cause prevail'd, and he was never wrong : 
 " But so obtuse — you must have seen his look, 
 " Desponding, angry, puzzled o'er his book. 
 
 " Can you not see him on the morn that proved 
 " Kis skill in figures? Pluto's self was moved. — 
 " ' Come, six times five ?' th' impatient teacher 
 
 cried ; 
 " In vain — the pupil shut his eyes, and sigh'd. 
 " ' Try — six times count your fingers. How he 
 
 stands ! 
 " ' Your fingers, idiot !' — ' What, of both my 
 
 hands ?' 
 
 " With parts like these, his father felt assured, 
 " In busy times a ship might be procured ; 
 " He too was pleased to be so early freed, — 
 " He now could fight, and he in time might read. 
 " So he has fought, and in his country's cause 
 " Has gain'd him glory, and our hearts' applause. 
 " No more the blustering boy a school defies, 
 " We see the hero from the tyrant rise, 
 " And in the captain's worth the student's dulness 
 dies." 
 
 " Be all allow'd," replied the Squire ; " I give 
 " Praise to his actions ; may their glory live ! 
 " Nay, I will hear him in his riper age 
 " Fight his good ship, and with the foe engage : 
 " Nor will I quit him when the cowards fly, 
 " Although, like them, I dread his energy. 
 
 " But still, my friend, that ancient spirit reigns, 
 " His powers support the credit of his brains, 
 " Insisting ever that he must be right, 
 " And for his reasons still prepared to fight. 
 " Let him a judge of England's prowess be, 
 " And all her floating terrors on the sea ; 
 " But this contents not, this is not denied, 
 " He claims a right on all things to decide ; 
 " A kind of patent-wisdom, and he cries, 
 " ' 'T is so I' and bold the hero that denies.^ 
 " Thus the boy-spirit still the bosom rules, 
 " And the world's maxims were at first the 
 school's." 
 
 3 [MS.— V. R. :— 
 
 " But when he sits in jii<lgment, nn<l decrees 
 
 " What men shouM nile us, and what books should please, 
 
 " .\n(l thus the merit of a critii- f,'ains, 
 
 " Only Ibrhlowini,' out a Kroiiphman's brains, 
 
 " I must demur, and in my mind retrace 
 
 " The acroiintiint Hector and his niefiil face : 
 
 " But on he bhmders! thinking lie is wise 
 
 " Who lias much strength, no mutter where it lies."] 
 
 < [In the character and melancholy diNith of Clharles, the 
 patroniseil boy, Mr. Crahbe has described the fate of his 
 brother-in-law, Mr. James VAmy, who died at an early a;;e, a 
 few yearH alter his sister's marriasre, but not until he had ex- 
 perienced much suffering. Having a strong predilection for 
 
 " No doubt," said Jacques, " there are in minds 
 the seeds 
 " Of good and ill, the viitues and the weeds; 
 " But is it not of study the intent 
 " This growth of evil nature to prevent ? 
 " To checl" the progress of each idle shoot 
 " That might retai-d the ripening of the frnit ? 
 
 " Our purpose certain, and we much effect, 
 " We something cure, and something we correct; 
 " But do your utmost, when the man you see, 
 " You find him what you saw the boy would be — 
 " Disguised a little — but we still behold 
 " AVhat pleased and what offended us of old. 
 " Years from the mind no native stain remove, 
 " But lay the varnish of the world above. 
 " Still, when he can, he loves to step aside, 
 " And be the boy without a check or guide ; 
 " In the old wanderings ho with pleasure strays, 
 " And reassumes the bliss < f earlier days. 
 
 " I left at school the boy with pensive look, 
 " Whom some great patron order'd to his book, 
 " Who from his mother's cot reluctant came, 
 " And gave my lord for this compassion fame ; 
 " Who, told of all his patron's merit, sigh'd, 
 " I know not why, in sorrow or in pride ; 
 " And would, w^th vex'd and troubled spirit, cry, 
 " ' I am not happy ; let your envy die.' 
 " Him left I with you ; who, perhaps, can tell 
 " If Fortune bless'd him, or what fate befell. 
 " I yet remember how the idlers ran 
 " To see the carriage of the godlike man, 
 " When pride restrain'd me ; yet I thought the 
 
 deed 
 " Was noble, too, and how did it succeed ?" 
 
 Jacques answer'd not till he had backward cast 
 His view, and dwelt upon the evil past ; 
 Then, as he sigh'd, he smiled ;— from folly rise 
 Such smiles, and misery will create such sighs. 
 And Richard now from his abstraction broke. 
 Listening attentive as the Hector spoke. 
 
 " This noble Lord was one disposed to try 
 " And weigh the worth of each new luxury ; 
 " Now, at a certain time, in pleasant mood, 
 " He tried the luxury of doing good ; 
 " For this he chose a widow's handsome Ix"}-,* 
 " Whom he would first improve, and then employ. 
 
 the pencil, he was placed, by the assistance of his uncle, Mr. 
 Tovell, under the tuition of the Royal Academician, Cosway ; 
 but, unfortunalelv, he had more passion than genius, and 
 painted respectably, but nothing more. Returning to reside 
 with his mother at Beccles, great expectations of his success 
 were formed by all his friends. Unhappily, he failed in his 
 first attempt — a view of Beccles — and never overcame the 
 bitter mortilication. His health, always delicate, began 
 about this time to decline. Not having strength or spirits for 
 renewed exertion, he confined himself to his room, and 
 would scarcely eat enough to support life, because he could 
 not maintain himself, and would not be a burden to his 
 widowed mother. At length, he pined away, a victim to 
 disappointment and melancholy; and the last elVort of his 
 sinking strength was to commit all his drawings to the 
 fl.imes.] 
 
 J, 
 
•' The boy was gentle, modest, civil, kind, 
 
 " But not for bustKng through the world design'd ; 
 
 " Reserved in manner, with a little gloom, 
 
 " Apt to retire, but never to assume ; 
 
 " Posscss'd of pride that he could not subdue, 
 
 '• Although he kept his origin in view. 
 
 " Him sent my Lord to school, and this became 
 
 " A theme for praise, and gave his Lordship fame : 
 
 " But when the boy was told how great his debt, 
 
 " He proudly ask'd, ' Is it contracted yet?' 
 
 " With care he studied, and with some success ; 
 
 " His patience great, but his acquirements less : 
 
 " Yet when he heard that Charles would not excel, 
 
 " His Lordship answor'd, with a smile, ' 'T is well ; 
 
 " ' Let him proceed and do the best he can ; 
 
 '• ' I want no pedant, but a useful man.' 
 
 ■•' The speech was heard, and praise was amply 
 dealt; 
 " His Lordship felt it, and he said he felt : 
 " ' It is delightful,' he observed, ' to raise 
 " ' And foster merit, — it is more than praise.' 
 
 " Five years at school th' industrious boy had 
 
 pass'd, 
 '• ' And what,' was whisper'd, ' will be done at 
 
 last ?' 
 " My Lord was troubled, for he did not mean 
 " To liave his bounty watch'd and overseen — 
 " Bounty that sleeps when men applaud no more 
 '• The generous act that waked their praise before ; 
 " The deed was pleasant while the praise was new, 
 " But none the progress would with wonder view : 
 " It was a debt contracted ; he who pays 
 " A debt is just, but must not look for praise : 
 " The deed that once had fame must still proceed, 
 " Though Fame no more proclaims ' How great the 
 
 deed !' 
 " The boy is taken from his mother's side, 
 " And he who took him must be now his guide : 
 " But this, alas ! instead of bringing fame, 
 " A ta.x, a trouble, to my Lord became. 
 
 " ' The boy is dull, you say, — why, then by 
 trade, 
 " ' By law, by physic, nothing can be made ; 
 " ' If a small living — mine are both too large ; 
 " ' And then the College is a cursed charge : 
 " ' The sea is open ; should he there display 
 '■ ' Signs of dislike, he cannot run away.' 
 
 " Isow Charles, who acted no heroic part, 
 " And felt no seaman's glory warm his heart. 
 
 5 [MS. :— 
 
 " Apain was made the ofTer, and again, 
 
 *' With threats, with noble promises in vain. 
 
 " When my Lord saw that nothins; could be done, 
 
 " He nobly cried, ' I'll fit him as my son : 
 
 " ' ^ir, will you go ?' As meekly as a saint, 
 
 " Charles humbly begg'd to stay on land and paint."'] 
 
 '^ [MS.:— 
 
 " Stubborn though mild, and fearing to offend, 
 
 " He gain'd his freedom, and he lost his friend : 
 
 " My Lord appeal'd to all the world, and cried, 
 
 " 'There never breathed such stubbornness and pride; 
 
 " ' Do what you please, sir, 1 am justified.' 
 
 ■ Refused the offer — anger touch'd my Lord. — 
 
 ■ ' He does not like it — Good, upon my word ! 
 
 ■ ' If I at college place him, he will need 
 
 • ' Supplies for ever, and will not succeed ; 
 ' ' Doubtless in me 'tis duty to provide 
 
 ■ ' Not for his comfort only, but his pride ! 
 
 ■ ' Let him to sea !' — He heard the words again, 
 
 ' With promise join'd — with threat'ning ; all in 
 
 vain : 
 ' Charles had his own pursuits ; for aid to these 
 ' He had been thankful, and had tried to please : 
 ' But urged again, as meekly as a saint 
 ' He humbly begg'd to stay at home and paint.* 
 ' ' Yes, pay some dauber, that this stubborn fool 
 ' ' May grind his colours, and may boast his school.' 
 
 " As both persisted, ' Choose, good sir, your way,' 
 ' The peer e.\claim'd, ' I have no more to say ; 
 ' ' I seek your good, but I have no command 
 ' ' Upon your will, nor your desire withstand.' 
 
 " Resolved and firm, yet dreading to offend, 
 ' Charles pleaded genius with his noble friend : 
 
 ■ ' Genius ! ' he cried, ' the name that triflers give 
 
 • ' To their strong wishes without pains to live ; 
 ' ' Genius ! the plea of all who feel desire 
 
 ' ' Of fame, yet grudge the labours that acquire : 
 ' ' But say 't is true ; how poor, how late the gain, 
 ' ' And certain ruin if the hope be vain !' 
 
 ■ Then to the world appeal'd my Lord, and cried, 
 
 • ' Whatever happens, I am justified.' 
 
 ■ Nay, it was trouble to his soul to find 
 
 ■ There was such hardness in the human mind : " 
 
 ■ He wash'd his hands before the world, and swore 
 ' That he such minds would patronise no more. 
 
 " Now Charles his bread by daily labours 
 sought, 
 
 • And this his solace, ' So Correggio wrought.' 
 
 ■ Alas ! poor youth ! however great his name, 
 
 ■ And humble thine, thy fortune was the same : 
 
 ' Charles drew and painted, and some praise 
 obtain'd 
 
 ■ For care and pains ; but little more was gain'd : 
 ' Fame was his hope, and he contempt display'd 
 
 For approbation, when 't was coolly paid : 
 His daily tasks he call'd a waste of mind, 
 
 ■ Ve.\'d at his fate, and angry with mankind : 
 ' Thus have the blind to merit ever done. 
 And Genius mourn'd for each neglected son.' ^ 
 
 " Charles murmur'd thus, and, angry and alone, 
 " Half breath'd the curse, and half suppress'd the 
 groan ; 
 
 " So said my Lord ; for ' he was grieved to find 
 " ' Such vile ingratitude in base mankind.' "] 
 
 [MS. :— 
 
 " Tlie boy then wrote for bread. I saw him tlirice ; 
 
 " His passions placid, he without a vice ; 
 
 " He sometimes painted, but was uninspired 
 
 " Uy genius, unprotected, unadmired ; 
 
 " Kut pensive, sober, diligent, employ'd 
 
 " His every hour, his life without a void, 
 
 " He sought for little, nothing he enjoy'd. 
 
 " 1 fear he thought liimself, because distress'd, 
 
 " An injured genius, by tlie world opprcss'd."] 
 
 2c 2 
 
388 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Then still more sullen grew, and still more proud, 
 " Fame so refused he to himself allow'd, 
 " Crowds in contempt he held, and all to him was 
 crowd. 
 
 " If aught on earth, the youth his mother loved, 
 " And at her death to distant scenes removed. 
 
 " Years pass'd away, and where he lived, and how, 
 " Was then unknown — indeed we know not now ; 
 " But once at twilight walking up and down, 
 " In a poor alley of the mighty town, 
 " Where, in her narrow courts and garrets, hide 
 " The grieving sons of Genius, Want, and Pride, 
 " I met him musing : sadness I could trace, 
 " And conqucr'd hope's meek anguish in his face. 
 " See him I must ; but I with ease address'd, 
 " And neither pity nor surprise express'd ; 
 " I strove both grief and pleasure to restrain, 
 " But yet I saw that I was giving pain. 
 " He said, with quick'ning pace, as loth to hold 
 " A longer converse, that ' the day was cold, 
 " ' That he was well, that I had scarcely light 
 " ' To aid my steps,' and bade me then good night ! 
 
 " I saw him next where he had lately come, 
 " A silent pauper in a crowded room ; 
 " I heard his name, but he conceal'd his face, — 
 " To his sad mind his misery was disgrace : 
 " In vain I strove to combat his disdain 
 
 " Of my compassion ' Sir, I pray refrain ;' 
 
 " For I had left my friends, and stepp'd aside, 
 " Because I fear'd his unrelenting pride.* 
 
 " He then was sitting on a workhouse-bed, 
 " And on the naked boards reclined his head, 
 " Around were children with incessant cry, 
 " And near was one, like him, about to die : 
 " A broken chair's deal bottom held the store 
 " That he required — he soon would need no more ; 
 " A yellow tea-pot, standing at his side, 
 " From its half spout the cold black tea supplied. 
 
 " Hither, it seem'd, the fainting man was brought, 
 " Found without food, — it was no longer sought ; 
 " For his employers knew not whom they paid, 
 " Nor where to seek him whom they wish'd to aid : 
 " Here brought, some kind attendant he address'd, 
 " And sought some trifles which he yet possess'd ; 
 " Then named a lightless closet, in a room 
 " Hired at small rate, a garret's deepest gloom : 
 " They sought the region, and they brought him all 
 " That he his own, his proper wealth, could call : 
 " A better coat, less pieced ; some linen neat, 
 " Not whole ; and papers, many a valued sheet ; 
 " Designs and drawings : these, at his desire, 
 " Were placed before him at the chamber fire, 
 " And, while th' admiring people stood to gaze, 
 " He, one by one, committed to the blaze. 
 
 » [MS. :— 
 
 " Years pass'd away— I think somp tHenty-five ; 
 
 " Again 1 saw him, and hut just alive, 
 
 " And Rtill forbidding, sih-nt, sullen, proud, 
 
 " As one whose claims were just, and not allow'd. 
 
 " He saw me, saw my sympathy with pain, 
 
 " Kiceived my humble oilers with disdain, 
 
 " And sternly told me ' not to coineagiiu.' 
 
 •' He tlien was sitting," &c.] jt. 
 
 " Smiling in spleen ; but one he held a while, 
 " And gave it to the flames, and could not smile. 
 
 " The sickening man — for such appcar'd the 
 
 fact — 
 " Just in his need, would not a debt contract; 
 " But left his poor apartment for the bed 
 " That earth might yield him, or some way-side 
 
 shed ; 
 " Here he was found, and to this place convey'd, 
 " Wliere he might rest, and his last debt be paid : 
 " Fame was his wish, but he so far from fame, 
 " That no one knew his kindred or his name, 
 " Or by what means he lived, or from what place 
 
 he came. 
 
 " Poor Charles ! unnoticed l)y thy titled friend," 
 Thy days had calmy pass'd, in peace thine end : 
 Led by thy patron's vanity astray. 
 Thy own misled thee in thy trackless way. 
 Urging thee on by hope absurd and vain. 
 Where never peace or comfort smiled again ! 
 Once more I saw him, when his spirits fail'd. 
 And my desire to aid him then prevail'd ; 
 He show'd a softer feeling in his eye. 
 And watch'd my looks, and own'd the sympathy : 
 'T was now the calm of wearied pride ; so long 
 As he had strength was his resentment strong. 
 But in such place, with strangers all around. 
 And they such strangers, to have something 
 
 found 
 Allied to his own heart, an early friend. 
 One, only one, who would on him attend. 
 To give and take a look I at this his journey's end ; 
 One link, however slender, of the chain 
 That held him where he could not long remain ; 
 The one sole interest I No, he could not now 
 Ketain his anger ; Nature knew not how ; 
 And so there came a softness to his mind, 
 And he forgave the usage of mankind ; 
 His cold long fingers now were press'd to mine. 
 And his faint smile of kinder thoughts gave sign ; 
 His lips moved often as he tried to lend 
 His words their sound, and softly whisper'd 
 
 ' Friend !' 
 Not without comfort in the thought express'd 
 By that calm look with which he sank to rest." 
 
 " The man," said George, "you see, through life 
 retain'd 
 " The boy's defects ; his virtues too remain'd. 
 
 " But where are now those minds so light and 
 gay, 
 
 " So forc'd on study, so intent on play, 
 
 " Swept, by the woi'ld's rude blasts, from hope's 
 
 dear views away .' 
 " Some grieved for long neglect in earlier times, 
 " Some sad from frailties, some lamenting crimes ; 
 
 » [MS. — 
 
 " Thou, Cliarles ! unaided by a noble fnend, 
 
 " Hadst spent a careful life as others spend ; 
 
 " But when thy patron's vanity and thine 
 
 " Were made by cruel fortune to rombine, 
 
 " 'T was then th' unhappy wretch was lifted high 
 
 " On golden stilts, and seem'd to touch the sky ; 
 
 " Hut when the tempter hand w ithdraws the props, 
 
 " The vision closes, and the victim drops."] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL 
 
 389 
 
 " Thinking, with sorrow, on the season lent 
 
 " For noble purpose, and in trifling spent ; 
 
 " And now, at last, when they in earnest view 
 
 *• The nothings done — what work they find to do 1 
 
 " "Where is that virtue that the generous boy 
 
 " Felt, and resolved that nothing should destroy ? 
 
 " He who with noble indignation glow'd 
 
 " When vice had triumph ! who liis tear bestow'd 
 
 " On injured merit ! he who would possess 
 
 " Power but to aid the children of distress ! 
 
 " "Who has such joy in generous actions shown, 
 
 " And so sincere, they might be call'd his own — 
 
 " Knight, hero, patriot, martyr ! on whose tongue. 
 
 " And potent arm, a nation's welfare hung ! 
 
 " He who to public misery brought relief, 
 
 " And sooth'd the anguish of domestic grief! 
 
 " Where now this virtue's fervour, spirit, zeal ? 
 
 " Who felt so Marmly, has he ceased to feel ? 
 
 " The boy's emotions of that noble kind, 
 
 " Ah ! sure the experienced man has not resign'd ; 
 
 " Or are these feelings varied ? has the knight, 
 
 " Virtue's own champion, now refused to fight ? 
 
 " Is the deliverer turn'd th' oppressor now ? 
 
 " Has the reformer dropp'd the dangerous vow ? 
 
 " Or has the patriot's bosom lost its heat, 
 
 " And forced him, shivering, to a snug retreat ? 
 
 " Is such the grievous lapse of human pride ? 
 
 " Is such the victory of the worth untried ? 
 
 " Here will I pause, and then review the shame 
 Of Hurry Bland to hear his parent's name ; '" 
 That mild, that modest boy, whom well we knew 
 Jn him long time the secret sorrow grew ; 
 He wept alone ; then to his friend confess'd 
 The grievous fears that his pure mind oppress'd ; 
 And thus, when terror o'er his shame obtain'd 
 A painful conquest, he his case explain'd : 
 And first liis favourite questiou'd — ' Willie, tell, 
 ' Do all the wicked people go to Hell ? ' 
 
 " Willie with caution answer'd, ' Yes, thoy do, 
 
 ' Or else repent ; but what is this to you r' 
 
 ' O ! yes, dear friend :' he then his tale began — 
 
 He fear'd his father was a wicked man. 
 
 Nor had repented of his naughty life ; 
 
 The wife he had indeed was not a wife, 
 
 ■ ' Not as my mother was ; the servants all 
 
 ■ ' Call her a name — I '11 whisper what they call. 
 
 ■ ' She saw me weep, and ask'd, in high disdain, 
 ' ' If tears could bring my mother back again ? 
 
 ' ' This I could bear, but not when she pretends 
 • ' Such fond regard, and what I speak commends ; 
 
 ■ ' Talks of my learning, fawning wretch ! and tries 
 
 ■ ' To make me love her, — love ! when I despise. 
 ' ' Indeed I had it in my heart to say 
 
 ■ ' Words of reproach before I came away : 
 
 ' ' And then my father's look is not the same ; 
 ' ' He puts his anger on to hide his shame.' 
 
 ■0 [MS. : — 
 
 " The boy was tall, but with a mincins air, 
 
 " Blue, languid eyes, pale cheek, and llaxen hair ; 
 
 " His temper fretful, but his spirits mild, 
 
 " Loved by mamma, by all her maidens styUd 
 
 " The wittiest darlin>; and the sweetest child. 
 
 " In those dear times, when that mamma had rule, 
 
 " There was much play, few lessons, and no school ; 
 
 " Hut, oh! misfortune - when the lady died, 
 
 " No second wife her honour'd place supplied, 
 
 " With all these feelings delicate and nice, 
 " This dread of infamy, this scorn of vice, 
 " He left the school, accepting, though with pride, 
 " His father's aid — but there would not reside ; 
 " He married then a lovely maid, approved 
 " Of every heart as worthy to be loved ; 
 ■• Slild as the morn in summer, firm as truth, 
 " And graced with wisdom in the bloom of youth. 
 
 " How is it, men, when they in judgment sit 
 " On the same fault, now censure, now acquit ? 
 " Is it not thus, that here we view the sin, 
 " And there the powerful cause that drew us in ? 
 " 'T is not that men are to the evil blind, 
 " But that a different object fills the mind. 
 •' In judging others we can see too well 
 " Their grievous fall, but not how grieved they 
 
 fell ; 
 " Judging ourselves, we to our minds recall, 
 " Not how we fell, but how we grieved to fall ; 
 " Or could this man, so vex'd in early time 
 " By this strong feeling for his father's crime, — 
 •• Who to the parent's sin was barely just, 
 " And mix'd with filial fear the man's disgust, — 
 " Could he, without some strong delusion, quit 
 " The path of duty, and to shame submit ? 
 " Cast off the virtue he so highly prized, 
 " And be the very creature he despised ? 
 
 " A tenant's wife, half forward, half afraid, 
 " Features, it seem'd, of powerful cast display'd, 
 " That bore down faith and duty ; common fame 
 " Speaks of a contract that augments the shame. 
 
 " There goes he, not unseen, so strong the will, 
 " And blind the wish, that bear him to the mill ; 
 " There he degraded sits, and strives to please 
 " The miller's children, laughing at his knees ; 
 " And little Dorcas, now familiar grown, 
 " Talks of her rich papa, and of her own. 
 " He woos the mother's now precarious smile 
 •' By costly gifts, that tempers reconcile ; 
 " While the rough husband, yielding to the pay 
 " That buys his absence, growling stalks away. 
 " 'Tis said the offending man will sometimes 
 
 sigh, 
 " And say, ' My God, in what a dream am I ! 
 " ' I will awake :' but, as the day proceeds, 
 " The weaken'd mind the day's indulgence needs ; 
 " Hating himself at every step he takes, 
 " His mind approves the virtue he forsakes, 
 " And yet forsakes her. O ! how sharp the pain, 
 " Our vice, ourselves, our habits to disdain ; 
 " To go where never yet in peace we went, 
 " To feel our hearts can bleed, yet not relent ; 
 " To sigh, yet not recede ; to grieve, yet not 
 repent !" 
 
 " But one dishonour'd ; and she quickly sent 
 " All who had grief to grieve in banishrnent ; 
 " No longer now was there the rush of joy, 
 " The Hood of fondness, o'er the happy boy ; 
 " No more indulgence by the maidens shown 
 " For master's pleasure, purchase of their own : 
 " But they as spies were lo new service sent, 
 " And the sad boy to school and banisl.ment. 
 " He wept alone," &c ] 
 
390 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 ADVENTURES OF RICHARD. 
 
 Meeting of tlie Brothers in the Morning — Pictures, Music, 
 Books— The Autumnal Walk— Tlie Farm— The Flock- 
 Effect of Retirement upon the Mind— Dinner— Richard's 
 Adventure at Sea— George inquires into the Education of 
 his Brother — Richard's Account of his Occupations in his 
 early Life ; his Pursuits, Associations, Partialities, Affec- 
 tions, and Feelings— His Love of Freedom— The Society he 
 chose — The Friendships he engaged in, and the Habits he 
 contracted. 
 
 Eight days had pass'd : the Brothers now could 
 
 meet 
 "With ease, and take the customary seat. 
 
 " These," said the host, for he perceived where 
 stray'd 
 His brother's eye, and what he now survey'd, — 
 " These are the costly trifles that we buy, 
 " Urged by the strong demands of vanity, 
 " The thirst and hunger of a mind diseased, 
 " That must with purchased flattery be appeased ; 
 " But yet, 'tis true, the things that you behold 
 " Serve to amuse us as we 're getting old : ' 
 " These pictures, as I heard our artists say, 
 " Are genuine all, and I believe they may ; 
 " They cost the genuine sums, and I should grieve 
 " If, being willing, I could not believe. 
 " And there is music ; when the ladies come, 
 " With their keen looks they scrutinize the room 
 " To see what pleases, and I must expect 
 " To yield them pleasure, or to find neglect : 
 " For, as attractions from our person fly, 
 " Our purses, Richard, must the want supply ; 
 " Yet would it vex me could the triflers know 
 " That they can shut out comfort or bestow,'-' 
 
 " But see this room : here, Richard, you will 
 find 
 " Books for all palates, food for every mind ; 
 " This readers term the ever-new delight, 
 " And so it is, if minds have appetite : 
 " Mine once was craving ; great my joy, indeed, 
 " Had 1 possess'd such food when I could feed ; 
 " When at the call of every new-born wdsh 
 " I could have keenly relisli'd every dish : 
 " Now, Richard, now I stalk around and look 
 " Upon the dress and title of a book, 
 
 ' [Orig. MS. :— 
 
 " Brother," said George, " Whfii I beheld you last, 
 " The time how distant ! — Well ! tlie time is past — 
 " I liad not then these comforts you behold, 
 " Things that nmusi' us when we 're getting old : 
 "'I'hese pictures now, experienced men will say 
 " They 're genuine nil, and so pcrliaps they may ; 
 " Tliey cost the money, that I 'm sure is true, 
 " And therefore, Richard, I will say it too."] 
 
 ' [MS. :- 
 
 " Music you find ; for liither ladies come ; 
 "They make infernal uproar in tlie room. 
 " I bear it. Why .' because I must expect 
 " To pay for honour, and I fear neglect. 
 
 " Try half a page, and then can taste no more, 
 
 " But the dull volume to its place restore ; 
 
 " Begin a second slowh' to peruse, 
 
 " Then cast it by, and look about for news ; 
 
 " The news itself grows dull in long debates, — 
 
 " I skip, and see what the conclusion states ; 
 
 " And many a speech, with zeal and study made 
 
 " Cold and resisting spirits to persuade, 
 
 " Is lost on mine ; alone, we cease to feel 
 
 " What crowds admire, and wonder at their zeal. 
 
 " But how the day ? No fairer will it be ? 
 " Walk you ? Alas ! 't is requisite for me — 
 " Nay, let me not prescribe — my friends and 
 guests are free." 
 
 It was a fair and mild autumnal sky. 
 And earth's ripe treasures met tli' admiring eye, 
 As a rich beauty, when her bloom is lost. 
 Appears with more magnificence and cost : 
 The wet and heavy grass, where feet had stray'd. 
 Not yet erect, the wanderer's way betray'd ; 
 Showera of the night had swell'd the deep'ning 
 
 rill. 
 The morning breeze had urged the quick'ning 
 
 mill; 
 Assembled rooks had wing'd their seaward flight. 
 By the same passage to return at night, 
 While proudly o'er them hung the steady kite. 
 Then turn'd him back, and left the noisy throng, 
 Nor deign'd to know them as he sail'd along. 
 Long yellow leaves, from oziers, strew'd around. 
 Choked the small stream, and hush'd the feeble 
 
 sound ; 
 While the dead foliage dropp'd from loftier trees, 
 Our Squire beheld not with his wonted ease ; 
 But to his own reflections made reply. 
 And said aloud, " Yes ! doubtless we must die." 
 
 " We must," said Richard ; " and we would not 
 live 
 " To feel what dotage and decay will give ; 
 " But we yet taste whatever we behold, 
 " The morn is lovely, though the air is cold : 
 " There is delicious quiet in this scene, 
 " At once so rich, so varied, so serene ; 
 " Sounds too delight us, — each discordant tone 
 " Thus mingled please, that fail to please alone; 
 " This hollow wind, this rustling of the brook, 
 " The farm-yard noise, the woodman at yon oak — 
 " See, the axe falls ! — now listen to the stroke I 
 " That gun itself, that murders all this peace, 
 " Adds to the charm, because it soon must cease." ' 
 
 " .\nd if attraction from your person Hies, 
 " You must .some pleasure from your purse devise ; 
 " But this apart — the trillers should not know 
 " That they can comfort or regret bestow."] 
 
 » [MS. : — 
 
 " That gun itself, that breaks upon the car, 
 " Has something suited to the dying year;" 
 " Tlie dying partridgi'!" cried, with much disdain, 
 Tir offended 'Squire — " Our laws are made in vain : 
 " The rountry, Kicliard, woulil not be amiss, 
 " But for these plagues, and villanies like this; 
 " We.ilth breeds th<' our^e that fixes on the land, 
 " .\nd stril" and heritage go hand in hand."] 
 
 ^ — 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 391 
 
 ■" No doubt," said George, " the country has its 
 charms. 
 " My fei'tn behold ! the model for all farms I 
 " Look at that laud — you tind not there a weed ; 
 ■" Wie ^rub the roots, and sutfer none to seed. 
 " To Jand like this no botanist will come, 
 " To seek the precious ware he hides at home ; 
 " Piiessing the leaves and flowers with eftbrt nice, 
 " As if tiiey came from herbs in Paradise : 
 " Let theBa their favourites with my neighbours 
 
 ■see; 
 " Tbej have no — what? — no habitat with me.* 
 
 ■" Now see my flock, and hear its glory ; — none 
 " Have that vast body and that slender bone ; 
 " They are the village boast, the dealer's theme ; 
 " Fleece of such staple ! flesh in such esteem !" * 
 
 " Bswther," said Richard, " do I hear aright ? 
 " Does the land truly give so much delight?" 
 
 ■" So says my bailiff: sometimes I have tried 
 " To catch the joy, but nature has denied ; 
 "It will not be — the mind has had a store 
 " Laid up for life, and will admit no more : 
 " Worn out in trials, and about to die, 
 " la vain to these we for amusement fly ; 
 " We farm, we garden, we our poor employ, 
 " And much command, though little we enjoy ; 
 " Or, if ambitious, we employ our pen, 
 " Wo plant a desert, or we drain a fen ; 
 ■" And here, behold my medal ! — this will show 
 " What men may merit when they nothing know." 
 
 " Yet reason here," said Richard, "joins with 
 pride." 
 " I did not ask th' alliance," George replied — 
 " I grant it true, such trifles may induce 
 ■" A dull, proud man to wake and be of use ; 
 " And there are purer pleasures, that a mind 
 " Calm and uninjured maj' in villas find ; 
 " But where th' affections have been deeply tried, 
 " With other food that mind must be supplied : 
 " 'Tas not in trees or medals to impart 
 " Tlie powerful medicine for an aching heart ; 
 
 * [Tn l)(>*anical language, the " habitat " is the favourite 
 soil or atnataon of the more scarce species of plants.] 
 
 * fThe original draft, in place of the following lines, runs — 
 
 Tliey waik'd along through mead and shaded wood, 
 And stubble-ground, where late abundance stood, 
 And in the vale, where winter waters glide. 
 O'er pastiires stretching up the mount'ain side. 
 
 With a shrewd smile, but mix'd with look severe, 
 The lan<iiord view'd the promise of the year. 
 " Seel tliat unrivall'd Hock ! they, they alone 
 " Have the vast body on tlie slender bone ; 
 " Tliey are the village boast, the country's theme ; 
 " Fleece of such staple! flesh in such esteem !" 
 
 Richard gave praise, but not in rapturous stye ; 
 He chose his words, and spoke them with a smile: 
 " Brother.' said he, " and if I take you right, 
 " 1 am full glad — these things are your delight ; 
 " I see you proud, but," — speaking lialf aside — 
 " Is, now, the pleasure equal to the pride ?" 
 
 A transient flush on George's fiice appear'd, 
 Cloudy he look'd, and then liis looks were clear'd : 
 
 " The agitation dies, but there is still 
 " The backward spirit, the resisting will. 
 " Man takes his body to a country-seat, 
 " But minds, dear Richard, have their own re- 
 treat ; 
 " Oft when the feet are pacing o'er the green 
 " The mind is gone where never grass was seen, 
 " And never thinks of hill, or vale, or plain, 
 " Till want of rest creates a sense of pain 
 " That calls that wandering mind, and brings it 
 
 home again. 
 " No more of farms : but here I boast of minds 
 " That make a friend the richer when he finds ; 
 " These shalt thou see ; — but, Richard, be it known, 
 " Who thinks to see, must in his turn be shown. 
 " But now farewell ! to thee will I resign 
 *' Woods, walks, and valleys ! take them till we 
 dine." 
 
 The Brothers dined, and with that plenteous 
 fare 
 That seldom fails to dissipate our care, 
 At least the lighter kind ; and oft prevails 
 When reason, duty, nay, when kindness fails. 
 Yet food and wine, and all that mortals bless, 
 Lead them to think of peril and distress ; 
 Cold, hunger, danger, solitude, and pain, 
 That men in life's adventurous ways sustain. 
 
 " Thou hast sail'd far, dear Brother," said the 
 
 Squire — 
 " Permit me of these unknown lands t' inquire, 
 " Lands never till'd, where thou hast wondering 
 
 been, 
 " And all the marvels thou hast heard and seen : 
 " Do tell me something of the miseries felt 
 " In climes where travellers freeze, and where 
 
 they melt ; 
 " And be not nice,— we know 't is not in men, 
 " Who travel far, to hold a steady pen : 
 " Some will, 't is true, a bolder freedom take, 
 " And keep our wonder always wide awake ; 
 
 " Look at yon liind !" said he, — " in very deed, 
 " His is the pride and pleasure in the breed ; 
 " He has delight, he judges — I the name, 
 " Ami the whole praise — I speak it to my shame. 
 " Oh ! Richard, Richard, tell me, if you can, 
 " What will engage and ii.\ the raind of mari ?" 
 
 " .Suppose," said he, " we look about the green ; 
 " In yonder cots some objects may be seen, 
 " T' e.\cite our pity, or relieve our spleen." 
 
 " Oh ! they are thieves and blockheads," George replied, 
 " I^njust, ungrateful, and unsatislied ; 
 " To grasp at all, their study, thought, and care, 
 " All would be tiiieves and plunderers, if they dare; 
 " His envious nature not a clown conceals, 
 " Uut bluntly shows the insolence he feels." 
 
 " And whence," said Richard, " should the vice proceed, 
 " Hut from their want of knowledge, and their need ? 
 " Let them know more, or let them better feci, 
 " And I '11 engage they '11 neither threat nor steal." 
 
 " Brother," said George, " your pity makes you blind 
 " To all that 's vile and odiou^i in mankind ; 
 " 'T is true vour notions may appear divine, 
 " But for tiieir justice Let us go and dine."] 
 
392 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " We know of those whose dangers far exceed 
 
 " Our frail belief, that trembles as we read ; 
 
 " Sdch as in deserts burn, and thirst, and die, 
 
 " Save a last gasp that they recover by : 
 
 " Then, too, their hazard from a tyrant's arms, 
 
 " A tiger's fury, or a lady's charms ; 
 
 *' Beside th' accumulated evils borne 
 
 " From the bold outset to the safe return. 
 
 " These men abuse ; but thou hast fair pretence 
 
 " To modest dealing, and to mild good sense ; 
 
 " Then let me hear tliy struggles and escapes 
 
 " In the far lands of crocodiles and apes : 
 
 " Say, hast thou, Bruce-like, knelt upon the bed 
 
 " Where the young Nile uplifts his branchy head ? 
 
 " Or been partaker of th' unhallow'd feast, 
 
 " Where beast-like man devours his fellow-beast, 
 
 " And churn'd the bleeding life ? while each great 
 
 dame 
 " And sovereign beauty bade adieu to shame ? 
 " Or did the storm, that thy wreck'd pinnace bore, 
 " Impel thee gasping on some unknown shore ; 
 " Where, when thy beard and nails were savage 
 
 grown, 
 " Some swarthy princess took thee for her own, 
 " Some danger-dreading Yarico, who, kind, 
 " Sent thee away, and, prudent, stay'd behind ? 
 
 " Come — I am ready wonders to receive, 
 " Prone to assent, and willing to believe." 
 
 Richard replied : " It must be known to you, 
 " That talcs improbable may yet be true ; 
 " And yet it is a foolish tiling to tell 
 " A tale that shall be judged improbable ; 
 " While some impossibilities appear 
 " So like the truth, that we assenting hear : 
 " Yet, with your leave, I venture to relate 
 " A chance-affair, and fact alone will state ; 
 " Though, I confess, it may suspicion breed, 
 " And you may cry, ' Improbable, indeed !' 
 
 " When first I tried the sea, I took a trip, 
 " But duty none, in a relation's ship ; 
 " Thus, unengaged, I felt my spirits light, 
 " Kept care at distance, an(l put fear to flight ; 
 " Oft this same spirit in my friends prevail'd, 
 " Buoyant in dangers, rising when assail'd ; 
 " When, as the gale at evening died away, — 
 " And die it will with the retiring day, — 
 " Impatient then, and sick of very case, 
 " We loudly whistled for the slumbering breesc. 
 
 " One eve it came ; and, frantic in my joy, 
 " I rose and danced, as i<llc as a boy : 
 " The cabin-lights were down, that we might learn 
 " A trifling something from the sliip astern ; 
 " The stiffening gale bore up the growing wave, 
 " And wilder motion to my madness gave : 
 " Oft have I since, when thoughtful and at rest, 
 " Believed some maddening power nij' mind pos- 
 
 sess'd ; 
 " For, in an instant, as the stern sank low, 
 " (How moved 1 knew not — What can madness 
 
 know ?) 
 " Chance that direction to my motion pave, 
 " And plunged me headlong in the roaring wave : 
 
 " Swift flew the parting ship, — -the fainter light 
 " Witlidrew, — or Iiorror took them from my sight. 
 
 " All was confused above, beneath, around ; 
 " All sounds of terror; no distinguish'd sound 
 " Could reach me, now on sweeping surges toss'd, 
 " And then between the rising billows lost ; 
 " An undefined sensation stopp'd my breath ; 
 " Disorder'd views and threat'ning signs of death 
 " Jlet in one moment, and a terror gave — 
 " I cannot paint it — to the moving grave. 
 " My thoughts were all distressing, hurried, mix'd, 
 " On all things fixing, not a moment fix'd : 
 " Vague thoughts of instant danger brought their 
 
 pain, 
 " New hopes of safety banish'd them again ; 
 " Then the swoln billow all these hopes destroy'd, 
 " And left me sinking in the mighty void : 
 " Weaker I grew, and grew the more dismay'd, 
 " Of aid all hopeless, yet in search of aid ; 
 " Struggling awhile upon the wave to keep, 
 " Then, languid, sinking in the yawning deep : 
 " So toss'd, so lost, so sinking in despair, 
 " I pray'd in heart an indirected prayer, 
 " And then once more I gave my ej-es to view 
 " The ship now lost, and bade the light adieu ! 
 " From my chill'd frame the enfeebled spirit f\eil, 
 " Rose the tall billows round my deep'ning bed, 
 " Cold seized my heart, thought ceased, and I was 
 
 dead. 
 
 " Brother, I have not, — man has not the povrer 
 " 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 ; 
 " When all so indistinct, so undefined, 
 " So dark and dreadful overcame the mind ; 
 " When such confusion on the spirit dwelt, - 
 
 " That, feeling much, it knew not what it felt.* 
 
 " Can T, my Brother, ought I to forget 
 " That night of terror ? No ! it threatens yet. 
 " Shall I days, months — nay, years, indeed, neg- 
 lect, 
 " Who then could feel what moments must effect, 
 " Were aught effected ? who, in that wild storm, 
 " Found there was nothing I could well perform ; 
 " For what to us are moments, what arc hours, 
 " If lost our judgment, and confused our powers ? 
 
 " Oft in the times when passion strive* to reign, 
 " When duty feebly holds the slacken'd chaia, 
 " When reason slumbers, then remembrance draws 
 " This view of death, and folly makes a pause — - 
 " The view o'ercomes the vice, the fear the fvenay 
 
 awes. 
 " I know there wants not this to make it true, 
 " What danger bids be done, in safety do ; 
 " Y'et such escapes may make our purpose sure, — 
 " Who slights such warning may be too secure." 
 
 " But the escape !" — " Whatc'er they judged 
 might save 
 " Their sinking friend they cast upon the wave; 
 
 [Sec aiitr, p. 11] 
 
*' Something of these my heaven-directed arm 
 " Unconscious seized, and held as by a charm ; 
 " The crew astern beheld me as I swam, 
 " And I am saved — O ! let me say I am." 
 
 " Brother," said George, " I have neglected long 
 " To think of all thy perils : — it was wrong ; 
 " But do forgive me ; for I could not be 
 " Than of myself more negligent of thee. 
 " Now tell me, Richard, from the boyish years 
 " Of thy young mind, that now so rich ajjpears, 
 " How was it stored ? 't was told me thou wert 
 
 wild, 
 " A truant urchin, — a neglected child. 
 " I heard of this escape, and sat supine 
 " Amid the danger that exceeded thine ; 
 " Thou couldst but die — the waves could but 
 
 infold 
 " Thy warm gay heart, and make that bosom cold — 
 
 " While I but no ! Proceed, and give me truth ; 
 
 " How pass'd the years of thy unguided youth ? 
 
 " Thy father left thee to the care of one 
 
 " Who could not teach, could ill support a son ; 
 
 " Yet time and trouble feeble minds have stay'd, 
 
 " And fit for long-neglected duties made : 
 
 " I see thee struggling in the world, as late 
 
 " Within the waves, and with an equal fate, 
 
 " By Heaven preserved — but tell me whence and 
 
 how 
 " Thy gleaning came ? — a dexterous gleaner thou I" 
 
 " Left by that father, who was known to few, 
 " And to that mother, who has not her due 
 " Of honest fame," said Richard, " our retreat 
 " Was a small cottage, for our station meet, 
 " On Barford Downs : that mother, fond and poor, 
 " There taught some truths, and bade me seek for 
 
 more, 
 " Such as our village-school and booha a few 
 " Supplied ; but such I cared not to pursue ; 
 " I sought the town, and to the ocean gave 
 " My mind and thoughts, as restless as the wave : 
 " Where crowds assembled I was sure to run, 
 " Heard what was said, and mused on what was 
 
 done ; 
 " Attentive listening in the moving scene, 
 " And often wondering what the men could mean. 
 " When ships at sea made signals of their need, 
 " I watch'd on shore the sailors and their speed : 
 " Alix'd in their act, nor rested till I knew 
 " Why they were call'd and what they were to do. 
 
 " Whatever business in the port was done, 
 " I, without call, was with the busy one ; 
 " Not daring question, but with open ear 
 " And greedy spirit ever bent to hear. 
 
 " To me the wives of seamen loved to tell 
 " What storms endanger'd men cstcem'd so well ; 
 " What wond'rous things in foreign parts they saw, 
 " I-ands without bounds, and people without law. 
 " No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach, 
 " But I could give the luckless tale of each ; 
 " Eager I look'd till I beheld a face 
 " Of one disposed to paint their dismal case ; 
 
 " Who gave the sad survivors' doleful tale, 
 " From the first brushing of the mighty gale 
 " Until they struck ; and, sufiering in their fate, 
 " I long'd the more they should its horrors state ; 
 " While some, the fond of pity, would enjoy 
 " The earnest sorrows of the feeling boy. 
 
 " I sought the men rcturn'd from regions cold, 
 " The frozen straits, where icy mountains roll'd ; 
 " Some I could win to tell me serious tales 
 " Of boats uplifted by enormous whales, 
 " Or, when harpoon'd, how swiftly through the sea 
 " The wounded monsters with the cordage flee ; 
 " Yet some uneasy thoughts assail'd me then, 
 " The monsters warr'd not with nor wounded 
 
 men : 
 " The smaller fry we take, with scales and fins, 
 " Who gasp and die — this adds not to our sins ; 
 " But so much blood ! warm life, and frames so 
 
 large 
 " To strike, to murder I — seem'd a heavy charge. 
 
 " They told of days where many goes to one — • 
 " Such days as ours ; and how a larger sun, . 
 " Red, but not flaming, roll'd, with motion slow, 
 " On the world's edge, but never dropp'd below. 
 " There were fond girls who took me to their side 
 " To tell the story how their lovers died ; 
 " They praised my tender heart, and bade me 
 
 prove 
 " Both kind and constant when I came to love. 
 " In fact I lived for many an idle year 
 " In fond pursuit of agitations dear ; 
 " For ever seeking, ever pleased to find, 
 " The food I loved, I thought not of its kind ; 
 " It gave affliction while it brought delight, 
 " And joy and anguish could at once excite. 
 
 " One gusty day, now stormy and now still, 
 " I stood apart upon the western hill, 
 " And saw a race at sea : a gun was heard, 
 " And two contending boats in sail appear'd : 
 " Equal awhile ; then one was left behind, 
 " And for a moment had her chance resigu'd, 
 " When, in that moment, up a sail they drew — 
 " Not used before — their rivals to pursue. 
 " Strong was the gale ! in hurry now there came 
 " INIen from the town — their thoughts, their fears 
 
 the same ; 
 " And women too ! aff'righted maids and wives, 
 " All deeply feeling for their sailors' lives. 
 " The strife continued ; in a glass we saw 
 " The desperate efforts, and we stood in awe, 
 " When the last boat shot suddenly before, 
 " Then fill'd and sank^and could be seen no 
 
 more ! 
 
 " Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic 
 
 flight, 
 " All hurried ! all in tumult and affright ! 
 " A gathering crowd from different streets drew 
 
 near, 
 " All ask, all answer — none attend, none hear ! 
 
 " One boat is safe ; and see ! she backs her sail 
 " To save the sinking. — Will her care avail ? 
 
S9i 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " O ! liow impatient on the sands we tread, 
 " Ami tlie winds roaring, and the women led, 
 " As up and down they pace with frantic air, 
 " And scorn a comforter, and will despair; 
 " They know not wlio in eitlicr boat is gone, 
 " But tliink the father, husband, lover, one. 
 
 " And who is she apart ? She dares not come 
 " To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at liome : 
 " "With what strong interest looks she at the 
 
 waves, 
 " Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen's graves ! 
 " 'T is a poor girl betroth'd — a few hours more, 
 " And lie will lie a corpse upon the shore. 
 " Strange, that a boy could love these scenes, and 
 
 cry 
 " In very pity — but that boy was I. 
 " With pain my mother would my tales receive, 
 " And say, ' My Richard, do not learn to grieve.' 
 " One wretched hour had pass'd before we knew 
 " Whom they had saved ! Alas ! they were but 
 
 two, 
 " An orphan'd lad and widow'd man — no more ! 
 " And they unnoticed stood upon the shore, 
 " With scarce a friend to greet them — widows 
 
 view'd 
 " This man and boy, and then their cries re- 
 
 ncw'd : 
 " 'T was long before the signs of woe gave place 
 " To joy again ; grief sat on every face. 
 
 " Sure of my mother's kindness, and the joy 
 " She felt in meeting her rebellious boy, 
 " I at my pleasure our new seat forsook, 
 " And, undirected, these excursions took: 
 " I often rambled to the noisy quay, 
 " Strange sounds to hear, and business strange to 
 
 me ; 
 " Seamen and carmen, and I know not who, 
 " A lewd, amphibious, rude, contentious crew — 
 " Confused as bees appear about their hive, 
 " Yet all alert to keep their work alive. 
 
 " Here, unobserved as weed upon the wave, 
 " My whole attention to the scene I gave ; 
 ." I saw their tasks, their toil, their care, their skill, 
 " Led by their own and by a master-will ; 
 " And though contending, toiling, tugging on, 
 " The purposed business of the day was done. 
 
 " The open shops of craftsmen caught my eye, 
 " And there my questions met the kind replj' : 
 " Men, when alone, will teach ; but, in a crowd, 
 " The child is silent, or the man is proud ; 
 " But, by themselves, there is attention paid 
 " To a mild boy, so forward, yet afraid. 
 
 " I made me interest at tlie inn's fire-side, 
 " Amid the scenes to bolder boys denied; 
 " For I had jiatrons there, and I was one, 
 " They judged, who noticed nothing that was done. 
 " ' A quiet lad !' woulii my protector say ; 
 " ' To him, now, this is better tlian liis plaj- ; 
 "'Boys are as men; some active, shrewd, and 
 
 keen, 
 " ' They look about if aught is to be seen ; 
 
 " ' And some, like Richard here, have not a mind 
 " ' That takes a notice — but the lad is kind.' 
 
 '• 1 loved in summer on the heath to walk, 
 " And seek the shepherd — sliepherds love to talk: 
 " His superstition was of ranker kind, 
 " And he with tales of wonder stored my mind — 
 " Wonders that he in many a lonely eve 
 " Had seen, himself, and therefore must believe. 
 " His boy, his Joe, he said, from duty ran, 
 '• Took to the sea and grew a fearless man : 
 " ' On yonder knoll — the sheep were in the fold — 
 " ' His spirit pass'd me, shivering-like and cold I 
 " ' I felt a fluttering, but I knew n(jt liow, 
 " ' And heard him utter, like a whisper, " Kow !" 
 " ' Soon came a letter from a friend — to tell 
 " • That he had fallen, and the time he fell.' 
 
 '• Even to the smugglers' hut the rocks between, 
 " I have, adventurous in mj- wandering, been : 
 " Poor, pious Martha served the lawless tribe, 
 '' And ctuld their merits and their faults describe ; 
 " Adding her thoughts ; ' I talk, my child, to you, 
 " ' Who little think of what such wretches do.' 
 
 " I loved to walk where none had walk'd before, 
 " About the rocks that ran alung the shore ; 
 " Or far 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 mossy 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, 
 " Who with wild notes my fancied power defied, 
 " And mcck'd the dreams of solitary pride. 
 
 " I loved to stop at every creek and bay 
 " Made by the river in its winding way, 
 " And call to memory — not by marks tliej' bare, 
 " But by the thoughts that were created tliere. 
 
 " Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive 
 " Against the storm, or in the ocean dive, 
 " With eager scream, or when they dropping gave 
 " Their closing wings, to sail upon the wave ; 
 " Then as the winds and waters raged around, 
 " And breaking billows mix'd their deafening 
 
 sound, 
 " They on the rolling deep securely hung, 
 " And calmly ro<le the restless waves among. 
 " Nor pleased it less around me to behold, 
 " Far up the beach, the yesty sea-foam roll'd ; 
 " Or, from the shore upborne, to see on high 
 " Its frothy Hakes in wild confusion fly : 
 " AVhile tlie salt sjjray that clashing billows form 
 " Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm. 
 
 " Thus, with my favourite views, for many an 
 liour 
 " Have I indulged the dreams of princely power : 
 " When the mind, wearied by excursions bold, 
 " The fancy jaded, and the bosom cold, 
 '' Or wlien those wants that will on kings intrude, 
 '' Or evening-fears, broke in ou solitude, — 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 39; 
 
 " When I no more my fancy could employ, 
 
 " I left ia haste what I could not enjoy, 
 
 " And was my gentle mother's welcome boyJ 
 
 " But now thy walk, — this soft autumnal gloom 
 " Bids no delaj' — at night I will resume 
 " My subject, showing, not how I improved 
 " In my strange school, but what the things I 
 
 loved, 
 " My first-born friendships, ties by forms un- 
 
 check'd, 
 " Aad all that boys acquire whom men neglect." 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 RUT H. 
 
 Richard resumes his Narrttive— Visits a Family in a Seaport 
 — The Man and liis Wife — Their Dwelling— Hooks, Num- 
 ber and Kinil — Tlie Friendship contracted — Employment 
 tliere— Hannah, the Wife; her Manner; open Mirth and 
 latent Grief — .She gives the Story of Uuth, lier Daughter — 
 Of Thomas, a Sailor — Their Afleition — A Pressgang — Re- 
 flections — Ruth disturbed in Mind — A Teacher sent to 
 comfort lier — His Fondness — Her Reception of liim — Her 
 Supplication — Is refused— She deliberates — Is decided. 
 
 RiCHAKD would wait till George the tale should 
 
 ask. 
 Nor waited long. — He then resumed the task. 
 
 " South in the port, and eastward in the street, 
 " Rose a small dwelling, my beloved retreat, 
 " Where lived a pair, tlien old ; the sons had fled 
 " The home they fill'd : a part of them were dead ; 
 " Married a part ; while some at sea remain'd, 
 " And stillness in the seaman's mansion reign'd •, 
 " Lord of some petty craft, by night and day 
 " The man had fish'd each fathom of the bay. 
 
 " My friend the matron woo'd me, quickly won, 
 " To fill the station of an absent son 
 '' (Him whom at school I knew, and Peter kno'' u, 
 " I took his home and mother for my own) ; 
 " I read, and doubly was I paid to hear 
 " Events that fell upon no listless ear : 
 " She grieved to say her parents could neglect 
 •' Her education ! — 't was a sore defect ; 
 " She, who had ever such a vast delight 
 " To learn, and now could neitlier read nor write : 
 •' But hear she could, and from our stores I took, 
 " Librarian meet ! at her desire, our book.' 
 
 ' [" After leaving scliool, some time passed before a situation 
 as surgeon's apprentice could be found for young Crabbe ; 
 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,' whii'h give, perhaps, as striking a picture 
 of inquisitive sympathy, and solitary musings of a youthful 
 poet, as can elsewhere be pointed out." — L^fu, pp. 5, 6.] 
 
 « [" Mild, obliging, and the most patient of listeners, young 
 
 " Full twenty volumes— I would not exceed 
 " The modest truth— were there for me to read ; 
 " These a long shelf contain'd, and they were found 
 " Books truly speaking, volumes fairly bound : 
 " The rest — for some of other kinds remain'd, 
 " And these a board beneath the shelf contain'd — 
 " Had their deficiencies in part ; they lack'd 
 " One side or both, or were no longer back'd ; 
 " But now became degraded from their place, 
 " And were but pamphlets of a bulkier race. 
 " Yet had we pamphlets, an inviting store, 
 " From sixpence downwards- nay, a part were 
 
 more ; 
 " Learning abimdance, and the various kinds 
 •' For relaxation — food for difi'erent minds ; 
 " A piece of Wingate — thanks for all we have — 
 " What we of figures needed, fully gave ; 
 " Culpepper, new in numbers, cost but thrice 
 " The ancient volume's unassuming price, 
 " But told what planet o'er each herb had power, 
 " And how to take it in the lucky hour. 
 
 " History we had— wars, treasons, treaties, 
 crimes, 
 " From Julius Caesar to the present times ; 
 " Questions and answers, teaching what to ask 
 " And what reply,— a kind, laborious task : 
 " A scliolar's book it was, v/ho, giving, swore 
 " It held the whole he wish'd to know, and more. 
 " And we had poets, hymns and songs divine ; 
 " The most we read not, but allow'd them fine. 
 
 " Our tracts were many, on the boldest themes — 
 " We had our metaphysics, spirits, dreams, 
 " Visions and warnings, and portentous sights, 
 " Seen, though but dimly, in the doleful nights, 
 " When the good wife her wintry vigil keeps, 
 " And thinks alone of him at sea, and weeps. 
 
 " Add to all these our works in single sheets, 
 " That our Cassandras sing about the streets : 
 " These, as I read, the grave good man would say, 
 " ' Nay, Hannah '.' and she answer'd, ' What is 
 
 Nay ? 
 " ' What is there, pray, so hurtful in a song? 
 " ' It is our fancy only makes it wrong ; 
 " ' His purer mind no evil thoughts alarm, 
 " ' And innocence protects him like a charm.' 
 " Then would the matron, when the song had pass'd, 
 '• And her laugh over, ask a hymn at last; 
 " To the coarse jest she would attention lend, 
 " And to the pious psalm in reverence bend : 
 " She gave her every power and all her mind, 
 " As chance directed, or as taste inclined. 
 
 " More of our learning I will now omit ; 
 " We had our Cyclopaedias of AVit, 
 " And all our works — rare fate ! — ^were to our 
 genius fit. 
 
 Crabbe was a great favourite with the old dames of Aldbo- 
 rough. Like his own ' Richard,' many a friendly 
 ' matron woo'd him, quickly won, 
 To fill the station of an absent son.' 
 
 He admired the rude prints on their walls, rummaged their 
 shelves for books or ballads, and read aloud to those whose 
 eyes had failed them by the winter evening's fireside." — Life, 
 p. 5.] 
 
396 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " "W'lien I had read, and we were weary gro\\Ti 
 " Of otlier minds, the dame disclosed her own : 
 " And long have I in pleasing terror stay'd 
 " To hear of boys trepann'd, and girls betray'd ; 
 " Ashamed so long to stay, and yet to go afraid. 
 " I could perceive, though Hannah bore full well 
 " The ills of life, that few with her would dwell, 
 " But pass away, like shadows o'er the plain 
 " From flying clouds, and leave it fair again ; 
 " Still every evil, be it great or small, 
 " Would one past sorrow to the mind recall, 
 " The grand disease of life, to which she turns, 
 " And common cares and lighter suffering spurns. 
 " ' O ! these are nothing, — they will never heed 
 " ' Such idle contests, who have fought indeed, 
 " ' And have the wounds unclosed.' — I understood 
 " My hint to speak, and my design pursued, 
 " Curious the secret of that heart to find, 
 " To mirth, to song, to laughter loud inclined, 
 " And yet to bear and feel a weight of grief be- 
 hind : 
 " How does she thus her little sunshine throw 
 " Always before her ? — I should like to know. 
 " My friend perceived, and would no longer hide 
 " The bosom's sorrow.— Could she not confide 
 " In one who wept, unhurt — in one who felt, un- 
 tried ? 
 
 " ' Dear child, I show you sins and sufferings 
 
 strange, 
 " ' But you, like Adam, must for knowledge 
 
 change 
 " ' That blissful ignorance : remember, then, 
 " ' What now you feel should be a check on men ; 
 " ' For then your passions no debate allow, 
 " ' And therefore lay up resolution now. 
 " ' 'T is not enough, that, when you can persuade 
 " ' A maid to love, you know there 's promise 
 
 made; 
 " ' 'T is not enough that you design to keep 
 " ' That promise made, nor leave your lass to 
 
 weep : 
 " ' But you must guard yourself against the sin, 
 " ' And think it such to draw the party in : 
 " ' Nay, the more weak and easy to be won, 
 " ' The viler you who have the mischief done. 
 
 " ' I am not angry, love ; but men should know 
 " ' They cannot always pay the debt they owe 
 " ' Their plighted honour ; they may cause the ill 
 " ' They cannot lessen, though they feel a will ; 
 " ' For lie had truth with love, but love in youth 
 " ' Docs wrong, that cannot be repair'd by truth. 
 
 " ' Iliilh — 1 may tell, too oft had she been told — 
 " ' Was tall and fair, and comely to behold, 
 " ' Gentle and simple, in her native place 
 " ' Not one compared with her in form or face ; 
 " ' She was not merry, but she gave our hearth 
 " ' A cheerful spirit that was more than mirth. 
 
 " ' There was a sailor boy, and peojilo said 
 " ' He was, as man, a likeness of tlic maid ; 
 " ' But not in this — for he was over glad, 
 " ' While Kuth was apprehensive, mild, and sad ; 
 " ' A quiet spirit hers, and peace would seek 
 " ' ]n meditation: tender, mild, and meek! 
 
 ' Her loved the lad most truly ; and, in truth, 
 ' She took an early liking to the youth : 
 ' To her alone were his attentions paid, 
 ' And they became the bachelor and maid. 
 ' He wish'd to marry, but so prudent we 
 ' And worldly wise, we said it could not be : 
 ' They took the counsel, — may be, they ap- 
 proved, — 
 ' But still they grieved and waited, hoped and 
 loved. 
 
 " ' Now, my young friend, when of such state I 
 
 speak 
 ' As one of danger, you will be to seek ; 
 ' You know not, Richard, where the danger lies 
 ' In loving hearts, kind words, and speaking 
 
 eyes; 
 ' For lovers speak their wishes with their looks 
 ' As plainly, love, as you can read your books. 
 ' Then, too, the meetings and the partings, 
 
 all 
 ' The playful quarrels in which lovers fall, 
 ■ Serve to one end — each lover is a child, 
 
 • Quick to resent and to be reconciled ; 
 
 ' And then their peace brings kindness that re- 
 mains, 
 ' And so the lover from the quarrel gains : 
 ' When he has fault that she reproves, his fear 
 
 • And grief assure her she was too severe, 
 
 ' And that brings kindness ; when he bears an 
 
 ill, 
 ' Or disappointment, and is calm and still, 
 
 • She feels his own obedient to her will, 
 
 ' And that brings kindness — and what kindness 
 brings 
 
 ' I cannot tell you : — these were trying things. 
 
 ' They were as children, and they fell at length ; 
 
 ' The trial, doubtless, is beyond their strength 
 
 ' AVhom grace supports not; and will grace sup- 
 port 
 
 ' The too confiding, who their danger court ? 
 
 ' Then they wculd marry, but were now too 
 late ; 
 
 ' All could their fault in sport or malice state ; 
 
 ' And though the day was fix'd and now drew 
 on, 
 
 ' I could perceive my daughter's peace was gone ; 
 
 ' She could not bear the bold and laughing eye 
 
 ' That gazed on her, — reproach she could not fly ; 
 
 ' Her grief she would not show, her shame could 
 not deny : 
 
 ' For some with many virtues come to shame, 
 
 ' And some that lose them all preserve their 
 name. 
 
 " ' Fix'd was the day ; but ere that day appear'd, 
 " ' A frightful rumour through the place was 
 
 heard ; 
 " ' AVar, who had slept a while, awaked once more, 
 " ' And gangs came pressing till they swept the 
 
 shore : 
 " ' Our youth was seized and quickly sent awaj', 
 " ' Nor would the wretches for his marriage stay, 
 " ' But bore him off, in barbarous triumph bore, 
 " ' And left us all our miseries to deplore : 
 " ' There were wives, maids, and mothers on the 
 
 beach, 
 " ' And some Bad story appertain'd to each ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 397 
 
 " ' Most sad to Ruth — to neither could she go ! 
 
 " ' But sat apart, and suffer'd matchless woe ! 
 
 " ' On the vile ship they turn'd their earnest 
 
 view, 
 " ' Not one last look allow'd, — not one adieu ! 
 " ' They saw tlie men on deck, but none dis- 
 tinctly knew. 
 " ' And there she stay'd, regardless of each eye, 
 " ' With but one hope — a fervent hope to die : 
 " ' Nor cared she now for kindness — all beheld 
 " ' Her, who invited none, and none repell'd ; 
 " ' For there are griefs, my child, that sufferers 
 
 hide, 
 " ' And there are griefs that men display with 
 
 pride ; 
 " ' But there are other griefs that, so we feel, 
 " ' We care not to display them nor conceal : 
 " ' Such were our sorrows on that fatal day, 
 " ' More than our lives the spoilers tore away ; 
 " ' Nor did we heed their insult — some distress 
 " ' No form or manner can make more or less, 
 " ' And this is of that kind — this misery of a 
 
 Press ! 
 " ' They say such things must be — perhaps they 
 
 must ; 
 " ' But, sure, they need not fright us and disgust; 
 " ' They need not soul-less crews of ruffians send 
 " ' At once the ties of humble love to rend : 
 " ' A single day had Thomas stay'd on shore, 
 " ' He might have wedded, and we ask'd no more ; 
 " ' And that stern man, who forced the lad away, 
 " ' jMight have attended, and have graced the 
 
 day; 
 " ' His pride and honour might havo been at 
 
 rest, 
 " ' It is no stain to make a couple bless'd ! 
 " ' Bless'd ! — no, alas ! it was to ease the heart 
 " ' Of one sore pang, and then to weep and part ! 
 " ' But this he would not. — English seamen fight 
 " ' For England's gain and glory — it is right : 
 " ' But will that public spirit be so strong, 
 " ' Fill'd, as it must be, with their private wrong ? 
 " ' Forbid it, honour ! one in all the fleet 
 " ' Should hide in war, or from the foe retreat ; 
 " ' But is it just, that he who so defends 
 " ' His country's cause should hide him from her 
 
 friends ? 
 " ' Sure, if they must upon our children seize, 
 " ' They might prevent such injuries as these ; 
 " ' Might hours — nay, daj's — in many a case allow, 
 " ' And soften all the griefs we suffer now. 
 " ' Some laws, some orders, might in part redress 
 " ' The licensed insults of a British Press, 
 " * That keeps the honest and the brave in awe, 
 " ' Where might is right, and violence is law. 
 " ' Be not alarm'd, my child ; there 's none regard 
 " ' What you and I conceive so cruel-hard : 
 " ' There is compassion, I believe ; but still 
 " ' One wants the power to help, and one the will, 
 " ' And so from war to war the wrongs remain, 
 ^' ' While Reason pleads, and Misery sighs in vain. 
 
 " ' Thus my poor Ruth was wretched and 
 
 undone, 
 " ' Nor had a husband for her only son, 
 " ' Nor had he father ; hope she did a while, 
 " ' And would not weep, although she could not 
 
 smile ; 
 
 " ' Till news was brought us that the youth was 
 
 slain, 
 " ' And then, I think, she never smiled again ; 
 " ' Or, if she did, it was nut to express 
 " ' xV feeling far, indeed, from happiness ! 
 " ' Something that her bewilder'd mind conceived : 
 " ' When she inform'd us tliat she never grieved, 
 " ' But was right merry, then her head was wild, 
 " ' And grief had gain'd possession of my child : 
 " ' Yet, though bewilder'd for a time, and prone 
 " ' To ramble much and speak aloud, alone, 
 " ' Yet did she all that duty ever ask'd, 
 " ' And more, her will self-govern'd and untask'd ; 
 " ' With meekness bearing all reproach, all joy 
 " ' To her was lost ; she wept upon her boy, 
 " ' Wish'd for his death, in fear that he might live 
 " ' New sorrow to a burden'd heart to give. 
 
 " ' There was a Teacher, where my husband 
 went — 
 " ' Sent, as he told the people — what he meant 
 " ' You cannot understand, but — he was sent : 
 " ' This man from meeting came, and strove to win 
 " ' Her mind to peace by drawing off the sin, 
 " ' Or what it was, that, working in her breast, 
 " ' Robb'd it of comfort, confidence, and rest : 
 " ' He came and reason'd, and she seem'd to feel 
 " ' The pains he took — her griefs began to heal ; 
 " ' She ever answer'd kindly when he spoke, 
 " ' And always thank'd him for tlie pains he took ; 
 " ' So, after three long years, and all the while 
 " ' Wrapp'd up in grief, she bless'd us with a smile, 
 " ' And spoke in comfort ; but she mix'd no more 
 " ' With younger persons, as she did before. 
 
 " ' Still Ruth was pretty ; in her person neat ; 
 " ' So thought the Teacher, when they chanced to 
 
 meet : 
 " ' He was a weaver by his worldly trade, 
 " ' But powerful work in the assemblies made ; 
 " ' People came leagues to town to hear him sift 
 " ' The holy text, — he had the grace and gift ; 
 " ' Widows and maidens flock'd to hear his voice ; 
 " ' Of either kind he might have had his choice ; — 
 " ' But he had chosen — we had seen how shy 
 " ' The girl was getting, my good man and I, — 
 " ' That when the weaver came, she kept with us, 
 " ' Where he his points and doctrines might 
 
 discuss ; 
 " ' But in our bit of garden, or the room 
 " ' We call our parlour, there he must not come : 
 " ' She loved him not, and though she could attend 
 " ' To his discourses, as her guide and friend, 
 " ' Yet now to these she gave a listless ear, 
 " ' As if a friend she would no longer hear ; 
 " ' This might he take for woman's art, and cried, 
 " ' " Spouse of my heart, I must not be denied !" — 
 " ' Fearless he spoke, and 1 had hope to see 
 " ' My girl a wife — but this was not to be. 
 
 " ' My husband, thinking of his worldly store, 
 " ' And not, frail man, enduring to be poor, 
 " ' Seeing his friend would for his child provide 
 " ' And hers, he grieved to have the man denied : 
 " ' For Ruth, when press'd, rejected him, and grew 
 " ' To her old sorrow, as if that were new. 
 " ' " Who shall support her?" said her father, " how 
 " ' Can I, infiim and weak as I am now ? 
 
398 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " 'And here a loving fool " This gave her pain, 
 
 " ' Severe, indeed, but she would not complain : 
 " ' Nor would consent, although the weaver grew 
 *' ' More fond, and would the frighten'd girl pursue. 
 
 " ' Oh ! much she begg'd him to foi'bear, to 
 
 stand 
 " ' Her soul's kind friend, and not to ask her hand ; 
 "'She could not love him.^"Love me!" he 
 
 replied, 
 " ' " The love you mean is love unsanctified, 
 " 'An earthly, wicked, sensual, sinful kind, 
 " ' A creature-love, the passion of the blind." 
 " ' He did not court her, he would have her know, 
 " ' For that poor love that will on beauty grow ; 
 " ' No ! he would take her as the Prophet took 
 " ' One of the harlots in the holy book ; 
 " ' And then he look'd so ugly and severe ! 
 " ' And yet so fond — she could not hide her fear. 
 
 " ' This fondness grew her torment ; she wouldfly, 
 " ' In woman's terror, if he came but nigh ; 
 " ' Nor could I wonder he should odious prove, 
 " ' So like a ghost that left a grave for love. 
 
 " ' But still her father lent his cruel aid 
 " 'To the man's hope, and she was more afraid ; 
 " ' He said no more she should his table share, 
 " ' But be the parish or the Teacher's care. 
 " ' " Three days I give you : see that all be right 
 " ' On Monday morning — this is Thursday night — 
 " ' Fulfil my wishes, girl ! or else forsake my 
 sight!" 
 
 " ' I see her now ; and, she that was so meek, 
 " ' It was a chance that she had power to speak, 
 " ' Now spoke in earnest — " Father ! I obey, 
 " ' And will remember the appointed day ! " 
 
 " ' Then came the man: she talk'd with him 
 apart, 
 " ' And, I believe, laid open all her heart ; 
 " ' But all in vain^she said to me, in tears, 
 " ' " Mother ! that man is not what he appears : 
 " ' He talks of heaven, and let him, if he will, 
 " ' But he has earthly purpose to fulfil ; 
 " ' Upon my knees I begg'd him to resign 
 " ' The hand he asks : he said — It shall be mine : 
 " ' What ! did the holy men of Scripture deign 
 " ' To hear a woman when she said Kefrain ? 
 " ' Of whom they chose they took them wives, 
 
 and these 
 " ' Made it their study and their wish to please ; 
 " ' The women then were faithful and afraid ; 
 " ' As Sarah Abraham, tlicy their lords obcy'd, 
 " ' And so she styled liim ; 't is in later days 
 " ' Of foolish love that we our women praise, 
 " ' Fall on the knoo, and raise the suppliant hand, 
 " ' And court the favour that we might command. — 
 
 " ' " O ! my dear mother, when this man lias 
 power, 
 " ' How will he treat mc : — first may beasts devour ! 
 " ' Or death in every form tliat 1 could prove, 
 " ' Except this selfish being's hateful love." 
 
 " ' T gently blamed her, for 1 knew how hard 
 " ' It is to force aft'ection and regard. 
 
 " ' Ah ! my dear lad, I talk to you as one 
 ' Who know the misery of a heart undone : 
 ' ' You knows it not ; but, dearest boy, when man, 
 ' Do not an ill because you find you can : 
 ' Where is the triumph ? when such things men 
 
 seek, 
 ' They only drive to wickedness the weak. 
 
 " ' AVeak was poor Ruth, and this good man so 
 
 hard, 
 ' That to her weakness he had no regard : 
 ' But we had two days' peace ; he came, and then 
 ' ;\Iy daugher whisper'd, " Would there were no 
 
 men ! 
 ' None to admire or scorn us, none to vex 
 ' A simple, trusting, fond, believing sex ; 
 ' Who truly love the worth that men profess, 
 ' And think too kindly for their happiness." ' 
 
 " Poor Ruth ! few heroines in the tragic page 
 Felt more than thee in thy contracted stage ; 
 Fair, fond, and virtuous, they our pity move, 
 Impell'd by duty, agonized by love : 
 But no Mandane, who in dread has knelt 
 On the bare boards, has greater terrors felt, 
 Nor been by warring passions more subdued, 
 Than thou, by this man's grovelling wish pur- 
 sued; 
 Doom'd to a parent's judgment, all unjust, 
 Doom'd the chance mercy of the world to trust, 
 Or to wed grossness and conceal disgust. 
 
 " ' If Ruth was frail, she had a mind too nice 
 ' To wed with that which she beheld as vice — 
 ' To take a reptile, who, beneath a show 
 ' Of peevish zeal, let carnal wishes grow : 
 ' Proud and yet mean, forbidding and yet full 
 ' Of eager appetites, devout and dull, 
 ' Waiting a legal right that he might seize 
 ' His own, and his impatient spirit ease, 
 ' Who would at once his pride and love indulge, 
 ' His temper humour, and his spite divulge. 
 ' This tlie poor victim saw — " A second time," 
 ' Sighing, she said, " shall I commit the crime, 
 ' And now untempted ? Can the form or rite 
 ' Make me a wife in my Creator's sight ? 
 ' Can I the words without a meaning say ? 
 ' Can I pronounce iove, honoui', or obey ? 
 ' And if I cannot, shall I dare to wed, 
 ' And go a harlot to a loathed bed ? 
 ' Never, dear mother ! my poor boy and I 
 ' Will at the mercy of a parish lie ; 
 ' Reproved for wants that vices would remove, 
 ' Reproach'd for vice that I could never love, 
 ' IMix'd with a crew long wedded to disgrace, 
 ' A vulgar, forward, equalizing race, — 
 ' And am I doom'd to beg a dwelling in tliat 
 place ?" 
 
 " ' Such was her reasoning : many times she 
 
 weigh'd 
 ' The evils nil, and was of each afraid ; 
 ' She loatli'd the common board, the vulgar scat, 
 • Where shame, and want, and vice, and sorrow 
 
 meet, 
 ' Where frailty finds allies, where guilt insures 
 
 retreat. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 399 
 
 " ' But peace again is fled : the Teacher comes, 
 " ' And new importance, haughtier air assumes. 
 
 " ' No hapless victim of a tyrant's love 
 " ' More keenly felt, or more resisting strove 
 " ' Against her fate : she look'd on every side, 
 " ' But there were none to help her, none to 
 
 guide ;— 
 " ' And he, the man who should have taught the 
 
 soul, 
 " ' Wish'd but the body in his base control. 
 
 " ' She left her infant on the Sunday morn, 
 " ' A creature doom'd to shame ! in sorrow born ; 
 " ' A thing that languish'd, nor arrived at age 
 «' ' When the man's thoughts with sin and pain en- 
 gage— 
 " ' She came not home to share our humble meal, 
 " ' Her father thinking what his child would feel 
 " ' Fror.i his hard sentence — still she came not 
 
 home. 
 " ' The night grew dark, and yet she was not 
 
 come ; 
 " ' The east-wind roar'd, the sea return'd the 
 
 sound, 
 " ' And the rain fell as if the world were drown'd : 
 " ' There were no lights without, and my good 
 
 man, 
 " ' To kindness frighten'd, with a groan began 
 " ' To talk of Ruth, and pray : and then he took 
 " ' The Bible do\vn, and read the holy book ; 
 " ' For he had learning : and when that was done 
 " ' AVe sat in silence — Whither could we run ? 
 " ' We said ; and then rush'd frighten'd from the 
 
 door, 
 " ' For we could bear our own conceit no more : 
 " ' We call'd on neighbours — there she had not 
 
 been ; 
 " ' We met some wanderers — ours they had not 
 
 seen ; 
 " ' We hurried o'er the beach, both north and 
 
 south, 
 " ' Then join'd, and wander'd to our haven's 
 
 mouth : 
 " ' Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out, 
 " ' I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout, 
 " ' Who saw a something on the billow ride, 
 " ' And — " Heaven have mercy on our sins ! " he 
 
 cried, 
 " ' " It is my child ! "• — and to the present hour 
 " ' So he believes — and spirits have the power. 
 
 ' [" Strong as Mr. CniLbe's painting is, its streni;lh can lie 
 fully felt by those alone who have read the tv/wle story of 
 ' Kuth,' and of all her wild and confounding atflictions. 
 Never was hopeless distress '^^Y ^y <'ay pt'rseciited unto the 
 death, delineated «itli such fearful truth: but the whole 
 description so hangs together in its darkness, that no frag- 
 ments could present an adequate idea of the desolation." — 
 Wilson.] 
 
 ' [In the original draft the Book opens thus : — 
 
 The evening came : " My brother, what employs 
 
 " Thy mind ?" said Richard ; " what disturbs thy joys ? 
 
 " Hast thou not all the good the world can give, 
 
 " And liv'st a life that kings miijht sigh to live ? 
 
 " Can nothing please thee .' Thou wert wont to seize 
 
 " On passing themes, and make the trilles please. 
 
 " Thy Muse has many a pleasant fancy bred, 
 
 " And clothed in livelv manner ! — is she dead .'" 
 
 " ' And she was gone I the waters wide and deep 
 " ' Eoll'd o'er her body as she lay asleep. 
 " ' She heard no more the angry waves and wind, 
 " ' She heard no more the threat'ning of mankind ; 
 " ' Wrapp'd in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm, 
 " ' To the hard rock was borne her comely form ! 
 
 " ' But, oh ! what storm was in that mind ! what 
 strife ! 
 " ' That could compel her to lay dovni her life ! 
 " * For she was seen within the sea to wade, 
 " ' By one at distance, when she first had pray'd ; 
 " ' Then to a rock within the hither shoal 
 " ' Softly and with a fearful step she stole ; 
 " ' Then, when she gain'd it, on the top she stood 
 " ' A moment still — and dropp'd into the flood ! 
 " ' The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain, — 
 " ' She heard not then — she never heard again ! 
 " ' She had — pray, Heav'n ! — she had that world 
 
 in sight, 
 " ' Where frailty mercy finds, and wTong has right ; 
 " ' But, sure, in this her portion such has been, 
 " ' Well had it still remain'd a world unseen ! ' 
 
 " Thus far the dame : the passions will dispense 
 " To such a wild and rapid eloquence — 
 " Will to the weakest mind their strength impart, 
 " And give the tongue the language of the heart."' 
 
 BOOK VI.' 
 
 ADVENTURES OF RICHARD CONCLUDED. 
 
 Richard relates Iiis Illness and Retirement — A Village Priest 
 and his two Daughters — His peculiar Studies — His Sim- 
 plicity of Character — Arrival of a third Daughter — Her 
 Zeal in his Conversion — Their Frieniiship — How termi- 
 nated — A happy Day — Its Commencement and Progress 
 — A Journey along the Coast — Arrival as a Guest — Com- 
 pany — A Lover's Jealousy — it increases — dies away — An 
 Evening Walk — Suspense — Apprehension — Resolution — 
 Certainty. 
 
 " Tins, then, dear Richard, was the way you took 
 " To gain instruction — thine a curious book, 
 " Containing much of both the false and true : 
 '■ But thou hast read it, and with profit too. 
 
 " Not dead, but sick, and I too weary grow 
 ' Of reaping nothing from the things I sow. 
 ' What is the pleasure — thou perhaps canst say— 
 ' Of playing tunes, if none can hear thee play .'' 
 ' Timid and proud, the world I cannot court, 
 ' Nor show my labours for the critic's sport. 
 ' Hast thou the courage, Richard? hast thou tried 
 ' An author's perils ? hast thou felt his pride ? 
 ' For vain the eftbrts, and they quickly tire, 
 ' If we alone our precious things admire." 
 
 " Not so," said Richard, and acquired a look 
 That some expression from his feelings took ; 
 " Oh I my dear Brother, if this Muse of mine, 
 " Who prompts the idle thought, the trilling line, 
 " If she who calmly looks around, nor more 
 *' Muse of the Mad, the Foolish, and the Poor, 
 
400 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Come, then, my Brother, now thy tale com- 
 plete — 
 " I know tliy first embarking in the fleet, 
 " Thy entrance in the army, and thy gain 
 " Of plenteous laurels in the wars of Spain, 
 " And what then follow'd ; but I wish to know 
 " When thou that heart hadst courage to bestow 
 " When to declare it gain'd, and when to stand 
 " Before the priest, and give the plighted hand ; 
 " So shall I boldness from thy frankness gain 
 " To paint the frenzy that posscss'd mj' brain ; 
 " For rather there than in my heart 1 found 
 " "Was my disease — a poison, not a wound, 
 " A madness, Richard — but, I pray thee, tell 
 " Whom hast thou loved so dearly and so well ?" - 
 
 The younger man his gentle host obey'd, 
 For some respect, though not required, was paid ; 
 Perhaps, with all that independent pride. 
 Their different states would to the memory glide ; 
 Yet was his manner unconstrain'd and free, 
 And nothing in it like servility. 
 
 Then he began : — " When first I reach'd the 
 land, 
 " I was so ill that death appear'd at hand ; 
 " And tliough the fever left me, yet I grew 
 " So weak 'twas judged that life would leave me 
 
 too. 
 " I sought a village-priest, my mother's friend, 
 " And I believed with him my days would end : 
 " The man was kind, intelligent, and mild, 
 " Careless and shrewd, yet simple as the child ; 
 
 " If she can pleasure— and she can— impart, 
 
 " Can wing the fancy, can enlarge the heart ; 
 
 " What must a Muse of strength, of force, of lire, 
 
 " In tlie true Poet's .imple mind inspire.' 
 
 " What must he feel, who cnn the soul express, 
 
 " Of saint or hero .'—he must be no less. 
 
 " Nor less of evil minds he knows the pain, 
 
 " IJut quickly lost the anguish and the stain ; 
 
 " While with the wisest, happiest, purest, best, 
 
 " Ilis soul assimilates and loves to rest. 
 
 " Oowns would [ spurn, and empires would I lose, 
 
 " For inspiration from the sacred Muse." 
 
 " A song," said George, " and I my secret store, 
 " Confined in dust and darkness, will explore. 
 " I'oet with poet, bard and critic too, 
 " We fear no censure, and dread no review. 
 " A judge so placed must be to errors kind, 
 " And yiehl tiie mercv tliat he hopes to find. 
 " HeL'in then, Richard ; put thy fears aside ; 
 " Sliall I condemn, who must myself be tried .' 
 " In me at le.ust my IJrother may confide. 
 *' In hope of wearing, I sliall yield the bays, 
 •' And my self-love shall give my rival praise."] 
 
 « [In the original MS. thus :— 
 
 " Wilt thou explain ? I shall not grieve to sliare 
 " A lover's sorrow, or a husband's care ?" 
 
 KindneRs like this liad moved a sterner man, 
 Richard much more. He smiled, and thus began :— 
 
 " No more I loved the sea ; that plunge liad tamed 
 " My blood, by vouth in idleness infiamed: 
 " To my all'airs I forced my mind t' attend, 
 " And sought the town to counsel with a friend. 
 " Much we debated — Could I now resign 
 " My earthly views, and look to things divine? 
 " (x)uld I to merchandi/.e my mind persi-nde, 
 " And wait in oatierce for the gain of trade ? 
 
 " For of the wisdom of the world his share 
 " And mine were equal — neither had to spare ; 
 " Else— with his daughters, beautiful and poor — 
 " He would have kept a sailor from his door: 
 " Two then were present, who adorn'd his home, 
 " But ever speaking of a third to come ; 
 •' Clioerful they were, not too reserved or free, — 
 " I loved them both, and never wish'd them three. 
 
 " The Vicar's self, still further to describe, 
 " Was of a simple, but a studious tribe ; 
 " He from the world was distant, not retired. 
 " Nor of it much possess'd, nor much desired : 
 " Grave in his purpose, cheerful in his eye, 
 " And with a look of frank benignity. 
 " He lost his wife when they together pass'd 
 " Years of calm love, that ti-iumph'd to the last. 
 " He much of nature, not of man, had seen, 
 " Yet his remarks were often shrewd and keen : 
 " Taught not by books t' approve or to condemn, 
 " He gain'd but little that he knew from them :' 
 " He read with reverence and respect the few 
 " Whence he his rules and consolations drew ; 
 " But men and beasts, and all that lived or moved, 
 " Were books to him : he studied them and loved. 
 
 " He knew the plants in mountain, wood, or 
 
 mead ; 
 " He knew the worms that on the foliage feed ; 
 " Knew the small tribes that 'scape the careless 
 
 eye, 
 " The plant's disease that breeds the embryo-fly ; 
 " And the small creatures who on bark or bough 
 " Enjoy their changes, changed we know not how ; 
 
 " Or if I could not early habits quit, 
 
 " Had I a stock, and could subsist on wit ? 
 
 " Measures like these became my daily themes, 
 "My airy castles, my projector's dreams. 
 " But health, so long neglected, now became 
 " No more the blessing of my failing frame : 
 " A fever seized it, of that dangerous kind, 
 " That, while it taints the blood, infects the mind. 
 " I traced her lliglit as Reason slowly fled, 
 " And her last act assured me Hope was dead : 
 " But Reason err'd, and when she came again 
 " To aid the senses and direct the brain, 
 " She found a body weak, but well disposed 
 " For life's enjoyments, and the grave was closed. 
 " But danger past, and my recovery slow , 
 " I sought the health that mouutaiu gales bestow, 
 " .Vnd quiet walks where peace and violets grow. 
 
 " Now, my dear Brother, wlien the languid frame 
 " Has this repose, and when the blood is tame, 
 " Yet strength increasing, and when every hour 
 " Gives some increase of pleasure and of power ; 
 " When every sense partakes of fresh delight, 
 " .\nd every object wakes an appetite ; 
 " When the mind rests not, but for ever roves 
 " On all around, and as it meets approves ; 
 " Then feels the heart its bliss — that season then is love's. 
 
 " Tliink of me thus disposed, and think me then 
 " Retired from crowded streets and busy men, 
 " In a neat cottage, by the sweetest stream 
 " That ever warbled in a poet's dream ; 
 " An ancient wood beholil, so vast, so deep, 
 '' That hostile armies mi''ht in safety sleep ; 
 " WTiere loving pairs had no observers near, 
 " And, fearing not themselves, had none to fear; 
 " There to fair w alks, fresh meadow s, and clear skies, 
 " I lied as flee the weary and the wise. 
 " My host,"S:c.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 4C1 
 
 '■ But now th' imperfect being scarcely moves, 
 " And now takes wing and seeks the sky it loves. 
 
 " He had no system, and forbore to read 
 " The learned labours of th' immortal Swede ; 
 " But smiled ^ hear the creatures he had known 
 " So long wen now in class and order shown, 
 '• Genus and species — ' Is it meet,' said he, 
 " ' This creature's name should one so sounding be ? 
 " ' 'T is but a fly, though first-born of the spring — 
 '' ' Bombylius majus dost thou call the thing ? 
 " ' Majus, indeed ! and yet, in fact, 't is true, 
 '* ' We all are majors, all are minors too, 
 " ' Except the fijst and last, — th' immensely distant 
 
 two. 
 " * And here again, — what call the learned this ? 
 " ' Both Hippobosca^ and Hirundinis ? 
 " ' jNIethinks the creature should be proud to find 
 " ' That he employs the talents of mankind, 
 " ' And that his sovereign master shrewdly looks, 
 " ' Counts all his parts, and puts them in his 
 
 books. 
 " ' Well ! go thy way, for I do feel it shame 
 To stay a being with so proud a name.' 
 
 " Such were his daughters, such my quiet friend, 
 " And pleasant was it thus my days to spend ; 
 " But when Matilda at her home I saw, 
 " Whom I beheld with anxiousness and awe, 
 " The ease and quiet that I found before 
 " At once departed, and return'd no more. 
 " No more their music soothed me as they play'd, 
 " But soon her words a strong impression made ; 
 " The sweet Enthusiast, so I deem'd her, took 
 " My mind, and fix'd it to her speech and look ; 
 " My soul, dear girl ! she made her constant care, 
 " But never whisper'd to my heart, ' Beware !' 
 " In love no dangers rise till we are in the snare. 
 
 " Her father sometimes question'd of my creed, 
 •' And seem'd to think it might amendment need ; 
 " But great the difference when the pious maid 
 '■ To the same errors her attention paid ; 
 •• Her sole design that I should think aright, 
 " And my conversion her supreme delight :* 
 •' Pure was her mind, and simple her intent, 
 " Good all she sought, and kindness all she meant. 
 •' Next to religion, friendship was our theme, 
 " ilelated souls and their refined esteem : 
 '■ Vi'e talked of scenes where this is real found, 
 '■ And love subsists without a dart or wound : 
 ■• L'ut there intruded thoughts not all serene, 
 •■ And wishes not so calm would intervene." 
 
 " Saw not her father ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but saw no more 
 " Than he had seen without a fear before : 
 
 ' Tlio liorse-fly. 
 
 ' [Spe, in tlie Appendix, Mr. Crabbe's Lines addressed to 
 
 M 'ss Klmy, in 1T77. 
 
 " My Mira came ! be ever bless'd the liour 
 Ti-.at drew my thoughts half way from folly's power! 
 She lirst my soul with loftier notions tired ; 
 I saw their truth, and as I saw admired : 
 With greater force returning reason moved, 
 And as returning reason urged, I loved : 
 
 " He had subsisted by the church and plough, 
 
 " And saw no cause for apprehension now. 
 
 " We, too, could live : he thought not passion 
 
 wrong, 
 " But only wonder'd we delay'd so long. 
 " More had he wonder'd had he known esteem 
 " Was all we mention'd, friendship was our 
 
 theme. — 
 
 " Laugh, if you please, I must my tale pursue : — 
 
 This sacred friendship thus in secret grew 
 
 An intellectual love, most tender, chaste, and 
 
 true — 
 Unstain'd, we said, nor knew we how it chanced 
 To gain some earthly soil as it advanced ; 
 But yet my friend, and she alone, could prove 
 How much it differ'd from romantic love : 
 But this and more I pass — ISo doubt, at length. 
 We could perceive the weakness of our strength. 
 
 " O ! days remember'd well ! remember'd all ! 
 " The bitter-sweet, the honey, and the gall ; 
 " Those garden rambles in the silent night, 
 " Those trees so shady, and that moon so bright ; 
 " That thickset alley by the arbour closed, 
 " That woodbine seat where we at last reposed ; 
 " And then the hopes that came and then were 
 
 gone, 
 " Quick as the clouds beneath the moon pass'd on : 
 " ' Now, in this instant, shall my love be shown,' 
 " I said — O ! no, the happy time is flown ! 
 
 " You smile : remember, I was weak and low, 
 " And fear'd the passion as I felt it grow : 
 " ' Will she,' I said, ' to one so poor attend, 
 " ' Without a prospect, and without a friend ?' 
 " I dared not ask her — till a rival came — 
 " But hid the secret, slow-consuming flame. 
 
 " I once had seen him ; then familiar, free, 
 " More than became a common guest to be ; 
 " ' And sure,' I said, ' he has a look of pride 
 " ' And inward joy, — a lover satisfied.' 
 
 " Can you not, Brother, on adventures past, 
 " A thought, as on a lively prospect, cast ? 
 " On days of dear remembrance ! days that seem, 
 " When past — nay, even when present, like a 
 
 dream — 
 " Those white and blessed days, that softly shine 
 " On few, nor oft on them — have they been 
 
 thine ?" 
 
 George answer'd, " Yes ! dear Richard, through 
 the years 
 " Long past, a day so white and mark'd appears :• 
 
 Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied 
 
 My bliss precarious to a surer guide — 
 
 To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love, 
 
 Each for that end that angels must approve ; 
 
 One beam of liglit He gave my mind to see, 
 
 And gave that light, my lieavenly fair, by thee ; 
 
 That beam shall raise my tlioughli, and mend ray strain, 
 
 Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be ' ain."] 
 
 * It is recorded of the Scythians, that they were ai.customed 
 to marl< every happy day w ith a wliite stone, and every un- 
 happy day with a black one. 
 
 2 D 
 
402 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " As in the storm that pours destruction round, 
 
 " Is here anil there a ship in safety found ; 
 
 " So in the storms of life some days appear 
 
 " More bless'd and bright for the preceding fear ; 
 
 " These times of pleasure that in life arise, 
 
 " Like spots in deserts, that delight, surprise, 
 
 " And to our wearied senses give the more, 
 
 " For all the waste behind us and before ; 
 
 " And thou, dear Richard, hast then had thy share 
 
 " Of those enchanting times that baffle care ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have felt this life-refreshing gale 
 " That bears us onward when our spirits fail ; 
 " That gives those spirits vigour and delight — 
 " I would describe it could I do it right. 
 
 " Sucli days have been — a daj' of days was one, 
 " When, rising gaily with the rising sun, 
 " I took my way to join a happy few, 
 " Known not to me, but whom Matilda knew, 
 " To whom she went a guest, and message sent, 
 " ' Come thou to us,' and as a guest I went.* 
 
 " There are two ways to Brandon — by the heath 
 " Above the cliff, or on the sand beneath, 
 " "Where the small pebbles, wetted by the wave, 
 " To the new day reflected lustre gave : 
 " At first above the rocks I made my way, 
 " Delighted looking at the spacious bay, 
 " And the large fleet that to the northward steer'd 
 " Full sail, that glorious in my view appear'd ; 
 " For whore does man evince his full control 
 " O'er subject matter, — where displays the soul 
 " Its mighty energies with more effect, 
 " Than when her powers that moving mass direct ? 
 " Than when man guides the ship man's art has 
 
 made, 
 " And makes the winds and waters yield him aid ? 
 
 " Much as I long'd to see the maid I loved, 
 " Througli scenes so glorious I at leisure moved ; 
 " For there are times M'hen we do not obey 
 " The master-passion — when we yet delay — 
 " When absence, soon to end, we yet prolong, 
 " And dally with our wish although so strong. 
 
 " High were my joys, but they were sober too, 
 " Nor reason spoil'd the pictures fancy drew ; 
 " I felt— rare feeling in a world like this — 
 " The sober certainty of waking bliss ; 
 " Add too the smaller aids to happy men, 
 " Convenient helps — these too were present then. 
 " But what are spirits ? light indeed and gay 
 " They are, like winter flowers, nor last a day ; 
 " Comes a rude icy wind, they feel, and fade 
 away. 
 
 " High beat my heart when to the house I came, 
 " And when the ready servant gave my name ; 
 " But when I entcr'd that pernicious room, 
 " Gloomy it look'd, and painful was the gloom; 
 " And jealous was the pain, and deep the sigh, 
 " Caused by this gloom, and pain, and jealousy : 
 
 • [MS.: — " Witli whom slu; tarried, a (lcli;,'litpil mifst! 
 " Delightful ever ! blessint; still and bless'd."] 
 
 " For there Matilda sat, and her beside 
 " That rival soldier, with a soldier's pride ; 
 " With self-approval in his laughing face, 
 " His seem'd the leading spirit of the place : 
 " She was all coldness — yet I thought a look, 
 " But that corrected, tender welcome spoke : 
 " It was as lightning which you think you see, 
 " But doubt, and ask if lightning it could be. 
 
 " Confused and quick my introduction pass'd, 
 " When I, a stranger and on strangers cast, 
 " Beheld the gallant man as he display'd 
 " Uncheck'd attention to the guilty maid ; 
 " O ! how it grieved me that she dared t' excite 
 " Those looks in him that show'd so much delight; 
 " Egregious coxcomb ! there — he smiled again, 
 " As if he sought to aggravate my pain : 
 " Still she attends — I must approach, and find, 
 " Or make, a quarrel, to relieve my mind. 
 
 " In vain I try — politeness as a shield 
 " The angry strokes of my contempt repell'd; 
 " Nor must I violate the social law 
 " That keeps the rash and insolent in awe. 
 " Once I observed, on hearing my replies, 
 " The woman's terror fix'd on me the eyes 
 " That look'd entreaty ; but the guideless rage 
 " Of jealous minds no softness can assuage. 
 " But, lo ! they rise, and all prepare to take 
 " The promised pleasure on the neighbouring lake. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! they whisper ! Is it come to 
 
 this 
 " Already ? — then may I my doubt dismiss : 
 " Could he so soon a timid girl persuade ? 
 " What rapid progress has the coxcomb made I 
 " And yet how cool her looks, and how demure ! 
 " The falling snow nor lily's flower so pure : 
 " What can I do ? I must the pair attend, 
 " And watch this horrid business to its end. 
 " There, forth they go ! lie leads her to the 
 
 shore — 
 " Nay, I must follow, — I can bear no more : 
 " What can the handsome gipsy have in view 
 " In trifling thus, as she a])pears to do ? 
 " I, who for months have labour'd to succeed, 
 " Have only lived her vanity to feed. 
 
 " O ! you will make me room — 't is very kind, 
 " And meant for him — it tells him he must mind ; 
 " Must not be careless: — I can serve to draw 
 " The soldier on, and keep the man in awe. 
 " O ! I did think she had a guileless heart, 
 " Without deceit, capriciousness, or art ; 
 " And yet a stranger, with a coat of red, 
 " Has, by an hour's attention, turn'd her head. 
 
 " Ah ! how delicious was the morning-drive, 
 " The soul awakcn'd, and its hopes alive : 
 " How dull tliis scene by trifling minds enjoy'd, 
 " The heart in trouble and its hope destroy'd. 
 
 " Well, now we land — And will he yet support 
 " This part? What favour has he now to court? 
 " Favour ! O, no ! He means to quit the fair ; 
 " How strange ! how cruel ! Will slic not despair ? 
 " AVcU ! take her hand — no further if you please, 
 " I cannot suffer fooleries like these : — 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 403 
 
 " How ? ' Love to Julia ! ' — to hisw-ife ? — O ! dear 
 
 " And injured creature, how must I appear, 
 
 " Thus haughty in my looks, and in my words 
 
 severe ? 
 " Her love to Julia, to the schoolday friend 
 " To whom those letters she has lately penn'd ! 
 " Can she forgive ? And now I think again, 
 '' The man was neither insolent nor vain ; 
 •' Good humour chiefly would a stranger trace, 
 " Were he impartial, in the air or face ; 
 " And I so splenetic the whole way long, 
 " And she so patient — it was very wrong.' 
 
 " The boat had landed in a shady scene ; 
 " The grove was in its glory, fresh and green ; 
 '' The showers of late had swell'd the branch and 
 
 bough, 
 " And the sun's fervour made them pleasant now. 
 '• Hard by an oak arose in all its pride, 
 " And threw its arms along the water's side ; 
 " Its leafy limbs, that on the glassy lake 
 " Stretch far, and all those dancing shadows make. 
 
 " And now we walk — now smaller parties seek 
 " Or sun or shade as pleases — Shall I speak ? 
 " Shall I forgiveness ask, and then apply 
 
 " For O ! that vile and intercepting cry ! 
 
 " Alas ! what mighty ills can trifles make, — 
 " A hat ! the idiot's — fallen in the lake ! 
 " What serious mischief can such idlers do ! 
 " I almost wish the head had fallen too. 
 
 " No more they leave us, but will hover round, 
 " As if amusement at our cost they found ; 
 " Vex'd and unhappy I indeed had been, 
 " Had I not something in my charmer seen 
 " Like discontent, that, though corrected, dwelt 
 " On that dear face, and told me what she felt. 
 
 " Now must we cross the lake, and as we cross'd 
 " Was my whole soul in sweet emotion lost ; 
 " Clouds in white volumes roll'd beneath the 
 
 moon, 
 " Softening her light that on the waters shone : 
 " This was such bliss ! even then it seem'd relief 
 " To veil the gladness in a show of grief: 
 " We sigh'd as we conversed, and said, how deep 
 " This lake on which those broad dark shadows 
 
 sleep ; 
 " There is between us and a watery grave 
 " But a thin plank, and yet our fate we brave. 
 " ' What if it burst ? ' ' Matilda, then my care 
 " Would be for thee : all danger 1 would dare, 
 " And, should my efforts fail, thy fortune would I 
 
 share.' 
 " ' The love of life,' she said, ' would powerful 
 
 prove I ' 
 " ' O ! not so powerful as the strength of love :' — 
 " A look of kindness gave the grateful maid, 
 " That had the real effort more than paid. 
 
 ' [" Truth compels me to say that Mr. Crabbe was by no 
 means free from the less amiable sijfn of a strong attachment 
 — jealousy. The description of this self torment, whicii 
 occurs in the sixth book of ' Tales of the Hall,' could only 
 liave been produced by one who had undergone the paiii 
 himself; and the catastrophe which follows may be consi- 
 tiered a-s a vivid representation of his happier hours at Beccles. 
 
 " But here we land, and haply now may choose 
 '■ Companions home — our way too we may lose : 
 " In these drear, dark, inosculating lanes, 
 " The very native of his doubt complains ; 
 '• No wonder then that in such lonely ways 
 " A stranger, heedless of the country, strays ; 
 '• A stranger, too, whose many thoughts all meet 
 " In one design, and none regard his feet. 
 
 " ' Is this the path ?' — the cautious fail- one 
 cries ; 
 " I answer, ' Yes !' — ' We shall our friends surprise,' 
 " She added, sighing — I return the sighs 
 
 " ' WiU they not wonder ?' ' O ! they would, 
 indeed. 
 Could they the secrets of this bosom read, 
 These chilling doubts, these trembling hopes I 
 feel ! 
 " ' The faint, fond hopes I can no more conceal — 
 I love thee, dear Matilda ! — to confess 
 The fact is dangerous, fatal to suppress. 
 
 
 
 " ' And now in terror I approach the home 
 " ' Where I may wretched but not doubtful come, 
 " ' Where I must be all ecstasy, or all — 
 " ' O I what will you a wretch rejected call ? 
 " ' Not man, for I shall lose myself, and be 
 " ' A creature lost to reason, losing thee. 
 
 " ' Speak, my Matilda ! on the rack of fear 
 " ' Suspend me not — I would my sentence hear, 
 " ' Would learn my fate Good Heaven ! and 
 
 what jiortend 
 " ' These tears ? — and fall they for thy wretched 
 
 friend ? 
 
 " ' Or ' but I cease ; I cannot paint the bliss 
 
 " From a confession soft and kind as this ; 
 
 " Nor where we walk'd, nor how our friends we 
 
 met, 
 " Or what their wonder — I am wondering j'et ; 
 " For he who nothing heeds has nothing to forget. 
 
 " All thought, yet thinking nothing — all delight 
 " In everything, but nothing in my sight ! 
 " Nothing I mark or learn, but am possess'd 
 " Of joys I cannot paint, and I am bless'd 
 " In all that I conceive — whatever is, is best. 
 " Keady to aid all beings, I would go 
 " The world around to succour human woe ; 
 " Yet am so largely happy, that it seems 
 " There are no woes, and sorrows are but dreams. 
 
 " There is a college joy, to scholars known, 
 "' When the first honours are proclaim'd their own ; 
 '• There is ambition's joy, when, in their race 
 •• A man surpassing rivals gains his place : 
 " There is a beauty's joy amid a crowd 
 '' To have that beauty her first fame allow'd ; 
 
 Miss Elmy wis then remarkablj' pretty ; she had a lively dis- 
 position, and, havin^r generally more than her share of atten- 
 tion in a mixed company, her behaviour might, without any 
 coquettish inclination, occasion painful surmises in a sensitive 
 lover, who could only at intervals join her circle.'' — -Lije, 
 ante, p. H.] 
 
 2 D 2 
 
404 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " And there 's the conqueror's joy, when, dubious 
 
 held 
 " xVnd long the fight, he sees the foe repell'd. 
 
 " But what are these, or what are other joys, 
 " That charm kings, conquerors, beauteous nymphs, 
 
 and boys, 
 " Or greater yet, if greater yet be found, 
 " To that delight when love's dear hope is crown'd ? 
 " To the first beating of a lover's heart, 
 " When the loved maid endeavours to impart, 
 " Frankly yet faintly, fondly yet in fear, 
 " The kind confession that he holds so dear ? 
 " Now in the morn of our return how strange 
 " Was this new feeling, this delicious change, 
 " That sweet delirium, when I gazed in fear 
 " That all would yet be lost and disappear. 
 
 " Such was the blessing, that I sought for pain, 
 " In some degree to be myself again ; 
 " And when we met a shepherd old and lame, 
 " Cold and diseased, it seem'd my blood to tame : 
 " And I was thankful for the moral sight, 
 " That Boberised the vast and wild delight." 
 
 BOOK VI I. 
 
 THE ELDER BROTHER. 
 
 Conversation — Story of the elder Brotlier — His romantic 
 Views and Habits — The Scene of his Meditations — Their 
 Nature — Interrupted by an Adventure — The Consequences 
 of it— A strong and permanent Passion — Search of its 
 Object — ^Long ineffectual — How found — The first Interview 
 — The second — End of tlie Adventure — Ketirement. 
 
 " Thanks, my dear Richard, and I pray thee, 
 
 deign 
 " To speak the truth — does all this love remain, 
 " And all this joy ? for views and flights sublime, 
 " Ardent and tender, are subdued by time. 
 " Speak'st thou of her to whom thou mad'st thy 
 
 vows, 
 " Of my fair sister, of thy lawful spouse ? 
 " Or art thou talking some frail love about, 
 " The rambling fit before th' abiding gout ?" 
 
 " Nay, spare me, Brother, an adorer spare : 
 " Love and the gout ! thou wouldst not these com- 
 pare ?" 
 
 " Yea, and correctly ; teasing ere tliey come, 
 " They then confine their victim to liis home : 
 " In both are previous feints and false attacks, 
 " Botli place the grieving patient on their racks ; 
 " Tliey botli arc ours, with all tlicy bring, for life, 
 " *T is not in us t' expel or gout or wife ; 
 " On man a kind of dignity they shed, 
 " X sort of gloomy pomp about liis bed : 
 " Then if he leaves them, go wlierc'er lie will, 
 " They have a claim upon his body still ; 
 
 " Nay, when they quit him, as they sometimes do, 
 " What is there left t' enjoy or to pursue ? — 
 " But dost thou love this woman ?" 
 
 "O! beyond 
 " What I can tell thee of the true and fond : 
 " Hath she not soothed me, sick — enriched me, 
 
 poor — • 
 " And banish'd death and misery from my door ? 
 " Has she not cherisli'd every moment's bUss, 
 " And made an Eden of a world Uke this ? 
 " When Care would strive with us his v.atch to keep, 
 " Has she not sung the snarling fiend to sleep ? 
 " And when Distress has look'd us in the face, 
 " Has she not told him, ' Thou art not Disgrace ' ?" 
 
 " I must behold her, Richard ; I must see 
 " This patient spouse who sweetens misery. 
 " But didst thou need, and wouldst thou not 
 
 apply ?— 
 " Nay, thou wert right — but then how wrong 
 
 was I !" 
 
 " My indiscretion was " 
 
 " No more repeat ; 
 " Would I were nothing worse than indiscreet ; — 
 " But still there is a plea that 1 could bring, 
 " Had I the courage to describe the thing." 
 
 " Then thou, too. Brother, couldst of weakness 
 tell; 
 " Thou, too, hast found the wishes that rebel 
 " Against the sovereign reason ; at some time 
 " Thou hast been fond, heroic, and sublime ; 
 " Wrote verse, it may be, and for one dear maid 
 " The sober purposes of life delay'd ; 
 " From year to year the fruitless chase pursued, 
 " And hung enamour'd o'er the flying good : 
 " Then be thy weakness to a Brother shown, 
 " And give him comfort who displays his own." 
 
 " Ungenerous youth ! dost thou presuming ask 
 " A man so grave his failings to unmask ? 
 " What if I tell thee of a waste of time, 
 " That on my spirit presses as a crime, 
 " Wilt thou despise me ? — I, who, soaring, fell, 
 " So late to rise — Hear then the tale I tell : 
 " Who tells what thou shalt hear, esteems his hearer 
 well. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Richard, thou shalt hear me own 
 " Follies and frailties thou hast never known ; 
 " Thine was a frailty, — folly, if you please, — 
 " But mine a flight, a madness, a disease. 
 
 " Turn with me to my twentieth year, for then 
 " The lovers frenzy ruled the poet's pen ; 
 " When virgin reams were soil'd with lays of love, 
 " The flinty hearts of fancied nymphs to move : 
 " Then was 1 pleased in lonely ways to tread, 
 " And muse on tragic tales of lovers dead ; 
 " For all tlie merit I could then descry 
 " In man or woman was for love to die. 
 
 " I mused on charmers chaste, who pledged their 
 truth, 
 " .Vnd left no more the once-accepted youth ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 405 
 
 " Though he disloyal, lost, diseased, became, 
 " The widow'd turtle's was a deathless flame ; 
 " This faith, this feeling, gave my soul delight, 
 " Truth ia the lady, ardour in the knight. 
 
 " I built me castles wondrous rich and rare, 
 " Few castle-builders could with me compare ; 
 " The hall, the palace, rose at my command, 
 " And these I fill'd wdth objects great and grand. 
 " Virtues sublime, that nowhere else would live, 
 " Glory and pomp, that I alone could give ; 
 " Trophies and thrones by matchless valour gain'd, 
 " Faith unreproved, and chastity unstain'd ; 
 " With all that soothes the sense and charms the 
 
 soul, 
 " Came at my call, and were in my control. 
 
 " And who was I ? a slender youth and tall, 
 " In manner awkward, and with fortune small ; 
 " With visage pale, my motions quick and slow, 
 " That fall and rising in the spirits show ; 
 " For none could more by outward signs express 
 " What wise men lock within the mind's recess ; 
 " Had I a mirror set before my view, 
 " I might have seen what such a form could do ; 
 " Had I within the mirror truth beheld, 
 " I should have such presuming thoughts repell'd : 
 " But, awkward as I was, without the grace 
 " That gives new beauty to a form or face, 
 " StiU I expected friends most true to prove, 
 " And grateful, tender, warm, assiduous love. 
 
 " Assured of this, that love's delicious bond 
 " Would hold me ever faithful, ever fond ; 
 " It seem'd but just that I in love should find 
 " A kindred heart as constant and as kind. 
 " Give me, I cried, a beauty ; none on earth 
 " Of higher rank or nobler in her birth ; 
 " Pride of her race, her father's hope and care, 
 " Yet meek as children of the cottage are ; 
 " Nursed in the court, and there by love pursued, 
 " But fond of peace, and bless' d in solitude ; 
 " By rivals honour'd, and by beauties praised, 
 " Yet all unconscious of the envy raised ; 
 " Suppose her this, and from attendants freed, 
 " To want my prowess in a time of need, 
 " When safe and grateful she desires to show 
 " She feels the debt that she delights to owe, 
 " And loves the man who saved her in distress — 
 " So Fancy will'd, nor would compound for less. 
 
 " This was my dream. — In some auspicious hour, 
 " In some sweet solitude, in some green bower, 
 " Whither my fate should lead me, there, unseen, 
 " I should behold my fancy's gracious queen, 
 " Singing sweet song ! that I should hear a while, 
 " Then catch the transient glory of a smile ; 
 " Then at her feet with trembling hope should 
 
 kneel, 
 " Such as rapt saints and raptured lovers feel ; 
 " To watch the chaste unfoldings of her heart, 
 " In joy to meet, in agony to part, 
 " And then in tender song to soothe my grief, 
 " And hail, in glorious rhyme, my JMdij of the 
 Leaf. 
 
 " To dream these dreams I chose a woody scene, 
 '• My guardian-shade, the world and me between ; 
 
 " A green enclosure, where beside its bound 
 
 " A thorny fence beset its beauties round, 
 
 " Save where some creature's force had made away 
 
 " For me to pass, and in my kingdom stray : 
 
 " Here then I stray'd, then sat me down to call, 
 
 " Just as I will'd, my shadovry subjects all ! 
 
 " Fruits of all minds conceived on every coast, 
 
 " Fay, witch, enchanter, devil, demon, ghost; 
 
 " And thus with knights and nymphs, in halls and 
 
 bowers, 
 " In war and lore, I pass'd unnumber'd hours : 
 " Gross and substantial beings all forgot, 
 " Ideal glories beam'd around the spot, 
 " And all that was, with me, of this poor world was 
 
 not. 
 
 " Yet in this world there was a single scene, 
 " That I allow'd with mine to intervene ; 
 " This house, where never yet my feet had stray'd, 
 " I with respect and timid awe survey'd ; 
 " With pleasing wonder I have oft-times stood, 
 " To view these tuiTets rising o'er the wood ; 
 " When Fancy to the halls and chambers flew, 
 " Large, solemn silent, that I must not view ; 
 " The moat was then, and then o'er all the ground 
 " Tall elms and ancient oaks stretch'd far around ; 
 " And where the soil forbade the nobler race, 
 " Dwarf trees and humbler shrubs had found their 
 
 place, 
 " Forbidding man in their close hold to go, 
 " Haw, gatter, holm, the service and the sloe ; 
 '* With tangling weeds that at the bottom grew, 
 '' And climbers all above their feathery branches 
 
 threw. 
 ^ Nor path of man or beast was there espied, 
 " But there the birds of darkness loved to hide, 
 " The loathed toad to lodge, and speckled snake to 
 
 glide. 
 
 " To me this hall, thus view'd in part, appear'd 
 " A mansion vast ; I wonder'd, and I fear'd : 
 " There as I wander'd. Fancy's forming eye 
 " Could gloomy cells and dungeons dark espy ; 
 " Winding through these, I caught the appalling 
 
 sound 
 " Of troubled souls, that guilty minds confound, 
 " Where Murder made its way, and Mischief stalk'd 
 
 around. 
 " Above the roof were raised the midnight storms, 
 " And the wild lights betray'd the shadowy forms. 
 " With all these flights and fancies, then so dear, 
 " I reach'd the birthday of my twentieth year; 
 " And in the evening of a day in June 
 " Was singing — as I sang — some heavenly tune ; 
 " My native tone, indeed, was harsh and hearse, 
 " But he who feels such powers can sing of course — 
 " Is there a good on earth, or gift divine, 
 " That Fancy cannot say. Behold ! 't is mine ? 
 
 " So was I singing, when I saw descend, 
 " From this old seat, a lady and her friend ; 
 " Downward they came with steady pace and slow, 
 " Arm livik'd in arm, to bless my world below. 
 " I knew not yet if they escaped, or chose 
 " Their own free way, — if they had friends or 
 
 foes, — ■ 
 " But near to my dominion drew the pair, 
 " Link'd arm in arm, and walk'd conversing there. 
 
406 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " I saw them ere thej' came, myself unseen, 
 " :My lofty fence and thorny bound between — 
 " And one alone, one matchless face I saw, 
 " And, tliough at distance, felt delight and awe : 
 " Fancy and truth adorn'd her; fancy gave 
 " Much, but not all ; truth help'd to make their 
 
 slave ! 
 " For she was lovely, all was not the vain 
 " Or sickly homage of a fever'd brain ! 
 " No ! she had beauty, such as they admire 
 " "Whose hope is earthly, and whose love desire ; 
 " Imagination might her aid bestow, 
 " But she had charms that only truth could show. 
 
 " Their dress was such as well became the place, 
 " But one superior ; hers the air, the grace, 
 " The condescending looks, that spoke the nobler 
 
 race. 
 " Slender she was and tall : her fairy-feet 
 " Bore her right onward to my shady seat ; 
 " And, Oh ! I sigli'd that she would nobly dare 
 " To come, nor let her friend the adventure share ; 
 " But see how I in my dominion reign, 
 " And never wish to view the world again. 
 
 " Thus was I musing, seeing with my eyes 
 " These objects, with my mind her fantasies, 
 " And chiefly thinking — Is this maid, divine 
 " As she appears, to be this queen of mine ? 
 " Have I from henceforth beauty in my view, 
 " Not airy all, but tangible and true ? 
 " Here then I fix, here bound my vagrant views, 
 " And here devote my heart, my time, my Muse. 
 
 " She saw not this, though ladies early trace 
 " Their beauty's power, the glories of their face ; 
 " Yet knew not this fair creature — could not 
 
 know — 
 " That new-born love that I too soon must show : 
 " And I was musing — How shall I begin ? 
 " How make approach my unknown way to win, 
 " And to that heart, as yet untouch'd, make kno\\Ti 
 " The wound, the wisli, the weakness of my own ? 
 
 " Such is my part, but Mercy ! what alarm ? 
 
 " Dare ought on earth that sovereign beauty 
 
 harm ? 
 " Again — the shrieking charmers — how they rend 
 
 " The gentle air Tlie shriekers lack a friend — 
 
 " They are my princess and the attendant maid 
 
 " In so much danger, and so much afraid ! — 
 
 " But whence the terror ? — I-et me haste and see 
 
 " What has befallen them who cannot flee — 
 
 " "NVlicnce can the peril rise ? What can that peril 
 
 be? 
 
 "It soon appear'd tliat, wliile this nymph divine 
 " Moved on, there met her rude uncivil kine, 
 " Who knew her not — the damsel was not there 
 " Who kept them, all obedient, in licr care ; 
 " Strangers they tlius dcfieil and lield in scorn, 
 " And stood in threat'ning posture, hoof and horn ; 
 " While Susan — pail in liand— could stand the 
 
 wliile 
 " And prate with Daniel at a distant stile. 
 
 " As feeling prompted, to the place 1 ran, 
 " Resolv'd to save the maids and show the man : 
 
 " Was each a cow like that which challenged Guy, 
 
 " I had resolved to attack it, and defy 
 
 " In mortal combat ! to repel or die. 
 
 " That was no time to parley — or to say 
 
 " I will protect you — fly in peace away ! 
 
 " I-o ! yonder stile — but with an air of grace, 
 
 '• As I supposed, I pointed to the place. 
 
 " The fair ones took me at my sign, and flew, 
 " Each like a dove, and to the stile withdrew, 
 '' Where safe, at distance, and from terrors tree, 
 " They turn'd to view my beastly foes and me. 
 
 " I now had time my business to behold, 
 " And did not like it— let the truth be told : 
 " The cows, though cowards, yet in numbers 
 
 strong, 
 " Like other mobs, by might defended wrong ; 
 " In man's own pathway fix'd, they seem'd dis- 
 posed 
 " For hostile measure, and in order closed, 
 " Then halted near me, as I judged, to treat, 
 " Before we came to triumph or defeat. 
 
 " I was in doubt : 't was sore disgrace, I knew, 
 " To turn my back and let the cows pursue ; 
 " And should I rashly mortal strife begin, 
 " 'T was all unknown who might the battle win ; 
 " And yet to wait, and neither fight nor fly, 
 " Would mirth create — I could not that deny ; 
 " It look'd as if for safety I would treat, 
 " Nay, sue for peace — No ! rather come defeat ! 
 " ' Look to me, loveliest of thy sex ! and give 
 " ' One cheering glance, and not a cow shall live ; 
 " ' For, lo ! this iron bar, this strenuous arm, 
 " ' And those dear eyes to aid me as a charm.' 
 
 " Say, goddess ! Victory ! say, on man or cow 
 " Meanest thou now to perch ? — on neither now — 
 " For, as I ponder'd, on their way appear'd 
 " The Amazonian milker of the herd ; 
 " These at the wonted signals made a stand, 
 " And woo'd the nymph of the relieving hand ; 
 " Nor heeded now the man, who felt relief 
 " Of other kind, and not unmi.\'d with grief; 
 '' I"or now he neither should his courage prove, 
 " Nor in his dying moments boast his love. 
 
 " My sovereign beauty with amazement saw — 
 " So she declared — the horrid things in awe ; 
 " Well pleased, she witness'd what respect was 
 
 paid 
 " By such bi'ute natures : — every cow afraid, 
 " And kept at distance by the powers of one 
 " Who had to her a dangerous service done, 
 " That prudence had declined, that valour's self 
 
 might shun. 
 
 " So thought the niaiil, who, now beyond stile, 
 " Beceived licr champion witli a gracious smile ; 
 " Wlio now had leisure on those charms to dwell, 
 " Tliat he could never from his thoughts e.\pel. 
 " Tlicre are, I know, to whom a lover seems, 
 " Praising his mistress, to relate his dreams : 
 " But, llicliurd, looks like those, that angel-face, 
 " Could I no more in sister-angel trace ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 407 
 
 " Oh ! it was more than fancy ! it was more 
 
 " Than in my dai-Iing views I saw before, 
 
 " When I my idol made, and my allegiance swore. 
 
 " Henceforth 't was bliss upon that face to dwell, 
 " Till every trace became indelible ; 
 " I bless'd the cause of that alarm, her fright, 
 " And all that gave me favour in her sight, 
 " "NVho then was kind and grateful, till my mind, 
 " Pleased and exulting, awe a while resigned. 
 " For in the moment when she feels afraid, 
 " How kindly speaks the condescending maid ! 
 " She sees her danger near, she wants her lover's 
 
 aid ; 
 " As fire electric, when discharged, will strike 
 " All who receive it, and they feel alike, 
 " So in the shock of danger and surprise 
 " Our minds are struck, and mix, and sympathise. 
 
 " But danger dies, and distance comes between 
 " My state and that of my all-glorious queen ; 
 " Yet much was done— upon my mind a chain 
 " "Was strongly fix'd, and likely to remain : 
 " Listening, I grew enamour'd of the sound, 
 " And felt to her my very being bound ; 
 " I bless'd the scene, nor felt a power to move, 
 " Lost in the ecstasies of infant love. 
 
 " She saw, and smiled ; the smile delight con- 
 vey'd, 
 " My love encouraged, and my act repaid : 
 " In that same smile I read the charmer meant 
 " To give her hero chaste encouragement; 
 " It spoke as plainly as a smile can speak, 
 " ' Seek whom you love, love freely whom you seek.' 
 
 " Thus, when the lovely witch had wrought her 
 
 charm, 
 " She took th' attendant maiden by the arm, 
 " And left me fondly gazing, till no more 
 " I could the shade of that dear form explore ; 
 " Then to my secret haunt I turn'd again, 
 " Fire in my heart, and fever in my brain ; 
 " That face of her for ever in my view, 
 " Whom I was henceforth fated to pursue, 
 " To hope I knew not what, small hope in what I 
 
 knew. 
 
 " O ! my dear Richard, what a waste of time 
 " Gave I not thus to lunacy sublime ; 
 " "What days, months, years (to.useful purpose lost), 
 " Has not this dire infatuation cost ! 
 " To this fair vision I, a bounden slave, 
 " Time, duty, credit, lionour, comfort, gave ; 
 " Gave all — and waited for the gloi'ious things 
 " That hope expects, but fortune never brings. 
 
 " Yet let ms own, while I my fault reprove, 
 " There is one blessing still affix'd to love — 
 " To love like mine — for as my soul it drew 
 " From Reason's path, it shunn'd Dislionour's too ; 
 " It made my taste refined, my feelings nice, 
 " And placed an angel in the way of vice. 
 
 " This angel now, whom I no longer view'd, 
 " Far from this scene her destined way pursued ; 
 " No more that mansion held a form so fair, 
 " She was away, and beauty was not there. 
 
 " Such, my dear Richard, was my early flame, 
 " My youthful frenzy — give it either name ; 
 " It was the withering bane of many a year, 
 " That pass'd away in causeless hope and fear ; 
 " The hopes, the fears, that every dream could kill, 
 " Or make alive, and lead my passive will. 
 
 " At length I learnt one name my angel bore, 
 " And Rosabella I must now adore : 
 " I'et knew but this — and not the favour'd place 
 " That held the angel, or th' tingelic race ; 
 " In or where admired, the sweet enchantress dwelt. 
 " But I had lost her— that, indeed, I felt. 
 
 " Yet, would I say, she will at length be mine ! 
 " Did ever hero hope or love resign ? 
 " Though men oppose, and fortune bids despair, 
 " She will in time her mischief well repair, 
 " And I, at last, shall wed this fairest of the fair ! 
 
 " aiy thrifty uncle, now return'd, began 
 To stir within me what remain'd of man ; 
 My powerful frenzy painted to the life. 
 And ask'd me if I took a dream to wife ? 
 Debate ensued, and, though not well content, 
 Upon a visit to his house I went : 
 He, the most saving of mankind, had still 
 Some kindred feeling ; he would guide my will, 
 And teach me wisdom— so affection wrought, 
 That he to save me from destruction sought : 
 To him destruction, the most awful curse 
 Of Misery's children, was — an empty purse ! 
 He his own books appiroved, and thought the 
 
 pen 
 A useful instrument for trading men ; 
 But judged a quill was never to be slit 
 Except to make it for a merchant fit : 
 He, when inform'd how men of taste could 
 
 write, 
 Look'd on his ledger with supreme delight : 
 Then would he laugh, and, with insulting joy. 
 Tell me aloud, ' That 's poetry, my boy ! 
 ' These are your golden numbers — them repeat ; 
 ' The more you have, the more you '11 find them 
 
 sweet ; 
 * Their numbers move all hearts — no matter for 
 
 their feet. 
 ' Sir, when a man composes in this style, 
 ' What is to him a critic's frown or smile ? 
 ' What is the puppy's censure or applause 
 ' To the good man who on his banker draws, 
 ' Buys an estate, and wTites upon the grounds, 
 ' " Pay to A. B. a hundred thousand pounds " ? 
 ' Thus, my dear nephew, thus your talents prove ; 
 ' Leave verse to poets, and the poor to love.' 
 
 " Some months I sufi"er'd thus, compell'd to sit 
 " And hear a wealthy kinsman aim at wit ; 
 " Yet there was something in his nature good, 
 " And he had feeling for the tie of blood : 
 •' So while I languish'd for my absent maid 
 " 1 some observance to my uncle paid." 
 
 " Had you inquired ?" said Richard. 
 
 '• I had placed 
 " Inquirers round, but nothing could be traced ; 
 " Of every reasoning creature at this Hall, 
 " And tenant near it, I applied to all 
 
408 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 " Tell me if she — and I described her well — 
 " Dwelt long a guest, or where retired to dwell ? 
 " But no ! such lady tncy remember'd not — 
 " They saw that face, strange beings ! and forgot. 
 
 " Nor was inquiry all ; but I pursued 
 " My soul's first wish, with hope's vast strength 
 
 endued : 
 " I cross'd the seas, I went where strangers go, 
 " And gazed on crowds as one who dreads a foe 
 " Or seeks a friend ; and, when I sought in vain, 
 " Fled to fresh crowds, and hoped and gazed 
 
 " It was a strong possession." — " Strong and 
 
 strange ; 
 " I felt the evil, yet desired not change : 
 " Years now had flown, nor was the passion cured, 
 " But hope had life, and so was life endured ; 
 " The mind's disease, with all its strength, stole 
 
 on, 
 " Till youth, and health, and all but love were 
 
 gone; 
 " And there were seasons, lUchard, horrid hours 
 " Of mental suifering ! they o'erthrew my powers, 
 " And made my mind unsteady — I have still, 
 " At times, a feeling of that nameless ill, 
 " That is not madness — 1 could always tell 
 " My mind was wandering — knew it was not well ; 
 " Felt all my loss of time, the shameful waste 
 " Of talents perish'd, and of parts disgraced ; 
 " But though my mind was sane, there was a 
 
 void — 
 " My understanding seem'd in part destroy'd; 
 " I thought I was not of my species one, 
 " But unconnected ! injured and undone. 
 
 " "While in this state, once more my uncle pray'd 
 " That I would hear^I heard, and I obey'd ; 
 " For I was thankful that a being broke 
 " On this my sadness, or an interest took 
 " In my poor life — but, at his mansion, rest 
 '' Came with its halcyon stilness to my breast: 
 " Slowly there enter'd in my mind concern 
 " For things about me — I would something learn, 
 " And to my uncle listen ; who, with joy, 
 " Found that e'en yet I could my powers employ, 
 " Till I could feel new hopes my mind possess, 
 " Of ease at least, if not of happiness : 
 " Till, not contented, not in discontent, 
 " As my good uncle counsell'd, on I went ; 
 " Conscious of youtli's great error — nay, the crime 
 " Of manhood now — a dreary waste of time ! 
 " Conscious of that account which I must give 
 " How life had pass'd with me — I strove to live. 
 
 " Had I, like others, my first hope attain'd, 
 " I must, at least, a certainty have gain'd : 
 " Had I, like others, lost the hope of youth, 
 " Another hope had promised greater truth ; 
 " But I in baseless hopes, and groundless views, 
 " Was fated time, and peace, and health to lose ; 
 " Impell'd to seek, for ever doom'd to fail, 
 " Is 1 distress you— let me end my tale. 
 
 " f>omething one day occurr'd about a bill 
 " That was not drawn with true mercantile skill, 
 
 " And I was ask'd and authorised to go 
 
 " To seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co. ; 
 
 " Their hour was past — but when I urg'd the case, 
 
 " There was a youth who named a second place, 
 
 " "\^'here, on occasions of important kind, 
 
 " I might the man of occupation find 
 
 " In his retirement, where he found repose 
 
 " From the vexations that in business rose, 
 
 " I found, though not with ease, this private seat 
 
 " Of soothing quiet. Wisdom's still retreat. 
 
 " The house was good, but not so pure and clean 
 " As I had houses of retirement seen ; 
 " Yet men, I knew, of meditation deep, 
 " Love not their maidens should their studies 
 
 sweep. 
 " His room I saw, and must acknowledge there 
 " Were not the signs of cleanliness or care : 
 " A female servant, void of female grace, 
 " Loose in attire, proceeded to the i)lace ; 
 " She stared intrusive on my slender frame, 
 " And boldly ask'd my business and my name. 
 
 " I gave them both ; and, left to be amused, 
 " Well as I might, the parlour I perused. 
 " The shutters half unclosed, the curtains fell 
 " Half down, and rested on the window-sill, 
 " And thus, confusedly, made the room half visible. 
 " Late as it was, the little parlour bore 
 " Some tell-tale tokens of the night before : 
 " There were strange sights and scents about tlie 
 
 room, 
 " Of food high season'd, and of strong perfume ; 
 " Two unmatch'd sofas ample rents display'd, 
 " Carpet and curtains were alike decay'd ; 
 " A large old mirror, with once-gilded fi-ame, 
 " Ivcflected prints that I forbear to name, 
 " Such as a youth might pm-chase — but, in truth, 
 " Not a sedate or sober-minded youth : 
 " The cinders yet were sleeping in the grate. 
 " AVarm from the fire, continued large and late, 
 " As loft by careless folk, in their neglected state ; 
 " The chairs in haste seem'd whirl'd about the 
 
 room, 
 " As when the sons of riot hurrj' home, 
 " And leave the troubled place to solitude and 
 
 gloom. 
 
 " All this, for I had ample time, I saw, 
 " And prudence question'*! — should we not wdth- 
 
 draw ? 
 " For he who makes me thus on business wait 
 " Is not for business in a proper state ; 
 " But man there was not, was nfit he for whom 
 " To this convenient lodging I was come ; 
 " No ! but a ladj''s voice was heard to call 
 " On my attention — and she had it all ; 
 " For, lo ! she enters, speaking ere in sight, 
 " ' IMonsicur ! I shall not want the cliair to-niglit — 
 " ' M'here shall I see him ?' — This dear hour atones 
 " For all affection's hopeless sighs and groans — 
 " Then turning to me — ' Art thou come at last? 
 " ' A thousand welcomes — be forgot tlie past; 
 " ' Forgotten all the grief that alisence brings, 
 " ' Fear that torments, and jealousy that stings — 
 " ' All that is cold, injurious, and unkind, 
 " ' Be it for ever banish'd from the mind ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 409 
 
 " ' And in that mind and in that heart be now 
 " ' The soft endearment and the binding vow.' 
 
 '• Slie spoke — and o'er the practised features 
 threw 
 " The looks that reason charm, and strength 
 subdue. 
 
 " Will 3'ou not ask how I beheld that face, 
 " Or read that mind, and read it in that place ? 
 " I have tried, Richard, oft-times, and in vain, 
 " To trace my thoughts and to review their train — 
 " If train tliere were — that meadow, grove, and 
 
 stilo, 
 " The fright, th' escape, her sweetness and her 
 
 smile ; 
 " Years since elapsed, and hope, from year to year, 
 " To find her free — and then to find her here ! 
 
 " But is it she ? — O ! yes ; the rose is dead, 
 " All beauty, fragrance, freshness, glory fled : 
 " But yet 't is she — the same and not the same — 
 " Who to my bower a heavenly being came ; 
 " Who waked my soul's first thought of real bliss, 
 " Whom long I sought, and now I find her — this. 
 
 " I cannot paint her — something I had seen. 
 
 So pale and slim, and tawdry and unclean ; 
 
 With haggard looks, of vice and woe the prey. 
 
 Laughing in languor, misei'ably gay : 
 
 Her face, where face appear'd, was amply spread, 
 
 By art's coarse pencil, with ill-chosen red. 
 
 The flower's fictitious bloom, the blushing of the 
 
 dead : 
 But still the features were the same, and strange 
 My view of both — the sameness and the change. 
 That fix'd me gazing and my eye enchain'd, 
 Although so little of herself reraain'd ; 
 It is the creature whom I loved, and yet 
 Is far unlike her — Would I could forget 
 The angel or her fall ; the once adored 
 Or now despised ! the worshipp'd or deplored ! 
 
 " ' O ! Rosabella !' I prepared to say, 
 ' ' Whom I have loved !' but Prudence whisper'd 
 
 nay, 
 ' And Folly grew ashamed— Discretion had her day. 
 ' She gave her hand, which, as I lightly press'd, 
 ' The cold but ardent grasp my soul oppress'd ; 
 ' The ruin'd girl disturb'd me, and my eyes 
 ' Look'd, I conceive, both sorrow and surprise. 
 
 ■ I spoke my business : ' He,' she answer'd, ' comes 
 
 ■ ' And lodges here — he has the backward rooms : 
 
 ■ ' He now is absent, and I chanced to hear 
 
 ■ ' Will not before to-morrow eve appear, 
 
 ' ' And rnay be longer absent O ! the night 
 
 ' When you preserved me in that horrid fright ! 
 ' A thousand, thousand times, asleep, awake, 
 
 ■ ' I thought of what you ventured for my sake — 
 ' ' Now have you thought ? — yet tell me so — 
 
 deceive 
 ' ' Your Rosabella, willing to believe. 
 ' O ! there is something in love's first-born pain 
 ' Sweeter than bliss — it never comes again : 
 ' But has your heart been faithful ?'— Here my 
 
 pride. 
 To anger rising, her attempt defied : — 
 
 " ' My faith must childish in your sight appear, 
 " ' Who have been faithful — to how many, dear ?' 
 
 " If words had fail'd, a look explain'd their style ; 
 
 " She could not blush assent, but she could smile : 
 
 " ' Good Heaven !' I thought, ' have I rejected fame, 
 
 " ' Credit, and wealth, for one who smiles at 
 
 shame ?' 
 
 " She saw me thoughtful— saw it, as I guess'd, 
 ' With some concern, though nothing she ex- 
 
 press'd. 
 ' ' Come, my dear friend, discard that look of care. 
 ' ' All things were made to be as all things are ; 
 ' ' All to seek pleasure as the end design'd, 
 ' ' The only good in matter or in mind ; 
 ' ' So I was taught by one who gave me all 
 ' ' That my experienced heart can wisdom call. 
 
 " ' I saw thee young, love's soft obedient slave, 
 ' ' And many a sigh to my young lover gave ; 
 ' ' And I had, spite of cowardice or cow, 
 ' ' Return'd thy passion, and exchanged my vow : 
 ' ' But while I thought to bait the amorous hook, 
 ' ' One set for me my eager fancy took ; 
 ' ' There was a crafty eye, that far could see, 
 ' ' And through my failings fascinated me : 
 ' ' Mine was a childish wish, to please my boy ; 
 ' ' His a design, his wishes to enjoy. 
 ' ' O ! we have both about the world been toss'd, 
 ' ' Thy gain I know not — I, they cry, am lost : 
 ' ' So let the wise ones talk ; they talk in vain, 
 ' ' And are mistaken both in loss and gain ; 
 ' ' 'T is gain to get whatever life affords, 
 ' ' 'T is loss to spend our time in empty words. 
 
 " ' I was a girl, and thou a boy wert then, 
 ' ' Nor aught of women knew, nor I of men ; 
 ' ' But I have traffick'd in the world, and thou, 
 
 ■ ' Doubtless, canst boast of thy experience now ; 
 
 ' ' Let us the knowledge we have gain'd produce, 
 
 • ' And kindly turn it to our common use.' 
 
 " Thus spoke the siren in voluptuous style, 
 
 ■ While I stood gazing and perplex'd the while, 
 
 • Chain'd by that voice, confounded by that smile. 
 ' And then she sang, and changed from grave to 
 
 gay, 
 
 Till all reproach and anger died away. 
 
 ' My Damon was the first to wake 
 " ' The gentle flame that cannot die ; 
 ' My Damon is the last to take 
 " ' The faithful bosom's softest sigh : 
 ' The life between is nothing worth, 
 " ' O ! cast it from thy thought away ; 
 ' Think of the day that gave it birth, 
 " ' And this its sweet returning day. 
 
 ' Buried be all that has been done, 
 " ' Or say that nought is done amiss ; 
 ' For who the dangerous path can shun 
 " ' In such bewildering world as this ? 
 
 2k 
 
410 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " ' But love can every fault forgive, 
 " ' Or with a tender look reprove ; 
 
 " ' And now let nought in memory live, 
 " ' But that we meet, and that we love.'' 
 
 " And then she moved my pity ; for she wept, 
 " And told her miseries till resentment slept ; 
 " For when she saw she could not reason blind, 
 " She pour'd her heart's whole sorrows on my 
 
 mind, 
 " With features graven on my soul, with sighs 
 " Seen but not heard, with soft imploring ej'es, 
 " And voice that needed not, but had, the aid 
 " Of powerful words to soften and persuade. 
 
 " ' O ! I repent me of the past ; and sure 
 '' * Grief and repentance make the bosom pure ; 
 " ' Yet meet thee not with clean and single heart, 
 " ' As on the day we met ! — and but to part, 
 " ' Ere I had drunk the cup that to my lip 
 " ' Was held, and press'd till I was forced to sip : 
 " ' I drank indeed, but never ceased to hate, — 
 " ' It poison'd, but could not intoxicate. 
 " ' T' excuse my fall I plead not love's excess, 
 " ' But a weak orphan's need and loneliness. 
 " ' I had no parent upon earth — no door 
 " ' Was oped to me — young, innocent, and pooi-, 
 " ' Vain, tender, and resentful — and my friend 
 " ' Jealous of one who must on her depend, 
 " ' Making life misery — You could witness then, 
 " ' That I was precious in the ej'es of men ; 
 " ' So, made by them a goddess, and denied 
 " ' Respect and notice by the women's pride ; 
 " ' Here scorn'd, there worshipp'd — will it strange 
 
 appear, 
 " ' Allured and driven, that I settled here ? 
 " * Yet loved it not ; and never have I pass'd 
 " ' One day, and wish'd another like the last. 
 
 " ' There was a fallen angel, I have read, 
 " ' For whom their tears the sister-angels shed, 
 " ' Because, although she ventured to rebel, 
 " ' She was not minded like a child of hell. — 
 " ' Such is my lot ! and will it not be given 
 " ' To grief like mine, that I may think of heaven ? 
 " ' Behold how there the glorious creatures shine, 
 " ' And all my soul to grief and hope resign ? 
 
 " I wonder'd, doubting — and ' Is this a fact,' 
 " I thought ; ' or part thou art disposed to act ?' 
 
 " ' Is it not written. He, who came to save 
 " ' Sinners, the sins of deepest dye forgave? 
 " ' That He his mercy to the sufferers dealt, 
 " ' And pardon'd error when the ill was felt ? 
 " ' Yes ! I would hope there is an eye that reads 
 " ' What is within, and sees the heart that 
 
 bleeds. 
 " ' Hut who on earth will one so lost deplore, 
 " ' And who will help that lost one to restore ? 
 
 1 ["We were l.itely rasli enoiij;li to ny that we had no 
 peels so unlike an Crahlic and Moore; but pdpls of their 
 metal can put out critics when they please. This little son;; 
 is more liUo Mr. Moore than anything we ever saw under the 
 
 " ' Who will on trust the sigh of grief receive ; 
 " ' And — all things warring with belief — believe ?' 
 
 " Soften'd, I said, ' Be mine the hand and heart, 
 " ' If with your world you will consent to part.' 
 
 " She would — she tried Alas ! she did not 
 
 know 
 " How deeply rooted evil habits grow : 
 " She felt the truth upon her spirits press, 
 " But wanted ease, indulgence, sliow, excess, 
 " Voluptuous banquets, pleasures — not refined, 
 " But such as soothe to sleep th' opposing mind ; 
 " She look'd for idle vice, the time to kill, 
 " And subtle, strong apologies for ill : 
 " And thus her yielding, unresisting soul 
 " Sank, and let sin confuse her and control : 
 " Pleasures that brought disgust yet brought relief, 
 " And minds she hated, help'd to war with grief." 
 
 " Thus then she perish'd ?" — 
 
 " Nay — but thus she proved 
 " Slave to the vices that she never loved : 
 " But while she thus her better thoughts opposed, 
 " And woo'd the world, the world's deceptions 
 
 closed. 
 " I had long lost her ; but I sought in vain 
 " To banish pity : — still she gave me pain, 
 " Still I desired to aid her — to direct, 
 " And wished the world, that won her, to reject : 
 " Nor wish'd in vain — there came, at length, re- 
 quest 
 " That 1 would see a wretch with grief oppress'd, 
 " By guilt affrighted — and I went to trace 
 " Once more the vice-woi-n features of that face, 
 " That sin-wreck'd being ! and I saw her laid 
 " Where never worldly joy a visit paid : 
 " That world receding fast ! the world to come 
 " Conceal'd in terror, ignorance, and gloom ; 
 " Sins, sorrow, and neglect : with not a spark 
 " Of vital hope — all horrible and dark. 
 " It frighten'd me ! — I thought, ' And shall not I 
 " ' Thus feel ? thus fear ? — this danger can I fly ? 
 " ' Do I so wisely live that I can calmly die ?' 
 
 " The wants I saw I could supply with case, 
 " But there were wants of other kind than these ; 
 " Th' awakening thought, the hope - inspiring 
 
 view — 
 " The doctrines awful, grand, alai'ming, true — 
 " Most painful to the soul, and yet most healing 
 
 too: 
 " Still I could something offer, and could send 
 " For other aid — a more important friend, 
 " Whose duty call'd him, and his love no less, 
 " To help the grieving spirit in distress; 
 " To save in that sad hour the drooping prey, 
 " And from its victim drive despair away. 
 
 " All decent comfort round the sick were seen ; 
 " The female helpers quiet, sober, clean ; 
 " ller kind physician with a smile appear'd, 
 " And zealous love the pious friend cndear'd ; 
 
 haiiil of a professed imitator; and if Mr. Crabbe's am.itory 
 propensities continue to imrejise with his years, as tliey 
 Inve done, the bard of Lallii Kookli mav still hive a formid- 
 able rival."— it'iitri. Rtt'., 1819.J 
 
" "While I, with mix'd sensations, could inquire, 
 " ' Hast thou one wish, one unfulfill'd desire ? 
 '• ' Speak every thought, nor unindulged depart, 
 '• ' If I can make thee happier than thou ai-t.' 
 
 " Yes 1 there was yet a female friend, an old 
 '• And grieving nurse I to whom it should be 
 
 told— 
 '• If 1 would tell— that she, her child, had fail'd, 
 " And turn'd from truth ! yet truth at length prc- 
 vail'd. 
 
 " 'T was in that chamber, Richard, I began 
 
 To think more deeply of the end of man : 
 
 Was it to jostle all his fellows by. 
 
 To run before them, and say, ' Here am I ; 
 
 ' Fall down, and worship ?' — Was it, life tlu'ough- 
 
 out. 
 With circumspection keen to hunt about. 
 As spaniels for their game, where might be 
 
 found 
 Abundance more for coffers that abound ? 
 Or was it life's enjoyments to prefer. 
 Like this poor girl, and then to die like her ? 
 No ! He, who gave the faculties, design'd 
 Another use for the immortal mind : 
 There is a state in which it will appear 
 With all the good and ill contracted here : 
 With gain and loss, improvement and defect ; 
 And then, my soul ! what hast thou to expect 
 For talents laid aside, life's waste, and time's 
 
 neglect ? 
 
 " Still as I went came other change — the frame 
 " And features wasted, and yet slowly came 
 " The end ; and so inaudible the breath, 
 " And still the breathing, we exclaim' d — 't is 
 
 death ! 
 " But death it was not ; when, indeed, she died, 
 " I sat and his last gentle stroke espied : 
 " When — as it came — or did my fancy trace 
 " That lively, lovely flushing o'er the face? 
 " Bringing back all that my young heart im- 
 
 press'd ! 
 " It came — and went I — She sigh'd, and was at 
 
 rest ! 
 
 " Adieu, I said, fair Frailty ! dearly cost 
 " The love I bore thee ! — time and treasure lobt ; 
 " And I have suffer'd many years in vain ; 
 " Now let me something in my sorrows gain : 
 " Heaven would not all this woe for man intend 
 '■ If man's existence with his woe should end ; 
 
 2 [The following lines have been found on a blank leaf of 
 the original MS. : — 
 
 " Love ! — I have seen a tiger on liis prey, 
 " Savage and fond ; its capture his intent: 
 
 " Love 1 — I have seen a sportive lamb at play, 
 " As mild as pure, as soft as innocent : 
 
 " Love! — I have seen a child, who only meant 
 " A short amusement, trifling for an hour ; 
 
 " And now a fox, on secret mischief bent, 
 " And now an owlet, gloating from his bower ; 
 " And watchful in his guilt, and gloomy in his power. 
 
 " He comes in every way that men can come, 
 " And now is garrulous, and now is dumb ; 
 
 " Heaven would not pain, and grief, and anguish 
 
 give, 
 " If man was not by discipline to live : 
 " xind for that brighter, better world prepare, 
 " That souls with souls, when purified, shall share, 
 " Those stains all done away, that must not enter 
 
 there. 
 
 " Home I return'd, with spirits in that state 
 " Of vacant woe, I strive not to relate, 
 " Nor how, deprived of all her hope and strength, 
 " My soul turn'd feebly to the world at lengtli. 
 " I travell'd then till health again resumed 
 " Its former seat — I must not say re-bloom'd : 
 " And then I fill'd, not loth, that favourite place 
 " That has enrich'd some seniors of our race ; 
 " Patient and dull I grew ; my uncle's praise 
 " Was largely dealt me on my better days ; 
 " A love of money — other love at rest — 
 " Came creeping on, and settled in mj' breast ; 
 *' The force of habit held me to the oar, 
 " Till I could relish what I scorn'd before : 
 " I now could talk and scheme with men of sense, 
 " Who deal for millions, and who sigh for pence ; 
 " And grew so like them, that I heard with joy 
 " Old Blueskin said I was a pretty boy ; 
 " For I possess'd the caution with the zeal 
 " That all true lovers of their interest feel : 
 " Exalted praise ! and to the creature due 
 " Who loves that interest solely to pursue. 
 
 " But I was sick, and sickness brought disgust; 
 " My peace I could not to my profits trust ; 
 " Again some views of brighter kind appear'd, 
 " My heart was humbled, and my mind was 
 
 clear'd ; 
 " I felt those helps that souls diseased restore, 
 " And that cold frenzy. Avarice, raged no more. 
 " From dreams of boundless wealth I then arose ; 
 " This place, the scene of infant bliss, I chose, 
 '' And here I And relief, and here I seek repose. 
 
 " Yet much is lost, and not yet much is found, 
 " But what remains, I would believe, is sound : 
 " That first wild passion, that last mean desire, 
 " Are felt no more : but holier hopes require 
 " A mind prepared and steady — my reform 
 " Has fears like his, who, suffering in a storm, 
 " Is on a rich but unknoMTi country cast, 
 " The future fearing, while he feels the past ; 
 " But whose more cheerful mind, with hope imbued, 
 " Sees through receding clouds the rising good." - 
 
 " In some takes instant root, and grows apace, 
 " In some his progress you can barely trace. 
 
 " At first a simple liking, and no more ; 
 "He sits considering, ' Do I love or not?' 
 
 "He seems a pleasing object to explore, 
 " As men appear to view a pleasing spot ; 
 " Then forms a wish that Heaven would fix his lot 
 
 " In that same plai-e, and then besins regret 
 " TTiat 't is not so — but may tlie prize be got ? 
 
 " Then comes the anxious strife that prize to get, 
 
 "And then 'tis all he wants, and he must have it yet. 
 " So then lie kneels, and weeps, and begs, and sighs, 
 " Hangs on the looks, and tn^mliles in the eyes ; 
 " Is all with hope and t^iuleriiess possess'd, 
 " Entirely wTetched till supremely bless'd,"T 
 
 2e2 
 
412 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 Morning Walk and Conversation — ^Visit at a Cottage — Cha- 
 racters of tlie Sisters — Lucy and Jane — Tlieir Lovers — 
 Tlieir Friend the Banlier and liis Lady — Tlieir Intimacy — 
 Its Consequence — Different Conduct of tlie Lovers — The 
 EITect upon tlie Sisters — Tlieir present State— The In- 
 fluence of their Fortune upon the minds of either. 
 
 The morning shone in cloudless beauty bright ; 
 Kichard his letters read with much delight ; 
 George from his pillow rose in happy tone, 
 His bosom's lord sat lightly on his throne : 
 They read the morning news — they saw the sky 
 Inviting call'd them, and the earth was dry. 
 
 " The day invites us, Brother," said the Squire ; 
 " Come, and I '11 show thee something to admire : 
 " We still may beauty in our prospects trace ; 
 " If not, we have them in both mind and face. 
 
 " 'Tis but two miles— to let such women live 
 " Unseen of him, what reason can I give ? 
 " Why should not Kichard to the girls be known ? 
 " Would I have all their friendship for my own? 
 
 " Brother, there dwell, yon northern hill below, 
 " Two favourite maidens, whom 't is good to know : 
 " Young, but experienced ; dwellers in a cot, 
 " Where they sustain and dignify their lot ; 
 " The best good girls in all our world below — 
 " O ! you must know them — Come I and you shall 
 know. 
 
 " But, lo ! the morning wastes — here, Jacob, 
 stir — • 
 " If Phoebe comes, do you attend to her ; 
 " And let not Mary get a chattering press 
 " Of idle girls to hear of her distress ; 
 " Ask her to wait till my return — and hide 
 " From her meek mind your plenty and your pride ; 
 " Nor vex a creature, humble, sad, and still, 
 " By your coarse bounty, and your rude good-will." 
 
 This said, the Brothers hasten'd on their way, 
 With all the foretaste of a pleasant day. 
 The morning purpose in the mind had fix'd 
 The leading thought, and that with others mi.\'d. 
 
 How well it is, 
 
 'when 
 
 said George, 
 possess 
 " The strength that bears us up in our distress ; 
 " And need not the resources of our pride, 
 " Our fall from greatness and our wants to hide ; 
 
 [Originally : — 
 
 " Oh I that we had the virtuous pride to show 
 " We know ourselves what all about us know ; 
 " Nor, wlien our board contains a sint'le dish, 
 " Tell lying tales of market-men and fish I 
 " We know 't is hard from liij^hcr views to fall — 
 " Wliat is not hard wlieu life is trial all ?"] 
 
 we 
 
 " But have the spirit and the wish to show^ 
 " We know our wants as well as others know. 
 " 'Tis true, the rapid turns of fortune's wheel 
 " JMake even the virtuous and the humble feel: 
 " They for a time must suffer, and but few 
 " Can bear their sorrows and our pity too. 
 
 " Hence all these small expedients, day by day, 
 " Are used to hide the evils they betray : 
 " When, if our pity chances to be seen, 
 " The wounded pride retorts, with anger keen, 
 " And man's insulted grief takes refuge in his 
 spleen. 
 
 ** When Timon's board contains a single dish, 
 " Timon talks much of market-men and fish, 
 " Forgetful servants, and th' infernal cook, 
 " Who always spoil'd whate'er she undertook. 
 
 " But say, it tries us from our height to fall, 
 " Yet is not life itself a trial all ? ' 
 " And not a virtue in the bosom lives, 
 " That gives such ready pay as patience gives ; 
 " That pure submission to the ruling mind, 
 " Fix'd, but not forced ; obedient, but not blind ; 
 " The will of Heaven to make her own she tries, 
 " Or makes her own to Heaven a sacrifice. 
 
 " And is there aught on earth so rich or rare, 
 " Whose pleasures may with virtues pains com- 
 pare ? 
 " This fruit of patience, this the pure delight, 
 " That 'tis a trial in her Judge's sight ; 
 " Her part still striving duty to sustain, 
 " Not spurning pleasure, not defying pain ; 
 " Never in triumph till her race be won, 
 " And never fainting till her work be done." * 
 
 With thoughts like these they reach'd the village 
 brook. 
 And saw a lady sitting with her book ; 
 And so engaged, she heard not till the men 
 Were at her side, nor was she frighten'd then ; 
 But to her friend, the Squire, his smile return'd, 
 Through which the latent sadness he discern'd. 
 The stranger-brother at the cottage door 
 Was now admitted, and was strange no more : 
 Then of an absent sister he was told. 
 Whom they were not at present to behold ; 
 Something was said of nerves, and that disease 
 Whose varying powers on mind and body seize. 
 Enfeebling both ! — Here chose they to remain 
 One hour in peace, and then return'd again. 
 " I know not why," said Richard, " but I feel 
 " The warmest pity on my bosom steal 
 " For that dear maid ! How well her looks express 
 " For this world's good a cherish'd hopelessness ! 
 " A resignation that is so entire, 
 " It feels not now the stirrings of desire ; 
 
 2 [Here follows in MS. :— 
 
 " Hut I dii;rpss, dear Kichard, who despise 
 
 " Tellers of tales, who stop and moralize ; 
 
 " A< some good editors of Ivsop used 
 
 " Their privilege, and readers' sense abused ; 
 
 " Who linlf a page to write their fable took, 
 
 " And just a piige and liall' to swell tlieir book. 
 
 " Hut lo lliat gentle i eing I return, 
 
 " .\nd as I treat of patience, let me learn."J 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 413 
 
 '• "What now to her is all the world esteems ? 
 " She is awake and cares not for its dreams ; 
 " But moves while yet on earth, as one above 
 " Its hopes and fears — its loathing and its love. 
 
 " But shall I learn," said he, " these sisters' 
 fate?"— 
 And found his Brother willing to relate. 
 
 " The girls were orphans early ; yet I saw, 
 " When young, their father^his profession law ; 
 " He left them but a competence, a store 
 " That made his daughters neither rich nor poor; 
 " Not rich, compared with some who dwelt around ; 
 " Not poor, for want they neither fear'd nor found : 
 " Their guardian uncle was both kind and just, 
 " One whom a parent might in dying trust ; 
 " Who, in their youth, the trusted store improved, 
 " And, when he ceased to guide them, fondly 
 
 loved. 
 " These sister beauties were in fact the grace 
 " Of yon small town, — it was their native place ; 
 " Like Saul's famed daughters were the lovely 
 
 twain,* 
 " As Micah Lucy, and as Merab Jane : * 
 " For this was tall, with free commanding air ; 
 " And that was mild, and delicate, and fair. 
 
 " Jane had an arch delusive smile, that charm'd 
 " And threaten'd too ; alluring, it alarm'd ; 
 " The smile of Lucy her approval told, 
 " Cheerful, not changing ; neither kind nor cold. 
 
 " When children, Lucy love alone possess'd ; 
 " Jane was more punish'd and was more caress'd : 
 " If told the childisli wishes, one bespoke 
 " A lamb, a bird, a garden, and a brook ; 
 " The other wish'd a joy unknown, a rout 
 " Or crowded ball, and to be fii'st led out. 
 
 " Lucy loved all that grew upon the ground, 
 " And loveliness in all things living found ; 
 " The gilded fly, the fern upon the wall, 
 " Were nature's works, and admirable all ; 
 " Pleased with indulgence of so cheap a kind, 
 " Its cheapness never discomposed her mind. 
 
 " Jane had no liking for such things as these ; 
 " Things pleasing her must her superiors please : 
 " The costly flower was precious in her eyes, 
 " That skill can vary, or that money buys ; 
 " Her taste was good, but she was still afraid, 
 " Till fashion sanctiou'd the remarks she made. 
 
 " The Sisters read, and Jane with some delight, 
 " The satires keen that fear or rage excite, 
 
 3 [MS. :— 
 
 " Like Saul's fair dangl\ters, as by Cowley sung ; 
 " Not from a monarch, but a yeoman sprung."] 
 
 * [" Like two bright eyes in a fair body placed, 
 
 Saul's royal house two beauteous daughters graced ; 
 Merab the first, Michel the younger named. 
 Both equally for different glories famed. 
 
 " That men in power attack, and ladies high, 
 
 " And give broad hints that we may know them 
 
 by. 
 
 " She was amused when sent to haunted rooms, 
 
 " Or some dark passage where the spirit comes 
 
 " Of one once murder'd ! then she laughing read, 
 
 " And felt at once the folly and the dread : 
 
 " As rustic girls to crafty gipsies fly, 
 
 " And trust the liar though they fear the lie ; 
 
 " Or as a patient, urged by grievous pains, 
 
 " Will fee the daring quack whom he disdains ; 
 
 " So Jane was pleased to see the beckoning hand, 
 
 " And trust the magic of the BatclifFe-wand. 
 
 " In her religion — for her mind, though light, 
 " Was not disposed our better views to slight — • 
 " Her favourite authors were a solemn kind, 
 " Who fill with dark mysterious thoughts the 
 
 mind ; 
 " And who with such conceits her fancy plied, 
 " Became her friend, philosopher, and guide. 
 
 " She made the Progress of the Pilgrim one 
 " To build a thousand pleasant views upon ; 
 " All that connects us with a world above 
 " She loved to fancy, and she long'd to prove : 
 " Well would the i^oet please her who could lead 
 " Her fancy forth, yet keep untouch'd her creed. 
 
 " Led by an early custom, Lucy spied, 
 " When she awaked, the Bible at her side ; 
 " That, ere she ventured on a world of care, 
 " She might for trials, joys, or pains prepare, 
 " For every dart a shield, a guard for every snare. 
 
 " She read not much of high heroic deeds, 
 " Where man the measure of man's power ex- 
 ceeds ; 
 " But gave to luckless love and fate severe 
 " Her tenderest pity and her softest tear. 
 " She mix'd not faith with fable, but she trod 
 " Right onward, cautious in the ways of God ; 
 " Nor did she dare to launch on seas unknown, 
 " In search of truths by some adventurers shown, 
 " But her own compass used, and kept a course 
 her own. 
 
 " The maidens both their loyalty declared, 
 " And in the glory of their country shared ; 
 '■ But Jane that glory felt with proud delight, 
 " When England's foes were vanquish'd in the 
 
 fight; 
 " While Lucy's feelings for the brave who bled 
 " Put all such glorious triumphs from her head. 
 
 " They both were frugal : Lucy from the fear 
 " Of wasting that which want esteems so dear. 
 
 Merab with spacious beauty fill'd the sight, 
 Hut too much awe chastised the bold delight. 
 Like a calm sea, which to tli' enlarged view- 
 Gives pleasure, but gives fear and reverence too; 
 Michel's sweet loolcs clear and free joys did move. 
 And no less strong, though much more gentle, love," &c. 
 
 Cowley, Davideis.1 
 
414 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " But finds so scarce ; her sister from the pain 
 '• Tliat springs from want, when treated with dis- 
 dain. 
 
 " Jane borrow'd maxims from a doubting school, 
 " And took for truth the test of ridicule ; 
 " Lucy saw no such virtue in a jest, 
 " Truth was with her of ridicule a test. 
 
 " They loved each other with the warmth of 
 
 youth, 
 " With ardour, candour, tenderness, and truth ; 
 " And though their pleasures were not just the 
 
 same, 
 " Yet both were pleased whenever one became ; 
 " Nay, each would rather in the act rejoice 
 " That was th' adopted, not the native choice. 
 
 " Each had a friend, and friends to minds so 
 fond 
 " And good are soon united in the bond : 
 " Each had a lover ; but it seera'd that fate 
 " Decreed that these should not approximate. 
 
 " Now Lucy's lover was a prudent swain, 
 " And tliought, in all things, what would be his 
 
 gain ; 
 ' The younger sister first engaged his view, 
 ' But with her beauty lie her spirit knew : 
 ' Her face he much admired, ' But, put the case,' 
 ' Said he, ' I marry, what is then a face ? 
 ' ' At first it pleases to have drawn the lot ; 
 ' ' He then forgets it, but his wife does not: 
 ' ' Jane, too,' he judged, ' would be reserved and 
 
 nice, 
 " ' And many lovers had enhanced her price.' 
 
 " Thus, thinking much, but hiding what he 
 
 thouglit, 
 ' Tlip prudent lover Lucy's favour sought, 
 ' And he succeeded, — she was free from art ; 
 ' And his appear'd a gentle, guileless heart ; 
 ' Such she respected ; true, her sister found 
 ' His placid face too ruddy and too round, 
 ' Too cold and inexpressive ; such a face 
 ' Where you could nothing mark'd or manly 
 
 trace. 
 
 " But Lucy found him to his mother kind, 
 " And saw the Christian meekness of his mind ; 
 " His voice was soft, his temper mild and sweet, 
 " His mind was easy, and his person neat. 
 " Jane said he wanted courage ; Lucy drew 
 " No ill from that, tliough she believed it too : 
 " ' It is religious, Jane ; be not severe ;' 
 " ' Well, Lucy, then it is religious fear.' 
 " Nor could the sister, great as was her love, 
 " A man so lifeless and so cool approve. 
 
 5 [Original MS. :— 
 
 " Nrar to tlie village, whom tlipy now abiilc, 
 " In llicir own stylo— tlie vulvar callcil it prido— 
 " Dwelt the lair sisters : ^'oorl tliey were and kind, 
 " 'I'hat pryiiii; scandal scarcer could error lind, 
 
 " Jane had a lover, whom a lady's pride 
 " Might wish to see attending at her side ; 
 " Young, handsome, sprightly, and with good ad- 
 dross, 
 " Not mark'd for folly, error, or excess ; 
 " Yet not entirely from their censure free, 
 " Who judge our failings with severity ; 
 " The very care he took to keep his name 
 " Stainless, with some was evidence of shame. 
 
 " Jane heard of this, and she replied, ' Enough ; 
 " ' Prove but the facts, and I resist not proof; 
 " ' Nor is my heart so easy as to love 
 " ' The man my judgment bids me not approve,' 
 " But yet that heart a secret joy confess'd, 
 " To find no slander on the youth would rest ; 
 " His was, in fact, such conduct, that a maid 
 " Might think of marriage, and be not afraid ; 
 " And she was pleased to find a spirit high, 
 " Free from all fear, that spurn'd hypocrisy. 
 " ' What fears my sister ?' said the partial fair, 
 " For Lucy fcar'd, — ' Why tell me to beware? 
 " ' No smooth deceitful varnish can I find ; 
 " ' His is a spirit generous, free, and kind ; 
 " ' And all his flaws are seen, all floating in his 
 
 mind. 
 " ' A little boldness in his speech. What then? 
 " ' It is the failing of these generous men. 
 " ' A little vanity, but — Oh ! my dear, 
 " ' They all would show it, were they all sincere. 
 
 " ' But come, agreed ; we '11 lend each other 
 eyes 
 " ' To see our favourites, when they M-ear dis- 
 guise ; 
 " ' And all those errors that will then be sho\tTi 
 " ' Uninfluenced by the workings of our own.' 
 
 •' Thus lived the Sisters, far from power re- 
 moved, 
 " And far from need, both loving and beloved. 
 " Thus grew, as myrtles grow : I grieve at heart 
 " That 1 have pain and sorrow to impart.* 
 " But so it is, the sweetest herbs that grow 
 " In the lone vale, where sweetest waters flow, 
 " Ere drops the blossom, or appears the fruit, 
 " Feel the vile grub, and perish at the root ; 
 " And in a quick and premature decaj'', 
 " Breathe the pure fragrance of their life away. 
 
 " A town was near, in which the buildings all 
 " Were large, but one pre-eminently tall— 
 " A huge high house. Without there was an air 
 " Of lavish cost ; no littleness was there ; 
 " But room for servants, horses, whiskies, gigs. 
 " And walls for pines and peaches, grapes and figs: 
 " Bright on the sloping glass the sunbeams slione, 
 " And brought the summer of all climates on. 
 
 " Here wealth its prowess to tlie eye displny'd, 
 " And here advanced the seasons, there delay "d. 
 
 " And candour none : tliey spent, they spared, tljcy gave, 
 
 " .lust as they on^'ht to yive. to spare, to save ; 
 
 " I/ike two queen-myrtles in an artwiir's side, 
 
 " So they nliode, and so nii^'lit still abide, 
 
 " I?ut for a l)lii;htl it. wounds me at the heart, 
 
 " That I have grief and an^'uish to impart," ^c.^ 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 415 
 
 " Bid the due heat each growing sweet refine, 
 " Made the sun's l?ght with grosser fire combine, 
 •■ And to the Tropic gave the vigour of the Line. 
 
 " Yet, in the master of this wealtli, behold 
 ■' A light vain coxcomb taken from liis gold, 
 " Whose busy brain was weak, wliose boasting 
 heart was cold. 
 
 " Oil ! how he talk'd to that believing to\\-n, 
 " That he would give it riches and renown ; 
 " Cause a canal where treasures were to swim, 
 " And they should owe their opulence to him ! 
 " In fact, of riches he ensured a crop, 
 " So they would give him but a seed to drop. 
 " As used the alchymist his boasts to make, 
 " ' I give you millions for the mite I take :' 
 " The mite they never could again behold, 
 " The millions all were Eldorado gold. 
 
 " By this professing man, the country round 
 " Was search'd to see where money could be 
 found. 
 
 " The thriven farmer, who had lived to spare, 
 " Became an object of especial care ; 
 " lie took the frugal tradesman by the hand, 
 '• And wish'd him joy of what he might command ; 
 " And the industrious servant who had laid 
 " His saving by, it was his joy to aid ; 
 " Large talk and hints of some productive plan, 
 '• Half named, won all his hearers to a man ; 
 " Uncertain projects drew them wondering on, 
 " And avarice listen'd till distrust was gone. 
 
 " But when to these dear girls he found his way, 
 " All easy, artless, innocent were they ; 
 " When he compell'd his foolish wife to be 
 " At once so great, so humble, and so free ; 
 " Whom others sought, nor always with success I 
 " But they were both her pride and happiness; 
 " And she esteem'd them, but attended still 
 " To the vile purpose of her husband's will ; 
 " And when she fix'd his snares about their mind, 
 " Respected those whom she essay'd to blind : 
 " Nay, with esteem she some compassion gave 
 " To the fair victims whom she would not save. 
 " The Banker's wealth and kindness were her 
 
 themes, 
 '■ His generous plans, his patriotic schemes; 
 •• What he had done for some, a favourite few, 
 '• What for his favourites still he meant to do : 
 '• Not that he always listen'd — which \\as hard — 
 " To her, when speaking of her great regard 
 " For certain friends — ' But you, as I may saJ^ 
 " ' Are his own choice — I am not jealous, nay !' 
 
 " Then came the Man himself, and came witli 
 speed, 
 " As just from business of importance freed, 
 " Or just escaping, came with looks of fire, 
 " As if he 'd just attain'd his full desire ; 
 " As if Prosperity and he for life 
 " Were wed, and he was showing off his wife ; 
 " Pleased to display his influence, and to prove 
 " Himself the object of her partial love : 
 
 ' Perhaps with this was join'd the latent fear, 
 
 ' The time would come when he should not be dear. 
 
 " Jane laugh'd at all their visits and parade, 
 ■' And call'd it friendship in a hothouse made ; 
 ■ A style of friendship suited to his taste, 
 ' Brought on, and ripen'd like his grapes, in haste ; 
 ' She saw the wants that wealth in vain would hide, 
 ' And all the tricks and littleness of pride : 
 ' On all the wealth would creep the vulgar stain, 
 ' And grandeur strove to look itself in vain. 
 
 " Lucy perceived — but she replied, ' Why heed 
 ''Such small defects? — they're very kind in- 
 deed ! ' 
 ' And kind they were, and ready to produce 
 ' Their easy friendship, ever fit for use— 
 ' Friendship that enters into all affairs, 
 ' And daily wants, and daily gets, repairs. 
 
 " Hence at the cottage of the Sisters stood 
 ' The Banker's steed — he was so very good ; 
 ' Oft through the roads, in weather foul or fair, 
 ' Their friend's gay cai'riage bore the gentle pair : 
 ' His grapes and nectarines woo'd the virgins' 
 
 hand, 
 ' His books and roses were at their command ; 
 ' And costly flowers, — he took upon him shame 
 ' That he could purchase what he could not name. 
 
 " Lucy was vex'd to have such favours shown, 
 ' And they returning nothing of their own ; 
 ' Jane smiled and begg'd her sister to believe, — 
 • ' We give at least as much as we receive.' 
 
 " Alas ! and more : they gave their ears and eyes ; 
 ' His splendour ofttimes took them by surprise ; 
 ' And if in Jane appeard a meaning smile, 
 ' She gazed, admired, and paid respect the while. 
 ' AVould she had rested there ! deluded maid I 
 ' She saw not yet the fatal price she paid ; 
 ' Saw not that wealth, though join'd with folly, 
 
 grew 
 ' In her regard : she smiled, but listen'd too ; 
 ' Nay, would be grateful, she would trust her all, 
 ' Her funded source, to him — a matter small; 
 ' Taken for their sole use, and ever at their call — 
 ' To be improved — he knew not how indeed, 
 " But he had methods — and they must succeed. 
 
 " This was so good, that Jane, in very pride, 
 " To spare him trouble, for a while denied ; 
 " ,\nd Lucy's prudence, though it was alarm'd, 
 " Was by the splendour of the Banker charm'd ; 
 " What was her paltry thousand pounds to him, 
 " Who would expend five thousand on a whim ? 
 " And then the portion of the wife was known ; 
 " But not that she reserved it for her own. 
 
 " Lucy her lover trusted with the fact, 
 " And frankly ask'd, if he approved the act. 
 " 'It promised well,' he said ; ' he could not tell 
 " ' How it might end, but sure it promised well ; 
 " ' He had himself a trifle in tl.e Bank, 
 " ' And should be sore uneasy if it sank.' 
 
 " Jane from her lover had no wish to hide 
 " Her deed, but was withheld by maid«n pride ; 
 
416 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " To talk so early — as if one were sure 
 
 " Of bciuj? his ! she could not that endure. 
 
 " But wlien the sisters were apart, and when 
 
 " They freoly spoke of their aftairs and men, 
 
 " They thought with pleasure of the sum improved, 
 
 " And so presented to the men they loved. 
 
 " Things now proceeded in a quiet train ; 
 " No cause appear'd to murmur or complain : 
 " The money'd man, his ever-smiling dame, 
 " And their young darlings, in their carriage came : 
 " Jane's sprightly lover smiled their pomp to see, 
 " And ate their grapes with gratitude and glee, 
 " But with the freedom there was nothing mean, 
 " Humble, or forward, in his freedom seen; 
 " llis was the frankness of a mind that shows 
 " It knows itself, nor fears for what it knows: 
 " But Lucy's ever humble friend was awed 
 " By the profusion he could not applaud ; 
 " He seem'd indeed reluctant to partake 
 " Of the collation that he could not make ; 
 " And this was pleasant in the maiden's view^ 
 " Was modesty — was moderation too ; 
 " Though Jane esteem'dit meanness; and she saw 
 " Fear in that prudence, avarice in that awe. 
 
 " But both the lovers now to town are gone, 
 " By business one is call'd, by duty one ; 
 " While rumour rises — whether false or true 
 " The ladies knew not — it was known to few — 
 " But fear there was, and on their guardian friend 
 " They for advice and comfort would depend, 
 " When rose the day ; meantime from Belmont- 
 
 place 
 " Came vile report, predicting quick disgrace.'^ 
 
 " ' Twas told — the servants, who had met to 
 
 thank 
 " Their lord for placing money in his Bank — 
 " Their kind free master, who such wages gave, 
 " And then increased whatever they could save — ■ 
 " They who had heard they should their savings 
 
 lose, 
 " Were weeping, swearing, drinking at the news ; 
 " And still the more they drank, the more they 
 
 wept, 
 " And swore, and rail'd, and threaten'd, till they 
 
 slept. 
 
 " The morning truth confirm'd the evening dread ; 
 " The Bank was broken, and the Banker Hed ; 
 " But left a promise that his friends should have, 
 " To the last shilling — what his fortunes gave. 
 
 " The evil tidings reach'd the sister-pair, 
 " And one like Sorrow look'd, and one Despair : 
 " They from each other turn'd th' afflicting look, 
 " And loth and late the painful silence broke. 
 
 " ' The odious villain !' Jane in wrath began ; 
 " In pity Lucy, ' Tlie uniiai)py man ! 
 
 [Here follows in the ori;,'in.il MS. : — 
 
 " Thus fill'd witli fear, that evenin;,' they attend 
 
 " To his last home an ancient villaye-fiiend ; 
 
 " Ami they, reflecfin;; on the old man's days, 
 
 " Who livi'nj; had tlieir love, and now their praise, 
 
 '• ' When time and reason our affliction heal, 
 " ' How will the author of our sufferings feel ? ' 
 
 U i 
 U ( 
 
 I( i 
 
 (( ( 
 
 it i 
 
 An<l let him feci, mj' sister, — let the woes 
 That he creates be bane to his repose ! 
 Let them be felt in his expiring hour. 
 When death brings all his dread, and sin its 
 power : 
 " ' Then let the busy foe of mortal state 
 " ' The pangs he caused, his own to aggravate ! 
 " ' Wretch ! when our life was glad, our prospects 
 
 " ' With savage hand to sweep them all awaj- 1 
 " ' And he must know it — know when he beguiled 
 " ' His easy victims — how the villain smiled ! 
 
 " ' Oh ! my dear Lucy, could I see him crave 
 " ' The food denied, a beggar and a slave, 
 " ' To stony hearts he should with tears apply, 
 " ' And Pity's self withhold the struggling sigli ; 
 " ' Or if relenting weakness should extend 
 " ' Th' extorted scrap that justice would not lend, 
 " ' Let it be poison'd by the curses deep 
 " ' Of every wretch whom he compels to weep !' 
 
 " ' Nay, my sweet sister, if you thought such 
 pain 
 Were his, your pity would awake again : 
 Your generous heart the wretch's grief would 
 feel, 
 " ' And you would soothe the pangs j'ou could not 
 heal.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! never, never, — I would still contrive 
 " ' To keep the slave whom I abhorr'd alive ; 
 " ' His tortured mind with horrid fears to fill, 
 " ' Disturb his reason, and misguide his will ; 
 " ' Heap coals of fire, to lie like melted lead, 
 " ' Heavy and hot, on his accursed head ; 
 " ' Not coals that mercy kindles hearts to melt, 
 " ' But he should feel them hot as fires are felt; 
 " ' Corroding ever, and through life the same, 
 " ' Strong self-contempt and ever-burning shame ; 
 " ' Let him so wretched live that he may fly 
 " ' To desperate thoughts, and be resolved to 
 
 die — 
 " ' And then let death such frightful visions give, 
 " ' That he may dread the attcmj)t, and beg to live ! ' 
 
 " So spake th' indignant maiil, when Lucy 
 sigh'd, 
 " And, waiting softer times, no more replied. 
 
 " Barlow was then in town ; and there he 
 thought 
 " Of bliss to come, and bargains to be bought ; 
 " And was returning homeward — when he foun<l 
 " The Bank was broken, and his venture drown'd. 
 
 " ' Ah ! foolish maid,' he cried, ' and what wilt 
 thou 
 " ' Say for thy friends and their excesses now ? 
 
 " Tliat [,'ood old man, with so much native sense, 
 " Sucl'. iiealt)i and ease, sucli lione witli competence ; 
 " They could Imt own, il'siu-li sliould be tlicir lot, 
 " They sliould be thankfid 1— it, alai! wa^ not."] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 417 
 
 " ' AH now is brought completely to an end : 
 " ' What can the spendthrift now afford to spend ? 
 " ' Had my advice been — true, I gave consent ; 
 " ' The thing was purposed ; what could I pre- 
 vent ? 
 
 " ' "Who will her idle taste for flowers supply ? — 
 " ' Who send her grapes and peaches ? let her 
 
 try : — 
 " ' There's none will give her, and she cannot buy. 
 " ' Yet would she not be grateful if she knew 
 " ' What to my faith and generous love was due ? 
 " ' Daily to see the man who took her hand, 
 " ' W'hen she had not a sixpence at command ; 
 " ' Could I be sure that such a quiet mind 
 " ' Would be for ever grateful, mild, and kind, 
 " ' I might comply — but how will Bloomer act 
 " ' When he becomes acquainted with the fact ? 
 " ' The loss to him is trifling — but the fall 
 " ' From independence, that to her is all : 
 " ' Now, should he marry, 't ^nll be shame to me 
 " ' To hold myself from my engagement free ; 
 " ' And should he not, it will be double grace 
 " ' To stand alone in such a ti-ying case. 
 
 " ' Come then, my Lucy, to thy faithful heart 
 " ' And humble love I will my views impart ; 
 " ' Will see the grateful tear that softly steals 
 " ' Down thy fair face, and all thy joy reveals ; 
 " ' And when I say it is a blow severe, 
 " ' Then will I adii — Restrain, my love, the tear. 
 '■ ' And take this heart, so faithful and so fond, 
 '• ' Still bound to thine — and fear not for that 
 bond.' 
 
 " He said ; and went with purpose, he believed, 
 '• Of generous nature— so is man deceived. 
 " Lucy determined that her lover's eye 
 " Should not distress nor supplication spy — 
 " That in her manner he should nothing find 
 " To indicate the weakness of her mind. 
 
 " He saw no eye that wept, no frame that shook, 
 " No fond appeal was made by word or look ; 
 " Kindness there was, but join'd with some re- 
 straint, 
 " And traces of the late event were faint. 
 
 " He look'd for grief deploring, but perceives 
 " No outward token that she longer grieves ; 
 " He had expected for his efforts praise, 
 " For he resolved the drooping mind to raise ; 
 " She would, he judged, be humble, and afraid 
 " That he might blame her rashness and upbraid ; 
 " And lo ! he finds lier in a quiet state, 
 " Her spirit easy and her air sedate ; 
 " As if her loss was not a cause for pain, 
 " As if assured that he would make it gain. 
 
 " Silent a while, he told the morning news, 
 " And what he judged they might expect to lose ; 
 " He thought himself, whatever some might boast, 
 " The composition would be small at most ; 
 " Some shabby matter, — she would see no more 
 " The tithe of what she held in hand before. 
 
 " How did her sister feel ? and did she think 
 " Bloomer was honest, and would never shrink ? 
 " ' But why tnat smile ? is loss like yours so light 
 " ' That it can aught like merriment excite ? 
 " ' W^ell, he is rich, we know, and can afford 
 " ' To please his fancy and to keep his word ; 
 " ' To him 't is nothing ; had he now a fear, 
 " ' He must the meanest of his sex appear ; 
 " ' But the true honour, as I judge the case, 
 " ' Is both to feel the evil, and embrace.' 
 
 " Here Barlow stopp'd, a little vex'd to see 
 " No fear or hope, no dread or ecstasy : 
 " Calmly she spoke — ' Your prospects, sir, and 
 
 mine, 
 " ' Are not the same, — their union I decline ; 
 " ' Could I believe the hand for which you strove 
 " ' Had yet its value, — did you truly love, — 
 " ' I had with thanks address'd j'ou, and replied, 
 " ' Wait till your feelings and my own subside ; 
 " ' Watch your affections, and, if still they live, 
 " ' What pride denies, my gratitude shall give ; 
 " ' E'en then, in yielding, 1 had first believed 
 " ' That I conferr'd the favour, not received. 
 " ' You I release — nay, hear me — I impart 
 " ' Joy to your soul, — I judge not of your heart. 
 " ' Think'st thou a being, to whom God has lent 
 " ' A feeling mind, will have her bosom rent 
 " ' By man's reproaches ? Sorrow will be thine, 
 " ' For all thy pity prompts thee to resign I 
 " ' Think'st thou that meekness' self would con- 
 descend 
 " ' To take the husband when she scorns the 
 
 friend ? 
 " ' Forgive the frankness, and rejoice for life, 
 " ' Thou art not burthen'd with so poor a wife. 
 
 " ' Go ! and be happy — tell, for the applause 
 " ' Of hearts like thine, we parted ; and the cause 
 " ' Give, as it pleases.' With a foolish look 
 " That a dull schoolboy fixes on his book 
 " That he resigns, with mingled shame and joy, 
 " So Barlow went, confounded like the boy. 
 
 " Jane, while she wept to think her sister's pain 
 " Was thus increased, felt infinite disdain ; 
 " Bound as she was, and wedded by the ties 
 " Of love and hope, that care and craft despise, 
 " She could but wonder that a man, whose taste 
 " And zeal for money had a Jew disgraced, 
 " Should love her sister ; yet with this surprise 
 " She felt a little exultation rise ; 
 " Hers was a lover who had always held 
 " Tl:is man as base, by generous scorn impell'd ; 
 " And yet as one of whom, for Lucy's sake, 
 " He would a civil distant notice take. 
 
 " Lucy, with sadden'd heart and temper mild, 
 " Bow'd to correction, like an humbled child 
 " Who feels the parent's kindness, and who knows 
 " Such the correction he who loves bestows. 
 
 " Attending always, but attending more 
 " When sorrow ask'd his presence, than before, 
 " TenJtr and ardent, with the kindest air, 
 " Came Bloomer, fortune's error to repair ; 
 " Words sweetly soothing spoke the happy youth, 
 " With all the tender earnestness of truth. 
 
418 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " There was no doubt of his intention now — 
 " lie will his purpose with his love avow: 
 " So judged the maid ; yet, waiting, she admired 
 " His still delaying wliat he most desired; 
 " Till, from her spirit's agitation free, 
 " She might determine when the day should be. 
 " With such facility the partial min<l 
 " Can the best motives for its favourites find. 
 " Of this he spake not, but he stay'd beyond 
 " His usual hour — attentive still and fond ; — 
 " The hand yet firmer to the hand he press'd, 
 " And the eye rested where it loved to rest ; 
 " Then took he certain freedoms, yet so small 
 " That it was prudish so the things to call ; 
 " Things they were not — ' Describe ' — that none 
 
 can do, 
 " They had been nothing had they not been new ; 
 " It was the manner and the look ; a maid, 
 " Afraid of such, is foolishly afraid ; 
 " For what could she explain ? The piercing eye 
 " Of jealous fear could nought amiss descry. 
 
 " But some concern now rose ; the youth would 
 seek 
 " Jane by herself, and then would nothing speak, 
 " Before not spoken ; there was still delay, 
 " Vexatious, wearying, wasting, day by day. 
 
 " ' He does not surely trifle I' Heaven forbid ! 
 " She now should doubly scorn him if he did. 
 
 " Ah ! more than this, unlucky girl ! is thine ; 
 " Thou must the fondest views of life resign ; 
 " And in the very time resign them too, 
 " "When they were brightening on the eager view. 
 " I will be brief, — nor have I heart to dwell 
 " On crimes they almost share who paint them 
 well. 
 
 " There was a moment's softness, and it seera'd 
 " Discretion slept, or so the lover dream'd ; 
 " And watching long the now confiding maid, 
 " He though her guardlcss, and grew less afraid; 
 " Led to the theme that lie had shunn'd before, 
 " He used a language he must use no more — 
 " For if it answers, there is no more newl, 
 " And no more trial should it not succeed. 
 
 " Then made he that attempt, in which to fail 
 " Is shameful, — still more shameful to prevail. 
 
 " Then was there lightning in that eye that shed 
 " Its beams upon him, — and his frenzy flc<l ; 
 " Abject and trembling at her feet he laid, 
 " Despised and scorn'd by the indignant maid, 
 " "Whose spirits in their agitation rose, 
 " Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose : 
 " As liquid silver in the tube mounts high, 
 " Then shakes and settles as the storm goes by. 
 
 " While yet the lover stny'd, the maid was 
 
 strong, 
 " But when he fled, she droop'd and felt the 
 
 wi-ong — ■ 
 " Felt tlie alarming chill, th' enfeebled breath, 
 " Closed tlie quick eye, and sank in transient 
 
 death. 
 
 " So Lucy found her; and then first that breast 
 " Knew anger's power, and own'd the stranger 
 guest. 
 
 " ' And is this love ? Ungenerous ! Has he too 
 " ' Been mean and abject ? Is no being true ?' 
 " For Lucy judged that, like her prudent swain, 
 " Bloomer had talk'd of what a nan might gain ; 
 *' She did not tliink a man on earth was found, 
 " A wounded bosom, while it bleeds, to wound ; 
 " Thought not that mortal could be so unjust 
 " As to deprive affliction of its trust ; 
 " Thought not a lover could the hope enjoy, 
 " That must the peace, he should promote, de- 
 stroy ; 
 " Thought not, in fact, that in the world were 
 
 those 
 " Who to their tenderest friends are worse than 
 
 foes, 
 " Who win the heart, deprive it of its care, 
 " Then plant remorse and desolation there. 
 
 " Ah ! cruel he who can that heart deprive 
 " Of all that keeps its energy alive ; 
 " Can see consign'd to shame the trusting fair, 
 " And turn confiding fondness to despair ; 
 " To watch that time — a name is not assign'd 
 " For crime so odious, nor shall learning find. 
 
 " Now, from that day, has Lucy laid aside 
 " Her proper cares, to be her sister's guide, 
 " Guard, and protector. At their uncle's farm 
 " They pass'd the period of their first alarm, 
 " But soon retired, nor was he grieved to learn 
 " They made tlieir own atTairs their own concern. 
 
 " I knew not then their worth ; and, had I 
 known, 
 " Could not the kindness of a friend have shown ; 
 " For men they dreaded ; — they a dwelling sought, 
 " And there the children of the village taught ; 
 " Tlicre, firm and patient, Lucy still depends 
 " Upon her efforts, not upon her friends ; 
 " She is with persevering strength endued, 
 " And can be cheerful — for she will be good. 
 
 " Jane too will strive the daily tasks to share, 
 " That so employment may contend with care : 
 " Not power, but will, she shows, and looks about 
 " On her small people, who come in and out; 
 " And seems of what they need, or ite can do, in 
 doubt. 
 
 " There sits the chubby crew on seats around, 
 " Wliile she, all rueful at tlie sight and sound, 
 " Shrinks from the free approaches of the tribe, 
 " Whom she attempts lamenting to describe, 
 " With stains the idlers gather'd in their way, 
 " The simple stains of mud, and mould, and clay, 
 " And compound of tlie streets, of what we dare 
 
 not sny ; 
 " With hair uncomb'd, grimed face, and piteous 
 
 look, 
 " Each heavy student takes the odious book, 
 " And on the Indy casts a glance of fear, 
 " Who draws the garment close as he comes near; 
 " She then for Lucy's mild forbearance tries, 
 " And from her pupils turns her brilliant eyw, 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 419 
 
 •• Making new efforts, and with some success, 
 '' To pay attention while the students guess ; 
 " Who to tho gentler mistress fain would glide 
 " And dread their station at the lady's side. 
 
 " Such is their fate : — there is a friendly few 
 " Whom they receive, and there is chance for you ; 
 " Their school, and something gather'd from the 
 
 wreck 
 " Of that bad Bank, keeps poverty in check ; 
 " And true respect and high regard are theirs, 
 " The children's profit, and the parents' prayers. 
 
 " With Lucy rests the one peculiar care, 
 " That few must see, and none with her may share ; 
 " More dear than hope can be, more sweet than 
 
 pleasures are. 
 " For her sad sister needs the care of love 
 " That will direct her, that will not reprove, 
 " But waits to warn ; for Jane will walk alone, 
 " Will sing in low and melancholy tone ; 
 " Will read or write, or to her plants will run 
 " To shun her friends, — alas ! her thoughts to 
 
 shun. 
 
 " It is not love alone disturbs her rest, 
 " But loss of all that ever hope possess'd ; 
 " Friends ever kind, life's lively pleasures, ease, 
 " When her enjoyments could no longer please — 
 " These were her comforts then ! she has no more 
 of these. 
 
 " Wrapt in such thoughts, she feels her mind 
 astray, 
 " But knows 't is true that she has lost her way ; 
 " For Lucy's smile will check the sudden flight, 
 " And one kind look lot in the wonted light. 
 
 " Fits of long silence she endures, then talks 
 " Too much — with too much ardour, as she walks ; 
 " But still the shrubs that she admires dispense 
 " Their balmy fi-eshness to the hurried sense, 
 " And she will watch their progress, and attend 
 " Her flowering favourites as a guardian friend ; 
 " To sun or shade she will her sweets remove, 
 " ' And here,' she says, ' I may with safety love.' 
 
 " But there are hours when on that bosom steals 
 " A rising terror, — then indeed she feels ;— 
 " Feels how she loved the promised good, and how 
 " She feels the failure of the promise now. 
 
 " ' That other spoiler did as robbers do, 
 " ' Made poor our state, but not disgraceful too, 
 " ' This spoiler shames me, and I look within 
 " ' To find some cause that drew him on to sin ; 
 " ' He and the wretch who could thy worth for- 
 sake 
 " ' Are the fork'd adder and the loathsome snake ; 
 " ' Thy snake could slip in villain-fear away, 
 " ' But had no fang to fasten on his prey. 
 
 " ' Oh ! my dear Lucy, I had thought to live 
 " ' With all the comforts easy fortunes give ; 
 " ' A wife caressing and caress'd — a friend, 
 " ' Whom wc would guide, advise, consult, de- 
 fend, 
 
 " ' And make his equal ; — then I fondly thought 
 " ' Among superior creatures to be brought ; 
 " ' And while with them, delighted to behold 
 " ' No eye averted, and no bosom cold ; — 
 " ' Then at my home, a mother, to embrace 
 
 " ' My Oh ! my sister, it was surely base ! 
 
 " ' I might forget the wrong ; I cannot the dis- 
 grace. 
 
 " ' Oh ! when I saw that triumph in his eyes, 
 " ' I felt my spirits with his own arise ; 
 " ' I call'd it joy, and said, The generous youth 
 " ' Laughs at my loss — no trial for his truth ; 
 " ' It is a trifle he can not lament, 
 " ' A sum but equal to his annual rent ; 
 " ' And yet that loss, the cause of every ill, 
 " ' Has made me poor, and him' ■ 
 
 " ' Oh ! poorer still ; 
 " ' Poorer, my Jane, and far below thee now : 
 " ' The injurer he, — the injured sufferer thou ; 
 " ' And shall such loss afllict thee ?' — 
 
 " ' Lose I not 
 " ' With him what fortune could in life allot ? 
 " ' Lose I not hope, life's cordial, and the views 
 " ' Of an aspiring spirit ? — O ! I lose 
 " ' Whate'er the happj' feel, whate'er the sanguine 
 
 choose. 
 " ' Would I could lose this bitter sense of wrong, 
 " ' And sleep in peace ! — but it will not be long ! 
 " ' And here is something, Lucy, in my brain, 
 " ' I know not what — it is a cure for pain, 
 " ' But is not death ! — no beckoning hand I see, 
 " ' No voice I hear, that comes alone to me ; 
 " ' It is not death, but change ; I am not now 
 " ' As I M'as once, — nor can I tell you how ; 
 " ' Nor is it madness ; ask, and you shall find 
 " ' In my replies the soundness of my mind : 
 " ' O ! I should be a trouble all day long — 
 " ' A very torment— if my head were wrong !' 
 
 " At times there is upon her features seen, 
 " What moves suspicion — she is too serene. 
 " Such is the motion of a drunken man, 
 " Who steps sedately, just to show he can. 
 " Absent at times, she will her mother call, 
 " And cry at mid-day, ' Then good night to all.' 
 
 " But most she thinks there will some good ensue 
 " From something done, or what slie is to do ; 
 " Long wrapt in silence, she will then assume 
 " An air of business, and shake off her gloom ; 
 " Then cry exulting, ' O ! it must succeed, 
 " ' There are ten thousand readers — all men read : 
 " ' There are my writings, — you shall never spend 
 " ' Your precious moments to so poor an end ; 
 " ' Our peasants' children may be taught by those 
 " ' AVho have no powers such wonders to compose ; 
 " ' So let me call them, — what the world allows, 
 " ' Surely a poet without shame avows. 
 " ' Come, let us count what numbers we believe 
 " ' Will buy our work — Ah ! sister, do you grieve ? 
 " ' You weep ; there 's something I have said 
 amiss. 
 
 And vex'd my sister — What a world is this ! 
 
 And how I wander ! — Where has fancy run ? 
 " ' Is there no poem ? Have I nothing done ? 
 
 ft < 
 
420 
 
 CRABBE S WORKS. 
 
 " ' Forgive me, Lucy ; I had fix'd my eye, 
 " ' And so my mind, on works that cannot die — 
 " ' Marmion and Lara yonder in the case ; 
 " ' And so I put me in the poet's place. 
 
 " ' Still, be not frighten'd ; it is but a dream ; 
 " ' I am not lost, bevvilder'd, though I seem ; 
 " ' I will obey thee — but suppress thy fear — 
 " ' I am at case,— then why that silly tear? ' ' 
 
 " Jane, as these melancholy fits invade 
 " The busy fancy, seeks the deepest shade ; 
 " She walks in ceaseless hurry, till her mind 
 " Will short repose in verse and music find ; 
 " Then her own songs to some soft tunes she sings, 
 " And laughs, and calls them melancholy things ; 
 " Not frenzy all ; in some her erring IMuse 
 " Will sad, afflicting, tender strains infuse : 
 " Sometimes on death she will her lines compose, 
 " Or give her serious page of solemn prose ; 
 " And still those favourite plants her fancy please, 
 " And give to care and anguish rest and ease. 
 
 " ' There will the lark,- 
 ' In air, — on earth. 
 
 " ' Let me not have this gloomy view 
 
 " ' About my room, around my bed ; 
 " ' But morning roses, wet with dew, 
 
 " ' To cool my burning brows instead. 
 " ' As flow'rs that once in Eden grew, 
 
 " ' Let them their fragrant spirits shed, 
 " ' And every day the sweets renew, 
 
 " ' Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 
 
 " ' Oh ! let the herbs I loved to rear 
 
 " ' Give to my sense their perfumed breath ; 
 " ' Let them be placed about my bier, 
 
 " ' And grace the gloomy house of death. 
 " ' I '11 have my grave beneath a hill, 
 
 " ' Where, only Lucy's self shall know ; 
 " ' Where runs the pure pellucid rill 
 
 " ' Upon its gravelly bed below ; 
 " ' There violets on the borders blow, 
 
 " ' And insects their soft light display, 
 " ' 'Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, 
 
 " ' The cold phosphoric fires decay. 
 
 " ' That is the grave to Lucy shown, 
 
 " ' The soil a pure and silver sand, 
 " ' The green cold moss above it grown, 
 
 " ' Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand : 
 " ' In virgin earth, till then unturn'd, 
 
 " ' There lot my maiden form be laid, 
 " ' Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, 
 
 " ' Nor for new guest that bed be made. 
 
 ' [Here follows in MS. : — 
 
 " I rend your looks, my lirotlifr ; you would jjive 
 " I>ar;;elv to these — they should in comfort live, 
 " Nor labour thus ; hut you would find it hard 
 " To gain assent: professions they rcj;ard 
 " As thi'ir experience bids tliem, and they run 
 " From ready love, as they would treachery shun ; 
 " Yet have I woo d tliem lonj;, and they attend 
 " With (.'rottif]},' trust— they treat me as a friend, 
 " And tall< of my probation ; hut afraid, 
 " Thev tal<e my counsel, liut refuse my aid. 
 «' Jane," &C.j 
 
 the lamb, in sport, 
 securely play, 
 " ' And Lucy to my grave resort, 
 " ' As innocent, but not so gay. 
 " ' I will not have the churchyard ground, 
 
 " ' With bones all black and ugly grown, 
 " To press my shivering body round, 
 " ' Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 
 
 " With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, 
 
 " ' In clammy beds of cold blue clay, 
 " ' Through which the ringed earth-worms creep, 
 
 " ' And on the shrouded bosom prey ; 
 " ' I will not have the bell proclaim 
 
 " ' When those sad marriage rites begin, 
 " ' And boys, without regard or shame, 
 
 " ' Press the vile mouldering masses in. 
 
 " ' Say not, it is beueath my care ; 
 
 " ' I cannot these cold truths allow ; 
 " ' These thoughts may not afflict me there, 
 
 " ' But, O ! they vex and tease me now. 
 " ' Raise not a turf, nor set a stone, 
 
 " ' That man a maiden's grave may trace, 
 " ' But thou, mj' Lucy, come alone, 
 
 " ' And let atfection find the place. 
 
 " ' Oh ! take me from a world I hate, 
 
 " ' Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ; 
 " ' And, in some pure and blessed state, 
 
 " ' Let me my sister minds behold : 
 " ' From gross and sordid views refined, 
 
 " ' Our heaven of spotless love to share, 
 " ' For only generous souls design'd, 
 
 " ' And not a man to meet us there.' " * 
 
 BOOK IX. 
 
 THE FRECEPTOK HUSBAND. 
 
 The Morning Ride — Conversation — Character of one whom 
 they meet — His early Habits and Mode of 'I'hinking— The 
 Wife wliom he would choose— The one chosen— His At- 
 tempts to teach — In History — In Holany — The Lady's Pro- 
 ficiency — His Complaint -Her Defence and Triumph — 
 The Trial ends. 
 
 " Whom pass'd we musing near the woodman's 
 
 shed, 
 " Wliose horse not only carried him, but led, 
 " That his grave rider might have slept the time, 
 " Or solved a problem, or composed a rhyme ? 
 
 8 [" The characters of the two Sisters are drawn with infi- 
 nite skill and luiuulpness, and their wliole story narrated with 
 great feeling and beauty. The efl'ects of their trials on their 
 dillVrent teuipiTS are also very finely described. Tlie gentler 
 Lucy is the most resigned and magnanimous Tlie more as- 
 piring Jane suIIVts far keener anguish and fiercer impatience; 
 and the task of soothing and cheering her devolves on her 
 generous sister. The wanderings of her reason are repre- 
 sented in a very affecting manner. The concluding stanzas 
 appear to us to he eminiMitly beautiful, and make us regret 
 tliat Mr Crabbe should have iiuhilgeil us so seldom with 
 those higher lyrical ell'usions."— Jkffbev.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 421 
 
 " A more abstracted man within my view 
 " Has never come — 'He recollected you." 
 
 " Yes, he was thoughtful — thinks the vrhole 
 day long, 
 " Deeply, and chiefly that he once thought wrong; 
 " He thought a strong and kindred mind .to trace 
 " In the soft outlines of a trifier's face. 
 
 " Poor Finch ! I knew him when at school, — a boy 
 " "Who might be said his labours to enjoy ; 
 " So young a pedant that he always took 
 " The girl to dance who most admired her book ; 
 " And would the butler and the cook surprise, 
 " Who listen'd to his Latin exercise ; 
 " The matron's self the praise of Finch avow'd, 
 "He was so serious, and he read so loud ; 
 " But yet, with all this folly and conceit, 
 " The lines he wrote were elegant and neat; 
 " And early promise in his mind appear'd 
 " Of noble efforts when by reason clear'd. 
 
 " And when he spoke of wives, the boy would 
 
 say, 
 " His should be skill'd in Greek and algebra ; 
 " For who would talk with one to whom his 
 
 themes, 
 " And favourite studies, were no more than 
 
 dreams ? 
 " For this, though courteous, gentle, and humane, 
 " The boys contemn'd and hated him as vain, 
 " Stiff, and pedantic." — 
 
 " Did the man enjoy, 
 " In after life, the visions of the boy ?" 
 
 " At least they form'd his wishes, they were yet 
 '' The favourite views on which his mind was set : 
 " He quaintly said, how happy must they prove, 
 " Who, loving, study — or who, studious, love; 
 " Who feel their minds with sciences imbued, 
 " And their warm hearts by beauty's force sub- 
 dued ! 
 
 " His widow'd mother, who the world had seen, 
 " And better judge of either sex had been, 
 " Told him that just as their affairs were placed, 
 " In some respects he must forego his taste ; 
 " That every beauty, both of form and mind, 
 " Must be by him, if unendow'd, resign'd ; 
 " That wealth was wanted for their joint affairs ; 
 " His sisters' portions, and the Hall's repairs. 
 
 " The son assented — and the wife must bring 
 " Wealth, learning, beauty, ere he gave the ring ; 
 " But as these merits, when they all unite, 
 " Are not produced in every soil and site ; 
 " And when produced are not the certain gain 
 " Of him who would these precious things obtain ; 
 " Our patient student waited many a year, 
 " Nor saw this phoenix in his walks appear. 
 " But as vie%vs mended in the joint estat'e, 
 " He would a something in his points abate ; 
 " Give him but learning, beauty, temper, sense, 
 " And he would then the happy state commence. 
 " The mother sigh'd, but she at last agreed, 
 " And now the son was likely to succeed ; 
 
 " Wealth is substantial good the fates allot, 
 " We know we have it, or we have it not ; 
 " But all those graces, which men highly rate, 
 " Their minds themselves imagine and create ; 
 " And therefore Finch was in a way to find 
 " A good that much depended on his mind. 
 
 " He look'd around, observing, till he saw 
 " Augusta Dallas ! when he felt an awe 
 " Of so much beauty and commanding grace, 
 " That well became the honours of her race. 
 
 " This lady never boasted of the trash 
 " That commerce brings : she never spoke of cash ; 
 " The gentle blood that ran in every vein 
 " At all such notions blush'd in pure disdain. 
 
 " Wealth once relinquish'd, there was all beside, 
 " As Finch believed, that could adorn a bride; 
 " He could not gaze upon the form and air 
 " Without concluding all was right and fair ; 
 " Her mild but dignified reserve suppress'd 
 " All free inquiry — but his mind could rest, 
 " Assured that all was well, and in that view was 
 bless'd. 
 
 " And now he ask'd, ' Am I the happy man 
 " ' Who can deserve her? is there one who ca?' 
 " His mother told him he possess'd the land 
 " That puts a man in heart to ask a hand ; 
 " All who possess it feel they bear about 
 " A spell that puts a speedy end to doubt ; 
 " But Finch was modest — ' May it then be thought 
 " 'That she can so be gain'd?' — ' She may be 
 
 sought.' 
 " ' Can love with land be won ?' — ' By land is beauty 
 
 bought. 
 " ' Do not, dear Charles, with indignation glow ; 
 " ' All value that the want of which they know ; 
 " ' Nor do I blame her ; none that worth denies : 
 " ' But can my son be sure of what he buys ? 
 " ' Beauty she has, but with it can you find 
 " ' The inquiring spirit, or the studious mind ? 
 " ' This wilt thou need who art to thinking prone, 
 " ' And minds unpair'd had better think alone ; 
 " ' Then how unhappy will the husband be 
 " ' Whose sole associate spoils his company !' 
 
 " This he would try ; but all such trials prove 
 " Too mighty for a man disposed to love ; 
 " He whom the magic of a face enchains, 
 " But little knowledge of the mind obtains ; 
 " If by his tender heart the man is led, 
 " He finds bow erring is the soundest head. 
 
 " The lady saw his purpose ; she could meet 
 " The man's inquiry, and his aim defeat : 
 " She had a studied flattery in her look, 
 " She could be seen retiring with a book ; 
 " She by attending to his speech could prove 
 " That she for learning had a fervent love ; 
 " Yet love alone, she modestly declared, 
 " Slie must be spared inquiry, and was spared ; 
 " Of her poor studies she was not so weak, 
 " As in his presence, or at all, to speak ; 
 " But to discourse with him, who, all agreed, 
 " Has read so much, would be absurd indeed ; 
 
422 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Ask what ho might, slie wa8 so much a dunce 
 " She would confess liei- ignorance at once. 
 
 " All this the man believed not, — doom'd to 
 
 grieve 
 " For his belief, he this would not believe : 
 " No ! he was quite in raptures to discern 
 " That love and that avidity to leani. 
 " ' Could she have found,' she said, ' a friend, a 
 
 guide, 
 " ' Like him, to study had been all her pride ; 
 " * But, doom'd so long to frivolous employ, 
 " ' How could she those superior views enjoy ? 
 " ' The day might come — a happy day for lier — 
 " ' "When she might choose the ways she should 
 
 prefer.' 
 
 " Then too he learn'd, in accidental way, 
 " How much she griev'd to lose the given day 
 " In dissipation wild, in visitation gay. 
 " Happj', most happy, must the woman prove 
 " "Who proudly looks on him she vows to love ; 
 " "Who can her humble acquisitions state, 
 " That he will praise, at least will tolerate. 
 
 " Still the cool mother sundry doubts express'd, — 
 " ' How ! is Augusta graver than than the rest ? 
 " ' There are three others : they are not inclined 
 " * To feed with precious food the empty mind : 
 " ' "Whence this strong relish ?' ' It is very strong,' 
 " Replied the son, ' and has possess'd her long. 
 " ' Increased indeed, I may presume, by views, — 
 " ' "We may suppose — ah ! may she not refuse ?' 
 
 " ' Fear not ! — I see the question must be tried, 
 " ' Nay, is determined — let us to your Bride.' 
 
 " They soon were wedded, and the Nymph 
 
 appear'd 
 " By all her promised excellence endear'd : 
 " Her words were kind, were cautious, and were 
 
 few, 
 " And she was proud — of what her husband knew. 
 " "Weeks pass'd away, some five or six, before, 
 " Bless'd in the present. Finch could think of more : 
 " A month was next upon a journey spent, 
 " When to the Lakes the fond comj^anions went ; 
 " Then the gay town received them, and, at last, 
 " Home to their mansion man and wife they 
 
 pass'd.' 
 
 " And now in quiet way they came to live 
 " On what their fortune, love, and hopes would 
 
 give; 
 " The honey'd moon had nought but silver rays, 
 " And shone benignly on their early days ; 
 " The second moon a light less vivid shed, 
 " And now the silver rays were tinged with lead. 
 " They now began to look beyond the Hall, 
 " And think what friends would make a morning 
 
 call ; 
 
 ' [Tims in the ori;;inal MS. : — 
 
 " The weeks fled smoothly, five or six, before, 
 " Bless'd in the present, he could tliink of more ; 
 " Two montlis beside were at liis villa spent, 
 "Where first enr.iptured, he bocame content; 
 " Then went to town, scarce knowin){ why he went. 
 
 " Their former appetites return'd, and now 
 
 " Both could their wishes and their tastes avow ; 
 
 " 'T was now no longer ' Just what you approve,' 
 
 " But ' Let the wild fowl be to-day, my love.' 
 
 " In fact the senses, drawn aside by fori-(; 
 
 •' Of a strong passion, sought their usual course. 
 
 " Now to her music would the wife repair, 
 " To which he liston'd once with eager air; 
 " When there was so much harmony within, 
 " That any note was sure its way to win : 
 " But now the sweet melodious tones were sent 
 " From the struck chords, and none cared where 
 
 they went. 
 " Full well we know that many a favourite air, 
 " That charms a party, fails to charm a pair ; ^ 
 " And as Augusta play'd, she look'd around 
 '• To see if one was dying at the sound : 
 " But all were gone — a husband, wrapt in gloom, 
 " Stalk'd careless, listless, up and down the room. 
 
 " And now 't is time to fill that ductile mind 
 " With knowledge, from his stores of various kind : 
 " His mother, in a peevish mood, had ask'd, 
 " ' Does your Augusta profit ? is she task'd ? ' 
 
 " ' Madam ! ' he cried, oflfendcd with her looks, 
 " * There's time for all things, and not all for books ; 
 
 a 1 
 
 a I 
 
 Just on one's marriage to sit down, and prate 
 On points of learning, is a thing I hate.' 
 
 " ' 'T is right, my son, and it appears to me, 
 " ' If deep your hatred, you must well agree.' 
 
 " Finch was too angry for a man so wise, 
 " And said, ' Insinuation I despise ! 
 " ' Nor do I wish to have a mind so full 
 " ' Of learned trash — it makes a woman dull : 
 " ' Let it suffice that I in her discern 
 '■ ' An aptitude and a desire to learn.' 
 
 " The matron smiled, but she observed a frown 
 " On her son's brow, and calmly sat her down ; 
 " Leaving the truth to Time, who solves our doubt, 
 " By bringing his all-glorious daughter out — 
 " Truth ! for whose beauty all their love profess, 
 " And yet how many think it ugliness ! 
 
 " ' Augusta, love,' said Fincli, ' while you engage 
 " ' In that embroidery, let me read a page ; 
 " ' Suppose it Hume's : indeed he takes a side, 
 " ' But still an author need not be our guide ; 
 " ' And as he writes with elegance and ease, 
 " ' Uo now attend — he will be sure to please. 
 " ' Here at the Revolution we commence, — 
 " ' We date, you know, our liberties from hence.' 
 
 " ' Yes, sure,' Augusta answer'd with a smile, 
 " ' Our teacher always talk'd about his style, 
 " ' When we about the Revolution read, 
 " ' And how the Martyrs to the flames were led ; 
 
 " His lady with him, as a wife should be — 
 
 " Talk of a moon of honey 1 there w ere tliree."] 
 
 « [MS. :— 
 
 •' For pairs not loving cannot music find, 
 
 " And loving pairs have music in the mind."] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 423 
 
 '• * The good old Bishops, I forget their names, 
 " ' But they were all committed to the flames ; 
 " ' Maidens and widows, bachelors and wives, — 
 " ' The very babes and sucklings lost their lives. 
 " ' I read it all in Guthrie at the school. — 
 " ' What now ! — I know you took me for a fool ; 
 " ' There were five Bishops taken from the stall, 
 " * And twenty widows — I remember all ; 
 " ' And by this token, that our teacher tried 
 " ' To cry for pity, till she howl'd and cried.' 
 
 " ' True, true, my love, but you mistake the 
 thing, — 
 " ' The Kevolution that made William king 
 " ' Is what I mean ; the Reformation you, 
 " ' In Edward and Elizabeth.' — ' 'T is true : 
 '' ' But the nice reading is the love between 
 " ' The brave lord Essex and the cruel queen ; 
 " ' And how he sent the ring to save his head, 
 '• ' Which the false lady kept till he was dead. 
 
 " ' That is all true : now read, and I '11 attend : 
 '• ' But was not she a most deceitful friend ? 
 " ' It was a monstrous, vile, and treacherous thing, 
 " ' To show no pity and to keep the ring ; 
 " ' But the queen shook her in her dying bed, 
 " ' And " God forgive you !" was the word she said ; 
 
 " ' " Not I for certain" Come, I will attend ; 
 
 '• ' So read the Kevolutions to an end.' 
 
 " Finch, with a timid, strange, inquiring look, 
 '• Softly and slowly laid aside the book 
 
 " With sigh inaudible ' Come, never heed,' 
 
 " Said he, recovering, ' now I cannot read.' 
 
 " They walk'd at leisure through their wood and 
 
 groves, 
 " In fields and lanes, and talk'd of plants and loves, 
 " And loves of plants. — Said Finch, ' Augusta dear, 
 " ' You said you loved to learn, — were you sincere ? 
 " ' Do you remember that you told me once 
 " ' llow much you grieved, and said you were a 
 
 dunce ? 
 " ' That is, j'ou wanted information. Say, 
 " ' What would you learn ? I will direct your way.' 
 
 " ' Goodness !' said she, ' what meanings you 
 discern 
 In a few words I I said I wish'd to learn. 
 And so I think I did ; and you replied, 
 " * The wish was good : what would you now be- 
 side ? 
 " ' Did not you say it show'd an ardent mind ? 
 " * And pray what more do you expect to find ?' 
 
 " ' My dear Augusta, could you wish indeed 
 " ' For any knowledge, and not then proceed ? 
 " ' That is not wishing ' 
 
 « < 
 
 a i 
 
 a ( 
 
 " ' Mercy ! how you teaze ! 
 You knew I said it with a view to please ! 
 A compliment to you, and quite enough,— 
 '■ ' You would not kill me with that puzzling 
 
 stuff"? 
 •' ' Sure I might say I wish'd : but that is still 
 " ' Far from a promise ; it is not — " I will." 
 
 " ' L'ut come ; to show you that I will not hide 
 " ' ^ly proper talents, you shall be my guide ; 
 
 
 u I 
 
 U ( 
 
 " ' And Lady Boothby, when we meet, shall cry, 
 " ' " She 's quite as good a botanist as I." ' 
 
 " ' Right, my Augusta.' And in manner grave 
 " Finch his first lecture on the science gave — 
 " An introduction ; — and he said, ' My dear, 
 " ' Your thought was happy, — let us persevere ; 
 " ' And let no trifling cause our work retard.' 
 " Agreed the lady, but she fear'd it hard. 
 
 " Now o'er the grounds they rambled many a 
 mile ; 
 " He show'd the flowers, the stamina, the style, 
 " Calix and corol, pericarp and fruit, 
 " And all the plant produces, branch and root : 
 " Of these he treated, every varying shape, 
 " Till poor Augusta panted to escape : 
 " He show'd the various foliage plants produce, 
 " Lunate and lyrate, runcinate, retuse ; 
 " Long were the learned words, and urged with 
 
 force, 
 " Panduriform, pinnatifid, premorse, 
 " Latent, and patent, papulous, and plane. — 
 " ' Oh I' said the pupil, ' it will turn my brain.' 
 " ' Fear not,* he answer'd, and again, intent 
 " To fill that mind, o'er class and order went ; 
 " And stopping, ' Now,' said he, ' My love attend.' 
 I do,' said she, ' but when will be an end ?' 
 When we have made some progress : — now 
 
 begin,— 
 Which is the stigma ? show me with a pin : 
 Come, I have told you, dearest — let me sec — ■ 
 " ' Times very many ; tell it now to me.' 
 
 *' ' Stigma ! I know, — the things with j'ellow 
 
 heads, 
 " ' That shed the dust, and grow upon the threads ; 
 " ' You call them wives and husbands, but you 
 
 know 
 " ' That is a joke — here, look, and I ^\ill show 
 " ' All I remember.' — Doleful Mas the look 
 " Of the preceptor, when he sliut his book, 
 " (The system brought to aid them in their view,) 
 " And now with sighs return'd, ' It will not do." 
 
 " A handsome face first led him to suppose 
 " There must be talent with such looks as tliose ; 
 " The want of talent taught liim now to find 
 " The face less handsome with so poor a mind ; 
 " And half the beauty faded, when he found 
 " His cherish'd hopes were falling to the ground. 
 
 " Finch lost his spirit, but e'en then he sought 
 " For fancied powers : she might in time be taught. 
 " Sure there was nothing in that mind to fear ; 
 " The favourite study did not yet appear. 
 
 " Once he express'd a doubt if she could look 
 '' For five succeeding minutes on a book ; 
 " When, with awaken'd spirit, she replied, 
 " ' He was mistaken, and she would be tried.' 
 
 " With this delighted, he new hopes express'd, — 
 " ' How do I know ? — She may abide the test ? 
 " ' Men I have kno^^•n, and famous in their day, 
 " ' Who were by chance directed in their way : 
 " ' I have been hasty. — Well, Augusta, well, 
 " ' What is your favourite reading? prithee tell; 
 
424 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 ' ' Our different tastes may different books re- 
 quire, — 
 ' ' Yours I may not peruse, and yet admire : 
 ' ' Do then explain.' — ' Good Heaven !' said she, 
 
 in haste, 
 '■ ' How I do hate these lectures upon taste !' 
 ' ' I lecture not, my love ; but do declare — 
 ■ ' You read you say — what your attainments are.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! you believe,' said she, ' that other things 
 ' ' Are read as well as histories of kings, 
 ' ' And loves of plants, with all that simple stuff 
 
 ' About their sex, of which I know enough. 
 
 " ' Well, if I must, I will my studies name ; 
 ' Blame if you please — I know you love to blame. 
 ' "When all our childish books were set apart, 
 ' The first I read was " Wanderings of the 
 
 Heart :" 
 ' It was a story, where was done a deed 
 ' So dreadful, that alone I fear'd to read. 
 
 " ' The next was " The Confessions of a Nun,"— 
 " ' 'T was quite a shame such evil should be done ; 
 " ' Xun of — no matter for the creature's name, 
 " ' For there are girls no nunnery can tame : 
 " ' Then was the story of the Haunted Hall, 
 
 Where the huge picture nodded from the wall, 
 When the old lord look'd up with trembling 
 dread, 
 
 " ' And I grew pale, and shudder'd as I read : 
 " ' Then came the tales of Winters, Summers, 
 Springs, 
 
 U ( 
 
 " ' At Bath and Brighton, — they were pretty 
 
 things ! 
 " ' No ghosts nor spectres there were heard or 
 
 seen, 
 " ' But all was love and flight to Gretna Green. 
 " ' Perhaps your greater learning may despise 
 " ' What others like, and there your wisdom 
 
 lies. 
 " ' Well ! do not frown, — I read tlie tender tales 
 " ' Of lonely cots, retreats in silent vales 
 " ' For maids forsaken and suspected wives, 
 " ' Against whose peace some foe his plot con- 
 trives, 
 " ' With all the hidden schemes that none can 
 
 clear 
 " ' Till the last book, and then the ghosts appear. 
 
 " ' T road all plays that on the boards succeed, 
 " ' And all the works that ladies ever read, — 
 " ' Shakspeare, and all the rest, — I did, indeed. 
 " ' •'^y • you may stare ; but, sir, believe it true 
 " ' That we can read and learn as well as you. 
 
 " ' I would not boast, — but I could act a scene 
 " ' In any play, before I was fifteen. 
 
 " ' Nor is this all ; for many are the times 
 " * I read in Pope and Milton, prose and rhymes ; 
 " ' They were our lessons, and, at ten years old, 
 
 " ' I could repeat but now enough is told. 
 
 " * Sir, I can tell you I my mind applied 
 
 " * To all my studies, and was not denied 
 
 " * Praise for my progress Are you satisfied ? 
 
 " ' Entirely, madam ! else were I possess'd 
 " ' By a strong spirit who could never rest. 
 " ' Yes ! yes ; no more I question, — here I close 
 " ' The theme for ever. Let us to repose.' " 
 
 BOOK X. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 A Friend arrives at the Hall— Old Bachelors and Maids- 
 Relation of one— His Parents— The first Courtship— Tlie 
 second— The third — Long Interval — Travel— Decline of 
 Life— The fourth Lady — Conclusion. 
 
 Save their kind friend the Eector, Richard yet 
 
 Had not a favourite of his Brother met : 
 
 Now at the Hall that welcome guest ai^pear'd, 
 
 By trust, by trials, and by time endear'd ; 
 
 Of him the grateful 'Squire his love profess'd, 
 
 And full regard — he was of friends the best ; 
 
 " Yet not to him alone this good I owe, 
 
 " This social pleasure that our friends bestow ; 
 
 " The sex that wrought in earlier life my woes, 
 
 " With loss of time who murder'd my repose, 
 
 " They to my joys administer, nor vex 
 
 " Me more ; and now I venerate the sex ; 
 
 " And boast the friendship of a Spinster kind, 
 
 " Cheerful, and pleasant, to her fate resign'd ; 
 
 " Then by her side my Bachelor I place, 
 
 " And hold them honours to the human race. 
 
 " Yet these are they in tale and song display'd, 
 
 " The peevish man and the repining maid — 
 
 " Creatures made up of misery and spite, 
 
 " Who taste no pleasures, except those they blight ; 
 
 " From whom the affrighten'd niece and nephew 
 
 fly- 
 
 " Fear'd while they live, and useless till they die. 
 
 " Not such these friends of mine ; they never 
 meant 
 " That youth should so be lost, or life be spent. 
 " They had warm passions, tender hopes, desires 
 " That youth indulges, and that love inspires : 
 " But fortune frown'd on their designs, displaced 
 " The views of hope and love's gay dreams dis- 
 graced ; 
 " Took from the soul her sunny views, and spread 
 " A cloud of dark but varying gloom instead : 
 " And shall we these with ridicule pursue, 
 " Because they did not what they could not do ? 
 " If they their lot preferr'd, still why the jest 
 " On those who took the way they judged the 
 
 best? 
 " But if they sought a change, and sought in vain, 
 " 'Tis worse than brutal to deride their pain. 
 " But you will see them — see the man I praise, 
 " The kind protector in my troubled days, 
 " Himself in trouble ; you sliall see him now, 
 " And learn his worth, and my applause allow.'' 
 
 This friend appear'd with tr'ents form'd to 
 please, 
 And with some looks of spriglitliness and ease ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 425 
 
 To him indeed the ills of life were known, 
 But misery had not made him all her own. 
 
 They spoke on various themes, and George 
 
 design'd 
 To show his Brother this, the favourite mind : 
 To lead the friend, by subjects he could choose, 
 To paint himself, his life, and earlier views, 
 "What he was bless'd to hope, what he was doom'd 
 
 to lose. 
 
 They spoke of marriage, and he understood 
 Their call on him, and said, " It is not good 
 " To be alone, although alone to be 
 " Is freedom : so are men in deserts free : 
 " Men who unyoked and unattended groan, 
 " Condemn'd and grieved to walk their way alone : 
 " Whatever ills a married pair betide, 
 " Each feels a stay, a comfort, or a guide : 
 " * Not always comfort,' will our wits reply. — 
 " Wits are not judges, nor the cause shall try. 
 " Have I not seen, when grief his visits paid, 
 " That they were easier by communion made ? 
 " True, with the quiet times and days serene, 
 " There have been flying clouds of care and spleen ; 
 " But is not man, the solitary, sick 
 " Of his existence, sad and splenetic ? 
 " And who will help him, when such evils come, 
 " To bear the pressure or to clear the gloom ? 
 
 " Do you not find, that joy within the breast 
 " Of the unwedded man is soon suppress'd ; 
 " While to the bosom of a wife convey'd, 
 " Increase is by participation made ? — 
 " The lighted lamp that gives another light, 
 " Say, is it by th' imparted blaze less bright ? 
 " Are not both gainers when the heart's distress 
 " Is so divided, that the pain is less ? 
 " And when the tear has stood in either eye, 
 " Love's sun shines out, and they are quickly 
 dry." 
 
 He ended here, — but would he not confess, 
 IIow came these feelings on his mind to press? 
 He would ! nor fear'd his weakness to display 
 To men like them ; their weakness too had they. 
 Bright shone the fire, wine sparkled, sordid care 
 Was banish'd far, at least appear'd not there : 
 A kind and social spirit each possess'd. 
 And thus began his tale the friendly guest. 
 
 " Near to my father's mansion, — but apart, 
 I must acknowledge, from my father's heart, — 
 Dwelt a keen sportsman, in a pleasant seat ; 
 Nor met the neighbours as should neighbours 
 
 meet : 
 To them revenge appear'd a kind of right, 
 A lawful pleasure, an avow'd delight ; 
 Their neighbours too blew up their passion's fire. 
 And urged the anger of each rival-squire ; 
 More still their waspish tempers to inflame, 
 A party-spirit, friend of anger, came : 
 
 ■ Oft would my father cry, ' That tory-knave, 
 
 ' That villain-placeman, would the land enslave.' 
 ' Not that his neighbour had indeed a place, 
 
 ■ But would accept one — that was his disgrace ; 
 
 " Who, in his turn, was sure my father plann'J 
 
 " To revolutionise his native land. 
 
 " He dared the most destructive things advance, 
 
 " And even pray'd for liberty to France ; 
 
 " Had still good hope that Heaven would grant 
 
 his prayer, 
 " That he might see a revolution there. 
 " At this the tory-squire was much perplex'd : 
 " ' Freedom in France ! — what will he utter next? 
 " ' Sooner should I in Paris look to see 
 " ' An English army sent their guard to be.' 
 
 " My poor mamma, who had her mind subdued 
 By whig-control, and hated every feud. 
 Would have her neighbour met with mind serene ; 
 But fiercer spirit fired the tory-queen : 
 My parents both had given her high disgust, 
 While she resenting said, ' Revenge is just ;' 
 And till th' offending parties chose to stoop. 
 She judged it right to keep resentment up ; 
 Could she in friendship with a woman live 
 Who could the insult of a man forgive ? 
 Did not her husband in a crowded room 
 Once call her idiot, and the thing was dumb ? 
 The man's attack was brutal, to be sure, 
 But she no less an idiot to endure. 
 
 " This lofty dame, with unrelenting soul, 
 " Had a fair girl to govern and control ; 
 " The dear Maria ! — whom, when first I met, — 
 " Shame on this weakness ! do I feel it yet ? 
 
 " The parent's anger, you will oft-times see, 
 " Prepares the children's minds for amity ; 
 " Youth will not enter into such debate, 
 " 'T is not in them to cherish groundless hate ; 
 " Nor can they feel men's quarrels, or their cares 
 " Of whig or tory, parti'idges or hares. 
 
 " Long ere we loved, this gentle girl and I 
 " Gave to our parents' discord many a sigh ; 
 " It was not ours, — and when the meeting came 
 " It pleased us much to find our thoughts the 
 
 same ; 
 " But grief and trouble in our minds arose 
 " From the fierce spirits we could not compose ; 
 " And much it vex'd us that the friends so dear 
 " To us should foes among themselves appear. 
 
 " Such was this maid, the angel of her race, 
 " Whom I had loved in any time and place ; 
 " But in a time and place which chance assign'd, 
 " When it was almost treason to be kind, — 
 " When we had vast impediments in view, — 
 " Then wonder not that love in terror grew 
 " With double speed — we look'd, and strove to 
 
 find 
 " A kindred spirit in the hostile mind ; 
 " But is it hostile ? there appears no sign 
 " In those dear looks of warfare — none have mine ; 
 " At length I whispcr'd— ' Would that war might 
 
 cease 
 " ' Between our houses, and that all was peace !' 
 " A sweet confusion on her features rose,— 
 " ' She could not bear to think o? having foes, 
 
 2f 
 
426 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 " ' "When wc might all as friends and neighbours 
 
 live, — 
 " ' And for that blessing, oh ! what would she 
 
 give !' 
 " ' Then let us try and our endeavours blend,' 
 " I said, ' to bring these quarrels to an end.' 
 '• Thus, with one purpose in our hearts, we strove, 
 " And, if no more, increased our secret love ; 
 " Love that, with such impediments in view, 
 '• To meet the growing danger stronger grew : 
 " And from that time each heart, resolved and 
 
 sure, 
 " Grew firm in hope and patient to endure. 
 
 " To those who know this season of delight 
 " I need not strive their feelings to excite ; 
 " To those who know not the delight or pain 
 " The best description would be lent in vain ; 
 " And to the grieving, who will no more find 
 " The bower of bliss, to paint it were unkind ; 
 '• I pass it by, to tell that long we tried 
 '• To bring our fathers over to our side ; 
 '• 'T was bootless on their wives our skill to try, 
 " For one would not, and one in vain comply. 
 
 " First I began my father's heart to move, 
 '• By boldly saying, ' We are born to love ;' 
 '• My father answer'd, with an air of ease, 
 " ' Well ! very well ! be loving if you please ! 
 " ' Except a man insults us or offends, 
 " ' In my opinion we should all be friends.' 
 
 " This gain'd me nothing ; little would accrue 
 " From clearing points so useless, though so true ; 
 " But with some pains I brought him to confess, 
 " That to forgive our wrongs is to redress. 
 
 " ' It might be so,' he answer'd, yet with doubt 
 " That it might not ; ' but what is this about ?' 
 " I dared not speak directly, but I strove 
 " To keep my subjects, harmony and love. 
 
 " Coolly my father look'd, and much enjoy'd 
 " The broken eloquence his eye destroy'd ; 
 '• Yet less confused, and more resolved, at last 
 " With bolder effort to my point I pass'd ; 
 " And, fondly speaking of my peerless maid, 
 " I call'd her worth and beauty to my aid, — 
 " ' Then make her mine !' I said, and for his favour 
 pray'd. 
 
 " My father's look was one I seldom saw, — 
 " It gave no pleasure nor created awe ; 
 " It was the kind of cool contemptuous smile 
 " Of witty persons overcharged with bile ; 
 " At first he spoke not, nor at last to me : — 
 
 " ' Well now, and what if such a thing could be ? 
 " ' What, if the boy should his addresses pay 
 " ' To the tall girl, would that old tory say ? 
 " ' I have no hatred to the dog, — but, still, 
 " ' It was some pleasure when I used him ill ; 
 " ' This I must lose if we should brethren be, 
 " ' Yet may be not, for brethren disagree : 
 " ' The fool is right, — there is no bar in life 
 " ' Against their marriage, — let her be his wife. 
 " ' Well, sir, you hear me !' — Never man complied, 
 " And left a beggar so dissatisfied ; 
 
 " Though all was granted, yet was grace refused ; 
 
 " I felt as one indulged, and yet abused, 
 
 " And yet, although provoked, I was not un- 
 
 amused. 
 " In a reply like this appear'd to meet 
 " All that encourage hope, and that defeat ; 
 " Consent, though cool, had been for me enough, 
 " But this consent had something of reproof; 
 " 1 had prepared my answer to his rage, 
 " With his contempt I thought not to engage : 
 " I, like a hero, would my castle storm, 
 " And meet the giant in his proper form ; 
 " Then, conquering him, would set my princess 
 
 free ; 
 " This would a trial and a triumph be : 
 " When, lo ! a sneering menial brings the keys, 
 " And cries in scorn, ' Come, enter, if you please ; 
 " ' You'll find the lady sitting on her bed, 
 " ' And 't is expected that you woo and wed.' 
 
 " Yet not so easy was my conquest found ; 
 " I met with trouble ere with triumph crown'd. 
 " Triumph, alas ! — My father little thought, 
 " A king at home, how other minds are wrought ; 
 " True, his meek neighbour was a gentle squire, 
 " And had a soui averse from wrath and ire ; 
 " He answer'd frankly, when to him I went, 
 " ' I give you Uttle, sir, in my consent :' 
 " He and my mother were to us inclined, 
 " The powerless party with the peaceful mind ; 
 " But that meek man was destined to obey 
 " A sovereign lady's unremitted sway ; 
 '' Who bore no partial, no divided rule, — 
 " All were obedient pupils in her school. 
 " She had religious zeal, both strong and sour, 
 " That gave an active sternness to her power ; 
 " But few could please her ; she herself was one 
 " By whom that deed was very seldom done ; 
 " With such a being, so disposed to feed 
 " Contempt and scorn, how was I to succeed ? 
 " But love commanded, and I made my prayer 
 " To the stern lady, with an humble air ; 
 " Said all that lovers hope, all measures tried 
 " That love suggested, and bow'd down to pride. 
 
 " Yes ! I have now the tigress in my eye : — 
 " When I had ceased and waited her reply, 
 " A pause ensued, and then she slowly rose, 
 " With bitter smile predictive of my woes ; 
 " A look she saw was plainly understood 
 
 " ' Admire my daughter ! Sir, you 're very good. 
 " ' The girl is decent, take her all in all, — 
 " ' Genteel, we hope — perhaps a thought too tall 
 " ' A daughter's portion hers — you '11 think her 
 
 fortune small. 
 " ' Perhaps her uncles, in a cause so good, 
 " ' Would do a little for their flesh and blood ; 
 " ' We are not ill allied, — and say wc make 
 " ' Her portion decent— whither would you take ? 
 " ' Is there some cottage on your father's ground, 
 " ' Where may a dwelling for the girl be found ? 
 " ' Or a small farm,— your mother understands 
 " ' How to make useful such a pair of hands. 
 
 " ' But this we drop at present, if you please, 
 " ' We shall have leisure for such things as 
 these ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 427 
 
 " ' They will be proper ere you fix the day 
 " ' For the poor girl to honour and obey ; 
 " ' At present therefore we may put an end 
 
 " 'To our discourse Good morrow to 
 
 friend !' 
 
 you, 
 
 " Then, with a solemn curtsey and profound, 
 " Her laughing eye she lifted from the ground, 
 " And left me lost in thought, and gazing idly 
 round. 
 
 " Still we had hope, and, growing bold in time, 
 " I would engage the father in our crime : 
 " But he refused ; for though he wish'd us well, 
 •' He said, ' he must not make his house a hell ;' — 
 " And sure the meaning look that I convey'd 
 " Did not inform him that the hell was made. 
 " Still hope existed that a mother's heart 
 " Would in a daughter's feelings take a part ; 
 " Nor was it vain, — for there is found access 
 " To a hard heart, in time of its distress. 
 
 " The mother sicken'd, and the daughter sigh'd, 
 " And we petition'd till our queen complied ; 
 " She thought of dying ; and if power must cease, 
 " Better to make, than cause, th' expected peace ; 
 " And sure this kindness, mixing with the blood, 
 " Its balmy influence caused the body's good ; 
 " For as a charm it work'd upon the frame 
 " Of the reviving and relenting dame ; 
 '' For when recover'd, she no more opposed 
 " Pier daughter's wishes : here contention 
 closed. 
 
 " Then bliss ensued, so exquisitely sweet, 
 " That with it once, once only, we can meet ; 
 " For though we love again, and though once 
 
 more 
 " We feel th' enlivening hope we felt before, 
 " Still the pure freshness of the joy that cast 
 " Its sweet around us is for ever pass'd. 
 " Oh ! time to memory precious, — ever dear, 
 " Though ever painful — this eventful year ; 
 " What bliss is now in view ! and now what woes 
 
 appear ! 
 " Sweet hours of expectation ! — I was gone 
 " To the vile town to press our business on ; 
 " To urge its formal instruments, — and lo ! 
 " Comes with dire looks a messenger of woe, 
 " With tidings sad. as death ! — With all my speed 
 " I reach'd her home ! — but that pure soul was 
 
 freed — 
 " She was no more — for ever shut that eye, 
 " That look'd all soul, as if it could not die ; 
 " It could not see mc — Oh ! the strange distress 
 " Of these new feelings! — misery's excess; 
 " What can describe it ? words will not express. 
 " When I look back upon that dreadful scene, 
 " I feel renew'd the anguish that has been ; 
 " And reason trembles Yes ! you bid me 
 
 cease, 
 '' Nor try to think ; but I wiU think in peace. 
 
 " Unhid and unforbidden, to the room 
 " I went, a gloomy wretch amid that gloom ; 
 " And there the lovely being on her bed 
 " Shrouded and cold was laid — Maria dead ! 
 
 " There was I left, — and I have now no thought 
 
 " Remains with me, how fear or fancy wrought ; 
 
 " I know I gazed upon the marble cheek, 
 
 " And pray'd the dear departed girl to speak : 
 
 " Further I know not, for, till years were fled, 
 
 " All was extinguish'd — all with her was dead. 
 
 " I had a general terror, dread of all 
 
 " That could a thinking, feeling man befall ; 
 
 " I was desirous from myself to run,' 
 
 '• And something, but I knew not what, to shun : 
 
 " There was a blank from this I cannot fiU, 
 
 " It is a puzzle and a terror still. 
 
 '* Yet did I feel some intervals of bliss, 
 
 " E'en with the horrors of a fate like this ; 
 
 " And dreams of wonderful construction paid 
 
 " For waking horror — dear angelic maid ! 
 
 " When peace return'd, unfelt for many a year, 
 " And Hope, discarded flatterer, dared t' appear, 
 " I heard of my estate, how free from debt, 
 " And of the comforts life afforded yet ; 
 " Beside that best of comforts in a life 
 " So sad as mine — a fond and faithful wife. 
 " My gentle mother, now a widow, made 
 " These strong attempts to guide me or persuade. 
 
 " ' Much time is lost,' she said, ' but yet my 
 
 son 
 " ' May, in the race of life, have much to run ; 
 " ' When I am gone, thy life to thee will seem 
 " ' Lonely and sad, a melancholy dream ; 
 " ' Get thee a wife — I will not say to love, 
 " ' But one, a friend in thy distress to prove ; 
 " ' One who will kindly help thee to sustain 
 " ' Thy spirit's burden in its hours of pain ; 
 " ' Say, will you marry ?' — I in haste replied, 
 " ' And who would be the self-devoted bride ? 
 " ' There is a melancholy power that reigns 
 "'Tyrant within me — who would bear his 
 
 chains, 
 " ' And hear them clicking every wretched hour, 
 " ' With wiU to aid me, but without the power? 
 " ' But if such one were found with easy mind, 
 " ' Who would not ask for raptures, I 'm re- 
 
 sign'd.' 
 
 " ' 'T is quite enough,' my gentle mother cried ; 
 " ' We leave the raptures, and will find the bride.' 
 
 " There was ^ lady near us, quite discreet, 
 " Whom in our visits 'twas our chance to meet, 
 " One grave and civil, who had no desire 
 '• That men should praise her beauties or admire ; 
 " She in our walks would sometimes take my arm, 
 " But had no foolish fluttering or alarm ; 
 " She -wish'd no heart to wound, no truth to prove, 
 " And seem'd, like me, as one estranged from 
 
 love ; 
 " My mother praised her, and with so much skill, 
 " She gave a certain bias to my will ; 
 " But calm indeed our courtship ; I profess'd 
 " A due regard — my mother did the rest ; 
 " Who soon declared that we should love, and 
 
 grow 
 " As fond a couple as the world could show ; 
 " And talk'd of boys and girls with so much glee, 
 " That I began to -.visli the thing could be. 
 
 2 F 2 
 
428 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Still when the day that soon would come wa8 
 named, 
 " I felt a cold fit, and was half ashamed ; 
 " But we too far proceeded to revoke, 
 " And had been much too serious for a joke : 
 " I shook away the fear that man annoys, 
 " And thought a little of the girls and boys. 
 
 " A week rcmain'd, — for seven succeeding days 
 " Nor man nor woman might control my ways ; 
 " For seven dear nights I might to rest retire 
 " At my own time, and none the cause require ; 
 " For seven bless'd days I might go in and out, 
 " And none demand, ' Sir, what are you about ?' 
 " For one whole week I might at will discourse 
 " On any subject, with a freeman's force. 
 
 " Thus while I though •■, I utter'd, as men sing, 
 " In under-voice, reciting ' With this ring,' 
 " That when the hour should come, I might not 
 
 dread 
 " These, or the words that follow'd, ' I thee wed.' 
 " Such was my state of mind, exulting now 
 " And then depress'd — I cannot tell you liow — 
 " AVhen a poor ladj', whom her friends could send 
 " On any message, a convenient friend, 
 " Who had all feelings of her own o'ercome, 
 " And could pronounce to any man his doom ; 
 " Whose heart indeed was marble, but whose face 
 " Assumed the look adapted to the case ; 
 " Enter'd my room, commission'd to assuage 
 " What was foreseen, my sorrow and my rage. 
 
 " It seem'd the lady whom I could prefer, 
 " And could my much-loved freedom lose for her, 
 " Had bold attempts, but not successful, made, 
 " The heart of some rich cousin to invade ; 
 " Who, half resisting, half complying, kept 
 " A cautious distance, and the business slept. 
 
 " This prudent swain his own importance knew, 
 " And swore to part the now atflanced two : 
 " Fill'd with insidious purpose, forth he went, 
 " Profess'd his love, and woo'd her to consent : 
 " * Ah ! were it true !' she sigh'd ; he boldly 
 
 swore 
 " II is love sincere, and mine was sought no more. 
 " All this the witch at dreadful length reveal'd, 
 " And bogg'd me calmly to my fate to yield : 
 " Much pains slie took engagements old to state, 
 " And hoped to hear me curse my cruel fate, 
 " Threat'ning my luckless life ; and thought it 
 
 strange 
 " In me to bear the unexpected change : 
 " In my calm feelings she beheld disguise, 
 " And told of some strange wildncss in my eyes. 
 
 " But there was nothing in tlic eye amiss, 
 " Ami the heart calmly bore a stroke like tliis : 
 " Not so my mother; thougls of gentle kind, 
 " She could no mercy for tlie creature find. 
 
 ' ["The ' Old Hacliolor,' «lio liAil Iiocn five tiiivs on the 
 brink of matrimony, is mixed up of sorrow .iiid mirrh. The 
 
 ilfscriiilion of the first coming on i)f old ;i^'e i< iidniir.-iblc 
 
 tlionjjh we feel aaured, someliow, thut this iiwdicious oliserver 
 
 " ' Vile plot !' she said. — ' But, madam, if they 
 plot, 
 " ' And you would have revenge, disturb them not.' 
 
 " ' What can we do, my son ?' — ' Consult our ease, 
 " ' And do just nothing, madam, if you please.' 
 
 " ' What will be said ?'— ' We need not that 
 discuss ; 
 " ' Otir friends and neighbours will do that for us.' 
 
 " ' Do you so lightly, son, your loss sustain ?' — 
 " ' Nay, my dear madam, but I count it gain.' 
 
 " ' The world will blame us, sure, if we be still.' — 
 " ' And, if we stir, you may be sure it will.' 
 
 " ' Not to such loss your father had agreed.' — 
 " ' No, for my father's had been loss indeed.' 
 
 " With gracious smile my mother gave assent, 
 " And let th' affair slip by with much content. 
 
 " Some old dispute the lover meant should rise, 
 " Some point of strife they could not compromise, 
 " Displeased the squire — he from the field with- 
 drew, 
 " Not quite conceal'd, not fully placed in view ; 
 " But half advancing, half retreating, kept 
 " At his old distance, and the business slept. 
 
 " Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, 
 " AVhen Time began to play his usual tricks : 
 " Tlic locks once comely in a virgin's sight, 
 " Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroacliii-.g 
 
 white ; 
 " The blood once fervid now to cool began. 
 " And Time's strong pressure to subdue tlic man : 
 " I rode or walk'd as I was wont before, 
 " But now the bounding spirit was no more ; 
 " A moderate pace would now my body heat, 
 " A walk of moderate length distress my feet. 
 " I show'd my stranger-guest those hills sublime, 
 " But said, ' The view is poor, we need not climb.' 
 " At a frientl's mansion I began to dread 
 " The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed ; 
 " At home I felt a more decided taste, 
 " And must have all things in my order placed ; 
 " I ceased to hunt, my horses pleased me less, 
 " INIy dinner more ; I learn'd to play at chess ; 
 " I took my dog and gim, but saw the brute 
 " Was disappointed that I did not shoot ; 
 " My morning walks I now coidd bear to lose, 
 " And bless'd the shower that gave me not to 
 
 choose : 
 " In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; 
 " The active arm, the agile hand were gone ; 
 " Small daily actions into habits grew, 
 " And new dislike to forms and fashion new ; 
 " I loved my trees in order to dispose. 
 " I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose, 
 " Told the same story oft — in short, began to 
 
 2)rose.^ 
 
 has mistaken the date oftheso ngly symptoms, and brouijlit 
 them into view nine; or ten, or, at all events, six or seven 
 years too early." — Edinburgh Review.'] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 429 
 
 " My books were changed ; I now preferr'd the 
 truth 
 " To the light reading of unsettled youth ; 
 " Novels grew tedious, but, by choice or chance, 
 " I still had interest in the wild romance : 
 " There is an age, we know, when talcs of love 
 " Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve ; 
 " Then as we read we feel, and are indeed, 
 " We judge, th' heroic men of whom we read ; 
 " But in our after life these fancies fail, 
 " We cannot be the heroes of the tale ; 
 " The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles 
 
 play, 
 " We cannot, — cannot be so smart and gay. 
 
 " But all the mighty deeds and matchless 
 powers 
 " Of errant knights we never fancied ours, 
 " And thus the prowess of each gifted knight 
 " Must at all times create the same delight ; 
 " Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem, 
 " But Lancelot never, — that he could not dream ; 
 " Nothing reminds us, in the magic page 
 " Of old romance, of our declining age : 
 " If once our fancy mighty dragons slew, 
 " This is no more than fancy now can do ; 
 " But when the heroes of a novel come, 
 " Conquer'd and conquering, to a drawing-room, 
 " We no more feel the vanity that sees 
 " Within ourselves what we admire in these ; 
 " And so we leave the modern tale, to fly 
 " From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy. 
 
 " Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose 
 " That queens would call me to subdue their foes ; 
 " But, by a voluntary weakness sway'd, 
 " When fancy call'd, I willingly obey'd. 
 
 " Such I became, and I believed my heart 
 '■ Might yet be pierced by some peculiar dart 
 " Of right heroic kind, and I could prove 
 " Fond of some peerless nymph who deign'd to 
 
 love, 
 " Some high-soul'd virgin, who had spent her time 
 " In studies grave, heroic, and sublime ; 
 " Who would not like me less that I had spent 
 " Years eight-and-forty, just the age of Kent,* 
 " But not with Kent's discretion, for I grew 
 " Fond of a creature whom my fancy drew — 
 " A kind of beings who are never found 
 " On middle-earth, but grow on fairy-ground. 
 
 " These found I not ; but I had luck to find 
 " A mortal woman of this fairy kind ; 
 " A thin, tall, upright, serious, slender maid, 
 " Who in my own romantic regions stray'd ; 
 " From the world's glare to this sweet vale re- 
 tired, 
 " To dwell unseen, unsullied, unadmired ; 
 " In all her virgin excellence, above 
 " The gaze of crowds and hopes of vulgar love. 
 " We spoke of noble deeds in happier times, 
 " Of glorious virtues, of debasing crimes : 
 
 * [" Lear. IIow old art tlioii ? 
 
 "Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing: 
 
 " Warm was the season, and the subject too, 
 
 " And therefore warm in our discourse we grew. 
 
 " Love made such haste, that, ere a month was flown 
 
 " Since first we met, he had us for his 6-\vn ; 
 
 " Riches are trifles in a hero's sight, 
 
 " And lead to questions low and unpolite ; 
 
 " I nothing said of money or of land, 
 
 " But bent my knee, and fondly ask'd her hand ; 
 
 " And the dear lady, with a grace divine, 
 
 " Gave it, and frankly answer'd, ' It is thine.' 
 
 " Our reading was not to romance confined, 
 " But still it gave its colour to the mind — 
 " Gave to our studies something of its force, 
 " And made profound and tender our discourse ; 
 " Our subjects all, and our religion, took 
 " The grave and solemn spirit of our book : 
 " And who had seen us walk, or heard us read, 
 " Would say, ' These lovers are sublime indeed.' 
 
 " I knew not why, but, when the day was named, 
 " My ardent wishes felt a little tamed; 
 " My mother's sickness then awaked my grief, 
 " And yet, to own the truth, was some relief; 
 " It left uncertain that decisive time 
 " That made my feelings nervous and sublime. 
 
 " Still all was kindness, and at morn and eve 
 I made a visit, talk'd, and took my leave : 
 Kind were tlie lady's looks, her eyes were bright, 
 And swam, I thought, in exquisite delight; 
 A lovely red suflfused the virgin cheek. 
 And spoke more plainly than the tongue could 
 
 speak ; 
 Plainly all seem'd to promise love and joy. 
 Nor fear'd we aught that might our bliss destroy. 
 
 " Engaged by business, I one morn delay'd 
 My usual call on the accomplish'd maid ; 
 But soon, that small impediment removed, 
 I paid the visit that decisive proved ; 
 For the fair lady had, with grieving heart. 
 So I believed, retired to sigh apart : 
 I saw her friend, and begg'd her to entreat 
 My gentle nymph her sighing swain to meet. 
 
 " The gossip gone — what demon, in his spite 
 To love and man, could my frail mind excite. 
 And lead me curious on, against all sense of 
 
 right ? 
 There met my eye, unclosed, a closet's door — 
 Shame ! how could I the secrets there explore ? 
 Pride, honour, friendship, love, condemn'd the 
 
 deed. 
 And yet, in spite of all, I could proceed ! 
 I went, I saw — shall I describe the hoard 
 Of precious worth in seal'd deposits stored 
 Of sparkling hues ? Enough — enough is told ; 
 'Tis not for man such mysteries to unfold. 
 Thus far 1 dare : — Whene'er those orbits swam 
 In that blue liquid that restrain'd their flame, 
 
 nor 80 old. to dote on her for anything : I have years on 
 my back forty-eight." — Lear.] 
 
430 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " As showers the sunbeams — when the crimson 
 
 glow 
 " Of the red rose o'erspread those checks of snow, 
 " I saw, but not the cause — 't was not the red 
 " Of transient blush that o'er her face was 
 
 spread ; 
 " 'T was not the lighter red, that partly streaks 
 " The Catherine pear, that brighten'd o'er her 
 
 cheeks, 
 " Nor scarlet blush of shame — but such disclose 
 " The velvet petals of the Austrian rose 
 " When first unfolded, warm the glowing hue, 
 " Nor cold as rouge, but deep'ning on the view ; 
 " Such were those cheeks — the causes unexplored 
 " Were now detected in that secret hoard ; 
 " And ever to that rich recess would turn 
 " My mind, and cause for such effect discern. 
 
 " Such was my fortune, O ! my friends, and such 
 " The end of lofty hopes that grasp'd too much. 
 " This was, indeed, a trying time in life — 
 " I lost at once a mother and a wife ; 
 " Yet compensation came in time for these, 
 " And what I lost in joy I gain'd in ease." 
 
 " But," said the Squire, " did thus your courtship 
 cease ? 
 " Kesign'd your mistress her betroth'd in peace ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and had sense her feelings to restrain, 
 " Nor ask'd me once my conduct to explain ; 
 " But me she saw those swimming eyes explore, 
 " And explanation she required no more : 
 " Friend to the last, I left her with regret — 
 " Nay, leave her not, for we are neighbours yet. 
 
 " These views extinct, I travell'd, not with taste, 
 " But so that time ran wickedly to waste ; 
 " I penn'd some notes, and might a book have 
 
 made, 
 " But I had no connection with the trade ; 
 " Bridges and churches, towers and halls, I saw, 
 " Maids and Madonnas, and could sketch and 
 
 draw: 
 " Yes, I had made a book, but that my pride 
 " In t)ie not making was more gratified. 
 
 " There was one feeling upon foreign ground, 
 " That more distressing than tlie rest was found — 
 " That though with joy I should my country see, 
 " There none had pleasure in expecting me. 
 
 " I now was sixty, but could walk and eat ; 
 " My food was pleasant and my slumbers sweet : 
 " But what could urge me at a day so late 
 " To think of women ? — my unlucky fate. 
 " It was not sudden ; I had no alarms, 
 " But was attack'd when resting on my arms ; 
 " Like the poor soldier : — when the battle raged 
 " The man escaped, though twice or thrice engaged ; 
 " But when it ended, in a quiet spot 
 " lie fell, the victim of a random-shot. 
 
 " With my good friend the Vicar oft T spent 
 " The evening hours in quiet, as I meant ; 
 " He was a friend in whom, altliough untried 
 " By aught severe, I found I could confide ; 
 
 " A pleasant, sturdy disputant was he, 
 " Who had a daughter — such the Fates decree, 
 " To prove how weak is man — poor yielding man 
 like me. 
 
 " Time after time the maid went out and in, 
 ' Ere love was yet beginning to begin ; 
 ' The first awakening proof, the early doubt, 
 ' Rose from observing she went in and out. 
 ' My friend, though careless, seem'd my mind to 
 
 explore, 
 ' ' Why do you look so often at the door ? ' 
 ' I then was cautious, but it did no good, 
 ' For she at least my meanings understood : 
 ' But to the Vicar nothing she convey'd 
 ' Of what she thought — she did not feel afraid. 
 
 " I must confess, this creature in her mind 
 ' Nor face had beauty that a man would blind ; 
 ' No poet of her matchless charms would write, 
 ' Yet sober praise they fairly would excite : 
 ' She was a creature form'd man's heart to make 
 ' Serenely happy, not to pierce and shake ; 
 ' If she were tried for breaking human hearts, 
 ' Men would acquit her — she had not the arts ; 
 ' Yet without art, at first without design, 
 ' She soon became the arbitress of mine ; 
 ' Without pretensions — nay, without pretence, 
 ' But by a native strange intelligence 
 ' Women possess when they behold a man 
 ' Whom they can tease, and are assured they can ; 
 ' Then 'tis their souls' delight and pride to reign 
 ' O'er the fond slave, to give him ease or pain, 
 ' And stretch and loose by turns the weighty view- 
 less chain. 
 
 " Though much she knew, yet nothing could she 
 prove ; 
 " I had not yet confess'd the crime of love ; 
 " But in an hour when guardian-angels sleep, 
 " I fail'd the secret of my soul to keep ; 
 " And then I saw the triumph in those eyes 
 " That spoke — ' Ay, now you are indeed my prize.' 
 " I almost thought I saw compassion, too, 
 " For all the cruel things she meant to do. 
 " Well I can call to mind the managed air 
 " That gave no comfort, that brought no despair, 
 " That in a dubious balance held tlie mind, 
 " To each side turning, never much inclined. 
 
 " She spoke with kindness — thought the honour 
 
 liigh, 
 " And knew not how to give a fit reply ; 
 " She could not, would not, dared not, must not deem 
 " Such language proof of aught but my esteem ; 
 " It made her proud — she never could forget 
 " My partial thoughts— she felt her much in debt : 
 " She who had never in her life indulged 
 " The thought of hearing what I now divulged — 
 " I who had seen so many and so much, — 
 " It was an honour — she would deem it such ; 
 " Our different years, indeed, would put an end 
 " To other views, but still her father's friend 
 " To her, she humbly hoped, would his regard 
 
 extend. 
 
 " Thus saying nothing, all she meant to say, 
 " She play'd the part the sex delights to play ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 431 
 
 " Now by some act of kindness giving scope 
 " To the new workings of excited hope; 
 " Then by an air of something like disdain, 
 " But scarcely seen, repelling it again ; 
 " Then for a season, neither cold nor kmd, 
 " She kept a sort of balance in the mind, 
 " And as his pole a dancer on the rope, 
 " The equal poise on both sides kept me up. 
 
 " Is it not strange that man can fairly view 
 " Pursuit like this, and yet his point pursue ? 
 " While he the folly fairly will confess, 
 " And even feel the danger of success ? 
 " But so it is, and nought the Circes care 
 " How ill their victims with their poison fare, 
 " When thus they trifle, and with quiet soul 
 " Mix their ingredients in the maddening bowl. 
 " Their high regard, the softness of their air, 
 " The pitying grief that saddens at a prayer, 
 " Their grave petitions for the peace of mind 
 " That they determine you shall never find, 
 " And all their vain amazement that a man 
 " Like you should love — they wonder how you can! 
 
 " For months the idler play'd her wicked part, 
 " Then fairl}' gave the secret of her heart. 
 " ' She hoped ' — I now the smiling gipsy view — 
 " ' Her father's friend would be her lover's too, 
 " ' Young Henry Gale ' — But why delay so long ? — ■ 
 " She could not tell — she fear'd it might be wrong, 
 " ' But I was good ' — I knew not, I was weak, 
 " And spoke as love directed me to speak. 
 
 " When in my arms their boj' and girl I take, 
 " I feel a fondness for the mother's sake ; 
 " But though the dears some softening thoughts 
 
 excite, 
 " I have no wishes for the father's right. 
 
 " Now all is quiet, and the mind sustains 
 " Its proper comforts, its befitting pains ; 
 " The heart reposes ; it has had its share 
 " Of love, as much as it could fairly bear : 
 " And what is left in life that now demands its care ? 
 
 " For O ! my friends, if this were all indeed, 
 " Could we believe that nothing would succeed ? 
 " If all were but this daily dose of life, 
 " Without a care or comfort, child or wife ; 
 " These walks for health with nothing more in view, 
 " This doing nothing, and with labour too ; 
 " This frequent asking when 't is time to dine, 
 " This daily dozing o'er the news and wine ; 
 " This age's riddle, when each day appears 
 " So very long, so very short the years : 
 " If this were all — but let me not suppose — 
 " What then were life ? whose virtues, trials, woes, 
 " Would sleep th' eternal sleep, and there the scene 
 would close. 
 
 " This cannot be — but why has Time a pace 
 " That seems unequal in our mortal race ? 
 
 1 [In the original MS. the Book thus opens : — 
 That gentle Spinster whom our Squire approved 
 So well, they judged aright who said he loved. 
 Though, when they thought to w hat the love would lead, 
 They err'd — for neither would so far proceed. 
 
 " Quick is that pace in early life, but slow, 
 
 " Tedious, and heavy, as we older grow : 
 
 " But yet, though slow, the movements are alike, 
 
 " And with no force upon the memory strike ; 
 
 " And therefore, tedious as we find them all, 
 
 " They leave us nothing we in view recall ; 
 
 " But days that we so dull and heavy knew 
 
 " Are now as moments passing in review, 
 
 " And hence arises ancient men's report, 
 
 " That days are tedious, and yet years are short. 
 
 BOOK XL 
 
 THE MAID'S STORY. 
 
 A Mother's Advice — Trials for a young Lady — Ancient Lovers 
 — The Mother a Wife— Grandmamma — Genteel Economy — 
 Frederick, a young Collegian — Grandmamma dies — Retreat 
 with Biddy — Comforts of the Poor — Return home — Death 
 of the Husband— Nervous Disorders — Conversion — Frede- 
 rick a Teacher — Retreat to Sidmouth^Self-Examination — 
 The Mother dies — Frederick a Soldier— Retirement with 
 a Friend — Their Happiness how interrupted — Frederick an 
 Actor — Is dismissed and supported — A last Adventure. 
 
 Three days remain'd their Friend, and then again 
 The Brothers left, themselves to entertain ; 
 When spake the younger — " It would please me 
 
 well 
 " To hear thy Spinster-friend her story tell ; 
 " And our attention would be nobly paid 
 " Thus to compare the Bachelor and Maid." 
 
 " Frank as she is," replied the Squire, " nor one 
 Is more disposed to show what she has done 
 With time, or time with her ; yet all her care 
 And every trial she might not declare 
 To one a stranger ; but to me, her friend. 
 She has the story of those trials penn'd ; 
 These shalt thou hear, for well the maid I know. 
 And will her efforts and her conquests show. 
 Jacques is abroad, and we alone shall dine. 
 And then to give this lady's tale be mine ; 
 Thou wilt attend to this good spinster's life. 
 And grieve and wonder she is not a wife : 
 But if we judge by either words or looks. 
 Her mode of life, her morals, or her books. 
 Her pure devotion, unafi'ected sense. 
 Her placid air, her mild benevolence. 
 Her gay good humour, and her manners free, 
 She is happy as a maid can be ; 
 If as a wife I know not, and decline 
 Question like this till I can judge of thine." 
 
 Then from a secret hoard drew forth the Squire 
 His tale, and said, " Attention I require — 
 " My verse you may condemn, my theme you must 
 admire.' 
 
 This Maiden Lady, to her promise just. 
 Gave them her story. — She could safely trust 
 Her neighbours both : the one she long had known, 
 The other kindness and respect had shown. 
 
432 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 I to your kindness speak ! let that prevail, 
 And of my frailty judge as beings frail. 
 
 Mj' father, dying, to my mother left 
 An infant charge, of all things else bereft ; 
 Poor, but experienced in the world, she knew 
 "What others did, and judged what she could do ; 
 Beauty she justly weigh'd, was never blind 
 To her own interest, and she read mankind : 
 She view'd my person with approving glance, 
 And judged the way my fortune to advance ; 
 Taught me betimes that person to improve, 
 And make a lawful merchandise of love ; 
 Bade me my temper in subjection keep, 
 And not permit my vigilance to sleep ; 
 I was not one, a miss, who might presume 
 Now to be crazed by mirth, now sunk in gloom ; 
 Nor to be fretful, vapourish, or give way 
 To spleen and anger, as the wealthy may ; 
 But I must please, and all I felt of pride, 
 Contempt, and hatred, I must cast aside. 
 
 " Have not one friend," my mother cried, " not 
 one; 
 " That bane of our romantic triflers shun ; 
 " Suppose her true, can she afford you aid ? 
 " Suppose her false, your purpose is betray'd ; 
 " And then in dubious points, and matters nice, 
 " How can you profit by a child's advice ? 
 " While you are writing on from post to post, 
 " Your hour is over, and a man is lost : 
 " Girls of their hearts are scribbling ; their de- 
 sires, 
 " And what the folly of the heart requires, 
 " Dupes to their dreams — but I the truth impart, 
 " You cannot, child, atford to have a heart ; 
 " Think nothing of it ; to yourself be true, 
 " And keep life's first great business in your 
 
 view ; — 
 " Take it, dear Martha, for a useful rule, 
 " She who is poor is ugly or a fool ; 
 " Or, worse than either, has a bosom fill'd 
 " With soft emotions, and with raptures thrill'd.^ 
 
 " Head not too much, nor write in verse or 
 prose, 
 " For then you make the dull and foolish foes ; 
 " Yet those who do, deride not nor condemn, 
 " It is not safe to raise up foes in them ; 
 " For thougli they harm you not, as blockheads do, 
 " There is some malice in the scribbling crew." 
 
 Such her advice ; full hard with her had dealt 
 'J'lie world, and slie tlie usage keenly felt. 
 
 " Keep your good name," she said ; " and that 
 to keep, 
 " You must not suffer vigilance to sleep : 
 " Some have, perhaps, the name of chaste retain'd, 
 " When nought of chastity itself remain'd ; 
 
 Frankly, not fearless, from lior parly youth. 
 
 She gave her tale, nor would dis^'uise a truth ; 
 
 Timid in places, and uifh some restraint, 
 
 Hut still resolved the very (acts to paint, 
 
 Witli plaintive smile she prel'aceil what slie spoke. 
 
 And the Friends listened witli attentive look.] 
 
 " But there is danger — few have means to blind 
 " The keen-eyed world, and none to make it kind. 
 
 " And one thing more — to free yourself from 
 foes, 
 " Never a secret to your friend disclose ; 
 '■ Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys, 
 " Are never valued till they make a noise ; 
 " To show how trusted, tliey their power display : 
 " To show how worthy, they the trust betray ; 
 " Like pence in children's pockets secrets lie 
 " In female bosoms — they must burn or fly. 
 
 " Let not your heart be soften'd ; if it be, 
 " Let not the man his softening influence see ; 
 " For the most fond will sometimes tyrants prove, 
 " And wound the bosom where they trace the love. 
 " But to your fortune look, on that depend 
 " For your life's comforts, comforts that attend 
 " On wealth alone — wealth gone, they have their 
 end." 
 
 Such were my mother's cares to mend my lot, 
 And such her pupil, they succeeded not. 
 
 It was conceived the person I had then 
 Might lead to serious thoughts some wealthy men. 
 Who, having none their purpose to oppose. 
 Would soon be won their wishes to disclose : 
 My mother thought I was the very child 
 By whom the old and amorous are beguiled : 
 So mildly gay, so ignorantly fair. 
 And pure, no doubt, as sleeping infants are : 
 Then I had lessons how to look and move. 
 And, I repeat, make merchandise of love. 
 
 Thrice it was tried if one so young could bring 
 Old wary men to buy the binding ring ; 
 And on the taper finger, to whose tip 
 The fond old swain would press his withering lip. 
 Place the strong charm : — and one would win my 
 
 heart 
 By re-assuming youth — a trj'ing part ; 
 Girls, he supposed, all knew the young were bold. 
 And he would show that spirit in the old ; 
 In boys they loved to hear the rattling tongue, 
 And he would talk as idly as the young ; 
 He knew the vices our Lotharios boast, 
 And he would show of every vice the ghost. 
 The evil's self, without disguise or dress. 
 Vice in its own pure native ugliness ; 
 Not as the drunkenness of slaves, to prove 
 Vice hateful, but that, seeing, I might love. 
 He drove me out, and I was pleased to see 
 Care of himself, it served as care for me ; 
 For he would tell me, that he should not spare 
 Man, liorse, or carriage, if I were not there ; 
 Provoked at last, my malice I obey'd, 
 And smiling said, " Sir, I am not afraid." 
 This check'd his spirit ; but he said, " Could you 
 " Have charge so rich, you would be careful too." 
 
 * [Here follows in MS. :— 
 
 " Tliink not of love I it is a cliancc indeed, 
 " Wlien love and prudence side hy side proceed. 
 " Nay, when they do, I doubtfully approve — 
 "Love baflles prudence— Oh ! beware of love."3 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 433 
 
 And he, indeed, so very slowly drove, 
 That we dismiss'd the over-cautious love. 
 
 My next admirer was of equal age, 
 And wish'd the child's afiection to engage. 
 And keep the fluttering bird a victim in his cage : 
 He had no portion of his rival's glee. 
 But gravely praised the gravity in me ; 
 Eeligious, moral, both in word and deed, 
 But warmly disputatious in his creed : 
 Wild in his younger time, as we were told, 
 And therefore like a penitent when old. 
 Strange ! he should wish a lively girl to look 
 Upon the methods his repentance took. 
 Then he would say, he was no more a rake 
 To squander money for his passions' sake ; 
 Yet, upon proper terms, as man discreet. 
 He with my mother was disposed to treat. 
 To whom he told, " the price of beauty fell 
 " In every market, and but few could sell ; 
 " That trade in India, once alive and brisk, 
 " Was over done, and scarcely worth the risk." 
 Then stoop'd to speak of board, and what for life 
 
 A wife would cost if he should take a wife. 
 
 Hardly he bargain'd, and so much desired. 
 That we demurr'd; and he, displeased, retired. 
 
 And now I hoped to rest, nor act again 
 The paltry part for which I felt disdain. 
 When a third lover came within our view, 
 And somewhat differing from the former two ; 
 He had been much abroad, and he had seen 
 The world's weak side, and read the hearts of 
 
 men ; 
 But all, it seem'd, this study could produce, 
 Was food for spleen, derision, and abuse ; 
 He levell'd all, as one who had intent 
 To clear the vile and spot the innocent : 
 He praised my sense, and said I ought to be 
 From girl's restraint and nursery maxims free : 
 He praised my mother ; but he judged her wTong 
 To keep us from the admiring world so long : 
 He praised himself; and then his vices named. 
 And call'd them follies, and was not ashamed. 
 He more than hinted that the lessons taught 
 By priests were all with superstition fraught ; 
 And I must think them for the crowd design'd. 
 Not to alarm the free and liberal mind. 
 
 Wisdom with him was virtue. They were wrong 
 And weak, he said, who went not with the 
 
 throng ; 
 Man must his passions order and restrain, 
 In all that gives his fellow-subjects pain ; 
 But yet of guilt he would in pity speak. 
 And, as he judged, the wicked were the weak. 
 
 Such was the lover of a simple maid. 
 Who seem'd to call his logic to his aid, 
 And to mean something : I will not pretend 
 To judge the purpose of my reasoning friend, 
 Who was dismiss'd, in quiet to complain 
 That so much labour was bestow'd in vain. 
 
 And now my mother seem'd disposed to try 
 A life of reason and tranquillity ; 
 Ere this, her health and spirits were the best. 
 Hers the day's trifling, and the nightly rest; 
 
 But something new was in her mind instill'd ; 
 Unquiet thoughts the matron bosom fiU'd ; 
 For five-and-forty peaceful years she bore 
 Her placid looks, and dress becoming wore : 
 She could a compliment with pleasure take. 
 But no absurd impression could it make. 
 Now were her nerves disorder'd : she was weak, 
 And must the help of a phj'sician seek — 
 A Scotch physician, who had just began 
 To settle near us, quite a graceful man. 
 And very clever, with a soft address. 
 That would his meaning tenderly express. 
 
 Sick as my mother seem'd, when he inquired 
 If she was ill, he found her well attired ; 
 She purchased wares so showy and so fine, 
 The venders all believed th' indulgence mine : 
 But I, who thrice was woo'd, had lovers three, 
 Must now again a very infant be ; 
 AVhile the good lady, twenty years a wife. 
 Was to decide the colour of liis life : 
 And she decided. She was wont t' appear 
 To these unequal marriages severe ; 
 Her thoughts of such with energy she told, 
 And was repulsive, dignified, and cold ; 
 But now, like monarchs weary of a throne. 
 She would no longer reign — at least alone. 
 
 She gave her pulse, and with a manner sweet, 
 Wish'd him to feel how kindly they could beat ; 
 And 't is a thing quite wonderful to tell 
 How soon he understood them, and how well. 
 
 Now, when she married, I from home was sent. 
 With grandmamma to keep perpetual Lent ; 
 For she would take me on conditions cheap. 
 For what we scarcely could a parrot keep : 
 A trifle added to the daily fare 
 Would feed a maiden who must learn to spare. 
 
 With grandmamma I lived in perfect ease ; 
 Consent to starve, and I was sure to please. 
 Full well I knew the painful shifts we made, 
 Expenses all to lessen or evade. 
 And tradesmen's flinty hearts to soften and per- 
 suade. 
 
 Poor grandmamma among the gentry dwelt 
 Of a small town, and all the honour felt ; 
 Shrinking from all approaches to disgrace 
 That might be mark'd in so genteel a place ; 
 Where every daily deed, as soon as done. 
 Ran through the town as fast as it could run — 
 At dinners what appear'd — at cards who lost or 
 won. 
 
 Our good appearance through the town was 
 known. 
 Hunger and thirst were matters of our own ; 
 And you would judge that she in scandal dealt 
 Who told on what we fed, or how we felt. 
 
 We had a little maid, some four feet high. 
 Who was cmploy'd our household stores to buy ; 
 For she would weary every man in trade. 
 And tdase to assent whom she could not persuade. 
 
434 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Methinks I see her, with her pigmy light, 
 Precede her mistress in a moonless night ; 
 From the small lantern throwing through the 
 
 street 
 The dimm'd effulgence at her lady's feet, 
 "What time she went to prove her well-kno\'sTi skill 
 With rival friends at their beloved quadrille. 
 
 " And how 's your pain ?" inquired the gentle 
 maid, 
 For that was asking if with luck she play'd ; 
 And this she answer'd as the cards decreed, 
 " O Biddy ! ask not — very bad indeed ;" 
 Or, in more cheerful tone, from spirit light, 
 " Why, thank you, Biddy, pretty well to-night." 
 
 The good old lady often thought me vain, 
 And of my dress would tenderly complain ; 
 But liked my taste in food of every kind. 
 As from all grossness, like her own, refined : 
 Yet, when she hinted that on herbs and bread 
 Girls of my age and spirit should be fed, 
 Whate'er my age had borne, my flesh and blood, 
 Spirit and strength, the interdict withstood ; 
 But though I might the frugal soul offend 
 Of the good matron, now my only friend, 
 And though her purse suggested rules so strict, 
 Her love could not the punishment inflict: 
 She sometimes watch'd the morsel with a frown, 
 And sigh'd to see, but let it still go down. 
 
 Our butcher's bill, to me a monstrous sum. 
 Was such, that, summon'd, he forbore to come : 
 Proud man was he ; and when the bill was paid. 
 He put the money in his bag and play'd. 
 Jerking it up, and catching it again, 
 And poising in his hand in pure disdain ; 
 While the good ladj', awed by man so proud. 
 And yet disposed to have her claims allow'd, 
 Balanced between humility and pride. 
 Stood a fall'n empress at the butcher's side, 
 
 Praising his meat as deUcate and nice 
 
 " Yes, madam, yes ! if people pay the price." 
 
 So lived the lady, and so murmur'd I, 
 In all the grief of pride and poverty : 
 Twice in the year there came a note to tell 
 How well mamma, who hoped the child was well ; 
 It was not then a pleasure to be styled. 
 By a mamma of such experience. Child ! 
 But I supprcss'd the feelings of my pride. 
 Or other feelings set them all aside. 
 
 There was a youth from college, just the one 
 I judged mamma would value as a son ; 
 He was to me good, handsome, learn'd, genteel — 
 I cannot now what then I thought reveal ; 
 But in .1 word, he was tlie very youth 
 Who told me what I judged the very truth, 
 That love like his and charms like mine agreed, 
 For all description they must both exceed : 
 Yet scarcely can I throw a smile on things 
 So painful, but that Time his comfort brings, 
 Or rather throws oblivion on the mind ; 
 For we are more forgetful than resign'd. 
 
 We both were young, had heard of love and 
 read, 
 And could see nothing in the thing to dread. 
 But like a simple pair our time employ'd 
 In pleasant views to be in time enjoy'd ; 
 When Frederick came, the kind old lady smiled 
 To see the youth so taken with her child ; 
 A nice young man, who came with unsoil'd feet 
 In her best room, and neither drank nor eat : 
 Alas ! lie planted in a vacant breast 
 The hopes and fears that robb'd it of its rest. 
 
 All now appear'd so right, so fair, so just, 
 We surely might the lovely prospect trust ! 
 Alas ! poor Frederick and his charmer found 
 That they were standing on fallacious ground : 
 All that the father of the youth could do 
 Was done — and now he must himself pursue 
 Success in life ; and, honest truth to state. 
 He was not fitted for a candidate : 
 I, too, had nothing in this world below. 
 Save what a Scotch physician could bestow, 
 Who for a pittance took my mother's hand, — 
 And if disposed, what had they to command ? 
 But these were after fears, nor came t' annoy 
 The tender children in their dreams of joy: 
 Who talk'd of glebe and garden, tithe and rent. 
 And how a fancied income should be spent : 
 AVhat friends, what social parties we should see, 
 And live with what genteel economy ; 
 In fact, we gave our hearts as children give, 
 And thought of living as our neighbours live. 
 
 Now, when assured ourselves that all was well, 
 'T was right our friends of these designs to tell : 
 For this we parted. — Grandmamma, amazed. 
 Upon her child with fond compassion gazed ; 
 Then pious tears appear'd, but not a word 
 In aid of weeping, till she cried " Good Lord !" 
 She then, with hurried motion, sought the stairs, 
 And, calling Biddy, bade lier come to prayers. 
 
 Yet the good lady, early in her life, 
 Was call'd to vow the duties of a wife ; 
 She sought the altar by her friends' advice. 
 No free-will offering, but a sacrifice : 
 But here a forward girl and eager boy 
 Dared talk of life, and turn their heads with joy. 
 To my mamma 1 wrote in just the way 
 I felt, and said what dreaming lasses say — 
 How handsome Frederick was, by all confcss'd. 
 How well he look'd, how very well he drcss'd ; 
 With learning much, that would for both provide. 
 His mother's darling, and his father's pride : 
 And then he loves me more than mind can guess. 
 Than heart conceive, or eloquence express. 
 
 No letter came, a doubtful mind to ease. 
 And, what w.is worse, no Frederick came to 
 
 please ; 
 To college gone — so thought our little maid : 
 But not to see me ! I was much afraid ; 
 I walk'd the garden round, and deeply sigh'd. 
 When grandmamma grew faint ! and dropp'd, and 
 
 died. 
 A fate so awful and so sudden drove 
 All else away, and half cxtinguish'd loYe. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 435 
 
 Strange people came : they search'd the house 
 around, 
 And — vulgar wretches !^ — sold whate'er they found : 
 The secret hoards that in the drawers were kept, 
 The silver toys that with the tokens slept, 
 The precious beads, the corals with their bells, 
 That laid secure, lock'd up in secret cells, 
 The costly silk, the tabby, the brocade, 
 The very garment for the wedding made, 
 "Were brought to sale, with many a jest thereon — 
 
 " Going — a bridal dress — for Going ! — Gone !" 
 
 That ring, dear pledge of early love and true, 
 That to the wedded finger almost grew, 
 "Was sold for six and tenpence to a Jew ! 
 
 Great was the fancied worth ; but ah ! how small 
 The sum thus made, and yet how valued all ! 
 But all that to the shameful service went 
 Just paid the bills, the burial, and the rent ; 
 And I and Biddy, poor deserted maids ! 
 Were turn'd adrift to seek for other aids. 
 
 Now left by all the world, as I believed, 
 I wonder'd much that I so little griev'd ; 
 Yet I was frighten'd at the painful view 
 Of shiftless want, and saw not what to do : 
 In times like this the poor have little dread, 
 They can but work, and they shall then be fed : 
 And Biddy cheer'd me with such thoughts as this, 
 " You '11 find the poor have their enjoyments, 
 
 miss '." 
 Indeed I saw, for Biddy took me home 
 To a forsaken hovel's cold and gloom ; 
 And, while my tears in plenteous flow were shed, 
 With her own hand she placed her proper bed, 
 Keserved for need. A fire was quickly made. 
 And food, the purchase for the day, display'd : 
 She let in air to make the damps retire, 
 Then placed her sad companion at her fire : 
 She then began her wonted peace to feel. 
 She bought her wool, and sought her favourite 
 
 wheel. 
 That as she turn'd, she sang with sober glee, 
 " Begone, dull Care ! I '11 have no more with 
 
 thee :" 
 Then turn'd to me. and bade me weep no more, 
 But try and taste the pleasures of the poor. 
 
 When dinner came, on table brown and bare 
 Were placed the humblest forms of earthenware, 
 AVith one blue dish, on which our food was placed. 
 For appetite provided, not for taste : 
 I look'd disgusted, having lately seen 
 All so minutely delicate and clean ; 
 Yet, as I sat, 1 found to my surprise 
 A vulgar kind of inclination rise, 
 And near my humble friend and nearer drew. 
 Tried the strange food, and was partaker too. 
 
 I walk'd at eve, but not where I was seen. 
 And thought, with sorrow, What can Frederick 
 
 mean ? 
 I must not write, I said, for I am poor ; 
 And then I wept till I could weep no more. 
 Kind-hearted Biddy tried my griefs to heal : — 
 " This is a nothing to what others feel ; 
 " Life has a thousand sorrows worse than this ; 
 " A lover lost is not a fortune, miss ! 
 
 " One goes, another comes, and which is best 
 " There is no telling — set your heart at rest." 
 
 At night we pray'd — I dare not say a word 
 Of our devotion, it was so absurd ; 
 And very pious upon Biddy's part. 
 But mine were all effusions of the heart ; 
 While she her angels call'd their peace to shed. 
 And bless the corners of our little bed. 
 All was a dream ! I said. Is this indeed 
 To be my life ? and thus to lodge and feed, 
 To pay for what I have, and work for what I 
 
 need? 
 Must I be poor? and Frederick, if we meet. 
 Would not so much as know me in the street ; 
 Or, as he walk'd with ladies, he would try, 
 To be engaged as we were passing by. 
 And then I wept to think that I should grow 
 Like them whom he would be ashamed to know. 
 
 On the third day, while striving with my fate. 
 And hearing Biddy all its comforts state. 
 Talking of all her neighbours, all her schemes. 
 Her stories, merry jests, and warning dreams. 
 With tales of mirth and murder ! — Oh ! the nights 
 Pass'd, said the maiden, in such dear delights, — • 
 And I was thinking, Can the time arrive 
 When I shall thus be humbled, and survive ? — • 
 Then I beheld a horse and handsome gig. 
 With the good air, tall form, and comely wig 
 Of Doctor Mackey — I in fear began 
 To say. Good Heaven, preserve me from the 
 
 man ! 
 But fears ill reason, — Heaven to such a mind 
 Had lent a heart compassionate and kind. 
 
 From him I learn'd that one had call'd to know 
 What with my hand my parents could bestow ; 
 And when he learn'd the truth, in high disdain 
 He told my fate, and home return'd again. 
 " Nay, be not grieved, my loveljf girl ; but few 
 " Wed the first love, however kind and true ; 
 " Something there comes to break the strongest 
 
 vow, 
 " Or mine had been my gentle Mattie now. 
 " When the good lady died — but let me leave 
 " All gloomy subjects — 't is not good to grieve." 
 
 Thus the kind Scotchman soothed me : he 
 sustain'd 
 A father's part, and my submission gain'd : — 
 Then my afiection ; and he often told 
 My sterner parent that her heart was cold. 
 He grew in honour — he obtain'd a name — - 
 And now a favourite with the place became : 
 To me most gentle, he would condescend 
 To read and reason, be the guide and friend ; 
 He taught me knowledge of the wholesome kind. 
 And fiU'd with many a useful truth my mind : 
 Life's common burden daily lighter grew. 
 And even Frederick lessened in my view : 
 Cold and repulsive as he once appear'd. 
 He was by evei-y generous act endear'd ; 
 And, above all, that he %vith ardour fiU'd 
 Mj' soul for truth — a love by him instill'd ; 
 Till my mamma grew jealous of a maid 
 To whom a husband such attention -paid : 
 
43G 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Not grossly jealous ; but it gave her pain, 
 And slic observed, " He made her daughter vain ; 
 " And what his help to one who must not look 
 " To gain her bread by poring on a book ?" 
 
 This was distress ; but this, and all beside, 
 Was lost in grief — my kinder parent died ; 
 AVhen praised and loved, when joy and health he 
 
 gave, 
 lie sank lamented to an early grave : 
 Then love and woe — the parent and the child, 
 Lost in one grief, allied and reconciled. 
 
 Yet soon a will, that left me half his worth, 
 To the same spirit gave a second birth : 
 But 'twas a mother's spleen ; and slie indeed 
 Was sick and sad, and had of comfort need ; 
 J watch'd the way her anxious spirit took. 
 And often found her musing o'er a book ; 
 She changed her dress, her church, her priest, her 
 
 prayer, 
 Join'd a new sect, and sought her comforts there ; 
 Some strange coarse people came, and were so free 
 In their addresses, they offended me ; 
 But my mamma threw all her pride awaj' — 
 More humble she as more assuming they. 
 
 " And what," they said, as having power, " are 
 now 
 " Tlie inward conflicts ? Do you strive ? and how ?" 
 Themselves confessing thoughts so new and wild, 
 I thought them like the visions of a child. 
 " Could we," they ask, " our best good deeds con- 
 demn? 
 " And did we long to touch the garment's hem ? 
 " And was it so with us? for so it was with them." 
 A younger few assumed a softer part, 
 And tried to shake the fortress of my heart ; 
 To this my pliant mother lent her aid, 
 And wish'd the winning of her erring maid : 
 I was constrain'd her female friends to hear, 
 But suffer'd not a bearded convert near : 
 Though more than one attempted, with their whine. 
 And " Sister ! sister! how tliat heart of thine ?" 
 But this was freedom I for ever check'd : 
 Mine was a heart no brother could affect. 
 
 But, " Would I hear the preacher, and receive 
 " The dropping dew of his <liscourse at eve ? 
 " The soft, sweet words ?" I gave two precious 
 
 hours 
 To hear of gifts and graces, helps and powers ; 
 When a pale youth, who sliould dismiss the flock. 
 Gave to my bosom an electric shock. 
 While in tliat act he look'd upon my face 
 As one in that all-equalizing place : 
 Nor, though he sought me, would he lay aside 
 Their cold, dead freedom, or their dull, sad pride. 
 
 3 [Ori-inal MS. :— 
 
 On Siilmoiith terrace pace at morn and noon, 
 
 Or view from Dawlisl) rocks the full-orb'd moon ; 
 
 At Exmouth beacon tlie far bay explore, 
 
 Or quiet sit at Teifjnmoulh's pebbly sliore ; 
 
 'I'liese scenes are lovely all, and will your peace restore.] 
 
 * [Thus in the original MS. : — 
 
 Dear scenes of social comfort, friendly ease, 
 'Jllie power of ^ilensing, the delight to please ; 
 
 Of his conversion he with triumph spoke. 
 Before he orders from a bishop took ; 
 Then how his father's anger he had braved. 
 And, safe himself, his erring neighbours saved. 
 Me he rejoiced a sister to behold 
 Among the members of his favourite fold ; 
 He had not sought me, tlie availing call 
 Demanded all his love, and had it all ; 
 But, now thus met, it must be Heaven's design. — 
 Indeed ! I thought, it never shall be mine. 
 Yes, we must wed ! He was not rich ; and I 
 Had of the earthly good a mean supply ; 
 But it sufiSced. Of his conversion then 
 He told, and labours in converting men ; 
 For he was chosen all their bands among — - 
 Another Daniel ! honour'd, though so young. 
 
 He call'd me sister ; show'd me that he knew 
 What I possess'd, and told what it would do ; 
 My looks, 1 judge, express'd my full disdain, 
 But it was given to the man in vain : 
 They preach till thej are proud, and pride disturbs 
 the brain. 
 
 Is this the youth once timid, mild, polite ? 
 How odious now, and sick'ning to the sight ! 
 Proud that he sees, and yet so truly blind. 
 With all this blight and mildew on the mind ! 
 Amazed the solemn creature heard me vow 
 That I was not disposed to take him now. 
 
 " Then art thou changed, fair maiden ? changed 
 thy heart ?" 
 I answer'd, " No ; but I perceive thou art." 
 
 Still M'as my mother sad, her nerves relax'd. 
 And our small income for advice was tax'd ; 
 When I, who long'd for change and freedom, cried, 
 " Let sea and Sidmouth's balmy air be tried :" 
 And so they were, and every neighbouring scene. 
 That make the bosom, like the clime, serene ; ^ 
 Yet were her teachers loth to yield assent. 
 And not without the warning voice we went ; 
 And there was secret counsel all unknown 
 To me — but I had counsel of my own. 
 
 And now there pass'd a portion of my time 
 In ease delicious and in joy sublime — 
 With friends endear'd by kindness — with delight — 
 In all that could the feeling mind excite. 
 Or please, excited ; — walks in every place 
 Where we could pleasure find and beauty trace ; 
 Or views at night, where on the rocky steep 
 Shines the full moon, or glitters on the deep. 
 
 Yes, they were happy days ; but they are fled ! 
 All now are parted — part are with the dead ! * 
 
 When friends agreed the views around f explore. 
 When sympathising minds exchanged their store; 
 Wlien fear was banish'd, and no form desired, 
 Hut such as decency and sense required ; 
 When each in meeting wore the looks that make 
 Such strong impression and preclude mistake ; 
 When looks, and words, and manner all declare 
 What hearts, and thoughts, and dispositions ate ;— 
 In fact, when we in various modes express 
 That we are happy all ; all answer Yes ! 
 This is indeed approach to perfect happiness. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 437 
 
 Still it is pleasure, though 't is mix'd with pain, 
 To think of joys that cannot live again ! — 
 Here cannot live ; but they excite desire 
 Of purer kind, and heavenly thoughts inspire ! 
 
 And now my mother, weaken'd in her mind, 
 Her will, subdued before, to me resign'd. 
 AVean'd from her late directors, by degrees 
 She sank resign'd, and only sought for ease : 
 In a small town upon the coast we fix'd ; 
 Nor in amusement with associates mix'd. 
 My years — but other mode will I pursue, 
 And count my time by what I sought to do. 
 
 And was that mind at ease ? could I avow 
 That no once leading thoughts engaged me 
 
 now? 
 Was I convinced th' enthusiastic man 
 Had ruin'd what the loving boy began ? 
 I answer'd doubting — I could still detect 
 Feelings too soft — yet him I could reject — 
 Feelings that came when I had least employ, 
 "When common pleasures I could least enjoy — 
 When I was pacing lonely in the rays 
 Of a full moon, in lonely walks and ways — 
 When I was sighing o'er a tale's distress. 
 And paid attention to my Bible less. 
 
 These found, I sought my remedies for these ; 
 I sufFer'd common things my mind to please. 
 And common jjlcasures : seldom walk'd alone, 
 Nor when the moon upon the waters shone; 
 But then my candles lit, my window closed. 
 My needle took, and with my neighbours prosed : 
 And in one year — nay, ere the end of one — 
 My labour ended, and my love was done. 
 
 Bly heart at rest, I boldly look'd within, 
 And dared to ask it of its secret sin ; 
 Alas ! with pride it answer'd, " Look around, 
 " And tell me where a better heart is found !" 
 And then I traced my virtues : Oh '. how few. 
 In fact, they were, and yet how vain I grew ; 
 Thought of my kindness, condescension, ease, 
 My will, my wishes, nay, my power to please ; 
 I judged me prudent, rational, discreet, 
 And void of folly, falsehood, and deceit ; 
 I read, not lightly, as I some had known, 
 But made an author's meaning all my own : 
 In short, what lady could a poet choose 
 As a superior subject for his Muse ? 
 
 Dearobjects ! scatter'd in tlie worlil around, 
 Whom do ye gladden ? wliere may ye be foiled ? 
 Ye who excited joy by day — by niglit, 
 Ye who delighted to dispense delight — 
 Ye who to please the sadden'd temper strove, 
 Who, when ye loved not, show 'd the efl'ert of love — 
 Y'e who are blessings wheresoe'er ye dwell, 
 Accept the wishes of a long farewell!] 
 
 5[" Power Eternal ! assemble round thy throne the innume- 
 rable throng of my fellow-mortals : let them listen to my 
 Confessions, let them blush at my depravity, let them tremble 
 at my sufferings ; let each in his turn expose witli equal sin- 
 cerity the failings, the wanderinijs of his heart, and, if he 
 dare, aver I wius better than that v<an." — Kousskau.] 
 
 So said my heart ; and Conscience straight re- 
 plied — 
 " I say the matter is not fairlj- tried : 
 " I am offended, hurt, dissatisfied. 
 " First of the Christian graces, let me see 
 " AVhat thy pretensions to humility ? 
 " Art thou prepared for trial ? Wilt thou say, 
 " I am this being, and for judgment pray ? 
 " And with the gallant Frenchman, wilt thou cry, 
 " When to thy judge presented. Thus am I * — 
 " Thus was I form'd — these talents I possess' d — 
 "So I employ 'd them — and thou kuow'st the 
 rest 'i " 
 
 Thus Conscience ; and she then a picture drew, 
 And bade me think and tremble at the view. 
 One I beheld — a wife, a mother — go 
 To gloomy scenes of wickedness and woe ; 
 She sought her way through all things vile and 
 
 base. 
 And made a prison a religious place : 
 Fighting her way— the way that angels fight 
 With powers of darkness — to let in the li.sht ; 
 Tell me, my heart, hast thou such victory won 
 As this, a sinner of thy sex, has done. 
 And calls herself a sinner ? What art thou ? 
 And where thy praise and exaltation now ? ^ 
 Yet is she tender, delicate, and nice. 
 And shrinks from all depravity and vice ; 
 Shrinks from the ruffian gaze, the savage gloom. 
 That reign where guilt and misery find a home : 
 Guilt chain'd, and misery purchased ; and with 
 
 them 
 All we abhor, abominate, condemn — 
 The look of scorn, the scowl, th' insulting leer 
 Of shame, all fix'd on her who ventures here : 
 Yet all she braved ! she kept her steadfast eye 
 On the dear cause, and brush'd the baseness hyS 
 So would a mother press her darling child 
 Close to her breast, with tainted rags defiled. 
 
 But thou hast talents truly ! say the ten : 
 Come, let us look at their improvement then. 
 What hast thou done to aid thy sufi'ering kind. 
 To help the sick, the deaf, the lame, the blind? 
 Hast thou not spent thy intellectual force 
 On books abstruse, in critical discourse ? 
 Wasting in useless energy thy days. 
 And idly hstening to their common praise. 
 Who can a kind of transient fame dispense, 
 And say-^" A woman of exceeding sense." 
 Thus tried, and failing, the suggestions fled, 
 And a corrected spirit reign'd instead. 
 
 « [In MS. :— 
 
 What is the good that tliy whole life has done, 
 Compared w ith her one day, a single one ?] 
 
 1 ["Of that charity which, tending directly to amend the 
 guilty, is beneficial to the public as well as to its immediate 
 objects, a memorable example has been given in Mrs. Fry, 
 and those other generous Quakers who have effected so 
 great a chansre in the condition of the female prisoners in 
 Newgate. Their zealous and well-directed benevolence is 
 beyond all praise ; and as it proceeds from the most exalted 
 of all motives— true Christian charity— so, beyond all doubt, 
 itcarriei w ith it the highest of all rewards."— Southev.] 
 
438 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 My mother yet was living ; but tlie flame 
 Of life now flash'd, and fainter then became ; 
 I made it pleasant, and was pleased to see 
 A parent looking as a child to me. 
 
 And now otir humble place grew wondrous gay ; 
 Came gallant persons in their red array : 
 All strangers welcome there, extremely welcome 
 
 they. 
 When in the church I saw inquiring eyes 
 Fix'd on my face with pleasure and surprise ; 
 And soon a knocking at my door was heard ; 
 And soon the lover of my youth appear' d — 
 Frederick, in all his glory, glad to meet. 
 And say, " his happiness was now complete." 
 
 He told his flight from superstitious zeal ; 
 But first what torments he was doom'd to feel : 
 " The tender tears he saw from women fall — 
 " The strong persuasions of the brethren all — 
 " The threats of crazed enthusiasts, bound to keep 
 " The struggling mind,and awe the straying sheep — 
 " From these, their love, their curses, and their 
 
 creed, 
 " Was I by reason and exertion freed." 
 
 Then, like a man who often had been told 
 And was convinced success attends the bold, 
 His former purpose he renew'd, and swore 
 He never loved me half so well before : 
 Before he felt a something to divide 
 The heart, that now had not a love beside. 
 
 In earlier times had I myself amused. 
 And first my swain perplex'd, and then refused ; — 
 Cure for conceit ; — but now in purpose grave, 
 Strong and decisive the reply I gave. 
 Still he would come, and talk, as idlers do, 
 Both of his old associates and his new ; 
 Those who their dreams and reveries receive 
 For facts, and those who would not facts believe. 
 
 He now conceived the Truth was hidden, placed 
 He knew not where, she never could be traced ; 
 " But in that every place, the world around, 
 " Might some resemblance of the nymph be found : 
 " Yet wise men knew these shadows to be vain, 
 " Such as our true philosophers disdain, — ■ 
 " They laugh to see what vulgar minds pursue — 
 " Truth, as a mistress, never in their view — 
 " But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry, 
 is true." 
 
 TJius, at the college and the meeting train'd, 
 My lover seem'd his acme to have gain'd ; 
 With some compassion I essay'd a cure : 
 " If truth be hidden, why art thou so sure ?" 
 This he mistook for tenderness, and cried, 
 " If sure of thee, 1 care not what beside !" 
 Compcll'd to silence, 1, in pure disdain. 
 Withdrew from one so insolent and vain : 
 He then retired ; and I was kindly told, 
 " In pure compassion grew estranged and cold." 
 
 My mother died; but, in my grief drew near 
 A bosom friend, who dried the useless tear : 
 We lived together : we combined our shares 
 Of the world's good, and Icarn'd to brave its cares : 
 
 We were " the Ladies of the Place," and found 
 Protection and respect the country round ; 
 We gave, and largely, for we wish'd to live 
 In good repute — for this 't is good to give ; 
 Our annual present to the priest convey'd 
 Was kindly taken : — we in comfort pray'd ; 
 There none molested in the crimson pew 
 The worthy ladies whom the vicar knew ; 
 And we began to think that life might be. 
 Not happy all, but innocently free. 
 
 My friend in early life was bound to one 
 Of gentle kindred, but a younger son. 
 He fortune's smile with perseverance woo'd, 
 And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued : 
 There, urged by love and youthful hope, he went. 
 Loth ; but 't was all his fortune could present. 
 
 From hence he wrote ; and, with a lover's fears. 
 And gloomy fondness, talk'd of future years ; 
 To her devoted, his Priscilla found 
 His faithful heart still suffering with its wound, 
 That would not heal. A second time she heard, 
 And then no more ; nor lover since appear'd : 
 Year after year the country's fleet arrived, 
 Confirm'd her fear, and yet her love survived ; 
 It still was living ; yet her hope was dead, 
 And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled ; 
 And he was lost : so urged her friends, so she 
 At length believed, and thus retired with me. 
 She would a dedicated vestal prove. 
 And give her virgin vows to heaven and love ; 
 She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past, 
 With ardent hope on those that ever last ; 
 Pious and tender, every day she view'd 
 With solemn joy our perfect solitude ; 
 Her reading, that which most delighted her. 
 That soothed the passions, yet would gently stir ; 
 The tender, softening, melancholy strain, 
 That caused not pleasure, but that vanquish'd 
 
 pain, 
 In tears she read, and wept, and long'd to read 
 
 again. 
 But other worlds were her supreme delight. 
 And there it seem'd she long'd to take her flight: 
 Yet patient, pensive, arm'd by thoughts sublime. 
 She watch'd the tardy steps of lingering time. 
 
 My friend, with face that most would handsome 
 call, 
 Possess'd the charm that wins the heart of all ; 
 And, thrice entreated by a lover's prayer. 
 She thrice refused him with determined air. 
 " No ! had the world one mon.arch, and was he 
 " All that the heart could wish its lord to be, — 
 " Lovely and loving, generous, brave, and true, — 
 " Vain were his hopes to waken hers anew !" 
 For she was wedded to ideal views, 
 And fancy's prospects, that she would not lose, 
 Would not forego, to be a mortal's wife, 
 And wed the poor realities of life. 
 
 There was a day, ere yet the autumn closed. 
 When, ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed ; 
 When from the yellow weed the feathery cro^vn, 
 Light as the curling smoke, fell slowly down ; 
 When the wing'd insect settled in our sight, 
 And waited wind to recommence her flight ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 439 
 
 When the -wide river was a silver sheet, 
 And on the ocean slept th' unanchor'd fleet ; 
 When from our garden, as we look'd above, 
 There was no cloud, and nothing seem'd to move : 
 Then was my friend in ecstasies — she cried, 
 " There is, I feel there is, a world beside ! 
 *' Martha, dear Martha ! we shall hear not then 
 " Of hearts distress'd by good or evil men, 
 " But aU will constant, tender, faithful be — 
 " So had I been, and so had one with me ; 
 " But in this world the fondest and the best 
 " Are the most tried, most troubled, and dis- 
 tress'd : 
 " This is the place for trial ; here we prove, 
 " And there enjoy, the faithfulness of love. 
 
 " Nay, were he here in all the pride of youth, 
 " With honour, valour, tenderness, and truth, 
 " Entirely mine, yet what could I secure, 
 " Or who one day of comfort could ensure ? 
 " No ! all is closed on earth, and there is now 
 " Nothing to break th' indissoluble vow ; 
 " But in that world will be th' abiding bliss, 
 " That pays for every tear and sigh in this." 
 
 Such her discourse, and more refined it grew. 
 Till she had all her glorious dream in view ; 
 And she would further in that dream proceed 
 Than I dare go, who doubtfully agreed ; 
 Smiling I ask'd, again to draw the soul 
 From flight so high, and fancy to control, 
 " If this be truth, the lover's happier way 
 " Is distant still to keep the purposed day ; 
 '' The real bliss would mar the fancied joy, 
 " And marriage all the dream of love destroy." 
 
 She softly smiled, and, as we gravely talk'd. 
 We saw a man who up the gravel walk'd. 
 Not quite erect, nor quite by age depress'd, 
 A travell'd man, and as a merchant dress'd : 
 Large chain of gold upon his watch he wore. 
 Small golden buckles on his feet he bore ; 
 A head of gold his costly cane display'd. 
 And all about him love of gold betray'd. 
 
 This comely man moved onward, and a pair 
 Of comely maidens met with serious air : 
 Till one exclaim'd, and wildly look'd around, 
 '• O Heav'n, 't is Paul !" and dropp'd upon the 
 
 ground ; 
 But she recover'd soon, and you must guess 
 What then ensued, and how much happiness. 
 
 They parted lovers, both distress'd to part ! 
 They met as neighbours, heal'd, and whole of 
 
 heart : 
 She in his absence look'd to heaven for bliss, 
 He was contented with a world like this ; 
 And she prepared in some new state to meet 
 The man now seeking for some snug retreat. 
 He kindly told her he was firm and true. 
 Nor doubted her, and bade her then adieu ! 
 
 " What shall I do ?" the sighing maid began : 
 " How lost the lover ! O, how gross the man ! " 
 For the plain dealer had his wish declared. 
 Nor she, devoted victim ! could be spared : 
 
 He spoke as one decided — she as one 
 
 Who fear'd the love, and would the lover shun. 
 
 " O Martha, sister of my soul ! how dies 
 
 " Each lovely view ! for can I truth disguise, 
 
 " That this is he ? No ! nothing shall persuade ; 
 
 " This is a man the naughty world has made, 
 
 " An eating, drinking, buying, bargaining man — 
 
 " And can I love him ? No ! 1 never can. 
 
 " What once he was, what fancy gave beside, 
 
 " Full weii I know, my love was tlien my pride ; 
 
 " What time has done, what trade and travel 
 
 wrought, 
 " You see ! and yet your sorrowing friend is 
 
 sought ; 
 " But can I take him ?" — " Take him not," I cried, 
 " If so averse — but why so soon decide?" 
 
 Meantime a daily guest the man appear'd, 
 Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer'd : 
 Loud and familiar, loving, fierce, and free, 
 He overpower'd her soft timidity ; 
 Who, weak and vain, and grateful to behold 
 The man was hers, and hers would be the gold ; 
 Thus sundry motives, more than I can name. 
 Leagued on his part, and she a wife became. 
 
 A home was ofier'd, but I knew too well 
 What comfort was with married friends to dwell ; 
 I was resign'd, and, had I felt distress, 
 Again a lover ofier'd some redress ; 
 Behold, a hero of the buskin hears 
 My loss, and with consoling love appears : 
 Frederick was now a hero on the stage. 
 In all its glories, rhapsody, and rage ; 
 Again himself he off"er'd — off'er'd all 
 That his a hero of the kind can call : 
 He for my sake woukl hope of fame resign. 
 And leave th' applause of all the world for mine. 
 Hard fate was Frederick's never to succeed, 
 Yet ever try — but so it was decreed : 
 His mind was weaken'd ; he would laugh and 
 
 weep. 
 And swore profusely I had " murder'd sleep," 
 Had quite unmann'd him, cleft his heart in twain, 
 And he should never " be himself again." 
 
 He was himself ; weak, nervous, kind, and poor, 
 111 dress'd and idle, he besieged my door, 
 Borrow'd, — or, worse, made verses on my charms, 
 And did his best to fill me with alarms ; 
 I had some pity, and I sought the price 
 Of my repose — my hero was not nice ; 
 There was a loan, and promise I should be 
 From all the efibrts of his fondness free. 
 From hunger's future claims, or those of vanity. 
 " Yet," said he, bowing, " do to study take ! 
 " Oh ! wliat a Desdemona wouldst thou make !" ' 
 Thus was my lover lost ; yet even now 
 He claims one thought, and this we will allow. 
 
 His father lived to an extreme old age. 
 But never kind ! — his son had left the stage, 
 
 8 [Original MS. :— 
 
 And tlien he spouted — till I cried. Is lie 
 The man I loved ? Oil ! that could never be. 
 No! time upon the outward beauty preys, 
 And the mind's l>cauty in its vice ilecays ] 
 
440 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 And gain'd some office, but an humble place, 
 And that he lost ! Want sharpen'd his disgrace, 
 Urged him to seek his father — but too late, 
 His jealous brothers -watch'd and barr'd the gate.' 
 
 The old man died : but there is one who pays 
 A moderate pension for his latter days, 
 "Who, though assured inquiries will offend, 
 Is ever asking for this unknown friend ; 
 Some partial lady, whom he hopes to find, 
 As to his wants so to his wishes kind. 
 
 " Be still," a cool adviser sometimes writes. — 
 " J<ay, but," says he, '*the gentle maid invites: 
 " Do let me know the young ! the soft ! the fair !" 
 " Old man," 't is answer'd, " take thyself to 
 
 prayer ! 
 " Be clean, be sober, to thy priest apply, 
 " And — dead to all around thee — learn to die !" 
 
 Is ow had I rest from life's strong hopes and fears. 
 And no disturbance mark'd the flying years ; 
 So on in quiet might those j'ears have pass'd 
 But for a light adventm-e, and a last. 
 
 A handsome Boy, from schoolday bondage free. 
 Came with mamma to gaze upon the sea ; 
 With soft blue eye he look'd upon the waves. 
 And talk'd of treacherous rocks and seamen's 
 
 graves : 
 There was much sweetness in his boyish smile. 
 And signs of feelings frank, that knew not guile. 
 
 The partial mother, of her darling proud, 
 Besought my friendship, and her O'wn avow'd ; 
 She praised her Rupert's person, spirit, case, 
 llow fond of study, yet how form'd to jilease ; 
 In our discourse he often bore a part. 
 And talk'd. Heaven bless him I of his feeling 
 
 heart ; 
 He spoke of pleasures souls like his enjoy, 
 And hated Lovelace like a virtuous boy ; 
 He felt for Clementina's holy sti'ife. 
 And was Sir Charles as large and true as life : 
 For Virtue's heroines was his soul distress'd ; 
 True love and guileless honour fiU'd his breast, 
 AVhen, as the subjects drew the frequent sigh. 
 The tear stood trembling in his large blue eye, 
 And softly he exclaim'd " Sweet, sweetest sjTn- 
 
 pathy :•' 
 
 When thus I heard the handsome stripling 
 speak, 
 I smiled assent, and thought to pat his cheek; 
 But when I saw the feelings blushing there, 
 Signs of emotions strong, tliey said — " Forbear !" 
 
 The youth would speak of his intent to live 
 On that estate which Heaven was pleased to give ; 
 There with the partner of his joys to dwell, 
 And nurse the virtues that he loved so well ; 
 The humble good of happy swains to share. 
 And from the cottage drive distress and care ; 
 
 [MS. :— But tliat he lost, and, with a withrr'd haml. 
 Stood at his father's pate, as he2:,'ar» stand ; 
 But his were jealous brethren, and tliey kept 
 Their dying father from him till he slept.] 
 
 the good 
 
 To the dear infants make some pleasures known. 
 And teach, he gravely said, the virtues to his own. 
 
 He loved to read in verse, and verse-like prose, 
 The softest tales of love-inflicted woes ; 
 When, looking fondly, he would smile and cry, 
 " Is there not bliss in sensibility ?" 
 
 We walk'd together, and it seem'd not harm 
 In linking thought with thought, and arm with 
 
 arm. 
 Till the dear boy would talk too much of bliss. 
 And indistinctly murmur — " Such as this." 
 
 "When no maternal wish her heart beguiled. 
 The lady call'd her son " the darling child ;" 
 When with some nearer view her speech began. 
 She changed her phrase, and said, 
 
 yoimg man I" 
 And lost, when hinting of some future bride. 
 The woman's prudence in the mother's pride. 
 
 Still decent fear and conscious folly strove 
 With fond presumption and aspiring love ; 
 But now too plain to me the strife appear'd. 
 And what he sought I knew, and what he fear'd : 
 The trembling hand and frequent sigh disclosed 
 The \vish that prudence, care, and time opposed. 
 
 Was I not pleased, will you demand ? — Amused 
 By boyish love, that woman's pride refused ? 
 This I acknowledge, and, from day to day. 
 Resolved no longer at such game to play ; 
 Yet I forbore, though to my purpose true. 
 And firmly fix'd to bid the ycuth adieu. 
 There was a moonlight eve. serenely cool. 
 When the vast ocean seem'd a mighty pool ; 
 Save the small rippling waves that gently beat. 
 We scarcely heard them falling at our feet : 
 His mother absent, absent every sound, 
 And every sight, that could the youth confound ; 
 The arm, fast lock'd in mine, his fear betray'd, 
 And, when he spoke not, his designs convey'd ; 
 He oft-times gasp'd for breath, he tried to speak, 
 And, studying words, at last had words to seek. 
 
 Silent the boy, by silence more betray'd. 
 And, fearing lest he should appear afraid. 
 He knelt abruptly, and his speech began — ■ 
 " Pity the pangs of an unhappy man." 
 
 " Be sure," I answer'd, " and relieve them too — 
 " But why that posture ? What the woes to you ? 
 " To feel for others' sorrows is humane, 
 " But too much feeling is our virtue's bane. 
 
 " Come, my dear Eupert ! now your tale dis- 
 close, 
 " That 1 may know the sufferer and his woes; 
 " Know, there is pain that wilful man endures, 
 " That our reproof and not our pity cures : 
 " For though for such assumed distress wc grieve, 
 " Since they themselves as well as us deceive, 
 
 " Yet we assist not." The unhappy youth, 
 
 Unhappy then, beheld not all the truth. 
 
 " O ! what is this ?" exclaim'd the dubious boy, 
 " Words that confuse the being they destroy ? 
 
" So have I read the gods to madness drive 
 
 " Tlie man condemn'd with adverse fate to strive ; 
 
 " O ! make thy victim, though by misery, sure, 
 
 " And let me know the pangs I must endure ; 
 
 " For, like the Grecian warrior, I can pray, 
 
 " Falling, to perish in the face of day." 
 
 " Pretty, my Rupert; and it proves the use 
 " Of all that learning which the schools produce : 
 " But come, your arm — no trembling, but attend 
 '• To sober truth, and a maternal friend. 
 
 " You ask for pity?"—" O ! indeed I do." 
 " Well then, you have it, and assistance too : 
 " Suppose us married I" — " O ! the heavenly 
 
 thought!" 
 " Nay — nay, my fi'iend, be you by wisdom taught ; 
 ■' For wisdom tells you, love would soon subside, 
 " Fall, and make room for penitence and pride ; 
 '• Then would you meet the public eye, and 
 
 blame 
 " Your private taste, and be o'erwhelm'd with 
 
 shame : 
 " ITow must it then your bosom's peace destroy 
 " To hear it said, ' The mother and her boy !' 
 " And then, to show the sneering world it lies, 
 " You would assume the man, and tyrannize : 
 " E'en Time, Care's general soother, would aug- 
 ment 
 " Your self-reproaching, growing discontent. 
 
 " Add twenty years to my precarious life, 
 •' And lo ! your aged, feeble, wailing wife ; 
 " Displeased, displeasing, discontented, blamed; 
 " Both, and with cause, ashaming and ashamed : 
 " When I shall bend beneath a press ef time, 
 " Thou v>ilt be all erect in manhood's prime ; 
 " Then wilt thou fly to younger minds t' assuage 
 " Thy bosom's pain, and I in jealous age 
 " Shall move contempt, if still; if active, rage: 
 " And though in anguish all my days are pass'd, 
 " Yet far beyond thy wishes they may last — 
 " !May last till thou, thy better prospects fled, 
 " Shall have no comfort when thy wife is dead. 
 
 " Then thou in turn, though none will call thee 
 old, 
 " Wilt feel thy spirit fled, thy bosom cold ; 
 "No strong or eager wish to wake the will, 
 " Life will appear to stagnate and be still, 
 " As now with me it slumbers : O ! rejoice 
 " That 1 attend not to that pleading voice ; 
 " So will new hopes this troubled dream succeed, 
 " And one will gladly hear my Rupert plead." 
 
 Ask you, while thus I could the youth deny, 
 Was I unmoved ? — -Inexorable I, 
 Fix'd, and determined : thrice he made his prayer. 
 With looks of sadness first, and then despair ; 
 Thrice doom'd to bear refusal, not exempt. 
 At the last effort, from a slight contempt. 
 
 Did his distress, his pains, your joy excite ? — 
 No ; but I fear'd his perseverance might. 
 Was there no danger, in the moon"s soft rays, 
 To hear the handsome stripling's earnest praise ? 
 Was there no fear that, while my words reproved 
 The eager youth, I might myself be moved ? 
 
 Not for his sake alone I cried " Persist 
 
 No more," and with a frown the cause dismissed 
 
 Seek you th' event ? — I scarcely need reply — 
 Love, unreturn'd, will languish, pine, and die : 
 We lived a while in friendship, and vidth joy 
 I saw depart in peace the amorous boy. 
 
 We met some ten years after, and he then 
 Was married, and as cool as married men ; 
 He talk'd of war and taxes, trade and farms, 
 And thought no more of me, or of my charms. 
 
 We spoke ; and when, alluding to the past, 
 Something of meaning in my look I cast. 
 He, who could never thought or wish disguise, 
 Look'd in my face with trouble and surprise ; 
 To kill reserve, I seized his arm, and cried, 
 " Know me, my lord !" when, laughing, he replied, 
 Wonder'd again, and look'd upon my face. 
 And seem'd unwilling marks of time to trace ; 
 But soon I brought him fairly to confess 
 That boys in love judge ill of happiness. 
 
 Love had his day — to graver subjects led, 
 My will is govem'd, and my mind is fed ; 
 And to more vacant bosoms I resign 
 The hopes and fears that once aff"ected mine. 
 
 BOOK XII. 
 
 SIR OWEN DALE. 
 
 Tlie Rector at the Hall— Why absent— He relates the Story 
 of Sir Owen — His Marriage— Death of liis Lady— His Mind 
 acquires new Energy — His Passions awake — His Taste and 
 Sensibility— Admires a Lady— Camilla— Her Purpose— Sir 
 Owen's Disappointment — His Spirit of Uevenge— How 
 gratified — The Dilemma of Love— An Example of Forgive- 
 ness — Its Etfect. 
 
 Again the Brothers saw their friend the Priest, 
 Who shared the comforts he so much increased ; 
 Absent of late : — and thus the Squire address'd. 
 With welcome smile, his ancient friend and guest. 
 
 " What has detain'd thee ? Some parochial case ? 
 " Some man's desertion, or some maid's disgrace ? 
 " Or wert thou call'd, as parish priest, to give 
 " Name to a new-born thing that would not live, — 
 " That its weak glance upon the world had thrown, 
 " And shrank in terror from the prospect shown ? 
 " Or hast thou heard some dying wretch deplore 
 " That of his pleasures he could taste no more ? 
 " Who wish'd thy aid his spirits to sustain, 
 " And drive away the fears that gave him pain ? 
 " For priests are thought to have a patent charm 
 " To ease the dying sinner of alarm : 
 " Or was thy business of the carnal sort, 
 " And thou wert gone a patron's smile to court, 
 " And Croft or CreswcU would'st to Binning add, 
 " Or take, kind soul '. whatever could be had ? 
 
442 
 
 CllABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Once more I guess : th' election now is near ; 
 " My friend, perliaps, is sway'd by hope or fear, 
 " And all a patriot's wishes, forth to ride, 
 " And hunt for votes to prop the fav'rite side." 
 
 " More private duty call'd me hence, to pay 
 " My friends respect on a rejoicing day," 
 Replied the Rector : " there is born a son, 
 " Pride of an ancient race, who pray'd for one, 
 " And long desponded. Would you hear the talc — 
 " Ask, and 't is granted — of Sir Owen Dale ?" 
 
 " Grant," said the Brothers, " for we humbly 
 
 ask ; 
 " Ours bo the gratitude, and thine the task : 
 " Yet dine we first ; then to this tale of thine, 
 " As to thy sermon, seriously incline : 
 " In neither case our Rector shall complain, 
 " Of this recited, that composed in vain. 
 " Something we heard of Vengeance, who appall'd, 
 " Like an infernal spirit, him who call'd ; 
 " And, ere he vanish'd, would perform his part, 
 " Inflicting tortures on the wounded heart : 
 " Of this but little from report we know; 
 " If j'ou the progress of revenge can show, 
 " Give it, and all its horrors, if you please, 
 " "We hear our neighbour's sufferings much at 
 
 ease. 
 
 " Is it not so ? For do not men delight — 
 " "We call them men — our bruisers to excite, 
 " And urge, with bribing gold, and feed them for 
 
 the fight ? 
 " Men beyond common strength, of giant size, 
 " And threat'ning terrors in each other's eyes ; 
 " When in their naked, native force display'd, 
 " Look answers look, affrighting and afraid ; 
 " While skill, like spurs and feeding, gives the arm 
 " The wicked power to do the greater harm : 
 " Maim'd in the strife, the falling man sustains 
 *' Th' insulting shout, that aggravates his pains : 
 " Man can bear this ; and shall thy hearers heed 
 " A tale of human suflferings l-* Come ! proceed." ' 
 
 Thus urged, the worthy Rector thought it meet 
 Some moral truth, as preface, to repeat ; 
 Reflection serious, — commonplace, 't is true, — 
 But he would act as he was wont to do. 
 And bring his morals in his neighbour's view. 
 
 " Oil ! how the passions, insolent and strong, 
 " Bear our weak minds their rapid course along ; 
 
 ' [The opening' stands thus in the ori^'inal MS. :— 
 
 Bleak was the morn : said Richard, with a sigh, 
 «' I must depart." — " That, Itrotlicr, 1 deny," 
 Said (Jeorge : " you may ; but prilliee tell me wliy.' 
 This point before had been discuss'd, but still 
 Hichard submitted to his Brother's will ; 
 }Jut every day (;ave birth to doubt and fear; 
 He liear(l not now as he was wont to hear, 
 George had discover'd such refjret and pain, 
 'J'liat Uichard still consented to remain. 
 
 Silence ensued— when from tlie villafjo bell 
 Came sound for one who bade the world farewell. 
 Inquiry made, and it was quickly found 
 Sir Owen Dale had caused the doleful sound ; 
 Lord of a distant village, and his clay 
 Was borne thiouj^h Binning on its homeward way. 
 
 " Make us the madness of their will obey ; 
 " Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey ! 
 
 Sir Owen Dale his fortieth j'ear had seen, 
 With temper placid, and with mind serene ; 
 Rich ; early married to an easy wife, 
 They led in comfort a domestic life : 
 He took of his affairs a prudent care. 
 And was by early habit led to spare ; 
 Not as a miser, but in pure good taste. 
 That scom'd the idle wantonness of waste. 
 
 In fact, the lessons he from prudence took 
 Were written in liis mind, as in a book : 
 There what to do he read, and what to shun ; 
 And all commanded was with promptness done : 
 He seem'd without a passion to proceed. 
 Or one whose passions no correction need ; 
 Yet some believed those passions only slept. 
 And were in bounds by early habits kept : 
 Curb'd as they were by fetters worn so long, 
 There were who judged them a rebellious throng. 
 
 To these he stood, not as a hero true. 
 Who fought his foes, and in the combat slew. 
 But one who all those foes, when sleeping, found. 
 And, unresisted, at his pleasure bound. 
 
 We thought — for I was one — that we espied 
 Some indications strong of dormant pride : 
 It was his wish in peace with all to live ; 
 And he could pardon, but could not forgive : 
 Nay, there were times when stern defiance shook 
 The moral man, and threaten'd in his look. 
 
 Should these fierce passions — so we reason' d — 
 
 break 
 Their long-worn chain, what ravage will they 
 
 make ! 
 In vain vifill prudence then contend with pride. 
 And reason vainly bid revenge subside ; 
 Anger will not to meek persuasion bend. 
 Nor to the pleas of hope or fear attend : 
 What curb shall then, in their disorder'd race, 
 Check the wild passions ? what the calm replace ? 
 Virtue shall strive in vain ; and lias he help in 
 
 grace ? 
 While yet the wife with pure discretion ruled. 
 The man was guided, and the mind was school'd ; 
 But then that mind unaided ran to waste ; 
 lie had some learning, but he wanted taste ; 
 
 " Knew you the Knif^ht ? OurKectorkncw liim w;dl, 
 
 " And he'll the story of his feelings tell, 
 
 " That show at least he had tliem. — Let us dine ; 
 
 " I'll introduce the subject with the wine. 
 
 " It is a compound story, if he paints 
 
 "The whole — and we must ply him if he faints. 
 
 " The tale I'oreshorten'd, nothing is descried, 
 
 " But certain persons, that they lived and died ; 
 
 " Hut let him fdl the canvas, and he lirings 
 
 " In view the several passions and their springs, 
 
 " And we have then more perfect view of things." 
 
 The Vicar came, he dined; and tliey began 
 Freely to speak of the departed man, 
 Then ask'd the Vicar to repeat the tale 
 'Hiat ho could give them of SirUwen Dale.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 443 
 
 Placid, not pleased — contented, not employ'd, — 
 He neither time improved, nor life enjoy'd. 
 
 That wife expired, and great the loss sustain'd, 
 Though much distress he neither felt nor feign'd ; 
 He loved not warmly ; but the sudden stroke 
 Deeply and strongly on his habits broke. 
 He had no child to soothe him, and his farm. 
 His sports, his speculations, lost their charm ; 
 Then would he read and travel, would frequent 
 Life's busy scenes, and forth Sir Owen went ; 
 The mind that now was free, unflx'd, uncheck'd, 
 Read and observed with wonderful effect ; 
 And still the more he gain'd, the more he long'd 
 To pay that mind his negligence had wrong'd ; 
 He felt his pleasures rise as he improved, 
 And, first enduring, then the labour loved. 
 
 But, by the light let in, Sir Owen found 
 Some of those passions had their chain unbound ; 
 As from a trance they rose to act their part. 
 And seize, as due to them, a feeling heart. 
 His very person now appear'd refined. 
 And took some graces from the improving mind : 
 He grew polite without a fix'd intent. 
 And to the world a willing pupil went. 
 Restore him twenty years, — restore him ten, — 
 And bright had been his earthly prospect then : 
 But much refinement, when it late arrives, 
 May be the grace, not comfort, of our lives. 
 
 Now had Sir Owen feeling ; things of late 
 Indifierent, he began to love or hate ; 
 What once could neither good nor ill impart. 
 Now pleased the senses, and now touch'd the 
 
 heart ; 
 Prospects and pictures struck th' awaken'd sight. 
 And each new object gave a new delight. 
 He, like th' imperfect creature who had shaped 
 A shroud to hide him, had at length escaped ; 
 Changed from his grub-like state, to crawl no 
 
 more. 
 But a wing'd being, pleased and form'd to soar. 
 
 Now, said his friends, while thus his views im- 
 prove. 
 And his mind softens, what if he should love ? 
 True, life with him has yet serene appear'd. 
 And therefore love in wisdom should be fear'd : 
 Forty and five his years, and then to sigh 
 For beauty's favour ! — Son of frailty, fly ! 
 
 Alas ! he loved ; it was our fear, but ours, 
 His friends alone. He doubted not his pow'rs 
 To win the prize, or to repel the charm. 
 To gain the battle, or escape the harm ; 
 For he had never yet resistance proved. 
 Nor fear'd that friends should say — " Alas ! he 
 loved." 
 
 Younger by twenty years, Camilla found 
 Her face unrivall'd when she smiled or frown'd : 
 Of all approved ; in manner, form, and air, 
 JIade to attract ; gay, elegant, and fair : 
 She had, in beauty's aid, a fair pretence 
 To cultivated, strong intelligence ; 
 For she a clear and ready mind had fed 
 "With wholesome food ; unhurt by what she read : 
 
 She loved to please, but, like her dangerous sex, 
 To please the more whom she design'd to vex. 
 
 This heard Sir Owen, and he saw it true ; 
 It promised pleasure, promised danger too ; 
 But this he knew not then, or slighted if he knew. 
 Yet he delay'd, and would by trials prove 
 That he was safe ; would see the signs of love ; 
 Would not address her while a fear remain'd. 
 Bat win his way, assured of what he gain'd. 
 
 This saw the lady, not displeased to find 
 A man at once so cautious and so blind : 
 She saw his hopes that she would kindly show 
 Proofs of her passion — then she his should know. 
 " So, when my heart is bleeding in his sight, 
 " His love acknowledged will the pains requite ; 
 " It is, when conquer'd, he the heart regards : 
 " Well, good Sir Owen, let us play our cards." 
 
 He spake her praise in terms that love afibrds, 
 By words select, and looks surpassing words ; 
 Kindly she listen'd, and in turn essay'd 
 To pay th' applauses — and she amply paid ; 
 A beauty flattering ! — beauteous flatterers feel 
 The ill you cause, when thus in praise you deal ; 
 For surely he is more than man, or less. 
 When praised by lips that he would die to press. 
 And yet his senses undisturb'd can keep. 
 Can calmly reason, or can soundly sleep. 
 
 Not so Sir Owen ; him Camilla praised. 
 And lofty hopes and strong emotions raised ; 
 This had alone the strength of man subdued, 
 But this enchantress various arts pursued. 
 Let others, pray for music — others pray'd 
 In vain — Sir Owen ask'd, and was obey'd : 
 Let others, walking, sue that arm to take. 
 Unmoved she kept it for Sir Owen's sake : 
 Each small request she granted, and, though small, 
 He thought them pledges of her granting all. 
 
 And now the lover, casting doubt aside. 
 Urged the fond suit that — could not be denied ; 
 Joy more than reverence moved him when he said, 
 " Now banish all my fears, angelic maid !" 
 And as she paused for words, he gaily cried, 
 " I must not, cannot, will not be denied." 
 Ah ! good Sir Owen, think not favours, such 
 As artful maids allow, amount to much ; 
 The sweet, small, poison'd baits, that take the eye 
 And win the soul of all who venture nigh. 
 
 Camilla listen'd, paused, and look'd surprise. 
 Fair witch ! exulting in her witcheries ! 
 She turn'd aside her face, withdrew her hand, 
 And softly said, " Sir, let me understand." 
 
 " Nay, my dear lady ! what can words explain, 
 " If all my looks and actions plead in vain ? 
 " I love." — She show'd a cool respectful air, 
 And he began to falter in his prayer. 
 Yet urged her kindness — Kindness she confess'd, 
 It was esteem, she felt it, and express'd. 
 For her dear father's friend ; and was it right 
 That friend of his— she thought of hers — to slight ? 
 
 - Q 2 
 
444 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 This to the wond'ring lover strange and new 
 And false appear'd — he would not think it true : 
 Still he pursued the lovely prize, and still 
 Heard the cold words, design'd his hopes to kill ; 
 He felt dismay'd, as he perceived success 
 Had inverse ratio, more obtaining less ; 
 And still she grew more cool in her replies, 
 And talk'd of age and improprieties. 
 
 Then to his friends, although it hurt his pride, 
 And to the lady's, he for aid applied ; 
 Who kindly woo'd for him, but strongly were de- 
 nied. 
 
 And now it was those fiercer passions rose. 
 Urged by his love, to murder his repose ; 
 Shame shook his soul to be deceived so long, 
 And fierce Revenge for such contemptuous wrong ; 
 Jealous he grew, and Jealousy supplied 
 His mind with rage, unsoothed, unsatisfied : 
 And grievous were the pangs of deeply wounded 
 
 Pride. 
 His generous soul had not the grief sustain'd, 
 Had he not thought,"Kevenge may be obtain'd." ■ 
 
 Camilla griev'd, but grief was now too late ; 
 She hush'd her fears, and left th' event to fate. 
 
 Four j'ears elapsed, nor knew Sir Owen yet 
 How to repay the meditated debt ; 
 The lovely foe was in her thirtieth year. 
 Nor saw the favourite of the heart appear ; 
 'Tis sure less sprightly the fair nymph became, 
 And spoke of former levities with shame : 
 But this, alas ! was not in time confess'd. 
 And vengeance waited in Sir Owen's breast. 
 
 But now the time arrives — the maid must feel 
 And grieve for wounds that she refused to heal. 
 Sir Owen, childless, in his love had rear'd 
 A sister's son, and now the youth appear'd. 
 In all the pride of manhood, and, beside, 
 With all a soldier's spirit and his pride : 
 Valiant and poor, with all that arms bestow. 
 And wants tliat captains in their quarters know ; 
 Yet to his uncle's generous heart was due 
 Tlie praise, that wants of any kind were few. 
 
 Wlien he appear'd. Sir Owen felt a joy 
 Unknown before, his vengeance bless'd the boy — 
 " To liim I dare confide a cause so just ; 
 " Love liim she may — Oh ! could I say she must !" 
 
 Thus fix'd, he more than usual kindness show'd. 
 Nor let the Captain name the debt he owed ; 
 But when he spoke of gratitude, exclaim'd, 
 " My dearest Mordcu I make me not ashamed : 
 " Each for a friend should do tlie best lie ca", 
 " The most obliged is the obliging man : 
 " But if you wish to give as well as take, 
 '• You may a debtor of your uncle make." 
 
 = [Original MS. .— 
 
 Scarcely liis KPifOns lieart the ills sustain'd, 
 Ami vows of vi'iij,'eancu lor his (jaso rciiiain'd, 
 'I'lir sliapcless purpose of a soul lliat fei-'ls, 
 And luili' suppresses rago, and hall' reveals.] 
 
 Morden was earnest in his wish to know 
 How he could best his grateful spirit show. 
 
 Now the third dinner had their powers renew'd, 
 And fruit and wine upon the table stood ; 
 Tlie fire brought comfort, and the warmth it lent 
 A cheerful spirit to the feelings sent, 
 When thus the Uncle — " Morden, I depend 
 " On you for aid — assist me as a friend : 
 " Full well I know that you would much forego, 
 " And much endure to wreak me on my foe. 
 " Charles, I am wrong'd, insulted — nay, be still, 
 " Nor look so fiercely, — there are none to kill. 
 
 " I loved a lady, somewhat late in life — 
 Perhaps too late — and would have made a wife : 
 Nay, she consented ; for consent I call 
 The mark'd distinction that was seen of all, 
 And long was seen ; but when she knew my pain. 
 Saw my first wish her favour to obtain. 
 And ask her hand — no sooner was it ask'd, 
 Than she, the lovely Jezebel, unmask'd ; 
 And by her haughty airs, and scornful pride, 
 JMy peace was wounded — nay, my reason tried ; 
 I felt despised and fallen when we met, 
 And she, O folly ! looks too lovely yet ; 
 Yet love no longer in my bosom glows, 
 But my heart warms at the revenge it owes. 
 
 " Oh ! that I saw her with her soul on fire, 
 " Desperate from love, and sickening with desire ; 
 " While all beheld her just, unpiticd pain, 
 " Grown in neglect, and sharpen'd by disdain ! 
 " Let her be jealous of each maid she sees, 
 " Striving by every fruitless art to please, 
 " And when she fondly looks, let looks and fondness 
 
 tease ! 
 " So, lost on passion's never-resting sea, 
 " Hopeless and helpless, let her think of me ! 
 " Charles, thou art handsome, nor canst want the 
 
 art 
 " To warm a cold or win a wanton heart : 
 
 " Be my avenger" 
 
 Charles, with smile, not vain, 
 Nor quite unmix'd with pity and disdain. 
 Sat mute in wonder ; but he sat not long 
 Without reflection : — Was Sir Owen wrong ? 
 " So must I think ; for can 1 judge it right 
 " To treat a lovely lady with despite, 
 " Because she pl.iy'd too roughly with the love 
 " Of a fond man w hom she could not approve ? 
 " And yet to vex him for the love he bore 
 " Is cause enough for his revenge, and more. 
 " But, thoughts, to council ! — Do I wear a charm 
 " That will preserve my citadel from harm ? 
 " Like the good knight, I have a heart that feels 
 " The wounds that beauty makes and kindness 
 
 heals : 
 " Beauty she has, it seems, but is not kind — 
 " So found Sir Owen, and so I may find. 
 " Yet why, O heart of tinder, why afraid ? 
 " Comes so much danger from so fair a maid ? 
 " Wilt thou be made a voluntary prize 
 " To the fierce firing of two wicked eyes? 
 " Think lier a foe, and on the danger rush, 
 " Nor let thy kindred for a coward blush. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 445 
 
 " But how if this fair creature should incline 
 '• To think too highly of this love of mine, 
 " And, taking all my counterfeit address 
 " For sterling passion, should the like profess ? 
 " Nay, this is folly ; or, if I perceive 
 " Aught of the kind, I can but take my leave ; 
 " And if the heart should feel a little sore, 
 " Contempt and anger will its ease restore. 
 
 " Then, too, to his all-bounteous hand I owe 
 " All I possess, and almost all I know ; 
 " And shall I for my friend no hazard run, 
 " Who seeks no more for all his love has done ? 
 " 'T is but to meet and bow, to talk and smile, 
 " To act a part, and put on love a while : 
 " And the good knight shall see, this trial made, 
 " That I have just his talents to persuade ; 
 " For why the lady should her heart bestow 
 " On me, or I of her enamour'd grow, 
 " There 's none can reason give, there 's none can 
 danger show." 
 
 These were his rapid thoughts, and then he 
 spoke. 
 " I make a promise, and will not revoke : 
 " You are my judge in what is fit and right, 
 " And I obey you — bid me love or fight ; 
 " Yet had I rather, so the act could meet 
 " Witli your concurrence, not to play the cheat : 
 
 " In a fair cause " 
 
 " Charles, fighting for your king, 
 " Did you e'er judge the merits of the thing ? 
 " Show me a monarch who has cause like mine, 
 " And yet what soldier would his cause decline ?'' 
 
 Poor Charles or saw not, or refused to see, 
 How weak the reasoning of our hopes may be, 
 And said — " Dear uncle, I my king obey'd, 
 " And for his glory's sake the soldier play'd ; 
 " Now a like duty shall j'our nephew rule, 
 " And for your vengeance I will play the fool." 
 'T was well ; but ere they parted for repose, 
 A solemn oath must the engagement close. 
 
 " Swear to me, nephew, from the day you meet 
 " This cruel girl, there shall be no deceit ; 
 " That by all means approved and used by man 
 " You win this dangerous woman, if you can ; 
 " That, being won, you my commands obey, 
 " Leave lier lamenting, and pursue your way ; 
 " And that, as in my business, you will take 
 *' My will as guide, and no resistance make : 
 " Take now an oath — -within the volume look — 
 " There is the Gospel — swear, and kiss the book." 
 
 " It cannot be," thought Charles, " he cannot rest 
 " In this strange humour, — it is all a jest, 
 " All but dissimulation. — Well, sir, there ; 
 " Now I have sworn as you would have me swear." 
 
 " 'T is well," the uncle said in solemn tone ; 
 " Now send me vengeance, Fate, and groan for 
 groan !" 
 
 The time is come : the soldier now must meet 
 Th' unconscious object of the sworn deceit. 
 They meet; each other's looks the pair explore, 
 And, srch their fortune, wish'd to part no more. 
 
 Whether a man is thus disposed to break 
 
 An evil compact he was forced to make. 
 
 Or whether some contention in the breast 
 
 Will not permit a feeling heart to rest ; 
 
 Or was it nature, who in every case 
 
 Has made such mind subjected to such face ; 
 
 Whate'er the cause, no sooner met the pair 
 
 Than both began to love, and one to feel despair. 
 
 But the fair damsel saw with strong delight 
 Th' impression made, and gloried in the sight : 
 No chilling doubt alarm'd her tender breast. 
 But she rejoiced in all his looks profess'd ; 
 Long ere his words her lover's hopes convey'd 
 They warm'd the bosom of the conscious maid ; 
 One spirit seem'd each nature to inspire. 
 And the two hearts were fix'd in one desire. 
 
 " Now," thought the courteous maid, " my 
 father's friend 
 " Will ready pardon to my fault extend ; 
 " He shall no longer lead that hermit's life, 
 " But love his mistress in his nephew's wife ; 
 " My humble duty shall his anger kill, 
 " And I who fled his love will meet his will, 
 " Prevent his least desire, and every wish fulfil." 
 
 Hail, happy power ! that to the present lends 
 Such views ; not all on Fortune's wheel depends ; 
 Hope, fair enchantress, drives each cloud away, 
 And now enjoys the glad but distant day. 
 
 Still fears ensued ; for love produces fear. — 
 " To this dear maid can 1 indeed be dear ? 
 " My fatal oath, alas ! I now repent ; 
 " Stern in his purpose, he will not relent. 
 " Would, ere that oath, I had Camilla seen I 
 " I had not then my honour's victim been : 
 " I must be honest, yet I know not how, — 
 " 'T is crime to break, and death to keep my vow." 
 
 Sir Owen closely watch'd both maid and man. 
 And saw with joy proceed his cruel plan : 
 Then gave his praise — " She has it — has it deep 
 " In her capricious heart, — it murders sleep ; 
 " You see the looks that grieve, you see the eyes 
 
 that weep ; 
 " Now breathe again, dear youth, the kindling 
 
 fire, 
 " And let her feel what she could once inspire." 
 
 Alas ! obedience was an easy task. 
 So might he cherish what he meant to ask; 
 He ventured soon, for Love prepared his way. 
 He sought occasion, he forbade delay ; 
 In spite of vow foregone he taught the youth 
 The looks of passion and the words of truth ; 
 In spite of woman's caution, doubt, and fear, 
 He bade her credit all she wish'd to hear ; 
 An honest passion ruled in cither breast. 
 And both believed the truth that both profess'd. 
 
 But now, 'mid all her new-born hopes, the eyes 
 Of fair Camilla saw through all disguise, 
 lleserve, and apprciiension. Charles, who now 
 Grieved for his duty, and abhorr'd his vow. 
 Told the full fact, and it endear'd him more ; 
 She felt her power, and pardon'd all he swore, 
 
446 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Since to his vow he could his wish prefer, 
 
 And loved the man who gave his world lor her. 
 
 "What must they do, and how their work begin ? 
 Can they that temper to their wshes win ? 
 They tried, they fail'd ; and all they did t' assuage 
 The tempest of his soul provoked his rage ; 
 The uncle met the youth with angry look. 
 And cried, " Remember, sir, the oath you took ; 
 " You have my pity, Charles, but nothing more, 
 " Death, and death only, shall her peace restore ; 
 " And am I dying ? — 1 shall live to view 
 " The harlot's sorrow, and enjoy it too. 
 
 " How ! words offend you ? I have borne for 
 
 years 
 " Unheeded anguish, shed derided tears, 
 " Felt scorn in every look, endured the stare 
 " Of wondering fools who never felt a care ; 
 " On me all eyes were fix'd, and I the while 
 " Sustain'd the insult of a rival's smile. 
 " And shall I now — entangled thus my foe — 
 " My honest vengeance for a boy forego ? 
 " A boy forewarn'd, forearm'd ? Shall this be 
 
 borne, 
 " And I be cheated, Charles, and thou forsworn ? 
 " Hope not, I say, for thou mayst change as well 
 " The sentence graven on the gates of hell — 
 " Here bid adieu to hope, — here hopeless beings 
 
 dwell.' 
 
 " But does she love thee, Charles? I cannot 
 
 live 
 Dishonour'd, unrevenged — I may forgive, 
 But to thy oath I bind thee ; on thy soul 
 Seek not my injured spirit to control ; 
 Seek not to soften, I am hard of heart, 
 Harden'd by insult : — leave her now, and part, 
 And let me know she gi-ieves, while I enjoy her 
 
 smart." 
 
 Charles first in anger to the knight replied, 
 Then felt the clog upon his soul, and sigh'd; 
 To his obedience made his wishes stoop, 
 And now admitted, now excluded hope ; 
 As lovers do, he saw a prospect fair. 
 And then so dark, he sank into despair. 
 
 The uncle grieved ; he even told the youth 
 That he was sorry, and it seem'd a truth ; 
 But though it vcx'd, it varied not his mind, 
 He bound himself, and would his nephew bind. 
 " I told him this, placed danger in his view, 
 " Bade him be certain, bound him to be true ; 
 " And shall I now my purposes reject, 
 " Because my warnings were of no effect?" 
 Thus felt Sir Owen as a man whose cause 
 Is very good — it had his own applause. 
 
 Our knight a tenant had in high esteem, 
 His constant boast, wlion justice was his theme : 
 He praised the fanner's sense, liis shrewd dis- 
 course, 
 Free without rudeness, manly, and not coarse ; 
 As farmer, tenant, nay, as man, tlie knight 
 'J'hought FIlis all that is approved and riglit; 
 
 Then he was happy, and some envy drew 
 For knowing more than other farmers knew; 
 They call'd him learned, and it soothed their 
 
 pride. 
 While he in his was pleased and gratified. 
 
 Still more t' offend, he to the altar led 
 The vicar's niece, to early reading bred ; 
 Who, though she freely ventured on the life, 
 Could never fully be the farmer's wife ; 
 She had a softness, gentleness, and ease, 
 Sure a coarse mind to humble and displease ; 
 Oh ! had she never known a fault beside, 
 How vain their spite, how impotent their pride ! 
 
 Three darling girls the happy couple bless'd, 
 Who now the sweetest lot of life possess'd ; 
 For what can more a grateful spirit move 
 Than health with competence, and peace with 
 love ? 
 
 Ellis would sometimes, thriving man ! retire 
 To the town inn, and quit the parlour fire ; 
 But he was ever kind where'er he went. 
 And trifling sums in his amusement spent ; 
 He bought, he thought for her — she should have 
 
 been content : 
 Oft, when he cash received at Smithfield mart. 
 At Cranboum-alley he would leave a part ; 
 And, if to town he follow'd what he sold. 
 Sure was his wife a present to behold. 
 
 Still, when his evenings at the inn were spent. 
 She mused at home in sullen discontent ; 
 And, sighing, yielded to a wish that some 
 With social spirit to the farm would come : 
 There was a farmer in the place, whose name, 
 And skill in rural arts, were known to fame : 
 He had a pupil, by his landlord sent. 
 On terms that gave the parties much content ; 
 The youth those arts, and those alone, should 
 
 learn, — 
 With aught beside his guide had no concern : 
 He might to neighb'ring towns or distant ride, 
 And there amusements seek without a guide ; 
 With handsome prints his private room was graced, 
 His music there, and there his books were placed: 
 Men knew not if he farm'd, but they allow'd him 
 taste. 
 
 Books, prints, and music cease at times to 
 charm. 
 And sometimes men can neither ride nor farm ; 
 They look for kindred minds, and Cecil found. 
 In Farmer P^llis, one inform'd and sound ; 
 But in his wife — I hate the fact I tell — 
 A lovely being, who could please too well ; 
 And he was one who never woul<l deny 
 Himself a pleasure, or indeed would try. 
 
 Early and well the wife of Ellis knew 
 Where danger was, and trembled at the view ; 
 So evil spirits tremble, but are still 
 Evil, and lose not the rebellious will: 
 She sought not safety from the fancied crime, 
 " And why retreat before the dangerous time?" 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 447 
 
 Oft came the student of the farm and read, 
 And found his mind with more than reading fed : 
 This Ellis seeing, left them, or he stay'd, 
 As pleased him, not offended nor afraid : 
 He came in spirits with his girls to play, 
 Then ask excuse, and, laughing, walk away : 
 When, as he enter'd, Cecil ceased to read, 
 He would exclaim, " Proceed, my friend, proceed !" 
 Or, sometimes weary, would to bed retire, 
 And fear and anger by his ease inspire. 
 
 " My conversation does he then despise ? 
 " Leaves he this slighted face for other eyes ?" 
 So said Alicia ; and she dwelt so long 
 Upon that thought, to leave her was to wrong. 
 
 Alas ! the woman loved the soothing tongue 
 That yet pronounced her beautiful and young ; 
 The tongue that, seeming careless, ever praised ; 
 The eye that roving, on her person gazed ; 
 The ready service, on the watch to please ; 
 And all such sweet, small courtesies as these. 
 
 Still there was virtue, but a rolling stone 
 On a hill's brow is not more quickly gone : 
 The slightest motion, — ceasing from our care, — 
 A moment's absence, — when we 're not aware, — 
 When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies, 
 Sunk, lost, degraded, never more to rise ! 
 Far off the glorious height from whence it fell, 
 With all things base and infamous to dwell. 
 
 Friendship with woman is a dangerous thing — 
 Thence hopes avow'd and bold confessions spring ; 
 Frailties confcss'd to other frailties lead, 
 And new confessions new desires succeed ; 
 And, when the friends have thus their hearts dis- 
 closed. 
 They find how little is to guilt opposed. 
 The foe's attack will on the fort begin, 
 When he is certain of a friend within. 
 
 AVhen all was lost, — or, in the lover's sight. 
 When all was won, — the lady tliought of flight. 
 
 "What! sink a slave?" she said, "and with 
 deceit 
 " The rigid virtue of a husband meet? 
 " No ! arm'd with death, I would his fury brave, 
 " And owTi the justice of the blow he gave ! 
 " But thus to see him easy, careless, cold, 
 " And his confiding folly to behold — 
 " To feel incessant fears that he should read, 
 " In looks assumed, the cause whence they pro- 
 ceed, 
 " I cannot brook ; nor will I here abide 
 " Till chance betrays the crime that shame would 
 
 hide : 
 " Fly with me, Henry !" Henry sought in vain 
 To soothe her terrors and her griefs restrain : 
 He saw the lengths that woman dared to go. 
 And fear'd the husband both as friend and foe. 
 Of farming weary — for the guilty mind 
 Can no resource in guiltless studies find — 
 Left to himself, his mother all unknown, 
 His titled father, loth the boy to own, 
 Had him to decent expectations bred, 
 A favour'd ofispring of a lawless bed ; 
 
 And would he censure one who should pursue 
 The way he took ? Alicia yet was new : 
 Her passion pleased him : he agreed on flight : 
 They fix'd the method, and they chose the night. 
 
 Then, while the Farmer read of public crimes, 
 Collating co'olly Chronicles and Times, 
 The flight was taken by the guilty pair, 
 That made one passage in the columns there. 
 
 The heart of Ellis bled ; the comfort, pride, 
 The hope and stay of his existence died ; 
 Rage from the ruin of his peace arose, 
 And he would follow and destroy his foes ; 
 Would with wild haste the guilty pair pursue, 
 And when he found — Good Heaven ! what would 
 he do ? 
 
 That wretched woman he would wildly seize, 
 And agonise her heart, his own to ease ; 
 That guilty man Avould grasp, and in her sight 
 Insult his pangs, and her despair excite ; 
 Bring death in view, and then the stroke suspend, 
 And draw out tortures till his life should end : 
 Oh ! it should stand recorded in all time, 
 How they transgress'd, and he avenged the crime ! 
 In this bad world should all his business cease. 
 He would not seek — he would not taste of peace ; 
 But wrath should live till vengeance had her due, 
 And with his wrath his life should perish too. 
 
 His girls— not his— he would not be so weak — 
 Child was a word he never more must speak ! 
 How did he know what villains had defiled 
 His honest bed ? — he spurn'd the name of child ; 
 Keep them he must ; but he would coarsely hide 
 Their forms, and nip the growth of woman's pride ; 
 He would consume their flesh, abridge their food, 
 And kill the mother-vices in their blood. 
 
 All this Sir Owen heard, and grieved for all ; 
 He with the husband mourn'd Alicia's fall ; 
 But urged the vengeance with a spirit strong, 
 As one whose own rose high against the wrong : 
 He saw his tenant by this passion moved. 
 Shared in his wrath, and his revenge approved. 
 
 Years now unseen, he mourn'd this tenant's fate, 
 And wonder'd how he bore his widow'd state : 
 Still he would mention Ellis with the pride 
 Of one who felt himself to worth allied : 
 Such were his notions — had been long, but now 
 He wish'd to see if vengeance lived, and how : 
 He doubted not a mind so strong must feel 
 Most righteously, and righteous measures deal. 
 
 Then would he go, and haply he might find 
 Some new excitement for a weary mind — 
 Might learn the miseries of a pair undone, 
 One scorn'd and hated, lost and perish'd one ; 
 Yes, he would praise to virtuous anger give, 
 And so his vengeance should be nursed and live. 
 
 Ellis was glad to see his landlord come, 
 A transient joy broke in upon his gloom, 
 And pleased he led the knight to the superior room, 
 
448 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Where she was wont in happier days to sit, 
 "Who paid witli smiles his condescending wit. 
 There the sad liushand, who had seldom been 
 "Where prints acquired in happier days were seen, 
 Now struck by these, and carried to the past, 
 A painful look on every object cast : 
 Sir Owen saw his tenant's troubled state, 
 But still he wish'd to know the offenders' fate. 
 
 " Know you they suffer, Ellis ?" — Ellis knew ; — 
 " 'T is well ! 't is just ! but have they all their due ? 
 " Have they in mind and body, head and heart, 
 " Sustain'd the pangs of their accursed part ?" 
 " They have ! "— " 'T is well !" " And wants 
 
 enough to shake 
 " The firmest mind, the stoutest heart to break." 
 " But have you seen them in such misery 
 
 dwell ?"— 
 " In misery past description." — " That is well." 
 
 " Alas ! Sir Owen, it perhaps is just, — 
 " Yet I began my purpose to distrust ; 
 " For they to justice have discharged a debt, 
 " That vengeance surely may her claim forget." 
 
 " Man ! can you pity ?" — "As a man I feel 
 " Miseries like theirs.'' — 
 
 *' But never would you heal?" 
 
 " Hear me. Sir Owen ! I had sought them long, 
 " Urged by the pain of ever-present wrong, 
 " Yet had not seen ; and twice the year came 
 
 round — 
 " Years hateful now — ere I mj' victims found ; 
 " But I did find them, in the dungeon's gloom 
 " Of a small garret — a precarious home ; 
 " For that depended on the weekly pay, 
 " And they were sorely frighten'd on the day ; 
 " But there they linger'd on from week to week, 
 " Haunted by ills of whicli 't is hard to speak, 
 " For they arc many and vexatious all, 
 " The very smallest — but they none were small. 
 
 " The roof, unceil'd in patches, gave the snow 
 " Entrance within, and there were heaps below ; 
 " I pass'd a narrow region dark and cold, 
 " The strait of stairs to tliat infectious hold ; 
 " And, when I cnter'd, misery met my view 
 " In every shape she wears, in every hue, 
 " And the black icy blast across the dungeon flew. 
 " There frown'd the ruin'd walls that once were 
 
 white ; 
 " There glcam'd the panes that once admitted 
 
 light ; 
 " There lay unsavoury scraps of wretched food ; 
 " .'Vnd there a measure, void of fuel, stood. 
 " But who shall part bj' part describe the state 
 " Of these, tlius follow d by relentless fate? 
 " All, too, in winter, when the icy air 
 " Breathed its bleak venom on the guilty pair. 
 
 " That man, that Cecil I— ho was left, it seems, 
 " Unnamed, unnoticed : farewell to his dreams ! 
 " Heirs made by law rejected him of course, 
 " And left him neither refuge nor resource." 
 
 " Their father's ?"— 
 
 " No : he was the harlot's son 
 " "Who ^^Tong'd them, whom their duty bade them 
 
 shun ; 
 " And they were duteous all, and he was all 
 undone. 
 
 " Now the lost pair, whom better times had led 
 " To part disputing, shared their sorrow's bed ; 
 " Their bed ! — I shudder as I speak — and shared 
 " Scraps to their hunger by the hungry spared." 
 
 " Man ! my good Ellis ! can you sigh ?"— 
 
 " I can ; 
 " In short. Sir Owen, I must feel as man ; 
 " And could you know the miseries they endured, 
 " The poor, uncertain pittance they procured, 
 " When, laid aside the needle and the pen, 
 " Their sickness won the neighbours of their den, 
 " Poor as they are, and they are passing poor, 
 " To lend some aid to those who needed more : 
 " Then, too, an ague with the winter came, 
 " And, in this state, that wife I cannot name 
 " Brought forth a famish'd child of suffering and 
 of shame. 
 
 " This had you known, and traced them to this 
 scene, 
 
 " Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, 
 " A fireless room, and, where a fire had place, 
 " The blast loud howling do'wii the empty sj^ac:", 
 " You must have felt a part of the distress, 
 " Forgot your wrongs, and made their suffering 
 less I" 
 
 " Sought you them, Ellis, from the mean intent 
 " To give them succour ?" 
 
 " What, indeed, I meant 
 " At first was vengeance ; but I long pursued 
 " The pair, and I at last their misery view'd 
 " In that vile garret, which I cannot paint — 
 " The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint ; 
 " And there that wife — whom I had loved so well 
 " And thought so happy — was coudemn'd to 
 
 dwell ; 
 " The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad 
 " To see in dress beyond our station clad, 
 " And to behold among our neighbours fine, 
 " More than perhaps became a wife of mine : 
 " And now among her neighbours to explore, 
 " And see her poorest of the very poor ! — 
 
 " I would describe it, but I bore a part, 
 " Nor can explain the feelings of the heart; 
 " Yet memory since has aided me to trace 
 " The horrid features of that dismal place. 
 " There she reclined unmoved, her bosom bare 
 " To her companion's unimpassion'd stare, 
 " And my wild wonder : — Seat of virtue ! chaste 
 " As lovely once ! O ! how wort thou disgraced ! 
 " Upon that breast, by sordid rags defiled, 
 " Lay the wan features of a famish'd child ; — 
 " That sin-born babe in utter misery laid, 
 " Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid ; 
 " The ragged sheeting, o'er her person drawn, 
 " Served for the dress that hunger placed in pawn. 
 
 \ 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 449 
 
 " At the bed's feet the man reclined his frame : 
 " Their chairs were perish'd to support the flame, 
 " That warm'd his agued limbs, and, sad to see, 
 " That shook liim fiercely as he gazed on me. 
 
 " I was confused in this unhappy view : 
 " jMy wife I my friend ! I could not think it true ; 
 " My children's mother, — my Alicia, — laid 
 " On such a bed ! so wretched, — so afraid ! 
 " And her gay, young seducer, in the guise 
 " Of all we dread, abjure, defy, despise, 
 " And all the fear and terror in his look, 
 " Still more my mind to its foundation shook. 
 
 " At last he spoke : — ' Long since I would have 
 
 died, 
 " ' But could not leave her, though for death I 
 
 sigh'd, 
 " ' And tried the poison'd cup, and dropp'd it as 
 
 I tried. 
 " ' She is a woman, and that famish'd thing 
 " ' Makes her to life, with all its evils, cling : 
 '• ' Feed lier, and let her breathe her last in peace, 
 " ' And all my sufferings with your promise cease !' 
 
 " Ghastly he smiled : — I knew not what I felt, 
 " But my heart melted — hearts of flint would melt, 
 " To see their anguish, penury, and shame, 
 " How base, how low, how grovelling they became : 
 " I could not speak my purpose, but my eyes 
 " And my expression bade the creature rise. 
 
 " Yet, O ! that woman's look ! my words are 
 
 vain 
 " Her mix'd and troubled feelings to explain ; 
 " True, there was shame and consciousness of fall, 
 " But yet remembrance of my love viithal, 
 " And knowledge of that power which she would 
 
 now recall. 
 
 " But still the more that she to memory brought, 
 " The greater anguisli in my mind was wrought : 
 " The more she tried to bring the past in view, 
 " She greater horror on the present threw ; 
 " So that, for love or pity, terror thriU'd 
 " My blood, and vile and odious thoughts instill'd. 
 
 " This war within, these passions in their strife, 
 " If thus protracted, had exhausted life ; 
 " But the strong view of these departed years 
 " Caused a full burst of salutary tears, 
 " And as I wept at large, and thought alone, 
 " I felt my reason re-ascend her throne." 
 
 " My friend !" Sir Owen answer'd, " what be- 
 came 
 " Of your just anger ? — when you saw their shame, 
 " It was your triumph, and you should have shown 
 " Strength, if not joy — their sufferings were their 
 own." 
 
 " Alas, for them ! their own in very deed ! 
 " And tliey of mercy had the greater need ; 
 " Their own by purchase, for their frailty paid, — 
 " And wanted Heaven's own justice human aid? 
 " And seeing this, could I beseech my God 
 " For deeper misery, and a heavier rod?" 
 
 " But could you help them ?" 
 
 " Think, Sir Owen, how 
 " I saw them then — methinks I see them now ! 
 " She had not food, nor aught a mother needs, 
 " Who for another life and dearer feeds : 
 " I saw her speechless ; on her wither'd breast 
 " The wither'd child extended, but not press'd, 
 " Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry, — 
 " Yain instinct ! — for the fount without supply. 
 
 " Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene, 
 " Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean, 
 " Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome, and 
 
 unclean ; 
 " That arm, — that eye, — the cold, the sunken 
 
 cheek, — 
 " Spoke all, Sir Owen — fiercely miseries speak !" 
 
 " And you relieved ?" 
 
 " If hell's seducing crew 
 " Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too." 
 
 " Revenge was thine — thou hadst the power, the 
 right ; 
 " To give it up was Heaven's own act to slight." 
 
 " Tel me not, sir, of rights, and wrongs, or 
 powers ! 
 " I felt it written — Vengeance is not ours !" 
 
 " Well, Ellis, well !— I find these female foes, 
 " Or good or ill, will murder our repose ; 
 " And we, when Satan tempts them, take the cup, 
 " The fruit of their foul sin, and drink it up : 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 But shall our pity all our claims remit. 
 And we the sinners of their guilt acquit ?" 
 
 " And what. Sir Owen, will our vengeance do ? 
 " It follows us when we our foe pursue, 
 " And, as we strike the blow, it smites the smiters 
 too." 
 
 " What didst thou, man ?" 
 
 " I brought them to a cot 
 " Behind your larches, — a sequester'd spot, 
 " Where dwells the woman : I believe her mind 
 " Is now enlighten'd — I am sure resign'd : 
 " She gave her infant, though with aching heart 
 " And faltering spirit, to be nursed apart." 
 
 " And that vile scoundrel " 
 
 " Nay, his name restore, 
 " And call him Cecil, — for he is no more : 
 " When my vain help was offer'd, he was past 
 " All human aid, and shortly breathed his last ; 
 " But his heart open'd, and he lived to see 
 " Guilt in himself, and find a friend in me. 
 
 " Strange was their parting, parting on the day 
 " I offer'd help, and took the man away, 
 " Sure not to meet again, and not to live 
 " And taste of joy. — He feebly cried, ' Forgive ! 
 " ' I have thy guilt, thou mine ; but now adieu ! 
 " ' Tempters and tempted ! what will thence ensue 
 " ' I know not, dare not think.' — He said, and he 
 withdrew." 
 
450 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 " But, Ellis, tell me, didst thou thus desire 
 " To heap upon their heads those coals of fire ?" 
 
 " If fire to melt, that feeling is confess'd, — 
 " If fire to shame, I let that question rest ; 
 " But if aught more the sacred words imply, 
 " I know it not — no commentator I." 
 
 " Then did you freely from your soul for- 
 give ?"— 
 " Sure as I hope before my Judge to live, 
 " Sure as I trust his mercy to receive, 
 " Sure as his word I honour and believe, 
 " Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree 
 " For all who sin, — for tliat dear wretch and me, — 
 " Whom never more on earth will 1 forsake or 
 see."^ 
 
 BOOK XIII. 
 
 Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd, 
 Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd ; 
 And all the way he meditating dwelt 
 On what this man in his affliction felt, — 
 How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave. 
 His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave : 
 And as he rode he seem'd to fear the deed 
 Should not be done, and urged unwonted speed. 
 
 Arrived at home, lie scorn'd the change to 
 
 hide, 
 Nor would indulge a mean and selfish pride. 
 That would some little at a time recall 
 Th' avenging vow ; he now was frankness all : 
 He saw his nephew, and with kindness spoke : — 
 " Charles, I repent my purpose, and revoke ; 
 " Take her — I 'm taught, and would I could 
 
 repay 
 " The generous teacher ; hear me, and obey : 
 " Bring me the dear coquette, and let me vow 
 " On lips half perjured to be passive now : 
 " Take her, and let me thank the powers divine 
 " She was not stolen when her hand was mine, 
 " Or when her heart — Her smiles I must forget, 
 " She my revenge, and cancel either debt." 
 
 Here ends our tale, for who will doubt the 
 bliss 
 Of ardent lovers in a case like this ? 
 And if Sir Owen's was not half so strong, 
 It may, perchance, continue twice as long. 
 
 •■ ["In llie hands of ordinary writers, tales of seduction are 
 sucli maudlin things, that one almost loses his horror for the 
 wretched criminals in pity of tlie still more wretched writers. 
 Hut Crabbe bears us down With him into the depths of agony, 
 and terrifies us with a holy fear of the punishment which even 
 on earth eats into the adulterer's heart. The story of Farmer 
 Kllis might, we tliink, have stood by itself, instead of being 
 introduced merely as part of another story ; but Mr. Crabbe 
 very frequently brings forward his very liiiest things as illus- 
 trations of others of inferior interest, or as accessaries to less 
 meritorious matter. Farmer Ellis is but a homely person, it 
 is true ; but he is an Englishman, and he behaves like one, 
 with the dagger of grief festering in his heart. Nothing can 
 be more affecting than his conduct in granting an asylum in 
 
 DELAY HAS DANGER. 
 
 Morning Excursion — Lady at SiU'ord, who? — Reflections on 
 Delay — Cecilia and Henry — The Lovers contracted— Visit 
 to the Patron — Whom he finds there — Fanny described — 
 The yielding of Vanity — Delay — Resentment — Want of 
 Resolution — Further Entanglement — Danger — How met — 
 Conclusion. 
 
 Three weeks had pass'd, and Richard rambles now 
 
 Far as the dinners of the day allow ; 
 
 He rode to Farley Grange and Finley Mere, 
 
 That house so ancient, and that lake so clear : 
 
 He rode to Ripley thi-ough that river gay. 
 
 Where in the shallow stream the loaches play. 
 
 And stony fragments stay the winding stream. 
 
 And gilded pebbles at the bottom gleam, 
 
 Giving their yellow surface to the sun. 
 
 And making proud the waters as they run : 
 
 It is a lovely place, and at the side 
 
 Rises a mountain-rock in rugged pride ; 
 
 And in that rock are shapes of shells, and forms 
 
 Of creatures in old worlds, of nameless worms. 
 
 Whose generations lived and died ere man, 
 
 A worm of other class, to crawl began.' 
 
 There is a town call'd Silford, where his steed 
 Our traveller rested, — he the while would feed 
 His mind by walking to and fro, to meet. 
 He knew not what adventure, in the street : 
 A stranger there, but yet a window-view 
 Gave him a face that he conceived he knew ; 
 He saw a tall, fair, lovely lady, drcss'd 
 As one whom taste and wealth had jointly bless'd ; 
 He gazed, but soon a footman at the door 
 Thundering, alarm'd her, who was seen no more. 
 
 " This was the lady whom her lover bound 
 " In solemn contract, and then proved unsound : 
 " Of this affair I have a clouded view, 
 " And should be glad to have it clear'd by you." 
 
 So Richard spake, and instant George replied, 
 " I had the story from the injured side, 
 " But when resentment and regret were gone, 
 " And pity (shaded by contempt) came on. 
 
 " Frail was the hero of my tale, but still 
 " Was rather drawn by accident than will. 
 
 a lonely spot on his own grounds to the repentant wretch 
 who had once been so dear to him— a sanctuary, as it were, 
 where she may live within the protection of her husband's 
 humanity, though for ever divorced from hb love— and 
 where the melancholy man knows that she is making her 
 peace with God, in a calm haven provided for her against Uie 
 waves of the world by him whose earthly happiness she had 
 for ever destroyed. This is somewhat superior to Kotzebue's 
 Stranger and Mrs. Haller! Never did a more sublime moral 
 belong to a tale of guilt."— Wilson.] 
 
 ' [" The introduction to this story is in Mr. Crabbe's best 
 style of concise and minute description." — Jeffkev.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 451 
 
 " Some without meaning into guilt advance, 
 
 " From want of guard, from vanity, from chance ; 
 
 " Man's weakness flies his more immediate pain, 
 
 " A little respite from his fears to gain ; 
 
 " And takes the part that he would gladly fly, 
 
 " Jf he had strength and courage to deny. 
 
 " But now my tale, — and let the moral say, 
 " When hope can sleep, there 's Danger in Delay. 
 " Not that for rashness, Richard, I would plead, 
 " For unadvised alliance : no, indeed : 
 '• Think ere the contract — but, contracted, stand 
 " No more debating, take the ready hand : 
 " When hearts are willing, and when fears sub- 
 side, 
 " Trust not to time, but let the knot be tied ; 
 " For when a lover has no more to do, 
 " He thinks in leisure, what shall I pursue ? 
 '■ And then who knows what objects come in view ? 
 " For when, assured, the man has nought to keep 
 " His wishes warm and active, then they sleep : 
 " Hopes die with fears ; and then a man must lose 
 " All the gay visions, and delicious views, 
 " Once his mind's wealth ! He travels at his 
 
 ease, 
 " Nor horrors now nor fairy-beauty sees : 
 " When the kind goddess gives the wish'd assent, 
 '' No mortal business should the deed prevent; 
 " But the bless'd youth should legal sanction seek 
 " Ere yet th' assenting blush has fled the cheek. 
 
 *■' And — hear me, Kichard, — man has reptile- 
 pride 
 " That often rises when his fears subside ; 
 " When, like a trader feeling rich, he now 
 " Neglects his former smile, his humble bow, 
 " And, conscious of his hoarded wealth, assumes 
 " New airs, nor thinks how odious he becomes. 
 
 " There is a wandering, wavering train of 
 
 thought, 
 " That something seeks where nothing should be 
 
 sought, 
 " And will a self-delighted spirit move 
 " To dare the danger of pernicious love. 
 
 " First be it granted all was duly said 
 " By the fond youth to the believing maid ; 
 " Let us suppose with many a sigh there came 
 " The declaration of the deathless flame ; '■^ — 
 " And so her answer — ' She was happy then, 
 " ' Bless'd in herself, and did not think of men ; 
 " ' And with such comforts in her present state, 
 " ' A wish to change it was to tempt her fate : 
 
 * [Tlie tale in the original MS. opens thus : — 
 
 " Is there not Danger when a lover gains 
 
 " His lady's heart, and her consent obtains? 
 
 " (Suppose their union for a while dclay'd, 
 
 " As when a flinching father is afraid.) 
 
 " Now when the youth upon his labours past 
 
 '■ Delighted looks, and is in peace at last, 
 
 " Is there not Danger in tliose days of peace, 
 
 " When troubles lessen, and when terrors cease, 
 
 " Lest, from the love of novelty, the sin 
 
 " Of changeful man, seme wandering should begin ? 
 
 " ' That she would not ; but yet she would con- 
 fess 
 
 " ' With him she thought her hazard would be 
 less ; 
 
 " ' Nay, more, she would esteem, she would regard 
 express ; 
 
 " ' But to be brief — if he could wait and see 
 
 " ' In a few years what his desires would be.' " 
 
 Henry, for years, read months, then weeks, nor 
 found 
 The lady thought his judgment M'as unsound ; 
 " For months read weeks," she read it to his praise, 
 And had some thoughts of changing it to days. 
 
 And here a short excursion let me make, 
 A lover tried, I think, for lovers' sake ; 
 And teach the meaning in a lady's mind 
 When you can none in her expressions find : 
 Words are design'd that meaning to convey, 
 But often Yea is hidden in a A\i/ ! 
 And what the charmer wills, some gentle hints be- 
 tray. 
 Then, too, when ladies mean to yield at length, 
 They match their reasons with the lover's strength, 
 And, kindly cautious, will no force employ 
 But such as he can baffle or destroy. 
 
 As when heroic lovers beauty woo'd, 
 And were by magic's mighty art withstood, 
 The kind historian, for the dame afraid. 
 Gave to the faithful knight the stronger aid. 
 
 A downright iVo / would make a man despair, 
 Or leave for kinder nymph the cruel fair ; 
 But " jVo! because I 'm very happy now, 
 " Because I dread th' irrevocable vow, 
 " Because i fear papa will not approve, 
 " Because I love not — no, I cannot love ; 
 " Because you men of Cupid make a jest, 
 " Because — in short, a single life is best." 
 A JVo ! when back'd by reasons of such force, 
 Invites approach, and will recede of course. 
 
 Ladies, like towns besieged, for honour's sake, 
 Will some defence, or its appearance, make ; 
 On first approach there 's much resistance made, 
 And conscious weakness hides in bold parade ; 
 AVith lofty looks, and threat'nings stern and proud, 
 " Come, if you dare," is said in language loud, 
 But if th' attack be made with care and skill, 
 " Come," says the yielding party, "if you will'^ 
 Then each the other's valiant acts approve. 
 And twine their laurels in a WTeatli of love. 
 
 " Lest a successful spirit, in its pride, 
 
 " Should not contented with its peace abide? 
 
 " Not Troilus more true or fond could be, 
 " Not Orpheus to his lost Eurydice, 
 " Than to his Harriet Henry— all was done 
 " On either part, and either heart w as won : 
 " For there had pass'd the lady"s wish to charm 
 " With due success ; the lover felt th' alarm ; 
 "Then, more emotion in the man t' excite, 
 " There pass'd in her the momentary slight; 
 " Then, alter many a tender fear, there came 
 " A declaration of the deathless flame," &c.] 
 
452 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 We now retrace our tale, and forward go, — 
 Thus Henry rightly read Cecilia's No! 
 His prudent father, who had duly weigh'd 
 And well approved the fortune of the maid. 
 Not much resisted, just enough to show 
 He knew his power, and would his son should 
 know. 
 
 " Harry, I will, while I your bargain make, 
 " That you a journey to our patron take : 
 " I know her guardian ; care will not become 
 " A lad when courting ; as you must be dumb, 
 " You may be absent ; I for you will speak, 
 " And ask what you are not supposed to seek." 
 
 Then came the parting hour, and what arise 
 When lovers part ! expressive looks and eyes, 
 Tender and tearful, many a fond adieu, 
 And many a call the sorrow to renew ; 
 Sighs such as lovers only can explain, 
 And words that they might undertake in vain. 
 
 Cecilia liked it not ; she had, in truth. 
 No mind to part with her enamour'd youth : 
 But thought it foolish thus themselves to cheat. 
 And part for nothing but again to meet. 
 
 Now Henry's father was a man whose heart 
 Took with his interest a decided part ; 
 He knew his lordship, and was known for acts 
 That I omit, — they were acknowledged facts ; 
 An interest somewhere — I the place forget, 
 And the good deed — no matter — 't was a debt : 
 Thither must Henry, and in vain the maid 
 Express'd dissent — the father was obey'd. 
 
 But though the maid was by her fears assail'd, 
 Her reason rose against them, and prevail'd ; 
 Fear saw him hunting, leaping, falling — led, 
 Maim'd and disfigured, groaning to his bed ; 
 Saw him in perils, duels, — dying, — dead. 
 But Prudence answer'd, " Is not everj' maid 
 " With equal cause for him she loves afraid?" 
 And from her guarded mind Cecilia threw 
 The groundless terrors that will love pursue. 
 
 She had no doubts, and her reliance strong 
 Upon the honour that she would not wrong: 
 Firm in herself, she doubted not the truth 
 Of him, the chosen, the selected youth ; 
 Trust of herself a trust in him supplied. 
 And she believed him faithful, though untried : 
 On her he might depend, in him she would confide. 
 If some fond girl express'd a tender pain 
 Lest some fair rival should allure her swain. 
 To such she answer'd with a look severe, 
 " Can one you doubt be worthy of your fear ?" 
 
 My lord was kind, — a month had pass'd away, 
 And Henry stay'd, — he sometimes named a day ; 
 But still my lord was kind, and Henry still must 
 
 stay: 
 His father's words to him were words of fate — 
 " Wait, 'tis your duty ; 'tis my pleasure, wait !" 
 
 In all his walks, in hilly heath or wood, 
 Cecilia's form the pensive youth pursued ; 
 
 In the grey morning, in the silent noon, 
 
 In the soft twilight, by the sober moon. 
 
 In those forsaken rooms, in that immense saloon ; 
 
 And he, now fond of that seclusion grown, 
 
 There reads her letters, and there writes his own. 
 
 " Here none approach," said he, " to interfere, 
 
 " But I can think of my Cecilia here !" ^ 
 
 But there did come — and how it came to pass 
 Who shall explain ? — a mild and blue-eyed lass ; — 
 It was the work of accident, no doubt — 
 The cause unknown — we say, " as things fall out ;" 
 The damsel enter'd there, in wandering round 
 
 about : 
 At first she saw not Henry ; and she ran. 
 As from a ghost, when she beheld a man. 
 
 She was esteem'd a beauty through the Hall, 
 And so admitted, with consent of all ; 
 And like a treasure was her beauty kept 
 From every guest who in the mansion slept. 
 Whether as friends who join'd the noble pair, 
 Or those invited by the steward there. 
 
 She was the daughter of a priest, whose life 
 Was brief and sad : he lost a darling wife, 
 And Fanny then her father, who could save 
 But a small portion ; but his all he gave. 
 With the fair orphan, to a sister's care, 
 And her good spouse : they were the ruling pair — 
 Steward and steward's lady — o'er a tribe, 
 Each under each, whom I shall not describe. 
 
 This grave old couple, childless and alone, 
 Would, by their care, for Fanny's loss atone : 
 She had been taught in schools of honest fame ; 
 And to the Hall, as to a home, she came, 
 My lord assenting : yet, as meet and right, 
 Fanny was held from every hero's sight. 
 Who might in youthful error cast his eyes 
 On one so gentle as a lawful prize, 
 On border land, whom, as their right or prey, 
 A youth from either side might bear away. 
 Some handsome lover of th' inferior class 
 Might as a wife approve the lovely lass ; 
 Or some invader from the class above, 
 Who, more presuming, would his passion prov 
 By asking less — love only for liis love. 
 
 This much experienced aunt her fear express'd, 
 And dread of old and young, of host and guest. 
 " Go not, my Fanny, in their waj'," she cried, 
 " It is not right that virtue should be tried ; 
 " So, to be safe, be ever at my side." 
 She was not ever at that side ; but still 
 Observ'd her precepts, and obey'd her will. 
 
 But in the morning's dav^Ti and evening's gloom 
 She could not lock the damsel in her room ; 
 And Fanny thought, " I will ascend these stairs 
 " To see the chapel, — there are none at prayers ; 
 " None," she believed, " had yet to dress return'd, 
 " By whom a timid girl might be discern'd :" 
 
 3 [MS, — " Here none appro.icli to l!»ii|,'li, tosinfj, to prate ; 
 " Here I can mourn, and muse, and meditate."] 
 
 f 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 463 
 
 In her slow motion, looking, as she glides. 
 
 On pictures, busts, and what she met besides, 
 
 And speaking softly to herself alone. 
 
 Or singing low in melancholy tone ; 
 
 And thus she rambled through the still domain, 
 
 Room after room, again, and yet again. 
 
 But, to retrace our story, still we say. 
 To this saloon the maiden took her way ; 
 "Where she beheld our Youth, and frighten'd ran, 
 And so their friendship in her fear began. 
 
 But dare she thither once again advance, 
 And still suppose the man will think it chance ? 
 Nay, yet again, and what has chance to do 
 "With this ? — I know not : doubtless Fanny knew. 
 
 Now, of the meeting of a modest maid 
 And sober youth why need we be afraid ? 
 And when a girl's amusements are so few 
 As Fanny's were, what would you have her do ? 
 Reserved herself, a decent youth to find, 
 And just be civil, sociable, and kind, 
 And look together at the setting sun, 
 Then at each other — what the evil done ? 
 
 Then Fanny took my little lord to play, 
 And bade him not intrude on Henry's way : 
 " O, he intrudes not !" said the Youth, and grew 
 Fond of the child, and would amuse him too ; 
 Would make such faces, and assume such looks — 
 He loved it better than his gayest books. 
 
 When man with man would an acquaintance 
 seek, 
 He will his thoughts in chosen language speak; 
 And they converse on divers themes, to find 
 If they possess a corresponding mind ; 
 But man with woman has foundation laid. 
 And built up friendship, ere a word is said : 
 'T is not with words that they their wishes tell. 
 But with a language answering quite as well ; 
 And thus they find, when they begin t' explore 
 Their way by speech, they knew it all before. 
 
 And now it chanced again the pair, when dark. 
 Met in their way when wandering in the park ; 
 Not in the common path, for so they might, 
 AVithout a wonder, wander day or night ; 
 But, when in pathless ways their chance will bring 
 A musing pair, we do admire the thing. 
 
 The Youth in meeting read the damsel's face. 
 As if he meant her inmost thoughts to trace : 
 On which her colour changed, as if she meant 
 To give her aid, and help his kind intent. 
 
 Both smiled and parted, but they did not speak — 
 The smile implied, " Do tell me what you seek :" 
 They took their different ways with erring feet. 
 And meet again, surprised that they could meet ; 
 Then must they speak — and something of the air 
 Is always ready—" 'T is extremely fair !" 
 
 " It was so pleasant !" Henry said, " the beam 
 '• Of that sweet light so brilliant on the stream ; 
 " And chiefly yonder, where that old cascade 
 *' Has for an age its simple music made ; 
 
 " All so delightful, soothing, and serene ! 
 " Do you not feel it ? not enjoy the scene ? 
 " Something it has that words will not express, 
 " But rather hide, and make th' enjoyment less : 
 " 'Tis what our souls conceive, 'tis what our 
 hearts confess." 
 
 Poor Fanny's heart at these same words con- 
 fess'd 
 How well he painted, and how rightlj' guess'd ; 
 And, while they stood admiring their retreat, 
 Henry found something like a mossy seat ; 
 But Fanny sat not ; no, she rather pray'd 
 That she might leave him, she was so afraid. 
 
 " Not, sir, of you ; your goodness I can trust, 
 " But folks are so censorious and unjust, 
 " They make no difference, they pay no regard 
 " To our true meaning, which is very hard 
 " And very cruel ; great the pain it cost 
 " To lose such pleasure, but it must be lost ; 
 " Did people know how free from thought of ill 
 " One's meaning is, their malice would be still." 
 
 At this she wept ; at least a glittering gem 
 Shone in each eye, and there was fire in them. 
 For, as they fell, the sparkles, at his feet. 
 He felt emotions very warm and sweet. 
 " A lovely creature ! not more fair than good, 
 " By all admired, by some, it seems, pursued, 
 " Yet self-protected by her virtue's force 
 " And conscious truth — What evil in discourse 
 " With one so guarded, who is pleased to trust 
 " Herself with me, reliance strong and just ?" 
 
 Our lover then believed he must not seem 
 Cold to the maid who gave him her esteem : 
 Not manly this ; Cecilia had his heart. 
 But it was lawful with his time to part ; 
 It would be wrong in her to take amiss 
 A virtuous friendship for a girl like this ; 
 False or disloyal he would never prove. 
 But kindness here took nothing from his love : 
 Soldiers to serve a foreign prince are known. 
 When not on present duty to their own ; 
 So, though our bosom's queen we still prefer, 
 We are not always on our knees to her. 
 " Cecilia present, witness yon fair moon, 
 " And yon bright orbs, that fate would change as 
 
 soon 
 " As my devotion ; but the absent sun 
 " Cheers us no longer when his course is run ; 
 " And then those starry twinklers may obtain 
 " A little worship till he shines again." 
 
 The father still commanded, "Wait awhile," 
 And the son answer'd in submissive style, 
 Grieved, but obedient ; and obedience teased 
 His lady's spirit more than grieving pleased ; 
 That he should grieve in absence was most fit, 
 But not that he to absence should submit ; 
 And in her letters might be traced reproof. 
 Distant indeed, but visible enough ; 
 This should the wandering of his heart have 
 
 stay'd : 
 Alas ! the wanderer was the vainer made. 
 
454 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The parties daily met, as by consent, 
 And yet it always seem'd by accident : 
 Till in the nymph tlie shepherd had been blind 
 If he had fail'd to see a manner kind. 
 With that expressive look that seem'd to say, 
 " You do not speak, and yet you see you may." 
 
 O, yes, he saw, and he resolved to fly. 
 And blamed his heart, unwilling to comply : 
 He sometimes wonder'd how it came to pass 
 That he had all this freedom wth the lass ; 
 Reserved herself, with strict attention kept, 
 And care and vigilance that never slept : 
 " How is it thus that they a beauty trust 
 " With me, who feel the confidence is just ? 
 " And they, too, feel it; yes, they may confide," — 
 He said in folly, and he smiled in pride. 
 'T is thus our secret passions work their way, 
 And the poor victims know not they obey. 
 
 Familiar now became the wandering pair, 
 And there was pride and joy in Fanny's air ; 
 For though his silence did not please the maid, 
 She judged him only modest and afraid : 
 The gentle dames are ever pleased to find 
 Their lovers dreading they should prove unkind ; 
 So, blind by hope, and pleased with prospects gay, 
 The generous beauty gave her heart away 
 Before he said, " I love !" — alas ! he dared not say. 
 
 Cecilia yet was mistress of his mind. 
 But oft he wish'd her, like his Fanny, kind ; 
 Her fondness soothed him, for the man was vain, 
 And he perceived that he could give her pain : 
 Cecilia liked not to profess her love. 
 But Fanny ever was the yielding dove ; 
 Tender and trusting, waiting for the word, 
 And then prepared to hail her bosom's lord. 
 
 Cecilia once her honest love avow'd, 
 To make him happy, not to make him proud : 
 But she would not, for every asking sigh. 
 Confess the flame that waked his vanity ; 
 But this poor maiden, every day and hour, 
 Would by fresh kindness feed the growing power ; 
 And he indulged — vain being ! — in the joy. 
 That he alone could raise it, or destroy : 
 A present good, from which he dared not fly, 
 Cecilia absent, and his Fanny by. 
 
 O ! vain desire of youth, that in the hour 
 Of strong temptation, when he feels the power, 
 And knows how daily his desires increase, 
 Yet will he wait, and sacrifice his peace. 
 Will trust to chance to free him from the snare, 
 Of which long since his conscience said. Beware ; 
 Or look for strange deliverance from that ill. 
 That he might fly, could he command the will ! 
 How can he freedom from the future seek. 
 Who feels already that he grows too weak ? 
 And thus refuses to resist, till time 
 Removes the power, and makes the way for ci-ime ; 
 Yet thoughts he had, and he would think, " Forego 
 " My dear Cecilia ? not for kingdoms ! No ! 
 " But may I, ouglit I not the friend to be 
 '• Of one who feels this fond regard for me? 
 " I wrong no creature by a kindness lent 
 " To one so gentle, mild, and innocent: 
 
 " And for that fair one whom I still adore, 
 " By feeling thus I think of her the more ;" 
 And not unlikely, for our thoughts will tend 
 To those whom we are conscious we ofiend. 
 
 Had Reason whisper'd, " Has Cecilia leave 
 " Some gentle youth in friendship to receive, 
 " And be to him the friend that you appear 
 " To this soft girl ? — Would not some jealous fear 
 " Proclaim your thoughts that he approach'd too 
 near ?" 
 
 But Henry, blinded still, presumed to write 
 Of one in whom Cecilia would delight : 
 A mild and modest girl, a gentle friend. 
 If, as he hoped, her kindness would descend — 
 But what he fear'd to lose or hoped to gain 
 By writing thus, he had been ask'd in vain. 
 
 It was his purpose, every morn he rose. 
 The dangerous friendship he had made to close : 
 It was his torment nightly, ere he slept. 
 To feel his prudent purpose was not kept. 
 True, he has wonder'd why the timid maid 
 Meets him so often, and is not afraid ; 
 And why that female dragon, fierce and keen. 
 Has never in their private walks been seen : 
 And often he has thought, " What can their silence 
 
 mean? 
 " They can have no design, or plot, or plan, — 
 " In fact, I know not how the thing began ; 
 " 'T is their dependence on my credit here, 
 " And fear not, nor, in fact, have cause to fear." 
 
 But did that pair, who seem'd to think that all 
 Unwatch'd will wander and unguarded fall, — 
 Did they permit a youth and maid to meet 
 Both unreproved ? were they so indiscreet ? 
 
 This sometimes enter'd Henrj ':> mind, and then, 
 " Who shall account for women or for men ?" 
 He said ; " or who their secret thoughts explore ? 
 " Why do I vex me ? I will think no more." 
 
 My lord of late had said, in manner kind. 
 " My good friend Harry, do not think us blind !" 
 Letters had pass'd, though he had nothing seen, 
 His careful father and my lord between ; 
 But to what purposo was to him unknown — 
 It might be borough business, or their own. 
 Fanny, it seem'd, was now no more in dread ; 
 If one approach'd, she neither fear'd nor fled : 
 He mused on this, — " But wherefore her alarm ? 
 " She knows me better, and she dreads no harm." 
 
 Something his father wrote that gave him pain : 
 " I know not, son, if you should yet remain ; — 
 " Be cautious, Harry, favours to procure 
 " We strain a point, but we must first be sure : 
 " Love is a folly, — that, indeed, is true, — 
 " But something still is to our honour due, 
 " So I must leave the thing to my good lord and 
 you." 
 
 But from Cecilia came remonstrance strong : — 
 "You write too darkly, and you stay too long; 
 " We hear reports; and, Henry, mark me well, — 
 " I heed not every tale that trifiers tell ; — 
 
 I 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 455 
 
 " Be you no trifler ; dare not to believe 
 
 " That I am one whom words and vows deceive : 
 
 " ¥ou know your heart, your hazard you will 
 
 learn, 
 " And this your trial : — instantly return." 
 
 " Unjust, injurious, jealous, cruel maid ! 
 " Am I a slave, of haughty words afraid ? 
 " Can she who thus commands expect to he 
 
 obey'd ? 
 " O ! how unlike this dear assenting soul, 
 " Whose heart a man might at his will control '" 
 
 Uneasy, anxious, fill'd with self-reproof, 
 He now resolved to quit his patron's roof ; 
 And then again his vacillating mind 
 To stay resolved, and that her pride should find : 
 Debating thus, his pen the lover took. 
 And chose the words of anger and rebuke. 
 
 Again, yet once again, the conscious pair 
 Met, and " O speak !" was Fanny's silent prayer ; 
 And, " I must speak," said the embarrass'd youth ; 
 " Must save my honour, must confess the truth : 
 " Then I must lose her ; but, by slow degrees, 
 " She will regain her peace, and I my ease." 
 
 Ah ! foolish man : to virtue true, nor vice, 
 He buys distress, and self-esteem the price ; 
 And what his gain ? — a tender smile and sigh 
 From a fond girl to feed his vanity. 
 Thus, every day they lived, and every time 
 They met, increased his anguish and his crime. 
 
 Still in their meetings they were oft-times nigh 
 The darling theme, and then pass'd trembling by ; 
 On those occasions Henry often tried 
 For the sad truth — and then his heart denied 
 The utterance due : thus daily he became 
 The prey of weakness, vanity, and shame. 
 
 But soon a day, that was their doubts to close, 
 On the fond maid and thoughtless youth arose. 
 Within the park, beside the bounding brook, 
 The social pair their usual ramble took ; 
 And there the steward found them : they could 
 
 trace 
 News in his look, and gladness in his face. 
 
 He was a man of riches, bluff and big. 
 With clean brown broadcloth, and with white cut 
 
 wig: 
 He bore a cane of price, with riband tied, 
 And a fat spaniel waddled at his side : 
 To every being whom he met he gave 
 His looks expressive ; civil, gay, or grave, 
 But condescending all ; and each declared 
 How much he govern'd, and how well he fared. 
 
 This great man bow'd, not humbly, but his bow 
 Appear'd familiar converse to allow : 
 The trembling Fanny, as he came in view, 
 Within the chestnut grove in fear withdrew ; 
 While Henry wonder'd, not without a fear, 
 Of that which brought th' important man so near : 
 Doubt was dispers'd by — "My esteem'd young 
 
 man !" 
 As he with condescending grace began — 
 
 " Though you with youthful frankness nobly trust 
 " Your Fanny's friends, and doubtless think them 
 
 just, — 
 " Though you have not, with craving soul, applied 
 " To us, and ask'd the fortune of your bride, — 
 " Be it our care that you shall not lament 
 " That love has made you so improvident. 
 
 -Your patience ! you shall 
 
 " An orphan maid- 
 have 
 
 " Your time to speak, I now attention crave ; — ' 
 " Fanny, dear girl ! has in my spouse and me 
 " Friends of a kind we wish our friends to be, 
 
 " None of the poorest nay, sir, no reply, 
 
 " You shall not need and we are born to die ; 
 
 " And one yet crawls on earth, of whom, I say 
 
 " That what he has he cannot take away,^ — 
 
 " Her mother's father, one who has a store 
 
 " Of this world's good, and always looks for more ; 
 
 " But, next his money, loves the girl at heart, 
 
 " And she will have it when they come to part." 
 
 " Sir." said the Youth, his terrors all awake, 
 " Hear me, I pray, I beg, — for mercy's sake ! 
 " Sir, were the secrets of my soul confess'd, 
 " Would you admit the truths that I protest 
 
 " Are such your pardon " 
 
 " Pardon I good, my friend, 
 " I not alone vidll pardon, I commend : 
 " Think you that I have no remembrance left 
 " Of youthful love, and Cupid's cunning theft ? 
 " How nymphs will listen when their swains per- 
 suade, 
 " How hearts are gain'd, and how exchange is 
 made? 
 
 " Come, sii", your hand " 
 
 " In mercy, hear me now !" — 
 " I cannot hear you, time will not allow : 
 " You know my station, what on me depends, 
 " For ever needed — but we part as friends ; 
 " And here comes one who will the whole ex- 
 plain, 
 " My better self — and we shall meet again." 
 
 " Sir, I entreat " 
 
 " Then be entreaty made 
 " To her, a woman, one you may persuade ; 
 " A little teasing, but she will comply, 
 " And loves her niece too fondly to deny." 
 
 " O ! he is mad, and miserable I !" 
 Exclaim"d the Youth ; " but let me now collect 
 " My scatter'd thoughts, I something must elTect." 
 
 Hurrying she came — " Now, what has he con- 
 fess'd, 
 
 " Ere I could come to set your heart at rest ? 
 
 " What ! he has grieved you ! Yet he, too, approves 
 
 " The thing ! but man will tease you, if he loves. 
 
 " But now for business : tell me, did you think 
 
 " That we should always at your meetings wink? 
 
 " Think you, you walk'd unseen ? There are who 
 bring 
 
 " To me all secrets — O, you wicked thing ! 
 
 " Poor Fanny ! now I think I see her blush, 
 
 " All red and rosy, when I beat the bush ; 
 
 " And hide your secret, said I, if you dare ! 
 
 " So out it came, Uke an aflfrighten'd hare. 
 
456 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Miss ! said I, gravely ; and the trembling maid 
 
 " Pleased me at heart to see her so afraid ; 
 
 " And then she wept; — now, do remember this, 
 
 " Never to chide her when she does amiss ; 
 
 " For she is tender as the callow bird, 
 
 " And cannot bear to have her temper stirr'd ; — 
 
 " Fanny, I said, then whisper'd her the name, 
 
 " And caused such looks — Yes, yours are just the 
 
 same; 
 " But hear my story — When your love was known 
 " For this our child — she is, in fact, our own — 
 " Then, first debating, we agreed at last 
 " To seek my Lord, and tell him what had pass'd." 
 
 " To tell the Earl ?" 
 
 " Yes, truly, and why not ? 
 " And then together we contrived our plot." 
 
 " Eternal God !" 
 
 " Nay, be not so surpi-iscd, — 
 " In all the matter -we were well advised ; 
 " "\Ve saw my Lord, and Lady Jane was there, 
 " And said to Johnson, ' Johnson, take a chair ;' 
 " True, we are servants in a certain way, 
 " But in the higher places so are they ; 
 " We are obey'd in ours, and they in theirs obej' : 
 " So Johnson bow'd, for that was right and fit, 
 " And had no scruple with the Earl to sit ; — 
 " Why look you so impatient while I tell 
 " What they debated? — you must like it well. 
 
 " ' Let them go on,' our gracious Earl began ; 
 " ' They will go off",' said, joking, my good man : 
 " ' Well !' said the Countess, — she 's a lover's 
 
 friend, — 
 " ' What if they do ? they make the speedier 
 
 end.' 
 
 " But be you more composed, for that dear child 
 " Is with her joy and apprehension wild : 
 " O ! we have watch'd you on from day to day, — 
 " ' There go the lovers !' we were wont to say ; — 
 " But why that look ?"— 
 
 " Dear madam, I implore 
 " A single moment !" — 
 
 " I can give no more : 
 " Here are your letters — ' That 's a female pen,' 
 " Said I to Fanny. — ' 'T is his sister's, then,' 
 " Replied the maid. — No ! never must you stray ; 
 " Or hide your wanderings, if you should, I pray : 
 " I know, at least I fear, the best may err, 
 " But keep the by-walks of your life from her. 
 " That youth shoulil stray is notliing to be told, 
 " When they have sanction in the grave and old, 
 " Who have no call to wander and transgress, 
 " But very love of change and wantonness. 
 
 " I prattle idly, while your letters wait, 
 " And then my Lord has much that he would 
 
 state, 
 " All good to you — do clear that clouded face, 
 *' And with good looks your lucky lot embrace. 
 
 " Now, mind that none with her divide your 
 heart, 
 " For she would die ere lose the smallest part ; 
 " And 1 rejoice that all has gone so well, 
 " For who th' effect of Johnson's rage can tell? 
 
 " He had his fears when you began to meet, 
 
 " But I assured him there was no deceit ; 
 
 " He is a man who kindness will requite, 
 
 " But, injured once, revenge is his delight ; 
 
 " And he would spend the best of his estates 
 
 " To rain, goods and body, them he hates ; 
 
 " While he is kind enough when he approves 
 
 " A deed that 's done, and serves the man he loves : 
 
 " Come, read your letters — I must now be gone, 
 
 " And think of matters that are coming on." 
 
 Henry was lost, — his brain confused, his soul 
 Dismay'd and sunk, his thoughts beyond control ; 
 Borne on by terror, he foreboding read 
 Cecilia's letter ! and his courage fled : * 
 All was a gloomy, dark, and dreadful view ; 
 He felt him guilty, but indignant too ; 
 And as he read, he felt the high disdain 
 Of injured men — " She may repent in vain." 
 
 Cecilia much had heard, and told him all 
 That scandal taught — " A servant at the Hall, 
 " Or servant's daughter, in the kitchen bred, 
 " Whose father would not with her mother wed, 
 " Was now his choice I a blushing fool, the toy, 
 " Or the attempted, both of man and boy ; 
 " More than suspected, but without the wit 
 " Or the allurements for such creatures fit ; 
 " Not virtuous though unfeeling, cold as ice 
 " And yet not chaste, the weeping fool of viee ; 
 " Yielding, not tender ; feeble, not refined ; 
 " Her form insipid, and without a mind. 
 
 "Rival! she spurn'd the word; but let him 
 stay, 
 " Warn'd as he was ! beyond the present day, 
 " Whate'er his patron might object to this, 
 " The uncle-butler, or the weeping miss — 
 " Let him from this one single day remain, 
 " And then return ! he would, to her, in vain ; 
 " There let him then abide, to earn or crave 
 " Food undeserved ! and be with sla\es a slave." 
 
 Had reason guided anger, govern'd zeal. 
 Or chosen words to make a lover feel. 
 She might have saved him — anger and abuse 
 Will but defiance and revenge produce. 
 
 " Unjust and cruel, insolent and proud !" 
 He said, indignant, and he spoke aloud. 
 " Butler ! and servant ! Gentlest of thy sex, 
 " Thou wouldst not thus a man who loved thee 
 
 vex; 
 " Thou wouldst not thus to vile report give ear, 
 " Nor thus enraged for fancied crimes appear: 
 " I know not what, dear maid ! — if thy soft smiles 
 
 were here." 
 
 And then, that instant, there appcar'd the maid, 
 By his sad looks in her approach dismay'd ; 
 Such timid sweetness, and so wrong'd, did more 
 Than all her pleading tenderness before. 
 In that weak moment, when disdain and pride. 
 And fear and fondness, drew the man aside, — 
 
 < [MS. :— Her quill Wcis one not pltu-k'd from Venus' dove, 
 Anil lier smart langu.ige proved her wouniUd 
 love.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 457 
 
 In this weak moment, " Wilt thou," he began, 
 " Be mine ?" and joy o'er all her features ran : 
 " I will !" she softly whisper'd ; but the roar 
 Of cannon would not strike his spirit more ; 
 E'en as his lips the lawless contract seal'd, 
 He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield, 
 And honour tied ; but still he spoke of love, 
 And all was joy in the consenting dove. 
 
 Tliat evening all in fond discourse was spent, 
 "When the sad lover to his chamber went. 
 To think on what had pass'd, to grieve, and to 
 
 repent : 
 Early he rose, and look'd with many a sigh 
 On the red light that fiU'd the eastern sky : 
 Oft had he stood before, alert and gay, 
 To hail the glories of the new-born day ; 
 But now dejected, languid, listless, low, 
 He saw the wind upon the water blow. 
 And the cold stream curl'd onward as the gale 
 From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale ; 
 On the right side the youth a wood survey'd, 
 With all its dark intensity of shade ; 
 "Where the rough wind alone was heard to move, 
 In this, the pause of nature and of love, 
 ^^'hen now the young are rear'd, and when the 
 
 old, 
 Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold : 
 Far to the left he saw the huts of men, 
 Half hid in mist that hung upon the fen ; 
 Before him swallows, gathering for the sea, 
 Took their short flights, and twitter'd on the lea ; 
 And near the beau-sheaf stood, the harvest done, 
 And slowly blacken'd in the sickly sun ; 
 All these were sad in nature, or they took 
 Sadness from him, the likeness of his look, 
 And of his mind — he ponder'd for a while. 
 Then met his Fanny with a borrow'd smile. 
 
 Not much remain'd ; for money and my Lord 
 Soon made the father of the youth accoril ; 
 His prudence half resisted, half obey'd. 
 And scorn kept still the guardians of the maid : 
 Cecilia never on the subject spoke, 
 She seem'd as one who from a dream awoke ; 
 So all was peace, and soon the married pair 
 Fi.\.'d with fair fortune in a mansion fair. 
 
 Five years had pass'd, and what was Henry 
 then ? 
 The most repining of repenting men ; 
 With a fond, teasing, anxious wife, afraid 
 Of all attention to another paid ; 
 Yet powerless she her husband to amuse, 
 Lives but t' entreat, implore, resent, accuse ; 
 Jealous and tender, conscious of defects, 
 She merits little, and yet much expects ; 
 She looks for love that now she cannot see. 
 And sighs for joy that never more can be ; 
 
 s [Original! y:- 
 
 .\n<l thus for ever sliall it be when vice 
 ;>haU the weak heart from rectitude entice, 
 Ot fear witli some poor passion shall unite 
 To make tliat timiri turning from the right, — 
 Unerring Justice shall her pains decree, 
 And man shall own that thus it ought to be.] 
 
 On his retirements her complaints intrude, 
 And fond reproof endears his solitude : 
 While he her weakness (once her kindness) sees. 
 And his affections in her languor freeze ; 
 Kegret, uncheck'd by hope, devours his mind. 
 He feels unhappy, and he grows imkind. 
 
 " Fool ! to be taken by a rosy cheek, 
 " And eyes that cease to sparkle or to speak ; 
 " Fool ! for this child my freedom to resign, 
 " When one the glory of her sex was mine ; 
 " While from this burden to my soul I hide, 
 " To think what Fate has dealt, and what denied. 
 
 " What fiend possess'd me when I tamely gave 
 " My forced assent to be an idiot's slave ? 
 " Her beauty vanish'd, what for me remains ? 
 " Th' eternal clicking of the galling chains : 
 "Her person truly I may think my own, 
 " Seen without pleasure, without triumph shown: 
 " Doleful she sits, lier children at her knees, 
 " And gives up all her feeble powers to please : 
 " Whom I, unmoved, or moved with scorn, be- 
 hold, 
 " Melting as ice, as vapid and as cold." 
 
 Such was his fate, and he must yet endure 
 The self-contempt that no self-love can cure : 
 Some business call'd him to a wealthy town 
 When unprepared for more than Fortune's frown ; 
 There at a house he gave his luckless name, 
 The master absent, and Cecilia came. 
 Unhappy man ! he could not, dared not speak, 
 But look'd around, as if retreat to seek : 
 This she allow'd not ; but, with brow severe, 
 Ask'd him his business, sternly bent to hear ; 
 He had no courage, but he view'd that face 
 As if he sought for sympathy and grace ; 
 As if some kind returning thought to trace : 
 In vain ; not long he waited, but, with air 
 That of all grace compell'd him to despair. 
 She rang the bell, and, when a servant came. 
 Left the repentant traitor to his shame ; 
 But, going, spoke, " Attend this person out, 
 " And, if he speaks, hear what he comes about I" 
 Then, with cool curtsy, from the room withdrew. 
 That seem'd to say, '* Unhappy man, adieu !" 
 
 Thus will it be when man permits a vice 
 First to invade his heart, and then entice ; * 
 When wishes vain and undefined arise. 
 And that weak heart deceive, seduce, surprise ; 
 When evil Fortune works on Folly's side. 
 And rash Resentment adds a spur to Pride ; — 
 Then life's long troubles from those actions come, 
 In which a moment may decide our doom.* 
 
 ' ["This is one of the best managed of all the tales. It 
 contains a very full, true, and particular account of the way 
 in which a weakish but well-meaning young man, engaged 
 on his own suit to a very amialile girl, may be .-^educed, during 
 her unlucky absence, to entangle himself with a far inferior 
 person, whose chief seduction is lier apparent humility and 
 devotion to him." — Jeffrey.] 
 
 2h 
 
458 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 BOOK XIV. 
 
 THE NATURAL DEATH OF LOVE. 
 
 Tlie Rector of tlie Parish — His manner of teacliing— Of living 
 — Richard's Correspondence — The Letters received — Love 
 tliat survives Marriage — That dies in consequence— That is 
 permitted to die for want of Care— Henry and Emma, a 
 Dialogue— Complaints on either side — and Replies — Mu- 
 tual Accusation— Defence of acknowledged Error— Means 
 of restoring Happiness — The one to be adopted. 
 
 RiCHAED one month had with his Brother been, 
 And had his guests, his friends, his favourites 
 
 seen ; 
 Had heard the Rector, who with decent force. 
 But not of action, aided his discourse : 
 " A moral teacher !" some contemptuous cried ; 
 He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied, 
 Nor, save hy his fair life, to charge so strong re- 
 plied. 
 Still, though he bade them not on auglit rely 
 That was their own, but all their worth dcnj'. 
 They call'd his pure advice his cold morality ; 
 And though he felt that earnestness and zeal. 
 That made some portion of his hearers feel, 
 Nay, though he loved the minds of men to lead 
 To the great points that form the Christian's 
 creed, 
 
 1 [" Notwithstanding Mr. Crabbe's flattering reception 
 among the principal people of Trowbridge, he was far from 
 being mucli liked, lor some years, by his new parishioners in 
 gener.il : nor, in truth, is it at all difficult to account for this. 
 His immediate predecessor, tlie curate of the previous rector, 
 had been endeared to the more serious inhabitants by warm 
 zetil and a powerful talent for preaching extempore, and had, 
 moreover, been so universally respected, that the town peti- 
 tioned tlie Duke of Rutland to give him the living. His 
 Grace's refusal had irritated many even of those who took 
 little interest in the qiialilications of their pastor, and engen- 
 dered a feeling bordering on ill-will towards Mr. Crabbe 
 himself, which was heightened by the prevalence of some 
 reports so ridiculous that I am almost ashamed to notice 
 them ; such a.s, that lie was a dissipated man— a dandy — 
 even a gambler. And then, when he appeared among 
 them, the perfect openness of his nature,- that, perhaps, 
 impolitic frankness which made him at all times scorn the 
 assumption of a scruple which he did not really feel, led him 
 to violate, occasionally, what were considered, among many 
 classes in that neighbourhood, the settled laws of clerical 
 decorum. He might be seen occasionally at a concert, a ball, 
 or even a play. 'I'hen, even in the exercise of his unwearied 
 and extensive charity, lie often so conducted himself as to 
 neutralise, in coarse and bad minds, all the natural move- 
 ments of gratitude ; mixing the clergyman too much with 
 the almsgivcr, and reading a lecture, tlie severity of which, 
 however just, was more thought of than the benefaction it 
 accompanied. He, moreover, soon after his arrival, espoused 
 the cause of a candidate for the county representation, to 
 whom the manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in his 
 parish, was extremely hostile. Lastly, to conclude this long 
 list, Mr. Crabbe, in a town rem;irkable for diversity of sects 
 and warmth of discussion, adliered for a season unchanged to 
 the same view of scriptural doctrineswhich liad latterly found 
 little favour even at simple Muston. As he iias told us of liis 
 own Rector, in the Tales of the Hall — 
 
 " ' A moral tcarJicr]' some contemptuous cried ; 
 
 " He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied ; 
 
 " Nor, save by his fair life, to char(;e so strong replied. 
 
 Still he offended, for he would discuss 
 Points that to him seem'd requisite for us ; 
 And urge his flock to virtue, though he knew 
 The very heathen taught the virtues too : 
 
 Nor was this moral minister afraid 
 To ask of inspiration's self the aid 
 Of truths by him so sturdily maintain'd. 
 That some confusion in the parish reign'd : 
 " Heathens," they said, " can tell us right from 
 
 ■wrong, 
 " But to a Christian higher points belong." 
 Yet Jacques proceeded, void of fear and shame. 
 In his old method, and obtain'd the name 
 Of Moral Preacher — yet they all agreed. 
 Whatever error had defiled his creed, 
 His life was pure, and him they could commend, 
 Not as their guide, indeed, but as their friend : 
 Truth, justice, pity, and a love of peace. 
 Were his — but there must approbation cease ; 
 He either did not, or he would not sec. 
 That, if he meant a favourite priest to be. 
 He must not show, but learn of them, the way 
 To truth — he must not dictate, but obey : 
 They wish'd him not to bring them further light. 
 But to convince them that they now were right, 
 And to assert that justice will condemn 
 All who presumed to disagree with them : 
 In this he fail'd, and his the greater blame, 
 for he persisted, void of fear or shame.* 
 
 Him Richard heard, and by his friendly aid 
 Were pleasant views observed and visits jiaid ; 
 
 " .Still, though he bade them not on aught rely 
 
 " That was their own, but all their w orth deny, 
 
 " They call'd his pure advice his cold morality. 
 
 " ' Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from wrong, 
 
 " ' But to a Christian higher points belong.' " 
 
 But, while these things were against him, there were two or 
 three traits in his character which wrought slowly, but 
 steadily, in his favour. One was his boldness and uncompro- 
 mising perseverance in the midst of opposition and reproach. 
 During the violence of that contested election, while the few 
 friends of Mr. Benett were almost in danger of their lives, he 
 was twice assailed by a mob of his parishioners with hisses 
 and the most virulent abuse. He replied to their formidable 
 menaces by " rating them roundly ;' and though he was 
 induced to retire by the ad\'ice of some friends who hastened 
 to his succour, yet this made no change in his vote, habits, 
 or conduct. He manifested the same decision respecting his 
 religious opinions ; fur one or two reproachful letters made no 
 impression, nor altered his language in tlie least. Such lirm- 
 ness, where it is the effect of principle, is sure to gain respect 
 from all Englishmen. But mildness w;is:is natural to him as 
 his fortitude ; and this, of course, had a tendency to appe:ise 
 enmity even at its height. A benevolent gentle heart was 
 seen in his manner and countenance, and no occasional hasti- 
 ness of temper could conceal it; — ami then it soon became 
 known that no one h'ft his house unrelieved. But, above 
 all, the liberality of his conduct widi respect to dissenters 
 brought a counter current in his favour. Though he was 
 warmly attached to the established church, he lield that 
 " A man's opinion was his own, liis due, 
 "And just possession, whether false or true;" 
 and in all his intercourse with his much-divided parishioners 
 lie acted upon this principle, visiting and dealing indiscri- 
 minately, and joining the ministers of the various denomi- 
 nations in every good work. In the course of a few years, 
 therefore, not oiily ail opposition died away, but he became 
 generally and cordially esteemed. They who dilfcred from 
 him admitted that he had aright also to his own religious 
 and political opinions. His integrity and benevolence were 
 justly appreciated ; his talents acknowledged, and his dispo- 
 sition loved." — Life, anti; pp. til, 02.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 459 
 
 He to peculiar people found his way, 
 
 And had his question answer'd, " Who are they ?" 
 
 Twice in the week came letters, and delight 
 Beam'd in the eye of Richard at the sight ; 
 Letters of love, all full and running o'er. 
 The paper fill'd till it could hold no more ; 
 Cross'd with discolour'd ink, the doublings full, 
 No fear that love should find abundance dull ; 
 l>ove reads unsated all that love inspires, 
 When most indulged, indulgence still requires ; 
 Jyooks what the corners, what the crossings tell, 
 And lifts each folding for a fond farewell. 
 
 George saw and smiled — " To lovers we allow 
 '• AU this o'erflowing, but a husband thou! 
 •' A father too ; can time create no change ? 
 '■ Married, and still so foolish ? — very strange ! 
 " What of this wife or mistress is the art ?" — 
 " The simple truth, my Brother, to impart, 
 " Her heart, whene'er she writes, feels writing to 
 
 a heart." — 
 •' Fortune, dear Richard, is thy friend — a wife 
 ■• Like tliine must soften every care of life, 
 ■' And all its woes — -1 know a pair whose lives 
 " Run in tlie common track of men and wives; 
 •' And half their worth, at least, this pair would 
 
 give 
 " Could they like thee and thy Matilda live. 
 
 " They were, as lovers, of the fondest kind, 
 '■ With no defects in manner or in mind ; 
 " In habit, temper, prudence, they were those 
 " Whom, as examples, I could once propose ; 
 ■■ Now this, when married, you no longer trace, 
 '• But discontent and sorrow in the place : 
 '• Their pictures, taken as the pair 1 saw 
 '• In a late contest, I have tried to draw ; 
 •' 'T is but a sketch, and at my idle time 
 '■ I put my couple in the grab of rhyme : 
 •' Thou art a critic of the milder sort, 
 '■ And thou wilt judge with favour my report. 
 
 " Let me premise, twelve months have flown 
 away, 
 '• Swiftly or sadly, since the happy day. 
 
 '■ Let us suppose the couple left to spend 
 " Some hours without engagement or a friend; 
 " And be it likewise on our mind impress'd, 
 " They pass for persons happy, and at rest ; 
 " Their love by Hymen crown'd, and all their 
 prospects bless'd. 
 
 " Love has slow death and sudden : wretches 
 
 prove 
 That fate severe — the sudden death of love ; 
 It is as if, on day serenely bright, 
 Came with its horrors instantaneous night ; 
 Others there are with whom love dies away 
 In gradual waste and unperceived decay ; 
 Such is that death of love that nature finds 
 Most fitted for the use of common minds, 
 The natural death ; but doubtless there are 
 
 some 
 Who struggle hard when they perceive it come ; 
 
 " Loth to be loved no longer, loth to prove 
 " To the once dear that they no longer love : 
 " And some with not successless arts will strive 
 " To keep the weak'ning, fluttering flame alive. 
 " But see my verse ; in this I try to paint 
 " The passion failing, fading to complaint, 
 '■ The gathering grief for joys remember'd yet, 
 " The vain remonstrance, and the weak regret: 
 " First speaks the wife in sorrow, she is grieved 
 " T' admit the truth, and would be still deceived. 
 
 HENRY AND EMMA. 
 
 E. Well, my good sir, I shall contend no more ; 
 But, O ! the vows you made, the oaths you swore ! 
 
 H. To love you always : — I confess it true ; 
 And do I not ? If not, what can I do ? 
 Moreover, think what you yourself profcss'd, 
 And then the subject may for ever rest. 
 
 E. Yes, sir, obedience I profess'd ; I know 
 iMy debt, and wish to pay you all I owe. 
 Pay without murmur ; but that vow was made 
 To you who said it never should be paid ; — 
 Now truly tell me why you took such care 
 To make me err ? 1 ask'd you not to swear, 
 But rather hoped you would my mind direct, 
 And say, when married, what you would expect. 
 
 You may remember — it is not so long 
 Since you affirm'd that I could not be wrong ; 
 I told you then — you recollect, I told 
 The A'ery truth — that humour would not liold ; 
 Not that I thought, or ever could suppose. 
 The mighty raptures were so soon to close — ■ 
 Poetic flights of love all sunk in sullen prose. 
 
 Do you remember how you used to hang 
 Upon my looks ? your transports when I sang ? 
 I play'd — you melted into tears ; I moved— 
 Voice, words, and motion, how j'ou all approved ; 
 A time when Emma reign'd, a time when Henry 
 
 loved : 
 You recollect ? 
 
 H. Yes, surely ; and then why 
 
 The needless truths ? do 1 the facts deny ? 
 For this remonsti-ance I can see no need, 
 Or this impatience — if you do, proceed. 
 
 E. O ! that is now so cool, and with a smile 
 That sharpens insult — I detest the style ; 
 And, now I talk of styles, with what delight 
 You read my lines — I then, it seems, could write ; 
 In short, when I was present, you could see 
 But one dear object, and you lived for me ; 
 And now, sir, what your pleasure ? Let me dress, 
 Sing, speak, or write, and you your sense express 
 Of my poor taste — my words are not correct ; 
 In all I do is failing or defect — 
 Some error you will seek, some blunder will de- 
 tect ; 
 And what can such dissatisfaction prove ? 
 I tell you, Henry, you have ceased to love. 
 
 2 H2 
 
iGO 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 //. I own it not ; but if a truth it be, 
 It is the fault of nature, not of me. 
 Remember you, my love, the fairy tale, 
 "Where the young pairs were spell-bound in the 
 
 vale ? 
 ■\Vhcn all around them gay or glorious seem'd. 
 And of bright views and ceaseless joys they 
 
 dream' d ? 
 Young love and infant life no more could give — 
 They said but half, when they exclaira'd, " We 
 
 live!" 
 All was so light, so lovely, so serene. 
 And not a trouble to be heard or seen ; 
 Till, melting into truth, the vision fled. 
 And there came miry roads and thorny ways 
 
 instead. 
 
 Such was our fate, my charmer ! we were found 
 A wandering pair, by roguish Cupid bound ; 
 All that I saw was gifted to inspire 
 Grand views of bliss, and wake intense desire 
 Of joys that never pall, of flights that never tire; 
 There was that purple light of love, that bloom. 
 That ardent passions in their growth assume. 
 That pure enjoyment of the soul — O ! weak 
 Are words such loves and glowing thoughts to 
 
 speak ! 
 I sought to praise thee, and I felt disilain 
 Of my own effort ; all attempts were vain. 
 
 Nor they alone were charming ; by that light 
 All loved of thee grew lovely in my sight ; 
 Sweet influence not its own in every place 
 "Was found, and there was found in all things grace ; 
 Thy shrubs and plants were seen new bloom to bear, 
 Not the Arabian sweets so fragrant were. 
 Nor Eden's self, if aught with Eden might com- 
 pare. 
 
 You went the church-way walk, you reach'd the 
 fann. 
 And gave the grass and babbling springs a charm ; 
 Crop, whom you rode, — sad rider though you be, — 
 Thenceforth was more than Pegasus to me. 
 Have I not woo'd your snarling cur to bend 
 'J'o me the paw and greeting of a friend? 
 And all his surly ugliness forgave. 
 Because, like me, he was my Emma's slave ? 
 Think you, thus charm'd, I would the spell revoke ? 
 Alas ! my love, wc married, and it broke ! 
 
 Yet no deceit or falsehood sfain'd my breast, 
 "What I asserted might a saint attest ; 
 Fair, dear, and good thou wcrt — nay, fairest, dear- 
 est, best : 
 Nor shame, nor guilt, nor falsehood I avow, 
 But 'tis by heaven's own light I see thee now ; 
 And if that light will all those glories chase, 
 Tis not my wish that will the good replace. 
 
 7'. O I sir, this boyish tale is mighty well. 
 But 'twas your falsehood that destroy'd the spell : 
 Speak not of natiire, 'tis an evil mind 
 That makes you to accustom'd beauties blind ; 
 You seek the faults yourself, and then complain 
 yo»i find. 
 
 H. I sought them not : bat, madam, 'tis in vain 
 The course of love and nature to restrain. 
 Lo ! when the buds expand, the leaves are green, 
 Then the first opening of the flower is seen ; 
 Then comes the honey'd breath and rosy smile. 
 That with their sweets the willing sense beguile ; 
 But, as we look, and love, and taste, and praise. 
 And the fruit grows, the charming flower decays ; 
 Till all is gather'd, and the wintry blast 
 ^Sloans o'er the place of love and pleasure past. 
 
 So 'tis with beauty — such the opening grace 
 And dawn of glory in the youthful face ; 
 Then are the charms unfolded to the sight. 
 Then all is loveUness and all delight ; 
 The nuptial tie succeeds the genial hour. 
 And, lo ! the falling off of beauty's flower ; 
 So through all nature is the progress made, — 
 The bud, the bloom, the fruit, — and then we fade. 
 
 Then sigh no more, — we might as well retain 
 The year's gay prime as bid that love remain — - 
 That fond, delusive, happy, transient spell. 
 That hides us from a world wherein we dwell, 
 And forms and fits us for that fairy ground 
 Where charming dreams and gay conceits abound ; 
 Till comes at length th' awakening strife and care, 
 That we, as tried and toiling men, must share. 
 
 E. O ! sir, I must not think that Heaven ap- 
 proves 
 Ungrateful man or unrequited loves ; 
 Nor that we less are fitted for our parts 
 By having tender souls and feeling hearts. 
 
 H. Come, my dear friend, and let us not refuse 
 The good we have, by grief for that we lose ; 
 But let us both the very truth confess ; 
 This must relieve the ill, and may redress. 
 
 K. O ! much I fear ! I practised no deceit ; 
 Such as I am I saw you at my feet : 
 If for a goddess you a girl would take, 
 'T is you yourself the disappointment make. 
 
 //. And I alone ! — O ! Emma, when I pray'd 
 For grace from thee, transported and afraid. 
 Now raised to rapture, now to terror doom'd. 
 Was not the goddess by the girl assumed ? 
 Did not my Emma use her skill to hide — 
 liCt us be frank — her weakness and her pride ? 
 Did she not all her sex's arts pursue. 
 To bring the angel forward to my view ? 
 AVas not the rising anger oft suppress'd ? 
 AVas not the waking passion hush'd to rest ? 
 And when so mildly sweet you look'd and spoke, 
 Did not the woman deign to wear a cloak ? 
 A cloak she wore, or, though not clear my siglit, 
 I might have seen her — think you not I might ? 
 
 E. O ! this is glorious ! — while your passion 
 lives. 
 To the loved maid a robe of grace it gives ; 
 And then, unjust ! beholds her with surprise, 
 Unrobed, ungracious, when the passion dies. 
 
 //. For this, my Emma, I to Heaven appeal, 
 I felt entirely what I scem'd to feel ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 461 
 
 Thou wert all precious in my sight, to me 
 The being angels are supposed to be ; 
 And am 1 now of my deception told, 
 Because I 'm doom'd a woman to behold ? 
 
 E. Sir ! in few words, I would a question ask — 
 Mean these reproaches that I wore a mask ? 
 IMean you that I by art or caution tried 
 To show a virtue, or a fault to hide ? 
 
 H. I will obey you. — When you seem'd to feel 
 Those books we read, and praised them with such 
 
 zeal, 
 Approving all that certain friends approved, 
 Was it the pages or the praise you loved ? 
 Nay, do not frown— I much rejoiced to find 
 Such early judgment in such gentle mind ; 
 But, since we married, have you deigned to look 
 On the grave subjects of one favourite book ? 
 Or have the once applauded pages power 
 1" engage their warm approver for an hour ? 
 
 Nay, hear me further. — When we view'd that dell 
 Where lie those ruins — you must know it well — 
 When that worn pediment your walk delay'd. 
 And the stream gushing through the arch decay'd — ■ 
 When at the venerable pile you stood, 
 Till the does ventured on our solitude. 
 We were so still ! before the gro^^^ng day 
 Call'd us reluctant from our seat away — 
 Tell me, was all the feeling you express'd 
 The genuine feeling of my Emma's breast ; 
 Or was it borrow'd, that her faithful slave 
 The higher notion of her taste might have ? 
 So may I judge, for of that lovely scene 
 The married Emma has no witness been ; 
 No more beheld that M'ater, falling, flow 
 Through the green fern that there delights to grow. 
 
 Once more, permit me. Well, I know, you feel 
 For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal. 
 But when at certain huts you chose to call. 
 At certain seasons, was compassion all ? 
 I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear 
 As angels to expiring saints appear 
 When whispering hope — I saw an infant press'd 
 And hush'd to slumber on my Emma's breast ! 
 Hush'd be each rude suggestion ! — Well I know 
 With a free hand your bounty you bestow ; 
 And to these objects frequent comforts send. 
 But still they see not now their pitying friend. 
 A merchant, Emma, when his wealth he states. 
 Though rich, is faulty if he over-rates 
 His real store ; and gaining greater trust 
 For the deception, should we deem him just ? 
 
 If in your singleness of heart you hide 
 No flaw or frailty, when your truth is tried. 
 And time has drawn aside the veil of love, 
 We may be sorry, but we must approve ; 
 The fancied charms no more our praise compel. 
 But doubly shines the worth that stands so well. 
 
 2 [Here follows in MS.:— 
 
 Well, then, it seems from fairy land we come 
 To this of truth I anil this must be our home. 
 What can we do ? the air is bleak and cold. 
 And all is dark and dull that we behold. 
 
 E. O ! precious are you all, and prizes too. 
 Or could we take such guilty pains for you ? 
 Believe it not — As long as passion lasts, 
 A charm about the chosen maid it casts ; 
 And the poor girl has little more to do 
 Than just to keep in sight as you pursue : 
 Chance to a ruin leads her ; you behold, 
 And straight the angel of her taste is told : 
 Chance to a cottage leads you, and you trace 
 A virtuous pity in the angel's face ; 
 She reads a work you chance to recommend. 
 And likes it well — at least she likes the friend ; 
 But when it chances this no more is done. 
 She has not left one virtue — no ! not one ! 
 
 But be it said, good sir, we use such art, 
 Is it not done to hold a fickle heart. 
 And fix a roving eye ? Is that design 
 Shameful or -wicked that would keep you mine ? 
 If I confess the art, I would proceed 
 To say of such that every maid has need. 
 
 Then when you flatter — in your language, 
 praise — 
 In our own view you must ottr value raise ; 
 And must we not, to this mistaken man. 
 Appear as like his picture as we can ? 
 If you will call— nay, treat us as divine. 
 Must we not something to your thoughts incline ? 
 If men of sense will worsliip whom they love. 
 Think you the idol will the error prove ? 
 What ! show him all her glory is pretence, 
 And make an idiot of this man of sense ? 
 
 Then, too, suppose we should his praise refuse, 
 And clear his mind, we may our lover lose ; 
 In fact, you make us more than nature makes. 
 And we, no doubt, consent to your mistakes ; 
 You will, we know, until the frenzy cools. 
 Enjoy the transient paradise of fools ; 
 But, fancy fled, you quit the blissful state, 
 And truth for ever bars the golden gate. 
 
 H. True ! but how ill each other to upbraid, 
 'T is not our fault that we no longer stay'd ; 
 No sudden fate our lingering love suppress'd. 
 It died an easy death, and calmly sank to rest ; 
 To either sex is the delusion lent, 
 And when it fails us, we should rest content ; 
 'T is cruel to reproach, when bootless to repent. 
 
 E. Then wise the lovers who consent to wait, 
 And, always lingering, never try the state ; 
 But, hurried on by what they call their pain. 
 Ami I their bliss, no longer they refrain ; 
 To ease that pain, to lose that bliss, they run 
 To the church magi, and the thing is done : 
 A spell is utter'd, and a ring applied. 
 And forth they walk a bridegroom and a bride. 
 To find this counter-charm, tliis marriage rite, 
 Has put their present fallacies to flight ! * 
 
 In that dear land, what views about us rose! 
 Views dull and tedious our sad scenes disclose ; 
 How cold and languid these ! how warm and sprightly 
 those I 
 
462 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 But tell me, Henry, should we truly ttrive, 
 May we not bid the happy dream revive ? 
 
 //. Alas ! they say when weakness or when vice 
 Expels a foolish pair fx-om Paradise, 
 Tlie guardian power to prayer has no regard, — 
 The knowledge once obtain'd, the gate is barr'd ; 
 Or could we enter, we should still repine. 
 Unless we could the knowledge too resign. 
 Yet let us calmly view our present fate, 
 And make a humbler Eden of our state ; 
 "With this advantage, that what now we gain, 
 Experience gives and prudence will retain. 
 
 E. Ah ! much T doubt — when you in fury broke 
 That lovelj' vase by one impassion'd stroke. 
 And thousand china fragments met my sight, 
 Till rising anger put my grief to flight ; 
 As well might you the beauteous jar repiece, 
 As joy renew and bid vexation cease. 
 
 //. Why, then 't is wisdom, Emma, not to keep 
 These griefs in memory ; they had better sleep. 
 
 There was a time when this heaven-guarded isle, 
 "Whose valleys flourisli — nay, whose mountains 
 
 smile — 
 "Was sterile, wild, deform'd, and beings rude 
 Creatures scarce wilder than themselves pursued ; 
 The sea was heard around a waste to howl, 
 The night-wolf answer'd to the whooting owl, 
 And all was wretched : — Yet who now surveys 
 The land withholds his -wonder and his praise ? 
 Come, let us try and make our moral vicW 
 Improve like this — this have we power to do. 
 
 E. Ol I '11 be all forgetful, deaf and dumb. 
 And all you wish, to have these clianges come. 
 
 H. And come they may, if not as heretofore, 
 "We cannot all the lovely vase restore ; 
 WJiat we beheld in Love's perspective glass 
 lias pass'd away — one sigh ! and let it pass : 
 It was a blissful vision, and it fled, 
 And we must get some actual good instead : 
 Of good and evil that v.e daily find, — 
 T/iat we must hoard, this banish from the mind ; 
 The food of Love, that food on whicli he thrives, I 
 I'o find must be the business of our lives ; i 
 
 And when we know what Love delights to see, j 
 A\"c must liis guardians and providers be. 
 
 As careful pca.?ants, with incessant toil. 
 Bring earth to vinos in bare and rocky soil, 
 And, as they raise with care each scanty heap. 
 Think of the purple clusters they shall reap ; 
 So those accretions to the minil wc '11 bring, 
 AVhence fond regard and j\ist esteem will spring ; 
 Tlien, though we backward look with some regret 
 On those first joys, we shall be happy yet. 
 
 muTo were Love's friends, — hope, joy, and fjeneroua trust; 
 
 Hero are his foes — care, caution, and'disyust. 
 
 'I'hpre was the warm, conlldinf; soul of youth ; 
 
 Hero douljt and care, and rold assent to truth. 
 
 Oil ! 't is heyond repair, beyond dispute, 
 
 'J'hat Mower of promise has this hitter fruit ! 
 
 <)li, 't is a dism:il fruit I I pritliee strive 
 
 Kor tlie old prospect— hid the dream revive.] 
 
 Each on the other must in all depend, 
 The kind adviser, the unfailing friend ; 
 Through the rough world we must each other aid. 
 Leading and led, obeying and obey'd ; 
 Favour'd and favouring, eager to believe 
 "SVhat should be truth — unwilling to perceive 
 "What might offend — determined to remove 
 "What has offended ; wisely to improve 
 "What pleases yet, and guard returning love. 
 
 Nor doubt, my Emma, but in many an hour 
 Fancy, who sleeps, shall wake with all her power ; 
 And we shall pass — though not perhaps remain — 
 To fairy-land, and feel its charm again.* 
 
 BOOK XV. 
 
 GRETNA GREEN. 
 
 Richard meets an Acquaintance of his Youth — The kind of 
 Meeting — His School— The Doctor Sidmere and liis Family 
 — Belwood, a Pupil — The Doctor's Opinion of him — Tlie 
 Opinion of his Wife — and of liis Daughter— Consultation — 
 The Lovers— Flight to Gretna Green— Return no more — 
 The Doctor and his Lady— Belwood and his Wife— The 
 Doctor retlects — Goes to his Son-in-law — His Reception 
 and Return. 
 
 '• I MET," said Richard, when return'd to dine, 
 " In my excursion, ■with a friend of mine ; 
 *' Friend ! I mistake, — but yet I knew him well, 
 " Ours was the village where he came to dwell : 
 " He was an orphan born to wealth, and then 
 " Placed in the guardian-care of cautious men : 
 '• When our good parent, wlio was kindness all. 
 " Fed and caress'd him when he chose to call ; 
 " And tliis he loved, for he was always one 
 " For whom some pleasa.nt service must be done, 
 " Or he M'as sullen. He would come and play 
 " At his own time, and at his pleasure stay ; 
 " But our kind parent soothed him as a boy 
 " Without a friend; she loved he should enjoy 
 " A day of case, and strove to give his mind em- 
 ploy : 
 " She had but seldom the desired success. 
 '■' And therefore parting troubled her the less. 
 " Two years he there rcmain'd, then went his 
 
 way, 
 " I think to school : and him T met to-day. 
 
 " I heard his name, or he had pass'd unknown, 
 " And, without scruple, I divulged my own; 
 " His words were civil, but not much expre.ss'd, — 
 " ' Yes ! he had heard I was my Brother's guest ;' 
 
 * ["Tliis tale is perhaps the best written of all the pieces 
 before us. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a 
 married pair, upon the causes of the difTcrcuce between the 
 days of marriage and those of courtship; in which the errors 
 and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience.and 
 provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable 
 and rellecting, but somewhat insulting, manner of the 
 gentleman, are all exhibited to the life." — .Ikffkkt.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 463 
 
 " Then -would explain what was not plain to me, 
 " Why he could not a social neighbour be : 
 " He envied you, he said, your quiet life, 
 " And me a loving and contented veife ; 
 " You, as unfetter'd by domestic bond, 
 " Me, as a husband and a father fond : 
 " I was about to speak, when to the right 
 " The road then turn'd, and, lo ! his house in 
 sight. 
 
 " ' Adieu !' he said, nor gave a word or sign 
 " Of invitation — ' Yonder house is mine ; 
 " ' Your Brother's I prefer, if I might choose-- 
 " ' But, my dear sir, you have no time to lose.' 
 
 " Say, is he poor ? or has he fits of spleen ? 
 " Or is he melancholy, moped, or mean ? 
 
 " So cold, so distant 1 bestow'd some pains 
 
 •• Upon the fever in my Irish veins." 
 
 " "Well, Richard, let your native wrath be tamed ; 
 " Tlie man has half the evils you have named ; 
 '■ He is not poor, indeed, nor is he fr&e 
 •• From aU the gloom and care of poverty." 
 
 " But is he married?" — " Hush! the bell, my 
 friend ; 
 •• That business done, we will to this attend ; 
 '• And, o'er our wine engaged, and at our ease, 
 " We may discourse of Belwood's miseries ; 
 " Not that his sufferings please me : no, indeed; 
 •• But I from such am happy to be freed." 
 
 Their speech, of course, to this misfortune led, 
 A weak young man improvidently wed. 
 " Weak," answer'd Richard ; '' but we do him 
 
 wrong 
 '• To say that his affection was not strong." 
 
 " That we may doubt," said George ; " in men 
 so weak 
 •' You may in vain the strong affections seek ; 
 " They have strong appetites ; a fool will eat 
 " As long as food is to his palate sweet ; 
 " His rule is not what sober nature needs, 
 " But what the palate covets as he feeds ; 
 " He has the passions, anger, envy, fear, 
 " As storm is angry, and as frost severe ; 
 '' TJncheck'd, he still retains what nature gave, 
 '■ And has what creatures of the forest have. 
 
 " Weak boys, indulged by parents just as weak, 
 " AVill with much force of their affection speak ; 
 " But let mamma th' accustom'd sweets witlihold; 
 " And the fond boys grow insolent and cold. 
 
 " Weak men profess to love, and while untried 
 " May woo with warmth, and grieve to be denied ; 
 " But this is selfish ardour, — all the zeal 
 " Of their pursuit is from the wish they feel 
 " For self-indulgence. — When do they deny 
 " Themselves? and when the favourite object fly? 
 " Or, for that object's sake, with her requests 
 
 comply ? 
 " Their sickly love is fed with hopes of joy, 
 " Repulses damp it, and delays destroy; 
 '• Love, that to virtuous acts will some excite, 
 " In others but provokes an appetite ; 
 
 " In better minds, when love possession takes 
 " And meets with peril, he the reason shakes ; 
 " But these weak natures, when they love profess, 
 " Never regard their small concerns the less. 
 
 " That true and genuine love has Quixote- 
 flights 
 " May be alloVd — in vision it delights ; 
 " But, in its loftiest flight, its wildest dream, 
 " Has something in it that commands esteem ; 
 " But this poor love to no such region soars, 
 " But, Sancho-like, its selfish loss deplores ; 
 " Of its owTi merit and its service speaks, 
 '• And full reward for all its duty seeks." 
 
 " Wlien a rich boj-, with all the pride of youth, 
 " Weds a poor beauty, will you doubt his truth ? 
 " Such love is tried — it indiscreet may be, 
 " But must be generous." — ■ 
 
 " That I do not see : 
 " Just at this time the balance of the mind 
 " Is this or that way by the weights inclined ; 
 " In this scale beauty, wealth in that abides, 
 '• In dubious balance, till the last subsides ; 
 " Things are not poised in just the equal state, 
 " That the ass stands stock-still in the debate ; 
 " Though when deciding he may slowly pass 
 " And long for both — the nature of the ass — 
 " 'T is but an impulse that he must obey 
 '• When he resigns one bundle of the hay." 
 
 Take your friend Belwood, whom his guardians 
 sent 
 To Doctor Sidmere — full of dread he went ; 
 Doctor they call'd him — he was not of us. 
 And where he was, we need not now discuss : 
 He kept a school, he had a daughter fair, 
 He said, as angels, — say, as women are. 
 
 Clara, this beauty, had a figure light. 
 Her face was handsome, and her eyes were bright ; 
 Her voice was music, not by anger raised, 
 And sweet her dimple, either pleased or praised ; 
 All round the village was her fame allow'd, 
 She was its pride, and not a little proud. 
 
 The ruling thought that sway'd her father's 
 mind 
 Was this — I am for dignity design'd : 
 Riches he rather as a mean approved. 
 Yet sought them earlj-, and in seeking loved ; 
 For this he early made the marriage vow, 
 But fail'd to gain — I recollect not how; 
 For this his lady had his wrath incurr'd, 
 But that her feelings seldom could be stirr'd ; 
 To his fair daughter, famed as well as fair. 
 He look'd, and found his consolation there. 
 
 The Doctor taught of youth some half a score. 
 Well-born and wealthy — he would take no more ; 
 llis wife, when peevish, told him, " Yes ! and 
 
 glad "— 
 It might be so — no more were to be had. 
 Belwood, it seems, for college was design'd. 
 But for more study he was not inclined : 
 
464 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 He thought of labouring there with much dismay, 
 And motives mix'd here urged the long delay. 
 He now on manhood verged, at least began 
 To talk ae he supposed became a man. 
 
 "Wliether he chose the college or the school 
 " Was his own act, and that should no man rule ; 
 " He had his reasons for the step ho took : 
 " Did they suppose he stay'd to read his book?" 
 
 Hopeless, the Doctor said, " This boy is one 
 " With whom I fear there 's nothing to be done." 
 His wife replied, who more had guess'd or knew, 
 " You only mean there 's nothing he can do ; 
 " E'eu there you err, unless you mean indeed 
 " That the poor lad can neither think nor read." 
 
 " What credit can I by such dunce obtain ?" — 
 " Credit ? I know not — you may something gain ; 
 " 'T is true he has no passion for his books, 
 " But none can closer study Clara's looks ; 
 " And who controls him ? Now his father 's gone, 
 " There 's not a creature cares about the son. 
 " If it be brought to ask your daughter's hand, 
 " All that he has will be at your command ; 
 " And who is she ? and whom does she obey ? 
 " Where is the wrong, and what the danger, pray ? 
 " Becoming guide to one who guidance needs 
 " Is merit surely. — If the things succeeds, 
 " Cannot you always keep him at your side, 
 " And be his honour'd guardian and his guide ? 
 " And cannot I my pretty Clara rule ? 
 " Is not this better than a noisy school ?" 
 
 The Doctor thought and mused, he felt and 
 fear'd, 
 Wish'd it to be — then wish'd he had not heard ; 
 But he was angry — that at least was right. 
 And gave him credit in his lady's sight ; — 
 Then, milder grown, yet something still severe. 
 He said, " Consider, madam, think and fear ;" 
 But, ere they parted, softening to a smile, 
 " Farewell !" said he — " I '11 think myself a while." 
 
 James and his Clara had, with many a pause 
 And many a doubt, infringed the Doctor's laws ; 
 At first with terror, and with eyes turn'd round 
 On every side for fear they should be found : 
 In the long passage, and without the gate, 
 They met, and talk'd of love and his estate ; 
 Sweet little notes, and full of hope, were laid 
 Where they were found by the attentive maid ; 
 And these she answcr'd kindly as she could, 
 But still " I dare not" waited on " I would ;" 
 Her fears and wishes she in part confess'd. 
 Her tlioughts and views she carefully suppress'd ; 
 Her Jemmy said at length, " he did not heed 
 " His guardian's anger — AVIiat was he, indeed? 
 " A tradesman once, and had his fortune gain'd 
 " In that low way, — such anger he disdain'd. 
 " He loved her pretty looks, her eyes of blue, 
 " Her auburn-l)raid, and lips that shone like dew ; 
 " And did she think lier Jemmy stay'd at school 
 " To study Greek ?— What ! take him for a fool ? 
 " Not he, by Jove ! for what lie had to seek 
 " He would in J-^nglish ask her, not in Greek; 
 " Will you be mine ? are all your scruples gone ? 
 " Then let 's be off — I 've that will take us on." 
 
 'T was true ; the clerk of an attorney there 
 Had found a Jew, — the Jew supplied the heir. 
 
 Yet had he fears — " My guardians may condemn 
 " The choice I make ; but what is that to them ? 
 " The more they strive my pleasure to restrain, 
 " The less they '11 find they 're likely to obtain ; 
 " For when they work one to a proper cue, 
 " What they forbid one takes delight to do." 
 
 Clara exulted : now the day would come 
 Bclwood must take her in her carriage home : 
 " Then I shall hear what Envy will remark 
 " When I shall sport the ponies in the Park ; 
 " When my friend Jane ■\\ill meet me at the ball, 
 " And see me taken out the first of all ; 
 " I see her looks when she beholds the men 
 " All crowd about me — she will simper then, 
 " And cry with her affected air and voice, 
 " ' O ! my sweet Clara, how do I rejoice 
 " ' At your good fortune 1' — ' Thank you, dear,' 
 
 say I; 
 " ' But some there are that could for envy die.' " 
 
 Mamma look'd on with thoughts to these allied ; 
 She felt the pleasure of reflected pride ; 
 She should respect in Clara's honour find. 
 But she to Clara's secret thoughts was blind. 
 O ! when we thus design, we do but spread 
 Nets for our feet, and to our toils are led : 
 Those whom we think we rule, their views attain. 
 And we partake the guilt without the gain. 
 
 The Doctor long had thought, till he became 
 A victim both to avarice and shame ; 
 From his importance, every eye was placed 
 On his designs : How dreadful if disgraced ! 
 " O ! that unknown to him the pair nad flown 
 " To that same Green, the project aU their o'.^ti ! 
 " And should they now be guilty of the act, 
 " Am not I free from knowledge of the fact? 
 " Will they not, if they will ?" 'T is thus we meet 
 The check of conscience, and our guide defeat. 
 
 This friend, this spy, this counsellor at rest, 
 More pleasing views were to the mind address'd. 
 The mischief done, he would be much displeased, 
 For weeks, nay, months, and slowly be appeased ; 
 Yet of this anger if they felt the dread, 
 Perhaps they dare not steal away to wed ; 
 And if on hints of mercy they should go, 
 He stood committed — it must not be so. 
 
 In tliis dilemma cither horn was hard, — 
 Best to seem careless, then, and olF one's guard ; 
 And, lest their terror should their flight prevent, 
 His wife might argue — fathers will relent 
 On such occasions ; and that she should share 
 Tlie guilt and censure was her proper care. 
 
 " Suppose them wed," said he, " and at my feet, 
 " I must exclaim that instant. Vile deceit ! 
 " Tlien will my daughter, weeping, while they 
 
 kneel, 
 " For its own Clara beg my heart may feel : 
 " At last, but slowly, I may all forgive, 
 " And their adviser and director live." 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 465 
 
 f- 
 
 When wishes only weak the heart surprise^ 
 Heaven, in its mercy, the fond prayer denies ; 
 But when our wishes are both base and weak, 
 Heaven, in its justice, gives us what we seek. 
 All pass'd that was expected, all prepared 
 To share the comfort. What the comfort shared ? 
 
 The married pair, on their return, agreed 
 That they from school were now completely freed — 
 Were man and wife, and to their mansion now 
 Should boldly drive, and their intents avow : 
 The acting guardian in the mansion reign'd, 
 And, thither driving, they their will explain'd : 
 The man a while discoursed in language high, 
 The ward was sullen, and made brief reply ; 
 Till, when he saw th' opposing strength decline. 
 He bravely utter' d — " Sir, the house is mine !" 
 And, like a lion, lash'd by self-rebuke. 
 His own defence he bravely undertook. 
 
 " Well ! be it right or wrong, the thing is past ; 
 " You cannot hinder what is tight and fast : 
 " The church has tied us ; we are hither come 
 " To our own place, and you must make us room." 
 
 The man reflected — "You deserve, I know, 
 " Foolish young man ! what fortune will bestow : 
 " No punishment from mc your actions need, 
 " Whose pains will shortly to your faults succeed." 
 
 James was quite angry, wondering what was 
 meant 
 By such expressions — Why should he repent ? 
 
 New trial came. — The wife conceived it right 
 To see her parents ; — " So," he said, " she might, 
 " If she had any fancy for a jail, 
 " But upon him no creature should prevail; 
 " No ! he would never be again the fool 
 " To go and starve or study at a school !" 
 
 "O! but to see her parents !"— "Well! the 
 sight 
 " Might give her pleasure — very like it might, 
 " And she might go ; but to his house restored, 
 " He would not now be catechised and bored." 
 It was her duty ; — " Well !" said he again, 
 " There you may go — and there you may remain !" 
 
 Already this ? — Even so : he heard it said 
 How rash and heedless was the part he play'd ; 
 For love of money in his spirit dwelt, 
 And there repentance was intensely felt : 
 His guardian told him he had bought a toy 
 At tenfold price, and bargain'd like a boy: 
 Angry at truth, and ^^Tought to fierce disdain, 
 He swore his loss should be no woman's gain : 
 His table she might share, his name she must, 
 But if aught more — she gets it upon trust. 
 
 For a few weeks his pride her face display'd — 
 He then began to thwart her and upbraid ; 
 He grew imperious, insolent, and loud — 
 His blinded weakness made his folly proud ; 
 He would be master, — she had no pretence 
 To counsel him, as if he wanted sense ; 
 He must inform her, she already cost 
 More than her worth, and more should not be lost ; 
 
 But still concluding, " If your Mill be so, 
 
 " That you must see the old ones ; do it — go !" 
 
 Some weeks the Doctor waited, and the while 
 His lady preach'd in no consoling style : 
 At last she fear'd that rustic had convey'd 
 Their child to prison — yes, she was afraid, — 
 There to remain in that old hall alone 
 With the vile heads of stags, and floors of stone. 
 
 " Why did you, sir, who know such things so 
 
 well, 
 " And teach us good, permit them to rebel? 
 " Had you o'erawed and check'd them when in 
 
 sight, 
 " They would not then have ventured upon 
 
 flight ; 
 " Had you " — " Out, serpent ! did not you 
 
 begin ? 
 " What! introduce, and then upbraid the sin? 
 " For sin it is, as I too well perceive : 
 " But leave me, woman, to reflection leave ; 
 " Then to your closet fly, and on your knees 
 " Beg for forgiveness for such sins as these." 
 
 " A moody morning !" with a careless air 
 Replied the wife. — " Why counsel me to prayer ? 
 " I think the lord and teacher of a school 
 " Should pray himself, and keep his temper cool." 
 
 Calm grew the husband when the wife was 
 
 gone; 
 The game," said he, " is never lost till won : 
 'Tis true, the rebels fly their proper home. 
 They come not nigh, because they fear to come : 
 And for my purpose fear will doubtless prove 
 Of more importance and effect than love ; — 
 Suppose me there — suppose the carriage stops, 
 Down on her knees my trembling daughter 
 
 drops ; 
 Slowly I raise her, in my arms to fall, 
 And call for mercy as she used to call ; 
 And shall that boy, who dreaded to appear 
 Before me, cast away at once his fear ? 
 'T is not in nature ! — He who once would cower 
 Beneath my frown, and sob for half an hour ; 
 He who would kneel with motion prompt and 
 
 quick 
 If I but look'd, as dogs that do a trick ; 
 He still his knee-joints flexible must feel, 
 And have a slavish promptitude to kneel ; — 
 Soon as he sees me he will drop his lip, 
 And bend like one made ready for the whip. 
 O ! come, I trifle, let me haste away — 
 What ! throw it up, when I have cards to play ?" 
 
 The Doctor went, a self-invited guest ; 
 He met his pupil, and hjs frown repress'd, 
 For in those lowering looks he could discern 
 Ixesistance sullen and defiance stern ; 
 Yet was it painful to put ofi" his style 
 Of awful distance, and assume a smile : 
 So between these, the gracious and the grand, 
 Succeeded nothing that the Doctor plann'd. 
 
 The sullen youth, with some reviving dread, 
 Bow'd, and then hang'd disconsolate his head ; 
 
466 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 And, muttering welcome in a muffled tone, 
 Stalk'd cross the park to meditate alone, 
 Saying, or rather seeming to have said, 
 " Go ! seek your daughter, and be there obey'd." 
 
 He went. — The daughter her distresses told. 
 But found her father to her interests cold ; 
 He kindness and complacency advised; 
 She answer'd, " These were sure to be despised ; 
 " That of the love her husband once possessM, 
 " Is'ot the least spark was living in his breast ; 
 " The boy repented, and grew savage soon : 
 " There never shone for her a honeymoon. 
 '• Soon as lie came, his cares all fi.x'd on one, 
 '• Himself, and all his passion was a gun ; 
 " And though he shot as he did all beside, 
 " It still remain'd his only joy and pride. 
 " He left her there,— she knew not wliere he 
 
 went, — 
 " But knew full well he should the slight repent ; 
 •' She was not one his daily taunts to bear, 
 '• He made the house a hell that he should share ; 
 " For, till he gave her power herself to please. 
 " Never for him should be a moment's ease." 
 
 " He loves you, child !" the softening father 
 cried : 
 '* He loves himself, and not a soul beside ; 
 " Loves me ! — why, yes, and so he did the pears 
 " You caught him stealing — would he had the 
 
 fears ! 
 " Would you could make him tremble for his life, 
 '' And then to you return the stolen wife. 
 " Richly endow'd — but, O ! the idiot knows 
 •' The worth of every penny lie bestows. 
 
 " "Were he but fool alone, I "d find a way 
 " To govern him, at least to have my day ; 
 " Or were he only brute, I 'd watch the hour, 
 " And make the brute-affection yield me power ; 
 " But sillj' both and savage — O ! my heart ! 
 '■ It is too great a trial I — we must part." 
 " Oblige the savage by some act !" — " The debt, 
 " You find, the fool will instantly forget : 
 " Oblige the fool with kindness or with praise, 
 " And you the passions of the savage raise." 
 " Time will do much." — " Can time my name re- 
 store ?" 
 '• Have patience, child." — " I am a child no more, 
 " Nor more dependent ; but, at woman's age, 
 " I feel that wrongs provoke me and enrage : 
 " Sir, could you bring me comfort, I were cool ; 
 " But keep your counsel for your boys at school." 
 
 The Doctor then departed. — ^Why remain 
 To liear complaints, who could himself complain, 
 AVho felt his actions wrong, and knew his efforts 
 vain ? 
 
 The sullen youth, contending with his fate, 
 Began the darling of his heart to hate : 
 Her pretty looks, her auburn braid, her face. 
 All now remain'd the proofs of his disgrace ; 
 While, more than hateful in his vixen's eyes. 
 He saw lior comforts from his griefs arise ; 
 Who i'elt a joy she strove not to conceal, 
 "When their expenses made her raiser feel. 
 
 War was perpetual : on a first attack 
 
 She gain'd advantage, he would turn his back ; 
 
 And when her small-shot whistled in his cars, 
 
 lie felt a portion of his early fears ; 
 
 But if he turn'd him in the battle's heat, 
 
 And fought in earnest, hers was then defeat ; 
 
 His strength of oath and curse brought little harm, 
 
 But there was no resisting strength of arm. 
 
 Yet wearied both with war, and vex'd at heart, 
 The slaves of passion judged it best to part : 
 Long they debated, nor could fix a rate 
 For a man's peace with his contending mate ; 
 But mutual hatred, scorn, and fear, assign'd 
 That price — that peace it was not theirs to find. 
 
 The watchful husband lived in constant hope 
 To hear the wife had ventured to elope ; 
 But though not virtuous, nor in much discreet, 
 He found her coldness would such views defeat ; 
 And thus, by self-reproof and avarice scourged. 
 He wore the galling chains his folly forged. 
 
 The wife her pleasures, few and humble, sought, 
 And with anticipated stipend bought ; 
 Without a home, at fashion's call she fled 
 To a hired lodging and a widow'd bed : 
 Husband and parents banish'd from her mind. 
 She seeks for pleasures that she cannot find ; 
 And grieves that so mucli treachery was employ'd 
 To gain a man who has her peace destroy'd. 
 
 Yet more the grieving father feels distress. 
 His error greater, and his motives less ; 
 He finds too late, by stooping to deceit. 
 It is ourselves, and not the world, we cheat ; 
 For, though we blind it, yet we can but feel 
 That we have something evil to conceal ; 
 Nor can we by our utmost care be sure 
 That we can hide the sufferings we endure.' 
 
 BOOK XVI. 
 
 LADY BARBARA; OR, THE GHOST. 
 
 Introductory Discourse — i'or what purpose ■would a Ghost 
 appear? — How the purpose wouhl be answered — The Fact 
 admitted, would not Doubts return ? — Family Stories of 
 Apparitions— Story of I,ady Barbara — Her Widowhood — 
 llesides with a Priest — His Family — A favourite Boy — 
 Ilis Kducation — His Fondness for the Lady — It becomes 
 Love — His Rellections — His Declaration — Her Reply — Her 
 Itclation — Why she must not marry a second time — How 
 w:irned — Tokens of the ,\ppearance — The Lover argues 
 with the Lady — His Success — The Consequences of it. 
 
 The Brothers spoke of Ghosts, — a favourite theme 
 With those who love to reason or to dream ; 
 And they, as greater men were wont to do. 
 Felt strong desire to think the stories true : 
 
 I [" Gretna Green is a stronj; picture of tlie happiness Uiat 
 may be expected from a premature marriage between • 
 silly mercenary girl and abrutal self-willed boy." — .lEFrsiT.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 467 
 
 Stories of spirits freed, Avho came to prove 
 To spirits bound in ficsh that yet they love. 
 To give them notice of the things below, 
 Which we must wonder how they came to know, 
 Or, known, would think of coming to relate 
 To creatures who are tried by unknown fate. 
 
 " "Warning," said Richard, " seems the only 
 thing 
 " That would a spirit on an errand bring : 
 " To turn a guilty mind from wrong to right 
 " A ghost might come, at least I tliink it might." 
 
 " But," said the Brother, " if we here are tried, 
 " A spirit sent would put that law aside : 
 '• It gives to some advantage others need, 
 " Or hurts the sinner should it not succeed : 
 " If from the dead, said Dives, one were sent 
 '' To warn my brethren, sure they would repent ; 
 '• But Abraham answered. If they now reject 
 ■' The guides they have, no more would that 
 
 eti'ect ; 
 " Their doubts too obstinate for grace would 
 
 prove, 
 " For wonder hardens hearts it fails to move. 
 
 " Suppose a sinner in an hour of gloom, 
 " And let a ghost with all its horrors come ; 
 " From lips unmoved let solemn accents flow, 
 " Solemn his gesture be, his motion slow ; 
 " Let the waved hand and threatening look im- 
 part 
 " Truth to the mind and terror to the heart ; 
 '■ And, when the form is fading to the view. 
 " Let the convicted man cry, ' This is true !' 
 
 " Alas I how soon would doubts again invade 
 " The willing mind, and sins again persuade I 
 '' I saw it — What? — I was awake, but how? 
 " Not as I am, or I should see it now : 
 " It spoke, I think, — I thought, at least it spoke, — 
 '• And look'd alarming — yes, I felt the look. 
 " But then in sleep those horrid forms ' arise, 
 " That the soul sees, — and, we suppose, the cj'es, — 
 " And the soul hears, — the senses then thrown by, 
 " She is herself the ear, herself the eye ; - 
 '• A mistress so will free her servile race 
 " For their own tasks, and take herself the place: 
 " In sleep what forms will ductile fancy take, 
 " And what so common as to dream awake ? 
 " On others thus do ghostly guests intrude ? 
 " Or why am I by sucli advice pursued ? 
 
 1 [" I would not appear to myself superstitious. I returned 
 late last night, and my retlections were as cheerful as such 
 company could make them, and not, I am afraid, of the most 
 Immiliating kind; yet for the first time these many ni),'hts 
 I was incommoded by dreams, such as would cure vanity for 
 a time in any mind where they could jjain admission. Some 
 of Baxter's mortifying spirits whispered very sin^'ular combi- 
 nations — none, indeed, that actually did happen in the 
 very worst of times, but still with a formidable resemblance. 
 It is doubtless very proper to have the mind thus brought to 
 a sense of its real and possible alliances, and the evils it has 
 encountered, or might have had ; but why these images should 
 be given at a time when the thoughts, the waking thoughts, 
 were of so opposite a nature, I cannot account. So it was. 
 Awake, I had been with the high, the apparently happy: we 
 were very pleasantly engaged, and my last thoughts were 
 cheerful. Asleep, all was misery and degradation, not my 
 
 " One out of millions who exist, and why 
 
 *' They know not — cannot know — and such am I ; 
 
 " And shall two beings of two world;*, to meet, 
 
 " The laws of one, perhaps of both, defeat ? 
 
 " It cannot be. — But if some being lives 
 
 " Who such kind warning to a favourite gives, 
 
 " Let him these doubts from my dull spirit clear, 
 
 " And once again, expected guest ! appear. 
 
 " And if a second time the power complied, 
 " Why is a tliird, and why a fourtli, denied ? 
 " Why not a warning ghost for ever at our side? 
 " Ah, foolish being ! thou hast truth enough, — • 
 " Augmented guilt would rise on greater proof; 
 " Blind and imperious passion disbelieves, 
 " Or madly scorns the warning it receives, 
 " Or looks for pardon ere the ill be done, 
 " Because 't is vain to strive our fate to shun ; 
 " In spite of ghosts, predestined woes would come, 
 " And warning add new terrors to our doom. 
 
 " Yet there are tales that would remove our 
 
 doubt, 
 " The whisper'd tales that circulate about, 
 " That in some noble mansion take their rise, 
 " And, told with secrecy and awe, surprise : 
 " It seems not likely people should advance, 
 " For falsehood's sake, such train of circumstance ; 
 " Then the ghosts bear them with a ghost-like 
 
 grace, 
 " That suits the person, character, and place. 
 
 " But let us something of the kind recite : 
 " What think you, now, of Lady Barbara's 
 spright ?" ^ 
 
 " I know not what to think ; but I have hoard 
 " A ghost, to warn her or advise, appear'd ; 
 " And that she sought a friend before she died, 
 " To whom she miglit the awful fact confide, 
 " AVho seal'd and secret should the story keep 
 " Till Lady Barbara slept her final sleep, 
 " In that close bed that never spirit shakes, 
 " Nor ghostly visiter the sleejier wakes." 
 
 " Yes, I can give that storj^, not so well 
 "As your old woman would the legend tell. 
 " But as the facts are stated ; and now hear 
 '• How ghosts advise, and widows persevere." 
 
 When her lord died, who had so kind a heart, 
 That any woman would have grieved to jiart. 
 
 own only, but of those who liad been. — lliat horrible image 
 of servility and baseness — that mercenary and commercial 
 manner! It is the work of imagination, I suppose; but it is 
 very strange." — Crabbc's Didnj, July -'1, 1S17.] 
 
 - [" Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 
 
 " Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eves to see." 
 
 15 V BOX, 1821.] 
 
 - [Original MS. :— 
 
 The Brothers dwelt upon their favourite themes 
 
 Of ghosts, and spectres, demons, devils, dreams ; 
 
 These to all kinds of gliostly subjects le<l, 
 
 'ndr.gs we believe not, yet we ever dread, 
 
 At which our reason halts, by which our fejuf «re led ; 
 
 ■' Sometimes," said George, " the ghost ifid drenni unite, 
 
 " As was the case with Lady Barbara's spright."] 
 
4G8 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 It hail STich influence on his widow's mind, 
 
 That she the pleasures of the world rcsign'd, 
 
 Young as she was, and from the busy town 
 
 Came to the quiet of a village down ; 
 
 Not as insensible to joys, but still 
 
 "With a subdued but half-rebellious will ; 
 
 For she had passions warm, and feeling strong. 
 
 With a right mind, that dreaded to be wrong ; — 
 
 Yet she had wealth to tie her to the place 
 
 AVhere it procures delight and veils disgrace ; 
 
 Y'ct she had beauty to engage the eye, 
 
 A widow still in her minority ; 
 
 Yet she had merit worthy men to gain. 
 
 And yet her hand no merit could obtain ; 
 
 For, though secluded, there were trials made, 
 
 "When he who soften'd most could not persuade ; 
 
 A while she hearken'd as her swain proposed. 
 
 And then his suit with strong refusal closed. 
 
 " Thanks, and farewell ! — give credit to my 
 word, 
 " That I shall die the widow of my lord ; 
 " 'T is my own will, I now prefer the state, — 
 " If mine should change, it is tlic will of fate." 
 
 Such things were spoken, and the hearers cried, 
 " 'T is very strange, — perhaps she may be tried." 
 
 The lady pass'd her time in taking air, 
 In working, reading, charities, and prayer ; 
 In the last duties she received the aid 
 Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she pray'd ; 
 And to his mansion with a purpose "\vent. 
 That there should life be innocently spent ; 
 Yet no cold vot'ress of the cloister she, 
 "Warm her devotion, warm her charity ; 
 The face the index of a feeling mind. 
 And her whole conduct rational and kind. 
 
 Though rich and noble, she was pleased to slide 
 Into the habits of her reverend guide, 
 And so attended to his girls and boys, 
 She secm'd a mother in her fears and joj's ; 
 On her they look'd with fondness, something 
 
 check'd 
 By her appearance, that engaged respect ; 
 For still she dress'd as one of higher race, 
 And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace. 
 
 George was her favourite, and it gave her joy 
 To indulge and to instruct the darling boy ; 
 To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child, 
 Who was at once afTectionatc and wild ; 
 Happy and grateful for her tender care. 
 And pleased her thoughts and company to share. 
 
 George was a boy with spirit strong and high. 
 With handsome face, and penetrating eye ; 
 O'er his broad forehead hung his locks of brown, 
 That gave a spirit to his boyish frowni. 
 " My little man " were words that she applied 
 To him, and ho received witli growing pride ; 
 ller darling even from his infant years 
 Had something touching in his smiles and tears; 
 And in his boyish manners he began 
 To show the pride that was not made for man ; 
 But it became the child, the mother cried, 
 And the kind lady said it was not pride. 
 
 George, to his cost, though sometimes to his 
 
 praise. 
 Was quite a hero in these early daj's. 
 And would return from heroes just as stout. 
 Blood in his crimson cheek, and blood without. 
 " What ! he submit to vulgar boys and low — 
 " He bear an insult, he forget a blow ! 
 " They call'd him Parson — let his father bear 
 " His own reproach, it was his proper care : 
 " He was no parson, but he still would teach 
 " The boys their manners, and yet would not 
 
 preach." 
 
 The father, thoughtful of the time foregone, 
 Was loth to damp the spirit of his son ; 
 Kememb'ring he himself had early laurels won ; 
 The mother, frighten'd, begg'd him to refrain. 
 And not his credit or his linen stain ; 
 While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed, 
 He smiled in tears, and wish'd her to proceed; 
 For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye 
 And daring look were cause of many a sigh. 
 When she had thought how much would such 
 
 quick temper try : 
 And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom. 
 Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come. 
 
 Years fled unmark'd : the lady taught no more 
 Th' adopted tribe as she was wont before ; 
 But by her help the school the lasses sought, 
 And by the "S'^icar's self the boy was taught; 
 Not unresisting when that cursed Gi-eek 
 Ask'd so much time for words that none will speak. 
 
 " What can men worse for mortal brain contrive 
 " Than thus a hard dead language to revive ! 
 " Heav'ns, if a language once be fairly dead, 
 " Let it be buried, not preserved and read, 
 " The bane of every boy to decent station bred ; 
 " If any good these crabbed books contain, 
 " Translate them well, and let them then remain ; 
 " To one huge vault convey the useless store, 
 " Then lose the key, and never find it more." 
 
 Something like this the lively boy express'd, 
 When Homer was his torment and his jest. 
 
 " George," said the father, " can at pleasure 
 seize 
 " The point he wishes, and with too much ease ; 
 " And hence, depending on liis powers, and vain, 
 " He wastes the time that he will sigh to gain." 
 The partial widow thought the wasted days 
 He would recover, urged by love and praise ; 
 And thus absolved, the boy, with grateful mind. 
 Repaid a love so useful and so blind : 
 Her angry words he loved, although he fear'd, 
 And words not angry doubly kind appear'd. 
 
 George, then on manhood verging, felt the 
 charms 
 Of war, and kindled at the world's alarms ; 
 Yet war was then, though spreading wide and far, 
 A state of peace to what has since been war ; 
 'T was then some dubious claim at sea or land, 
 That placed a weapon in a warrior's hand ; 
 But in these times the causes of our strife 
 Are liearth and altar, liberty and life. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 469 
 
 George, when from college he return'd, and 
 
 heard 
 His father's questions, cool and shy appear'd. 
 '- Who had the honours ?" — " Honour !" said the 
 
 youth, 
 '• Honour at college ! — very good, in truth I" 
 " What hours to study did he give ?" — He gave 
 Enough to feel they made him like a slave. 
 In fact, the Vicar found, if George should rise, 
 'T was not by college rules and exercise. 
 
 " At least the time for your degree abide, 
 " And be ordain'd," the man of peace replied ; 
 '• Then you may come and aid me while I keep, 
 " And watch, and shear th' hereditary sheep ; 
 '' Choose then your spouse." — That heard the 
 
 youth, and sigh'd. 
 Nor to aught else attended or replied. 
 
 George had of late indulged unusual fears 
 And dangerous hopes : he wept unconscious tears ; — 
 "Whether for camp or college, well he knew 
 He must at present bid his friends adieu ; 
 His father, mother, sisters, could he part 
 With these, and feel no sorrow at his heart ? 
 But from that lovely lady could he go ? 
 That fonder, fairer, dearer mother ? — No ! 
 For while his father spoke, he fix'd his eyes 
 On that dear face, and felt a warmth arise, 
 xV trembling flush of joy, that he could ill dis- 
 guise — 
 Then ask'd himself from whence this growing 
 
 bliss. 
 This new-found joy, and all that waits on this ? 
 " Why sinks that voice so sweetly in mine ear ? 
 " What makes it now a livelier joy to hear ? 
 " Vt'hy gives that touch ? — still, still do I retain 
 " The fierce delight that tingled through each 
 
 vein : 
 " "VMiy at her presence with such quickness flows 
 " The vital current ? — Well a lover knows. 
 
 " O ! tell me not of years, — can she be old ? 
 '• Those eyes, those lips, can man unmoved behold ? 
 " Has time that bosom chill'd ? are cheeks so rosy 
 
 cold? 
 " No, she is young, or I her love t' engage 
 " Will grow discreet, and that will seem like age : 
 " But speak it not ; Death's equalising arm 
 " Levels not surer than Love's stronger charm, 
 " That bids all inequalities be gone, 
 " That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison. 
 
 " Tliere is not young or old, if Love decrees ; 
 " Ho levels orders, he confounds degrees : 
 " There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall, 
 " Or grave, or sprightly — Love reduces all ; 
 " He makes unite the pensive and the gay, 
 " Gives something here, takes something there 
 
 away ; 
 " From each abundant good a portion takes, 
 " And for each want a compensation makes ; 
 " Then tell me not of years — Love, power divine, 
 '• Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine." 
 
 And she, in truth, was lovely — Time had strewn 
 No snows on her, though he so long had flown ; 
 
 The purest damask blossom'd in her cheek. 
 The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak : 
 Her pleasing person she with care adorn'd, 
 Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn'd ; 
 Nor held it wrong these graces to renew. 
 Or give the fading rose its opening hue ; 
 Yet few there were who needed less the art 
 To hide an error, or a grace impart. 
 
 George, yet a child, her faultless form admired. 
 And call'd his fondness love, as truth required ; 
 But now, when conscious of the secret flame, 
 His bosom's pain, he dared not give the name ; 
 In her the mother's milder passion grew, 
 Tender she was, but she was placid too ; 
 From him the mild and filial love was gone, 
 And a strong passion came in triumph on. 
 
 " Will she," he cried, " this impious love allow? 
 " And, once my mother, be my mistress now ? 
 " The parent-spouse ? how far the thought from 
 
 her ! 
 " And how can I the daring wish aver ? 
 " When first 1 speak it, how will those dear eyes 
 " Gleam with awaken'd horror and surprise ; 
 " AVill she not, angry and indignant, fly 
 " From my imploring call, and bid me die ? 
 " Will she not shudder at the thought, and say, 
 " My son ! and lift her eyes to heaven, and pray ? 
 
 " Alas ! I fear — and yet my soul she won 
 " While she with fond endearments call'd me son ! 
 " Then first I felt — yet knew that I was wrong — • 
 " This hope, at once so guilty and so strong: 
 " She gave — I feel it now — a mother's kiss, 
 '• And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss ; 
 '■ But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye 
 " Should see the transport, and the bliss deny : 
 " O ! when she knows the purpose I conceal, 
 " When my fond wishes to her bosom steal, 
 " How will that angel fear ? how will the woman 
 feel? 
 
 " And yet, perhaps, this instant, while I speak, 
 " She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek ; 
 " Better than I she may my feelings know, 
 " And nurse the passion that she dares not show ; 
 " She reads the look, — and sure my eyes have 
 
 sho>vn 
 " To her the power and triumph of her own ; 
 " And in maternal love she veils the flame 
 " That she will heal with joy, yet hear with 
 shame.'' 
 
 " Come, let me then — no more a son — reveal 
 " The daring hope, and for her favour Imeel ; 
 " Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress, 
 " And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess ; 
 " And, once confess'd, no more that hope resign, 
 " For she or misery henceforth must be mine. 
 
 * [In the original MS. . — 
 
 " Yet when I look upon that face divine, 
 "Say, can I wish the goddess-mother mine? 
 " She who, like Venus, should provide me arms 
 " Against my foe — not bring me greater harms."] 
 
470 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " O ! what confusion shall I see advance 
 
 " On that dear face, responsive to ray glance ! 
 
 " Sure she can love !" 
 
 In fact, the youth was right ; 
 She could, but love was dreadful in her sight ; 
 Love like a spectre in her view appear'd, 
 The nearer he approach'd tlie more she fear'd. 
 
 But knew she, then, this dreaded love ? She 
 guess'd 
 That he had guilt — she knew he had not rest ; 
 She saw a fear that she could ill define, 
 And nameless terrors in his looks combine ; 
 It is a state that cannot long endure, 
 And yet both parties dreaded to be sure. 
 
 All views were pass'd of priesthood and a gown, 
 George, fix'd on glory, now prepar'd for town ; 
 But first this mighty hazard must be run. 
 And more than glory cither lost or won : 
 Yet, what was glory ? Could he win that heart 
 And gain that hand, what cause was there to part ? 
 Her love afforded all that life affords — 
 Honour and fame were phantasies and words. 
 
 But he must sec her — She alone was seen 
 In the still evening of a day serene : 
 In the deep shade beyond tlie garden Avalk 
 They met, and, talking, ceased and fear'd to talk ; 
 At length she spoke of parent's love, — and now 
 He hazards all. " No parent, lady, thou ! 
 "' None, none to me I but looks so fond and mild 
 " "Would well become the j)arent of my child." 
 
 She gasp'd for breath — then sat as one resolved 
 On some high act, and then the means revolved. 
 
 " It cannot be, my George, mj' cliild, my son ! 
 " The thought is misery ! — Guilt and misery shun : 
 " Far from us both be such design, oh, far ! 
 " Let it not pain us at the awful bar, 
 " "Where souls are tried, where known the mother's 
 
 part 
 " That I sustain, and all of either heart. 
 " To wed with thee I must all shame efface, 
 " And part with female dignity and grace : 
 " AV'as I not told, by one who knew so well 
 " This rebel heart, that it must not rebel ? 
 " "V\''ere I not warn'd, yet Reason's voice would 
 
 cry, 
 " ' Kctreat, resolve, and from the danger fly !' 
 " If Reason spoke not, yet would woman's pride — 
 " A woman will by better counsel guide ; 
 " And should both Pride and Prudence plead in 
 
 vain, 
 " There is a warning that must still remain, 
 " And, though the heart rebell'd, would ever cry 
 
 ' Refrain !' " 
 
 He heard, he grieved : so check'd, the eager 
 youth 
 Dared not again repeat th' offensive truth. 
 But stopi)'d, and fix'd on that loved face an eye 
 Of pleading passion, trembling to reply : 
 And that reply was hurried, was exprcss'd 
 AVith bursts of sorrow from a troubled breast ; 
 He could not yet forbear the tender suit, 
 And dare not speak— his eloquence was mute. 
 
 But this not long, — again the passion rose 
 In him, in her the spirit to oppose : 
 Yet was she firm ; and he, who fear'd the cabn 
 Of resolution, purposed to alarm. 
 And make her dread a passion strong and wild — 
 He fear'd her firmness while her looks were mild : 
 Therefore he strongly, warmly urged his prayer, 
 Till she, less patient, urged him to forbear. 
 
 •' I tell thee, George, as I have told before, 
 " I feel a mother's love, and feel no more ; 
 " A child I bore thee in my arms, and how 
 '• Could I — did prudence yield — receive thee 
 now ?" 
 
 At her remonstrance hope revived, for oft 
 He found her words severe, her accents soft ; 
 In eyes that threaten'd tears of pity stood, 
 And truth she made as gracious as she could ;— 
 But, when she found the dangerous youth would 
 
 seek 
 His peace alone, and still his wishes speak, 
 Feai'ful she grew, that, opening thus his heart. 
 He might to hers a dangerous warmth impart ; 
 All her objections slight to him appear'd, — 
 But one she had, and now it must be heard. 
 
 " Yes, it must be ! and he shall understand 
 " AVhat powers, that are not of the world, com- 
 mand ; 
 " So shall he cease, and I in peace sliall live — " 
 Sighing she spoke — " that ^^•idowhood can give !" 
 Then to her lover turn'd, and gravely said, 
 " Let due attention to my words be paid : 
 " Meet me to-morrow, and I'esolve t' obey ;" 
 Then named the hour and place, and went her 
 
 way. 
 Before that hour, or moved by spirit vain 
 Of woman's wish to triumph and complain, 
 She had his jjarents summon'd, and had shown 
 Their son's strong wishes, nor conceal'd her own : 
 " And do you give," she said, " a parent's aid 
 " To make the youth of his strange love afraid ; 
 " And, be it sin or not, be all the shame dis- 
 play'd." 
 
 The good old Pastor wonder'd, secm'd to grieve, 
 And look'd suspicious on this child of Eve : 
 He judged his boy, though wild, had never dared 
 To talk of love, had not rebuke been spared ; 
 But ho replied, in mild and tender tone, 
 " It is not sin, and therefore shame has none." 
 
 The different ages of the pair he knew. 
 And qiiite as well their different fortunes too : 
 A meek, just man ; but difference in liis sight 
 That made tlie match unequal made it right: 
 " His son, his friend, united and become 
 " Of his owii hearth — the comforts of his home — 
 " "Was it so wrong? Perhaps it was her pride 
 " That felt the distance, and the youth denied ?" 
 
 The blushing widow heard, and she retired, 
 Musing <ni what licr ancient friend desired : 
 She could not, therefore, to the youth complain. 
 That liis good father wish'd him to refrain; 
 She could not add, " Your parents, George, obej', 
 " They will your absence" — no such will had they. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 471 
 
 Now, in th' appointed minute met the pair, 
 Foredoom'd to meet : George made the lover's 
 
 pray'r,— 
 That was heard kindly ; then the lady tried 
 For a calm spirit, felt it, and replied. 
 
 " George, that I love thee wliy should I sup- 
 press ? 
 '■ For 'tis a love that virtue may profess — 
 " Parental, — frown not, — tender, fix'd, sincere ; 
 " Tliou art for dearer ties by much too dear, 
 " And nearer must not be, thou art so very near ; 
 " Nay, does not reason, prudence, pride, agree, 
 " Our very feelings, that it must not be ? 
 " Nay, look not so, — I shun the task no more, 
 " But will to thee thy better self restore. 
 
 •■ Then hear, and hope not ; to the tale I tell 
 " Attend ! obev me, and let all be well : 
 " Love is forbid to me, and thou wilt find 
 " All thy too ardent views must be resign'd ; ' 
 " Tlien from thy bosom all such thoughts remove, 
 " And spare the curse of interdicted love. 
 " If doubts at first assail thee, wait a while, 
 " Nor mock my sadness with satiric smile : 
 " For, if not much of other worlds we know, 
 " Nor how a spirit speaks in this below, 
 " Still there is speecli and intercourse ; and now 
 " The truth of what I tell I first avow, — 
 " True will I be in all, and be attentive thou. 
 
 " I was a Ratclifie, taught and train'd to live 
 " In all the pride that ancestry can give ; 
 " My only brother, when our mother died, 
 " Fill'd the dear offices of friend and guide ; 
 " Jly father early taught us all he dared, 
 " And for his bolder flights our minds prepared : 
 " He read the works of deists, every book 
 " From crabbed Hobbes to courtly Bolingbroko ; 
 " And when we understood not, he would cry, 
 " ' Let the expressions in your memory lie, 
 " ' The light will soon break in, and jou will find 
 " ' liest for your spirits, and be strong of mind I' 
 
 '• Alas ! however strong, however weak, 
 " The rest was something we had still to seek ! 
 " He taught us duties of no arduous kind, 
 " The easy morals of the doubtful mind ; 
 " He bade us all our childish fears control, 
 " And drive the nurse and grandam from the 
 
 soul ; 
 " Told us the word of God was all we saw, 
 " And that the law of nature was his law; 
 " Tins law of nature we might find abstruse, 
 " But gain sufiicient for our common use. 
 '■ Thus by persuasion we our duties learn'd, 
 " And were but little in the cause concern'd. 
 
 " Wc lived in peace, in intellectual case, 
 " And thought that virtue was the way to please. 
 
 [MS. :— 
 
 " Hear, then, and liopc not I to the tale I tell 
 " Helongs the warning on the gates ol' hell, 
 " ' This is no place fur hope !' the guilt above 
 " Excludes it here. Vh ! now the guilt remove, 
 " And tear the curse of interdicted love."] 
 
 " And pure morality the keeping free 
 
 " From all the stains of vulgar villany. 
 
 '• But Richard, dear enthusiast ! shunn'd reproach, 
 
 " He let no stain upon his name encroach ; 
 
 " But fled the hated vice, M'as kind and just, 
 
 " That all must love him, and that all might trust. 
 
 " Free, sad discourse was ours ; we often sigh'd, 
 " To think we could not in some truths confide. 
 " Our father's final words gave no content, 
 '• We found not what his self-reliance meant. 
 " To fix our faitli some grave relations sought; 
 " Doctrines and creeds of various kinds they 
 
 brought, 
 " And we as children heard what they as doctors 
 
 taught.^ 
 
 •• Some to the priest referr"d us, in whose book 
 " No unbeliever could resisting look ; 
 " Others to some great preacher's, wlio could tame 
 " The fiercest mind, and set the cold on flame ; 
 " For him no rival in dispute was found 
 " Whom he could not confute or not confound. 
 
 " Some mystics told us of the sign and seal, 
 " And what the Spirit would in time reveal, 
 " If we had grace to wait, if we had hearts to 
 
 feel : 
 " Others, to Reason trusting, said, ' Believe 
 " ' As she directs, and what she proves receive ;' 
 " W^hile many told us, ' It is all but guess ; 
 " ' Stick to your church, and calmly acquiesce.' 
 
 " Thus doubting, wearied, hurried, and per- 
 plex'd, 
 " This world was lost in thinking of the next: 
 " When spoke my brother — ' From my soul I hate 
 " ' This clash of thought, this ever-doubting state ; 
 " ' For ever seeking certainty, yet blind 
 " ' In our research, and puzzled when we find. 
 " ' Could not some spirit, in its kindness, steal 
 *' ' Back to our world, and some dear truth re- 
 veal? 
 " ' Say there is danger, — if it could be done, 
 " ' Sure one would venture — I would be the one ; 
 " ' And when a spirit — much as spirits might — 
 " ' I would to thee communicate my light !' 
 
 " I sought my daring brother to oppose, 
 " But awful gladness in my bosom rose : 
 " I feai'ed my wishes ; but thi'ough aU my frame 
 " A bold and elevating terror came : 
 " Yet with dissembling prudence I replied, 
 " ' Know wc the laws that may be thus defied ? 
 " ' Should the free spirit to th' embodied tell 
 " ' The precious secret, would it not rebel ?' 
 " Yet while I spoke I felt a pleasing glow 
 " Sufi"use my cheek at what I long'd to know ; 
 " And I, like Eve transgressing, grew more bold, 
 " And wish'd to hear a spirit and behold. 
 
 [MS. :— 
 
 " Some to tlie dean relerr'd us, who had made 
 " .\n atheist mad, so well could he persuade ; 
 " t)thers to Doctor ISowles's powerful art, 
 " Who found an entrance in the hardest heart."] 
 
472 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " ' I have no friend, ' said he ; ' to not one man 
 " ' Can 1 a^jpcar : Lut, love ! to tliee I can : 
 
 " ' Who first shall die ' 1 wept, — hut ' I agree 
 
 " ' To all thou say'st, dear Kichard ! and would be 
 " 'The fii'st to wing my way, and bring my news 
 to thee.' 
 
 " Long we conversed, but not till we perceived 
 " A gathering gloom — Our freedom gain'd, we 
 
 grieved ; 
 " Above the vulgar, as we judged, in mind, 
 " Below in peace, more sad as more refined ; 
 " 'Twas joy, 'twas sin — Offenders at the time, 
 " We felt the hurried pleasure of our crime, 
 " With pain that crime creates, and this in both — 
 " Our miud united as the strongest oath. 
 
 " O, my dear George ! in ceasing to obey, 
 " Misery and trouble meet us in our way ! 
 " I felt as one intruding in a scene 
 " Where none should be, where none had ever 
 
 been ; 
 " Like our first parent, I was new to sin, 
 " But plainly felt its sufferings begin : 
 " In nightly dreams I walk'd on soil unsound, 
 " And in my day-dreams endless error found. 
 
 " With this dear brother I was doom'd to part, 
 " Who, ynth a husband, shared a troubled heart : 
 " My lord I honour'd ; but I never proved 
 " The madd'ning joy, the boast of some who 
 
 loved : 
 " It was a marriage that our friends profess'd 
 " Would be most happy, and I acquiesced ; 
 " And we were happy, for our love was calm, 
 " Not life's delicious essence, but its balm. 
 " My brother left us — flear unhappy boy ! 
 " He never seem'd to taste of earthly joy, 
 " Never to live on earth, but ever strove 
 " To gain some tidings of a world above. 
 
 " Parted from him, I found no more to jjlease ; 
 " Ease was my object, and I dwelt in ease ; 
 " And thus in quiet, not perhaps content, 
 " A year in wedlock — lingering time ! — was spent. 
 
 " One night I slept not, but I courted sleep, 
 " And forced my thoughts on tracks they could not 
 
 keep ; 
 " Till nature, wearied in the strife, reposed, 
 " And deep forgetfulness my wanderings closed. 
 
 " My lord was absent — distant from the bed 
 " A pendent lamp its soften'd lustre shed ; 
 " But there was light that chased away the gloom, 
 " And brought to view each object in the room : 
 " These I observed ere yet I sank in sleep, 
 " That, if disturb'd not, had been long and deep. 
 
 " I was awaken'd by some being nigh, — 
 " It seem"d some voice, — and gave a timid cry ; 
 " When sounds, that I describe not, slowly broke 
 
 " On my attention ' Be composed, and look !' 
 
 " I strove, and I sueceedcd ; look'd with awe, 
 " But yet with firmness, and my brother saw. 
 
 " George, why that smile ? — By all that God has 
 
 done, 
 By the great Spirit, by the blessed Son, 
 By the one holy Three, by the thrice holy One, 
 I saw my brother, — saw him by my bed, — 
 And every doubt in full conviction fled ! 
 It was his own mild spirit — He a while 
 Waited my calmness with benignant smile. 
 So softly shines the veiled sun, till past 
 The cloud, and light upon the world is cast : 
 That look composed and soften'd I survey'd, 
 And met the glance fraternal less afi'aid ; 
 Though in those looks was something of com- 
 mand. 
 And traits of what I fear'd to understand. 
 
 " Then spoke the spirit — George, I praj', at- 
 tend — 
 " ' First, let all doubts of thy religion end : 
 " ' The word reveal'd is true : inquire no more ; 
 " ' Believe in meekness, and with thanks adore : 
 " ' Thy priest attend, but not in all relj^, 
 " ' And to objectors seek for no reply ; 
 " ' Truth, doubt, and error will be mi.\'d below — 
 " ' Be thou content the greater truths to knov.-, 
 
 " ' And in obedience rest thee For thy life 
 
 " ' Thou needest counsel — now a happy wife, 
 " ' A widow soon ! and then, my sister, then, 
 " ' Think not of marriage, think no more of men : — 
 " ' Life will have comforts ; thou wilt much enjoy 
 " ' Of moderate good ; then do not this destroy : 
 " ' Fear much, and wed no more ; by passion led, 
 " ' Shouldst thou again'— art thou attending? — 
 
 ' wed, 
 " ' Care in thy ways will growl, and anguish haunt 
 
 thy bed : 
 " ' A brother's warning on thy heart engrave : 
 " ' Thou art a mistress — then be not a slave ! 
 " ' Shouldst thou again that hand in fondness give, 
 " ' What life of misery art thou doom'd to live ! 
 " ' How wilt thou weej), lament, implore, com- 
 plain ! 
 " ' How wilt thou meet derision and disdain ! 
 " ' And pray to Heaven in doubt, and kneel to 
 
 man in vain ! 
 " ' Thou read'st of woes to tender bosoms sent — 
 " ' Thine shall with tenfold agony be rent ; 
 " ' Increase of anguish shall new years bestow, 
 " ' .' ain shall on thought and grief on reason grow, 
 " ' And this th' advice I give increase the ill I 
 show.' 
 
 " ' A second marriage ! — No ! — by all that 's 
 dear !' 
 " I cried aloud — The spirit bade me hear. 
 " ' There will be trial, — how I must not say, 
 " ' Perhaps I cannot — listen, and obey ! 
 " ' Free is thy will — th' event I cannot sec, 
 " ' Distinctly caimot, but thy will is free. 
 " ' Come, weep not, sister — spirits can but guess, 
 " ' And not ordain — but do not wed distress ; 
 " ' For who would rashly venture on a snare ?' 
 
 " ' I swear !' I answer'd. — ' No, thou must not 
 swear,' 
 " He said, or I had sworn ; but still the vow 
 " Was past, was in my mind, and there is now : 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 4/a 
 
 " Never! O. never: — Why that sullen air? 
 '• Think"st tliou — ungenerous ! — I would wed 
 despair ? 
 
 " AVas it not told me thus ? — and then I cried, 
 '■ ' Art thou in bliss ?' — but nothing he replied, 
 '• Save of my fate, for that he came to show, 
 " Nor of aught else permitted me to know. 
 " ' Forewarn'd, forearm thee, and thy way pursue, 
 " ' Safe, if thou wilt, not flowery — now, adieu!' 
 
 " ' Naj', go not thus,' I cried, ' for this will 
 seem 
 " ' The work of sleep, a mere impressive dream ; 
 " ' Give me some token, that I may indeed 
 " * From the suggestions of my doubts be freed !' 
 
 " ' Be this a token — ere the week be fled 
 " ' Shall tidings greet thee from the newly dead.' 
 
 " ' Nay, but,' I said, with courage not my own, 
 " ' O ! be some signal of thy presence shown ; 
 " ' Let not this visit with the rising day 
 " ' Pass, and be melted like a dream away.' 
 
 " ' O, woman ! woman ! ever anxious still 
 " ' To gain the knowledge, not to curb the will I 
 " ' Have I not promised ? — Child of sin, attend — 
 " ' !Make not a lying spirit of thy friend: 
 
 " ' Give me thy hand !' 1 gave it, for my soul 
 
 " "Was now gro\^-n ardent, and above control ; 
 " Eager I stretch'd it forth, and felt the hold 
 " Of shadowy fingers, more than icy cold : 
 " A nameless pressure on my wrist was made, 
 " And instant vanish'd the beloved shade ! 
 " Strange it will seem, but, ere the morning came, 
 '• I slept, nor felt disorder in my frame : 
 '• Then came a dream — I saw my father's shade, 
 " But not with awe like that my brother's made ; 
 " And he began — ' What ! made a convert, child ? 
 " ' Have they my favourite by their creed be- 
 guiled ? 
 " ' Thy brother's weakness I could well foresee, 
 " ' But had, my girl, more confidence in thee : 
 " ' Art thou, indeed, before their ark to bow ? 
 " ' I smiled before, but I am angry now : 
 " ' Thee will they bind by threats, and thou wilt 
 
 shake 
 " * At tales of terror that the miscreants make : 
 " ' Between the bigot and enthusiast led, 
 " ' Thou hast a world of miseries to dread. 
 " ' Think for thyself, nor let the knaves or fools 
 " ' Hob thee of reason, and prescribe thee rules.' 
 
 " Soon as I woke, and could my thoughts 
 collect, 
 " What can I think, I cried, or what reject ? 
 " Was it my brother ? Aid me, power divine ! 
 " Have I not seen him, left he not a sign ? 
 " Did I not then the placid features trace 
 " That now remain — the air, the eye, the face ? 
 " And then my father — but how different seem 
 " These visitations — this, indeed, a dream ! 
 
 " Then for that token on my wrist — 't is here, 
 " And very slight to you it must appear ; 
 " Here, I '11 withdraw the bracelet— 'tis a speck ! 
 " No more ! but 't is upon my life a check." 
 
 " O ! lovely all, and like its sister arm ! 
 " Call this a check, dear lady ? 't is a charm — 
 " A slight, an accidental mark — no more." 
 " Slight as it is, it was not there before : 
 
 " Then was there weakness, and I bound it 
 
 . Nay! 
 " This is infringement — take those lips away ! 
 
 •' On the fourth day came letters, and I cried, 
 " Richard is dead, and named the day he died : 
 " A proof of knowledge, true ! but one, alas ! of 
 
 pride. 
 " The signs to me were brought, and not my lord, 
 " But I, impatient, waited not the word ; 
 " And much he marvell'd, reading of the night 
 " In which th' immortal spirit took its flight 
 
 " Yes ! I beheld my brother at my bed 
 " The hour he died ! the instant he was dead — 
 " His presence now I see ! now trace him as he 
 fled. 
 
 " Ah ! fly me, George, in very pity, fly ; 
 " Thee I reject, but yield thee reasons why ; 
 " Our fate forbids, — the counsel Heaven has sent 
 " We must adopt, or grievously repent ; 
 " And I adopt." -George humbly bow'd, and 
 
 sigh'd, 
 But, lost in thought, he look'd not nor replied ; 
 Yet feebly utter'd in his sad adieu, 
 " I must not doubt thy truth, but perish if thou 'rt 
 
 true." 
 But when he thought alone, his terror gone 
 Of the strange story, better views came on. 
 
 " Nay, my enfeebled heart, be not dismay'd ! 
 " A boy again, am I of ghosts afraid ? 
 " Does she believe it ? Say she does believe ; 
 " Is she not born of error and of Eve ? 
 " Oh ! there is lively hope I may the cause retrieve. 
 
 -exclaim'd the Ghost. 
 
 " ' If you re-wed '- 
 
 For what 
 
 " Puts he the case, if marry she will not ? 
 " He knows her fate — but what am I about ? 
 " Do I believe ? — 't is certain I have doubt, 
 " And so has she, — what therefore will she do ? 
 " She the predicted fortune will pursue, 
 " And by th' event will judge if her strange 
 
 dream was true ; 
 " The strong temptation to her thought applied 
 " Will gain new strength, and vdU not be denied ; 
 " The very threat against the thing we love 
 " Will the vex'd spirit to resistance move ; 
 " With vows to virtue weakness -will begin, 
 " And fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin." 
 
 Strong in her sense of weakness, now withdrew 
 The cautious lady from the lover's view ; 
 But she perceived the looks of all were changed, — 
 Her kind old friends grew peevish and estranged : 
 A fretful spirit reign'd, and discontent 
 From room to room in sullen silence went ; 
 And the kind widow was distress'd at heart 
 To think that she no comfort could impart : 
 " But he will go," she said, " and he will strive 
 " In fields of glorious energy to drive 
 
 2 I 
 
" Love from liis bosom. — Yes, I then may stay, 
 " And all will thank me on a future day." 
 
 So judged the ladj', nor appear'd to grieve, 
 Till the young soldier came to take his leave ; 
 But not of all assembled — No ! he found 
 His gentle sisters all in sorrow drown'd ; 
 With many a shaken hand, and E4any a kiss, 
 He cried, " Farewell ! a solemn business this ; 
 "Nay, Susan, Sophy! — heaven and earth, ii 
 
 dears ! 
 " I am a soldier — what do I with tears ?" 
 
 He sought his parents ; — they together walk'd. 
 And of their son, his views and dangers, talk'd ; 
 They knew not how to blame their friend, but still 
 They murmur'd, " She may save us if she will : 
 " V/ere not these visions Morking in her mind 
 " Strange things — 't is in her nature to be kind." 
 
 Their son appear'd. — He soothed them, and was 
 bless'd. 
 But still the fondness of his soul confess'd. 
 And where the lady ? — To her room retired ! 
 " Now show, dear son, the courage she required." 
 
 George bow'd in silence, trying for assent 
 To his hard fate, and to his trial went : 
 Fond, but yet fix'd, he found her in her room ; 
 Firm, and yet fearful, she beheld him come : 
 Nor sought lie favour now — No ! he would meet 
 his doom. 
 
 " Farewell ! and, madam, I beseech you pray 
 " That this sad spirit soon maj' pass away; 
 " That sword or ball would to the dust restore 
 " This body, that the soul may grieve no more 
 " For love rejected. — Oh ! that I could quit 
 " The life I loathe, who am for nothing fit, 
 " No, not to die !" — " Unhappy, wilt thou make 
 " The house all wretched for thy passion's sake ? 
 " And most its grieving object?" — 
 
 " Grieving ? — No ! 
 " Or as a conqueror mourns a dying foe, 
 " That makes his triumph sure. — Couldst thou de- 
 plore 
 " The evil done, the pain would be no more ; 
 " But an accursed dream has steel'd thy breast, 
 " And all the woman in thy soul suppress'd." 
 
 " Oh ! it was vision, George ; a vision true 
 " As ever seer or holy prophet knew." 
 
 " Can spirits, lady, though they might alarm, 
 " Make an impression on that lovely arm ? 
 " A little cold the cause, a little heat, 
 " Or vein minute, or artery's morbid beat, 
 " Even beauty these admit." — 
 
 " I did behold 
 " My brother's form."— 
 
 " Yes, so thy Fancy told, 
 " When in the morning she her work survey'd, 
 " And call'd the doubtful memory to her aid." 
 
 " Nay, think ! the night he died — the very 
 night !"— 
 '' 'T is veiy true, and so perchance lie might, 
 " But in thy mind — not, lady, in thy siglit ! 
 
 " Thou wert not well ; forms delicately made 
 " These dreams and fancies easily invade ; 
 " The mind and body feel the slow disease, 
 " And dreams are what the troubled fancy sees." 
 " Oh, but how strange that all should be com- 
 bined !"— 
 " Ti-ue ; but such combinations we may find ; 
 " A dream's predicted number gain'd a prize, 
 " Yet dreams make no impression on the wise, 
 " Though some chance good, some lucky gain may 
 i rise." 
 
 " Oh ! but those words, that voice so truly 
 known !" — 
 '• No doubt, dear lady, they were all thine own ; 
 " Memory for thee thy brother's form portray'd ; 
 " It was thy fear the awful warning made : 
 '' Thy former doubts of a religious kind 
 '■ Account for all these wanderings of the 
 mind." 
 
 " But then, how different when my father came I 
 '• These could not in their natui-e be the same I" — 
 
 " Y'es. all arc dreams ; but some as we awake 
 " Fly otf at once, and no impression make : 
 " Others are felt, and ere they quit the brain 
 " Make such impression that they come again ; 
 " As half familiar thoughts, and half unknown, 
 " And scarcely recollected as our own ; 
 " For half a day abide some vulgar dreams, 
 '• And give our grandams and our nui-ses themes ; 
 " Others, more strong, abiding figures draw 
 " Upon the brain, and we assert, ' I saw;' 
 " And then the fancy on the organs place 
 '• A powerful likeness of a form and face. 
 
 " Y'et more — in some strong passion's troubled 
 reign, 
 " Or when the fever'd blood inflames the brain, 
 " At once the outward and the inward eye 
 " The real object and the fancied spy ; 
 " The ej'c is open, and the sense is true, 
 " And therefore they the outward object view ; 
 " But while the real sense is fix'd on these, 
 " The power within its own creation sees : 
 " And these, when mingled in the mind, create 
 '• Those striking visions whicli our dreamers state : 
 " For, knowing that is true that met the sight, 
 " They think the judgment of the fancy right. 
 
 " Y'our frequent talk of dreams has made me 
 turn 
 " My mind on them, and these the facts I learn. 
 " Or should you say, 't is not in us to take 
 " Heed in both ways, to sleep and be awake, 
 " Perhaps the things by eye and mind survey'd 
 " Are in their quick alternate efforts made ; 
 " For by this mixture of tlic truth, the dream 
 " Will in the morning fresh and vivid seem. 
 
 " Dreams are like portraits, and we find they 
 please 
 " Because they are confess'd resemblances ; 
 " But those strange night-marc visions we compare 
 " To waxen figures — they too real arc, 
 " Too much a very truth, and are so just 
 " To life and death, they pain us or disgust. 
 
" Hence from your mind these idle visions 
 shake, 
 " And, O ! my love, to happiness awake !" 
 
 " It was a warning, tempter ! from the dead : 
 " And wedding thee I should to misery wed 1" 
 
 " False and injurious ! what ! unjust to thct ? 
 '■ O ! hear the vows of Love — it cannot be : 
 " What ! I forbear to bless thee — I forego 
 " That first great blessing of existence ? No ! 
 " Did every ghost that terror saw arise 
 " "With such prediction, I should say it lies : 
 " But none there are — a mighty gulf between 
 " Hides the ideal world from objects seen ; 
 '• AVe know not where unbodied spirits dwell, 
 " But this we know, they are invisible ; — 
 " Yet I have one that fain would dwell with thee, 
 " And always with thy purer spirit be." 
 
 " O ! leave me, George '." — 
 
 " To take the field, and die, 
 " So leave thee. Lady ? Yes, I will comply ; 
 '• Thou art too far above me — ghosts withstand 
 " My hopes in vain, but riches guard thy hand, 
 " For I am poor — affection and a heart 
 " To thee devoted, I but these impart ; 
 " Then bid me go, I will thy words obey, 
 " But let not visions drive thy friend away." 
 
 " Hear me, O ! hear me ! Shall I wed my son ?" — 
 " I am in fondness and obedience one ; 
 " And I will reverence, honour, love, adore, 
 " Be all that fondest sons can be — and more : 
 " And shall thy son, if such he be, proceed 
 " To fierce encounters, and in battle bleed ? 
 " No ! thou canst weep ! " 
 
 " O ! leave me, I entreat ; 
 '■ Leave me a moment — we shall quickly meet." 
 
 " No ! here I kneel, a beggar, at thy feet." — 
 lie said, and knelt — with accents softer still. 
 He woo'd the weakness of a failing will 
 And erring judgment — took her hand and cried, 
 " Withdraw it not ! — O I let it thus abide, 
 " Pledge of thy love — upon thy act depend 
 " My joy, my hope, — thus they begin or end ! 
 " Withdraw it not." — He saw her looks express'd 
 Favour and grace — the hand was firmer press'd ; 
 Signs of opposing fear no more were shown, 
 And as he press'd, he felt it was his own. 
 
 Soon through the house was known the glad 
 assent. 
 The night so dreaded was in comfort spent ; 
 War was no more, the destined knot was tied, 
 And the fond widow made a fearful bride. 
 
 Let mortal frailty judge how mortals frail 
 Thus in their strongest resolutions fail. 
 And though we blame, our pity will prevail. 
 
 Yet with that Ghost — for she so thought — in 
 
 view ! 
 When she believed that all he told was true ; — 
 When every threat was to her mind recall'd, 
 Till it became affrighten'd and appall'd ; — 
 When Reason pleaded, Think ! forbear ! refrain ! — 
 And when, though trifling, stood that mystic stain. 
 Predictions, warnings, threats, were present all in 
 
 vain. 
 
 Th' exulting youth a mighty conqueror rose. 
 And who hereafter shall his will oppose ? 
 
 Such is our tale : but we must yet attend 
 Our weak kind widow to her journey's end ; " 
 Upon her death-bed laid, confessing to a friend 
 Her full belief, for to the hour she died 
 This she profess'd : — 
 
 " The truth I must not hide ; 
 " It was my brother's form, and in the night he 
 
 died ; 
 " In sorrow and in shame has pass'd my time, 
 " All I have suffer'd follow from my crime : 
 " I sinn'd with warning — when I gave my hand 
 " A power within said, urgently, — Withstand ! 
 " And I resisted — O ! my God, what shame, 
 " What years of torment, from that frailty came ! 
 
 " That husband-son ! — I will my fault review— 
 What did he not that men or monsters do ? 
 His day of love, a brief autumnal day. 
 E'en in its dawning hasten'd to decay ; 
 Doom'd from our odious union to behold 
 How cold he grew, and then how worse than 
 
 cold; 
 Eager he sought me, eagerly to shun, 
 Kneeling he woo'd me, but he scorn'd me, won ; 
 The tears he caused served only to provoke 
 His wicked insult o'er the heart he broke ; 
 My fond compliance served him for a jest, 
 And sharpen'd scorn — ' I ought to be distress'd ; 
 ' Why did I not with my chaste ghost comply ?' 
 And with upbraiding scorn he told me why. 
 O ! there was grossness in his soul : his mind 
 Could not be raised, nor soften'd, nor refined. 
 
 [Originally : — 
 
 Such is our tale, and all that now remain 
 Are sad varieties of grief and pain. 
 The day of love, like an autumnal day. 
 E'en in its morning hasten'd to decay. 
 Who gave her hand determined not to give, 
 Was doom'd in anguish and regret to live ; 
 
 " Twice he departed in his rage, and went 
 " I know not where, nor how his days were spent ; 
 " Twice he return'd a suppliant wretch, and craved, 
 " Mean as profuse, the trifle I had saved. 
 
 " I have had wounds, and some that never heal, 
 " What bodies suiTer, and what spirits feel ; 
 " But he is gone who gave them, he is fled 
 " To his account ! and my revenge is dead : 
 
 For he who woo'd so warmly scorn'd her won," 
 Eager he sought her, eagerly to shun. 
 He laugh'd at tears he caused himself to start. 
 And mock'd the sorrows of a breaking lieart ; 
 While she a sad and sighing slave remain'd, 
 And to the dregs the cup of sorrow drain'd.] 
 
 2 1 2 
 
476 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Yet is it duty, though with shame, to give 
 
 " My sex a lesson — let my story live ; 
 
 " For if no ghost the promised visit paid, 
 
 " Still was a deep and strong impression made, 
 
 " That wisdom had approved, and prudence had 
 
 obcy'd ; 
 " But from anotlier world that warning came, 
 " And, O ! in this be ended all my shame ! 
 " Like the first being of my sex I fell, 
 " Tempted, and with the tempter doom'd to 
 
 dwell — 
 " He was the master-fiend, and where he reign'd 
 
 was hell." 
 
 This was her last, for she described no more 
 The rankling feelings of a mind so sore, 
 But died in peace. — One moral let us draw. 
 Be it a ghost or not the lady saw : — 
 
 If our discretion tells us how to live, 
 We need no ghost a helping hand to give ; 
 But if discretion cannot us restrain. 
 It then appears a ghost would come in vain.' 
 
 BOOK XVII. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 The Mornin<; Walk— Village Scenery— The Widow's Dwell- 
 ing — Her Story related — Tlie first Husbarid — His Indulg- 
 ence — Its Consequence— Dies— The second— His Authority 
 — Its Eil'ects — His Death — A third Husband — Determinately 
 indulgent— He dies also — The Widow's Retirement. 
 
 Richard one morning — it was custom now — • 
 AValk'd and conversed with labourers at the 
 
 plough, 
 With tlireshers hastening to their daily task, 
 With woodmen resting o'er the enlivening flask, 
 And with the shepherd, watchful of his fold 
 Beneath the hill, and pacing in the cold : 
 
 * [This tale was suggested to Mr. Crabbe by a Wiltshire 
 friend, in which county tlic story is almost a popular one. — 
 " It is," say the Kdinburgh Keviewers, " a long tale, but not 
 very pleasing. A fair widow had been warned, or supposed 
 she had been warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother, that 
 slie would be miserable if she contracted a second marriage — 
 and then, some fifteen years alter, slie is courted by tlie son 
 of a reverend priest, to whose house she liad retired, and 
 upon whom, during all the years of his childiiood, she had 
 lavislied the cares of a motlier. Slie long resists liis unna- 
 tural passion ; but is at lengtii subdued by his urgency and 
 youtliful beauty, and gives him lier hand. Tliore is some- 
 tliing ratlier forbidding, we think, in tills fiction ; and cer- 
 tainly, the worthy lady could have taken no way so likely 
 to save the ghost's credit as by entering into such a mar- 
 riage— and she confessed as much, it seems, on her death- 
 bed."] 
 
 1 Here follows in the first draft :— 
 
 " Would you believe it, Kichard, that fair slie 
 " Has had three husbands .> I rej.cat it, three 1 
 
 Farther a£eld he sometimes would proceed, 
 And take a path wherever it might lead. 
 
 It led him far about to Wickham Green, 
 Where stood the mansion of the village queen : 
 Her garden yet its wintry blossoms bore. 
 And roses graced the windows and the door — 
 That lasting kind, that througli the varying year 
 Or in the bud or in the bloom appear ; 
 All flowers that now the gloomy days adorn 
 Eose on the view, and smiled upon that morn : 
 Kichard a damsel at the window spied. 
 Who kindly drew a useless veil aside, 
 And show'd a lady who was sitting by, 
 So pensive, that he almost heard her sigh : 
 Full many years she could, no question, tell. 
 But in her mourning look'd extremely well. 
 
 " In truth," said Richard, when he told at night 
 His tale to George, " it was a pleasant sight ; 
 " She looked like one who could, in tender tone, 
 " Say, ' AVill you let a ladj' sigh alone ? 
 " ' See ! Time has touch'd me gently in his race, 
 " ' And left no odious furrows in my face ; 
 " ' See, too, this house and garden, neat and trim, 
 " ' Kept for its master — will you stand for him ?' 
 
 " Say this is vain and foolish if you please, 
 " But I believe her thoughts resembled these : 
 " ' Come,' said her looks, ' and we will kindly take 
 " ' The visit kindness prompted you to make.' 
 " And I was sorry that so much good play 
 " Of eye and attitude was thrown away 
 " On one who has his lot, on one who had his 
 day." 
 
 " Your pity, brother," George, vvith smile, re- 
 plied, 
 " You may dismiss, and with it send your pride : 
 " Ko need of pity, when the gentle dame 
 " Has thrice resign'd and re-assumed her name ; 
 " And be not proud — for, though it might be 
 
 thine, 
 " She would that hand to humbler men resign.^ 
 
 " Young she is not, — it would be passing strange 
 " If a young beauty thrice lier name should 
 change : 
 
 " True, she has years beyond your reckoning seen, 
 
 " With distance and a window for their screen. 
 
 " l!;it she has sometliing that may still command 
 
 " 'I'he warm admirer and the ready hand : 
 
 " Ilcr fortune, too — yet there indeed I doubt ; 
 
 " Since so much money has run in and out, 
 
 " 'T is hard to guess. }{ut there is this in her, 
 
 " '''hat I to minds of stronger cast prelor ; 
 
 " she may be made, w ith certainty and ease, 
 
 " To take wliat habits sliall a husband please. 
 
 " Women will give up all their love of rule, 
 
 " Great as it is, if man be not a fool ; 
 
 '■ I'liey're out of place when they assume the sway, 
 
 "liut feel it safe and easy to obey. 
 
 " Queens they have been, w hen men supply the means- 
 
 " ){ut Heaven defend us from domestic queens! 
 
 •' Now hear me, Richard : fairly I relate 
 
 "The thrice devoted wife's and widow's fate ; 
 
 " And you shall own, fur I will fairly show, 
 
 " That men their mis;'ry to supineness owe, 
 
 " And that they could not of llieir fate complain, 
 
 " Hut that they govern with a slacken'd rein."] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL 
 
 477 
 
 " Yes ! she has years beyond your reckoning 
 
 seen — 
 " Smiles and a window j'ears and wrinkles screen ; 
 " But she, in fact, lias that which may command 
 " The warm admirer and the willing hand. 
 " "What is her fortune we are left to guess, 
 *' But good the sign — she does not much jirofess ; 
 " Poor she is not, — and there is that in her 
 " That easy men to strength of mind prefer ; 
 " She may be made, with little care and skill, 
 " Yielding her own, t' adopt a husband's will. 
 " "Women there are who, if a man will take 
 " The helm and steer, will no resistance make ; 
 " Who, if neglected, will the power assume, 
 " And then what wonder if the shipwreck come ? 
 
 " Queens they will be, if man allow the means, 
 " And give the power to these domestic queens ; 
 " "Whom, if he rightly trains, he may create 
 " And make obedient members of his state." 
 
 Harriet at school was very much the same 
 As other misses, and so home she came. 
 Like other ladies, there to live and learn, 
 To wait her season, and to take her turn. 
 
 Their husbands maids as priests their livings 
 gain. 
 The best, they find, are hardest to obtain ; 
 On those that offer both a while debate — 
 " I need not take it, it is not so late ; 
 " Better will come if we will longer stay, 
 " And strive to put ourselves in fortune's way :" 
 And thus they wait, till many years are past. 
 For what comes slowly — but it comes at last. 
 
 Harriet was wedded,- — but it must be said. 
 The vow'd obedience was not duly paid : 
 Hers was an easy man, — it gave him pain 
 To hear a lady murmur and complain : 
 He was a merchant, whom his father made 
 Rich in the gains of a successful trade : 
 A lot more pleasant, or a view more fair. 
 Has seldom fallen to a youthful pair. 
 
 But what is faultless in a world like this ? 
 In every station something seems amiss : 
 The lady, married, found the house too small — 
 " Two shabby parlours, and that ugly hall ! 
 " Had we a cottage somewhere, and could meet 
 " One's friends and favourites in one's snug re- 
 treat ; 
 " Or only join a single room to these, 
 " It would be living something at our ease, 
 " And have one's self, at home, the comfort that 
 one sees." 
 
 Such jKJwers of reason, and of mind such 
 
 strength, 
 Fought with man's fear, and they prevail'd at 
 
 length : 
 The room was built, — and Harriet did not know 
 A prettier dwelling, either high or low ; 
 But Harriet loved such conquests, loved to plead 
 "With her reluctant man, and to succeed ; 
 
 It was such pleasure to prevail o'er one 
 "Who would oppose the thing that still was done, 
 Who never gain'd the race, but yet would groan 
 and run. 
 
 But there were times when love and pity gave 
 Whatever thoughtless vanity could crave : 
 She now the carriage chose with freshest name, 
 And was in quite a fever till it came ; 
 But can a carriage be alone enjoy'd ? 
 The pleasure not partaken is destroy'd ; 
 " I must have some good creature to attend 
 " On morning visits as a kind of friend." 
 
 A courteous maiden then was found to sit 
 Beside the lady, for her purpose fit. 
 Who had been train'd in all the soothing ways 
 And servile duties from her early days ; 
 One who had never from her childhood known 
 A wish fulfiU'd, a purpose of her own : 
 Her part it was to sit beside the dame. 
 And give relief in every want that came ; 
 To soothe the pride, to watch the varying look, 
 And bow in silence to the dumb rebuke. 
 
 This supple being strove with all her skill 
 To draw her master's to her lady's will ; 
 For they were like the magnet and the steel. 
 At times so distant that they could not feel ; 
 Then would she gently move them, till she saw 
 That to each other they began to draw ; 
 And then would leave them, sure on her return 
 In Harriet's joy her conquest to discern. 
 
 She was a mother now, and grieved to find 
 The nursery window caught the eastern wind ; 
 What could she do with fears like these oppress'd ? 
 She built a room all window'd to the west ; 
 For sure in one so dull, so bleak, so old. 
 She and her children must expire with cold : 
 Meantime the husband murmur'd — " So he might ; 
 " She would be judged by Cousins — Was it right ?" 
 
 Water was near them, and, her mind afloat, 
 The lady saw a cottage and a boat. 
 And thought what sweet excursions they might 
 
 make. 
 How they might sail, what neighbours they might 
 
 take. 
 And nicely would she deck the lodge upon the 
 
 lake. 
 
 She now prevail'd by habit ; had her will, 
 And found her patient husband sad and still : 
 Yet this displeased ! she gain'd, indeed, the prize. 
 But not the pleasure of her victories ; 
 Was she a child to be indulged ? He knew 
 She would have right, but would have reason too. 
 
 Now came the time when in her husband's face 
 Care, and concern, and caution she could trace ; 
 His troubled features gloom and sadness bore, 
 Less he resisted, but he suffer'd more ; 
 His nerves were shook like hers ; in him her grief 
 Had much of sympathy, but no relief. 
 
 She could no longer read, and therefore kept 
 A girl to give her stories while she wept ; 
 
478 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Better for Lady Julia's woes to cry, 
 Than have her owni for ever in her eye : 
 Her husband grieved, and o'er Iiis spirits came 
 Gloom ; and disease attack'd his slender frame ; 
 He felt a loathing for the wretched state 
 Of his concerns, so sad, so complicate ; 
 Grief and confusion seized him in the day. 
 And the night pass'd in agony away : 
 •' My ruin comes !" was his awakening thought. 
 And vainly tlirough the day was comfort sought ; 
 " There, take my all ! " he said, and in his dream 
 Heard the door bolted, and his children scream. 
 And he was right, for not a day arose 
 That he exclaim'd not, " Will it never close?" 
 " Would it were come !" — but still he shifted on. 
 Till health, and hope, and life's fair views were 
 gone. 
 
 Fretful herself, he of his wife in vain 
 For comfort sought — " He would be well again ; 
 " Time would disorders of such nature heal ! 
 " O ! if he felt what she was doom'd to feel ; 
 " Such sleepless nights ! such broken rest ! her 
 
 frame 
 " Rack'd with diseases that she could not name ! 
 *' With pangs like hers no other was oppress'd !" 
 Weeping she said, and sigh'd herself to rest. 
 
 The suffering husband look'd the world around, 
 And saw no friend : on him misfortune frown'd ; 
 Him self-reproach tormented ; sorely tried, 
 By threats he mourn'd, and by disease he died. 
 
 As weak as wailing infancy or age. 
 How could the widow with the world engage ? 
 Fortune not now the means of comfort gave, 
 Yet aU her comforts Harriet wept to have. 
 
 " My helpless babes," she said, " will nothing 
 know," 
 
 Yet not a single lesson would bestow ; 
 
 Her debts would overwhelm her, that was sure. 
 
 But one privation would she not endure ; 
 
 " We shall want bread ! the thing is past a 
 doubt." 
 
 " Then part with Cousins !" — " Can I do with- 
 out ?" 
 
 " Dismiss j'our servants !" — " Spare me them, I 
 pray!" 
 
 " At least your carriage !" — " What will people 
 say?" 
 
 " That useless boat, tliat folly on the lake ! " — 
 
 " Oh : but what cry and scandal will it make !" 
 
 It was so liard on her, who not a thing 
 Had done such mischief on tlicir heads to bring; 
 This was her comfort, this slic would declare, 
 And then slept soundly on her pillow'd chair. 
 When not asleep, how restless was the soul, 
 Above advice, exempted from control : 
 For ever begging all to be sincere. 
 And never willing any truth to hear. 
 A yellow paleness o'er her visage spread, 
 Her fears augmented as her comforts fled ; 
 
 2 [Orisinal MS. :— 
 
 " But to prevent all babbling, there may be 
 " A bond and contract lictwixt you and me." 
 
 Views dark and dismal to her mind appear'd. 
 And death she sometimes woo'd, and always fear'd. 
 
 Among the clerks there was a thoughtful one, 
 Who still believed that something might be done ; 
 All in his view was not so sunk and lost, 
 But of a trial things would pay the cost : 
 He judged the widow, and he saw the way 
 In which her husband suffer'd her to stray : 
 He saw entangled and perplex'd affairs. 
 And Time's sure hand at work on their repairs ; 
 Children he saw, but nothing could he see 
 Why ho might not their careful father be ; 
 And, looking keenly round him, he believed 
 That what was lost might quickly be retrieved. 
 
 Now thought our clerk — " I must not mention 
 love, 
 " That she at least must seem to disapprove ; 
 " But I must fear of poverty enforce, 
 " And then consent will be a thing of course. 
 
 " Madam !" said he, " with sorrow I relate 
 " That our affairs are in a dreadful state ; 
 " I call'd on all our friends, and they declared 
 " They dared not meddle — not a creature dared ; 
 " But still our perseverance chance may aid, 
 " And, though I 'm puzzled, I am not afraid : 
 " If you, dear lady, will attention give 
 " To me, the credit of the house shall live. 
 " Do not, I pray you, my proposal blame ; 
 " It is my wish to guard your husband's fame, 
 " And ease your trouble : then your cares resign 
 " To my discretion — and, in short, be mine." 
 
 " Yours ! O ! my stars ! — Your goodness, sir, 
 deserves 
 " My grateful thanks — take pity on my nerves. 
 " I shake and tremble at a thing so new, 
 " And fear 't is what a lady should not do ; 
 " And then to marry upon ruin's brink 
 " In all this hurry — what will people think ?" 
 
 " Nay, there's against us neither rule nor law, 
 " And people's thinking is not worth a straw ; 
 " Those who are prudent have too much to do 
 " With their own cares to think of me and you ; 
 " And those who are not, are so poor a race, 
 " That what they utter can be no disgrace : — 
 " Come ! let us now embark, when time and tide 
 " Invite to sea ; in happy liour decide : * 
 " If yet we linger, both arc sure to fail, 
 " The turning waters and the varying gale ; 
 " Trust me, our vessel shall be ably steer'd, 
 " Nor will I quit her till the rocks are clcar'd." 
 
 Allured and frighten'd, softcn'd and afraid, 
 The widow doubted, pondcr'd, and obey'd : =* 
 So were they wedded, and the careful man 
 His reformation instantly began ; 
 Began his state with vigour to reform. 
 And made a calm by laughing at the storm. 
 
 » [MS. : — 
 
 The bond was made, but he appear'd so fond, 
 So kind and yood, tliat she destroy'd tlie bond.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 479 
 
 Th' attendant-maiden he dismiss'd— for why ? 
 She might on him and love hke his rely ; 
 She needed none to foi-m her children's mind, — 
 That duty nature to her care assign'd ; ■• 
 In vain she mourn'd, it was her health he prized, 
 And hence enforced the measures he advised : 
 She wanted air; and walking, she was told. 
 Was safe, was pleasant ! — he the carriage sold ; 
 He found a tenant who agreed to take 
 The hoat and cottage on the useless lake ; 
 The house itself had now superfluous room, 
 And a rich lodger was induced to come. 
 
 The lady wonder'd at the sudden change. 
 That yet was pleasant, that was very strange ; 
 When every deed hy her desire was done, 
 She had no day of comfort — no, not one ; 
 AVhcn nothing moved or stopp'd at her request. 
 Her heart had comfort, and her temper rest ; 
 For all was done with kindness, — most polite 
 Was her new lord, and she confess'd it right ; 
 For now she found that she could gaily live 
 On what the chance of common life could give : 
 And her sick mind was cured of every ill. 
 By finding no compliance with her will ; 
 For when she saw that her desires were vain, 
 She \^-isely thought it fooUsh to complain. 
 
 Born for her man, she gave a gentle sigh 
 To her lost power, and griev'd not to comply ; 
 \Vithin, without, the face of things improved, 
 And all in order and subjection moved. 
 As wealth increased, ambition now began 
 To swell the soul of the aspiring man ; 
 In some few years he thought to purchase land. 
 And build a seat that hope and fancy plann'J. ; 
 To this a name his youthful bride should give ! 
 Harriet, of course, not many years would live ; 
 Then he would farm, and every soil should show 
 The tree that best upon the place would grow : 
 He would, moreover, on the Bench debate 
 On sundry questions — when a magistrate ; 
 Would talk of all that to the state belongs. 
 The rich man's duties, and the poor man's wrongs ; 
 He would with favourites of the people rank. 
 And him the weak and the oppress'd should thank. 
 
 'T is true those children, orphans then, would 
 need 
 Help in a world of trouble to succeed ; 
 And they should have it. — He should then possess 
 All that man needs for earthly happiness.' 
 
 ■< [MS. :— 
 
 The reading-girl dismissal, tlie books she read 
 No longer visions caused, or fancies bred ; 
 The teacher gone, the lady took Iier place. 
 And found she could instruct the infant race.] 
 
 ■•■ [Original MS. :— 
 
 lie then would take a farm, and he would keep, 
 As money'd men are wont, a breed of sheep; 
 He would attend at meetings and debate, 
 Would be a serious, useful magistrate. 
 Talk of his country's rights, and think about the state. 
 Ilim should the poor esteem, his equals thank, 
 And he would class with men of certain rank, 
 Join in some firm, a partner in some bank — 
 
 " Proud words, and vain !" said Doctor Young : 
 
 and proud 
 They are ; and vain, were by our clerk allow'd ; 
 For, while he dream'd, there came both pain and 
 
 cough, 
 And fever never tamed, and bore him off; 
 Young as he was, and planning schemes to live 
 With more delight than man's success can give ; 
 Biulding a mansion in his fancy, vast 
 Beyond the Gothic pride of ages past ! 
 While this was plann 'd, but ere a place was sought, 
 The timber season'd, or the quarry \^Tought, 
 Came Death's dread summons, and the man was laid 
 In the poor house the simple se.xton made.^ 
 
 But he had time for thought when he was ill, 
 And made his lady an indulgent will : 
 'T is said he gave, in parting, his advice, 
 " It is sufficient to be married twice :" 
 To which she answer'd, as 't said, again, 
 " There 's none will have you, if you 're poor and 
 
 plain ; 
 " And if you 're rich and handsome, there is none 
 " Will take refusal : — let the point alone." 
 
 Be this or true or false, it is her praise 
 She mourn'd correctly all the mourning days ; 
 But grieve she did not ; for the canker grief 
 Soils the complexion, and is beauty's thief ; 
 Nothing, indeed, so much will discompose 
 Our public mourning as our private woes ; 
 When tender thoughts a widow's bosom probe. 
 She thinks not then how graceful sits the robe ; 
 But our nice widow look'd to every fold. 
 And every eye its beauty might behold ! 
 It was becoming ; she composed her face, 
 Slie look'd serenely, and she mourn'd with grace. 
 
 Some months were pass'd, but yet there wanted 
 three 
 Of the fidl time when widows wives may be ; 
 One trying year, and then the mind is freed, 
 And man may to the vacant throne succeed. 
 
 There was a tenant — he, to wit, who hired 
 That cot and lake that were so much admired ; 
 A man of spirit, one who doubtless meant. 
 Though he delay'd a while, to pay his rent ; 
 The widow's riches gave her much delight, 
 And some her claims, and she resolved to write : — 
 
 " He knew her grievous loss, how every care 
 " Devolved on her, who had indeed her share ; 
 
 Tie and his part ner — RonaUlson and Co., — 
 .•VI 1 this ambition saw — it must be so. 
 
 Perhaps these children would require a lift ; 
 It was not right to turn them quite adrift : 
 Of that hereafter— and he thought beside 
 About the face and fortune of his bride ; 
 Thus, while he dream'd, &c.] 
 
 '• [MS. :— 
 
 Young as he was, and planning favourite schemes 
 
 For future grandeur, wealth's delirious dreams ! 
 
 He built a mansion in his mind, and one 
 
 'ITie country round should gaze witli pride upon ; 
 
 But ere a stone was laid, or timber sawn. 
 
 He to the narrow house of death was drawn.] 
 
480 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " She li.ad no doubt of him, — but was as sure 
 " As that she breathed her money was secure ; 
 " But she had made a rash and idle vow 
 " To claim her dues, and she must keep it now : 
 
 " So if it suited " 
 
 And for this there came 
 A civil answer to the gentle dame : 
 Within the letter were excuses, thanks. 
 And clean bank paper from the best of banks ; 
 There were condolence, consolation, praise, 
 AVith some slight hints of danger in delays ; 
 Witli these good things were others from the lake. 
 Perch that were wish'd to salmon for her sake. 
 And compliment as sweet as new-born hope could 
 make. 
 
 This led to friendly visits, social calls, 
 And much discourse of races, rambles, balls ; 
 But all in proper bounds, and not a word 
 Before its time — the man was not absurd, 
 Nor was he cold ; but when she might expect, 
 A letter came, aud one to this effect : — 
 
 " That if his eyes had not his love convey'd, 
 " They had their master shamefully betray'd ; 
 " But she must know the flame, that he was sure, 
 " Nor she could doubt, would long as life endure : 
 " Both were in \vidow'd state, and both possess'd 
 " Of ample means to make their union bless'd ; 
 " That she had been confined, he knew for truth, 
 " And begg'd her to have pity on her youth ; 
 " Youth, he would say, and he desired his wife 
 " To have the comforts of an easy life : 
 " She loved a carriage, loved a decent seat 
 " To which they might at certain times retreat ; 
 " Servants indeed were sori'ows, — yet a few 
 " They still must add, and do as others do : 
 " She too would some attendant damsel need, 
 " To hear, to speak, to travel, or to read:" 
 In short, the man his remedies assign'd 
 For his foreknown diseases in the mind : — 
 " First," he presumed, " that in a nervous case 
 " Notliing was better than a change of place :" 
 lie added, too, — " 'T was well that he could prove 
 " That his was pure, disinterested love ; 
 " Not as when lawyers couple house and land 
 " In such a way as none can understand ; 
 " No ! thanks to Him that every good supplied, 
 " He had enough, and wanted nought beside : 
 " IMerit was all."— 
 
 " Well I now, she would protest, 
 " This was a letter prettily express'd." 
 To every female friend away she flew 
 'J'o ask advice, and say, " What shall I do?" 
 She kiss'd her children, — and slie said, with tears, 
 " I wonder what is best for j'ou, my dears? 
 
 fTlius in the original MS. : — 
 
 " It was a vast concern, and, when to think 
 
 " She forced herself, she could not sleep a wink. 
 
 " ' Notliin;;,' she wrote, ' could lor lier loss atone : 
 
 " ' It was a wretched lif(.' to live alone ; 
 
 " ' Vet to be used unkindly, that was worse 
 
 " ' 'I'lian any evil, but an empty purse ; 
 
 " ' And as her own was not so poor a kind, 
 
 " ' What, in a change, could she expect to find } 
 
 " ' Not but a double fortune would produc(! 
 
 " ' A double pleasure — she confess'd the use. 
 
 " How can I, darlings, to your good attend 
 
 " Without the help of some experienced friend, 
 
 " Who will protect us all, or, injured, will defend ?" 
 
 The Widow then ask'd counsel of her heart — 
 In vain, for that had nothing to impart ; 
 But yet with that, or something for her guide. 
 She to her swain thus guardedly replied : — 
 
 " She must believe he was sincere, for whj' 
 " Should one who needed nothing deign to lie ? 
 " But though she could and did his truth admit, 
 " She could not praise him for his taste a bit ; 
 " And yet men's tastes were various, she confess'd, 
 " And none could prove his own to be the best. 
 '* It was a vast concern, including all 
 " That we can happiness or comfort call ; 
 " And yet she found that those who waited long 
 " Before their choice, had often chosen ^vron!r : 
 " Nothing, indeed, could for her loss atone, 
 " But 't was the greater that she lived alone ; 
 " She, too, had means, and therefore what the use 
 " Of more, that still more trouble would produce ? 
 " And pleasure too she own'd, as well as care, 
 " Of which, at present, she had not her share. ^ 
 
 " The things he offer'd, she must needs con- 
 fess, 
 " They were all women's wishes, more or less, 
 " But were expensive ; though a man of sense 
 '• Would by his prudence lighten the expense : 
 " Prudent he was, but made a sad mistake 
 " When he proposed her faded face to take ; 
 " And yet, 't is said, there 's beauty that \vill last 
 " When the rose withers and the bloom be past. 
 
 " One thing displeased her, — that he could 
 
 suppose 
 " He might so soon his purposes disclose ; 
 " Yet had she hints of such intent before, 
 " And would excuse him if he wrote no more : 
 " What would the world ? — and yet she judged 
 
 them fools 
 " Who let the world's suggestions be their rules : 
 " What would her friends? — yet in her own 
 
 affairs 
 " It was her business to decide, not theirs : 
 " Adieu ! then, sir," she added ; " thus you find 
 " The changeless purpose of a steady mind, 
 " In one now left alone, but to her fate resign'd." 
 
 The marriage follow'd ; and th' experienced 
 dame 
 Consider'd what the conduct that became 
 A thrice-devoted lady. She confess'd 
 That when indulged she was but more distress'd ; 
 
 ' ' Yet at her time of life, wh.it shf desired 
 
 ■ ' Were humble comforts — little she required. 
 ' And yet 't was true as any truth could be, 
 
 ' ' None' had less pleasure in the world than she. 
 ' And then her children! lie must surely know 
 ' What prudent mothers to tlieir olTspring owe ; 
 ' Not but a p.'irent may ri'slr.iiu a child, 
 ' Nav, may reject him, if he will be wild, 
 
 ' ' Hut hers were good, and so they would remain ; 
 ' If not, alas ! who shoulil their wills restrain? ' "J 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 48! 
 
 And by her second husband when controll'd, 
 Her life was pleasant, though hev love was cold ; 
 " Then let me yield," she said, and with a sigh, 
 " Let me to wrong submit, with right comply." 
 Alas ! obedience may mistake, and they 
 Who reason not will err when they obey ; 
 And fated was the gentle dame to find 
 Her duty wrong, and her obedience blind. 
 
 The man was kind, but would have no dispute ; 
 His love and kindness both were absolute : 
 She needed not her wishes to express 
 To one who urged her on to happiness ; 
 For this he took her to the lakes and seas ; 
 To mines and mountains, nor allow'd her ease, 
 She must be pleased, he said, and he must live to 
 please. 
 
 He hurried north and south, and east and west ; 
 When age required, they would have time to rest : 
 He in the richest dress her form array'd. 
 And cared not what he promised, what he paid ; 
 She should share all his pleasures as her own, 
 And see whatever could be sought or shown. 
 
 This run of pleasure for a time she bore, 
 And then affirm' d that she could taste no more : 
 She loved it while its nature it retain'd. 
 But, made a duty, it displeased and pain'd : 
 " Have we not means ?" the joyous husband cried ; 
 " But I am wearied out," the wife replied : 
 " Wearied with pleasure ! Thing till now un- 
 heard ! — 
 " Are all that sweeten trouble to be fear'd ? 
 " 'T is but the sameness tires you, — cross the seas, 
 " And let us taste the world's varieties. 
 
 " 'T is said, in Paris that a man may live 
 " In all the luxuries a world can give, 
 " And in a space confined to narrow bound 
 " xVll the enjoyments of our life are found ; 
 " There we may eat and drink, may dance and 
 
 dress, 
 " And in its very essence joy possess ; 
 " JMay see a moving crowd of lovely dames, 
 " ^Jlaj' win a fortune at your favourite games ; 
 " Jlay hear the sounds that ravish human sense, 
 " And all without receding foot from thence." 
 
 The conquer'd wife, resistless and afraid. 
 To the strong call a sad obedience paid. 
 
 As we an infant in its pain, with sweets 
 Loved once, now loath'd, torment him till he eats, 
 
 * [In the original MS. : — 
 
 " Oil !" she cried, " stop, our means will never last ;" 
 For she had sad remembrance of the past. 
 
 " Hence with all care !" the husband cried, " away ! 
 " Him have I shnnn'd and hated day by day ; 
 " Never would I his saucy frown allow, 
 " And shall I turn and meet the villain now .' 
 " In all my wants, I found expedients new, 
 " And my la^t, best resource, my dear, in you."] 
 
 9 [Here follows in the original MS. : — 
 
 These graceful weeds will soon be laid aside ; 
 E.xc.'ianged for all the glories of a bride. 
 
 Who on the authors of his new distress 
 Looks trembling with disgusted weariness, 
 So Harriet felt, so look'd, and seem'd to say, 
 " O ! for a day of rest, a holiday !" 
 
 At length, her courage rising with her fear. 
 She said, " Our pleasures may be bought too 
 dear I" 
 
 To this he answer' d — " Dearest ! from thy 
 
 heart 
 '• Bid every fear of evil times depart ; 
 " I ever trusted in the trying hour 
 " To my good stars, and felt the ruling power ; 
 " When want drew nigh, his threat'ning speed 
 
 was stopp'd, 
 " Some virgin aunt, some childless uncle dropp'd ; 
 " In all his threats I sought expedients new, 
 " And my last, best resource was found in you."® 
 
 Silent and sad the wife beheld her doom, 
 And sat her down to see the ruin come ; 
 And meet the ills that rise where money fails, 
 Debts, threats, and duns, bills, bailiifs, writs, and 
 jails. 
 
 These was she spared : ere yet by want <^'^- 
 press'd. 
 Came one more fierce that bailiff in arrest ; 
 Amid a scene where Pleasure never came. 
 Though never ceased the mention of his name. 
 The husband's heated blood received the breath 
 Of strong disease, that bore him to his death. 
 
 Her all collected, — whether great or small 
 The sum, 1 know not, but collected all, — 
 The widow'd lady to her cot retired. 
 And there she lives delighted and admired : 
 Civil to all, compliant and polite, 
 Disposed to think " whatever is, is right :" 
 She wears the widow's weeds, she gives the 
 
 widow's mite. 
 At home a while, she in the autumn finds 
 The sea an object for reflecting minds, 
 And change for tender spirits ; there she reads. 
 And weeps in comfort in her graceful weeds.® 
 
 AVhat gives our tale its moral ? Here we find 
 That wives like this are not for rule design'd. 
 Nor yet for blind submission ; happy they. 
 Who, while they feel it pleasant to obey, 
 Have yet a kind companion at their side 
 Who in their journey will his power divide. 
 Or yield the reins, and bid the lady guide ; 
 
 'I'hore all is chance! for she is form'd to take 
 The guiding hand, but not a guide to make. 
 
 As men of skill the ductile clay command 
 And warm and soften for the plastic hand, 
 'I'ill, in each well-form'd feature of the face 
 He can the work of his creation trace, 
 .So may the future husband here survey 
 The mind he models— if he wills he may. 
 
 Women, dear Richard, born to be controll'd, 
 Yet love the ensign of the power to hold, 
 And would the power itself — but, this deny, 
 And they with meek, wellorder'd minds comply; 
 Tyrants, no doubt, if you resign the sway — 
 If you retain it, willing to obey.] 
 
482 
 
 CllABlJE'S WORKS. 
 
 Then points tlic wonders of the wa}', and makes 
 
 Tlie duty pleasant tliat she undertakes ; 
 
 He shows lier objects as they move along, 
 
 And pontlj' rules the movements that are wrong; 
 
 He tells her all the skilful driver's art, 
 
 And smiles to see how well she acts her part ; 
 
 Nor praise denies to courage or to skill, 
 
 In using power that he resumes at will.'** 
 
 BOOK XVIII. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 A Morninfj Ride — A Purchase of the Squire — The Way to it 
 described — The former Proprietor— Richard's Return — In- 
 quiries respecting a Lady wliom he had seen — Her History 
 related — Her Attachment to a Tutor — They are parted — 
 Impediments removed — How removed in vain — Fate of tlie 
 Lover — Of Ellen. 
 
 Bleak was the morn — said Richard, with a sigh, 
 " I must depart !"— " That, Brother, I deny," 
 Said George : •' You may ; but I perceive not 
 why." 
 
 This point before had been discuss'd, but still 
 The guest submitted to the ruling will ; 
 But evei-y day gave rise to doubt and fear, — ■ 
 He heard not now, as he was wont to hear, 
 That all was well ! — though little was express'd. 
 It seem'd to him the writer was distress'd ; 
 Ilestrain'd ! there was attempt and strife to please. 
 Pains and endeavour — not jMatilda's ease — 
 Not the pure lines of love — the guileless friend 
 Li all her freedom ! — What could this portend ? 
 " Fancy !" said George, " the self-tormentor's 
 
 pain:" — 
 And Richard still consented to remain. 
 
 " Ride you this fair cool morning?" said the 
 
 Squire : 
 " Do — for a purchase I have made inquire, 
 " And with you take a will complacently t' admire : 
 " Southward at first, dear JUehard, make your way, 
 " Cross Hilton Bridge, move on through Broken 
 
 Clay: 
 " At Dunham Wood turn duly to the east, 
 " And there your eyes upon the ocean feast ; 
 " Then ride above the cliff, or ride below, 
 " You '11 be enraptured, for your taste I know ; 
 '• It is a prospect that a man might stay 
 '• To his bride hastening on his wedding-day ; 
 " At Tilburn Sluice once more ascend, and view 
 " A decent house ; an ample garden too, 
 " And planted well behind — a lively scene, and 
 
 new ; 
 " A little taste, a little pomp display'd 
 " By a dull man, who had retired from trade 
 
 10 [« flm Widow, with lior tliroe husbands, is not quite so 
 lively as tlie Wife of IJath witli her five ; but it is a very 
 amusing as well ns a very instructive legend, and exhibits a 
 
 " To enjoy his leisure — Here he came prepared 
 
 " To farm, nor cost in preparation spared; 
 
 " But many works he purchased, some he read, 
 
 " And often rose with projects in his head 
 
 " Of crops in courses raised, of herds by matching 
 
 bred. 
 " AVe had just found these little humours out, 
 '' Just saw — he saw not — what he was about ; 
 " Just met as neighbours, still disposed to meet, 
 " Just Icarn'd the current tales of Dowling Street, 
 " And were just thinking of our female friends, 
 " Saying — ' You know not what the man intends, 
 " ' A rich, kind, hearty' — and it might be true 
 " Something he wish'd, but had not time to do ; 
 " A cold ere yet the falling leaf — of small 
 " Effect till then — was fatal in the fall ; 
 " And of that house was his possession brief: — 
 " Go ; and guard well against the falling leaf. 
 
 " But hear me, Richard, looking to my ease, 
 " Try if you can find something that will please ; 
 " Faults if you see, and such as must abide, 
 " Say they are small, or say that I can hide ; 
 '• But faults that I can change, remove, or mend, 
 " These like a foe detect — or like a friend. 
 
 " Mark well the rooms, and their proportions 
 learn, 
 " In each some use, some elegance discern; 
 " Observe the garden, its productive wall, 
 " And find a something to commend in all ; 
 " Then, should you praise them in a knowing way, 
 " I '11 take it kindly — that is well — be gay. 
 " Nor pass the pebbled cottage as you rise 
 " Above the sluice, till you have fix"d your eyes 
 " On the low woodbined window, and have seen, 
 " So fortune favour you, the ghost within ; 
 " Take but one look, and then your way pursue, 
 " It flies all strangers, and it knows not you." 
 
 Richai-d return'd, and by his Brother stood, 
 Not in a pensive, not in pleasant mood ; 
 But by strong feeling into stillness wrought. 
 As nothing thinking, or with too much thought ; 
 Or like a man who means indeed to speak. 
 But would his hearer should his purpose seek. 
 
 When Georgc- 
 
 '' What is it, Brother, you would 
 hide '. 
 
 " Or what confess ?" — " Who is she ?" he replied ; 
 " That angel whom I saw, to whom is she allied ? 
 " Of this fair being let me understand, 
 " And I will praise your purchase, house and land. 
 
 " Hers was that cottage on the rising ground, 
 " AVest of the waves, and just beyond their sound ; 
 " 'T is larger than the rest, and whence, indeed, 
 " You might e.xpect a lady to proceed ; 
 " But O ! this creature, far as I could trace, 
 " Will soon be carried to another place. 
 " ' Fair, fragile thing !' I said, when first my eye 
 " Caught hers, 'wilt thou expand thy wings and 
 fly ? 
 
 rich varietv of those striliiny intolVctual portraits wliich mark 
 the hand of our poetical Kembnuult. The serene close of her 
 eventful life is highly exemplary." — Jekfhev.] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 483 
 
 " ' Or wilt thou vanish ? Beauteous spirit, stay !' — 
 " For will it not (I question'd) melt away ? 
 " No ! it was mortal — I unseen was near, 
 " And saw the bosom's sigh, the standing tear ! 
 " She thought profoundly, for I stay'd to look, 
 " And first she read, then laid aside her book ; 
 " Then on her hand reclined her lovely head, 
 " And seem'd unconscious of the tear she shed. 
 
 " ' Art thou so much,' I said, ' to grief a prey ?' 
 " Till pity pain'd me, and I rode away. 
 
 " Tel! me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread 
 " For the great change that bears her to the dead ? 
 " Has she connections? Does she love? — I feel 
 " Pity and grief, — wilt thou her woes reveal ?" 
 
 " They are not lasting, Richard, they are woes 
 " Chastised and meek ! she sings them to repose ; 
 " If not, she reasons ; if they still remain, 
 " She finds resource, that none shall find in vain. 
 
 " "Whether disease first grew upon regret, 
 " Or nature gave it, is uncertain yet, 
 " And must remain ; the frame was slightly made, 
 " That grief assail'd, and all is now decay'd ! 
 
 " But though so willing from the world to part, 
 " I must not call her case a broken heart ; 
 " Nor dare I take upon me to maintain 
 " That hearts once broken never heal again." 
 
 She was an only daugliter, one whose sire 
 Loved not that girls to knowledge should aspire ; 
 But he had sons, and Ellen quickly caught 
 "Whatever they were by their masters taught ; 
 This when the father saw — " It is the turn 
 " Of her strange mind," said he ; " but let her 
 
 learn ; 
 " 'T is almost pity with that shape and face — ■ 
 " But is a fashion, and brings no disgrace ; 
 " Women of old wrote verse, or for the stage 
 " Brought forth their works ! they now are rca- 
 
 soners sage, 
 " And with severe pursuits dare grapple and en- 
 gage : 
 " If such her mind, I shall in vain oppose ; 
 " If not, her labours of themselves will close." 
 
 Ellen, 't was found, had skill without pretence, 
 And silenced envy by her meek good sense ; 
 That Ellen learnt, her various knowledge proved ; 
 Soft words and tender looks, that Ellen loved ; 
 For he who taught her brothers found in her 
 A constant, ready, eager auditor ; 
 This he perceived, nor could his joy disguise, 
 It tuned his voice, it sparkled in his eyes. 
 
 Not very young nor very handsome he, 
 But very fit an Abelard to be ; 
 His manner and his meekness hush'd alarm 
 In all but Ellen — Ellen felt the charm ; 
 Hers was fond "filial love," she found delight 
 To have her mind's dear father in her sight ; 
 But soon the borrow'd notion she resign'd — 
 He was no father, even to the mind. 
 
 But Ellen had her comforts — " He will speak," 
 She said, " for he beholds me fond and weak : 
 " Fond, and he therefore may securely plead, — ■ 
 " Weak, I have therefore of his fiminess need ; 
 " With whom my father will his Ellen trust, 
 " Because he knows him to be kind and just." 
 
 " xVlas ! too well the conscious lover knew 
 The parent's mind, and well the daughter's too ; 
 He felt of duty the imperious call, 
 Beheld his danger, and must fly or fall. 
 What would the parent, what his pupils think ? 
 Oh ! he was standing on perdition's brink : 
 In his dilemma flight alone remain'd. 
 And could he fly whose very soul was chain'd ? 
 He knew she lov'd ; she tried not to conceal 
 A hope she thought that virtue's self might feel. 
 
 Ever of her and her frank heart afraid. 
 Doubting himself, he sought in absence aid. 
 And had resolved on flight, but still the act de- 
 
 lay'd ; 
 At last so high his apprehension rose. 
 That he would both his love and labour close. 
 
 " While undisclosed my fear each instant grows, 
 " And I lament the guilt that no one knows ; 
 " Success undoes me, and the view that cheers 
 " All other men, all dark to me appears I" 
 
 Thus as he thought, his Ellen at his side 
 Her soothing softness to his grief applied ; 
 With like effect as water cast on flame, 
 For he more heated and confused became. 
 And broke in sorrow from the wondering maid. 
 Who was at once offended and afraid ; 
 Yet " Do not go !" she cried, and was awhile 
 obey'd. 
 
 " Art thou then ill, dear friend ?" she ask'd, 
 and took 
 His passive hand — " How very pale thy look ! 
 " And thou art cold, and tremblest — pray thee tell 
 " Thy friend, thy Ellen, is her master well ? 
 " And let her with her loving care attend 
 " To all that vexes and disturbs her friend." 
 
 " Nay, my dear lady ! we have all our cares, 
 " And I am troubled with my poor affairs : 
 " Thou canst not aid me, Ellen ; could it be 
 " And might it, doubtless I would fly to thee ; 
 '• But we have sundry duties, and must all, 
 " Hard as it may be, go where duties call. 
 " Suppose the trial were this instant thine, 
 " Couldst thou the happiest of thy views resign 
 " At duty's strong command ?" — " If thou wert 
 
 by," 
 
 Said the unconscious maiden, " I would try !" — 
 And as she sigh'd she heard the soft responsive 
 sigh. 
 
 And then assuming steadiness, " Adieu !" 
 He cried, and from the grieving Ellen flew ; 
 And to her father M'ith a bleeding heart 
 He went, his grief and purpose to impart ; 
 Told of his health, and did in part confess 
 That he should love the noble maiden less. 
 
484 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 The parent's pride to sudden rage gave way — 
 " And the girl loves ! that plainly you would say ; 
 " And you with honour, in your pride, retire ! — 
 " Sir, 1 your prudence envy and admire." 
 
 But here the father saw the rising frown, 
 And quickly let his lofty spirit down. 
 
 " Forgive a parent ! — I may well excuse 
 " A girl who could perceive such worth and choose 
 " To make it hers : we must not look to meet 
 " All we might wish ; — is age itself discreet ? 
 " Where conquest may not be, 'tis prudence to re- 
 treat." 
 
 Then, with the kindness worldly minds assume, 
 He praised the self-pronounced and rigorous 
 
 doom ; 
 He wonder'd not that one so young should love, 
 And much he wish'd he could the choice approve ; 
 Much he lamented such a mind to lose, 
 And begg'd to learn if he could aid his views. 
 If such were form'd — then closed the short ac- 
 count, 
 And to a shilling paid the full amount. 
 
 So Cecil left the mansion, and so flew 
 To foreign shores, without an interview : 
 He must not say, I love — he could not say, Adieu ! 
 
 Long was he absent ; as a guide to youth, 
 With grief contending, and in search of truth, 
 In courting peace, and trying to forget 
 What was so deeply interesting yet. 
 
 A friend in England gave him all the news, 
 A sad indulgence that he would not lose : 
 He told how Ellen sufFer'd, how they sent 
 The maid from home in sullen discontent. 
 With some relation on the Lakes to live, 
 In all the sorrow such retirements give ; 
 And there she roved among the rocks, and took 
 3Ioss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook ; 
 Gazed on the flics that settled on the flowers. 
 And so consumed her melancholy hours. 
 
 Again he wTote. — The father then was dead. 
 And Ellen to her native village fled, 
 AVith native feeling — there she oped her door, 
 ller heart, her purse, and comforted the poor, 
 The sick, the sad,— and there she pass'd her days. 
 Deserving much, but never seeking praise. 
 Her task to guide herself, her joy the fall'n to 
 
 raise. 
 Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh, 
 But loved the impulse of lier soul t' obey : 
 The prayers of all she heard, their sufferings 
 
 view'd. 
 Nor turn'd from any save when love pursued ; 
 For though to love disposed, to kindness prone, 
 She thought of Cecil, and she lived alone. 
 
 Thus heard the lover of the life she pass'd 
 Till his return, — and he return'd at last ; 
 For he had saved, and was a riclier man 
 Thau when to teach and study he began ; 
 Somctliing his father left, and he could fly 
 To the loved country where he wish'd to die. 
 
 " And now," he said, " this maid with gentle 
 mind 
 " P.Iay I not hope to meet, as good, as kind, 
 " As in the days when first her friend she knew 
 " And then could trust — and he indeed is true ? 
 " She knew my motives, and she must approve 
 " The man who dared to sacrifice his love 
 " And fondest hopes to virtue : virtuous she, 
 " Nor can resent that sacrifice in me." 
 
 He reason'd thus, but fear'd, and sought the 
 friend 
 In his own country, where his doubts must end : 
 They then together to her dwelling came. 
 And by a servant sent her lover's name, 
 A modest youth, whom she before had known. 
 His favourite then, and doubtless then her own. 
 
 They in the carriage lieard the servants speak 
 At Ellen's door — " A maid so heavenly meek, 
 " Who would all i)ain extinguish ! Yet will she 
 " Pronounce my doom, I feel the certainty !" 
 " Courage !" the fi-iend exclaim'd ; " the lover's fear 
 " Grows without ground :" but Cecil would not 
 
 hear ; 
 He seem'd some dreadful object to explore. 
 And fix'd his fearful eye upon the door, 
 Intensely longing for reply — the thing 
 That must to him his future fortune bring ; 
 And now it brought ! like Death's cold hand it 
 
 came — 
 " The lady was a stranger to the name !" 
 Backward the lover in the carriage fell. 
 Weak, but not fainting — ■" All," said he, " is well ! 
 " Return with me — I have no more to seek !" 
 And this was all the woful man would speak. 
 
 Quickly he settled all his worldly views. 
 And sail'd from home, his fiercer pains to lose 
 And nurse the milder — now with labour less 
 He might his solitary world possess, 
 And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness. 
 
 Greece was the land he chose ; a mind decay'd 
 And ruin'd there through glorious ruin stray'd. 
 There read, and walk'd, and mused, — there loved, 
 
 and wept, and pray'd. 
 Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live. 
 But gave to study all his mind could give ; 
 Till, with the dead conversing, he began 
 To lose the habits of a living man, 
 Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried 
 To soothe, — some doubtful, them he strove to 
 
 guide ; 
 Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy 
 Of that new state that death must not destroy ; 
 Wliat time had done we know not, — Death was 
 
 nigh. 
 To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh. 
 But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his wish 
 
 to die. 
 
 Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought 
 " That he would seek her — sure she should be 
 
 sought : 
 " She did not mean — it was an evil liour, 
 " Her thoughts were guardlcss, and beyond her 
 power ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 4&5 
 
 " And for one speech, and that in rashness made I 
 " Have I no friend to soothe him and persuade ? 
 " lie must not leave me — he again will come, 
 " And we shall have one hope, one heart, one 
 home !" 
 
 But when she heard that he on foreign ground 
 Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found ; 
 But still she felt a varj'ing hope that love 
 "Would all these slight impediments remove. — 
 " Has he no friend to tell him that our pride 
 '■ Kesents a moment and is satisfied ? 
 " Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made, 
 " A look will soothe us, an<l a tear persuade ; 
 " Have I no friend to say ' Keturn again, 
 " ' Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain ?' " 
 
 With suflering mind the maid her iJrospects 
 view'd. 
 That hourly varied with the varying mood ; 
 As pass'd the day, the week, the month, the year, 
 The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear^ 
 
 No Cecil came ! — " Come, peevish and unjust !" 
 Sad Ellen cried, " why cherish this disgust ? 
 " Thy Ellen's voice could charm thee once, but 
 
 thou 
 '• Canst nothing see or hear of Ellen now !" 
 
 Yes ! she was right ; the grave on him w^a 
 closed. 
 And there the lover and the friend reposed. 
 The news soon reach'd her, and she then replied 
 In his own manner — " I am satisfied !" 
 
 To her a lover's legacy is jjaid, 
 The darling wealth of the devoted maid ; 
 From this her best and favourite books she buys, 
 From this are doled the favourite charities ; 
 And when a tale or face affects her heart, 
 This is the fund that must relief impart. 
 
 Such have the ton last years of Ellen been ! 
 Her very last that sunken eye has seen ! 
 That half angelic being still must fade 
 Till all the angel in the mind be made ; 
 x\nd now the closing scene will shortly come — 
 She cannot visit sorrow at her home ; 
 But still she feeds the hungry, still prepares 
 The usual softeners of the peasant's cares : 
 And though she prays not with the dying now. 
 She teaches them to die, and shows them how. 
 
 " Such is my talc, dear Richard, but, that told, 
 " I must all comments on the text withhold ; 
 " What is the sin of grief I cannot tell, 
 " Nor of the sinners who have loved too well ; 
 " But to the cause of mercy I incline, 
 " Or, O ! my Brother, what a fate is mine !"' 
 
 BOOK XIX. 
 
 1 [" Tins little story is, we tliinl<, one of the most simple, 
 graceful, and pathetic of all Mr. Crabbe's compositions." — 
 
 Wilson.] 
 
 WILLIAM BAILEY. 
 
 Discourse on Jealousy — Of unsuspicious Men — Visit William 
 and his Wife — His Dwelling — Story of William and Fanny 
 — Character of both — Their Contract — Fanny's Visit to an 
 Aunt — Its Consequences — Her Father's Expectation — Ilrs 
 Death — William a Wanderer— His Mode of Living — Tlie 
 Acquaintance he forms — Travels across the Kingdom — 
 Whom he finds — The Event of their Meeting. 
 
 The letters Richard in a morning read 
 
 To quiet and domestic comforts led ; 
 
 And George, who thought the world could not 
 
 supply 
 Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh ; 
 Then would pursue the subject, half in play. 
 Half earnest, till the sadness wore away. 
 
 They spoke of Passion's errors, Love's disease. 
 His pains, afilictions, wrongs, and jealousies ; 
 Of Herod's vile commandment — that his wife 
 Should live no more, when he no more had life ; 
 He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse 
 Should, as a widow, make her second vows ; 
 Or that a mortal with his queen should wed, 
 Or be the rival of the mighty dead. 
 
 " Herods," said Richard, " doubtless may be 
 found, 
 " But haply do not in the world abound ; 
 " Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have, 
 " If jealousy could act beyond the grave : 
 " No doubt Othellos every place supply, 
 " Though every Desdemona does not die ; 
 " But there are lovers in the world who live 
 " Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive." 
 
 " I know," said George, " a happy man and 
 kind, 
 " Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find, — 
 " A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees, 
 " Will suffer nothing to disturb his ease ; 
 " Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs, 
 " Admits no story that a wife denies, — 
 " She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes. 
 
 " Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair 
 " Of good examples, — I will guide j'ou there : 
 " Such man is William Bailey, — but his spouse 
 " Is virtue's self since she had made her vows. 
 " I speak of ancient stories, long worn out, 
 " That honest William would not talk about ; 
 " But he will sometimes check her starting tear, 
 " And call her self-correction too severe. — 
 " In their own inn the gentle pair are placed, 
 " Where you behold the marks of William's taste : 
 " They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace, 
 " Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece : 
 " Public indeed their calling, but there come 
 " No brawl, no revel to that decent room ; 
 " All there is still, and comely to behold, 
 " Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold ; 
 " But, mild and pleasant as they now appear, 
 " They first experienced many a troubled year ; 
 
486 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " And that, if known, might not commaml our 
 praise 
 
 (( 
 
 Like tlie smooth tenor of their present days. 
 
 '■ Our hostess, now so grave and steady grown, 
 " Has had some awkward trials of her own : 
 " She was not always so resign'd and meek, — 
 " Yet can I little of her failings speak; 
 " Those she herself will her misfortunes deem. 
 " And slides discreetly from the dubious theme ; 
 " But you shall hear the tale that I will tell. 
 " When we have seen the mansion where they 
 dwell." 
 
 Tliey saw the mansion, — and the couple made 
 Obeisance due, and not without parade : 
 " His honour, still obliging, took delight 
 " To make them pleasant in each other's sight ; 
 " It was their duty — they were very sure 
 " It was their pleasure." 
 
 This they could endure, 
 Nor turn'd impatient. In the room around 
 Were care and neatness : instruments were found 
 For sacred music, books with prints and notes 
 By learned men and good, whom William quotes 
 In mode familiar — Beveridge, Doddridge, Hall, 
 Pyle, Whitby, Hammond — he refers to all. 
 
 Next they beheld his garden, fruitful, nice. 
 And, as he said, his little paradise. 
 
 In man and wife appear'd some signs of pride. 
 Which tliey perceived not, or they would not 
 
 hide — 
 " Their honest saving, their good name, their 
 
 skill, 
 " His honour's land, which they had grace to till; 
 " And more his favour shown, with all their friends' 
 
 good will." 
 
 This past, the visit was with kindness closed, 
 And George was ask'd to do as he proposed. 
 
 " Richard," said he, " though I myself explore 
 " With no distaste the annals of the poor, 
 " And may with safety to a brother show 
 " What of my humble friends I chance to know, 
 " Ivichard, there are who call the subjects low. 
 
 " The host and hostess of the Fleece— 't is 
 base — 
 " Would I could cast some glory round the place ! 
 
 " The lively heroine once adom'd a farm, — 
 " And William's virtue has a kind of charm : 
 " Nor shall we, in our apprehension, need 
 
 " Kiches or rank 1 think I may proceed : 
 
 " Virtue and worth there are who will not see 
 " In humble dress, but low they cannot be." 
 
 The youth's addresses pleased his favourite 
 
 maid, — 
 They wish'd for union, but were both afraid ; 
 Tlicy saw the wedded poor, — and fear the bliss 
 
 dclay'd : 
 
 Yet they appear'd a happier lass and swain 
 Than those who will not reason or refrain. 
 
 William was honest, simple, gentle, kind, 
 Laborious, studious, and to thrift inclined ; 
 JMore neat than youthful peasant in his dress, 
 And yet so careful that it cost him less : 
 He kept from inns, though doom'd an inn to keep, 
 And all his pleasures and pursuits were cheap : 
 Yet would the youth perform a generous deed, 
 When reason saw or pity felt the need ; 
 He of his labour and his skill would lend, 
 Nay, of his money, to a suffering friend. 
 
 William had manual arts, — his room was graced 
 With carving quaint, that sjjoke the master's taste ; 
 But if that taste admitted some dispute. 
 He charm'd the nymphs with flageolet and flute. 
 
 Constant at church, and there a little proud. 
 He sang with boldness, and he read aloud ; 
 Self-taught to write, he his example took, 
 And form'd his letters from a printed book. 
 
 I 've heard of ladies who profess'd to see 
 In a man's writing what his mind must be ; 
 As Doctor Spurzheim's pupils, when they look 
 Upon a skull, will read it as a book — 
 Our talents, tendencies, and likings trace, 
 And find for all the measure and the place : 
 Strange times ! when thus we are completely read 
 By man or woman, by the hand or head ! 
 Believe who can — but William's even mind 
 All who beheld might in his writing find ; 
 His not the scratches where we try in vain 
 Meaning and words to construe or explain. 
 
 But with our village hero to proceed, — 
 He read as learned clerks are wont to read ; 
 Solemn he was in tone, and slow in pace, 
 By nature gifted both with strength and grace. 
 
 Black parted locks his polish'd forehead press'd ; 
 His placid looks an easy mind confess'd : 
 His smile content, and seldom more, convey'd : 
 Not like the smile of fair illusive maid, 
 When what she feels is hid, and what she wills be- 
 tray 'd. 
 
 The lighter damsels call'd his manner prim, 
 And laugh'd at virtue so array' d in him ; 
 But they were wanton, as he well replied, 
 And hoped their own would not be strongly tried : 
 Yet was he full of glee, and had his strokes 
 Of rustic wit, his repartees, and jokes ; 
 Nor was averse, ere yet he pledged his love, 
 To stray with damsels in the shady grove ; 
 When he would tell them, as they walk'd along. 
 How the birds sang, and imitate their song: 
 In fact, our rustic had his proper taste. 
 Was with peculiar arts and manners graced — 
 And Absalom had been, had Absalom been chaste. 
 
 Frances, like William, felt her heart incline 
 To neat attire — but Frances would be tine : 
 Though small tlic farm, the farmer's daughter knew 
 Her rank in life, and she would have it too. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 487 
 
 This, and this only, gave the lover pain, 
 lie thought it needless, and he ju.lged it vain : 
 Advice in hints he to the fault applied. 
 And talk'd of sin, of vanity, and pride. 
 
 " And -what is proud," said Frances, " but to 
 stand 
 '• Singing at church, and sawing thus your liand ? 
 '• Looking at heaven above, as if to bring 
 " The holy angels down to hear you sing ? 
 " And when you write, you try with all your skill. 
 " And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill I 
 " For you were ever to yourself a rule, 
 " And humbly add, you never were at school. 
 " Is that not proud? — And I have heard beside, 
 " The proudest creatures have the humblest pride. 
 " If you had read the volumes I have hired, 
 " You 'd see your fault, nor try to be admired ; 
 " For they who read such books can always tell 
 " The fault within, and read the mind as well." 
 
 "William had heard of hiring books before ; 
 He knew she read, and he inquired no more ; 
 On him the subject was completely lost, 
 AVhac he regarded was the time and cost ; 
 Yet that was trifling — just a present whim, 
 '• Novels and stories ! what were they to him?" 
 
 "With such slight quarrels, or with tho.se as slight, 
 They lived in love, and dream'd of its delight. 
 Her duties Faimy knew, both great and small. 
 And she with diligence observed them all; 
 If e'er she fail'd a duty to fulfil, 
 'T was childish error, not rebellious will ; 
 For her mucli reading, though it touch'd her heart, 
 Could neither vice nor indolence impart. 
 
 Yet, when from "William and her friends retired, 
 She found her reading had her mind inspired 
 "With hopes and thoughts of high mysterious 
 
 things, 
 Such as the early dream of kindness brings; 
 And then she wept, and wondor'd as she read. 
 And new emotions in her heart were bred : 
 She sometimes fancied that when love was true 
 'T was more than she and "William ever knew ; 
 Jlorc than the shady lane in summer-eve, 
 More than the sighing when he took his leave ; 
 More than his preference when the lads advance 
 And choose their partners for the evening dance ; 
 Nay, more than midnight thoughts and morning 
 
 dreams. 
 Or talk when love and marriage are the themes ; 
 In fact, a something not to be defined, 
 Of all subduing, all commanding kind. 
 That fills the fondest heart, that rules the proudest 
 
 mind. 
 
 But on her lover Fanny still relied. 
 Her best companion, her sincerest guide. 
 On whom she could rely, in whom she would 
 confide. 
 
 All jealous fits were past ; in either now 
 "Were tender wishes for the binding vow : 
 There was no secret one alone posscss'd. 
 There was no hope that warm'd a single breast ; 
 
 Both felt the same concerns their thoughts employ. 
 And neither knew one solitary joy. 
 
 Then why so easy, "William ? why consent 
 To wait so long ? thou wilt at last repent ; 
 " Within a month," do Care and Prudence say, 
 If all be ready, linger not a day ; 
 P're yet the choice be made, on choice debate. 
 But, having chosen, dally not with fate. 
 
 While yet to wait the pair were half content. 
 And half disposed their purpose to repent, 
 A spinster-aunt, in some great baron's place, 
 AVould see a damsel, pride of all her race ; 
 And Fanny, flatter'd by the matron's call, 
 Obey'd her aunt, and long'd to see tlie Hall ; 
 For halls and castles in her fancy wrouglit, 
 And she accounts of love and wonder sought ; 
 There she expected strange events to learn. 
 And take in tender secrets fond concern ; 
 There she expected lovely nymphs to view, 
 Perhaps to hear and meet their lovers too ; 
 The Julias, tender souls! the Henrys kind and 
 
 true ! 
 There she expected plottings to detect. 
 And — but I know n^t what she might expect — 
 All she was taught in books to be her guide. 
 And all that nature taught the nymph beside. 
 
 Now that good dame had in the castle dwelt 
 So long that she for all its people felt ; 
 She kept her sundry keys, and ruled o'er all, 
 Female and male, domestics in the hall ; 
 By her lord trusted, worthy of her trust. 
 Proud but obedient, bountiful but just. 
 
 She praised her lucky stars, that in her place 
 She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace : 
 To do her duty was her soul's delight. 
 This her inferiors would to theirs excite, 
 This her superiors notice and requite ; 
 To either class she gave the praises due. 
 And still more grateful as more favour'd grew. 
 Her lord and lady were of peerless worth, 
 In power unmatch'd, in glory, and in birth ; 
 And such the virtue of the noble race, 
 It reach'd the meanest servant in the place ; 
 All, from the chief attendant on my lord 
 To the groom's helper, had her civil word ; 
 From Jliss Montregor, who the ladies taught. 
 To the rude lad who in the garden WTOught ; 
 From the first favourite to the meanest drudge, 
 Were no such women. Heaven should be her 
 
 judge ; 
 Whatever stains were theirs, let them reside 
 In that pure place, and they were mundified ; 
 The sun of favour on their vileness shone. 
 And all their faults like morning mists were gone. 
 
 There was Lord Kobert ! c(tuld she have her 
 
 choice. 
 From the world's masters he should have her 
 
 voice ; 
 So kind and gracious in his noble ways, 
 It was a pleasure speaking in his praise : 
 And Lady Catherine, — O ! a prince's pride 
 Might by one smile of hers be gratified ; 
 
488 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 "With her would monarchs all their glory share, 
 And in her presence banisli all tlicir care. 
 
 Puch was the matron, and to her the maid 
 Was by her lover carefully convcy'd. 
 
 When William first the invitation read 
 It some displeasure in his spirit bred ; 
 Not that one jealous thought the man possess'd, 
 lie was by fondness, not by fear distress'd ; 
 But when his Fanny to his mind convey'd 
 The growing treasures of the ancient maid, 
 The thirty years, come June, of service past, 
 Her lasting love, her life that would not last; 
 Her power ! her place I what interest I what re- 
 spect 
 She had acquired — and shull we her neglect ? 
 
 " No, Frances, no !" he answer'd, " you are 
 
 right ; 
 " But things appear in such a different light !" 
 Her parents bless'd her, and, as well became 
 Their love, advised her, that they might not 
 
 blame : 
 They said, " If she should earl or countess meet, 
 " She should be humble, cautious, and discreet ; 
 " Humble, but not abased, remembering all 
 " Are kindred sinners, — children of the fall ; 
 " That from the earth our being we receive, 
 " And are all equal when the earth we leave." 
 
 They then advised her in a modest way 
 To make replies to what my Lord might say ; 
 Her aunt would aid her, who was now become 
 With nobles noble, and with lords at home.' 
 
 So went the pair ; and WilUam told at night 
 Of a reception gracious and polite ; 
 He spake of galleries long and pictures tall, 
 The handsome parlours, the prodigious hall ; 
 The busts, the statues, and the floors of stone, 
 The storied arras, and the vast saloon, 
 In which was placed an Indian chest and screen. 
 With figures such as he had never seen : 
 He told of these as men enraptured tell. 
 And gave to all their praise, and all was well. 
 
 Left by the lover, the desponding maid 
 Was of the matron's ridicule afraid ; 
 But when she heard a welcome frank and kind, 
 The wonted firmness repossess'd her mind ; 
 Pleased by the looks of love her aunt display'd. 
 Her fond professions, and her kind parade. 
 
 In her own room, and with her niece apart. 
 She gave up all tlie secrets of licr heart ; 
 And, grown familiar, bid her Fanny come, 
 Partake her cheer, and make herself at home. 
 
 Shut in that room, upon its cheerful board 
 She laid the comforts of no vulgar hoard ; 
 
 [Original MS. :— 
 The motlier's whisper cannot here hiivo place ; 
 Tlie words disUn^uish'il were but caps and lace, 
 Willi something lyini' in a cedar chest, 
 And a shrewd smile that further thouglits express'd.] 
 
 Then press'd the damsel both with love and 
 
 pride, — 
 For both she felt, — and would not be denied. 
 
 Grace she pronounced before and after meat. 
 And bless'd her God that she could talk and eat ; 
 Then with new glee she sang her patron's 
 
 praise — - 
 " He had no paltrj^ arts, no pimping ways ; 
 " She had the roast and boil'd of every day, 
 " That sent the poor with grateful hearts away ; 
 " And she was grateful Come, my darling, 
 
 think 
 " Of them you love the best, and let us drink." 
 
 And now she drank the healths of those above, 
 Her noble friends, whom she must ever love ; 
 But not together, not the young and old. 
 But one by one, the number duly told ; 
 And told their merits too — there was not one 
 Who had not said a gracious thing or done ; 
 Nor could she praise alone, but she would take 
 A cheerful glass for every favourite's sake, — 
 And all were favourites, — till the rosy cheek 
 Spoke for the tongue that nearly ceased to speak ; 
 That rosy cheek that now began to shine. 
 And show the progress of the rosy wine ; 
 But there she ended — felt the singing head. 
 Then pray'd as custom will'd, and so to bed. 
 
 The morn was pleasant, and the ancient maid 
 With her fair niece about the mansion stray'd : 
 There was no room without th' appropriate tale 
 Of blood and murder, female sprite or male ; 
 There was no picture that th' historic dame 
 Pass'd by and gave not its peculiar fame ; 
 The births, the visits, weddings, burials, all 
 That chanced for ages at the noble Hall. 
 
 These and each revolution she could state, 
 And give strange anecdotes of love and hate ; 
 This was her first delight, her pride, her boast, — 
 She told of many an heiress, many a toast, 
 Of Lady Ellen's flight, of Lord Orlando's ghost ; 
 The maid turn'd pale, and what should then 
 
 ensue 
 But wine and cake ? — the dame was frighten'd too. 
 
 The aunt and niece now walk'd about the 
 
 grounds. 
 And sometimes met the gentry in their rounds ; 
 " Do let us turn !" the timid girl exclaim'd — 
 "Turn!" said the aunt; ''of what are you 
 
 ashamed ? 
 " What is there frightful in sucli looks as those ? 
 " What is it, child, you fancy or suppose ? 
 " Look at Lord liobert, see if you can trace 
 " More than true lionour in that handsome face ! 
 
 " What ! you must tliink, by blushing in that 
 way, 
 " My lord has something about love to say ; 
 " But I assure you that he never spoke 
 " Such things to mo in earnest or in joke, 
 " And yet 1 meet liim in all sorts of times, 
 " When wicked men are thinking of their crimes." 
 
-" "Why, yes, indeed 
 
 " There ! let them pass "- 
 't is true 
 
 " That was a look, and was design'd for you ; 
 " But what the wonder when the sight is new? 
 " For my lord's virtue you may take my word, 
 " He would not do a thing that was absurd." 
 
 A month had pass'd ; " And when will i anny 
 come ?" 
 The lover ask'd, and found the parents dumb : 
 They had not heard for more than half the space. 
 And tlie poor maiden was in much disgrace ; 
 Silence so long they could not understand, 
 And this of one who wrote so neat a hand ; 
 Their sister sure would send were aught amiss, 
 But youth is thoughtless — there is hope in this. 
 
 As time elapsed their wonder changed to woe, 
 "William would lose another day, and go ; 
 Yet, if she should be wilful and remain. 
 He had no power to take her home again : 
 But he would go ! — He went and he return'd, — 
 And in his look the pair his tale discern'd : 
 Stupid in grief, it seem'd not that he knew 
 How he came home, or what he should pursue. 
 Fanny was gone ! — her aunt was sick in bed. 
 Dying, she said — none cared if she were dead ; 
 Her charge, his darling, was decoy'd, was fled ! 
 But at what time, and whither, and with whom, 
 None seem'd to know — all surly, shy, or dumb. 
 
 Each blamed himself, all blamed the erring maid ; 
 They vow'd revenge ; they cursed their fate, and 
 
 pray'd. 
 Moved by his grief, the father sought the place, 
 Ask'd for his girl, and talk'd of her disgrace ; 
 Spoke of the villain, on whose cursed head 
 He pray'd that vengeance might be amply shed ; 
 Then sought his sister, and beheld her grief, 
 Her pain, her danger, — this was no relief. 
 
 " "Where is my daughter ? bring her to my 
 
 sight !"— 
 " Brother, I 'm rack'd and tortured day and 
 
 night !" 
 " Talk not to me ! what grief have you to tell ? 
 " Is your soul rack'd, or is your bosom hell ? 
 " Where is my daughter ?" — " She would take her 
 
 oath 
 " For her right doing, for she knew them both, 
 " And my young lord was honour." — " Woman, 
 
 cease ! 
 " And give your guilty conscience no such peace — 
 " "You 've sold the wretched girl, you have betray'd 
 
 your niece." — 
 " The Lord be good ! and O ! the pains that come 
 " In limb and body — ^Brothcr, get you home ! 
 " Your voice runs through me, — every angiy word, 
 " If he should hear it, would offend my lord." 
 
 " Has he a daughter ? let her run away 
 " With a poor dog, and hear what he will say ! 
 " No matter what, 1 '11 ask him for his son." — 
 " And so offend ? Now, brother, pray be gone !" 
 
 My lord appear'd, perhaps by pity moved. 
 And kindly said he no such things approved, 
 
 Nay, he was angry with the foolisli boj"^. 
 
 Who might his pleasures at his ease enjoy ; 
 
 The thing was wrong — he hoped the farm did 
 
 well, — 
 The angry father doom'd the farm to hell ; 
 He then desired to see the villain-son. 
 Though my lord warn'd him such excess to shun ; 
 Told him he pardon'd, thougli he blamed such rage, 
 And bade him think upon his state and age. 
 
 " Think ! yes, my lord ! but thinking drives me 
 mad — 
 " Give me my child ! — Where is she to be had ? 
 " I 'm old and poor, but I with both can feel, 
 " And so shall he that could a daughter steal ! 
 " Think you, my lord, I can be so bereft, 
 " And feel no vengeance for the villain's theft ? 
 " Old if I am, could I the robber meet, 
 " I 'd lay his breathless body at my feet. 
 " Was that a smile, my lord ? Think you your boy 
 " Will both the father and the child destroy?" 
 Jly lord replied, " I 'm sorry from my soul ! 
 " But boys are boys, and there is no control." 
 
 " So, for your great ones. Justice slumbers then I 
 " If men are poor they must not feel as men. 
 " Will your son marry ?" — " Marry !'' said my lord, 
 " Your daughter ? — marry — no, upon my word !" 
 
 " What, then, our stations differ ! — But your 
 
 son 
 " Thought not of that — his crime has made them 
 
 one, 
 " In guilt united. She shall be his wife, 
 " Or I th' avenger that will take his life !" 
 
 " Old man, I pity and forgive you ; rest 
 " In hope and comfort, — be not so distress'd ; 
 " Things that seem bad oft happen for the best : 
 " The girl has done no more than thousands do, 
 " Nor has the boy — they laugh at me and you." 
 " And this my vengeance — curse him !" — " Nay, 
 
 forbear ; 
 " I spare your frenzy, in compassion spare." 
 
 " Spare me, my lord ! and what have I to dread ? 
 " O ! spare not, Heaven, the thunder o'er his 
 
 head — 
 " The bolt he merits !" 
 
 Such was his redress ; 
 And he return'd, to brood upon distress. 
 
 And what of William ? — William from the time 
 Appear'd partaker both of grief and crime ; 
 He cared for nothing, nothing he pursued. 
 But walk'd about in melancholy mood : 
 He ceased to labour, — all he loved before 
 He now neglected, and would see no more. 
 He said his flute brought only to his mind 
 When he was happy, and his Fanny kind ; 
 And his loved walks, and every object near. 
 And every evening-sound she loved to hear : 
 The shady lane, broad heath, and starry sky. 
 Brought home reflections, and he wish'd to die : 
 Yet there he stray'd, because he wish'd to shun 
 The world he hated, where his part was done ; 
 As if, though lingering on the earth, he there 
 Had neither hope nor calling, tie nor care. 
 
 2 K 
 
490 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 At length a letter from the daughter came, 
 " Frances" subscribed, and that the only name ; 
 She " pitied much licr parents, spoke of fate, 
 '• And begg'd them to forget licr, not to hate ; 
 " S>aid she had with her all the world could give, 
 " And only pray'd that they in peace should 
 
 live. 
 " That which is done is that we 're born to do ; 
 " This she was taught, and she believed it true : 
 " Tru.' "lat she lived in pleasure and delight, 
 " Bui ^^tcu dream'd and saw the farm by night ; 
 '• The boarrlcd room that she had kept so neat, 
 " And all her roses in the window-seat ; 
 " The pear-tree shade, the jasmine's lovely gloom, 
 " With its long twigs that blossom'd in the room ; — 
 " But she was happy, and the tears that fell 
 " As she was writing had no grief to tell; 
 " We weep when we are glad, we sigh when we 
 are well." 
 
 A bill enclosed, that they beheld with pain 
 And indignation, they return'd again ; 
 There was no mention made of William's name, 
 Check'd as she was by pity, love, and shame. 
 
 William, who wrought for bread, and never 
 sought 
 More than the day demanded when he wrought, 
 Was to a sister call'd, of all his race 
 The last, and dying in a distant place : 
 In tender terror he approach'd her bed, 
 Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead : 
 He was her heir, and what she left was more 
 Than he required, who was content before. 
 
 With their minds' sufferings, age, and growing 
 pain, 
 That ancient couple could not long remain. 
 Nor long remain'd ; and in their dying groan 
 The sufiering youth perceived himself alone ; 
 For of his health or sickness, peace or care, 
 He knew not one in all the world to share ; 
 Isow every scene would sad reflections give, 
 And most his home, and there he could not live ; 
 Tliere every walk would now distressing prove, 
 And of his loss remind him, and his love. 
 
 With the small portion by his sister left 
 lie roved about as one of peace bereft. 
 And by the body's movements hoped to find 
 A kind of wearied stillness in the mind, 
 And sooner bring it to a sleepy state. 
 As rocking infants will their pains abate. 
 
 Thus, careless, lost, unheeding where he went. 
 Nine weary years the wandering lover sx^ent. 
 
 His sole employment, all that could amuse, 
 AVas his companions on the road to choose ; 
 With such he travell'd througli the passing day, 
 Friends of the hour, and walkers by the way ; 
 Anil from the sick, the poor, the halt, the blind, 
 lie Icarn'd the sorrows of his suffering kind. 
 
 lie learn'd of many how unjust their fate, 
 For their connexions dwelt in better state ; 
 They bad relations famous, great or rich, 
 Learned or wise, they never scrupled which ; 
 
 But while they cursed these kindred churls, would 
 
 try 
 To bnikl their fame, and for their glory lie. 
 
 Others delighted in misfortunes strange. 
 The sports of fortune in her love for change. 
 
 Some spoke of wonders they before had seen, 
 When on their travels they had wandering been ; 
 How they had sail'd the world about, and found 
 The sailing plain, although the world was round ; 
 How they beheld for months th' unsetting sun. 
 What deeds they saw ! what they themselves had 
 
 done ! — 
 What leaps at Khodes ! — what glory then they 
 
 won ! 
 
 There were who spoke in terms of high disdain 
 Of their contending against power in vain, 
 Suffering from tyranny of law long borne. 
 And life's best spirits in contentions worn, — 
 Happy in this, th' oppressors soon will die, 
 Each with the vex'd and suffering man to lie — 
 And thus consoled exclaim, " And is not soitow 
 dry ?" 
 
 But vice offended : when he met with those 
 Who could a deed of violence propose. 
 And cry, "Should they what we desire possess? 
 *' Should they deprive us, and their laws oppress ?" 
 William would answer, " Ours is not redress." 
 " Would you oppression then for ever feel ?" — 
 " 'T is not my choice ; but yet I must not steal." 
 " So, fii-st they cheat us, and then make their laws 
 " I'o guard their treasures and to back their cause ; 
 " What call you then, my friend, the rights of 
 
 man ?" — 
 " To get his bread," said William, " if he can; 
 " And if he cannot, he must then depend 
 " Upon a Being he may make his friend." 
 " Make !" they replied ; and conference had end. 
 
 But female vagrants would at times express 
 A new-born pleasure at the mild address ; 
 His modest wish he clothed in accent meek, 
 That they would comfort in religion seek. 
 
 " I am a sinful being !" William cried ; 
 " Then, what am I?" the conscious heart replied: 
 And oft-times ponder'd in a pensive way, 
 " He is not happy, yet he loves to pray." 
 
 But some would freely on his thoughts intrude, 
 And thrust themselves 'twixt him and solitude : 
 They would his faith and of its strength demand, 
 And all his soul's prime motions understand. 
 How! they would say, such woe and such belief, 
 Such trust in Heaven, and yet on earth such grief! 
 Tliou art almost, my friend, — thou art not all, 
 Thou hast not yet the self-destroying call ; 
 1'iiou hast a carnal wish, perhaps a will 
 Not yet subdued, — the root is growing still: 
 There is tlie strong man yet that keeps his own, 
 Wlio by a stronger must be overthrown ; 
 There is the burden that must yet be gone, 
 And then the pilgrim may go singing on. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 491 
 
 "William to this would seriously incline, 
 And to their comforts would his heart resign ; 
 It soothed, it raised him, — he began to feel 
 Til' enlivening warmth of methodistic zeal ; 
 He learn'd to know the brethren by their looks — 
 He sought their meetings, he perused their books ; 
 But yet was not within the pale and yoke, 
 And as a novice of experience spoke ; 
 But felt the comfort, and began to pray 
 For such companions on the king's highway. 
 
 William had now across the kingdom sped, 
 To th' Eastern Ocean from St. David's Head ; 
 And wandering late, with various thoughts op- 
 
 press'd, 
 'T was midnight ere he reach'd his place of rest, — 
 A village inn, that one wayfaring friend 
 Could from experience safely recommend, 
 Where the kind hostess would be more intent 
 On M'hat he needed than on what he spent ; 
 Her husband, once a heathen, she subdued, 
 And with religious fear his mind imbued ; 
 Though his conviction came too late to save 
 An erring creature from an early grave. 
 
 Since that event, the cheerful widow grew 
 In size and substance, — her the brethren knew ; 
 And many friends were hers, and lovers not a few : 
 But either love no more could warm her heart. 
 Or no man came who could the warmth impart. 
 
 William drew near, and saw the comely look 
 Of the good lady, bending o'er her book ; 
 Hymns it appear'd, — for now a pleasing sound 
 Seem'd as a welcome in his wanderings found : 
 He enter'd softly, not as they who think 
 That they may act the ruffian if they drink, 
 And who conceive, that for their paltry pence 
 They may with rules of decency dispense ; 
 Far unlike these was William, — he was kind, 
 Exacting nothing, and to all resign'd. 
 
 He saw the hostess reading, — and their eyes 
 Met in good will, and something like surprise : 
 It was not beauty William saw, but more, 
 Something like that which he had loved before — 
 Something that brought his Fanny to his view, 
 In the dear time when she was good and true ; 
 And his, it seem'd, were features that were seen 
 With some emotion — she was not serene : 
 And both were moved to ask what looks like those 
 
 could mean. 
 At first she colour'd to the deepest red, 
 That hurried off, till all the rose was fled ; 
 She call'd a servant, whom she sent to rest. 
 Then made excuse to her attentive guest ; 
 She own'd the thoughts confused, — 'twas very 
 
 true. 
 He brought a dear departed friend in view : 
 Then, as he listen'd, bade him welcoine there 
 AVith livelier looks and more engaging air. 
 And stirr'd the fire of ling, and brush'd the wicker 
 
 chair. 
 Waiting his order with the cheerful look 
 That proved how pleasant were the pains she took. 
 
 He was refresh'd. — They spake on various 
 
 themes — 
 Our early pleasures. Reason's first-drawn schemes. 
 Youth's strong illusions. Love's delirious dreams : 
 Then from her book he would presume to ask 
 A song of praise, and she perform'd the task. 
 The clock struck twelve. — He started — " Must I 
 
 go?" 
 His looks spoke plainly, and the lady's " No :" 
 So down he sat, — and when the clock struck one 
 There was no start, no effort to be gone : 
 Nor stay'd discourse. 
 
 " And so your loves were cross'd, 
 " And the loved object to your wishes lost ? 
 " But was she faithleiss, or were you to blame ? 
 " I wish I knew her — will you tell her name ?" 
 
 " Excuse me — that would hurt her if alive ; 
 " And, if no more, why should her fault survive ?" 
 
 " But love you still ?"— 
 
 " Alas : I feel I do, 
 " When I behold her very looks in you !" 
 
 " Yet, if the frail one's name must not be 
 known, 
 " My friendly guest may trust me with his own." 
 
 This done, the lady paused, and then replied, — 
 " It grieves me much to see your spirit tried ; 
 " But she was like me, — how I came to know 
 " The lamb that stray'd I will hereafter show ; — 
 " We were indeed as sisters. — Should I state 
 " Her quiet end, you would no longer hate : 
 " I see your heart, — and I shall quickly prove, 
 " Though she deserved not, yet she prized your 
 
 love : 
 " Long as she breathed was heard her William's 
 
 name — 
 " And such affection half absolves her shame. 
 
 "Weep not, but hear me, how I came to know 
 " Thee and thy Frances — this to Heaven I owe ; 
 " And thou shalt view the pledge, the very ring, 
 " The birthday token — well you know the thing ; 
 " ' This,' if I ever — thus I was to speak, 
 " As she had spoken — but I see you weak : 
 
 " She was not worthy " 
 
 " Oh ! you cannot tell 
 '' By what accursed means my Fanny fell ! 
 " What bane, compulsion, threats — for she was 
 
 pure ; 
 " But from such toils what being is secure ? 
 " Force, not persuasion, robb'd me." 
 
 " You are right, 
 " So has she told me, in her Maker's sight : 
 
 " She loved not vice " 
 
 " Oh ! no, — her heart approved 
 " All that her God commanded to be loved ; 
 " And she is gone." 
 
 " Consider! death alone 
 " Could for the errors of her life atone." 
 
 " Speak not of them : I would she knew how 
 dear 
 " I hold her yet ! — But dost thou give the tear 
 " To my loved Frances ? No ! 1 cannot part 
 " With one mIio has her face, who has her heart ; 
 
 2 k2 
 
" "With looks so pleasing, when I thee behold, 
 " She lives — that bosom is no longer cold. 
 " Then tell me — art thou not — in pity speak — 
 " One whom I sought, while living meant to seek — 
 " Art thou my Fanny? — Let me not offend, — 
 " Be something to me — be a sufferer's friend — 
 " Be more — be all ! — the precious truth confess — 
 " Art thou not Frances ?" — 
 
 " Oh, my William ! yes ! 
 " But spare me, spare thyself, and suffer less : 
 " In my best days, the spring-time of my life, 
 " I was not worthy to be William's wife ; 
 " A widow now — not poor, indeed — not cast 
 " In outer darkness — sorrowing for the past, 
 " And for the future hoping — but no more : 
 " Let me the pledges of thy love restore, 
 " And give the ring thou gavest — let it be 
 " A token still of my regard for thee, 
 " But only that, and to a M'orthier now 
 " Consign the gift."— 
 
 " The only worthy thou !" 
 Keplied the lover ; and what more express'd 
 May be omitted — here our tale shall rest. 
 
 This pair, our host and hostess of the Fleece, 
 Command some wealth, and smile at its increase ; 
 Saving and civil, cautious and discreet, 
 AH sects and parties in their mansion meet ; 
 There from their chapels teachers go to share 
 The creature-comforts, — mockery grins not there ; 
 There meet the wardens at their annual feast, 
 With annual pun — " The parish must be fleeced ;" 
 There traders find a parlour cleanly swept 
 For their reception, and in order kept ; 
 And there the sons of labour, poor, but free. 
 Sit and enjoy their hour of liberty. 
 
 So live the pair, — and life's disasters seem 
 In their unruffled calm a troubled dream ; 
 In comfort runs the remnant of their life — 
 He the fond husband, she the faithful wife.- 
 
 BOOK XX. 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL- WALK. 
 
 Georjje in his liypocliondriac State — A Family Mansion now 
 a Farm-lionse — Tlie Company there — Tlieir Conversation — 
 Subjects alTorded by the Pictures— Doubts if Spirits can 
 appear— Arf,'uments— Facts— The Helation of an old Lady 
 — Her Wall<s in a Cathedral — Appearance tliere. 
 
 In their discousc again the Brothers dwelt 
 On early subjects — what they once had felt. 
 Once thought of things mysterious ; — themes that 
 
 all 
 With some degree of reverence recall. 
 
 2 [<i ■ William Bailey" is the best of the tales of humble life 
 that we find in tln'se volumes ; and is curiously and cliarac- 
 teristically compounded of pathos and pl'N-isautry, adcctinjj 
 incidents, and keen and sarcastic remarlvs." — Jkffkey.] 
 
 George then reverted to the da_ys of old, 
 When his heart fainted, and his hope was cold ; 
 When by the power of fancy he was sway'd. 
 And every impulse of the mind obey'd. 
 
 " Then, my dfear Richard," said the Squire, " my 
 
 case 
 Was call'd consumptive — I must seek a place 
 And soil salubrious, thither must repair. 
 And live on asses' milk and milder air. 
 My uncle bought a farm, and on the land 
 The fine old mansion yet was left to stand. 
 Not in this state, but old and much decay'd ; 
 Of this a part was habitable made. 
 The rest— who doubts ? — was by the spirits 
 
 seized, 
 Ghosts of all kinds, who used it as they pleased. 
 
 " The worthy Farmer tenant yet remain'd, 
 " Of good report — he had a fortune gain'd ; 
 " And his three daughters at their school acquired 
 " The air and manner that their swains admired : 
 " The mother-gossip and these daughters three 
 " Talk'd of genteel and social company ; 
 " And while the days were fine, and walks were 
 
 clean, 
 " A fresh assemblage day by day were seen. 
 
 " There were the Curate's gentle maids, and 
 some 
 " From all the neighbouring villages would come ; 
 " There, as I stole the yew-tree shades among, 
 " I saw the parties walking, old and young, 
 " Where I was nothing — if perceived, they said, 
 " ' The man is harmless, be not you afraid — 
 " ' A poor young creature, who, they say, is cross'd 
 " ' In love, and has in part his senses lost ; 
 " ' His health for certain, and he comes to spend 
 " ' His time with us ; we hope our air will mend 
 " ' A frame so weaken'd, for the learned tribe 
 " ' A change of air for stubborn ills proecribe ; 
 " ' And doing nothing often has prevail'd 
 " ' When ten physicians have prescribed and fail'd ; 
 " ' Not that for air or change there 's much to say, 
 " ' But nature then has time to take her way ; 
 " ' And so we hope our village will restore 
 " ' This man to health that he possess'd before. 
 " ' He loves the garden avenues, the gloom 
 " ' Of tlie old chambers, of the tap'stried room, 
 " ' And we no notice take, — we let him go and 
 come.' 
 
 " So spake a gay young damsel ; but she knew 
 " Not all the truth, — in part her tale was true. 
 " Much it amused me in the place to be 
 " This harmless cipher, seeming not to see, 
 " Yet seeing ail, — unnoticed to appear, 
 " Yet noting all ; and not disposed to licar, 
 " But to go forth, — break in on no one's jilan, 
 " And hear them speak of the forsaken man.' 
 
 " In scenes like these, a mansion so decay'd, 
 " With blighted trees in hoaiy moss an-ay'd, 
 
 1 [MS. :— 
 
 " To take my way, break in on no one's plan, 
 " Filling a pause — ' Tlie poor disorder'd man I ' "] 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 493 
 
 " And ivy'd walls around, for many an hour 
 
 " I walk'd alone, and felt their witching power ; 
 
 " So others felt ; — the young of either sex 
 
 " ^Vould in these walks their timid minds perplex 
 
 " By meeting terrors, and the old appear'd, 
 
 " Their fears upbraiding, like the young who 
 
 fear'd ; 
 " Among them all some sad discourse at night 
 " Was sure to breed a tei'rified delight : 
 " Some luckless one of the attentive dames 
 " Had figures seen like those within the frames, 
 '• Figures of lords who once the land possess'd, 
 '■ And who could never in their coffins rest : 
 " Unhappy spirits I who could not abide 
 " The loss of all their consequence and pride, 
 " 'T was death in all his power, their very names 
 
 had died. 
 
 " These tales of terror views terrific bred, 
 
 '■ And sent the hearers trembling to their bed." 
 
 In an autumnal evening, cool and still. 
 The sun just dropp'd beneath a distant hill, 
 The children gazing on the quiet scene. 
 Then rose in glory night's majestic queen ; 
 And pleasant was the checkered light and shade 
 Her golden beams and maple shadows made ; 
 An ancient tree that in the garden grew. 
 And that fair picture on the gravel threw. 
 
 Then all was silent, save the sounds that make 
 Silence more awful, while they faintly break ; 
 The frighten'd bat's low shriek, the beetle's hum, 
 ^Vith nameless sounds we know not whence they 
 come. 
 
 Such was the evening; and tliat ancient seat 
 The scene where then some neighbours chanced to 
 
 meet ; 
 Up to the door led broken steps of stone, 
 Whose dewy surface in the moonlight shone 
 On vegetation tliat with progress slow, 
 Where man forbears to fix his foot, will grow ; 
 The window's depth and dust repell'd the ray 
 Of the moon's light and of the setting day ; 
 Pictures there were, and each display'd a face 
 And form that gave their sadness to the place ; 
 The frame and canvas show'd that worms unseen. 
 Save in their works, for years had working been ; 
 A fire of brushwood on the irons laid. 
 All the dull room in fitful views display'd, 
 And with its own wild light in fearful forms ar- 
 ray 'd. 
 
 In this old Hall, in this departing day. 
 Assembled fi'iends and neighbours, grave and gay. 
 When one good lady at a picture threw 
 A glance that caused inquiry, — " Tell us who ?" 
 
 " That was a famous warrior ; one, they said, 
 " That by a spirit was a while obej''d : 
 " In all his dreadful battles he would say, 
 " ' Or win or lose, I shall escape to-day ;' 
 " And though the shot as thick as hail came round, 
 " On no occasion he received a wound ; 
 
 " He stood in safety, free from all alarm, 
 
 " Protected — Heaven forgive him ! — by his chai-m: 
 
 " But he forgot the date, till came the hour 
 
 " When he no more had the protecting power : 
 
 " And then he bade his friends around farewell '. 
 
 " ' I fall ! ' he cried, and in the instant fell. 
 
 " Behold those infants in the frame beneath ! 
 " A witch offended wrought their early death ; 
 " She forni'd an image, made as wax to melt, 
 " And each the wasting of the figure felt ; 
 " The hag confess'd it when she came to die, 
 " And no one living can the truth deny. 
 
 " But see a beauty in King William's days, 
 " With that long waist, and those enormous stays: 
 " She had three lovers, and no creature knew 
 " The one preferr'd, or the discarded two ; 
 " None could the secret of her bosom see ; 
 " Loving — poor maid ! — the attention of the three, 
 " She kept such equal weight in either scale, 
 " 'Twas hard to say who would at last prevail. 
 " Thus you may think in either heart arose 
 " A jealous anger, and the men were foes : 
 " Each with himself concluded, two aside, 
 " The third may make the lovely maid his bride : 
 " This caused their fate. — It was on Thursday 
 
 night 
 " The deed was done, and bloody was the fight ; 
 " Just as she went — poor thoughtless girl ! — to 
 
 prayers, 
 " Ran wild the maid with horror up the stairs ; 
 " Pale as a ghost, but not a word she said, 
 " And then the lady utter'd, ' Coates is dead !' 
 
 " Then the poor damsel found her voice and 
 cried, 
 " ' Ran through the body, and that instant died ! 
 " ' But he pronounced your name — and so was 
 
 satisfied.' 
 " A second fell, and he who did survive 
 " Was kept by skill and sovereign drugs alive ! 
 " ' O ! would she see me !' he was heard to say : 
 " ' No ! I '11 torment him to his dying day,' 
 " The maid exclaim'd, and every Thursday night 
 " Her spirit came his wretched soul to fright. 
 " Once as she came he cried aloud, ' Forgive !' 
 " ' Never !' she answer'd ; ' never while you live, 
 " ' Nor M'hen you die, as long as time endures ; 
 " ' You have my torment been, and I '11 be yours !' 
 " That is the lady ! and the man confess'd 
 " Her vengeful spirit would not let him rest." 
 
 " But are there Ghosts ?" exclaim'd a timid 
 maid; 
 " My father tells me not to be afraid ; 
 " He cries, ' When buried, we are safe enough,'^ 
 " And calls such stories execrable stufi"." 
 
 " Your father, child," the former lady cried, 
 " Has learning much, but he has too much pride ; 
 " It is impossible for him to tell 
 " What things in nature are impossible, 
 " Or out of nature, or to prove to whom 
 " Or for what purposes a ghost may come ; 
 " It may not be intelligence to bring, 
 " But to keep up a notion of the thing ; 
 
494 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " And though from one such fact there may arise 
 " A hundred wild improbabilities, 
 " Yet, had there never been the truth, I say, 
 " The very lies themselves had died away." 
 
 " True," said a friend ; " Heaven doubtless may 
 dispense 
 " A kind of dark and clouded evidence ; 
 " God has not promised that he will not send 
 " A spirit freed to either foe or friend ; 
 " He may such proof, and only such, bestow, 
 " Though we the certain truth can never know; 
 " And therefore, though such floating stories bring 
 " No strong or certain vouchers of the thing, 
 " Still would I not, presuming, pass my word 
 " That all such tales were groundless and absurd." 
 
 " But you will grant," said one who sat beside, 
 " That all appear so when with judgment tried ?" 
 
 " For that concession, madam, you may call, 
 " "When we have sat in judgment upon all." 
 
 An ancient lady, who with pensive smile 
 Had heard the stories, and been mute the while, 
 Now said, " Our prudence had been better shown 
 " By leaving uncontested things unknown ; 
 " Yet, if our children must such stories hear, 
 " Let us provide some antidotes to fear : 
 " For all such errors in the minds of youth, 
 " In any mind, the only cure is Truth ; 
 " And truths collected may in time decide 
 " Upon such facts, or prove, at least, a guide : 
 " If, then, permitted, I will fairly state 
 " One fact, nor doubt the story I relate ; 
 " I for your perfect acquiescence call, 
 " 'T is of myself I tell."—" O ! teU us all !" 
 Said every being there : then silent was the Hall. 
 
 " Early in life, beneath my parent's roof, 
 " Of man's true honour I had noble proof — 
 " A generous lover, who was worthy found, 
 " Where half his sex are hollow and unsound. 
 
 " My father fail'd in trade, and sorrowing died, 
 " When all our loss a generous youtli supplied ; 
 " And soon the time drew on when lie should say, 
 " ' O ! fix tlie happy, fix the early day !' 
 " Nor meant I to oppose his wishes, or delay : 
 " But then came fever, slight at first indeed, 
 " Then hastening on and threatening in its speed ; 
 " It mock'd the powers of medicine ; day by day 
 " I saw those helpers sadly walk away ; — 
 " So came the liand-like cloud, and with such 
 
 power, 
 " And with such speed, that brought the mighty 
 
 shower. 
 " Him nursed I dying, and we freely spoke 
 " Of what might follow the expected stroke ; 
 " We talk'd of spirits, of their unknown ])owers, 
 " And dared to dwell on what tlie fate of ours ; 
 " But tlie dread promise to appear agiiiii, 
 " Could it be done, I sought not to obtain ; 
 " But yet wo were presuming, — •' Could it be,' 
 " He said, ' O Emma ! I would come to thee !' 
 
 *' At his last hour his reason, late asti'ay, 
 " Again returu'd t' illuminate his way. 
 
 " In the last night, my mother long had kept 
 " Unwearied watch, and now reclined and slept ; 
 " The nurse was dreaming in a distant chair, 
 " And I had knelt to soothe him with a prayer ; 
 '• When, with a look of that peculiar kind 
 " That gives its purpose to the fellow mind, 
 " His manner spoke — ■' Confide — be not afraid — • 
 " ' I shall remember,' — this was all convey'd, — • 
 " ' I know not what awaits departed man, 
 " ' But this believe — I meet thee if I can.' 
 
 " I wish'd to die, — and grief, they say, will kill, 
 " But you perceive 't is slowly if it will ; 
 " That I was wretched you may well believe — 
 " I judged it right, and was resolved to grieve : 
 " I lost my mother when there lived not one, 
 " Man, woman, child, whom I would seek or shun. 
 
 " The Dean, my uncle, with congenial gloom, 
 " Said, ' Will you share a melanclioly home ?' 
 " For he bewail'd a wife, as I deplored 
 " My fate, and bliss that could not be restored. 
 
 " In his Cathedral's gloom I pass'd my time, 
 " Much in devotion, much in thought sublime ; 
 " There oft I paced the aisles, and watch'd the 
 
 glow 
 " Of the sun setting on the stones below, 
 " And saw the failing light, that strove to pass 
 " Through the dim coating of the storied glass, 
 " Nor fell within, but till the day was gone 
 " The red faint fire upon the window shone. 
 " I took the key, and oft-times chose to stay 
 " Till all was vanish'd of the tedious day, 
 " TiU I perceived no light, nor heard a sound, 
 " That gave me notice of a world around. 
 
 " Then had I grief's proud thoughts, and said, 
 in tone 
 " Of exultation, ' World, I am alone ! 
 " ' I care not for thee, thou art vile and base, 
 " ' And I shall leave thee for a nobler place.' 
 
 " So I the world abused, — in fact, to me 
 " Urbane and civil as a world could be : 
 " Nor should romantic grievers thus complain, 
 " Although but little in the world they gain ; 
 " But let them think if they liave nothing done 
 " To make this odious world so sad a one, 
 " Or what their worth and virtue that sliould 
 
 make 
 " This graceless world so pleasant for their sake. 
 
 " But to my tale : — Behold me as I tread 
 '' Tlic silent mansions of tlie ijivour'd dead, 
 " Who sleep in vaulteil clianibers, till their clay 
 " In quiet dissolution melts away 
 " In tliis their bodies' home — the spirits, whore 
 
 are they ? 
 " ' And where fiis spirit ? — Doors and walls im- 
 
 peile 
 " ' Tlie embodied spirit, not the spirit freed :' 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 495 
 
 " And, saying this, I at the altar knelt, 
 
 " And painful joys and rapturous anguish felt ; 
 
 " Till strong bold hopes possess'd me, and I cried, 
 
 " ' Even at this instant is he at my side ; 
 
 " ' Yes, now, dear spirit ! art thou by to prove 
 
 " ' That mine is lasting, mine the loyal love !' 
 
 " Thus have I thought, returning to the Dean, 
 " As one who had some glorious vision seen : 
 " He ask'd no question, but would sit and weep, 
 " And cry, in doleful tone, ' I cannot sleep !' 
 
 " In dreams the chosen of my heart I view'd, 
 " And thus th' impression day by day renew'd. 
 " I saw liim always, always loved to see, 
 '• For when alone he was my company : 
 " In company with him alone I seem'd, 
 " And, if not dreaming, was as one who dream'd. 
 
 " Thus, robb'd of sleep, I found, when evening 
 came, 
 " A pleasing torpor steal upon my frame ; 
 " But still the habit drev^ my languid feet 
 " To the loved darkness of the favourite seat ; 
 " And there, by silence and by sadness press'd, 
 " I felt a world my own, and was at rest. 
 
 " One night, when urged with more than usual 
 zeal, 
 " And feeling all that such enthusiasts feel, 
 " I paced the altar by, the pillars round, 
 " And knew no terror in the sacred ground ; — 
 " For mine were thoughts that banishd all such 
 
 fear, — 
 " I wish'd, I long'd to have that form appear ; 
 " And, as I paced the sacred aisles, I cried, 
 " ' Let not thy Emma's spirit be denied 
 •' ' The sight of thine ; or, if I may not see, 
 •' ' Still by some token let her certain be !' 
 
 " At length the anxious thoughts my strength 
 
 subdued, 
 " And sleep o'erpower'd me in my solitude ; 
 ■' Then was I dreaming of unearthly race, 
 •' The glorious inmates of a blessed place ; 
 " Yv'here lofty minds celestial views explore, 
 ■' Heaven's bliss enjoy, and heaven's great Iving 
 
 adore ; 
 ■' Him there I sought whom I had loved so well — 
 " For sure he dwelt where happy spirits dwell! 
 
 " While thus engaged, I started at a sound, 
 •' Of what I knew not, but I look'd around; 
 ■' For I was borne on visionary wings, 
 ■' And felt no dread of sublunary things ; 
 ■' But, rising, walk'd. — A distant window threw 
 '• A weak, soft light, that help'd me in my view ; 
 " Something with anxious heart I hoped to see, 
 " And pray'd, ' O ! God of all things, let it be ! 
 •• ' For all are thine, were made by thee, and thou 
 "■ ' Canst both the meeting and the means allow; 
 ■ ' Thou canst make clear my sight, or thou canst 
 
 make 
 '' ' More gross the form that his loved mind shall 
 
 take, 
 " ' Canst clothe his spirit for my fleshlj' sight, 
 " • Or make my earthly sense more pure and 
 
 bright.' 
 
 " So was I speaking, when without a sound 
 " There was a movement in the sacred ground ; 
 " I saw a figure rising, but could trace 
 " No certain features, no peculiar face ; 
 " But I prepared my mind that form to view, 
 " Nor felt a doubt, — he promised, and was true ! 
 " I should embrace his angel, and mj' clay, 
 " And what was mortal in me, melt away. 
 
 " Oh ! that ecstatic horror in my frame, 
 " That o'er me thus, a favour'd mortal, came ! 
 " Bless'd beyond mortals, — and the body now 
 " I judged would perish, though I knew not how ; 
 " The gracious power around me could translate 
 " And make me pass to that immortal state : 
 " Thus shall I pay the debt that must be paid, 
 " And dying live, nor be by death delay'd ; 
 " And when so changed, I should with joy sustain 
 " The heavenly converse, and with him remain. 
 
 " I saw the distant shade, and went with awe, 
 " But not with terror, to the form I saw : 
 " Yet slowly went, for he I did believe 
 " Would meet, and soul to soul his friend receive ; 
 " So on I drew, concluding in my mind, 
 " I cannot judge what laws may spirits bind ; 
 " Though I dissolve, and mingle with the bless'd, 
 " I am a new and uninstructed guest, 
 " And ere my love can speak, he should be first 
 address' d. 
 
 " Thus I began to speak, — my new-born pride, 
 
 " My love, and daring hope, the words supplied : — 
 
 " ' Dear, happy shade ! companion of the good, 
 
 " ' The just, the pure, do I on thee intrude ? 
 
 " ' Art thou not come my spirit to improve, 
 
 " ' To form, instruct, and fit me for thy love, 
 
 " ' And, as in love we parted, to restore 
 
 " ' The blessing lost, and then to part no more ? 
 
 " ' Let me with thee in thy pure essence dwell, 
 
 " ' Nor go to bid them of my house farewell, 
 
 " ' But thine be ever !' — How shall I relate 
 
 " Th' event that finish'd this ecstatic state ? 
 
 " Yet let me try. — It turn'd, and I beheld 
 
 " A hideous form, that hope and zeal expell'd : 
 
 " In a dim light the horrid shape appear'd, 
 
 " That wisdom would have fled, and courage fear'd, 
 
 " Pale, and yet bloated, with distorted eyes 
 
 " Distant and deep, a mouth of monstrous size, 
 
 " That would in day's broad glare a simple maid 
 
 surprise : 
 " He heard my words, and cried, with savage shout, 
 " ' Bah ! — bother ! — blarney ! — What is this about?' 
 
 " Love, lover, longing, in an instant fled, 
 " Now I had vice and impudence to dread ; 
 " And all my high-wrought fancies died away, 
 " To woman's trouble, terror, and dismay. 
 
 " ' What,' said the M'retch, ' what is it you would 
 have ? 
 " ' Would'st hang a man for peeping in a grave ? 
 " ' Search me yourself, and try if you can feel 
 " ' Aught I have taken, — there was nought to steal : 
 " ' 'T was told they buried with the corpse enough 
 " ' To pay the hazard,— I have made the proof. 
 
496 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS 
 
 " * Nor gain'd a tester. — "What I tell is true ; 
 " ' But I 'm no fool, to be betray'd by you, — 
 " ' I '11 hazard nothing, curse mc if I do '.' 
 
 " The light increased, and plainly now appcar'd 
 " A knavish fool whom I had often fear'd, 
 " But hid the dread ; and I resolved at least 
 " Not to expose it to the powerful beast. 
 
 " ' Come, John,' I said, suppressing fear and 
 doubt, 
 " ' Walk on before, and let a lady out !' — 
 " * Lady !' the wretch replied, with savage grin, 
 " ' Apply to him that let the lady in : 
 " ' What ! you would go, I take it, to the Dean, 
 " ' And tell him what your ladyship has seen.' 
 
 " When thus the fool exposed the knave, I saw 
 " The means of holding such a mind in awe, 
 " And gain my safety by his dread of law. 
 
 " ' Alas I' I cried, ' I fear the Dean like you, 
 " ' For I transgress, and am in trouble too : 
 " ' If it be known that we are here, as sure 
 " ' As here we are we must the law endure : 
 " ' Each other's counsel therefore let us keep, 
 " ' And each steal homeward to our beds and sleep.' 
 
 " ' Steal !' said the ruffian's conscience. — ' Well, 
 agreed ; 
 " ' Steal on, and let us to the door proceed :' — 
 " Yet, ere he moved, he stood a while, and took 
 " Of my poor form a most alarming look ; 
 " ' But, hark !' I cried, and he to move began, — ■ 
 " Escape alone engaged the dreadful man : 
 " With eager hand I oped the ponderous door — 
 " The wretch rusli'd by me, and was heard no more. 
 
 " So T escaped, — and when my dreams came on, 
 " I check'd the madness by the thoughts of John : 
 " Yet say I not what can or cannot be, 
 " But give the story of my Ghost and me." 
 
 BOOK XXI. 
 
 SMUGGLERS AND POACHERS. 
 
 A Widow at the H-iU — Inquiry of Hicliard — Rpl;ition of two 
 Brothers — Their dilTerent Character — Disposition — Mode of 
 thinking — .lamps a Servaiit--l!olHTt joins tlie Smugglers — 
 Rachel at the Hall — .lames attached to her — Trade fails — 
 Robert a Poacher — Is in Danger— How released— James 
 and Rachel — Revenge excited— Association formed — Attick 
 resolved — Preparation made for Resistance— A Night Ad- 
 venture — Reflections. 
 
 There was a Widow in the village known 
 To our good Squire, and he had favour shown 
 By frequent bounty. — Site as usual came. 
 And Richard saw the worn and weary frame. 
 Pale cheek, and eye sul)ducd, of her whose mind 
 Was grateful still, and glad a friend to fiiil, 
 Thougli to the world long since and uU its liopes 
 resign'd : 
 
 Her easy form, in rustic neatness clad, 
 Was pleasing still, but she for ever sad. 
 
 " Deep is her grief!" said Richard, — " truly 
 deep, 
 " And very still, and therefore seems to sleep ; 
 " To borrow simile, to paint her woes, 
 " Theirs, like the river's motion, seems repose, 
 " Making no petty murmuring, — settled, slow, 
 " They never waste, they never overflow. 
 " Rachel is one of those — for there are some 
 " Who look for nothing in their daj's to come, 
 " No good nor evil, neither hope nor fear, 
 " Nothing remains or cheerful or severe ; 
 " One day is like the past, the year's sweet prime 
 " Like the sad fall, — for Rachel heeds not time : 
 " Nothing remains to agitate her breast, 
 " Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest ; 
 " But while it raged her peace its ruin met, 
 " And now the sun is on her prospects set ; — 
 " Leave her, and let us her distress explore, 
 " She heeds it not — she has been left before." 
 
 There were two lads call'd Shelley hither 
 brought. 
 But whence we know not — it was never sought ; 
 Their wandering mother left them, left her name, 
 And the boys throve and valiant men became : 
 Handsome, of more than common size, and tall, 
 And, no one's kindred, seem'd beloved of all : 
 All seem'd alliance by their deeds to prove. 
 And loved the youths who could not claim their love. 
 One was call'd James, the more sedate and grave, 
 The other Robert — names their neighbours gave ; 
 They both were brave, but Robert loved to run 
 And meet his danger — James would rather shun 
 The dangerous trial, but, M'henever tried, 
 He all his spirit to the act apiJlied. 
 
 Robert would aid on any man bestow, 
 James would his man and the occiision know ; 
 For that was quick and prompt — this temperate 
 
 and slow. 
 Robert would all things he desired pursue, 
 James would consider what was best to do ; 
 All spoke of Rol)crt as a man they loved, 
 And most of James as valued and approved. 
 
 Both had some learning : Robert his acquired 
 By quicker parts, and was by praise inspired ; 
 James, as he was in his acquirements slow, 
 Would learn the worth of what he tried to know. 
 In fact, this youth was generous — that was just ; 
 The one you loved, the other you would trust : 
 Yet him you loved you would for truth approve, 
 And him you trusted you would likewise love. 
 
 Such were the brothers — James had found his 
 
 way 
 To Nether Hall, and there inclined to stay; 
 He could himself command, and therefore could 
 
 obey. 
 He with the keeper took his daily round, 
 A rival grew, and some unkindness found ; 
 But his superior farm'd ! the place was void, 
 And James guns, dogs, and dignity enjoy'd. 
 
Kobert had scorn of service ; he would be 
 A slave to no man — happy were the free, 
 And only they : by such opinions led, 
 Robert to sundry kinds of trade was bred ; 
 Nor let us wonder if lie sometimes made 
 An active partner in a lawless trade ; 
 Fond of adventure, wanton as the wave, 
 He loved the danger and the law to brave; 
 But these were chance-adventures, knovra to few, — 
 Not that the hero cared what people knew. 
 
 The brothers met not often — "When they met, 
 James talk'd of honest gains and scoi-n of debt. 
 Of virtuous labour, of a sober life. 
 And what with credit would support a wife. 
 
 But Kobert answer'd, — " How can men advise 
 " Who to a master let their tongue and eyes ? 
 " Whose words are not their own ? whose foot and 
 
 hand 
 " Run at a nod, or act upon command ? 
 " Who cannot eat or drink, discourse or play, 
 " Without requesting others that they may? 
 "Debt you would shun; but what advice to 
 
 give, 
 " Who owe your service every hour you live : 
 " Let a bell sound, and from yrur friends you run, 
 " Although the darling of your het.rt were one ; 
 " But if the bondage fits you, I resign 
 " You to your lot — I am content with mine !" 
 
 Thus would the Lads their sentiments express, 
 And part in earnest, part in playfulness ; 
 Till Love, controller of all hearts and eyes. 
 Breaker of bonds, of friendship's holv ties, 
 Awakener of new wills and slumberinj' sympathies, 
 Began his reign, — till Rachel, meek-eyed maid, 
 That form, those cheeks, that faultless face dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 That child of gracious nature, ever neat 
 And never fine ; a flow'rct simply sweet, 
 Seeming at least unconscious she was fair ; 
 Meek in her spirit, timid in her air, 
 And shrinking from his glance if one presumed 
 To come too near the beauty as it bloom'd. 
 
 Robert beheld her in her father's cot 
 Day after day, and bless'd his happy lot ; 
 He look'd indeed, but he could not offend 
 By gentle looks — he was her father's friend : 
 She was accustom'd to that tender look, 
 And frankly gave the hand he fondly took ; 
 She loved his stories, pleased she heard him play. 
 Pensive herself, she loved to see him gay, 
 And if they loved not yet, they were in Love's 
 highway. 
 
 But Rachel now to womanhood was grown, 
 And would no more her faith and fondness own ; 
 She call'd her latent prudence to her aid. 
 And grew observant, cautious, and afraid ; 
 She heard relations of her lover's guile. 
 And could believe the danger of his smile ; 
 With art insidious rival damsels strove 
 To show how false his speech, how feign'd his 
 
 love; 
 And though her heart another story told, 
 Her speech grew cautious, and her manner cold. 
 
 Rachael had village fame, was fair and tall. 
 And gain'd a place of credit at the Hall ; 
 Where James beheld her seated in that place. 
 With a child's meekness, and an angel's face ; 
 Her temper soft, her spirit firm, her words 
 Simple and few as simple truth aifords. 
 
 James could but love her, — he at church had 
 seen 
 The tall, fair maid, had met heron the green. 
 Admiring, always, nor surprised to find 
 Her figure often present to his mind ; 
 But now he saw her daily, and the sight 
 Gave him new pleasure and increased delight. 
 
 But James, still prudent and reserved, though 
 sure 
 The love he felt was love that would endure, 
 Would wait a while, observing what was fit. 
 And meet, and right, nor would himself commit ; 
 Then was he flatter'd — James in time became 
 Rich, both as slayer of the Baron's game 
 And as protector, — not a female dwelt 
 In that demesne who had not feign'd or felt 
 Regard for James ; and he from all had praise 
 Enough a young man's vanity to raise ; 
 With all these pleasures he of course must part. 
 When Rachel reign'd sole empress of his heart. 
 
 Robert was now deprived of that delight 
 He once experienced in his mistress' sight; 
 For, though he now his frequent visits paid. 
 He saw but little of the cautious maid : 
 The sin ule common pleasures that he took 
 Grew dull, and he the wonted haunts forsook ; 
 His flute and song he left, his book and pen. 
 And sought the meetings of adventurous men ; 
 There was a love-born sadness in his breast, 
 That wanted stimulus to bring on rest ; 
 These simple pleasures were no more of use. 
 And danger only could repose produce ; 
 He join'd th' associates in their lawless trade. 
 And was at length of their profession made. 
 
 He saw connected with th' adventurous crew 
 Those whom he judged were sober men and true ; 
 He found that some, who should the trade pre- 
 vent. 
 Gave it by purchase their encouragement ; 
 He found that contracts could be made with those 
 Who had their pay these dealers to oppose ; 
 And the good ladies whom at church he saw 
 With looks devout, of reverence and awe. 
 Could change their feelings as they change their 
 
 place. 
 And, whispering, deal for spicery and lace : 
 And thus the craft and avarice of these 
 Urged on the youth, and gave his conscience ease. 
 
 Him loved the maiden Rachel, fondly loved. 
 As many a sigh and tear in absence proved, 
 And many a fear for dangers that she knew. 
 And many a doubt what one so gay might do : 
 Of guilt she thought not, — she had often heard 
 They bought and sold, and nothing wrong ap- 
 
 pcar'd ; 
 Her father's maxim this : she understood 
 There was some ill, — but he, she knew, was good 
 
 2 L 
 
498 
 
 CllABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 It was a traffic — but was done \>y night— 
 If wrong, how trade ? why secrecy, if right ? 
 But Robert's conscience, she believed, was pure — 
 And that he read his Bible she was sure. 
 
 James, better taught, in confidence declared 
 His grief for what his guilty brother dared : 
 He sigh'd to think how near he was akin 
 To one reduced by godless men to sin ; 
 "Who, being always of the law in dread, 
 To other crimes were by the danger led — 
 And crimes ■with like excuse. — The Smuggler 
 
 cries, 
 " What guilt is his who pays for what he buys ?" 
 The Poacher questions, with perverted mind, 
 " Were not the gifts of Heaven for all design'd ?" 
 77/15 cries, " I sin not — take not till I pay ;" — 
 That, *' My own hand brought down my proper 
 
 prey :"— 
 And while to such fond arguments they cling, 
 How fear they God ? how honour they the king ? 
 Such men associate, and each other aid, 
 Till all are guilty, rash, and desperate made ; 
 Till to some lawless deed the wretches fly. 
 And in the act, or for the acting, die. 
 
 The maid was frighten'd, — but, if this was true, 
 Robert for certain no such danger knew ; 
 He always pray'd ere he a trip began. 
 And was too happy for a wicked man : 
 How could a creature, who was always gay. 
 So kind to all men, so disposed to pray, — • 
 How could he give his heart to such an evil way ? 
 Yet she had fears, — for she could not believe 
 That James could lie, or purpose to deceive ; 
 But still she found, though not without respect 
 For one so good, she must the man reject ; 
 For, simple though she was, full well she knew 
 Wliat this strong friendship led him to pursue ; 
 And, let the man be honest as the light, 
 Love warps the mind a little from the right ; 
 And she proposed, against the trying day, 
 What in the trial she should think and say. 
 
 And now, their love avow'd, in both arose 
 Fear and disdain, — the orphan pair were foes. 
 
 Robert, more generous of the two, avow'd 
 His scorn, defiance, and contempt aloud. 
 
 James talk'd of pity in a softer tone, 
 To Rachel speaking, and with her alone : 
 He know full well, he said, to what must come 
 His wretched brother, what would be his doom : 
 Thus he her bosom fenced with dread about ; 
 But love he could not with his skill drive ou'>,. 
 Still he cflected something, — and that skill 
 Made the love wretched, though it could not kill ; 
 And Robert fail'd, tliough much he tried, to prove 
 He had no guilt — she granted he had love. 
 
 Thus they proceeded, till a winter came. 
 When the stern keeper told of stolen game : 
 Throughout the woods the poaching dogs had 
 
 been, 
 And from him nothing sliould the robbers screen. 
 From him and law, — lie would all hazards run, 
 Nor spare n poacher, were his brother one, — 
 
 Love, favour, interest, tie of blood should fail. 
 Till vengeance bore him bleeding to the jail. 
 
 Poor Rachel shudder'd, — smuggling she could 
 name 
 Without confusion, for she felt not shame ; 
 But poachers were her terror, and a wood 
 Which they frequented had beenmark'd by blood ; 
 And though she thought her Robert was secure 
 In better thoughts, yet could she not be sure. 
 
 James now was urgent, — it would break his 
 
 heart 
 With hope, with her, and with such views to part, 
 When one so wicked would her hand possess. 
 And he a brother ! — that was his distress, 
 And must be hers.- — She heard him, and she 
 
 sigh'd, 
 Looking in doubt, — but nothing she replied. 
 There was a generous feeling in her mind. 
 That told her this was neither good nor kind : 
 James caused her terror, but he did no more — 
 Her love was now as it had been before. 
 
 Their traffic fail'd — and the adventurous crew 
 No more their proiitlcss attempts renew : 
 Dig they will not, and beg they might in vain. 
 Had they not pride, and what can then remain ? 
 
 Now was the game destroy'd, and not a hare 
 Escaped at least the danger of the snare ; 
 Woods of their feather'd beauty were bereft, 
 The beauteous victims of the silent theft ; 
 The well-known shops received a large supply, 
 That they who could not kill at least might buy. 
 
 James was enraged, enraged his lord, and both 
 Confirm'd their threatening with a vengeful oath : 
 Fresh aid was sought, — and nightly on the lands 
 Walk'd on their watch the strong, determined 
 
 bands : 
 Pardon was ofier'd, and a promised pay. 
 To him who would the desperate gang betray. 
 Nor fail'd the measure, — on a certain night 
 A few were seized — the rest escaped by flight ; 
 Yet they resisted boldly ere they fled. 
 And blows were dealt around, and blood was shed ; 
 Two groaning helpers on the earth were laid, 
 When more arrived the lawful cause to aid ; 
 Then four determined men were seized and bound, 
 And Robert in this desperate number found : 
 In prison fetter'd, he deplored his fate, 
 And cursed the folly he perceived too late. 
 
 James was a favourite witli his lord, — the zonl 
 He show'd was such as masters ever feel : 
 If he for vengeance on a culprit cried. 
 Or if for mercy, still his lord complied ; 
 And now, 't was said, he will for mercy plead. 
 For his own brother's was tlic guilty deed : 
 True, the hurt man is in a mending way, 
 But must be crippled to his dying day. 
 
 Now James had vow'd the law should take its 
 course. 
 He would not stay it, if ho did not force ; 
 He coul<l his witness, if he pleased, withdraw, 
 Or he could arm with certain death the law : 
 
This he attested to the maid, and true, 
 
 If this he could not, yet he much could do. 
 
 How suffer'd then that maid 1 — no thought she 
 had. 
 No view of days to come, that was not sad ; 
 As sad as life with all its hopes resign'd. 
 As sad as aught but guilt can make mankind. 
 
 ■\Vith bitter grief the pleasure she review'd 
 Of early hope, with innocence pursued, 
 When she began to love, and he was fond and good. 
 He now must die, she heard from every tongue — 
 Die, and so thoughtless ! perish, and so young ! 
 Brave, kind, and generous, tender, constant, true — 
 And he must die—" Then will I perish too !" 
 
 A thousand acts in every age will prove 
 "Women are valiant in a cause they love ; 
 If fate the favour'd swaiu in danger place. 
 They heed not danger — perils they embrace ; 
 They dare the world's contempt, they brave their 
 
 name's disgrace ; 
 They on the ocean meet its ^riId alanns, 
 They search the dungeon with extended arms ; 
 The utmost trial of their faith they prove, 
 And yield the lover to assert their love. 
 
 James knew his power — his feelings were not 
 nice — 
 Mercy he sold, and she must pay the price : 
 If his good lord forbore to urge their fate. 
 And he the utmost of their guilt to state. 
 The felons might their forfeit lives redeem. 
 And in their country's cause regain esteem ; 
 But never more that man, whom he had shame 
 To call his brother, must she see or name. 
 
 Kachel was meek, but she had firmness too. 
 And reason'd much on what she ought to do : 
 In Robert's place, she knew what she should 
 
 choose — 
 But life was not the thing she fear'd to lose : 
 She knew that she could not their contract break, 
 Xor for her life a new engagement make ; 
 But he was man, and guilty, — death so near 
 JMight not to his as to her mind appear ; 
 And he might wish, to spare that fo-feit life. 
 The maid he loved might be his brother's wife. 
 Although that brother was his bitter foe. 
 And he must all the sweets of life forego. 
 
 This would she try, — intent on this alone. 
 She could assume a calm and settled tone : 
 She spake with firmness, - " I will Kobert see, 
 '' Know what he wishes, and what I must be ;" 
 For James had now discover'd to the maid 
 His inmost heart, and how he must be paid, 
 If he his lord would soften, and would hide 
 The facts that must the culprit's fate decide. 
 " Go not," he said, — for she her full intent 
 Proclaim'd — to go she purposed, and she went : 
 She took a guide, and went with purpose stern 
 The secret wishes of her friend to learn. 
 
 She saw him fetter'd, full of grief, alone, 
 Still as the dead, and he suppress'd a groan 
 
 At her appearance. — Now she pray'd for strength ; 
 And the sad couple could converse at length. 
 It was a scene that shook her to repeat, — 
 Life fought with love, both powerful, and both 
 sweet. 
 
 " Wilt thou die, Eobert, or preserve thy life ? 
 " Shall I be thine own maid, or James's vrife ?" 
 
 " His wife ! — No ! — never will I thee resign — 
 " No, Rachel, no !" — "Then am I ever thine : 
 " I know thee rash and guilty, — but to thee 
 " I pledged my vow, and thine will ever be. 
 " Yet think again. — the life that God has lent 
 " Is thine, but not to cast away — consent, 
 " If 't is thy wish ; for tnis I made my way 
 " To thy distress — command, and I obey." 
 
 " Perhaps my brother may have gain'd thy 
 heart ?" 
 '• Then why this visit, if I wish'd to part? 
 "■ Was it — ah, man ungrateful ! — wise to make 
 " Efibrt like this, to hazard for thy sake 
 '• A spotless reputation, and to be 
 " A suppliant to that stern man for thee ! 
 " But I forgive, — thy spirit has been tried, 
 " And thou art weak, but still thou must decide. 
 
 " I ask'd thy brother James, wouldst thou 
 command, 
 " Without the loving heart, the obedient hand? 
 " I ask thee, Robert, lover, canst thou part 
 '' With this poor hand, when master of the heart ? — 
 " He answer'd. Yes !— I tarry thy reply, 
 " Resign'd with him to live, content with thee to 
 die." 
 
 Assured of this, with spirits low and tame. 
 Here life so purchased — there a death of shame ; 
 Death once his merriment, but now his dread. 
 And he with terror thought upon the dead : 
 " O ! sure 'tis better to endure the care 
 " And pain of Hfe, than go we know not where : — 
 " And is there not the dreaded hell for sin, 
 " Or is it only this I feel within ? 
 " That, if it lasted, no man would sustain, 
 " But would by any change relieve the pain : 
 " Forgive me, love ! it is a loathsome thing 
 " To live not thine ; but still this dreaded sting 
 " Of death torments me, — I to nature cling. 
 " Go, and be his — but love him not, be sure — 
 " Go, love him not, — and I will life endure : 
 " He, too, is mortal !" — Rachel deeply sisrh'd, 
 But would no more converse : she had complied, 
 And was no longer free — she was his brother's 
 bride. 
 
 " Farewell !" she said, with kindness, but not 
 fond. 
 Feeling the pressure of the recent bond. 
 And put her tenderness apart to give 
 Advice to one who so desired to Uve : 
 She then departed, join'd the attending guide. 
 Reflected — wept — was sad — was satisfied. 
 
 James on her worth and virtue could depend, — 
 He lisiPu'd gladly to her story's end : 
 
 2 l2 
 
500 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Again he promised Robert's life to save, 
 
 And claim'd the hand that she in payment gave. 
 
 Robert, when death no longer was in view, 
 Scorn'd what was done, but could not tliis undo : 
 The day appointed for the trial near 
 He view'd with shame, and not unmix'd with 
 
 fear : 
 Jd,mes might deceive him ; and, if not, the 
 
 schemes 
 Of men may fail. — " Can I depend on James ?" 
 
 He might ; for now the grievous price was 
 paid — 
 James to the altar led the victim maid. 
 And gave the trembling girl his faithful word 
 For Robert's safety, and so gave my lord. 
 
 But this, and all the promise hope could give. 
 Gilded not Ufe, — it was not joy to live; 
 There was no smile in Racliel, nothing gay, 
 The hours pass'd oif, but never danced away. 
 When drew the gloomy day for trial near. 
 There came a note to Robert, — " Banish fear !" 
 
 He knew whence safety came, — his terror fled. 
 But rage and vengeance fiU'd his soul instead. 
 
 A stronger fear in his companions rose — 
 The day of trial on their hopes might close : 
 They had no brothers, none to intercede 
 For them, their friends suspected, and in need ; 
 Soatter'd, they judged, and could unite no more, — 
 Not so, — they then were at the prison door. 
 
 For some had met who sought the haunts they 
 loved. 
 And were to pity and to vengeance moved : 
 Their fellows perish ? and they see their fall ?— 
 "Why not attempt tlm steep but guardless wall ? 
 
 Attempt was made, his part assign'd eacli man. 
 And they succeeded in the desperate plan ; 
 In truth, a purposed mercy smoothed their way. 
 But that they knew not — all triumphant tliey. 
 Safe in their well-known haunts, they all prepared 
 To plan anew, and show how much they dared. 
 
 Vv'ith joy the troubled heart of ilobert beat, 
 For life was his, and liberty was sweet ; 
 He look'd around in freedom — in delight? 
 O ! no — his Rachel was another's right! 
 " Right ! — has he then jjrescrved me in the day 
 " Of my distress? — He has tlie lovely pay! 
 " Hut 1 ni) freedom at tlie slave's request, — 
 '• 'I'he price I paid sliall tlien be repossess'd ! 
 " Alas! her virtue and tlic law prevent, 
 " l'"orce cannot be, and she will not consent ; 
 " Hut were that brother gone !--A brother ? No ! 
 " \ circumventor ! — and the wretcli shall go ! 
 " Yet not this hand — How shifts about my mind, 
 " Ungovoni'd, guideless, drifting in the wind ! 
 " .\nd 1 am all a tempest, whirl'd around 
 " By dreadful tlioughts, that fright me and con- 
 found. 
 " I would 1 saw him on the earth laid low ! 
 " I wish the fate, but must not give the blow !" 
 
 So thinks a man when thoughtful; he prefers 
 A life of peace till man his anger stirs. 
 Then all the efforts of his reason cease. 
 And he forgets how pleasant was that peace ; 
 Till the wild passions what they seek obtain. 
 And then he sinks into his calm again. 
 
 Now met the lawless clan, — in secret met, 
 And down at their convivial board were set ; 
 The plans in view to past adventures led. 
 And the past conflicts present anger bred ; 
 They sigh'd for pleasures gone, they groan' d for 
 
 heroes dead : 
 Their ancient stores were rifled, — strong desires 
 Awaked, and wine rekindled latent fires. 
 
 It was a night such bold desires to move, 
 Strong winds and- wintry torrents fiU'd the grove ; 
 The crackling boughs that in the forest fell, 
 The cawing rooks, the cur's affrighten'd yell. 
 The scenes above the wood, the floods below, 
 Were mix'd, and none the single sound could 
 
 know ; 
 " Loud blow the blasts," they cried, "and callus 
 
 as they blow." 
 
 In such a night— and then the heroes told 
 What had been done in better times of old ; 
 How they had conquer'd all opposed to them, 
 By force in part, in part by stratagem ; 
 And as the tales inflamed the fiery crew, 
 What had been done they then prepared to do ; 
 " 'T is a last night !" they said — the angry blast 
 And roaring floods seem'd answering, " 'T is a 
 last !" 
 
 James knew they met, for he had spies about, 
 Grave, sober men, whom none presumed to doubt ! 
 For if suspected, they had soon been tried 
 Where fears are evidence, and doubts decide : 
 But these escaped. — Now James companions took, 
 Sturdy and bold, with terror-stirring look : 
 He had before, by informations led. 
 Left the afflicted partner of his bed ; 
 Awaked his men, and througli plantations wide. 
 Deep woods, .and trackless ling, had been their 
 
 guide : 
 And then return'd to wake the pitying wife, 
 And hear her tender terrors for his life. 
 
 But in this night a sure informer came, — 
 They -were assembled who attaek'd his game ; 
 Who more than once had through the park made 
 
 way, 
 And slain the dappled breed, or vow"d to slay ; 
 The trembling spy had heard the solemn vow, 
 And need and vengeance both inspired them now. 
 
 The keeper early had retired to rest 
 For t)rief repose ; sad thoughts his mind possess'd : 
 In his short sleep he started from Ids bed. 
 And nsk'd in fancy's terror, " Is lie dead ?" 
 There was a call below, when James awoke. 
 Rose from his bed, and arms to aid him took. 
 Not all ilefensive ! — there his helpers stood, 
 Arm'd like himself, and hastening to the wood. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 501 
 
 " Why this?" he said ; for Rachel pour'd her 
 tears 
 Profuse, that spoke involuntary fears : 
 " Sleep, that so early thou for us mayst wake, 
 " And we our comforts in return may take ; 
 '' Sleep, and farewell '" he said, and took his way, 
 And the sad wife in neither could obey ; 
 She slept not nor well fared, but restless dwelt 
 On her past life, and past afflictions felt : 
 The man she loved, the brother and the foe 
 Of him she married ! — It had wrought her woe ; 
 Not that she loved, but pitied, and that now 
 Was, so she fear"d, infringement of her vow : 
 James too was civil, though she must confess 
 That his was not her kind of happiness : 
 That he would shoot the man who shot a hare, 
 Was what her timid conscience could not bear ; 
 But still she loved him — wonder'd where he stray 'd 
 In this loud night, and if he were afraid. 
 
 More than one hour she thought, and, dropping 
 then 
 In sudden sleep, cried loudly, " Spare him, men ! 
 " And do no murder '." — then awaked she rose. 
 And thought no more of trying for repose. 
 
 'Twas past the dead of night, when every sound 
 That nature mingles might be heard around ; 
 But none from man, — man's feeble voice was 
 
 hush'd, 
 Where rivers swelling roar'd, and woods were 
 
 crush'd ; 
 Hurried by these, the wife could sit no more. 
 But must the terrors of the night explore. 
 
 Softly she left her door, her garden gate, 
 And seem'd as then committed to her fate : 
 To every horrid thought and doubt a prey, 
 She hurried on, already lost her way : 
 Oft as she glided on in that sad night, 
 She stopp'd to listen, and she look'd for light ; 
 An hour she wander'd, and was still to learn 
 Aught of her husband's safety or return : 
 A sudden break of heavy clouds could show 
 A place she knew not, but she strove to know : 
 Still further on she crept with trembling feet, 
 With hope a friend, with fear a foe to meet ; 
 And there was something fearful in the sight 
 And in the sound of what appear'd to-night ; 
 For now, of night and nervous terror bred. 
 Arose a strong and superstitious dread ; 
 She heard strange noises, and the shapes she saw 
 Of fancied beings bound her soul in awe. 
 
 The moon was risen, and she sometimes shone 
 Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous 
 
 on. 
 Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed. 
 That her soft light imprison'd and then freed : 
 The fitful glimmering through the hedge-row 
 
 green 
 Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene ; 
 And roaring winds and rushing waters lent 
 ' Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. 
 
 To these she listen'd; but new sounds -.vcrc 
 heard, 
 And sight more startling to her Sdul appear'd ; 
 
 There were low lengthen'd tones with sobs be- 
 tween. 
 And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen ; 
 She hurried on, and " Who is there ?" she cried. — 
 " A dying wretch !" was from the eartli replied. 
 
 It was her lover — was the man she gave. 
 The price she paid, himself from death to save ; 
 With whom, expiring, she must kneel and pray. 
 While the soul flitted from the shivering clay 
 That press' d the dewy ground, and bled its life 
 
 away ! 
 This was the part that duty bade her take. 
 Instant and ere her feelings were awake ; 
 But now they waked to anguish : there came then, 
 Hurrying with lights, loud-speaking, eager men. 
 
 " And here, my lord, we met — And who is 
 here ? 
 '' The keeper's wife ! — Ah ! woman, go not near ! 
 " There lies the man that was the head of all — 
 " See, in his temples went the fatal ball ! 
 " And James that instant, who was then our guide, 
 " Felt in his heart the adverse shot, and died ! 
 " It was a sudden meeting, and the light 
 " Of a dull moon made indistinct our fight ; 
 "He foremost fell I — But see, the woman creeps 
 " Like a lost thing, that wanders as she sleeps. 
 " See, here her husband's body — but she knows 
 " That other dead, and that her action shows. 
 " Rachel ! why look you at your mortal foe ? — 
 " She does not hear us — Whither will she go ?" 
 
 Now, more attentive, on the dead they gazed, 
 And they were brothers: sorrowing and amazed. 
 On aU a momentary silence came, 
 A common softness, and a moral shame. 
 
 " Seized you the poachers?" said ray lord. — 
 " They fled, 
 " And we pursued not — one of them was dead, 
 " And one of us : they hurried through the wood, 
 " Two lives were gone, and we no more pursued. 
 " Two lives of men, of valiant brothers, lost ! 
 " Enough, my lord, do hares and pheasants cost !" 
 
 So many thought, and there is found a heart 
 To dwell upon the deaths on either part ; 
 Since this their morals have been more correct. 
 The cruel spirit in the place is check'd ; 
 His lordship holds not in such sacred care. 
 Nor takes such dreadful vengeance for a hare ; 
 The smugglers fear, the poacher stands in awe 
 Of Heaven's own act, and reverence the law ; 
 There was, there is, a terror in the place 
 That operates on man's offending race ; 
 I'-uch acts will stamp their moral on the soul. 
 And, while the bad they threaten and control, 
 Will to the pious and the humble say. 
 Yours is the right, the safe, the certain way ; 
 'T is wisdom to be good, 't is virtue to obey. 
 
 So Rachel thinks, the pure, the good, the meek. 
 Whose ontward acts the inward purpose speak ; 
 As men will children at their sports behoM, 
 And smile to see tlicm, thougli unmoved nad cold, 
 Smile ct the recollected games, and then 
 Depart and mis in the affairs of men : 
 
 J 
 
502 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 So Rachel looks upon the world, and sees 
 
 It cannot longer pain her, longer please, 
 
 But just detain the passing thought, or cause 
 
 A gentle smile of pity or applause : 
 
 And then the recollected soul repairs 
 
 Her slumbering hope, and heeds her own affairs.' 
 
 BOOK XXII. 
 
 THE VISIT CONCLUDED. 
 
 Richard prepares to depart — Visits the Rector — His Reception 
 — Visit to the Sisters — Their present Situation — The Morn- 
 ing of the last Day — The Conference ol' the Brothers — 
 Their Excursion — Richard dissatisfied — The Brother expos- 
 tulates — The End of their Ride, and of the Day's Business 
 — Conclusion, 
 
 " No letters, Tom ?" said Richard — " None to- 
 day." 
 
 " Excuse me, Brother, I must now away ; 
 
 " Matilda never in her life so long 
 
 " Deferr'd — Alas ! there must be something 
 wrong !" 
 
 " Comfort !" said George, and all he could he 
 
 lent ; 
 " Wait till your promised day, and I consent ; 
 " Two days, and those of hope, may cheerfully be 
 
 spent. 
 
 " And keep your purpose, to review the place, 
 " My choice ; and I beseech you do it grace : 
 " Mark each apartment, their proportions leani, 
 " And either use or elegance discern ; 
 " Look o'er the land, the gardens, and their wall, 
 " Find out the something to admire in all; 
 " And should you praise them in a knowing style, 
 " I'll take it kindly :— it is well— a smile." 
 
 ' [" The story of Rachel is a frightful one. She was courted 
 by two brothers, one of whom was a poacher, and one a game- 
 keeper. She loves the poacher ; but his irre„'ularities put 
 his life in dinger from the law ; while his rival brother, who 
 is the prosecutor, makes her marriage witli him the condition 
 of his forbearance. The devoted woman consults her impri- 
 soned lover, in a scene that will almost bear a comparison 
 witli that between Isabella and Claudio; and h(.', likeClaudio, 
 submits to purchase his life by tliat terrible sacrifice — 
 
 ' Farewell 1 she cried, with kindness, but not fond— 
 ' And put her tenderness apnrt, to give 
 ■ Advice to one who so desired to live.' 
 
 The advice and the sacrifice are both in vain : the outlaw 
 returns to his guilty practices, and the brotliers fall bv each 
 other's hands in a midnight rncounter, and are found Yield- 
 ing by their distracted victim. 'I'lie epilogue is mild and 
 solemn, and in perfect harmony with tlie whole strain of the 
 fable." — Jeffrky. 
 
 The subject of ' Smugglers and Poachers ' was suggested to 
 Mr. Ciabbeby Sir Samuel Romilly. on the luth of September, 
 1HI8. Sir Samuel died on the 30th of October ; and on the 
 blank leaf, at the end of the MS. of this Tale, appear il.o fol- 
 lowing verses, dated Ilampstcad, November 6, 1818:— 
 
 Richard must now his morning visits pay, 
 And bid farewell ! for he must go away. 
 
 He sought the Rector first, not lately scon. 
 For he had absent from his parisli been : 
 " Farewell !" the younger man with feeling cried; 
 " Farewell !" the cold but worthy priest replied ; 
 " When do you leave us?" — "I have days but 
 
 two." 
 " 'T is a short time — but, well — adieu, adieu !" 
 
 " Now here 's one," said Richard, as he went 
 To the next friend in pensive discontent, 
 " With whom I sat in social, friendly ease, 
 " Whom I respected, whom I wish'd to please ; 
 " Whose love profess'd 1 question'd not was true, 
 " And now to hear his heartless, ' Well, adieu I' 
 
 " But 'tis not well — and lie a man of sense, 
 " Grave, but yet looking strong benevolence ; 
 " Whose slight acerbity and roughness told 
 " To his advantage ; yet the man is cold : 
 " Nor will he know, when rising in the morn, 
 " That such a being to the world was born. 
 
 " Are such the friendships we contract in life ? 
 " Oh ! give me then the friendship of a wife ! 
 " Adieus, nay, parting-pains, to us are sweet, 
 " They make so glad the moments when we meet : 
 " For though we look not for regard intense, 
 " Or warm professions in a man of sense, 
 " Yet in the daily intercourse of mind 
 " I thought that found which I desired to find, 
 " Feeling and frankness — thus it seem'd to me, 
 " And such farewell !— Well, Rector, let it be !" 
 
 Of the fair Sisters then he took his leave, — 
 Forget he could not, he must think and grieve, — 
 Must the impression of their '\\Tongs retain. 
 Their very patience adding to his pain ; 
 And still the better they their sorrows bore, 
 His friendlj' nature made him feel them more. 
 
 He judged they must have many a heavj' hour 
 When the mind suffers from a want of power ; 
 
 " Thus had I written, so a friend advised, 
 Whom as the first of counsellors I prized, 
 'I'lie best of guides to my assuming pen. 
 The best of fathers, husbands, judijes, men. 
 ' This will he read,' I said, ' and I shall hear 
 Opinion wise, instructive, mild, sincere, 
 For I that mind respect, for I the man revere.' 
 
 " I had no boding fear, but thought to see 
 Tliose who were tliine, who look'd for all to thee; 
 .\nd thou wert all 1 there was, when thou wert by, 
 DifTused around the rare felicity 
 That wisdom, worth, and kindness can impart, 
 To form the mind and gratify the heart. 
 
 " Yes! I was proud to speak of thee, as one 
 Who had approved the little I had done, 
 And taught me what I should do! —Thou wouldst raise 
 My doubting spirit by a smile of praise, 
 A lid words of comfort ! groat was thy delight 
 Fear to expel, and ardour to excite. 
 To wrest th' oppressor's arm, and do the injured right. 
 
 " Thou hadst the tear for pity, :ind thv breast 
 Felt for the sad, the weary, the oppress'd I 
 And now, afflicting change I all join with me, 
 Aad feel, lamented Romii.ly, for thee.'] 
 
When, troubled long, we find our strength decay'd, 
 And cannot then recall our better aid ; 
 For to the mind, ere yet that aid has flown, 
 Grief has possess'd, and made it all his own ; 
 And patience suffers, till, with gather'd might, 
 The scatter'd forces of the soul unite. 
 
 But few and short such times of suffering were 
 In Lucy's mind, and brief the reign of care. 
 Jane had, indeed, her flights, but had in them 
 What we could pity, but must not condemn ; 
 For they were always pure, and oft sublime, 
 And such as triumph'd over earth and time, 
 Thoughts of eternal love that souls possess, 
 Foretaste divine of heaven's own happiness. 
 
 Oft had he seen them, and esteem had sprung 
 In his free mind for maids so sad and young. 
 So good and grieving, and his place was high 
 In their esteem, his friendly bi'other's nigh, 
 But yet beneath ; and when he said adieu ! 
 Their tone was kind, and was responsive too. 
 
 Parting was painful ; when adieu he cried, 
 " You will return ?" the gentle girls replied ; 
 " You must return ! your Brother knows you now, 
 " But to exist without you knows not how ; 
 " Has he not told us of the lively joy 
 " He takes — forgive us — in the Brother-boy ? 
 " He is alone and pensive ; you can give 
 " Pleasure to one by whom a number live 
 " In daily comfort — sure for this you met, 
 " That for his debtors you might pay a debt : 
 " The poor are call'd ungrateful, but you stiU 
 " Will have their thanks for this — indeed you 
 will." 
 
 Richard but little said, for he of late 
 Held with himself contention and debate. 
 
 " My Brother loves me, his regard I know ; 
 " But will not such affection weary grow ? 
 " He kindly says, ' Defer the parting day,' 
 " But yet may wish me in his heart away ; 
 " Nothing but kindness I in him perceive, 
 " In me 't is kindness then to take my leave ; 
 '• Why should I grieve if he should weary be ? 
 " There have been visiters who wearied me ; 
 " He yet may love, and we may part in peace, 
 " Nay, in affection — novelty must cease — 
 " Man is but man; the thing he most desires 
 " Pleases awhile — then pleases not — then tires : 
 " George to his former habits and his friends 
 " Will now return — and so my visit ends." 
 
 Thus Kichard communed with his heart ; but 
 still 
 He fou:id opposed his reason and his will. 
 Found that liis thoughts were busy in this train, 
 And he was striving to be calm in vain. 
 
 These thoughts were passing while he yet for- 
 bore 
 To leave the friends whom he might see no more. 
 
 Then came a chubby child and sought relief, 
 Sobbing in all the impotence of grief; 
 
 A full-fed girl she was, with ruddy cheek, 
 And features coarse, that grosser feelings speak, 
 To whom another miss, with passions strong, 
 And slender fist, had done some baby-wrong. 
 On Lucy's gentle mind had Barlow wrought 
 To teach this child, whom she had labouring 
 
 taught 
 With unpaid love — this unproductive brain 
 Would little comprehend, and less retain. 
 
 A farmer's daughter, with redundant health. 
 And double Lucy's weight and Lucy's wealth, 
 Had won the man's regard, and he with her 
 Possess'd the treasure vulgar minds prefer ; 
 A man of thrift, and thriving, he possess'd 
 What he esteem'd of earthly good the best ; 
 And Lucy's well-stored mind had not a charm 
 For this true lover of the well-stock'd farm, 
 This slave to petty wealth and rustic toil. 
 This earth-devoted wooer of the soil : — 
 But she with meekness took the wayward child. 
 And sought to make the savage nature mild. 
 
 But Jane her judgment with decision gave — 
 " Train not an idiot to oblige a slave." 
 
 And where is Bloomer ? Richard would have 
 said. 
 But he was cautious, feeling, and afraid ; 
 And little either of the hero knew, 
 And little sought — he might be married too. 
 
 Now to his home, the morning visits past, 
 Retum'd the guest — that evening was his last. 
 He met his Brother, and they spoke of those 
 From whom his comforts in the village rose ; 
 Spoke of the favourites, whom so good and kind 
 It was peculiar happiness to find : 
 Then fur the sisters in their griefs they felt. 
 And, sad themselves, on saddening subjects dwelt. 
 
 But George was willing all this woe to spare, 
 And let to-morrow be to-morrow's care : 
 He of his purchase talk'd — a thing of course. 
 As men will boldly praise a new-bought horse. 
 Richard was not to all its beauty blind, 
 And promised still to seek, with hope to find : 
 
 " The price indeed " 
 
 " Yes, that," said George, "is high ; 
 " But if I bought not, one was sure to buy, 
 " Who might the social comforts we enjoy, 
 " And every comfort, lessen or destroy. 
 
 " We must not always reckon what we give, 
 " But think how precious 't is in peace to live ; 
 " Some neighbour Nimrod might in very pride 
 " Have stirr'd my anger, and have then defied ; 
 " Or worse, have loved, and teased me to excess 
 " By his kind care to give me happiness ; 
 " Or might his lady and her daughters bring, 
 " To raise my spirits, to converse, and sing : 
 " 'T was not the benefit alone I view'd, 
 " But thought what horrid things I might exclude. 
 
 " Some party man might here have sat him down, 
 " Some country champion, railing at the crowr., 
 
504 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Or some true courtier, both prepared to prove, 
 " "\V]io loved not them, could not their country 
 
 love : 
 " If we have value for our health and ease, 
 " Should we not buy off enemies like these ?" 
 
 So pass'd the evening in a quiet way. 
 When, lo ! the morning of the parting day. 
 
 Each to the table vent with clouded look, 
 And George in silence gazed upon a book ; 
 Something that chance had offer'd to his view, — 
 He knew not what, or cared not, if he knew. 
 
 Richard his hand upon a paper laid, — 
 His vacant eye upon the carpet stray'd ; 
 His tongue was talking something of the day, 
 And his vex'd mind was wandering on his way. 
 
 They spake by fits, — but neither had concern 
 In the replies, — they nothing wish'd to learn, 
 Nor to relate ; each sat as one who tries 
 To baffle sadnesses and sympathies : 
 Each of his Brother took a steady view, — 
 As actor he, and as observer too. 
 
 Richard, whose heart was ever free and frank, 
 Had now a trial, and before it sank : 
 lie thought his Brother — parting now so near — 
 Appear'd not as his Brother should appear ; 
 He could as much of tenderness remark 
 When parting for a ramble in the park. 
 
 " Yet, is it just ?" he thought ; " and would I see 
 " My Brother wretched but to part with me ? 
 " What can he further in my mind explore ? 
 " He saw enough, and he would see no more : 
 " Happy himself, he wishes now to slide 
 " Back to his habits — He is satisfied ; 
 " But 1 am not — this cannot be denied. 
 " He has been kind, — so let me think him still ; 
 " Yet he expresses not a wish, a will 
 " To meet again !" — And thus affection strove 
 With pride, and petulance made war on love : 
 He thought his Brother cool — he knew him kind — 
 And there was sore division in his mind. 
 
 " Hours yet remain, — 't is misery to sit 
 " With minds for conversation all unfit ; 
 " No evil can from change of place arise, 
 " And good will spring from air and exercise : 
 " Suppose I take the purposed ride with you, 
 " And guide your jaded praise to objects new, 
 " That buyers see ?" — 
 
 And Richard gave assent 
 Without resistance, and without intent : 
 lie liked not nor declined, — and forth the Brothers 
 
 went. 
 '• Come, my dear Richard ! let us cast away 
 " All evil thoughts, — let us forget the day, 
 " .Vnd fight like men with. grief till we like boys 
 are gay." 
 
 Thus George, — and even this in Richard's mind 
 Was judged nn effort rather wise than kind; 
 This flow'd from something he observed of late, 
 And he could feel it, but he could not state : 
 
 He thought some change appear'd, — yet fail'd to 
 
 prove. 
 Even as he tried, abatement in the love ; 
 But in his Brother's manner was restraint 
 That he could feel, and yet he could not paint. 
 
 That they should part in peace full well he 
 knew, 
 But much he fear'd to part with coolness too : 
 George had been peevish when the subject rose, 
 And never fail'd the parting to oppose ; 
 Name it, and straight his features cloudy grew 
 To stop the journey, as the clouds will do ; — 
 And thus they rode along in pensive mood. 
 Their thoughts pursuing, by their cares pursued. 
 
 " Richard," said George, " I see it is in vain 
 " By love or prayer my Brother to retain ; 
 " And, truth to tell, it was a foolish thing 
 " A man like thee from thy repose to bring 
 " Ours to disturb. — Kay, how am I to live 
 " Without the comforts thou art wont to give ? 
 " How will the heavy hours my mind afflnt, — 
 " No one t' agree, no one to contradict, 
 " None to awake, excite me, or prevent, 
 " To hear a tale, or hold an argument, 
 " To help my worship in a case of doubt, 
 " And bring me in my blunders fairly out ! 
 " Who now by manners lively or serene 
 " Comes between me and sorrow like a screen, 
 " And giving, what I look'd not to have found, 
 " A care, an interest in the world around ?" 
 
 Silent was Richard, striving to adjust 
 His thoughts for speech, — for speak, he thought, 
 
 he must : 
 Something like war within his bosom strove — 
 His mild, kind nature, and his proud self-love : 
 Grateful he was, and, with his courage, meek,^ 
 But he was hurt, and he resolved to speak. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Brother ! from my soul I grieve 
 " Thee and the proofs of thy regard to leave ; 
 " Thou hast been all that I could wish, — my pride 
 •' Exults to find that I am thus allied : 
 " Yet to express a feeling, how it came, 
 " The pain it gives, its nature and its name, 
 " I know not, — but of late, 1 will confess, 
 " Not that thy love is little, but is less. 
 
 " Hadst thou received me in thy present mood, 
 " Sure I had held thee to be kind and good ; 
 " But thou wert all the warmest heart could state, 
 " Affection dream, or hope anticipate : 
 " I must have wearied thee, yet day by day, — 
 " ' Stay !' said my Brother, and "t was ^cicd to 
 
 stay; 
 " But now, forgive me, thinking I perceive 
 " Cliange undefined, and as I think I grieve. 
 
 " Have 1 offended ?— Proud although I be, 
 " 1 will be humlile and concede to thee : 
 " Hfive I intruded on thee when thy mind 
 " Was vex'd, and then to solitude inclined ? 
 " Oh ! there arc times when all things will molest 
 " Minds 80 disposed, so heavy, so oppress'd ; 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 506 
 
 T 
 
 " And thine, I know, is delicate and nice, 
 
 '• Sickening at folly, and at war with vice : 
 
 " Then, at a time when thou wert vex'd with 
 
 these, 
 " I have intruded, let affection tease, 
 " And so offended." 
 
 " Richard, if thou hast, 
 " 'T is at this instant, nothing in the past : 
 " No ! thou art all a Brother's love would choose ; 
 " And, having lost thee, I shall interest lose 
 " In all that I possess : I pray thee tell 
 " "Wherein thy host has fail'd to please thee well, — 
 " Do I neglect thy comforts?" 
 
 " Oh ! not thou, 
 " But art thyself uncomfortable now, 
 " And 't is from thee and from thy looks I gain 
 " This painful knowledge — 't is my Brother's pain ; 
 " And yet, that something in my spirit lives, 
 " Something that spleen excites and sorrow gives, 
 " I may confess, — for not in thee I trace 
 " Alone this change, it is in all the place : 
 " Smile if thou wilt in scorn, for I am glad 
 " A smile at any rate is to be had. 
 
 " But there is Jacques, who ever seem'd to treat 
 " Thy Brother kindly as we chanced to meet ; 
 " Nor with thee only pleased our worthy guide, 
 " But in the hedge-row path and green-wood side, 
 " There he would speak with that familiar ease 
 " That makes a trifle, makes a nothing please. 
 
 " But now to my farewell, — and that I spoke 
 " With honest sorrow, — with a careless look, 
 " Gazing unalter'd on some stupid prose — 
 " His sermon for the Sunday I suppose, — 
 " ' Going ?' said he : ' why, then the Squire and you 
 " ' Will part at last— You 're going ? Well, 
 adieu !' 
 
 " True, we were not in friendship bound like 
 those 
 " Who will adopt each other's friends and foes, 
 " Without esteem or hatred of their own, — 
 " But still we were to intimacy grown ; 
 " And sure of Jacques when I had taken leave 
 " It would have grieved me, and it ought to 
 
 grieve ; 
 " But I in him could not affection trace, — 
 " Careless he put his sermons in their place, 
 " With no more feeling than his sermon-case. 
 
 " Not so those generous Girls beyond the 
 brook, — 
 " It quite unmann'd me as my leave I took. 
 
 " But, my dear Brother ! when I take at night, 
 " In my own home, and in their mother's sight, 
 " By turns my children, or together see 
 " A pair contending for the vacant knee, — 
 " When to Matilda I begin to tell 
 " What in my visit first and last befel — 
 " Of this your village, of her tower and spire, 
 " And, above all, her Rector and her Squire, — 
 " How will the tale be marr'd when I shall end — 
 " I left displeased the Brother and the Friend !" 
 
 " Nay, Jacques is honest — JIarry, he was then 
 " Engaged— What ! part an author and his pen ? ! 
 
 " Just in the fit, and when th' inspiring ray 
 " Shot on his brain, t' arrest it in its way I 
 " Come, thou shalt see him in an easier vein, 
 " Nor of his looks nor of his words complain : 
 " Art thou content ?" 
 
 If Richard had replied, 
 " I am," his manner had his words belied : 
 Even from his Brother's cheerfulness he drew 
 Something to vex him — what, he scarely knew : 
 So he evading said, " My evil fate 
 " Upon my comforts throws a gloom of late : 
 " Matilda writes not ; and, when last she wrote, 
 " I read no letter — 't was a trader's note, — • 
 " ' Yours I received,' and all that formal prate 
 " That is so hateful — that she knows I hate. 
 
 " Dejection reigns, I feel, but cannot tell 
 " Why upon me the dire infection fell : 
 " Madmen maj' say that they alone are sane, 
 " And all beside have a distemper'd brain ; 
 " Something like this I feel,— and I include 
 " Myself among the frantic multitude : 
 " But come, Matilda writes, although but ill, 
 " And home has health, and that is comfort still." 
 
 George stopp'd his horse, and with the kindest 
 look 
 Spoke to his Brother, — earnestly he spoke, 
 As one who to his friend his heart reveals, 
 And all the hazard with the comfort feels. 
 
 " Soon as I loved thee, Richard, — and I loved 
 " Before my reason had the will approved, 
 " Who yet right early had her sanction lent, 
 " And with affection in her verdict went, — 
 " So soon I felt, that thus a friend to gain, 
 " And then to lose, is but to purchase pain : 
 " Daily the pleasure grew, then sad the day 
 " That takes it all in its increase away ! 
 
 " Patient thou wert, and kind, — but well I knew 
 " The husband's wishes, and tlie father's too ; 
 " I saw how check'd they were, and yet in secret 
 
 grew; 
 " Once and again, I urged tliee to delay 
 " Thy purposed journey, still deferr'd the day, 
 " And still on its approach the pain increased, 
 " Till my request and thy compliance ceased ; 
 " I could not further thy affection task, 
 " Nor more of one so self-resisting ask ; 
 " But yet to lose thee, Richard, and with thee 
 " All hope of social joys — it cannot be. 
 " Nor could I bear to meet thee as a boy 
 " From school his parents, to obtain a joy 
 " Tliat lessens day by day, and one will soon 
 destroy. 
 
 " No ! 1 wotdd have thee. Brother, all my own, 
 " To grow besi'le me as my trees have grown ; 
 " For ever near me, pleasant in my sight, 
 '■ And in mj* mind, my pride and my delight. 
 
 " Yet will I tell thee, Richard ; had 1 found 
 " Thy mind dependent and thy heart unsound, 
 " Hadst thou been poor, obsequious, and disposed 
 " With any wish or measure to ha^•c closed, 
 " Willing on mc and gl"dly to attend, 
 " The younger brother, the convenient friend. 
 
 :;£J 
 
50G 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Thy speculation its reward had made 
 
 " Like other ventures — thou hadst gain'd in trade ; 
 
 " What reason urged, or Jacques esteem'd thy 
 
 due, 
 " Thine had it been, and I, a trader too, 
 " Had paid my debt, and home my Brother sent, 
 " Nor glad nor sorry that he came or went ; 
 " "Who to his wife and children would have told, 
 " They had an uncle, and the man was old ; 
 " Till every girl and boy had learn'd to prate 
 " Of Uncle George, his gout, and his estate. 
 " Thus had we parted ; but as now tliou art, 
 " 1 must not lose thee — No 1 I cannot part ; 
 " Is it in human nature to consent 
 " To give up all the good that Heaven has lent, 
 " All social ease and comfort to forego, 
 " And live again the solitary ? No ! 
 
 " We part no more, dear Kichard ! thou wilt 
 need 
 " Thy Brother's help to teach thy boys to read ; 
 •' And I should love to hear Matilda's psalm, 
 " To keep my spirit in a morning calm, 
 " And feel the soft devotion that prepares 
 " The soul to rise above its earthly cares ; 
 " Then thou and I, an independent two, 
 " May have our parties, and defend them too •, 
 " Thy liberal notions, and my loyal fears, 
 " Will give us subjects for our future years ; 
 " We will for truth alone contend and read, 
 " And our gooil Jacques shall oversee our creed. 
 
 " Such were my views ; and I had quickly 
 
 made 
 " Some bold attempts my Brother to persuade 
 " To think as I did ; but I knew too well 
 " Whose now thou wert, with whom thou wert to 
 
 dwell : 
 " And why, I said, return him doubtful home, 
 " Six months to argue if he then would come 
 " Some six months after ? and, beside, I know 
 " That all the happy are of course the slow ; 
 " And thou at home art happy, there wilt stay, 
 " Dallying 'twixt will and will-not many a day, 
 " And fret the gloss of hope, and hope itself 
 
 away. 
 
 " Jacques is my friend ; to him I gave my 
 heart, — 
 " ' You see my Brother, see I would not part ; 
 " ' Wilt thou an embassy of love disdain ? 
 " ' Go to this sister, and my views explain ; — • 
 " ' Gloss o'er my failings; paint me with a grace 
 " ' That Love beholds ; put meaning in my face ; 
 " ' Describe that dwelling ; talk how well we live, 
 " ' And all its glory to our village give ; 
 " ' Praise the kind Sisters wliom we love so much, 
 " ' And thine own virtues like an artist touch. 
 
 " ' Tell her, and here my secret purpose show, 
 " ' That no dependence shall my sister know ; 
 " ' Hers all the freedom tliat she loves shall be, 
 " ' And mine the debt, — then press her to agree ; 
 " ' Say, that my Brother's wishes wait on hers, 
 " ' And his affection what she wills prefers.' 
 
 " Forgive me, Broth«;r, — these my words and 
 
 more 
 " Our friendly Rector to Matilda bore ; 
 " At large, at length, were all my views ex- 
 
 plain'd, 
 " And to my joy my wishes I obtain'd. 
 
 " Dwell in that house, and we shall still be near, 
 Absence and parting I no more shall fear ; 
 Dwell in thy liome, and at thy will exclude 
 All who shall dare upon thee to intrude. 
 
 " Again thy pardon, — 'twas not my design 
 " To give surprise ; a better view was mine ; 
 " But let it pass — and yet I wish'd to see 
 " That meeting too : and happy may it be !" 
 
 Thus George had spoken, and then look'd 
 around. 
 And smiled as one who then his road had found ; 
 " Follow !" he cried, and briskly urged his horse : 
 Richard was puzzled, but obey'd of course ; 
 He was affected like a man astray. 
 Lost, but yet knowing something of the M'ay ; 
 Till a wood clear'd, that still conceal'd the view, 
 Richard the purchase of his Brother knew ; 
 And something flash'd upon his mind not clear. 
 But much with pleasure mix'd, in part with fear ; 
 As one who, wandering through a stormy night, 
 Sees his own home, and gladdens at the siglit, 
 Yet feels some doubt if fortune had decreed 
 That lively pleasure in such time of need : 
 So Ricliard felt — but now the mansion came 
 In view direct, — he knew it for the same ; 
 There too the garden walk, the elms design'd 
 To guard the peaches from the eastern wind ; 
 And there the sloping glass, that when he shines 
 Gives the sun's vigour to the ripening vines. 
 
 " It is my Brother's !"— 
 
 " No !" he answers, " No ! 
 'T is to thy own possession that we go ; 
 It is thy wife's, and will thy children's be, 
 ' Earth, wood, and water ! — all for thine and 
 thee ; 
 Bought in thy name. — Alight, my friend, and 
 
 come, 
 I do beseech thee, to thy proper home ; 
 There wilt thou soon thy own Matilda view — 
 She knows our deed, and she approves it too ; 
 Before her all our views and plans were laid, 
 And Jacques was there to explain and to per- 
 suade. 
 Here, on this lawn, thy boys and girls shall run, 
 And play their gambols when their tasks are 
 
 done ; 
 There, from that window, shall their mother view 
 The happy tribe, and smile at all they do; 
 While thou, more gravely, hiding thy deliglit, 
 Shalt cry, ' O ! childish !' and enjoy the sight. 
 
TALES OF THE HALL. 
 
 507 
 
 " Well, my dear Richard,there's no more to say — 
 " Stay as you will — do anything — but stay ; 
 " Be, I dispute not, steward — what you will, 
 " Take your own name, but be my Brother still. 
 
 " And hear me, Richard '. if I should offend, 
 " Assume the patron and forget the friend ; 
 " If aught in word or manner I express 
 " That only touches on thy happiness -, 
 " If I be peevish, humoursome, unkind, 
 " Spoil'd as I am by each subservient mind, — 
 " For I am humour'd hj a tribe who make 
 " Me more capricious for the pains they take 
 " To make me quiet ; shouldst thou ever feel 
 " A wound from this, this leave not time to heal. 
 
 ' [" The present work is marked with all the characteris- 
 tics that we noticed as distinctive of Mr. Crabbe's poetry. 
 On the \vliole, however, it has certainly fewer o" tlie grosser 
 faults : there is far less that is horrible ; and the picture wliich 
 is afforded of society and human nature is, on the whole, 
 much less painful and degrading. There is both less misery 
 and less guilt; and, while the same searching and unsparing 
 glance is sent into all the dark caverns of the breast, and the 
 truth brought forth with the same stern impartiality, the 
 result is more comfortable and cheering. The greater part 
 of the characters are rather more elevated in station, and 
 milder and more amiable in disposition ; while the acci- 
 dents of life are more mercifully managed, and fortunate 
 circumstances more liberally allowed. It is rather re- 
 markable, too, that Mr. Crabbe seems to become more ama- 
 tory as he grows older ; the interest of almost all the stories 
 in this collection turning on the tend'r passion, and many 
 
 " But let thy vidfe her cheerful smile withhold : 
 " Let her be civil, distant, cautious, cold : 
 " Then shall I woo forgiveness, and repent, 
 " Nor bear to lose the blessings Heaven has 
 lent." 
 
 But this was needless — there was joy of heart. 
 All felt the good that all desired t' impart ; 
 Respect, affection, and esteem combined, 
 In sundry portions ruled in every mind ; 
 And o'er the whole an unobtrusive air 
 Of pious joy, that urged the silent prayer. 
 
 And bless'd the new-bom feelings. Here we 
 
 close 
 Our Tale of Tales ! — Health, reader, and repose I ' 
 
 of them on its most romantic varieties." — Edinburgh Seview, 
 1819. 
 
 " We cannot bid Mr. Crabbe farewell, for the present, with- 
 out observing, with real delight, that, wliile old a!;e has not 
 at all impaired the vigour of his intellect, or blunted the 
 acuteness of his observation, it seems to have mellowed and 
 softened liis feelings, just to the degree that his best friends 
 may have once thou^'ht desirable ; and that, while he still 
 looks on human life with the same philosophic eye, and 
 spares none of its follies or its vices, he thinks of it witli some- 
 what of a t'entler and more pitying spirit, as of one who has 
 well understood it all, and who looks back upon its agitations 
 and its guilt as on a troubled and unintelligible scene, from 
 which, in the course of nature, he may soon be removed, in 
 the strength of that trust which can only be inspired by tliat 
 religion of which he has so long been a conscientious minis- 
 ter." — B!".cl;tvood'i M'lijuzine, 1S19.T 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 It is our belief that, in respectfully inscribing to you these PosTmiMons Tales, we select 
 the name which, if our Father had himself superintended their Publication, he would have been most 
 ambitious to connect with them. 
 
 We have the honour to be, Sir, 
 
 Your grateful and faithful 
 
 Humble Servants, 
 
 George Ckabbe. 
 August, 1834. John Craebe. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Although, in a letter written shortly before his death, Mr. Craebe mentioned the following pieces as 
 fully prepared for the press, and to withhold from the public what he had thus described could not 
 have been consistent with filial reverence ; yet his executors must confess that, when they saw the first 
 pages of his MS. reduced to type, they became very sensible that, had he himself lived to edit thcae 
 compositions, he would have considered it necessary to bestow on them a good deal more of revision 
 and correction before finally submitting them to the eye of the world. They perceived tliat liis 
 language had not always effected the complete development of his ideas ; that images were here and 
 there left imperfect — nay, trains of reflection rather hinted than expressed ; and that, in many places, 
 thoughts in themselves valuable could not have failed to derive much additional weight and point from 
 the last touches of his own pen. 
 
 Under such circumstances, it was a very great relief to their minds to learn that several persons of 
 the highest eminence in literature had read these poetical Remains before any part of them was com- 
 mitted to the printer; arid that the verdict of such judges was, on the whole, more favourable than 
 they themselves had begun to anticipate : — that, in the opinion of those whose esteem had formed the 
 highest honour of their father's life, his fame would not be tarnished by their compliance with the 
 terms of his literary bequest : that, though not so uniformly polished as some of his previous per- 
 formances, tlicse Posthumous Essays would still be found to preserve, in the main, the same character- 
 istics on which his reputation had been established ; much of the same quiet humour and keen obser- 
 vation; the same brief and vivid description; the same unobtrusive pathos; the same prevailing 
 reverence for moral truth and rational religion ; and, in a word, not a few " things wliich the world 
 would not willingly let die." 
 
 The following verses are therefore at length submitted to the public ; not indeed without deep 
 anxiety, but still with some considerable hope that they may be received with a fair portion of favour 
 now, and allowed to descend to posterity as not, on the whole, unworthy of a place in their Author's 
 collective works. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES 
 
 509 
 
 POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 TALE L 
 
 SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY. 
 
 Within a village, many a mile from town, 
 A place of small resort and no renown ; — 
 Save that it form'd a way and gave a name 
 To SiLFORD Hall, it made no claim to fame ; — 
 It was the gain of some, the pride of all, 
 That travellers stopp'd to ask for Siltord Hall. 
 
 Small as it was, the place could boast a School, 
 In which Nathaniel Perkin bore the rule. 
 Not mark'd for learning deep, or talents rare, 
 But for his varying tasks and ceaseless care : 
 Some forty boys, the sons of thrifty men. 
 He taught to read, and part to use the pen; 
 While, by more studious care, a favourite few 
 Increased his pride — for if the Scholar knew 
 Enough for praise, say what the Teacher's due ? — ■ 
 These to his presence, slates in hand, moved on, 
 And a grim smile their feats in figures won. 
 
 This Man of Letters woo'd in early life 
 The Vicar's maiden, whom he made his wife. 
 She too can read, as by her song she proves — 
 The song Nathaniel made about their loves : 
 Five rosy girls and one fair boy increased 
 The Father's care, whose labours seldom ceased. 
 No day of rest was his. If, now and then. 
 His boys for play laid by the book and pen. 
 For Lawyer Slow there was some deed to write, 
 Or some young farmer's letter to indite. 
 Or land to measure, or, with legal skill. 
 To frame some yeoman's widow's peevish will ; 
 And on the Sabbath, when his neighbours dress'd, 
 To hear their duties and to take their rest — 
 Then, when the Vicar's periods ceased to flow. 
 Was heard Nathaniel, in his seat below. 
 
 Such were his labours ; but the time is come 
 When his son Peter clears the hours of gloom. 
 And brings him aid : though yet a boy, he shares 
 In staid Nathaniel's multifarious cares. 
 A king his father, he, a prince, has rule — 
 The first of subjects, viceroy of the school : 
 But though a prince within that realm he reigns. 
 Hard is the part his duteous soul sustains. 
 
 He with his father, o'er the furrow'd land. 
 
 Draws the long chain in his uneasy hand. 
 
 And neatly forms at home, what there they rudely 
 
 plann'd. 
 Content, for all his labour if he gains 
 Some words of praise, and sixpence for his pains. 
 Thus many a hungry day the Boy has fared, 
 And would have ask'd a dinner had he dared. 
 When boys are playing, he for hours of school 
 Has sums to set, and copy-books to rule : 
 When all are met, for some sad dunce afraid, 
 He, by allowance, lends his timely aid — 
 Taught at the student's failings to cormive, 
 Y'et keep his father's dignity alive : 
 For e'en Nathaniel fears, and might ofiend, 
 If too severe, the farmer, now his friend ; 
 Or her, that farmer's lady, who well knows 
 Her boy is bright, and needs nor threats nor blows. 
 This seem'd to Peter hard ; and he was loth 
 T' obey and rule, and have the cares of both — 
 To miss the master's dignity, and yet 
 No portion of the schoolboy's play to get. 
 To him the Fiend, as once to Launcelot, cried, 
 "Run from thy wrongs;" — "Run where?" his 
 
 fear replied : 
 " Run," said the Tempter; " if but hard thy fare, 
 " Hard is it now — it may be mended there." 
 
 But still, though tempted, he refused to part 
 And felt the mother clinging at his heart. 
 Nor this alone — he in that weight of care 
 Had help, and bore it as a man should bear. 
 A drop of comfort in his cup was thrown ; 
 It was his treasure, and it was his own. 
 His father's shelves contained a motley store 
 Of letter'd wealth ; and this he might explore. 
 A part his mother in her youth had gain'd, 
 A part Nathaniel from his club obtain'd, 
 And part — a well-worn kind — from sire to 
 remain'd. 
 
 son 
 
 He sought his IMother's hoard, and there he 
 found 
 Romance in sheets, ir-nd poetry unbound : 
 Soft Tales of Love, which never damsel read 
 i-ut tears of pity stain'd her virgin bed. 
 There were Jane Shore and Rosamond the Fair; 
 And humbler heroines frail as these were there ; 
 There was a tale of one forsaken Jlaid, 
 Who till her death the work of vengeance stay'd ; 
 
510 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Her lover then at sea, while round him stood 
 
 A dauntless crew, the angry ghost pursued : 
 
 In a small boat, without an oar or sail, 
 
 She came to call him, nor would force avail, 
 
 Nor prayer; but, conscience-stricken, down he 
 
 leapt, 
 And o'er his corse the closing billows slept ; 
 All vanish'd then ! but of the crew were some, 
 Wondering whose ghost would on the morrow 
 
 come. 
 
 A learned Book was there, and in it schemes 
 How to cast Fortunes and interpret Dreams ; 
 Ballads were there of Lover's bliss or bale. 
 The Kitchen Story, and the Nursery Tale. 
 His hungry mind disdain'd not humble food, 
 And read with relish keen of Robin Hood ; 
 Of him, all-powerful made by magic gift. 
 And Giants slain —of mighty Hickerthrift ; 
 Through Crusoe's Isle delighted had he stray'd ; 
 Nocturnal visits had to witches paid. 
 Gliding through haunted scenes, enraptured and 
 afraid. 
 
 A loftier shelf with real books was graced. 
 Bound or part bound, and ranged in comely taste ; 
 Books of high mark, the mind's more sohd food, 
 AVhich some might think the owner understood ; 
 But Fluxions, Sections, Algebraic lore, 
 Our Peter left for others to explore. 
 And, quickly turning to a favourite kind. 
 Found what rejoiced him at his heart to find. 
 
 Sir Walter wrote not then, or He by whom 
 Such gain and glory to Sir Walter come — 
 That i'airj'-IIelper, by whose secret aid 
 Such views of life are to the world convey'd — 
 As inspiration known in after-times, 
 'i'he sole assistant in his prose or rhymes. 
 But there were fictions wild that please the boy, 
 Which men, too, read, condemn, reject, enjoy — 
 Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, were there. 
 One volume each, and both the worse for wear; 
 There, by Quarles' Emblems, Esop's Fables stood, 
 The coats in tatters, and the cuts iu wood. 
 There, too, " The English History," by the pen 
 Of Doctor Cooke, and other learned men, 
 In numbers, sixpence each; by these was seen. 
 And highly prized, the Monthly Magazine ; — 
 Not such as now will men of taste engage. 
 But the cold gleanings of a former age. 
 Scraps cut from sermons, scenes removed from 
 
 plays. 
 With heads of heroes famed in Tyburn's palmy 
 
 days. 
 
 The rest we pass — though Peter pass'd them not, 
 But here his cares and labours all forgot : 
 Staiu'd, torn, and blotted every noble page, 
 Stood the chief poets of a former age. 
 And of the present ; not their works complete, 
 But in such portions as on bulks we meet, 
 The refuse of the 8hoi)s, thrown down upon the 
 
 street. 
 There Shakspcare, Spenser, Milton found a place, 
 With SDine a nameless, some a shameless race. 
 Which many a weary walker resting reads, 
 Acd, pondering o'er the short relief, proceeds. 
 
 While others lingering pay the written sum. 
 Half loth, but longing for delight to come. 
 
 Of the Youth's morals we would something 
 speak ; 
 Taught by his Mother what to shun or seek : 
 She show'd the heavenly way, and in his youth 
 Press'd on his yielding mind the Gospel truth, 
 How weak is man, how much to ill inclined, 
 And where his help is placed, and how to find. 
 These words of weight sank deeply in his breast, 
 And awful Fear and holy Hope impress'd. 
 He shrank from vice, and at the startling view. 
 As from an adder in his path, withdrew. 
 All else was cheerful. Peter's easy mind 
 To the gay scenes of village-life inclined. 
 The lark that soaring sings his notes of joy 
 Was not more lively than th' awakon'd boj'. 
 Yet oft with this a softening sadness dwelt. 
 While, feeling thus, he marvell'd why he felt. 
 " I am not sorry," said the Boy, '" but still, 
 " The tear will drop — I wonder why it will !" 
 
 His books, his walks, his musing, morn and eve» 
 Gave such impressions as such minds receive ; 
 And with his moral and religious views 
 Wove the wild fancies of an Infant-Muse, 
 Inspiring thoughts that he could not express, 
 Obscure sublime ! his secret happiness. 
 Oft would he strive for words, and oft begin 
 To frame in verse the views he had within ; 
 But ever fail'd : for how can words explain 
 The unform'd ideas of a teeming brain ? 
 
 Such was my Hero, whom I would portray 
 In one exploit — the Hero of a Day. 
 
 At six miles' distance from his native town 
 Stood Silford Hall, a seat of much renown — 
 Computed miles, such weary travellers ride 
 When they in chance wayfaring men confide. 
 Beauty and grandeur were within ; around. 
 Lawn, wood, and water •, the delicious ground 
 Had parks where deer disport, had fields where 
 
 game abound. 
 Fruits of all tastes in spacious gardens grew ; 
 And flowers of every scent and every hue, 
 That native in more favour'd climes arise. 
 Are licre pi-otected from th' inclement skies. 
 
 To this fair place, with mingled pride and 
 shame. 
 This lad of learning without knowledge came — 
 Shame for his conscious ignorance, and pride 
 To this fair seat in this gay style to ride. 
 
 The cause that brought him was a small account. 
 His father's due, and he must take the amount. 
 And sign a stanip'd receipt! this done, he might 
 Look all around him, and enjoy the sight. 
 
 So far to walk was, in his mother's view, 
 More than her darling Peter ought to do ; 
 Peter indeed knew more, but he would hide 
 His better knowledge, for he wish'd to ride : 
 So had his father's nag, a beast so small. 
 That, if he fell, he had not far to fall. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 His fond and anxious mother in his best 
 Her darling child for the occasion dress'd : 
 All in his coat of green she clothed her boy, 
 And stood admiring -with a mother's joy : 
 Large was it made and long, as meant to do 
 For Sunday-service when he older grew — 
 Not brought in daily use in one j'ear's wear or 
 
 two. 
 White was his waistcoat, and what else he wore 
 Had clothed the lamb or parent ewe before. 
 In all the mother show'd her care or skill ; 
 A riband black she tied beneath his frill ; 
 Gave him his stockings, white as driven snow, 
 And bad him heed the miry way below ; 
 On the black varnish of the comely shoe 
 Shone the large buckle of a silvery hue. 
 Boots he had worn, had he such things possess' d — 
 But bootless grief! — he was full proudly dress'd ; 
 Full proudly look'd, and light he was of heart, 
 When thus for Silford Hall prepared to start. 
 
 Nathaniel's self with joy the stripling eyed, 
 And gave a shilling with a father's pride ; 
 Rules of politeness too with pomp he gave. 
 And show'd the lad how scholars should behave. 
 
 Ere yet he left her home, the Mother told — 
 For she had seen — what things he should behold. 
 There, she related, her j'oung eyes had vicw'd 
 Stone figures shaped like naked flesh and blood, 
 Which, in the hall and up the gallery placed. 
 Were proofs, they told her, of a noble taste ; 
 Nor she denied — but, in a public hall. 
 Her judgment taken, she had clothed them all. 
 There, too, were stationed, each upon its seat, 
 Half foi-ms of men, without their hands and feet ; 
 These and what more within that hall might be 
 She saw, and oh ! how long'd her son to see ! 
 Yet could he hope to view that noble place. 
 Who dared not look the j)orter in the face ? 
 
 Forth went the pony, and the rider's knees 
 Cleaved to her sides — he did not ride with ease ; 
 One hand a whip, and one a bridle held, 
 In case the pony falter'd or rebell'd. 
 
 The village boys beheld him as he pass'd. 
 And looks of envy on the hero cast ; 
 But he was meek, nor let his pride appear, 
 Nay, truth to speak, he felt a sense of fear, 
 Lest the rude beast, unmindful of the rein. 
 Should take a fancy to turn back again. 
 
 He found, and wonder 't is he found, his way, — 
 Tlie orders many that he must obey : 
 " Now to the right, then left, and now again 
 " Directly onward, through the winding lane ; 
 " Then half-way o'er the common, by the mill, 
 " Turn from the cottage and ascend the hill, 
 " Then — spare the pony, boy ! as you ascend — 
 " You see the Hall, and that 's your journey's 
 end." 
 
 Yes, he succeeded, not remembering aught 
 Of this advice, but by his pony taught. 
 Soon as he doubted he the bridle threw 
 Oa the steed's neck, and said — " Kememher rcu !" 
 
 For oft the creature had his father borne, 
 Sound on his way, and safe on his return. 
 So he succeeded, and the modest youth 
 Gave praise where praise had been assign'd by 
 truth. 
 
 His business done, — for fortune led his way 
 To him whose office was such debts to pay, — 
 The farmer-bailiff, but he saw no more 
 Than a small room, \\H\i bare and oaken floor, 
 A desk with books thereon — he 'd seen such things 
 
 before ; 
 " Good day I" he said, but linger'd as he spoke 
 " Good day," and gazed about with serious look; 
 Then slowly moved, and then delay'd a while, 
 In dumb dismay which raised a lordly smile 
 In those who eyed him — then again moved on. 
 As all might see, unwilling to be gone. 
 
 While puzzled thus, and puzzling all about. 
 Involved, absorb'd, in some bewildering doubt, 
 A lady enter'd. Madam Johnson call'd, 
 Within whose presence stood the lad appall'd. 
 A learned Lady this, who knew the names 
 Of all the pictures in the golden frames ; 
 Could every subject, every painter, tell, 
 And on their merits and their failures dwell : 
 And if perchance there was a slight mistake — 
 These the most kno^^'ing on such matters make. 
 
 " And what dost mean, my pretty lad ?" she 
 cried ; 
 " Dost stay or go?" — lie first for courage tried. 
 Then for fit words, — then boldly he replied. 
 That he would give a hundred pounds, if so 
 He had them, all about that house to go ; 
 For he had heard that it contain'd such things 
 As never house could boast, except the king's. 
 
 The ruling Lady, smiling, said, '' In truth 
 " Thou shalt behold them all, my pretty youth. 
 " Tom I first the creature to the stable lead, 
 " Let it be fed ; and you, my child, must feed ; 
 " For three good hours must pass e'er dinner 
 
 come." — 
 " Supper," thought he, "she means, our time at 
 
 home." 
 
 First was he feasted to his heart's content, 
 Then, all in rapture, with the Lady went ; 
 Through rooms immense, and galleries wide and 
 
 tall. 
 He walk'd entranced — he breathed in Silford Hall. 
 
 Now could he look on that delig:htful place, 
 The glorious dwelling of a princely race ; 
 Ilis vast delight was mixed with equal awe. 
 There was such magic in the things he saw. 
 Oft standing still, with open mouth and eyes, 
 Turn'd here and there, alarm'd as one who tries 
 T' escape from something strange, that would be- 
 fore him rise. 
 The wall would part, and beings without name 
 Would come — for such to his adventures came. 
 Hence undefined and solemn terror press'd 
 Upon his mind, and all his powers posscss'd. 
 AH he had read of magic, every charm, 
 '^ere he alone, might come ^nd do him harm : 
 
512 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 But his gaze rested on his friendly guide — 
 
 " I 'm safe," he thouglit, " so long as you abide." 
 
 In one large room was found a bed of state — 
 " And can they soundly sleep beneath such 
 
 weight, 
 " Where they may figures in the night explore, 
 '* Form'd by the dim hght dancing on the floor 
 " From the far window ; mirrors broad and high 
 " Doubling each terror to the anxious eye ? — 
 " 'T is strange," thought Peter, " that such things 
 
 produce 
 " No fear in her: but there is much in use." 
 
 On that reflecting brightness, passing by, 
 The boy one instant fix'd his restless eye — 
 And saw himself: he had before descried 
 His face in one his mother's store supplied ; 
 But here he could his whole dimensions view, 
 From the pale forehead to the jet-black shoe. 
 Passing he look'd, and, looking, grieved to pass 
 From the fair figure smiling in the glass. 
 'T was so Narcissus saw the boy advance 
 In the dear fount, and met th' admiring glance 
 So loved — But, no ! our happier boy admired, 
 Not the slim form, but what the form attired, — 
 The riband, shirt, and frill, all pure and clean. 
 The white ribb'd stockings, and the coat of green. 
 
 The Lady now appcar'd to move away — 
 And this was threat'ning ; for he dared not stay. 
 Lost and alone ; but earnestly he pray'd — 
 " Oh ! do not leave me — I am not afraid, 
 " But 't is so lonesome ; I shall never find 
 " My way alone, no better than the blind." 
 
 The Matron kindl}'- to the Boj^ replied, 
 " Trust in my promise, I will be thy guide." 
 Then to the Chapel moved the friendly pair. 
 And well for Peter that his guide was tlicre ! 
 Dim, silent, solemn was the scene — he felt 
 The cedar's power, that so unearthly smelt ; 
 And then the stain'd, dark, narrow windows threw 
 Strange partial beams on pulpit, desk, and pew: 
 Upon the altar, glorious to behold, 
 Stood a vast pair of candlesticks in gold ! 
 With candles tall, and large, and firm, and white, 
 Such as the halls of giant-kings would light. 
 There was an organ, too, but now unseen ; 
 A long black curtain served it for a skreen ; 
 Not so the clock, that both by night and day 
 Click'd the short moments as they pass'd away. 
 
 " Is thisadinrch? and does the parson read" — 
 Said Peter — " here ? — I mean a church indeed." — 
 " Indeed it is, or as a cluirch is used," 
 Was the rejjly, — and Peter deeply mused. 
 Not without awe. Ills sadness to dispel, 
 They sought the gallery, and then all was well. 
 
 Yet enter'd there, although so clear liis mind 
 From every i'ear substantial and defined. 
 Yet tliere reniain'd some touch of native fear — 
 Of something awful to the eye and ear — 
 A ghostly voice might soua<l — a ghost itself 
 «l>pcar. 
 
 There noble pictures fiU'd his mind with joy — 
 He gazed and thought, and was no more the boy ; 
 And Madam heard him speak, with some surprise, 
 Of heroes known to him from histories. 
 He knew the actors in the deeds of old, — 
 He could the Roman marvels all unfold. 
 He to his guide a theme for wonder grew, 
 At once so little and so much he knew — 
 Little of what was passing every day. 
 And much of that which long had pass'd away ; — 
 So like a man, and yet so like a child. 
 That his good friend stood wond'ring as she 
 smiled. 
 
 The Scripture Pieces caused a serious awe. 
 And he with reverence look'd on all he saw ; 
 His pious wonder he cxpress'd aloud, 
 x\nd at the Saviour Form devoutly bow'd. 
 
 Portraits he pass'd, admiring ; but with pain 
 Turn'd from some objects, nor would look again. 
 He seem'd to think that something wrong was 
 
 done. 
 When crimes were shown he blush'd to look upon. 
 Not so his guide — " What youth is that ?" she 
 
 cried, 
 " That handsome stripling at the lady's side ; 
 " Can you inform me how the youth is named ?" 
 He answer'd ^'■Joseph ;" but he look'd ashamed. 
 " Well, and what then ? Had you been Joseph, 
 
 boy! 
 " Would you have been so peevish and so coy ?" 
 Our hero answer'd, with a glowing face, 
 " His mother told him he should pray for grace." 
 A transient cloud o'ercast the matron's brow ; 
 She seem'd disposed to laugh, but knew not 
 
 how; 
 Silent a while, then placid she appear'd — 
 " 'Tis but a child," she thought, and all was 
 
 clear'd. 
 
 No — laugh she could not; still the more she 
 sought 
 To liiJe her thoughts, the more of his she caught. 
 A hundred times she had these pictures named, 
 And never felt perplex'd, disturb'd, ashamed ; 
 Yet now the feelings of a lad so 3'oung 
 Call'd home her thoughts and paralysed her tongue. 
 She pass'd the offensive pictures silent by, 
 With one reflecting, self-reproving sigh ; 
 Reasoning how habit will the mind entice 
 To approach and gaze upon the bounds of vice, 
 As men, by custom, from some clitf's vast height, 
 Look j)lcased, and make their danger their delight. 
 
 " Come, let us on I — See there a Flemish view, 
 " A Country Fair, and all as Nature true. 
 " See there the merry creatures, great and small, 
 " Engaged in drinking, gaming, dancing all, 
 " Fiddling or fighting — all in drunken joy !" — 
 " But is this Nature ?" said the wondering Boy. 
 
 " Be sure it is ! and those Banditti there — 
 " Observe the faces, forms, the eyes, the air: 
 " See rage, revenge, remorse, disdain, despair 1" 
 
 " And is that Nature, too ?" the stripling cried. — 
 " Corrupted Nature," said the serious guide. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 61S 
 
 That, my 
 
 She then display'd her knowicdgc. 
 dear, 
 " Is call'd a Titian, tliis a Guido here, 
 " And you a Claude — you see that lovely light, 
 " So soft and solemn, neither day nor night." 
 
 " Yes !" quoth the Boy, " and there is just the 
 breeze, 
 " That curls the water, and that fans the trees ; 
 " The ships that anchor in that pleasant bay 
 " All look so safe and quiet — Claude, you say?" 
 
 On a small picture Peter gazed and stood 
 In admiration — " 't was so dearly good." 
 " For how much money think you, then, my lad, 
 •' Is such a ' dear good picture ' to be had ? 
 " "Tis a famed master's work — a Gerard Dow, — 
 " At least the seller told the buyer so." 
 
 " I tell the price !" quoth Peter — " I as soon 
 ■' Could tell the price of pictm-es in the moon; 
 ■• But I have heard, when the great race was done, 
 •' How much was oflfer'd for the horse that 
 
 '' A thousand pounds : but, look the country 
 round, 
 " And, may be, ten such horses might be found ; 
 " "While, ride or run where'er you choose to go, 
 '' You '11 nowhere find so fine a Gerard Dow." 
 
 " If this be true," says Peter, " then, of course, 
 " You'd rate the picture higher than the horse." 
 
 " Why, thou 'ri a reasoner. Boy !" the lady 
 cried ; 
 " But see that Infant on the other side ; 
 '' 'T is by Sir Joshua.' Did you ever see 
 " A babe so charming?" — " Ko, indeed," said he ; 
 " I wonder how he could that look invent, 
 " That seems so sly, and yet so innocent I" 
 
 In this long room were various Statues seen, 
 And Peter gazed thereon with awe-struck mien. 
 
 " "Why look so earnest. Boy ?" — " Because they 
 bring 
 •' To me a storj' of an awful thing." 
 
 " Tell then thy story." He, who never stay'd 
 
 yor words or matter, instantly obey'd. 
 
 A holy pilgrim to a city sail'd, 
 '• Where every sin o'er sinful men prevail'd ; 
 '• Who, when he landed, look'd in every street, 
 " As he was wont, a busy crowd to meet; 
 '• But now of living beings found he none, 
 " Death had been there, and turu'd them all to 
 
 stone ; 
 " All in an instant, as they were employ'd, 
 '■ Was life in every living man destroy'd — 
 '• The rich, the poor, the timid, and the bold, 
 " Made in a moment such as we behold." 
 
 1 ["In the year 1783 Mr. Cralibe very frequently passed 
 his mornings at tlie easel of Sir .loshna Reynold. .^ conversin;; 
 on a variety of subjects, while tliis distinyiiislu'ii nrtist was 
 employed upon that celebrated painting, then prcjiar'ng for 
 tlie Kmpress Catharine of Russia." — .See 1-ife, ante, y. H.j 
 
 " Come, my good lad, you 've yet a room to see. 
 " Are you awake ?" — " 1 am amazed, '^ said he ; 
 " I know they 're figures form'd by huDian skill, 
 " But 'tis so awrful, and this place so still ! 
 
 " And what is this ?" said Peter, who had seen 
 A long wide table, with its cloth of green. 
 Its net-work pockets, and its studs of gold — 
 For such they seem'd, and precious to behold. 
 There too were ivory balls, and one was red. 
 Laid with long sticks upon the soft green bed, 
 And printed tables, on the wall beside — 
 " Oh ! what are these ?" the wondering Peter 
 cried. 
 
 " This, my good lad, is call'd the Billiard-room," 
 Answer'd his guide ; " and here the gentry come, 
 " And witn these maces and these cues they play, 
 " At their spare time, or in a rainy day." 
 
 " And what this chequer'd box ? — for play, I 
 
 guess ?" — 
 " Tou judge it right ; 't is for the game of Chess. 
 " There ! take your time, examine what you will, 
 " There's King, Queen, Knight, — it is a game of 
 
 skiU: 
 "And these are Bishops; you the difference 
 
 see." 
 "What! do they make a game of themV quoth 
 
 he.— 
 " Bishops, like Kings," she said, " are liere but 
 
 names ; 
 " Not that I answer for their Honours' games." 
 
 All round the house did Peter go, and found 
 Food for his wonder all the house around. 
 There guns of various bore, and rods and lines. 
 And all that man for deed of death designs, 
 In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly — 
 Life in these last must means of death supply ; 
 The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die. 
 " God gives man leave his creatures to destroy." — 
 "What! for his sport?" replied the pitying 
 
 Boy. 
 " Nay," said the Lady, " why the sport condemn ? 
 " As die they must, 'tis much the same to them." 
 Peter had doubts ; but with so kind a friend 
 He would not on a dubious point contend. 
 
 Much had he seen, and everything he saw 
 Excited pleasure not unmix'd with awe. 
 Leaving each room, he turn'd as if once more 
 To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before. — 
 " What then must their possessors feel ? how 
 
 grand 
 " And happy they who can such joys command ! 
 " For they may pleasures all their lives pursue, 
 " The winter pleasures, and the summer's too — 
 " Pleasures for every hour in every day — 
 " Oh ! how their time must pass in joy away !" 
 
 So Peter said. — Replied the courteous Dame, 
 " What you call pleasure scarcely owns the name. 
 " The very changes of amusement prove 
 '■ Tlicre 's nothing that deserves a lasting love. 
 " They hunt, they course, they shoot, they fish, 
 
 they game ; 
 " The objects vary, though the end the same — 
 
 2 M 
 
514 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " A search for that which flics them ; no, my Boy ! 
 " 'Tis not enjoyment, 'tis pursuit of joy." 
 
 Peter was thoughtful — thinking, What! not 
 these, 
 Who can command, or purchase what they please — 
 Whom many serve, who only speak the word. 
 And they have all that earth or seas afford — 
 All that can charm the mind and please the eye — 
 And they not happy ! — but I '11 ask her why. 
 
 So Peter ask'd.— " 'Tia not," she said, " for us 
 " Their Honours' inward feelings to discuss ; 
 " But if they 're happy, they would still confess 
 " 'T is not these things that make their happiness. 
 
 " Look from this window ! at his work behold 
 " Yon gard'ner's helper — he is poor and old ; 
 " He not one thing of all you see can call 
 " His own ; but, haply, he o'erlooks them all. 
 " Hear him ! he whistles through his work, or 
 
 stops 
 " But to admire his labours and his crops : 
 " To-day as every former day he fares, 
 " And for the morrow has nor doubts nor cares ; 
 "■ Pious and cheerful, proud when he can please, 
 " Judge if Joe Tomkin wants such things as these ! 
 
 " Come, let us forward !" and she walk'd in haste 
 To a large room, itself a work of taste, 
 But chiefly valued for the works that drew 
 The eyes of Peter — this indeed was new, 
 Was most imposing. — Books of every kind 
 Were there disposed, the food for every mind. 
 With joy perplex'd, round cast he wondering eyes. 
 Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise. 
 
 Above, beneath, around, on everj' side. 
 Of every form and size, were Books descried ; 
 Like Bishop Hatto,^ wlien the rats drew near. 
 And war's new dangers waked his guilty fear. 
 When thousands came beside, behind, before, 
 And up and down came en ten thousand more ; 
 A tail'd and whisker'd army, each with claws 
 As sharp as needles, and with teeth like saws,^ — 
 So fiU'd with awe, and wonder in his looks, 
 Stood Peter, 'midst this multitude of Books ; 
 But guiltless he and fearless ; yet he sigh'd 
 To think what treasures were to him denied. 
 
 But wonder ceases on continued view ; 
 And the Boy sharp for close inspection grew. 
 Prints on the table he at first survey'd, 
 Then to the Books his full attention paid. 
 At first, from tome to tome, as fancy led, 
 Tic view'd the binding, and the titles read; 
 Lost in delight, and with his freedom pleased, 
 Then three huge folios from their shelf he seized ; 
 
 2 [For the history of Hatto, Arehbisliop of Mentz, see Co- 
 ryat's ' Crudities,' p. 071. See also, amon}; Mr. Southei's mi- 
 nor poems, ' God's Judgment on a IJisliop.'J 
 
 3 [" And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
 
 And throu^'li the walls, bv thousiinds they poiir, 
 .\nd down through the ceiling:, .ind up throii^'li the tloor, 
 From the right and the left, from licliiml and before. 
 
 Fixing on one, with prints of every race. 
 Of beast and bird most rare in every place, — 
 Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey 
 .\re giants too — a wild ox once a-day ; 
 Here the fierce tiger, and the desert's kings, 
 And all that move on feet, or fiiis, or wings — 
 Most rare and strange : a second volume told 
 Of battles dire, and dreadful to behold, 
 On sea or land, and fleets dispersed in storms ; 
 A third has all creative fancy forms, — 
 Hydra and dire chimera, deserts rude. 
 And ruins grand, enriching solitude : 
 Whatever was, or was supposed to be, 
 Saw Peter here, and still desired to see. 
 
 Again he look'd, but happier had he been. 
 That Book of Wonders he had never seen ; 
 For there were tales of men of wicked mind, 
 And how the Foe of Man deludes mankind. 
 Magic and murder every leaf bespread — 
 Enchanted halls, and chambers of the dead. 
 And ghosts that haunt the scenes where once the 
 victims bled. 
 
 Just at this time, when Peter's heart began 
 To admit the fear that shames the valiant man, 
 He paused — but why? " Here 's one my guard to 
 
 be ; 
 " When thus protected, none can trouble me :" — 
 Then rising look'd he round, and lo ! alone was he. 
 
 Three ponderous doors, with locks of shining 
 brass, 
 Seem'd to invite the trembling Boy to pass ; 
 But fear forbade, till fear itself supplied 
 The place of courage, and at length he tried. 
 He grasp'd the kej' — Alas ! though great his need, 
 The key turn'd not, the bolt would not recede. 
 Try then again : for what will not distress ? 
 Again he tried, and with the same success. 
 Yet one remains, remains untried one door — 
 A failing hope, for two had fail'd before ; 
 But a bold prince, with fifty doors in sight, 
 Tried forty-nine before he found the right, — 
 Before he mounted on the brazen horse, 
 And o'er the walls pursued his airy course. 
 So his cold hand on this last key he laid : 
 " Now turn," said he ; the treacherous bolt 
 
 obey'd — 
 The door receded — bringing full in view 
 The dim, dull chapel, pulpit, desk, and pew. 
 
 It was not right — it would have vex'd a saint ; 
 And Peter's anger rose above restraint. 
 " Was this her love," he cried, " to bring me here, 
 " Among the dead, to die myself with fear ?" — 
 For Peter judged, with monuments around. 
 The dead must surely in the place be found : — 
 
 From within and without, from above and be Jo«, 
 
 \nd nil at once to the Bishop they go. 
 
 They have whetted their teeth against the stones. 
 
 And now they pick the Bishop's bones ; 
 
 Thuv gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, 
 
 ; or they were sent to do judgment on him I" 
 
 SotTTHEV.] 
 
 'I 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 515 
 
 " With cold to shiver, and with hunger pine — 
 " ' "We '11 see the rooms,' she said, ' before we 
 
 dine ;' 
 " And spake so kind ! That window gives no 
 
 light: 
 " Here is enough the boldest man to fright ; 
 " It hardly now is day, and soon it will be night." 
 
 Deeply he sigh'd, nor from his heart could chase 
 The dread of dying in that dismal place : 
 Anger and sorrow in his bosom strove, 
 And banish'd all that yet remain'd of love ; 
 When soon despair had seized the trembling Boy, — 
 But hark, a voice ! the sound of peace and joy. 
 
 " Where art thou, lad ?" — " Oh ! here am I, in 
 
 doubt, 
 " And sorely frighten'd — can you let me out?" 
 " Oh ! yes, my child ; it was indeed a sin, 
 " Forgetful as I was, to bolt you in. 
 " I left you reading, and from habit lock'd 
 " The door behind me, but in truth am shock'd 
 " To serve you thus ; but we will make amends 
 " For such mistake. Come, cheerly, we are 
 
 friends." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said Peter, quite alive to be 
 So kindly used, and have so much to see, 
 And having so much seen ; his way he spied, 
 Forgot his peril, and rejoin'd his guide. 
 
 Now all beheld, his admiration raised, 
 The lady thank' d, her condescension praised. 
 And fix'd the hour for dinner, forth the Boy 
 Went in a tumult of o'erpowering joy. 
 To view the gardens, and what more was found 
 In the wide circuit of that spacious ground. 
 Till, with his thoughts bewilder'd, and oppress'd 
 With too much feeling, he inclined to rest. 
 
 Then in the park he sought its deepest shade, 
 By trees more aged than the mansion made, 
 That ages stood ; and there unseen a brook 
 Ran not unheard, and thus our traveller spoke : — 
 " I am so happy, and have such delight, 
 " I cannot bear to see another sight ; 
 " It wearies one like work ;" and so, with deep 
 Unconscious sigh, he laid him down to sleep. 
 
 Thus he reclining slept, and, oh ! the joy 
 That in his dreams possess'd the happy boy, — 
 Composed of all he knew, and all he read. 
 Heard, or conceived, the living and the dead. 
 
 The Caliph Ilaroun, walking forth by night 
 To see young David and Goliath fight. 
 Hose on his passive fancy — then appear'd 
 The fleshless forms of beings scorn'd or fear'd 
 By just or evil men — the baneful race 
 Of spirits restless, borne from place to place : 
 Rivers of blood from conquer'd armies ran, 
 The flying steed was by, the marble man ; 
 Then danced the fairies round their pigmy queen, 
 And their feet twinkled on the dewy green, 
 
 All in the moonbeams" glory. As they fled. 
 The mountain loadstone rear'd its fatal head, 
 And drew the iron-bolted ships on shore. 
 Where he distinctly heard the billows roar, — 
 Mix'd with a living voice of — " Youngster, sleep 
 
 no more, 
 " But haste to dinner." Starting from the ground. 
 The waking boy obey'd that welcome sound. 
 
 He went and sat, with equal shame and pride, 
 A welcome guest at Madam Johnson's side. 
 At his right hand was Mistress Kitty placed, 
 And Lucy, maiden sly, the stripling faced. 
 Then each the proper seat at table took — 
 Groom, butler, footman, laundress, coachman, 
 
 cook; 
 For all their station and their office knew. 
 Nor sat as rustics or the rabble do. 
 
 The Youth to each the due attention paid. 
 And hob-or-nobb'd with Lady Charlotte's maid ; 
 With much respect each other they address'd. 
 And all encouraged their enchanted guest. 
 Wine, fruit, and sweetmeats closed repast so long. 
 And Mistress Flora sang an opera song. 
 
 Such was the Day the happy Boy had spent. 
 And forth delighted from the Hall ]ic went: 
 Bowing his thanks, he mounted on his steed, 
 More largely fed than he was wont to feed ; 
 And well for Peter that his pony knew 
 From whence he came, the road he should pursue ; 
 For the young rider had his mind estranged 
 From all around, disturb'd and disarranged. 
 In pleasing tumult, in a dream of bliss, 
 Enjoy'd but seldom in a world like this. 
 
 But though the pleasures of the Day were 
 past, — 
 For lively pleasures are not form'd to last, — 
 And though less vivid they became, less strong. 
 Through life they lived, and were enjoy'd as long : 
 So deep the impression of that happy Day, 
 Not time nor cares could wear it all away ; 
 E'en to the last, in his declining years. 
 He told of all his glories, all his fears. 
 
 How blithely forward in that morn he went. 
 How bless'd the hours in that fair palace spent. 
 How vast that ]\Iansion, sure for monarch plann'd, 
 The rooms so many, and yet each so grand, — 
 Millions of books in one large hall were found, 
 And glorious pictures every room around ; 
 Beside that strangest of the wonders there. 
 That house itself contain'd a house of prayer. 
 
 He told of park and wood, of sun and shade. 
 And how the lake below the lawn was made : 
 He spake of feasting such as never boy. 
 Taught in his school, was fated to enjoy — 
 Of ladies' maids as ladies' selves who dress'd. 
 And her, his friend, distinguish'd from the rest 
 By grandeur in her look, and state that she 
 possess'd. 
 
 2 Bi2 
 
516 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 He pass'd not one ; his grateful mind o'erflow'd 
 With sense of all he felt, and they bcstow'd. 
 
 He spake of every office, great or small, 
 Within, without, and spake with praise of all — 
 So pass'd the happy Boy that Day at Silford Hall.* 
 
 TALE II. 
 
 THE FAMILY OF LOVE. 
 
 In a large town, a wealthy thriving place, 
 Where hopes of gain excite an anxious race ; 
 AVhich dark dense wreaths of cloudy volumes cloak. 
 And mark for leagues around the place of smoke ; 
 Where fire to water lends its powerful aid, 
 And steam produces — strong ally to trade, — 
 Arrived a Stranger, whom no merchant knew, 
 Nor could conjecture what he came to do : 
 He came not there his fortune to amend, 
 He came not there a fortune made to spend : 
 His age not that which men in trade employ ; 
 The place not that where men their wealth enjoy ; 
 Yet there was something in his air that told 
 Of competency gain'd before the man was old. 
 
 ■» [In the first draft of ' Silford Hall ' the conclusion is 
 different ; and we think it right to preserve the following 
 verses in a note, as they appear to leave little doubt that the 
 story was in fact suggested by the Poet's recollection of his 
 own boyish visits, when an apothecary's apprentice, to 
 t'heveley, a seat of the noble family with whom, in after- 
 years, he was domesticated as Chaplain. 
 
 Dream on, dear Boy ! let pass a few brief years, 
 lieplete with troubles, comforts, hopes, an'd fears, 
 Hold expectations, efforts wild and strong, 
 And thou shalt find tiiy fond conjectures wrong. 
 Imagination rules thee : tliine are dreams, 
 And everything to thee is what it seems: 
 'riiou scest the surfaces of things that pass 
 Before thee, colour'd by thy fancy's glass. 
 The fact l)eiow is hidden 1 ' What is true 
 In that fair mansion comes not in thv view ; 
 And thou wouldsl feel a new and strange surprise, 
 Stiould all within upon thy mind arise. 
 Thou thiuk'st the lords of all these glorious things 
 Are lih's-.'d supremely I so they are, — like kings! 
 Kuvy ihem not their lofty state, my boy ; 
 Tliey but possess the things that you enjoy. 
 
 " Nay, Iiut thoy 're lords of all you see around— 
 " Hing but a bell, and men obey the sound ; 
 " Make but a motion with the hand or eve, 
 " And their attemlants at the signal ily.'' 
 
 True, my fair lad ! but this is contract all, 
 For James is paid to heed his Honour's call : 
 Ket wages cease, and lay the livery by, 
 And .lauies will heed no more than you or I. 
 Service h.is lawful bound, and that beyond 
 Is no obedience — 't is not in the bond. 
 I'oDlTnan, or iiroom, or butler, sliU he know^ 
 So does his lord, the duty that he owes. 
 
 labourers, you say, are grieved with daily toil — 
 True — liut the sweater goes not "ith the soil ; 
 He can change places, change liis way of life. 
 Take new emplojnieiits, — nay, can take a wife ; 
 If he offend, he knows the law's decree, 
 r* it can lii» judge in his accuser »'■>; ; 
 
 Ho brought no servants with him : these he sought 
 
 Were soon his habits and his manners taught — 
 
 His manners easy, civil, kind, and free ; 
 
 His habits such as aged men's will be — 
 
 To self indulgent ; wealthy men like him 
 
 Plead for these failings — 'tis their way, their whim . 
 
 His frank good-humour, his untroubled air, 
 His free address, and language bold but fair, 
 Soon made him friends — such friends as all may 
 
 make, 
 Who take the way that he was pleased to take. 
 He gave his dinners in a handsome style, 
 And met his neighbours with a social smile ; 
 The wealthy all their easy friend approved, 
 Whom the more liberal for his bounty loved : 
 And e'en the cautious and reserved began 
 To speak with kindness of the frank old man. 
 Who, though associate with the rich and grave, 
 Laugh'd with the gaj', and to the needy gave 
 What need requires. At church a seat was sliowii, 
 That he was kindlj- ask'd to think his own : 
 Thither he went, and neither cold nor heat, 
 Pains or pretences, kept him from his seat. 
 This to his credit in the town was told, 
 And ladies said, " 'T is pity he is old : 
 " Yet, for his years, the Stranger moves like one 
 " Who of his race has no small part to run." 
 No envy he by ostentation raised. 
 And all his hospitable table praised. 
 
 And, more than all the rest— or young or old, 
 Useful or useless, he can not be sold : 
 Sorrow and want may in hi* cot be found, 
 But not a slave can live on British ground. 
 
 Nor have the lords of all this wealth you see 
 Their perfect freedom : few are truly free : 
 Who rank the highest find the clieck of fate. 
 And kings themselves are subject to their state. 
 
 Riches, and all that we desire to gain, 
 Bind their possessors in a golden chain^ 
 'T is kept in peril, and 't is lost with pain. 
 
 And thou too, Boy! wilt pass unheeding by 
 The scenes that now delight thine eager eye. 
 Dream on awhile ! and tliere shall come a strange, 
 And, couldst thou see it, an amazing change. 
 Thou who wert late so happy, and so proud, 
 To be a seat with liveried men allow'd, 
 And would not, dared not, in thy very shame, 
 The titles ol' their noble masters name — 
 Titles that, sciurcely known, upon tliy tongue 
 With tremulous and erring accent hung 
 
 Oh 1 had they told thee, when thou sat'st, w ith pride 
 And grateful joy, at Madam Johnson's side. 
 And lieard the lisping Klora, blue-eyed maid. 
 Bid thee be neither b:ishful nor alraid, — 
 When Mrs. Jane thy burning blush li;id rai.sed, 
 Because thy modesty ami sense she praised, — 
 Couldst thou have seen that in tliat place a room 
 Should be thine own, thy house, thy hall, thy home, 
 Willi leave to wander as tliou wouldst, to road 
 Just as thy fincy was disposed to feed, 
 'l"o live witl[ those wlio were so far above 
 Thy reach, it seeni'd to thee a crime to love. 
 Or even admire them I Little didst thou know 
 How nciir approach the lofty and the low! 
 In all we dare, and all we dare not name. 
 How much the gre.it and little are the .same ! 
 
 Well, thou hast tried it— thou hast closely seen 
 What greatness has without it, and within ; 
 Wliere now the joyful expectation ? — lli'd I 
 The strong anticipating spirit .'-dead IJ 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 517 
 
 His quiet life censorious talk suppress'd, 
 
 And numbers hail'd him as their welcome guest. 
 
 'T was thought a man so mild and bounteous too, 
 A world of good within the town might do ; 
 To vote him honours, therefore, they inclined ; 
 But these he sought not, and with thanks resign'd. 
 His days of business he declared were past, 
 And he would wait in quiet for the last ; 
 But for a dinner and a day of mirth 
 He was the readiest being upon earth. 
 
 iMen call'd him Captain, and they found the 
 name 
 By liim accepted without pride or shame, 
 Not in the Navy — that did not appear ; 
 Not in the Army — that at least was clear : 
 " But as he speaks of sea-affairs, he made, 
 " No doubt, his fortune in the way of trade ; 
 " He might, perhaps, an India-ship command — 
 " We '11 call him Captain now he comes to land." 
 
 The Stranger much of various life had seen, 
 Been poor, been rich, and in the state between ; 
 Had much of kindness met, and much deceit. 
 And all that man who deals with men must meet. 
 Not much he read ; but from his youth had 
 
 thought. 
 And been by care and observation taught : 
 'T is thus a man his own opinions makes ; 
 He holds that fast, which he with trouble takes : 
 AVhile one whose notions all from books arise. 
 Upon his authors, not himself, relies — 
 A borrow'd wisdom this, that does not make us 
 
 wise. 
 
 Inured to scenes where wealth and place com- 
 mand 
 Th' observant eye, and the obedient hand, 
 A Tory spirit his — he ever paid 
 Obedience due, and look'd to be obey'd. 
 " Man upon man depends, and, break the chain, 
 " He soon returns to savage life again ; 
 " As of fair virgins dancing in a round, 
 " Each binds another, and herself is bound, 
 ■■ On either hand a social tribe he sees, 
 " By those assisted, and assisting these ; 
 " While to the general welfare all belong, 
 '' The high in power, the low in number strong." 
 
 Such was the Stranger's creed — if not pro- 
 found. 
 He judg'd it useful, and proclaim'd it sound : 
 And many liked it ; invitations went 
 To Captain Elliot, and from him were sent— 
 These last so often, that his friends confess'd 
 The Captain's cook had not a place of rest. 
 Still were they something at a loss to guess 
 What his profession was from his address ; 
 For much he knew, and too correct was he 
 For a man train'd and n-irtured on the sea : 
 Yet well he knew the seaman's words and ways, — 
 Seaman's his look, and nautical his phrase : 
 In fact, all ended just where they began, 
 With many a doubt of this amphibious man. 
 
 Though kind to all, he look'd with special grace 
 On a few members of an ancient race. 
 Long known, and well respected in the place ; 
 Dyson their name ; but how regard for these 
 Rose in his mind, or why they seem'd to please, 
 Or by what ways, what virtues — not a cause 
 Can we assign, for Fancy has no laws ; 
 But, as the Captain show'd them such respect, 
 We will not treat the Dysons with neglect. 
 
 Their Father died while yet engaged by trade 
 To make a fortune that was never made, 
 But to his children taught ; for he would say 
 " I place them — all I can — in Fortune's way." 
 
 James was his first-born ; when his father died, 
 He, in their large domain, the place supplied, 
 And found, as to the Dysons all appear'd, 
 Afiairs less gloomy than their sire had fear'd ; 
 But then if rich or poor, all now agree. 
 Frugal and careful, James must wealthy be : 
 And wealth in wedlock sought, he married soon, 
 And ruled his Lady from the honeymoon : 
 Nor shall we wonder ; for, his house beside, 
 He had a sturdy multitude to guide. 
 Who now his spirit vex'd, and now his temper 
 
 tried ; 
 Men who by labours live, and, day by day. 
 Work, weave, and spin their active lives away : 
 j Like bees industrious, they for others strive, 
 1 With, now and then, some murmuring in the hive. 
 
 James was a Churchman — 't was his pride and 
 boast ; 
 Loyal his heart, and " Church and King " his 
 
 toast •, 
 He for Religion might not warmly feel, 
 ■ But for the Church he had abounding zeal. 
 
 ; Yet no dissenting sect would he condemn, — 
 J " They 're nought to us," said he, " nor we to them ; 
 , " 'T is innovation of our own I hate, 
 " Whims and inventions of a modern date. 
 
 " Why send you Bibles all the world about, 
 I " That men may read amiss, and learn to doubt? 
 j " Why teach the children of tlie poor to read, 
 " That a new race of doubters may succeed ? 
 " Now can you scarcely rule the stubborn crew, 
 " And what if they should know as much as you ? 
 " Will a man labour when to learning bred, 
 " Or use his hands who can employ his head ? 
 " Will he a clerk or master's ?elf obey, 
 " Who thinks himself as well-inform'd as they ?" 
 
 These were his favourite subjects — these he 
 chose. 
 And where he ruled no creature durst oppose. 
 
 " We are rich," quoth James; " but it we thus 
 proceed, 
 " And give to all, we shall be poor indeed : 
 " In war we subsidise the world — in peace 
 " We christianise— our bounties never cease : 
 •- We learn each stranger's tongue, that they w\\h 
 
 case 
 *- May read tranEiated Scriptiues, if they pleas;; ; 
 
518 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " "We buy them presses, print them books, and 
 
 then 
 " Pay and export poor learned, pious men ; 
 " A^'ainly we strive a fortune now to get, 
 " So tax'd by private claims and public debt." 
 
 Still he proceeds — '" You make your prisons 
 light, 
 " Airy and clean, your robbers to invite ; 
 " And in such ways your pity show to vice, 
 " That you the rogues encourage, and entice." 
 
 For lenient measures James had no regard — 
 " Hardship," he said, " must work upon the hard : 
 " Labour and chains such desperate men require ; 
 " To soften iron you must use the fire." 
 
 Active himself, he labour'd to express. 
 In his strong words, his scorn of idleness ; 
 From him in vain the beggar sought relief — 
 " Who will not labour is an idle thief, 
 " Stealing from those who will ;" he knew not how 
 For the untaught and ill-taught to allow, 
 Children of want and vice, inured to ill, 
 Unchain'd the passions, and uncurb'd the will. 
 
 Alas ! he look'd but to his own affairs, 
 Or to the rivals in his trade, and theirs : 
 Knew not the thousands who must all be fed. 
 Yet ne'er were taught to earn their daily bread : 
 Whom crimes, misfortunes, errors only teach 
 To seek their food where'er within their reach. 
 Who for their parents' sins, or for their own, 
 Are now as vagrants, wanderers, beggars known. 
 Hunted and hunting through the world, to share 
 Alms and contempt, and shame and scorn to bear ; 
 Whom Law condemns, and Justice, with a sigh, 
 Pursuing, shakes her sword and passes by. — 
 If to the prison we should these commit, 
 They for the gallows will be render'd fit. 
 
 But James had virtues — was esteem'd as one 
 Whom men look'd up to, and relied upon. 
 Kind to his equals, social when they met — • 
 If out of spirits, alwaj^s out of debt ; 
 True to his promise, he a lie disdain'd, 
 And, e'en when tempted in his trade, refrain'd ; 
 Frugal he was, and loved the cash to spare, 
 Gain'd by much skill, and nursed by constant care ; 
 Yet liked the social board, and when he spoke. 
 Some hail'd his wisdom, some enjoy'd his joke. 
 To liim a Brother look'd as one to whom, 
 If fortune frown'd, he might in trouble come: 
 IJis Sisters view'd the important man with awe. 
 As if a parent in his place they saw : 
 All lived in Love ; none sought their private ends : 
 Tlie Dysons were a Family of Friends. 
 
 His brother David was a studious boy, 
 Yet cotild hLi sports as well as books enjoy. 
 E'en when a Joy he was not quickly read. 
 If by the heart you judged liim, or the head. 
 His father thought he was decreed to shine. 
 And be in time an eminent Divine ; 
 But if he ever to the Church inclined, 
 It is too certain that he changed his mind. 
 He sj)oke of scruples, but who knew him best 
 AfTirm'd no scruples broke on David's rest. 
 
 Physic and Law were each in turn proposed, — 
 He weigh'd them nicely, and vrith Physic closed. 
 
 He had a serious air, a smooth address. 
 And a firm spirit that ensured success. 
 He watch'd his brethren of the time, how they 
 Rose into fame, that he might choose his way. 
 
 Some, he observed, a kind of roughness used, 
 And now their patients banter'd, now abused : 
 The awe-struck people were at once dismay'd, 
 As if they begg'd th' advice for which they paid. 
 
 There are who hold that no disease is slight. 
 Who magnify the foe with whom they fight. 
 The sick was told that his was that disease 
 But rarely known on mortal frame to seize ; 
 Which only skill profound, and full command 
 Of all the powers in nature, could withstand. 
 Then, if he lived, what fame the conquest gave I 
 And if he died — " No human power could save !" 
 
 Mere fortune sometimes, and a lucky case, 
 Will make a man the idol of a place — 
 Who last, advice to some fair duchess gave, 
 Or snatch'd a widow's darling from the grave. 
 Him first she honours of the lucky tribe, 
 Fills him with praise, and woos him to prescribe. 
 In his OM'n chariot soon he rattles on. 
 And half believes the lies that built him one. 
 
 But not of these was David : care and pain, 
 And studious toil, prepar'd his way to gain. 
 At first observed, then trusted, he became 
 At length respected, and acquired a name. 
 Keen, close, attentive, he could read mankind, 
 The feeble bod}', and the failing mind ; 
 And if his heart rcmain'd untouch'd, his eyes. 
 His air, and tone, with all could sympathise. 
 
 This brought him fees, and not a man was iie 
 In weak compassion to refuse a fee. 
 Yet though the Doctor's purse was well supplied, 
 Though patients came, and fees were multiplied. 
 Some secret drain, that none presumed to know, 
 And few e'en guess'd, for ever kept it low. 
 Some of a patient spake, a tender fair. 
 Of whom the Doctor took peculiar care, 
 But not a fee : he rather largely gave. 
 Nor spared himself, 't was said, this gentle friend 
 
 to save. 
 Her case consumptive, with perpetual need 
 Still to be fed, and still desire to feed ; 
 An eager craving, seldom known to cease. 
 And gold alone brought temporary peace. 
 
 So, rich he was not ; James some fear express'd. 
 Dear Doctor David would be yet distress'd ; 
 For if now poor, when so repaid his skill, 
 What fate were his if he himself were ill ? 
 
 In his religion. Doctor Dyson sought 
 To teach himself—" A man should not be taught, 
 " Should not by forms or creeds his mind debase, 
 " That keep in awe an unreflecting race." 
 He heeded not what Clarke and Paley say. 
 But thought himself as good a judge as they; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 519 
 
 Yet to the Church profess'd himself a friend, 
 
 And would the rector for his hour attend ; 
 
 Nay, praise the learn'd discourse, and learnedly 
 
 defend. 
 For since the common herd of men are blind, 
 He judged it right that guides should be assign'd ; 
 And that the few who could themselves direct 
 Should treat those guides with honour and re- 
 spect. 
 He was from all contracted notions freed. 
 But gave his Brother credit for his creed ; 
 And if in smaller matters he indulged, 
 'T was well, so long as they were not divulged. 
 
 Oft was the spirit of the Doctor tried, 
 "When his grave Sister wish'd to be his guide. 
 She told him, " All his real friends were grieved 
 " To hear it said how little he believed : 
 " Of all who bore the name she never knew 
 '• One to his pastor or his church untrue ; 
 " AU have the truth with mutual zeal profess'd, 
 " And why, dear Doctor, differ from the rest ?" 
 
 " 'T is my hard fate," with serious looks replied 
 The man of doubt, " to err with such a guide." 
 " Then why not turn from such a painful state ?" — 
 The doubting man replied, " It is my fate." 
 
 Strong in her zeal, by texts and reasons back'd, 
 In his grave mood the Doctor she attack'd : 
 CuU'd words from Scripture to announce his doom. 
 And bade him " think of dreadful things to come." 
 
 " If sucli," he answerM, " be that state untried, 
 " In peace, dear Martha, let me here abide ; 
 " Forbear t' insult a man whose fate is known, 
 '' And leave to Heaven a matter all its own." 
 
 In the same cause the Merchant, too, would 
 strive ; 
 lie ask'd, " Did ever unbeliever thrive ? 
 " Had he respect? could he a fortune make ? 
 ■' And why not then such impious men forsake ?" 
 
 " Thanks, my dear James, and be assured I feel, 
 ■• If not your reason, yet at least your zeal; 
 " And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me 
 
 poor, 
 " And bar respect, assail me as before 
 " With force combin'd, you '11 drive the fiend 
 
 away, 
 " For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray." 
 
 But though the Doctor could reply with ease 
 To all such trivial arguments as these, — 
 Though he could reason, or at least deride, 
 There was a power that would not be defied : 
 A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun, 
 Could not refute, from whom he could not run ; 
 For Conscience lived within : she slept, 't is true, 
 But when she waked, her pangs awakcn'd too. 
 She bade him think ; and as he thought, a sigh 
 Of deep remorse precluded all reply. 
 No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest. 
 Could this commanding power of strength divest. 
 But with reluctant fear her terrors he confess'd. 
 
 His weak advisers he could scorn or slight. 
 But not their cause ; for, in their folly's spite, 
 They took the \viser part, and chose their way 
 aright. 
 
 Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid 
 Had some good ladies call'd, but were afraid — 
 Afraid of one who, if report were just, 
 The arm of flesh, and that alone, would trust. 
 But these were few — the many took no care 
 Of what they judged to be his own affair ; 
 And if he them from their diseases freed, 
 They neither cared nor thought about his creed : 
 They said his merits would for much atone. 
 And only wonder'd that he lived alone. 
 
 The widow'd Sister near the Merchant dwelt, 
 And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt. 
 Small was her jointure, and o'er this she sigh'd. 
 That to her heart its bounteous -wish denied, 
 Which yet all common wants, but not her all, sup- 
 plied. 
 Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart 
 For them prepares, they good or ill impart ; 
 Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain. 
 Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again ; 
 Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow, 
 And seed, that else had perish'd, live and grow ; 
 Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed 
 The idle blossom, and the useless weed ; 
 But how her griefs the Widow's heart impress' d, 
 Must from the tenor of her life be guess'd. 
 
 Rigid she was, persisting in her grief, 
 Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief. 
 In her religion she was all severe, 
 And as she was, was anxious to appear. 
 When sorrow died, restraint usurp'd the place. 
 And sat in solemn state upon her face ; 
 Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste 
 Her precious time on trifling works of taste ; 
 Though what she did with all that precious time 
 We know not, but to waste it was a crime — 
 As oft she said, when with a serious friend 
 She spent the hours as duty bids us spend ; 
 To read a novel was a kind of sin — 
 Albeit once Clarissa took her in ; 
 And now of late she heard with much surprise. 
 Novels there were that made a compromise 
 Betwixt amusement and religion ; these 
 Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please, 
 And please the serious, whom the sense would 
 
 charm, 
 And, thus indulging, be secured from harm — 
 A happy thought, when from the foe we take 
 His arms, and use them for religion's sake. 
 
 Her Bible she perused by day, by night ; 
 It was her task — she said 't was her delight ; 
 Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew. 
 For ever studied, yet for ever new — 
 All must be new that we cannot retain, 
 And new we find it when we read again. 
 
 The hardest texts she could with ease expound. 
 And meaning for the most mysterious found, 
 Knew which of dubious senses to prefer : 
 The want of Greek was not a want in her • 
 
520 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 I- 
 
 Instinctive light no aid from Hebrew needs — 
 But full conviction without study breeds ; 
 O'er mortal powers bj' inborn strength prevails, 
 Where Reason trembles, and where Learning fails. 
 
 To the Church strictly from her childhood bred, 
 She now her zeal with party-spirit fed : 
 For brother James she lively hopes express'd, 
 But for the Doctor's safety felt distress'd ; 
 And her light Sister, poor, and deaf, and blind, 
 Fill'd her with fears of most tremendous kind. 
 But David mock'd her for the pains she took, 
 And Fanny gave resentment for rebuke ; 
 While James approved the zeal, and praised the 
 
 call, 
 " That brought," he said, '• a blessing on them all ; 
 " Goodness like this to all the House extends, 
 " For were they not a Family of Friends ?" 
 
 Their sister Frances, though her prime was 
 Had beauty still — naj', beauty form'd to last ; 
 'T was not the lily and the rose combined. 
 Nor must we say the beauty of the mind ; 
 But feature, form, and that engaging air 
 That lives when ladies are no longer fair. 
 Lovers she had, as she remember'd yet, 
 For who the glories of their reign forget ? 
 Some she rejected in her maiden pride, 
 And some in maiden hesitation tried, 
 Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide. 
 One lost, another would her grace implore. 
 Till all were lost, and lovers came no more : 
 Nor had she that, in beauty's failing state. 
 Which will recall a lover, or create ; 
 Hers was the slender portion, that supplied 
 Her real wants, but all beyond denied. 
 
 When Fanny Dyson reach'd her fortieth year. 
 She would no more of love or lovers hear ; ! 
 
 But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her 
 
 stay, i 
 
 And to each other all the world were tliey ; I 
 
 For all the world had grown to them unkind, 
 One sex censorious, and the other blind. 
 The Friend of Frances longer time had known 
 The world's deceits, and from its follies flown. 
 With her dear Friend life's sober joys to share 
 Was all that now became her wish and care. 
 They walk'd together, they conversed and read, ! 
 And tender tears for well-feign' d sorrows shed : ; 
 And were so happy in their .quiet lives. 
 They pitied sighing maids and weeping wives. 
 
 But Fortune to our state such change imparts, 
 That Pity stays not long in human hearts ; 
 When sad for others' woes our hearts are grown, 
 This soon gives place to sorrows of our own. 
 
 There was among our guardian Volunteers 
 A Major Bright — he rcckon'd fifty years : 
 A reading man of peace, but call'd to take 
 His sword and musket for his country's sake ; 
 Not to go fortli and fight, but here to stnj'. 
 Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay. 
 
 Uim had the elder Lady long admired. 
 As one from vain and trivial things retired; 
 
 With him conversed ; but to a friend so dear 
 
 Gave not that pleasure — why, is not so clear ; 
 
 But chance efiected this : the Major now 
 
 Gave both the time his duties would allow ; 
 
 In walks, in visits, when abroad, at home, 
 
 The friendly Major would to either come. 
 
 He never spoke — for he was not a boy — 
 
 Of ladies' charms, or lovers' grief and joy ; 
 
 All his discourses were of serious kind, 
 
 The heart they touch'd not, but they fill'd the 
 
 mind. 
 Yet — oh, the pity ! from this grave good man 
 The cause of coolness in the Friends began. 
 The sage Sophronia — that the chosen name — 
 Now more polite and more estranged became. 
 She could but feel that she had longer kno\\'n 
 This valued friend — he was indeed her own ; 
 But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth. 
 Had more of softness —yes, and more of youth ; 
 And though he said such things had ceased to 
 
 please. 
 The worthy ^lajor was not blind to these : 
 So, without thought, without intent, he paid 
 More frequent visits to the younger Maid. 
 
 Such the offence ; and though the Major tried 
 To tie again the knot he thus untied, 
 His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid, — 
 He moved no more the inexorable maid. 
 The Friends too parted, and the elder told 
 Tales of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold ; 
 And wonder'd what a man of sense could see 
 In the light airs of wither'd vanity. 
 
 'T is said that Frances now the world reviews. 
 Unwilling all the little left to lose ; 
 She and the Major on the walks are seen. 
 And all the world is wondering what they mean. 
 
 Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew 
 To his own board, as the selected few. 
 For why ? — they seem'd each other to approve. 
 And call'd themselves a Family of Love. 
 
 These were not all : there was a youth beside, 
 Left to his uncles when his parents died : 
 A Girl, their sister, by a Boj' was led 
 To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed — 
 And they return'd to seek for pardon, pence, and 
 
 bread. 
 Five years they lived to labour, weej), and pray. 
 When Death in mei'cy took them both away. 
 
 Uncles and aunts received this lively child. 
 Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled ; 
 But when the child to boy's estate grew on. 
 The smile was vanish'd, and the pity gone. 
 Slight was the burden, but in time increased. 
 Until at length both love and pity ceased. 
 Then Tom was idle ; he would find his way 
 To his aunt's stores, and make her sweets his prey : 
 By uncle Doctor on a message sent, 
 lie stopp'd to play, and lost it as he went. 
 His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere, 
 And a rough hand, produced a transient fear ; 
 But Tom, to whom his rude companions tauglit 
 Language as rude, vindictive measures sought : 
 
He "SQfl sTich words, that, Tvlien she wish'd to 
 
 Of his otfence, she had her words to seek. 
 The little wretch had call'd her — 't was a shame 
 To think such thought, and more to name such 
 name. 
 
 Tims fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray 
 For his true friends : " But who," said he, " are 
 
 they?" 
 By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy 
 Hail'd the strange good with tears of love and joy ; 
 But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn 
 With \'VTath he dared not on his uncles turn : 
 So with indignant spirit, still and strong, 
 He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong. 
 To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent : 
 "Without a tear of love or grief he went ; 
 Where, doom'd to fast and study, fight and play, 
 He stay'd five years, and wish'd five more to stay. 
 He loved o'er plains to run, up hills to climb, 
 Without a thought of kindred, home, or time ; 
 Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy. 
 Landed at last the thin and freckled boy. 
 With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek, 
 All made more sad from sickness of a week. 
 His aunts and uncles felt — nor strove to hide 
 From the poor boy their pity and their pride : 
 He had been taught that he had not a friend, 
 Save these, on earth, on whom he might depend ; 
 And such dependence upon these he had 
 As made him sometimes desperate, always sad. 
 
 " Awkward and weak, where can the lad be 
 placed, 
 " And we not troubled, censured, or disgraced ? 
 " Do, Brother James, th' unhappy boy enrol 
 " Among your set ; you only can control." 
 James sigh'd, and Thomas to the Factory went, 
 Who there his days in sundry duties spent. 
 He ran, he wrought, he wrote — to read or play 
 He had no time, nor much to feed or pray. 
 What pass'd without he heard not — or he heard 
 Without concern, what he nor wish'd nor fear'd ; 
 Told of the Captain and his wealth, he sigh'd, 
 And said, " How well his table is supplied :" 
 But with the sigh it caused the sorrow fled ; 
 He was not feasted, liut he must be fed. 
 And he could sleep full sound, though not full soft 
 his bed. 
 
 I But still ambitious thoughts his mind possess'd. 
 And dreams of joy broke in upon his rest. 
 Improved in person, and enlarged in mind. 
 The good he found not he could hope to find : 
 Though now enslaved, he hail'd the approaching 
 
 day 
 When he should break his chains and flee away. 
 
 Such were the Dysons : they were first of those 
 Whom Captain Elliot as companions chose ; 
 Them he invited, and the more appi'oved. 
 As it appear'd tliat each the other loved. 
 Proud of their brothers were the sister pair. 
 And if not proud, yet kind the brothers were. 
 This pleased the Captain, who had never known. 
 Or he had loved, such kindred of his own : 
 
 Then: ho invited, save the Orphan -ad. 
 Whose name was not the one his TJncin.i had ; 
 No Dyson iic, nor with the party came — 
 The worthy Captain never heard his name ; 
 Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy. 
 For then, of course, must follow his employ. 
 Though all were silent, as vrith one consent, 
 None told another what his silence meant. 
 What hers ; but each suppress'd the useless truth. 
 And not a word was mention'd of the youth. 
 
 Familiar grown, the Dj'sons saw their host, 
 With none beside them : it became their boast. 
 Their pride, their pleasure ; but to some it seem'd 
 Beyond the worth their talents were esteem'd. 
 This wrought no change within the Captain's 
 
 mind : 
 To all men courteous, he to them was kind. 
 
 One day with these he sat, and only these. 
 In a light humour, talking at his ease : 
 Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell 
 Of times long past, and what in them befell — 
 Not of his life their wonder to attract, 
 But the choice tale, or insulated fact. 
 Then, as it seem'd, he had acquired a right 
 To hear what they could from their stores recite. 
 Their lives, they said, were all of common kind ; 
 He could no pleasure in such trifles find. 
 
 They had an Uncle — 't is their father's tale — 
 Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail, 
 Who in all lands had been where man can live ; 
 " He could, indeed, some strange relations give, 
 " And many a bold adventure ; but in vain 
 " We look for him ; he comes not home again." 
 
 " And is it so ? whj', then, if so it be," 
 Said Captain Elliot, '' you must look to me : 
 
 " I knew John Dyson"- Instant every one 
 
 Was moved to wonder — " Knew my Uncle John I 
 " Can he be rich? be childless? He is old, 
 ; " That is most certain. — What I can more be told ? 
 I " Will he return, who has so long been gone, 
 ' " And lost to us? Oh ! what of Uncle John?" 
 
 I This was aside : their unobservant friend 
 I Seem'd on their thoughts but little to attend ; 
 A traveller speaking, he was more inclined 
 To tell his story than their thoughts to find. 
 
 " Although, my Friends, I love you well, 't is 
 
 true, 
 "T was your relation tum'd my mind to you ; 
 For we were friends of old, and friends like us 
 
 are few : 
 And though from dearest friends a man will hide 
 His private vices in his native pride, 
 Yet such our friendship from its earlj' rise. 
 We no reserve admitted, no disguise ; 
 But 'tis the story of my friend 1 tell. 
 And to all others let me bid farewell. 
 
 " Take each your glass, and you shall hear how 
 John, 
 " My old companion, through the world has gone ; 
 " I can describe him to the very life, 
 " Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife." 
 
522 
 
 CR ABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 all 
 
 then what his life 
 
 " Wife ! whisper'd 
 to us, 
 " His ways and ventures, if he ventured thus?" 
 This, too, apart ; yet were they all intent, 
 And, gravely listening, sigh'd with one consent. 
 
 " My friend, your Uncle, was design'd for 
 trade, 
 " To make a fortune as his father made ; 
 " But early he perceived the house declined, 
 " And his domestic views at once resign'd : 
 " While stout of heart, with life in every limb, 
 " He would to sea, and either sink or swim. 
 " No one forbade ; his father shook his hand, 
 '' Within it leaving what he could command. 
 
 " He left his home, but I will not relate 
 " What storms he braved, and how he bore his 
 
 fate, 
 '• Till his brave frigate was a Spanish prize, 
 '• And prison-walls received his first-born sighs — 
 '■ Sighs for the freedom that an English boy, 
 " Or English man, is eager to enjoy. 
 
 " Exchanged, he breathed in freedom, and 
 
 aboard 
 " An English ship he found his peace restored ; 
 " AVar raged around, each British tar was press'd 
 '• To serve his king, and John among the rest ; 
 ■' Oft had he fought and bled, and 'twas his fate 
 " In that same ship to grow to man's estate. 
 " Again 't was war : of France a ship appear'd 
 '■ Of greater force, but neither shunn'dnor fear'd : 
 ■' 'Twas in the Indian Sea, the land was nigh, 
 '' When all prepared to fight, and some to die ; 
 " Man after man was in the ocean thrown, 
 " Limb after limb was to the surgeon shown, 
 " And John, at length, poor John ! held forth his 
 
 own. — ■ 
 
 " A tedious case — the battle ceased with day, 
 " And in the night the foe had slipp'd away. 
 " Of many wounded were a part convey'd 
 " To land, and he among the number laid : 
 " Poor, suffering, friendless, who shall now 
 
 part 
 " Life to his hope, or comfort to his heart? 
 " A kind good priest among the English there 
 " Selected him as his peculiar care : 
 " And, when recover'd, to a powerful friend 
 " Was pleased the lad he loved to recommend ; 
 " Who read your Uncle's mind, and, pleased to 
 
 read, 
 " Placed him where talents will in time succeed. 
 
 nn- 
 
 " I will not tease you with details of trade, 
 " But say he there a decent fortune mode, — 
 " Not such as gave him, if rcturn'd, to buy 
 " A duke's estate, or principality, 
 " But a fair fortune : years of peace he knew, 
 " That were so happy, and tliat sccm'd so few. 
 
 " Then came a cloud ; for who on earth has seen 
 " A cliangeless fortune, and a life serene ? 
 " Ah ! llicn liow joyous were tlie hours we spent! 
 '■ IJut joy is restless, joy is not content. 
 
 " There one resided, who, to serve his friend, 
 ' Was pleased a gay fair lady to commend ; 
 ' Was pleased t' invite the happy man to dine, 
 ' And introduced the subject o'er their wine ; 
 ' Was pleased the lady his good friend should 
 
 knew, 
 ' And as a secret his regard would show. 
 
 " A modest man lacks courage ; but, thus train'd, 
 ' Your Uncle sought her favour, and obtain'd ; 
 ' To me he spake, enraptured with her face, 
 ' Her angel smile, her unaffected grace ; 
 ' Her fortune small indeed ; but ' Curse the pelf! 
 
 ■ ' She is a glorious fortune in herself!' 
 
 ■ ' John !' answer'd I, ' friend John, to be sincere. 
 These are fine things, but may be bought too 
 
 dear. 
 
 ■ ' You are no stripling, and, it must be said, 
 
 " ' Have not the form that charms a youthful 
 
 maid. 
 " ' What you possess, and what you leave behind 
 " ' When you depart, may captivate her mind ; 
 " ' And I suspect she will rejoice at heart, 
 " ' Your will once made, if you should soon de- 
 part.' 
 
 " Long our debate, and much we disagreed ; 
 " ' You need no wife,' I said — said he, ' I need ; 
 " ' I want a house, I want in all I see 
 " ' To take an interest ; what is mine to me ?' 
 " So spake the man, who to his word was just, 
 " And took the words of others upon trust. 
 " He could not think that friend, in power so high, 
 " So much esteem'd, could like a villain lie ; 
 " Nor, till the knot, the fatal knot, was tied, 
 " Had urged his wedding a dishonour'd bride. 
 " The man he challenged, for his heart was rent 
 " With rage and grief, and was to prison sent ; 
 " For men in power — and this, alas I was one — 
 " Revenge on all the wrongs themselves have 
 
 done ; 
 " And he whose spirit bends not to the blow 
 " The tyrants strike, shall no forgiveness know, 
 " For 't is to slaves alone that tyrants favour 
 
 show. 
 
 " This cost him much ; but that he did not 
 heed ; 
 " The lady died, and my poor friend was freed. 
 " ' Enough of ladies !' then said he, and smiled ; 
 '' ' I 've now no longings for a neighbour's child.' 
 " So patient he return'd, and not in vain, 
 " To his late duties, and grew rich again. 
 " He was no miser ; but the man who takes 
 " Care to be rich will love the gain he makes ; 
 " Pursuing wealth, he soon forgot his woes, — 
 " No acts of his were bars to his repose. 
 
 " Now John was rich, and, old and woarj' grown, 
 '• Tulk'd of the country that he calls liis own, 
 " And talk'd to me ; for now, in fact, began 
 " My better knowledge of tlie real man. 
 " Though long estranged, he felt a strong desire 
 " That made him for his former I'ricnds inquire ; 
 " What Dysons yet romain'd lie long'd to know, 
 " And doubtless meant some proofs of love to 
 show. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 523 
 
 " His purpose known, our native land I sought, 
 " And with the wishes of my Friend am fraught." 
 
 Fix'd were all eyes, suspense each bosom shook, 
 And expectation hung on every look. 
 
 " ' Go to my kindred, seek them all around, 
 " ' Find all you can, and tell me all that 's found ; 
 " ' Seek them if prosperous, seek them in distress, 
 " ' Hear what they need, know what they all pos- 
 sess ; 
 " ' What minds, what hearts they have, how good 
 
 they are, 
 " ' How far from goodness — speak, and no one 
 
 spare, 
 " ' And no one slander : let me clearly see 
 " ' What is in them, and what remains for me.' 
 
 " Such is my charge, and haply I shall send 
 " Tidings of joy and comfort to my Friend. 
 " Oft would he say, ' If of our race survive 
 " ' Some two or three to keep the name alive, 
 " ' I will not ask if rich or great they be, 
 " ' But if they live in love, like you and me.' 
 
 " 'T was not my purpose yet awhile to speak 
 •' As I have spoken ; but why further seek ? 
 " All that I heard I in my heart approve ; 
 " You are indeed a Family of Love : 
 " And my old friend were happy in the sight 
 " Of those of whom I shall such tidings write." 
 
 The Captain wrote not : he perhaps was slow, 
 Perhaps he wish'd a little more to know. 
 He wrote not yet, and, while he thus delay'd, 
 Frances alone an early visit paid. 
 The maiden Lady braved the morning cold. 
 To tell her Friend what duty bade be told. 
 Yet not abruptly — she has first to say, 
 " How cold the morning, but how fine the day ; — 
 •' I fear you slept but ill, we kept you long, 
 •' You made us all so happy, but 'twas vsrong — 
 " So entertain'd, no wonder M'e forgot 
 " How the time pass'd ; I fear me you did not." 
 
 In this fair way the Lady seldom fail'd 
 To steer her course, still sounding as she sail'd. 
 
 " Dear Captain Elliot, how your Friends you 
 read ! 
 " We are a loving Family indeed ; 
 " Left in the world each other's aid to be, 
 " And join to raise a fallen family. 
 " Oh ! little thought we there was one so near, 
 " And one so distant, to us all so dear — 
 " All, all alike ; he cannot know, dear man ! 
 " Who needs him most, as one among us can — 
 " One who can all our wants distinctly view, 
 " And tell him fairly what were just to do : 
 " But you, dear Captain Elliot, as his friend, 
 " As ours, no doubt, will your assistance lend. 
 " Not for the world would I my Brothers blame — 
 " Good men they are — 't was not for that I came. 
 " No ! did they guess what shifts I make, the 
 
 grief 
 " That I sustain, they 'd fly to my relief: 
 
 " But I am proud as poor ; I cannot plead 
 
 " My cause with them, nor show how much I 
 
 need ; 
 " But to my Uncle's Friend it is no shame, 
 " Nor have I fear, to seem the thing I am ; 
 " My humble pittance life's mere need supplies, 
 " But all indulgence, all beyond, denies. 
 " I aid no pauper, I myself am poor, 
 " I cannot help the beggar at my door. 
 " I from my scanty table send no meat : 
 " Cook'd and recook'd is every joint I eat. 
 " At church a sermon begs our help, — I stop 
 " And drop a tear ; no'ight else have I to drop ; 
 " But pass the out-stretch'd plate with sorrow by, 
 " And my sad heart this kind relief deny. 
 " My dress — I strive with all my maiden skill 
 " To make it pass, but 't is disgraceful still ; 
 " Yet from all others I my wants conceal, — 
 " Oh 1 Captain Elliot, there are few that feel ! 
 " But did that rich and worthy Uncle know 
 " What you, dear sir, will in your kindness show, 
 " He would his friendly aid with generous hand 
 
 bestow. 
 
 " Good men my Brothers both, and both are 
 raised 
 " Far above want — the Power that gave be praised ! 
 " My Sister's jointure, if not ample, gives 
 " All she can need, who as a lady lives ; 
 " But I, unaided, may through all my years 
 " Endure these ills — forgive these foolish tears. 
 
 " Once, my dear sir — I then was young and 
 
 gay, 
 
 " And men would talk — but I have had my day : 
 
 " Now all I wish is so to live that men 
 
 " May not despise me whom they flatter'd then. 
 
 " If you, kind sir " 
 
 Thus far the Captain heard. 
 Nor, save by sign or look, had interfered ; 
 But now he spoke ; to all she said agreed, 
 And she conceived it useless to proceed. 
 Something he promised, and the Lady went 
 Half-pleased away, yet wondering what he meant : 
 Pohte he was and kind, but she could trace 
 A smile, or something like it, in his face ; 
 "T was not a look that gave her joy or pain — 
 She tried to read it, but she tried in vain. 
 
 Then call'd the Doctor — 't was his usual way — 
 To ask, " How fares my worthy friend to-day r" 
 To feel his pulse, and as a friend to give 
 Unfee'd advice how such a man should live ; 
 And thus, digressing, he could soon contrive 
 At his own purpose smoothly to arrive. . 
 
 " My Brother ! yes, he lives without a care, 
 " And, though he needs not, yet he loves to spare. 
 " James I respect ; and yet, it must be told, 
 " His speech is friendly, but his heart is cold : 
 " His smile assumed has not the real glow 
 " Of love — a sunbeam shining on the snow ! 
 " Children he has ; but are they causes why 
 " He should our pleas resist, our claims deny? 
 " Our father left the means by which he thrives, 
 " While we are labouring to support our lives. 
 " We, need I say ? my widow'd Sister lives 
 " On a large joiutui-e ; nay, she largely gives: ; — 
 
'• And Fanny sighs — for gold does Fanny sigh ? 
 " Or wants she that which money cannot buy — 
 " Youth and young hopes ? — Ah ! could my kin- 
 dred share 
 " The liberal mind's distress, and daily care, 
 " The painful toil to gain the petty fee, 
 " They 'd bless their stars, and join to pity me. 
 " Hard is his fate who would, with eager joy, 
 " To save mankind his every power employ ; 
 " Yet in his walk unnumber'd insults meets, 
 " And gains 'mid scorn the food that chokes him 
 as he eats. 
 
 " Oh ! Captain Elliot, you who know mankind, 
 " With all the anguish of the feeling mind, 
 " Bear to our kind relation these the woes 
 " That e'en to you 't is misery to disclose. 
 " You can describe what I but faintly trace — 
 " A man of learning cannot bear disgrace ; 
 " Refinement sharpens woes that wants create, 
 " And 't is fresh grief such grievous things to 
 
 state ; 
 " Yet those so near me let me not reprove — 
 " I love them well, and they deserve my love ; 
 " But want they know not — Oh ! that I could say 
 " I am in this as ignorant as they." 
 
 The Doctor thus. — The Captain, grave and kind. 
 To the sad tale with serious looks inclined. 
 And pron.ise made to keep th' important speech in 
 mind. 
 
 James and the Widow, how is yet unknown, 
 Heard of these visits, and would make their own. 
 All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed 
 To their good Friend together to proceed. 
 Forth then they went to see him, and persuade — 
 As warm a pair as ever Anger made. 
 The Widow Lady must the speaker be : 
 So James agreed ; for words at will had she : 
 And then her Brother, if she needed proof, 
 Should add, " 'T is truth :" — it was for him enough. 
 
 "Oh! sir, it grieves me"— for we need not 
 
 dwell 
 On introduction, all was kind and well : — 
 " Oh. I sir, it grieves, it shocks us both to hear 
 " What has, with selfish purpose, gain'd your ear — 
 " Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how 
 
 dear. 
 " Doubtless they came your noble mind t' impress 
 " With strange descriptions of their own distress ; 
 " But I would to the Doctor's face declare 
 " That he has more to spend and more to spare, 
 " With all his craft, than we with all our care. 
 
 " And for our Sister, all she has she spends 
 '' Upon herself; herself alone befriends. 
 •' Slie has the portion that our father left, 
 " While me of mine a careless wretch bereft, 
 ■' Save a small part ; yet I could joyful live, 
 " Had I my mite — the widow's mite — to give. 
 " For this she cares not ; Frances does not know 
 " Their heartfelt joy, who largely can bestow. 
 " You, Captain Elliot, feel tlie pure delight 
 " That our kind acts in t<'nder hearts excite, 
 " When to the poor we can our alms e.xtend, 
 •' And make the Father of all Good our friend ; 
 
 " And, I repeat, I could with pl8aE'.ire live, 
 " Had I my mite — the widow's mite — to give. 
 
 " We npeak not thus, dear sir, with vile intent, 
 •' Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent ; 
 " But that our Uncle, worthy man ! should know 
 " How best his wealth. Heaven's blessing, to 
 
 bestow ; 
 " What widows need, and chiefly those who feel 
 " For all the sufi'erings which they cannot heal ; 
 " And men in trade, with numbers in their pay, 
 " Who must be ready for the reckoning-day, 
 " Or gain or lose !" — ■ 
 
 — " Thank Heaven," said James, " as yet 
 " I 've not been troubled by a dun or debt." 
 The Widow sigh'd, convinced that men so weak 
 Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak ; 
 However tempted to deceive, still they 
 Are ever blundering to the broad highway 
 Of very truth : — But Martha pass'd it by 
 With a slight frown and half-distinguish'd sigh. 
 
 " Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long 
 " To see him sit his kindred race among : 
 " To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age, 
 " And cheer him in his evening's pilgrimage ; 
 " How were I bless'd to guide him in the way 
 " Where the religious poor in secret pray, 
 " To be the humble means by which his heart 
 " And liberal hand might peace and joy impart ! 
 " But now, farewell!" — And slowly, softly fell 
 The tender accents as she said " Farewell !" 
 
 The Merchant stretch'd his hand, his leave to 
 take. 
 And gave the Captain's a familiar shake. 
 Yet seem'd to doubt if this was not too free ; 
 But, gaining courage, said, "Remember me." 
 
 Some days elapsed, the Captain did not write. 
 But still was pleased the party to invite ; 
 And, as he walk'd, his custom every day, 
 A tall pale stripling met him on his way. 
 Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak. 
 And only show'd he was inclined to speak. 
 " What wouldst thou, lad ?" the Captain ask'd, and 
 
 gave 
 The youth a power his purposed boon to crave. 
 Yet not in terms direct — " My name," quoth he, 
 " Is Thomas Bethel ; you have heard of me ?" — 
 " Not good nor evil, Thomas — had I need 
 " Of so much knowledge : — but pray now pro- 
 ceed." 
 
 " Dyson my mother's name ; but I have not 
 " That interest with you, and the worse my lot. 
 " I serve my Uncle James, and run and write, 
 " And watch and work, from moi'ning until night ; 
 " Confined among the looms, and webs, and wheels, 
 " You cannot tliink how like a slave one feels. 
 " 'T is said you have a ship at your command, - 
 " An' please you, sir, I 'm weary of the land ; 
 " And I have read of foreign parts such things 
 " As make me sick of Uncle's wheels and springs." 
 
 " But, Thomas, why to sea? you look too slim 
 " For that rough work— and, Thomas, can you 
 swim ?" 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 525 
 
 That he could not, but still he scorn'd a lie, 
 
 And boldly answer'd, " No, but I can try." 
 
 " Well, my good lad, but tell me, can you read ?" 
 
 Now, vdih some pride he answer'd, " Yes, indeed ! 
 
 " I construe Virgil, and our usher said 
 
 " I might have been in Homer had I stay"d, 
 
 " And he was sorry when I came away, 
 
 " And so was I, but Uncle would not pay ; 
 
 " He told the master I had read enough, 
 
 " And Greek was all unprofitable stuff; 
 
 " So all my learning now is thrown away, 
 
 " And I 've no time for study or for play ; 
 
 " I 'm order'd here and there, above, below, 
 
 " And call'd a dunce for what I cannot know ; 
 
 " Oh, that I were but from this bondage free ! 
 
 " Do, please your honour, let me go to sea." 
 
 " But why to sea ? they want no Latin there ; 
 " Hard is their work, and very hard their fare." 
 
 " But then," said Thomas, " if on land, 1 doubt 
 " My Uncle Dyson soon would find me out ; 
 " And though he tells me what I yearly cost, 
 " 'T is my belief he 'd miss me were I lost. 
 "■ For he has said that I can act as well 
 " As he himself — but this you must not tell." 
 
 " Tell, Thomas ! no, I scorn the base design ; 
 " Give me your hand, I pledge my word with mine ; 
 " And if 1 cannot do thee good, my friend, 
 " Thou mayst at least upon that word depend. 
 " And hark ye, lad, thy worthy name retain 
 '' To the last hour, or I shall help iu vain ; 
 " And then, the more severe and hard thy part, 
 " Thine the more praise, and thine the happier art. 
 " We meet again — farewell !" — and Thomas went 
 Forth to his tasks, half angry, half content. 
 
 " I never ask'd for help," thought he, " but 
 twice, 
 " And all they then would give me was advice ; 
 " My Uncle Doctor, when I begg'd his aid, 
 " Bade me work on, and never be afraid, 
 " But still be good ; and I 've been good so long, 
 " I 'm half persuaded that tliey tell me wrong. 
 " And now this Captain still repeats the same ; 
 " But who can live upon a virtuous name, 
 " Starving and praised ? — ' Have patience — pa- 
 tience still !' 
 " He said, and smiled, and, if I can, I will." 
 
 So Thomas rested with a mind intent 
 On what the Captain by his kindness meant. 
 
 Again the invited party all attend, 
 These dear relations, on this generous Friend. 
 They ate, they drank, each striving to appear 
 Fond, frank, forgiving — above all, sincere. 
 Sucli kindred souls could not admit disguise. 
 Or envious fears, or painful jealousies ; 
 So each declared, and all in turn replied, 
 " 'T is just indeed, and cannot be denied." 
 
 Now various subjects rose, — the country's cause, 
 The war, the allies, the lottery, and the laws. 
 The widow'd Sister then advantage took 
 Of a short pause, and, smiling softly, spoke : 
 
 She judged what subject would his mind excite — 
 " Tell us, dear Captain, of that bloody fight, 
 " When our brave Uncle, bleeding at his gun, 
 " Gave a loud shout to see the Frenchmen run." 
 
 " Another day," — replied the modest host ; 
 " One cannot always of one's battles boast. 
 " Look not surprise — behold the man in me ! 
 " Another Uncle shall you never see. 
 " No other Dyson to this place shall come, 
 " Here end my travels, here I place my home ; 
 " Here to repose ray shatter'd frame I mean, 
 " Until the last long journey close the scene." 
 
 The Ladies softly brush'd the tear away ; 
 James look'd surprise, but knew not v.'hat to say ; 
 But Doctor Dyson lifted up his voice, 
 And said, " Dear Uncle, how we all rejoice !" 
 
 "No question, Friends ! and I your joy approve; 
 " We are, you know, a Family of Love." 
 
 So said the wary Uncle, but the while 
 Wore on his face a questionable smile. 
 That vanish'd, as he spake in grave and solemn 
 style : — 
 
 " Friends and relations ! let us henceforth seem 
 " Just as we are, nor of our virtues dream, 
 " That with our waking vanish. — What we are 
 " Full well we know — t' improve it be our care. 
 " Forgive the trial I have made : 't is one 
 " That has no more than I expected done. 
 " If, as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear, 
 " I look'd for no angelic beings here, 
 " For none that riches spurn'd as idle pelf, 
 " Or served another as he served himself. 
 " Deceived no longer, let us all forgive ; 
 " I 'm old, but yet a tedious time may live. 
 " This dark complexion India's suns bestow, 
 " These shrivell'd looks to years of care I owe ; 
 " But no disease ensures my early doom, — 
 " And I may live — forgive me — years to come. 
 " But while I live, there may some good be done, 
 " Perchance to many, but at least to One." 
 
 Here he arose, retired, return'd, and brought 
 The Orphan boy, whom he had train'd and taught 
 For this his purpose ; and the happy boy. 
 Though bade to hide, could ill suppress, his joy. 
 
 " This young relation, with your leave, I take, 
 " That he his progress in the world may make — 
 " Not in my house a slave or spy to be, 
 " And first to flatter, tlien to govern me ; — 
 " He shall not nurse me v*hcn my senses sleep, 
 " Nor shall the key of all my secrets keep, 
 " And be so useful, that a dread to part 
 " Shall make him master of my easy heart; — 
 " But to be placed where merit may be proved, 
 " And all that now Impedes his way removed. 
 
 " And now no more on these affairs I dwell, 
 " What I possess, tliat I alone can tell, 
 " And to that subject we will bid farewell. 
 " As go I must, when Heaven is pleased to call. 
 " What I shall leave will seem or large or small, 
 
526 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " As you shall view it. "When this pulse is still, 
 " You may behold my wealth, and read my will. 
 
 " And now, as Captain Elliot much has known, 
 " That to your Uncle never had been shown. 
 " From him one word of honest counsel hear — 
 " And thi7ik it alwaijs gain to be sincere." 
 
 TALE III. 
 
 THE EQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 There are gay nymphs whom serious mati'ons 
 
 blame. 
 And men adventurous treat as lawful game, — 
 Misses, who strive, with deep and practised arts, 
 To gain and torture inexperienced hearts ; 
 The hearts entangled they in pride retain. 
 And at their pleasure make them feel their chain. 
 For this they learn to manage air and face, 
 To look a virtue, and to act a grace. 
 To be whatever men with warmth pursue — 
 Chaste, gay, retiring, tender, timid, true, 
 To-day approaching near, to-morrow just in view. 
 
 Maria Glossip was a thing like this — 
 A much-observing, much-experienced Miss ; 
 Who, on a stranger-youth would first decide 
 Th' important question — " Shall I be his bride ?" 
 But if unworthy of a lot so bless'd, 
 'T was something yet to rob the man of rest ; 
 The heart, wheu stricken, she with hope could 
 
 feed. 
 Could court pursuit, and, vi-hcn pursued, recede. 
 Hearts she had won, and with delusion fed. 
 With doubt bewilder'd, and with hope misled ; 
 Mothers and rivals she had made afraid. 
 And wrung the breast of many a jealous maid ; 
 Friendship, the snare of lovers, she profess'd. 
 And turu'd the heart's best feelings to a jest. 
 
 Yet secm'd the Nymph as gentle as a dove, 
 liike one all guiltless of the game of love, — 
 Whose guileless innocence might well be gay ; 
 Who had no selfish secrets to betray ; 
 Sure, if she play'd, she knew not how to play. 
 Oh ! she liad looks so placid and demure. 
 Not Eve, ere fallen, seem'd more meek or pure ; 
 And yet the Tempter of tlic falling Eve 
 Could not with deeper subtilty deceive. 
 
 A Sailor's heart the Lady's kindness moved. 
 And wiiming looks, to say liow well he loved ; 
 'J'hen left her hopeful for the stormy main, 
 Assured of love when he return'd again. 
 Alas ! the gay Lieutenant reach'd tlie sliore, 
 To be rejected, and was gay no more ; 
 Wine and strong drink the bosom's pain sup- 
 
 l)ress'd. 
 Till Death procured what Love denied him — 
 rest. 
 
 But men of more experience learn to treat 
 These fair enslavers with their own deceit. 
 
 Finch ^^•as a younger brother's youngest son. 
 Who pleased an Uncle with his song and gun : 
 Who caird him "Bob," and "Captain"— by that 
 
 name 
 Anticipating future rank and fame : 
 Not but there was for this some fair pretence, — 
 He was a cornet in the Home Defence. 
 The Youth was ever dress'd in dapper style, 
 Wore spotless linen, and a ceaseless smile ; 
 His step was measured, and his air was nice — 
 They bought him high who had him at the 
 
 price 
 That his own judgment and becoming pride. 
 And all the merit he assumed, implied. 
 A life he loved of liberty and ease. 
 And all his pleasant labour was to please ; 
 Not call'd at present hostile men to slay, 
 He made the hearts of gentle dames his prey. 
 
 Hence tales arose, and one of sad report — 
 A fond, fair girl became his folly's sport, — 
 A cottage lass, who " knew the youth would 
 
 prove 
 " For ever true, and give her love for love ; 
 " Sure when he could, and that would soon be 
 
 known, 
 " He would be proud to show her as his o-vvn." 
 
 But stiU she felt the village damsels' sneer. 
 And her sad soul was fiU'd with secret fear ; 
 His love excepted, earth was all a void. 
 And he, the excepted man, her peace destroy'd. 
 When the poor Jane was buried, we could hear 
 The threat of rustics whisper'd round her bier. 
 
 Stories like this were told, but yet, in time, 
 Fair ladies lost their horror at the ci^ime ; 
 They knew that cottage girls were forward things, 
 Wlio never heed a nettle till it stings ; 
 Then, too, the Captain had his fault confess'd, 
 And scorn'd to turn a murder to a jest. 
 
 Away with murder ! — This accomplisli'd swain 
 Beheld Maria, and confess'd her reign. 
 She came, invited by the rector's wife. 
 Who " never saw such sweetness in her life." 
 Now, as the rector was the Uncle's friend. 
 It pleased the Nephew there his steps to bend. 
 Where the fair damsel then her visit paid, 
 And seem'd an unassuming rustic maid : 
 A face so fair, a look so meek, he found 
 Had pierced that heart no other nymph could 
 wound. 
 
 " Oh, sweet Maria " — so began the Youth 
 His meditations — " thine the simple trutli ! 
 " Thou hast no wicked wisdom of thy sex, 
 " No wish to gain a subject-licart — then vex. 
 " Tliat heavenly bosom no proud passion swells, 
 " No serpent's \^■isdom with thy meekness dwells. 
 " Oh ! could 1 bind thee to my heart, and live 
 " In love with tlioc, on what our fortunes give ! 
 " Far from the busy Morld, in some dear spot, 
 " Where Love reigns king, we'd find some peaceful 
 cot. 
 
" To wed, indeed, no prudent man would choose , 
 " But, such a maid will lighter bonds refuse !" 
 
 And was this youth a rake ? — In very truth ; 
 Yet, feeling love, he felt it as a youth : 
 If he had vices, they were laid aside ; 
 He quite forgot the simple girl who died ; 
 With dear Maria he in peace would live, 
 And what had pass'd, Maria would forgive. 
 
 The fair Coquette at first was pleased to find 
 A swain so knowing had become so blind ; 
 And she determined, with her utmost skill, 
 To bind the rebel to her sovereign will. 
 She heard the story of the old deceit. 
 And now resolved he should with justice meet ; — 
 " Soon as she saw him on her hook secure, 
 " He should the pangs of perjured man endure." 
 
 These her first thoughts — but as, from time to 
 time, 
 The Lover came, she dwelt not on his crime — 
 " Crime could she call it ? prudes, indeed, con- 
 demn 
 " These slips of youth — but she was not of them." 
 So gentler thoughts arose as, day by day. 
 The Captain came his passion to display. 
 When he display'd his passion, and she felt, 
 Not without fear, her heart began to melt — 
 Joy came with terror at a state so new ; 
 Glad of his truth — if he indeed were true ! 
 
 This she decided as the heart decides. 
 Resolved to be the happiest of brides. 
 " Not great my fortune — hence," said she, "'tis 
 
 plain 
 " Me, and not mine, dear Youth I he hopes to 
 
 gain : 
 " Nor has he much ; but, as he sweetly talks, 
 " We from our cot shall have delightful walks, 
 " Love, lord within it ! I shall smile to see 
 •' My little cherubs on the father's knee." 
 Then sigh'd the nymph, and in her fancied lot 
 She all the mischiefs of the past forgot. 
 
 Such were their tender meditations ; thus 
 Would they the visions of the day discuss : 
 Each, too, the old sad habits would no more 
 Indulge ; both dare be virtuous and be poor. 
 
 They both had pass'd the year when law allows 
 Free-will to lover who would fain be spouse : 
 Yet the good youth his Uncle's sanction sought — 
 " Jlarry her. Bob ! and are you really caught ? 
 " Then you 've exchanged, I warrant, heart for 
 
 heart — 
 " 'T is well ! I meant to warn her of your art : 
 " This Parson's Babe has made you quite a fool — 
 " But are you sure your ardour will not cool ? 
 " Have you not habits, Boy ? but take your 
 
 chance ! 
 '' How will you live? I cannot much advance. 
 <' But hear you not what through the village 
 
 flies, 
 " That this your dove is famed for her disguise ? 
 " Yet, say they not, she leads a gayish life ? 
 " Art sure she '11 show the virtues of a wife ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir, she 's all that mortal man can love V — 
 " Then marry. Bob ! and that the fact will prove ; 
 " Yet in a kind of lightness folk agree." — 
 " Lightness in her ! indeed, it cannot be — 
 '' 'T is Innocence alone that makes her manners 
 free." 
 
 " Well, my good friend ! then Innocence alone 
 " Is to a something like Flirtation prone : 
 " And I advise — but let me not offend — 
 " That Prudence should on Innocence attend, 
 " Lest some her sportive purity mistake, 
 " And terra your angel more than half a rake." 
 
 The Nymph, now sure, could not entirely curb 
 The native wish her lover to disturb. 
 Oft he observed her, and could ill endure 
 The gentle coquetry of maid so pure . 
 Men he beheld press round her, and the Fair 
 Caught every sigh, and smiled at every prayer : 
 And grieved he was with jealous pains to see 
 The effects of all her wit and pleasantr3^ 
 
 " Yet why alarm'd ?" — he said ; " Mith so much 
 sense, 
 " She has no freedom, dashing, or pretence : 
 " 'T is her gay mind, and I should feel a pride 
 " In her chaste levities " — he said, and sigh'd. 
 Yet, when apart from company, he chose 
 To talk a little of his bosom's woes ; 
 But one sweet smile, and one soft speech, sup- 
 
 press'd 
 All pain, and set his feeling heart at rest. 
 Nay, in return, she felt, or feign'd, a fear, — 
 " He was too lively to be quite sincere ; 
 " She knew a certain lady, and could name 
 " A certain time." — So, even was the blame. 
 And thus the loving pair more deep in love be- 
 came. 
 
 They married soon — for why delay the thing 
 That such amazing happiness would bring ? — 
 Now of that blissful state, O Muse of Hymen ! sing. 
 
 Love dies all kinds of death : in some so quick 
 It comes, he is not previously sick ; 
 But ere the sun has on the couple shed 
 The morning rays, the smile of Love is fled. 
 
 And what the cause ? for Love should not e.K- 
 pire. 
 And none the reason of such fate require. 
 Both had a mask, that with such pains they wore. 
 Each took it off when it avail'd no more. 
 They had no feeling of each other's pain ; 
 To wear it longer had been crime in vain. 
 
 As in some pleasant eve we view the scene, 
 Though cool yet calm, if joyless yet serene, — 
 Who has not felt a quiet still delight 
 In the clear, silent, love-befriending night? 
 The moon so sweetly bright, so softly fair. 
 That all but happy lovers would be there, — 
 Thinking there must be in her still domain 
 Something that soothes the sting of mortal pain : 
 While earth itself is dress'd in light so clear. 
 That they might rest contented to be here ! 
 
628 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Such is the night ; but when the morn awakes, 
 The storm arises, and the forest shakes ; 
 This mightj' change the grieving travellers find, 
 The freezing snows fast drifting in the wind ; 
 Firs deeply laden shake the snowy top, 
 Streams slowly freezing, fretting till they stop ; 
 And void of stars the angry clouds look down 
 On the cold earth, exchanging frown with frown. 
 
 Such seem'd, at first, the cottage of our pair — 
 Fix'd in their fondness, in their prospects fair ; 
 Youth, health, affection, all that life supplies. 
 Bright as the stars that gild the cloudless skies, 
 Were theirs — or seem'd to be, but soon the scene 
 Was black as if its light had never been. 
 Weary full soon, and restless then they grew, 
 Then off the painful mask of prudence threw, 
 For Time has told them all ; and taught them what 
 
 to rue. 
 They long again to tread the former round 
 Of dissipation — '* Why should he be bound, 
 " While his sweet inmate of the cottage sighs 
 " For adulation, rout, and rliapsodies ? 
 " Not Love himself, did love exist, could lead 
 " A lieart like hers, that flutter'd to be freed." 
 
 But Love, or what seem'd like him, quickly 
 died. 
 Nor Prudence, nor Esteem, his place supplied. 
 Disguise thrown off, each reads the other's heart, 
 And feels witli horror that they cannot pb.rt. 
 
 Still they can speak — and 't is some comfort still, 
 That each can vex the other when thej' will : 
 Words half in jest to words in eai-nest led. 
 And these the earnest angry passions fed. 
 Till all was fierce reproach, and peace for ever 
 fled. 
 
 " And so you o^vn it ! own it to my face ! 
 '' Your love is vanish'd — infamous and base ! 
 
 " Madam, I loved you truly, while I dcem'd 
 " You were the truthful being that you seem'd : 
 " But when I see your native temper rise 
 " Above control, and break through all disguise, 
 " Casting it off, as serpents do their skin, 
 " And showing all the folds of vice within, — 
 " What see I then to love ? Was I in love with 
 Sin ?" 
 
 " So may I think, and you may feel it too ; 
 " A loving couple, sir, were Sin and you ! 
 " Whence all this anger? is it that you find 
 " You cannot always make a woman blind ? 
 " You talk of falsehood and disguise — talk on 1 
 " But all my trust and confidence are gone ; 
 " llcmember you, with what a serious air 
 " You taik'd of love, as if you were at prayer ? 
 " You spoke oi" home-born comforts, quiet, case, 
 " And the pure pleasure that must always please, 
 " With an assunied and sentimental air, 
 " Smiting your Ireast, nnil acting like a ])layer. 
 " Then your liiVs comfort I and your holy joys ! 
 " Holy, forsooth 1 and your sweet girls and boys. 
 
 " How you would traia them ! — All this farce re- 
 view, 
 " And then, sir, talk of being just and true 1" 
 
 " Madam ! your sex expects that ours should lie : 
 " The simple creatures know it, and comply. 
 " You hate the truth : there's nothing you despise 
 " Like a plain man, who spurns your vanities. 
 " Are you not early taught your prey to catch ? 
 " When your mammas pronounce — ' A proper 
 
 match 1' 
 " What said your own ? — ' Do, daugnter I curb your 
 
 tongue, 
 " ' And you may win him, for the man is young ; 
 " ' But if he views you as ourselves, good-bye 
 " ' To speculation ! — He will never try.' 
 
 " Then is the mask assumed, and then you bait 
 " Your hook with kindness ! and as anglers wait, 
 " Now here, now there, with keen and eager 
 
 glance, 
 " Marking your victims as the shoals advance : 
 " When, if the gaping wretch should make a snap, 
 " You jerk him up, and have him in your trap, 
 " Who, gasping, panting, in your presence lies, 
 " And you exulting view the imprison'd prize. 
 
 " Such are your arts ! while he did but intend 
 " In harmless play an idle hour to spend, 
 " Lightly to talk of love ! your fix'd intent 
 " Is on to lure him where he never meant 
 " To go, but going, must his speed repent. 
 " If he of Cupid speaks, you watch your man, 
 " And make a change for Hymen, if you can ; 
 " Thus he, ingenuous, easy, fond, and weak, 
 " Speaks the rash words he has been led to speak ; 
 " Puts the dire question that he meant to shun, 
 " And by a moment's frenzy is undone." 
 
 " Well !" said the Wife, " admit this nonsense 
 true, — 
 " A mighty prize she gains in catching you ; 
 " For my part, sir, I most sincerely wish 
 " My landing-net hadmiss'd my precious fish !" 
 
 " Would that it had ! or I had wisely lent 
 " An ear to those who said I should repent." 
 
 " Hold, sir ! at least my reputation spare, 
 " And add another falsehood if you dare." 
 
 " Your reputation, madam ; — rest secure, 
 " That will all scandal and reproach endure, 
 " And be the same in worth : it is like him 
 " Who floats, but finds he cannot sink or swim ; 
 " Half raised above the storm, half sunk below, 
 " It just exists, and that is all we know. 
 " Such the good name that you so niucli regard, 
 " And yet to ivcep afloat find somewhat hard. 
 " Naj', no reply ! in future I decline 
 " Dispute, and take my way." — 
 
 ■' And I, sir, mine.' 
 
 Oh I happy, happy, happy pair ! both sought, 
 Both seeking — catching both, and caught 1 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 529 
 
 TALE IV. 
 
 PvACHEL. 
 
 It chanced we walk'd upon the heath, and met 
 A wandering woman ; her thin clothing wet 
 With morning fog : the little care she took 
 Of things like these was written in her look. 
 Not pain from pinching cold was in her face, 
 But hurrying grief, that knows no resting-place,— 
 Appearing ever as on business sent. 
 The wandering victim of a tix'd intent ; 
 Yet, in her fancied consequence and speed, 
 Impell'd to beg assistance for her need. 
 
 "When she beheld my friend and me, with eye 
 And pleading hand she sought our charity ; 
 More to engage our friendly thoughts the while, 
 She threw upon her miseries a smile, 
 That, like a varnish on a picture laid. 
 More prominent and bold the figures made ; 
 Yet was there sign of joy that we complied. 
 The moment's wish indulged and gratified. 
 
 " "Where art thou wandering, Kachel ? whither 
 stray 
 " From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day?" 
 Ask'd my kind friend, who had famiUar grown 
 "With Rachel's grief, and oft compassion shown ; 
 Oft to her hovel had in winter sent 
 The means of comfort — oft with comforts went. 
 Him well she knew, and with requests pursued, 
 Though too much lost and spent for gratitude. 
 
 ""Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me 
 
 hear."— 
 " The fleet ! the fleet !" she answerd, " will appear 
 " "Within the bay, and I shall surely know 
 " The news to-night ! — turn tide, and breezes 
 
 blow ! 
 " For if I lose my time, I must remain 
 " Till the next year before they come again !" 
 
 " "What can they tell thee, Rachel ?" — 
 
 " Should I say, 
 " I must repent me to my dying day, 
 " Then I should lose the pension that they give : 
 " For who would trust their secrets to a sieve ? 
 " I must be gone !" — And with her wild, but keen 
 And crafty look, that would appear to mean, 
 She hurried on ; but turn'd again to say, 
 " All will be known : they anchor in the bay ; 
 " Adieu ! be secret ! — sailors have no home : 
 " Blow wind, turn tide ! — Be sure the fleet will 
 come." 
 
 Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode 
 "With hurried feet upon the flinty road. 
 On her departing form I gazed with pain — 
 " And should you not," I cried, " her ways re- 
 strain ? 
 " "What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet ? 
 " And means she aught by this expected fleet ? 
 " Knows she her purpose ? has she hope to see 
 " Some friend to aid her in her poverty ? 
 
 " "Why leave her thus bewilder'd to pursue 
 
 " The fancy's good, that never comes in view?" 
 
 " Nay ! she is harmless, and, if more confined, 
 " Would more distress in the coercion find. 
 " Save at the times when to the coast she flies, 
 " She rests, nor shows her mind's obliquities, 
 " But ever talks she of the sea, and shows 
 " Her sympathy with every wind that blows. 
 " We think it, therefore, useless to restrain 
 " A creature of whose conduct none complain, 
 " Whose age and looks protect her, — should they 
 
 fail, 
 " Her craft and wild demeanour vrill prevail. 
 " A soldier once attack'd her on her way — 
 " She spared him not, but bade him kneel and 
 
 pray — • 
 " Praying herself aloud : th' astonish'd man 
 " Was so confounded, that away he ran. 
 
 " Her sailor left her, with, perhaps, intent 
 " To make her his — 't is doubtful what he meant : 
 " But he was captured, and the life he led 
 " Drove all such young engagements from his 
 
 head. 
 " On him she ever thought, and none beside, 
 " Seeking her love, were favour'd or denied ; 
 " On her dear David she had fis'd her view, 
 " And fancy judged him ever fond and true — 
 " Nay, young and handsome — Time could not 
 
 destroy — 
 " No — he was still the same — her gallant boy ! 
 " Labour had made her coarse, and her attire 
 " Show'd that she wanted no one to admire, 
 " None to commend her ; but she could conceive 
 " The same of him as when he took his leave, 
 " And gaily told what riches he would bring, 
 " And grace her hand with the symbolic ring. 
 
 " With want and labour was her mind subdued > 
 " She lived in sorrow and in solitude. 
 " Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found 
 " Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and unsound : 
 " Low, superstitious, querulous, and weak, 
 " She sought for rest, but knew not how to seek ; 
 " And their instructions, though in kindness meant, 
 " Were far from yielding the desired content. 
 " They hoped to give her notions of their own, 
 " And talk'd of ' feelings ' she had never known ; 
 " They ask'd of her ' experience,' and they bred 
 " In her weak mind a melancholj' dread 
 " Of something wanting in her faith, of some — 
 " She knew not what — ' acceptance,' that should 
 
 come ; 
 " And, as it came not, she was much afraid 
 " That she in vain had served her God and 
 pray'd. 
 
 " She thought her Lover dead. In prayer she 
 
 named 
 " The erring Youth, and hoped he was reclaim'd. 
 " This she confess'd ; and, trembling, heard them 
 
 say 
 " ' Her prayers were sinful — so the papists pray. 
 " ' Her David's fate had been decided long, 
 " ' And prayers and wishes for his state were 
 
 wrong.' 
 
 2 N 
 
530 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " Had these her guides united love and skill, 
 *' They might have ruled and rectified her will ; 
 " But they perceived not the bewilder'd mind, 
 " And show'd her paths that she could never 
 
 find: 
 " The weakness that was Nature's they reproved, 
 " And all its comforts from the heart removed. 
 
 " E'en in this state she loved the winds that 
 sweep 
 " O'er the wild heath, and curl the restless deep ; 
 " A turf-built hut beneath a hill she chose, 
 " And oft at night in winter storms arose, 
 " Hearing, or dreaming, the distracted cry 
 " Of drowning seamen on the breakers by : 
 " For there were rocks that, when the tides were 
 
 low, 
 " Appear'd, and vanish'd when the waters flow; 
 " And there she stood, all patient to behold 
 " Some seaman's body on the billows roll'd. 
 
 " One calm, cold evening, when the moon was 
 high, 
 " And rode sublime within the cloudless sky, 
 " She sat within her hut, nor secm'd to feel 
 " Or cold or want, but turn'd her idle wheel, 
 " And with sad song its melancholy tone 
 " Mix'd, all unconscious that she dwelt alone. 
 
 " But none will harm her — or who, willing, 
 
 can? 
 " She is too wretched to have fear of man — 
 " Not man ! but something, if it should appear, 
 " That once was man — that something did she 
 
 fear. 
 
 "No causeless terror ! — In that moon's clear 
 
 light 
 " It came, and seem'd a parley to invite ; 
 " It was no hollow voice — no brushing by 
 " Of a strange being, who escapes the eye — ■ 
 "No cold or thrilling touch, that will but last 
 " While we can think, and then for ever past. 
 " But this sad face — though not the same, she 
 
 knew 
 " Enough the same to prove the vision true — 
 " Look'd full upon her ! — Starting in affright 
 " She fled, her wildness doubling at the sight; 
 " With shrieks of terror, and emotion strong, 
 " She pass'd it by, and madly rush'd along 
 " To the bare rocks — while David, who that day 
 " Had left his ship at anchor in the baj', 
 " Had seen his friends who yet survived, and 
 
 heard 
 " Of her who loved him, and who thus appear'd : 
 " He tried to soothe her, but retired afraid 
 " T' approach, and left her to return for aid. 
 
 " None came I and Rachel in the morn was 
 
 found 
 " Turning her wheel, without its spindles, round, 
 " Witli household look of care, low singing to the 
 
 sound. 
 
 " Sinoe that event she is what j'ou have seen, 
 " But time and habit make her more serene, 
 " The edge of anguish blunted — yet, it seems, 
 " Sea, ships, and sailors' miseries arc her dreams." 
 
 TALE V. 
 
 VILLARS. 
 
 Poet. — Know you the fate of Villars ? — 
 
 Friend. — Wliat ! the lad 
 At school so fond of solitude, and sad ; 
 Who broke our bounds because he scorn'd a 
 
 guide. 
 And would walk lonely by the river's side ? 
 
 P. — The same ! — who rose at midnight to 
 behold 
 The moonbeams shedding their ethereal gold; 
 Who held our sports and pleasures in disgrace. 
 For Guy of Warwick, and old Chevy Chace. 
 
 P. — Who sought for friendships, gave his gene- 
 rous heart 
 To every boy who chose to act the part ; 
 Or judged he felt it — not aware that boys 
 Have poor conceit of intellectual joys : 
 Theirs is no season for superfluous friends, 
 And none they need but those whom Nature 
 lends. 
 
 P. — But he, too, loved ? — 
 
 F. — Oh ! yes ; his friend betray'd 
 The tender passion for the angel-maid. 
 Some child, whose features he at church had seen, 
 Became his bosom's and his fancy's queen ; 
 Some favourite look was on his mind impress'd — 
 His warm and fruitful fondness gave the rest. 
 
 P.— He left his father ?— 
 
 P. — Yes ! and rambled round 
 The land on foot — I know not what he foun d. 
 Early he came to his paternal land, 
 And took the course he had in i-ambling plann'd. 
 Ten years we lost him : he was then employ'd 
 In the wild schemes that he, perhaps, enjoy'd. 
 His mode of life, when he to manhood grew. 
 Was all his own — its shape disclosed to few. 
 
 Our grave, stern dames, who know the deeds of 
 
 all. 
 Say that some damsels owe to him their fall ; 
 And, though a Christian in his ci-ced profcss'd, 
 He had some heathen notions in his breast. 
 Yet we may doubt ; for women, in his eyes. 
 Were high and glorious, queens and deities : 
 But he, perhaps, adorer and yet man, 
 Transgrcss'd yet worshipp'd. There are those who 
 
 can. 
 
 Near him a Widow's mansion he survey'd — 
 The lovely mother of a lovelier Maid : 
 Not great their wealth, though they were proud 
 
 to claim 
 Alliance with a house of noblest name. 
 
 Now, had I skill, I would right fnin devise 
 To bring the highborn spinster to your eyes. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 531 
 
 I could discourse of lip, and chin, and cheek, 
 But you would see no picture as 1 speak. 
 Such colours cannot — mix them as 1 may — 
 Paint you this nymph — We '11 try a different way. 
 
 First take Calista, in her glowing charms, 
 Ere yet she sank within Lothario's arms, 
 Endued with beauties ripe, and large desires, 
 And all that feels delight, and that inspires : 
 Add Cleopatra's great yet tender soul, 
 Her boundless pride, her fondness of control, 
 Her daring spirit, and her wily art. 
 That, though it tortures, yet commands the heart ; 
 Add woman's anger for a lover's slight, 
 And the revenge that insult will excite ; 
 Add looks for veils, that she at will could wear, 
 As Juliet fond, as Imogen sincere, — 
 Like Portia grave, sententious, and design'd 
 For high affairs, or gay as Rosalind ; — 
 Catch, if you can, some notion of the dame, 
 And let Jlatilda serve her for a name. 
 
 Think next how Villars saw the enchanting 
 
 maid. 
 And how he loved, pursued, adored, obey'd — 
 Obey'd in all except the dire command 
 No more to dream of that bewitching hand. 
 His love provoked her scorn, his wealth she 
 
 spurn'd. 
 And frowns for praise, contempt for prayer 
 
 return'd ; 
 But, proud yet shrewd, the wily sex despise 
 The would-be husband — yet the votary prize. 
 As Roman conquerors of their triumph vain, 
 Saw humbled monarchs in their pompous train. 
 Who, when no more they swell'd the show of pride. 
 In secret sorrow'd, or in silence died ; 
 So, when our friend adored the Beauty's shrine. 
 She mark'd the act, and gave the nod divine ; 
 And strove with scatter'd smiles, yet scarcely 
 
 strove. 
 To keep the lover, while she scorn'd his love. 
 
 These, and his hope, the doubtful man sus- 
 tain'd ; 
 For who that loves believes himself disdain'd ? — 
 p]ac)\ look, each motion, by his fondness read. 
 Became Love's food, and greater fondness bred ; 
 The pettiest favour was to him the sign 
 Of secret love, and said, " I '11 yet be thine !" 
 One doleful year she held the captive swain, 
 Wlio felt and cursed, and wore and bless'd, the 
 
 chain ; 
 Who pass'd a thousand galling insults by, 
 For one kind glance of that ambiguous eye. 
 
 P. — Well ! time, perhaps, might to the coldest 
 heart 
 Some gentle thought of one so fond impart ; 
 And pride itself has often favour shown 
 To what it governs, and can call its own. 
 
 F. — Thus were they placed, when to the village 
 came 
 That lordly stranger whom I need not name ; 
 
 Known since too well, but then as rich and young. 
 Untried his prowess, and his crimes unsung. 
 Smooth was his speech, and show'd a gentle mind, 
 Deaf to his praise, and to his merits blind ; 
 But raised by woman's smile, and pleased with all 
 mankind. 
 
 At humble distance he this fair survey'd. 
 Read her high temper, yet adored the Maid ; 
 Far off he gazed, as if afraid to meet. 
 Or show the hope her anger would defeat : 
 Awful his love, and kept a guarded way, 
 Afraid to venture, till it finds it may. 
 And soon it found ! nor could the Lady's pride 
 Her triumph bury, or her pleasure hide. 
 
 And jealous Love, that ever looks to spy 
 The dreaded wandering of a lady's eye. 
 Perceived with anguish that the prize long 
 
 sought 
 A sudden rival from his hopes had caught. 
 Still Villars loved ; at length, in strong despair, 
 O'er-tortured passion thus preferr'd its prayer : — 
 " Life of my life ! at once my fate decree — 
 " I wait my death, or more than life, from thee : 
 " I have no arts, nor powers, thy soul to move, 
 '• But doting constancy and boundless love ; 
 " This is my all : had I the world to give, 
 " Thine were its throne — now bid me die or live !" 
 
 " Or die or live " — the gentle Lady cried — 
 " As suits thee best ; that point thyself decide. 
 " But if to death thou hast thyself decreed, 
 " Tlien like a man perform the manly deed ; 
 '• The well-charged pistol to the ear apply, 
 " Make loud report, and like a hero die : 
 " Let rogues and rats on ropes and poison seize — 
 " Shame not thy friends by petty death like 
 
 these ; 
 " Sure we must grieve at what thou think'st to do, 
 " But spare us blushes for the manner too !" 
 
 Then with inviting smiles she turn'd aside, 
 Allay'd his anger, and consoled his pride. 
 
 Oft had the fickle fair beheld Mith scorn 
 The unhappy man bewilder'd and forlorn. 
 Then with one softening glance of those bright 
 
 eyes 
 Restored his spirit, and dispersed his sighs. 
 Oft had I seen him on the lea below, 
 As feelings moved him, walking quick or slow : 
 Now a glad thought, and now a doleful, came. 
 And he adored or cursed the changeful dame, 
 Who was to him as cause is to effect — 
 Poor tool of pride, perverseness, and neglect ! 
 Upon thy rival were her thoughts bcstow'd. 
 Ambitious love within her bosom glow'd ; 
 And oft she wish'd, and strong was her desire. 
 The Lord could love her like the faithful Squire ; 
 But she was rivall'd in that noble breast — 
 He loved her passing well, but not the best. 
 For self reign'd there : but still he call'd her 
 
 fair. 
 And woo'd the Muse his passion to declare. 
 His verses all were flaming, all were fine ; 
 With Bweetness, nay with sense, in evei-y line — 
 
 2 n2 
 
Not as Lord Byron would have done the thing, 
 But better far than lords are used to sing. 
 It pleased the Maid, and she, in very truth, 
 Loved, in Calista's love, the noble youth ; 
 Not like sweet Juliet, with that pure delight, 
 Fond and yet chaste, enraptured and yet right ; 
 Not like the tender Imogen, confined 
 To one, but one ! the true, the wedded mind ; 
 True, one preferr'd our sighing nymph as these, 
 But thought not, like them, one alone could 
 please. 
 
 Time pass'd, nor yet the youthful peer proposed 
 To end his suit, nor his had Villars closed ; 
 Fond hints the one, the other cruel bore ; 
 That was more cautious, this was kind the more : 
 Both for soft moments waited — that to take 
 Of these advantage ; fairly this to make. 
 These moments came — or so my Lord believed — 
 He dropp'd his mask ; and both were undeceived. 
 She saw the vice that would no longer feign. 
 And he an angry beauty's pure disdain. 
 
 ViUars that night had in my ear confcss'd, 
 He thought himself her spaniel and her jest. 
 He saw his rival of his goddess sure, 
 " But then," he cried, " her virtue is secure ; 
 " Should he offend, I haply may obtain 
 " The high reward of vigilance and pain ; 
 " TiU then I take, and on my bended knee, 
 " Scraps from the banquet, gleanings of the tree." 
 
 Pitying, I smiled ; for I had known the time 
 Of Love insulted — constancy my crime. 
 Not thus our friend : for him the morning shone, 
 In tenfold glory, as for him alone ; 
 He wept, expecting still reproof to meet. 
 And all that was not cruel count as sweet. 
 Back he return'd, all eagerness and joy. 
 Proud as a prince, and restless as a boy. 
 He sought to speak, but could not aptly find 
 Words for his use, they enter'd not his mind ; 
 So full of bliss, that wonder and delight 
 Seem'd in those happy moments to unite. 
 He was like one who gains, but dreads to lose, 
 A prize that seems to vanish as he views : 
 And in his look was wildncss and alarm — 
 Like a sad conjuror who forgets his cliarra, 
 And, when the demon at the call appears, 
 Cannot command the spirit for his fears : 
 So Villars seem'd by his own bliss perplex'd. 
 And scarcely knowing what would happen next. 
 
 But soon, a witness to their vows, I saw 
 The maiden his, if not by love, by law ; 
 The bells proclaimed it — merry call'd by those 
 "Who have no foresight of tlieir neighl)ours' woes. 
 How proudly show'd the man liis lovely bride, 
 Demurely pacing, pondering, at liis side ! 
 "While all the loving maids around declared 
 That faith and constancy deserved reward. 
 The baffled Lord retreated from the scene 
 Of 80 much gladness, with a world of spleen ; 
 And left the wedded couple, to protest 
 That he no fear, that she no love possess'd, 
 That all his vows were scorn'd, and all his hope a 
 jest. 
 
 Then fell the oaks to let in light of day. 
 Then rose the mansion that we now survey, 
 Then all the world flock'd gaily to the scene 
 Of so much splendour, and its splendid queen ; 
 But whether all within the gentle breast 
 Of him, of her, was happy or at rest, — 
 "Whether no lonely sigh confess'd regret, 
 "Was then unknown, and is a secret yet ; 
 And we maj^ think, in common duty bound, 
 That no complaint is made where none is found. 
 
 Then came the Rival to his villa down, 
 Lost to the pleasures of the heartless town ; 
 Famous he grew, and he invited all 
 "Whom he had known to banquet at the Hall ; 
 Talk'd of his love, and said, with many a sigh, 
 " 'T is death to lose her, and I wish to die." 
 
 Twice met the parties ; but with cool disdain 
 In her, in him with looks of awe and pain. 
 "^'^illars had pity, and conceived it hard 
 That true regret should meet with no regard. — 
 " Smile, my Matilda ! virtue should inflict 
 " No needless pain, nor be so sternly strict." 
 
 The Hall was furnish'd in superior style, 
 And money wanted from our sister isle ; 
 The lady-mother to the husband sued — 
 " Alas ! that care should on our bliss intrude ! 
 " You must to Ireland ; our possessions there 
 " Require your presence, nay, demand your care. 
 " My pensive daughter begs with you to sail ; 
 " But spare your wife, nor let the wish prevail." 
 
 He went, and found upon his Irish land 
 Cases and griefs he could not understand. 
 Some glimmering light at first his prospect 
 
 cheer'd — ■ 
 Clear it was not, but would in time be clear'd ; 
 But when his lawyers had their efforts made. 
 No mind in man the darkness could pervade ; 
 'T was palpably obscure : week after week 
 He sought for comfort, but was still to seek. 
 At length, impatient to return, he strove 
 No more with law, but gave the rein to love ; 
 And to his Lady and their native shore 
 "Vow'd to return, and thence to turn no more. 
 
 "While yet on Irish ground in trouble kept, 
 The Husband's terrors in his toils had slept; 
 But he no sooner touch'd the British soil 
 Than jealous terrors took the place of toil. — 
 " Where has she been ? and how attended ? Who 
 " Has watch'd her conduct, and will vouch her 
 
 true? 
 " She sigh'd at parting, but methought her sighs 
 " Were more profound than would from nature 
 
 rise ; 
 " And though she wept as never wife before, 
 " Yet were lier eyelids neither swell'd nor sore. 
 " Her lady-mother has a good repute, 
 " As watchful dragon of forbidden fruit ; 
 " Yet dragons sleep, and mothers have been 
 
 known 
 " To guard a daughter's secret as their own ; 
 " Nor can the absent in their travel see 
 " How a fond wife and mother may agree. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES 
 
 533 
 
 " Sujipose the lady is most virtuous ! — then, 
 " What can she know of the deceits of men ? 
 " Of all they plan she neither thinks nor cares, 
 " But keeps, good lady ! at her books and prayers. 
 
 " In all her letters there are love, respect, 
 " Esteem, regret, affection, all correct — 
 " Too much — she fears that I should see neglect ; 
 " And there are fond expressions, but unlike 
 " The rest, as meant to be observed and strike ; 
 " Like quoted words, they have the show of art, 
 " And come not freely from the gentle heart — 
 " Adopted words, and brought from memory's 
 
 store, 
 " "When the chill faltering heart supplies no 
 
 more : 
 " 'T is so the hypocrite pretends to feel, 
 " And speaks the words of earnestness and zeal. 
 
 " Hers was a sudden, though a sweet consent ; 
 " May she not now as suddenly repent ? 
 " My rival's vices drove him from her door ; 
 " But hates she vice as truly as before ? 
 " How do I know, if he should jilead again, 
 " That all her scorn and anger would remain ? 
 
 " Oh ! words of folly — is it thus I deem 
 " Of the chaste object of my fond esteem ? 
 " Away with doubt ! to jealousy adieu ! 
 " I know her fondness, and believe her true. 
 
 " Yet why that haste to furnish every need, 
 " And send me forth with comfort and with 
 
 speed ? 
 " Yes ; for she dreaded that the -winter's rage 
 " And our frail hoy should on the seas engage. 
 
 " But that vile girl ! I saw a treacherous eye 
 " Glance on her mistress ! so demure and sly, 
 " So forward too — and would Matilda's pride 
 " Admit of that, if there was nought beside ?" 
 
 Such, as he told me, were the doubt, the dread, 
 By jealous fears on observations fed. 
 
 Home he proceeded : there remain'd to him 
 But a few miles — the night was wet and dim ; 
 Thick, heavy dews descended on the ground, 
 And all was sad and melancholy round. 
 
 While thinking thus, an inn's far-gleaming fire 
 Caused new emotions in the pensive Squire. 
 " Here I may learn, and seeming careless too, 
 " If all is well, ere I my way pursue. 
 " How fare you, landlord 'i — how, my friend, are 
 
 all?— 
 " Have you not seen — my people at the hall? 
 
 " Well, I may judge " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, your Honour, well, 
 " As Joseph knows; and he was sent to tell." — 
 " How ! sent — I miss'd him — Joseph, do you say ? 
 " Why sent, if well ? — I miss'd him on the way." 
 
 There was a poacher on the chimney-seat, 
 A gipsy, conjuror, smuggler, stroller, cheat. 
 The Squire had fined him for a captured hare, 
 Whipp'd and imprison'd — he had felt the fare, 
 
 And he remember'd : " Will your Honour know 
 " How does my Lady ? that myself can show. 
 " On Monday early — for your Honour sees 
 " The poor man must not slumber at his ease, 
 " Nor must he into woods and coverts lurk, 
 " Nor work alone, but must be seen to work ; 
 " 'Tis not, your Honour knows, sufficient now 
 " For us to Uve, but we must prove it — how. 
 " Stay, please your Honour, — 1 was early up, 
 " And forth without a morsel or a sup. 
 " There was my Lady's carriage — Whew ! it drove 
 " As if the horses had been spurr'd by Love." 
 
 " A poet, John !" said Villars — feebly said, 
 Confused with fear, and humbled and dismay'd — 
 " And where this carriage ? — but, my heart, 
 
 enough — 
 " Why do I listen to the villain's stufi"? — 
 " And where wert thou ? and what the spur of 
 
 thine 
 " That led thee forth ? — we surely may divine !" 
 
 " Hunger, your Honour ! I and my poor wife 
 " Have now no other in our wane of Ufe. 
 " Were Phoebe handsome, and were I a Squire, 
 " I might suspect her, and j'oung Lords admire." — 
 
 " What ! rascal •" — " Nay, your Honour, on 
 
 my word, 
 " I should be jealous of that fine young Lord ; 
 " Yet him my Lady in the carriage took, 
 " But innocent — I'd swear it on the book." 
 
 " You villain, swear !" — for still he wish'd to 
 stay. 
 And hear what more the fellow had to say. 
 " ' Phoebe,' said I, ' a rogue that had a heart 
 " ' To do the deed would make his Honour smart.' 
 " Says Phcebe, wisely, ' Think you, would he go, 
 " ' If he were jealous, from my Lady ! — No.' " 
 
 This was too much ! poor Villars left the inn. 
 To end the grief that did but then begin. 
 " With my Matilda in the coach ! — what lies 
 " Will the vile rascal in his spleen devise? 
 " Yet this is true, that on some vile pretence 
 " j\Ien may entrap the purest innocence. 
 " He saw my fears — alas ! I am not free 
 " From every doubt — but, no ! it cannot be." 
 
 Villars moved slow, moved quick, as check'd by 
 
 fear. 
 Or urged bj' Love, and drew his mansion near. 
 Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom, 
 Nor came a twinkling from Matilda's room. 
 " What then? 'tis idle to expect that all 
 " Should be produced at jealous fancy's call; 
 " How ! the park-gate wide open ! who would 
 
 dare 
 " Do this, if her presiding glance were there ? 
 " But yet, by chance — I know not what to think, 
 " For thought is hell, and I 'm upon the brink ! 
 " Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives, 
 " Would I Oh 1 what depends upon our 
 
 wives ! 
 " Pains, labours, terrors, all would I endure, 
 '• Yes, all but this— and this, could I be sure." 
 
534 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Just then a light within the window shone, 
 And show'd a lady, weeping and alone. 
 His heart beat fondly — on another view, 
 It beat more strongly, and in terror too — • 
 It was his Sister ! — and there now appear'd 
 A servant creeping like a man that fear'd. 
 He spoke with terror — " Sir, did Joseph tell ? 
 " Have you not met him?" — 
 
 " Is your Lady well ?" 
 
 " Well ? Sir— your Honour " 
 
 " Heaven and earth ! what mean 
 " Your stupid questions ? I have nothing seen, 
 " Nor heard nor know, nor — do, good Thomas, speak! 
 
 " Your mistress " 
 
 " Sir, has gone from home a week — 
 
 " My Lady, sir, your sister " 
 
 But, too late 
 "Was this — my Friend had yielded to his fate. 
 He heard the truth, became serene and mild, 
 Patient and still, as a corrected child ; 
 At once his spirit with his fortune fell 
 To the last ebb, and whisper'd — It is well. 
 
 Such was his fall ; and grievous the effect ! 
 From henceforth all things fell into neglect — 
 The mind no more alert, the form no more erect. 
 
 Villars long since, as he indulged his spleen 
 By lonely travel on the coast, had seen 
 A large old mansion suffer'd to decay 
 In some law-strife, and slowly drop away. 
 Dark elms around the constant herons bred, 
 Those the marsh dykes the neighbouring ocean fed ; 
 Rocks near the coast no shipping would allow. 
 And stubborn heath around forbade the plough ; 
 Dull must the scene have been in years of old. 
 But now was wildly dismal to behold — 
 One level sadness ! marsli, and heath, and sea. 
 And, save these high dark elms, nor plant nor tree. 
 
 In this bleak ruin Villars found a room, 
 Square, small, and lofty — seat of grief and gloom : 
 A sloping skylight on the white wall threw, 
 "When the sun set, a melancholy hue ; 
 The hall of Vathek has a room so bare, 
 So small, so sad, so form'd to nourish care. 
 " Here," said the Traveller, '" all so dark within, 
 " And dull without, a man might mourn for sin, 
 " Or punish sinners— here a wanton wife 
 " And vengeful husband might be cursed for life." 
 
 His mind was now in just that wretched state. 
 That deems Revenge our right, and crime our fate. 
 All other views he banisli'd from his soul, 
 And let this tyrant vex him and control ; 
 Life he despised, and had that Lord defied. 
 But that he long'd for vengeance ere he died. 
 The law he spurn'd, the combat he declined, 
 And to his purpose all his soul resign'd. 
 
 ' [This Tale, and a number of others, were originally 
 designed for a separate volume, to be entitled ' The Farewell 
 and Ueturn.' In a letter to Mrs. Lcadbetter, written in 
 1823, tlio poet says — " In my ' Farewell and Ueturn' I sup- 
 pose a young man to take leave of his native place, and to 
 exchange yiireu'tV/.s with his friends and acquaintance there- 
 in short, with as many characters :ls I have fancied I could 
 manage. Tlio.se, and their several situations and prospects, 
 being briefly sketched, an interval is supposed to elapse ; 
 
 Full fifteen months had pass'd, and we began 
 To have some hope of the returning man : 
 Now to his steward of his small affairs 
 He wrote, and mention'd leases and repairs ; 
 But yet his soul was on its scheme intent. 
 And but a moment to his interest lent. 
 
 His faithless wife and her triumphant peer 
 Despised his vengeance, and disdain'd to fear ; 
 In splendid lodgings near the town they dwelt. 
 Nor fears from wrath, nor threats from conscience, 
 felt. 
 
 Long time our friend had watch'd, and much had 
 paid 
 For vulgar minds, who lent his vengeance aid. 
 At length, one evening, late returning home. 
 Thoughtless and fearless of the ills to come, 
 The Wife was seized, when void of all alarm, 
 And vainly trusting to a footman's arm : 
 Death in his hand, the Husband stood in view, 
 Commanding silence, and obedience too ; 
 Forced to his carriage, sinking at his side. 
 Madly he drove her — Vengeance was his guide. 
 
 All in that ruin Villars had prepared. 
 And meant her fate and sorrow to have shared ; 
 There he design'd they should for ever dwell, 
 The weeping pair of a monastic cell. 
 
 An ancient couple from their cottage went. 
 Won by his pay, to this imprisonment : 
 And all was order'd in his mind — the pain 
 He must inflict, the shame she must sustain ; 
 But such his gentle spirit, such his love. 
 The proof might fail of all he meant to prove. 
 
 Features so dear had still maintain'd their sway. 
 And looks so loved had taught him to obey : 
 Rage and Revenge had yielded to the sight 
 Of charms that waken wonder and delight ; 
 The harsher passions from the heart had flown, 
 And Love regain'd his subject and his throne. 
 
 TALE VI. 
 
 THE FAREWELL AND RETURN." 
 I. 
 
 I AM of age, and now, no more the Boy, 
 Am ready Fortune's favours to enjoy. 
 Were they too ready ; but, with grief I speak, 
 Mine is the fortune that I yet must seek. 
 
 and our youth, a youth no more, returns to the scene of his 
 early days. Twenty years have passed ; and the interest, if 
 there be" any, consists' in the completion, more or less unex- 
 pected, of the history of each person to whom he had origin- 
 ally bidden farewell." 
 
 Tlie reader will And the Tales written on this plan 
 divided each into two or more sections ; and will eaaly per- 
 ceive where the /itrewrll trrini nates, and the return begins.] 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 535 
 
 And let mc sock it ; there 's the world around — 
 x\nd if not sought it never can be found. 
 It will not come if I the chace decline ; 
 "Wishes and wants will never make it mine. 
 Then let me shake these lingering fears away ; 
 "What one day must be, let it be to-day ; 
 Lest courage fail ere I the search commence, 
 And resolution pall upon suspense. 
 
 Yet while amid these well-known scenes I dwell, 
 Let me to friends and neighbours bid farewell. 
 
 First to our men of wealth — these are but few — 
 In duty bound I humbly bid adieu. 
 This is not painful, for they know me not, 
 Fortune in diiferent states has placed our lot ; 
 It is not pleasant, for full well I know 
 The lordly pity that the rich bestow — 
 A proud contemptuous pity, by whose aid 
 Their own triumphant virtues are display'd. — 
 " Going, you say ; and what intends the Lad ; 
 " To seek his fortune ? Fortune ? is he mad ? 
 " Has he the knowledge ? is he duly taught ? 
 " I think we know how Fortune should be sought. 
 " Perhaps he takes his chance to sink or swim, 
 " Perhaps he dreams of Fortune's seeking him ! 
 " Life is his lottery, and away he flies, 
 " "^rV'ithout a ticket, to obtain his prize : 
 " But never man acquired a weighty sum 
 " "Without foreseeing whence it was to come." 
 
 Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state, — 
 Though poor myself, I know the fortunate : 
 First, there 's a knowledge of the way from whence 
 Good fortune comes — and that is sterling sense : 
 Then perseverance, never to decline 
 The chace of riches till the prey is thine ; 
 And firmness, never to be drawn away 
 By any passion from that noble prey — 
 By love, ambition, study, travel, fame. 
 Or the vain hope that lives upon a name." 
 
 The whistling Boy that holds the plough, 
 Lured by the tale that soldiers tell, 
 
 Resolves to part, yet knows not how 
 To leave the land he loves so well. 
 
 He now rejects the thought, and now 
 
 Looks o'er the lea, and sighs " Farewell !" 
 
 Farewell ! the pensive Maiden cries, 
 
 "Who dreams of London, dreams awake — 
 
 But when her favourite Lad she spies. 
 With whom she loved her way to take, 
 
 Then Doubts within her soul arise. 
 And equal Hopes her bosom shake ! 
 
 Thus, like the Boy, and like the Maid, 
 
 I wish to go, yet tarry here, 
 And now resolved, and now afraid : 
 
 To minds disturb'd old views appear 
 In melancholy charms array 'd, 
 
 xVnd, once indift'orent, now are dear. 
 How shall I go, my fate to learn — 
 And, oh ! how taught shall I return ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes ! — twenty years have pass'd, and I am come. 
 Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home — 
 A stranger, striving in my walks to trace 
 The youthful features in some aged face. 
 On as I move, some curious looks I read ; 
 We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed : 
 They 're like what once I saw, but not the same ; 
 I lose the air, the features, and the name ; 
 Yet something seems like knowledge, but the 
 
 change 
 Confuses me, and all in him is strange : 
 That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry — 
 Sure he will know me ! No, he passes by. 
 They seem like me in doubt ; but they can call 
 Their friends around them ! I am lost to all. 
 
 The very place is alter'd. What I left 
 Seems of its space and dignity bereft : 
 The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean ; 
 Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean ? 
 The ancient church, in which I felt a pride, 
 As struck by magic, is but half as wide ; 
 The tower is shorter, the sonorous bell 
 Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell ; 
 The market dwindles, every shop and stall 
 Sinks in my view ; there 's littleness in all. 
 Mine is the error ; prepossess'd I see ; 
 And all the change I mourn is change in me. 
 
 One object only is the same ; the sight 
 Of the wide Ocean by the moon's pale light, 
 With her long ray of glory, that we mark 
 On the wild waves when all beside is dark : 
 This is the work of Nature, and the eye 
 In vain the boundless prospect would descry ; 
 What mocks our view cannot contracted be ; 
 We cannot lessen what we cannot see. 
 
 Would I could now a single Friend behold, 
 Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold. 
 That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show 
 Th' events he wishes, and yet fears, to know. 
 
 IMuch by myself I might in listening glean ; 
 Mix'd with the crowd, unmark'd, if not unseen, 
 Uninterrupted I might ramble on. 
 Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one ; 
 For who looks backward to a being toss'd 
 About the world, forgotten long, and lost ? 
 For whom departing not a tear was shed. 
 Who disappear'd, was missing, and was dead ! 
 Save that he left no grave, where some might 
 
 pass. 
 And ask each other who that being was. 
 
 I, as a ghost invisible, can stray 
 Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way ; 
 My ways are where the voice of man is known. 
 Though no occasion offers for my own : 
 My eager mind to fill with food I seek. 
 And, like the ghost, await for one to speak. 
 
 See I not One whom I before have seen ? 
 That face, though now untroubled and serene, 
 
536 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 That air, though steady now, thaj; look, though 
 
 tame, 
 Pertain to one, whom though I douht to name, 
 Yet was he not a dashing youth and ■wild, 
 Proud as a man, and liaughty wlien a child ? 
 Talents were his ; he was in nature kind, 
 With lofty, strong, and independent mind ; 
 His father wealthy, but, in very truth. 
 He was a rash, untamed, expensive youth ; 
 And, as I now remember the report. 
 Told how his father's money he would sport : 
 Yet in his dress and manner now appears 
 No sign of faults that stain'd his earlier yeai'S ; 
 j\Iildness there seems, and marks of sober sense, 
 That bear no token of that wild expense 
 Such as to ruin leads ! — I may mistake. 
 Yet may, perchance, a useful friendship make ! 
 He looks as one whom I should not oiTend, 
 Address'd as him whom I would make a friend. 
 
 Men -with respect attend him. — He proceeds 
 To yonder public room — why, then he reads. 
 
 Suppose me right — a mighty change is wrought ; 
 But Time ere now has care and caution taught. 
 May I address him ? And j'et, why afraid ? 
 Deny he may, but he will not upbraid, 
 Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid. 
 
 Propitious fate ! beyond my hope I find 
 A being well-inform'd, and much inclined 
 To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious 
 mind. 
 
 Now shall we meet, and he will give reply 
 To all I ask ! — How full of fears am 1 ; 
 Poor, nervous, trembling ! — What have I to fear ? 
 Have I a wife, a child, one creature here, 
 Whose health would bring me joy, whose death 
 would claim a tear ? 
 
 Tliis is the time appointed, this the place : 
 Now shall I learn how some have run their race 
 With honour, some with shame ; and I shall know 
 How man behaves in Fortune's ebb and flow; — 
 What wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy, 
 Have been allotted to the girls and boy 
 Whom I left laughing at the ills of life, — 
 Now the grave father, or tlie awful wife. 
 Then shall I hear how tried the wise and good ! 
 How fall'n the house that once in honour stood ! 
 Anil moving accidents, from war and fire and flood ! 
 
 These shall I hear, if to his promise true ; 
 His word is pledged to tell me all he knew 
 Of living men ; and memory then will trace 
 Those wlio no more with living men have place. 
 As they were borne to their last quiet homes — 
 This shall 1 learn ! — And lo ! my Teacher comes. 
 
 TALE VII. 
 
 [FAREWEIiL A'ND RETURN.] 
 
 THE SCHOOLFELLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tes ! I must leave thee, brother of my heart ; 
 The world demands us, and at length we part : 
 Thou whom that heart, since first it felt, approved— 
 I thought not why, nor question'd how, I loved ; 
 In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares, 
 Associate ; partner in my mind's afiairs, 
 In my young dreams, my fancies ill-express'd, 
 But well-conceived, and to the heart address'd. 
 A fellow-reader in the books I read, 
 A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed, 
 A friend, partaking every grief and joy, 
 A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy. 
 
 At school each other's prompters, day by day 
 Companions in the frolic or the fi-ay ; 
 Prompt in disputes — we never sought the cause, 
 The laws of friendship were our only laws ; 
 We ask'd not how or why the strife began, 
 But David's foe was foe to Jonathan. 
 
 In after-years my Friend, the elder boy. 
 Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy ; 
 A new and strong emotion, thus impress' d, 
 Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast; 
 For though no object then the fancy found, 
 She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound ; 
 Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved, 
 And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved. 
 
 This is the Friend I leave ; for he remains 
 Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains : 
 Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul 
 Will fail his adverse fortunes to control. 
 Or lose the fame he merits : yet awhile 
 The clouds may lower — but then his sun will smile. 
 Oh ! Time, thou teller of men's fortunes, lend 
 Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend ! 
 Let me behold him pi'osperous, and his name 
 EnroU'd among the darling sons of Fame ; 
 In love befriend him, and be his the bride, 
 Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride. 
 " So shall my little bark attendant sail" — 
 (As Pope has sung) — and prosperous be the gale ! 
 
 II. 
 
 He is not here : the Youth I loved so well 
 Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell : 
 But 1 shall lo.arn. Oh ! tell me of my Friend, 
 With whom 1 hoped life's evening-calm to spend ; 
 With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn, 
 When gay conceits and glorious views are born ; 
 With whom conversing 1 began to find 
 The early stirrings of an activ<' mind, 
 That, done the tasks and lessons of the day, 
 Sought for new pleasures in our untried way ; 
 And stray 'd in fairy land, where much we long'd 
 to stray. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 637 
 
 Here he abides not! could not surely fix 
 In this dull j^lace, with these dull souls to mix : 
 He finds his place where lively spirits meet, 
 And loftier souls from baser kind retreat. 
 
 First, of my early Friend I gave the name, 
 "Well kno-wn to me, and, as I judged, to Fame ; 
 My grave informer doubted, then repUed, 
 " That Lad ! — why, yes ! — some ten years since he 
 died." 
 
 P. — Died ! and unknown ! the man I loved so 
 
 well! 
 But is this all ? the whole tliat you can tell 
 Of one so gifted ? — 
 
 F. — Gifted ! why, in truth. 
 You puzzle me ; how gifted was the Youth ? 
 I recollect him, now — his long, pale face — 
 He dress'd in di'ab, and walk'd as in a race. 
 
 P. Good Heaven ! what did I not of him 
 expect ? 
 And is this all indeed you recollect — 
 Of wit that charm'd me, with delightful ease — 
 And gay good-humour that must ever please — 
 His taste, his genius ! know you nought of these ? 
 
 F. — Ko, not of these : — but stop ! in passing 
 near, 
 I 've heard his flute — it was not much to hear : 
 As for his genius — let me not offend — 
 I never had a genius for a friend, 
 And doubt of yours ; but still he did his best, 
 And was a decent Lad : — there let him rest ! 
 
 He Ues in peace, with all his humble race, 
 And has no stone to mark his burial-place ; 
 Nor left he that which to the world might show 
 That he was one that world was bound to know, 
 For aught he gave it. — Here his story ends ! 
 
 my 
 
 P. — And is this all ? This character 
 Friend's ! 
 
 That may, alas ! be mine "a decent Lad!" — 
 
 The very phrase would make a Poet mad ! 
 
 And he is gone ! — Oh ! proudly did I think 
 
 That we together at that fount should drink. 
 
 Together climb the steep ascent of Fame, 
 
 Together gain an ever-during name, 
 
 And give due credit to our native home — 
 
 Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb ; 
 
 Perhaps not honour'd by a single tear, 
 
 Just enter'd in a parish-register, 
 
 With common dust, forgotten to remain : 
 
 And shall I seek what thou couldst not obtain — 
 
 A name for men when I am dead to speak ? — 
 
 Oh I let me something more substantial seek ; 
 
 Let me no more on man's poor praise depend. 
 
 But learn one lesson I'rom my buried Friend. 
 
 TALE Vlll. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 
 BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN. 
 I. 
 
 Farewell ! to him whom just across my way 
 I see his shop attending day by day ; 
 Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes 
 To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes. 
 Young though he is, yet careful there he stands, 
 Opening his shop with his own ready hands ; 
 Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves. 
 Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves. 
 But yet preserves not : in his zeal for trade 
 He has his shop an ark for all things made ; 
 And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye, 
 His sundry wares in strange confusion lie — 
 Delightful token of the haste that keeps 
 Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps ; 
 Yet ere he rests he takes them all away, 
 And order smiles on the returning day. 
 
 Most ready tradesman he of men ! alive 
 To all that turns to money — he must thrive. 
 Obsequious, civil, loath t' offend or trust, 
 And full of awe for greatness — thrive he must ; 
 For well he knows to creep, and he in time, 
 By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb. 
 
 Painstaking lad he was, and with his slate 
 For hours in useful meditation sate ; 
 Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand. 
 To make him — hard the labour ! — understand : 
 But when of learning he enough possess'd 
 For his affairs, who would might learn the rest ; 
 AU else was useless when he had obtain'd 
 Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain'd. 
 He envied no man for his learning ; he 
 Who was not rich was poor with Barnaby : 
 But he for envy has no thought to spare, 
 Nor love nor hate — his heart is in his ware. 
 
 Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies 
 In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise ! 
 To him how bright the opening day, how bless'd 
 The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest ! 
 To him thfi nation's state is all unknown, 
 Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 
 You talk of patriots, men who give up all. 
 Yea, life itself, at their dear country's call ! 
 He look'd on such as men of other date, 
 Men to admire, and not to imitate ; 
 They as his Bible-Saints to him appear'd, 
 Lost to the world, but still to be revered. 
 
 Yet there 's a Widow, in a neighbouring street, 
 Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet; 
 Hers liouse and land; and these are more delight 
 To him than learning, in the proverb's spite. 
 
 The Widow sees at once the Trader's views. 
 And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse : 
 
538 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Yet there are moments when a woman fails 
 In such design, and so the man prevails. 
 Love she has not, but, in a guardless hour, 
 May lose her pui-pose, and resign her power ; 
 Yet all such hazard she resolves to run, 
 Pleased to be woo'd, and fearless to be won. 
 
 Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside, 
 Are kept and shown to feed a woman's pride. 
 Old-fashion'd, ugly, call them what she will, 
 They serve as signs of her importance still. 
 She thinks they might inferior forms adorn, 
 xVnd does not love to hear them used with scorn ; 
 Till on some day when she has need of dress, 
 And none at hand to serve her in distress, 
 She takes th' insulted robe, and turns about ; 
 Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out. 
 " 'T is not so bad ! See, Jenny — I declare 
 " 'T is pretty well, and then 't is lasting wear ; 
 " And what is fashion ? — if a woman 's wise, 
 " She will the substance, not the shadow, prize ; 
 " 'T is a choice silk, and, if I put it on, 
 " Off go these ugly trappings every one." 
 The dress is worn, a friendly smile is raised, 
 But the good lady for her courage praised — 
 Till wonder dies. The dress is worn with pride, 
 And not one trapping yet is cast aside. 
 
 Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews, 
 And on the seventh he worships Heaven, and woos. 
 
 I leave thee, Bamaby ; and if I see 
 Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be. 
 
 IL 
 
 But how is this ? I left a thriving man, 
 Hight Bamaby ! when he to trade began — 
 Trade his delight and hope ; and, if alive, 
 Doubt I had none that Bamaby would thrive : 
 Yet here I see him, sweeping, as before, 
 The very dust from forth the very door. 
 So would a miser I but, methinks, the shop 
 Itself is meaner — has he made a stop ? 
 
 I thought I should at least a burgess see. 
 And lo ! 't is but an older Bamaby ; 
 With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare 
 As coats of his once begging kindred were ; 
 Brush'd to the thread that is distinctly seen, 
 And beggarly would be, but that 't is clean. 
 
 Why, how is this ? Upon a closer view, 
 The shop is narrow'd : it is cut in two. 
 I8 all that business from its station fled ? 
 Why, Barnaby ! thy very shop is dead ! 
 Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate — 
 And what the fall from that predicted fate. 
 
 F. A common cause : it seems his lawful gains 
 Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains. 
 These he, indeed, was willing to bestow. 
 But still his progress to his point was slow, 
 And might be quicken'd, " could he cheat the eyes 
 " Of all those rascal-oflicers and spies, 
 " The Customs' greedy tribe, the wolves of the 
 Excise." 
 
 Tea, coflee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice. 
 And sundry drugs that hear a noble price, 
 Are bought for little, i)ut ere sold, the things 
 Are deeply charged for duty of the king's. 
 Now, if the servants of this king would keep 
 At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep, 
 Just till the goods in safety were disposed. 
 Why, then his labours would be quickly closed. 
 True ! some have thriven, — but tliey the laws de- 
 fied, 
 And simnn'd the powers they should have satis- 
 fied ! 
 
 Their way he tried, and, finding some success. 
 His heart grew stouter, and his caution less ; 
 Then— for why doubt, when placed in Fortune's 
 
 way ? — 
 There was a bank, and that was sure to pay. 
 Yes, every partner in that thriving bank 
 He judged a man of a superior rank. 
 AVere he but one in a concern so grand — 
 Whj' ! he might build a house and buy him land ; 
 Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well. 
 Would not refuse with such a man to dwell ; 
 And, to complete his views, he might be made 
 A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade ; 
 For he had known — well pleased to know — a 
 
 mayor 
 Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar. 
 
 Who hastens to be "-Ich resembles him 
 Who is resolved that he will quickly swim, 
 And trusts his full-blown bladders ! He, indeed. 
 With these supported, moves along with speed : 
 He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm. 
 By caution led, and moved by strength of arm ; 
 Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose. 
 His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes ! 
 Or, if preserved, 't is by their friendly aid 
 Whom he despised as cautious and afraid. 
 
 Who could resist ? Not Barnaby. Success 
 A while his pride exalted — to depress. 
 Three years he pass'd in feverish hopes and fears. 
 When fled the profits of the former years ; 
 Shook by the law's strong arm, all he had gain'd 
 He dropp'd — and hopeless, penniless remain'd. 
 
 The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued. 
 Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude. 
 " Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man 
 
 which came, 
 " Be thrown away to prop a smuggler's fame ?" 
 She spake insulting ; and with many a sigh. 
 The fallen Trader passed her mansion by. 
 
 Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured, 
 Th' adventurous man was ruin'd, but was cured — 
 His weakness pitied, and his once good name 
 Tho means of his returning peace became. 
 
 Tic was assisted, to his shop withdrew. 
 Half let, half rented, and began anew, 
 To smile on custom, that in part return'd, 
 With the small gains tliat he no longer spum'd. 
 Warn'd by the i)ast, he rises with the day, 
 
 And tries to sweep oft' sorrow. 
 
 ■Sic 
 
 •ecp au-a;i J 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 539 
 
 TALE IX. 
 
 [?ARE^rEI:,L AND RETURN.] 
 
 JANE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Known but of late, I yet am loath to leave 
 The gentle Jane, and wonder why I grieve — 
 Not for her wants, for she has no distress, 
 She has no suffering that her looks express, 
 Her air or manner — hers the mild good sense 
 That wins its way by making no pretence. 
 
 AVhen yet a child, her dying mother knew 
 What, left by her, the widow'd man would do, 
 And gave her Jane, for she had power, enough 
 To live in ease — of love and care a proof. 
 Enabled thus, the maid is kind to all— 
 Is pious too, and that without a call. 
 Not that she doubts of calls that Heav'n has sent — 
 Calls to believe, or warnings to repent ; 
 But that she rests upon the Word divine, 
 Without presuming on a dubious sign — 
 A sudden light, the momentary zeal 
 Of those who rashly hope and warmly feel ; 
 These she rejects not, nor on these relies. 
 And neither feels the influence nor denies. 
 Upon the sure and written Word she trusts, 
 And by the Law Divine her life adjusts ; 
 She blames not her who other creed prefers, 
 And all she asks is charity for hers. 
 Her great example is her gracious Lord ; 
 Her hope his promise, and her guide his AVord ; 
 Her quiet alms are known to God alone, 
 Her left hand knows not what her right has done ; 
 Her talents, not the few, she well improves, 
 And puts to use in labour that she loves. 
 
 Pensive, though good, I leave thee, gentle maid — 
 In thee confiding, of thy peace afraid, 
 In a strange world to act a trying part, 
 With a soft temper and a yielding heart ! 
 
 n. 
 
 p. — How fares my gentle Jane, with spirit meek, 
 Whose fate with some foreboding care I seek ; 
 Her whom I pitied in my pride, while she, 
 For many a cause more weighty, pitied me ; 
 For she has wonder'd how the idle boy 
 His head or hands would usefully employ — 
 At least for thee his grateful spirit pray'd, 
 And now to ask thy fortune is afraid. — 
 How fares the gentle Jane ?— 
 
 F. — Know first, she fares 
 As one who bade adieu to earthly cares ; 
 As one by virtue guided, and who, tried 
 By man's deceit, has never lost her guide. 
 
 Her age I knew not, but it seem'd the age 
 "When Love is wont a serious war to wage 
 
 In female hearts, — when hopes and fears are 
 
 strong. 
 And 't is a fatal step to place them wrong ; 
 For childish fancies now have ta'en their flight, 
 And love's impressions are no longer light. 
 
 Just at this time — what time I do not tell — 
 There came a Stranger in the place to dwell ; 
 He seem'd as one who sacred truth reveres. 
 And like her own his sentiments and years ; 
 His person manly, with engaging mien. 
 His spirit quiet, and his looks serene. 
 He kept from all disgraceful deeds aloof. 
 Severely tried, and found temptation-proof: 
 This was by most unquestion'd, and the few 
 Who made inquiry said report was true. 
 
 His very choice of our neglected place 
 Endear'd him to us — 't was an act of grace ; 
 And soon to Jane, our unobtrusive maid, 
 In still respect was his attention paid ; 
 Each in the other found what both approved, 
 Good sense and quiet manners : these they loved. 
 
 So came regard, and then esteem, and then 
 The kind of friendship women have with men : 
 At length 't was love, but candid, open, fair, 
 Such as became their years and character. 
 
 In their discourse religion had its place. 
 When he of doctrines talk'd, and she of grace. 
 He knew the different sects, the varying creeds. 
 While she, less learned, spake of virtuous deeds : 
 He dwelt on errors into which we fall. 
 She on the gracious remedy for all : 
 So between both, his knowledge and her own. 
 Was the whole Christian to perfection shown. 
 Though neither quite approved the other's part — 
 Hers without learning, his without a heart — 
 Still to each other they were dear, were good. 
 And all these matters kindly understood ; 
 For Jane was liberal, and her friend could trust, — 
 " He thinks not with me ! but is fair and just." 
 
 Her prudent lover to her man of law 
 Show'd how he lived : it seem'd without a flaw ; 
 She saw their moderate means — content with what 
 she saw. 
 
 Jane had no doubts — with so much to admire, 
 She judged it insult farther to inquire. 
 The lover sought — what lover brooks delay ? — 
 For full assent, and for an early day — 
 And he would construe well the soft consenting 
 Nay! 
 
 The day was near, and Jane, with book in hand, 
 Sat down to read — perhaps might understand : 
 For what prevented ? — say, she seem'd to read ; 
 When one there came, her own sad cause to plead ; 
 A stranger she, who fearless named that cause — 
 A breach in love's and honour's sacred laws. 
 
 " In a far country, Lady, bleak and wild, 
 " Report has reached me ! how art thou beguiled ! 
 " Or dared he tell thee that for ten sad years 
 " He saw me struggling with fond hopes a:i.d 
 fears ? 
 
540 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 " From my dear home he won mo, bless'd and 
 free ! 
 
 " To be his victim." " Madam, who is heV 
 
 " Not yet thy husband, Lady : no ! not yet ; 
 " For he has first to pay a mighty debt." 
 
 " Speaks he not of religion ?" — " So he speaks, 
 " When he the ruin of his victim seeks. 
 " How smooth and gracious were liis words, how 
 
 sweet — 
 " The fiend, his master, prompting his deceit ! 
 " Me he with kind instruction led to trust 
 " In one wlio seem'd so grave, so kind, so just. 
 " Books to amuse me, and inform, he brought, 
 " Like that old serpent witli temptation fraught ; 
 " His like the precepts of the wise appear'd, 
 " Till I imbibed the vice I had not fear'd. 
 " By pleasant tales and dissertations gay 
 " He wiled the lessons of my youth away. 
 
 " Of moral duties he would talk, and prove 
 " They gave a sanction, and commanded love ; 
 " His sober smile at forms and rites was shown, 
 " To make my mind depraved, and like his own. 
 
 " But wilt thou take him ? wilt thou ruin take, 
 " With a grave robber, a religious rake ? 
 " 'T is not to serve thee. Lady, that I came— 
 " 'T is not to claim him, 't is not to reclaim — - 
 " But 'tis that he may for my wrongs be paid, 
 " And feel the vengeance of the wretch he made. 
 
 " Not for mj'self I thy attention claim — - 
 " My children dare not take their father's name : 
 " They know no parent's love — love will not dwell 
 
 with shame. 
 " What law would force, he not without it gives, 
 " And hates each living wretch, because it lives ! 
 " Yet, with these sinful stains, the man is mine : 
 " How will he curse me for this rash design ! 
 " Yes — I will bear his curse, but him will not 
 resign. 
 
 " I see thee grieved ; but. Lady, what thy grief? 
 " It may be pungent, but it must he brief. 
 " Pious thou art ; but what will profit thee, 
 " Mateh'd with a demon, woman's piety ? 
 " Not for thy sake my wrongs and wrath I tell, 
 " Revenge I seek ! but yet 1 wish thee well. 
 " And now I leave thee ! Thou art warn'd by one, 
 " The rock on which her peace was wreck'd to 
 sliuu." 
 
 The Lover heard ; but not in time to stay 
 A woman's vengeance in its headlong way : 
 Yet he essay'd, with no unpractised skill. 
 To warp the judgment, or at least the will ; 
 To raise such tumults in tlie poor weak heart. 
 That Jane, believing all — yet should not dare to 
 part. 
 
 But tlicre was Virtue in her mind that strove 
 With all liis eloquence, and all lier love ; 
 He told what liope and frailty dared to tell, 
 And all was answcr'd by a stern Farewell 1 
 
 Home with his consort he return'd once more, 
 And they resumed the life they led before. 
 
 Not so our maiden. She, before resign'd. 
 Had now the anguish of a M'ounded mind — 
 And felt the languid grief that the deserted find : 
 On him she had reposed each worldly view. 
 And, when he fail'd, the world itself withdrew. 
 With all its prospects. Nothing could restore 
 To life its value ; hope would live no more : 
 Pensive by nature, she can not sustain 
 The sneer of pity that the heartless feign ; 
 But to the pressure of her griefs gives way, 
 A quiet victim, and a patient prey : 
 The one bright view that she had cherish'd dies, 
 And other hope must from the future rise. 
 
 She still extends to grief and want her aid. 
 And by the comfort she imparts is paid : 
 Death is her soul's relief : to him she flies 
 For consolation that this world denies. 
 No more to life's false promises she clings. 
 She longs to change this troubled state of things, 
 Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. 
 
 TALE X. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 THE ANCIENT MANSION. 
 
 To part is painful ; nay, to bid adieu 
 E'en to a favourite spot is painful too. 
 That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around, 
 Oft have I view'd with reverence so profound. 
 As something sacred dwelt in that delicious 
 firround. 
 
 There, with its tenantry about, reside 
 A genuine English race, the country's pride ; 
 And now a Ladj^, last of all that race. 
 Is the departing spirit of the place. 
 Hers is tlie last of all that noble blood, 
 That tlow'd through generations brave and good ; 
 And if there dwells a native pride in her, 
 It is the pride of name and character. 
 
 True, she ^^ill speak, in her abundant zeal, 
 Of stainless honour ; that she needs must feel ; 
 She must lament that she is now the last 
 Of all who gave such splendour to the past. 
 
 Still are her habits of the ancient kind ; 
 She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind : 
 She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust ; 
 And being kind, with her, is being just. 
 Tliough soul and body she dcligiits to aid. 
 Yet of her skill she 's prudenth' afraid : 
 So to her chaplain's care she this commends, 
 And when thdt craves, the village doctor sends. 
 
 At cliurcli attendance she requires of all 
 Who would be held in credit at the Hall ; 
 A due respect to each degree she shows. 
 And pays the debt tliat every mortal owes; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 541 
 
 'T is by opinion that res)iect is led, 
 
 The rich esteem because the poor are fed. 
 
 Her servants all, if so we may describe 
 That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe, 
 Who with her share the blessings of the Hall, 
 Axe kind but grave, are proud but courteous all — 
 Proud of their lucky lot ! Behold, how stands 
 That grey-hair'd butler, waiting her commands ; 
 The Lady dines, and every day he feels 
 That his good mistress falters in her meals. 
 With what respectful manners he entreats 
 That she would eat — yet Jacob little eats ; 
 When she forbears, his supplicating eye 
 Entreats the noble dame once more to try. 
 Their years the same ; and he has never known 
 Another place ; and this he deems his ovsn, — 
 All appertains to him. Whate'er he sees 
 Is ours! — "our house, our land, our walks, our 
 trees !" 
 
 But still he fears the time is just at hand 
 When he no more shall in that presence stand ; 
 And he resolves, with mingled grief and pride. 
 To serve no being in the world beside. 
 " He has enough," he says, with many a sigh, 
 " For him to serve his God, and learn to die : 
 " He and his lady shall have heard their call, 
 " And the new folk, the strangers, may have all." 
 
 But, leaving these to their accustom'd way, 
 The Seat itself demands a short delay. 
 We all have interest there — the trees that grow 
 Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe ; 
 They take, but largely pay, and equal grace 
 
 bestow : 
 They hide a part, but still the part they shade 
 Is more inviting to our fancy made ; 
 And, if the eye be robb'd of half its sight, 
 Th' imagination feels the more delight. 
 These giant oaks by no man's order stand ; 
 Heaven did the work ; by no man was it plann'd. 
 
 Here I behold no puny works of art. 
 None give me reasons why these views impart 
 Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the 
 
 heart. 
 These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 
 And windows dim, have beauty in them all. 
 How stately stand yon pines upon the hill. 
 How soft the murmurs of that living rill ' 
 And o'er the park's tall paling, scarcely higher. 
 Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire. 
 Unnumber'd violets on those banks appear. 
 And all the first-bom beauties of the year. 
 The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring 
 The large wild bees upon the labouring wing ; 
 Then conies the Summer with augmented pride. 
 Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide : 
 Her richer Flora their brief charms display, 
 And, as the fruit advances, fall away. 
 Then shall th' autumnal yellow clothe the leaf. 
 What time the reaper binds the burden'd sheaf: 
 Then silent groves denote the dying year. 
 The morning frost, and noontide gossamer ; 
 And all be silent in the scene around, 
 .\11 save the distant sea's uncertain sound, 
 
 Or here and there the gun whose loud report 
 Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport. 
 And then the wintry winds begin to blow, 
 Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow, 
 When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue, 
 Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew ; 
 The aged moss grows brittle on the pale, 
 The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale. 
 And every changing season of the year 
 Stamps on the scene its English character. 
 
 Farewell ! a prouder Mansion I may see. 
 But much must meet in that which equals thee ! 
 
 II, 
 
 I leave the town, and take a well-known way, 
 To that old mansion in the closing day. 
 When beams of golden light are shed around, 
 And sweet is every sight and every sound. 
 Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold 
 The Seat so honour'd, so admired of old, 
 And yet admired 
 
 Alas ! I see a change. 
 Of odious kind, and lamentably strange. 
 Who had done this? The good old Ladj' lies 
 Within her tomb ; but who could this advise ? 
 What barbarous hand could all this mischief do. 
 And spoil a noble house to make it new ? 
 Who had done this ? Some genuine Son of Trade 
 Has all this dreadful devastation made ; 
 Some man with line and rule, and evil eye. 
 Who could no beauty in a tree descrj'. 
 Save in a clump, when station'd by his hand. 
 And standing where his genius bade them stand ; 
 Some true admirer of the time's reform. 
 Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm, 
 Strips it of all its dignity and grace. 
 To put his own dear fancies in their place. 
 He hates concealment : all that was enclosed 
 By venerable wood is now exposed. 
 And a few stripling elms and oaks appear. 
 Fenced round by boards to keep them from the 
 deer. 
 
 I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene. 
 And see not what these clumps and patches mean ! 
 This shrubby belt that runs the land around 
 Shuts freedom out ! what being likes a bound ? 
 The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay, 
 And some would praise ; I wish they were away. 
 That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might 
 
 stray. 
 The things themselves are pleasant to behold. 
 But not like those which we beheld of old, — 
 That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain. 
 Unbound and unsubdued ! — but siglis are vain ; 
 It is the rage of Taste — the rule and compass 
 reign. 
 
 As thus my spleen upon the view I fed, 
 A man approach'd me, by his grandchild led — 
 A blind old man, and she a fair young maid. 
 Listening in love to what her grandsire said. 
 
And thus with gentle voice he spoke — 
 " Come lead me, lassie, to the shade, 
 
 " "Where willows grow beside the brook ; 
 " For well I know the sound it made, 
 
 " When, dashing o'er the stony rill, 
 
 " It murmur'd to St. Osyth's ]\Iill." 
 
 The Lass replied — " The trees are fled, 
 " They 've cut the brook a straighter bed : 
 " No shades the present lords allow, 
 " The miller only murmurs now; 
 " The waters now his mill forsake, 
 " And form a pond they call a lake." 
 
 " Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on, 
 
 '• And to the holy water bring ; 
 " A cup is fasten'd to the stone, 
 
 " And I would taste the healing spring, 
 " That soon its rocky cist forsakes, 
 " And green its mossy passage makes." 
 
 " The holy spring is turn'd aside, 
 " The rock is gone, the stream is dried ; 
 " The plough has levell'd all around, 
 " And here is now no holy ground." 
 
 " Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide 
 " To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak, 
 
 " Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide, 
 " And part the church-way lane o'erlook; 
 
 " A boy, I climb'd the topmost bough, 
 
 " And I would feel its shadow now. 
 
 " Or, lassie, lead me to the west, 
 
 " Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall, 
 " Where rooks unnumbcr'd build tlicir nest — 
 
 " Deliberate birds, and prudent all: 
 " Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, 
 " But they 're a social multitude." 
 
 " The rooks are shot, the trees are fell'd, 
 
 " And nest and nursery all expell'd ; 
 
 " With better fate, the giant-tree, 
 
 " Old Bulmer's Oak, is gone to sea. 
 
 " The church-way walk is now no more, 
 
 " Anil men must other ways explore : 
 
 '' Though this indeed promotion gains, 
 
 " For this the park's new wall contains ; 
 
 " And here I fear we shall not meet 
 
 " A shade^although, perchance, a scat." 
 
 " O then, my lassie, lead the way 
 
 " To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn ; 
 
 " That something holds, if we can pay — 
 " Old David is our living kin ; 
 
 " A servant once, ho still jjrescrves 
 
 " liis name, and in his office serves." 
 
 " Alas! that mine sliould be the fate 
 
 " Old David's sorrows to relate : 
 
 " But they were brief: not long before 
 
 " He died, his office was no more. 
 
 " 'I'he kennel stands upon the ground, 
 
 " AVith something of the former sound." 
 
 " O then," the grieving Man replied, 
 
 " No further, lassie, let me stray; 
 " Here's nothing left of ancient pride, 
 
 " Of what was grand, of what was gay ; 
 " But all is changed, is lost, is sold — ■ 
 " All, all that 's left is chilling cold. 
 " I seek for comfort here in vain, 
 " Then lead me to my cot again." 
 
 TALE XI. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 THE MERCHANT. 
 
 Lo ! one appears, to whom if I should dare 
 To say Farewell ! the lordly man would stare, — 
 Would stretch his goodly form some inches higher, 
 And then, without a single word, retire ; 
 Or from his state might haply condescend 
 To doubt his memory — " Ha ! your name, my 
 friend !" 
 
 He is the master of these things we see, 
 Those vessels proudly riding by the quay ; 
 With all those mountain heaps of coal that lie, 
 For half a county's wonder and supply. 
 Boats, cables, anchors, all to him pertain, — 
 A swimming fortune, all his father's gain. 
 He was a porter on the quay, and one 
 Proud of his fortune, prouder of his son, — 
 Who was ashamed of him, and much distress'd 
 To see his father was no better dress'd. 
 Yet for this parent did the son erect 
 A tomb — 't is whisper'd he must not expect 
 The like for him when he shall near it sleep, — 
 Where we behold the marble clierubs weep. 
 
 There are no merchants who with us reside 
 In half his state, — no wonder ho has pride ; 
 Then he parades around that vast estate. 
 As if he spurn'd the slaves that make him great ; 
 Speaking in tone so high, as if the ware 
 Was nothing worth — at least not worth his care ; 
 Yet should he not these bulky stores contemn, 
 For all his glory he dei'ives from them ; 
 And were it not for that neglected store. 
 This great rich man would be extremely poor. 
 
 Generous, men call him, for he deigns to give ; 
 He condescends to say the poor must live : 
 Yet in his seamen not a sign appears 
 That they have much respect or many fears ; 
 With inattention they Iheir patron meet, 
 As if they thought liis ditniity a cheat; 
 Or of himself as, having much to do 
 With their affairs, he very little knew; 
 As if his ways to them so well were known. 
 That they might hear, and bow, and take their 
 own. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 543 
 
 He might contempt for men so humble feel. 
 But this experience taught him to conceal ; 
 For sailors do not to a lord at laud, 
 As to their captain, in submission stand ; 
 Nor have mere pomp and pride of look or speech 
 Been able yet respect or awe to teach. 
 
 Guns, when with powder charged, will make a 
 noise, 
 To frighten babes and be the sport of boys ; 
 But when within men find there 's nothing more, 
 'I'hey shout contemptuous at the idle roar. 
 Thus will our lofty man to all appear, 
 ^Vith nothing charged that they respect or fear. 
 
 His Lady, too, to her large purse applies, 
 And all she fancies at the instant buys. 
 T'ow bows the market, when, from stall to stall, 
 She walks attended ! how respectful all ! 
 To her free orders every maid attends, 
 And strangers wonder what the woman spends. 
 
 There is an auction, and the people, shy. 
 Are loath to bid, and yet desire to buy. 
 .Tcalous they gaze with mingled hope and fear. 
 Of buj'ing cheaply, and of paying dear. 
 They see the hammer with determined air 
 Seized for despatch, and bid in pure despair ! 
 They bid — the hand is quiet as before, — 
 Still stands old Pufi" till one advances more.- — 
 Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd : 
 Hear her too bid — decisive tone and loud! 
 •' Going ! 't is gone !" the hammer-holder cries — 
 " Joy to you. Lady ! you have gain'd a prize." 
 
 Thus comes and goes the wealth that, saved or 
 spent. 
 Buys not a moment's credit or content. 
 
 Farewell ! your fortune I forbear to guess ; 
 For chance, as well as sense, may give success. 
 
 II. 
 
 P. — Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but 
 low, 
 So much alike, in one commodious row ? 
 
 F. — You see our Alms-house : ancient men, 
 
 decay'd, 
 Are here sustain'd, who lost their way in trade ; 
 Here they have all that sober men require — 
 So thought the Poet — " meat, and clothes, and 
 
 fire;" 
 A little garden to each house pertains. 
 Convenient each, and kept with little pains. 
 Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found ; 
 Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound; 
 Books of devotion on the shelves are placed, 
 And not forbidden are the books of taste. 
 The Church is near them — in a common seat 
 The pious men with grateful spirit meet : 
 Thus from the world, which they no more admire, 
 They all in silent gratitude retire. 
 
 P. — And is it so ? Have all, with grateful 
 
 mind. 
 The world relinquish'd, and its ways resign'd ? 
 Look they not back with lingering love and slow. 
 And fain would once again the oft-tried follies 
 
 know ? 
 
 F. — Too surely some ! We must not think that 
 
 all 
 Call'd to be hermits would obey the call ; 
 We must not think that all forget the state 
 In which they moved, and bless their humbler 
 
 fate ; 
 But all may here the waste of life retrieve. 
 And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 
 
 See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems 
 Wrapp'd in some fond and visionary schemes ; 
 Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress'd 
 By that large copper badge upon his breast. 
 His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride, 
 Would all that 's visible in bounty hide ; 
 And much his anxious breast is swell'd with woe, 
 That where he goes his badge must with him go. 
 
 P.— Who then is he ? Do I behold aright ? 
 JMy lofty Merchant in this humble plight ! 
 Still has he pride ? 
 
 F. — If common fame be just, 
 He yet has pride, — the pride that licks the dust; 
 Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base 
 jVnd wretched flattery of this humbling place — 
 jSay, feeds himself! His failing is avow'd. 
 He of the cause that mjide him poor is proud ; 
 Proud of his greatness, of the sums he sjient. 
 And honours shown him wheresoe'er he went. 
 
 Yes ! there he walks, that lofty man is he. 
 Who was so rich ; but great he could not be. 
 Now to the paupers who about him stand. 
 He tells of wonders bj' his bounty plann'd, — 
 Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail'd, 
 And what a trade he drove — before he fail'd ; 
 Then what a failure, not a paltry sum. 
 Like a mean trader, but for half a plum ; 
 His Lady's wardrobe was apprised so high, 
 At his own sale, that nobody would buy ! — 
 " But she is gone," he cries, " and never saw 
 " The spoil and havoc of our cruel law : 
 " My steeds, our chariot that so roll'd along, 
 " Admired of all ! they sold them for a song. 
 " You all can witness what my purse could do, 
 " And now 1 wear a badge like one of you, 
 " Who in my service had been proud to Uve, — 
 " And this is all a thankless town will give. 
 " 1, who have raised the credit of that town, 
 " And gave it, thankless as it is, renown — 
 '' Who 've done what no man there had done 
 
 before — 
 " Now hide my head within an Alms-house door — 
 " Deprived of all — my wife, my wealth, my vote, 
 " And in this blue defilement Curse the Coat!" 
 
544 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 TALE XII. 
 
 [farewell and KETnKN.] 
 
 THE BROTHER BURGESSES. 
 
 Two busy Brothers in our place reside, 
 And wealthy each, his party's boast and pride ; 
 Sons of one father, of two mothers born, 
 They hold each other in true party-scorn. 
 
 James is the one who for the people fights, 
 The sturdy champion of their dubious rights ; 
 Merchant and seaman rough, but not the less 
 Keen in pursuit of his own happiness ; 
 And what his happiness ? — To see his store 
 Of wealth increase, till Mammon groans, " No 
 more !" 
 
 James goes to church — because his father went. 
 But does not hide his leaning to dissent ; 
 Reasons for this, whoe'er may frown, he 'II speak — 
 Yet the old pew receives him once a-week. 
 
 Charles is a churchman, and has all the zeal 
 That a strong member of his church can feel ; 
 A loyal subject is the name he seeks ; 
 He of " his King and Country" proudly speaks : 
 He says, his brother, and a rebel-crew 
 Minded like him, the nation would undo. 
 If they had power, or were esteem'd enough 
 Of those who had, to bring their plans to proof. 
 
 James answers sharply — " I will never place 
 " My hopes upon a Lordship or a Grace ! 
 " To some great man you bow, to greater he, 
 " Who to the greatest bends his supple knee, 
 " That so the manna from the head may drop, 
 " And at the lowest of the kneelers stop. 
 " Lords call you loyal, and on them you call 
 " To spare you something from our plunder'd all : 
 " If tricks like these to slaves can treasure bring, 
 " Slaves well may shout them hoarse for ' Church 
 and King ! ' " 
 
 " Brother !" says Charles, — " yet brother is a 
 name 
 " I own with pity, and I speak with shame, — 
 " One of these days you '11 surely lead a mob, 
 " And then tlie hangman will conclude the job." 
 
 " And would you, Charles, in that unlucky case, 
 " Beg for Ms life whose death would bring disgrace 
 " On you and all the loyal of our race ? 
 " Your wortli would surely from the halter bring 
 " One neck, and I a patriot then might sing — 
 " A brother patriot 1 — God save our noble king !" 
 
 " Jumes !" said the graver man, in manner 
 grave — 
 " Your neck I could not, I your soul would save : 
 " Oh ! ere that day — alas, too likely ! — come, 
 " I would prepare your mind to meet your doom, 
 
 " That then the priest, who prays with that bad 
 
 race 
 
 " Of men, may find you not devoid of grace." 
 
 These are the men who, from their seats above, 
 Hear frequent sermons on fraternal love ; 
 Nay, each approves, and answers — " "Very true ! 
 " Brother would heed it, were he not a Jew." 
 
 II. 
 
 P. — Read I aright ? beneath this stately stone 
 The Brothers rest in peace, their grave is one ! 
 What friend, what fortune interfered, that they 
 Take their long sleep together, clay with clay ? 
 How came it thus ? — 
 
 By both 
 
 i^.^It was their own request, 
 repeated, that they thus miglit rest. 
 
 P. — 'T is well ! Did friends at length the pair 
 unite ? 
 Or was it done because the deed was right ? 
 Did the cool spirit of enfeebling age 
 Chill the warm blood, and calm the party rage, 
 And kindly lead tliem, in their closing day. 
 To put their animosity away. 
 Incline their hearts to live in love and peace, 
 And bid the ferment in each bosom cease ? 
 
 /''. — Rich men have runners, who will to and fro 
 In search of food for their amusement go ; 
 Who watch their spirits, and with tales of grief 
 Yield to their melancholy minds relief; 
 Who of their foes will each mishap relate. 
 And of their friends the fall or failings state. 
 
 One of this breed — the Jackal who supplied 
 Our Burgess Charles with food for spleen and 
 
 pride — 
 Before he utter'd what his memory brought, 
 On its etfect, in doubtful mattei'S, thought, 
 Lest he, perchance, iu his intent might trip, 
 Or a strange fact might indiscreetly slip ; — 
 But he one morning had a tale to bring, 
 And felt full sure he need not weigh the thing ; 
 T/iat must be welcome ! With a smiling face 
 He watch'd the accustom'd nod, and took his place. 
 
 " Well ! you have news — I see it — Good, my 
 friend ! 
 " No preface, Peter. Speak, man, — I attend." 
 
 " Then, sir, I' m told — nay, 't is beyond dispute — 
 " Our Burgess James is routed horse and foot ; 
 "He '11 not be seen ; a clerk for him appears, 
 " And their precautions testify their fears ; 
 " Before the week be ended you shall see 
 " That our famed patriot will a bankrupt be." 
 
 " Will he, by ! No, I will not be profane — 
 
 " But James a bankrupt ! Boy, my hat and cane. 
 " No ! he '11 refuse my otfers — Let my think I 
 " So would I his : here, give me pen and ink. 
 " There ! that will do.— What ! let my father's 
 
 son, 
 " My brother, want — and I — away I and run, 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 545 
 
 " Run as for life, and then return — but stay 
 " To take his message — now, away, away !" 
 
 The pride of James was shaken as he read — 
 The Brothers met — the angry spirit tied : 
 Few words were needed — in the look of each 
 There was a language words can never reach ; 
 But when they took each other's hand, and 
 
 press'd. 
 Subsiding tumult sank to endless rest ; 
 Nor party wrath with quick affection strove, 
 Drown'd in the tears of reconciling love. 
 
 Afiairs confused, and business at a stand. 
 Were soon set right by Charles's powerful hand ; 
 The rudest mind in this rude place enjoy'd 
 The pleasing thought of enmity destroy'd. 
 And so destroy'd, that neither spite nor spleen, 
 Nor peevish look, from that bless'd hour were seen ; 
 Yet each his party and his spirit kept, 
 Though all the harsh and angry passions slept. 
 
 P. — And they too sleep ! and, at their joint re- 
 quest. 
 Within one tomb, beneath one stone, they rest ! 
 
 TALE XIIL 
 
 [farewell and KETURN'.] 
 
 THE DEAN'S LADY. 
 
 Next, to a Lady I must bid adieu 
 
 Whom some in mirth or malice call a " Blue." 
 
 There needs no more — when that same word is 
 
 said, 
 The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid ; 
 Save the choice friends who in her colour dress, 
 And all her praise in words like hers express. 
 
 Why should proud man in man that know ledge 
 prize 
 Which he affects in woman to despise ? 
 Is he not envious when a lady gains, 
 In hours of leisure, and \i'ith little pains. 
 What he in many a year with painful toil obtains ? 
 For surely knowledge shovild not odious grow, 
 Nor ladies be despised for wliat they know ; 
 Truth, to no sex confined, her friends invites, 
 And woman, long restrain'd, demands her rights. 
 Nor should a light and odious name be thrown 
 On the fair dame who makes that knowledge 
 
 known — • 
 Who bravely dares the world's sarcastic sneer. 
 And what she is, is willing to appear. 
 
 ■ And what she is not !" peevish man replies, 
 His envy owning what his pride denies : 
 But let him, envious as he is, repair 
 To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there. 
 
 Miranda sees her morning levee fill'd 
 With men, in every art and science skill'd — 
 Men who have gain'd a name, whom she invites, 
 Because in men of genius she delights. 
 To these sl;e puts her questions, that produce 
 Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse : 
 She no opinion for its boldness spares. 
 But loves to show her audience what she dares ; 
 The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift. 
 And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift. 
 
 Her noble mind, with independent force. 
 Her Rector questions on his late discourse ; 
 Perplex'd and pain'd, he wishes to retire 
 From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, 
 
 admire — 
 From her whose faith on no man's dictate leans. 
 Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans ; 
 Who for herself will judge, debate, decide. 
 And be her own " philosopher and guide." 
 
 Why call a lady blue '? It is because 
 She reads, converses, studies for applause ; 
 And therefore all that she desires to know 
 Is just as much as she can fairly show. 
 The real knowledge we in secret hide, 
 It is the counterfeit that makes our pride. 
 " A little knowledge is a dangerous tiling," — 
 So sings the Poet, and so let him sing : 
 But if from little learning danger rose, 
 I know not who in safetj' could repose. 
 The evil rises from our own mistake. 
 When we our ignorance for knowledge take ; 
 Or when the little that we have, through pride 
 And vain poor self-love viow'd, is magnified. 
 Nor is your deepest Azure always free 
 From these same dangerous calls of vanity. 
 
 Yet of the sex are those who never show. 
 By way of exhibition, what they know. 
 Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 
 But all without design, without display. 
 Is there not One who reads the hearts of men. 
 And paints them strongly with unrivall'd pen? 
 All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear. 
 Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear; 
 Looks in the close recesses of the mind. 
 And gives the finish'd portraits to mankind, 
 By skill conducted, and to Nature true, — 
 And yet no man on earth would call Joanna blue ! 
 
 Not so Miranda ! She is ever press'd 
 To give opinions, and she gives her best. 
 To these with gentle smile her guests incline, 
 Who come to hear, improve, applaud, — and dine. 
 
 Her hungry mind on every subject feeds ; 
 She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads ; 
 Locke entertains her, and she wonders why 
 His famous Essay is consider'd dry. 
 For her amusement in her vacant hours 
 Are earths and rocks and animals and flowers : 
 She could the farmer at his work assist, 
 A systematic agricnltmist. 
 
 Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind, 
 Nor let us see that they themselves are blind ; 
 But — thank our stars ! — the liberal times allow 
 That all may think, and men have rivals now. 
 
 2o 
 
 li 
 
546 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Miranda deems all knowledge might he gain'd — 
 " But she is idle, nor has much attain'd ; 
 " Men arc in her deceived : she knows at most 
 " A few light matters, for she scorns to boast: 
 " Her mathcmatic studies she resign'd — 
 " Tliey did not suit the genius of her mind. 
 " She tliouglit indeed tlie higher parts sublime, 
 " But then tlicy took a raonsti'ous deal of time !" 
 
 Frequent and full the letters she delights 
 To read in part ; she names not him wlio writes — 
 But here and there a precious sentence shows, 
 Telling what literary debts she owes. 
 Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come ; 
 " Alas !" she cries, " and I must seal their doom. 
 " Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain — 
 " Ah ! why must trutli be told, or man be vain ?" 
 
 Much she has written, and still deigns to write, 
 But not an effort yet must see the light. 
 " Cruel !" her friends exclaim ; " unkind, unjust !" 
 But, no I the envious mass slie will not trust ; 
 Content to hear that fame is due to her. 
 Which on her works the world might not confer — 
 Content with loud applauses while she lives ; 
 Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives. 
 
 II. 
 
 P. — Now where the Learned Lady ? Doth she live, 
 Her dinners yet and sentiments to give — 
 The Dean's wise consort, with the many friends, 
 From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends 
 Her precious maxims? 
 
 F. — Yes, she lives to shed 
 Her light around her, but her Dean is dead. 
 Seen her 1 have, but seldom could I see : 
 Borrow she could not, could not lend to me ; 
 Yet I attended, and beheld the tribe 
 Attending too, whom I will not describe — 
 JNIiranda Thomson ! Yes, I sometimes found 
 A seat among a circle so profound ; 
 When all the science of the age combined 
 Was in that room, and hers tb*" master-mind. 
 Well I remember the admiring crowd, 
 Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud ; 
 They strove who highest should her glory raise, 
 And cramm'd the hungry mind with honey'd 
 
 praise — 
 While she, with grateful hand, a table spread, 
 'J'he Dean assenting — but the Dean is dead ; 
 And tliough her sentiments are still divine, 
 She asks no more her auditors to dine. 
 
 Once from her lips came wisdom ; when she 
 spoke. 
 Her friends in transport or amazement broke : 
 Now to her dictates there attend but few, 
 And they expect to meet attention too ; 
 Kespect she finds is purcliased at some cost. 
 And deference is witJiheld, when dinner 's lost. 
 
 She, once the guide and glory of the place, 
 Exists between oblivion and disgrace; 
 I'raise once afforded, now — they say not why, 
 They dare not sny it — fickle men deny ; 
 
 That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers, 
 Which our deserted queen no longer hears. 
 Old, but not wise — forsaken, not resign'd. 
 She gives to honours past her feeble mind, 
 Back to her former state her fancy moves. 
 And lives on past applause, that still she loves ; 
 Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view. 
 And flies the glory that would not pursue 
 To yon STnall cot, a poorly jointured Blue. 
 
 TALE XIV. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 THE WIFE AND WIDOW. 
 
 I LEAVE Sophia ; it would please me well, 
 Before we part, on so much worth to dwell : 
 'T is said of one who lived in times of strife, 
 There was no boyhood in his busy life ; 
 Born to do all that mortal being can. 
 The thinking child became at once the man : 
 So this fair girl in early youth was led, 
 By reasons strong, in early youth to wed. 
 
 In her new state her prudence was her guide, 
 And of experience well the place supplied ; 
 With life's important business full in view, 
 She had no time for its amusements too ; 
 She had no practised look man's heart t' allure, 
 No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure ; 
 No art coquettish, nothing of the pi'ude ; 
 She was with strong yet simple sense endued, 
 Intent on duties, and resolved to shun 
 Nothing that ouglit to be, and could be, done. 
 
 A Captain's wife, with him she long sustain'd 
 The toil of war, and in a camp remain'd ; 
 Her husband wounded, with a child in arms. 
 She nursed them both, unheeded all alarms ; 
 All useless terror in her soul suppress'd — 
 None could discern in hers a troubled breast. 
 
 Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made ; 
 She hears, prepares, and is at once convey'd 
 Through hostile ranks : — with air sedate she goes, 
 And makes admiring friends of wondering foes. 
 Her dying husband to her care confides 
 Affairs perplex'd ; she reasons, she decides ; 
 If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides. 
 
 Home to her country she returns alone. 
 Her health decay'd, lier child, her husband, gone; 
 'J'here she in peace reposes, there resumes 
 Her female duties, and in rest re-blooms; 
 She is not one at common ills to droop, 
 Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop. 
 
 1 leave her thus : her fortieth year is nigh, 
 She will not for another captain sigh ; 
 
Will not a young and gay lieutenant take, 
 
 Because 't is pretty to reform a rake : 
 
 Yet she again may plight her w-idow'd hand, 
 
 Should love invite, or charity demand ; 
 
 And make her days, although for duty's sake. 
 
 As sad as folly and mischance can make. 
 
 11. 
 
 P. — Lives yet the Widow, whose firm spirit bore 
 Ills unrepining ? — 
 
 F. — Here she lives no more. 
 But where — I speak with some good people's 
 
 leave — 
 Where all good works their due reward receive ; 
 Though what reward to our best works is due 
 1 leave to them, and will my tale pursue. 
 
 Again she married, to her husband's friend, 
 Whose wife was hers, whom going to attend. 
 As on her deathbed she, yet young, was laid. 
 The anxious parent took her hand and said, 
 " Prove 710W your love ; let these poor infants be 
 " As thine, and find a mother's love in thee '." 
 
 " And must I woo their father?" — " Nay, in- 
 deed ; 
 
 " He no encouragement but hope will need ; 
 
 " In hope too let me die, and think my wish de- 
 creed." 
 
 The wife expires ; the widow'd pair unite ; 
 Their love was sober, and their prospect bright. 
 She train'd the children with a studious love, 
 That knew full well t' encourage and reprove ; 
 Nicelj- she dealt her praise and her disgrace, 
 Not liarsh, and not indulgent out of place, 
 Not to the forward partial — to the slow 
 All patient, waiting for the time to sow 
 The seeds that, suited to the soil, would grow. 
 
 Nor watch'd she less the Husband's weaker soul. 
 But learn'd to lead him who abhorr'd control. 
 Who thought a nursery, next a kitchen, best 
 To women suited, and she acquiesced ; 
 She only begg'd to rule in small affairs. 
 And ease her wedded lord of common cares. 
 Till he at length thought every care was small. 
 Beneath his notice, and she had them all. 
 He on his throne the lawful monarch sate. 
 And she was by — the minister of state : 
 He gave assent, and he required no more. 
 But sign'd the act that she decreed before. 
 
 Again, her fates in other work decree 
 A mind so active should experienced be. 
 
 One of the name, who roved the world around. 
 At length had sometliing of its treasures found, 
 And childless died, amid his goods and gain, 
 In far Barbadoes on the western main. 
 His kinsman heard, and wish'd the wealth to 
 
 share. 
 But had no mind to be transported there : — 
 ■• His Wife could sail — her courage who could 
 
 doubt ?— 
 " And she was not tormented with the gout." 
 
 She liked it not ; but for his children's sake. 
 And for their father's, would the duty take. 
 Storms she encounter'd ere she reach'd the shore. 
 And other storms when these were heard no 
 
 more, — 
 The rage of lawyers forced to drop their prey, — 
 And once again to England made her way. 
 
 She found her Husband with his gout removed, 
 And a young nurse, most skilful and approved ; 
 Whom — for he yet was weak — he urged to stay, 
 And nurse him while his consort was away : — 
 " She was so handy, so discreet, so nice, 
 " As kind as comfort, though as cold as ice ! 
 " Else," he assured his lady, '" in no case, 
 " So young a creature should have fill'd the 
 place." 
 
 It has been held — indeed the point is clear, 
 " None are so deaf as those who will not hear :" 
 And, by the same good logic, we shall find, 
 " As those who will not see, are none so blind." 
 The thankful Wife repaid th' attention shown, 
 But now would make the duty all her own. 
 
 Again the gout retum'd ; but, seizing now 
 A vital part, would no relief allow. 
 
 The Husband died, but left a will that proved 
 He much respected whom he coolly loved. 
 All power was hers ; nor yet was such her age. 
 But rivals strove her favour to engage : 
 They talk'd of love with so much warmth and 
 
 zeal. 
 That they believed the woman's heart must feel ; 
 Adding such praises of her worth beside. 
 As vanquish prudence oft by help of pride. 
 
 In vain ! her heart was by discretion led — 
 She to the children of her friend was wed ; 
 These she estabUsh'd in the world, and died. 
 In ease and hope, serene and satisfied. 
 
 And loves not man that woman who can charm 
 Life's grievous iUs, and grief itself disarm ? — 
 Who in his fears and troubles brings him aid, 
 And seldom is, and never seems, afraid ? 
 
 No ! ask of man the fair one whom he loves. 
 You '11 find her one of the desponding doves. 
 Who tender troubles as her portion brings. 
 And with them fondly to a husband clings — 
 Who never moves abroad, nor sits at home. 
 Without distress, past, present, or to come — 
 Who never walks the unfrequented street 
 Without a dread that death and she shall meet : 
 At land, on water, she must guarded be. 
 Who sees the danger none besides her see, 
 And is determined by her cries to call 
 All men around her — she vrill have them all. 
 
 Man loves to think the tender being lives 
 But by the power that his protection gives : 
 He loves the feeble step, the plaintive tone, 
 And flies to help who cannot stand alone : 
 He thinks of propping elms, and clasping vines, 
 And in her weakness thinks her virtue shines ; 
 
 2o2 
 
548 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 On him not one of her desires is lost, 
 And he admires her for this care and cost. 
 
 But when afflictions come, when beauty dies, 
 Or sorrows vex the heart, or danger tries — 
 Wlien time of trouble brings the daily care, 
 And gives of pain as much as he can bear — 
 'T is then he wants, if not the helping hand, 
 At least a soothing temper, meek and bland — 
 He wants the heart that shares in his distress, 
 At least the kindness that would make it less ; 
 And when instead he hears th' eternal grief 
 For some light want, and not for his relief — 
 And when he hears the tender trembler sigh 
 For some indulgence he can not supply — 
 When, in the midst of many a care, his " dear," 
 Would like a duchess at a ball appear — 
 And, while he feels a weight that bears him 
 
 down. 
 Would see the prettiest sight in all the town, — 
 Love then departs, and if some Pity lives. 
 That Pity half despises, half forgives ; 
 'T is join'd with grief, is not from shame exempt, 
 And has a plenteous mixture of contempt. 
 
 TALE XV. 
 
 [farewell and ketukn.] 
 BELINDA WATERS. 
 
 Of all the beauties in our favour'd place, 
 Belinda Waters was the pride and grace. 
 Say 3'e who sagely can our fortunes read, 
 Shall this fair damsel in the world Succeed ? 
 
 A rosy beauty she, and fresh and fair. 
 Who never felt a caution or a care ; 
 Gentle bj' nature, ever fond of ease, 
 And more consenting than inclined to please. 
 A tame good nature in her spirit lives — 
 She hates refusal for the pain it gives : 
 From opposition arguments arise, 
 And, to prevent the trouble, she complies. 
 She, if in Scotland, would hej'ash'd all day. 
 If call'd to any w(nk or any play ; 
 She lets no busy, idle wish intrude. 
 But is by nature negatively good. 
 
 In marriage hers will be a dubious fate I 
 She is not fitted for a liigh estate ; — 
 There wants the grace, the polish, and the pride ; 
 Less is she fitted for an humble bride: 
 Whom fair Belinda weds — let chance decide ! 
 
 She sees her father oft engross'd by cares. 
 And therefore hates to hear of men's affairs : 
 An active mother in the household reigns, 
 And spares Belinda all domestic pains. 
 Of food she knows but this, that we arc fed : — 
 Though, duly taught, she prays for daily bread. 
 
 Yet whence it comes, of hers is no concern — 
 It comes ! and more she never wants to learn. 
 
 She on the table sees the common fare. 
 But how provided is beneath her care. 
 Lovely and useless, she has no concern 
 About the things that aunts and mothers learn ; 
 But thinks, when married — if she thinks at all — 
 That what she needs will answer to her call. 
 
 To wTite is business, and, though taught to 
 write, 
 She keeps the pen and paper out of sight : 
 What once was painful she can not allow 
 To be enjoyment or amusement now. 
 She wonders why the ladies are so fond 
 Of such long letters when they correspond. 
 Crowded and cross'd by ink of different stain. 
 She thinks to read them would confuse her brain ; 
 Nor much mistakes ; but still has no pretence 
 To praise for this, her critic's indolence. 
 
 Behold her now ! she on her sofa looks 
 O'er half a shelf of circulating books. 
 This she admired, but she forgets the name, 
 And reads again another, or the same. 
 She likes to read of strange and bold escapes, 
 Of plans and plottings, murders and mishaps. 
 Love in all hearts, and lovers in all shapes. 
 She sighs for pity, and her sorrows flow 
 From the dark eyelash on the page below ; 
 And is so glad when, all the misery past, 
 The dear adventurous lovers meet at last — 
 Meet and are happy ; and she thinks it hard. 
 When thus an author might a pair reward — 
 When they, the troubles all dispersed, might wed — 
 He makes them part, and die of grief, instead ! 
 
 Yet tales of terror arc her dear delight. 
 All in the wintry storm to read at night ; 
 And to her maid she turns in all her doubt, — 
 " This shall I like ? and what is that about ?" 
 
 She had " Clarissa" for her heart's dear friend — 
 Was pleased each well-tried virtue to commend. 
 And praised the scenes that one might fairly doubt 
 If one so young could know so much about : 
 Pious and pure, th' heroic beauty strove 
 Against the lover and against the love ; 
 But strange that maid so young should know the 
 
 strife. 
 In all its views, was painted to the life ! 
 Belinda knew not — nor a tale would read, 
 That could so slowly on its way proceed ; 
 And ere Clarissa reach'd the wicked town, 
 The weary damsel threw the volume down. 
 " Give me," she said, " for 1 would laugh or cry, 
 " ' Scenes from the Life,' and 'Sensibility;' 
 " ' Winters at Bath,' — I would that I had one ! — 
 " ' The Constant Lover,' ' The Discarded Son,' 
 " ' The Hose of Kaby,' ' Delmore,' or ' The Nun.' 
 " These promise something, and may please 
 
 perhaps, 
 " Like ' Etlielinda,' and the dear 'Ilclapse.' " 
 To these her heart the gentle maid resign'd, 
 And such the food that fed the gentle mind. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 549 
 
 II. 
 
 P. — Knew yoii the fair Belinda, once the boast 
 Of a vain mother, and a favourite toast 
 Of clerks and young lieutenants, a gay set 
 Of light admirers ? — Is she married yet ? 
 
 F. — Yes! she is married; though she waited 
 long, 
 Not from a prudent fear of choosing Avrong, 
 But want of choice. — She took a surgeon's mate, 
 With his half-pay, that was his whole estate. 
 
 Fled is the charming bloom that nature spread 
 Upon her cheek, the pure, the rosy red — 
 This, and the look serene, the calm, kind look, are 
 
 fled. 
 Sorrow and sadness now the place possess, 
 And the pale cast of anxious fretfulness. 
 
 She wonders much — as, why they live so ill, — 
 Why the rude butcher brings his weekly bill, — 
 She wonders why that baker will not trust, — 
 And says, most truly says, — " Indeed, he must." 
 She wonders where her former friends are gone, — 
 And thus, from day to day, she wonders on. 
 
 Howe'er she can — she dresses gaily yet. 
 And then she wonders how they came in debt. 
 Her husband loves her, and in accent mild 
 Answers, and treats her like a fretted child ; 
 But when he, ruffled, makes severe replies, 
 And seems unhappy, then she pouts and cries 
 " She wonders when she '11 die !" — She faints, but 
 never dies. 
 
 " How well my father lived !" she says. — " How 
 well, 
 " My dear, your father's creditors could tell I" 
 And then she weeps, till comfort is applied, 
 That soothes her spleen or gratifies her pride ; 
 Her dress and novels, visits and success 
 In a chance-game, are soft'uers of distress. 
 
 So life goes on I — But who that loved his life 
 Would take a fair Belinda for his wife ? 
 Who thinks that all are for their stations bom. 
 Some to indulge themselves, and to adorn ; 
 And some a useful people, to prepare, 
 Not being rich, good things for those who are, 
 And who are born, it cannot be denied. 
 To have their wants and their demands supplied. 
 
 She knows that money is a needful thing. 
 That fathers first, and then that husbands bring ; 
 Or if those persons should the aid deny. 
 Daughters and wives have but to faint and die. 
 Till flesh and blood cannot endure the pain. 
 And then the lady lives and laughs again. 
 
 To wed an ague, and to feel, for life, 
 Hot fits and cold succeeding in a wife — 
 To take the pestilence with poison'd breath, 
 And wed some potent minister of death, 
 Is cruel fate — yet death is then relief; 
 But thus to wed is ever-during grief. 
 
 Oft have I heard. How bless'd the youth who 
 
 weds 
 Belinda Waters I — rather he who dreads 
 That fate — a truth her husband well approves. 
 Who blames and fondles, humours, chides, and 
 
 loves. 
 
 TALE XVL 
 
 [farewell and retukn.] 
 
 THE DEALER AND CLERK. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bad men are seldom cheerful ; but we see 
 That, when successful, they can merry be. 
 One whom 1 leave, his darling money lends. 
 On terms well known, to his unhappy friends ; 
 He farms and trades, and in his method treats 
 His guests, whom first he comforts, then he 
 
 cheats. 
 He linows their private griefs, their inward 
 
 groans. 
 And then applies his leeches and his loans 
 To failing, falling families — and gets, 
 I know not how, with large increase, their debts. 
 
 He early married, and the woman made 
 A losing bargain ; she with scorn was paid 
 For no small fortune. On this slave he vents 
 His peevish slights, his moody discontents. 
 Her he neglects, indulging in her stead 
 One whom he bribed to leave a husband's bed — 
 A young fair mother too, the pride and joy 
 Of him whom her desertion will destroy. 
 
 The poor man walks by the adulterer's door. 
 To see the wife whom he must meet no more : 
 She will not look upon the face of one 
 Whom she has blighted, ruin'd, and undone. 
 He feels the shame ; his heart with grief is rent ; 
 Hers is the guilt, and his the punishment. 
 
 The cruel spoiler to his need would lend 
 Unsought relief — his need will soon have end : 
 Let a few wint'ry months in sorrow pass. 
 And on his corse shall grow the vernal grass. 
 Neighbours, indignant, of his griefs partake, 
 And hate the villain for the victim's sake ; 
 Wond'ring what bolt within the stores of heaven 
 Shall on that bold, ofi'ending wretch be driven. 
 
 Alas ! my grieving friends, we cannot know 
 Why Heaven inflicts, and why suspends, the blow. 
 Meanwhile the godless man, who thus destroys 
 Another's peace, in peace his wealth enjoys. 
 And, every law evaded or defied, 
 Is with long life and prosperous fortune tried : 
 " How long?" the Prophet cried, and we, "How 
 
 long ?" 
 But think how quick that Eye, that Arm how 
 
 strong. 
 And bear what seems not right, and trust it is not 
 
 WTong. 
 
550 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Does Heaven forbear? — tlieii sinners mercy 
 find: 
 Do sinners fall? — 'tis mercy to mankind. 
 Adieu ! can one so miserable be — 
 Kich, wretched man ! — to barter fates with thee ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, ere I go, some notice must be paid 
 To Jb/in, his Clerk, a man full sore afraid 
 Of his own frailty — many a troubled day 
 Has he walk'd doubtful in some close by-way, 
 Beseeching Conscience on her watch to keep, 
 A&aid that she one day should fall asleep. 
 
 A quiet man was John : his mind was slow ; 
 Little he knew, and little sought to know. 
 He gave respect to worth, to riches more, 
 And had instinctive dread of being poor. 
 Humble and careful, diligent and neat. 
 He in the Dealer's office found a seat : 
 Happy in all things, till a fear began 
 To break his rest — He served a wicked man, 
 AVho spurn'd the way direct of honest trade. 
 But praised the laws his cunning could evade. 
 
 This crafty Dealer of religion spoke, 
 As if design'd to be the wise man's cloak, 
 And the weak man's encumbrance, whom it awes, 
 And keeps in dread of conscience and the laws : 
 Yet, for himself, he loved not to appear 
 In her grave dress ; 't was troublesome to wear. 
 
 This Dealer play'd at games of skill, and won 
 Sums that surprised the simple mind of John : 
 Nor trusted skill alone ; for well he knew 
 What a sharp eye and dext'rous hand could do ; 
 "When, if suspected, he had always by 
 The daring oath to back the cunning lie. 
 
 John was distress'd, and said with aching 
 heart, 
 " I from the vile, usurious man must part ; 
 " For if I go not — yet I mean to go — 
 " This friend to me will to my soul be foe. 
 " I serve my master — there is nought to blame ; 
 " But whom he serves I tremble but to name." 
 
 From such reflections sprung the painful fear, — 
 " The Foe of Souls is too familiar here : 
 " My master stands between : so far, so good ; 
 " But 'tis at best a dangerous neighbourhood." 
 
 Then livelier thoughts began this fear to 
 chase, — 
 " It is a gainful, a convenient place : 
 " If I should quit, another takes the pen, 
 " And what a chance for my preferment then ? 
 " Keligion nothing by my going gains ; 
 " If 1 depart, my master still remains. 
 " True, I record the deeds that I abhor, 
 " But these that master has to answer for : 
 " Then say I leave the otfice ! his success, 
 " And his injustice, will not be tlie less ; 
 " Nay, would be greater — I am right to stay; 
 " It checks him, doubtless, in his fearful way. 
 " Fain would I stay, and yet be not beguiled ; 
 " But pitch is near, and man is soon dcfdcd." 
 
 III. 
 
 P. — Such were the Man and Master, — and I 
 now 
 Would know if they together live, and how. 
 
 To such inquiries, thus my friend replied : — 
 F. — The Wife was slain — or, say at least, she 
 
 died. 
 But there are murders that the human eye 
 Cannot detect — which human laws defy : 
 There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels. 
 In many a secret wound that never heals. 
 The Savage murders with a single blow ; 
 Murders like this are secret and are slow. 
 
 Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier, 
 There were who witness'd that he dropp'd a tear ; 
 Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 
 And undisputed paid the funeral cost. 
 
 The Favourite now, her lord and master freed, 
 Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed. 
 The day, 't was said, was fix'd, the robes were 
 
 bought, 
 A feast was order'd ; but a cold was caught, 
 And pain ensued, with fever — grievous pain. 
 With the mind's anguish that disturb'd the 
 
 brain, — 
 Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind 
 Saw clearly death before and sin behind. 
 Priests and physicians gave what they could give : 
 She turn'd away, and, shuddering, ceased to live. 
 
 The Dealer now appear'd a while as one 
 Lost ; with but little of his race to run. 
 And that in sorrow : men with one consent, 
 And one kind hope, said, "Bonner will repent." 
 Alas ! we saw not what his fate would be, 
 But this we fear'd — no penitence had he ; 
 Nor time for penitence, nor any time. 
 So quick the summons, to look back on crime. 
 
 When he the partner of his sin entomb'd, 
 He paused a while, and then the way resumed, 
 E'en as before : yet was he not the same ; 
 The tempter once, he now the dupe became. 
 John long had left him, nor did one remain 
 Who would his harlot in her course i-efrain ; 
 Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease. 
 The present Phoebe only sought to please. 
 " With one so artless, what," said he, " to fear? 
 " Or what to doubt in one who holds me dear? 
 " Friends she may have, but me she will not 
 
 vnrong; 
 " If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong: 
 " And I am lucky now in age to find 
 " A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind." 
 
 Yet neither party was in peace : the man 
 
 Had restless nights, and in the morn began 
 To cough and tremble ; he was hot and cold — 
 lie had a nervous fever, he was told. 
 His dreams — 'twas strange, for none reflected less 
 On his past life— were frightful to excess ; 
 His favourite dinners were no more enjoy d, 
 And, in a word, his spirits were destroy'd. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 551 
 
 And what of Phcebe ? She her measures 
 
 plann'd ; 
 All but his money was at her command : 
 All would be hers when Heav'n her friend should 
 
 call; 
 But Heav'n was slow, and much she long'd for 
 
 all:— 
 " Mine when he dies, mean wretch ! and why not 
 
 mine, 
 " When it would prove him generous to resign 
 " What he enjoys not ?" — Phcebe at command 
 Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand. 
 A way more quick and safe she did not know, 
 And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow. 
 But more she dared not ; for she felt a dread 
 Of being tried, and only wish'd him dead. 
 Such was her restless strife of hope and fear- 
 He might cough on for many a weary year ; 
 Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill. 
 Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil ! 
 Oh ! 'tis a trial sore to watch a Miser's will. 
 Thus, though the pair appear'd in peace to live, 
 They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 
 
 There watch'd a cur before the Miser's gate — 
 A very cur, whom all men seem'd to hate ; 
 Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone 
 Like a live coal, and he possess'd but one ; 
 His bark was wild and eager, and became 
 That meagre body and that eye of flame ; 
 His master prized him much, and Fang his 
 
 name. 
 His master fed him largely ; but not that, 
 Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat. 
 Flesh he devour'd, but not a bit would stay ; 
 He bark'd, and snarl'd, and growl'd it all away. 
 His ribs were seen extended like a rack. 
 And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back. 
 Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore, 
 Now his sore body made his temper sore. 
 Such was the friend of him who could not find 
 Nor make him one 'mong creatures of his kind. 
 Brave deeds of Fang his master often told, 
 The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old, 
 From Snatch and Rabid sprung ; and noted they 
 In earlier times — each dog will have his day. 
 
 The notes of Fang were to his master known. 
 And dear — they bore some likeness to his own ; 
 For both convey'd to the experienced ear, 
 " 1 snarl and bite because I hate and fear." 
 None pass'd ungreeted by the master's door, — 
 Fang rail'd at all, but chiefly at the poor ; 
 And when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark. 
 The act of Fang was a perpetual bark ; 
 But though the master loved tlie growl of Fang, 
 There were who vow'd the ugly cur to hang ; 
 Whose angry master, vi-atchful for his friend. 
 As strongly vow'd his servant to defend. 
 
 In one dark night, and such as Fang before 
 Was ever known its tempests to outroar, 
 To his protector's v»'onaci now express'd 
 No angry notes — his anger was at rest. 
 The wond'ring master sought the silent yard. 
 Left Phoebe sleeping and his door uubarr'd ; 
 Nor more return'd to that forsaken bed — 
 But lo ! the morning came and he was dead. 
 
 Fang and his master side by side were laid 
 In grim repose — their debt of nature paid ! 
 The master's hand upon the cur's cold chest 
 Was now reclined, and had before been press'd. 
 As if he search'd how deep and wide the wound 
 That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound ; 
 And when he found it was the sleep of death, 
 A sympathising sorrow stopp"d his breath. 
 Close to his trusty servant he was found. 
 As cold his body, and his sleep as sound. 
 
 We know no more ; but who on horrors dwell 
 Of that same night have dreadful things to tell : 
 Of outward force, they say, was not a sign — 
 The hand that struck him was the Hand Divine ; 
 And then the Fiend, in that same stormy night. 
 Was heard — as many thought — to claim his right : 
 While grinning imps the body danced about, 
 And then they vanish'd with triumphant shout. 
 
 So think the crowd, and well it seems in them. 
 That e'en their dreams and fancies vice condemn ; 
 That not alone for virtue Reason pleads. 
 But Nature shudders at unholy deeds ; 
 While our strong fancy lists in her defence, 
 And takes the side of Truth and Innocence. 
 
 IV. 
 
 P. — Btrt, what the fortune of the Man, whose fear 
 Inform'd his Conscience that the foe was near ; 
 But yet whose interest to his desk confined 
 That sober Clerk of indecisive mind ? 
 
 F. — John served his master, with himself at 
 strife, 
 For he with Conscience lived like man and wife, 
 Now jarring, now at peace, — the life they led 
 Was all contention, both at board and bed : 
 His meals were troubled by his scruples all, 
 And in his dreams he was about to fall 
 Into some strong temptation — for it seems 
 He never could resist it in his dreams. 
 
 At length his JMaster, dealer, smuggler, cheat, 
 As John would call him in his temper's heat. 
 Proposed a something — what, is dubious still — 
 That John resisted with a stout good-will. 
 Scruples like his were treated with disilain. 
 Whose waking conscience spurn'd the ofi'er'd gain. 
 " Quit then my office, scoundrel ! and be gone." 
 " I dare not do it," said the affrighten'd John. 
 '• What fear'st thou, driveller ! can thy fancy tell ?" 
 " I doubt," said John — " I 'm sure there is a hell." 
 " No question, wretch ! thy foot is on the door ; 
 " To be in hell, thou fool ! is to be poor. 
 " Wilt thou consent?"— But John, with many a 
 
 sigh. 
 Refused, then sank beneath his stronger eye. 
 Who with a curse dismiss'd the fool that dared 
 Not join a venture which he might have shared. 
 
 The worthy Clerk then served a man in trade, 
 And was his friend and his companion made — 
 A sickly man, who sundry wares retail'd. 
 Till, while his trade increased, his spirit fail'd. 
 John was to him a treasure, whom he proved, 
 And, finding faithful, as a brother loved. 
 
502 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 To John his views and business he consign' d, 
 "And foi'ward look'd M'ith a contented mind : 
 As sickiK'SS bore him onward to the grave, 
 A charge of all things to his friend he gave. 
 
 But neighbours talk'd — 't was idle — of tlie day 
 "When llichard Shale should walk the dark high- 
 way;^ 
 And whisper'd— tattlers ! — that the wife received 
 Such hints with anger, but. she nothing grieved. 
 
 These whispers reach'd the man, -who weak, 
 and ill 
 In mind and body, had to make his will ; 
 And though he died in peace, and all resign'd, 
 'T was plain he harbour'd fancies in his mind. 
 "With jealous foresight, all that he had gain'd 
 His widow's was, while widow she remain'd; 
 But if another should the dame persuade 
 To wed again, farewell the gains of trade : 
 Por if the widow'd dove could not refrain, 
 She must return to poverty again. 
 
 The man was buried, and the will was read, 
 And censure spared them not, aUve or dead ! 
 At first the Widow and the Clerk, her friend, 
 Spent their free days as prudence bade them spend. 
 At the same table they would dine, 'tis true, 
 And they would worship in the self-same pew : 
 Each had the common interest so at heart. 
 It would have grieved them terribly to part ; 
 And as they both were serious and sedate, 
 'T was long before the world began to prate : 
 But when it prated, — though without a cause, — 
 It put the pair in mind of breaking laws. 
 Led them to reason what it was that gave 
 A husband power when quiet in his grave. 
 The marriage contract they had now by heart — 
 " Till death !"^ — you see, no longer — " do us part." 
 " "Well ! death has loosed us trom the tie, but still 
 " The loosen'd husband makes a binding will : 
 " Unjust and cruel are the acts of men." 
 Thus they — and then they sigh'd— and then — and 
 
 then, 
 " 'T was snaring souls," they said ; and how he 
 
 dared 
 They did not know — they wonder'd — and were 
 
 snared. 
 
 " It is a marriage, Kurely ! Conscience might 
 " Allow an act so very nearly right : 
 " AVas it not witness to our solemn vow, 
 " As man and wife ? it must the act allow." 
 But Conscience, stubborn to tlie last, replied, 
 " It cannot be I 1 am not satisfied ; 
 " 'Tis not a marriage : eitlior ilare be poor, 
 " Or dare be virtuous — part, and sin no more." 
 
 Alas ! they many a ibnd evasion made ; 
 They couki relinquish neither love nor trade. 
 They went to church, but, tliinking, fail'd to pray ; 
 They felt not ease or comfort at a play : 
 if times were good, — " We merit not such times ;" 
 If ill, — " Is this the produce of our crimes 'i" 
 
 When sick — " 'T is thus forbidden pleasures 
 
 cease." 
 When well — they both demand, " Had Zimri 
 
 peace ? 
 " For though our worthy master was not slain, 
 " His injured ghost has reason to complain." 
 
 Ah, John ! bethink thee of thy generous joy, 
 "W^hen Conscience drove thee from thy late em- 
 ploy ; 
 When thou wert poor, and knew not where to run. 
 But then could say, " The will of God be done '." 
 When thou that will, and not thine own, obey'd, — 
 Of Him alone, and not of man afi-aid : 
 Thou then hadst pity on that wretch, and, free 
 Thyself, couldst pray for him who injured thee : 
 Then how alert they step, thyself how light 
 AU the day long ! thy sleep how sound at night I 
 
 But now, though plenty on thy board be found, 
 And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round, 
 Yet thei'e is something in thy looks that tells 
 An odious secret in thy bosom dwells : 
 Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace 
 A coward spirit in thy shifting pace. 
 Thou goest to meeting, not from any call, 
 But just to hear that we are sinners all. 
 And equal sinners, or the difference made 
 'Twixt man and man has but tlie slightest shade ; 
 That reformation asks a world of pains, 
 And, after all, must leave a thousand stains ; 
 And, worst of all, we must the work begin 
 By first attacking the prevailing sin ! 
 
 These thoughts the feeble mind of John assail, 
 And o'er his reason and his fears prevail : 
 They fill his mind with hopes of gifts and grace, 
 Faith, feeUngs — something that supplies the 
 
 place 
 Of true conversion — this will he embrace ; 
 For John perceives that he was scarcely tried 
 By the first conquest, that increased his pride. 
 When he refused his master's crime to aid, 
 And by his self-applause was amply paid ; 
 But now he feels the difference — feels it hard 
 Against his will and favourite wish to guard : 
 He mourns his weakness, hopes he shall prevail 
 Against his frailty, and yet still is frail. 
 
 Such is his life ! and such the life must be 
 Of all who will be bound, yet would be free ; 
 Who would unite what God to part decrees — 
 The oficnded conscience and the mind at ease ; 
 Who think, but vainly tliink, to sin and pray. 
 And God and Mammon in their turn obey. 
 Such is his life ! — and so I would not live 
 For all that wealtliy widows have to give. 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 553 
 
 TALE XVJ.L 
 
 [farewell and RETURN.3 
 DANVEKS AND RAYNER, 
 
 I. 
 
 The purest Friendship, like tlie finest ware, 
 Deserves our praises, but demands our care ; 
 For admiration we the things produce. 
 But they are not design'd for common use ; 
 Flaws the most trilling from their virtue take, 
 And lamentation for their loss we make : 
 "While common Friendships, like the wares of clay, 
 Axe a cheap kind, but useful every day : 
 Though crack'd and damaged, still we make them 
 
 do. 
 And when they 're broken, they 're forgotten too. 
 
 There is within the world in which we dwell 
 A Friendship answering to that world full well, — 
 An interchange of looks and actions kind, 
 And, in some sense, an intercourse of mind, — 
 A useful commerce, a convenient trade. 
 By which both parties are the happier made ; 
 And, when the thing is rightly understood, 
 And justly valued, it is wise and good. 
 
 I speak not here of Friendships that excite 
 In boys at school such wonder and delight, — 
 Of high heroic Friends, in serious strife. 
 Contending which should yield a forfeit life. 
 Such wondrous love, in their maturer days. 
 Men, if they credit, are content to praise. 
 
 I speak not here of Friendships true and just, 
 When friend can friend with life and honour 
 
 trust ; 
 Where mind to mind has long familiar grown. 
 And every failing, every virtue known : 
 Of these I speak not : things so rich and rare, 
 That we degrade with jewels to compare. 
 Or bullion pure and massy, — I intend 
 To treat of one whose Neighbour call'd him 
 
 Friend, 
 Or call'd him Neighbour ; and with reason good — 
 The friendship rising from the neighbourhood : 
 A sober kind, in common service known ; 
 Not such as is in death and p 1 ,iown : 
 Such as will give or ask a helpin^- liand. 
 But no important sacrifice demand : 
 In fact, a friendship that will long abide, 
 If seldom rashly, never strongly, tried. 
 Yes ! these are sober friendships, made for use, 
 And much convenience they in life produce ; 
 Light a good coat, that keeps us from the cold, 
 The cloth of frieze is not a cloth of gold ; 
 But neither is it piebald, pieced, and poor ; 
 'T is a good useful coat, and nothing more. 
 
 Such is the Friendship of the world approved. 
 And here the Friends so loving and so loved : — 
 Danvers and Fai/ner, equals, who had made 
 Each decent fortune, both were yet in trade ; 
 
 While sons and daughters, with a youthful zeal, 
 Seem'd the hereditary love to feel ; 
 And e'en their wives, though either might pre- 
 tend 
 To claim some notice, call'd each other friend. 
 
 While yet their oflTspring boys and girls ap- 
 pear'd. 
 The fathers ask'd, " What evil could be fear'd ?" 
 Nor is it easy to assign the year 
 When cautious parents should begin to fear. 
 The boys must leave their schools, and, by and by, 
 The girls are sure to grow reserved and shy ; 
 And then, suppose a real love should rise, 
 It but unites the equal families. 
 
 Love does not always from such freedom spring ; 
 Distrust, perhaps, would sooner cause the thing. 
 " We will not check it, neither will we force " — 
 Thus said the fathers — "Let it take its course." 
 
 It took its course : — Young Richard Danvers' 
 
 mind 
 In Phoebe Rayner found what lovers find — 
 Sense, beauty, sweetness ; all that mortal eyes 
 Can see, or heart conceive, or thought devise. 
 And Phoebe's eye, and thought, and heart could 
 
 trace 
 In Richard Danvers every manly grace — 
 All that e'er maiden wish'd, or matron prized — 
 So well these good young people sympathised. 
 
 All their relations, neighbours, and allies, 
 All their dependants, visitors, and spies. 
 Such as a wealthy family caress. 
 Said here was love, and drank to love's success. 
 
 'T is thus I leave the parties, young and old. 
 Lovers and Friends. Will Love and Friendship 
 
 hold? 
 Will Prudence with the children's wish comply, 
 And Friendship strengthen with that new ally ? 
 
 II. 
 
 p. — I see no more within our borough's bound 
 The name of Danvers ! Is it to be found ? 
 Were the young pair in Hymen's fetters tied, 
 Or did succeeding years the Friends divide ? 
 
 F. — Nay ! take the story as by time brought 
 forth. 
 And of such Love and Friendship judge the worth. 
 AVhile the lad's love — liis parents call'd it so — 
 Was going on, as well as love could go, 
 A wealthy Danvers, in a distant place. 
 Left a large fortune to this favour'd race. 
 To that same place the father quickly went, 
 And Richard only murmur'd weak dissent. 
 
 Of Richard's heart the parent truly guess'd : — 
 " Well, my good lad ! then do what suits thee 
 
 best; 
 " No doubt thy brothers will do all they can 
 " T' obey the orders of the good old man : 
 " Well, I would not thy free-born spirit bind ; 
 " Take, Dick, tlie way to which thou 'rt most in- 
 clined." 
 
554 
 
 CRABBES WORKS. 
 
 "So answer gave the yoath : nor did he swe«p 
 
 The old man's riches were beneath his care ; 
 
 Xor that he would with his dear PhcEbe stay, 
 
 And let his heartless father move away. 
 
 yo : kind and constant, tender. faithfuL fond, — 
 
 Thus far he 'd go — but not one step beyond I 
 
 ^ot disobedient to a parent's will — 
 
 A lover constant — but dependent stilL 
 
 Letters, at first, between the constant swain 
 And the kind damsel, banish'd all their pain : 
 Both full and qtiick they were ; for lovers write 
 With vast despatch, and read with vast delight : 
 So quick they were, — for Love is never slow. — 
 So fuIL they ever seem'd to overflow. 
 Their beans are ever fill'd with grief or joy, 
 And these to paint is every hour's employ : 
 Joy they would not retain ; and for their grief. 
 To read such letters is a sure relief. 
 
 But, in due time, both joy and grief suppress" d. 
 They found their comfort in a little rest. 
 Mails went and came without the accustom'd 
 
 freight. 
 For Love grew patient, and content to wait — 
 Tet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die ; 
 For though he wrote not, Richard wonder'd why. 
 He could not justly tell how letters pass'd. 
 But. as to him appeared, he wrote the last : 
 In this he meant not to accuse the maid — 
 Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid. 
 
 Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown. 
 
 Although the ardour of the flame was flown ; 
 He still of Phoe'oe thought, her Up. her smile — 
 But grew contented with his fate the while. 
 Thus, not inconstant were the youthful pair — 
 The Lad remember'd still the Lass was fair ; 
 And Phoebe stilL with half-affected sigh. 
 Thought it a pity that such love should die ; 
 And had they then, with this persuasion met, 
 Love had rekin.lled, and been glowing yet. 
 
 But times were changed : no mention now was 
 made 
 By the old Squire, or by the young, of trade. 
 The worthy Lady, and her children all. 
 Had due respect — The People at the HalL 
 His "Worship now read Bum, and talk'd with skill 
 About the poor-house, and the turnpike-bill; 
 Lord of a manor, he had serious claims, 
 And knew the poaching rascals by their names ; 
 And if the father thus unproved his mind. 
 Be sure the children were not far behind ; 
 To rank and riches what respect was due. 
 To them and theirs what deference, well they 
 
 knew; 
 And, from the greatest to the least, could show 
 What to the favouring few the favour'd many owe. 
 
 The mind of man must have whereon to work, 
 Or it will rust — we see it in the Turk ; 
 And Justice Danvers, though he read the news. 
 And all of law that magistrates peruse. — 
 Bills about roads and charities, — yet still 
 Wanted employ his vacant mind to fill ; 
 These were not like the shipping, once his pride. 
 Now, with his blue surtout, laid all aside. 
 
 No doubt, his spirits in their ebb to raise. 
 
 He found some help in men's respect and praise — 
 Praise of his house, his land, his lawn, his trees — 
 He cared not what — to praise him was to please : 
 Tet, though his rural neighbours caU'd to dine. 
 And some might kiniily praise his food and wine. 
 This was not certain, and another day 
 He must the visit and the praise repay. 
 
 By better motives urged — we will suppose — 
 He thus began his ptirpose to disclose 
 To his good lady : — " We have lived a year. 
 " And never ask'd our friends the Rayners here : 
 " Do let us ask them — as for Richard's flame, 
 " It went, we see. as idly as it came : 
 " Invite them kindly — here 's a power of room, 
 '' And the poor people will be glad to come. 
 " Outside and in, the coach will hold them alL 
 " And set them down beside the garden-wall." 
 
 The Lady wrote, for that was aU he meant. 
 Kind soul '. by asking for his wife's assent : 
 And every Rayner was besought to come 
 To dine in Hulver Hall's grand dining-room. 
 
 About this time old Rayner. who had lost 
 His friend's advice, was by misfortune cross'd : 
 Some debtors fail'd when large amounts were 
 
 due. 
 So large, that he was nearly faiUng too : 
 But he, grown wary, that he might not fail, 
 Brought-to in adverse gales, and shorten'd sail : 
 This done, he rested, and could now attend 
 The invitation of his distant Friend. 
 
 " Well ! he would go : but not, indeed, t* ad- 
 mire 
 
 " The state and grandetir of tht /lew-made Sqtiire ; 
 " Danvers. belike, now wealthy, might impart 
 " Some of his gold ; for Danvers had a heart. 
 " And may have heard, though guarded so around. 
 " That I have lost the fortune he has found : 
 " Yes 1 Dick is kind, or he and his fine seat 
 
 " 3Iight go to where we never more should 
 
 meet." 
 
 Now, lo I the Rayners all at Hulver Place — 
 Or Hulver Hall — 't is not a certain case : 
 'Tis only known that ladies' notes were sent 
 Directed both ways, and they always went. 
 
 We pass the greetings, and the dinner pass. 
 All the male gossip o'er the sparkling glass. 
 And female when retired : — "The Sqtiire invites 
 His Friend, by sleep refresh'd. to see his sights — 
 His land and lions, granary, bams and crops. 
 His dairy, piggery, pinery, apples, hops ; — 
 But here a hill appears, and Peter Rayner stops. 
 
 •• \h '. my old Friend. I give you joy," he cries : 
 " But some are bom to fall, and some to rise ; 
 ' You *re better many a thousand, I the worse — 
 '• Dick, there 's no dealing with a failing purse ; 
 " Nor does it shame me (mine is all mischance) 
 " To wish some friendly neighbotir would ad- 
 vance" — 
 
 But here the guest on such a theme was low. 
 
 His host, meantime, intent upon the show, 
 
 
In hearing, heard not — they came out to see,— 
 And, pushing forward — " There 's a view !" quoth 
 
 he ; 
 " Observe that ruin, built, you see, to catch 
 " The gazer's eye ; that cottage with the thatch — 
 " It cost me — guess you what ?'' — that sound of cost 
 Was accidental, but i^ was not lost. 
 
 " Ah ! my good friend, be sure such things as 
 
 these 
 " Suit well enough a man who lives at ease : 
 "Think what the ' Betsy' cos<, and think the 
 
 shock 
 " Of losing her upon the Dodder-Rock ; 
 " The tidings reach'd me on the very day 
 " That villain robb'd us, and then ran away — 
 " Loss upon loss ! now if " 
 
 " Do stay a bit," 
 Exclaim'd the Squire ; " these matters hardly fit 
 " A morning ramble — let me show you now 
 " My team of oxen, and my patent plough. 
 " Talk of your horses ! I the plan condemn — 
 " They eat us up — but oxen ! we eat them : 
 " For first they plough and bring us bread to eat, 
 " And then we fat and kill them — there 's the meat. 
 " What 's your opinion ?" — 
 
 " I am poorly fed, 
 " And much afraid to want both meat and 
 bread," 
 ■ Said Kayner, half indignant ; and the Squire 
 Sigh'd, as he felt he must no more require 
 A man whose prospects fail'd his prospects to ad- 
 mire. 
 
 Homeward they moved, and met a gentle pair. 
 The poor man's daughter and the rich man's heir : 
 This caused some thought ; but on the couple 
 
 went, 
 And a soft hour in tender converse spent. 
 This pair, in fact, their passion roused anew, 
 Alone much comfort from the visit drew. 
 
 At home the ladies were engaged, and all 
 Show'd or were shown the wonders of the Hall; 
 From room to room the weary guests went on, 
 Till every Kayner wisli'd the show was done. 
 
 Home they return'd : the father deeply sigh'd 
 To find he vainly had for aid applied : 
 It hurt him much to ask — and more to be denied. 
 
 The younger Richard, who alone sustain'd 
 The dying friendship, true to love reniain'd : 
 His Phoebe's smiles, although he did not yet 
 Fly to behold, he could not long forget ; 
 Kor durst he visit ; nor was love so strong, 
 That he could more than think his father wrongs 
 For, wrong or right, that father still profess'd 
 The most obedient son should fare the best. 
 
 So time pass'd on ; the second spring appear'd 
 Ere Richard ventured on the deed he fear'd : — 
 He dared at length ; and not so much for love, 
 I grieve to add, but tliat he meant to prove 
 He had a will : — His father, in reply. 
 This known, had answer'd, " So, my son, have I." 
 
 But Richard's courage was by prudence taught, 
 And he his nymph in secret service sought : 
 Some days of absence — not with full consent, 
 But with slow leave — were to entreaty lent ; 
 And forth the Lover rode, uncertain what he 
 meant. 
 
 He reach'd the dwelling he had known so long. 
 When a pert damsel took him, " he was wrong; 
 " Their house she did not just precisely know, 
 " But he would find it somewhere in the How ; 
 " The Kayners now were come a little down, 
 " Nor more the topmost people in the town ;" 
 She might have added, they their life enjoy'd, 
 Although on things less hazardous employ'd. 
 
 This was not much ; but yet the damsel's sneer, 
 And the Row-dwelling of a lass so dear, 
 Were somewhat startUng. He had heard, in- 
 deed, 
 That Rayner's business did not well succeed : 
 " But what of that ? They lived in decent style, 
 " No doubt, and Phcebe still retain'd her smile ; 
 " And why," he asked, " should all men choose to 
 
 dwell 
 " In broad cold streets ? — the Row does just as 
 
 well, 
 " Quiet and snug;" and then the favourite maid 
 Rose in his fancy, tastefully array'd. 
 Looking with grateful joy upon the swain, 
 Who could his love in trying times retain. 
 
 Soothed by such thoughts, to the new house he 
 
 came, 
 Survy'd its aspect, sigh'd, and gave his name. 
 But ere they open'd he had waited long. 
 And heard a movement — Was there somewhat 
 
 wrong ? 
 Nay, but a friendly party, he was told ; 
 And look'd around, as wishing to behold 
 Some friends — but these were not the friends of 
 
 old. 
 
 Old Peter Rayner, in his own old mode. 
 Bade the Squire welcome to his new abode ; 
 For Richard had been kind, and doubtless meant 
 To make proposals now, and ask consent. 
 Mamma and misses, too, were civil all ; 
 But what their awkward courtesy to call 
 He knew not; neither could he well express 
 His sad sensations at their strange address ; 
 And then their laughter loud, their story-telling, 
 All seem'd befitting to that Row and dwelling ; 
 The hearty welcome to the various treat 
 Was lost on him — he could nor laugh nor eat. 
 
 But one thing pleased him ; when he look'd 
 
 around. 
 His dearest Phcsbe could not there be found : 
 " Wise and discreet," he says, " she shuns the 
 
 crew 
 " Of vulgar neighbours, some kind act to do ; 
 " In some fair house some female friend to meet, 
 " Or take at evening prayer in church her seat." 
 
 Meantime there rose, amid the ceaseless din, 
 A mingled scent that crowded I'oom within, 
 Rum and red-herring, Cheshire cheese and gin ; 
 
556 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Pipes, too, and puncli, and sausages, with tea. 
 
 Were things that Kichard was disturb'd to see. 
 
 Impatient now, he left them in disdain, 
 
 To call on Phoebe when he call'd again ; 
 
 To walk with her, the morning fair and bright, 
 
 And lose the painful feelings of the night. 
 
 All in the Row, and tripping at the side 
 Of a young Sailor, he the nymph espied, 
 As, homeward hastening with her happy boy, 
 She went to join the party, and enjoy. 
 " Fie !" Phoebe cried, as her companion spoke, 
 Yet laugh'd to hear the fie-compelling joke ; — 
 Just then her chance to meet, her shame to know, 
 Her tender Ixichard, moving sad and slow, 
 Musing on things full strange, the manners of the 
 Kow. 
 
 At first amazed, and then alarm'd, the fair 
 Late-laughing maid now stood in dumb despair : 
 As when a debtor meets in human shape 
 The foe -f debtors, and cannot escape. 
 He stands in terror, nor can longer aim 
 To keep his credit, or preserve his name. 
 Stood Phoebe fix'd ! " Unlucky time and place ! 
 " An earlier hour had kept me from disgrace !" 
 She thought — ^but now the sailor, undismay'd. 
 Said, " My dear Phoebe, whj' are you afraid ? 
 " The man seems civil, or he soon should prove 
 " That I can well defend the girl I love. 
 " Are you not mine ?" She utter'd no reply : — 
 " Thine I must be," she thought ; " more 
 
 foolish I !" 
 While Richard at the scene stood mute and 
 
 wondering by. 
 
 His spirits hurried, but his bosom light. 
 He left his Phoebe with a calm " Good night." 
 So Love like Friendship fell ! The youth a while 
 Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phoebe's witching 
 
 smile — 
 But learn'd in daylight visions to forego 
 The Sailor's laughing Lass, the Phoebe of the Row. 
 
 Home turn'd young Richard, in due time to 
 turn, 
 AVith all old Richard's zeal, the leaves of Burn ; 
 And home turned Phoebe — in due time to grace 
 A tottering cabin with a tattcr'd race. 
 
 TALE XVIII. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 i. 
 
 The man who dwells where party-spirit reigns 
 May feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains ; 
 ile must the friends and foes of party take 
 I'" or his, and sutler for liis lionour's sake ; 
 
 When once enlisted upon either side. 
 He must the rude septennial storm abide— 
 A storm that, when its utmost rage is gone, 
 In cold and angry mutterings murmurs on : 
 A slow unbending scorn, a cold disdain. 
 Till years bring the full tempest back again. 
 
 W^ithin our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt. 
 Who both this party storm and triumph felt ; 
 Men who had talents, and were both design'd 
 For better things, but anger made them blind. 
 
 In the same j'ear they married, and their wives 
 Had jjass'd in friendship their yet peaceful lives. 
 And, as they married in a time of peace. 
 Had no suspicion that their love must cease. 
 In fact it did not ; but they met by stealth,^ 
 And that perhaps might keep their love in health : 
 Like children watch'd, desirous yet afraid, 
 Their visits all were with discretion paid. 
 
 One Captain, so bj' courtesy we call 
 Our hoys' commanders — they are captains all — 
 Had sons and daughters many ; while but one 
 The rival Captain bless'd — a darling son. 
 Each was a burgess to his party tied. 
 And each was fix'd, but on a different side ; 
 And he who sought his son's pure mind to fill 
 With wholesome food, would evil too instil. 
 The last in part succeeded — but in part — 
 For Charles had sense, had virtue, had a heart ; 
 And he had soon the cause of Nature tried 
 With the stern father, but this father died ;■ 
 Who on his deathbed thus his son address'd : — 
 '• Swear to me, Charles, and let my spirit rest — 
 '• Swear to our party to be ever true, 
 " And let me die in peace — I pray thee, do." 
 
 With some reluctance, but obedience more, 
 Tlie weeping youth reflected, sigh'd, and swore ; 
 Trembling he swore for ever to be true. 
 And wear no colour but the untainted Blue : 
 This done, the Captain died in so much joy, 
 As if he 'd wrought salvation for his boy. 
 
 The female friends their wishes j'et retain'd, 
 But seldom met, by female fears restrain'd ; 
 Yet in such town, where girls and boys must meet. 
 And every house is known in every street, 
 Charles had before, nay since his father's death, 
 Met, say by chance, the young Elizabeth, 
 Who was both good and graceful, and in truth 
 Was but too pleasing to th' observing youth ; 
 And wliy I know not, but the youth to her 
 Seem'd just that being that she could prefer. 
 Both were disposed to think that party-strife 
 Destroy'd the happiest intercourse of life ; 
 Charles, too, his growing passion could defend — 
 His father's foe he call'd his mother's friend. 
 Mothers, indeed, he knew were ever kind, 
 But in the Captain should he favour find ? 
 He doubted this — yet could ho that command 
 Which fathers love, and few its power withstand. 
 
 Tlie mothers both agreed their joint request 
 Sliduld to the Captain jointly be address'd; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 557 
 
 And first the lover should his heart assail, 
 And then the ladies ; and if all should fail, 
 They 'd singly watch the hour, and jointly might 
 prevail. 
 
 The Captain's heart, although unused to melt, 
 A strong impression from persuasion felt ; 
 His pride was soften'd by the prayers he heard, 
 And then advantage in the match appear'd. 
 
 At length he answer'd, — " Let the lad enlist 
 " In our good cause, and I no more resist ; 
 " For I have sworn, and to my oath am true, 
 " To hate that colour, that rebellious Blue. 
 " His father once, ere master of the brig, 
 " For that advantage turn'd a rascal AVhig : 
 " Now let the son — a wife's a better thing — 
 " A Tory turn, and say, God save the King ! 
 " For I am pledged to serve that sacred cause, 
 " And love my country, while I keep her laws." 
 
 The women trembled ; for they knew full well 
 The fact they dare not to the Captain tell ; 
 And the poor youth declared, with tears and 
 
 sighs, 
 " My oath was pass'd : I dare not compromise." 
 
 But Charles to reason made his strong appeal, 
 And to the heart — he bade him think and feel: 
 The Captain answering with reply as strong, — 
 " If you be right, then how can I be wrong ? 
 " You to your father swore to take his part ; 
 " I to oppose it ever, head and heart ; 
 " You to a parent made your oath, and I 
 " To God ! and can I to my Maker lie ? 
 " Much, my dear lad, I for your sake would do, 
 " But I have sworn, and to my oath am true." 
 
 Thus stood the parties when my fortunes bore 
 Me far away from this my native shore : 
 And who prevail'd I know not — Young or Old ; 
 But, I beseech you, let the tale be told. 
 
 n. 
 
 P.^How fared these lovers ? Many a time I 
 
 thought 
 How wit'n their ill-starr'd passion Time had 
 
 wrought. 
 Did either party from his oath recede, 
 Or were they never from the bondage freed ? 
 
 F. — Alas ! replied my Friend, the tale I tell 
 With some reluctance, nor can do it well. 
 There are three females in the place, and they. 
 Like skilful painters, could the facts portray 
 In their strong colours — all that I can do 
 Is to present a weak imperfect view ; 
 The colours I must leave — the outlines shall be 
 true. 
 
 Soon did each party see the other's mind, 
 What bound them both, and what was like to bind ; 
 Oaths deeply taken in such time and place. 
 To break them now was dreadful — was disgrace ! 
 
 " That oath a dying father bade me take, 
 " Can I — yourself a father— can I break ?" 
 
 " That oath which I, a living sinner, took, 
 " Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look ?" 
 
 The women wept; the men themselves, dis- 
 tress'd. 
 The cruel rage of party zeal confess'd : 
 But solemn oaths, though sprung from party zeal, 
 Feel them we must, as Christians ought to feel. 
 
 Yet shall a youth so good, a girl so fair. 
 From their obedience only draw despair ? 
 Must they be parted ? Is there not a way 
 For them both love and duty to obey ? 
 Strongly they hoped ; and by their friends around 
 A way, at least a lover's way, was found. 
 
 " Give up your vote ; you '11 then no longer be 
 " Free in one sense, but in the better free." 
 Such was of reasoning friends the kind advice. 
 And how could lovers in such case be nice ? 
 A man may swear to walk directly on 
 While sight remains ; but how if sight be gone ? 
 " Oaths are not binding when the party 's dead ; 
 " Or when the power to keep the oath is fled : 
 " If I 've no vote, I 've neither friend nor foe, 
 " Nor can be said on either side to go." 
 They were no casuists : — " Well !"' the Captain 
 
 cried, 
 " Give up your vote, man, and behold your 
 
 bride I" 
 
 Thus was it fix'd, and fix'd the day for both 
 To take the vow, and set aside the oath. 
 It gave some pain, but all agreed to say, 
 " You 're now absolved, and have no other way : 
 " 'T is not expected jou should love resign 
 " For man's commands, for Love's are all divine." 
 
 When all is quiet and the mind at rest. 
 All in the calm of innocence ai-e bless il ; 
 But when some scruple mixes with our joy, 
 We love to give the anxious mind employ. 
 
 In autumn late, when evening suns were bright. 
 The day was fix'd the lovers to unite ; 
 But one before the eager Captain chose 
 To break, with jocund act, his girl's repose, 
 And, sailor like, said, " Hear how I intend 
 " One day, before the day of days, to spend ! 
 " All round the quay, and by the river's side, 
 " Shall be a scene of glory for the bride. 
 " We 'U have a Kace, and colours will devise 
 " For every boat, for every man a prize : 
 " But that which first returns shall bear away 
 " The proudest pendant — Let us name the day. 
 
 They named the day, and never morn more 
 
 bright 
 Rose on the river, nor so proud a sight : 
 Or if too calm appear'd the cloudless skies. 
 Experienced seamen said the wind would rise. 
 To that fuU quay from this then vacant place 
 Throng'd a vast crowd to see the promised Knee. 
 Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair, 
 That flagg'd or flutter'd in that quiet air — 
 The Captain's boat that was so gay and trim. 
 That made his pride, and seem'd as proud of 
 
 him — 
 
Her, in her boautj', we might all discern. 
 Her rigging now, and painted on the stern, 
 As one who could not in the contest fail, 
 " Learn of tlie little Nautilus to sail." 
 
 So forth they started at the signal gun, 
 And down the river had three leagues to run ; 
 This sail'd, they then tlieir watery waj' retrace, 
 And the first landed conquers in the race. 
 The crowd await till they no more discern, 
 Then parting say, " At evening we return." 
 
 I could proceed, but you will guess the fate, 
 And but too well my tale anticipate. 
 
 F. — True I j'et proceed. 
 
 F. — The lovers had some grief 
 In this day's parting, but the time was brief; 
 And the poor girl, between his smiles and sighs, 
 Ask'd, " Do you wish to gain so poor a prize ?" 
 
 " But that your father wislies," he replied, 
 " I would the honour had been still denied : 
 " It makes me gloomy, though I would be gay, 
 " And, oh ! it seems an everlasting day." 
 So thought the lass, and ci she said Farewell ! 
 Soft sighs arose, and tears unbidden fell. 
 
 The morn was calm, and e'en till noon the strong 
 UnrutHed flood moved quietly along : 
 In the dead calm the billows softly fell, 
 And mock'd the whistling sea-boy's favourite 
 
 spell. 
 So rests at noon the reaper, but to rise 
 With mightier force and twofold energies. 
 The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was 
 
 hush'd, 
 When o'er the flood the breeze awakening 
 
 brush'd ; 
 A sullen sound was heard along the deep, 
 The stormy spirit rousing from his sleep ; 
 The porpoise rolling on the ti'oubled wave. 
 Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave : 
 Dark, chilling clouds tlie troubled deep deform. 
 And, led by terror, downward rush'd the storm. 
 
 As evening came, along the river's side. 
 Or on tlie quay, impatient crowds divide, 
 And then collect; some whispering, as afraid 
 Of what thej' saw, and more of what they said. 
 And yet must speak : how sudden and how great 
 The danger socm'd, and what might be the fate 
 Of men so toss'd about in craft so small. 
 Lost in the dark, and subject to the squall. 
 Then sounds are so appalling in the night, 
 And, could we see, how terrible the sight! 
 Isone knew the evils that thej' all suspect. 
 And liope at once they covet and reject. 
 
 But where the wife, her friend, her daughter, 
 where ? 
 Alas! in grief, in terror, in despair — 
 At home, abroad, upon the quay. No rest 
 In any place, biit where they are not, best. 
 Fearful they ask, but dread the sad reply. 
 And many a sailor tells the friendly lie — 
 
 " There is no danger — that is, we believe, 
 
 " And think, and hope " — but this does not 
 
 deceive. 
 Although it soothes tliem ; while they look around. 
 Trembling at every sight and every sound. 
 
 Let me not dwell on terrors It is dark. 
 
 And lights are carried to and fro, and hark ! 
 There is a cry — " A boat, a boat at hand !" 
 What a still terror is there now on land ! 
 " Whose, whose ?" they all inquire, and none can 
 understand. 
 
 At length they come — and, oh ! how then rejoice 
 A wife and children at that welcome voice : 
 It is not theirs — but what have these to tell ? 
 " Where did you leave the Captain — were they 
 
 well ?" 
 Alas ! they know not, they had felt an awe 
 In dread of death, and knew not what they saw. 
 Thus they depart. — The evening darker grows. 
 The lights shake wildlj', and as wildly blows 
 The stormy night-wind : fear possesses all. 
 The hardest hearts, in this sad interval. 
 
 But hark again to voices loud and high ! 
 Once more that hope, that dread, that agony. 
 That panting expectation ! " Oh ! reveal 
 " What must be known, and think what pangs we 
 feel !" 
 
 In vain they ask ! The men now landed speak 
 Confused and quick, and to escape them seek. 
 Our female party on a sailor press. 
 But nothing learn that makes their terror less ; 
 Nothing the man can show, or nothing mil confess. 
 To some, indeed, they whisper, bringing news 
 For them alone, but others tliey refuse ; 
 And steal away, as if they could not bear 
 The griefs they cause, and if they cause must share. 
 
 They too are gone ! and our unhappy Three, 
 Half wild with fear, are trembling on the quay. 
 They can no ease, no peace, no quiet find. 
 The storm is gathering in the troubled niiud ; 
 Thoughts after thoughts in wild succession rise. 
 And all witliin is changing like the skies. 
 Their friends persuade them, " Do depart, we 
 
 pray !" 
 They will not, must not, cannot go away. 
 But, chill'd with icy fear, for certain tidings stay. 
 
 And now again there must a boat be seen — • 
 Men run together ! It must sonietliing mean ! 
 Some figure moves ui)on the ousy bound 
 Where flows the tide — Oh ! what can he have 
 
 found — 
 What lost ? And who is he ? — The only one 
 Of the loved three— the Captain's younger son. 
 Their boat was fill'd and sank- He knows no more. 
 But that he only hardly reach 'd tlie shore. 
 He saw them swimming — for he once was near — 
 But he was sinking, and he could not hear ; 
 And then the waves curl'd round him, but at 
 
 length 
 He struck upon the boat with dying strength, 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 559 
 
 And that preserved him ; when he turn'd around, 
 Nought but the dark, wild, billowy flood was 
 
 found — 
 That flood was all he saw, that flood 's the only 
 
 sound — 
 Save that the angry wind, with ceaseless roar, 
 Dash'd the wild waves upon the rocky shore. 
 
 The Widows dwell together — so M-e call 
 The younger woman ; widow'd are they all : 
 But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems 
 Not life in her — she lives not, but she dreams ; 
 She looks on Philip, and in him can find 
 Not much to mark in body or in mind — 
 lie who was saved ; and then her very soul 
 Is in that scene ! — Her thoughts beyond control, 
 Fix'd on that night, and bearing her along, 
 Amid the waters terrible and strong ; 
 Till there she sees within the troubled waves 
 The bodies sinking in their wat'ry graves, 
 When from her lover, yielding up his breath, 
 There comes a voice, — " Farewell, Elizabeth !" 
 
 Yet Resignation in the house is seen, 
 Subdued Affliction, Piety serene. 
 And Hope for ever striving to instil 
 The balm for grief — " It is the Heavenly will :" 
 And in that \n\l our duty bids us rest, 
 For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best : 
 "We sin and suffer — this alone we know ; 
 Grief is our portion, is our part below : 
 But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see, 
 AVhere sin and suflfering never more shall be. 
 
 TALE XIX. 
 
 [farewell and ketukn.] 
 MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD'S LOVE. 
 
 I HAVE remembrance of a Boy, whose mind 
 Was weak : he secm'd not for the world design'd, 
 Seem'd not as one who in that world could strive, 
 And keep his spirits even and alive — 
 A feeling Boy, and happy, though the less. 
 From that fine feeling, form'd for happiness. 
 His mother left him to his favourite ways. 
 And what he made his pleasure brought him 
 praise. 
 
 Romantic, tender, visionary, mild, 
 Aff'ectionate, reflecting when a child, 
 With fear instinctive he from harshness fled. 
 And gentle tears for all who sufi'er'd shed ; 
 Tales of misfortune touch'd his generous heart, 
 Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part. 
 
 In spite of all that weak indulgence WTought, 
 That love permitted, or that flattery taught, 
 In spite of teachers who no fault would find, 
 The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind. 
 
 Justice and truth his honest heart approved, 
 And all things lovely he admired and loved. 
 Arabian Nights and Persian Tales he read. 
 And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed. 
 The long Romances, wild Adventures fired 
 His stirring thoughts : he felt like Boy inspired. 
 The cruel fight, the constant love, the art 
 i Of vile magicians, thrill'd liis inmost heart : 
 An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights 
 Of warring dragons and victorious knights : 
 In every dream some beauteous Princess shown, 
 The pride of thousands and the prize of one. 
 
 Not yet lie read, nor, reading, would approve, 
 The Novel's hero, or its ladies' love. 
 He would Sophia for a wanton take, 
 Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake. 
 He would no time on Smollett's page bestow ; 
 Such men he knew not, would disdain to know ; 
 And if he read, he travell'd slowly on, 
 Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison. 
 He in that hero's deeds could not delight — 
 " He loved two ladies, and he would not fight." 
 The minor works of this prolific kind 
 Presented beings he could never find ; 
 Beings, he thought, that no man should describe, 
 A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe. 
 With impious habits, and dishonest views ; — 
 The men he knew had souls they fear'd to lose ; 
 These had no views that could their sins control. 
 With them nor fears nor hopes disturb'd the soul. 
 
 To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn'd, 
 And vicious men, hke recreant cowards, spurn'd. 
 
 The Scripture Stories he with reverence read, 
 And duly took his Bible to his bed. 
 Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race 
 He dared not with his favourite heroes place. 
 Young as he was, the ditference well he knew 
 Between the Truth and what we fancy true. 
 He was ■^dth these entranced, of those afraid ; 
 With Guy he triumph'd, but with David pray'd. 
 
 n. 
 
 p. — Such was the Boy, and what the man would 
 be 
 I might conjecture, but could not foresee. 
 
 F. — Be has his trials met, his troubles seen, 
 And now deluded, now deserted been. 
 His easy nature has been oft assail'd 
 By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil'd. 
 
 P. — But has he, safe and cautious, shunn'd the 
 snares 
 That life presents ? — I ask not of its cares. 
 
 F. — Your gentle Boy a course of life began. 
 That made him what he is, tlie gentle-man, 
 A man of business. He in courts presides 
 Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides. 
 He in the Temple studied, and came down 
 A very lawyer, though \\ ithout a gown ; 
 Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just. 
 And takes but little that he hears on trust ; 
 
560 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 He has no visions now, no boyish plans ; 
 All his designs and prospects are the man's- 
 The man of sound discretion. 
 
 P.- 
 
 chanare 
 
 How so made ? 
 like this per- 
 
 What could his mind to 
 
 suade ? 
 
 "What first awaken'd our romantic friend ? — 
 For such he is. 
 
 F. — If you would know, attend. 
 
 In those gay years, when boys their manhood 
 
 prove, 
 Because they talk of girls, and dream of love, 
 In William's way there came a maiden fair. 
 With soft, meek look, and sweet retiring air ; 
 With just the rosy tint upon her cheek. 
 With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak ; 
 With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one, 
 Modest himself, might love to look upon, 
 As William look'd ; and thus the gentle Squire 
 Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t' admire. 
 She was, to wit, the gard'ner's niece ; her place 
 Gave to her care the Lady's silks and lace : 
 With other duties of an easy kind, 
 And left her time, as much she felt inclined, 
 T' adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving 
 
 mind, — 
 Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours 
 Of the long day among her uncle's flowers — ■ 
 Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care, 
 And was as sweet as pinks and liUes are. 
 
 Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 
 With passion unencouraged, unrepcU'd ; 
 For how encourage what was not in view ? 
 Or how repel what strove not to pursue ? 
 
 What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought, 
 What dreams suggested, or reflection taught, 
 Whate'er of love was to the mind convey'd, 
 Was all directed to his darling maid. 
 He saw his damsel with a lover's eyes. 
 As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise ; 
 A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 
 The high-born beauty, changed and — out of place. 
 That William loved, mamma, with easy smile, 
 Would jesting say ; but love might grow the 
 
 while ; 
 The damsel's self, with unassuming pride, 
 With love, so led by fear, was gratified. 
 
 What cause for censure ? Could a man reprove 
 A child for fondness, or miscall it love ? 
 Not WilUam's self; yet well inform'd was he 
 That love it was, and endless love would be. 
 Month after month the sweet delusion bred 
 Wild feverish hopes, that flourish'd, and then 
 
 fled. 
 Like Fanny's sweetest flower, and that was lost 
 In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost. 
 
 In some soft evenings, mid the garden's bloom. 
 Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come ; 
 And Fanny came, by chance it may be ; still, 
 There was a gentle bias of tlie will. 
 
 Such as the soundest minds may act upon. 
 When motives of superior kind are gone. 
 There then they met, and Master William's look 
 Was the less timid, for lie held a book ; 
 And when the sweetness of the evening hours, 
 The fresh soft air, the beauty of tlie flowers. 
 The night-bird's note, the gently falling dew, 
 Were all discuss'd, and silence would ensue, 
 There were some lovely Lines — if she could stay— 
 And Fanny rises not to go away. 
 
 " Young Paris was the shepherds' pride, 
 
 As well the fair iEnone knew ; 
 They sat the mountain stream beside. 
 
 And o'er the bank a poplar grew. 
 
 Upon its bark this verse he traced, — 
 Bear witness to the vow I make : 
 
 Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste, 
 E'er I my matchless maid forsake. 
 
 No prince or peasant lad am I, 
 
 Nor crown nor crook to me belong. 
 
 But I will love thee till I die, 
 And die before I do thee wrong. 
 
 Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run : 
 
 Paris is now a prince of Troy ; 
 He leaves the Fair his flattery won. 
 
 Himself and country to destroy. 
 
 He seizes on a sovereign's wife, 
 
 The pride of Greece, and with her flies ; 
 
 He causes thus a ten years' strife. 
 And with his dying parent dies. 
 
 Oh ! think me not this Shepherd's Boy, 
 Who from the Maid he loves would run : 
 
 Oh ! think me not a Prince of Troy, 
 
 By wlioni such treacherous deeds are done." 
 
 The Lines were read, and many an idle word 
 Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored. 
 As if the writer had resolved that all 
 His nouns and verbs should be emphatical : 
 But what they were the damsel Uttle thought, 
 The sense escaped her, but the voice she caught, 
 Soft, tender, trembling ; and the gipsy felt 
 As if by listening she unfairly dealt : 
 For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess'd 
 That William's bosom was no seat of rest. 
 
 But Love's young hope must die. — There was a 
 day 
 When nature smiled, and all around was gay ; 
 The Boy o'ertook the damsel as she went 
 The village road — unknown was her intent; 
 He, happy hour, when lock'd in Fanny's arm, 
 AValk'd on enamour'd, every look a cliarm ; 
 Yet her soft looks were but her heart's disguise. 
 There was no answering love in Fanny's eyes ; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 :6i 
 
 But, or by prudence or by pity moved, 
 She thought it time his folly was reproved ; 
 Then took her measures, not perchance without 
 Some conscious pride in what she was about 
 
 Along the brook with gentle pace they go. 
 The youth unconscious of th' impending woe ; 
 And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk. 
 As she was wont in many a former walk ; 
 And still she slowly walk'd beside the brook, 
 Or look'd around — for what could Fanny look ? 
 Something there must be ! What, did not appear ; 
 But William's eye betray'd the anxious fear ; 
 
 The cause unseen ! 
 
 But who, with giant-stride, 
 Bounds o'er the brook, and is at Fanny's side ? 
 Who takes her aim ? and, oh ! what villain dares 
 To press those lips ? Not e'en her lips he spares ! 
 Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine. 
 Lip to his lip can wickedly incline ! 
 The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air 
 Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair ; 
 Nor will proceed. Oh, no ! he must return. 
 Though his drown'd sight cannot the path discern. 
 
 " Come, Master William ! come, sir, let us on. 
 What can you fear? You 're not afraid of 
 John ?" 
 
 " What ails our youngster?" quoth the burly 
 swain. 
 Six feet in height — but he inquires in vain. 
 William, in deep resentment, scans the frame 
 Of the fond giant, and abhors his name ; 
 Thinks him a demon of th' infernal brood. 
 And longs to shed his most pernicious blood. 
 
 Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy, — 
 " We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy ! 
 " And dwell in Madam's cottage, where you '11 see 
 " The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree." 
 
 Back to his home in silent scorn return'd 
 Th' indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn'd. 
 Fanny perforce with Master takes her way. 
 But finds him to th' o'erwhelming grief a prey, 
 Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came 
 Where he might vent his wees and hide his 
 shame. 
 
 Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove. 
 And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love ; 
 Or what of love his reason fail'd to cool 
 Was lost and perish'd in a public school, — 
 Those seats and sources both of good and ill. 
 By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill. 
 
 TALE XX. 
 
 [farewell and rktcrn.] 
 THE WILL. 
 
 Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke — 
 
 " Nay, do not think that I the Will revoke. 
 
 " My cruel Son in every way I 've tried, 
 
 " And every vice have found in him but pride ; 
 
 " For he, of pride possess'd, would meaner vices 
 
 hide. 
 " Money he wastes, I will not say he spends ; 
 " He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends — 
 " To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. 
 
 " 'T is for himself each legal pale he breaks ; 
 " He joins the miser's spirit to the rake's : 
 " Like the worst Roman in the worst of times, 
 " He can be guilty of conflicting crimes ; 
 " Greedy of other's wealth, unknown the use, 
 " And of his own contemptuously profuse. 
 
 " To such a mind shall I my wealth confide, 
 " That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide ? 
 " No ! let my Will my scorn of vice express, 
 " And let him learn repentance from distress." 
 
 So said the Father ; and the Friend, who spurn'd 
 Wealth ill acquired, his sober speech return'd : — 
 " The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh'd 
 " With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid ; 
 " Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design 
 " Of making vices unallied combine. 
 " He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy ; 
 " He covets more, for he would more enjoy. 
 " For, my good friend, believe me, very few, 
 " At once are prodigals and misers too — 
 " The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. 
 " Leave me one tiiousand pounds ; for I confess 
 " I have my wants, and will not tax you less. 
 " But your estate let this young man enjoy : 
 " If he reforms, you 've saved a grateful boy ; 
 " If not, a father's cares and troubles cease; 
 " You 've done your duty, and may rest in peace." 
 
 The Will in hand, the Father musing stood. 
 Then gravely answered, " Your advice is good ; 
 " Yet take the paper, and in safety keep ; 
 " I '11 make another Will before I sleep : 
 " But if I hear of some atrocious deed, 
 " That deed I '11 burn, and yours will then succeed. 
 " Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof! 
 " And there are small bequests — he '11 have 
 
 enough. 
 " For if he wastes, he would with all be poor ; 
 " And if he wastes not, he will need no more." 
 
 The Friends then parted ! this the Will possess'd, 
 And that another made — so things had rest. 
 
 George, who was conscious that his father grew 
 Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new; 
 
 2i' 
 
5G2 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 No letters came from injured man or maid, 
 No bills from wearied duns that must be paid, 
 No fierce reproaches from deserted fair, 
 JNIix'd with wild tenderness of desperate prayer ; 
 So hope I'ose softly in the parent's breast : 
 He dying call'd his son, and fondly bless'd, 
 Hail'd the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to 
 rest. 
 
 Unhappy youth ! e'er yet the tomb was closed, 
 And dust to dust convey'd in peace reposed. 
 He sought his father's closet, search'd around, 
 To find a Will, — the important Will was found. 
 
 Well pleased he read, " These lands, this manor, 
 
 all, 
 " Now call me master ! — I obey the call." 
 Then from the window look'd the valley o'er, 
 And never saw it look so rich before. 
 He view'd the dairy, view'd the men at plough. 
 With other ej'es, with other feelings now, 
 And with a new-form'd taste found beauty in a 
 
 cow. 
 The distant swain who drove the plough along 
 Was a good useful slave, and passing stronff ' 
 In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine, 
 '■ Good as my father's, excellent as mine '." 
 
 Again he reads, — but he had read enough : 
 What foUow'd put his virtue to a proof. 
 " How this ? — to David Wright two thousand 
 
 pounds ! 
 " A monstrous sum ! beyond all reason ! — zounds ! 
 '• This is your friendship running out of bounds. 
 
 '• Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe, 
 " Five hundred each. Do thej' deserve it ? No ! 
 " Claim they have none — I wonder if they know 
 " What the good man intended to bestow ! 
 '• This might be paid — but Wright's enormous 
 
 sum 
 '■ Is — I 'm alone — there's nobody can come — 
 ".'Tis all his hand, no lawyer was employ'd 
 '• To write this prose, that ought to be destroy'd ! 
 '• To no attorney would my father trust; 
 '• He wish'd his son to judge of what was just ; 
 " As if he said, ' INIy boy will find the Will, 
 '■ ' And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil.' 
 '■ This, now, is reason, this I understand — 
 •' What was at his, is now at my command. 
 " As for this paper, with tlicse cousiny names, 
 " I — 'tis mj/ Will — commit it to the flames. 
 " Hence ! disappear ! Now am I lord alone ; 
 " They '11 groan, 1 know, but, curse them ! let them 
 
 groan. 
 " Who wants his money like a new-made heir, 
 " To i)ut all things in order and repair ? 
 " I need the whole the wortlij' man could save, 
 '■ To do my fatlier credit in his grave: 
 •' It takes no trifle to have squires convey'd 
 " U'o their last house with honour and parade. 
 " All this, attended by a world of cost, 
 " Kequires, ilemands, that nothing shotdd be lost. 
 " These fond bequests cannot demanded be— 
 " Wliere no Will is, can lie no legacy ! 
 " And none is liere ! I safely swear it — none ! — 
 " The very ashes are dispersed and gone. 
 
 " All would be well, would that same sober friend, 
 " That Wright, my father on his way attend : 
 " My fears — but why afraid ? — my troubles tlien 
 would end." 
 
 In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire 
 The friends assembled, who a W^ill requii-e. 
 " There is no Will," he said. They murmur and 
 retire. 
 
 Days pass away, while yet the heir is bless'd 
 By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest ; 
 When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone, 
 If he may see the busy Squire alone. 
 
 They are in private — all about is still — 
 When thus the Guest : — " Your father left a Will, 
 " And I would see it." — Eising in reply, 
 The youth beheld a fix'd and piercing eye. 
 From which his ovsti receded ; and the sound 
 Of his own words was in disorder drowTi'd. 
 He answer'd softly, — " I in vain have spent 
 " Days in the search ; I pray you be content ; 
 
 " And if a Will " The pertinacious man, 
 
 .4fry displeased, with steady tone began, — 
 " There is a Will — produce it, for you can." 
 
 " Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use ? 
 " What has no being, how can I produce ?" 
 
 " Two days I give you ; to my words attend," 
 Was the reply, " and let the business end." 
 
 Two days were past, and still the same reply 
 To the same question — " Not a W'ill have 1." 
 More grave, more earnest, then the Friend ap- 
 pear "d : 
 He spoke with power, as one who would be 
 
 heard, — 
 " A Will your father made ! I witness'd one." 
 The heir arose in anger — " Sir, begone ! 
 " Think you my spirit by your looks to awe ? 
 " Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law : 
 " To what would you our easy souls persuade ? 
 " Once more I tell you, not a Will was made : 
 " There 's none with me, I swear it — now, deny 
 " This if you can !"— 
 
 " That, surely, cannot I ; 
 " Nay, I believe you, and, as no such deed 
 " Is found with j'ou, this surely will succeed !" 
 
 He said, and from his pocket slowly drew 
 Of the first testament a copy true. 
 And held it spread abroad, that he might see it 
 
 too. 
 " Read and be sure : your parent's pleasure see — 
 " Then leave this mansion and these lands to me." 
 
 He said, and terror seized the guilty youth ; 
 He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth ; 
 Could not before his stern accuser stand. 
 Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land ; 
 But when surprise had pass'd away, his grief 
 Began to think in law to find relief. 
 
 " While courts are open, why should I despair ? 
 " Juries will feel for an abandon'd heir : 
 
 I 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 563 
 
 " I will resist," he said, impell'd by pride ; — 
 " I must submit," recurring fear replied. 
 As wheels the vane when winds around it play, 
 So his strong passions tum'd him every way ; 
 But growing terrors seized th' unhappy youth : 
 He knew the Man, and more he knew — the 
 
 Truth. 
 When, stung by all he fear'd, and all he felt, 
 He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt. 
 
 Grieved, but indignant, — " Let me not despise 
 " Thy father's son," replied the Friend: "arise ! 
 " To my fix'd purpose your attention lend, 
 " And know, your fate will on yourself depend. 
 
 " Thou slialt not want, young man, nor yet 
 
 abound, 
 " And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound ; 
 " Thou shalt be watch'd till thou hast learn'd to 
 
 know 
 " Th' All-seeing Watcher of the world below, 
 " And worlds above, and thoughts within ; from 
 
 Whom 
 " Must be thy certain, just, and final doom. 
 " Thy doors all closely barr'd, thy windows blind, 
 " Before all silent, silent all behind — 
 " Thy hand was stretch'd to do whate'er thy 
 
 soul 
 " In secret would — no mortal could control. 
 " Oh, fool ! to think that thou thy act couldst 
 
 keep 
 " From that All-piercing Eye which cannot sleep I 
 
 " Go to thy trial ! — and may I with thee, 
 " A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee, 
 " That mercy find, as justly I dispense 
 " Between thy frailty and thy penitence. 
 
 " Go to thj' trial ! and be wise in time, 
 " And know that no man can conceal a crime. 
 " God and his Conscience witness all that 's done, 
 " And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun. 
 " What, then, could fortune, what could safety 
 
 give, 
 " If he with these at enmity must live ? 
 
 " Go !" — and the young man from his presence 
 went, 
 Ck)nfused, uncertain of his own intent — 
 To sin, if pride prevail'd ; if soften'd, to repent. 
 
 n. 
 
 p. — Lives yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy, 
 Who could the Will that made him rich destroy, 
 And made him poor ? And what the after-plan. 
 For one so selfish, of that stem, good man ? 
 
 jF. — " Choose," said this Friend, " thy way in 
 life, and I 
 " Will means to aid thee in thj' work supply." 
 He will the army, thought this guardian, choose, 
 And there the sense of his dishonour lose. 
 
 Humbly he answer'd, — " With your kind con- 
 sent, 
 " Of your estate I would a portion rent, 
 
 " And farm with care " 
 
 " Alas ! the wretched fruit 
 " Of evil habit ! he will hunt and shoot." 
 
 So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a 
 change, 
 To him important, and to all men strange. 
 Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose, 
 And of his time gave little to repose : 
 Nor to the labour only bent his will, 
 But sought experience, and improved with skill ; 
 With cautious prudence placed his gains to use, 
 Inquiring always, " What will this produce ?" 
 
 The Friend, not long suspicious, now began 
 To think more kindly of the alter'd man — 
 In his opinion alter'd, but, in truth. 
 The same the spirit that still ruled the youth : 
 That dwelt within, where other demons dwell. 
 Avarice unsated, and insatiable. 
 
 But this Wright saw not : He was more inclined 
 To trace the way of a repenting mind : 
 And he was now by strong disease assaild. 
 That quickly o'er the vital powers prevail'd : 
 And now the son had all, was rich beyond 
 His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond. 
 
 His life's great care has been his zeal to prove, 
 And time to dotage has increased his love. 
 A Miser now, the one strong passion guides 
 The heart and soul : there 's not a love besides. 
 Where'er he comes, he sees in every face 
 A look that tells him of his owti disgrace. 
 Men's features vary, but the mildest show 
 " It is a tale of infamy we know." 
 Some with contempt the wealthy miser view. 
 Some with disgust, yet mix'd with pity too ; 
 A part the looks of wTath and hatred wear. 
 And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear. 
 
 Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends, 
 On his possessions solely he depends. 
 
 Yet is he wretched ; for his fate decrees 
 That his own feelings should deny him ease. 
 With talents gifted, he himself reproves. 
 And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves ; 
 He can but feel that there abides within 
 The secret shame, the unrepented sin, 
 And the strong sense, that bids him to confess 
 He has not found the way to happiness. 
 
 But 't is the way where he has travell'd long. 
 And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong: 
 Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day, 
 Finds he has wander'd widely from his way, 
 Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore, 
 Till the night falls, and he can waUc no more. 
 
 2 p2 
 
664 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 TALE XXI. 
 
 [fAKEWELIi and KETURjr.] 
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 I. 
 
 P. — I LEFT a frugal Merchant, who began 
 Early to thrive, and grew a wealthy man : 
 Retired from business with a favourite Niece, 
 He lived in plenty, or if not — in peace. 
 Their small affairs, conforming to his will, 
 The maiden managed with superior skill. 
 He had a Nephew too, a brother's child, — 
 But James offended, for the lad was wild : 
 And Patty's tender soul was vex'd to hear, 
 " Your Cousin James will rot in gaol, my dear : 
 " And now I charge you, by no kind of gift 
 " Show him that folly may be help'd by thrift." 
 This Patty heard, but in her generous mind 
 Precept so harsh could no admission find. 
 
 Her Cousin James, too sure in prison laid, 
 "With strong petitions plied the gentle maid, 
 That she would humbly on their Uncle press 
 His deep repentance and his sore distress ; 
 How that he mourn'd in durance, night and day, 
 And which removed, he would for ever pray. 
 
 " Nought will I give his worthless life to save," 
 The Uncle said ; and nought in fact he gave : 
 But the kind maiden from her pittance took 
 All that she could, and gave with pitying look ; 
 For soft compassion in her bosom reign'd. 
 And her heart melted when the Youth complain'd. 
 Of his complaints the Uncle loved to hear. 
 As Patty told them, shedding many a tear ; 
 While he would wonder how the girl could pray 
 For a young rake, to place him in her way, 
 Or once admit him in his Uncle's view ; 
 " But these," said he, " are things that women do." 
 
 Thus were the Cousins, young, unguarded, fond. 
 Bound in true friendship — so they named the bond. 
 Nor call'd it love ; and James resolved, when 
 
 free, 
 A most correct and frugal man to be. 
 He sought her prayers, but not for heavenly aid : 
 " Pray to my Uncle," and she kindly pray'd — 
 " James will be careful," said the Niece; " and I 
 " Will be as carciul," was the stern reply. 
 
 Thus he resisted, and I know not how 
 He could be soften'd — Is he kinder now ? 
 Hard was his heart; but yet a heart of steel 
 May melt in dying, and dissolving feel. 
 
 II. 
 
 y-' — What were his feelings I can not explain. 
 His actions only on my mind remain. 
 He never married, tliat indeed we know. 
 But childless was not, as his foes could show ; — 
 
 Perhaps his friends — for friends, as well as foes. 
 Will the infirmities of man disclose. 
 
 When young, our Merchant, though of sober 
 fame. 
 Had a rude passion tliat he could not tame ; 
 And, not to dwell upon the passion's strife, 
 He had a Son, who never had a wife ; 
 The father paid just what the law required, 
 Nor saw the infant, nor to see desired. 
 That infant, thriving on the parish fare. 
 Without a parent's love, consent, or care. 
 Became a sailor, and sustain'd his part 
 So like a man, it touch'd his father's heart : — 
 He for protection gave the ready pay. 
 And placed the seaman in preferment's way ; 
 Who doubted not, with sanguine heart, to rise, 
 And bring home riches, gain'd from many a prize. 
 But Jack — for so we call'd him — Jack once more. 
 And never after, touch'd his native shore : 
 Nor was it known if he in battle fell. 
 Or sickening died — we sought, but none could tell. 
 The father sigh'd — as some report, he wept ; 
 And then his sorrow with the Sailor slept : 
 Then age came on ; he found his spirits droop, 
 And his kind Niece remained the only hope. 
 
 Premising this, our story then proceeds — 
 Our gentle Patty for her Cousin pleads ; 
 And now her Uncle, to his room confined. 
 And kindly nursed, was soften'd and was kind. 
 James, whom the law had from his prison sent. 
 With much contrition to his Uncle went. 
 And, humblj' kneeling, said, " Forgive me ; I 
 
 repent." 
 Reproach, of course, his humbled spirit bore ; 
 He knew for pardon anger opes the door; 
 The man whom we with too much warmth reprove 
 Has the best chance our softening hearts to move ; 
 And this he had — " Why, Patty, love ! it seems," 
 Said the old man, " there 's something good in 
 
 James : 
 " I must forgive : but you, my child, are yet 
 " My stay and prop ; I cannot this forget. 
 " Still, mj' dear Niece, as a reforming man, 
 " I mean to aid your Cousin, if I can." 
 Then Patty smiled, for James and she had now 
 Time for their loves, and pledged the constant vow. 
 
 James the fair way to favouring thoughts dis- 
 cern'd — 
 He learn' d the news, and told of all he leam'd ; 
 Read all the pajicrs in an easy style. 
 And knew the bits would raise his Uncle's smile ; 
 Then would refrain, to hear tlie good man say, 
 " You did not come as usual yesterday ; 
 " I must not take you from your duties, lad, 
 " But of your daily visits should be glad I" 
 
 Patty was certain that their Uncle now 
 Would their allcction all it ask'd allow ; 
 She was convinced her lover now would find 
 The past forgotten and old Uncle kind. 
 " It matters not," she added, " who receives 
 " The larger portion ; what to one he leaves 
 " We both inherit ! let us nothing hide, 
 " Dear James, from him in whom we both con- 
 fide." 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 565 
 
 " Not for your life !" quoth James. " Let Uncle 
 
 choose 
 " Our ways for us — or we the way shall lose. 
 
 " For know you, Cousin, all these miser men " 
 
 " Nay, my dear James !" — 
 
 " Our worthy Uncle, then, 
 " And all like Uncle, like to be obey'd 
 " By their dependants, who must seem afraid 
 " Of their own will : — if we to wed incline, 
 " You '11 quickly hear him peevishly repine, 
 " Object, dispute, and sundry reasons give, 
 " To prove we ne'er could find the means to live; 
 " And then, due credit for his speech to gain, 
 " He '11 leave us poor — lest wealth should prove it 
 
 vain. 
 " Let him propose the measure, and then we 
 " May for his pleasure to his plan agree. 
 " I, when at last assenting, shall be still 
 " But giving way to a kind Uncle's will ; 
 " Then will he deem it just amends to make 
 " To one who ventures all things for his sake ; 
 " So, should you deign to take this worthless hand, 
 " Be sure, dear Patty, 't is at his command." 
 
 But Patty question' d — " Is it, let me ask, 
 " The will of God that we should wear a mask ?" 
 This startled James : he lifted up his eyes, 
 And said, with some contempt, besides surprise, 
 " Patty, my love ! the will of God, 't is plain, 
 " Is that we live by what we can obtain : 
 " Shall we a weak and foolish man offend, 
 " And when our trial is so near our end ?" 
 
 This hurt the maiden, and she said, " 'T is 
 
 well ! 
 " Unask'd I will not of your purpose teU, 
 " But will not lie."— 
 
 " Lie ! Patty, no, indeed, 
 " Your downright lying never vdll succeed ! 
 " A better way our prudence may devise, 
 " Than such unprofitable things as lies. 
 " Yet, a dependant, if he would not starve, 
 " The way through life must with discretion 
 
 carve ; 
 " And, though a lie he may with pride disdain, 
 " He must not every useless truth maintain. 
 " If one respect to these fond men would shoM', 
 " Conceal the facts that give them pain to know ; 
 " While all that pleases may be placed in view, 
 " And, if it be not, they ^vill think it true." 
 
 The humble Patty dropp'd a silent tear. 
 And said, '* Indeed, 't is best to be sincere." 
 James answer'd not — there could be no reply 
 To what he would not grant nor could deny ; 
 But from that time he in the maiden saw 
 What he condemn'd ; yet James was kept in awe ; 
 He felt her virtue, but was sore afraid 
 For the frank blunders of the virtuous maid. 
 
 Meantime he daily to his Uncle read 
 The news, and to his favourite subjects led : 
 If closely press'd, be sometimes stay"d to dine. 
 Eat of one dish, and drank one glass of wine ; 
 For James was crafty grown, and felt his way 
 To favour, step by step, and day by day ; 
 He talk'd of business, till the Uncle prized 
 The lad's opinion, whom he once despised. 
 
 And, glad to see him thus his faults survive, 
 
 " This Boy," quoth he, " will keep our name aUve. 
 
 " Women are weak, and Pattj', though the best 
 
 " Of her weak sex, is woman like the rest : 
 
 " An idle husband will her money spend, 
 
 " And bring my hard-earn'd savings to an end." 
 
 Far as he dared, his Nephew this way led, 
 And told his tales of lasses rashly wed. 
 Told them as matters that he heard, — " He knew 
 " Not where," he said, " they might be false or 
 
 true ; 
 " One must confess that girls are apt to dote 
 " On the bright scarlet of a coxcomb's coat; 
 " And that with ease a woman they beguile 
 " With a fool's flattery, or a rascal's smile ; 
 " But then," he added, fearing to displease, 
 " Our Patty never saw such men as these." 
 
 " True ! but she may — some scoundrel may 
 command 
 '• The girl's whole store, if he can gain her hand ; 
 " Her very goodness will itself deceive, 
 " And her weak virtue help her to believe ; 
 " Yet she is kind ; and. Nephew, go, and say 
 " I need her now — You '11 come another day." 
 
 In such discourses, while the maiden went 
 About her household, many an hour was spent, 
 TiU James was sure that, when his Uncle died, 
 He should at least the property divide : 
 Nor long had he to wait — the fact was quickly 
 tried. 
 
 The Uncle, now to his last bed confined, 
 To James and Patty his affairs resign'd : 
 The doctor took his final fee in hand. 
 The man of law received his last command ; 
 The silent priest sat watching in his chair. 
 If he might wake the djdng man to prayer, — 
 When the last groan was heard ; then all was still, 
 And James indulged his musings — on the Will. 
 
 This in due time was read, and Patty saw 
 Her owTi dear Cousin made the heir-by-law. 
 Something indeed was hers, but j'et she felt 
 As if her Uncle had not kindly dealt ; 
 And, but that James was one whom she could 
 
 trust. 
 She would have thought it cruel and unjust. 
 E'en as it was, it gave her some surprise, 
 And tears unbidden started in her eyes ; 
 Yet she confess'd it was the same to her. 
 And it was likely men would men prefer. 
 Loath was the Niece to think her Uncle wrong; 
 And other thoughts engaged her — " Is it long 
 " That custom bids us tarry ere we wed, 
 " When a kind Uncle is so lately dead ? 
 " At any rate," the maiden judged, " 't is he 
 " That first will speak — it does not rest with me." 
 
 James to the AViU his every thought confined. 
 And found some parts that vex'd his sober mind. 
 He, getting much, to angrj- thoughts gave way, 
 For the poor pittance that he had to pay. 
 With Patty's larger claim. Save these alone, 
 The weeping heir beheld the whole his own ; 
 
566 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Yet something painful in his mind would dwell, — 
 " It was not likely, hut was possible :" — 
 No- — Fortune lately was to James so kind, 
 He was determined not to think her blind : 
 •' She saw his merit, and would never throw 
 " His prospects down by such malicious blow." 
 
 Patty, meanwhile, had quite enough betray'd 
 Of her o^>Ti mind to make her James afraid 
 Of one so simply pure : his hardening heart 
 Inclined to anger — he resolved to part ; 
 Why marry Patty ? — if he look'd around. 
 More advantageous matches might be found ; 
 But though he might a richer wife command, 
 He first must break her hold upon his hand. 
 
 She with a spinster-friend retired a while, 
 " Not long," she said, and said it with a smile. 
 Not so had James determined : — He essay'd 
 To move suspicion in the gentle maid. 
 Words not succeeding, he design'd to pass 
 The spinsters window with some forward lass. 
 If in her heart so pure no pang was known. 
 At least he might affect it in his own. 
 There was a brother of her friend, and he, 
 Though poor and rude, might serve for jealousy. 
 If all should fail, he, though of schemes bereft. 
 Might leave her yet ! — They fail'd, and she was 
 left. 
 
 Poor Patty bore it with a woman's mind. 
 And with an angel's, sorrowing and resign'd. 
 Ere this in secret long she wept and pray'd, 
 Long tried to think her lover but delay'd 
 The union, once his hope, his prayer, his pride ; — 
 She could in James as in herself confide : 
 Was he not bound by all that man can bind, 
 In love, in honour, to be just and kind ? 
 Large was his debt, and, when their debts are 
 
 large, 
 The ungrateful cancel what the just discharge ; 
 Nor payment only in their pride refuse. 
 But first they wrong their friend, and then accuse. 
 Thus Patty finds her bosom's claims denied, 
 Her love insulted, and her right defied. 
 She urged it not ; her claim the maid withdrew, 
 For ;iiaiden pride would not the wretch pursue : 
 She sigh'd to find him false, herself so good and 
 
 true. 
 
 Now all his fears, at least the present, still — 
 He talk'd, good man ! about his uncle's will : 
 "All unexpected," he declared, — "surprised 
 " Was he — and his good uncle ill-advised : 
 " He no such luck had look'd I'or, he was sure, 
 *' Nor such deserved," he said, with look demure ; 
 " He did not merit such exceeding love, 
 " But his, he meant, so help him (jlod, to prove." 
 And he has proved it ! nil his cares and scliomes 
 Have proved the exceeding love James bears to 
 James. 
 
 But to proceed, — for we have yet the facts 
 That show how Justice looks on wicked acts ; 
 For, though not always, she at times appears — 
 To wake in man her salutary fears. 
 
 James, restless grown — for no such mind can 
 rest — 
 Would build a house that should his wealth attest ; 
 In fact, he saw, in many a clouded face, 
 A certain token of his own disgrace ; 
 And wish'd to overawe the murmurs of the place. 
 
 The finish'd building show'd the master's wealth, 
 And noisy workmen drank his Honour's health — 
 " His and his heirs" — and at the thoughtless word 
 A strange commotion in his bosom stirr'd. 
 " Heirs ! said the idiots?" — and again that clause 
 In the strange Will corrected their applause. 
 
 Prophetic fears ! for now reports arose 
 That spoil'd " his Honour's " comforts and repose. 
 A stout young Sailor, though in battle maim'd. 
 Arrived in port, and his possessions claim'd. 
 The Will he read : he stated his demand. 
 And his attorney grasp'd at house and land. 
 The Will provided — " If my son survive. 
 He shall inherit ;" and lo ! Jack 's alive ! 
 Yes ! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate, 
 And now was bent on finding his estate. 
 But claim like this the angry James denied. 
 And to the law the sturdy heir applied. 
 James did what men when placed like him would 
 
 do— 
 Avow'd his right, and fee'd his lawyer too : 
 The Will, indeed, provided for a son ; 
 But was this Sailor youth the very one ? 
 
 Ere Jack's strong proofs in all their strength 
 were shown. 
 To gain a part James used a milder tone ; 
 But the instructed tar would reign alone. 
 
 At last he reign'd : to James a large bequest 
 Was frankly dealt ; the Seaman had the rest — 
 Save a like portion to the gentle Niece, 
 Who lived in comfort, and regain'd her peace. 
 In her neat room her talent she employ'd 
 With more true peace than ever James enjoy'd. 
 The young, the aged, in her praise agreed- 
 Meek in her manner, bounteous in her deed ; 
 The very children their respect avow'd — 
 " 'T was the good lady," they were told, and 
 bow'd. 
 
 The merry Seaman much the maid approv'd, — 
 Nor that alone — he like a seaman loved ; 
 Loved as a man who did not much complain. 
 Loved like a sailor, not a sighing swain ; 
 Had heard of wooing maids, but knew not how — 
 " Lass, if you love me, prithee tell me now," 
 Was his address — but this was nothing cold — 
 " Tell if you love me ;" and she smiled and told. 
 
 He brought her presents, such as sailors buy 
 Glittering hke gold, to please a maiden's eye. 
 All silk and silver, fringe and finery. 
 These she accepted in respect to him, 
 And thouglit but little of the missing limb. 
 Of this he told her, for he loved to tell 
 A warlike talc, and judged he told it well: — 
 " You mark me, love ! the French were two to 
 
 one, 
 " And so, you see, they were ashamed to run ; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 567 
 
 " We fought an hour ; and then there came the 
 
 shot 
 " That struck me here — a man must take his 
 
 lot;— 
 " A minute after, and the Frenchman struck ; 
 " One minute sooner had been better luck : 
 " But if you can a crippled cousin like, 
 " You ne'er shall see him for a trifle strike." 
 
 Patty, whose gentle heart was not so nice 
 As to reject the thought of loving twice. 
 Judged her new Cousin was by nature kind, 
 With no suspicions in his honest mind, 
 Such as our virtuous ladies now and then 
 Find strongly floating in the minds of men. 
 So they were married, and the lasses vow'd 
 That Patty's luck would make an angel proud : 
 " Not but that time would come when she must 
 
 prove 
 " That men are men, no matter how they love :" — 
 And she has proved it ; for she finds her man 
 As kind and true as when their loves began. 
 
 James is unhappy ; not that he is poor. 
 But, having much, because he has no more ; 
 Because a rival's pleasure gives him pain ; 
 Because his vices work'd their way in vain ; 
 And, more than these, because he sees the smile 
 Of a wrong'd woman x^itying man so vile. 
 
 He sought an office, serves in the excise. 
 And every wish, but that for wealth, denies ; 
 Wealth is the world to him, and he is worldly 
 
 wise. 
 But disappointment in his face appears ; 
 Care and vexation, sad regret and fears, 
 Have fix'd on him their fangs, and done the work 
 
 of years. 
 
 Yet grows he wealthy in a strange degree. 
 And neighbours wonder how the fact can be : 
 He lives alone, contracts a sordid air, 
 And sees with sullen grief the cheerful pair ; 
 Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door 
 Where peace abides, and mutters, — " I am poor I" 
 
 TALE XXII. 
 
 [farewell and return.] 
 PREACHING AND PRACTICE. 
 
 I. 
 
 P. — ^What I have ask'd are questions that relate 
 To those once known, that I might learn their 
 
 fate. 
 But there was One, whom though I scarcely knew, 
 Much do I wish to learn his fortimes too. 
 Tet what expect? — He was a rich man's Heir, 
 His conduct doubtful, but his prospects fair ; 
 
 Thoughtless and brave, extravagant and gay, 
 Wild as the wind, and open as the day ; 
 His freaks and follies were a thousand times 
 Brought full in view : I heard not of his crimes. 
 Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose 
 Among the lawless, of restraint the foes ; 
 But though to their poor pleasures he could stoop, 
 He was not, rumour said, their victim-dupe. 
 
 His mother's Sister was a maiden prim, 
 Pious and poor, and much in debt to him. 
 This she repaid with volumes of reproof. 
 And sage advice, till he would cry " Enough '." 
 
 His father's Brother no such hints allow'd, — 
 Peevish and rich, and insolent and proud. 
 Of stern, strong spirit : him the Youth with- 
 stood ; 
 At length, " Presume not (said he) on our blood : 
 " Treat with politeness him whom you advise, 
 " Nor think I fear your doting prophecies." 
 And fame has told of many an angry word. 
 When anger this, and that contempt had stirr'd. 
 
 " Boy ! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainlj' see."- 
 " Upbraid not. Uncle ! till I beg of thee." 
 
 " Oh ! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace."— 
 " What ! and so kind an Uncle in the place ?" 
 
 " Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood." — 
 " Then must I treat thee as a stranger would : 
 " For if you throw the tie of blood aside, 
 " You must the roughness of your speech abide." 
 
 " What ! to your father's Brother do you give 
 " A challenge ? — Mercy ! in what times we live '." 
 
 Now, I confess, the youth who could supply 
 Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy 
 This wealthy Uncle, — who could mix with them 
 Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn. 
 And in their follies his amusement find. 
 Yet never lose the vigour of his mind, — 
 A youth like this, with much we must reprove, 
 Had something still to win esteem and love. 
 Perhaps he lives not ; but he seem'd not made 
 To pass through life entirely in the shade. 
 
 F. — Suppose you saw him, — does your mind 
 retain 
 So much that you would know the man again ? 
 Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press 
 Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress ; 
 He now may show the stamp of woe and pain, 
 And nothing of his lively cast remain. 
 
 Survey these features — see if nothing there 
 May old impressions on your mind repair ! 
 Is there not something in this shatter'd frame 
 Like to that — 
 
 P. — No ! not like it, but the same ; 
 That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay. 
 Are lighted up, and sparkle, through decay. 
 
568 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 But may I question ? Will you that allow ? 
 There was a ditFerence, and there must be now ; 
 And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear 
 What must have pass'd in many a troubled year. 
 
 F. — Then hear my tale ; but I the price de- 
 mand : 
 That understood, I too must understand 
 Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in the land ; 
 And if our virtues cannot much produce. 
 Perhaps our errors may be found of use. 
 
 To all the wealth my Father's care laid by, 
 I added wings, and taught it how to fly. 
 To him that act had been of grievous sight. 
 But he survived not to behold the flight. 
 Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds, 
 How the dear vice the simple votary blinds, 
 So that he goes to ruin smoothly on, 
 And scarcely feels he 's going, till he 's gone. 
 
 I had made over, in a lucky hour. 
 Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power : 
 The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse. 
 And now a pistol seem'd a thing in course. 
 
 But, though its precepts I had not obey'd, 
 Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid 
 Of such rebellion ; and though not content, 
 I must live on when life's supports were spent : 
 Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt 
 Must grateful take what gracious she would grant; 
 And true, she granted, but with much discourse, — 
 Oh I with what words did she her sense enforce I 
 Great was her wonder, in my need that I 
 Should on the prop myself had raised rely — 
 I, who provided for lier in my care, 
 '' Must be assured how little she could spare !" 
 
 I stood confounded, and with angry tone, 
 With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan, 
 1 fled her presence — yet I saw her air 
 Of resignation, and I heard her prayer: 
 " Now Heaven," she utter'd, "make his burden 
 
 hght !'•— 
 And I, ill jiarting, cried, " Thou hypocrite !" 
 
 But I was wrong — she might have meant to 
 pray ; 
 Tliougli not to give her soul — her casli — away. 
 
 Of course, my uncle would the spendthrift shun ; 
 So friends on eartli I now could reckon none. 
 
 One morn I rambled, thinking of the past, 
 !■ ar in the country — Did j'ou ever fast 
 I'lirougli a long summers day ? or, sturdy, go 
 To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe. 
 The liyj), tlie cornel, and the beech, the food 
 And the «ild solace of the gipsy brood ? 
 To ]iick the cress, eniljrown'd l)y summer sun, 
 I'rorii the dry l)ed wliere streams no longer run? 
 Have you, like sclioolboy, mingling play and toil, 
 Dug ibr tiie ground-nut, and enjoy'd the spoil ? 
 Or chafed with levcrish hand t)ie ripening wheat, 
 l-'csolved to fast, and yet compell'd to eat? 
 
 Say, did j-ou this, and drink the crystal spring, 
 And think yourself an abdicated king, 
 Drivn from your state by a rebellious race ? 
 And, in your pride contending with disgrace, 
 Could you your hunger in your anger lose. 
 And call the ills you bear the ways you choose ? 
 
 Thus on myself depending, I began 
 To feel the pride of a neglected man : 
 Not yet correct, but still I could command 
 Unshaken nerves and a determined hand. 
 
 " Lo ! men at work I I said, " and I, a man, 
 " Can work ! I feel it is my pride, I can." 
 This said, I wander'd on, and join'd the poor. 
 Assumed a labourer's dress, and was no more 
 Than labour made. Upon the road I broke 
 Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke ; 
 But every day the labour seem'd more light, 
 And sounder, sweeter still, the sleep of every 
 night. 
 
 " Thus will I live," I cried, nor more return 
 " To herd with men, whose love and hate I spurn. 
 " All creatures toil ; the beast, if tamed or free, 
 " Must toil for daily sustenance like me ; 
 " The feather'd people hunt as well as sing, 
 " And catch tlieir flying food upon the wing. 
 " The fish, the insect, all who live, employ 
 " Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy, 
 " The ir life the enjoyment ; thus will I proceed, 
 " A man from man's detested favours freed." 
 
 Tl.us was 1 reasoning, when at length there 
 came 
 A gift, a present, but without a name. 
 " That Spinster-witch — has she, then, found a way 
 " To cure her conscience, and her nepliew pay, 
 " And sends her pittance ? Well, and lot it buy* 
 " What sweetens labour : need I this deny ? 
 " I thank her not : it is as if I found 
 " The fairy-gift upon this stony ground." 
 
 Still I wrought on ; again occurr'd tlie day. 
 And then the same addition to my pay. 
 
 Then, lo ! another Friend, if not the same, — 
 For that I knew not — with a message came : 
 " Canst keep accounts ?" the man was pleased to 
 
 ask — 
 " I could not cash ! — but that the harder task." 
 " Yet try," he said; and I was quickly brought 
 To Lawyer Snell, and in Ids olTice taught : 
 Not much my pay, but my desires were less, 
 And I for evil days reserved th' excess. 
 
 Such day occurr'd not : quickly came there one, 
 When I was told my present work was done : 
 My Friend then brought me to a building large. 
 And gave far weightier business to my charge. 
 There I was told I had accounts to keep 
 Of those vast Works where \\ omlers never sleep, 
 Where spindles, bobbins, rovings, threads, and 
 
 pins. 
 Made up the complex mass that ever spins. 
 
 There, at ray desk, in my six feet of room, 
 I noted every power of every loom ; 
 
POSTHUMOUS TALES. 
 
 569 
 
 Sounds of all kinds 1 heard from mortal lungs- 
 Eternal battle of unwearied tongues, 
 The jar of men and women, girls and boys, 
 And the huge Babel's own dull whirring grinding 
 noise. 
 
 My care was mark'd, and I had soon in charge 
 Important matters, and my pay was large. 
 I at my fortune marveird ; it was strange, 
 And so the outward and the inward change, 
 Till to the Power who " gives and takes away " 
 I turn'd in praise, and taught my soul to pray. 
 
 Another came ! " I come," he said, " to show 
 " Your unknown Friend — have you a wish to 
 
 know ? " 
 Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found 
 My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound. 
 The good old man, whom I abused, had been 
 The guardian power, directing but unseen ; 
 And thus the wild but grateful boy he led 
 To take new motives at his dying bed. 
 
 The rest you judge — I now have all I need — 
 And now the tale you promised ! — Come, proceed. 
 
 I 
 
 P. — 'T is due, I own, but yet in mercy spare ; 
 Alas ! no Uncle was my guide — my care 
 "Was all my own ; no guardian took a sliare. 
 I, Uke Columbus, for a world unknown — 
 'T was no great eftbrt — sacrificed my own — 
 My own sad world, where I had never seen 
 The earth productive, or the sky serene. 
 
 But this is past — and I at length am come 
 To see what changes have been wrought at home. 
 Happy in this, that I can set me down 
 At worst a stranger in my native town. 
 
 F. — Then be it so ! but mean you not to show 
 How time has pass'd ? for we expect to know : 
 And if you tell not, know you we shall trace 
 Ycur movements for ourselves from place to 
 
 place. 
 Your wants, your wishes, all you've sought or 
 
 seen. 
 Shall be the food for our remark and spleen. 
 So, warn'd in time, the real imge unfold, 
 And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told. 
 
 P. — This might be done ; but wonders I have 
 none. 
 All my adventures are of Self alone. 
 
 F- — What then ? I grant you, if your way was 
 clear, 
 All smooth and right — we 've no desire to hear ; 
 But if you 've lewd and wicked things to tell, 
 Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes — 'tis well : 
 
 Who would not listen ? 
 
 P. — Hark ! I hear the bell. 
 It calls to dinner with inviting sound, 
 For now we know where dinners may be found, 
 And can behold and share the glad repast, 
 Without a dread that we behold our last. 
 
 F. — Come then, shy friend, let doleful subjects 
 cease. 
 And thank our God that we can dine in peace. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 No. I. INEBRIETY; A POEM. 
 
 PUBLISHED AT IPSWICH, IN 1773.* 
 
 TnE mighty spirit, and its power, which stains * 
 
 The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains, 
 
 I sing. Say, ye, its fiery vot'ries true, 
 
 The jovial curate, and the shrill-tongued shrew ; 
 
 Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst, 
 
 Where bowl the second charms like bowl the first ; 
 
 Say how, and why, the sparkling ill is shed. 
 
 The heart which hardens, and which rules the head. 
 
 When winter stern his gloomy front uprears, 
 A sable void the barren earth appears ; 
 The meads no more their former verdure boast. 
 Fast bound their streams, and all their beauty lost ; 
 The herds, the flocks, in icy garments mourn, 
 And wildly murmur for the spring's return ; 
 From snow-topp'd hills the whirlwinds keenly blow, 
 Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below; 
 Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies. 
 Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies ; 
 The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms 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. 
 Charms their swift race, and stops the refluent flood ; 
 The opening valves, which fill the venal road, 
 Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood ; 
 The labouring pulse a slower motion rules. 
 The tendons stiff'cn, and the spirit cools ; 
 Each asks the aid of Nature's sister. Art, 
 To cheer the senses, and to warm the heart. 
 
 The gentle fair on nervous tea relies, 
 Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes ; 
 An inoffensive scandal fluttering round. 
 Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound ; 
 Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, 
 The colonel burgundy, and port his grace ; 
 Turtle and 'rrac the city rulers charm, 
 Ale and content the labouring peasants warm : 
 O'er the dull embers, happy Colin sits, 
 Colin, the prince of joke, and rural wits ; 
 
 • For particulars respectin;; tliis juvonile proihu-liDU of Mr. 
 Cral)l)0, see mitc, p. 7. In thclbllowin;,' roprintsome couplets 
 me omitted, but nolhiny liiis been altered. 
 
 Whilst tlio wind whistles through the hollow panes, 
 He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains ; 
 And tells the tale, from sire to son retold. 
 Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold ; 
 Of moon-clad imps that tremble by the dew. 
 Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue : 
 The throng invisible that, doubtless, float 
 By mouldering tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat : 
 Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain, 
 And all the dreadful nothing of the green. 
 Peace be to such, the happiest and the best, 
 Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest ; 
 Who wage no war with an avenger's rod, 
 Nor in the pride of reason curse their God. 
 When in the vaulted arch Lvicina gleams. 
 And gaily dances o'er the azure streams ; 
 On silent ether when a trembling sound 
 Reverberates, and wildly floats around. 
 Breaking through trackless space upon the ear, 
 Conclude the Bacchanalian rustic near : 
 O'er hills and vales the jovial savage reels, 
 Fire in his head and frenzy at his heels ; 
 From paths direct the bending hero swerves, 
 And shapes his way in ill-proportioned curves. 
 Now safe arrived, his sleeping rib he calls. 
 And madly thunders on the muddy walls : 
 The well-known sounds an equal fury move, 
 For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love : 
 In vain the wakon'd infant's accents shrill. 
 The humble regions of the cottage fill ; 
 In vain the cricket cliirjis the mansion through, 
 'T is war, and blood, and battle nuist ensue. 
 As when, on humhlo stage, him .Satan hight 
 Defies tlie brazen hero to the fight : 
 From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes luso, 
 What fate to maple arms and glassen eyes ! 
 Here lies a leg of elm. and tliore a stroke 
 From ashen neck has whirl'd a head of oak. 
 So drops from eillier power, with vengeance big, 
 A remnant night-ciip and an old cut wig; 
 
 ' " The nii;;lily Mollier, :irid her sciii, wlio bring* 
 The Sniillilielil niiise-i to the ear of kind's," S:c. 
 
 1'oi'k's Dtinriad. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 .71 
 
 Titles unmusical retorted round, 
 
 On either ear with leaden vengeance sound ; 
 
 Till equal valour, equal wounds create, 
 
 And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate ; 
 
 Sleep in her woollen mantle wraps the pair, 
 
 And sheds her poppies on the ambient air ; 
 
 Intoxication flies, as fury fled, 
 
 On rooky pinions quits the aching head ; 
 
 Returning reason cools the fiery blood. 
 
 And drives from memory's seat the rosy god. 
 
 Yet still he holds o'er some his maddening rule. 
 
 Still sways his sceptre, and still knows his fool ; 
 
 Witness the livid lip, and fiery front. 
 
 With many a smarting trophy placed upon't ; 
 
 The hollow eye, which plays in misty springs, 
 
 And the hoarse voice, which rough and broken 
 
 rings ; 
 These are his triumphs, and o'er these he reigns, . 
 The blinking deity of reeling brains. 
 
 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 his rattle throne ; 
 The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ; 
 The slow-tongued bishop, and the deacon sly, 
 The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ; 
 The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great. 
 Swell the dull throng, 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 I the sparkling ill, 
 From gay decanters view the rosy rill ; 
 The neat-carved pipes in silver settle laid. 
 The screw by mathematic cunning made : 
 Oh, happy priest ! whose God, like Egypt's, lies 
 At once the deity and sacrifice. 
 But is Flaminius then the man alone 
 To whom the joys of swimming brains are known ? 
 Lo ! the poor toper whose untutor'd sense, 
 Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense ; ^ 
 Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer 
 Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer ; 
 But simple nature can her longing quench, 
 Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench : 
 Some kitchen fire diffusing warmth around, 
 The semi-globe by hieroglyphics crown'd ; 
 Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, 
 Nor waiters rave, nor landlords thirst for gold ; 
 Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine. 
 He asks no limpid punch, no rosy wine ; 
 But sees, admitted to an equal share. 
 Each faithful swain the head}- potion bear : 
 Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of taste, 
 Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest ; 
 Call vulgar palates what thou judgest so ; 
 Say beer is heavy, windy, cold, and slow ; 
 Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence. 
 Yet cry, when tortured, where is Providence ? 
 
 In various forms the madd'ning spirit moves. 
 This drinks and fights, another diinks and loves. 
 
 3 " Lo the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind. 
 
 Sees God in clouds, and hears him in tlie wind," &c. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Man. 
 
 A bastard zeal, of different kinds it shows, 
 And now with rage, and now religion glo^s : 
 The frantic soul bright reason's patli defies, 
 Now creeps on earth, now triumphs in the skies ; 
 Swims in the seas of error, and explores. 
 Through midnight mists, the fluctuating shores ; 
 From wave to wave in rocky ehannel glides, 
 And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides ; 
 In pride exalted, or by shame deprest. 
 An angel-devil, or a human-beast. 
 
 Some rage in all the strength of folly mad ; 
 Some lOve stupidity, in silence clad. 
 Are never quarrelsome, are never gay, 
 But sleep, and groan, and drink the night away : 
 Old Torpio nods, and as the laugh goes round. 
 Grunts through the nasal duct, and joins the 
 
 sound. 
 Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass. 
 Wakes at the friendly jog, and takes his glass : 
 Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves. 
 The elbow chair, good wine, and sleep he loves ; 
 Nor cares of state disturb his easy head. 
 By grosser fumes and calmer folUes fed ; 
 Nor thoughts of when, or where, or how to come, 
 The canvass general, or the general doom ; 
 Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his soul, 
 A villain tame, and an unmettled fool ; 
 To half his vices he has but pretence. 
 For they usurp the place of common sense ; 
 To half his little merits has no claim. 
 For very idolence has raised his name ; 
 Happy in this, that, under Satan's sway, 
 His passions tremble, but will not obey. 
 
 The vicar at the table's front presides, 
 Whose presence a monastic life derides ; 
 The reverend wig, in sideway order placed, 
 The reverend band, by rubric stains disgraced, 
 The leering eye, in wayward circles roll'd, 
 Mark him the pastor of a jovial fold. 
 Whose various texts excite a loud applause. 
 Favouring the bottle, and the good old cause. 
 See ! the dull smile which fearfully appears, 
 When gross indecency her front uprears. 
 The joy conceal'd, the fiercer bums 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 goeb round, 
 When shame and all her blushing train are 
 
 drown'd, 
 Bather than hear his God blasphemed, he takes 
 The last loved glass, and tlicn the board forsakes. 
 Not that reUgioii prompts the sober thought. 
 But slavish custom has the practice taught ; 
 Besides, this zealous sou of warm devotion 
 Has a true Levite bias for promotion. 
 Vicars must with discretion go astray. 
 Whilst bishops may be damn'd the nearest way : 
 So puny robbers individuals kill, 
 When hector-hcroi'S murder as tlioj' will. 
 
 Good honest Curio elbows the divine. 
 And strives a social sinner how to shine : 
 The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthcu'd tale, 
 That Wilton farmers give you with their ale. 
 How midnight ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass, 
 Dance o'er the grave, and slide along the grass; 
 Or how pale Cicely within the wood 
 Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood: 
 
572 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 These, honest Curio, are thine, and these 
 Are the dull treasures of a brain at peace ; 
 No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull. 
 Of heavy, native, unwrought folly full : 
 Bowl upon bowl in vain exert their force. 
 The breathing sjiirit takes a do^\•nward course, 
 Or vainlj' soaring upwards to the head, 
 Meets an impenetrable fence of lead. 
 
 Hast thou, oh reader ! search'd o'er gentle Gay, 
 Where various animals their powers display ? 
 In one strange group a chattering race are hurl'd, 
 Led by the monkey who had seen the world. 
 Like him Fabricio steals from guardian's side, 
 Swims not in i)leasure's stream, but sips the tide : 
 He hates the bottle, yet but thinks it right 
 To boast next day the honours of the night ; 
 None like your coward can describe a fight. 
 See him as down the sparkling potion goes, 
 Labour to grin away the horrid dose ; 
 In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eyeballs float, 
 Th' uncivil spirit gurgling at his throat ; 
 So looks dim Titan through a wintrj' scene, 
 And faintly cheers the v.oe-foreboding swain. 
 
 Timon, long practised in the school of art, 
 Has lost each finer feeling of the heart ; 
 Triumphs o'er shame, and, with delusive wiles 
 Laughs at the idiot he himself beguiles : 
 So matrons past the awe of censure's tongue. 
 Deride the blushes of the fair and young. 
 Few with more fire on every subject spoke. 
 But chief he loved the gay immoral joke ; 
 The words most sacred, stole from holy writ, 
 He gave a newer form, and eall'd them wit. 
 Vice never had a more sincere allj'. 
 So bold no sinner, yet no saint so sly ; 
 Leam'd, but not wise, and without virtue brave, 
 A gay, deluding philosophic knave. 
 When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire. 
 They stir a new, but still a false desire ; 
 And to the comfort of each untaught fool, 
 Horace in English vindicates the bowl. 
 " The man," says Timon, " who is drunk is 
 
 blest,* 
 " Nc fears disturb, no cares destroy his rest ; 
 
 " In thoughtless joy he reels away his life, 
 " Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife." 
 " Oh ! place me, Jove, where none but women come, 
 " And thunders worse than thine afUict the room, 
 " Where one eternal nothing flutters round, 
 " And senseless titt'ring sense of mirth confound ; 
 " Or lead me bound to gaiTCt, Babel-high, 
 " Where frantic poet roUs his crazy eye, 
 " Tiring the ear with oft-repeated chimes, 
 " And smiling at the never-ending rhymes : 
 " E'en here, or there, I '11 be as blest as Jove, 
 " Give me tobacco, and the wine I love." 
 Applause from hands the dying accents break, 
 Of stagg'ring sots who vainly try to speak ; 
 From Milo, him who hangs upon each word. 
 And in loud praises splits the tortured board. 
 Collects each sentence, ere it 's better known. 
 And makes the mutilated joke his o^vn. 
 At weekly club to flourish, where he rules, 
 The glorious president of grosser fools. 
 
 But cease, my Muse I of those or these enough. 
 The fools who listen, and the knaves who scofi" ; 
 The jest profane, that mocks th' ofiended God 
 Defies his power, and sets at nought his rod ; 
 The empty laugh, discretion's vainest foe, 
 From fool to fool re-echoed to and fro ; 
 The sly indecency, that slowly springs 
 From barren wit, and halts on trembling 'wings : 
 Enough of these, and all the charms of wine. 
 Be sober joys and social evenings mine ; 
 Where peace and reason, unsoil'd mirth improve 
 The powers of friendship and the joys of love ; 
 Where thought meets thought ere words its form 
 
 array. 
 And all is sacred, elegant, and gay : 
 Such pleasure leaves no sorrow on the mind. 
 Too great to fall, to sicken too refined ; 
 Too soft for noise, and too sublime for art, 
 The social solace of the feeling heart. 
 For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high, 
 'T is Virtue's pleasure, and can never die ! 
 
 * " Integer vitse, scelerisque puris 
 
 Noil eget." &c. S;c. Horai'b. 
 
 No. II. FRAGMENTS OF VERSE 
 
 rROM 
 
 iMK. CKABBE'S EAKLY NOTE-BOOKS. 
 
 YE GENTLE GALES. 
 
 H^oodbridge, 1776. 
 
 Ye gentle Gales, that softly move, 
 Go whisper to the Fair I love ; 
 Tell her I languish and adore. 
 And pity in return implore. 
 
 But if slie 's cold to my request. 
 Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest — 
 My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim. 
 And speak in strongest notes my flame. 
 
 Still if she rests in mute disdain. 
 And thinks 1 feel a common pain — 
 Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly, 
 And tell the haughty Fair I die. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 573 
 
 MIR A. 
 
 Aldborong'i, 1777. 
 
 A WANTON chaos in my breast raged high, 
 
 A wanton transport darted in mine eye ; 
 
 False pleasure urged, and ev'ry eager care, 
 
 That swell the soul to guilt and to despair. 
 
 My Mira came ! be ever blest the hour, 
 
 That drew my thoughts halfway from folly's power. 
 
 She first my soul with loftier notions fired ; 
 
 I saw their truth, and as I saw admired ; 
 
 With greater force returning reason moved, 
 
 And as returning reason urged, I loved ; 
 
 Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied 
 
 My bliss precarious to a surer guide — 
 
 To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love, 
 
 Each for that end that angels must approve. 
 
 One beam of light He gave my mind to see. 
 
 And gave that light, my heavenly fair, by thee ; 
 
 That beam shall raise my thoughts, and mend my 
 
 strain, 
 Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be vain. 
 
 Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul — 
 When swell'd too much, the judgment to control- 
 The happy ear that feels the flowing force 
 Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course ; 
 Give me, oh give ! if not in vain the prayer. 
 That sacred wealth, poetic worth to share — 
 Be it my boast to please and to improve. 
 To warm the soul to virtue and to love ; 
 To paint the passions, and to teach mankind 
 Our greatest pleasures are the most refined ; 
 The cheerful tale with fancy to reheaMe, 
 And gild the moral with the charm of verse. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Beccles, 1778. 
 
 Oh , Thou ! who taught my infant eye 
 To pierce the air, and view the sky, 
 To see my God in earth and seas, 
 To hear him in the vernal breeze, 
 To know him midnight thoughts among, 
 O guide my soul, and aid my song. 
 
 Spirit of Light ! do thou impart 
 Majestic truths, and teach my heart ; 
 Teach me to know how weak I am ; 
 How vain my powers, how poor my frame } 
 Teach me celestial paths untrod — 
 The ways of glory and of God. 
 
 No more let me, in vain surprise, 
 To heathen art give up my eyes — i 
 To piles laborious science rear'd 
 For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd ; 
 But quit Philosophy, and see 
 The Fountain of her works in Thee. 
 
 Fond man ! yon glassy mirror eye — 
 Go, pierce the flood, and there descry 
 The miracles that float between 
 The rainy leaves of wat'ry green ; 
 Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan ; 
 See nations swimming round a span. 
 
 Then wilt thou say — and rear no more 
 Thy monuments in mystic lore — 
 My God ! I quit my vain design. 
 And drop my work to gaze on Thine : 
 Henceforth I '11 frame myself to be, 
 Oh, Lord I a monument of Thee. 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 Aldbm-ough, 1778. 
 
 Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts ! 
 The full d-esign, complete in all its parts, 
 
 THE COMPARISON. 
 
 Parham, 1778. 
 
 Friendship is like the gold refined, 
 
 And all may weigh its worth ; 
 Love like the ore, brought undesign'd 
 
 In virgin beauty forth. 
 
 Friendship may pass from age to age. 
 
 And yet remain the same ; 
 Love must in many a toil engage. 
 
 And melt in lambent flame. 
 
 GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 " Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum." 
 
 Aldborough, 1778. 
 
 You 're in love with the Muses ! Well, grant it be 
 
 true. 
 When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you ? 
 Read first, — if my lectures your fancy delight, — 
 Your taste is diseased : — can your cure be to write ? 
 
 You suppose you 're a genius, that ought to eng:-.;;o 
 The attention of wits, and the smiles of the af^ o : 
 Would the wits of the age their opinion msiko 
 
 known, 
 WTiy — every man thinks just the same of his own. 
 
 You imagine that Pope — but yourself you beguih — 
 Would have wrote the same things, had he chosf 
 
 the same style. 
 Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope, — 
 Had he chose the same style, he had never been 
 
 Pope. 
 
 You think of mrj IMuse with a friendly regard, 
 And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward ; 
 But let not his glory your spirits elate, 
 When pleased with his honours, remember his fate. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 " Lord, what is man, that thou art minilful of him ?" 
 
 Aldborough, 177S. 
 
 Proud, little Man, opinion's slave, 
 
 Error's fond child, too duteous to be free. 
 
 Say, from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for 
 thee? 
 
This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel 
 Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never 
 
 feel: 
 Her day and night, her centre and her sun, 
 Untraced by thee, their annual courses run. 
 A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine. 
 And flattering fanc}' calls the motion thine : 
 I'ntaught how soon some hanging grave 
 
 burst. 
 And join thy flimsy substance to the dust. 
 
 may 
 
 THE KESURRECTION. 
 
 Aldborough, 1778. 
 The wintry winds have ceased to blow, 
 
 And trembling leaves appear ; 
 And fairest flowers succeed the snow, 
 
 And hail the infant year. 
 
 So, when the world and all its woes 
 
 Are vanish' d far away. 
 Fair scenes and wonderful repose 
 
 Shall bless the new-born day, — 
 
 When, from the confines of the grave. 
 
 The body too shall rise ; 
 No more precarious passion's slave, 
 
 Nor error's sacrifice. 
 
 'T is but a sleep — and Sion's king 
 
 Will call the many dead : 
 'T is but a sleep — and then we sing, 
 
 O'er dreams of sorrow fled. 
 
 Yes! — wintry winds have ceased to blow, 
 
 And trembling leaves appear. 
 And nature has her tjT)es to show 
 
 Throughout the varying year. 
 
 MY BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Aldborough, Dec. 24, 1778. 
 
 TnKOUGH a dull tract of woe, of dread. 
 The toiling year has pass'd and fled : 
 And, lo ! in sad and pensive strain, 
 I sing my birth-day date again. 
 
 Trembling and poor, I saw the light. 
 New waking from unconscious night : 
 Trembling and poor, 1 still remain 
 To meet unconscious night again. 
 
 Time in my pathway strews few flowers, 
 To cheer or cheat the weary hours ; 
 And those few strangers, dear indeed. 
 Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed. 
 
 TO ELIZA. 
 
 Beccles, 1779. 
 
 Tnr. Hebrew king, ■with spleen possest, 
 By David's harp was soothed to rest ; 
 
 Yet, when the magic song was o'er. 
 The soft delusion charm'd no more : 
 The former fury fired the brain. 
 And every care retum'd again. 
 
 But had he known Eliza's skill 
 To bless the sense and bind the will. 
 To bid the gloom of care retire. 
 And fan the flame of fond desire. 
 Remembrance then had kept the sti-ain. 
 And not a care retum'd again. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Aldborough, 1779. 
 Think j-e the joys that fiU our early day. 
 
 Are the poor prelude to some full repast ? 
 Think you they promise ? — ah ! believe they pai/ ; 
 
 The purest ever, they are oft the last. 
 The jovial swain that yokes the morning team, 
 
 And all the verdure of the field enjoys. 
 See him, how languid ! when the noontide beam 
 
 Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys. 
 So't is ^vith us, when, love and pleasure fled, 
 
 We at the summit of our hill arrive : 
 Lo ! the gay lights of Youth are past — are dead. 
 
 But what still deepening clouds of Care sur- 
 vive ! 
 
 THE SACRAMENT. 
 
 Aldborough, 1779. 
 
 ! SACKED gift of God to man, 
 A faith that looks above. 
 
 And sees the deep amazing plan 
 Of sanctifying love. 
 
 Thou dear and yet tremendous God, 
 
 Whose glory pride reviles ; 
 How did'st thou change thy awful rod 
 
 To pard'ning grace and smiles I 
 
 Shut up with sin, with shame, below, 
 
 I trust, this bondage past, 
 A great, a glorious change to know. 
 
 And to be bless'd at last. 
 
 1 do believe, that, God of light ! 
 
 Thou didst to earth descend, 
 With Satan and with Sin to fight-^ 
 Our great, our only friend. 
 
 I know thou did'st ordain for me. 
 Thy creature, bread and wine ; 
 
 The depth of grace I cannot see, 
 But worship the design. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Aldborough, 1779. 
 The sober stillness of the night. 
 
 That fills the silent air. 
 And all that breathes along the shore, 
 
 Invite to solemn prayer. 
 
APPEXDIX. 
 
 575 
 
 Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord ! 
 
 Which points tlie sacred way, 
 x\nd let thy creatures here Lelow 
 
 Instruct me how to pray . 
 
 FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Aldhorough, 1779. 
 
 Oh, great Apollo ! by whose equal aid 
 The verse is written, and the med'cine made ; 
 Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers, 
 In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours ? 
 Insulting quack ! on thy sad business go, 
 And land the stranger on this world of woe. 
 
 Still I pass on, and now before me find 
 The restless ocean, emblem of my mind ; 
 There wave on wave, here thought on thought suc- 
 ceeds, 
 Their produce idle works, and idle weeds : 
 Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea, 
 But not more dark than my sad views to me ; 
 Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance 
 In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse ; 
 So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright, 
 The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light. — 
 Shine out, fair flood ! until the day-star flings 
 His brighter rays on all sublunar things. 
 
 " Why in such hast ? by all the powers of wit, 
 I have against thee neither bond nor writ ; 
 If thou 'rt a poet, now indulge the flight 
 Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light ; 
 Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme, 
 And aU things meet to form the true sublime." — 
 
 " Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place, 
 With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace ? 
 Nor doctor solely, in the healing art 
 I "m all in all, and all in every part ; 
 Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be 
 Which gave me right to claim the golden fee : 
 Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due, 
 For mine th' advice and operation too ; 
 And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe, 
 I make myself the med'cines I prescribe ; 
 Mine, too, the chemic art ; and not a drop 
 Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop. 
 But chief my fame and fortune I command 
 From the rare skiU of this obstetric hand : 
 This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow, 
 With her who calls me from thy wonder now." 
 
 TIME. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, FEBRUARY, 1780. 
 
 " The clock struck one ! we take no thought of 
 
 Time," 
 Wrapt up in night, and meditating rhyme : 
 -Vll big with vision, we despise the powers 
 That vulgar beings link to days and hours ; 
 Those vile, mechanic things, that rule our hearts, 
 And cut our lives in momentary parts. 
 
 " That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift," said 
 
 Young : 
 Ah, Doctor ! better Time would hold his tongue : 
 
 What serves the clock ? " To warn the careless crew 
 
 How much in little space they have to do ; 
 
 To bid the busy world resign their breath, 
 
 And beat each moment a soft call for death — 
 
 To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man." 
 
 Support the assertion. Doctor, if j'ou can : 
 
 It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait; 
 
 It calls tlie duns to crowd my hapless gate ; 
 
 It tells my heart the paralysing tale, 
 
 Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail. 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, FEBRUARY, 1780. 
 
 What vulgar title thus salutes the eye, — 
 
 The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy ? 
 
 The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse, 
 
 For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse ; 
 
 The duU description of a scribbler's brain. 
 
 And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain ; 
 
 A glowing chart of fairy-land estate, 
 
 Romantic scenes, and visions out of date. 
 
 Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober 
 
 bowers. 
 Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming 
 
 flowers ? 
 
 Not thus ! too long have I in fancy wove 
 My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love ; 
 Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want. 
 And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant ; 
 Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again, 
 And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain ! 
 " Gain by the Muse ! " — alas ! thou might'st as soon 
 Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon ; 
 As soon gi'ow rich by ministerial nods. 
 As soon divine by dreaming of the gods, 
 As soon succeed by telling ladies truth. 
 Or preaching moral documents to youth : 
 To as much purpose, mortal ! thy desires 
 As TuUy's flourishes to country squires ; 
 As simple truth within St. James's state. 
 Or the soft lute in shriU-tongued Billingsgate. 
 " Gain by the Muse ! " alas, preposterous hope I 
 Who ever gained by poetry — but Pope ? 
 And what art thou ? No St. John takes thy part ; 
 No potent Dean commends thy head or heart! 
 What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor ? 
 They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door, 
 They wipe no scrawl from tliy increasing score. 
 What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say ? 
 What for poor Butler .'' what for honest Gay ? 
 For Thomson, what ? or what to Savage give ? 
 Or how did Johnson — how did Otway live ? 
 Like thee ! dependent on to-morrow's good. 
 Their thin revenue never understood ; 
 Like thee, elate, at what thou canst not know; 
 Like thee, repining at each puny blow ; 
 Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock, 
 Upon their wits — but with a larger stock. 
 
 No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r, 
 With supple acts to supple minds repair; 
 Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal. 
 And deck thee with the livery genteel ; 
 Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite. 
 Draw teeth, or any viler tiling but write. 
 
576 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw, 
 Give nations language, and great cities law ; 
 "Whom gods, they said — and surely gods — in- 
 spired, 
 Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired — 
 Now common grown, they awe mankind no more, 
 But vassals are, who judges were before : 
 Blockheads on wits their little talents waste, 
 As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste ; 
 Though still some good the trial may produce. 
 To shape the useful to a nobler use. 
 Some few of these, a statue and a stone 
 Has Fame decreed — but deals out bread to none. 
 Unhappy art ! decreed thine ov\Tier's curse. 
 Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse : 
 Members by bribes, and ministers by lies, 
 Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise : 
 Beaux by the outside of their heads may win, 
 And wily sergeants by the craft within : 
 
 Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led. 
 
 Starve by the means they use to gain their bread? 
 
 Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate 
 Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate ; 
 Of children stinted in their daily meal ! — 
 The joke of wealthier wits, who could not feel; 
 Portentous spoke that pity in my breast ! 
 And pleaded self — who ever pleads the best : 
 No ! thank my stars, my misery 's all my own, — 
 To friends — to family — to foes unknown : 
 Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design. 
 Shall wound no peace — sliall grieve no heart but 
 mine. 
 
 One trial past, let sober Reason speak: 
 Here shall we rest, or sliall we further seek ? 
 Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain 
 A placid harbour from the stormy main : 
 Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep, 
 And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep. 
 
 No. III. THE CANDIDATE; 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.* 
 
 AN I>TRODUCT0RY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO 
 HIS POEMS. 
 
 Mu.ta quidem nobis facimus mala saipe poetae, 
 (Ut vineta egomet cfedam mea) cum tibi librum 
 SoUicito damus, aut fesso, &c. HoR. Lib. ii. Ep. 1. 
 
 Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care. 
 Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where ? 
 As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote. 
 On the fair type, or the embroider'd coat ; 
 Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly 
 Where princely Popes and mighty Mjlltons lie ? 
 Taught but to sing, and that in simple style, 
 Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile ; — 
 Go then ! and taste a yet unfelt distress. 
 The fear that guards the captivating press; 
 Whose maddening region should ye once explore, 
 No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more. 
 But thus ye '11 grieve. Ambition's plumage stript, 
 " Ah, would to Heaven, we 'd died in manuscript ! " 
 Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee, 
 — For few will read, and none admire like me. — 
 Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe. 
 Squeezed betwixt Gibber's Odes and Blackmore's 
 
 Job ; 
 Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform. 
 Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm ; 
 
 Then sent disgraced — the unpaid pi-inter's bane — 
 To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane, 
 On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire, 
 Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire, 
 Who half reluctant has his care resign'd. 
 Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind. 
 
 Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth, 
 View the strange land, and tell us of its worth ; 
 And should he there barbarian usage meet, 
 The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat. 
 
 And thou, the first of thy eccentric race, 
 A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place. 
 Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard, 
 Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard ; 
 Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize, 
 The Muses yield, as the Hesperides; 
 Who bribes the guardian, all his labour 's done. 
 For every maid is willing to be won. 
 
 Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand. 
 And beg our passage through the fairy land : 
 Beg more — to search for sweets each blooming 
 
 field. 
 And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield , 
 To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow ; 
 And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow ; 
 Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop. 
 Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope. 
 
 1 [For particulars respectiii:; the ori|[inal edition of this Poem, see anti}, p. 15.] 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 577 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 The following Poem being itself of an introductory 
 nature, its author supposes it can require but 
 little preface. 
 
 It is published witli a view of obtaining the 
 opinion of the candid and judicious reader on the 
 merits of the writer as a poet ; very few, he 
 apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently im- 
 partial to decide for themselves. 
 
 It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly 
 Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit ; an 
 acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the 
 writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to 
 them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to 
 others a just and sufficient plea for the preference. 
 
 Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be 
 much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent. 
 Ilowevei", if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, 
 he promises to his readers some entertainment, and 
 is assured that however little in the ensuing Poem 
 is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits 
 contempt. 
 
 TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY 
 REVIEW. 
 
 The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide, 
 Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide, 
 Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep, 
 Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep ; 
 But whilst vtdth nicest skill he steers his way, 
 The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray. 
 Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome, 
 The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb. 
 
 Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer, 
 I dread the storm that ever rattles here. 
 Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul 
 Has felt the Muse's soft but strong control, 
 Nor think enough that manly strength and ease, 
 Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please ; 
 But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow. 
 Here bum my incense, and here pay my vow ; 
 That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er. 
 And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no moi-e. 
 And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain. 
 Affecting modest hopes, or poor disdain. 
 Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean, 
 Despises each extreme, and sails between ; 
 Who fears ; but has, amid his fears confess'd, 
 The conscious virtue of a Muse oppress'd ; 
 A Muse in changing times and stations nursed, 
 Bj' nature honour' d, and by fortune cursed. 
 
 No servile strain of abject hope she brings, 
 Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings, 
 But, pruned for flight — the future all her care — 
 Would know her strength, and, if not strong, for- 
 bear. 
 
 The supple slave to regal pomp bows down. 
 Prostrate to power, and cringing to a crown ; 
 
 The bolder villain spurns a decent awe, 
 Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law ; 
 But he wliose soul on honest truth relies. 
 Nor meanly flatters power, nor madlj' flies. 
 Thus timid authoi-s bear an abject mind. 
 And plead for mercy they but seldom find. 
 Some, as the desperate, to the halter run, 
 Boldly deride the fate they cannot shun ; 
 But such there are, whose minds, not taught to 
 
 stoop. 
 Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope, 
 \Vho neither brave the judges of their cause. 
 Nor beg in soothing strains a brief applause. 
 And such I 'd be ; — and ere my fate is past. 
 Ere clear'd with honour, or with culprits cast, 
 llumblj' at Learning's bar I '11 state my case. 
 And welcome then distinction or disgrace '. 
 
 When in the man the flights of fanc y reig ns. 
 RuleTr"f6TTieMt3iu*evel-«l' IlLi HmHt,^ 
 it her wild cr.r.i tinu aprn. 
 
 As bifsr T'hou e 
 
 And hangs delighted' o'er her varying shapes. 
 It asks a judgment, weighty and discreet. 
 To know where wisdom pi'ompts, and where con- 
 ceit; 
 Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind 
 (Blind to their faults as to their danger blind) ; — 
 We write enraptured, and we write in haste. 
 Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste. 
 Improvement trace in every paltry line, 
 And see, transported, every dull design ; 
 Are seldom cautious, all advice detest. 
 And ever think our own opinions best ; 
 Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here, 
 Who bids me pause, before I persevere. 
 
 But she — who shrinks while meditating flight 
 In the wide way, whose bounds delude her sight. 
 Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam. 
 And cull poor banquets for the soul at home. 
 Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the way, 
 Lest dangers yet unthought-of flight betray ; 
 Lest her Icarian wing, bj' wits unplumed. 
 Be robb'd of all the honours she assumed ; 
 And DuUiess swell, — a black and dismal sea, 
 Gaping her grave ; while censures madden me. 
 
 Such was his fate, who flew too near the sun, 
 Sliot far beyond his strength, and was undone ; 
 Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore 
 The billow sweeps him, and he 's found no more. 
 Oh ! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair 
 Midway betwixt presumption and despair ! 
 
 '• Has then some friendly critic's former blow 
 " Taught thee a pi-udcnce authors seldom know ? " 
 
 Not so ! their anger and their love untried, 
 A woe-taught prudence deigns to tend my side : 
 Life's hopes ill-sped, the jMusc's hopes grow poor^ 
 And though they flatter, yet they charm no more' ' 
 Experience points where lurking dangers lay. 
 And as I run, throws caution in my waj'. 
 
 There was a night, when wintry winds did rage, 
 Hard by a ruin'd pile, I meet a sage ; 
 Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd. 
 Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard ; 
 
 2 « 
 
! 
 
 578 
 
 CRABBE'S WORKS. 
 
 Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's 
 
 dome, 
 Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home. 
 His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast, 
 And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past; 
 His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound, 
 And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground, 
 "Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow. 
 He shook, from locks as white, December's snow ; 
 Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease. 
 But lock'd within him meditated peace. 
 
 Father, I said — for silver hairs inspire. 
 And oft I call the bending peasant Sire — 
 Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower. 
 That works fantastic round its trembling tower. 
 We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar. 
 Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor ; 
 For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu, 
 And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. 
 
 There was a time when, by Delusioji le.d, 
 A scene of sacred bliss around mc spread, 
 (JnTTOpe's, as I'isgah's lofty top, I stood, 
 And saw my Canaan there, my promised good ; 
 A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd, 
 And wine and oil through vision's valleys fiow'd ; 
 As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd, 
 And gazed upon the good 1 ne'er possess'd : 
 On tliis side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand, 
 Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land. 
 " Son," said the Sage — " be this thy care sup- 
 
 press'd ; 
 " The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best: 
 " Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more, 
 " And would thy patience when they make thee 
 
 poor ; 
 " But other thoughts within thy bosom reign, 
 " And other subjects vex thy busy brain, 
 •' Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite, 
 " And thy sad stars have destined thee to write. 
 " Then since that task the ruthless fates decree, 
 " Take a few precepts from the Gods and me 1 
 
 " Be not too eager in the arduous chace ; 
 " Who pants for triumph seldom wins tlie race : 
 " Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth, 
 " And let thy labours one by one go forth : 
 " Some happier scrap capricious wits may find 
 " On a fair day, and be profusely kind ; 
 " Which, buried in the rubbish of a tlirong, 
 " Had pleased as little as a new-year s song, 
 " Or lover's verse, tliatcloy'iLftith nauscous-ew-eet, 
 " Or birth-day ode, that rajajaa.llljipi3*«s^ feet. 
 " iMcrit not always — Fortune feeds tlie bard, 
 " And as the whim inclines bestows reward : 
 " None without wit, nor witli it numbers gain ; 
 I " To please is hard, but none shall please in 
 vain : 
 " As a coy mistress is the humour'd to«ii, 
 " Loth every lover with success to crown ; 
 " He who would win must every effort try, 
 ''• Sail in the mode, and to tlie fashion fly ; 
 " Must gay or grave to every humour dress, 
 " And watch the lucky Moment of Success ; 
 '• That caught, no more his eager hopes are 
 
 crost ; 
 " But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost." 
 
 Thus said the God ; for now a God he grew, 
 His white locks changing to a golden hue. 
 And from his shoulders hung a mantle azuv 
 
 blue. 
 His softening eyes the winning chai'm disclosed 
 Of dove-like Delia wlien her doubts reposed ; 
 RHra's alone a softer lustre bear. 
 When woe beguiles them of an angel's tear ; 
 Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood, 
 Then sought on airy wing his blest abode. 
 
 Ah ! truth, distasteful in poetic theme. 
 Why is the Muse compcU'd to own her dream ? 
 Whilst forward \^its had sworn to every Une, 
 I only wish to make its moral mine. 
 
 Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed. 
 May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed 'i 
 Say, shall my name, to future song prefixed, 
 Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd ? 
 Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage. 
 My graver numbers move the silver'd sage. 
 My tender themes delight the lover's heart, 
 And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart ? 
 
 For Oh ! thou Hope's, thou Thought's eternal 
 King, 
 W^ho gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing — 
 Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar. 
 And in my happier transports I adore ; 
 Mercy ! thy softest attribute proclaim, 
 Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name ; 
 That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray. 
 As the full moon-beam gilds the watery way. 
 ■And then too, E&re, my soul's resistless lord, 
 Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford, 
 To all the soil of sooty passions blind. 
 Pure as embracing angels and as kind ; 
 Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, 
 And — though the harshest — Shepherds envy mine . 
 
 Then let me, (pleasing task !) however hard. 
 Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard ; 
 If not, ah ! shield me from the dire disgrace, 
 That haunts the wild and visionary race ; 
 Let me not draw my lengtlien'd lines along, 
 And tire in untamed infamy of song. 
 Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page, 
 I stand the Cibbek of this tuneless age ; 
 Lest , if ano .t]Ku:-PoPE ih' indulge nt skie s 
 Should gi ve, in syiired by all tKeir^^eiiies, 
 My luckless namg^'lTi TiTs'Trnmortal strain, 
 Sliould, blasted, brand me as a second Cain ; 
 Doom'd in that song to live against my will, 
 Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could 
 kill. 
 
 The youtli, resisted by the maiden's art. 
 Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart ; 
 To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow, 
 As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow ; 
 Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky, 
 And heaven is won by importunity ; 
 Ours, a projecting tribe, pursue in vain, 
 In tedious trials, an uncertain gain ; 
 Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat, 
 And with our ruin only find the cheat. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 579 
 
 " And why then seek that luckless doom to 
 share ? " 
 Who, I ? — To shun it is my only care. 
 
 I grant it true, that others better tell 
 Of mighty Wolfe, who conquer'd as he fell ; '^ 
 Of heroes born, their threaten'd realms to save, 
 Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave ; 
 Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array. 
 Gives to the breathless the short-breathing- clay ; 
 Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream, 
 Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream ; 
 When Kodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing, 
 We hail the victor whom we fear to sing ; 
 Kor tell we how each hostile chief goes on, 
 The luckless Lee, or wary Washington ; 
 How Spanish bombast blusters — they were beat, 
 And French politeness dulcifies — defeat. 
 My modest Muse forbears to speak of kings, 
 Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings ; 
 For who — the tenant of the beechen shade. 
 Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade ? 
 Or search his soul, whom each too-favoui-ing God 
 Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood ? 
 No ; let me free from Cupid's frolic round, 
 Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound ; 
 Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell. 
 And paint the dark-brow'd grove, wliere wood- 
 nymphs dwell ; 
 Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel, 
 And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal. 
 Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease, 
 When first the moral magic learn'd to please, 
 Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the 
 
 breast. 
 Transported Fancy there her stores imprest ; 
 The soul in varied raptures leani'd to fly, 
 Felt all their force, and never question'd why ; 
 No idle doubts could then her peace molest, 
 She found delight, and left to heaven the rest ; 
 Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were born ; 
 And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn, 
 When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er. 
 And caught the laptures, caught, alas ! no more : 
 No care did then a dull attention ask. 
 For study pleased, and that was every task ; 
 No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour' d 
 
 round. 
 Heaven-guarded, too, no Envy entrance found ; 
 Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age. 
 Nor Flattery's silver tale, nor Sorrow's sage ; 
 Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart, 
 T' o'erwhelm in future days the bleeding heart. 
 No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise. 
 But praj'er unsoil'd of doubt besieged the skies ; 
 Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired, 
 Nor came desires more quick than joys desired. 
 
 A summer morn there was, and passing fair, 
 Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air ; 
 The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone, 
 What time the eye just marks the pallid moon, 
 
 8 Imit,— Scriberis Vario fortis, et liostiiim 
 Victor, Ma'onii carmiiiis alitc. 
 Quam rem ciimque t'erox imvilnis, aiit eqiiis 
 Miles, te diice, gesserit, itc. &c. 
 
 IluH. Lib. i.Od. S. 
 
 Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower, 
 And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower ; 
 A distant huntsman fiU'd his cheerful horn. 
 The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn. 
 And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the 
 
 morn. 
 Huge giant shadows spread along the plain. 
 Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main. 
 There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide 
 Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side ; 
 Such is that sound, which fond designs convey, 
 When, true to love, the damsel speeds away ; 
 The sails unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd. 
 And simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd ; 
 A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride. 
 The well-pleased eye through withering oaks 
 
 descried. 
 Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung. 
 And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung — 
 Save that as morning sonsgters swell'd their lays. 
 Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise : 
 The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day, 
 Less towering linnets fiU'd the vocal spray, 
 And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray. 
 Here at a pine-press'd hill's embroider'd base 
 I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place. 
 Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart, 
 Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art; 
 The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard. 
 Her magic felt, and all her charms revered : 
 E'er since she rules in absolute control, 
 And Mira only dearer to my soul. 
 Ah ! tell me not these empty joys to fly. 
 If they deceive, I would deluded die ; 
 To the fond themes my heart so cai-ly wed. 
 So soon in life to blooming visions led. 
 So prone to run the vague uncertain course, 
 'T is more than death to think of a divorce. 
 
 What wills the poet of the favouring gods. 
 Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes ? ^ 
 What when he fills the glass, and to each youtJi 
 Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth ? 
 Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride, 
 Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside, 
 Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves. 
 Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves ; 
 Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array. 
 Which the more noble Thames bears far away ; 
 Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee. 
 Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee ; 
 Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly, 
 Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy ; 
 Favour'd by Fate, let such in joy appear. 
 Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year ; 
 Disdaining these, for simpler food I '11 look, 
 And crop my beverage at the mantled brook. 
 
 O Virtue ! brighter than the noon-fide ray, 
 My humble prayers with sacred joys repay ! 
 Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart. 
 And thy fair form delight my yielding heart ! 
 
 3 Imit. — Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinpm 
 Vates .' quid orat, de patorfi novum 
 Fundeug liquorem .' \c. &c. 
 
 HuR. Carm. xxxi. lib. i. 
 
 -' q2 
 
380 
 
 CRABBERS WORKS. 
 
 Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road, 
 To see thj' way, and trace each moral good : 
 If more — let Wisdom's sons my page peruse, 
 And decent credit deck my modest Muse. 
 
 Nor deem it pride that prophesies my song 
 Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long. 
 Say ye ! to whom my Muse submissive brings 
 Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings, 
 May she not hope in future days to soar. 
 Where fancy's sons have led the way before ? 
 Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower 
 To snatch with agile hand the opening flower ? 
 To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow. 
 What humbler blossoms crown the vales below r* 
 To blend with these the stores by art refined, 
 And give the moral Flora to the mind ? 
 
 Far other scenes my timid hour admits, 
 Relentless critics and avenging wits ; 
 E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen, 
 And to each " Let him perish," cry Amen ! 
 And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry, 
 For if they please not, let the trifles die : 
 Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore, 
 And never rise to vex their author more. 
 
 I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line. 
 Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine ; 
 Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be, 
 From every fault and every beauty free. 
 Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity. 
 Some have I found so thick beset with spots, 
 'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their 
 
 blots ; 
 And these, as tapers round a sick man's room, 
 Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb ! 
 
 O ! if you blast, at once consume my baj-s, 
 And damn me not with mutilated praise. 
 With candour judge ; and, a young bard in view, 
 Allow for that, and judge with kindness too ; 
 Faults he must own, though hard for him to 
 
 find. 
 Not to some happier merits quite so blind ; 
 These if mistaken Fancy only sees. 
 Or Hope, tliat takes Deformity for these : 
 If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title falls 
 His lot, and Dulness her new subject calls, — 
 To the poor bard alone your censures give — 
 Let his fame die, but let his honour live ; 
 Laugh if you must — be candid as you can. 
 And when j'ou lash the Poet, spare the Man. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Aaron, or the Gipsy,' 100, 168. 
 « Abel Keene,' 243. 
 Abingdon, Mrs., 35, 130. 
 Absenteeism, 149. 
 Actors, 216, 220. 
 Actress, vanitj^ of the aged, 217. 
 Advertisemenls, 131. 
 ' Advice, or the Squire and the 
 
 Priest,' 338. 
 Age, 160, 428. 
 Aldborough, 3, 115. 
 ' Allen Booth,' 281. 
 ' Alms-house, The,' 220. 
 ' Amusements,' 206. 
 ' Ancient Mansion, The,' 540. 
 ' And wilt thou never smile 
 
 again ?' 63. 
 ' Andrew Collett,' 147. 
 Apparitions, 467, 493. 
 ' Arabella,' 313. 
 ' Archer,' the worthy attorney, 
 
 198. 
 Arminian Methodists, 185, 193. 
 Attorneys, increase of, 197. 
 Author-Kector, 154. 
 ' A wanton chaos in my breast 
 
 ragei nigh,' 573. 
 
 B. 
 
 ' Bachelor, The Old,' 424. 
 
 Bacon, Lord, 201. 
 
 Baillie, INIrs. Joanna, 81, 85. 
 
 ' Baptisms,' 132. 
 
 Baptists, 190. 
 
 ' Baniaby, the Shopman,' 537. 
 
 Barry, the painter, 97. 
 
 Beccles, 41. 
 
 Becket, Thomas, bookseller, 17, 
 18. 
 
 Bedford, Duchess of, 67. 
 
 ' Belinda Waters,' 548. 
 
 Bells, 180. 
 
 ' Belvoir Castle,' 263. 
 
 Belvoir, Vale of, 37, 57, 171. 
 
 ' Benbow,' 227. 
 
 Benett, .lohn, Esq., 61, 62. 
 
 Bennett, Kev. Mr., 29. 
 
 Besborough, Countess, 67, 69. 
 
 Betrothed pair in humble life, 
 story of, 181. 
 
 Binning, l^ord (now Karl of Had- 
 dington), 70. 
 
 ' BiuTii OF Flatteuy,' 156. 
 
 Black-legs, 317. 
 
 Blacknell. Miss, 41. 
 
 ' Blane, Sir Hector,' 386. 
 
 ' Blaney,' 223. 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert, 69, 115. 
 
 Boarding-schools for young ladies, 
 255 ; for boys, 256. 
 
 ' Boat Race, The,' 556. 
 
 Bonnycastle, Mr., 15, 52, 58. 
 
 Book-clubs, 210. 
 
 Books, 102, 105, .390. 
 
 ' Borough, The,' 171. 
 
 Bowles, Rev. W. L., 61, 66, 76. 
 
 Boxers, 442. 
 
 ' Boy, The Patronised,' 386. 
 
 Boy-bully, the, 257. 
 
 Boy-tyrant, 385. 
 
 ' Brand, Sir Denys,' 221. 
 
 Brereton, Miss, 6. 
 
 British Constitution, 381. 
 
 ' Brother Burgesses, The,' .544. 
 
 ' Brothers, The,' 360. 
 
 Brougham. Heni'y, Esq. (now 
 
 Lord), 67. 
 Browne, Sir Thomas, 200. 
 Bruce, the Traveller, 212, 321. 
 Brunton, Rev. Dr., 58. 
 Bunyan, John, 133. 
 Burcham, Mrs., 14. 
 ' Burials,' 146. 
 Burke, Right Hon. Edmund, 25, 
 
 3.3, 37, 63, 96, 97. 
 , Mrs., 28, 52. 
 
 Burns, Robert. 48. 
 Burrow, Mr. Reuben, 15. 
 Byron, Lord, 68, 274. 
 
 C. 
 Caligula, 230. 
 Calvin, 105. 
 Calvin) Stic enthusiast, preaching 
 
 of a, 191. 
 Calvinistic Methodists, 186. 
 Cambridge, 48. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, Esq., 67, 68. 
 ' Candidate, The,' 576. 
 Canning, Right Hon. George, 53, 
 
 70, 71. 
 ' Captain Dowling,' 229. 
 Card-clubs. 210. 
 Care, 102, 112, 156. 
 Cartwright. Dr. Edmund, 38. 
 Castle of Otranto, 240. 
 ' Cathedral AValk, The,' 492. 
 Charity, 2;>0. 
 Chaucer, 273. 
 ' Choice, The,' 575. 
 ' Church, The,' 178. 
 Church of Rome. 189. 
 Cnurch Bells, 180. 
 Church Reformers, 189. 
 Church-yard graves, 181. 
 Cibbor, CoUoy, 125, 296. 
 Clark, Norris, Esq., 80. 
 Clandian's Old jNIan, 151. 
 ' Clelia,' 225. 
 
 ' Clubs and Social Meetings,' 209. 
 Coddrington's ofience, 197. 
 College life, 257. 
 Comedy, 109. 
 ' Comparison, The,' 573. 
 ' Condemncil Felon,' 55, 2.53. 
 ' Confidant, The,' 342. 
 Conscience, 3.33, 338, 363. 
 ' Conscience, Struggles of,' 333. 
 Constitution, British, 381. 
 Controversy. 105. 
 ' Convert, The," 355. 
 
 Conway, Colonel, 10. 
 Corporation-doles. 195. 
 ' Courtship, The Frank,' 301. 
 ' Cousins, The,' 564. 
 Crabbe, George (poet's grand- 
 father), 2. 
 
 , George (poet's father), 2, 
 
 3, 4, 9. 
 
 9, 29. 
 
 Mrs. (poet's mothei-), 3, 
 
 -, Robert (poet's brothei-), 
 
 , John (poet's brother), 2. 
 
 , "William ("poet's brother), 
 
 o 
 
 , Mary (poet's sister), after- 
 wards Mrs. Sparkes, 3, 41. 
 
 Crabbe, George, his birth, pa- 
 rentage, and early education, 
 1 ; his apprenticeship to a sur- 
 geon, 6 ; his attachment to Miss 
 Elmy, afterwards his wife, 6 ; 
 his early attempts at versifica- 
 tion, 7 ; publishes ' Inebriety,' 
 a poem, 7 ; termination of Ids 
 apprenticeship, 8 ; his first visit 
 to London, 9 ; he sets up for 
 himself at Aldborough, 10 ; 
 failure of his plans there, 12 ; 
 ho gives up business, and pro- 
 ceeds to London as a literary 
 adventurer, 12; his difficulties 
 and distresses in London, 14 ; 
 he pubhshes ' The Candidate,' 
 15 ; his unsuccessful applica- 
 tions to Lord Korth, Lord 
 Shelburne, &c., 16; his 'Jour- 
 nal to Mira,' 16 ; his letter to 
 Burke, and its consequences, 
 25 ; publishes ' The Library,' 
 27 ; he is domesticated at 
 Beaconsfield, 27 ; takes orders, 
 28 ; is appointed curate at Ald- 
 borough, 29 ; appointed do- 
 mestic chaplain to the Duke 
 of Rutland, 31 ; removes to 
 Belvoir Castle, 32 ; publishes 
 ' The Village,' 33 ; marries Miss 
 Elmy, 36; he resides succes- 
 sively at Belvoir Castle and 
 Statliern, 36 ; increase of his 
 family, 36 ; publishes ' The 
 Newspaper,' 37; his mode of 
 life, occupations, and amuse- 
 ments, 37 ; becomes rector of 
 Muston, .38 ; visits and jour- 
 neys, 39 ; his residence at Par- 
 ham, 42— at Glemham, 44— and 
 at Rendham, 47 ; his second 
 residence at Muston, 50 ; pub- 
 lishes • The Parish Register." 
 51 ; appearance of the ' The 
 Borough,' 55 ; publishes the 
 'Tales" in Verse.' .56; death of 
 Mrs. Crabbe, 59 ; removal 
 from Leicestershire, 59 ; in- 
 
582 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 ducted to Trowbridge chiuxh, 
 60 ; his residence and habits of 
 life at Trowbridge, fiO ; his cor- 
 respondence witli JIary Lead- 
 beater, 64 ; his journal during 
 a visit to London. 67 ; publishes 
 'Tales of the Hall,' 73; his 
 visit to Edinburgh, 76 ; closing 
 j'ears of his life, 80; annual ex- 
 cursions, SO; domestic habits, 
 80 ; visits to Pucklechurch, 85 ; 
 his last tour to Clifton, Bristol, 
 &c., 87 ; his illness and death, 
 88 ; his funeral, 90. 
 
 Crabbe, Mrs. (the poet's wife), 
 36, 43, 45, 56, 59, 60. 
 
 Criticism, IIL 
 
 Croker, Kight Hon. J. W., 49. 
 
 Crowfoot, Dr., 63. 
 
 Cunning described, 156. 
 
 ' Curate, The,' 184. 
 
 D. 
 
 Dalby, Mr. Isaac, 15. 
 
 ' Dale, Sir Owen,' 441. 
 
 ' Danvers and Raj-ner,' 553. 
 
 Darwin, Dr., 106. 
 
 ' David Booth,' 281. 
 
 ' Dawkins,' 137. 
 
 Day, the happy, 402. 
 
 Day-schools, 255. 
 
 ' Dealer and Clerk, The,' 549. 
 
 ' Dean's Lady, The,' 545. 
 
 Death, ISO. 
 
 Debtors, different kinds of, 251. 
 
 Deists, 189. 
 
 Delay, 451. 
 
 ' Delay has Danger,' 4.50. 
 
 ' Dibble, Old,' the Se.\ton, 154. 
 
 ' Dinah,' 290. 
 
 Divinity, 105. 
 
 ' Doctor Glibb,' 152. 
 
 ' Doctor Mollet,' 288. 
 
 Dodsley, Robert, bookseller, 17, 
 
 27. 
 ' Dolly ISIurray,' 220. 
 ' Donald, The Gardener,' 141. 
 Donn, Mr. James, 48. 
 Drayton's Polyolbion, 171, 173. 
 Dreams, 71. 
 
 ' Dreams, The World of,' 268. 
 Dryden, 274. 
 Duck, Stephen, 114. 
 ' Dumb Orators : or the Benefit 
 
 of Society,' 276. 
 Duncan, .lohn, Esq., 85, 90. 
 
 E. 
 
 Edinburgh, 77. 
 
 E<lucati()n, 2.54. 
 
 ' Edward Huntly,' 314. 
 
 ' Edward Shore,' 32C. 
 
 ' Election, The,' 194. 
 
 ' Ellen,' 482. 
 
 ' i:il('n Orford,' 239. 
 
 ' Ellis,' 446. 
 
 l",lmy. Miss Sarah, afterwards the 
 poets wife, 6, 10, 11, 29, 31, 
 36, 40. Si-K Crabbe, Mrs. 
 
 Emi)iric, history of an adver- 
 tising, 203. 
 
 Englcficid, Sir Harry, 70, 71. 
 Eulouiologist, the Weaver,' 20.5. 
 
 Envy described, 1 57. 
 
 ' Epistle to a Friend,' 22. 
 
 ' Epistle to Prince William 
 
 Henry,' 16. 
 ' Equal jNIarriage, The,' 526. 
 ' Eusebius,' 230. 
 
 ' Family of Love, The,' 516. 
 
 ' Fanny Price,' 145. 
 
 ' Fakkwell and Return,' 534. 
 
 ' Farmer Ellis,' 446. 
 
 Fen, picture of a, 318. 
 
 Fiction, 110. 
 
 ' Flattekv, Bfrth of,' 1.56. 
 
 ' Flirtation, a Dialogue,' 370. 
 
 Forgiveness, example of, 449. 
 
 Foscolo, Ugo, 68. 
 
 Foundling, vestry debate on a, 
 
 139. 
 Fox, Right Hon. Charles James. 
 
 43, 51, 95, 98, 143. 
 
 , Mrs., 67. 
 
 ' Fragment, written at JMidnight,' 
 
 575. 
 ' Frank Courtship, The,' 301. 
 ' Frederick Thompson,' 218. 
 Free-and-easy club, 211. 
 Freedom, 380. 
 Freemasons' club, 212. 
 Friendship, 553. 
 ' Frugal -Alerchant, The,' 220. 
 Fry, Mrs., 437. 
 
 Genius, 296, 320, .387. 
 
 ' Gentleman Farmer, The,' 285. 
 
 ' Gerard Ablett,' 137. 
 
 ' Ghost ; Lady "Barbara, or The,' 
 
 466. 
 Ghosts, 466, 493. 
 Gipsy-tribe, 318. 
 Glemham, 43, 60. 
 ' Give me, ye powers that rule in 
 
 gentle hearts.' 573. 
 ' Glibb, Dr.,' 152. 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, 17, 296. 
 ' Goldsmith to the Author,' 573. 
 Goodwyn, Dr. Edmund, 201. 
 Gordon, Dr., 42. 
 Graham, Dr., 130. 
 
 , i\Irs. Maria (now Mrs. 
 
 Caleott), 70. 
 ' Grandspear, Dr.,' 1.54. 
 Great, distresses peculiar to the, 
 
 119. 
 
 , favourites of the, 297. 
 
 Green Man, landlord of the, 215. 
 
 ' Gregorians,' 213. 
 
 ' Gretna Green,' 462. 
 
 ' GuEV, Siu Eustace,' 162. 
 
 Grey, Earl, ,52. 
 
 Griggs, 213. 
 
 ' Gwyn, the Gentleman Farmer,' 
 
 285. 
 Guy of Warwick, 264. 
 
 II. 
 
 Habit, 380, 383. 
 Iladddii, Mr. Richard, 5. 
 Hallord, Sir Henry, 107, 147. 
 ' Hai.l or JusTicK,' 167. 
 
 ' Hammond,' 278. 
 
 ' Harry Bland,' 389. 
 
 Hatto, Bishop, 514. 
 
 Hayward, Lieutenant, 10. 
 
 ' Henry and Emma,' 459. 
 
 Henry Carr, 306. 
 
 ' Highwayman, The Condemned,' 
 
 55, 2.53. 
 Historians, 109. 
 History, 109. 
 
 Hoare, Samuel, Esq., 69, 76, 80. 
 Holland, Lord, 51, 53, 74, 95, 99. 
 
 , Lady, 67, 69. 
 
 Holofernes, 384. 
 
 Holyrood House, 77. 
 
 Honour, 323. 
 
 ' Hospital, The,' 230. 
 
 Houses of Industry, 232. 
 
 Huntington, Rev, William, 55, 
 
 186, 191. 
 Huskisson, Right Hon. William, 
 
 70. 
 
 Idiot pauper, 233. 
 Impressment, 396. 
 Industry, Houses of, 232. 
 ' Inebriety,' 7, 570. 
 ' Infancy,' 260. 
 Infant schools, 254. 
 Infidel, the rustic, 140. 
 ' Inns,' 213. 
 ' Isaac Ashford,' 150. 
 
 J. 
 
 ' Jachin, the Parish Clerk,' 2.36. 
 
 ' .Tacob Holmes,' 181. 
 
 ' Jane,' 539. 
 
 .Jealousy, 402, 485. 
 
 Jeffrey, Francis, Esq. (now Sir 
 
 Fi-ancis), 52, 77. 
 Jersey, Countess of, Lines on her 
 
 Birthday, 266. 
 ' Jesse and Colin,' 328. 
 Jews, 190. 
 
 • John Dighton,' 355. 
 Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 28, 33, 97, 
 
 114. 
 ' Jonas Kindred,' 301. 
 Jordan, Mrs., 35. 
 ' Journal to Mira,' 16. 
 ' Judith,' 281. 
 Juhan, 191. 
 ' Juliet Hart,' 215. 
 ' Justice Bolt,' 276. 
 
 Katterfelto, Dr., 130. 
 Kensington Gardens, 68. 
 Kerrison, Dr., 81. 
 King, Mr., 44. 
 
 L. 
 
 Lackington, James, bookseller, 
 
 355, 360. 
 ' Lad's Love,' 559. 
 ' Ladies of the Lake,' 260. 
 ' Lady Barbara, or the Ghost." 
 
 466. 
 Lady of the ^lanor, 149. 
 Lake School of Poetry, 48. 
 Lamb, Lady Caroline, 70. 
 Lansdowne, Marquis of, 68, 69. 
 
 >\ 
 
' Laughton,' 222. 
 
 Law, 108, 196, 198. 
 
 ' Lay of the Last Minstrel,' 48. 
 
 Leadbeater, Mrs., 64, 65, 72, 76, 
 79, 80, 82. 
 
 ' Leah Cousins, the parish mid- 
 wife,' 152. 
 
 ' Learned Boy, The,' 364. 
 
 Ledyard, Mr., 100, 170. 
 
 ' Let me not have this gloomy 
 view,' 420. 
 
 Levett, William Springhall, 6. 
 
 ' Library, The,' 101. 
 
 ' Life,' 574. 
 
 Lines in Laura's x4.1bum, 264. 
 
 — written at Warwick, 264. 
 
 on a drawing of the elm 
 
 tree under which the Duke of 
 Wellington stood during the 
 battle of Waterloo, 2C5. 
 
 on receiving from a lady a 
 
 present of a ring, 266. 
 to a Lady with some poeti- 
 cal extracts, 266. 
 • to a Lady who desired 
 
 some verses at parting, 267. 
 onrevisiting Glemham after 
 
 the death of Mrs. Crabbe, 60. 
 Liston, John, comedian, 58. 
 Literary Fund, 54, 185. 
 Literary life, good of, 258. 
 Literature, consolations of, 112. 
 Litigation, spirit of, how stirred 
 
 up, 197. 
 London, 70, 71. 
 Loneliness, 2.58. 
 ' Lover's Journey, The,' 316. 
 Lockhart, J. G., Esq., 76, 77-79. 
 Love, 411. 
 
 • Love, Natural Death of,' 458. 
 ' Love ! I have seen a tiger on his 
 
 prey,' 411. 
 Love that survives marriage, 
 
 4.59 ; that dies in consequence, 
 
 459. 
 ' Lucy Collins,' 144. 
 Lutlier, 105. 
 Luxury, 108. 
 
 M. 
 
 Mackenzie, Henry, Esq., 77, 78. 
 
 Mackintosh, Sir James, 75. 
 
 Madness, 100, 324. 
 
 ' Magnet, The,' 262. 
 
 ' Maid's Story, The,' 431. 
 
 Maniac, 324. 
 
 Manners, Lord Robert, 33, 120- 
 
 123. 
 Manse!, Rev. Dr. (afterwards 
 
 Bishop of Bristol), 52. 
 ' Mansion, The Ancient,' 540. 
 ' Marriages,' 141. 
 MaskilJ, Mr., 9, 10. 
 ' Master William ; or, Lad's 
 
 Love,' 559. 
 aiedicine, books of, their variety, 
 
 107. 
 ' Merchant, The,' 542. 
 Methodists, 185, 191. 
 Miller's daughter, 135. 
 Mind accommodates itself to all 
 
 situations, 250. 
 ' Mira, Stanzas to,' 735. 
 
 Miser Boy, the, 257. 
 ' Mollet, Doctor,' 288. 
 Montague, Mrs. Elizabeth, 97. 
 Monuments, 180. 
 Moore, Thomas, Esq., 67, 74. 
 ' Mother, The,' 310. 
 Mural monuments, 180. 
 Murray, John, Esq., 67, 68, 73, 74, 
 
 375. 
 Music, 390. 
 Bluston, 56. 
 ' My Birthday,' 574. 
 ' JMy Damon was the first to 
 
 wake,' 409. 
 ' My days, oh ye lovers, were 
 
 happily sped,' 7. 
 ' My Mira, shepherds, is as fair,' 7. 
 
 N. 
 
 ' Nathan Kirk,' 141. 
 
 ' Natural Death of Love,' 458. 
 
 Naturalist, the, 204. 
 
 ' Newspaper, The,' 124. 
 
 Newspapers, origin of, 126. 
 
 Nichols, John, Esq., 42. 
 
 ' Night,' 574. 
 
 Normanston, 41. 
 
 North, Dudley, Esq., 13, 43, 58. 
 
 North, Lord, 21. 
 
 Novels, 44, 47. 
 
 o. 
 
 ' Oh ! do not ask the Muse to 
 
 show,' 267. 
 ' Oh ! great Apollo ! by whose 
 
 equal aid,' 575. 
 ' Oil ! sacred gift of God to man !' 
 
 574. 
 ' Oh, Thou ! who taught my 
 
 infant eye,' 573. 
 Old age, first coming on of, 428. 
 ' Old Bachelor, The/ 424. 
 O'Neil, Miss, 69. 
 Order, love of, 46, 366. 
 ' Orlando,' 317. 
 Orphan girl, 138. 
 
 P. 
 
 Page, Mr., 6. 
 
 Pamphlets, 104, 127. 
 
 Parents, ill judgment of, in dis- 
 posing of their sons, 204. 
 
 Parham, 40, 42. 
 
 ' Parish Register, The,' 99, 132. 
 
 Parish apothecary, 117. 
 
 ' Parish Clerk, The,' 23C. 
 
 Parish priest, 117. 
 
 Parish se.xton, 154. 
 
 Parish wedding, 142. 
 
 Parisli workhouse, 117. 
 
 ' Parting Hour, The,' 281. 
 
 Party spirit, 381. 
 
 Pastoral Poetry, 114. 
 
 ' Patron, The,' 294. 
 
 Pauper, the dying, 117. 
 
 Peasant, cottage of an indus- 
 trious, described, 132. 
 
 Peasantry, state of, as ameliorated 
 by frugality and industry, 132. 
 
 ' Peter Grimes,' 246, 250. 
 
 ' Peter Nottage,' 218. 
 
 ' Peter Pratt, the pedantic 
 gardener,' 138. 
 
 Philips' 'Splendid Shilling,' 213. 
 Phillips, Thomas, Esq., K.A., 68, 
 70, 74. 
 
 Mrs., 69. 
 
 Philosophy, 106. 
 
 ' Pha^be Dawson,' 51, 99, 142, 143. 
 
 Physic, 107. 
 
 , profession of, 200. 
 
 Physician, worth and excellence 
 of the true, 200. 
 
 Pictures, 390. 
 
 Players, 216, 217, 220. 
 
 Poet, character of the true, 275, 
 399, 400. 
 
 Poet's Club, 68. 
 
 ' Poet's Journal, The,' 16. 
 
 Poetry and Painting, 273. 
 
 Poetry, religious, 99. 
 
 Poison tree, 291. 
 
 ' Poor, and their Dwellings,' 232. 
 
 Poor, state of the, when improvi- 
 dent, vicious, 134. 
 
 Poor Man's Club, 212. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, 274, 296. 
 
 Poverty, 156. 
 
 Prayers and Meditations, 12, 24. 
 
 ' Preaching and Practice,' 567. 
 
 ' Preceptor Husband, The,' 420. 
 
 ' Precipitate Choice, The,' 325. 
 
 Preparatory schools, 255. 
 
 Press-gang, 396. 
 
 Prisons, 250, 254. 
 
 Prize-fights, 442. 
 
 ' Procrastination,' 290. 
 
 ' Professions,' 196. 
 
 Progress of societj% 108. 
 
 ' Proud, little Man, opinion's 
 slave,' 573. 
 
 Pufi's, 130. 
 
 Q. 
 
 Quackery, evils of, 201. 
 Quacks, advertising, 202. 
 Quay of Slaughden, 3, 176. 
 ' Quid juvat errores,' &c., 160. 
 
 11. 
 ' Rachel,' 529. 
 Reason, 106, 321, 356, 359. 
 Rector, the, 458. 
 ' Rejected Addresses,' 81. 
 Religion, sects and professions in, 
 
 188. 
 Religious Poetry, 99. 
 ' Resentment,' 347. 
 ' Resurrection, The,' 574. 
 Retirement, effect of, on the 
 
 mind, 391. 
 Revenge, 442, 534. 
 ' Reuben Dixon,' 255. 
 ' Reuben and Rachel,' 145. 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 27, 33. 34, 
 
 97. 
 ' Richard Jlonday,' 139. 
 Riches, 516. 
 Ring, on receiving from a lady 
 
 a present of a, 266. 
 Riots in 1780, account of, 23. 
 ' Kobin Diiigley,' 151. 
 Robinson, Riglit Hon. Frederick 
 
 (now Earl of Ripon), 70. 
 ' Roger Cufi'.' 1.53. 
 Rogers, Samuel, Esq., 66, 68, 71, 
 
 75. 
 
584 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Rogers, Miss, 68. 
 
 Komances, ancient, 109. 
 
 Kome, Omrch of, 18lI. 
 
 Ilomilly, Sir Samuel, 502. 
 
 Rousseau, 437. 
 
 ' Rupert,' 290. 
 
 Rustic life, reasons for the poet's 
 
 unpleasant view of, ll'J. 
 Rustic infidel, 140. 
 ' liutli,' 3-)5. 
 Rutland, Charles, fourth Duke 
 
 of, 31,33, 35,38, 98, 112, 120. 
 Rutland, John Henry, fifth Duke 
 
 of, 48, 55, 60, 79, 171. 
 — ~, Mary-Isabella, Duchess 
 
 of, 32, 38. 
 
 Elizabeth, Duchess of. 
 
 375. 
 
 S. 
 
 Sabbath, pleasures of a summer, 
 118. 
 
 ' Sacrament, The,' 574. 
 
 ' Satire,' 262. 
 
 Sceptical authors, 106. 
 
 Schoolboys, 385. 
 
 ' Schoolfellow, The,' 536. 
 
 Schoolmaster, 255. 
 
 Schoolmistress, 138, 213, 233. 
 
 ' Schools,' 254, 385. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 48, 53, 56, 58, 
 67, 76, 77, 143. 
 
 Sea, summer and winter views of, 
 177. 
 
 Sea productions, 207. 
 
 Sea-side walks, 207. 
 
 ' See, with what ease the child- 
 like god,' 264. 
 
 ' Sects and Professions in Reli- 
 gion,' 188. 
 
 Settle, Elkanah, 125. 
 
 Shelburne, Lord, 22. 
 
 Ship-building, 176. 
 
 Shipwreck at night, 178. 
 
 Siddons, Mrs., 35, 130. 
 
 ' Silford Hall ; or, the Happy 
 Day,' .509. 
 
 Simulation, 158. 
 
 ' Sir Denys Brand,' 221. 
 
 ' Sir Eustace Grev,' 162. 
 
 ' Sir Owen Dale,' 441. 
 
 » Sisters, The,' 412. 
 
 Slaughden Quay, 3, 176. 
 
 Slaughden Vale, 3. 
 
 Smokers' club, 212. 
 
 Smugglers, 115. 
 
 ' Smugglers and Poachers,' 496. 
 
 Society, progress of, 108. 
 
 Solwo.y Moss, 189. 
 
 Sorrow, address to, 152. 
 
 Soul, the, 316. 
 
 Southey, Robert, Esq., LL.D., 96. 
 
 Spencer, Hon. William, 69. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund, 156. 
 
 ' Splendid Shilling,' 213. 
 
 ' Squire Asgill,' 228. 
 
 ' Squire Thomas, or the Preci- 
 pitate Choice,' 325. > 
 
 Stage, the, 109. 
 Stanzas to Mira, 573. 
 
 ■ — to Eliza, 574. 
 
 to a Lady, on leaving 
 
 her at Sidmouth, 266. 
 to the Countess of 
 
 Jersey, on her Birthday, 266. 
 
 ' Storm and Calm,' 262. 
 
 ' Struggles of Conscience,' 333. 
 
 Students, 385. 
 
 Study, comforts arising from, 258. 
 
 Summer Sabbath, pleasures of, 
 118. 
 
 Susjjense, 403. 
 
 Sutton, Right Hon. Charles Man- 
 ners, 70. 
 
 ' Swallow,' the knavish attorney, 
 l!)9. 
 
 Swedenhorgians, 1 90. 
 
 'Sybil Kindred,' 301. 
 
 T. 
 
 Tales, 271. 
 
 ' Tales of the Hall,' 73, 375. 
 
 Taverns, 213. 
 
 ' The hour arrived ! I sigh'd and 
 
 said,' 13. 
 ' The sober stillness of the night,' 
 
 574. 
 ' The whistling boy that holds 
 
 the plough,' 535. 
 ' Think ye the joys that fill our 
 
 early day,' 574. 
 Thoroton, Mr. Robert, 33. 
 Thurlow, Lord Chancellor, 29, 31, 
 
 34, 38, 124. 
 Timbrill, Thomas, Esq., 63. 
 Time, 160. 
 Tombs, 180. 
 Tories, 50, 381. 
 To veil, :Mr., 10, 11, 40, 42. 
 
 , Mrs., 11, 41,42. 
 
 Town scenery, difficulty of de- 
 scribing, 175. 
 ' Trades,' 204. 
 Tragedy, 109. 
 Travelling for orders, origin of 
 
 the practice, 188. 
 Tulip mania, 204. 
 Turner, Rev. Richard, 43, 47, 50, 
 
 51, 55, 99. 
 
 — , Dawson, Esq., 86. 
 
 , Mrs. Dawson, 86. 
 
 Tyrant boy, the, 257. 
 
 U. 
 
 ' Unhappy is the wretch vrho 
 
 feels,' 63. 
 Universalists, 190. 
 Upas, or poison tree, 291. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vale of Belvoir, 37, .57, 171. 
 Vega, Lope de, 96, 99. 
 Vengeance, 534. 
 Vestry debate on a foundling, 137. 
 
 ' Vicar, The,' 182. 
 Vickery, Mr., 14. 
 • Village, The,' 33, 96, 114. 
 Village apothecary, 117. 
 Village detraction, 119. 
 justice, 119. 
 
 life, 116, 118, 119. 
 
 priest, 117. 
 
 schoolmistress, 138. 
 
 ' Villars,' 530. 
 Voltaire, 224. 
 
 W. 
 
 ' Wager, The,' 352. 
 Waldron, W., Esq., 60. 
 , Miss, 41, 81. 
 
 Walter and William,' story of, 
 
 205. 
 Weather-stains, 179. 
 Weaver entomologist, the, 205. 
 Wellington, Duke of, Lines on a 
 
 drawing of the elm tree under 
 
 which he stood during the 
 
 battle of Waterloo, 265. 
 Wesley, Rev. John, 41, 51, 191, 
 
 193, 194. 
 ' When all the fiercer passions 
 
 cease,' &c., 160. 
 Whigs, 50, 381. 
 Whist-table, 211. 
 Whitfield, Rev. George, 191. 
 ' Widow, The,' 476. 
 ' Widow Goe,' 148. 
 ' Widow's Tale, The,' 306. 
 ' Wife and Widow, The,' 546. 
 Wilbraham, Roger, Esq., 53, 69. 
 ' Will, The,' 561. 
 ' William Bailey,' 485. 
 Wilson, John, Esq., 77. 
 Vk^ine, 228, 323. 
 Winstanley, Rev. Thomas, 19. 
 ' Wish, The,' 7, 573. 
 ' Woman !' 170. 
 ' Woman,' 100. 
 
 Woodfall, Henry Samson, 127. 
 Wordsworth, William, Esq., his 
 
 character of Crabbe's poetry, 
 
 117. 
 ' Workhouse, parish,' 117. 
 ' World of Dreams,' 268. 
 
 « Ye gentle gales, that softly 
 
 move,' &c., 572. 
 ' Yes ! I must go — it is a part,' 
 
 266. 
 ' Yes, I behold again the place,' 60. 
 ' Young Paris was the shepherds' 
 
 pride,' 560. 
 Young, Dr., his ' Night Thoughts,' 
 
 376. 
 
 Zeal, eflFects of false, 188. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 rillNTnD DT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMrORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. 
 
TNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA i^lxiK. lY 
 
 14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED ^l 
 
LD9-20m-10,'64(E9498s4)4185 
 
 GENERAL LIBRARY - U.C. BERKELEY 
 
 4 4 /.4 r ? 
 
 >-.,' 
 
 ^VAj»^>: 
 
 
 ►^-i"? 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY