Y.W.G.A. 0£NTfi#-.L ^'LUB GREAT RUSCZlL STREET, W.C.I. RUSS£ UL STREET W.C.I. QliEAT -L,'on.don . Jolm ICurraY. .AXbeuutrle Street , 1860. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 THE LIFE AND POETICAL WORKS , OF THK REV. GEORGE CRAB BE. in ins son. \ NEW AND ( ( ) M I I .1 . I I . I'.DI'ITON. WITH PORTRAIT AND ENGRAVINGS. LONDON ; JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 1866. LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES .AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, AND CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS. CON T ENTS. Paok LIFE OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE ix. Dedication: To the Ki:v. W. L. Bowles, Canon or Salisiu'rv, &c xi. Preface. *»>• Chapter I. 1754 — 1775 1 II. 1775—1780 8 HI. 1780 13 IV. 1781 25 V. 1782—1783 ( 31 VI. 1784—1792 30 VII. 1792—1804 42 VIII. 180. r >— 1814 50 IX. 1814—1819 : 60 X. 1823—1832 80 I UK POETICAL WORKS OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE ;.3 \ DVERTISEMENT TO THE POEMS 94 Dedication : To Tin: Kioirr Monoi-rahle Loud Holland 95 Preface to Poems tuhlished in 1807 96 THE LIBRARY - 101 THE VILLAGE: Book I - 114 II _ i 118 Appendix: Character or Lohi> Uoiicut Manners 121 'I'll E NEWSPAPER: Dedication' : To the Rioiit Honoirahle Lord Tir hlow 124 To the Reader 124 The Newspaper - 125 a 2 CONTENTS. THE PARISH REGISTER: P A0E Part I. Baptisms 132 II. Marriages 141 III. Burials 146 THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY 156 REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT " Quid juvat errores, mersa jam pnppe, fateri ? Quid lacrymae delicta juvant commissa secuttB ?" 160 SIR EUSTACE GREY 1C2 THE HALL OF JUSTICE: Part 1 167 II 168 WOMAN 170 THE BOROUGH: Dedication: To his Grace the Dlke of Rutland 171 Preface 172 Letter I. General Description 175 II. The Church 178 III. The Vicar, 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 VIII. Trades 204 IX. Amusements 206 X. Clubs and Social Meetings 209 XI. Inns 213 XH. Players 216 XIII. The Almshouse and Trustees 220 XIV. Inhabitants of the Almshouse : Life of Blaney 223 XV. „ „ „ „ Clelia 225 XVI. „ „ „ „ Benbow 227 XVII. The Hospital and Governors 230 XVIII. The Poor and their Dwellings 232 XIX. The Poor of the Borough : The Parish Clerk 236 XX. „ „ ,, „ Ellen Orford 239 XXI. „ „ „ „ AbelKeene 243 XXH. „ „ „ „ Peter Grimes 246 XXIII. Prisons 250 XXIV. Schools 254 CONTEN'IS. OCCASIONAL PIFXES: Page The Ladies op the Lake 260 Infancy — A Fragment 2G0 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 Klm Tree under which the Dike of Wellington stood several times during the battle of waterloo 265 On receiving from a Lady a Present of a King 266 To a Lady with some Poetical Extracts. „ 266 To a Lady on leaving lint at Sidmoith 266 To Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on her Birthday 266 To a Lady who desired .some Verses at parting 267 THE WOULD OF DREAMS - 268 TALES: Dedication : To Her Grace Isauella, Duchess Dc w ac. er of Rutland 271 Preface 272 Talc L The Dimu Orators; on, the Benefit oj Society 276 D, The Partino Hour 281 III. The Gentleman Farmer 285 IV. Procrastination 2'JO V. The Patron 204 VI. The Frank Courtship 301 VII. The Widow's Tale 306 VIII. The Mother 310 IX. Arabella 313 X. The Lover's Jouhnet 316 XL Edward Shore 820 XII. 'Squire Thomas ; on, the Pr ecu-it ate 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 XVIII. The Wager 352 XIX. The Convert 355 XX. The Brothers 360 XXI. The Learned Boy 364 FLIRTATION : A DIALOGUE 370 \ i CONTENTS. TALES OF THE HALL: Page Dedication : To Her Grace the Duchess or Rutland 375 Preface 376 Book I. The Hall 379 II. The Brothers 383 HI. Boys at School 385 IV. Adventures of Richard 390 V. Ruth 395 VI. Adventures of Richard — concluded 399 VII. The Elder Brother 404 Vni. The Sisters 412 IX. The Preceptor Husband 420 X. The Old Bachelor 424 XI. The BIaid'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- Walk 492 XXI. Smugglers and Poachers 496 XXII. The Visrr concluded 502 POSTHUMOUS TALES 508 Dedication : To Samuel Rogers, Esq 508 Advertisement 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 534 Vn. „ „ „ The Schoolfellow 536 VIII. „ „ „ „ Barnaby, the Shopman 537 IX. „ „ „ „ Jane 539 X. „ „ „ „ The Ancieni Mansion 540 XI. ,, „ „ „ The Merchant 542 XII. „ „ ,, „ The Brother Burgesses 544 XIII. „ „ „ „ The Dean's Lady 545 XIV. „ ,, ,, „ The Wife and Widow 546 XV. „ „ „ „ Belinda Waters 548 XVI „ ,, ,, „ The Dealer and Clerk 549 XVII „ ,, „ „ Danvers and Rayner 553 XVIII. „ „ .. „ The Boat-Race 556 CONTENTS. vii POSTHUMOUS TALES-continued: vxor. Tale XIX. The Farewell and Return: Master William; or, Lad's Love 559 XX. „ „ „ „ The Will 5G1 XXI. ,. „ „ „ TheCousixs 564 XXTI. „ „ „ „ Preachino ami Practice. 567 APPENDIX 570 No. I. Inebriety, A Por.u ; published at Ipswich, in 1775 570 II. Fragments op Verse, from Mr. Crabce's early Note-Rooks 572 " Ye gentle Gales " 572 Mira 678 II vm» — " Oh, thou, who taught my infant eye" 573 Tub Wish. 573 The Comparison 573 Goldsmith to the Author 573 Fragment — " Proud, little Man. opinion's slave" 573 The Resurrection 574 My Birthday, December 24, 1778 574 To Eliza — " The Hebrew King with spleen posscst " 574 Life — " Think ye the joys that 611 our enrly day " 574 The Sacrament—" O I sacred gift of God to man " 574 Night — " The sober stillness of the night " 574 Fraoment — Written at Midnight 575 Time 575 The Choice 575 III. The Candidate; a Poetical Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly Review 57C INDEX 581 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Portrait of Rf.v. Geo roe Cradbk, R Tiio-i. 1'iiillii-s, R.A frontispiece. Abel Keene Vignette Title page. Aldhorough, Scffolk, the Birthplace of Crahbe page 3 Craihib's First Church «» The Borough. " Though deaf, she srrs tilt rebel heroes shout " 2, r >4 Talks. " Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair " 281 Tales. "htf.lt Close to the door ichere he was tcont to dwelt " 352 Tales of the HALL. " And would the butler and the cook surprise " ( viii ) PREFACE TO THE LIFE. The success of some recent biographical works, evidently written by unpractised hands, suggested to me the possibility that my 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 father'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 much 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 whish I have been kindly permitted to enrich this humble Memoir. The letters and extracts of letters from Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Roger Wilbraham, 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, the Marquis of Lans- downe, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, the Right Hon. J. W. Croker, the Rev. Richard Turner, and the other living gentlemen, whose correspondence has been as serviceable to my labours as it was honourable to my father's character, for leave to avail myself of these valuable materials. I cannot conclude, without expressing my sense of the important assistance which lias 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 ; who, however, does not permit me to mention his name on this occasion. On the assistance I have received from my brother, and another member of my own family, it would be impertinent to dwell. Puckxkchurcu, January 6, 1S34. LIFE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. CHAPTER I. 1754—1775. Mr. Cralilie'* Hirtli, IVcntOKc, and Early Education — His Apprentlccihlp to a Surgeon — Ilia AtUclirocnt to Mia Blmyi afterwards liis Wife— Publication of " Inebriety," a l'm-'tn. As one of the severest calamities of life, the loss of our first ami dearest friends, can he escaped by none whose own days are not prematurely cut short, the most pious affection must he contented to pray that the affliction may come on u- uni- dually, and after we have formed new connections to sustain us, and, in part at least, till up the void. In this view, the present writer hits every reason to consider with humble thankfulness the period and circumstances of his father's de- parture. The growing decline of In* bodily ! strcnirth had been perceptible to all around him for several years. He himself had long set the example of looking forward w ith calmness to the j hour of his dissolution ; and if the firmne.ss and ; resignation of a Christian's death-bed must ! doubly endear his memory to his children, they also afford indescribable consolation after the Mem is closed. At an earlier period, Mr. Crabbe's death would have plunged his family in insupportable suffering : 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 iioculiuriticsof 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 memoirs 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 committed to writing more than a twelvemonth before his decease. At the time w hen 1 was thus occupied, although his heallh 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 tomb; and I pleased 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. Hut he was at last carried off 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. Crabbc 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 fuirncss 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 hint 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 w hich 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 office which my respect for my father — even if there were nothing else — would render it impos- sible for me to attempt. I ain 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 been settled, from a remote period, in Norfolk, and in different sea- faring places on the coast of Suffolk ; and it 2 LIFE OF seems probable that the first who assumed it was a fisherman. 1 A pilot, by name Crabbe, of Walton, was consulted as a man of remarkable experience, about the voyage of Edward the Third, previous 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 ; for 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. George 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 place he removed to Norton, near Loddon, in Norfolk, where ho united the humble offices of schoolmaster and parish clerk. He at length returned to Aldborough. where, after acting for many years as warehouse-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 all 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, mild, patient, affec- tionate, and deeply religious in her turn of mind ; and by her he had six children, all of whom, except one girl, lived to mature years. George Crabbe, the Poet, was the eldest of the family ; and was born at Aldborough, on the Christmas-eve of 1754. 2 His next brother, Robert, was bred to the business of a glazier, and is now living in retirement at Southwold. John Crabbe, the third son, served for some time in the royal navy, and became subsequently 1 " I cannot account for the vanity of that one of my an- cestors who first (being dissatisfied with the four letters which composed the name of ' Crab,' the sour fruit, or ' Crab/ the crusty fish) added his be by way of disguise. Alas! he gained nothing worth his trouble ; but he has brought upon me, his descendant after I know not how many generations, a question bevond my abilities to answ er." — Mr. Crabbe to Mr. Cltantrey, Dec. 11, 1822. ' l "When my grandfather first settled in Aldborough, he lived in an old house in that range of buildings which the sea has now almost demolished. The chambers projected far over the ground-floor ; and the windows were small, with dia- mond panes, almost impervious to the light. In this gloomy dwelling the Poet was born. The house of which Mr. Bernard Barton has published a print as " the birth-place of Crabbe " was inhabited by the family during my father's boyhood. A view of it, by Stanfield, forms the vignette to this volume. CRABBE. 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. Beinc made prisoner by the Spaniards, 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 found 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 was informed, that his eldest 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!" This was the first, and it was also the last, tidings 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 Iteturn'd exulting 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, — "Where 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, And never mcntion'd Luther in my life ; Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick, And was a most obedient Catholick. But I had money — and these pastors found My notions vague, heretical, unsound.' " Alas, poor Allen ! through his wealth were seen Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been : Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown, Are in an instant through the varnish shown. They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly ; Or for his crime and contumacy die. Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight ; His wife, his children, weeping in his sight, All urging him to flee— he lied, and cursed ills 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 labouring seamen heard his native tongue : 9 JEfL.rrj.i.'J ty -E.JTirulsn. A JL B IB © M © U © M S UFF OLE. The Birth place of Crib'be- lrl&htS. l>y JVhn 3{wr.y,^ni>cmaTl£ Street.Iieo.' LIFE OF CKAB1JE. 3 Again he heard— he seized an olTer'd liand — ' And when beheld you last our native land ?' He cried; 'and in what country? quickly say.' The seamen answer'd — strangers all were they — tine only at hit native port liad been ; He landing once the quay and church had seen." &c. The youngest of this family, Mary, became the wife of Mr. Si arkes, 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 father's papers the following lines, referring to the feelings with which, in the darkening evening of life, he still recurred to that early distress : — " Dut It was misery stung me in the day Death of an inf int sister made his prey ; Fur then first mot 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, somo 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 ncusjons; but the darker trails 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 |wssionately devoted to the little girl, whose untimely death drew from hint 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 hiirhly marked countenance, not unlike in linea- ments, as iny lather used to say, to that of Howard the philanthropist j but stamped with the trace of passions which that illustrious man either knew not or had subdued. Aldbornugh (or, as it is more correctly written, Aldebnrgh) 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 Ocrman Ocean. It consisted of two parallel and umtaved streets, running between mean and scrambling houses, the alwdes 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 appear. -d crei I among the desolation. ' * " From an accurate plan of the Iwrongh, which was taken In I to 0 , It appears that the church was then more than ten times its present distance from the shore; and also that there were Pen'-* of some extent, similar to those at Yarmouth, betWCan the town and the sea, which have long been swal- lowed up and lost. After vcrv high tides, the remains of wells hnv • been frequently discovered below high-water mark."— Aldhurough Described, by the Iter. James Ford, p. I. I have often heard my father describe a tremen- dous spring-tide of, 1 think, the 1st of January, 1779, when eleven houses here 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 offing — 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 " few 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 pjown o'er, Is'iids the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ; From thence n length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withcr'd ears ; Kank weeds, that every art and care defy, Keign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye ; There thistles spread their prickly arms afar, And tv the ragged infants threaten war." The " broad river," called the Aid, approaches the sea close to Aldboroui;li, within a few hun- dred yards, and then turning abruptly continues to run for about ten miles |>arallel to the beach, — from w hich, for the most part, a dreary strijK? 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 IJird, 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. Crabhc with many of his happiest and most graphical descriptions : and the same may be said of the whole line of 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 painted 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 nil tilings base, Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. . . . B 2 4 LIFE OF CRABBE. Yon is our quay ! those smaller hoys from tow n Its various wares for country use bring down." &e. &e. The powerful effect with which Mr. Crabbe has depicted the ocean itself, both in its calm and its tempestuous aspects, may lead many to infer that, had he been born and educated in a region of mountains and forests, he might have represented them also as happily 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 parts 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 portraycr 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, few 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 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." 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 difference 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 place. He pos- sessed a share in a fishing-boat, in which lie not unfrequently 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 for 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, are 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 touch'd on either side. It was my lirst-born joy — I heard them say ' Let the child go ; lie will enjoy the day ; For children ever feel delighted when They take their portion and enjoy with men. The linnet chirped upon the fur/.e as well, To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. Without was Paradise — because within Was a keen relish, 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 lind. 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. 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. The 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 surge, 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- ever, 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 afford. My father was, indeed, in a great measure, self-educated. After he could read at all — and LIFE OF CRABBE. 5 he was a great favourite with the old dame who taught him — lie was unwearied in reading ; and he devoured without restraint whatever eamc 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. Crabbc retained, to the close of life, a Strong partiality for marvellous talcs of even this liiiiulilc class. Inverse he delighted, from the earliest time thai he could read. His father took in a periodical work, called " Martin's Philoso- phical Magazine," which contained, at the i (id of each number, a sheet of " occasional poetrv. " 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 COIlteiltl until he had most of them by heart. The hoy ere long tried to imitate the pieces which he thus studied ; and one of which, he used to say, particularly Btrut k his childish fancy by this terrible concluding couplet, — " The Ixwt \wnt down in flames of (Ire, Which made the people all admire." Mild, obliging, and the most patient of listen- ers, he was a great favourite with the old domes \ of the place. Like his own " Richard," many a friendly " nuirnn vroo'd lilm, quickly won, To llll the station of an absent ion." lie admired the rude prints on their walls, rum- maged their shelves lor books or ballads, and read aloud to those whose eves had failed them, by the winter evening's lire-side. Walking one day in the street, he chanced to displease a stout lad, who doubled his list to beat him ; but another boy interfered to claim benefit of clergy for I he studious George. " You must not meddle with him," he said ; "let him alone, for he ha' got Taming. " His father observed this bookish turn, anil j though he had then no higher view for him in lite 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 onletly diligence. I cannot say how soon this removal from the paternal roof took place; but it must have been very early, as the following anecdote will show : — The first night he spent at lSunguy he retired to bed, he said, "with a heavy heart, thinking of his fond, indulgent mother." But the morning brought a new misery. 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 1 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 suHbcated. At last, in despair, he bit the lad next to him vio- lently in the hand. " Crabbc is dying — Crabbe is dving," roared the sullercr; 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 lie was in his eleventh or twelfth year, it having now been determined that he should follow the profession of a surgeon, he was removed to a school of somewhat superior character, kept by Mr. Richard II addon, a skilful mathematician, at Stow market, in the same county: and here, in- heriting his father's talent and predilection for mathematical science, he made considerable pro- gress in such pursuits. The Salt-master used often to send difficult i|iiestions to Mr. Haddon, and, to his great delight, the solution came not (infrequently from his son ; and, although Had- don was neither a Porson nor a Parr, his young pupil laid, under his care, the foundations 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. Crabbc's first essay in verse was a stanza of doggerel, cautioning one of these little damsels against being too much elevated about a new set of blue ribbons to her straw Ixmnct. 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 w hich 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 solitary musings of a youthful poet as can else- where be pointed out : — " I to the ocean gave My mind, and thoughts as restless as the wave. Where crowds assembled I was sure to run, Hear what was said, and muse on what was done. To me the wives of seamen loved to tell What storms endnngcr'd men esteem 'd so well ; No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach Hut I could give the luckless talc of each. In fact, I lived for many an idle year In fond pursuit of agitations dear: LIFE OF CRABBE. For ever seeking, ever pleased to find The food I sought. I thought not of its kind. " I loved to walk w.iere none h.id walk'd before, About the rocks that ran along 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 ilew 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 employed him in the wave- 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 fretfulness and in- j 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 impart 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 lew moments, burst into a violent fit 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 Cheveley (a village at a considerable distance), could he have foreseen that, in a very few years, he should 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-house, to see the exhibitions of a conjurer, the magician, having worked many wonders, changed a white ball to black, exclaiming — "Quique olim albus erat nunc est contrarhts albo — and I suppose 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 : " I 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," &c. &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 "lover's journey," was introduced to Miss Brereton and her friend, and spent in their society a day which decided his matrimonial lot in life. 4 He was at this time in his eighteenth year, and had already excited the attention of his companions by his attempts in versification — attempts to which it may be supposed his love now lent a new impulse, and supplied an in- ■i William Springall Levett died in 1774; and the follow- ing epitaph, written at the time by Mr. Crabbe, may be worth preserving : — " What ! though no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust ; "What ! though no earthly thunders sound his name, Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame ; One sigli rellection heaves, but shuns excess — More should we mourn him, did we love him less." Green's History of Framlingham, p. 1G3. LIFE OF CRABBE. exhaustible theme. In an autobiographical sketch, published some years ago to accompany a portrait in the New Monthly Matrazinc, he says of himself, "He had, with youthlul indis- cretion, written for publications wherein Damons and Delias begin the correspondence that docs not always end there, and where diffidence is nursed til'l 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, 1 and he had the misfortune to gain it ; in consequence | of which he felt himself more elevated above the young men, his companions, who made no i 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. lie 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^onc irood and commendable effort 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 Woodbridpc, among which occur "The Judg- ment of the Muse, in the Metre of Spenser," —"Life, a l'orm,"— " An Address to the Muse, in the Manner of Sir Walter Kaleigh," — 1 1 .»!«• or two. in which he evidently aims at tli.- style of Cowley,— and a profusion of lyrics " To Mira ;" the name under which it ph ased him to celebrate Sarah Elmy. A parody on Shetutoue's " My time, oh ye Muses," opens thus : — " My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped, lire you or your whimsies got Into my he.nl ; 1 co.il.1 laugh, I could sing, 1 could trill- and jcat. And my heart playM a regular tunc in my up-a.t. Hut now, lack-a-day 1 wliat a change for the worse, Til a* heavy «.< leail, yet as wild aa a horae. '• My flngen, ete love had tormented my mind. Could guldo my pen gently to what I dedgn'd. I OOOM mnke an enigma, a rebus, or riddle. Or tell n short tide of u ill..' mid a tlddle. Hut since tills vile Cupid has got in my brain, I heg of the gods to assist in my strain. And wh»t*Ver my subject, tho fancy still roves, And sings of heart*, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves." S After long search a copv of WheuWl Magaiino for 1772 | 1M hern discovered, and it contains, besides the pm>- r»»' m on Hope, four oU>er picc.-s. signed •• O. C, Woodbridge. Snffnlk'" "To Mira; "'Hie Atheist reclaimed; ' IN IW • and " An Allegorical Hablo." As might be tan ,!„.,,' Is hardly a lino in anv of these productions which I should b« JuetMed in reprinting. I shall, however, preserve the conclusion of the prize poom :— " Bat above all, tho port owns thy powers— Hope leads him on, and every fear devours ; He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again, Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain ; New schemes he forms, and various plot s he tries, To win the laurel, and possess the prize. The poet himself says, in " The Parting 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 sylplis 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 uol deficient in point anil 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 |>en. The parallel passages from the Dunciad and the Essay on Man, quoted in the notes, are frequent ; anil to them he mo- destly enough alludes in " The Preface,*' from which, us 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 !>cg 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 Would!— how presumptuous, and yet how trilling the sound. Every man, gentle reader, h;ts a world of his own, and whether it consists of half a score or half a thousand friends, 't is his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my world, tiierefore, I eoimnit this, my Muse's earliest labour, nothing doubting the clemeucy of the climate, nor fearing the partiality of the censorious. " Something by way of apology for this trifle is, perhaps, necessary ; especially for those parts wherein I have taken such great liberties with Mr. Pope. That gentleman, secure in immortal fame, would forgive me: forgive me, too, my friendly critic; I promise thee, thou wilt find the extracts Prom that Swan of Thames the best part of the performance." 8 LIFE OF I may also transcribe a few of the opening couplets, in which we have the student of Pope, as well as of surgery, and not a few germs of the future Crabbe : — " 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 Hocks, in icy garments mourn, And wildly murmur for the Spring's return ; The fallen branches, from the sapless tree, Witli glittering fragments strow the glassy way : From snow-topp'd hills the whirlwinds keenly blow, Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below ; Through the sharp air a llaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the iloating 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 Hood. The opening valves, which I i IX the venal road, Then scarcely urge along the sanguine Hood. The labouring pulse a slower motion rules, The tendons stiffen, 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 rougli to tickle, and too light to wound; Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase t The colonel Burgundy, 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 his rattle-throne, The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ; The slow-tongucd bishop, and the deacon sly, The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ; The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great, Swell the dull tlirong, and stagger into state. " Lol 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." He, 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 character see in what way the careless apprentice could express himself, respecting a class of which he could then know nothing : — " The vicar at the table's front presides, Whose presence a monastic life derides ; CRABBE. 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 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, Hut 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, Whilst bishops may be d d the nearest way." 6 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, but 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 Elmy's passion for music induced him also to make some efforts in that direction ; but nature had given him a poor ear, and, after many a painful hour spent in 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 fond zeal, both in books and in the fields. CHAPTER II. 1775 — ]780. Termination of Mr. Crabbe's Apprenticeship — Visit to London — He sets up for himself at Aldborough — Failure of his Plans there — He gives up his Business, and proceeds to London as a literary Adventurer. About 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 professional education. The Salt-master's affairs, however, were not in such order that 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 young man, now accustomed to far different pursuits and habits, was obliged to return to the 6 " Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence." LIFE OF CRA1S15E. 9 labours of the warehouse on Slaughden quay. Ilis pride disdained this homely employment ; his spirit rose against what lie considered arbi- trary conduct: he went sullen and angry to his work, and violent quarrels often ensued between him and his lather. lie 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 found a very aide 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 tcni]>cr, 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, lie would fling the dishes about the room, and all was misery and terror. (leorge was the chief support of his afflicted mother — her friend and her physician. lie saw that her complaint was dropsical, and, from the first, anticipated the fatal result which, after a few years of surler- 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 appetite, for her nightly meal. lie was in all timers her dutiful COTmOrter; and it may be supposed 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 father had always been "sub- 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, lie appears, indeed, to have had, at this period, every dispo- sition to pursue his profession with zeal. " The time," he says, in the sketch already quoted, " had come, when he was told, ami believed, that he hud more important concerns to engage him than verse; and therefore, for some years, though he occasionally found time to write lines UpOU 'Mira's Birthday' and 'Silvia's Lapdog,' though he composed enigmas and solved rebuses, he had 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 and a Treatise on the Art of Poetry." His professional studies, in the mean time, continued to be interrupted by other things than the composition of trifles for a corner of Wheblc's Magazine ; and the mortifications he daily under- w ent 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. The 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,* "bad always an ascend- ancy over me." I may venture to add, that this was the consequence purely of the gentle warmth of 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 effort 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 ; ami, in short, with the purpose, as he said, of " picking up a little surgical knowledge as cheap as he could." He took up 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 I, i s small resources were ex- hausted, when he returned once more to Suffolk, but little, 1 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 alter 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. LIFE OF CRABBE. 10 Maskill, who had lately commenced business there as a surgeon and apothecary — a stern and powerful man. Mr. Crabbe, the first time he had occasion to write his name, chanced to mis- spell it Maskwell ; and this gave great offence. "D — n you, Sir," he exclaimed, '-do you take me for a proficient in deception ? Mask-/// — 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 I 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 the 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 \ZOt his medicines in the ditches, he could have little claim for payment. On the other hand, he had man3' poor relations ; and some of these, old women, were daily visitors, to request " some- j thing comfortable from cousin George ;" that is to say, doses of the most expensive tonics in his ! possession. " If once induced the^e cordial sips to try, All feel the ease, and few the danger 11 y ; For while obtain'd, of drams they 've all tire 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 his heart was in the land of imagination — for he had now j resumed his pen — and it is not wonderful that he soon began to despair altogether of succeeding in his profession. Yet there was a short period when fortune seemed somewhat more favourable to him, even in Aldborough. In the summer of 1778, the Warwickshire militia were quartered in the town, and his emoluments were considerably im- proved in consequence.. He had also the plea- sure of finding his society greatly estimated by the officers, and formed a very strong friendship with one of them, Lieutenant Hay ward, a highly promising young gentleman, who afterwards died in the East Indies. The Colonel — afterwards the celebrated field-marshal, 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 w r ays than one : for the possession of them induced him to take up more accurately than heretofore the study of the language in which they were composed ; and the hours he now spent on Hudson's " Flora Anglica " J 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 sunshine ; but the chief consolation of all his distresses at this period, was the knowledge that he had gained a faithful 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 due 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 Bcccles ; 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 possessed education and manners that entitled them to this distinction. 2 It was in his walks between Aldborough and Beccles that Mr. Crabbe passed through the very scenery described in the first part of " The Lover's 1 In one of his early Note-books he lias written : — " Ah ' blest be the days when with Mira I took The learning of Love "When we pluck'd the wild blossoms that blush'd in the grass, And I taught my dear maid of their species and class ; For Conway, the iriend of mankind, had decreed That Hudson should show us the wealth of the mead." Mr. Conway's character is familiar to every reader of his cousin Horace Walpole's Letters. a Miss Elmy's father was now no more. He had been a tanner at lieccles, but failed in his business, and went to Gua- daloupe, where he died some time before Mr. Crabbe knew the family. LIFE OF CRABBE. 11 Journey ;" while near Beccles, in another di- rection, he found the contrast of rich vegetation introduced in the latter part of that talc ; nor have I any douht 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 me. — I commend Her purpo&e : — mean* alio to a female friend t " Sic. For truth compels mc to say, that he was by no means free from the less amiable sign of a strong attachment — jealousy. The description of this self-torment, which occurs in the sixth book of " Talcs of the Hall," could only have been pro- duced by 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 Hccclcs. Miss Elmy was then remarkably pretty ; she had a lively disposition, and, having generally more than her share of attention in a mixed company, her behaviour 1 1 1 i •_■ 1 1 1 . without any coquettish inclination, occa- I siou painful surmises in a sensitive lover, who COuIa only at intervals join her circle. In one of these visits to Bceelcs, 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 lishing spot on the river VVavcney, ho left her busy with the rod and line, and withdrew to a retired place about a quarter of a mile oil', to bathe. Not being a Bwimmer, nor calculating his depth, he plunged at once into danger : for his foot slid on the soft mud towards the centre of (he stream. lie 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 puint his situa- tion : — " An undefined sensation ntnpp'd my breath ; Dlsordor'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 dinlnsxing, hurried, mix'd. On all things fixing, not n moment flx'd. Brother, I hnve not — man has not — tho power To paint the horrors of thn! life-long hour; ll.nirt— tint of time I knew not — when I found Hope, youth, life, love, anil all they promised, drown'd." Taletn/ihe I MI. My father could never clearly remember how he \\ :i saved. He at last found himself grasping tome Weeds, and by their aitl reached the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe. cordially approving their son's choice, invited Miss Elmy to pass some time beneath their roof at A Id borough : 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 visit 3 he was attacked by a very dangerous ' At this period the whole family were still living together. Some time niter, my (other nnd his sister had separate lodg- ings, at a Mr. .Ullrich'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 consideratel}' 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 ali'ections. 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 :" — " Sec I one relieved from anguish, nnd to-day Allow'd to walk, and look an hour away. Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain, lie comes abroad, and is himself again, lie 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 easel Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves, But he would cherish ;— all that lives lie loves." 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 heinir greatly olfct -ted. 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 lost 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 oil' in a few days by un inflammatory sore throat. Her parents were bowed down to the earth ; so sudden and unexpected was the blow. It made a permanent 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, in part at least, Mr. Tovell's heir, and he anticipated 12 LIFE OF CRABBE. the reception he should meet with, and well knew what she must suffer from the first bitter- ness of minds too uncultivated to suppress their feelings. 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 table. One or two female friends were there, to offer 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 w : as 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, nay, 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. Whether my father's more frequent visits to Parham, growing dislike to his profession, or increasing attachment to poetical 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 recjuited affection ; 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 that 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 perused 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 dreams 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 his fame. ' Fame shall be mine ;— then wealth shall I possess ; — And beauty next an ardent lover bless.' " The Patron. He deliberated often and long, — " resolved and re-resolved," — and again doubted; but, well aware as he was of the hazard he was about to encounter, he at last made up his mind. One gloomy day, towards the close of the year 1779, he had strolled to a bleak and cheerless part 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 opposite 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 following 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, O 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 I live or whether I die, whether 1 be poor or whether I be prosperous, O 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 survey 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 prospect to one as uncertain, he had not heard of a youth- ful adventurer, whose fate it is probable would, in some degree, have affected his spirits, if it had not caused an alteration in his purpose. Of Chatterton, his extraordinary abilities, his enter- prising spirit, his writing in periodical publica- tions, his daring project, 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 hap py LIFE OF OR ABBE. 13 and at ease to draw consolation from vanity — much less from a comparison in which vanity would have found no trifling mortification." 4 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 reproachesd him with the expenses th<» family had incurred, in order to afford him an opening into a walk of life higher than their own ; hut 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 tin' means of carrying this re solution into effect were still to seek. His friends were all as 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, rei (iie-tin:: the loan of a small sum : " and a very extraordinary letter it was," said Mr. North to his iictitioner some years afterwards : " I did not hesitate for a moment." The sum advanced by Mr. North, in com- pliance with his request, was Jive pounds; and, after settling his affairs at Aldborough, and cm- barking himself and his whole worldly substance on board a sloop at Sluiighdcji, 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 fare. 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 inscrip- tion, had he himself recordeil the strongest of his early impressions! Joining much of his father's violence with it keen susceptibility of mortification, his mind must have been at times torn by tumultuous passions; always tempered, however, by the exceeding kindness of hi.s 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 Ii is 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, 4 "Talking," says my brother John, "of tlio .! nVitlties of his curly years, when, with a declining practice, riding from one cottage to another, and ghul to relieve his mint! hy fixing it on the herli- that grew- on the wayside, ho often made the assertion, which I could never agree to, that it was necessity QUI drove him to be an author; — and more than once lie 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 : — " The hour arrived 1 I sigh'd and said, How- soon the happiest hours arc tied ! On wings of down they lately flew. Hut then their moments pass d with you ; • And still with you could I but be. On downy wings they 'd always flee. " Soy, did you not, the way you went, Feel the soft balm of gay content ? Say, did you not all pleasures And, Of which you left so few behind ? I think you did : for well I know My parting prayer would make it so. '* May she, 1 said, life's choicest goods partake, Those, Lite in life, for nobler still forsake — The bliss of one, lh' estcem'd of many live, With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give ! " 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 frow ning fields I sought the simple life that Nature yields ; Itapinc, ami wrong, and fear usurp'd her place, And a liold, artful, surly, savage race. Who, only skill'd to take the tinny U"ibe, 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 prey. " As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, And wait for favouring winds to leave the land, While still for 11 ght the ready wing is spread- So waited I the favouring hour, and fled : Pled from these shores where guilt and rapine reign, And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain, — Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore, Till some tierce tide, with more imperious sway, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away ; When Uic sad tenant weeps from door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor." The Village. CIIAPTEK III. 1780. Mr. Crabbc's Difficulties and Distresses in London — Publica- tion of his I'ocm, " The Candidate" — Ills unsuccessful Ap- plications to Ixml North, Lonl 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 OF CRABBE. talents the means of subsistence must have ap- peared slender in the eyes of Mr. Crabbe's Suf- folk friends, and although he himself was any- thing but sanguine in his anticipations ; — yet it must 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 appear 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 approbation of his bold adventure ; and his mind soared and exulted when he suddenly felt himself freed from the drudgery and anxieties of his hated profession. In his own little biographical sketch he says, that, " on. relinquishing every hope of rising in his profession, he repaired to the metropolis, and resided in lodgings with a family in the city: for reasons which he might not himself be able to assign, he was afraid of going to the west end of the town. He was placed, it is true, near to some friends of whose kindness he was assured, and was probably loth to lose that domestic and 1 Cowper's first publication was in 17S2, when he was in the fiftieth year of his age. 2 I find these lines in one of his note-books for 17S0. — " When summer's tnbe, Her rosy tribe, are fled, And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. And thus when Verse her wintry prospect weeps, "When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps, "When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar, And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites, "Who led by hope and inclination writes : With half their art he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain with 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, 3 a hair-dresser, then or soon afterwards of great celebrity in his calling ; and on the 1 family's removing some months later to Bishops- gate-strect, 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 must 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 lor which he had sacrificed every other prospect. 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 prose essays, in imita- tion, some of Swift, others of Addison ; and he was ere long in communication with various booksellers with a view to publication. " In this lodging," says the poet's own sketch, " he passed something more than one year, during I which his chief study was to improve in versifi- cation, to read all such books as he could com- mand, and to take as full and particular a view of mankind as his time and finances enabled him to do." While residing in the City he often spent his 3 Mr. Vickery is still in life, a most respectable octogenarian. He laments that his memory retains little of Mr. Crabbe, ex- cept that he was " a quiet, amiable, genteel young man ; much esteemed by the family for the regularity of all his conduct." evening at a small coffee-house near the Ex- change, where, if 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 w hich one mind may administer to another. He particularly acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Honnyeastle, the (late) Master of the Military Academy at Woolwich, for many hours of consolation, amusement, and instruction." With Mr. Honnyeastle he formed a close inti- macy and attachment ; and those who arc 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 mucli general knowledge, considerable taste in the fine arts, 4 colloquial talents of a high order, ami a warm and enlarged heart. Another of this little company was Mr. Isaac Dolby, afterwards prol'cssor of mathematics in the Military College at Murlow, and em- ployed by the Ordnance department on the trigonometrical survey of England and Wales ; and a third w;is the well-known mathematician, Reuben BlUTOW, originally a merchant's clerk in the City, who subsequently rose to high dis- tinction in the si rvice 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 refreshing relaxation of his manly and vigorous mind : but bodily exercise was not less necessary for a frame which, at that petiod, was anything but robust, and he often walked with Mr. Honnyeastle, when he went to the va- rious schools iii 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 fell himself too much exhausted 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 bim- * At one time, Mr. Honnyeastle wiu employed to revise anil correct a MS. of Cowper ; but lie and Out poet did not IgNfl in their tastes— Mr. Honnvcnstlo being a stanch advo- cate for the finish and p dish of i'ope, while the other had far different models in higher 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. Honnyeastle 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 scries of poems. " Crabbe," said he, " never suffered his attention to be diverted for a moment b_v the novelties with which he was surrounded at that t lying period ; but gave his w hole 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 lather 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 by 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- m Her, who afterwards published lor him, that he must not suppose 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 preparing a more favourable piece for the inspection of a gentleman whom he had then in view, he ha- zanled the publication of an anonymous perform- ance, and had the satisliiction 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 transitory as the fame of his name- less production." Tins productions was " Tiik Candidate, a Poetical Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly Review," w hich was published early in 1780, by II. Payne, opposite Marlborough House, l'all-Mall ; a thin quarto of 34 pages, and bear- ing on the title-page a motto from Horace: — " Malta quidem nobis facimus mala Bsepe poe- ta," &c. It was a call on the attention, not an appeal from the verdict, of those whom he consi- dered the most influential 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 \ls title-page : the. author, how- over, hinted his name : — u Our Minus name in future times shall 9hine, And shepherds — though the harshest — envy mine." — p. SI. 16 LIFE OF want of a proper subject." Nor was 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 Fa mass us." 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 ; but he now applied 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, with 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 with 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 effusion the Chancellor took no notice whatever. But I have it in my power to submit to the reader some fragments of a Journal which my father kept during this distressing period, for the perusal of his affianced wife. The manu- script was discovered lately in the possession of a sister of my mother's. My father had never mentioned the existence of any such treasure to his 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 intelligible. " THE POET S JOURNAL." " ' Sunt lachrima; rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.' " ' He felt whate'er of sorrows wound the soul, But view'd Misfortune on her fairest side.' " April 21, 1780. — I dedicate to you, my dear Mira, this Journal, and I hope it will CRABBE. be some amusement. God 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 determined 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. Viekery's, near the Exchange : rather too expensive, but 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 " jwincipal 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 epistles to Mira, composed in this same April, 1780, my 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 explain'd, Of science disputed and tenets maintain'd . . . These, and such speculations on these kind of things, Have robb'd my poor Muse of her plume and her wings ; Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire, The spirit extracted, extinguish'd the fire ; Let out all the ether, so pure and refined, And left but a mere caput murtuum behind." 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 thou explore ; A Bard replies, who 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, What 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 dw elling on her princely tar, Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, Without her misery and without her care. "For, ah I unknown to thee, a rueful train, Her hapless children, sigh, and sigh in vain ; A numerous band, denied the boon to die, Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity. Unknown to thee ! and yet, perhaps, thy ear Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear, LIFE OF CRABBE. 17 How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease ; c How some, like Savage, sicken'd by decrees; How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed 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 Dodslcy, 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 1 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. 1 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 doea not moan by this to insinuate a want of merit in the poem, but rather a want of atten- tion in the public' " Once more, my Mira, I '11 try, and write i" Mr. Bccket: if he fails me!— I know not how I shall ever pet sufficient time to go through my principal design ; but 1 've pro- mised to keep up my spirits, and I will. God help me I •• . Ipril 28. — I thank Heaven my spirits are not at all alfcctcd by Dodsley's refusal. I have D01 been able'to get the poem ready for Mr. Bccket 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 ns cost about two or three guineas, and. being silver, have not -nallv lessened in their value. The conscientious pawnbroker allowed mc— " he thought he might"— half a guinea for them. I took it very readily, being determined to call for them very soon, and then, if I afterwards wanted, carry them to some less voracious animal of the kind. " May 1. — Still in suspense; but still resigned. 1 think of sending Mr. Bccket two or three little pieces, large enough for an eightccn- penny pamphlet : but, notwithstanding this, to I set about the book I chiefly depend upon. My good broker's money reduced to five c 'Hie proud big tear on song-extorted bread ; Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse. 7 " One of this train— and of thews 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 ! " t'nhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse ; Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse ; Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex. Ami every friend, and every brother vex 1 Bun fond companion I No, I think my God ! There rests my torment— there is hung the rod. To friend, to fame, to family unknot) n, Sour disappointments frown on me alone. Who hat«-i my song, and damns the poor design, Shall wound no peace— shall grieve no heart but mino 1 " Pardon, sweet Irincet the thoughts that will in. rude, For want is absent, and dejection rude. ItaUnkl I hear, amid the shouts of Fame, Ench jolly victor hail my Henry's name; And, Hoa.-en forbid that, in that jovial day. One llritish bard should grieve when all arc gav. No! let him llnd his country has red ran, And bid adieu to every fond distrew ; Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire, Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire I" 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 grammatical education, and endued with a renins capable of making im- provements in the writings of a gentleman not well versed in the Enirlish laie_'iiap;e.' Now, Vanity having no doubt of my capacity, I sent immediately the following note to a Mrs. Brooke, Coventry-street, Ilaymarket, the person at whose house I was to inquire: — 4 A person having the advantage of a gramma- tical education, and who supposes himself endowed with a renins capable of inakinir emendations to the writings of any gentleman not perfectly acquainted with the English language, would fie 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 • BtuUec Bndgtll drowned himsclfin the Thames in 1736: the miseries Of Otway nod Savage arc familiar toevcrv reader. • Goldsmith, on his return to Kngland, was so poor that it was with difllrnlty ha was enabled to reach the metropolis wi'-ft a few halfpence only in his pocket. He was an entire stranger, and without any recommendation. He ofTered him- Nll • . KVera! apothecaries, in the character of a journe-man, tin' had the mortification to find every application without success. At length he was admitted into the house ofa che- mist. This example was often in mv fathers thoughts, as Uic second volume of this collection will show. 18 LIFE OF shillings and sixpence, and no immediate pro- spect of more. I have only to keep up my spirits as well as I can, and depend upon the protection of Providence, which has hitherto helped me in worse situations. " Let me hope the last day of this month may be a more smiling one than the first. God only knows, and to Him I readily, and not unresignedly, leave it. " May 3. — Mr. Becket has just had my copy. I have made 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 contrary. " I this day met an old friend ; poor Mor- ley ! — not very clean ; ill, heavy, and dejected. The poor fellow has had Fortune's smiles and her frowns, and alas, for 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 plaguy apt to be clouded. " May 6. — Having nearly finished my plan for one volume, I hope by next week to complete it, and then try my fortune in earnest. Mr. Becket, not yet cailed 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 for 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 perhaps 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. Dods'ey wrote, 't was a very pretty 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 I ! The wanting a letter from you to-day, and the knowing myself to be pos- sessed but of sixpence-farthing in the world, are much more consequential things. " 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 CRABBE. agreeable. We are 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 porter — 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 poetical 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 'twas mere self-love, — but if so, 't was the strangest, and, at the same time, strongest disguise she over 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 my 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 CRAB15E. 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 lor less than it ought ; so I redeemed and rcpledgcd 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, mv Mirn, think of me. Here 's Vickcry, his wife, two maids, ami a shop full of men: the -latter, consequently, neither know nor care wholam. A little pretty hawk-eyed girl, I 've a great notion, thinks me a lool, for neglecting the devoirs a lodger is supposed to pay to an at- tendant in his house : 1 know hut one way to remove the suspicion, and that in the end in:. -lii tend to confirm it. " Mrs. Vickcry is a clear-sighted woman, who appears to me a good wife, mother, and friend. She thinks me a soft-tempered gen- tleman — I 'in a gentleman here not quite nice enough. " Mr. Vickcry is an honest fellow, hasty, and not over distinguishing. He looks upon me as a bookish young man, anil so respects me — for he is boolufih himself — as one who is j not quite settled in the world, nor has much knowledge of it ; and as a careless cosy-tem- pered fellow, who never made an observation, nor is ever likely to do so. " Having thus got my character in the family, in v employment remains (I suppose) a secret, and 1 believe 't is a debate whether I am oopving 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-streot in o clay 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- !>cnce : after some hesitation, that prevailed with the woman, and I carried reluctantly home, I believe, a fair bargain, but a very ill- Judged one. " It '9 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 difficulty, 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 arc foolish things, Mira, to write or speak, and wc may laugh at them ; but I '11 be bound to say they are much more likely to make a man cry, where they hapjien, — though I was too much of a philosopher for that, however not one of those who preferred a ragged coat to a whole one. "On Monday, I ho|>e 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 Datura : whose circumstances are affluent abovo their station, and their manners affable beyond their circumstances. Ilad I taken a lodging ai 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, Wf 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. " May 21. — 1 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 Hev. Thomas Winstnnley. of Trinity College, Cam- bridge, A.M., was appointed rector of St. Punst-m's in the East, in January, 1771,— succeeding the celebrated Dr. Jortin, author of the lite of Erasmus, &c. This eminently respect- able clergyman died in February, 1789. 20 LIFE OF CRABBE. wonder, can Mr. Williams, 9 as a free-thinker, or Mr. Lee Lewis, 10 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 was 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 refused the means of being happy ? No ; not one. All require this mercy ; all have this mercy granted them. From 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 his, of his goodness ; that we will not, is our own folly : He wills not that a sinner should 9 About this time, David Williams, originally a dissenting minister in Glamorganshire, published "Lectures on the Uni- versal Principles of Religion and Morality," "Apology for professing the Religion of Nature," &c, and attempted to establish a congregation, on the avowed principles of deism, in .Margaret- street, Cavendish-square : but this last plan soon failed. He died in 1816. 10 Charles Lee Lewis, the celebrated comedian, was at this time amusing the town with an evening entertainment of songs and recitations, in 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 we called ? and who are those who obey the call ? The last question is to us the most important. Those who obey the call are such as pay respect to it. Those who accept the invitation are such as go like guests. Those 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 jt 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, pathos, and argument. Nor was the sermon much longer, though it took a long time to preach, for here we do not find a discourse run off as if they were the best teachers who say most upon a subject : here they dwell upon a sentence, LIFE OF CRABBE. •21 and often repeat it, till it shall hardly fail of making an impression. " I 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 prove whether it is in the power of iny 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 opinion of its writer, my business were done. \ou will perceive there is art in it, though art (|uitc 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 ciidcavouriinrat the pathetic; and if his Lord- ship is indeed a literary man, I am not without hope that it may l>e a means of obtaining for nic a better fortune than hitherto has befallen us. Mat/ 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 1 shall probably copy for you tO-morrow, for I find I can't to-day. '1 his afternoon I pro|K)se to set out for Westmin- ster, and I liope shall not meet with much difficulty in getting the Ixnik 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. 1 plagued myself lest 1 should err in little things— often the causes of a person's iloing wrong. The direction of the letter, and the place to call at, puzzled nie ; I forgot his Lordship's name, and had no Court Ca- lendar. See how tritles perplex us ! How- ever, my book is safely delivered, and I shall call again on Wednesday, when 1 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 nic! a day of dread and ex- pectation. Ah, dear Mira, my hopes are flying; I sec 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 Sully, I have but a cowardly heart, yet I bear up as we'd as I can ; and if I had another shilling would get .something to-night to keep these gloomy thoughts at bay, but 1 must save what I have, in hopes of having a letter to pay 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 by 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. " 0 ! 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 w hole 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 I 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 hits told fairer things, and magnified my little talents, till I supposed they must be thouirht 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 l>ark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, anil my compass lost. My nails the coarsest, and too thin to last, I'eluM hy rains, anil bare to many a blast. My anchor, Hope, scarco flx'il enough to stay Where the strong current Grief sweeps, all away, I Kail along, unknowing how to steer, Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks nppear. life's ocean teems with foes to my frail luirk, Th>> rapid sword-Ash, and the rav'ning shark, Where torpid tilings crawl forth in splendid shell, And kna.es and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea ? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter roe ! A gloomy Muse, in Mini's alwence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tvars — Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings. Soothes me witli song, and flatters as she lings." 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, Hies from it. " I make no comparison with the children 22 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 nothing but in my dependence. " O ! Thou, who searchest all hearts, who givest, and who hast given, more than I deserve, or can deserve — who withholdest 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 of Shelburne, " Ah ! Shelburne, 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 patriot's 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 the rest. Oh hear the Virtue thou reverest plead ; She '11 swell thy breast, 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 rellection flee, And yields her Shelburne to distress and me ! — " Forgive, my Lord, a free, and perhaps, unusual 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 to assure your Lordship, would not only affect your compas- sion, but, I hope, engage your approbation. It is too dull a view of the progression from pleasing, though moderate expectation, to unavoidable penury. '■ Your Lordship will pardon me the relation of a late and unsuccessful attempt to become useful to myself and the community I live in. Starving as an apothecary, in a little venal borough in Suffolk, it was there suggested to me that Lord North, the present minister, was a man of that liberal dispo- sition, that I might hope success from a representa- tion of my particular circumstances to him. This I have done, and laid before his Lordship. I confess a dull, but a faithful 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 your 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. Sec." " — 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 I will therefore give it you here. " An Epistle to a Friend. " Why, true, thou say'st the fools at Court denied, Growl vengeance, — and then take the other side : The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power, As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour. But thou, the counsel to my closest thought, Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought. The Muse I caught ne'er fawn'd on venal 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. LIFE OF But when slip sees a titled nothing stand Tile ready cipher of a trembling land, — Not of that simple kind that placed alone Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none, — But those which, join'd to figures, well express A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress, tlrow 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 nymplis 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 flight base action from sin's wavering breast ; For though tlie knave may scorn the Muse's arts, Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Sjme, though they wish it, are not stecl'd enough, Nor is each would-bc villain conscience-proof. " And what, my friend, is left my song besides? No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides, No dreams of hope that won my early will, Nor love, that paln'd in temporary thrill ; No gold to deck my pleasure'scom'd alxxle. No friend to whisper peace, — to give mo food ;— I'oor to the World I 'd yet not live in vain, Hut 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. Anil long — if Vanity deceives not — shine. Pea though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, And unadorn'd, my heart-felt murmurs How, Yi-t time shall lie when this thine humbled friend .shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. A Man — for other title w«to too poor — Such as 't were almost virtue to adore, He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale. As tike sun vapours from the dew -pressed vale; Himself iininjuring shall new warmth infuse, And call to blossom every want-nipj/il Mow. 'llien shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice. Ills name harmonious thrlll'd on Mira's voice ; Hound the reviving bays new sweets shall spring. And sjiiKt.uenxk'a fame through laughing valleys ring." " Pay me, dear, for this long morning's work, with your patience, and, if you can, your approbation. I suppose wc shall have nothing more of this riot in the city, ami 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 "ill happen, and perhaps now. Angels guide and bless you ! " June 8. — Yesterday, my own business being decided, 1 was at Westminster at about three o'clock in the alternoon, and saw the members go to the House. The mob stopped many per- sons, but let all whom I saw puss, excepting Lord Sandwich, whom they treated roughly, broke bis coach windows, cut his face, and turned him back, A guard of horse and loot were i tediately sent lor, who did no parti- cular service, the mob increasing and defeating them. " I left Westminster when all the members, that were permitted, hail entered the House ami came home. In my way 1 met a resolute CRABBE. 23 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 different 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 was 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 likew ise other parts, of which I can give you no description. Akerman had in his custody four prisoners, k taken in the riot ; these the mob went to his | house and demanded. He begged he might send to the sheriff, but this was not permitted. How he escaped, or where he is gone, I know 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 ihstant. The engines came, but were only suffered to preserve the private houses near the prison. " As I was standing near the spot, there approached another body of men, I suppose 500, and Lord George Gordon in a coach, drawn by the mob towards Alderman Bull's, bowing as he passed along, lie 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. 1 went close to it, anil 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 ascend from their confinement to the open air, and the\' 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 Akerman'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 (he 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 people 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 mob 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 internals, who were as familiar with flame as with each other. On comparing notes with my neighbours, I find I saw but a small part of the mischief. They say Lord Mansfield's house is now in flames." [Some leaves are here torn out.] * * * * " June 11. — Sunday. — As I 'm afraid my ever dearest friend, my Mira, has not a preacher so affecting 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." * * 5* * With a short abstract of a sermon on the text " Awake, thou that sleepest," 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 complete the reader's impression of his cha- racter and conduct at this, the most melancholy period of his life — to make a very few ex- tracts. I. " 0 gracious Redeemer ! fill me, I beseech thee, with Divine love ; let me, O my Saviour ! set my affections on thee and things above ; . take from me this over-carefulness and anxiety after the affairs of this mortal body, and deeply impress on my thoughts the care of my immortal soul. Let me love thee, blessed Lord ! desire thee, and embrace thy cross when it is offered me. Set before me the value of eternal happiness, and the 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 Redeemer wean me from inclination for his foes ; may it draw me from the objects of the world, the dreams of the senses, and all the power and temptation of the Devil and his angels. " Remember 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 ; 0 Lord ! give me of those treasures ; give me a foretaste of thy pleasures, that I may look more indifferently upon the earth and its enjo3'ments. Lord ! where are thy old loving-kindnesses ? Forgive me, most gracious Saviour ; and restore me to thy favour. 0 give me the light of thy countenance, and I shall be whole. Amen !" II. " O, my Lord God, I will plead my cause before thee, let me not be condemned ; behold, I desire to lie 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 off 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, 0 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 spent 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 prow dormant in the brain, and all is over— all over with the clay, and with the immortal all to come. , . ii Qf 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, how long held in motion ! Our hours are miracles: shall we sav 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 1 have abused mercy; nor tyrannical, for 1 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, 1 shall not die this. " Hut what of awe, of fear, in such a call ? where is he who then thinks not— if he has permission to iliink — solemnly ? God his Judge, and God his lledecmer; Terror visible, and Mercy slighted, arc then to be heard :— the moment at hand that brings heaven, or hell ! where is an opiate for the soul that wakes then 1 " O thou blessed lyird, who opencdst the gate of life, let me live in true faith, in holy hope: and let not my end surprise me ! Ten thousand thoughts disturb my soul : be, thou greatest and fairest among ten thousand,— be thou with me, O ia\ Saviour! Keturn! return! and bring me hope!" IV. " Amid the errors of the bes t, how shall my soul find safely ? Kven by thee, O Lord ! Where is Unlettered Hope to cast her anchor ? Kven in thy blessed (iospel '. 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 stri|H-s we are healed. As in Adam all die, go uj Christ all are made alive. Whoso believelh shall be saved. 1 hit faith without works is dead. Yet it is the grace of God that worketh in us. Every good and every perfect work cometh from above. Man cm do iint'liing of himself; bill Christ is all in all ; and, Whatsoever things ye shall ask in the name of Jesus, shall !•<■ 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. 1 only know my own vileness; 1 only know thy suffi- ciency; "these are enough; witness Heaven and F.arth, niy trust is in (iod's mercy, through Jesus Christ, my blessed Wcdecmcr. Amen 1" " 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 I call upon thee : 0 be thou \v.\ helper in the needful time of trouble. "Why art thou so far from me, O my Lord? why oldest thou thy face ? I am cast down, I am in poverty and in affliction : be thou with me, O my Qod ; let me not be wholly forsaken, O my Be* deemer 1 - 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. 1781. Mr. Crabbe's Letter to Hurkc, and its Cousequcnces— The l'ublication of "The Library "—He is domesticated at Hcaconsficld-Takes Orders— Is appointed Curate at Aid- borough. It is to be regTCttcd that Air. Crabbc'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 disap|>ointiiieiits and repulses. His rircumstnnecs 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 eould hope lor was, dis- missing all bis dreams of literary distinction, to find the means or daily bread in the capacity of a druggist's assistant. To borrow, without any prospect of repaying, was what bis 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 effort 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 prtbat of sonic well-known and distinguished "character. Thus thinking, mid having now his hrst 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 Edmi m> Bobkb— -one of the first of Englishmen, and, in the capacity and energy of ' his jnind, 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. Crabbc's family were aware that a copy of it had been preserved ; nor had thev anv exact knowledge of the extremity of distress which this remarkable letter describes, until the band that penned it was in the grave. It is as follows : — " To Edmund Burke, Esq. "Sin,— 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. LIFE OF CRABBE. " Pardon me a short 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 flattered 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 witli 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 : but to this letter I 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 much 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 than 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 ; but 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 Ckabbe." Mr. Burke was, at this period (1781), engaged in the hottest turmoils of parliamentary opposi- tion, and his own pecuniary circumstances were by no means very affluent : yet 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 ail 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 approved 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 affinity between superlative talents and the warmth of the, generous affections. 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 sinking. In reflecting upon the conse- quences of the letter to Burke— the happiness, the exultation, the inestimable benefits that re- sulted to my father, ascribing, indeed, my own existence to that great and good man's conde- scension and prompt kindness — I may be par- doned for dwelling upon that interview with feelings of gratitude which I should but in vain endeavour to express. But sensible as I am of the importance of 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 forth. Enlarged as was Mr Burkc'o benevolence, had not the writings which were submitted to his inspection possessed the marks of real genius, the applicant would pro- bably have been dismissed with a little pecuniary assistance. I must add that, even had bis 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. >iay, had there appeared any offensive peculiarities ot manner and address — cither presumption or mcanness-though the young poet might have received both kindness and patronage, can any one dream that Mr. Burke "Would have at once taken up bis cant i with the zeal of a friend, do- mesticated him under his own roof, and treated him like a son ? In mentioning his new prutn/r 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. Imrkc, the young man, with timidity, indeed, hut 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. Cra bbe 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 m-^ 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 1 The Village:' these WeM 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. Uurke 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 hit 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 he 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 t'o be towards a voting 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. litirkc's opinion that the •verses vrere good, and he did in part think so him- self: but he declined the 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 ii.' " 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 ;— though 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 lav 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 Beaconsfield, 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 ,|. . .nei.tted with. If Mr. Crabb", 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 bv a passage of the Gcorgics, 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 fathers 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. llurke. "that your father exerted himself to send you to that second school ; without a little Latin wo should have made nothing of you : ■28 LIFE OF now, I think we shall succeed."' The fund of general knowledge which my father gradually showed in these rambles, much surprised his patron. " Mr. Crabbe," he said early to Sir Joshua Reynolds, " appears to know something of everything." Burke himself was a strong advocate for storing the mind with mulriform 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 gone through the form — for it was surely little more — of making proper inquiries as to the im- pression left of Mr. Crabbe's character in his native place — Mr. Burke, though well aware of the difficulties of obtaining holy orders for any person not regularly educated, exerted himself to procure 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 Beaconsfield. Let no one say that ambition chills the heart to other feelings. 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 affectionately received as when, a penny less dependant, he first entered the hall of that beautiful mansion ; and, during the whole of his stay, lie was cheered by a constancy of kind and polite 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 that 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 ladies 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 approbation : and for Sir Joshua, in particular, he conceived a warm and grateful attachment, which subsequent experience only confirmed. When Mr. Burke's family returned to London for the winter, my father accom- panied them ; and, it being inconvenient for CRABBE. 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 : making 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 growl; but this did not diminish Mr. Crabbe's respect and veneration for the Doctor, nor did his mal- d-jiropos, on the other hand, prevent 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 contemplated this narrative somewhat earlier, and led my 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 mouth of your speaker, whatever may be his condition." 1 When "The Library" was published, the opinion of Burke had its effect 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 him 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 proteye ; 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 exact case to his ever-generous patron, — while the patron on his part, having conferred such substantial benefits, had too much delicacy 1 I owe this to the recollection of my father's friend, Miss Hoare, of Hampstead. LIFE OF CRABBE. 29 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, saving, " Accept this trifle, Sir, in the meantime. and rely on my embracing an early opportunity to serve you more substantially w hen I hear that you arc in orders." As soon as he hail 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 aoscd him of any apprehensions which might vet haunt his mind as to his future prospects in the world. I am enabled to state — though the information never came from my fathcrt— 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 udd, 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 w ho, — 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 V No wonder it was his first thought, on finding himself in possession of even n 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 Norw ich ; who ordained him a priest in August of the year following, in his own cathe- dral. Being licensed as curate to the Uev. Mr. Bennett, rector of Aldborough, he immedi- ate!, bade a grateful adieu to his illustrious pa- tron and his other eminent benefactors — not forgetting his kind and hospitable friends in Cornhii! — 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, lie 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 ;" perhaps 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 w ith every prospect of preferment in the church. His father had the candour to admit, that he had underrated 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, peculiarly disqualified. The old man now gloried in the boldness of his adventure, and was proud of its success: he fondly transcribed " The Library w ith 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 afford. On the state of mind with which the young clergyman now revisited rarham — on the beauti- ful and retributive conclusion thus afforded 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 from her relations, there was now mingled a respect to which he had previously been a stronger, lie heard no more taunts about that " d il learning." On his first entrance, however, into his father's house, at this time, his joyous feelings had to undergo a painful revulsion. That affectionate parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness and suffering, had she w itnessed 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 ami neighbour was slowly y ielding at the same time to the same hopeless disorder, and every morning she used to desire her daughter to sec 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 lie 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 ; Tiie Sunday pew she fill'd with all her race, Eacli Dlace ol hers was now a sacred place." And I find him recurring to the same theme in one of his manuscript pieces : — " But oh ! in after-years Were other deaths that call'd for other tears : — No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint! The patient sufferer ! the enduring saint I 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 life 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 affections." Not from their own strength, however, did they hope and expect such improvement: they sought it from, and ascribed it to, " Him from whom ail 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 more serious of a later period ; but the subtle distinction between good works as necessary and yet not conditional to salvation, and others of a like kind, particularly prevalent 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 themselves palpably evil. Such 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 man}' 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 his 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 err 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 Scriptures 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 Christianity in his heart, and, in as far as his opportunities extended, making himself fit to minister to the spiritual necessities of others. Bat 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 w hen a selection of his Sermons is placed, as I hope it ere long w ill be, before the public, it w ill be seen that he had gradually approached, in substantial matters, though not exactly in certain |>eculiar 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 asked, was his reception by the people of Aldborough, when he rc-appcared 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 failed 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. Fortius last report there was, indeed, no foundation at nil, except that nn Aldborough sailor, happening one- day to enter Mr. Wesley's chapel at Moor- ficlds, 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. Hut 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 bearable among his old equals. When I nsked 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 — 1 saw unfriendly countenances about inc, and, I am sorry to say, I had too much indignation, though mingled, 1 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 nn nntidote, the cir- cumstances of his altered position in life might have tempted human infirmity, even in him, to a vain-glorious self-esteem. lie 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 agreeableness 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, TlUKLOW." CHAPTER V. 1782-1783. Mr. Crabbc's Appointment as domestic Chaplain to the Duke of Rutland — Removes to Helvoir 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 apart from the rest of the family. His brother Robert, a man in many respects closely resembling himself, of strong faculties and amiable disposition, was now settled at South wold ; 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 precarious than that of a mere curate. Most persons who had done as much for one in my father's situation ns 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. Crabbc's illustrious benefactor. He was anxious to see his prattyc raised ns 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 ns his domestic chaplain nt Bel voir 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, on by college acquaintances, or dependants recommended by political service and local attachment. But, in spite of political difference, the recommendation of Burke was all- powerful with the late Duke of Rutland, the son of the great Marquis of (i ran by ; for this nobleman, though not what is usually called a literary man, had a strong partiality for letters, a refined taste 32 LIFE OF CRABBE. for the arts, and felt that a young author of such genius 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 Bel voir, 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 1 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 for his own. He was sufficiently interested in such recreations to join in them occasionally ; but he would frequently dismiss a splendid party from his gates, and himself ride, accompanied only by Mr. Crabbe, to some se- questered part of his domain, to converse on 1 Lady Mary-Isabella Somerset, daughter of the fourth Duke of Beaufort. She died in 1831. literary topics, quote verses, and criticise plays. 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 thein ; but their guests, and, above all, perhaps, their servants, might not always treat him with equal respect. I must 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 princely dignity and grandeur that have distinguished Belvoir in our own day — yet it could not but have been op- pressive 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 parsonage 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, acknowdedging 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 might dare molest Unwelcome or unbidden. I 'd take the jokes of other folks, And mine should then succeed 'em, Nor would I chide a little pride, Or heed a little freedom." &c. &c. Such lines might easily run from the pen from which came, in after-days — " Strive not too much for favour— seem at ease, And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please. • Upon thy lord with decent care attend ; Be 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, They take not In the music of the spheres." I have heard my lather mention but few oc- currenees in this period of his life ; and if I had, the privacy of a family is not to be invaded because of its public station. But one incident I cannot forbear to mention, as it marked a trait in the Duke's mind peculiarly pleasing — his strong affection for his brother, Lord Robert Manner-;, who died of wounds 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 dawrcr tla-hed 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 Thornton, 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 cattle-walls a mad feat ! Nor was he much less r.i- h when, as my father one day (in an unusual fit of juvenile merriment) was panning him, he sprang over the boundary of the glacis — a steep and formidable precipice. He afterwards accompanied the Duke to Ireland, and is men- tinned in the singular work of Sir Jonah Har- 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 (DOS) attention to Mr. Crabbe were the Duke of Qucensherry, the Marquis of Lothian, Dr. Watson the celebrated Bishop of Llandaff, ami 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. " Dr.AR 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, " Edmcsd Bcrke." By the time the family left Belvoir for tlic London season, my father had nearly completed for the press his poem of "The Village," the I conclusion of which had been suggested by the untimely death of Lord Robert Manners. Throne!) Sir Joshua Reynolds, he transmitted it to Dr. Johnson, whose kindness was such that he revised it carefully, and whose opinion of ifs 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. •• Su:. — I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which 1 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 I away, and leave the pages clean. His dedication will be least liked : it were better to contract it iuto a short sprightly address. I do not doubt of j Mr. Crabbe's success. I am, sir, your most humble ' servant, " Sami ki. 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 nun; ami 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 :" '* 1 In fairer semes, where peaceful pleasures spring, Tityrus the pride of Mantuan stains might sing; Hut, charmed by him, or smitten with his views, Shall modern poets court the Mantuan muse ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Fancy leads, or Virgil led the w ay ? ' " ' On Hindus limits, in Crsar's bounteous reign. If Titt/rus found the golden age again, =1 84 LIFE OF Must sleepy bards the fluttering dream prolong, Meehanick eelwes of the Hantaan song ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where, Virgil, not where Fancy leads the way f ' " ' " 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." 1 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 improvements. There were not wanting, I have heard, friends 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 " meehanick 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 been hailed as a genius of no slender preten- sions. The sudden popularity of " The Village " must have produced, after the numberless slights and disappointments already mentioned, and even after the tolerable success of " The 1 Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. 55. CRABBE. 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-suffer- 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 beautiful 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, 2 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 doubt 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 himself 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. My father spoke w ith 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 Mar- chioness of Thomond, presiding. The union of complete, and even homely, comfort and ease 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 Bishop 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 Thurlow ; and this is another of those incidents in his life, which I much 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- 2 Sir Joshua mentioned that this was his fourth painting on the same canvass. I LIFE OF CRABBE. corded. My father only said, that, before he left the house, his noble host, telling him, that, " by G — d, he was as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen," pave him the small livings of Frame St. Qmntin, and Evcrshot, in Dorset- shire ; ami 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 Elrny being then at Beetles 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 my mother and he were returning, in the evening, over a wide open common near Heccles. It was late, dull, ami cloudy : in an instant the dark mass opened just in front of them. The clouds were rolled MCk 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 I 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 lather's attitude. He had raised him- I self from his horse, lifted his arm, and spread his hnnd towards the object of admiration and terror, and appeared transfixed with astonish- ment. Mr. Crabbe returned from thence to Belvoir, and again went to London with the family at the I. ill. -- end of the year. Being now in circum- stances which enabled him to afford himself a view of' those spectacles which he had hitherto abstained from, ami with (icrsons who invited him to accompany them, he went occasionally to the theatres, especially to see Mrs. Siddons. Of her talents he ex pressed, of course, the most un- bounded admiration ; but I have heard him also speak of Mrs. Abingdon and Mrs. Jordan (the Litter especially, in the character of Sir Hai ry Wild.iir), 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- j sure, who he was that had so intruded there; j but hearing it was the poetical chaplain of his 1 friend the Duke of Rutland, he expressed him- self satisfied, and a short time after, Mr. Crabbe was presented to his royal 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 Lord- 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 Channel 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 1'opc, 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 the offer of 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- ,! ccptcd it ; and his irregular education was an effectual 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 : superiority of talent is apt, without in- I 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 bis feelings, 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 j might not always retire as early as prudence II might suggest ; nor, perhaps, 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 Siaughden, 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 1 that early period have retained some repulsive d 2 ll 36 LIFE OF 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 un'kind- 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, my 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 El'my. CHAPTER VI. 1734—1792. Mr. Crabbe marries — He resides successively at Belvoir Castle, at his Curacy of Stathern, and at his Rectory of Muston — Increase of his Family — Publication of "The Newspaper" — Visits and Journeys — His 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 for 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 con- sulted in every possible manner by his servants, it was soon found to be a disagreeable thing to inhabit the house, and be attended by 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 lew 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 four years ; during which two more children were added to their household, — John Crabbe, so long the affection- CRABBE. ate and unwearied assistant of his father in his latter days (born in 1787), — and a daughter (born in 1789), who died in infancy. Of these four 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 painful feelings which had before chequered 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 being 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 l'orte, 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 populous town. At Stathern, and at all his 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 : he 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 within 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 humble 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 hettcr circumstances, might have conducted him to no mean rank as a physician, In the course of 1784, my lather contributed a brief memoir of Lord Robert .Mariners to the Annual Register, published by his friend, Mr. Dodsley; and in 1785 he appeared again as a |K>et. " 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 Mr. Rurkc and others of his eminent friends in London, Vet, successful as his poetical career had been, and highly flatter- ing as was the reception which his works had procured him in the polished circles of life, if we except a valueless sermon put forth on the death of his patron, the Duke of Rutland, in 1787, and a chapter on the Natural History of the Vale of Rclvoir, which he contributed to Mr. Nichols's account of Leicestershire, shortly afterwards, he, from this time, withdrew entirely from tin- public view. His '• Parish Register was published at the interval of t unity-two 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, bom time to time, a single glimpse of the brilliant society in which he had for a season been welcomed, and gra- duallv forgotten as a liriny author by the public, 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 Klcgant Extracts." It might, under such circumstances, excite little surprise, if 1 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 u member ot various literary institutions there, and among the JiOtU. as they are called, of fashionable life; — but 1 feci that, in doing so, I should be guilty of a grave omission ; and 1 hope the son ol such a lather will lie pardoned for desiring to dwell a little on him as he appeared in those relations which are the especial test of moral worth — which, il well sustained, cm impart a brightness to the highest intellectual reputation, and which dwell on my memory as attending the most esti- mable traits of his character. N'ol lung alter his marriuge, in passing through London, on his way to visit his livings in Dor- setshire, he had the satisfaction of presenting his wife to Mr. and Mrs. Ihirkc, when he and she experienced the kindest reception; but this was only a casual glimpse of his illustrious friend. I believe my father ottered him the dedication of " The New spaper," as well as of some of his earlier publications ; but that great mini, proba- bly 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 Dorsetshire, they were hospitably received by Mr. Raker, once a candidate for that county ; and they returned charmed w ith 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 also, in great part, 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, 1 may say, suttered under that ennui which drives so many from solitude to the busy search for notoriety. 1 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 (hair, 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 u modern chariot, in which they usually were conveyed in their little excursions, and the • i. ininet 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 composition. Numberless were the manuscripts which he completed ; and not a few of them were never destined to sec 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 fresh 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 Rotany in English; which, after he had made great pro- gress in it, my father laid aside, in consequence merely, 1 believe, of the remonstrances of the late Mr. Davies, vice-master of Trinity College, Cambridge, with w hom he had become casually 38 LIFE OF acquainted, and who, though little tinged with academical peculiarities, 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 this treatise come out at the time when his friend arrested its progress, 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 Trifolium suffocation. 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 which 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 stimuli of reputation or money, or the pleasure of select society, is a question which will never, I suppose, be quite satisfactorily answered. It was, I think, in the summer of 1787, that my father 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, dipped in the waves that washed the beach of Aldborough, and returned to Stathern. During my father's residence here, and also at his other country places, he 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. Edmund 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 principal 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 — the portly, dignified, old gentleman of the last ge- neration — grave and polite, but full of humour and spirit. In the summer 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 power, yet under the apparent management of children, the bare idea of the inevitable hazard attendant CRABBE. 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 suffered 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 w 7 as 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 prey to an attack of fever ; and the medical attendants were said to have overlooked that nice point, in inflammatory cases, where re- duction should cease. He was only in the thirty-fifth 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 family 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 superior value in the vale of Belvoir. My father proceeded 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 Lambeth, received a dispen- sation from the Archbishop, and became rector of Muston, in Leicestershire, and the neighbour- ing parish of Allington, 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 his new wife bringing home with her several children by a former husband, the house became still more uncomfortable than it LIFE OF CIIABP.E. 39 had for many years before been to the members of his own family. It was on the appearance of these strangers that my uncle William, the hero of the " Parting 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 youthful 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 happen to hear some pleasing melody, even chimes or distant bells, a flood of early remembrances and warm affections 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 music 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 with 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. Always visibly 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 fatlterly ; 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 complexion 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- turcs. 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 light 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 with indulgent parents ; there is perpetual excite- ment and novelty, — " omne ignotum pro mag- niflco," — 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 my mother had recovered from her confine- ment with her fourth son, Edmund Cra'obe, 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 botanise among the hedgerows, and returned with some unsightly weed or bunch of moss, to him precious. Then, in the evening, when we had reached oar 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 the 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 present 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 very 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, full of all sorts of domestic animals, and the scene of constant bustle and noise. On entering the house, there was nothing at first sight to remind one of the farm:— a spacious hall, paved 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, polished (ill it was as slippery as ice, and having a chime-clock and a barrel-organ on its landing-places. But this drawing-room, a corresponding dining- parlour, and a handsome sleeping apartment up stairs, were all tabooed ground, and made use of on great and solemn occasions only— such as rent- days, and an occasional visit with which Mr. Tovell was honoured by a neighbouring peer. At all other times the family and their visiters lived entirely in the old-fashioned kitchen along with the servants. My great-unele 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 alarum called the maids, and their mistress also ; and if the former were tardy, 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 employments were again resumed ; that which the mistress took for her especial privilege being the scrubbing of the floors of the state apartments. 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: — " You wash such floors as these ? Give me the brush this instant, and troop to the scullery and wash that, madam ! As true as G — d 's in heaven, here comes Lord Rochford, to call on Mr. Tovell. — Here, take my mantle (a blue woollen apron), and I '11 go to the door ! If the sacred apartments had not been opened, the family dined on 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 Widow's Tale," my mother's situation, when living in her younger days at Parham : — ■ " Bat 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 witli huge balls of farinaceous food; With bacon, mass saline ! where never lean Beneath tiie 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 clotli she saw, with many a stain, Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again ; She could not breathe, but, with a heavy sigh, ltein'd the fair neck, and shut the offended eye ; She minced the sanguine llesh in frustums fine, And wondered much to see the creatures dine." On ordinary days, when the dinner was over, the fire replenished, the kitchen sanded and lightly swept over in waves, mistress and maids, LIFE OF taking off their shoes, retired to their chambers for a nap of one hour to the minute. , The clogs 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. But, who- ever came, it was comparatively a dull even- ing, unless two especial Knights Companions were of the party ;— one was a jolly old farmer, with much of the person and humour of Falstaff, 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, lie 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 mother, 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 sanctorum ; 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. Alter 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 verge of the rippling waves, and the nameless delight, with which I first inhaled the odours of the beach. What variety of emotions had he not experienced on that spot! — how unmingled would have been his happiness then, had his CRABBE. 41 mother survived to see him as a husband and a father ! We visited also on this occasion my crand- mother Mrs. Elmy, and her two daughters, at the delightful town of Beceles ; 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, Beceles 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 Tamworth, — 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 ton, 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 Fillpot," 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 by their clerical 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 lew miles distant; more frequently to Lowestoff; 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 suffocation. In the course of the sermon, he repeated, though w ith an application of his own, the lines from Ana- ercon — " Oft am I by women told, Poor Anacreon ! thou grow'st old ; See, thine liuirs are tailing all, Poor Anacreon I how they fall ! Whether I grow old or no, liy these sijjns 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 ap- 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 present 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 after 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 for 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 passed 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 much deliberation (many motives contending against very intelligible scruples), my father determined to place a cu- rate at Muston, and to go and reside at Parham, taking the charge of some church in that neigh- bourhood. Though tastes and affections, as well as worldly interests, prompted 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«wrong." 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. O — — CHAPTER VII. 1792—1804. Mr. Crabbe's Residence in Suffolk— at Parham— at Glem- ham — and at Rendham. In 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 for very joy, and exclaiming, " Here we are — here we are, little Willy 1 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. Elmy 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 that 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 offence, the 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-repeated threat of making a cadicy — Anglice, a codicil — to her will. In many circumstances, besides, my father 1 My father's seventh and youngest child. LIFE OF CRABBK. 43 found the disadvantage of succeeding such a man aa Mr. Tovell. lie 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, lie 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, 1 suppose, cctcd incumbent of that parish, the Reverend Richard Turner, of Great Yarmouth. Another curacy (Great Glemhani) was shortly added to this; and thenceforth, his occupations and habits were very much w hat 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, 17'JG, 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. 'I he 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 5 AUmling to Ms station at Bdvoir. 1 ' 44 LIFE OF rent; and, on the 17th of October, the lares were removed from Parham, where they had been always unpropitious, to this beautiful resi- dence, where my parents remained for lour or five years, to their entire satisfaction. The situation was delightful in itself, and extremely convenient for the clerical duties my father had to perform. I was now placed at school at Ips- wich, under the care of the late excellent Mr. King, in whom my lather 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 Glernham 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 the University under our father's own care. If I except occa- sional visits of a month or two to Muston, the associations of our happiest years are all with Glernham and other scenes in his native county. Glernham itself is, and ever will be, the Alham- bra of my imagination. That glorious palace yet exists; ours is levelled with the grounds 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 purple 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 i'act, the whole parish and neigh- bourhood resemble a combination of groves, in- terspersed with fields cultivated like gardens, and intersected with those green dry lanes which tempt the walker in all weathers, especially 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 skilful mathematician ; and imperfectly as he had been grounded in the classics at school, he had, as I have stated, been induced, by 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 bed-room, being seldom without some favourite work of this description. But there may be great defects in a domestic 3 A new and elegant mansion lias been built on the hill, by Dr. Kilderbee, who bought the estate. CRABBE. education, without any want of knowledge in the master. Seldom is such tuition carried on with strict regularity and perseverance, for family interruptions unavoidably 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 especially, 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 Glernham ; 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 1 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 was turned to an excellent use; so that he seldom passed a day without reading part of some such 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 pleasing 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 story, called "Nature and Art," one evening, I be- lieve some such association almost broke our hearts. When it was too dark to see, he would take a battledore and join us in the pursuit of the moths, or carry his little favourite if she were tired, and so we proceeded homeward, while on the right and left, before and be- hind, the nightingales (I never heard so many as among those woods) were pouring 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 law n before our win- dows, and reach the house only in time for supper. In the winter 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 published, especially of travels ; and never can I forget the deep interest with which we heard my father read Stedman's Surinam, Park"s Africa, Macartney's China, and several similar publications of that period. He read in that natural and easy manner, that permits the whole attention to be given to LIFE OV the subject. Some (I think miscalled " good readers") arc so wonderfully correct and em- phatic, that we arc obliged to think of the read- ing, 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. Wc stopped at an inn to rest the horses, and my father began to read aloud the well-known mock heroic from the " Anti-jacobin," — u Uarliff! liarbs! alas! how swift vp flow Hit iunt p.ist-Mtii;iin irnttint; in! Yfl bon* Matilila from my view. Forlorn I lan^uUh'il at the U- nivrr*ily of (lotlin^en, iiivi-nity of Gotlinycn." 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 sec how the case is now !" and be 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 biin. Soon after that early period, he became subject to vertigoes, w hich he thought indicative of a tendency to apoplexy ; and was occasionally bled rather proluvly, which only increased the symptoms. When he preached his first sermon at Muston, in the year )"*!>, my mother foreboded, as she afterwards told us, that he would preach very few more : but it was on one of bis early journeys into Sullolk, in passing through Ipswich, that he bad 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 anil 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 ease 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 CRAB13E. 45 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 lather officiated in Suffolk, he was a popular preacher, ami had always larirc 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 was 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 unaffected ; 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 complete 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 word I cannot see; 1 must give you the rest ; when we meet again." Or, he would walk into a pew near a window, anil 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. 1 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- LIFE OF CRABBE. nesscd in any one, and this circumstance alone was sufficient to undermine the happiness of so feeling a mind as my father's. Fortunately for both, there were long 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 i 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 probable that it was one of the 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 labour, 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 j their pronunciation. He also continued all through his residence in Suffolk 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, perhaps, 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 the least inviting had the 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 appeared to proceed 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 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 scattered here 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 of 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 the love of order found a place With all that 's low, degrading, mean, and base ; With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace. In the cold miser of all change afraid, In pompous men in public seats obeyed, 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 for lack of sense." W T hatever 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 parts 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 comparative prominency of the parts, and in the contrasts afforded by bearing 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 his 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 real love for painting, or music, or archi- tecture, or for what 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 st 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 Treatise on Botany, which I mentioned at an earlier page 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 the scruples of another inter- fered, and made him put the manuscript into the fire. But among other prose writings of the same period some were of a class which, per- 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 Suffolk, he gave most of his evening LIFE OF CRABBE. 47 hours to the writing of Novels, and lie brought not less than three such works 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;'^ 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 story was not well managed in the details. I forget the title of his third novel ; but I clearly remember that it opened wi»h 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 verso, he paused in his reading, and, after sonic 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 I have before noticed as displayed even in his physiological pursuits. lie had now accumulated so many poetical 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 179!*, he opened a com- munication with Mr. Hatchard, (he well-known bookseller, and was encouraged to prepare for publication a scries of poems, 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 Fedlar 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 rXeverend Richard Turner, already mentioned as rector of SwcfHing. This friendly critic advised further revision, and his own mature Opinion coinciding with that thus modestly hinted, he finally rejected the talcs I have named altogether; deferred for a further period of eight years his re-appearancc 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 Suffolk was his connection with this honoured man. He con- sidered his judgment a sure safeguard and reliance in all cases practical and literary. The ■ peculiar characteristic of his vigorous mind being an interest, not a seeming, but a real interest, i in every object of nature and art, he had stored it with multifarious knowledge, and had the , I faculty of imparting some portion of the interest I he felt on all subjects, by the zeal and relish I with which he discussed them. With my father I he would converse on natural history, as if this i had been his whole study ; with my mother, on mechanical contrivances and new inventions, for I 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 1 critic will forgive the effusion of my regard and respect. While atGlcrnham, as at Parham, my j father rarely visited any neighbours except Mr. i North and his brother Mr. Long ; nor did he I often receive any visiters. But one week in every 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 I 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- i coin, Dr. Prcttyman, and to request that Mr. Crabbc 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 Aflington 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- , fered it to my father. This living* was, however, too small to beheld singly, and he prepared ulti- . mately (having obtained an additional furlough of four years) to return to his own parishes. His 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- ! tcre>ts of his children. In the autumn of 1801, Mr. North and his brother, having a joint property in the Glcmham estate, agreed to divide by selling it; and in Oc- tober we left this sweet place, and entered a i house at Rcndham, a neighbouring village, for the four years we were to remain in the East Angles. ' The two Glcmhams, both in the gift of Mrs. North, were lately presented to my brother John, who is now the incum- I bent. 48 LIFE OF CRABBE. In 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. The 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 only 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 mv father'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 u | strong inclination to have the pleasure of his so- ciety — that he possessed property enough for | both, and requested him to relinquish 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 appeared!" How often have I heard him 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 worjes 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 wannest of his own countrymen. On his high appreciation of the more recent works of his distinguished con- temporaries, it is needless to dwell. 5 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 there to 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 lot/, for the rector had always been a good, kind gentleman, and much noticed by the Duhe ;" but by degrees the tale was more and more dissem- inated, and at length it gained a pretty general credence among a population which, being purely agricultural — and, therefore, connecting every notion of what was praiseworthy with the maintenance of the war that, undoubtedly, had raised agricultural prices to an unprecedented scale — was affected in a manner extremely dis- agreeable to my father's feelings, and even worldly interests, by such an impression as thus 5 My brother says on this subject — "He heartily assented to the maxim, that — allowing a fair time, longer in some cases than in others — a book would find its proper level ; and that a well-filled theatre would form a just opinion of a play or an actor. Yet he would not timidly wait the decision of the public, but give his opinion freely. Soon after Waverley ap- peared, he was in a company where a gentleman of some literary weight was speaking of it in a disparaging tone. A lady defended the new novel, but with a timid reserve. Mr. Crabbe called out, ' Do not be frightened, Madam ; you are right : speak your opinion boldly.' Yet he did not altogether like Sir Walter's principal male characters. He thought they wanted gentleness and urbanity ; especially Quejitin Durward, Halbert Glendi-ming, and Nigel. He said Colonel Manner- ing's age and ixculiar situation excused his haughtiness ; but he disliked fierceness and glorying, and the trait he especially admired in Prince Henry, was his greatness of mind in yield- ing the credit of Hotspur's death to his old companion Falstaff. Henry, at Agincourt, ' covetous of honour,' was ordinary, he said, to this." LIFE OF 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 Ik-Kit or worse of any individual lor the bias he had received, littt he did not, certainly, approve of the origin of the war that was raging while he lived at Parham, Glemham, and Kendham; 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 pood men who, indeed, hailed (In- 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 hittt 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 prencral unquestionably underwent, I may as well, per- haps, say a word or two here; for the topic is one I have no wish to recur to again. Perhaps the natural tendency of every young man who is conscious of |wiwcrs and capabilities above his station, is, to adopt what arc 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. Hut, if this young man should succeed in raising him- self by bis 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 or 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 DOt think .Mr. C'rabhe'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. Hut his was no ordinary mind, and he did not desert them merely from the vulgar motive of interest. At Hclvoir 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. Hut 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 iiad 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 inouiry 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 indifferent. The dedication of his poems to persons of such opposite opinions arose entirely from motives of ]>ersonal gratitude and attachment ; and he carried his impartiality so far, that 1 have beard 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. 1 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 for persons of both parties, but woidd willingly huve given his vote to either; and at one or two genera] elections, I believe he BCtUalh/ did so; — for example, to Mr. Benett, the Whig candidate for Wiltshire, and to L)id Douro and Mr. Croker," the Tory candidates at Aldborough. < I lnk<- the UbMtl of quoting nhat follows, from a letter with which I Imvf l.Vti-h I n honoured tiy tin- Hight Honour- able J. \V. Croker : — " I have licanl, from those who knew Mr. Crabbc earlier than 1 hail the pleasure of doing (and his communication* w ith me led to the same conclus on), that he never was a Tiolent nor even a zealous politician, lie wss, as a conscientious clcrgv man might be expected to be, a church- nnd-king man ; but he seemed to me to think and care less about party politics than any man of his condition in lifethat I ever met. At one of my elections for Aldebur.'h, 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 which had any reference to politics— at least, to local politics; for it was, I believe, his last visit to the place of his nativity. Mv opinion of his ■dutiable works, I took the liberty of recording in a note on lloswcU's Johnson. To that opinion, on reconsideration, and frequent rcpcrusalsofhis 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 modest v of liis mind. With talentsof a much higher order, he realised all that we read of the personal amiability of (Jay.'' The note on ltoswell, to which Mr. Croker here refers, is in these terms:— "The writings of this amiable gentleman have placed him high on the roll of British poets ; though his E 50 LIFE OF CRABBE. He 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 confer 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 popular interest will predominate ; and in the former ca'e, I conceive, the well-meaning Tory will incline to Whiggism, — in the latter, the honest Whig 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 affair was a mere blunder, having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, too painful, und too just, may have deprived his works of so ex- tensive, or, at least, so brilliant, a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attained ; but I venture to believe that there is no poet of his times who will stand higher in the opinion of posterity. He general. y deals with * tile short and simple annals of the poor ;' but he exhibits them with such a deep knowledge ol human nature, with such general ease and simplicity, and sucii accurate force of expression — whether gay or pathetical,— as, in my humble judgment, no poet except Shakspeare, has excelled." 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. I must indulge myself, in closing this chapter, with part of thejetter which he received, when on the eve of starting for Leicestershire, from the honoured rector of SwerHing : — " 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 ; I have ex- perienced the greatest friendship and hospitality from you and Mrs. Crabbe; and I 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, in 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, K. Turner." CHAPTER VIII. 1S05— 1814. Mr. Crabbe's second Residence at Muston — Publication of "The Parish Register" — Letters from Eminent 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 Re- gent at Belvoir — Death of Mrs. Crabbe — Mr. Crabbe's Removal from Leicestershire — Lines written at Glemham after my Mother's decease. When, in October, 1805, Mr. Crabbe resumed the charge of his own parish of Muston, 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 clergy- LIFE OF men, but they had been often changed, and some of tliem 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 bad nearly completed bis " Parish Re- gister," and [he 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 principal mo- tive for no longer delaying his re-appearancc 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 wrote 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 afford 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." The manuscript was immediately sent to him at St. Anne's Hill ; " and," continues Mr. Crabbe, CRABBE. 51 " 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 myself the melancholy satisfac- tion of adding, that this poem (and more espe- cially the story of Phcebe 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 w hom every poet should de- voutly wish, and the friend whom every man would lie 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 attempts I have made." This preface is dated Muston, September, 1807 ; and in the same month the volume was published by Mr. llatchard. 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 ami illustrated — but ii 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 hero 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 52 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. Bumujcastle. " Woolwich Common, Oct. 24, 1807. " Dear 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 sufficient 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 seeiDg 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 much pleased with your beautiful verses, which 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 are so comfortably and honourably established in your profession, and I sincerely hope your sons may be as well provided for. I spent a few days 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; but as I have lately succeeded to the place of Dr. Hutton, who has resigned the attendance at the academy, this has made it more e:.sy, 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. Burke. 1 " Beaconsiield, 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. 1 have a full sense of their value and your attention. Your friend never lost sight of worth 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. " Jane Burke." From Dr. Manscl. 2 "Trinity Lodge, Cambridge, Oct. 29, 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. " W. 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 10th of October, and the valuable present which accompanied it. 1 did not receive it till I arrived in London, about the middle of the last month, 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 1 Of this lady, who died in 1812, Mr. Prior says : — " Added to atTectionate admiration of Mr. Burke's talents, she possessed accomplishments, 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 I ' every care vanished the moment he entered under his own [ roof.' "- Life of Burhe. 2 Afterwards Bishop of Bristol. His Lordship died in IC20. 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," lias 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 1 will only add. that I think that highest praise, for such I esteem it, was justly due to you. 1 well remember ' the pleasure which 1 had in meeting you at Mr. I Dudley North's, and wish I could look to a revival of it. I have the honour to be, with great regard, Sir, \c. GRET." From ll(Kjrr Wilbraham, Est/. "Stratton Street, M»y 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 numtier. 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 (Jlemham, in which I so frequently took the liberty to urge you not to rest contented w ith 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, yon have obtained by universal consent: and I feel considerable pride iu having the honour to be known to a person who has afforded so much reai 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 bis 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 moat captivating language. When I took up your book, the novelties of it first attracted niv notice, and afterwards 1 visitid my old acquaint- ances with as much pleasure as ever. The only regret I felt at the end was, that the book was no* marked Vol. I. ; but that may be amended. In which hope I take my leave, assuring you of the very sincere regard, and real admiration of, yours most truly and sincerely, KottSB Wii.iuiAiiAM." From 3/r. (7aiiiiinq. "SUnliope Sired, Nov. 13, 1807. "Sin, — 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. 1 b.ive lately made that volume the companion of a journey into the country. 1 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— 1 had been long acquainted; but I was glad to have them brought back to my recol- lection ; and 1 have read with no less pleasure and admiration those which I now saw for the first time. 1 have the honour to be, Sir, &c, &c. "Georce 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, 1 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 jour partiality. I am, Sir, &c. Hollas i>." To these I may add a letter from Mr. Walter Scott, dated " Ashestiel, October 21st, 1809," — acknowledging the receipt of a subsecpucnt 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, 1 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 lamih . Among the very few books which fell under my hands was a volume or two of Dodslev'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 w ith tin- description of the old Romancers. I committed them most faithfully to my memory, w le re 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 iu the head of a lad of eighteen. New publications, at that time, were very 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 much delight, I was fain to rest contented with the extracts from the Register, which 1 could repeat at this moment. You may, therefore, guess my sincere delight when I saw jour 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 1 became very desirous to offer my qratulor, among the more im- portant plaudits which you have had from every quarter. 1 should certainly have availed myself 54 LIFE OF of the freemasonry of authorship (for our trade may claim 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 sucli a freedom. I am too proud of the compliments you honour me with, to affect to decline them ; and with respect to the comparative view I have of my own labours and yours, I can only assure you, 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 either 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 are 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 he felt the pleasure, 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 contemplation of such success, when it is only accessory to the more substantial pleasures of existence, namely, the consciousness of having fulfilled the duties for CRABBE. which that existence was especially given, and the bright hope that higher and better things than this world can afford 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 Cains 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 beis, 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 always 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 differ 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 benefit 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 spoken at the anniversary, with all the advantage that Mr. 1 it/urerald gave to whatever he recited. Mr. Crab be was now diligently occupied in finishing this poem, which had been begun while he lived at Hendham ; and as our kind friends at Aldborou<. r h had invited us to taste the sea air after lour years' residence in the centre of the kingdom, my father carried his manu- script fur 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 alter 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 re*|ionsibilities 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 IJorough," 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. llatchard put it to the press: it was published in 1810, and in 18 10 it had attained its .sixth edition. The opinion of the leading Reviews was Bgaio nearly unanimous; agreeing that " The Borough" had greater beauties and greater defects than its predecessor, "The Parish Register." With Mich 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 characiers in " The Parish Re- gister " arc but excellent sketches :— there is hardly enough matter even in the most in- terest in;; 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 suffic ient evolution of event and character, not only to please the fancy, but grapple with the heart. I think the ""lligh- wayiuan's Tale," in the twenty third letter (Prisons), is an instance in point. We sec 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 knou that my father was himself much affected when he drew that picture, as he had been, by his own confession, tsvicc 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 w ith 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. Having obtained permission to see the man w ho 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. lie 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, nothing seem'd to be A* once it was ; seeing he could not see, Nor hearing hear aright .... Each sense was palsied I" In the common-place book of the author the following observations were found relative to " The Borough ," and they apply perhaps with still more propriety to his succeeding poems : — " I have chiefly, if not exclusively, taken my subjects and characters from that order of society w here 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, will be met with; because, on the one hand, they do not live in the eye of the world, and, therefore, arc not kcot in awe by the dread of observation and indecorum; nei- ther, on the other, ore they debarred by their want of means from the cultivation of mind and the pursuits of wealth and ambition, whic h are necessary to the development of character dis- played in the variety of situations to which this c lass is liable." The preface to "The Borough " shows how much his mind was engrossed and irritated, at ilii- period, by the prevalence of Mr. Hunting- ton's injurious doctrine s in his neighbourhood, and even in his household. And his " Letter on Sects" not only produced a ridiculous threat from a Swcdenborgian (dated from Peter- borough) of personal chastisement ; but occa- sioned ;i 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 1 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 father continued to receive polite attention during the 56 LIFE OF 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, lie 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. Col burn, 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, ibr his in- spection by the Vice-Master of Trinity ; and this 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 parsonage 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 their stems, rested on the banks of a stream and a picturesque old bridge. :i The garden en- closed the other two sides of this churchyard ; but the crown of the whole was a gothie arch- way, cut through a thick hedge 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. 3 See the lines on Muston in " The Borough," Letter I. : — " 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," &c. CRABBE. 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 party 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 lather 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 public 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 copy of all his works. His brother poet honoured him with the following beautiful reply : — " Abbotsford, June 1, 1812. " My Dear Sik, — I have too long delayed to thank you for the most kind and acceptable present of your three volumes. Now am I 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 painting, whether na- tural or moral, renders, I have often remarked, your works generally delightful to those whose youth might render them insensible 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 much as LIFE OF 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 Bel voir — a part of England for which I enter- tain a special kindness, for the sake of the gallant hero, IJobin 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 Bucclcugh, the head of my clan ; a kind and benevolent laud- lord, a warm and zealous friend, and the husband of a lady, 'comma il y en a peu.' They are both great admirers of Mr. Crabl>e - s poetry, and would lie 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 . \\ ith 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 laliorious 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. 1 betidi I hold in commrndam the sheriffdom of F.tfrick Forest, — which is now no forest ; — so that I am a sort of pluralist as to law appointments, and have, as Dogberry say s, two gowns, and everv thing handsome nl)out me. I have often thought it i- the most fortunate thing for hards like you and ni", to have an established profession and pro- fessional character, to render us independent of those worthy gentlemen, the retailers, or, as some have called them, the midwives of literature, who are so much taken up with 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 arc 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 republished the ' Village ' for the purpose of send- ing your young men to college, and 1 should have written the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' lor the pur- pose of buying a new horse for the Volunteer I'avalry. I must now send this scrawl into town to CRABBE. 57 get a frank, for God knows it is not worthy of postage. With the warmest wishes for your healih, pro- sperity, and increase of fame— though it needs not, — 1 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 otic-nee will be taken by anv one at an extract which I am about to give from it. The reader will presently discover, that my father had no real cause to doubt the regard of the noble person to whom he alludes, and who subsequently proved a most efficient patron and friend. Mr. Crabbc 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, I give you joy of an honourable inter- course with the noble family of Buccleugb, whom you happily describe to me, and by whose notice or rather notice of my book, lam much favoured. With respect to my delightful situation in the Vale of Pel voir, 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 Pelvoir is flat and unwooded, aud 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 tee this unlucky particle, in one or other of Horne Tooke's senses, will occur— but I am now of the old met. 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, hut a living ; this the duke taught me to disregard as a provision, aud 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 : •llmv do you do. Dr. Smith? Bow is Mrs. Smith ?' —'I thank your Grace, well :' and so they took their venison and claret, f Who are these? 1 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 had 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 ami 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 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. Thej - 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 upou 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 600Z. 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 what 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 for sight-seers, in Osborne's Hotel, x\del- 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 we dropped in and dined at any coffee- house that was near. My father's favourite resorts were the botanic gardens, where he passed 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 inti rested by theatrical talent as I had expected ; but he was one evening infinitely diverted at CRABBE. 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 ehilhood 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 affluence, both had acquired a name and reputation, 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 early 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 afford. 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 by 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 : — " Mr 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 I believe the work in which he has solicited your assistance is one adopted by the General Assembly, or Convocation, of the Kirk. I have no notion that he has any individual interest in it : he is a well-educated and liberal-minded man, and generally esteemed. I have no particular acquaintance with him myself, though we speak to- gether. He 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 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. Buc you are quite safe with him ; and having so much command of scrip- tural language, which appears to me essential to the devotional 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 fiat 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 Stabat Muter, the Dies Ires, and some of the other hymns of the Catholic church, 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 and 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, whi ther they are favourable or otherwise ; for it is usually their principal object todisplay 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 aciiteiic-s : a firm unflinching spirit, and a very warm and feeling heart. She knew the worth of her husband, and was grateful for his kindness ; for 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 CRABBE. 59 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 effect ; 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 off 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 Belvoir; 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 fed t 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 aid to the utmost extent of his power. They carried this unkind feeling so far as to ring the bells for bis successor, before he himself hail left the residence. Before he quitted Leicestershire he witnessed a scene of hospitality at the castle which l'as not often been exceeded in magnificence. In January, 1S14, the. infant heir of the House of 60 LIFE OF CRABBE. Rutland was publicly baptized in the chapel of Belvoir, by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Manners Sutton, himself a near branch of the ducal family, and of whom my father was accustomed to say, that he carried as much per- sonal grace 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, the source of pain ; It brings in view the form and face That I must never see again. The night-bird's song that sweetly floats On tli is soft gloom — this balmy air, Brings to the mind her sweeter notes That I again must never hear. 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 paper in which my dear mother's wedding-ring, nearly worn through before she died, was wrapped : — " The ring so worn, as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold : The passion such it was to prove ; Worn with life's cares, love yet was love." On the 3rd of June, 1814, he was inducted to Trowbridge church by the Rev. Mr. Fletcher. His diary, has, among others, the following very brief entries : — " 5th June, — first sermon at Trowbridge. 8th, Evening, --solitary walk — night — change of opinion — easier, better, hap- pier." To what these last words refer, I 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 supply. 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, offering 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 solitary with a social disposi- 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 : by 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 looked LIFE OF 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 ohservc 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 tide," 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 L'ettiiej- mure lure, the height of his well-developed forehead appeared as in- creased, and more than ever like one of those heads by which VVilkie makes so many converts to the beauty of human decay. lie became stouter in person than he had been, though without fatness ; and, although he began to stoop, li is limbs and motions were strong and active. Notwithstanding his flattering reception among the principal people of the place, he wns fiir from beimr much liked, for some years, bv Ins 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 feelinir bordering on ill-will, towards .Mr. C'rabbe himself, which was heightened by the prevalence of some reports so ridiculous, that 1 am almost ; ish;i .1 to notice them ; such as, that he was a dissipated man — a dandy — even a gambler. And then, when he appeared among CRABBE. 61 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 vioiatc 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 benefuctiop 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 Hector, in the Talcs of the Hall :— M 1 A moral teacher I ' some contemptuous cried ; He smiled, but nothing of I lie fact denied ; Nert 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. lie 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 extrusive, vari- ous, rich. The profusion of roses extraordinary. Dinner. Mr. Ileber, to whom Mr. Scott addresses one canto of Marmion. Mr. Stanhope. A pleasant day. Sleep at Wimbledon. "4th. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Ileber and Mr. Stanhope. Afterwards Mr. Rogers, Lady S., Lady II. 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 Janus Mackintosh, Mr. Grenville, elder brother to Ix>rd Grcnville. My visit to Lord Lansdowne's father in this house, thirty-seven years since! Porter's lodge. Mr. Wynn. Lord ( Issorv. " 6th. — My thirty lints done; but not well I fear: thirty daily is the self-engagement. Dine at George's Coffee-house. Return. Stay late at Hollwrn. The kind of shops open at so late an hour. Purchase in one of them. Do not think they deceive any person in particular. " fctfu — 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 I 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. Iloare 11 may receive it before dinner. Set out for Ilolborn 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 Bod beautiful woman. Promise to breakfast next morning. (Jo to Ilolborn. Letter from Mr. Frere. Invited to meet Mr. Canning, &c. Letterfrom Mr. W ilbraham. Dinner at Mr. Rogers's with Mr. " The Lite Samuel Tlnnr* 1 , Esq., 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 i at twelve o'clock. Agreed to visit the Hon. W. Spencer 12 at his house at Petersham, and there to dine next day with Mr. Wilbraham. "8th. — 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. " 9th. — 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. " ivth. — Apology for last night. Maiden at a ball; I hope not mistress too. Rise early for the coach to Twickenham, as I 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- plish, il actor could ii"t counti rf< it the 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. 13 Civil man. and something more. Mr. Wilbraham. A drive round the country three hours. Richmond Hill. Recollect Sir Joshun's house. Hampton Court. IVtcrsham. In Mr. Wilhrnham'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. " 11 th.— 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 dc Socicte". I am informed Mrs. S. has very extraordinary talents. Go in the 14 Mr. Spencer, the well-known translator of " Leonora,'' See. &c. gee. 13 I'ope's villa, now Inhabited by Sir Wathen Waller, Hart., and his lady, the Baroness Hone. 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 in 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. " 14th. — Some more intimate conversation this morning with Mr. and Mrs. Moore. They mean to go to Trowbridge. He is going to Paris, but will not stay long. Mrs. Spencer's album. Agree to dine at Curzon 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 take 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. " \5tli. — 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. " 16fA. — Mr. Boswell the younger. Malone's papers. He is an advocate, like most of his coun- trymen, for Mary. Mr. Frere's poem. 14 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. " 16^. — Picture finished, which allows me more time. Lady Errol 15 and Lady Holland. Invitation from Lord Binning. 16 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 much. 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 Besborough, 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 M " The Monks and the Giants," published under the name of Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, Suffolk. >5 The Countess Dowager of Errol, wife of the Right Ho- nourable John Hookham Frere. 16 Now Earl of Haddington. comes at night to Mr. Spencer's, and confirms it. She invites me to Roehampton. Pleasant evening. " 1 1th. — 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 Loudon ; 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' 7 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, fori had curiosity ; but finally declined. Mr. Wilkie. His picture in the exhibition much admired. " 19th. — 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 ! — Foscolo; 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 Lord 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. 18 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 19 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. " 20th. — 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- 1? Maria Graham, now Mrs. Calcott. •8 The Right Honourable Frederick Robinson, now Earl of Ripon. 1° The Right Honourable Charles Manners Sutton. LIFE OF CItABBE. 71 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 I lurry Engleficld. A large house that overlooks the Park aud Serpentine River. Disappointed of Mr. Spencer; hut Mrs. Spencer, and Miss Chur- chill, and Miss Spencer dine with us. Mr. Murray and Mr. Standish. Nothing particularly worthy of remark at dinner ; hut after dinner, one of the best conversations since I came to town. Mr. Spencer and Miss Churchill chiefly; on the effect of high polish ou miuds ; chiefly female; Sir Marry 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 Trow Bridge two or three j and it is well there are. Promise it' I live) to return in the winter. Miss Churchill a very superior and interesting woman. Take leave Of my friend Sir Harry. The impres- rion rather nervous, and they will smile at , I am afraid; but 1 shall still feel. 1 shall think of this evening. '•21a/. — 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 aud 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 .mil degradation, not my own c,nl_\. but of those who had liecn. — That horrible image of servility and baseness — that, mercenary and commercial manner ! It is the work of imagination, 1 suppose ; but it is very strange. 1 must leave it.* 0 — Walk to Ilolborn. Call and pay for yesterday's CO See, which, with a twenty-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 Ilolborn, and stayed an hour with I' — , 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. 1,'cturn by Mr. Murray's, and send to" Lady Krrol's from his house. He obligingly sent his servant to Bury Street. Lady Krrol much better. May hope to meet Mr. Krere 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 thil journal in MS., writes thus : — " The Journal of your father is a most interesting document : and it is rather curious that some parts of it should so much ful style : doubly secluded, and yet very near town. 21 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 ." " 22ent on you, Moore, who are ('rablni'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. Rogers, 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 extrael 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 Mr. 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 powerof poetry was but newly awakening within him, it may easilj be conceived that whatever was unconnected with his own absorbing art, or even with his own peculiar province of that art, would leave but a feeble and transient impression upon his mind. " This indifference to most of the general topics, whether of learning or politics, which diversify the conversation of men of the world, Mr. Crabbe re- tained through life; and in this peculiarity, 1 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 mind, which he produced in ordinary life. Another I 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 CRABBE. 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. Rogers 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 Mookb." 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.- 7 Mr. Crabbe, in subsequent years, made Hampstead his head-quarters on his spring visits, and only repaired from 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- respondent at Ballitore, descriptive of his re- ception at Trowbridge of her friend Leekey, is highly characteristic :— " When my feeble and simple efforts have ob- 27 I quote what follows from a letter which I have recently heen favoured with from Mr. Howies : — " Perhaps it might be stated in your memoir that, at Bath, I first introduced your father to the estimable family of the Hoares of Hampstead ; with whom, through his subsequent life, he was so intimate, and who contributed so much to the happiness of all his later days. I wish sincerely that any incident 1 could recollect might be such as would contribute to the illustration of his mind, and amiable, gentle, affectionate character ; but I never noted an expression or incident at the time, and only preserve an impression of his mild manner, his observations, playful, but often acute, his high and sleady principles of religious and moral obligation, his warm feelings against anything which appeared harsh or unjust, and his undeviating and steady at- tachments." tained the approbation of the first moral poet of his ! time, is it surprising that I 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 i he was born. I said, ' 0 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, I found the man dressed, though in a garb ill-befitting the spouse of a lady's maid. And thou xnadest 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 him 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 affected 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 for that particular occasion ; for, as it happened, the late king fixed on the same time for his northern progress ; 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 favourable to the sort of intercourse with a con- genial mind, to which he had looked forward with such pleasing anticipations. He took up his residence, however, in Sir Walter's house in North Castle Street, Edinburgh, and was 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 opportunity not to be undervalued of seeing what was to him an aspect of society , LIFE OF 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 father's 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 not 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 not 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 Walter 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 rue, — the old tapestry was such as 1 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 ; aud 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 in 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 CRABBE. 77 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 Ambrosianas;" 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, w hile cham- pagne and claret, and other 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 characters. 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 1 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 2Glh, 1833. " Dear 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 aud 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 all 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 CRABBE. noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without any thing of old age about it — though he was then, I presume, above seventy — his sweet, and, I 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 poetry, since I was able thus to connect with it the living presence of the man ! " The literary persons in company with whom I 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 different 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 offered 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 ca>na:que Ueum. " 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 Icolmkill 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 radically 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 language which 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 abbe', 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 away, with pain and labour, to make themselves mutually understood, in most execrable French. Great was the relief, and potent the laugh- ter, when the host interrupted their colloquy with his plain English ' Good-morning.' " It surprised me, on taking Mr. Crabbe to see the house of Allan Eamsay on the Castle Hill, to find that he had never heard of Allan's name ; or, at all events, was unacquainted with his works. The same evening, however, he perused ' The Gentle Shepherd,' and he told me next mornino-, 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 Edinburgh; 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 Eoyal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and expressed great admiration of the manner in which the patients were treated. He also examined pretty 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 remember, 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 with the aspect of the church, which is large without grandeur, or the style of the ceremonial, which he said was bald and bad, 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 I 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 with Mr. Crabbe on this occasion appeared ever LIFE OF CRABBE. I 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 been 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 hit, had I not set down, at ouce, 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 fathe r wished to sec, 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 month! when he was toiling in early life in Lon- don, he hardly ever tasted butcher's meat except on a Sunday, when he dined usually with a tradesman's family, and thought their leg of mutton, 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; anil 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. Q. LoCKHART." Shortly after his return from Scotland, Mr. Cntbbc had a peculiarly severe fit of the tic douloureux, to which he thus alludes, in one of his letters to Mrs. Leadbcater: — " I am visited by a painful disorder, which, though it leaves me many intervals 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 sin. t time in which they must be done. 1 too often defer what would be in itself a pleasing duty, and apply myself to what affords a satisfaction, only because it has been fulfilled." It was this affliction which prevented bis H 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, Dec. 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 you 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 fold that bis coming to Pucklechurch was always looked forward to by the young people as a vision of joy V — "Trowbridge, 21th Dee., 1822. " Mv dear 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 rae ; and I will kee p 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 friei.ds in Salisbury, and among them a gi ntleman, 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, though 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 docs not know what he can do, and so vexed beside, that he cannot do as his wishes and his affection would lead him; and S8 I extract whftt follows from a letter with which his Grace honoured me after mv father's death : — " It is indeed true that my lamented Duchess vied with myself in sincere admi- ration of his talents and virtues, and in warm and hearty esteem for your father." 80 LIFE OF 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 J ohn, 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 oif 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 fit correspondents : that 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- cliutz, 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." O CHAPTER X. 1823—1832. The closing Years of Mr. Crabbe's Life — Annual Excursions — Domestic Habits — Visits to Puf.klechurch — 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. Hoare's, at Hamp- 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, Hastings, Hfra- combe, or Clifton ; and though, in their com- pany, he saw occasionally not a little of persons peculiarly interesting to the public, as well as CRABBE. dear to himself, — as, for example, Mr. Wilber- force, Mrs. Joanna Baillie, Miss Edgeworth, and Mrs. Siddons,— and though, in his passings 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 respect 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. While, 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 copies of 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 following extracts from his note- books, and his own letters to his friends and family : — " Aldborough, October, 1823. " Thus once again, my native place, I come Thee to salute — my earliest, latest home : Much are we alterd both, but I behold In thee a youth renewal — whilst I am old. The works of man from dying we may save, But man himself moves onward to the grave." To Mrs. Leadbeater. " Trowbridge, June, 1824. " 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 portion of it in 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 companions; 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. '• I 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 appeared 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. M 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, 1 I lost my fears, and took blue pills and medicines of like kind for a long season, and with good success." To a Ladij at Trowbridye. " Hecclcs, 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 tin- 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. — 1 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, thongh there be much that we cannot under- stand. We know not why one in the prime of life should suffer long ; anil, 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. Hut 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 \V., 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. Hut why all this? will \oii ask : first, because I love sou 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 iu 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 1 The Kintl and skilful physician on whose advice my father relied was Dr. Kcrri9oii, of New Hurlington 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 miue 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 ' Uejected' 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." 8 In June, 1825, he thus writes from Mr. Iloarc's villa at Hampstead : — "Hampstead, June, 1885. " My time passes I cannot tell how pleasantly, when the paiu leaves me. To-day I read one of my long stories to my friends, and Mrs. Joanna liaillie 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 frequent. I have seen many things and many people; have seen Mr. Sonthey and Mr. Wordsworth; have been some days with Mr. Kogers, and at last have been at the Athenrcum, and purpose to visit the h'oyal Institu- tion ; and have been to Richmond in a steam-biiat; seen, also, the picture galleries, and some other ex- 1 In the new edition of the H Rejected Addresses," I find a note, part of which is as follows : — -The writer's first inter- view with the Poet Crabbe, who mav tie designated Pope in v-.t.'-.I stockings, took place at \Vm. Spencer's villa at l'ctcrvham, close to what that gentleman called his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely three feet in diameter, throwing up a jel-d'eau like a thread. Tim venerable bard, seizing both tho 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 his popu- larity in Ixmdon ; 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 follow ing lines : — ■ Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight, Ixx-ks of pure brown, now felt th' encroaching white. Gradual each day I liked my horses less, My dinrtr more — I learnt to play at chess.' 'That's vct7 good!' cried the bard; 'whose is it?' — 'Your own.' — 'Indeed I hah I well, I had quite forgotten it.' " The writer proceeds to insinuate, that this was a piece of affecta- tion on the part of my father. If Mr. Smith had w ritten as many verses and lived as long, as Mr. Crabbe, he would, 1 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 m}' verses, or perhaps both, have abuse in a book of Mr. Colburn'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, 1820. " 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 Hoare 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 our 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." " Pucklechurch, 1S2G. " 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 difficulties 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 i (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 j degradation ; for it seemed like man reduced from I 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 are 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 trial ; as if it were a joyful 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 I hear, has been with you to-day. I have never I yet been able to fulfil my engagements. He LIFE OF CRABBE. 83 puzzles inc. 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. 1 am sure I should not, having tht> 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 1 have been dancing with my little girl to all kinds of tunes, and, 1 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 romp nor play with them." In January, 1830, he thus addresses his ■rrand-daughtcr : — " 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? Beading for amusement only, and, as it is said, merely to kill time, is not the satisfaction of a reasonable l«-ing. A: \<>nv 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 fre>|iiently disappointed." Dining one day with a party at PucklechuTch, about this period, some one was mentioning a professor of gastronomy, who looked to the time when his art should got to such perfection as to keep people alive for ever. My father said, ii lo-i emphatically, " Cod forbid!" lie had begun to feci 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 1.S28, he could trace a marked, though still very gradual change ; or, as he himself called it, a breaking iij) of the constitution; in which, however, the mind partook not, for there was no symptom of mental decay, except, and that only slightly and partially, 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 Poman orator, ' that Nature, after having widely distributed to all the preceding periods of lift 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, .Xtiturc discovers her destitute state, and manifests it in peevishness and repiniug. 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 1 > y 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 ou 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 LIFE OF CRABBE. state by the 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 Hampstead 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 clai-et. 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 spirit. The following letter from Hastings, dated 28th September, 1830, produced in his par- sonage feelings which I shall not attempt to describe : — To the JRev. John Crabbe. " My dear Sox, — I write (as soon as the post pei'mits) 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 expected, though a rather alarming accident made me feel unpleasantly for some hours, and its effects in a slight 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 again, and clo6e beside it, a gig, with two men in it, came on as fast as it could drive, which I neither saw nor heard till I felt the shaft 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 I hope I shall remember that many persons, under like circumstances, have never survived to relate their adventure. I hope to learn very 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 glory, 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, but aware for how short a period those pleasures were 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, apparently, the least tenacious of a re- putation for talent; but most deeply sensible of every proof of regard and affection. One day, when absent from home, and suffering from severe illness, he received a letter from Miss Waldron, informing him of the heartfelt interest which many of his parishioners had expressed for his welfare. Holding up this letter, he said, with great emotion, ' Here is something worth living for !' " LIFE OF CRABBE. S5 I may, ]>crliaps, 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 Hanipstead, 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 unluvcahk— -if I may be per- mitted to use the word. I have sometimes been almost provoked bv 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. Hut 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- rnpi'is.- vour fillu-r. While he was staving 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. lloare 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 stuffed, 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 lire. inn* acquainted with this distinguished and amiable poet. Believe me, with all good wishes, &e. " J. Haili.ie." I shall add here part of a letter which I have received from another of what I may call my lather's Hampstead friends— Mr. Duncan, of Hath, well known for the extent and elegance of his accomplishments. lie says : — " My first acquaintance with him was at the house of Mr. Hoare, at Hanipstead ; 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 w as w hen he endeavoured to place in a simple aud 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 bis 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. 1 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 Hath ; and as they ap- proached Calne, (he squire mentioned the names of certain poets of die neighbourhood ; expressed his admiration of your fathers 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. 1 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 Pucklc- cburch. Great was the pleasure of our house- hold in expecting him, for his liberality left no domestic without an ample remembrance. What LIFE OF CRABBE. listening 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 pleasure — as benevolent, as warm- hearted as in his days of youth and strength ; but age 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. 3 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, come listen to me, For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life, Hath 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 — perhaps 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 early 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 path ; and he would return loaded with them. The dirty fossils were placed in our best bed-room, to the great diver- sion of the female part of my family ; the herbs stuck in the borders, among my choice flowers, that he might see them 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. Few aged persons so readily acquired an attach- 3 The translation of Grimrns Kinder- und Hans-MSrchen. 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 Suffolk 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 period, 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 those who re- side among them, I retire for a few minutes, to re- I ply to your favour : and this must be my apology if I do not thank you as I ought, for the kindness j you express, and your purpose to oblige me in my J wishes to possess a few copies of the engraving, of | which I heard such a highly-approving account, by I my friend Mr. Dawson Turner, of Yarmouth, a j gentleman upon whose taste I can rely ; nor ought I to omit to mention that of his lady, who herself j LIFE OF 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 I shoidd postpone my acknowledgment of jour 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 Becclcs, 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 he into Suffolk, I contemplate with mixed feelings of hope and ap- prehension. After a freedom of several months' 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 1 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, lieccles is the home of past years, and I could not walk through tli'- streets as :i stranger. It is not po at Aldliorough : 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 kuow ; you played together as boys, and he looks as if he wanted to tell you so.' Of course, I stopped on my way, and Zeklfl] Thorpe and I became once more acquainted. This is sadly tedious to you; but yon need DOt 1> ■ told that old men love to dwell upon their Recol- lections : and that, I suppose, is one reason for (he 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 follies 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 — it' I except my too frequently recurring pain — in pood 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 hours conversation, inter tlOS, without participation, with- out interruption ; and I am fully persuaded that you would not reject it." CRABBE. 87 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 I 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 I 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 would 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 I 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 youug man's fancies." Towards the close of this year he again visited his friends, his kind and attached friends, of I Iampstead, 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 wc ever re- ceived. "Clifton, October 24. — Assure onr dear Caro- line,* that I feel pleasure in the thought of sitting iu 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, ami 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 4 His dauyhter-in-law. 88 LIFE OF as moral feeling in the people.of this country ; and if ministers proceed steadily, give up some points, 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 I 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 Charles Wetherell, to be sure, is not popular, nor ia the 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 wearied with their work and their indulgence. The military CRABBE. 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 them; 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 I 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 lather 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 I 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 surprised to find him still stronger and in better spirits than I had wit- LIFE OF CRABBE. 89 ncs'sed 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 upriirht position ; and there were no counter-tokens to excite our suspicions. It is true, he observed that he didnot like the in- crease of flesh ; but this was said in that liprht cheerful manner, which imported no serious fears. On the 29th, I received a letter from rny brother, stating that he had caught a sharp cold, accompanied with oppression in the chest and pain in the forehead, lor which he had been bled. lie added, that my father felt relieved, and that he would w rite atrain 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 effected, 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 ho 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 In his capacious mind, must have had a tendency to absord other feelings ; yet was he calm and Dnappalled ; — 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 v\.^ 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), wc were unable to follow. We seldom in- terrupted the course that nature was taking, or brought him to the effort of connected discourse, except to learn how wc could assist or relieve him. But as in no instance (except in a final lapse of memory) did wc 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 cither the morning or evening services : in his private devotions, as his household can testify, lie 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, tlien did he, as it were, confine himself to the inward workings of his pious and resigned spirit, occa- sionally, however, betrayed by aspirations 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 lie prepared lor death." " Lucy," — this was the affectionate servant that attended along with his sons, — " dear Lucy, be earnest in prayer ! May 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 with me — it will soon be over. — Stay with me, Lucy, till I am dead, and then let others take care of nie." This night was most distressing. The changes of posture sometimes necessary, gave him extreme pain, and lie said, "This is shocking." Then again he became exhausted, or his mind wandered in a troubled sleep. Awaking a little refreshed, go . LIFE OF he held out his hand to us, saying — as if he felt it might be the last opportunity, " God bless vou — be good, and come to me !" Even then, though 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 lighted 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 distinctly 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 I 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 returning sensibility,— but it never returned. As my brother was watching his countenance at seven o'clock in the morning, a rattling in the throat was heard once, and twice, but the third or fourth 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- ing 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 organ-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 I write. The leader of the choir selected the following beau- tiful anthem : — " When the ear heard him, then it blessed him ; And when the eye saw him, it gave witness of him. He delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to help him : Kindness and meekness and comfort were in his tongue." CRABBE. 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, ' poor Mr. Crabbe will never go vp in pulpit any more with his white head.' No ! my children, that hoary head — found, as may 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, 5 " 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 volurrte ; two celestial beings are looking on, as if awaiting his 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 with a summary of character. I must leave the reader of these pages to supply this for himself. I conclude with simply transcribing a few verses — ascribed to an eminent pen, 6 — which appeared in print shortly after my dear and venerated father's departure : — " Farewell, dear Crabbe ! thou meekest of mankind, With heart all fervour, and all strength of mind. 5 Mr. Waldron, his young friend and adviser, now like himself numbered w ith the departed. He died, universally beloved and lamented, April, 1833, a year and two months after my father. 6 John Duncan, Esq., of New College, Oxford. LIFE OF CIIABBE. 91 With t*-nderest sympathy for others' woes, Fearless, all guile and malice to expose : Steadfast of purpose in pursuit of right, To drag forth dark hypw risy to light, To brand th' oppressor, and to shame the proud. To shield the righteous from the slanderous crowd ; To error lenient and to frailty mild, Kepentanco 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 1 be this thy perfect praise : — Truth prompted, and Truth purified thy lays ; The God of Truth has given thy verse and thee Truth's holy palm — His Immortality." SACKED TO THE MEMORY OP THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.R, 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 LIFE, HE MADE HIMSELF WHAT HE WAS. BY THE FORCE OF HIS GENIUS, III; KROKE THBOUGH THE OBSCURITY OF HIS BOTH YET NEVER CEVSED TO FEEL FOR Till: LESS FORTUNATE; ENTERING (AS HIS WORKS CAN TESTIFY) INTO mi; sorrows and deprivations OF THE POOREST OF HIS PARISHIONERS ; AND SO DISCHARGING THE DUTIES OF HIS STATION AS A MINISTER AND A MAGISTKA IT, AS TO ACQUIRE THE RESPECT AND ESTEEM OF ALL HIS NEIGHBOURS. AS A WRITER, HE IS WELL DESCRIBED BY A GREAT CONTEMPORARY AS " NATURES STERNEST PAINTER, YET HER BEST." THE END OF THE LIFE. ( 93 ) THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE REV. GEORGE ORABBE. 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, though 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 ^Eneia carmina gentes Qui sonat, ingenti qui nomine pulsat Olympum ; Mseoniumque senem Romano provocat ore : Forsitan illius nemoris latuisset in umbra Quod canit, et sterili tantum cantasset avena Ignotus populi ; si Mrecenate careret. Lucan. Puneg. ad Pisones. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY -RICHARD FOX, LORD HOLLAND, of holland in lincolnshire j lord holland, of foxley ; and fellow of the society of antiquaries. My Lord, That the longest poem in this collection 1 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 affection, 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- holdcn, 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. 2 1 [" The Parish Register " was the longest poem in the volume, published in 1807, to which 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." — Paeb.] I 96 CRABBE'S WORKS. With such encouragement, I present my book to your Lordship : the " Account of the Life and Writings of Lope de Vega " 3 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 he 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, 4 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 lias the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship's most faithful and obliged humble servant, Geo. Ckabbe. 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- 3 [First published in 1800. Anew edition appeared in 1817, to which was added " An Account of the Lite and Writings of Guillen de Castro." " No name among the Spanish poets," says Mr. Southey, " 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 ; I and he has been as happy now in a biographer, as he was i during his life in obtaining the patronage of the great and the favour of the public."] 4 [" For about a hundred years, French had been the only ! literature which obtained any attention in this country. IVow | and then some worthless production was 'done into English by a Person of Quality,' and a few sickly dramatists imported stage plots and re-manufactured them for the English market ; making of less value, by their bad workmanship, materials which were of little enough value in themselves. But at this time a revival was beginning ; it was brought about, not by I the appearance of great and original genius, but by awaken- ing the public to the merits of our old writers, and of those 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," 1 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 poems, 2 the author was honoured with the notice and assisted by the advice of the Eight 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 effected by Percy and Warton : the latter it was Hayley's fortune to perform. A greater effect was produced upon the rising generation of scholars, by the notes to his Essay 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, w hen he received from Lord Holland a present of the ' Life of Lope de Vega,' and a letter saying, that what Hayley had there written concerning the Araucana, had induced him to learn the Spanish language. 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 Lord Holland, though few who have pursued the study of that fertile literature with such distinguished success." — Southey.] 1 [" I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd." — Pope.] 2 [" 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 l>e 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, 8 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 deserved; of these I 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, lint it may not be so gene- rally understood, that he was ever assiduous in the more private duties of i benevolent nature ; that he delighted to give encouragement to any promise 1 [Mr*. Montagu, who had tin- good fortune to know, anil the good taste to admire, Mr. Burke in the very early part of hi* lire, thus speaks of him in one of her letters : — " I shall send you a 'Treatise on the Sublime and IJeautiful,' by Mr. Burke, a friend of mine. 1 think you will llnd him an ele- gant and ingenious writer, lie is for from the pert pedantry und assuming ignorance of modern w itlings, but in conversa- 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 which a good mind and a great one is sure to reel, while fools rush behind the altar at which win men kneel and pay mysterious reverence."] * [While in Dublin, in 17(13, Burke's attention was tilled to a friendless young ad venturer, who had just arrived from Cork, to exhibit a picture. This was llarrv, the celebrated painter. Burke saw him frequently ; examined and praised (lis picture ; enquired into his views and future prospects ; oll'ered him a passage to l.ngland ; received him, as he after- words did I'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 him to do still more. By his advice Barry went to Italy for improvement in his urt, and while there the painte r was chiefly supported by his munificence. Barry, like Crabbe, acknowledged the weight or his obliga- tions. " I am your property," he wrote to Burke ; " you ought sunk to be frco with a man of your own making, who has found in you, father, brother, friend, every thing." — See Baton's Iaj'c of Ilurke, and Ucnninoiiam's Btitllh l'ninlcrs.j * [Having already brought forwarJ a painter and a poet of celebrity, In? endeavoured to do the same by a sculptor. N riling to Laid Clmrlemont, in 17h:>, he says, — " I And that Ireland, among other marks of her just gratitude to Mr. Gratlan, intends to erect a monument to his honour, which is to*be decorated with sculpture. It will be a pleasure to you to know, thlt| at this time, a young man of Ireland is here, who, I really think, as far as my judgment goes, is fully equal to our best statuaries, both in taste and execution. If you employ him, you will encourage the rising artsin the decora- tion of the rising virtue of Ireland; and though the former, in the scale of things, is infinitely below the latter, there is a kind of relationship between them. The young man's name who wishes to be employed is Ilickey."] 6 ["Burke," Raid Johnson, "is never what we call hum- drum ; never in a hurry to begin conversation, at a loss to rum it on, or eager to leave olT. lie does not talk from a desire ,,f distinction, but because his mind is full." Tho Doctor often delighted to say, " If a man were to go by chance, at the same time with Burke, under a shed to slum a ■flower, lie would say, 'This is an extraordinary man I' " — Jkokf.h's Bu>trcll.] " [The following affecting incident, detailed by Mrs. Ilurke to a friend, took place a few months before Mr. Burke's death, of ability, 4 and assistance to any appearance of desert : 5 to what purposes he employed his pen, and with what eloquence he spake in the senate, be told by many, who yet may be ignorant of the solid instruction, as well as the fascinating pleasantry, found in his common conversation, 6 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. 8 By him I was favoured with an introduction to Dr. Johnson, who honoured me with his notice, and assisted me, as Mr. Uoswell 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 when both were alike heathful ond vigorous, was now, in his 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, u 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. "J * [This great painter and most amiable gentleman died in 1792. " Sir Joshua Reynolds w as, on very mnny accounts, one of the most memorable men of his time He was the first Knglishman who added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country. In taste, in grace, in facility, in happy invention, and In the richness and harmony of colour- ing, fie 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 English artists are the mast 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, ho appears not to be raised upon that platform, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His paintings illustrate his lessons, and his lessons seem to have been derived from his paintings;. He possessed the theory as perfectly as the practice of his art. . . .In full happi- ness of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the expert in art, and by the learned in science, courted* by the great, caressed by sovereign pow ers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native humility, modesty, and candour never forsook him, even on surprise or provocation ; nor was the least degree of arrogance or assumption visible to the most scrutinising eye in any part of his conduct or discourse His talents of every kind— powerful from nature, and not meanly cultivated liv letters — his social virtues in all the re- lations and ill all the habitudes of life, rendered him the centre of a very groat and unparalleled variety of agreeable societies, which will be dissipated by his death. He had too much merit not to provoke some jealousy, too mucli inno- cence to provoke any enmity. The loss of no man of his time can be felt w ith more sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow. Hail! and farewell I " — Burke.] 0 [See mill', p. 33 , and Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. 55.] H often wearied by applications, and did not readily comply 'with 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-indulged thought 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 : — Sir, " March 4, 1783. " 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. His Dedication 10 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 I 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, lest 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 worse, into a want of gratitude for their assistance ; since it becomes me to suppose they considered these first attempts as 10 Neither of these were adopted. The author had written, about that time, some verses to the memory of Lord Robert Manners, brother to the late Duke of Rutland ; 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 me 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 I 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 difficult, 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 must 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. Burke, 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 Charles 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 prepared; 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 presumed, not forced or unnatural, form the concluding part of " The Village." 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 gjin 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 I 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 mir.d of this great man. The above information I owe to the favour of the Kight Honourable Lord Holland; nor this only, but to his Lordship I am indebted for some excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS. It was not, indeed, my good fortune then 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 Knglish 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 9. high degree of satis- t.i' ii'>n, 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. Put 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 itpon 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 I 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 1 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. Put, 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 various 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 difficulty ; 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- n 2 100 CRABBE'S WORKS. vour 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 a piece 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, " When all the youthful 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 lie :" — 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 triumph, 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 LIBB.ARY. 101 THE LIBRARY. 1 Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substi- tuting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own — They are pro- ductive of other Advantages — An Author's Hope of being known in distant Times — Arrangement of the Library — Size and Form of the Volumes — The ancient Folio, clasped and chained — 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 happy State of Man without Laws— Progress of Society — Historians : their Subjects — Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic — Ancient Romances — The Captive Heroine — Happiness in the Perusal of such Books : why — Criticism— Apprehensions of the Author : removed by the Appearance of the Genius of the Place ; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject. When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd, Lool« round the world, but looks in vain for rest ; When every object that appears in view, Tartakes her gloom and seems dejected too ; Where shall affliction from itself retire ? 2 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 Beaconsiiehi, see ant?, p. 27. " The Library " appeared anonymously, in June, 1781 ; but the author's name and designation as domes- tic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland were on the title-page of a second edition published in 178H.] 2 [After line fourth, the original MS. reads as follows : — "Where can the wretched lose their cares, and hide The tears of sorrow from the eyes of pride ? Can they in silent shades a refuge lind 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? There can they see the scenes of nature gay, And shake the gloomy dreams of life away ? Without a sigh, the hope of yonth 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 woes. So life has calms, in which we only see A fuller prospect of our misery. Alas ! we fly to silent scenes in vain ; Care blasts the honours of the fiow'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 unruffled 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, by no designs employ'd, Dwells on the past, or suffer' 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 mix'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, Can friends console us when our cares distress, Smile on our woes, and make misfortunes less ? Alas ! like winter'd leaves, they fall away, 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 sltail we lly ? — to yonder still retreat, The haunt of Genius and the Muses' 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. Adopts a thousand schemes, and quits her own ; Skims every scene, and plans with each design, Towers in each thought, and lives in every line ; From clime to clime with rapid motion Hies, 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 refined, And the great empress of the Poet's mind. Here led by thee, fair Fancy, I behold Tile mighty heroes, and the bards of old, For here the Muses sacred vigils keep, And all the busy cares of being sleep ; 102 CRABBE'S WORKS. A lighter grief! 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 wretched, more undone than we ? This Books can do ; — nor this alone ; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live ; 3 They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise : 4 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. 6 No monarch covets war, nor dreams of fame, No subject bleeds to raise his tyrant's name, No proud great 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, ■ The 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 doating dreams, and miserable lies, The 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 resign'd, Derides the various follies of mankind ; As distant objects sees their several cares, And with 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 (ill the eye When earth's poor hills and man's poor huts are nigh ; But, were the eye in airy regions tost, The world would lessen,' and her hills be lost ; And were the mighty orbs above us known, No world would seem so trilling as our own. Here looking back, the wond'ring soul surveys The sacred relics of departed days, Where grace, and truth, and excellence reside, To claim our praise, and mortifv our pride; Favour'd by fate, our mighty fathers found The virgin Muse, with every beauty crown'd : They woo'd and won ; and, banish'd their embrac?, She 'comes a harlot to their feebler race : Deck'd in false taste, with gaudy shows of art, She charms the eye, but touches not the heart ; Bv thousands courted, but by few caress'd, False when pursued, and fatal when possess'd. From hence we rove, with Fancy for our guide, O'er this wide world, and other worlds more wide, Where other suns their vital power display, And round revolving planets dart the day ; Where comets blaze, by mortals unsurvey'd, And strav where Galileo never stray'd ; Where God himself conducts each vast machine, Uncensured by mankind, because unseen. Come, Child of Care ! 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 ! 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. 6 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 show, here 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, with her fav'rite handmaids 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 with 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.] 3 [" Books without the knowledge of life are useless ; for what should books teach but the art of living?" — John- son.] 4 [" 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 [" The learned world, as I take it, have ever allowed a liberty of thinking and of speaking one's sentiments. That serene republic knows none of the distance and distinctions which custom has introduced into all others. There is a decent familiarity to be admitted betw een the greatest and the mean- est of it. This has often raised a thought in me, which has something wild, 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 they can sit down in their closets, and converse with the greatest writers of every age and of any nation ; and that in as much freedom and intimacy as their nearest friends could ever use towards any of them when living. What an illustrious assembly is there on these shelves I The courts of Augustus, 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 happiness is it for a person to have it in his power to say at any time, that he is going to spend an afternoon with tile most agreeable and most improving company he will ! choose out of all ages ! If he is in a gay humour, perhaps with Horace and Anacreon and Lord Dorset ; or, if more solid, either with Plato or Sir Isaac Newton." — Spence, Essay on Pope's Odyssey.] 6 [" A library pharmaceutical^ disposed would have the appearance of a dispensatory, and might be properly enough so called : and when I recollect how many of our eminent collectors of books have been of the medical faculty, I cannot but think it probable that those great benefactors to literature, THE LIBRARY. 103 Silent they are — but, though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound ; Here all that live no more ; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye. 7 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 ; "f is his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise. 8 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 fume's fair meed be his, for length of days. Delightful prospect! when wc leave behind \ 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 arc not these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous 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 ; Radcliflc, Mead, Sloano, Hunter, nnil others, have had this vitv idea in their minds, when tliey found' cginning their theological studies should follow this rule." — llistior Watson. " If the reader is disposed to attend to the humble suggi-s- tions of a very private layman, I think he would llnd great advantage in studying and considering the following works, in the order in which they are arranged: — 1. The View of the Internal Kvidence of the Christian Heligion, by Soame Jenvns. 2. The Evidences of Christianity, by Dr. Paley, 3. Grot ins on the Truth of the Christian Religion. 4, Evidences, of Natural and Kevealed Heligion, by Or. Samuel Clarke. 4. Locke's KoasonaUc ncss of Christ iani' \ . I.. Hi. Imp Hur l'. Introduction to the Study of the I i-ophecies. 7. Lord Lyttel- lon's Dissertation on the Conversion of St. Paul ; and s. I>r. Hiith-r's rVnsiogv of Heligion, Natural and Hevealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature. Prom these few volumes, if they arc studied with care and an upright intention, I think it may be said, that. ' Thev shall see to whom He was not (before) spoken of; and tfiey that have not (before) heard, sli ill understand.' " — MATruiAS.) so The 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 till a niche in our literary annals ; the works of the scholastics, with the controversies of these Qutoiliht tinars, would at once testify all the greatness and the littleness of the human intel- lect. Of these scholastic divines, the most illustrious was Saint Thomas Aquina.s,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 liepent his anger, or withhold his rod.- 1 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 fect.' J - Great authors, for the church's glory fired, Arc for the church's peace, to rest retired ; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race, Lie "Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."- 8 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 ; 24 Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore, Only to fight against its precepts more. 15 Near to these seats behold yon slender frames. All closely fill'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 w ith making acharade of metaphysics. His ' Sum of all Theology,' a mcta- phy sicoloirieal in- itise, occupies aliove I 2,'ilt folio pages, of very close print in double columns." — D'Isbaeli.] *' ["And God saw their works, that they turned from their evil way ; and God repented of the evil, that he had said that he would do unto them ; and he did it not. Hut it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was very angry."— Jtmali, iii. 10.] » [Original MS. : — Calvin grows gentle in this silent coast, Nor (Inds a single heretic to roost ; Hi re, their fierce rage subdued, and lost their pride, The Pope and Luther slumber side by side.] O [" How peaceably thev stand together : Papists and Pro- testants side by sidel Tlieir very dust reposes not more quietlv in the cemetery. Ancient and modern, Jew and Gentile, Mohammedan and Crusader, French and English, Spaniards and Portuguese, Dutch and llrnzilians, flghtint: their old battles, silently now, upon the same shelf : Fernam Lopez and Pedro de Ayola; John de Laet and Harlrcus, with the historians of Joam Fernandez Viera : Fox's Martyrs and the Three Conversions of Father Parsons: Cranmer and Stephen Gardiner; Dominican and Fronciscan; Jesuit and Philosophe; Churchmen and Sectarians ; Houndheads and Cavaliers !" — SoL'thiy.) M ["Your whole school is nothing but a stinking sty of pigs. Dog 1 do you understand me ? Do you understand me, madman ? Do you understand me, you great beast ? " — Cai.- vin to LuTHEn.] S3 [" These controversial divines have changed the rule of life into a standard of disputation. They 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 encompassed it with various minute outworks, which an army of warriors can with difficulty defend." — Sib D. Dal- 11 YMl'I.E.] 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, fly, and fight again ; Coldly profane, and impiously gay, Their end the same, though various in their way. When first Religion came to bless the land, 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 ; 20 Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light We trace the moral bounds of wrong 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 : — J 6 [The edition of 1781 reads as follows : — To thee, Philosophy ! to thee, the light, The guide of mortals through their mental night, By whom tiie 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, which 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 w ears. All that the earth's profound recesses hide, And all that roll beneath the raging tide ; The sullen gem that yet disdains to shine, 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 ilame, and nurse the silent loves; Which, when the Spring calls forth their genial power, Swell with the seed, and flourish in the flower : There,* with the husband-slaves, in royal pride, Queens, like the Amazons of old, reside ; There, like the Turk, the lordly husband lives, And joy to all the gay seraglio gives ; There, + in the secret chambers, veil'd from sight, A bashful tribe in hidden flames delight ; There,J in the open day, and gaily deck'd, The bolder brides their distant lords expect ; Who with the wings of love instinctive rise, And on prolific winds each ardent bridegroom flies. Next are that tribe whom life and sense inform, The torpid beetle, and the shrinking worm ; And insects, proud to spread their brilliant wing, To catch the fostering sunbeams of the spring ; * Alluding to the sexual system of Linnseus. ■f* The class cryptogamia. % The class dicecia. How vice and virtue in the soul contend ; How widely differ, yet how nearly blend ; What various passions war on either part, And 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 the flights sublime Of genius, bound by neither space nor time ; — All 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 from the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.'-' Yet more her volumes teach, — on these we look As abstracts drawn from 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, Nurse 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 ; Where, without passion, love instinctive lives, And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.' 28 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 ; That 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 The sullen people of the savage race ; And see a favourite tribe mankind attend, And in the fawning follower find the friend : Man crowns the scene, &c] 27 [" Dr. Franklin was the first who found out that lightning consisted of electric matter. This great discovery taught us to defend houses 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." — Darwin.] 29 [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 Gnomes! accordant to the tinkling strings, While, in soft notes, I tune to oaten reed Gay hopes, and amorous sorrows of the mead, From giant oaks, that wave their branches dark, To the dwarf moss, that clings upon their bark ; What beaux and beauties crowd the gaudy groves, And woo and win their vegetable loves : How snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed harebells blend Their tender tears, as o'er the stream they bend ; The lovesick violet, and the primrose pale, Bow their sweet heads, and whisper to the gale ; With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups ; How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride, Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride : With honey'd lips enamour'd woodbines meet ; Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet."] THE LIBRARY. 107 Man 19 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, Ami 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 sec 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 cither, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view ; For ever WTctchcd, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life ; For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain, Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. Whilst thus engaged, high vicwscnlurge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control : Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; For sec where yonder sage Arachni shapes Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapesj There I'nvsic fills the space, and far around, 1'ile above pile her learned works abound : (.1.. lions their aim — to ease the labouring heart; To war with death, and stop his (lying dart ; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew, And life's short lease on easier terms renew ; 99 f" II »•» from out the rind of one apple taited, Hint the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, leaped forth into the world. And perhaps, this is that doom winch Adam fell Into of knowing good and evil, that i«, of knowing good hy evil. A.-*, therefore, the state of mnn now to— whit wisdom can then' lie to choose, what continence to forhear, without the knowledge of evil ? He that can appre- hend and consider vice with all le-r Imit.s ami seeming' plea- s'ircs, and yet nlistain, and yd distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, lie is the true warfaring Christian. I ' annot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue unexercised and uiihrcatlicd, that, never sallies out and sees her adversary, hot slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to lie run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world ; we bring impurity much rather: tlial which purilles us is trial, ami trial is by what is contrary. That virtue, therefore, which is hut a youngling in the con- templation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice pro- mises to her follow ers, anil rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not n pure; her whiteness is but an excremental whiteness; v hlch was the reason why our snge and serious poet Spenser (whom I dare be known to think a better teacher than Scotua or Aquinas), describing true temperance under the person of iluion, brines him in with his palmer through the cave of Mammon and tho bower of earthly bliss, that ho might see nnd know, and vet abstain. Since, therefore, the knowledge and survey of vice is in this world so necessary to the constitut- ing of human virtue, and the scanning oferrour to the confir- ms ion of truth, how can we more safely, and with less dan- ger, scout into tho regions of sin and falsity, than by rend- ing all manner of tractates, nnd hearing all manner." — Mil- ton.] 50 [Sir Ili nry Halford, in the " Essay on the Influence of Disease on the Mind," has the following striking passages on till conduct proper to be observed by a physician, m w ith- holding, or making his patient acquainted with, his opinion To calm the phrer.sy of the burning brain ; To heal the tortures of imploring pain ; Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, To ease the victim no device can save, And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. 30 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. TTiefc 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 arc — 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 nerves, 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 proliablo issue of a malady manifesting mortal symp- toms : — " I own, I think it my first duly to protract his life by all practicable means, and to interpose myself between him and every thinu which may possibly aggravate his dancer. And unless I shall have found him averse from doing what v. :is in ssiry in aid nl my remedies, from a want of a proper sense of his perilous situation, I forbear to step out of the bounds of my province, in order to offer any advice w hich is not necessary to promote his cure. At the same time, 1 think it indispensable to let his friends know the danger of his case, the instant 1 discover it. An arrangement of his worldly allairs, in which the comfort or unhappincss of those who are to come after him is involved, mav be necessary ; and a sug- gestion of his danger, by w hich the accomplishment of this object is to he 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. Hut friends may lie 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 lamentable to think that any human lieing should leave the world unprepared to meet his Creator. Rather than so, I have departed from my strict professional duty, done that which I would have done by myself, and apprised my patient of the great change he was about to undergo Lord Hacon encourages physicians to make it a part of their art to smooth 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 this consummate philosopher, but also by the experience of one of the most judicious and con- scientious physicians of modern times — the late Dr. Ilebcrden — was practised w ith such happy success in the case of our late lamented sovereign (George the Fourth), that at the close of his painful disease ' nun tarn mori videretur (as was said of a Roman emperor), quam dulci et alto sopore excipi.' "] 108 CRABBE'S WORKS. The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, Serves 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 1 wasted long The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song ; 31 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 ma}' 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 Mends — fare- well ! 32 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 ; 33 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, 34 " When the free nations knew not laws nor kings ; 31 [" 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 found time to write lines upon * Mira's Birthday ' and ' Silvia's Lapdog,' though he composed enigmas and solved rebuses, he had 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 Rhymes, and a Treatise on the Art of Poetry." — See ante, p. 9.] 32 [" About the end of the year 1779, Mr. Crabbe, after as full and perfect a survey of the good and evil before him as his pre- judices, inclinations, and little knowledge of the world enabled nim to take, finally resolved to abandon his profession. His health was not robust, his spirits were not equal ; assistance he could expect 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 w ithout the most serious apprehensions of the con- sequence of such a step, — apprehensions which were con- quered, and barely conquered, by the more certain evil of the prospect before him, should he remain where he was." — See ante, p. 12.] 33 ["Who are they, whose unadorned raiment bespeaks their inward simplicity? These are law-books, statutes, and commentaries on statutes— whom all men must obey, and yet few only can purchase. Like the Sphynx 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 Luxury 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 stern 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 ; " AVhen Emulation, born 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 from the usurer's hand ; " To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress, " And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." 35 Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong, His nature leads ungovcrn'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 many a report and adjudged case. The sages of the law recommend this Abridgment to our perusal. Let us, with all thankfulnessof heart, receive their counsel. Much are we beholden to physicians, wdio only prescribe the bark of the quinquina, when they might oblige their patients to swallow the whole tree I" — Sir D. JJalrymple.] 31 [The original MS., in place of the next lines, reads : — " Ah ! happy age," 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 furrow'd Held ; Nor through distorted ways did Avarice roam, To fetch delights for Luxury at home : But mutual joy the friends of Nature proved, And swains were faithful to the nymphs they loved." '• Mistaken bards I all nations first were rude ; Man ! proud, unsocial, prone to solitude, O'er hills, or vales, or Hoods, was fond to roam — The mead his garden, and the rock his home ; For hying prey he search'd a savage coast — Want was his spur, and liberty his boast."] 35 [See Blackstone's Commentaries, i. 131, 359 ; iv. 432.] THE LIBRARY. 109 Till, like a miner working sure and slow, Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below ; The basis sinks, tho 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. 39 Next, History ranks ; — there full in front she lies, And every nation her dread tale supplies; Yet History has her doubts, nnd every age With sceptic queries marks the passing page ; Becords of old nor later date arc clear, Too distant those, and these arc placed too near ; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our own passions ami n writer's too : 3 ? Yet, in these volumes, sec how states arose ! 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 posscss'd, A nation grows too glorious to be blest ; Conspicuous made, she stands the mail; of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, Ids glory, 38 his disgrace ; The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run, How soon triumphant, and how soon undone ; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, ofTer crowns to sale, And each fall'n nation's melancholy talc. 3 * Lo ! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood; There, sueli the taste of our degenerate age, Stand the profane delusions of the Stage : Yet virtue owns the Tiiagic Muse a friend, Fable her means, morality her end; 40 l or this she rules nil passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns; M [Sec Montesquieu's Esprit des Loi«, liv. xxii. ch. 22.] 17 [•* Malhrurcux sort tip I'histoirc I Les spectftteurs sont trop pen instruits, ct let actcurs trop inlercssin ponrque nous puualons compter tur lei rccits ties uns ou des autre* I" — CiinnoN.] ** [ "glory long litis made the sages smile ; 'T is something, nothing, wortLs, illusion, wind — Depending more upon the historian's style. Than on the name a person leaves behind : Trov owes to Homer what whist owes to Moyle : Tlic present century was growing lilind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe."— Hyhon.] 33 ["Though the most sagacious author that ever deduced maxims of policy from the experience of former ages has said, that the misgovernment of states, and the evils consequent thereon, have arisen more from historical ignorance than from any other cause, the sum anil substance of bistort, il knowledge lor practical purposes consists in certain general firinciples ; ana he who understand* those principles, and la* a due sense of their importance, has always, in the darkest circumstances, a star in sight by which he may direct his course." — Soutiiev.] 49 [" Tragedies, as they are now made, arc good, instruc- tive, moral sermons enough ; and it would be a fault not to bo pfoued with good things. There I learn several great truths : as that it is impossible to see into the wavs of futuritv ; that punishment always attends the villain ; that love is tlic font! •oother 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, 1 go to see ; for Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl, Her aeger swells, her terror chills the soul ; She makes the vile to virtue yield applause, And own her sceptre while they break her laws; 41 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 th§ wound, : And harmless sees the feathcr'd shafts rebound ; I'nhurt 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 wntches at the lips of fraud ; , The wordy variance of domestic life ; i The tyrant husband, the retorting wife; The snares for innocence, the lie of trade, And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade. M With her the Virtues too obtain a place, Each gentle passion, each becoming grace ; The social joy in life's securer road, Its ea-y pleasure, its substantial gooil ; The happy thought that conscious virtue gives, And all that ought to live, and all that lives. But who are these? Mcthinks 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. 43 reflections of this nature make a toleiable harmonv, when mixed up with a proper quantity 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 wondcr'd how they wept." — Pope.] " [" The days of Comedy are gone, alas 1 When Congreve's fool could vie with Molierc's bite; Society is smootb'd to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress." — Hyron.] ° [" In the view taken by Hard, Percy, and other older authorities of the origin and'history of romantic fiction, their attentions were so exclusively fixed upon the romance of chivalry alone, that they seem to have forgotten that, how- ever interesting and peculiar, it formed only one species of a very numerous and extensive genus. The progress of romance, in fact, keeps pacewitli that of society, which cannot long exist, ev. n ia the simplest state, without exhibiting some specimens of this attractive style of composition. It is not meant, by this assertion, that in early ages such narratives were invented in the 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 the aim of the former to maintain as long as possible the 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, thatthev 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 w ith truth." — Si it Walter Scott.] 110 CRABBE'S WORKS. Hence, ye profane ! I feel a former dread, A thousand visions float around my head : Hark ! hollow blasts through empty courts resound, And shadowy 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 he flies ; and now for bloody deeds, Black 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, Released 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 fill her fairy land ; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. « [Original MS. :— Ah ! lost, for ever lost, to me these charms, These lofty notions and divine alarms, Too dearly bought — maturer judgment calls My pensive soul from tales and madrigals — For who so blest or who so great as I, Wing'd round the globe with Rowland or Sir Guy ? Alas ! no more I see my queen repair To balmy bowers that blossom in the air, Where on their rosy beds the 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 doughty giants all are slain or iled, And all my knights — blue, green, and yellow — dead '. Magicians cease to charm me with their art, And not a griffin ilies to glad my heart, No more the midnight fairy tribe I view, All in the merry moonshine tippling dew. The easy .joys that charm'd my sportive youth, Fly Reason's power, and shun the voice of Truth. Maturer thoughts severer taste prepares, And baffles every spell that charm'd my cares. Can Fiction, then, the noblest bliss supply, Or joy resi'le in inconsistency ? Is it then right, Sc.] 45 [" Truth is always strange — Stranger than Fiction. If it could lie told, How much would Novels gain by the exchange ! How differently 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."— Byron.] « [Here follows, in the original draft :— But who are these, a tribe that soar above, And tell more tender tales of modern love ? A Novel train ! the brood of old Romance, Conceived by Folly on the coast of France, That now with lighter thought, and gentler fire, "Usurp the honours of their drooping sire ; And still fantastic, vain, and trifling, sing Of many a soft and inconsistent thing,— Of rakes repenting, clogg'd in Hymen's chain— Of nymph reclined by unpresuming swain — Of captains, colonels," lords, and amorous knights, That find in humbler nymphs such chaste delights, But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys, 44 Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys ; Too dearly bought : maturer judgment calls My busied mind from tales 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 45 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 own ; 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. 40 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 fly 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, Thatform 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 free — Delia from school was lately bold to rove, Where yet Lucinda meditated love — " Oh thou, the partner of my pensive breast, And, but for one ! its most delightful guest, But for that one of whom 't was joy to talk, When the chaste moon gleam'd o'er our evening walk, And, cooing fondly in the neighbouring groves, The pretty songsters all enjoy'd their loves ; Receive ! as witness all ye powers ! I send, With melting heart, this token of thy friend. " Calm was the night ! and every breeze was low ; Swift ran the stream — but, ah 1 the moments slow ! Fly swift, ye moments ! slowly run, thou stream, And on thy margin let a maiden dream. " Methought he came, my Harry, young and gay, The very youth that stole my heart away. I wake. Surprise I yet guess how blest was I ! With looks of love — the very youth was by. ' Whose is that form my Delia's bosom hides ? What youth divinely blest within presides ?' He spoke and sigh'd. His sighs my fear supprest, He seized his angel form, and actions spoke the rest. " Oh, Virtue ! brighter than the noontide ray ! Still guide my steps, and guide them nature's way ; With sacred precepts fill the youthful mind, Soothe all its cares, and force it to be kind." Thus, gentle passions warm the generous maid, No more reluctant, and no more afraid ; Thus Virtue shines, and in her loveliest dress Not over nice, nor Virtue to excess. Near these I look, and lo ! a reptile race, In goodly vests 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 please, 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. 4 ? Foes to our race ! if ever yc have known A father's fears for offspring of your own ; 48 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 on the world your labour'd song, And from the crusty critics of those days Implored the feeble tribute of their praise ; Kcmember now the fears that moved you then, And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. What vent'rous race arc ours ! what mighty foes Lie waiting all around them to oppose ! The jest that laughter loves, he knows not why, And Whim tells quaintly with distorted eye. Hero Languor, yawning, pays his first devoirs, And skims sedately o'er his dear Memoirs; Here tries his tedious moments lo employ, And, palsied bv enjoyment, dreams of joy ; From all the tribe his' little knowledge steals, From dull " Torpedoes," and " Electric Eels ;" * And every trifle of a trifling age, That shames the closet, or degrades the Stage.] M [Original MS. :— Here as I stand, of sovereign power posscss'd, A vast ambition (Ires my swelling breast ; I deal destruction round, and, all severe. Damn with a dash, and censure with a sneer ; Or from tho Critic wrest a sinking cause, Rejudge his justice, and repeal his laws ; Now half by judgment guided, half by whim, I grasp disputed power, and tyrannise like him ; Food for the mind I seek ; but who shall And The food that satisfies the craving mind ? Like lire it rages ; and its fatal rago What pains can deaden, and what care assuage ? Choked by its fuel, though it clouded lies, It soon eats tlimn^'li, and craves for m-w supplier; Now here, now there, with sudden fury breaks And to its sulntance turns whate'er it takes. To weighty thrmes I fly with eager haste, And skim their treasures like the man of taste ; From a few page* leam the whole design, And damn a book for one auspicious Uno, Or steals its sentiments, and call them mino I] 4 " [" None but an author knows an author's can's, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears." — So writes f'owper — and in illustration of his lines it may be permitted to quote one of his own private letters in 1782 : — " Before 1 had published, 1 said to myself, ' You and I, Mr. Cow per, will not concern ours»dves much about what the cri- tics may say of our book.' But, having onco sont my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious alxmt the issue, and found that I could not be satisfied with a worm placo 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 leel the workings of ambition. ' It is well,' said I, ' thai 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 speak well of me.' I was presently gratified by the approba- tion of the London Magrizino and the fientlemon'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 tho 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 bonr, Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn : Strangers they come, amid a world of woe, And taste the largest portion ere they go. 49 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 twine Hound 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. I' car chill'd my heart : to one of mortal race, How awful seem'd the Genius of the place ! this critical Rhadamanthu9 sav, when my shivering genius shall appear before him ? Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait another month for his award."] 49 [" Fortune has rarely condescended to he 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 brave and the helpless 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." — O'Iskaem. "We have living minds, who 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, when all other persons enjoy it as an indefeasible and acknow ledged right ; — and they ask, upon what principle, with what equity, or under what pre- tence of public good, they arc 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- ship is upon those which w in their way slowly and difllcultlv, but keep the field at last. In such cases, when the copyright, as by the existing law, deports from the author's family athis death, or at the end of twenty-eight years from the first pub- lication of every w ork (if he dies before the expiration of that term ), 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 Shokspeare are living in povcrtv, and in tile lowest condition of life. Is this just to these individuals : ? Is it gTateful 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 Shakspcare and Milton in veneration ? To have placed the descendants of Sliakspearc and Milton in respec- tability and comfort, simple justice was all that was required ; — only that they should nave possessed the perpetual copy- right of their ancestors' works— only that tlicy 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 w hen the rights of literature will 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." — Sodtiiey.] 112 CRABBE'S WORKS. So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe ; 50 Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound, "When from the pitying power broke forth a so- lemn sound : — " Care lives with all ; 51 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: 52 " 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'rou3 wings : " But as, of various evils that befall " The human race, some portion goes to all ; " To him perhaps the milder lot 's assigned, " Yv ho feels his consolation in his mind ■ 5° [" Struck at the sight, I melt with filial woe, And down my cheek the pious sorrows How." — Pope's Homer.'] 51 [ " The canker-worm Will feed upon 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." Byeon.] 52 [" 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 fire and warmed into animation ; but, being at a loss what 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 humo, from the dirt of which lie 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.' " — Buk- TON.] " [" It is to literature, humanly speakly, that I am beholden for every blessing which I enjoy, — health of mind and activity of mind, contentment, cheerfulness, continued employment, and therewith continual pleasure. ' In omnibus requiem quaesivi,' said Thomas a Kempis, 'sed non inveni nisi in angulis et libellis.' 1 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 lodged, or more highly prized by its possessor ; and generations may pass away before some of them will again find a reader. It is well that we do not moralise too much upon such subjects — ■ For foresight is a 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. 53 " E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief, " Or health or vigorous hope affords relief; " And every wound the tortured bosom feels, " 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, 54 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 known, " 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 brought together here among the Cumberland mountains! Not a few of these volumes have been cast up from the wreck of the family or convent libraries during the late revolution.....! 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 efface the Hie jacet of a tombstone. There may be some- times a pleasure in recognising them, sometimes a salutary sadness." — Southey.] 5 J [Charles, fourth Duke of Rutland, died in 1787. See ante, p. 31. 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 w f orld 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 promoting the united interests of both countries, as essen- tial parts of the common empire. In private life, I know that he had a strong sense of religion : he showed it in imitating his illustrious father in one of its most characteristic parts, that of being alive to every impulse of compassion. His family, his friends, his dependants, all his connections, can witness for me the warmth and sincerity of his personal attach- ments. Ever since he was admitted as a pupil under me at Cambridge, I have loved him with the affection ojf a brother. His 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 be held most dear as long as I live.'' From the introduction of the Duke of Rutland'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.] THE LIBRARY. 113 " 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, M [0>i the appcaram c )f " The Library" in 1781) it was pro- nounced by tlie .Monthly Review to be " the production of no common pen :" and the Critical Jlcview said—- A vein ui Kood sense and philosophic reflection runs through this little p .riormance. which distinguishes it from most raoderu poem;.. The rhymes arc correct, and the versification smooth and har- monica!. It is observable that the author, in lib account of :\\\ tin- numerous volumes in every science, lias never charac- " And call them worlds '. and bid the greatest show :I 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." " tensed or entered into the merits of any j^articular writer, though he had so fair an opportunity from the nature of his subject." The reader of Mr. Crabbe's Life can be at no loss to account for his abstir :nce from such details as are here alluded to. The author, wnen he wrote this poem, had probably never seen any considerable collection of books, except in his melancholy visits to the shops of booksellers in London in 1780-S1 .] 114 CRABBE'S WORKS. THE VILLAGE. IN TWO BOOKS. BOOK I.i The Subject proposed — Remarks upon Pastoral Poetry — A Tract of Country near the Coast described — An impoverished Borough — Smugglers and their Assistants — Rude Manners of the Inhabitants — Ruinous Effects of a high Tide — The Village Life more generally considered : Evils of it — The youthful Labourer — The old Man : his Soliloquy — The Parish Workhouse : its Inhabitants — The sick Poor : their Apothecary — The dying Pauper — The Village Priest. The Village Life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains ; What labour yields, and what, that 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 shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse ; 2 1 [The first edition of " The Village" appeared in May, ]7S3. See ante, p. 34, and the Author's preface, p. 96.] ' 2 ^Strephon. " In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, ISut Delia always ; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. Daphnis. Sylvia 's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day,'' &c. — Pope.] 3 [" In order to form a right judgment of pastoral poetry, it will be necessary to cast back our eyes on the first ages of the world. The abundance they were possessed of, secured them from avarice, ambition, or envy ; they could scarce have any anxieties or contentions, where every one had more than he could tell what to do with. Love, indeed, might occasion some rivalships amongst them, because many lovers fix upon one subject, for the loss of which they will be satisfied with no compensation. Otherwise it was a state of ease, innocence, and contentment ; where plenty begot 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 his fancy a rural scene of perfect ease and tranquillity, where innocence, simplicity, and joy abound. It is not enough that he writes about the country ; he must give us what is agreeable in that scene, and hide what is wretched. Let the tranquillity of the pastoral lile appear full and plain, but hide the meanness of it ; represent its simplicity as clear as you please, but cover its misery. As there is no condition exempt from anxiety, I will allow shep- herds to be afflicted with such misfortunes as the loss of a favourite lamb, or a faithless mistress. He may, if you please, pick a thorn out of his foot, or vent his grief for losing the prize in dancing ; but these being small torments, they recommend that state which only produces such trilling evils." — Steele. Yet still for these we frame the tender strain, Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, The only pains, 3 alas ! they never feel. On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, Must sleepy hards the nattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way ? 4 Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, Because the Muses never knew their pains : They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough ; And few, amid the rural tribe, have time To number syllables and play with rhyme ; Save honest Duck, 5 what son of verse could share 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 read-y 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, and John- son's substitution in Italic characters : " ' In fairer scenes, where peaceful pleasures spring, Tityrus, the pride of Mantuan swains, might sing : But, charm'd by him, or smitten with his views, Shall modern poets court the Mantuan muse ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Fancy leads, or Virgil led the way ? ' " ' On Mincio's banlis, in Ctzsar's bounteous reign,' fyc. Here we find Dr. Johnson's poetical an'd critical powers undiminished. I must, however, observe, that the aids he gave to this poem were so small as by no means to impair the distinguished merit of the author." — Crokeh's Boswell, vol. v. p. 55.] 5 [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 was going mad ; for he did nothing but talk to himself and tell his fingers." Some of his verses having been shown to Queen Caroline, she settled twelve shillings a week upon him, and appointed him keeper of her select library at Richmond, called Merlin's Cave. He afterwards took orders, and obtained the living of Bylleet, in Surrey. Gay, in a let- THE VILLAGE. 113 Or the great labours of the field degrade, With the new peril of a poorer trade ? 8 From this chief cause these idle praises spring, That themes so easy few forbear to sing ; For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask ; To sing of shepherds is an easy task : 7 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 llocks 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 sec 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 valleys boast ; 8 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 will paint it, anil a9 Bards will not: Nor you, ye Poor, of lcttcr'd scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ; O'ercome by 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? din their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpowcr, Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? 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 nppcars, Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears; Bank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : There thistles stretch their prickly arms afur, And to the ragged infant threaten war; 8 There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; llnnly 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 ; 10 ter to Swift, says, " I do not envy Stephen Duck, who is the favourite poet of tho court ;" and Sw ift wrote upon him tho following epigram " The thresher, Duck, could o'er the Queen prevail ; The proverb says, 4 no fence ugainst a fliiL 1 From threihing corn, ho turns to thresh his brains, For which her Majesty allows him grains; Though 't is con feat , that those w ho ever saw His poems, think them all not worth a straw. Thrice happy Duck I cmploy'd in threshing stubble, Thy toil Iflenen'd, and thy profits double." Stephen's end was an unhappy one. Growing melancholy, in 1750, he threw himself into the river near Heading, and was drowned.] a [" Robert Bloomflnld had better have remained a shoe- makcr, or even a farmer's boy ; for he would have been a farmer perhaps in time ; and now lie is an unfortunate poet." — Ckabre's Journal, 1817.] With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly shines around. So looks the nymph 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 ; Want only claim'd the labour of the day, But vice now steals his nightly rest away. Where are the swains, who, daily labour done, With rural gomes play'd down 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, Engaged some artful strippling of the throng, And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound ? 11 Where now arc these ? — Beneath yon cliff 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 land. 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, 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 prey. 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 where guilt and famine reign, And cried, Ah ! hapless they who still remain ; ' [Original edition : — Thoy ask no thought, require no deep design, Hut swell the song, and liquefy the line.] * [Aldborougli was, half a century ago, a poor and w retched place. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved streets, run- ning between mean and scrambling houses, the abodes of sea- faring men, pilots, and Qshcrs. . . . Such was the squalid scene that lirst opened on the author of " The Village." See ante, p.S.] 0 [This picture was copied; in every respect, from the scene of the poet's nativity and boyish days. Sec ante, p. 3.] 10 [■< This is a fine description of that peculiar sort of bar- renness which prevails along the 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 merrv mischief tell ?] i 2 116 CRABBE'S WORKS. Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore ; Till some fierce tide, 1 ' 2 with more imperious sway, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away ; When the sad tenant weeps from dcor to door ; And begs a poor protection from the poor 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 and labour spent in vain ; 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 dig the golden ore — ■ The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. Or will you deem them amply paid in health. Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth ? Go then ! and see them rising with the sun, Through a long course of daily toil to run ; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, ■ When the knees tremble and the temples beat; 1 4 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. 13 Amid this tribe too 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 ! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal ; Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such As yon who praise would never deign to touch. V* [Mr. Crabbe was often heard to describe a remarkable, spring-title, in January, 177!), when eleven houses at Aldbo- rough were at once demolished.] 13 [These lines, expressive of Mr. Crabbe's feelings on quitting his native place, were, he had reason to believe, the very verses which lirst satisiied Burke that he was a poet. See ante, p. 13.] U [Original MS. :— Li!;e him to make the plenteous harvest grow, And yet not share the plenty they bestow.] !5 [ tc Let those who feast at ease on dainty faro Pity the reapers, who their feasts prepare: For tods scarce ever ceasing press us now — Rest never does but on the Sabbath show ; And barely that our masters will allow. Think what a painful life we daily lead ; Each morning early rise, go late to bed ; Nor when tisleep are we secure from pain — We then perform our labours o'er again. 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 round their feeble fire ; Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand I 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 allow'd ; 10 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 hand, And, when his age attempts its task in vain, With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. 1 " 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 be " At once from life and life's long labour free ? " Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, " 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 fellow-swains arc gone ; " Then from the rising generation thrust, " It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. " 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 sucli 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 take 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 them in such forms as must catch the at tention or awake the memory ; and by scattering over the whole, such traits of moral sensibility, of sarcasm, and of useful reflection, as every one must feel to be natural, and own to be powerful. In short, he shows us something which we have all seen, or may see, in real life ; and draws from it such feelings and such reflections, as every human being must acknowledge that it is calculated to excite. He delights us by the truth, and vivid and picturesque beauty.'of his representations, and by the force and pathos of the sensations with which we feel that they ought to be con- nected." — Jeffrey.] 17 A pauper who, being nearly past Ins labour, is employed by different masters for a length of time, proportioned to their occupations. 1 THE VILLAGE. 117 " To me the children of my youth arc lords, " Cool in their looks, hut hasty in their words : 18 " 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, till by disease oppress'd, They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, AVhose 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 ! Heart-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. 13 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, Mixt 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 ; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say, ye, opprcst by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that bafllcs your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With 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, Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 10 [Original MS. :— Slow in their gifts, but hasty in their words.] >' [This description of the Parish Poor-house, and that of the Village Apothecary, lower down, were inserted by lturke in the Annual ltegister, and afterwards bv Dr. Viresimus Knox in the Elegant Extracts, along with the lines on the old romancers from 11 The Library." The effect produced by these specimens has been already illustrated by a letter from Sir VV. Scott to Mr. Crabbe, written in 180!!. See ante, p. 03. The poet. Wordsworth, on reading that letter, has said : — " I first became acquainted with Mr. Crabbe's works in the same May, and about the same time, as did Sir Walter Scott, as appears from his letter; and the extracts made such an im- pression upon me, that / can also repeat them. The two lines, — ' 'Hie lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they I Tile moping illicit, anil the mailman gay,' — struck my youthful feelings particularly ; though f,»cts, as far as they had then come under my knowledge, did not. support the description ; inasmuch as idiots and lunatics, among the humbler classes of society, were not to be found in work- houses, in the parts of the north where I was brought up, but Were mostly at large, and too often the butt of thoughtless yered lather's "works would, 1 feel, be superfluous, if not impertinent. They will last, from their combined merits as Poetry and Truth, lull as long as anything that has been ex- How would ye hear to draw your latest breath "Where all that 's wretched paves the way for death ? 50 Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; "Where the vile bands that bind the thateh are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; Save one dull pane, 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, 1 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 unaltcr'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 ej'e : 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 ; In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies, Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes ; And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, Without reply, lie rushes on the door: His drooping patient, long inured to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonstance vain ; lie ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.* 1 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 they first made their appearance." — letter dated Feb. 1834.] 20 rt( There is a truth and a force in these descriptions 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 of 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 never pass by a parish workhouse without thinking of the descrip- tion of it tney bad read at school in the ' Poetical Extracts.' " — Edinburgh Ri.'View, 1807. " The vulgar impression that Crabbe is throughout, a gloomy author, we ascribe to the choice of certain specimens of his earliest poetry in the 1 Elegant Extracts,' — the only specimens of him that had been at all generally known at the time when most of those who have criticised his later works w ere young. That exquisitely-finished, but heart-sickening description, in particular, of the poor-house in * The Village,' fixed itself on every imagination ; and when ' The ltegister ' 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, i 834.] 21 [" The consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described." — Jeffrey.] 118 CRABBE'S WORKS. For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls The holy stranger to these dismal walls : And doth not he, the pious man, appear, He, " passing rich, with forty pounds a year ? " 22 Ah ! no ; a shepherd of a different stock, And far unlike him, feeds this little flock : A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task 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 skilfd the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chace, to cheer them or to chide ; A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, 23 And, skill' d at whist, devotes the night to play : 24 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 ? 25 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 tyrants 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 ; 26 And, waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest. 27 22 [" A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year." Goldsmith.] 23 [Original Edition : — Sure in his shot, his game lie seldom mist, And seldom fail'd to win his game at whist.] 21 [" Mr. Crabbe told me, that when he first published his poem ' The Village,' the letters he received were innumerable from a particular class of religious readers, 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 this silent coast, Nor rinds a single heretic to roast.' " — Bowles.] •jj [" 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 Tranquillity and Happiness — The Repose and ^Pleasure of a Summer Sabbath : interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute — Village Detraction — Complaints of the 'Squire — The Evening Riots — Justice— Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life r the Effect it should have upon the Lower Classes ; 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, But own the Village Life a life of pain : I too must yield, that oft amid those woes Are 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. Thus, as their hours glide on, with pleasure fraught Their careful masters brood the painful thought ; Much in their mind they 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 Cries, ' Well done, saint !' and claps him on the back. Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss ? Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way, His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray?" Cowpep..] 20 Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common. That it has been a subject for com- plaint in any place, is a sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils whicli may happen to the poor, and which must happen to them exclusively ; nevertheless, it is just to remark, that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts is totally unknown. 27 [" In this part of the poem there is a great deal of paint- ing that is truly characteristic; and had not that indis- pensable rule, which both painters and poets should equally attend to, been reversed, namely, to form their individuals from ideas of general nature, it would have been unexcep- tionable."— Monthly Rev. 1783.] THE VILLAGE. 119 Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign, The village vices drive them from the plain. Sec the stout churl, in drunken fury great, Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate ! His naked vices, rude and unrefined, Exert their open empire o'er the mind ; Bat 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; 1 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 vnnish'd all. And the slow hostess scored the thrcat'ning wall ; \\ hat time they nsk'd, their friendly feast to close, A final rup, 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 way. Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray ; lie who recites, to keep the poor in :iuo. The law's vast volume — for he knows the law : — i [Original MS. :— How their maids landman, while their men run loose, And leave them scarce a damsel to seduce.] i ['• It is pood for the proprietor of nn estate to know that such things are, and at his own doors. He might have guessed, indeed, as a general truth, even whilst moving in his own exclusive sphere, that many a story of intense interest might, be supplied by the an in Is of his parish. Crabbo would have taught him thus much, had he neen a reader of that most sagacious of observers, most searching of moral anatomists, most graphic i>!' poets ; and we reverence this trreat 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 efTeot alone gives a dignity to his poetry, which poems constructed after n more Arcadian model would never have in our eyes, how- ever pleasingly they may babble of green fields. Uut such wholesome incidents reach the cars of the landlord in his own particular CtSC, most commonly through the clergyman — thov fall rather within his department than another's — tliev lie upon his beat — through hit representations the sym- pathies of the landlord are profitably drawn out, and judi- ciously directed to the individual — and another thread is Added to thoso cords of a man, by which the owner and To him with anger or with shame repair The injured peasant and deluded fair. Lo ! at his throne the silent nymph 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 why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, I Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great? To show the gTcat, those mightier sons of pride, How near in vice the lowest are allied ; Such arc 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 own low pleasures and degenerate mind : And each in all the kindred vices trace, Of a poor, blind, bcwilder'd erring race, Who, a short time in varied fortune past, Die, and arc equal in the dust at last. 3 And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fcta, Forbear to envy those you call the Great ; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They arc, like you, the victims of distress; While 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 rcsign'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 was : — 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, 4 and thus aspire to live. occupant of the soil are knit together, and society is inter- laced."— Quarterly Review, 1833.] a [" 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 r Or docs 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 undcr-rate ? 'Tis senseless ignorance that 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 high, He '11 make as vile a skeleton as I." — Tom Browne.] 4 Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquess of Oranby and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles duke of Somerset, was born on the Oth of February, 17.'»8; and was placed with his brother, the late duke of ltutland, at Eton School, where he acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors 120 CRABBE'S 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 ; When, though the son of Granby", 5 thou wort 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. (Jli ! ever honour'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 cull'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. 0 Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on board different 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 Register was written by Mr. Crabbe, and is now reprinted as an Ap- pendix to " The Village."] 5 [John, Marquess of Granby, the illustrious commander- in-chief of the British forces in Germany during the Seven Years' War, died in 1770, before his father, the thirteenth Karl and third Duke of Rutland.] 6 [Original MS. : — But Rutland's virtues shall his griefs restrain, And join to heal the bosom where they reign. See some anecdotes illustrative of the Duke's tender affec- tion for his gallant brother, ante, p. 33.] 7 [Original edition : — Victims victorious, who with him shall stand In Fame's fair book, the guardians of the land.] WORKS. 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 no more ; — ■ Oh ! glorious labour of the soul, to save Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give- Life is not measured 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 Affection 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 largo 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 ' And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide, See other heroes die as Manners died : 7 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. 8 0 [" 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 her deviation from nature and propriety, the author 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 those whom he condemns. For it maybe questioned, whether he who represents a peasant's life as a life of unremitting labour and remediless anxiety; who de- scribes his best years as embittered by insult and oppression, and his old age as squalid, comfortless, and destitute, gives a juster representation of rural enjoyments than they who, run- ning into a contrary extreme, paint the face of the country as w earing a perpetual smile, and its inhabitants as passing away their hours in uninterrupted pleasuie and unvaried tran- quility.''— Monthly Ben. 1783. " ' The Village ' is a very classical composition. It seems designed as a contrast to Goldsmith's ' Deserted Village ' in one point of view; that is, so far as Goldsmith expatiates on the felicities and inconveniences of rural life. The author of ' The Village ' takes the dark side of the question : he paints all with a sombre pencil; too justly, perhaps, but, to me at least, unpleasingly. We know there is no unmixed happiness in anv state of life ; but one does not wish to be perpetually told so." — Scott ofAmwell, Letter to Dr. Beattie, Any. 1783.] THE VILLAGE. 121 i 1 APPENDIX. FnoM the \nnial Hecister for 1783. See anlc, II USAOTBB OF LORD ROHERT MANNERS, LATE COM- MANDER OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP THE RESOLUTION, OF SEVENTY-IOLR CL'NS. [WRITTEN BY MR. CRAUHE.] 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 nftcr those to whom we are indebted for the return of peace ; ami 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 wc 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 country, cluim our most grate- ful remembrance, aud all the honourable testimony which the living can pay to departed worth. Among these was Lord Hubert Manners ; a young nobleman, remarkable for his military genius, and flic many excellent endowments both of Ms person and mind. In the following pages, it is my design to lay before the public some anecdotes of this heroic young commander, who fell in their service ; ai rilicing the ease of his former situation, the in- dulgences of a splendid fortune, ami 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 Puke of Somerset, lie was born on the 5th of February, 17.'>8, and placed with his brother, the present Duke of lint- land; at Eton school ; in which great Seminary of education he acquired n competent knowledge of the classic authors, for which lie ever after retained an excellent taste, and bestowed many hours in the perusal (if their most admiied positions. 1 1 U Blind, however, was found to be active, vigorous, and enterprising, and liis 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 profession 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 I 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 those 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 ! mode to Newfoundland, with Lord Schuldham, to whose care he was committed, and under whom lie 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 Fngland, he was appointed lieutenant on bonrd the Ocean, a ninety-gun ship, commanded by Captain Lafory, in which rank lie 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. liis 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 Spanish 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 ccitnin advancement, in the line of his profession ; but it is necessary to remark, what all with whom he sailed arc unanimous in declaring, that Lord Robert was equally excellent, if not equally conspicuous, in the inferior stations, ns 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 n 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 I the Resolution, engaged and took the Brothe'e, a French linc-of-battle ship, going to the Fast Indies : the Resolution was then ordered to America, and continued there till Lord Rodney sent for her to the West Indies : at St. Kustatius, the Mars, a Dutch frigate, struck to the Resolution ; after which, she was detached, with the squadron under Lord Hood, to cruise oli' Martinique. Some time after this, in nn 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 was struck oil' by n grape-shot. In one of the three engagements oft' St. Kitt's (in all which he was eminently distinguished), he, together with Captain Cornwnllis, supported the commander of his division, Commodore Atflcck, 122 CRABBE'S WORKS. with such unshaken fortitude and perseverance, that those three ships beat 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 nec Gloria? 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 his 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 ho quitted the Resolution, he ordered every man whose good conduct had been remarkable during his command, to come into his cabin, where he thanked him for his attention to his duty, and I 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 with 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, he 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 24-th day of April, 1782 ; having, at the age of twenty- four years, served his country in eleven general actions : — ■ " Ostemlent terris hunc tantum Fata, neque ultra Essesinent" Virgil. 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 tho 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 unimpaired by the West India climate ; indeed, his whole appearance commanded love and respect, and was a strong indication of superior merit. 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 officers 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 several ships for mutiny) ; on which occasion his feelings overcame his power of utterance : he began with representing to them (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 were truly sensible of the worth of such a commander, 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 I 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 j 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 hi9 pursuits, if any can be so thought, to the vigorous anil 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 crown all his virtues, he had that of un- affected diffidence ; being perfectly modest in his opinion of himself, and an enemy to all ostentation : he never listened to his own praise, but cither 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 unaffected ease ; and, wishing to write 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, lord high chancellor of great britain ; 2 one of his majesty's most honourable peiti council, etc., etc. My Lord, 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 approbation. 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 fully 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 Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient, Belvoir Castle, most obliged, and devoted servant, February 20, 1785. 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 him, 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 I [This poem was first published in a thin quarto, in March, 1785. The dedication to Lord Thurlow, the preface, and some of the author's foot-notes, omitted in the collection of 1S07, are now restored from the original edition ; whi:h has also supplied several various readings. The obligations under which Mr. Crabbe had been laid by Lord Thurlow, previous to, and after, the publication of " The Newspaper," are de- tailed a/itf', pp. 32, 34. That the poet did not stoop to un- worthy [lattery, in the expressions lie uses respecting the lite- rary attainments of the Chancellor, is sufficiently proved by the 'high testimony of Bishop Horsley, in his Essay on the Prosody of the Greek and Latin Languages, and by the uni- form warmth of the poet Cowper, when alluding to the splendid career of the great man who had been, in early life, his fellow-pupil in a Solicitor's chambers. See, in particular, the stanzas — " Round Thurlow's head, in early youth, And in his sportive days, 1'air Science pour'd the light of Truth, And Genius shed his rays," &-c] 2 Lord Thurlow was appointed Lord High Chancellor in 1778, and continued in the situation till 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 17'J3. His Lordship died in ]8U6.] THE NEWSPAPER. 125 theme to theme in an easy and graceful succession ; but on quitting one thought, there -null 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 mi "In 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 thev lu iii',' 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. s THE NEWSPAPER. i; quibus, lii vacuus implent sermonibus times : Mi nnnn'a ferunt alio J mcnsuraque flcti Creseit, el ouditls illiquid noviu adjicit nuctor : 1 11 it? Credulitas, illic tcmcrarius I'rror, Vanaque Lictitia est, constcrnatiquc Timorcs, Seditioquc repens, dubioquc auctorc Susurri. Ovid. Mctamurph., lib. xii. 4 Thi< not a Time favourable to poetical Composition : and Why— Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence— Their Nam beri — The Sunday Monitor— Their general Character- Their Effect upon Individuals — upon Society— in the Country — The Village Freeholder — What Kind of Composition a Ncwspapc r is ; and the Amusement it allord i— Ol' what I'orts it is chiefly componcd — Articles 01* Intelligence : Advertisements: The Stage : (Juacks: Puf- fing— The Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical— Advice to the latter— Conclusion. A tim b like this, a busy, bustling time,* Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhymo: Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, And mightier madness checks the flowing song: Or, should wc 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 arc like wasps, who dart Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart. Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose, Xeglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse ; Or should wc sing the subject of the day, To-morrow's wonder pull's our praise away. More blest the bards of that poetic time, When all found readers who could find a rhyme • 0 Green grew the bays on every teeming head, And Cibber was enthroned,* and Settle 8 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 ; Ij-ror sits brooding there, with added train Of vain Credulity, and Joy as vain : Suspicion, with Sedition joined, arc near. And Humours raised, and Murmurs mix'd, and Fear." DllYDEN.] s 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.] " [" "nppy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise, And ask no culture but what Ilyshe supplies!" GlFFORD.T ', 3 [At this period party-spirit ran unusually high. The fVilition ministry, of which Mr. llurkc was a member, had recently been removed— the India bills both of Fox and l'itt had been thrown out, and the public mind was gr -ally in- llnmed by the events uf the six weeks' Westminster election, and the consequent scrutiny. Notwithstanding the philoso- phical tone of liis preface, it seems highly probable that .Mr. ("rabbe had been moved to take up the subject by the indig- nation he felt on seeing Mr. llurkc dailv abused, at " this busy, bustling time," by one set of party writers, while the Dltkaof Hulland was equally the victim of another. Mr. Barke hail, nt this time, become extremely unpopular, both in and out ofthc House. At the opening of the new parlia- ment, in May, 17si, so strong was the combination against him, tha*. the moment of his rising l. Encourage no vice ; lo. Make no long meals ; II. Repeat no grievances ; 12, Lay no wager*."] n [Wife of the Karl 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 had loaded the citizens.] The tale for wonder and the joke for whim, The hulf-sung sermon and the hall'-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 why i and how ? And, where they once agreed, to cavil now. Oil ! rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain ; AVho from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold 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 John ; 14 Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled, Drank from her well the waters undefilcd ; Not one who slowly gained the hill sublime, 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 drenms we reud the rules, Science our own ! 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, 15 Far from mankind and seeming f:ir from care; Safe from all want, and sound in every limb : Yes ! there was he, and there was care with him. Unbouml 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 15CS lbs.] 10 [Daniel Mendoia, tho pugilist, who, in fought the celebrated bruUing-matcli with Humphreys.] 11 [Saint Monday — a cant name, indicating the idleness which too often characterises tho Mnnrtny of artisans who have been paid their week's wages on the Saturday night.] " [Tho battle of the Nile, in 17D8.] " [The battle of Trafalgor, in 18US, in which Nelson was killed.] [" Ingenious Dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and suect troth alike prevail ; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; Witty, and well-cm ploy'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted w ord ; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fume : Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown witli sober gray, Revere the man, w hose PlLOBIU marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God." Cowpek. " If ever," says Mr. Southey, " there w as a w ork w hich car- ried with it the stamp of originality in all its parts, it is that of John Jlunyan."] 15 ["The Hermit; or, unparalleled Sufierings and sur- prising Adventures of Philip Quarll."] 134 CRABBE'S WORKS. Yet those, long since, have all acquired a name ; The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame ; IC And fame, denied to many a labour'd song, Crowns Thumb the Great, 17 and Hickathrift the strong. 18 There too is he, by wizard-power upheld, Jack, 19 by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd : His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed ; His coat of darkness on his loins ho 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 the Peasant's joy, when, placed at ease, Half his delighted offspring 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, Wann'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 in 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 ; uear 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. Vfhat, though fastidious ears may shun the spee.ch, Where all are talkers, and where none can teach ; Where still the welcome and the 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 plaj's, And speaks in all their looks and all their ways. Fair scenes of -peace ! ye might detain us long, But vice and misery now demand the song; 16 [The legend of the Wandering Jew — I.e. of an individual who, insulting our Saviour when or. his way to Golgotha, was, in punishment, doomed to survive on earth until the second coming of Jesus Christ — was a favourite theme of the monastic literature in the middle ages, and has been recently taken up by writers of great talent in several countries — for example, by Lewis, in " The Monk"— by Godwin, in " St. Leon " — in a poem styled " The Wandering .lew," by P. 15. Shelley — and lastly, by the Rev. Dr. Croly, in the romance of "Sala- And turn our view from dwellings sitnply neat, To this infected Row, 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 ; Mistress of worthless arts, depraved in will, Her care unblcst and unrepaid her skill, Slave to the tribe, to whoso command she stoops, And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes. Between the road-way and the walls, offence Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense : There lie, obscene, at every open door, Heaps from the hearth and sweepmgs from the floor, 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 wann'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 ; Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep, And parents here beside their children 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 tatter'd garments lie, . Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by ! See ! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed ; The Mother-gossip has the love supprcss'd An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast ; And daily prattles, as her round she takes, (With strong resentment) of the want she makes. thiel." The ballads and chap-books on this mibject are innu- merable.] 17 [" Life of the renowned Thomas Thumb the Great."] I s ["History of Mr. Thomas Hickathrift, afterwards Sir Thomas Hickathrift, Knight."] 10 [" History of Jack the Giant Killer."] 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 flax, 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 hooks, but ballads on the wall, Arc 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 fill 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 : Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat, Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat ; Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows, Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows ; Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile, The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings 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 ; Witli spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds, And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds. 10 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, liis blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes ; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and pcrish'd for his sake. 21 20 [" We should find it hard to vindicate the destroying of anv tiling that has life, merely out of wantonness; yet on this principle our children are bred up, and one of the first pleasures we allow them is, the licence of indicting pain upon poor animals; almost as soon as we are sensible what life is ourselves, we make it our sport to take it irom other crea- tures."— PoM.] -1 [" There is nothing comparable with the above descrip- tion, but spme of the prose sketches of Mandeville." — Jkffhey.] 22 [Burn's Justice of the Peace and Parish Officer."] ?3 ["Crabbe is confessedly the most original and vivid painter of the vast varieties of common life, that 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 the melancholy convictions of men's hearts ruminating on the good and evil of this mysterious world. Of all men of this age,* Re is the best Portrait-painter : he is never contented with a single flowing sketch of a character — they must all be drawn full-length — to the very life — and with all their most minute and characteristic features, even of dress and manners. He seems to have known them all personally; and when he 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, t Like other farmers, flourish and complain. — These are our groups ; our Portraits next appear, And close our Exhibition for the year. 23 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 n)Tnphs 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 youthful Sailor heard him ; — " Ha !" quoth he, " This Miller's maideu is a prize for me ; " Her charms I 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 staff 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. But, at the same time, we must remember what those haunts of life are into which his spirit has wandered. The power is almost miraculous witli 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 w ith intolerant disgust ; and yet he forces us to own, that on such scenes, and by such characters, much the same kind of part is played that ourselves play on ancther 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 each other, in lawful or in lawless life, witli 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 lie has opened, as it were, a theatre, on which the homely actors that pass before us assume no disguise — on which every catas- trophe borrows its terror from truth and every scene seems shifted by the very hands of nature." — Wilson.] 136 CRABBE'S WORKS. " For all ! my father lias 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, " I 'm like his steed, prized highly as his own ; " Stroked but corrected, threatened when supplied, " His slave and boast, his victim and his oride." " 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 we love ; " Calms are our dread ; when tempests plough the deep, " We take a reef, and to the rocking sleep." " Ha ! " quoth the Miller, moved at speech so rash, " Art thou like mo ? 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." " Revenge ! 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 by night ? But stolen moments of disturb'd delight ; Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized, Transports that pain'd, and joys that agonised ; Till the fond damsel, j>leased 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 s-he could she gave. Then came the day of shame, 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, Tiien 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 wailing brat thy portion be, " Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me ; — " Where skulks the villain?" — ■ " On the ocean wide " My "William seeks a portion for his bride." — " Vain be his search ! but, till the traitor come, " The higgler's cottage be thy future, home ; " There with his ancient shrew and care abide, " And hide thy head, — thy shame thou canst 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, perch' 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 lives, 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 viewless 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 either 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, ready with their rent : And few their wishes — what their farm denied, The neighbouring town, 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 Wbitsun-fair, Her Robert spent some idle shillings there : Hp at the barn, before 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. I THE PARISH REGISTER. 137 Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy, (The ilny they wed, the christening of the hoy,) When to the wealthier fanners 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, lias, in a different mode, a sovereign sway ; As tides the same attractive influence know, In the least ebb and in their proudest flow ; The wise frugality, 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. Bccordcd 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, wnnton 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 ; " Keturn is dreadful, and escape is vain. " Would men forsake us, and would women strive " To hclii the full'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 slill in peril of that pain to be ; Alas ! what numbers, like this amorous dame, Arc quick to censure, but ore dead to shame '. Twin-infiints then appear; a girl, a boy, Th' o'erflowing cup of (icrnrd 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,' 5 " And brnnchdikc be thine offspring!" — Gerard then T.ook'd joyful love, and softly said " Amen." Now of that vino 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 ! thy master's lot survey, Whom wife and children, thou and thine obey; A farmer proud, beyond 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 ; 11 ['* I.ct the libertine reflect a moment on the situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by lier betrayer, is reduced to tiie necessity of turning prostitute for broad, ami judge of the enormity of his guilt by the evil* which it produces. Where can she hope for refuge ? * The world k not Mr frienri, nvr the uvrlil's law.' Surely those whom passion or interest Whose board is high up-hcaved 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 fanners' 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 Bode 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 'tis one fate at different times assign'd, And thou shalt lose the carts 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, " Would lleav'n take those my spouse assigns to me." Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchcm this, Who much of marriage thought, and much amiss; Both would delay, the one, till — riches 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 — u Ah ! were I sure." he cried, " No craving children would my gains divide; " Fair ns she is, I would my widow take, " And live more largely for my partner's sake." With such their views some thoughtful years they poss'd, Ami hoping, dreading, they were bound at last. And what their fate? Observe them ns they go, Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe. " Humphrey I" 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 anil fallible with themselves!"— Johnson.] ,5 [" Thy wife shall be as a fruit ful vine by the sides of thy house ; thy children like olive plants about thy table." — Psalm exxviii. CRABBE'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 I 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 ride " 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 Ditchcm, " wouldst thou gain " A father's pleasure by a husband's pain ? " Aks ! 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 — Heav'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, Judas, if you please ; " His father's give him, — should you that explore, " The devil's or yours : — I said, and sought the door. " Sly 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, < >r stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell, Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell. 2e ["Rachael said unto Jacob, Give me children, or eke 1 die.'' — Gen. xxx. 1.] a <~ [A genus of plants, class 3, Pentandria.] 2>i [A plant so called, as the poets feign, from Hyacynthns, a beautiful youth, who, being accidentally killed by Apollo, was changed into a llower.] 29 [The deadly nightshade, the Atropa belladonna of Lin- narns. J 39 [In the Linnean system, a genus of plants, class 5.] 31 [Otherwise called laurel-bay.] An orphan-girl succeeds : ere she was born 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 ; What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play,. Part at the closing of the summer's day, And each by different 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 27 was the infant's name. If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy, Then Hyacinthus 28 shall be that fair boy ; And if a girl, they will at length agree That Belladonna- 0 that fair maid shall be. High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets, And at his club to wondering swains repeats ; He then of Rhus 30 and Rhododendron 31 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 ; Yeliere Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung, (Gross names had 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 3 - strong our Gardener frees Wg ground, Takes soft Senecio 33 from the yielding land, And grasps the arm'd Urtica 34 in his hand. Not Darwin's self had more delight to sing Of floral courtship, in th' awaken'd Spring, Than Peter 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 ; 35 33 [The Lapathum sylvestre of Pliny, when it grew wild.] 33 [So called, because it grows hoary, like the hare, in the spring.] 34 [The nettle:— " Wide o'er the madd'ning throng Urtica flings Her barbed shafts, and darts her poison'd slings." Dakwin.] 35 [" First the tall Canna lifts his curled brow Erect to Heaven, and plights his nuptial vow: Round the chill fair he folds his crimson vest, And clasps [lie timorous beauty to his bre;ist." Darwin.] THE PARISH REGISTER. ISO How those csteem'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 80 lies spread, " And trace the husbands in their golden bed, " Three powdcr'd Anthers; 37 — then no more delay, " But to the Stigma's tip their dust convey ; " Then by thyself, from prying glance secure, " Twirl the full 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 6wains agree, And call it science and philosophy. 'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through th' advancing year, To see uunumbcr'd growing forms appear ; "What leafy-life from Earth's broad bosom rise ! What insect-myriads seek the summer skies ! What sealy tribes in every streamlet move ; What plumy people sing in every grove ! All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love. Then names arc good ; for how, without their aid, Is knowledge, gnin'd by man, to man convey'd? Hut from that source shall all our pleasures flow ? Shall all our knowledge be thoso names to know ? Then he, with memory blest, shall bear away The palm from Grew,'" and MiddlcUm, 30 and Kay : 40 No ! let us rather seek, in grove and field, What food for wonder, what for use they yield; Some just remnrk 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 he known, they'll some attention claim, And find some hy-wny to the house of fame. The Btralghteat 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 tor hours, or tipples lor a week, 1 • C I hollenges a well-pinrh'd pig to squeak : Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name. Bib ill make him known, and give his folly fame. To name an infant meet our village sires, Assembled all as such event requires; 38 [The cucumber.] 3 '" [Formerly called cliivos.] ' lH [A distinguished botanist, nnd author of the 'Anatomy of Plants. - ] m [William Middleton, author of the ' Properties of Herbs," &c. &c] 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, — 'T was 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, AVas 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 Monday 41 to the workhouse sent. There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed, And duly took his healings 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 ; His pliant soul gave way to all things base, lie 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 thnt ran at all commands; They used on all occasions Kiehard's hands : His very soul was not his own ; ho stole As others ordcr'd, and without a dole ; In nil disputes, on either pnrt he lied, And freely pledged his oath on cither side ; In all rebellions Kichard joinM the rest, In all detections Kichard 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 oall'd him, Kichard onswer'd not ; They deem'd him hanging, nnd in time forgot, — Yet miss'd him long, cs each throughout the clan Found he " had better spared a better man."' 4J 40 [The eminent author of the ' Historia Plantarum.' He died in 1705.] 41 [" First I made him know his name should lie Friday, which was the day I saved his life, and 1 called him so for the memory of the time." — llubinson Crusoe. $ < a " Poor .tack ! farewell ; I could have better spared a better man." Henri/ V. of 'Fakuitf'. Shakspeare. 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 Monday 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 trust ; — ■ Two 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 Middlcton. Twice in this year a female Giles I see, A Spalding once, and once a Barnuby : — ■ A humble man is lie, 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 wheirce 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 have 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 sighs, provoke the insult more, And point the jest — for Barnaby is poor. Last in my list, five untaught lads appear ; Their father dead, compassion sent them here, — 43 [The infidel poacher was drawn from a blacksmith at Leiston, near Aldborough, whom the author visited in his capacity of surgeon, in 1779, and whose hardened cha- racter made a strong impression on bis mind. Losing his hand by amputation, lie exclaimed, with a sneer, " I sup- pose, Doctor Crabbe, I shall get it again at the resurrec- tion !"] For still that rustic infidel denied To have their names with solemn rite applied : His, a lone house, by Deadraan'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 offspring 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. 43 These have we named ; on life's rough sea they sail, With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale ! AVhere 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, What good or ill, we next prepare to show ; And row, meantime, our weary bark ashore, As Spenser his — but not with Spenser's oar. 44 44 Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy Queen. See the end of the First Book, and other places. [" Now strike your sailes, ye jolly mariners ! For wee be come into a quiet rode, Where we must land some of our passengers, And light tin's weary vessel of her lode," &e.] 141 1* A R T 1 1. Nuberc - qua voles, quamvis prnperahitis umbo, Difl'er ; habent parvic commoda magna mono. Ovid. Fait. lib. iii.' MARRIAGES. Pre\ ious Consideration necessary : yet not too long Delay — Imprudent Marriage of old Kirk and his Servant — Compa- rison between an ancient and youthful Partner to a young Man— Prudence of Donald the Gardener — Parish Wedding : the compelled Bridegroom : Day of Marriage, how spent — Relation of the Accomplishments of Phu?l)e Dawson, a 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 Raphael, a happy Pair : an example of prudent Delay — Rejections 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 lleauty : Persuasion and Reply : the Lvent. 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 hove ; Jf poor, delay for future want prepares, And cases 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 shnll 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, refruin. By no such rule would (Jailer Kirk be tried ; First in the year he led a blooming bribe, Anil stood a wither'd elder at her Bide. Oh I Nathan I Nathan ! at thy years trcpann'd, To take a wanton harlot by the hand ! Thou, who wert used so tartly to express Thy sense of matrimoniol happiness, Till every youth, whose bans at church were read, Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head ; And every lass forcbore at thee to look, A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook ; 1 [" Lei lovers now. who bum with equal fires, Put oil' awhile t' accomplish their desires : A short delay w ill better omens give. Anil you will more, and lasting joys receive."— Massky.] 1 [" If thou have n fair w ife, and a poor one ; if thine own (State be not great, assure thyself that love abidcth not with want ; lor she is the companion of plentv and honour."— Sir w. Rjuumis.] I And r.o— 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 !" Re ! Nathan ! fie ! to let an artful jade The close recesses of thine heart invade ; 3 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 1 A dupe to thee, thine anger or thy love ; ■ Clamorous her tongue will be : — of cither sex, She '11 gather friends around thee and perplex Thy doubtful soul ; — thy money she will waste In the voin ramblings of a vulgar taste; And will be happy to exert her power, In every eye, in thine, at every hour. Then wilt thou bluster — " No I I will not rest, " And see consumed eoch shilling of my chest : " Thou wilt be valiant — " When thy cousins call, '• I will abuse and 6hut 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 banc of peace, although some bar to love : 'T is not the worst, our nuptial ties among. That joins the ancient bride und 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 ; '1 ill every danger in your way be past, And then she gently, mildly breathes 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 I to let a sprightly jade Leer on thy bed, then ask thee how '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 lor her master's thought.] 142 CRABBE'S WORKS. Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent, Whom we beheld, aspiringly 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 pride, With smiles and gracious looks, her fortune tried ; But all in vain she praised his " pawky eyne," 4 Where 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 still ; 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 Mistress Dobson he preferr'd his suit ; There proved his service, there address'd his vows, And saw her mistress, — 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. While 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 pair withdrew, And bade to love and comfort long adieu ! 5 Ah ! fly temptation, youth, refrain ! refrain ! 1 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 Phrebe Dawson 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 express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd ; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 4 [" Pawky, as applied to the eye, signifies wanton." — Jahiesok.J 5 [" The above picture is, we think, perfect in this style of drawing. 1 '— Jeffrey.] 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 beauty'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 Phoebe 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 ; AVhere, as he painted every blissful view, And highly cc-lour'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 away ; 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 resented first, and then forgave; And to his grief and penanee yielded more Than his presumption had required before. 0 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain ! F.ach yielding maid and each presuming swain ! Lo ! 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 bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes 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 ; G [" This is the taking side of the picture : at the end of two years comes the reverse. Nothing can be more touching than the quiit caf afing and solitary hrsterKs of tl. s ill fatec young woman." — Jeffrey.] THE PARISH REGISTER. 143 For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. With water burthcn'il, 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 ; Ilcr 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 flies 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 cense, 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 ritirbe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair ; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, nnd love-inspiring lies : Compassion first nssail'd her gentle heart, For oil his suffering, nil his bosom's smart: " Ami then his prayers ! they would n savage move, " And win the coldest of the sex to love :" — But nli '. too soon his looks success declared, Top Into her loss the marriage-rite repair' d ; . Hie fbitliless 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 tly temptation, youth; cesiSt, refrain ! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain ! 7 Next camo a wcll-dress'd pair, who left their coach, And mnde, in long procession, slow npproach ; For this gay brido had many a female friend, And youths were there, this favour'd youth t' attend : ' [The tale of Phrcbe Dawson, as the preface («nfr, p. 99) shows, was one of the passages in the Parish Register which most Interested Mr. Fox oil Ilia death-bed. The Monthly Review of 18H7 observes : — " The circumstance stated in the preface to this poem, would, in our minds, communicate a high degree of intorest 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 ; hut, to have amused nnd occupied the painful leisure of his Inst illness, is as honourable to the powers as it must be delightful to the feelings of the author. I! the beantlfnl dramas of Terence derive an additional power of pleasing, from our knowledge that they were sanctioned by the approbation and assistance of Scipio and Tjclius, F.ng- liahmcn v,ill feel a similar predilection for works 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: AVhy didst thou grieve ? wealth, pleasure, freedom thine ; Vcx'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 way ? 'Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame, Who plny'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 sec-saw won the match : 8 Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt ; lie 'd call thee brother, or he 'd call thec out : — But rest the motive — nil 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, '• AVhy pouts my Lady ?" or " Why frowns the Squire ?" flow 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 nnd fine the bride's appear below, As light nnd 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 yet reform'd and modcll'd by the drill. The free-born legs stand striding as they will. Much 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 nnd improvement from tho mitts snpicntia of the most amiable among the great men recorded in their history ;" and Mr. Lockhart, in the Quarterly Review, No. C, says, " The last piece of poetry that soothed anil occupied the dying ear of Mr. Fox, was Crabbc's talc of Phccbe 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 frequently in his hands than any othei work whatever, except Shakspeare : nnd during the few intervals after his return to Abbotsford, in 1632, when he was sufficiently himself to ask his family to read aloud to him, the only books he ever called for were his llihlc and his Crabbe."] 8 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 the 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 fill'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 Lucy 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 w T as 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, must 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, He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace. a [Lnigi Galvani, professor of experimental philosophy at Bologna, from whom Galvanism 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 w-e 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, Kelating 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, I Each other catch, wdien dropping to the ground : Entwine their wither'd arms 'gainst wind and weather, And shake their leafless heads and drop together : I So two cold limbs, touch'd by Galvani's wire, 9 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 I Who hail the day in each revolving year : I These are with ns, 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 there, 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 Kuns, 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 i 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), j 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, 10 And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead. 10 ["I saw six children, all jumping round a young woman, very elegantly shaped, 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 F-nglish 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, Id ply when list'ning, and when speaking hear: The ready converse knows no dull delays, " But double arc the pains, and double be the praise." 11 , 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 : lleul/en and Ilacliel, though as found 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 poor, 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 fancy cull'd the smaller ware, The weightier purchase ask'd her Reuben's care ; Together then their last year's gain they threw, And lol an auction'd bed, with curtains neat and new. Thus both, as prudence counsell'd, wisely stay'd, And cheerful then the calls of LoVG obcy'd : What if, when Kachael gave her hand, 't was one Embrown M by Winter's ice and Summer's sun ? What if, in Reuben's hair the female eyo Usurping grey among the black could spy ? What if, in both, life's bloomy flush was lost, Ami their full autumn felt the mellowing frost? • Yet time, who blow'd the rose of youth away, Ilml left the vigorous stem without decay; Like those tall elms in r'armcr 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 'vc stood, still promise they shall stand. These are the happier pairs, their life has rest, Their hopes arc strong, their humble portion blest. While those more rash to hasty marriage led, Lament th' impntience 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; Hut when to age mature those children grown, Kind hopes and homes ami hardships of their own, The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes Kcccding slowly, till they find repose. gown with pink ribands, She had .1 brown loaf in her hand, ■ml WM cutting slices of bread and butter, which she distri- buted, in n graceful manner, to the children. Each 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 hitter-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, sufferings, prayers, Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares; Their graves before them and their griefs behind, Have each a med'eine 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,) u 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 Edward Archer is an amorous knight, And maidens chaste and lovely shun his sight ; His bailiff'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: — •• Mope 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 which 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 1) to endure his love ; " Till want ami deep regret those charms destroy, " That time would spare, if time were pass'd in joy? " With him, in varied pains, from morn till night, " Your hours shall pass ; yourself a ruffian'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 ench year, as health and strength abate, " You '11 weep your woes and wonder at your fate ; its little hands," Sec. &c. — Wtrn'EK.] 11 Spenser. L 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 excites 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 happy, 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 joj', That w ; ill not perish, and that cannot cloy ; — • A living joy, that shall its spirits keep, When every beauty fades, and all the passions sleep. 1 [" That man who feareth not the fickle fates a strawe, The visage grim of Acheront whose eyes yet never saw, That person is a prince's peere, anil like the gods in might." Newton, 1081.] - [" There is nothing in history," says Addison, " which is so improving to the reader as those accounts which we meet witli of the deaths of eminent persons, and of their behaviour in that dreadful season. I may also add, that there are no parts in history which affect and please the reader in so sen- sible a manner. The reason I take to be this : there is no other single circumstance in the story of any person, which can possibly be the case of every one who reads it. The ge- neral, the statesman, or the philosopher, are, perhaps, cha- racters which we may never act in ; but the dying man is one PART III. Qui vultus Acherontis atri, Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt, — Par ille Regi, par Superis erit. Seneca in Agamem.i BURIALS. True Christian Resignation not frequently to be seen — The Register a melancholy Record — A dying Man, who at length sends for a Priest : for what Purpose ? answered— Old Collett of the Inh, 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 Lady 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 Peasant, dies : his manly Character : Reluctance to enter the Poor-House ; and why — Misfortune and Derangement of Intellect in Robin Dingley : whence 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 Cuff, 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 the five Rectors whom he served — Reflections— Conclusion. There was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time When humble Christians died with views sublime ; When all were 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.' 2 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 certainly 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 gTeat tenderness, to hear his last injunctions, told Him, " I have sent for vou, that vou 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 ! too high The price of knowledge I taught us how to die."] THE PARISH REGISTER. 147 " IIo]><' against hope," and wildly gaze around, In irr li 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 tics 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 proclaimed that sunshine of the breast, Thnt more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd. What I behold are feverish fits of strife, 'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life : 3 Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure ; Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure ; At best a sad submission to the doom, Which, turning from the danger, lets it come. 4 Sick lies the man, hewilder'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 (lod is just, " And pardons those who in his mercy trust ; "We 're sorely tempted in a world like this — " All men have done, and I 1 J l< • • nil. niniss : " Hut now, if spared, it is mv full intent " On nil the past to ponder and repent : " Wrongs against me I pardon great and small, " And if I die, I die in pence with all." Mis merits thus and not his sins confessM, Hi' xpenks his hopes, and leaves to 1 1 en ven the rest. Alas ! are these the prospects, dull nnd cold. That dying Christians to their priests unfold? ' ["Surely, to tht sincere believer, death wo old be an ob- ject of desire instead of dread, were if nut for I hose ties — those ueart-itrlngi— by which wean' attached toiifo. Nor, indeed] do I behove that it is natural lo lour death, however L'onerallv it may lie thought so. From my own fooling! I have little right to judge; for, although habitually mindful that the hour Qom6th, anil even now mav tie, it has never appeared actually near enough to make me July apprehend its elfcct upon mv- sclf. Hut from what 1 have observed, and what I have heard those persons say whose professions led them to the dying, I am induced to infer, that the fear of death is not common, and that where it cxists.it proceeds rather from a diseased or enfeebled mind, than from any principle in our nature. Cer- tain it is, that among the poor the approarh of dissolution is usually regarded with a quiet and natural composure which it isconsolatory to contemplate, anil which is as far removed front the dead palsy of unbelief, as it is from the delirious rapturiN of fanaticism. Theirs Is a true unhesitating faith ; and they are m illlng to lay down the burden of a weary life, in the sure nnd certain hope of a blessed immortality." — SoUTHEV.] 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 triuinph'd in so short a space; Who arc the dead, how died they, I relate, And snatch some portion of their acts from fate. 5 With Andrew Collett 6 we the year begin, The blind, fat landlord of the- Old Crown 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 dext'rous hand, applied ; " Nor from their seats departed, till the)' found " That butt was out and heard the mournful sound." 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 nnd 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 nnd 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 bouts 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 I' Manv, we may easily suppose, have manifested this w illingness to die from an impa- tience of suffering, or from that passive indifference 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 w hich 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 bight be like theirs.' "— Sin Hknby Halford.] s [" Oh ! snatch some portion of these acts from fate, Celestial Muse ! and to our world relate." Poi'k's Ho:ner.'] 8 (Thiebe Dawson, Andrew Collett, and the Widow Goe, were all portraits from the life.] x L 2 148 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, He drank, he swore, he jested, and he lied ; Thus aiding folly with departing breath : — " Beware, Lorenzo, 7 the slow-sudden death." 8 Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame, I'amed 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 ; 9 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, AVithout 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, A.nd 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 ; j Busy and careful, like that working bee, No time for love nor tender cares had she ; | But when our farmers made their amorous vows, I She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs. Not unempioy'd her evenings pass'd away, i Amusement closed, as business waked the day ; j AVhen to her toilet's brief concern she ran, And conversation with her friends began, AVho 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. I ? [Young's Night Thoughts.] i 8 [" It has always appeared to me as one of the most strik- ing passages in the visions of Quevedo, that which stigmatises j those as fools who complain that they failed of happiness I by sudden death. ' How,' says he, ' can death be sudden j to a being who always knew that he must die, and that the : 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 ;— AVhen, as the busy days of Spring drew near, That call'd for all the forecast of the year ; AVhen lively hope the rising crops survey'd, And April promised what September paid ; AVhen stray' d her lambs where gorse and greenweed grow ; AVhen rose her grass in richer vales below ; AVhen pleased she look'd on all the smiling 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, — " AVith much to do on Earth, and all for Heav'n! — " 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 eye and in her hand her keys ; And still the more she found her life decay, AVith 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, 1 " AVhen 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, AVhy 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, AVith 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 ? 1 1 Not so ! for then would Love Divine in vain Send all the burthens weary men sustain ; 9 [" And I say to this man, Go, and he goeth ; and to ano- ther, Come, and lie cometh." — Matt. viii. 9.] 1 0 Gerard Ablett, see ante, p. 137. n i Whom the gods love, die young,' was said of yore, And many deaths do t hey escape by this : The deatli of friends, and that which 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 car, 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 Hull : Worms ate the floors, the tnp'stry tied the wall : No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd ; Mo 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 cellars tnrn'd the angry poor, And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door. To one small room the steward found his way, Whore tenants follow'd to complain and pay ; 1J Yet no complaint before the Lady came, The feeling servant spared the feeble dame ; Who saw her farms with his observing eyes, Anil answer'd all requests with his replies: — She came not down, her fulling 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, why with rare explore; Why learn the wants, the sufferings of the poor; When one so knowing all their worth CO old trace, And one so piteous govern'd in her place ? la Lo I now, what dismal Sons of Darkness come, To bear this Daughter of Indulgence home ; Tragedians all, and well-arranged in black ! Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack ; Who cause no tear, but gloomily puss by, And shake their sables in the wearied eye, That turns disgusted from the pompous scene, I'roud without grandeur, with profusion, mean! The tear for kindness past affection owes; For worth deceased the sigh from reason flows ; F.'cn well-feign'd passion for our sorrows call. And real teats for mimic miseries fall : But this poor farce has neither truth nor art, To please the fancy or to touch the heart ; Except men breath ; and since the silent shore A u nits nt ln.it even those who longest miss Tin- old archer's arrow, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to nave." HVRON.] f" This description of the lady of the manor's deserted mansion is very striking, and in the good old tasto of Pope and 1 tryden."— JtrriiKY.] 13 [" Absenteeism, all the world over, Is the greatest of evils that can befall u labouring population. "While," s:ns Mr. Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours On the dry ground its fertilising showers ; Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread, AVhcn 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 prcss'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 sec ! the master-mourner makes his way, To end his office 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 us (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 sleepyicycs " 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." Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook ; In that smull 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 rlipp'd in form and tantalised with skill ; Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread, Form'd shining borders for the larkspurs' bed ; — There lived n Lady, wise, austere, and nice, Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice ; In the dear fashions of her youth she drcss'd, A pea-green Joseph u was her favourite vest ; Lewis, " 1 fancied my nttorney to be resident on my estate, he was attending to one of his own. During his absence, an overseer was lea In absolute power, which he abused to such a degree, that the property was nearly ruined. Yet, w hile all this w as going on, my attorney wrote me letters filled with as- surances of his perpetual vigilnnce for the poor creatures' wel- fare ; nor. if I had not witnessed it myself, should 1 ever have hail the most distant idea how abominably they had been misused."— Quarterly Review, 1834.] 14 [A lady's great-coat.] 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 drawer? 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, shunn'd the eye of man. Her neat small room, adorn'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 type of sadness in the house of pride. The polish'd surface of an India chest, A glassy globe, in frame of ivory, prcss'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 well-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 puts it to its proper use, That something more this guinea may produce ; But silks and rings, in the possessor'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 their 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, That 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 mate ; " 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 the 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 unqucstion'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 : Were 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 offence 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 superior, 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 fame, by virtue gain'd, In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train' d ; Pride in the power that guards 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. 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, " Hut should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own 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 arc 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 prowl reluctance to be fed, " To join your poor, and cat the parish-bread ? " But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; " lie who, by contract, all your paupers took, " And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: " On gome old master I could well depend ; " See him with joy anil thank him as a friend; '• But ill on him who doles the day's supply, " And counts our chances who at night may die : '• Vet help me, Ileav'n ! and let me not complain " Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." Such were his thought!', 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. 14 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his scat, and sigh for Isaac there: I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that hnnour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel nnd tremble nt the. sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till .Mister Ash ford soften'd to a smile ; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force), arc there : — But he is blest, nnd I lament no more A wise good man contented to be poor. Then died a Rambler ; not the one who sails, And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails ; 15 [Isaac Ashford's prototype was honest John Jasper, the parish-clerk of North (JlenVham : of whose manly indepen- dence of mind anil Integrity of conduct Mr. Crabbe often ■poke 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.] [Robin Dinglcy, the wandering pauper, was suggested by Richard Wilkinson, a parishioner of Muslim, who every now and then disappeared, like some migratory birds, no one could conjecture whither, anil, just as his existence was for- gotten, home c.ime Richard to lie again clothed and fill at the expense of the parish.] 17 [The Old man of Verona, " qui suhurbium nunquam Not one who posts from place to place — of men And manners treating with a Hying 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 Dingletj 10 went. Not thus by nature : — never man was found Less prone to wander from his parish bound : Claudian's Old Man, to whom all scenes were new, 1 ? 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 Dinglcy'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 Dinglcys had their school assign'd, Masters were sought for what they each required, And books wore bought and harpsichords were hired; So high was hope : — the failure touch'd his brain, And Kobin never was himself again ; Vet he no wrath, no angry wish exprcss'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. Vears 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 story he hail made his own ; Had sufler'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms, Encountering death In all his ugliest forms : His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye, Where madness lurk'd, concenl'd in misery ; \\ ant, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part, And prompted cunning to that simple heart: •' Mi- 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 ; • •.•res ,u> est." Claudian's verses are thus imitated by Cow ley : — " Happy the man who his whole life doth bound Within th' enclosure of his little ground ; Happy the man w hom the same humble place (Th' hereditary cottage of his race) From his first rising infancy has known, And, by degrees, sees gently bending down, With natural propension, to that earth Which both preserved his life and gave him birth. Ilim no false distant lights, by fortune set, Could ever into foolish wanderings get ; No change of consuls marks to him the year; The change of seasons is his calendar," &c] 152 CR ABBE'S WORKS. His wife was dead, their children past his aid. So, unmolested, from his home he stray'd : Six years elapsed, when, worn with want and pain, Came Kobin, wrapt in all his rags, again : We 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 Sold, although each day 's a feast, Fatten you may, hut 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, alarm 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 his fear ; 18 [It has been told (ante, p. 29), that Mr. Crabbe, on returning to Aldborough, after the publication of "Tlie Library," found that his mother had died while he was in London. " That affectionate parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness and suffering, had she w itnessed 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 happened 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, cheer- fully, ' She must make haste, or I shall be at rest before her.' Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain, In now a louder, now a lower strain ; While the meek father, listening 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 turn'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, hut vacant still ; The garden-walks, a labour 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.' 8 That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise. Oh sacred sorrow ! by whom 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 ?) 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 honours 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, Respect 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 Glibb, who came with wond'rous speed : Two 1 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 Register : " — Arrived at home, how then he gazed around On every place — where she — no more was found ; And I find him recurring to the same theme in one of his manuscript pieces Hut oh ! in after-years Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears : — No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint ! The patient sufferer! the enduring saint! Holy and cheerful ! hut 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 fond husband had rcsign'd her up : " So all, like her, may evil fate defy, " If Doctor (ilibb, 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 lurk 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, " Ami 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 w hy, " Hut trusts, poor hag ! to luck for an ally ? — " Who, on experience, can her claims advance, " And own the powers of Occident and chance ? " A whining dame, who prays in donger'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 slovo to Nature, 'tis ray 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 ole and oiding pipe, The angry Matron grew for contest ripe. "Can you," she said, " Ungrateful and unjust, " Before experience, ostentation trust I " What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell? " If safe, you "re certain ; if secure, you 're well : " That I have luck must Mend and foe confess, '■ \ 1 1 ■ 1 « lint's good judgment but n lucky pics* ? " He boasts, but what he can do: — will you run " From me, your friend ! who, all lie 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 life to give ? '• No stunted cripple hops the village round ; " Your hands are active and your heads nre sound ; " My bids are all your fields and Hocks 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 fnrmcrs frame, " Or make the daughter ditl'er from the dame ? " Or, w hom he brings into this world of woe, " Prepares he them their part to undergo? " If not, this stranger from your doors repel, " And be content to be ond to be well." She spnke ; but, nh ! with words too strong and plain ; Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain : The muni/ left hci, and the friendlv/eu>, 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 clay, Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill to share. Now to his grave was Roger Cuff convey'd, And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid. Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found His brethren three — and thrice they wish'd him drown'd. " Is this a landsman's love ? Be certain then, " We pnrt 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 — they call'd hiin surly 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 1 have, my gains, in years of care, " The younger Cufl's with kinder souls shall share — " Yet hold '. 1 'm rich ;— with one consent they Ml say, " ' You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May. " No ; I '11 disguise me, be in tatters drcss'd, " And best befriend the lads who treat me best." Now all his kindred, — neither rich nor poor, — i Kept the wolf want some distance from the door. In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate, And begg'd lor 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 : — " 1 1 a ! dost thou murmur?" — for, in Kogcr's throat, Was " Bascal ! " rising with disdainful note. To pious James he then his prayer nddress'd ; — " Good-lack," quoth James, " thy sorrows pierce my breast ; " And, hod I wealth, as have my brethren twaiu, " One board should feed us and one roof contain : " But plead 1 will thy cause, and I will pray : " And so farew ell ! Heaven help thee on thy way !" "Scoundrel I" said Hoger (but apart) ; — and told His case to Peter ; — Peter too wns cold ; — " The rates are high ; we hove a-many poor; " But I will think," — he said, and shut the door. Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd ; — " Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd : " Akin to thine is this declining frame, " And this poor beggar claims an Vnclc's name." " A vaunt ! begone ! " the courteous maiden said, " Thou vile impostor ! Vncle Kogcr's dead : " I hate thee, beast ; thy look my spirit shocks ; " Oh ! that I saw thee storving in the stocks ! " " My gentle nicco ! " he said — and sought the wood. — " I hunger, fellow ; prithee, give me food ! " " Give ! am 1 rich ? This hatchet take, and try " Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie ; 154 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Work, food 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, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view," Old Koger said ; — " thy words are brave and true ; " Come, live with me : we '11 vex those scoundrel- boys, " And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys— " Tobacco's glorious fume all day we '11 share, " With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care ; " We '11 beer and biscuit on our table heap, " 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 should 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 scem'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 JJibble 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 yet 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 fill'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 ground ; " Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech, " ' What should I do,' quoth he, ' but what I preach?' 19 [" As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright. It is the knell of my departed hours." — Youno.] 20 [Dr. Grandspear is a rougli outline of Dr. Bacon, the poet's predecessor at Muston.] " His piercing jokes (and lie 'd a plenteous store) " Were daily offer'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. 20 " Then were there golden times the village round; " In his abundance all appear'd t' abound ; " Liberal and rich, a plenteous board hs spread, " E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed ; " Who wish'd and hoped, — and thought a man so kind " A way to Hcaven,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 ! " ' Ralph,' 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 barebj 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 : al his delight " Was all in books ; to read them or to write : " Women 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,- 2 — - " 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 with 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. 21 [The Author-Rector is, at all points, the similitude of Mr. Crabbe himself, except in the subject of his lucubra- tions.] 22 [See ante, p. 46.] THE PARISH REGISTER. " He sleeps i' the aisle, — but not a stone records •• Hi-, 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), " 1 'd join the party who repose without. " Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in trutli "lie 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, flatter'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 ; " I.oud grew his voice, to threat'ningswcll'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 luunrh'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 cry; " ' 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 ; " ' 1 1 is reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes; " 'The proud, leam'd man, and him who loves to know " ' How ami 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, " ' Ami. without running, makes them win the race.' " Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught ; " And here conviction, there confusion wrought ; - z [" bike leaves on treei |h( race of man is found, Now green in youth, now w ithcring on tin- ground," 8tC. Poi-k'» Homer.] « ["On the whole, the Tnrisli Register deserves very su- perior commendation, iu well for the How of verse nnd for the language, which is mnnly nnd powerful, equally remote from Vtdoui ornament and the still more disgusting cant of idiot simplicity, as for the sterling poetry, and original powers of thought, ol' which it contains unquestionable proofs. One remark we add with pleasure, as prophetic of a mill 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 ilrst became known as a poet." — Monthly Rgvuw, 1807. "The characteristic of Crabbe is force, and truth of descrip- tion, joined for the most part to great selection and condensa- tion of expri'ssion ; that Kind of strength and originality which we meet with in Cow per, and that sort of diction and* versifi- cation w hich we admire in Goldsmith. If lie can lie said to have imitated the manner of any author, it is Goldsmith ; and yet his general train of thinking, anil his views of society, ore extremely opposite, tli.e. when ' The Village' was first published, it was commonly considered as an antidote, or answer, to the more captivating representations of the ' Dc- sirte.l Village.' ('umpired with this celebrated author, he will be found to have more vigour and less delicacy; and, while he must be admitted to be inferior in the line Bnilll " "When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue, " And all the rose to one small spot withdrew, " They call'd it hectic ; 'twas 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'ning 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 fill'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, Balph.' " Quoth I, ' Your reverence, I believe, you 're safe ; | " ' Your faith 's your prop, nor have you pass'd . such time 1 " ' In life's good-works as swell them to a crime. " ' If I of pardon for my sins were sure, l " ' 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 arc going all ; Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall ; S3 — 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 nsk a blessing, with his bride in hand : A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier : — Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants tnke Their names ; thus parents shall the child forsake ; Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel, By love or law compelled their vows to seal, Krc I again, or one like me, explore These simple Vunals of the Vii.i.ac.i: I'oon. and uniform beauty of his composition, \vc cannot help con- sidering him as superior tioUl in the variety and the truth of his pictures. Instead of that uniform tint of pensive tender- ness which overspreads the whole poetry of Goldsmith, we lind in Mr. Crabbe many gleams of gaiety and humour. Though his habitual views of life are more gloomy than those of his rivol, his poetical temperament seems more cheerful ; and w hen the occasions of sorrow and rebuke ore gone by, be can collect himself for sarcastic pleasantries, or unbend in innocent playfulness. . . .We port from him with regret; but we hope to meet him again. If his muse, to be sure, is pro- line 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 portion of public favour than has hitherto been dealt to him, will encourage him to greater etTorts ; and that he will soon appear again among the Worthy supporters of the old poetical establishment." — JEFFREY, 1807. " There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, That splendid lies are all the Poet's praise ; That strain'.! invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 'Til true, that all who rhyme— nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius— trite ; Yet Trutli sometimes will lend her noblest llrcs, And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact, in Virtue's name, let Crahhe attest; Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best." Hvho.v, 1808.] 156 CRABBE'S WORKS. THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY. 1 THE BERTH OF FLATTERY. Omnia habeo, nec quicquam liabeo ; Quidquid dicunt, laudo ; id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque : Negat quis, nego : ait, aio : Postremo imperavi egomet mihi Omnia assentari. Tebent. in Eu.nucli.' i T is an old maxim in the schools, That flattery 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 — Birth of a Daughter— Description and Prediction of Envy — How to be rendered ineffectual, explained in a Vision— Simulation foretells the future Success andTriumphs 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 affix- 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 droops, when leading she ascends. 1 [See ante, p. 100.] 2 [_*' I 've every thing, though nothing ; nought possess, Yet nought I ever want. — Wbate'er they say, I praise it ; if again They contradict, 1 praise that too : does any Deny ? I too deny : Affirm ? I too. And, in a word, I 've brought myself To say, unsay, swear, and forswear, at pleasure." CoLMAN.] 1 [Original MS. :— Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing The Passions, and the sources whence they spring ; Who taught the birth, the bearings, and the ties, The strong connections, 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. 3 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. Sullen 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, llude 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 design'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 the wall would move, And daylight drop through 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 Cunning was her name among the swains. 4 Of these the Foes of Virtue and the Friends, With whom she rises and with whom descends — A Syren's birth, a Syren's power I trace, Aid me, oh ! Herald of the Fairy-race ; Say whence she sprang, to what strange fortune born, And why we love and hate, desire and scorn.] 1 [Original MS. .— From whom she sprang, not one around her knew, Nor why she came, nor what she had in view ; Labour she loved not, had no wealth in store, Pursued no calling, yet was never poor ; A thousand gifts her various arts repaid, And bounteous fairies blest the thriving maid ; For she had secret means of easy gains, And Cunning was her name among the swains.] THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY. 157 Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed, And Mindly drove them to the marriage hed ; Or whether love in some soft hour inclined The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind, Is yet unsung : they were un 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 blcss'd the simple man, Before dissensions rose, and she began : — '• Wretch that I am ! since to thy fortune bound, •• 'What plan, what project, with success is crown'd ? '* I, who a thousand secret arts possess, '■ Who every rank approach with right address; " Who 'vc loosed a guinea from a miser's chest, " And wonn'd his secret from a traitor's breast ; " Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small, " Iluve brought to thee, and thou consum'st them all; " For want like thine — n bog without n base — " Ingulfs all gains I gather for the place ; " Feeding, unfill'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 !" " Oh ! vaunt of worthless art," the swain replied, Scowling contempt, " how pitiful this pride ! '• What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains, " Hut base rewards for ignominious pnins? " With ull thy tricking, still for bread we strive, •' Thine is, proud wretch ! the care that cannot thrive ; '• By all thy boasted skill and baffled 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-Mowers, " Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray " The place they make unprofitably gay '< " Who know it not, some useless beauties sec, — " Hut 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 lied, and now the swain compell'd to sec 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 'vc seen a vision — they, from whom I came, " A daughter promise, promise wealth and fame; " Born with my features, w ith my arts, yet she " Shall patient, pliant, persevering be, " And in thy better ways resemble thee. " The fairies round shall at her birth 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, Airn'd at contempt, but yet he hoped the while : F'or 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 blcss'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 Care's stern brow of every frown beguile. These magic favours graced the infant-maid, Whose more enlivening smile the charming gifts repaid. N'ow 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 ; Envy 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 might 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 ; lie told the poor, what joys the great possess'd : The great, w hat calm content the cottage bless'd : To part the learned und 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 show? Why, in a mischief of , the meaner kind, Exhaust the vigour of a rane'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 tic, 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 hreast ; 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 be 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 Wit 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. " Envy himself shall to thy accents bend, " Force a faint smile, and sullenly attend, " When thou shaltcall him Virtue's jealous friend, " Whose bosom glows with generous rage to find " How fools and knaves are flatter'd by 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 ; " When 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 Dignity and Grace ; " While Shame, who liow betrays the inward sense " Of secret ill, shall be thy Diffidence ; " Avarice shall thenceforth prudent Forecast be, " And bloody Vengeance, Magnanimity ; " 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 Kobber, 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 thy 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, 1 It comes the sweeter, when it comes again ; 1 And when confess'd as thine, what mind so strong 1 Forbears the pleasure it indulged so long ? " Softener of every ill ! of all our woes 1 The balmy solace ! friend of fiercest foes ! 1 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, 1 '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, 1 Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been, 1 Where spungy rushes hide the plashy green. " I see thee breathing on the barren moor, ' That seems to bloom although so bleak before ; 1 There, if beneath the gorse the primrose spring, 1 Or the pied daisy smile below the ling, 1 They shall new charms, at thy command disclose, ' And nunc shall mNs the myrtle or the rose. 1 The wiry moss, that whitens all the hill, ■ Shall live a beauty by thy matchless skill ; 1 Gale 5 from the bog shall yield Arabian balm, ' And the grey willow wave a golden palm. " I sec thee smiling in the pictured room, ; Now breathing beauty, now reviving bloom ; There, each immortal name 't is thine to give, To graceless forms, anil bid the lumber live. Should'st thou coarse boors or gloomy martyrs MM', These shall thy Guidos, those thy Teniers bo ; 5 [" Myrica gal grounds.] •hrub growing in boggy and fenny 0 [" Willi many nervous lines and ingcnioiu .illusions, thll " 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 ali 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 ; llcr mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave ; Zeal heard her voice, and, as he prcach'd aloud. WeU pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd (Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear, Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear) : Sliamc fled her presence ; at her gentle strain, Care softly smiled, and Guilt forgot its pain ; The wretched thought, the happy found, her true, The lcarn'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. 8 poi'm has something of ihe languor which seems inseparable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram." — JronKT.] 160 CRABBE'S WORKS. REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT— Quiil juvat errores, mersdjam puppr, J 'uteri? Quid lacrymcv delicta juvant commissa secutce f Claudian. in Kutropium, lib. ii. lin. 7. What avails it, when shipwrec-Vd, that error appears ? Are the crimes we commit wash'd aw ay by our tears ?' When all the fiercer passions cease (The glory and disgrace of youth) ; When the deluded soul, in peace, Can listen to the voice of truth ; When we are taught in whom to trust, And how to spare, to spend, to give, (Our prudence kind, our pity just,) 'T is then we rightly learn to live. Its weakness when the body feels, Nor danger in contempt defies ; To reason when desire appeals, When, on experience, hope relies ; When every passing hour we prize, Nor rashly on our follies spend ; But use it, as it quickly flies, With sober aim to serious end ; When prudence bounds our utmost views, And bids us wrath and wrong forgive ; When we can calmly gain or lose, — 'T is then we rightly learn to live. Yet thus, when we our way discern, And can upon our care depend, To travel safely, when we leam, Behold ! we 're near our journey's end. We 've trod the maze of error round, Long wand'ring in the winding glade ; And, now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we stray'd : Light for ourselves, what is it worth, When we no more our way can choose ? For others, when we hold it forth, They, in their pride, the boon refuse. By long experience taught, we now Can rightly judge of friends and foes, Can nil the worth of these allow, And all their faults discern in those ; Relentless hatred, erring love, We can for sacred truth forego ; We can the warmest friend reprove, And bear to praise the fiercest foe : To what effect ? Our friends are gone Beyond reproof, regard, or care ; And of our foes remains there one, The mild relenting thoughts to share ? Now 't is our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage ; Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage : Ah ! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now This bold rebellious race are fled ; When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead ? Revenge, ambition, scorn, and pride, And strong desire, and fierce disdain, The giant-brood by thee defied, Lo ! Time's resistless strokes have slain. Yet Time, who could that race subdue, (O'erpoweriug strength, appeasing rage,) Leaves yet a persevering crew, To try the failing powers of age. Vex'd by the constant call of these, Virtue awhile for conquest tries ; But weary grown and fond of ease, She makes with them a compromise : Av'rice himself she gives to rest, But rules him with her strict commands ; Bids Pity touch his torpid breast, And Justice hold his eager hands. Yet is there nothing men can do, When chilling Age comes creeping on ? Cannot we yet some good pursue ? Are talents buried ? genius gone ? 1 [See Preface !. aati, p. 100.] REFLECTIONS. 1G1 ]f 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, we '11 redeem the wasted time, And to neglected studies flee ; ■\Yc '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 Ml climb, The admiring crowd shall envying sec. Begin the song! begin the theme ! — Alas ! and is Invention dead ? Dream we no more the golden dream ? Is Mcm'ry with her treasures fled? Yes, 't is too late, — now Keason guides The mind, soJs judge in all debate ; And thus the important point decides, For laurels, 'tis, alas ! too late. What is possess'd we may retain, But for new conquests strive in vain. Beware then, Age, that what was won, If life's past labours, studies, views, Be lost not, now the labour 's done, ■\Vhen all thy part is, — not to lose : AVhcn 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, ■\Yhen 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 ! U 162 - CRABBE'S WORKS. SIR EUSTACE GREY. Scene. — A Madhouse. Persons — Visitor, Physician, and Patient. " Veris miscens falsa." Seneca, in Here. J urente .- VISITOR. I'll know 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, While struggling for the full-drawn sigh ! — I '11 know no more. physician. 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 Greyling Hall : — Approach ; he '11 bid thee welcome there ; Will sometimes for his servant call, 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 with respect excite. 1 [This poem was composed at Muston, in the w inter of 1804-5, during a great snow-storm (see Life, ante, p. 51). For the Author's account of his design in the piece, see Pre- face, ante, p. 100.] 2 [" With truth mingling the false." — IIeyvtood, 1581.] PATIENT. Who comes ? — Approach ! — -'t is kindly done : — My leam'd physician, and a friend, Their pleasures quit, to visit one Who cannot to their ease attend, 3 Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend, As when I lived so blest, so well, And dreamt not I must soon contend With those malignant powers of hell. PHYSICIAN. " Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go." PATIENT. See ! I am calm as infant-love, A very child, but one of woe, 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 twent}' years, I think, are gone, — (Time flies I know not how, away,) The sun upon no happier shone, Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey. Ask where you would, and all would say, The man admired and praised of all, By rich and poor, by grave 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. 3 [Original MS. :— Who comes ?— Approach ! — 't is hindly dcfie— The worthy doctor, and a friend. 'T is more than kind to visit one Who has not now to spare or spend, As when I lived so blest, so well !] SIR EUSTACE GREY. 163 He had a frnnk 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. My lady ! — she was all we love ; AH praise (to speak her worth) is faint ; Her manners show'd the yielding dove, Her morals, the seraphic saint : She never brcath'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. 4 There was, beside, a gallant youth, And him my bosom's friend 1 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 talc ? — 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-blown pride, To varnish higher my fading joy, Pleasures were ours without alloy, Nay, Paradise, — till my frail Evo Our bliss was tempted to destroy — Deceived and fated to deceive. But I deserved ; — for all that time, When I was loved, admired, carcss'd, There was within, each secret crime, Unfelt, uncancrll'd, unconfess'd : I never then my (iod address'd, In grateful praise or bumble prayer; And if His Word was not my jest — (Dread thought !) it never was my care. T doubted : — fool I was to doubt ! It' that all-pieroing eye could sec, — If He who looks all worlds throughout, Would so minute and careful be As to perceivo and punish me : — With man I would be great and high, liiii with my God so lost, that He, In his large view, should pass mc by.j Thus blest with children, friend, and wife, Blest far beyond the vulgar lot ; Of. 'ill that gladdens human life, Where was the good that 1 had not? • [Origin.il MS. : — Worms, doctor, worms, ami to aro we.] [* Here follows, in the original MS. : — Madman I shall He who made this nil. The. parts that form the whole reject ? Is an^ht with him so great or small, He cannot punish or protect ? But my vile heart had sinful spot, And Heaven beheld its deepening stain; Eternal justice I forgot, And mercy sought not to obtain. Come near, — I Ml softly speak the rest ! — Alas ! 't is known 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,~lheir 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 louth'd to live ;- I saw her dying — sec her yet : Fair fallen thing ! my rage forgive ! 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 was 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. 6 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, Ami hope the eye of God to slum ; But there s of all the account correct- Not one omitted— no, not one ] • [MS. :— Nay, frown not — chide not — but allow Pity to ong so sorely tried : Hut I am calm — to fate I bow, And all the storms of life abide.] M 2 164 CRABBE'S WORKS PATIENT. And shall I then the fact deny ? I was,— thou know'st, — I was begone, Like him who fill'd the eastern throne. To whom the "Watcher cried aloud ; 7 That royal wretch of Babylon, "Who was so guilty and so proud. Like him, with haughty, stubborn mind, I, in my state, my comforts sought ; Delight and praise I hoped to find, In wiiat I builded, planted ! bought ! Oh ! arrogance ! by misery taught — Soon came a voice ! I felfc it come ; " Full be his cup, with evil fraught, " Demons his guides, and death his doom I" Then was I cast from out my state ; Two fiends of darkness led my way; They waked me early, 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 spurn'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, 8 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 slay : Yet years were not ; — one dreadful Now Endured no change of night or day ; 7 "And the king (Nebuchadnezzar) saw a watcher and an holy one come down from heaven," &c. — Dan. iv. 23. 8 See Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. 3 [" There is great force, both of language and conception, in the wild narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy ; though we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate, and too much worked-up in the picture." — Jeffrey. " In the struggle of the passions, we delight to trace 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. 9 At length a moment's sleep stole on, — Again came my commission'd foes ; Again through sea and land we 're gone, Wo peace, no respite, no repose : Above the dark broad sea we rose, We ran through bleak and frozen land ; I had 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 polar night, Those dancing streamers wrapp'd me round. Slowly that darkness pass'd away, AVhen down 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 ; The watch-light blinks as we go past, The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark ; The watch-tower's boll 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 down. What monuments of mighty dead ! AVhat 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 ail, — '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 ! workings of the soul ; we love to mark the swell of every vein, and the throb of every pulse ; every stroke that searches a new source of pity and terror we pursue with a busy and in- quisitive sympathy. It is from this cause that Mr. Crabbe's delineations of the passions are so just — so touching of the gentle, and of the awful so tremendous. Remorse and mad- ness have been rarely portrayed by a more powerful hand. For feeling, imagery, and agitation of thoughts, the lines in which Sir Eustace Grey tells the story of his insanity are second to few modern productions. The contrast between the state of the madness, and the evening scene on w hich he was SIR EUSTACE GREY. 1G5 Yes, I have felt all man can feel, Till he shall pay his nature's debt; Ills that no hone has strength to heal, No mind the comfort to forget : Whatever cares the heart can fret, The spirits wear, the temper gall, Woe, want, dread, anguish, all beset My sinful soul ! — together all ! 10 Those fiends upon a shaking fen Fi.x'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 upou 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 drown with their returning tide ; And made me llee the mountain's fire, When rolling from its burning side. I 've hung upon the ridgy steep Of cliffs, and held the rambling brier; I 've plunged below the billowy deep, Where air was sent me to respire ; I 'vc been where hungry wolves retire ; And (to complete my woes) I 'vc ran Where Bedlam's crazy crew conspire Against the life of reasoning man. I 'vc furl'd in storms the flapping sail. By hanging from the topmnst-hend ; I 've served the vilest slaves in jail, And plok'd the dunghill's spoil for bread ; I 've made the badger's hole my bed ; I've waniler'd with a gipsy crew; I've dreaded all the guilty dread, And done what they would fear to do. 1 ' On sand, where ebbs and flows the flood, Midway they placed and bade me die; Propp'd on my stall', 1 stoutly stood When the swift waves came rolling by ; Ami 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 naze, gives a tone of penetrating anguish to these verses." — Girroun.] 1° [MS. : — Ills that no medicines enn hell, And griefs that no man can forget ; Whatever cares the mind can fret, 'Hie spirits wear, the liosom gall — Pain, hunger, prison, dons, and debt, Foal-flendl and fear, — I 've felt ye all.] " [" There Is great force in thes" two lines ; hut that w hich gives tlie last finish to this vision of despair is contained in these words : — And then, my dreams were such as nought Could yield but my unhappy case ; I 've been of thousand devils caught, And thrust into that horrid place Where reign dismay, despair, disgrace ; Furies with iron fangs were there, To torture that accursed race Doom'd to dismay, disgrace, despair. Harmless 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 'vc been adjudged t' have lost my wit, Because I preached so loud and well ; And thrown 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 j That pride, wrong, rage, despair, can make ; In fnct, 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 ! the birth divine ! And then Mas seal'd among the few ; 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 ; 3?o\v hnrk ! tho holy strains begin. And thus the suinU'd preacher cries : 12 — " Filgrim, burthen'd with thy sin, " Come the way to Zion's gate, " There, till 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 : " Wntch ! — for saving grace is nigh : " Wait, — till heavenly light appears. • Anil then, my dreams were such as naught Could yield, hut my unhappy case." " — Giffobd.] " It has been suggested to me, that this change from rest- lessness to repose, in the mind of Sir Eustace, is wrought by a mctliodistic call ; and it is admitted to be such : a sober and rational conversion could not have happened while the dis- order of the brain continued : yet the verses w hich 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, are not meant to convey any impropriety of sentiment. 166 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Hark ! it is the Bridegroom's voice : " Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest ; " Now within the gate rejoice, " Safe and scal'd 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 hopefff Heaven shall fly, " Shame — from glory's view retire, ' : Doubt — in certain rapture die, " Pain — in endless bliss expire." But though my .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, Will of their evil some retain ; The man will seem to earth incliiocL, 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, Stern, 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'll 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 VISITOR. 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 mind ? 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 ; Madness 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 ; Would 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. 1G7 THE HALL OF JUSTICE. IN TWO PARTS. 1 PART r. Confiteor facere hoc mum; »ed ct altera causa est, Anxietas animi, continuusquc dolor. — Ovid. MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &C. VAC KANT. 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, x ruu Dies unu ovi iu»5 uiuit 31. * 11 1. , 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. Take, take away thy barbarous band, And let me to thy Master speak ; Remit awhile the harsh command, And hear me, or my heart will break. Yet nameless let me plead — my name Would only wake the cry of scorn ; A child of sin, conceived in shame, Brought forth in woe, to misery born MAGISTRATE. Fond wretch ! and what canst thou relate, Bdt deads of sorrow, shame, and sin ? 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. Thy crimo is proved, thou know'st thy fate ; But come, thy tale ! — begin, begin ! — VAGRANT. My crime ! This sirk'ning child to feed, I seized the fond, your witness saw; I knew your laws forbade the deed, But yielded to a stronger law. 3 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 1 am old in shame and care. 3 Know'st thou, to Nature's great command All human laws are froil and weak? Nay ! frown not — stay his eager hand, 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. 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 i Could I a better life embrace, Or live as virtue dictates ? No ! — 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. 1 (Seo Preface, mti, p. 100.] 3 [Original MS. :— ' [Original MS. :— Or, What is my crime ?--a ileecl of love ; 1 fed my child with pilfer'd food : Your laws will not the act approve; The law of Nature deems it good.] My years, indeed, arc sad and few, Though weak these limbs, andshrunkthis frame: 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, Aaron had each manly charm, All in the Slay of youthful pride, He scarcely fear'd his father'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, Not yet in sinful combat tried. His father was our party's chief, And dark and dreadful was his look ; His presence fill'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 we 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 ? He 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 elan 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 are strong, — And hear me, or my heart will break. MAGISTRATE. I hear thy words, I feel thy pain ; Forbear awhile to speak thy woes ; Receive our aid, and then again The story of thy life disclose. For, though seduced and led astray, Thou 'st travell'd far and wander'd long; Thy God hath seen thee all the way, And all the turns that led thee wrong. PART II. Quondam ridentes oculi, nunc fonte perenni Deplorant pcenas nocte dieque suas. Corn. Galli Elcg. 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. VAGRANT. 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, — W e slept beneath the elmin 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, — ■ Anil mem'rjr now recalls the night. With such surprise and horror fraught, That reason felt a moment's flight, And left a mind to madness wrought. 4 When waking, on my heaving breast I felt a hand as cold as death : A sudden fear my voice suppress'd, A chilling terror stopp'd my breath. — I seem'd — no words can utter how ! For there my father-husband stood, — * [Original MS. :— Compell'd to foust, in full delight, When I \v":is sad and wanted power, Can I forget that dismal night ? Ah f how 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 ?" 5 I trembled at the dismal sounds, But vainly strove a word to say ; So, pointing to his bleeding wounds, The threat'ning spectre stalk'd away. 6 I brought a lovely daughter forth, His father's child, in Aaron's bed; He took her from me in his wrath, " Where is my child ?" — •" Thy child is dead." 'T was false — we wander'd far and wide, Through town and country, field and fen, Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died, And I became a wife again. I then was young : — ray 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 : — ■ Come, 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 offence 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. BIy husband died, and now no more My 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 ; 5 [MS. :— Or, And there my father-husband stood— I felt no words can tell you how— As he was wont in angrv mood, And thus he cried, " Will God allow," &c] 0 The state of mind here 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 ? 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. Recall 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 '." • of this nature, without having recourse to any supernatural appearance. 7 ["The Hall of Justice, or the story of the Gipsy Convict, is very nervous, — very shocking, — and very powerfully represented. It is written with very unusual power of lan- guage, and shows Mr. Crabbe to have great mastery over the tragic passions of pity and horror." — Jeffrey.] 170 CRABBE'S works. OMAN MR. LEDYARD, AS QUOTED BY MUNGO PARKE IN HIS TRAVELS INTO AFRICA : — ■ ; To a Woman I never addressed myself in the language of " decency and friendship, without receiving a decent and " 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. Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast, And paint 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 hope 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; 1 [In Mr. Crabbe's note-book, which contains the original draught of " Woman," there occur also the following stanzas : — A weary Traveller walk'd his way, With 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 grazier pass'd — " Attend," The sufferer cried — "some aid allow : " — " Thou art not of my parish, Friend ; Nor am I in mine office now." He dropt, and more impatient pray'd — A mild adviser heard the word : " Of such may be his weeping wife, " Such 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 ; Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows Can her warm flow of pity freeze :— " From some sad land the stranger comes, " Where 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-dcer, " To smooth for him the furry bed. " The powers above our Lapland bless " With good no other people know ; 4i 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 ; AVherevcr grief and want retreat, In Woman they compassion find ; She makes the female breast her seat, And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know, Determined justice, truth severe ; But female hearts with pity glow, And Woman holds affliction dear ; For guiltless woes her sorrows flow, And suffering vice compels her tear ; 'T is hers to soothe the ills below, And bid life's fairer views appear: To Woman's gentle kind we owe What comforts and delights us here ; They its gay hopes on youth bestow, And care they soothe, and age they cheer. 1 " Be patient, Friend!" he kindly said, " And wait the leisure of the Lord." Another comes !— " Turn, stranger, turn I" " Not so !" replied a voice : " I mean " The candle of the Lord to burn " With mine own flock on Save-all Green. " To war with Satan, thrust for thrust ; " To gain my lamb he led astray ; " The Spirit drives me : on I must— " Yea, woe is me, if I delay! " But Woman came! by Heaven design'd To ease the heart that throbs with pain- She gave relief— abundant— kind — And bade him go in peace again.] THE BOROUGH. 171 THE BOROUGH. Paulo majora canamus. — Virgil. TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, MARQUIS OF GRANBY ; recorder op cambridge and scardorouoii ; i/ord-lieltenant and cl'stos rotclorum of the county of leicester : k.o. and ll.d. My Lord, The Poem for which I hove ventured to solicit your Grace's attention was composed in a situation so near to Belvoir Castle, that the author hnd 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, cither 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 t wish that he might inscribe his labours to the lord of a scene which perpetually excited his admiration, ami 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 benefitl conferred by the noble family in which you preside, has been the great inducement for me to wiu that I might be permitted to inscribe this work to your Grace : the honours of that time were to mi' 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; L 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 n 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. 3 In a patron thus favourably predisposed, my Lord, I might look for much lenity, and could not fear the severity of cri- I [" Tllfl Borough," which won begun whilo Mr. Crabbo resided at Hcndlinm, was completed during a visit to his unlive town of Aldborough, In tliu autumn of 1809, and pnl>- lished in February, 1810. In the preface he is found ascribing tins new appearanco to the extraordinary success of the 11 Parish Register ;" and Mr. Jeffrey commenced his review c.f the " Borough in these terms (itfin. Rev. 1810):—" We are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabbe so soon again ; and particularly glail 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 I- none who is more secure of keeping w ith posterity whatever he may win from his contemporaries."] 4 [Mr. Crabbe, in 1790, wrote, at Muston, an Essay on the Natural History of the Vale of Helvoir, wliich he contributed to Mr. Nichols's History of Leicestershire. The motto is from Drayton's Polyolbion : — 11 Do but compare the country where I lie, My hills and oulds will sav, they ore 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 ; 1 challenge any vale to show me but that thing I cannot show to her, that truly is my own."] 3 [Scconlr, pp. 33, 119, 121.] 172 . CRABBE'S WORKS. tical examination : from your Grace, who, happily, have no such 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. "With 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 fet;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 Lord, Your Grace's most obliged and obedient humble servant, Muston, Dec. 1809. George Crabbe. 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 I will venture to assert that I should not, in that case, have com- mitted the work to the press ; I 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. "When the ensuing Letters were so far written that I could form an opinion of them, and when I began to conceive that they might not be unac- ceptable to the public, I 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, I 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, when 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 childi'en 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, I am willing to confess that I have lost some portion of the timidity once so painful, and that I am encouraged to take upon myself the decision of various points which heretofore I entreated my friends to decide. Those friends were then my council whose opinion I was implicitly to follow ; they are now advisers whose ideas I 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 they, however friendly disposed, ever ready to lend a helping hand to him whom they consider as one who ought by this time to have cast away the timidity of inexperience, PREFACE. and to hi>ve acquired the courage that would enable him 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 thein 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, I 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 known that sufficient time and application were bestowed upon this work, and by this 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 when it is ni'-iM-vr.l, that, it" the author had taken more care, the event had been less disgraceful. Wlicn the reader enters into the Poem, he will find the author retired from view, and an imaginory personage drought forward to describe his liorough 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 chnrarter 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, anil what situations described, no method appeared to be so convenient as that of ' [An intimate personal friend of Mr. Crablio says : — " Nevertheless the t/rnrral rfrsmptiim oT "The lkirough " is evidently thnt of Aldhorough magnified— nny, by the poet's own confession it is so : — ' At her old house, her dress, lier air the same, I sen mine ancient letter-loving dame : If critics pardon what my friends approved. Can I mine nncicnt widow pass unmoved ? Shall I not think what pains the matron took, When llrst I trembled o'er the gilded book," &c. Letter 18. Still is the imaginary town a vast enlargement of tho renl one, containing little more than a thousand inhabitants, and having neither hospital, nor alms-house, nor clubs; and, till lately, neither sects nor schools. "J * [On this dictum there is a pretty paragraph or two in " The Doctor :"— " The poet Crabbe has said that there sub- sists an utter repugnancv between the studies of topography and poetry. He must iiavc intended by topography, when he said so, the mere definition of boundaries and specification of landmarks, such as aro given in tho 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 authorities. Such topography, indeed, tiears as little relation to poetiy as a map or chart to a picture. Hut if he had any w ider meaning, it is evident, by the number of topographical poems, good, bad, and indifferent, with which our language abounds, thut Mr. Crabho's predecessors in verse, and his contemporaries also, have differed 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 j 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. 1 From the title of this Poem, some persons will, 1 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 studicsand objects of topograph)' and poetry. 4 What I thought I could best describe, that I attempted : — the sea and tho 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- amiablc nor unaffecting : an Election, indeed, forms a part of one Letter, but the evil there de- scribed is one not greatly nor generally deplored, and there arc 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 with : in this case he is en- treated to believe thnt these, if they occurred to the nuthor, were considered by him as beyond his ability, as subjects which he could not treat in n manner satisfactory to himself. 3 Possibly, the The Polyolbion, notwithstanding its commonplace personi- fications and its inartificial transitions, which are as abrupt as those in the Metamorphoses or Fasti, and not so graceful, is, nevertheless, a work as much to be valued by the students and lovers of Knglish literature as by the writers of local history. Drayton himself, whose great talents were de- servedly esteemed by the ablest of his contemporaries in the richest age of Knglish poetry, thought he could not be more worthily employed than in what he calls the herculean task of this topographical poem ; and in that belief he was en- couraged by bis friend and commentator Seidell, to whose name the epithet of learned was, in old times, alwavs and deservedly allixcd. With how becoming a sense of its dignity and variety the poet entered upon his subject, these lines may show : — 'Thou 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 tovs mv lines mav vainly swell,' " &c. 'The Doctor, 1831.] 3 f" 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 tie? most ordinary and familiar objects of nature or art. His eharacters and incidents, too, even attempted to impart any of the ordinary colours of poetry to those vulgar materials. He has no" moralising swains or sentimental tradesmen ; and scarcely ever seeks to 174 CRABBE'S WORKS. admission of some will be thought to require more apology than the rejection of others : in such variety, it is to be apprehended, that almost every reader will find something not according with his ideas of propriety, or something repulsive to the tone of his feelings : nor could this be avoided but by the sacrifice of every event, opinion, and even expression, which could be thought liable to charm us by the artless manners or lowly virtues of his per- sonages. On the contrary, he has represented his villagers and humble burghers 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 filthy lanes and crowded wharfs, to hospitals, almshouses, and gin-shops. In some of these delineations he may be considered as the satirist I 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 effect of the 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. 4 would find themselves quite helpless if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns." — Jeffrey.] 4 [In one of Mr. Crabbe's note-books we find the following observations relative to the Borough : — " 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 cha- racter, more variety of fortune, will be met with ; because, on the one hand, they do no£ 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 wealth and ambition, which are necessary to the develop- ment of character displayed in the variety of situations to which this class is liable."] THE BOROUGH. 175 THE BOROUGH. LETT Kit I. These iliJ the ruler of the deep ordain, To build proud navies, and to rule the main. Pope's Humeri Iliad, b. vi. Such scenes has Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, Kindling strong of pitch ; Such Ijimbeth, envy of each band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fnirer scenes enrich. Pon'l Imitation of Spenser. Et cum i! ii i ■ undis /Kquorem miscentur aqua; : caret ignibtu ajther, (Macaque nox premitur tencbris hicmisque suisque ; Discutient taraen has, prrobentque micantia lumen I'ulmina: fulmincis ardescunt ignibus undro. Ovid. Mctamorph. lib, xi.> GENERAL DESCRIPTION. The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery— A Comparison w ith certain Views in the Country — The River and Quav — The Shipping and Ilusincss — Ship-building— Sea- lloys and Port-Views — Village and Town Scenery again compared— Walks from Town— Collage and adjoining Heath, &c. House of Sunday Entertainment — 'llio Sea : a Summer and Winter View— A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects onShore — Evening Amusements in the Ilorough An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects. " Dr.sntinr. the Borough " — though our idle tribe Mny love description, can we so describe, Thnt you shall fairly streets nnd buildings trace, And nil that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be ; yet moved by your request A. part I paint — let Fancy form the rest. Cities and towns, the various hnunts 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 Town-Hal] Turning, or the Trospcct ltow? ■ [" Sweet wnters mingle with the briny main : No star appears to lend his friendly light ; Dnrkncss and tempest make a double night : Hut Hashing lires disclose the deep by turns, And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns." DltYDF.N.j ' [See flute, p. SB. The parsonage at Muston, here alluded to, looked full on the churchyard, by no means like tile common forbidding receptacle's of the dead, but trulv orna- j mental ground ; for some line 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 comes the hour when fishing through the 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 thy 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 strenmlet, limpid, lingering slow, ■Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow ; "Where in the midst, upon a throne of green, Sits the large Lily 8 as the water's queen ; And makes the current, forced awhile to stay, ."Murmur 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, ^•'lowing, it fills the channel vast and wide ; Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep It rolls, in ebh yet terrible nnd deep ; Here Samphire-banks * and Salt-wort 5 bound the flood, There stakes nnd sea-weeds withering on the mud ; And higher up, n ridge of all things base, "Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, lived on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat: While nt her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he puqioscs 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 hedge and many boughs, lor through this opening, as in the deep frame of a picture, appeared, in the centre of Die aerial canvas, the unrivalled Helvoir.] 3 The white water-lily, Nympha-a alba. 4 The jointed glasswort, Salieornia, is here meant, not the I rue samphire, the Crithmum maritimum. 5 The Salsola of botanists. 176 - CRABBE'S WORKS. Far other craft our prouder river shows, Hoys, 6 pinks, 7 and sloops: brigs, brigantines, 8 and snows : 9 Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, But one poor dredger where his oysters lie : He, cold 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 fmgers 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 ! 10 those smaller hoys from town, Its various ware, for country-use, bring down ; Those laden waggons, in return, impart The country-produce to the city mart ; Hark ! to the 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, Mingling in business, bellow to the wind. Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks, Bear, 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 slowly 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 play, And. grow familiar with the watery way: Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, They 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 scenes adieu, Behold the wealth that lies in public view, Those far extended heaps of coal and coke, Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breath their stifling smoke. 6 [A small vessel, usually rigged as a sloop, and employed in carrying passengers and goods i'rom one place to another, particularly on the sea-coast. 7 The name given to ships with a very narrow stern. s Small merchant ships with two masts. 9 A vessel equipped with two masts, resembling the main and foremasts of a ship, and a third small mast just abaft the mainmast.— Bubney.] 1° [The Quay of Slaughden, where the poet, in early life, ■was employed by his father in piling up butter-casks, &c, in the dress of a common warehouseman ; and whence, in the year 1779, he embarked on board a sloop, with three pounds in his pocket, to seek his fortune in the metropolis. See ante, pp. (i, 9, 13.] 11 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 the shallow lies. Thy walks are ever pleasant ; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene Rich — is that varied view with woods around, Seen from the seat within the shrubb'ry bound ; Where shines the distant lake, and where appear From ruins bolting, unmolested deer ; Lively— the village-green, the inn, the place, Where the good widow schools her infant-race. Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw, And village-pleasures 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 hides 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. 1 ' 2 We 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 stile 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, (With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound ; Wide 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." 13 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 neighb'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, plashy 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. 12 [" Without the romantic mellowness which envelopes the landscape of Goldsmith, or the freshness and hilarity of colouring which breathe in that of Graham, this sketch is, perhaps, superior to both in distinctness, animation, and firmness of touch; and to these is added a peculiar air of facility and freedom." — Gifford.] 13 [" Where London's column, pointing to the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies." — Pope's allusion being to tile anti-catholic inscription on the monument erected after the great fire of London.] THE BOROUGH. 177 For there nre blossoms rare, and curious rush, The gale's" rich halm, 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 th' 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 1— but who to thec (A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint — the Sea? Various anil vast, sublime in all its forms, When lull'il by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, 11 In colours changing, whi n from clouds and mlu 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, 16 Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced cyo. 17 lie it the summer-noon: a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Then just the hot and stony bench above, Light twinkling strenms 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 onchor'd ; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide: Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Whi rr all beside is pebbly length of shore. And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more ? 11 [Another name for the candlc-i-crry.] 15 r" Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty form (ilasse* itself in tempests; in all time, (^ilm or convulsed - in breeze, or gile, or storm. Icing ilie pole, or in the torrid clime I i.irk-beavinif ; — boundless, end less, anil sublime — Th'' image of Ktornity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thv slime The monsters of the ileep lire mnile ; each /.one Obeys thec ; thou goest forth, ilrcatl, fathomless, alone." Byion.] • 8 Of the offer! of these mists, known by the nnme of fog- banks, wonderful ami indeed incredible relations are given ; but their property of appeoring to elevate ships at sea, ana to bring them in view, in, 1 believe, generally acknowledged. 17 [One of the most remarkable facts respecting aerial image* presented itself to Mr. Scoresby. in a \o\age to lireen- laml. in 18X2. Having seen an inverted image of a ship in th" air, he directed lo it his telescope ; he was able to discover it. to be Ins lather's ship, which VVU at the time below the horizon. 11 It Mitts,' says he, "so well defined, that 1 could distinguish by a telescope every sail, the general rig of the ship, .>nd its particular character ; insomuch that I conlldcntlv pronoonced it to be my father's ship, tiie Fame, which it afterwards proved to be j though, on comparing notes with my father, I found that our relative position at the time gave a distance from one another of very nearly thirty miles, being Yet sometimes comes a ruining cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; As ry. 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 roll'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 roam, The breaking billows cast the (lying foam 1'pon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change ; the waves soswell'd and steep, Breaking and sinking, nnd 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, Kaking the rounded flints, which ages past Koll'd by their rage, nnd shall to ages last. 18 Far oil' the I'etrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main." High o cr 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. 30 In-shore their passage tribes of Seo-gulls urge, And drop fur prey within the sweeping surge; Oft in the rough opposing blast they lly Far back, then turn, and all their force npply. While to the Sturm they give their weak complain- ing cry ; about seventeen miles beyond the horizon, and some leagues beyond the limit of direct vision." — Hiikwster.] " [" A prospect of fh» ocean inspires Mr. Crabbe with con- genial sublimity. The winter-storm is detailed with a mas- terly and interesting exactness." — tiiFFORD.j " [The storm-petrel is (he true " Mother Carey's chicken " of the sailors, and also the "witch," the " spency," the 14 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 Pelosgic period, it is seen on most parts of the seas, especially those on the north, west, and souili-wt-st of Britain, where it is the last bird to leave lie t w ord -bon nd ship, and the first to meet ships re- turning home. It plays about the vessels, and outstrips their swiftest corse, skimming the surface of the wat. r with equal ease and grace, and tipping so regularly with wings and feet, that she appears to be running on all fours. The w ings do not, however, get wet or splash, and the bird can make wing in any direction of a moderate wind, apparently with very little fatigue. — MuniE.] 50 (Wild-ducks By at a considerable height in the air, and in the form of inclined lines or triangles. When they rest or sleep on the water, some of the band ore always awake, to watch for the common safety, and to sound the alarm on the approach of danger. Hence they lire with difliculty surprised ; and hence the fowler, who goes in pursuit ol them, requires to exert all his cunning, and frequently no inconsiderable degree of toil and patience. — Shaw.] 178 CRABBE'S WORKS. Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest.- 1 Darkness begins to reign ; the louder wind Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind ; But frights not him, whom evening and the spray In part conceal — yon Prowler on his way : Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, As if he fear'd companion in the chase ; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Slowly and sorrowing — " Was 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. Prom 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. 22 But hear we not those sounds ? Do lights appear ? I see 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 ; 2' [Water-fowl, in a peculiar manner, discover, in their 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 surfers as a loitere.r, 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. She is beautiful, also, not only on the w ing, but when she floats, in numerous assemblies, on the water ; or when she rests on the shore, dotting either one or the other with white spots, which, minute as they are, are very picturesque. — Gtlpin.] 22 [« The signals of distress are heard — the inhabitants of the Borough crowd to the strand; but the boisterousness of the sea precludes all possibility of affording assistance to the crew of the distressed vessel. ' Yet,' observes the poet, in lines of dreadful meaning, — And show and song and luxury combined, Lift off from man this burthen of mankind. Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet Beturning 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 Biver, 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. 23 LETTER II. . . . . Festinat enim decurrere velox Flosculus angustae misera'que brevissima vitae Fortio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus. — Juv. Sat. ix. 1 And when at last thy Love shall die, AVilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? — Percy. THE CHURCH. Several Meanings of the Word Church — The Building so called, here intended — Its Antiquity and Grandeur — Columns and Aisles — TheTower : 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 — A Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor. " What is a Church ? " — Let Truth and lleason speak, They would reply, u The faithful, pure, and meek; e Yet may they view those lights upon the beach, Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach. The 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. 1 " — Gifford.] 23 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 affected by such descriptions. 1 [" Lo ! while we give the unregarded hour To revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower, Here lxcrcfe plain, ryihmtns xi« in solium sf You'd lovx? tlu- gUmm. EhsT-naahe in eiflier ail Erujrai eJ ly JE, ^ititUn JlOCW. THE BOROUGH. '■ From Christian fold*, the one selected race, li Of all professions, anil in every place." " What is a Church ? " — " A flock," our Yicar cries, " Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise ; " Wherein are various states and due degrees, " The Bench for honour, and the Stall for case ; " That ease be mine, which, after all his cares, " The pious, peaceful prebendary shares." " What is a Church 'i " — Our honest Sexton tells, " "V 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 M run their race : Wc 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, will 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 Ml need no more. Mere 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, Which pleased distinctly in their place before. But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey, Tall anil entire, ami venerably grey, For time has soften'd what was harsh when new, And now the stains arc nil of sober hue ; While now, for r.xy wreaths our brows to twine, A ttd now for nymphs wc call, nnil now for wino ; The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly bv. Anil ere we dream of manhood, age is nigli. — " I 'xjlievo Hint there m no translation of this satire in Sli ikspcare's time ; yet lie hiu given, with kindred genius, a copy of ubrc/iit nun intellccta icnectus :— ' on our quickst attempts. The noiseless anil inauilililo foot of Time Steals ere we can eflVct them.' " — Git'FoRD.] 3 [The following* description has always been considered a correct one of Aldhornugh church, where Mr. Crabbo first officiated 01 a clergyman.] 3 Nothing, I trust, in thus and the preceding paragraph, which relates to the imitation of what are eaUea weother- Its! a buildings, will seem to any invidious or offensive. I wished tn make n comparison between those minute and curious bodies which cover the surface of some edifices, and those kinds of stains which are formed of holes and ochres, and hud on w itfa a brush. Now, as the work of time cannot l»e anticipated in such cases, it may be very judicious to have rrciiiirsi' 1. 1 Mich .-spi'ili'-nts :ls will give tn ;i recent structure the venerable appearance of antiquity; and in this case, though I might still observe the vast difference between tln> living varieties of nature and the distant imitation of the artist, yet I could not forbear to make use of his dexterity, because ho could not clothe my freestone with mucor, lichen, and bt/ssus. — [There is much characteristic simplicity in this apology. About tho period at which this Letter was The living stains which Nature'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 ; each its name retains, And these arc Nature's cver-during stains. And wouldst thou, Artist ! witl* 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 ? 4 Thou mny'st thy various greens and greys con- trive ; They arc not Lichens, 5 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 sec 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 nigged soil, they safely dwell. Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell, And spread th' enduring foliage ; — then wc trace The freckled flower upon the flinty base ; These all increase, till in unnoticed years The stony tower as grey with age appears; With couts 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 Rev. J. Kendall, rector of llarrowby, who had shown him an imitation on his own wails, w hich, in the judgment of some, appear prefer- able to the actual mucur, &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 slower in no other sense than because they are not finished so soon. s [In botany, a genus of the class Crvptogamia. Since the publication of the Species I'lnntarum of Linrtcus, in which he described only eighty-one species of lichens, more than a thousand new ones have Iwen discovered. Their places of growth are various ; some on the most elevated and exposed rocks, others on the trunks of trees, and some on the surface of the ground.] 0 This kind of vpgetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. The byssus jolithus of I.innrcus (lepraria jolitlms of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the sulistance on which it spread. A great variety of Uiese minuto vegetables are to be found in some parts of the 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 who arc ignorant of, and indifl'erent to, the cause. 180 CUABBE'S WORKS. The long-enduring Ferns 7 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 ; 8 Such wuud'rous good, as few conceive could spring From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing. Enter'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, With 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 Baron with but half a head : Midway is cleft the arch ; the very base Is batter'd round and shifted from its place. Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay — ■ See ! men of marble piecemeal melt away ; When whose the image we no longer read, But monuments themselves memorials need. 9 AVith 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." Shakspeake, Hen. IV.~\ s [The baptism of church bells was anciently common in England, and is still practised in many Roman Catholic countries. " The priest," says Lord Kaimes, " assisted by some of his brethren, mumbles over some prayers and sprinkles the outside with holy-water, while they 1 wash the inside w ith the same precious liquor. The priest then draws seven crosses on the outside, and four on the inside, with consecrated oil. Then a censer of frankincense is put under the bell to smoke it ; and the whole concludes with a prayer." (Sketches of Man, vol. iv. p. 381.) The bell, thus christened and consecrated, was esteemed to be endued with great powers. 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 . . Lightning and thunder I break asunder. Sabbata pango . . . On sabbath all to church I call. Excito lentos . . . The sleepy head I raise from bed. Dissipo ventos . * . The winds so tiercel 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 Durandus informs us evil spirits are much afraid of bells) they were kept aloof."] 9 In the course of a long poem, it is very difficult to avoid a recurrence of the same thoughts, arid of similar expressions ; and, however careful I have been myself in detecting and removing this kind of repetitions, 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 the ofiences of a bad memorv, and not of voluntary inattention ; to which I must add the difficultv (I have already mentioned) of avoiding the error ; this kind of plagiarism will therefore, I conceive, be treated with lenity ; and of the more criminal Death levels man, — the wicked and the just, 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 ! here 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 ; AVhat 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. 10 Bead of this Burgess — on the stone appear How worthy he ! how virtuous ! and how dear ! 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 ; 11 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, tnat he uses not the words or ideas of another without acknowledgment; and this, and no more than this, 1 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 undersigned. A line in this letter, " And monuments themselves memorials need," was written long before the author, in an accidental recourse to Juvenal, read — " Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris."* Sat. x. 146. and for this, I believe, the reader will readily give me credit. 10 [" Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, Escape in monsters, and amaze the town : Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines, Hence journals, medleys, merc'ries, magazines, Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace," &c— Pope. "This," says Warburton, "is a just satire on the flatteries and 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 Dr. Friend, "in pure Latinity indeed, but full of antitheses : — ' Friend! in your epitaphs I'm griev'd So verv much is said : One half will never be believ'd, The other never read.' "] 11 ["Death," says Bishop Home, "may be said, with almost equal proprietv, 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, And, with the dust they hiue, are swept away." Gifforb.j THE BOROUGH. 131 His sterling worth, which words cannot express, Lives with his friends, their pride and their dis- tress. MI 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, \nd 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, Ami 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 ! AVithout 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. Ami generations follow, " dust to dust." " Yes! there are rcnl Mourners — I have gi en A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Att« ntion (through the day) her duties claim'd, And to be useful as rcsign'il she aiin'd : Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem*d t' expect l'ity 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 lisplay'd, That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid ; . For then she thought on one regretted Youth, Her tender trust, and his unqucstion'd truth; In cv'ry place she wandcr'd, where they 'd been, And sadly sacred held the parting scene; Where last for sea he took his leave — that place With double interest would she nightly trace; For long the courtship was and he would say, F.aeh time he sail d, — "This once, and then the day :" Yet prudence tarried, but whi n last In- went. He drew from pitying love a full consent. Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort nu n at sea can know Was bcrs to buy, to make, and to bestow: For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told How he six. .ild 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 cheek. And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; Operation takes place ; for those characters which wore mixed with die gross particles of vice, by being thrown into the ■lemblc of flattery, are sublimated into the essence of virtue, lie who. dating the performance of his part upon the stagoof the worhl, was little, if t.t all, apphinleil, after the close of the drama is portrayed as the favourite of even.' virtue under heaven. To savo the opulent, from oblivion the sculptor unites his lalmurs with tile scholar or the poet, whilst the rattle is Indebted for his mite of posthumous renown to the carpenter, the painter, or the mason. The structure! of tame .ire, in both cases, built with materials whose duration is short. It may check the sallies of pride to reflect on the mortality of men; hut for its complete humiliation 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 " My 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 tied. 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 scem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and scem'd to think, Yet said not so — " Perhaps he will not sink:" V Midden brightness in his look nppear'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 prcss'd, And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;" " 1 go,'' he said : but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! Then gazed afli ightcn'd ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, — and all was past ! She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved — an offering of her love; For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead ; 11 [" T is strange, the shortest letter that man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages : to what stmlta old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this — Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, ilecomo a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration ; Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up as a rare deposit. — IIykox.1 CRABBE'S WORKS. She would have grievedjhad 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.' 3 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, Begard the dead, but to the living live. 14 LETTER III. And telling me the sov'reign'st tiling on earth Was parmacity for an inward bruise. Shakspeare.— Henry IV. l'art I. Act I. So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet. So lit to prattle at a lady's feet.— Churchill. Much are the precious hours of youth mispent In climbing learning's rugged, steep ascent ; When to the top the bold adventurer 's got, He reigns vain monarch of a barren spot ; While in the vale of ignorance below, Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow ; ■ Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud preferment rolls her golden tide. — Churchill. THE VICAR— THE CURATE, ETC. The lately departed Minister of the Borough — His soothing and supplicatory Manners — His cool and timid Affections — No praise due to such 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 ineffectual Iienevolence — A Summary of his Character. Mode of paying the Borough-Minister — The Curate has no such Resources — His Learning and Poverty — Erroneous Idea of his Parent— His Feelings as a Husband and Father — the Dutiful Regard of his 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 the Relief of indigent Authors, &c. THE VICAR. Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space, Sleep the departed Vicars of the place ; 13 [" Longinus somewhere mentions, that it was a question among the critics of his age whether the sublime could be produced by tenderness. If this question had not been already determined, this history would have gone far to bring it to a decision/' — Gifford. " Mr. Crabbe has been called a gloomy, which must mean, if any accusation is implied in the term, a false moralist. No doubt, to persons who read his poetry superficially and by snatches and 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 tlie whole awakens. Here and there he presents us with images of almost perfect beauty, innocence, and happiness ; but as such things are seldom seen, and soon disappear in real life, it seems to be Mr. Crabbe's opinion, 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 his poetry. It is certain that there are, in his writings, passages 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, Buddy and fair, his Sunday-task began ; Few live to speak of that soft soothing 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 daughter of the Priest of On 1 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 his wanderings through the mazes of human destiny, his heart burns within him, when his eyes are at times charmed away from the troubles and wickedness of life to its repose and its virtue." — Wilson.] H 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 her 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 duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination, — I shall have no reason to alter the line which terminates the story. 1 [" And Pharaoh gave Joseph to wife Asenath, the daughter of Potipherah, priest in On." — Gen. xli. 45.] THE BOROUGH. 183 Yet our goad priest to Joseph's praise aspired, As once rejecting what his heart desire'd ; •• I am escaped," he said, when none pursued ; When none nttack'd him, " I nm unsubdued;" " Oh pleasing pangs of love ! " he sang again, Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain. K'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 happy few, as mild and cool as he ; The easy followers in the female train, Led without love, and captives without chain. Vc Lilies male ! think (as your tea you sip, While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip; Intrigues half-gathcr'd, conversation-scraps, Kitchen cabals, and nursery-mishaps,) j 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 fuil'd to please; Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease : To a email 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 flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay." Simple he was, nnd loved the simple truth. Yet had some useful runniu;; from his youth; A cunning never to dishonour lent, And rather for defence thnn conquest meant; 'T was fear of power, with some desire to rise, But not enough to make him enemies ; lie ever nim'd to please; and to ofTend AVas ever cautious ; for he sought a friend ; Vet for the friendship never much would pay. Content to bow, be silent, nnd obey, And by a soothing sulfrnncc find his way. Fiddling and fishing were his arts : at times lie alter'd sermons, nnd he aim'd ."it rhymes; And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards, Oft he amused with riddles and charades. 1 [" Against the feast of Christmas," says Stow, " every man's house, ns also their parish churches, were decked with holme, ivy, bayes, hemes, and whatever the season of the year nlTnrdcd to be green." Gay, in his Trivia, thus describes the custom : — " When rosemary nnd bays, the poet's crown, Are haw I'd in frequent cries through all the town, Then judge the festival of Christmas near, Christmnsl the joyous period of the year; Now with bright holly all your temples strow. With laurel green and meted 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 arc we all." If ever fretful thought disturb'd his breast, If aught of gloom that cheerful mind opprcss'd, It sprang from innovation ; it was then lie 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 ; J •■ Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain " Of ancient Stcrnhold, which from ours amain " Comes flying forth from aisle to aisle about, 3 " Sweet links of harmony nnd long drawn out." 4 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 'vc done it from my youth." Questions he nnswer'd in as brief a way : " It must be wrong — it was of yesterday." Though mild benevolence our Priest possess' d, 'T was but by wishes or by words exprcss'd. Circles in wnter, 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. Ilis love, like that last circle, all embraced, But with cflect that never could be traced. 5 Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best, Proclaim his life f have been entirely rest; Free from all evils which disturb his mind. Whom studies vex nnd controversies blind. The rich npproved, — of them 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 npproved a safe contented guest, And daughters one who back'd each small request ; 3 [" On chenib and on chcrohim Full royally he rode, And on the wings of mighty winds Came living all abroad."] 4 [" In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out." — Mii.ton.] 5 [" Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads ; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ; His country next ; and next all human race." — Pope.] 184 CRABBE'S WORKS. In him bis 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. 6 THE CURATE. Ask you what lands our Pastor tithes ? — Alas ! But few our acres, and 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 keep 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 wdiose fate they grieve ; All see hira 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 Hark and more dark ; severer on severe : Not in his need, — and yet we all must grant How painful 't is 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 the wearied mind, that all in vain Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain. His father saw his powers — " I '11 give," quoth he, " My first-born learning ; 'twill a portion be :" Unhappy gift ! a portion for a son ! But all he had : — he learn'd, and was undone ! Better, apprenticed to an humble trade, Had he the cassock for the priesthood made, Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped, And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped. 7 He once had hope — Hope, ardent, lively, light; His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright : 6 [" The Vicar is an admirable sketch of what must be very difficult to draw ; a good, easy man, with no character at all. His little, humble vanity ; his constant care to offend no one ; his mawkish and feeble gallantry, indolent good-nature, and love of gossiping and trilling — are all very exactly and very pleasingly delineated." — Jeffrey.] 7 [Original edition Oh ! had he learn'd to make the wig he wears, To throw the shuttle, or command the sheers, Or the strong boar-skin for the saddle shaped, What pangs, what terrors, had the Man escaped !] Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote, Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note. At morn, at evening, at his work was he, And dream'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, vex'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 physician, 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 sufferings, 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. 8 — Alas ! even then, in that delicious hour, He feels his fortune, and laments its power. Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage, Some scrawd for payment thrust 'twixt page and page ; Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door, Some surly message he has 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 I cannot stay : " My mill is stopp'd ; what, Miss ! I cannot grind ; " Go tell your father he must raise the wind :" Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid Says, " Sir ! my father !" — and then stops afraid: s [" There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, Th' expedients and inventions, multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win. T" arrest the fleeting images that till The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast — Are occupations of the poet's mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That, lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels th' anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire." — OoWfer.] THE BOROUGH. 185 F.'cn his hnrd heart is softcnM, nnd he hears Her voice with pity ; he respects her tears ; His stubborn features half admit a smile, And his tone softens — " Well ! I Ml wait aw hile." Pity ! a man so good, so mild, so meek, At such an age, should have his broad to seek ; And nil those rude and fierce attacks to dread, That are more harrowing than the want of bread ; Ah ! who shall whisper to that misery peace ! And gay that want and insolence shall cease? " But why not publish ? " — those who know too well. Healers in Greek, are fearful 't will 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, Hut he has dread anil horror of disgrace ; Nor has he that confiding, easy way. That might his learning anil himself display ; But to his work he from the world retreats, And frets nnd glories o'er the favourite sheets. Hut see ! tin 1 .Man himself; nnd sure 1 trnce Signs of new joy exulting in that face O'er core that sleeps — wc err, or wc discern Life in thy looks — the reason may wc 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. " Wc 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 w ho think, who feel, " Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal; " Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties mnkc " The needy curse the benefits they take; " Not with the idle vanity that knows '• Only a selfish joy when it bestows; " Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain, " llurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain : " But these arc 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 Buffering mind ; " There is a gracious bounty, fomi'd to rnisc Him whom it aids; their charity is praise; " A common bounty may relieve distress, " l!ut whom the vulgar SUOCOUI 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 want* and mortification* of n poor clergyman arc the •abject* of one portion of thU Letter ; ami lie being repre- sented a* a stranger in the Borough, it may lie necessary to make some apology for his appearance in the poem. Previous to a late n ling of a literary society, whose benevolent pur- pose is well known to the public, I was imluced by a friend r,.mp ■> I- " vrrsrs, in v\ hieh, u ilh the general commen- Hntion of the design, should he introduced a hint thai the bounty might lie farther extended: these verses, a gentleman did me the honour to recite nt the meetini:, 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; '• Whom 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 mc ? " Yes ! I may sec my decent table yet " Checr'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, wc shall say, are those who thus can give, " And next who thus upon the bounty live; " Then shnll I close with thanks mv humble meal, " And feel so well— Oh, God ! how shall I feel ! " 4 LETTER IV. rNTttODLCTION. I am now arrived at that part of my work which I may expect w ill bring upon mc some animadver- sion. Religion is a subject deeply interesting to the minds of many, nnd when these minds are weak, they are often led by n warmth of feeling into the violence of causeless resentment : I am therefore anxious that my purpose shnll 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 ol'enthu- sinsticnl tenchers, I have denominated them, as I conceive they arc generally called, Valvinistic 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 (he varying members of the present day : but the Calvinistic. societies arc to be looked upon rnther as separate and independent congregations; nnd it is to one of these (unconnected, as is supposed, with any other) [In the beginning of IS119, ]) r . Caxtwright having expressed a wish that Mr. Crahl»e would prepare some verses to be re- pealed at the ensuing meeting of the Literary Fund, and a portion of* The ltorough," then in progress, being judged suit- able for the occasion, it WU accordingly forwarded to the Society, and recited at the anniversary, in April, by Matthew llrowne, i:sc|. In the May following, the council and com- mittee resolved, that a learned and officiating clergyman in distress, or an officiating clergyman, reduced and rendered in- capable of duty, bv age or infirmity, should be considered as a claimant on the fund.] 186 CRABBE'S WORKS. 1 more particularly allude. But while I am mak- ing use of this division, I must entreat that I may not tie 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 ohserve 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 1 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 effect 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, 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 are given, and come not of education, many may, and therefore do, fancy they arc endowed with them: so that they 1 Methodists and Papists compared ; Treatise on Grace by Bishop Warburton, &c. S ["The Works of the Rev. AYilliam Huntington, S. S., Minister of the Gospel, at Providence Chapel, Grav's Inn Lane," were published in 1820, in twenty volumes octavo; the most extraordinary part of their contents being the tract entitled "God the Guardian of the Poor and the Bank of Faith ; or, a Display of the Providences of God, which hare, at sundry times, attended the Author." " This," says Southey, "is a production equally singular and curious. There is nothing like it in the whole bibliotlieca of knavery and fa- naticism. One day, when he had nothing but bread in the house, he was moved by the Spirit to take a bye path, where he had never gone before ; but the reason was, that a stoat was to kill a line large rabbit, just in time for him to secure his prey. At one time, when there was no tea in the house, and they had neither money nor credit, his wife bade the nurse set the kettle on in faith, and before it boiled, a stranger brought a present of tea to the door. At another time, a friend, without solicitation, gives him half a guinea when he was penniless ; and, lest he should have any difficulty in obtaining change for it, when he crossed Kingston Bridge, he cast his eyes on the 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 Calvinistic 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 wrought 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 by quotations from his own 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 consideration, 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 pam- phlets, 2 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 anil master that my vear was out, and mv apparel bad ; that I had nowhere to go for these things but 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 raggedness of his ap- parel led to a conversation which ended in the oiler 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 verv wide apart,' he began to want a horse, then to wish, and lastly to prav for one. ' I used my prayers,' he 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 mv faith now than heretofore; for the horse would cost half as' much to keep him as my whole family. In answer to which, this scripture came to my mind with power and comfort, ' Dwell in the land and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed.' This was a bank note put into the hand of my faith, which, when I got poor, I pleaded before God, and he answered it. Having now had my horse for some time, and riding a great deal every week, I soon wore my breeches out, so that they were not fit to ride in. I hope the reader will THE BOROUGH. wonderful performance, which (according to the turn of mind it. the reader) will either highly ex- cite or totally extinguish curiosity. In these works w ill be abundantly seen, abuse and contempt of the Church of England and its ministers ; vengeance and virulent denunciation against all offenders; scorn for morality anil 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. 3 As many of the preacher's subjects are contro- verted and aloe questions in divinity, he lias some- times allowed himself relaxation from the severity of 6tudy, 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 arc very humble, and have nothing of that daring and mysterious nature which the prose of the author leads us to expect. 4 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) The 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 ■MOM my mentioning tho word breeches, which I should have avoided, had not UiU passage of acripturo obtruded into my mind, just an I hud resolved in my own thoughts not to men* tion this kind providence of God : * And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover their nakedness ; from the loins even unto tho thigh* shall they reach ; and they shall he upon Aaron anil his sons,' Sic. Kxod. xxviii. 42. By which and thnMj others, namely, F.zek. xliv. 18, Lev. vi. 10, and Lev. xvi. 4, 1 saw that it was no crime to mention the word breeches, nor tho way in winch God sent them to me ; Aaron and his sons bring elptbed entirely by Providence; and as God himself ciirtih-S'-rnib-l to uivm urlt-rs u h it they should )»■ m.ele of, and how they should Im* cut ; and 1 believe the same God Ordered mine. 1 often made very free in my prayers with my invaluable master for this favour ; but he still kept me no amazingly poor, that I could not get them at any rate. At list 1 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 mo until my master sent me money to pay him. 1 was that day going to London, fully determined to bespeak them, as 1 rode through the town. However, when 1 passed the shop 1 forgot it ; but when 1 came to London, I called on Mr. Cruncher, a shoemaker, in Shepherd's .Market, who 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, with a noto in them I the substance of which was as follows : ' Sir, 1 have sent you a pair of breeches, and hop*; they will lit.' 1 wrote an answer to the note to this effect : ' 1 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 lit very well, which fully convinces me that the samo God who moved thy heart to give, guided thy hand to cut; because he perfectly knows my size, having clothed mo 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 horseman's coat. His wife Olio tried her fortune, and with good success ; eowns came as they were wanted, hampers of bacon and cheese, now and then a large ham, and now and then a guinea ; all which things 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 be their Apostle. Nothing would be more easy for me, as I have observed, than to bring forward quotations such as would justify all I 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. 5 he calLs precious answers to prayer." — Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv.] 3 Berber, In two parts ; Bond-Child ; Cry of Little Faith ; Satan's Lawsuit ; Forty Stripes for Satan ; Myrrh and Odour of Saints ; the Naked Bow of God ; Rule and Kiddie ; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men ; Utility of the Books and Ex- cellency of the l'archments ; Correspondence betw een R'uctua, durila, (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 call d to be the Lord's delight ; By the despised William Huntington, Both known and trusted now in I'addington."] s [" When, in October, 1KO0, Mr. Crabbe resumed the charge of his own parish of MiLston, 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 anil permanent minister had not been withdrawn for twelve vears with impunity. A Wesleyan missionary had formed a thriving establishment in Huston, and the congre- gations at the parish church wcrt*)no longer such as they had been of old. '1 his much annoyed him; and the warmth with which he began to preach against dissent only irritated him- self and others, without bringing back disciples to the 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 church, was, alter 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 dc- 188 CRABBE'S WORKS. LETTER IV. But cast your eyes again And view those errors which new sects maintain, Or which of old disturb'd the Church's peaceful reign ; And we can point each period of the time When they began and who begat the crime ; Can calculate how long th' eclipse endured ; Who interposed ; what digits were obscured ; Of all which are already pass'd away, We knew the rise, the progress, and decay. Drydkn. — Hind and Panther. Oh, said the Hind, how many sons have you Who call you mother, whom you never knew ! Hut most of them who that relation plead Are such ungracious youtlis as wish you dead ; They gape at rich revenues which you hold, And" 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 Eil'ect of false Zeal— Deists— Fanatical Idea of Church Reformers— The Church of Rome— Baptists — Swedenborgians— Universalists — Jews. Methodists of two Kinds ; Calvinistic and Arminian. The Preaching of a Calvinistic Enthusiast — His Contempt of learning— 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 himself— 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 him for twenty years. The man, a conceited ploughman, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher himself; and the woman, whose moral character had been sadly deteriorated since her adoption of the new lights, 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, the ' 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 rash, instead of malicious and unprincipled. There is too much truth in his strictures on the author of the ' liank of Faith.' The Arminian Methodists afford him as much amusement as the Calvinists. He makes no scruple of turning their internal conflicts, as well as the tenour and in- lluence of their leader's preaching, into general and unquali- fied ridicule. The ' truth 'divine ' is not secured from his satire bv the supreme authority of that ' Teacher ' who thought proper to illustrate the spiritual change by this strikin" fi"ure ; and the evil spirit, solemnly described by an apostle" as"' a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour,' is ludicrously exhibited in Mr. Crabbe's verse as a dragon of romance, ' Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause, And force the wounded victim from his paws.' " With reference to the above strictures, the Poet added the following note in his third edition of" The Borough :"— " An objertion is made to the levity with which the subject of Frequent as fashions they with us appear, And you might ask, " how think Ave lor the year ? " They come to us as riders in a trade, 6 And with much art exhibit and persuade. Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed, As diff'rent soils are formed for diff'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 forms, 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 ; Willi 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 he who pierces deep the tortured breast, And stirs the terrors never more to rest. Opposed to these we have a prouder kind, Hash without heat, and without raptures blind ; These our Glad Tidings 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 ; Kespect from these nor saints nor martyrs 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 ?/ia;j he 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 religion, but what 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. An author has not the less reverence for religion because, in warring witli fanaticism, he uses the only weapons by which it is said to lie vulnerable ; and he doubts not but he shall be excused (nav, approved, so far as respects his 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 the Throne,' are the very people from whom, did their power correspond with their wishes, neither the Pulpit nor the Throne (if the Bar should escape) would remain in safety."] c [" 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 unsavocry 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 east, some west, yea, north and south ; and, being generally tradesmen, we not only got our quarters free, our horses free and well maintained in our travels ; a silver watcli here, a beaver there, a piece of hair- 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-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise." Yes! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last, And gain fresh glory by the conflict past : — As Solway-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 Bnrioh'd by golden grain nnd pasture green; And these fair acres rented and enjuy'd .May those excel by Solway-Moss destroy'd.* Mill must have mourn'd the tenant of the day, For hopes destroy* d, and harvests swept away ; To him the gain of future years unknown, The instant grief and suffering were his own : So must I grieve for many a wounded heart, Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds im- port : Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear, But sad the darkness till those times appear; Contests I'M- truth, as wars for freedom, yield Glory and joy to those who gain the field: But still the Christian must in pity sigh For nil who suffer, nnd 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 cnrnnl tic, Which pure Beligion lost her spirit by; "What time from prisons, flames, nnd tortures led, She slumber'd careless in n royal bed ; To make, they add, the Church's glory shine, Should Pioclctinn reign, not Constantinc. " In pomp," they cry, " Is England's Church array'd, " Her cool Reformers wrought like men nfraid ; '• We WOuld have pnll'd her gorgeous temple- down. " And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown : An equal priesthood they were loth to try, Lest zeul 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 com ? Would they all, gratis, watch and tend the fold. Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold? Men are not equal, and 't is meet and right That robes and titles our respect excite ; Order requires it ; 't is by vulgar pride That such regard is censured ami denied ; Or by that false enthusiastic zeal, That thinks the Spirit will the priest reveal. And 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." We 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 I would not for my friend and guide, Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride. Sec next our several Sects. — but first behold The Church of Borne, who here is poor and old : Vsc not triumphant rail'ry. or, at least, Let not thy mother be a whore nnd beast ; Oreat was her pride indeed in ancient times, Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes? I Exalted high obovc all earthly things, She placed her foot upon the neck of kings ; But some have deeply since avenged the crown, A ml thrown her glory nnd her honours down ; Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command, Nor place a foot upon her own fair land. Among her sons, with us a quiet few, Obscure themselves, her ancient state review, in a nark tempestuous night, the inhabitants of the plain wen' alarmed with a dreadful crash ; many of tltcm were then in tlie fields watching their cattle, lest the Esk, which was then rising violently in the storm, should carry them oft'. In the meantime, the enormous mass of tluid substance, which had hurst 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 hill. This was, in fact, the cose; for the gush of mud carried before it, through the lirst 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 tluid. One house after another it spread round, Oiled, ami Crushed into ruins, just giving time to the terrified inhabitants to escape, Scarcely any thing 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 live hundred acres, and like molten lead poured into a mould, tilled all tlic hollows of it, lying in some parts thirty or forty feet deep, reducing the whole to one level surface."— -GlXPIN.] " We Would have trodden low both bench nnd stall, " Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small." Let us be serious — Should such trials come, Vre they themselves prepared for martyrdom? It seems to us that our reformers knew Th' important work they undertook to do; Into great trades; and, by spreading ourselves in the country, into great acquaintance,' nnd thereby received orders of the best of the country tradesmen for panels, whilst the I'ro- testant tradesmen in London, w ho h.nl not thil adi . ml age, stood still, and in their shops had little to do, whilst we tilled our coffers. Witness Thomas (Jreene, whose wife would scare sull'er 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.'"— Sotmir.Y.] ' ["Solway-Moss is a flat area, about seven miles in cir- cumference. The substance of it is a gross tluid, composed Of mud anil the putrid libres of heath, diluted by internal springs, which arise in every part. The surface is a dry . -ni-t . covered with moss and rushes, offering a fair appear- ance over an unsound bottom. On the south, the Moss is bounded by a cultivated plain, which declines gently through the space nfn mile to the river Esk. This plain is lower than the moss, being separated from it by a breastwork, formed by digging peat, which makesan irregular, though perpendicular, line of low black Iwundary. On the 13th of November, 1771 , 190 CRABBE'S 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 doom'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 confess'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 ; r B forbear to ask What the distinction — I decline the task ; This I perceive, that when 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 : Then 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 the Genera! Baptists, or Remonstrants, because they believe that God has excluded no man from salvation by any sovereign decree ; the other are called Particular, or Calvi- nistic Baptists, because they agree very nearly with the Cal- vinists, or Presbyterians, in their religious sentiments." — Mosmeim.J o [Baron Swedenborg, the founder of the " New Jerusalem Church," asserts, that in the year 1743, the Lord manifested himself to him in a personal appearance, and at the same time opened his spiritual eyes, so that he was enabled con- stantly to see and converse with celestial beings. " As often," says he, " as I conversed with angels face to face, it was in their habitations, which are like to our houses on earth, but far more beautiful and magnificent; having rooms, chambers, and apartments, in great variety, as also spacious courts be- longing to them, together with gardens, parterres of flowers, fields, &C, where the angels are formed into societies. They dwell in contiguous habitations, disposed after the manner of our cities, in streets, walks, and squares. I have had the privilege to walk through them, to examine all around them, WORKS. '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 multitude ; While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us, Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss. 9 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 the 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 gaiu'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. 10 A pleasing vision ! could we 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 AV r rit, With all my heart I reverently 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. 11 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 petty gains, While poorly paid for their nefarious pains. and to enter their houses." The baron and his followers also bold, that the sacred Scripture contains three distinct senses, viz. the celestial, the spiritual, and the natural, all united by correspondencies — of which correspondencies tile Sweden- borgians alone possess the key. See his * Universal Theology,' and ' Treatise concerning Heaven and Hell. 'J 10 [« 'phe 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 two classes. Some ascribe to the means of grace which God affords, sufficient power to enlighten 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. Others maintain, that God indeed wishes to make all men happy, only on the condition of their believing ; and that this faith originates from the sovereign and irresistible operation of God." — Mosheim.] 11 [Some may object to this assertion ; to whom I beg leave to answer that I do not use the word fight in the sense of the Jew Mendoza. THE BOROUGH. 101 Amazing 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 away : A people still, whose common ties are gone ; Who, 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, " By 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, — Woidd God the day were done 1 '* " Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times " Kegret thy misery, and lament thy crimes." A part there are, whom doubtless man might trust, Worthy ns wealthy, pure, religious, just ; They who with patience, yet with rapture, look On the strong promise of the Sacred Book: " S-o tin- Book of Deuteronomy, chap, xxvili. — [" If thou wilt not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy tiod, thou shalt he removed into aII the kingdoms of the earth : and thou shalt Itecome an astonishment, a proverb, and a by-Word among nil nation*, whither f 1 1 *- Lord shall lead thee, sons and thy daughter'* shall go into captivity. The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from afar, an swift ns the eagle llieth: a nation whose tonguethou shalt not understand ; a nation of lierre countenance, which shall not regard the person of the old, nor show favour to the young ; and thy life shall hail',' in doubt before thee ; and thou shalt fear day and night, and shalt have none assurance of thy lifo; in the morning thou shalt say. Would <»od it were even ! and at even thou shalt aay, Would liod it were morning 1"] U [When I turn my thoughts to the past and present situ- ation of this peculiar people, I do not ace 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 l)c scattered and disseminated amongst all people and nations over the face of the earth. The sin and" olsluracy of their forefathers are amongst the undoubted records of our gospel ; hut 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 tiling it is amongst mankind to profess any par- ticular form of religion, that devolves upon them by inheri- tance, rather than by free election and conviction of reason, founded upon examination. — Cumiieiii.and.] M I lis bout, that he would rebuild the Temple of Jerusalem ; his fate (whatever Incomes of the miraculous part of the story), that he died before the foundation wil laid. [•* An edict, was issued by Julian for the rebuilding of the Temple on Mount Moriah, 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 bo present and ajafgt 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 their vanity. Already was the As unfulfill'd tli' endearing words they view, And blind to truth. 3'et own their prophets true ; 13 Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state. Nor think of Julian's bonst and Julian's fate.'' 1 More 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 ! ls Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws, Anil weigh their atoms, and divide their straws. A Sect remain?, which, though divided long In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong. And 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. 16 See yonder Preacher ! 17 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 explain'd ; " No worldly learning can these points discuss, " Books teach them not as they arc taught to us. work commenced ; already had they dug down to a consider- able depth, and were preparing to fay the foundation, when suddenly flames of lire came bursting from the centre of the hill, accompanied with terrific explosions. The affrighted workmen fled on all sides, ami the lalours were suspended at once by this unforeseen and awful sign. The discomfiture of the Jews was completed ; ond the resumption of their labours, could thev Itave recovered from their panic, was for ever broken oil' by the death of Julian." — Miluax.] 15 [Original edition :— True Independents : while they Calvin hate, They heed as little what Socinians state ; They judge Arminians, Anlinomians stray, Nor England's Church, nor Church on earth obey.] t° [While Waaler was actively engaged in establishing the I influence of the Methodists, and extending the number of I his converts, he received a painful wound in an unexpected quarter, from the pertinacity with which Whitfield and a considerable proportion of bis 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, however, soon personally ! reconciled ; but the difference remained as to doctrine ; their respi-etive followers were, a.'. er.lt ng to custom, less charitable than themselves; and never was man more bitterly reviled, insulted, and misrepresented, than Wesley was through the remainder of his life by the Calvinistic Methodists. — Southkv.] 17 [William Huntington was the son of a day-labourer in the Weald of Kent, 'llie 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 first wife, he married the rich widow of Sir James Sannderson, a London alderman, and passed the latter port of his life in affluence. He died in 1813. Sec ante, p. 18G, 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 Spirit 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'rance, 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. 18 " Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend, " In bidding Sinners turn to God, and mend ; " To check their passions and to walk aright, " To run the Race, and fight the glorious Tight ? " 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? — 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 Whoever lias attended to the books or preaching of these enthusiastic people, must have observed mucli of this kind of absurd and foolish application of scripture history; it seems to them as reasoning. 19 [" A certain captain John Underbill affirmed, that, having long lain under a spirit of bondage, he could get no assurance ; till, at length, as he was taking a pipe of tobacco, the Spirit set home upon him an absolute promise of free grace, w th such assurance and joy, that he had never since doubted of his good estate, neither should he, whatever sins lie might fall into. And he endeavoured to prove, that, as the Lord was pleased to convert Saul while he was perse- cuting, so he might manifest himself to him while making a moderate use of the good creature tobacco." — Belknap's New Hampshire.] " 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. 13 " 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 sin, . " 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.* 0 " 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, wdien 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 the Latin or the Greek ? " And lo ! with all their learning, when they rise " To preach, in view the ready sermon lies ; " Some low-prized stuff 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, " Blight 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 ? 20 [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 heaven 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 face 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 forthwith 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 flight."] THE BOROUGH. 193 " No, Fellow-Pilgrims ! of the things I 've shown " I might be proud, were they indeed my own ! li 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 1 am nought but steward'and trustee." Far other Doctrines yon Anninian speaks; '• Seek Grace," he cries, " for he shall find who seeks." This is the ancient stock by Wesley led; They the pure body, he 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: Heme that implicit faith in Satan's might, And their own matchless prowess in the fight. In every act they see that lurking foe, Let loose awhile, about the world to go; A dragon (lying round the earth, to kill The heavenly hope, and prompt the carnal will ;*' Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause, And force the wounded victim from his paws ; Wlit) but for them Would man's whole race subdue, For not a hireling will the foe pursue. •• Show me one Churchman who w ill rise and pray " Through half the night, though lab'ring all the day, " Always abounding — show ino him, I say:" — Thus cries the l'rcocher, and he adds, " Their sheep " Satan devours at leisure as they sleep. " Not so with us; we drive him from the fold, " For ever burking and for ever bold : '• While they securely slumber, all bis schemes " Take full eti'ect. — the Devil never dreams: " Watchful and changeful through the world he goes, " And few can trace this deadliest of (heir foes; " lint 1 detect, ami at his work surprise " The subtle Serpent under all disguise. " Tims to Man's soul the Foe of Sot. is will s|n-:ik. " — ' A Saint elect, you can have nought to seek ; •• • Why nil (his labour in so plain o case, " ' Such care to run. whciv certain of the race?' " All this he urges to the carnal will. " He knows you 're slothful, and would huvc you still : '• Be this your answer, — ' Satan, I will keep " ' Still on the walch (ill you are laid asleep." " Thus too the Christian's progress ho 'II retard: — " ' The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd ; " ' And that With bolts so driven and so stout, ' • 'l eu thousand workmen cannot wrench (hem out.' " To this deceit you have but one reply, — •• Give to the Father of all Lies (he lie. " A Sister's weakness he '11 by fits surpriac, " His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries; •' And should a pastor at her side attend, " He Ml use her organs to abuse her friend: 81 ["We cannot doubt," says Wesley, "but the moment unholy spirit-* leave tile body, they lind tircmselves surrounded by spirits of their own kind, probably human as well as diabolical. It is not impossible God may sutler Satan to employ them in indicting evils of vurious 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 lias 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 command the passive shore " To keep secure, and be o'crflow'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 arc paid " With noble fees lor their advice and aid ; " Vet know they not the inward pulse to feel, " To case 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 arc 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,' I ask, ' the legal Yoke ? " ' What the first word the living Witness spoke? " ' Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings shine, " 1 And tempests gathering ere the Birth divine? " ' Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appear " ' Before that still small voice, What dost thou here 1 " ' Hast 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 anil through blast ? " ' Then in thy wny didst thou thy foe attack, " ' And mnd'st thou proud Apollyon turn his back ? ' " Heart-searching things are these, and shake the mind, " Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind. "Thus would I osk : — 'Nay, let me question now, " ' How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how? " 1 Feel you a quickening? drops 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 rubrirk, rule or rite comply? " ' Then whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech? " ' One might believe you heard your Hector preach, " ' Or his assistant dreamer : — Oh ! return, " ' Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn ; that know not God. For this end, they may raise storms liy sea or land; they may shoot meteors through the air ; they may occasion earthquakes: and in numberless ways afilict those whom they are not suffered to destroy. May they not be employed in tempting wicked yea, yood men to sin ? 194 CIIABBE'S WORKS. " ' Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold, " ' Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony- cold.' " Oh ! now again for those prevailing powers, " "Which once began this mighty 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 friends and threat'ning foes, " Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose : " AVhcn with infernal spite and knotty clubs " The Ill-One arrn'd his scoundrels and his scrubs ; " And there were flying all around the spot " Brands at the Preacher, but they touch'd him not : 22 " 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.- 3 " In that soft season when the gentle breeze " Kises all round, 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 horror, 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 — the Battle of the Lord.' " E'en those apart who were the sound denied, " Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died. " Nor stay'd he yet — his eye, his frown, his speech, " His very gesture had a power to teach : 22 [" Believing himself," says Mr. Southey, " to be an ex- traordinary person, and engaged in an enterprise of the most important character, lie lent a ready faith to whatever marvels had a tendency to designate him as the favourite of God, or the peculiar object of Satan's fury. If any among his hearers pretended to visions, or to be the victim of diabolical posses- sion, he never seems to have thought 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 ' the old Murderer,' which had power over them. If his progress was cheered by a favourable change of weather, he imme- diately recognised the peculiar finger of Providence encou- raging him to persevere in his labours."] 23 [Wesley was not only an enthusiast himself, but the cause of still greater enthusiasm in others, and had the unhappy " With outstretch'd arms, strong voice, and pierc- ing call, " He won the field, and made the Dagons fall ; " And thus in triumph took his glorious way, " Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay." 24 LETTER V. Say then which class to greater folly 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. — Shakspeabf.'s Henry VI. THE ELECTION. The Evils of the Contest, and how in part to be avoided — The 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 — The 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 Efforts 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 Borough — These Evils not to be placed in Balance with 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 Freedom has 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 I 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 where you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend ; And to distress you, vex you, and expose, Election-friends are worse than any foes ; art of inoculating his audience with convulsions and frenzy, surpassing the most extraordinary symptoms to which animal magnetism has given rise. Violent outcries, howling, gnash- ing of teeth, frightful convulsions, frenzy, epileptic and apoplectic symptoms, were excited, in turn, on different indi- viduals. Cries were heard as of people being put to the sword ; and the ravings of despair, which seemed to arise from an actual foretaste of torment, were strangely blended with rapturous shouts of ' Glory ! glory! ' — Southey.] 2< [See the Life of Wesley by Southey, or John Wesley's own Journals, passim. The reader will also find 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.] 195 The party-curse is with the canvass past, But party-friendship, for your Brief, 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 their words mistrust, But you mint hear them, r.nd they know you 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 ond 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 nttend, To show what man can bear to serve a friend. One enters hungry — not to be denied, And takes his place and jokes — " Vc 're of a side." Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength Of his one vote, has talcs of three hours' length ; This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies. Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way What the opponents in their anger say; All Unit through life bus vex'd you, nil abuse, Will this kind friend in pure regard produce ; And having through your own offences run, Adds (as nppendngc) what your friends have doue. lias any female cousin made a trip To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip? Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son, Hone aught umiss, or is he thought t' have done ? Is there of all your kindred somo who lack Vision direct, or have a gibbous back ? From 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 ond talents due, I'rnud 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 (Joes with the cause ; you'd die before you'd start; 1)ii what they mny, they 're sure you 'II not offend Men w lm have pledged their honours to your friend. Thoso friends indeed, who stnrt as in n 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 ami abuse; We might be then from serious griefs exempt, And view tho whole with pity and contempt. Alas ! but here the vilest passions rule ; 1 I am in formed flint 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, while they fish for profit, claim applause ; Bribed, bought, and bound, they banish shame and fear ; Tell you they 're staunch, nnd have a soul sincere ; Then talk of honour, and, if doubt 's exprcss'd, Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast. Among these worthies, some nt first declare For whom they vote: lie 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 fill'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 hnrmony exists no more; The gusts of wrath our peaceful scats deform, And sadly flows the sighing of the storm : Those who have gnin'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-yenrs' 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 docs 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, edg'd with two-inch lace, When in his seat; and still the coat seems new, Preserved by common use of seaman's blue. lie was a fisher from his earliest day, And placed In-; nets within the Borough's bay; Where, by his skates, his herrings, and his soles, He lived, nor dream'd of Corporation-Doles; 1 quired. Some corporate bodies have actual property, as appears by their receiving rents; and they obtain money on o 2 196 CRABBE'S WORKS. But toiling saved, and saving, never ceased Till he had box'd up twelvescore pounds at least : He knew not money's power, but judged it best Safe iu 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 " My money 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 clear, " 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 bring9 ? " " Not so." said Daniel, " perfectly I know, " He 's the most interest who has most to show." " True '. and he '11 show the more, the more he lends ; " Thus lie 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 that good man. — " In- deed ! " Said he with glad'ning eye, " will money breed ? 2 " 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. 3 But 't is not he, 't is 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 when the rubber' s play'd ; Sad shifts are 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 ; the Emission of members into their society ; this they may lawfully share, perhaps. There are, moreover, other doles, of still greater value, of which it. is not necessary for me to ex- plain the nature or inquire into the legality. 2 [Original edition : — In fact, the Fisher was ama/.'d ; as soon Could he have judged gold issued from the moon; But being taught, lie grieved with all his heart For lack of knowledge in this precious act.] 3 The circumstance here related is a fact ; although it may The warmest burgess wears a bodger's coat, And fashion gains less int'rest than a vote ; Uncheck'd the vintner still his poison vends, For he too votes, and can command his friends. But this admitted ; be it still agreed, These ill effects 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 ; Much would of glory to the Muse ensue, And our good Vicar would have less to do. LETTER VI. Quid leges sine moribus Vanae proficiunt? Horace. Vas ! misero mihi, mea nunc facinora Aperiiintnr, clam quae speravi fore. — Manilius. PROFESSIONS— LAW. Trades and Professions of every kind to be found in the Borough — Its Seamen and Soldiers — Law, the Danger of the Subject — Coddrington's Offence — Attorneys increased; their splendid Appearance, how supported — Some worthy Exceptions— Spirit of Litigation, how stirred up — A Boy articled as a Clerk ; his Ideas — How this Profession perverts the Judgment— Actions appear through this Medium in a false Light — Success from honest Application— Archer, a worthy Character— Swallow, a Character of different kind — His Origin, Progress, Success, &c. " Trades 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 charity and chance. appear to many almost incredible, that, in this country, and but few years since, a close and successful man should be a stranger'to the method of increasing money by the loan of it. The minister of the place where the honest Fisherman re- sided, has related to me the apprehension and suspicion he witnessed ; with trembling hand and dubious look, the care- ful man received and surveyed the bond given to him, and, after a sigh or two of lingering mistrust, lie placed it in the coffer whence he had just before taken his cash ; for which, and for whose increase, he now indulged a belief that it was indeed both promise and security. THE BOROUGH. Say, of our native heroes shall I boast, Boru 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 own, And for their deeds, themselves have made them known. Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil! Who from destruction save us ; who from spoil Protect the sons of peace, who tratlic, or who toil ; Would 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, Would 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, 'tis said, a trilling thing, The law found treason, for it touch'd the King. 1 But kings have mercy, in these happy times. Or surely One* had suffered for his rhymes; Our glorious Edwards ami our Henrys bold, So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold ; But he cscap'd, — nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I, Who love ill V king, for such offence to die. But I am taught the danger would be much, If these poor lines should one attorney touch — (Ono of those Limbs of Law who 're always here : The Heads come down to guide them t« ice 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 fox all The long proceeding! In that dreaded Hall: — Then let my numbers flow discreetly on. AVani'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington,' Best some attorney (pardon me the name) Should wound a poor solicitor for fame. One .Man of Law in Oeorgc the Second's reign Was all our frugal fathers would maintain; lie too was kept for forms ; a man of peace, To frame a contract, or to draw a lease : ' [ u It .' n.; . on record, that in Richard's time* A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes." — Poi'K.] 3 [Hie poet, no doubt alludes to Dr. Wolcot, who, under the well-known appellation of Peter Pindar, published various satires calculated to bring tho person and diameter of (ieorgc the Third into contempt and hatred. He died in 1*19.] 3 The account of Cnddringtnn occurs in " The Mirrour for Magistrates. " He suflercd in therein of Hichard III. [The execution of Cullingbuurne was under colour of rebellion, but in reality on account of the doggerel couplet which he is Introduced as quoting in "The Mirrour :" — 11 They nmrder'd mee, for mctring things amisse ; V'eruol.st thou what? 1 am that ('ollinghniirno. Which made the ryme, whereof I well may mourn ■ — * The Cat, the Ii/it, and ljovell our Itoy, ' Do rotr nit England, under fl Hog I' Whereof the meaning was so playne and true, That every fool perceived it at furst : Most liked it ; for most that most things knew In hugger-mugger, mutter'd what they durst ; The tvraunt Prince of most was held accurst, Both for bis own and for his connsayl's faults, Of whom were three, the naughtiest of the naughts. Catosby w as one, whom I called a Cat ; A crafty lawyer, catching all hee could. 197 I I 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. Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees, For one so poor, three flourishing at ease ; Nay, one in splendour ! — see that mansion tall, That lofty door, the far-resounding hall ; Well-fnrnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board, Gay 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 ! that small Ollicc ! there th' incautious guest Goes blindfold in, ami 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, And feels them fluttering as they nearer come; They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread; But when they 'rc 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 away. 4 " Na) - , 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 arc who hold manorial courts, Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports; Or who. by labouring through n 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 arc led, To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread. There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think 'Tis not with us to give him meat and drink ; There is a Child : and 't is not mighty clear Whether the mother lived with us a year: A Road's Indicted, and our seniors doubt If in our proper boundary or without: lint what says our Attorney ? He, our friend, Tells us 't is just anil manly to contend, Tho second Itatcliffc, whom I named a Hat, A cniel boost to gnawe on whom hee should ; Lord bovall harl.t and bit whom Uichard would, Whom I therefore did rightly tormo our Hog; Jt'/icrnvith lo ryme I cable the King a Hog." — Such are the verses headed " How Collingbourne was cruelly executed for a foolish rhyme." The tug or the original rhyme is, however, an allusion to the well-known Silver Boar of Richard's cognizance ; whence also Gray 'a lines: — " The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade," Sec. &c] * [" He that with injurv is grieved And gees to law to be relieved. Is sillier than a sottish chouse, Who, when a thief has robh'd bis house, Applies himself to cunning men, To help him to his goods again. Others believe no voice t' an organ So sweet aslavwcr's in bis bar gown, Until with subtle cobweb-cheats They 're patched in knotted law, like nets; In which, w hen once they are Embrangled, The more they stir, the more they're tangled." Butler.] 198 CRABBE'S WORKS. '• What ! to a neighbouring parish yield your cause, " While you have money, and the nation laws ? " What ! lose without a trial, that which, tried, " May — nay it must — be given on our side ? " All men of spirit would contend ; such men " Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten. '• What ! 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 from their lads some bold and subtle boy, And judge him fitted for this grave 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 ; Rage, 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 think, these legal reasoners draw 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 truth discern'd, But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd : Row they should judge of man ; his word and deed, They in their books and not their 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, " lie '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 [" When money will hire you to plead for injustice against your own knowledge, and to use your wits to defraud the righteous and spoil his cause, or vex him with delays, for the advantage of your unrighteous client — I would not have your conscience for all your gains, nor your accompt to make for all the world." — Baxter. " I asked him whether, as a moralist, he did not think that the practice of the law, in some degree, hurt the nice feeling of honesty ? Johnson: 'Why, no, sir, if you act properly.' Boswei.l : 'But what do you think of sup- porting a cause which you know to be bad ? Johnson: 'Sir, you do not know it to be good or bad till the judge determines it. 1 have said that you are to state facts fairly ; So that your thinking, or what you call knowing, a cause to be bad, must be from reasoning— must be from your supposing your arguments to be weak and inconclusive. But, sir, that is not enough. 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 he is right. It is his busi- ness to judge ; and you are not to be confident in your own opinion that a cause is bad, but to say all you can for your client, and then hear the judge's opinion.' Boswell : ' But, sir, does not affecting a warmth when you have no warmth, and appearing to be clearly of one opinion, when 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." 5 Law was design'd to keep a state in peace ; To punish robbery, that wrong might cease ; To be impregnable : a constant fort, To which 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 sound. Or law with lawyers 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 ; Na}', 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. 0 Yet, I repeat, there are, 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 slight 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 with his friends ?' Johnson : ' Why, no, sir. Every body knows vou are paid for affecting warmth for your client ; and it is, there- fore, no dissimulation ; the moment you come from the bar vou resume your usual behaviour. Sir, a man will no more carry the artifice of the bar into the co.mmon intercourse of society, than a man who is paid for tumbling upon his hands will continue to tumble upon his hands when he should walk on his feet.' " — Oroher's Buswcll, vol. ii. p. 48.] 6 [" Not one of all the trade that. I know E'er fails to take the ready 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 force old Neptune to disgorge And vomit up the Royal George, Than he who hath his bargain made, And legally his cash convey'd, Shall e'er his pocket reimburse By diving in a lawyer's purse." — Anstey.] 199 To form a new ami a degrading tic Twist needy vice and tempting villainy. Sound in himself, 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 pitehy-taint of general vice is such As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch. Far unlike him was one in former times, Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes ; Who, w hile 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; lie 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, li Where it may start— our love may yet remain." The parent growl'd, he could n't think that love Made the young cockatrice his den remove ; But, taught by habit, he the truth suppressed. 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, Sccm'd a fit cause of contest to the 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 cheat mankind. Few are the freeholds in our ancient town ; A copyright from heir to heir came down, From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt In point of heirship ; bat the fire went out, Till our Attorney lmd the art to raise The dying spark, and blow it to u blaze : For this he now began his friends to treat; His way to starve them was to make them cat, And drink oblivious draughts — to his applause, It must be said, he never starved u cause ; He \1 roast and boil'd upon his board ; the boast 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 nn 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? " > 'i v, look not sad, my friend ; if you 're correct, " You 'II 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 Borough-booty, give it all its praise, Had only served the appetite to raise ; But if from simple heirs he drew their land, He might a noble feast at will command; Still he proceeded by his former rules, His bait, their pleasures, when he fished forfools — 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 1 d mothers kept in bounds, And check'd their generous rage for steeds and hounds ; Or such as travcll'd 'cross the land to view A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew : 7 Some too had run upon Newmarket heath With so much speed that they were out of breath ; Others hail 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 ; lie 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, the frailty of our race " When age unmans us — let me state a case : " There 's our friend Rupert — we shall soon redress " His present evil — drink to our success — " 1 flatter not ; but did you ever see " Limbs better turn'd ? a prettier boy than he ? His senses all acute, his passions such " As nature gave — she never docs 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, " Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes; " Who slips nnd shuttles when he means 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 lie hide his gold ? " That which he cannot use, and dare not show, " And will not give — why longer should he owe ? " Yet. 'twould be murder should we snap the locks, " Anil take the thing he worships from the box ; " So let him dote nnd dream : but, till he die, " Shall not our generous heir receive supply ? " For ever sitting on the river's brink? " And ever thirsty, shnll he fear to drink? " The means arc simple, let him only wish, " Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish." They nil applauded, and not least the boy, Whq now replied, " It fill'd his heart with joy " To find he needed not deliv'rance crave " Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave ; ' (The boxing-match between Humphreys and tlie Jew Mcndosca took place in 1788, and has already been alluded to, tuttii p. 13::.] 200 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Who, while ho spent, would every art retain, " Of luring home 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 ; he quickly found, His father's acres all were Swallow's ground. Yet to those arts would other heroes lend A willing ear, 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 Swallow tried no more : but if they came To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same: Thus he retired in peace, and some would say He 'd balk'd his partner, and had learn'd to pray. To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought How 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 board had still the sumptuous 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 '11 watch her sinners as they home 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 : " Could he but know to whom he should refund, " He would most gladly — nay, he 'd go beyond; 8 [" The character of Archer, the honest but stern and sus- picious attorney, and also that of the cunning and unprin- cipled Swallow, are admirably drawn ; but in the latter Mr. Crabbe takes c.tre to throw in some sarcasms on the zealots who were too ready to claim him as a convert, and trust him as their treasurer." — Eclectic I-tecicu-.] 9 I entertain the strongest, because the most reasonable hope, that no liberal practitioner in the Law will be offended by the notice taken of dishonourable ana crafty attorneys, its increased difficult? zt enisling ict: the prrftcsirrt will in time render it much more free than it now is, from those who disgrace it: at presentsuch persons remain, and it would not be difficult to give instances of neglect, cruelty, oppres- sion, and chicanery; nor are they by any means confined to one part of the country. Quacks and imposters are indeed in every profession, as well with a licence as without one. The character and actions of Swallow might doubtless be con- ' But when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone, " And others going — he must hold it on ; " The Lord would help them " — Loud their anger grew, And while they threat'ning from his door withdrew, He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu, 8 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 prey'd upon the weak. 9 LETTER VII. Finirent multi letho mala ; credula vitam Spes alit, et melius eras fore semper ait. — Tibullus. He 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. — Butler's Hudibras. PROFESSIONS — PHYSIC. The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician — Merit, not the sole Cause of Success— Modes of advancing Reputation —Motives of medical Men for publishing their Works— The 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 ~ they 're call'd, and we confess Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess; We 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 ; 3 trasted by the delineation of an able and upright solicitor ; but this letter is of sufficient length, and such persons, without question, are already known to my readers. 1 [Original edition : — From Law to Physic, stepping at our ease, We find a way to finish — by degrees ; Forgive the quibble, and in graver style, We '11 sing of these with whom we seldom smile.] 2 Opiferque per orbem dicor. 3 [" I feel not in me those sordid and unchristian desires of my profession. I do not secretly implore and wish fir plagues, rejoice at famines, revolve ephemerides and almanacks in expectation of malignant effects, 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 look9 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 effort 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 case.' 4 But as physicians of that nobler kind Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind ; So among these for knowledge most renowned, Arc 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 voice9 — '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 lie may treat with all the pomp id" art ; Curious conjectures he may always make, And cither side of dubious questions take ; He 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 pntron, till it runs its race ; As rustic damsels from their woods are won, And live in splendour till their race be run; It weighs not much on what their powers be shown, When nil his purpose is to make them known. To show the world what long experience gains, Requires not courage, though it calls for pains; But at life's outset to inform mnnkind, Is a bold effort of a vnliant mind.' The great good man. for noblest cause displnys What many labours taught, anil many days ; man's. I desire every tiling in ita proper season, that neither man nor the limes Ik* out ot' temper. I*et me be sick myself if sometime* the m.ihilv of mv patient l>c not a disease to' me. I desire rather to cure his inllrmities than my own necessi- ties : Where I do him no good, mcthinks it Is no honest gain, though I confess it to be the worthy salary of our well- intended endeavours ; I nm not only ashamed, hut heartily serry, that, besides fleatk, there are diseases incnrible, \ei n..'t for minp own sake, but for the general cause and sake of hu- manity, whose common cause 1 Apprehend, as mine own." — Sin Thomas BboWITI.] * [" I esteem it the office of a physician not only to restore health, but to mitigate pain and dolours; and not only when such mitigation may conduce to recovery, but when it may serve to make a fair and easy passage ; for it is no small felicity which Augustus Ctosar was wont to wish to himself, that same 'euthanasia ;' and what was specially noted in the death of Antoninus I'ius, w hoso death was alter the fashion and semblance of a kindly and pleasant sleep. So it is w rit- fen <>[' Kpieurus, that, after his disease was judged desperate, he drowned his stomach and senses with a large dram-lit and ingurgitation of wine ; whereupon the epigram was made : — 1 Ifinc Stygias cbrius hausit aquas.' He w as not sober enough to taste any bitterness of the Stygian water. Hut the physicians, contrariwise, do make a kind of simplu religion to stay with the patient after the disease is disclosed; whereas, in my judgment, they ought both to inquire the skill, and to give the attendances, for the f»- These sound instruction from experience give, The others show us how they mean to live. That they have genius, and they hope mankind Will to its efforts be no longer blind. There are, beside, whom powerful friends ad- vance, Whom 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 Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the 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 thnt fluent speech and flow'ry vest Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd ; — But now our Quarks 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 lying bill; 0 And twenty names of cobbler's turn'd to squires, Aid the bold language of these blushless liars. There are among them those who cannot read, And yet they'll buy n patent, and succeed; Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid, For who, when dead, ran threaten or upbraid? With cruel avarice still they recommend More 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." — IIacoj*.] 5 When I observe that the voting 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, ma le l>v a gentleman, then young, which would have given just celebritv to a man after long practice. The observation is nevertheless true : many opinions have been adopted, and many Iwoks written, not that the theory might be well defended, 'nut that a young phvsician mi^ht be better known. [The gentleman here alluded to is Dr. lCdmund Goodwyn. lie was assistant-surgeon to Mr. Page of Wood- bridge when the I'oet was apprentice there, :.nd published, in 1788, an ' Experimental l.nquiry into the lCll'octs of Sub- mersion, Strangulation, and several Kinds of noxious Airs on Living Animals.'] 0 [" I have heard of a porter, w ho 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 loxenges, and take it as an affront if you come to them before you are iiiven 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." — Bishop I'kakce.] CRABBE'S WORKS. How strange to add, in this nefarious trade, That men of parts arc dupes by dunces made : 7 That creatures, nature meant should clean our streets, Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and seats ; 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 fill the soul with penitential fears. Yet not the 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 puffers 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.es pierced through their skin ; Their liver all one schimis, 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. 8 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 cat ; 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 the world, one would think, so ignorant as not to know that the ordinary quack-doctors, who publish their great abilities in little brown billets, dis- tributed to all who pass by, are to a man impostors and mur- derers. Yet such is the credulity of the vulgar, and the impudence of those professors, that the affair still goes on, and new promises, of what was never before done, are made every day. What aggravates the jest is, that even this 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 itussel Court, over against the Cannon Ball, at the Surgeons' Arms, in Drury Lane, is lately come from his travels a surgeon who hath practised surgery and physic, both by sea and land, these twenty-four years. He (by the blessing") cures the yellow-jaundice, scurvy, dropsy, surfeits, long sea-voyages, campaigns, lying- in, &c, as some people that has been lame these thirty years can testify : in short, lie 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 ignorance, it would be a good ridiculous work to comment upon the declaration of this accomplished traveller. There is something unaccountably taking among the vulgar in those who come from a great way off. Ignorant people of quality, as many there are of suck, dote excessively that way. The ignorants of lower order, who cannot, like the upper ones, be profuse of their money to those recommended by- coming from a distance, are no less complaisant than the others ; for they venture their lives from the same admiration. But the art of managing mankind is only to make them stare a little, to keep up their astonishment, to let nothing be familiar to them, but ever to have something in their sleeve, in which they must think you are deeper than they are. There is a doctor in Mann Allev, near Wapping, who sets up From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains, Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains ; These first induce him the vile trash to try, 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 ; 9 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 the taste ; It comforts, heals, and strengthens ; nay, you think It makes you better every time you drink ; " Then lend your name " — you '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'eine 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 the man declare ? AV'ould 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 advent'rous quack ? But he the moment watches, and entreats Your honour's name, — your honour joins the cheats; You judged the med'eine harmless, and you 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. His 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. V?ho would believe that a man should be a doctor for the cure of bursten children, by declaring that his father and grandfather were both bursten ? Yet Charles Jngolston, next door to the Harp, in Barbican, has made a pretty penny by this operation." — Steele.] 8 [In an admirable section of the ' Miseries of Human Life,' a patient, now quite recovered, is made to describe himself as having been, befure he met with his favourite doctor, "an ulcer rather than a man."] 9 [" 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 the whole front of a mounte- bank's stage, from one end to the other, faced with patents, certificates, medals, and great seals, by which the several princes of Europe have testified their particular respect and esteem for the doctor. Every great man with a sounding title has been his patient. I believe I have seen twenty mountebanks that have given physic to the Czar of Muscovy. The great Duke of Tuscanv escapes no better. The Elector of Brandenburgh 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 be troubled with an aching tooth, his ambition will prompt him to get it drawn by a person who has had so many princes, kings, and emperors under his hands." — Addison.] THE BOROUGH. •203 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 po:2on for the yet unborn ? No class escapes them — from the poor man's pay, The nostrum takes no trifling par* away : See ! those square patent bottlc9 from the shop, Now decoration to the cupboard's top ; And there a favourite hoard you'll find within, Companions meet ! the julep and the gin. Time too with cash is wasted ; 'tis 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 sufferer'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 las f . In hope's strong bondage hold their victin; fast : For 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 case, and few the danger fly; For, while obtain'd, of drams they 'veall the forco, 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 cxprcss'd ; They dwell on freedoms lads arc 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, nnd just ; If he will 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 sympathising sigh, To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry ? That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note, Which rame 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 cxprcss'd His feelings loudly when he fail'd to rest; When crnmm'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 that made her babe complain,) lias nil her efforts, loving soul ! applied To set tho cry, and not the cause, aside; 18 An empiric who Jlourtelicd at the same time with this great man. " ["So great are the difficulties of tracing out the hidden causes of the evils to w hich the frame of man is subject, that She gave her powerful sweet without remorse, The sleepimj cordial — she had tried its force, Repeating oft : the infant, freed from pain, Kejccted food, but took the dose again, Sinking to sleep ; while she her joy cxprcss'd, That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest : Soon may she spare her cordial ; not a doubt Itemains, but quickly he 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 should we 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 tntter'd book ; Where, after many efforts made to spell One puzzling word, he found it o.r\jmel ; A poient thing, 't was said to cure the ills Of ailing lungs — the on/mel 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'eine numbers would for pleasure take. There was a fellow near, an artful knave, Who knew the plnn, nnd much assistance gave; He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied To make it sell : it sold, and then he died. Now all the profit fell to Ned's control, And Bride nnd Avnrice quarrell'd for his soul ; When mighty profits by the trash were mode, Pride built n palore. Avarice groan'd and paid ; Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about, And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out. Now sec him Doctor! yes, the idle fool, The butt, the robber of the lads at school; Who then knew nothing, nothing since ncquired, Became a doctor, honour' d and admired; His dress, his frown, his dignity were such, Some who had known 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 oxymcl. Oh ! when his nerves had once received a shock, Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Bock : 10 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. 11 the most candid of the profession have ever allowed and lamented how unavoidably they are in the dark. So that the best medicines, administered by the wisest heads, shall often do tin- mischief tiny wore intended to prevent. These are misfortunes to which w e are subject in this state of darkness ; 204 CRABBE'S WORKS. I 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 method 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, While 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 Kecte beatum : rectius occupat Nomen Beati, qui Deorum Muneribus sapienter uti, Puramque callet pauperiem pati. Hor. lib. iv. Ode 9.' Non propter vitam faciunt patrimonia quidam, Seil "vitio cocci propter patrimonia vivunt. Juvenal, Sat. 12. 2 TRADES. No extensive manufactories in the Borough ; yet considerable Fortunes made there — 111 Judgment of Parents in disposing of their 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 Weaver an Entomologist, &c. — A Prize 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 ; We '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" 3 all day long. but when men without skill, without education, without knowledge either of the distemper, or even of what they sell, make merchandise of the miserable, and, from a dishonest principle, trifl" with the pains of the unfortunate, — too often with their lives, and from the mere motive of a dishonest gain, — every such instance of a person bereft of life by the hand of ignorance can be considered in no other light than a m urder." — Stern e.] 1 [" Not he, of wealth immense possess'd, Tasteless who piles his massy gold, Among the number of the blest Should have his 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 wealth he leaves his boy to find, Just when he 's made for the discovery blind. Jones and his wife perceived their elder boy Took to his learning, and it gave them joy ; This they encouraged, and were bless'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 bless'd them, and when letters came, The parents proudly told each grandchild's name. Meantime the sons at home in trade were 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 he, " at vast expense was taught ; " He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought." Thus the good priest (the Christian scholar !) 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 joys 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 views their consolations blend. Nor these alone possess the lenient power Of soothing life in the desponding hour ; Some favourite studies, 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 ; 4 He better claims the glorious name, who knows With wisdom to enjoy what Heaven bestows." Fkancis.] 2 [" Few gain to live, Corvinus, few or none, But, blind with avarice, live to gain alone." GlFFORD.] 3 The title of a short piece of humour, by Arbuthnot. 4 The tulip mania prevailed, in 1637, to such an extent in Holland, that a single root has been sold for live thousand florins, together with a new carriage, two grey hcrses, and a complete harness. The tulips, however, were seldom de- THE BOROUGH. 205 Ami 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, Kach grew alert, was busy, and was bless'd : Whether the call-bird yield the hour's delight, 4 Or, magnified in microscope, the mite ; Or whether tumblers, croppers, carriers seize The gentle mind, they rule it and they please. There is my friend the Weaver; strong desires. Heign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires : See ! to the shady grove he wings his way, And feels in hope the raptures of the day — Knger 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 (lowers where they were wont to creep. Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims, The purple Kmp'ror, strong in wing and limbs : There fuir Camilla takes her flight serene, Adonis blue, and Papbia silver-queen; With every filmy fly from mead or bower, A n.l hungry Sphinx who threads the honey'd flower ; She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound, Views cv'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. lie fears no bailiffs wrath, no baron's blame, His is untaxM nnd undisputed game: Nor less tlu» place of curious plant he knows ; 0 He both his Flora and his Fauna ^hows: For him is blooming In its rich array The glorious flower which bore the palm away; In vain a rival tried his utmost art, Hi. was the prize, and joy o'erflow'd his heart. "This, this! is beauty; cast, I pray, your * eyes '• On this my glory ! sec the grace ! the size 1 " Was ever stem so tall, so stout, so strong, " Kxact 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 0 thing; '• V king of flowers, a flower for England's king: livcrcd. A nobleman bespoke of a merchant a tulip root, to lie de Ivend in ix months, at the price of a thousand noting. During these six months the price of that species of tulip mint have risen or fallen, or remained as it was. Hut instead of demanding ula tulip then, he paid or received the differ- ence of price. This singular species of gaming could, from its nature, only go to a limited extent; the value of tulip root] begM to fall. The sellers were then anxious to deliver the roots In natura, hut 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. 3 DilTerent birds require different sorts of calls; but they are mostly composed of a pipe or reed, with a litile leathern purse or hag, somewhat in t he form of a bellows, which, by the motion giver thereto, yields a noise like that of the species of bird to be token. 6 In botanical language " the habitat," the favourite 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." 9 Thus may the poor the cheap indulgence seize, While the most wealthy pine and pray for case ; 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 With due success their honest labours crown'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 ; lie let no idle views his bosom share ; He never thought nor felt for other men — il Let one mind one, and all arc 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: lie 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 vnst amount his once small portion drew. AVillinm 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 distrcss'd, Ho bore with all who poverty profess'd, And some would he nssist, nor one would he arrest, lie had some loss at sea, bad debts at land, His clerk absconded with some bills in hand, Ami plans so often fail'd, that he no longer plann'u. 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 he was follow'd by the looks of love ; * This, it must he acknowledged, is contrary to the opinion of Thomson, and 1 believe of sonic other poets, who, in de- scribing the varying hues of our most lieautiful flowers, 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 1norc valuable is the flower esteemed. e An auricula, or any other single flower, is so called when the ftfonu (the part which arises from the seed-vessel) is protruded beyond the tube of the flower, and becomes visible. 9 This word, so far as it relates to flowers, means those variegated with three or more colours irregularly and inde- terminately. 206 CRABBE'S WORKS. All. ho had suffer'd, every former grief, Blade those around more studious in relief ; He saw a cheerful 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 them talk ; Free are their children, but their love refrains From all offence — none murmurs, none complains ; Whether 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 without parade ; Their common comforts they had all in view, Light were their troubles, and their wishes few : Thrift made them easy for the coming day, Religion took the dread of death away ; A cheerful spirit still ensured content, . And love smiled round them whercsoe'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 presence, 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- plain ? " — " No, that 's my part, which I perform in vain ; " I want a simple answer, and direct— " But you evade ; yes ! 'tis 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 '11 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 trifier. come : " My God ! she trembles ! — Idiot, leave the room ! " Madam ! your children hate me ; I suppose '• They know their cue ; you make them all my foes ; " I 've not a friend in all the world — not one : " I 'd be a bankrupt sooner ; nay, T t is done ; " In every better hope of life I fail, " You 're all tormentors, and my house a jail. 1 0 If I have in this letter praised tlie good-humour of a man eonfe5sedly too inattentive to business, and if, in the one on Amusements, I have written somewhat sarcastically of "the brick-floored parlour which the butcher lets," be credit given to me, that, in the one case, I had no intention to apologise for idleness, nor any design in the 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 ; " 'Tis 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, have your hate ; " 'Tis in my absence, you yourselves enjoy : " Tom ! are you 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." 10 LETTER IX. Interpone tuis interdum gaudia cnris Ut possis animo quemvis sufl'erre laborem. Catui.l. lib. 3. Nostra fatiscat Laxaturque chelys, vires instigat alitque Tempestiva quies, major post otia virtus. Statius, Sylv. lib. 4. Jamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant; Omnia pontus erant : deerant quoque littora ponto. Ovm. Metamorph. lib. 1. AMUSEMENTS. Common Amusements of a Bathing-place— Morning Kides, Walks, &c. — Company resorting to the Town— Different 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 wind 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 resources of the poor. The good-humour is con- sidered as the consolation of disappointment ; and the room is so mentioned because the lodger is vain. Most of my readers will perceive this : but I shall be sorry if by any I 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 'vc hatred to a hall : Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets, The brick-floor'd parlour which the butcher lets ; Where, through his single light, he may regard The various business of a common yard, Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay, By stable, sties, and coops, ct caetcra. 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 arc cheap amusements : they may slip Beyond the town and take a private dip; AVhcn they may urge that, to lie safe they mean, They 'vc heard there 's danger in a light machine ; They too can grntis move the quays about, And gather kind replies to every doubt; There they n 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 Nature's book ! May sec its varying views in every hour, All softness now, then rising with nil power. As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour : "1'is this which gives us all our choicest views; Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse. 1 Sec ! 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 ond sea, Or, nh 1 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. I,o ! where on that huge anchor sadly leans That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes; ' [Original edition : — 'T is this which gives us all our choicest viewi ; And dull (he mind they never can amuse.] 3 Some of the smaller species of the Medusa (sea-nettle) are exquisitely hcautiful ; their form is nearly oval, varied with serrated longitudinal lines; they are extremely tender, and !>y no means which I am acquainted with can be pre- served, for they soon dissolve in either spirit of wine or water, and lose every vestige of their shape, and indeed of their substance : the larger species are found in misshajten masses of many pounds weight ; these, when handled, havethc effect of the nettle, and the stinging is often nccompanied or suc- ceeded by the more unpleasant feeling, perhaps in a slight degree resembling that caused by the torpedo. 9 Various tribes and ipecios of marine vermes arc here meant ; that which so nearly resembles a vegetable in its form, and perhaps, in some degree, manner of growth, is the coralline, called by naturalists Scrtularia, of which there are many species in almost every part of the coast. The animal protrudes its many claws (apparently in search of prey) from lie late from India's clime impatient sail'd, There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd ; F'or each delight, in searcli of wealth he went, i 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 : J And now lie flies from place to place, to gain Strength for enjoyment, and still flics in vain : Mark ! 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, F'or joys that come when he is dead to joy ? Now is it pleasant in the Summer-eve, When a brond shore retiring waters leave, Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand, AVhcn 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 2 which the flesh inflame, F'ierce 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; I Figured by hand divine — there 's not a gem Wrought by man's art to be compared to them ; ! Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow, And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow. Involved in sen-wrack, here you find a race, Which science doubting, knows not where to place ; On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed, 11 And quickly vegetates a vital breed. 4 While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject, See ns they float along th' entangled weeds Slowly approach, upborne on blnddcry beads ; Wait till they land, and you shall then behold The fiery sparks those tnngled fronds infold, Myriad! of living points ; 5 th' unaided cyo 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 ulong your hand ; When, lost in wonder, you shall wnlk ond gnzc On weeds thnt sparkle, and on waves that blaze. 6 certain pellucid vesicles, which proceed from a horny, tena- cious, branchy stem. 4 [The topics which this evening view on the 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 cveillvc, and has some- thing of the pleasing restlessness of the ocean itielf. — Gir- KOttD.] 6 These are said to be a minute kind of animal of the same class ; when it does not shine, it is invisible to the naked eye. • For the cause or causes of this phenomenon, which is sometimes, though rarely, observed on our eoasts, I must refer the reader to the writer's on philosophy and natural history. [There arc few phenomena in nature much more striking than the luminous appearand' exhibited by the water of the ocean, particularly in tempestuous weather ; terrillc, in par- ticular, to landsmen in these cases, as it is resplendent and beautiful in the calms of summer. It has accordingly not 208 CRABBE'S WORKS. The ocean too has Winter views serene, When all you see through densest fog is seen ; When you can hear the fishers near at hand Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand ; Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, Or half-conceal'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 vain. "f is pleasant then to view the nets float past, Net after net till you have seen the last : And as you 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 tender Maid should shun, Nor to a misty beach in autumn run ; Much should she guard against the evening cold, And her slight shape with fleecy warmth infold ; This she admits, but not with so much ease Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants please : Her have I seen, pale, vapour' d through the day, With 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 who 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 River 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 been an object of much remark among common obser- vers, but lias excited the attention of naturalists at all times, so as to have led to much discussion. From the time of Pliny downwards, frequent inquiries have been made respecting the cause, and accordingly many different theories have heen proffered. It was long taken for granted that this property belonged to the water itself, not to any bodies contained in ir. taayer, and others who followed him, considered that this phenomenon depended on the same cause as the light emitted by the diamond and other substances after exposure to the sun's rays. Others were content with calling the light phosphoric, and with supposing that sea-water was endowed with the property of phosphorescence. Another party at- tributed the light to the putrefaction of sea-water, although it was nor. explained what the connecti n was between putre- faction and phosphorescence. The experiments of Dr. Hulme What time the moon arising shows the mud. A shining border to the silver flood : When, by her dubious light, the meanest vie a s, Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the iichest lues; And when the cattle, as they gazing stand, Seem nobler objects than when view'd from land : Then anchor'd vessels in the way appear, And sea-boys greet them as they pass — " What cheer ? " The sleeping shell-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 ; He the light speech and laugh indignant hears, And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by fears. Ah ! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home, Nor fancy these escape the general doom : Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts With sorrow tried ; there 's sadness in their parts : If thou couldst see them when they think alone, Mirth, 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 glory 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 (o thine home. 7 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, wine, 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 flies, And in its place life's common views arise. Sometimes 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'erflow : made a nearer approximation to the true cause, by showing that the luminous secretion or matter attached to the mucus of certain fishes was diffusible in water. Later or more accu- rate naturalists, and seamen also, have, however, observed that some marine worms and insects were luminous ; and thus it was admitted that some, at least, of the luminous ap- pearances of the sea might be produced by these ; but to Dr. MacCulloch we are indebted for having first brought the whole of this question into one clear point of view, in his work on the Western Islands of Scotland, and for so great an extension of the luminous prop'Tty to the marine species, as to have erected this into a general law.— Brewster.] 7 This is nor offered as a reasonable source of contentment, but as one motive for resignation. There would not be so much envy if there were more discernment. I the isouonjii. 209 There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view The watery waste, a prospect wild and new ; The now receding hillows 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 — (Jay 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, No friends can hear, or hear another sound; Aiftrm' 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 cither hau 1. 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, Itsccm'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 shout the distant land can reach. Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach : Again they join in one loud powerful cry, Then cease. Mild eager listen for repl\ ; None came — the rising wind blew sadly by: They shout once more, and then they turn aside, To sec how quickly llowM the coming tide ; Between each cry they find the wnteK 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, ami 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; While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd: The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried. '• Why would you urge mc2 I at first denied." Fiercely they nnswcr'd, " Why will you complain, " Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain?" 1 [" I.ct 's tftlk, my frietvls, bat talk before we dine, Not when n irilt buffet's reflected pride Turn* on from sound philosophy nsidc : Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roll, Ami the brain dances to the mantling bow l." POPS'S //int.] 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 yet 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 t/ie 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, Ami 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 Inner* mensasque nitcntoss, Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, et cum Acclinis fiilsis animus meliora recusal ; Vcnim hicimpransi mecum disqniritf. Hor. Sat. ii. lib. 2.» O pmdiira rerum Luxnrie«, nunquam parvo contcnta paratu, Kt qun*sitorum terra pcla^oqiie cU»ornm Ambit iosa fames, et lantie gloria mensre. Lvcan. lib. 4.2 CLCIIS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS. Desire of Country Gentlemen for Town Associations — Book- clubs — Too much of literary Character expected from them — Literary Conversation prevented ; by Feasting, by Cards — Good, notwithstanding, results— Card -club with Ea<;er- n.-ss rt-..»rf«"d to Players— Cmpires at th" Whist TaM< — Petulances of Temper there discovered — Frce-and-Kasv Club ; not perfectly easy or free — Freedom, how interrupted — The superior Member — Termination of the Evening — Drinking and Smoking Clulw— The Midnight Conversation of (he delaying Members — Society ofthe poorerlnhabltants ; its On ; glvea" Pride and Consequence to the humble Cha- racter—Pleasant Habitations of the frue.nl Poor — bailor re- turning ti> his Family — Freemasons' Club — The Mystery — What its Origin— Its professed Advantages— Griggs and Gre^orians — A Kind of Masons — Reflections on tbese various Societies- You say you envy in your calm retreat Our social Meetings; — *t is with joy we meet 2 [" Behold I ye sons of luxury, bcho'd ! Who scatter in excess your lavish jrold ; Yon who the wealth of frugal a<;cs waste T* indulge a wanton supercilious taste ; For whom all earth, all ocean are explored, To spread the various proud voluptuous board. " — Howe.] __ p 210 CRABBE'S WORKS. War, peace, invasion, all we hope 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, Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse : " Who deals ? — you led — we 're three by cards- had you " Honour in hand ?" — " Upon my honour, two." Hour after hour, men thus contending sit, Grave without sense, and pointed without wit. Thus it appears these envied Clubs possess 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. In these our parties you are pleased to find Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind ; j Composed of men who read, reflect, and write, j Who, when they 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 — I '11 introduce you — " Gentlemen, my friend." " Now are you happy? you 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 confess when we had fairly dined, li That was no time for intercourse of mind ; '• There was each dish in'eparcd 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 wine went quickly round, " Till struggling- Fancy was by Bacchus bound ; " Wine 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 oft' 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 " How 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 dwelUng 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 exert 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 are neither grave nor gay ; Our thought, our care, our business is to play : Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends Much to his partners, nothing to his friends. Our public cares, the long, the warm debate, That kept our patriots from their beds so late ; 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 with 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 with friends or found at home. But Cards with Books are incidental things ; W e '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, yet had less of mind. Our eager parties, when the lunar light Throws its full radiance on the festive night, Of cither 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 shuffle, 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 toys ; No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they, But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play. Others there are, the veterans of the game, Y^ho owe their pleasure to their envied fame ; Through many a year, with hard-contested strife, Have they attain'd this glory of their life : I THE BOROUGH. 211 Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain Would gout al >d 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, anil their decrees are laws; But all are troubled, when, with dubious look, Diana questions what Apollo spoke. Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain, Ilules 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, Ami '.'old, tlieir sov'nign good, the mingled crowd pursue. Hence they arc jealous, and as rivals, keep A watchful eye on the beloved heap; Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still. And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown, They make their grief, by their suspicions, known. '' Sir, I protest, were .lob 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 Bo 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, maduni ! with success ; " I knew no being we could censure less!" ,J Is this too much ? alas ! my peaceful Muse Cannot with half their virulence nbuse. 4 Ami 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, " Eteflect whose money 't is you throw away. " No one on earth can loss 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." s [Original edition : — "Against this nature they might show their skill With smnll success, who 're maids against their will,"] 4 [" The common humour of nil gamesters is, whilst they win, to In- always jovial, merry, good-natured, anil free ; lint, on the contrary, if they lose even the smallest trille, a tingle hit at backgammon, or u dealing at cords for twopence a game, they are so choleric and testy, that they frequently break into violent passions, utter the most impious oaths anil horrid imprecations, and become so mad that no man daxespeak to them. Hut, alas I they have in general, especially if their stakes lie large and excessive, moro occasion to regret their winning than losing : for, us Seneca truly observes, their gains are not ■ munera fortuna', sed insidiro ;' not fortune's gifts, but misfortune's baits to lead them on to tlieir common cata- strophe, beggary and ruin." — iiuRTOK.] * 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 'II never more sit down with man and wife ; They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat Of all tlieir spleen, tlieir understandings meet,' They are freemasons, and have many a sign, That we, poor devils ! never can divine : May it be told, do ye divide th' amount, Or goes it all to family account ?" 6 Next is the Club, where to their friends in town Our country neighbours once a month come down; We term it Free-and-Easy, and yet we Find it no easy matter to be free : E'en in our small assembly, friends among, Arc minds perverse, there 's something will be wrong ; Men are not equal ; some will claim n 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 'sthe subject ? — what arc 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, Becites the speeches, adds to them his notes ; And gives old ill-told talcs 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, nlas ! we 've lost the pleasant hour, And wisdom Hies from wine's superior power. Wine, like the rising sun, possession gains, And drives the mist of dulncss from the brains ; The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies, And views of gaiety and gladness rise : minds anil harmonious tempers, may judge this description of a Card-dub conversation to be highlv exaggerated, if not totally lictitious ; and I acknowledge that the club must admit ft particular kind of members to aflord such specimens of acrimony and objurgation ; yet that su?h language is spoken, and such manners exhibited,' is most certain, chiefly among those who, being successful in life, without previous education, not very nice in their feelings, or very attentive to impro- prieties, sit down to game w ith no oilier view than that of adding the gain of the evening to the profits of the day ; whom, therefore, disappointment itself makes angry, arid, when caused by another, resentful and vindictive. 0 [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. OirroHD.] p 2 212 CRABBE S WORKS. Still it proceeds ; till from the glowing heat, The prudent calmly to their shades retreat : — ■ Then is the mind o'ercast — in wordy rage 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, makes it cease, And maudlin Love insists on instant peace ; He, 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, renew'd wdien 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 " — "Ay?" " Well, very well — then freely as I drink " I spoke my thought — -you 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 Muggins live — no, no ! — if Muggins 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 my 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 he pays, To be assisted when 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 : Those simple words his honest nature move, That bond of union tied by laws of love ; This is his pride, it gives to his employ New value, to his home another joy ; While a religious hope its balm applies For all his fate inflicts, and all his state denies. 7 Much would it please you, sometimes to explore The peaceful dwellings of our Borough poor : To view a sailor just return'd from sea, His 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 with the gale, " We view'd the horrors of the watery vale." The trembling children look with steadfast eyes, And, panting, sob involuntary sighs : Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays, And all is joy and piety and praise. Masons are ours, Frcemasuns — 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 Word, 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 their origin to show : If, as Crusaders, they combined to wrest From heathen lords the land they 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 the flood, 7 fThe poor man's club, which partakes of tile nature cf a friendly society, is described with "that good-hearted indul- gence which marks all Mr. Crabbe's writings. — Jefi key.] THE BOROUGH. And drank exulting in the sacred spring, The critics told him it was no such thing; That springs unnumber'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 ; .Alight question still if all the truth we found, And firmly stood upon the certain ground; AY'c might our title to the Mystery dread, And fear we drank not at the river-head. Griiji/n and Greynrians here their meeting hold, Convivial Serfs, and /lucks 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 lwrd 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. AVhen the faint hands no more a brimmer hold, AV'hcn flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold, The breath impeded, and the bosom cold; When half the pillow'd rnnn the pnlsy chains, And the blood falters in the bloated veins, — Then, as our friends no further aid supply Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh, AVc 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 '» something pleasant in a social crowd, Who laugh with us — but will such joy remain, AVhcn we lie struggling on the bed of pain/ A\ hen mir physician tells us with a sigh, No more on hope and science to rely, Life's statT is useless then; with labouring breath We pray for Hope divine — the stall' of Death ; — 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' uspiring heart to love divine. Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run. Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to slum ; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone. "Sing, heavenly Muse I Tiling unattemptcd yet in prose or rhyme, A shilling, breeches and chimerns dire!" PHILIPS s Splendid Shilling. " Lend me thy clarion. Goddess I let me try To sound the praise of merit ere it dies, LETTER XI. All the comforts of life in a Tavern are known, P T is his home who possesses not one of his own ; And to him who hu rather too much of that one, 'T is the house of a friend where he 's welcome to run ; The instant you enter my door you 're my Lord, With whose taste and whose pleasure I 'm proud to accoid ; And the louder vou call, and the longer you stay, The more I am happy to serve and obey. To the house of a friend if you 're pleased to retire, A'ou must all things admit, you must all things admire ; A'ou must pay with observance the price of your treat, A'ou must t*at what is praised, and must praise what you eat; But here you may come, and no tax we require, A'ou may loudly condemn what you greatly admire; A'ou may growl at our wishes and pains to excel, And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well. At your wish we attend, and confess that your speech On the nation's affairs might the minister teach ; His views you may blame, and his measures oppose, There 's no Tavern-treason — you 're under the Hose ; Should rebellions arise in vour own little state, With me you may safely their consequence wait ; To recruit your lost spirits 't is prudent to come, And to fly to a friend when the devil 's at home. That I've faults is confess'd ; but it won't be denied, 'Til my interest the faults of my neighbors to hide ; If I '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 ; Arnl for brawls at mv house, well the poet explains. That men drink shallow draughts, nnd 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 — The large deserted Tavern — Those of a second Order — Their Company— One of particular Description — A lower kind of Public-Mouses; yet distinguished among them- selves — Iloufs on the Quays for Sailors— The (Jrecn Man ; its Landlord, and the Adventure of his Marriage, &c. Mi'cu 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, AVhen of our subject we are must afraid : Inns are this subject — 't is an ill-drawn lot, So, thou who gravely tritlest, fail me not; Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing : Thou mnd'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. 3 Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please, These scats of revelry, these scenes of case ; Such as I oft have chaunccd to espy Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity." Siienstove's Schoolmistress. 11 This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fume. And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name." Pope's Rape of the lack. 214 CRABBE'S WORKS. Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread, And needs assistance from the fountain-head. High in the street, o'erlooking all the place, The rampant 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 c-omfort shall to them he lost Who never ask or never feel the cost. The ample yards 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 ; Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite — " Your honour's servant " — " Mister Smith, good night." 4 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 t he 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 bound. — 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 Caroline ; But in decay — each feature in the face Has stain of Time, and token of disgrace. 4 [The White Lion is one of the principal inns at Aid- borough. The landlord shows, with no little exultation, an old-fashioned parlour, the usual scene of convivial meetings, in which the poet Had his share. See ante, p. 30.] 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 betwixt ; A soil'd and broken sconce, a mirror crack'd, With 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 owner 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 length en'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 cali, then hasten' 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. 5 [Original edition : — Have, like the guillotine, the royal neel-. Parted in twain — the figure is a wreck.] THE BOROUGH. 215 Her port in bottles stood, a wcll-stain'd row, Drawn for the evening from the pipe below; Three powerful spirits fillet 1 a parted case, Some cordial bottles stood in secret place ; Fair acid-fruits in nets above were seen, Her plutc was splendid, and her glasses clean ; Basins and bowls were ready on the stand, Anrl measures clatter'd in her powerful hand. Inferior I louses now our notice claim, But who shall deal them their appropriate fame ? Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell, Between the peel complete and single Bell? Determine ye, who On your 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 Orb, or half the lunar Face? With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine? Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine? Horses the irliitc or blacli will ye prefer? The Silver-Swan or Swan opposed to her — Bnre bird ! 0 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 Bonr? — there are who cry, " Bcwnre 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 sec Some kind young Nieces in her company : Poor villnge nieces, whom the tender dame Invites to town, nnd gives their beauty Fame; The grateful sisters del th' important aid. Anil tho good Aunt is tlnttei'd nnd repaid. What, though it may some eool observers strike. That such fair sisters should be so unlike ; That still another and another come*!, Ami 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 nil are valued, all ore denr, Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear. Yet let Suspicion bide her odious bend, And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread ; A pious friend, who with tho 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 nil, 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 I — 't is false upon my life. Next nrc a lower kind, yet not so low But they, nmong them, their distinctions know ; Ami when n thriving landlord aims so high, As to exchange the Chequer for the Bye, " Itnrn avis in tenia, ni>;roqiic 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 ; Where 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 .Tolly Sailors — pass, Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass ? The Anchor too affords the seaman joys, In small smoked room, all 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 sec? " We drink nnd 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 Jamrs upon his sign-post hung? His sign his imngc, — for he was once seen A squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green ; Frc yet with wages more, and honour less, He stood behind me in a graver dress. .Tnmes in an evil hour went forth to woo Young Ji'lirl /furt, and wns her Romeo: They M seen the play, and thought it vastly sweet For two young lovers by the moon to meet; The nymph wns 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, nnd heard his tender tale When snng the lnrk, and when the nightingale : So in few months the generous lnss was seen I' the way that all the Copulets had been. Then first repentance seized the amorous man, And — shame on love ! — he renson'd and he ran ; The thoughtful Borneo 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 disinay'd liiin as he view'd its ti'ngs, Now Bity seized him for his Juliet's pangs : Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail, Where all would blame him, nnd where none might bnil ; These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appenr'd, Where love had drawn him when he should have fenr'd. There sat the father in his wicker throne, L'ttcring his curses in tremendous tone : With foulest names his daughter he reviled, And Iook'd a very llcrod at the child : Nor wns she patient, but with equal scorn, Bade him remember when his Joe was born : 21G 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 your love as wife and mother claim, " What can it matter which was first the name ? " But 'tis most base, 'tis perjury and theft, " When a lost girl is like a widow left ; " The rogue who ruins — " here the father found His 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 days of youth, " To find two lasses pleading for my truth ; " The case was hard, I would with all my soul " Have wedded both, but 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 : you '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 taught thee to deny : " But, James, with me thou hadst an easier task, " Bonds and conditions I forbore to ask ; " I laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans, " Kor 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 boy. Motives like these could heart of flesh resist ? James took the infant and in triumph kiss'd ; Then to his mother's arms the child restored, Made his proud speech and pledged his worthy word. 7 If tliis Letter should be found to contain nothing inter- esting or uncommon ; if it describe things which we behold everv day, and som* 1 which we do not wish lo behold at any time: let it lie considered that it is one of the shortest, and that, from a poem whose subject was a Borough, populous and wealthy, these places of public accommodation could not, without some impropriety, be excluded. 1 Strolling players are thus held in a legal sense. 2 " The strolling tribe, 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 the wedding-day." James at my door then made his parting bow, Took the Green-Man, and is a master now. 7 LETTER XII. Those are monarehs none respect, Heroes, yet an humbled crew. Nobles, whom the crowd correct, Wealthy men, whom duns pursue ; Beauties shrinking from the view Of the day's detecting eye ; Lovers, who witli much ado Long- forsaken damsels woo, And heave the ill-feignd sigh. These are misers, craving means Of existence through the day, Famous scholars, conning scenes Of a dull bewildering play ; Ragged beaux and misses grey t Whom the rabble praise and blame Proud and mean, and sad and gay, Toiling after ease, are they, Infamous, 1 and boasting fame. PLAYERS. They arrive in the Borough — Welcomed by their former Friends — Are better fitted for Comic than Tragic Scenes : yet better approved in the latter by one Part of their Audience — Their general Character and Pleasantry — Particular Distresses and Labours — Their Fortitude and 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 annual call, we now behold Our Troop Dramatic, heroes known of old, And those, since last they march'd, enlisted and enroird : Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some, The rest on foot ( the humbler brethren) come. 2 Three favour'd places, an unequal 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 public rooms shall sound with words divine, And private lodgings hear how heroes shine ; Vagrants by law, to justice open laid, They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid. And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life To Madam May'ress, or his Worship's wife. The mighty monarch, in theatric sack Carries his whole regalia at his back ; Kis royal consort heads the female band, And leads the heir-apparent in her hand ; The pannierd ass creeps on with conscious pride, Bearing a future prince on either side." — Churchill. 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 sec what each can do, — Behold ! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew ; Change but the garment, and they 'II all engage To take eacli part, and act in every age : Cull'd from all houses, what a house are they ! Swept from all barns, our liorough-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; Hut then our servants' and our seamen's wives I,ovc all that rant and rapture as their lives; lie who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain, 3 Finds as King Kichurd he must roar amain — " My horse ! my horse 1 " — Lo ! now to their abodes, 4 Come lords anil 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 they too long remain, Hut grass will rise ere they return again. Children of Thespis, welcome; knights nnd queens ! Counts ! barons ! beauties ! when before your scenes, And mighty monnrchs thund'ring from your throne; Then step behind, and all your glory's gone: Of crown and palace, throne and gunrds bereft, The pomp is vnnish'd, and the care is left. 5 Yet strong and lively is the joy they feci, When the full house secures the plenteous meal; Flatt'ring and llatter'd, each attempts to raise A brother's merits for a brother's praise : For never hero shows a prouder heart, Than he who proudly octs 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 Tin 1 prince we honour, nnd the knave we spurn ; Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd. The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud : These are their parts, — ami he who these sustains, Deserves senile praise nnd profit f..r hi- pains. Heroes at least of gentler kind are they, 3 [In Vanhrugli's comedy of ' The I'rovokcd Htubtnd. 1 ] * ["It is true, indeed, that the principal actors on our rustic boards have must of tlieni had thrtr education in Covcnt Uarden or Drury Line ; but they have been employed in the business of the drama in a decree but just above a scene- shifter. The attendants on a monarch strut monarchs them- selves, mutes find their voices, and message-bearers rise into heroes. The humour of our best comedian consists in shrugs atid grimaces ; he jokes in a wrv mouth, and repartees in a grin; in short, he practises on (.'ongrevc and \uuhrugli all thme distortions that gained him so much applause from the galleries in the drubs which he was condemned to undergo in pantomimes." — Tiioknhii.l.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 pnss'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 ; 6 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 affliction, 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 arc transient, as your joys arc dreams. Yet keen those griefs — ah ! what avail thy charms, Fair Juliet ! 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 henrt-achc of the night; To dress in gnudy 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 n veteran Dame : I see her stand Intent nnd 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, Anil fits her 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 arc seen, In the plain actress than the Danish queen, — At length she feels her pnrt, she finds delight, And fancies all the plaudits of the night: s " In shnbby state they stmt, in tatter'd robe, The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe : No high conceits their moderate wishes raise. Content w ith humble profit, humble praise. Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, The 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. 6 " lie who to-night is seated on a throne. Calls subjects, empires, kingdoms, all his own, Who wears tile diadem and regal robe, Next morning shall awake as poor as Job." 218 CRABBE'S WORKS. Old as she is, she smiles at every speech, And. thinks no youthful part beyond her reach ; But as the mist of vanity again Is blown 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 honey' d words his deathless flame, And she his own 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 ! the grief and scandal of the troop ; A wretched martyr to a childish pride, Her woe insulted, and her praise denied : Her humble talents, though derided, used, Her prospects lost, her confidence abused ; AH 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 you cherish, and what books ye read ! A decent sum had Peter Knit age 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 biiss, he wish'd to know Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow ; For if the seeing could such pleasure bring, What must the feeling ? — feeling like a king ? 7 [This was written, in 1709, soon after Mr. Crabbe had seen a rehearsal at the " Theatre Royal," Aldborough. The " veteran dame " was the lady manager, who, seated in her chair of state, corrected the rest, as tar as her evidently ab- stracted attention would allow. Her husband enacted Othello, and shouted lustily for the " /umhercher."} 5 [The history of the stage might afford many instances of those who, in the trade of death, might have slain men, yet have condescended to deal counterfeit slaughter from then- right hands, and administer harmless bowls of poison. We In vain his 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 Roscius-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 stops 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 ; Waiters 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. B 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 are Who dwell on former prospects, and despair ; Justly but vainlj 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 line, — 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 bis station — -what would Frederick be? 'Twas soon determined — He could not descend To pedant-laws and lectures without end ; And then the chopel — night and morn to pray, Or mulct and threaten'd if he kept away ; No ! not to be a bishop — so he swore, And at his college he was seen no more. His debts all paid, the father, with 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. might read also of persons whose fists were intended to beat * the drum ecclesiastic,' who have themselves become theatri- cal volunteers. In regard to the law, many who were origin- ally designed to manifest their talents for elocution in West- minster Hall, have displayed them in IJrury Lane; and it may be added, on theatrical authority, that — " Not e'en Attorneys have this rage withstood, But changed their pens for truncheons, ink for blood. And, strange reverse ! — died for their country's good." Thornhit.l.] 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, cquipp'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 fcign'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 sicken'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 lesscn'd on their view, They cjst off doubt, and hope assurance grew ; — Nursed by his sisters, cherish'd by his sire, Bcgg'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 pardon, comfort, kindness draw The youth from vire ? will honour, duty, law i 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 ; Ami when he chose a vagabond to be, lie made his shame his glory — " 1 '11 be free." 0 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 wen- tried : One strong vain trial made, the inind to move, Was the last effort of parental love. , K'en then he watch'd his father from his homo, And to his mother would for pity come, Where, as he made her tender terrors rise, He tnlk'd of death, and threaten'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, II' 1 found a home, a duty, and a wife. His present friends, though they were nothing nice, Nor ask'd how vicious he, or what his vice, • [Original edition : — Vice, dreadful habit I when momed so Ion?, Becomes nt length invejeratcly 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 6hall say where guided ? to what scats 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, — lie now became the harlots' humble drudge, Their drudge in common ; they combined to save Awhile from sturving 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 rngc of hunger, and the sigh for case ; He who abused indulgence, now became By want subservient, and by misery tame ; A slave, he bcgg'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 stretch'd th' unpalsicd hand : the seaman felt His honest heart with gentle pity melt, And his smnll boon with cheerful frankness dealt ; Then made inquiries of th' unhappy youth, Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth. " Young Frederick 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 takes possession, and for ever reigns.] 220 CRABBE'S WORKS. 1 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. 10 LETTER XIII. Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. — Pom. There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pool, And do a wilful stillness entertain ; With 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 ; quis enim neget ? felixque manebo : Hoc quoque quis dubitet ? Tutum me copia fecit. THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES. The 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 — His Eulogium in the Chronicles of the Day — Truth reckoned invidious on these Occasions — An explanation of the Magnaminity and Wisdom of Sir Denys — His kinds of Moderation and Humility — Laughton, his Successor, a planning, ambitious, wealthy Man— Ad- vancement in Life his perpetual Object, and all things made the means of it — His Idea of Falsehood — His Resent- ment dangerous ; how removed — Success produces Love of Flattery: his daily Gratification — 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 behold Those pleasant Seats for the reduced and old ; 10 The Letter on Itinerant Players will to some appear too harshly written, their profligacy exaggerated, and their dis- tresses magnified ; but though the respectability 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 him 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 then he walk'd, and found his anger rise When Are and rushlight met his troubled eyes ; But these extinguish'd, and his 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 wore 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, Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show. The founder's picture and his arms were there (Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair ; There, 'mid these signs of his superior place, Sat the mild ruler of this humble race. Within the row are men who strove in vain, Through years of trouble, wealth and ease to gain ; body; though some actore be sober, and some managers prudent; still there is vice and misery left more than sufficient to justify my description. But, if I could find only one woman (who pass- ing forty years on many stages, and sustaining many principal THE BOROUGH. 221 Less must they have than an appointed sum, And freemen been, or hither must not come ; They should 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 ungovem'd and the band unbound? His house endovv'd, the generous man rcsign'd All power to rule, nay power of choice declined ; He and the female saint survived to view Their work complete, and bade the world adieu! Six arc the Guardians of this happy seat, And one presides when they on business meet ; As each expires, the five a brother choose ; Nor would Sir Deni/s Brand the charge refuse; True, 't was 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 rend ; There we the glory of thy house shall trnce, With each alliance of thy noble race. Yes! here we have him! — "Came in William's reign, " The Norman limntl ; the blood without a stain ; " From the fierce Dane and ruder Saxon clear, " I'ict, Irish, Sent, 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 nil merits were decreed to meet, " Sincere though cautious, frank ami 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 her nnrespoctod eld nge, that there was no workhouse to which she couM legally sue for admis- sion ; in could produce only One female, seduced upon the I' > inl>, and starved in her lodging, compelled by her poverty to flin^r, and by her sufferings to weep, without any prospect but misery, or any consolation hut death ; If I could exhibit only 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 ac- 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; Ami 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 ogrec " Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity : " His were no vulgar charities; none saw " Him like the Merchant to the hut withdraw; 11 He left to meaner minds the simple deed, " By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed ; " His was a public bounty vast and grand, " 'T was not in him to work with viewless hand; " He raised the Boom 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 Pace; " To every public act this hearty friend " Would give with freedom or with frankness lend ; " His money built the Jail, nor prisoner yet " Sits at his cose, but he must feel the debt ; " To these let candour ndd his vast display; " Around his mansion all is grand and gay, " And this is bounty with the name of pay." I grant the whole, nor from 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, when 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 hissesgive them no oilier pain than what arises from the fear of not being trusted, 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 pamper'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 : 1 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 shuffled 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 !" " Poor ! it may be — such things I never heed :" And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien, Fquipp'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 horse " 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 ye, 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 who 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 I" 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 ?" 2 The Steward soon had orders — " Summers, see " That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me." Sir Denys died, bequeathing all affairs In trust to Laughton's long-experienced cares ; Before a Guardian, and Sir Denys dead, All rule and power devolved upon his head, 1 [Original edition :— You 'd meet Sir Benys in a morning ride, And be convinced he 'd not a spark of pride.] 5 [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 controll'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 ho 'd the art Of bringing money to the surest mart ; Friends too were aids, — they led to certain ends, Increase of power and claim on other friends. A favourite step was marriage : 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 might 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 prevail'd, Nor was it tried till ev'ry truth had fail'd ; No sage on earth could more than he despise Degrading, poor, 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 which the guests have paid. At length, with power endued and wealthy grown, Frailties and passions, longsuppress'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 hour, And his proud vengeance struck with all his power, Crabbe, who had previously lived with the original, with L'reat simplicity confessed that she trembled whenever she met him ; and " was more afraid of him than she was of God Almighty." The name of the person is omitted — it would only serve to wound the feelings of his 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, Uy 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, posscss'd, 1'ear'd, favour'd, follow'd, dreaded and caress'd, He gently yields to one mellifluous joy, The only sweet that is not found to cloy, Bland adulation ! — other pleasures pall On the sick taste, and transient are 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 standcr>-by ; Yet in all companies will Laughton feed, Nor rare how grossly men perform the deed. As gapes the nursling, or, what conies more near, Some Friendly-Island chief, for hourly cheer; When wives and slaves, attending round his scat, 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, l'our the crude trash of a dependent mind. But let the .Muse assign the man his due, Worth he posscss'd, nor were his virtues few : — He sometimes help'd the injured in their cause; His power and purse have bnck'd the failing laws ; He for religion has a due respect, And all his serious notions arc correct; Although he pniy'd und hinguish'd for a son, He grew resign'd when lleuven denied him one ; lie never to this quiet mansion sends Subject unfit, in compliment to friends; Not so Sir Denys, who would yet protest lie 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. 3 3 For the Alms-house itself, its Governor, and Inhabitants, I owe not much to olTer in favour of the subject or of the character. One of these, Sir Denys Brand, may he 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, whore he might have ap- peared with those in Ids own rank : but then it is most un- certain whether he would ever appear, and he has been so LETTER XIV. INIIAUITANTS OF THE AXMS-UOUSE. Sed quia caucus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum Despicilur ; suadent brevem pnesentia fructum, Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido. Claud, in Eulrup. Nunquam parvo contenta paratu, Et quaesitorum terra pelagoque ciborum Ambitiosa fames, et lauUc gloria mensts. — I.- • ' . Et l.uxus, populator Opum, tibi semper adherens, Jnfclix humiii gressu comitatur E^estas. Claud, in Ruf. Ilehold what blessing wealth to life can lend.— Poi'E. LIFE OF ULANEY.i Blaney, a wealthy Ilrir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty— His fortune restored by Marriage; again consumed — His Manner of Living in the West Indies - Recalled to a larger Inheritance— His more refined and expensive Luxuries — His method of quieting Conscience — Death of his Wife — Again liecomc poor— His method of supporting Existence — His Ideas of Religion — His Habits and Connections when old — Admitted into the Alms-house. Observe that tall pale Veteran ! what a look Of shame and guilt ! — who cannot read that book ? Misery and mirth are blended in his face, .Much innate vilcness and some outward grace; There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen, Looks ever changed, and never one serene : Show not that manner, and these features all, The 6crpcnt's cunning nnd the sinner's fall? Hark to that laughter! — '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 nnd repent. Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one, At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone, These years with grievous crimes we need not load, lie found his ruin in the common road ! — (■tuned 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 (lights of vice, To singing harlots of enormous price : lie took a jockey in his gig to buy A horse, so valued, that a duke was shy : To gain the plaudits of the knowing few, Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do? II is dearest friend, at that improving age, Was Ilounslow Dick, who drove the western stage. Cruel he was not — if he left his wife, He left her to her own pursuits in bfe ; many years prepared for the public, whenever opportunity might ofl'er, that I have at length given hiin 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 town on the eastern coast.] 224 CRABBE'S WORKS. 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 had 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 bread suffice, Correct his habits and restrain his vice. Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach) To find what pleasures were within his reach ; These he enjoy'd, though not in just the style He once possess'd them in his 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. 2 What could he now ? — The man had tried before The joys of youth, and they were joys 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 youthful 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, deem'd the light of truth. He different works for different cause admired, Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired ; 2 [To the character of Blaney we object, as offensive from its extreme and impotent depravity. The first part of his his- tory, however, is sketched with a masterly hand, and affords a good specimen of that sententious and antithetical manner by which Mr. Crabbe sometimes reminds us of the style and versification of Pope. — Jeffrey.] 3 [The autl jr of " The Oracles of Reason," and of an infidel treatise entitled "Anima Mundi." He put an end to his existence by shooting himself, in 1693. J 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, 3 and Mandcville, 4 and Chubb, 5 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 ; Yet was he kind and careful of her 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 sorrows, 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, s 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 pleasure skill : By his own idle reckoning he supposed His wealth would last him till his life was closed; But no ! he found this final hoard was spent, While he had years to suffer and repent. Yet, at the last, his noble mind to show, And in his misery how he bore the blow. He view'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 through 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 say, " Alas ! poor Blaney is undone ! " — Those 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 " The Fable of the Bees," written to prove that moral virtue is the invention of knaves, and Christian virtue the imposition of fools ; that vice is necessary, and alone sufficient to render society flourishing and happy.] 5 [ A noted deistical writer. He died in 1710, leaving be- hind him two volumes of tracts, which were afterwards pub- lished.] 8 [" What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste ? " Some demon whispered, ' Visto! have a Taste.'"— Pope.] THE BOROUGH. Lo ! now the hero shuffling through the town, To hunt a Her lively and pleasant Manners— Her Heading and Decision — Her Intercourse with different Classes of Society— Her Kind of Character— The favoured Lover — Her Manage- ment of him : his of her— After one I'eriod, Clelia w ith an Attorney: her Manner and Situation there Another such Period, w hen her Fortune still declines— Mistress of an Inn — A Widow — Another such Interval : she becomes poor and intlrm, but still vain and frivolous - The fallen Vanity — Admitted into the House : meets Ulaney. Wr. had a sprightly nymph — 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." ran afford them. These characters demand some attention, because thev 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 w ho are always in danger of tailing into vicious habits, because they have too much activity to be quiet, and too little strength to be steady. 1 [Clelia, like Blaney, is a strong resemblance of an indi vidual known to Mr. Crabbe in early life. She has been dead nearly hall a century ; but, having relatives, it would Jje wrong to be more particular.] 226 CRABBE'S Arch 'was her look, and she had pleasant ways Tour good opinion of her heart to raise ; Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd, And well she judged the tempers she address'd : If some soft stripling' had her keenness felt, She knew the way to make his anger melt; Wit was allow' d her, though but 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, perhaps, 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 Whitcchapel 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 seem'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 that training he was deeply taught, And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought ; He knew how far directly on to go, How to recede and dally to and fro ; How to make all the passions his allies, And, when he saw them in contention rise, To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise. Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part, To make sure conquest of such gentle heart — Qf one so mild and humble ; for she saw In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe. WORKS. Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime, Nor virtuous all her thoughts ; '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, Man 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 C'lelia'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 the lambent flame, And offer' d her a home, — and home she came. There, though her 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 would 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 suffer'd in this trying ten ; The pair had parted : who to him attend, Must judge the nymph unfaithful.to her friend ; But who on her 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 Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen, Some touch oi' sorrow, some attack of spleen ; Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay, And lively speech and elegant array. The (iiitlin's landlord these allured so far, He 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 (jriffin needed) to submit: Gaily to dress and in the bar preside, Soothed the 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, Hib vulgar insult, and her keen abuse; And as their spirits wasted in the strife, Both took the Trillin's ready aid of life ; But she with greater prudence — Harry tried More powerful nid, 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; («ay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired, Kind without love, nnd vain if not admired. Another term is past ; ten other years In various trials, troubles, views, and fears: Of these some pnss'd in small attempts at trade ; Houses she kept for widowers lately made; For now she said, "They'll miss th'cndcaring friend, " And I 'II be there the soften'd heart to bend:" And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd — The heart was soften'd, but nhe miss'd the hand ; She wrote a novel, and Sir Dcnys said The dedication was the best he read ; ButiCdgc wort lis, Smiths, and liadcliflesso engross'd The public, ear, that all her pains were lost. To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last, 'Micro too she fail'd, nnd 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; nnd yet that wounded pride, Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd. Though now her tales were to hoi audience fit ; Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit. Though now. her dress — (but let me not explain Tin' piteous patchwork of th'' needy-vain, Tin' liirtish form to coarse materials lent. And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent) ; Though nil 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 court; And. strnnge delight ! to that same house where she Join'd in the dance, all gaiety nnd glee, s [" Clrlia is another worthless chnrncter that is drawn with inlinite spirit, ami a thorough knowledge of human nature. She began life as a sprightly, talking, flirting girl, who passed for a wit nnd a besot; in the hair-bred circle of tho Itoroin?h,and who, in laying herself out tn entrap a youth of distinction, unfortunately fell a victim to his superior art, aud forfeited her place in society. She then became the Now with the menials crowding to the wall. She 'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball, And with degraded vanity unfold, 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 scat, nnd " There " We sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor." Not quite correct in what she now relates, She niters persons, nnd she forges dates ; And, finding memory's wenker help decay'd, She boldly calls invention to her aid. Touch'd by the pity he had felt before, For her Sir Dcnys oped the Alms-house door : " With all her finite," he snid, "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 end Blaney meet, nnd take their view Of nil the pleasures they would still pursue: Hour nfter hour they sit. nnd nothing hide Of vices past; their follies are their pride; What to the sober and the cool arc crimes, They boost — 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, nnd curse their rigorous fate. 4 LETTER XVI. INI! MUTANTS OK THE AI.MS-IIOUSE. Ebrietas tihi Ada comes, QU I.uxus, et atria Circa te semper vidimus Inumin pent! is. Sti.vms Italiccs. BENBOW. Bonbow, an improper Companion for the Thidgemen of the Almshouse— Ho resembles Hardnlph— Left in Trade by his Father— Contracts useless Friendships— His Friends drink with him, nnd employ others — Called worthy and honest I Why — Ell'ect of Wine on the Mind of Man — Hcnbow's common Subject— The I'raise of departed Friends nnd Patrons— 'Squire Asgill, nt the Grange : his Manners, Servants, Friends — True to his Church : ought therefore to lie spared — His Son's different Conduct — Vexation o.' the Father's Spirit if ndmitted to sec the Alteration — Captain Howling, n boon Companion, ready to drink at all Times, nnd with any Company : famous in his Club-room — His easy Hpparture — Dolly Mnrrnv, a Maiden advanced in Years: abides by Natalia and Cards— Her free Manners — Her Skill in the «Jame— Her Prepnrntion and Death— Henhnw, how interrupted : his Submission. See ! yonder badgeman with that glowing face, A meteor shining in this sober place ! smnrt mistress of a dishing nttorney— then tried to tench a school— lived as the favourite of an innkeeper— let lodginga— wrote novels— set up a tov-shop— and. Anally, was ndmitted into the alms-house. There is nothing very Interesting, perhaps, in such n story ; but the details of it show the won- derful accuracy of the author's observation of character, and give it, nnd many of his other pieces, a value of the same Q 2 228 CRABBE'S WORKS. Vast sums were paid, and many years were past, Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast ! Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore, Cuiding his master to the tavern door; 1 There first that meteor rose, and there alone, In its due place, the rich effulgence shone : But this strange fire the seat of peace invades And shines portentous in these solemn shades. Benbow, a boon companion, long approved By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved, Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone, And deem'd injurious to himself alone : Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard To trade, and fail'd; and some declared "'twas hard :" These were his friends — 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, Well 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, " I speak my mind, I love the truth," quoth he ; Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find, 'T is sometimes prudent not to speak the mind. With wine inflated, man is all upblown, And feels a power which he believes his own ; With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks His all the virtues all the while he drinks ; But when the gas from the balloon is gone, When sober thoughts and serious cares come on, Where then. the worth that in himself he found?' — ■ Vanish'd — and he sank grov'ling on the ground. Still some conceit will Benbow'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, though 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 he paints ; Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints. kind that some pictures are thought to derive from the truth and minuteness of the anatomy which they display. There is something original, too, and well conceived, in the tenacity with which he represents this frivolous person as adhering to her paltry characteristics under every change of circum- stances." — Jkf FHEY.] " Alas ! alas ! " Old England now may say, " My glory withers ; 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 ! " 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 flowers, " 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 hall ; " But better nature saw, with much delight, " The different orders of mankind unite : " 'T was 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, though 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 i-equire ? " '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 Burning Lamp • if thou wast any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be bv this fire. 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."— Sua kspeare. THE BOROUGH. 229 " You would the flower of oil your audience lose, " And spend your crackers on their empty pews. " The father dead, the son has found a wife, " And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life; — " The lands are now enclosed ; the tenants all, " Save ut a rent-day, never see the hall ; " No lass is suffer'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 o 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 hng 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 body 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 everyone ! how sternly would it store : " And though it might not to their view appear, " 'T would cause among them lassitude and feor ; i " Then wait to sec — where he delight has seen — " The dire effect of frctfulness and spleen. '• Such wit" the worthies of these better days; "We had Iheir blessings — they shall have our praise. '• Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak ? I " I 'd sit and sing bis praises for a week : l " lie was a innii, and man-like all his joy, — " I 'in led tO question was he ever boy? " Beef was his breakfast ; — if from sea ami salt, " It relish'd better with his wine of malt ; " Then, till he dined, if walking in or out, " Whether the grnvel teased him or the gout, " Though short in wind and llanmTd every limb. " lie drank with all who had n>i rns wi b him : " Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came, " They found him ready, every hour the same ; " Whatever liquors might between them pass, " lie took them all, and never balk'd his glass : " Nay, with the seamen working in the ship. | " At their request, he'd shnre the grog and flip. " But in the club-room was his chief delight. " And punch the favourite liquor of the night; " 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 nn 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 sulTer'd no man her free soul to vex, Her sex's pnttern, without thoughts of sex ; Our timid girls ami lovers, half afraid, All shunn'd the speeches of the franh old maid.] "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 lost, his feet upon the choir, " 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 checr'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 my 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 piny : " She loved the social game, the decent glass, " And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass; " We sat not then at Whist demure and still, " But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille : " l.ame 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 chcer'd, the winner crown'd). " Mistress of secrets, both the young and old " In her confided — not a tale she told : " Love never mode impression on her mind. " She held him weak, and all his captives blind ; '• She sufler d no man her free soul to vex, " Free from the weakness of her gentle Bex ; " One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate, " In cool discussion or in free debate. 4 " Once in her chair we M 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 cords she cost " A smiling look ; I saw the thought that poss'd : " ' A king," she call'd — though conscious of her skill, " ' Do more,' I answer'd — ' More,' she said, " I 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, 1 't is fairly won, " ' My game is ended and my work is done;' — " This said, she gently, with n single sigh, " Died ns one taught ami practised how to die. " Such were the dead-deported ; I survive, '• To breathe in pain among the dead-alive." The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray, " Again ! " said Benbow. — " tolls it every day? " Where is the life I led?" — He sigh'd and walk'd his way. 3 3 Benbow may be thought too low and despicable to be admitted here ; hut he is a borough-character, and however disgusting in some respects a picture may be, it will please some, and be tolerated by many, if it can boast that one merit of being a faithful likeness. 230 CRABBE'S WORKS. LETTER 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. — Martial. Nil negat, et sese vel non poseentibus offert. — Claudian. Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno ; Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris. — Martial. THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS. Christian Charity anxious to provide for future as well as present Miseries — Hence the Hospital for the Diseased — Description of a recovered Patient — The Building : how erected — The Patrons and Governors — Eusebius — The more active Manager of Business a moral and correct Contributor — One of different 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 enougli 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 ; Will 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, And 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, Each 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 every aid apply,) And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die. See ! one relieved from anguish, and to-day . . Allow'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 ; 1 [Caligula, being in a rage at the people for favouring a party in the Circensian games in opposition to him, cried out, '■ I wish the Roman people had but one neck."] 2 [It was never doubted by Mr. Crabbe's family that 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 view he meditates a prayer : No evil counsels in his breast abide, There joy and love, and gratitude reside. The wish that Koman necks in one were found, 1 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 he 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 was her prayer address'd, Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd : Unwieldy Wealth 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 lie display'd, And Charity with joy the dome surveyed ; Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame, And Piety, the joy that makes no claim. Patrons there are, and Governors, from whom The 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 ? 3 The man is willing, but the Muse is weak ; — 'T is thine to wait on woe ! to soothe ! to heal ! 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, conscience, honour, all obey'd ; all give Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live ; While faith, when life can nothing more supply, Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die. 3 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 high because so fix'd below ; As wider spreads the oak his bows around, When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground. Eusebius was designed for a portraiture of Burke.] 3 " Let us, since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die." Pope. THE BOROUGH. 231 By him, from ward to ward, is every aid The sufferer needs, with every care convey' d : Like 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 1 las 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 car° aad zeel But few can equal — few indeed can feel; He 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 '. " the landman oft would sigh When the gale frcshen'd and the waves ran high ; And « hen they parted, with a tear he 'd say, " more adventure'. — here in safety stay." Nor diil he feign ; with more than half he had would have kept the seaman, ami 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 Kphraim spent. This Thomas heard, and cared not : " I," quoth he, " Have one in port upon the watch for me." So Kphraim died, and when the will was shown, faaac, 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, 11c died before he could forgive the wrong. The rich man built a house, both large und high, He enter'd in and set him down to sigh ; lie planted ample woods und gardens fair. And walk'd with anguish and compunction there: The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat, lie saw with pain, and he refused to cat; His daintiest food, bis richest wines, were all Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall : The softest down by living body prcss'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 Ii is bed : Nervous he grew. — would often sigh and groan, He talk'd but little, and he 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. Orabbe's graver descriptions there is a tone ot' chastised anil unambitious serenity, which has a powerful influence on the heart, and affects it like the quiet glow of a mild evening. In reading of the passions of Eu- Mbloi habitually rallying on the side of virtue, we arc forcibly reminded of one of the sublimest traits in modern writing. It is the circumstance of the dying missionary in * Elizabeth,' who spends nij last breath in prayer, not for himself, but for And as his hands their aid to grief apply, lie 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 arc good ; And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door, He sleeps as soundly as when young 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 nil business, settles all affairs; lie 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 cxnmp'le for his native town. Slowly he speaks, ami 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 lav.. •' 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." no speaks, nnd lo ! — the very man you see, Prudent and temperate, just nnd 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, 1 1 is 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, anil 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! — 1 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 l'avoit frappe : tant etoit grande en son ami- l'habitude de la charite; tant, durant le cours de sa longue vie, il avoit neglige ses propres intcxets, pour ne longer qu'a ceux d'autrui, puisqu'au moment terrible de comparoitrc devant le trfinc du souverain Jugc, et de tombcr pour toujours dans lea abimes de I'cternite, ce n'ctoit pas encore a lui qu'il pensoit." — Uifford.] 232 CRABBE'S WORKS. That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite, And make the virtues he approves delight ; What dying martyrs, 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; 'tis 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 joys 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 that 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 : "Rest 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 heart ! 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. 5 The characters of the Hospital Directors were written manv vears since, and, so far as I was capable of judging, are draw n 'with fidelity. 1 mention this circumstance that, if any reader should find a dill'erence in the versification or ex- pression, he will be thus enabled to account fur it. : The Poor are here almost of necessity introduced, for they must be considered, in every plac-, as a large and interesting portion of its inhabitants. I am aware of the great difficulty of acquiring just notions on the maintenance ami manage- ment of this class of our fellow -subjects, and I forbear to ex- Such are 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 expressed, But yet in charity ; — and when she sees Such means for joy or comfort, healthor 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. 5 LETTER XVII I. Bene paupertas Humili tecto contenta latet. — Seneca. Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundiE, magi' sunt, neseio quo modo, Snspiciosi ; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis ; Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi. T ERE NT. To quit of torpid sluggishness the cave, And from the pow'rful arms of sloth be free, 'T is rising from the dead — Alas ! it cannot be. — Thomson. THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS. 1 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 — A 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 quits 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 modes which have been dis- cussed or adopted : of one method only I venture to give my sentiments, — that of collecting the poor of a hundred into one building. This admission of a vast number of persons, of all ages and both sexes, of very different inclinations, habits, and capacities, into a society, must, at a first view, I conceive, be looked upon as a cause of both vice and misery ; nor does any thing which I have heard or read invalidate the opinion : happily, the method is not a prevailing one, as these houses ate, I believe, still confined to that part of the kingdom where they originated. THE HOROUGII. 233 A social people whom they 'vc over known, With their own thoughts, and manners like their own. At her old house, her dress, her air the same, • I sec mine ancient Letter-loving dame : " Learning, my child," said she, " shall fame com- mand ; " Learning is better worth than house or land — " For 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 hook ; From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought ; This she has learned, and she is nobly taught. If aught of mine have gain'd the public car; If Klti-and deigns these humble Talcs 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 laliour'd on to reach the final zad ? Shall I not grateful still the dame survey, And ask the Muse the poet's debt to pay? Nor 1 alone, who hold a trifler's pen, Hut half our bench of wealthy, weighty men, Who 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 Unremitted care, To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor: 41u ' —who could th' ambitious changeling tell, That what he sought our rulers dared to sell? Near these a Sailor, in that hut of thatch ( .V fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match), Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a sent. Large as he wishes — in his view complete : A locklcss coffer and a lidless hutch That hold his stores, have room for twice as much : His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box, Lie all in view ; no need has he for locks : Here he abides, ami, 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, heroes every one, — You might as soon have made the steeple run; And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay, lie 'II one by one the gallant souls display, And as the story verges to an end, He'll win,d from deed to deed, from friend to friend ; 3 Show not to the poor thy pride, Let their home n cottn'go be ; Nor the Feeble body hide Inn pal nee lit for thee ; Let him not about him see Iytlty ceilings, ampin halls, Or a gate 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, which 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 Merchant : he declined, And, as they say, is not in perfect mind ; In his poor house, w ith one poor maiden friend, Quiet he paces to his journey's end. Kich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd ; Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd ; His spirits low, and his exertions small, He fell perforce, he scem'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, compcll'd by very need, in grief He wrote a proud petition for relief. '• lie 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 talcs of man's misfortunes tell: " 'Twos not a world for them, God help them, they " Could not deceive, nor flutter, nor betray ; " But there 's a happy change, a scene to come, "And they, God help them! 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 w ill grieve, the poor will weep and sigh, Both when they know, and when they know not w hy ; But we our bounty with such care bestow, That cause for grieving they shall seldom know. Your l'lan 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 wnlks, that lofty thund'ring hall. That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour, Those gates and locks, ami all those signs of power ; It is a prison, with a milder name, Which few inhabit without dread or shame. 2 Let him not one walk behold, That only one which he must tread, Nor n chamber large and cold, Where the aged nnd sick are led ; BeMer tar his humble shed, Ilumldc >lieds of neighbours by, And the old and tatter'd bed. Where he sleeps nnd hopes to die. 234 CRABBE'S WORKS. Bo it agreed — the Poor who hither come Partake of plenty, seldom found at home ; That airy rooms 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 What ills they feel, what partial acts they know, Not , without promise, nay desire to heal Each wrong they suffer, and each woe they feel. Alas ! 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 : They own there 's granted all such place can 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 (when 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 Iab'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, when here, the social neighbour meet ? Who learn the story 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 companions at their journey's end ? Here are not those whom they when infants knew ; Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew ; Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived ; Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived ; Whom time and custom so familiar made, That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd : But here to strangers, words nor looks impart The various movements of the suffering heart ; Nor will that heart with those alliance own, To whom its views and hopes are all unknown. What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy ? 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new ; Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, — The day itself is, like the night, asleep ; Or on the sameness if a break be made, 'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd; 3 [A gentleman intimately acquainted with the Poet and his native county, says, "I hope this Letter may he read by all those who have the power to continue or suppress those odious Houses of Industry, seen, thank God ! only in Suffolk, By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told, News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old ; By 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 wall, 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, by 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 parent's 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, every 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. 3 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 worth, 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 we not then contribute to their ease, In their old haunts, where ancient objects please ? That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace The well-known prospect and the long-loved face. The noble oak, in distant ages seen, With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green, Though now its bare and forky branches show How much it lacks the vital warmth below, The stately ruin yet our wonder gains, Nays, moves our pity, without thought of pains : Much 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 that, they are not very beneficial), in which the poor of a whole hundred are collected in one building — well fed and clothed, I grant — but imprisoned for lifel"] THE BOROUGH. 235 And shall we send him from our view, 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 Kow, Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops To see the sloping tenement on props, With building-yards innnix'd, and humble sheds and shops ; Where 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, By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by : Places like these the noblest town endures, The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers. Here i9 no pavement, no inviting shop, To give us shelter when compcll'd to 6top; But plashy puddles stand along the way, FilVd 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 shod ; observe it3 garden-ground, With (he low paling, form'd of wreck, around: There dwells a Fisher; if you view his l>< at, With bed and barrel — 'tis his house afli>:\t ; Look at h\s house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound, Tar, pitch, and oakum — 't is his boot aground : That space enclosed, but little he regards, Spread o'er with relicts of masts, sails, and yards : Pish 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 drcss'd. Sere our reformers come not ; none object Tn paths polluted, or upbraid neglect ; None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast. That coal-dust flics along the blinding blast: None heed the stagnant pools on either side. Where new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride : Kn Ineys in niu's here British valour boost, And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast. They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail, They point the bowsprit, anil they blow the gale : Ti ne to her port, the frigate scuds awoy, And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay: Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth, And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth ; Dread less he views his sea, by breezes ourl'd, When inch-high billows vex the watery world. There, fed by food they love, to rankest size. Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise; * Tlio scenery is, I musk acknowledge, in a certain degree, like that heretofore described in "'nie Vi Wage ;" hut that, also, was a maritime country : if the objects lie similar, the pictures must (in their principal features) lie alike, or be bail pictures. I have varied them us much us 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 year) is spread The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed : In every chink delights the fern to grow, With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below; 4 These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down, Form the contracted Flora 5 of the town. Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know? Then will I lead thee down the dusty Kow; By the worm alley and the long close lane, — There mark the fractured door and papcr'd pane, Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as wc pass, We fear to breathe the putrefying mass: But fearless yonder matron ; she disdains To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains; But mentis her meshes torn, and pours her lay All in the Stirling fervour of the day. Her naked children round the alley run, And roll'd in dust, arc bronzed beneath the sun. Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely drcss'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 wits veil'd in kerchief clean, Ami fancy left to form the charms unseen. But when a wife, she lost her former care, Nor thought on chnrms, nor time for dress could spare ; Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside, No rival beauty kept olive 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 Fach 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 decny; 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 •• M here he delights to sec the creatures come :" " They may be thieves;" — "Well, 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 fix'd, Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd — To union forced by crime, by fear, by need, And nil in morals and in modes agreed ; Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove; Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love ; s The reader, unacquainted with the language of botany, is informed that the Flora of a place means the vegetable 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 glass Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass, And give a dusty warmth to that huge room, The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom ; When all those western rays, without so bright, Within become a ghastly glimmering light, ■ As pale and faint upon the floor they fall, Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall : That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned, Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd ; 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 men 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 peg 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 employments, 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 purse, the person, or the prey. Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains ; There many a tea-cup's gaudy 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 : Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit 'Mid cares domestic, — they nor sew nor knit; But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars, With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars : These lead to present evils, and a cup, If fortune grant it, winds description up. 6 [The graphic powers of Mr. Crahbe are too frequently wasted on unworthy subjects. There is not, perhaps, in all English poetry, a more complete and highly-finished piece of painting than this description of a vast old boarded room or warehouse, which was let out, in the Borough, 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 lie imagination. — Jeffrey.] 1 [ he who covets wealth, disdains to wait : Law threatens, conscience calls, yet on he hies, And this he silences, and that defies.] 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 with the good, the evils too express, Doubling each look of care, each token of distress. 6 LETTER XIX. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. Nam dives qui fieri vult, Et cito vult fieri ; sed quae reverentia legum, Quis metus, aut pudor est unquam properantis avari ? Juv. Sat. xiv. 1 Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cura soporem, Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiescunt, Continuo templum et violati Numinis aras, Et quod pracipnis mentem sudoribus urget, Te videt in somnis ; tua sacra et major imago Humana turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri. Juv. Sat. xiii. 3 THE PAKISH-CLERIC The Parish-Clerk began Ids 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— His good Advice gives further Provocation — They invent Strata- gems to overcome his Virtue — His Triumph — He is yet not invulnerable : is assaulted by fear of Want, and Avarice — He gradually yields to the Seduction— He reasons with himself, and is persuaded — He offends, but with Terror; repeats his Offence ; grows familiar with Crime: is detected — His Sufferings and Death, With our late Vicar, and his age the same, His Clerk, hight Jachin, 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 seem'd more solemn and less kind, Than some light men to light affairs 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 foe pro- fess'd Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest ; s 2 [At night, should sleep his harass'd limbs compose, And steal him one short moment from his woes, Then 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 array'd, Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treach'rous rest, And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast. GlFFORD.] 3 [Original edition : — This book-taught man, with ready mind received More than the Church commanded or believed.] THE BOROUGH. 237 He held that Satan, since the world began, In every act, had strife with every man ; That never evil deed on earth was done, But 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, Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour. '• .Me has the sly Seducer oft withstood," Said pious Jachin, — " but he gets no good ; " 1 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 we meet ; " Nor .t*my of souls; thus perpetually administering fre>h food fur enthusiastic delight, and new triumph for spiritual pride* She had no vixen virgin-Bent) Without 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, And granted all his wish, in spite Of what she knew and felt was right : But, heroine then no more, She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'il, And humbly took the parish aid, And dwelt among the poor. ELLEN ORFORD." The Widow's Cottage — Blind Ellen one — Hers not the Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines — Wlia: 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 without Success — The Men's Despondency and its Effect — Their Children : how disposed of — One particularly unfortunate — Fate of the Daughter — Ellen keeps a School and is happy— becomes blind ; loses her School — Her Consolations. Ousebve 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 lnvender, and lad's-k>vc- bloom, — That humble dwelling is the widow's home; There live a pair, for various fortunes known, Hut 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 marvcll'il, when, by night, by day, I 've mnrk'd the manners moving in my way, And heard (he language and beheld the lives Of Inss and lover, goddesses anil wives, That books, which promise much of life to give, Should show so little how wc truly live.- 1 To me, it seems, their females and their men Are but the creatures of the author's pen; Nay, creatures horrow'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, hits in it little besides which re- sembles those of the unhappy men in the preceding Letters, and Is still more unlike that of (.rimes, in a subsequent one. There is in this character cheerfulness and resignation, a more uniform piety, nnd 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. ' The lad's or boy's love, of some counties, is the plant southern-wood, the Artemisia Abrotanum of botanists. 3 [" That ' le vrai n'est pas tonjours vraisemblable,' we do not tlenv ; but we are prepared to insist that, while * Ie vrai ' is the hi-he.t 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." — GlFKOnll.] 240 CRABBE'S WORKS. With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things, Than novelists relate or poet sings : 4 But they, who ought to look the world around, Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground ; Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold, And plots are 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 Darnlei/- Cottages 5 and Maple- Vales, 6 And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh, When 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 appear'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, She 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- Stranger than fiction. If it could be told, How much would Novels gain by the exchange ?" Src. Byron. See ante, p. 110.] 5 [The title of a novel, in three volumes, written by Mrs. Elizabeth Bonliote, the author also of ' Bungay Castle,' ' Ellen Woodley,' &c] 6 p Maple Vale, or the History of Miss Sydney,' was pub- lished anonymously in 1790.] 7 [" This species of composition cannot be traced higher than the ' Castle of Otranto,' by Horace Walpole. The fol- lowing curious account of the origin and composition of this romance is given by the author himself, in a letter to a friend : — ' Shall I confess to you what was the origin of this romance ? I waked one morning, in the beginning of last June, from a dream, of which all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled, like mine, with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate. The work grew on my hands, and I grew fond of it. Add, that I was very glad to think of anything rather than politics. In short, I was so impressed witli my tale, whichT completed in less than two months, that one evening I wrote from the time I had drunk tea, about 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 Matilda and Isabella talking, in the middle of a paragraph.' The work is 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 tales of chivalrv the extravagance of the ' Castle of Otranto ' I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls, I 've stalk' d by moonlight through deserted halls, And when the weary world was sunk to rest, I've had such sights as — may not be express'd. 7 Lo ! that chateau, the western tower decay'd, The peasants shun it, — they are all afraid ; For there was done a deed ! — could walls reveal, Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel ! 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'stries 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. 8 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. What analogy have skulls or skeletons, sliding panels, damp vaults, trap doors, and dismal apartments, to the tented field of chivalry and its airy enchantments ?" — Dunlop.] 8 [" There 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, and virtue ; they reside in such castles as never were built, in the midst of such forests as never grew, infested by 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 principle, 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 the other hand, triumphant through all the previous scenes, is sure to be immolated, in the last, by the sword of retribution. This kind of novel is useless : the lessons it teaches are mere enthusiasm and romance; for the every-day occurrences of life there is inculcated a magnanimous con- tempt ; and the mind, taught to neglect or despise the eom- mpn duties of society, is either wound up to a pitcli 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." — Gifford. "On the contrary, in ' Sidney Biddulph,' by Mrs. Sheridan, every affliction is accumulated on the innocent heroine, in order to show that neither prudence nor foresight, nor the best disposition of the human heart, are sufficient 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 happiness are constant concomitants, or, as expressed by Congreve, in the conclusion of the ' Mourning Bride,' — ' That blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, And, though a late, a sure reward succeeds.' " Dunlop.] THE BOROUUI. With not a single note the purse supply, And when she begs, let men anil maids deny ; Be windows those from which she dares not tall, And help so distant, 't is in vain to call ; Still means of freedom will some power devise, And from the batllcd ruffian snatch his prize. To Northern Wales, in some sequcstcr'd spot, I've follow'd fair Louisa to her cot:* "Where, then a wretched and deserted bride, The injur'd fnir-onc wished from man to hide; Till by her fond repenting Melville found, By some kind chance — the straying of a hound, Be 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 60 the lover sigh'd. So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied ; When, talc most dreadful ! every hope adieu, — For the fond lover is the brother too: All other griefs abate ; this monstrous grief Has DO remission, comfort, or relief; Four ample volumes, through each page disclose, — Good Heaven protect us ! only woes on woes; Till some strange means afford a sudden view Of some vile plot, and every woe adieu ! 10 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, Kxcept 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 lot us leave, and at her sorrows look, Too often seen, but seldom in a book ; Let her who felt, relate them ;— on her ehair The heroine sits — in former years, the fair, Now aged and poor; but Kllrn Orford knows That we should humbly take what Heaven bestows. " My father died — again my mother wed, " And found the comforts of her life wciv fled; " Her ongry husband, vex'd through half his years " By loss and troubles, lill'd her stud witii fears : " Their children many, and 'twas my poor place " To nurse and wait on all t lie infant-race; " Labour olid hunger were indeed my part, " And should have strcngthen'd an erroneous heart. " Sore was the grief to see him angry come, " And tensed with business, make distress at home ; » *' Loni.u, or the Cottage on the Moor,' by Mrs. Ilelme; who (In wrote ' The Farmer of Inglewootl Forest,' ' St. Clair of Ibe Met,' and many other novels.] 10 As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish i; to be remembered that the gloomy tcnour, the querulous melancholy of tho story, is all I censure. The language of the writer is often Attainted, and is, I believe, correct; the characters well drawn, and the manners described from real " The father's fury 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: 11 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 cose — I pass'd my twentieth year ; " For these arc frequent evils ; thousands share " An equal grief — the like domestic care. " Then in my days of bloom, of health, and youth, " One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth : '• We often met, he dreading to be seen, " And much I 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 I grieve ? " He dared not marry, but we met to prove " What 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 ow n weakness to complain. " Happy the lovers class'd alike in life, " Or hnppicr yet the rich endowing wife ; " But most aggrieved the fond believing maid, " Of her rich lover tenderly afraid : " You judge tU' 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 ; H Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong, " And angry when 1 spake of crime and wrong. " All this 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 request?) " My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast, life; but the perpetual occurrence of sad events, the pro- tracted list of teasing and perplexing mischances, joined with much waspish invective, unallayed by pleasantry or spright- liness, and these continued through many hundred pages, render publications, intended for amusement and executed with ability, heavy and displeasing : you find your favourite persons happy in the end ; but they have teased you so much with their perplexities by the way, that you were frequently disposed to quit them in their distresses. K 242 . CRABBE'S WORKS. " I from ray 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, I judged that life would close, " And went to rest, to wonder that I rose : " My dreams were dismal,— whdresoe'er I stray'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 aftrighten'd fled from tree to tree, " Obscured the setting sun, and every thing 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 joy 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 suffers 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 wish, 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 ! 'tis 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 ; " Keason 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 thing's 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 his despair ; " His very nature changed : he now reviled " My 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, and once more " I shared th' allotments of the parish poor ; " They took my children too, and this I know " Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow : " My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy " Were left, a mother's misery and her joy. " Three sons I follow'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 ! " Then, he had knowledge ; finely would 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 say, 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 in such dismal scenes, " I cannot speak it — cannot bear to tell " Of that sad hour — I heard the passing bell ! " 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 small 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 drown'd, — a seaman in a hoy : " Me left a numerous race ; of these would some " In their young troubles to my cottage come, " And these I taught — an humble teacher 1 — " 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 supprcss'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' undrcaded 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 blcss'd subsistence found — " My winter-calm of life : to be of use " Would pleasant thoughts nnd 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, nnd remorse to save. " Yes ! these were days of peace, but they arc past,— " A trial came, I will believe, a last; " I lost my sight, and my employment gone, " Useless I live, but to the dny live on ; u Those eyes, which long the light of heaven enjoy'd, l; Were not by pnin, by agony destroy a : " 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 (ion my friend." LETTER XXI. THE POOR OF TI1E llOROL'GII. Ctrpis melius quam desincs ; ultima priini.-* Cedunt. Dissimiles : hie vir el ille puer. Ovid. Dcinnira Ilcrculi.^ Now the Spirit speakcth expressly, that, in the latter times, tome shall depart from the faith, civing heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils. — Epistle to Timuthy. ABEL KEENE. Abel, a poor man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order ; is placed in the Office of a Merchant ; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks ; unable to reply ; becomes a Convert ; dresses, drinks, and ridicules his former conduct — The Remon- 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 — I lis own Account of himself, and the Revolutions in his Mind. A quiet, simple man was Abel Keenc, He meant no harm, nor did he often mean : lie kept a school of loud rebellious boys, And growing old, grew nervous with the noise ; AVhen a kind Merchant hired his useful pen, And made him happiest of accompting men ; With glee lie rose to every easy day, AVhen half the labour brought him twice the pay. 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 6truck 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 convey'd " A part ! a speech ! for which the man was paid ! '• And were his pious books, his solemn prayers, " Not worth one talc of the admir'd Voltaire's ? " Then wns it time, while yet some years remain'd, " To drink untroubled nnd to think unchain'd, " And on all pleasures, which his purse could give, " Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live." Much time he pass'd in this important strife, The bliss or bane of his remaining life ; For converts all arc mndc with care and grief, And pangs attend the birth of unbelief; Nor pass they soon ; — with awe and fear he took The tlowery way, and cast back many a look. The youths applauded much 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, Hy wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd. For Abe! enter'd in his bold career, Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear; Lingering, yet longing for the joy, lie went, Kcpenting now, now dreading to repent: With awkward pace, and with himself at war, Far gone, yet frightcn'd that he went so far; 3 [Your last deeds differ' from your first success, The infant makes the man appear the less.] it 2 244 CRABBE'S WORKS. Oft for his efforts lie '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, When he his tales of formal brethren told ; What 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 Kank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux : His 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 pieus 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 hell, and not lament thy case, " Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race ? " Lo ! thou art bound ; a slave in Satan's chain, " The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain : " His brother's blood against the murderer cried, " Against thee thine, unhappy suicide ! " Are all our pious nights and peaceful days, " Our evening readings and our morning praise, " Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent, " Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent, " All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed, " Are these for ever and for ever fled ? " When in the years gone by, the trying years, " "When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears, " Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not cat " (Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple 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 enter'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, 'tis 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 thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain, " And give a wicked pleasure to the vain ; " Thy long, lean frame 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 slate, " And make men scorn what they would only hate. " What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove " 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) " Host 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 ! " When 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 ; " Reserved 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, uncheck'd, amusements he partook, And (save his ledger) saw no decent book ; Him found the Merchant 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 and joke, Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke, And, after struggling half a gloomy week, Left his poor Clerk another friend to seek. THE BOROUGH. 245 Alas ! the son, who led the saint astray, Forgot the man whose follies made him gay ; lie cared no more for Abel in his need, Than Abel cared about his hackney steed : lie now, alas ! had all his earnings spent, And thus wus 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'il 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 arc mild, They must support him, though they still reviled ; CJrieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd, Of God unmindful, and of man afraid, — No more he talk'd ; 't was pain, 't was 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 dying-day : Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh, Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die. The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door, Just mention'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 sco, He stood and gazed, in wretched 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 un hour he spread Upon a tombstone, moveless 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, Ami mossy crag-pita were his lodgings then: There, to his discontented thought a prey, The melancholy mortal pined away. The ni ighb'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 — " My Groanings and my Criir.cs!" " 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 stendfast and my prospects sure ; " Then was 1 tried by want and sickness sore, " But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before, " And cares and wants and man's rebukes 1 bore: Alas! new foes assail'il me; 1 was vain, " They stung my pride and they confused my brain : " Oh ! these dcludcrs ! with 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 witty tales of naughty priests unfold ; ii < fj< wos a jj a ci-af^' 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; " Put this all vanish'd like the morning-dew, " When anemploy*d, ami poor again I grew ; " Yea ! I was doubly poor, for 1 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 w;is • 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 recovcr'd by his goodly tilth : " ' Come then,' I said, ' let me the man behold, " ' Ami 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 1 '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 distress'd ; " ' For at my state I tremble.' — ' Tremble more,' " Said the good man, ' and then rejoice therefore ! " ' 'T is good to tremble ; prospects then are fair, " ' When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair : " ' Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure, " 1 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 ; 246 CllABBE'S WORKS. " ' No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief, " 1 Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief; " ' The best, the only titles to relief.' " ' What must I do,' I said, ' my soul to free ? '■ — " ' 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 I 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. 3 " 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 seducers, 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 lie takes not upon him the censure of anyseet or society for their opinions; and the lines themselves evidently point to an individual, whose sentiments they very fairly represent, without any distortion whatsoever. In a pamphlet entitled 'A Cordial for a Sin- despairing Soul,' originally written by a teacher of religion, and lately republished by another teacher of greater notoriety, the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into the subject with him ; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured him that " his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if they had never been committed; not for any act done by him, whether believing in Christ, or repenting of sin ; nor yet for the sorrows and miseries he endured, nor for any service he should be called upon in his militant state, but "for his own name and for his glory's sake," &c. And the whole drift 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 the ' Whole Duty of Man,' and the ' Practice of Piety,' and complains heavily of his relation, an Irish bishop, who wanted him to join with the household in family prayer ; in fact, the whole work inculcates tiiat sort of quietism which this dialogue alludes to, and that without any recommendation of attendance on the teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature ; by the information that he in vain looks for acceptance bv the " 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." a LETTER XXII. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent, and every one did threat, — Shakspeaue. Richard 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, And push us from our stools. Macbeth* PETER GRIMES. 1 The Father of Peter a Fisherman — Peter's early Conduct — His Grief for the old Man — He takes an Apprentice — The Boy's Suffering and Fate — A second Boy : how lie 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 Melancholy and in- cipient Madness — Is observed and visited — He escapes and is taken : is lodged in a parish-house : Women attend and watch him — He speaks in a Delirium : grows more collected — His Account ofhis Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death. Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ, His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy, And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy : employment of his talents, and that his hopes of glorv are rather extinguished than raised by any application to the means of grace. 3 It has been a subject of greater vexation to me than such trifle 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 creed for which he had so bravely contended, and on which he fully relied ; and the upright mind of the Clerk in Office would have secured him from being guilty of wrong and robbery, though his weak and vacillating intellect could not preserve him from infidelity and profaneness. Their melancholy is nearly alike, but not its consequences. Jachin retained his belief, and though he hated life, he could never be induced to quit it voluntarily ; but Abel was driven to terminate his misery in a way which the unfixedness of his religious opinions rather accelerated than retarded. I am, therefore, not without hope, that the more observant of my readers will perceive many marks of discrimination in these characters. 1 [The original of Peter Grimes was an old fisherman of THE BOROUGH. •247 To town came quiet Peter with his fish, And had of all a civil word and wish. He left his trade upon the Sabhath-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 cried ; — " 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, — Kay, 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 bast a son — thou wilt remember me : " Thy mother left me in a happy time, " Thou kill'dst not her — Hcav'n spares the double crime." On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief, This he revolved, and drank for his relief. Now 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 ! that he could not to his cards attend, But must acquire the money he would spend. With greedy eye he hmk'd on all he saw, He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law ; On all he mark'd, he stretrh'd his ready linnd ; 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 shore; Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his bnck Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack, Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack ; Ami as these wrongs to greater numbers rose, The more he look'd on all men as his foes. Hp built a mud-wall'd hovel, where lie 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 thert, — Still have they being! — workhouse-clearing men, AldbOTODgh, while Mr. Cral.be was practising there as a sur- geon. Hi- had a succession of apprentices from London, anil n 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 Peter's trap A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap ; But none inquired how Peter used the rope, Or w hat 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 ! the lad must live : " Consider, Peter, let the child have bread, " He '11 servo thee better if he 's stroked and fed." None rcason'd thus — and some, on hearing ^rics, Said calmly, " Grimes is at his exercise." Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, thrcatcn'd, and abused — His efforts 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, Received 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 unblcss'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 — M I found him lifeless in his bed ;" Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, " Poor Sam is dead." Yet murmurs were there, and some questions nsk'd — How he was fed, how punish'd, and how tr.sk'd ? Much they suspected, but they little proved, And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved. Another boy with equal case was found. The money granted, nnd the victim bound; And what his fate? — One night it chanced he 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 strong suspicion, the man was warned by some of the 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, Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast " Keep fast your hatchway when you 've boys who His nets beside, or made his anchor fast : climb. ' To hold a rope or hear a curse was none, — This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more He toil'd and rail'd ; he groan'd and swore alone. Than for the closest questions put before. Thus all his fears the 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 secm'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 so 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 rope, 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 drown'd." Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall, I To tell his tale before the burghers all : : He gave th' account ; profess'd the lad he loved, And kept his brazen features all unmoved. The mayor 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 ! — again shouldst thou appear, " Thou 'It find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe." Alas ! for Peter not a helping hand, So was he hated, could he now command ; 2 The reaches in a river are those parts which extend from point to point. Johnson has not the word precisely in this sense; but it is very common, and, I believe, used where- soever a navigable river can be found in this country. [" A 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-dry ; 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 hide, 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, Kan 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 with certain dread to see ; When he drew near them he would turn from each, And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach. 2 A change of scene to him brought no relief, In town, 't was 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 sight they grew : Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone At bootless labour, he would swear and groan, reach is the line or distance comprehended between any two points, or stations, on the banks of a river, wherein the cur- rent flows in a straight uninterrupted course, as Woolwich Reach," &c. — Burney.] the noKor(;ii. ■249 Cursing the shoals that glided hy the spot, Anil gulls that caught them when his arts could not. Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame, Ami 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 to raise : And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart, To think he lived from all mankind apart; Yet, if 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, with 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 boot Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat ; Fisher he scem'd, yet used no net nor hook ; Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took, Uut on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look: At certain stations he would view the stream, As if he stood bewilder d in a dream, Or that some power had chaiu'd him for a time, To feel a curse or meditate on crime. This known, some curious, some in pity went, And others qucstion'd — l> Wretch, dost thou re- pent? " He beard, be trembled, nnd iii fear rcsign'd His boat: new terror fill'd his restless mind ; Furious he grew, and up the country ran, And there they seized him — a disteinper'd man: — Him we received, and to a parish-bed, I'ollow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led. Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun, A lost, lone man, so hnrass'd anil undone ; Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel, Perceived compassion on their anger steal; His crimes they could mil from their me i< s blot, But they were grieved, nnd 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 they make ! "How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake : " Sec ! what cold drops upon his forehead stnnd, " And how he clenches that broad bony hand." The Priest attending, found he spoke at times As one alluding to his fears and crimes ; " It was the fall," he mutter'd, " I can show '■ The manner how,— I never struck a blow: " — Ami then aloud, — "Unhand me, free my chain; " On oath he fell — it struck him to the brain: — " Why ask my father ? — that old man will swear " Against my life ; besides, he wasn't there : i; What, all agreed 't — 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 terror and the groan of fear ; Sec 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 Secm'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 talc, with gleams of waking sense. " I '11 tell you all," lie said, " the very day " When the old man first placed them in my way : " My father's spirit — he who always tried " To give me trouble, when he lived and died — " When he was gone he could not be content " To sec 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, " No living being had I lately seen ; " I paddled up and down and dipp'd my 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 nnd look'd upon the stream, " How it ran on, nnd felt as in a dream : " Hut dream it was not : No ! — I fix'd my eyes " On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise: " I suw my father on the water stand, " And hold 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 nnd pray'd " They would be gone ; they heeded not, but stay'd : " Nor could 1 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 me ere the close; " To hear nnd mark them daily was my doom, " And ' Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices, ' come.' " To row away, with all my strength I tried, " But there were they, hard by me in the tide, " The three unbodied forms — and ' Come,' still ' come,' they cried. " Fathers should pity — but this old man shook " His honry locks, and froze me by a look : •250 CRABBE'S WORKS. " 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 hed ; 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 mutter'd as he died. 4 " Thrice, when I struck them, through the water came " A hollow groan, that weaken' d all my frame : " ' Father ! ' said I, ' have mercy :' — he replied, " I know not what — the angry spirit lied, — ■ " ' Didst thou not draw thy knife ? ' said he : — 'T was true, " But I had pity and my 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 paddle 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 u Enjoy'd my pains and vanish'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: l; There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee " In their pale faces, when they glared at me : 3 " Still they did force me on the oar to rest, " And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd, " He with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood, " And there came flame about him niix'd with blood ; " He 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 — 3 [" Continuo templum, et violati numinis aras," &c. Juv. Sat. xiii. " sudden before his eyes, The violated fane and altar rise ; And (what disturbs him most) that injured shade, In more than mortal majesty array'd, Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest, And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast." GlFFORD.] 4 The character of Grimes, his obduracy and apparent want of feeling, his gloomy kind of misanthropy, the progress of ] i is madness, and the horrors of his imagination, I must leave ro the judgment and observation of my readers. The mind here exhibited is one untouched by pity, unstung by remorse, and uncorrected by shame ; yet is this 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, that no feeble vision, no half-visible ghost, not the momentary glance of an unbodied being, nor the half-audible voice of an invisible one, would be created by the continual workings of distress on a mind so depraved and flinty. The rufhan of Mr. Scott* has a mind of this nature ; he has no shame or remorse, but the corrosion of hopeless want, the wasting of unabating disease, and the gloom of unvaried solitude, will have their effect on every nature ; and the harder that nature is, and the LETTER XXIII. Pcena autem rehemens ac multd saevior illis, Quas et Cceditius gravis invenit ant Rhadamanthus, Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem. Juv. Sat. xiii.' ■ Think my former state a happy dream, From which awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this, — I am sworn brother now To grim Necessity, and he and I Will keep a league till death. Hiclutrd II. PRISONS. 2 The Mind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations ; Prisons otherwise would be intolerable — -Debtors: their different kinds : three particularly described ; others more briefly — 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 ; He not alone progressive grief sustains, But soon submits to unexperienced pains : longer time required to work upon it, so much the more stron" and indelible is the impression. This 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.] 2 That a Letter on Prisons should follow the narratives of such characters as Keene and Grimes is unfortunate, but riot 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 sufferings of mankind; but, though I assuredly would have altered this arrangement, had I been able to have fc was a sordid soul, Such as does murder for a meed ; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed ; One whose brute feeling ne'er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires. — Marmion. THE BOROUGH. Change nfter 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, With all that man admires or loves below ; All earth anil 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, Where only insolence and misery come ? (Save that the curious will by chance appear, I 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 'i Who couM bear this and live ? — Oh '. 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 On credit, that credulity will give; Wlni 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 arc the public spoilers we regard, No 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 arc by slow, sad steps, at last undone : done it by substituting a bettor, yet am I not of opinion that my verses, or, indeed, the verses of nnv other person, caii so represent the evils nnil distresses of life ns to make nny ma- terial impression on the mind, and much less any of injurious nature. Alas I sufferings real, evident, continually before us, have not edicts very serious or lasting, even in tlie minds of thfi more reflecting and compassionate ; nor, indeed, does it seem right that tlie pain caused by sympathy should serve for more than a stimulus to benevolence. If, then, the strength and solidity of truth placed before our eyes have effect so feeble 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 ' Kepository,' ' 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'll share her fame, And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade, As one important by their profit mailc ; 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 tics : They who proceed on certainties advance, These nre not times when men prevail by chance ; But still he tries, till, after years of pain, lie finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain. Debtors arc 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, hut 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 entrcnts 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 trcach'rous friend — 'twas that which sent me here : sufferings, however faithfully taken, will excite any feelings which can be seriously lamented. It has always been held as a salutary exercise of the mind to contemplate the evils and miseries of our nature : I am not therefore without hope that even this gloomy subject of Imprisonment, and more espe- cially ttie Dream of the Condemned Highwayman, will excite in some minds that mingled pity and abhorrence which, while it is not unpleasant to the feelings, is useful in its operation. It ties and binds us to all mankind by sensations common to us all, and in some degree Vjonnccts" 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 : Her friends have pity ; when their anger drops, They 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 wheresoe'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 shilling and could dine to-day. While thus observing, I began to trace The sober'd features of a well-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 — " Ah ! 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 guWe ; " All she proposed I in any 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 perceived.my fate, and then could say, '• J '11 think to-morrow, 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 the hour " When law detain'd me and I felt its power. " When, in that shipwreck, this I found my shore, " And join'd the wretched, who were wreck'd before ; " When I perceived each feature in the face, " Pinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace ; " When in these wasting forms affliction stood " In my afflicted view, it chill'd my blood ; — ■ " And forth I rush'd, a quick retreat to make, " Till a loud laugh proclaim'd the dire mistake : " But wdien the. groan had settled to a sigh, " When gloom became familiar to the eye, " When I perceive how others seem to rest, ' ; With every evil rankling in my breast, — ■ " Led by example, I put on the man. " Sing off my sighs, and trifle as 1 can. " Odyssey, b. xi. " Homer ! nay Pope ! (for never will I seek " Applause for learning — nought 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. 3 " 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 we 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 here, " 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, which 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 ; where now 'tis woe — do- light. " ' Have hope,' we say, ' and soon the place to thee " ' Shall not a prison but a castle be : " ' When to the wretch 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 worthy to be inmate here : " Go to thy world, and to the young declare " What we, our spirits and employments, are ; " Tell them how we the ills of life endure, " Our empire stable, and our state secure ; " Our dress, our diet, for their use describe, " And bid them haste to join the gen'rous tribe : " Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell, " Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell." Farewell to these ; but other scenes I view, And other griefs, and guilt of deeper 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 ; By day indulged, in larger space they range, Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change. 4 f" By those happy souls who dwell In yellow meads of asphodel." — Pope.] THE BOROUGH. 233 One was a female, who had grievous ill Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still : "With death before her, and her fate in view, 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 world 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 control, 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 liis dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be As once it was — he seeing could not sec, Nor hearing, hear aright;* — when first I enmc 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 ami die: — Hope, fear, and love, Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move, lint touch not his, who every waking hour I Ins one lix'd dread, ami always feels it^ power. " But will not Mercy?" — No ! she cannot plead For such an outrage ; — 't was a cruel deed : He stopp'il a timid traveller; — to his breast, Wi{h 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 cmploy'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 lesseu'd by that one ; For expectation is on time intent. Whether he brings us joy or punishment. Yes ! e'en in sleep the 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 : 3 [The tale of the Condemned Felon arose from the follow- ing circumstances: — While Mr. Craube was struggling with poverty in I-ondon, he bail some reason to fear that tie' brother of a verv intimate friend, a wild and desperate cha- racter, was in Newgntfl under condemnation for a robbery. Having obtained permission to see the man, who bore the same name, a glance at once relieved his mind from the dread of beholding his friend's brother ; but still he 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 suffering and the very deed — There crowds go with him, follow, and precede ; Some heartless shout, some pity, 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 thii his terrors take a sudden flight, He sees his native village with 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 nt 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 be 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 '. Let him within his pleasant garden walk, Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk. Yes ! all arc 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 j — No ! never will he 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 n charm beyond what nature shows, The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows ; — Piercetl by no crime, and urged by no desire For more than true and honest henrts 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 gorsc arc spread, And the himb browses by the linnet's bed; Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way O'er its rough bridge — and there behold the bay ! — forgot the being he then saw before him. He was pacing the cell, or small yard, with a quick and hurried step : his eve was a.s glazed and abstracted as that of a corpse : — " Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be As once it was— he seeing could not see, Nor hearing, hear aright. . . . Kach sense was palsied ! " See ante, p. 55.] 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 sea-side 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 roll'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 " Hoars 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 quoque lie metuas, quamvis schoja verbere multo Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister ; Degeneres animos timor arguit ; at.tibi consta Intrepidus, nec te clamor plag;eque sonantes, Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis, . Quod sceptrnm vibrat ferula;, quod multa supellex Virgea, quod molis scuticam pnetexit aluta, Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu, 1'ompa loei, et vani fugiatur scena timoris. AusoNius in Prutreptico ad Nepotem. SCHOOLS. 1 Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough — The School for Infants — The School Preparatory: the Sagacitv of the Mistress in foreseeing Character — Day-Schools of the lower Kind — A Master with Talents adapted to such 0 [<< YVe have here a description of the dream of a felon under sentence of death ; and though the requisite accuracy and beauty of the landscape-painting are such as must have recommended it to notice in poetry of any order, it derives an unspeakable charm from the lowly simplicity and humble content of the characters —at least we cannot conceive any walk of Indies and gentlemen that could furnish out so sweet a picture as terminates this passage." — Jeffrey.] 1 Our concluding subject is Education ; and some attempt is made to describe its various seminaries, from that of the poor widow who pronounces the alphabet for infants, to seats whence the light of learning is shed abroad on the world. If, in this Letter, 1 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 they are described as men who possess that great pleasure, the exercise of their own talents, and the delight which Hows from their own exertions : they have joy in their pursuits, and glory in their acquirements of know- ledge. Their victory over difficulties affords the most rational cause of triumph, and the attainment of new ideas leads to incalculable riches, such as gratify the glorious avarice of aspiring and comprehensive minds. Here, then, I place the reward of learning. Our Universities produce men of the first scholastic attainments, who are heirs to large possessions, or descendants from noble families. Now, to those so fa- Pupils : one of superior Qualifications— Boarding-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- Boy— The Boy-Bully— Sons of Farmers : how amused — What Study will effect, 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 assign'd. Rules for all ranks and food for every 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 pay 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, the} r 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 offenders in, And to her gown the sturdiest rogue can pin : Aided by these, and spells, and tell-tale birds, Her power 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 labour, call it what you will ; Upon the youthful mind a heavy load, Nor must we hope to find the royal road. Some will their easy steps to science show, And some to hcav'n itself their by-way know ; Ah ! trust them not, — who fame or bliss would share, Must learn by labour, and must live by care. voured, talents and acquirements are unquestionably means of arriving at the most elevated and important situations ; but these must be the lot of a few: in general, the diligence, acuteness, and perseverance of a youth atthe University, have no other reward than some college honours and emoluments, w hich 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, efforts, 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 reflect that, if he be disappointed, he cannot be without gratifica- tion ; and that, if he gets but a very humble portion of what the world can give, he has a continual fruition of unw earying enjoyment, of which it has not power to deprive him. 2 " In everv village mark'd with little spire, Embow'er'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame: There dwells in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name ; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame. They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task uncorin'd, are sorely shent." Shenstonk. I i THE BOROUGH. 255 Another matron, of superior kind, For higher schools prepares the rising mind ; 1'rcpuratory 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: 3 She sees what soon the lively will impede, And how the steadier will in turn succeed ; Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy; taste, And know s what parts will wear, and whatwill 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 when she sees rich robes nnd furs bedeck, She marks the pride which onco she strove to cheek. V Uurgcss comes, and she remembers well How 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 dulncss disappears: But still the matron can the man behold, Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold.. A MiTchant passes, — " Probity and truth, " I'rudcnce and patience, mark'd thee from thy youth." Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears For 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 : hero behold we one Empty and still : — the morning duties done, Boil'd, tatter'd, worn, nnd thrown in various heaps, Appear their books, and there confusion sleeps; The workmen all nre from the Babel lied. Ami lost their tools, till the return they dread: Meantime the master, with his wig awry, Prepares his books for business by-nnd-by : Now nil th' insignia of the monarch lnid Beside him rest, ami none stand by afraid ; Hi', while his troop light-hearted leap and play, Is all intent on duties of the day ; No more the tyrnnt 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 n ut-day charges and of coalman's bills; That while they mercy from their judge implore, lie 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, Hushing to pleasure when the duty 's done ; 1 " Yet, nursed with skill, what dUtling fruits appear I E'en now nncions Foresight points io show A llttli. - 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 Reuben 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 causeways, send him boys in shoals; To see poor Kcubcn, with his fry beside, — Their half-chcck'd rudeness aud his half-scom'd pride, — Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet, In the close lane behind the Northgate-strcet ; 1" 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 ; Keuben 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, M ho 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 ; lie 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 repose 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 cased : When, with a heavy eye and ill-done sum, No part conceived, a stupid boy will come; Then 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 wc to Schools which 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, With many a stranger gazing up and down, And all the envied tumult of the town ; Anil here n chancellor in embryo, Or bard sublime, it' bard may e'er be so." Shknstoxk. CRABBE'S WORKS. May, in the smiling summer-eve, when they Are sent to sleep the pleasant hours away, Behold the poor (whom they conceive the bless'd) Employ'd for hours, and grieved they cannot rest. Here the fond girl, whose days are sad and few Since dear mamma pronounced the last adieu, Looks to the road, and fondly thinks she hears The carriage-wheels, and struggles with her tears : All yet is new, the misses great and small, Madam herself, 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 arc, '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 the heart, ere yet it feels, astray : Smugglers obscene '. — and can there be who 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 the ill is to the heart convey'd, Who lend the foe, not yet in arms, 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 through the humblest trader's bolted door ; Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store ; With stolen steed, on highways 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, away, Bather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray. Years pass away — let us suppose them past, Th' accomplished nymph 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 ; AVhere 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 then 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 ; 4 " Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, — We love the play-place of our early days ; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight— and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill ; The very name we carved subsisting still ; And now at eve, when all their spirits rise, Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies ; Where yet they 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 Longs 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 1 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 within ; Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise Loudly proclaims a " Boarding-School for Boys ;" The master heeds it not, for thirty years Have render'd all familiar to his ears ; He 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 changes 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, their 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 fix'd at learning's lower gate. The Day-tasks now are over — to their ground Bush the gay crowd with joy-compeliing sound ; Glad to elude the burthens of the day, The eager parties hurry to their play : J The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hewM, yet not destroy'd. The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot ; As happy as we once to kneel 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 arc 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 ; — Sec ! 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 : Mil bin 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, AVho 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, Cim 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. Ycrres could do that mischief in a day, For which not Koine, in all its power, could pay ; And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress, 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 : Tliia fond attachment to the well-known place, When first we started into life's Ions race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age and at our latest day." Cowna, 5 [In this description Mr. Crabbe condescended to borrow, though probably with some alterations and improvements, the ideas and the language of his second son ; whose * School Eclogues, 1 written in boyhood, much struck and gratified his father, Mr. John Crabbe has since written many imitations of hll father's poetry, some of w hich, it is hoped, may yet be published.] 11 [This schoolboy despot was drawn, Mr. Crabbe said, from a tyrant who was his own terror in the school at Stow market.] 'T is more than present pain these tyrants give, Long as we 've life some strong impressions live ; And these young ruthans 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 corner, 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 hoy, who felt his scorn, For him corrects the blunders of the morn ; And he is taught, unpleasant truth I 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, like 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 arc 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, Ami there the produce of the basket seize, The mother's gift ! still studious of their case. Poor Alma, thus oppress'd forbears to rise, But rests or revels in the nrms and thighs. 1 " But is it sure that study will repay " The more attentive and forbearing?" — Nay! 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 renders 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, l. T p 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 nenr 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 scholar's life : Not all the mind's attention, care, distress, Nor diligence itself, ensure success : His jealous heart a rival's powers may dread, Till its strong feelings have confused his head, And, 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, He 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 whom They shared those pleasures, never more to come Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd, "Which once so dismal and so dull appcar'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 ; Let 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 ? Like other sovereigns he 's by forms address'd, By statutes govern'd and with rules oppress'd. AVhen all these forms and duties die away, And the day passes like the former day, Then of exterior things at once bereft, He's to himself and one attendant left; Nay, John too goes ; 9 nor aught of service more Remains for him ; he gladly quits the door, s [ " if chance some well-remember'd face, Some old companion of my early race, Advanced to claim his friend, with honest joy, My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, "Were quite forgotten when my friend was found : The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, Could hardly charm me when that friend was near ; My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; And, as he whistles to the college-gate, He 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 ineffable they find, Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind : The soul, collected in those happy hours, Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers ; And in those seasons feels herself repaid, For labours past and honours long delay'd. No ! 't is not worldly gain, although by 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 ways, With honest blame or with unflattering praise : "f 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 I know not where : " 1 saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, I saw and join'd again the joyous throng, Panting, again I traced the lofty grove, And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love." _ Byron. Childish Rirolltxticms. 9 [The sensation of loneliness felt by a fellow of a collets when his servant left him for tiie night, was very feelingly described to Mr. Crabbe by the late Mr. Lambert, one of the senior fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge, and made a strong impression on the poet's mind.] THE BOROUGH. 259 For I should mourn the mischief I had done, If as the likeness 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 Enchanters out, — (The Giant-Folly, the Enchanter-Vice, Whom doubtless I shall vanquish in a trice ;) — But is there man whom I would injure ? — No 1 I am to him a fellow, not a foe, — 10 « fj ie Borough' contains a description, in twenty-four letters, of a sea-port. A glance at the contents is sufficient to prove that the author is far from having abjured the system of delineating in verse subjects little grateful to poetry. No themes surely can he more untunable than those to which he lias 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 sulliciently 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. Orubbe, on which we have hazarded some strictures. * The Borough ' is purely the creature of that principle; the legitimate successor of ' The Village ' and * The Parish Regis- ter.' Indeed, if the checks of fancy and taste be removed from 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 should be drawn at all. No image of de- pravity, so 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 I 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. 10 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, with 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 tlieir amphibious sort of life, throw 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 which is more distinctly specified, we might say individualised." — Gifford. The reader will find Mr. Crabbe's own answer to the foregoing criticism, in the preface to the H Tales," in a subsequent page of this volume.] 2S0 CRABBE'S WORKS. OCCASIONAL PIECES. THE LADIES OF THE LAKE. [written on visiting- norm anston in 1785. '] 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, but not alone our eyes, Nor yet alone our mind ; Your 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 the fair ? 1 [" Normanston, a sweet little villa near Beccles, was one of the early resorts of Mr. Crabbe and Miss Elmy in the days of their anxious affection. Here four or five spinsters of in- dependent 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 Tam- worth — dear, good-humoured, hearty, masculine Miss Wal- dron, who could sing a jovial song like a fox-hunter, and, like him, I had almost said, toss a glass •, and yet there was such an air of high ton, and such intellect mingled with these manners, that the perfect lady was not veiled for a moment." — Life of Crabbe, ante, p. 41. A lady of rank, in Nor- folk, has lately written as follows to the Poet's biographer: — " The enjoyment of your Memoir was much increased by my knowledge of several of the parties mentioned in it. Miss Blacknell and Miss Waldron were the acquaintance of my early youth : a visit to Normanston w as always a joyful event ; and, notwithstanding the masculine deportment of Miss Wal- dron, her excellent sense and good 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. 2 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 Miss W., in the year 1785." ] 2 TMr. Crabbe's father possessed a small sailing-boat, in which he delighted to navigate the river. The first event which was deeply impressed on the Poet'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 din- ner prepared at Orford, arid 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 fine sum- mer morning, they were seated in their respective vessel.-:, and started in gallant trim, tacking and manoeuvring on the bosom of the dickering 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." Among his MSS. are the following verses on this early incident. — Life, ante, p. 4.] OCCASIONAL PIECES. 261 No ! Memory cannot reach, with all her power, To that new birth, that lifc-awakening hour. No ! all the traces of her first employ Arc keen perceptions of the senses' joy, And their distaste— what then could they im- part ? — That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart. But, though the Memory in that duhious way Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day, And thus encounters, in the doubtful view, ■\Vith imperfection and distortion too ; Can she not tell us, as she looks around, Of good and evil, which the most abound ? Alas ! and w hat 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 arc turn'd, that bosoms may not bleed : For w hat is Pleasure, that we toil to gain ? 'T is 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 docs the I.ovcr with such rapture fly To his dear mistress? — lie 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 ple asures die, and pains become repose, And he has none of these, and therefore 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, lie still controls me like my lawful prince. Joys I remember, like phosphoric light, Or squibs and crackers on a gala night, .loys are like oil; if thrown upon the tide Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside: Griefs are like waters on the river thrown, They mix entirely, and become its own. Of all the good that grew of early 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 1'ain 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 ; 3 [Mr. Crahbe's early religious impressions were strongly Influenced by those of his mother, who was a deeply devout woman. Ilrr mildness, humility, patient endurance of afflie- 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 m part, some never to be cured ; Yet was there something in that first-born ill, So new, so strange, that memory feels it still ! Tltat my first grief : hut, oh ! in after-years "Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears. No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint — That patient sufferer, that enduring saint, Holy and lovely — but all words are faint. 3 But here I dwell not — let me, while I can, Go to the Child, and lose the suffering 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 ■\Yas a keen relish, without taint of sin. A town appear'd, — ami 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 gathcr'd frown The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down. 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, nnd my heart was dead ; The female servants show'd a child their fear, And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer; Ami 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, ante 1 , pp. 29, 30.] 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 '. 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 promisor of bliss, Made his best days of pleasure end like this : He mix'd his bitters in the cup of joy, Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy. THE MAGNET. Wur 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 OF RUTLAND.] 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 subsiding deep, " Let Fear repose and Terror sleep !" At length the waves are hush'd in peace, O'er flying clouds the sun prevails ; The weary winds their efforts 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 suffer'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 off 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 ? " Then 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 offending 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 heart. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 2G3 No farther honest Satire can In all her enmity proceed, Than passing by the wickoil 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 (light, To sting wherever they alight ? BELVOIB CASTLE. [wnlTTEN AT THE nr.Qfr.ST OF THE DUCHESS DOWAGEK OF HITLANP, AND 1NSCMIIED IN IIEK ALBUM, 1812.] When nntivo Britons British lands possess'd, Their glory freedom — and their blessing rest — A powerful chief this lofty Seat survcy'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 ; Kudcness and greatness in his work combined, — An humble taste with an aspiring mind. His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'ersprcad ; Warriors and vassals at his tabic fed ; Sims, 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 rcar'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 ; Astonlsh'd peasants fear'd the dreadful skill That plnccd 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 ; II is linlls, 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 sway'd, — The I.e. nl commanded, and the slave obey'd : No soft'ning arts in those fierce times were found, But rival Uarons spread their terrors round; Each 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 to 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, Beceos 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 chcer'd : In each superior room were polish'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 vulgnr 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 his glory, serious in his pride, At once the chief exulted and he sigh'd •, Dreaming he sigh'd, and still in sleep profound, I lis thoughts were fix'd within the favourite bound ; When lo ! another Castle rose in view, That in nn instant all his pride o'erthrew. In that he saw what massy strength bestows, And what from grace and lighter beauty flows, Yet all harmonious; what was light and free, Uobh'd not the weightier parts of dignity — Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace, I!ut 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." 264 CRABBE'S WORKS. He saw apartments where appear'd to rise What seem'd as men, andfix'd on him their eyes — Pictures that spoke ; and there were mirrors tall, Doubling each wonder by reflecting all. He saw the genial board, the massy plate, Grace unaffected, unencumber'd state ; And something reach'd him of the social arts, That soften manners, and that conquer hearts. Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw A form of heav'nly kind, and bow'd in awe : The spirit view'd him with benignant grace, And styled himself the Genius of the Place. " Gaze, and be glad ! " he cried, " for this, indeed, " Is 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 posscss'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 that Lord its humbler worth disdain ; " Mix'd with his mightier pile shall mine be found, " By him protected, and with his renown'd ; " He 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. [These lines were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her 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 As if he were indeed a child ! But in that meekness who shall tell What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell ; By him are tamed the fierce ; — the bold And haughty are by him controll'd ; The hero of th' ensanguined field Finds there is neither sword nor shield Availing here. Amid his books The student thinks how Laura looks ; The miser's self, with heart of lead, With 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 gentle master ; yet his pains Are 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 that in warlike stories take delight," &c. Hail ! centre-county of our land, and known For matchless worth and valour all thine own — Warwick! renown'd for him who best could write, Shakspeare 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 ; For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot That 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 : He in the glorious fight, She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. Urged by his love, th' adventurous Guy proceeds, And Europe 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 his might Were grieved to find his heart another's right : OCCASIONAL PIECES. 265 The brood of giants, 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, anil her meals were men. At Dunmore Heath the monster he ossail'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 gnve her hand. Then, all was joy around, And valiant Guy with love and glory crown'd ; Then Warwick Castle wide its gate displayM. And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made. Alas ! not long — a hero knows not rc9t; 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 staff 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, Hut roved he knew not where, nor said " I come ngain." The widow'd countess pass'd her years 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 cose, 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 different those who now this seat possess! No idle dreams disturb their happiness: The Lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers. To nobler purpose dedicates his powers: N.i deeds of horror fill his soul « ii h 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. Cut forty days could Guy his fair afford ; Not forty years would weary Warwick'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 tics 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 TKEE UNDER WHICn THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. Is there one heart that beats on Knglish 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 — renown'd and glorious tree ! — Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part Shall be to warm and stir the English heart; F'orm'd into shapes as fancy may design, In all, fair fame ami honour shall be thine. The noblest ladies in the land with joy Shall own 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; Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done, \\ hat nations freed by Heaven and Wellington. Heroic free we surely this may call — Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn'd its fall ; It fell for many here, but there it stood for all. 26C CRABBE'S WORKS. ON RECEIVING 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, Blight on her confessor bestow ; Or which some favourite nymph vi'ould 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 King my present too, I see the smile that must ensue ; — The smile that pleases though it stings, And says — " No more of giving rings : Remember, thirty years are gone, Old friend ! 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 ! 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 the 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, j By varying moods to suit the varying hour ; I She plays with each, and veils in changing robes The grief she pities and the love she probes. 1 'T is hers for woe the sullen smile to feign, And Laughter lend to Envy's rankling pain ; Soft Pity'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 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 ! 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 thoughtless poet with his praise ; For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, He chokes the very thing ho hopes to raise. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 2G7 How shall F, 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 fcar'd to meet no more, When every passing hour was sweet — Sweeter, we thought, than all before, "When eye from eye new meanings steal, When hearts approach, and thoughts unite — Then is indeed the time to feel, Rut, Laura ! 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 wc 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, wc 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. 1 268 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 }oys 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. in. Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep ! 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 teraphic 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. v. 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. The dark-brow'd throng more near and more, With murderous looks are on me thrust, And lo ! they ope the accursed door, And I must go — I know I must ! 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. vm. 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. x. 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 pain : He meets me with hard glazed eyes ! He quits me — spurns me — with disdain. THE WORLD XI. I snil 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 ! XXL Unniimber'd riches I behold. Glorious untasted I survey : My heart is sick, my bosom cold, Friends '. neighbours ! kindred ! where arc 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. XIII. Beside the summer sea I stand, ■Where the slow billows swelling shine : How beautiful this pearly sand, That waves, nnd winds, and years refine : Be this delicious quiet mine ! The joy of youth ! so sweet before, Whi n 1 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 arc — they do not seem. And is it true ? Oh, joy extreme ! All whom I loved, and thought them dead, Far down in Lethe's (lowing 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, W'c 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 ! Those smiles that haunt fonil memory show ! Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak; OF DREAMS. 269 But yet 't is joy — And all I seek Is mine '. What glorious day is this ! Now let me bear with spirit meek An hour of pure and perfect bliss. XVIII. But do ye look indeed as friends ? Is there no change ? Are not ye cold? Oh ! I do dread that Fortune lends Factitious 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 looka 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 ! XXI. Once more, once more upon the shore ! Now back the rolling ocean flows : The rocky bed now far before On the receding wnter grows— The treasures and the wealth it owes To human misery — all in view ; Fate all on me at once bestows, F'rom thousands robb'd und murder'd too. XXII. But, lo ! whatever I can find Orows mean and worthless as I view ; They promise, but they cheat the mind, As promises arc born to do. How lovely every form and hue, Till seiz'd and mastcr'd — Then arise ; For nil that admiration drew, All that our senses can despise ! XXIII. Within the basis of a tower, I saw n plant — it graced the spot ; There was within nor wind nor shower. And this hail life that flowers have not. I drew it forth — Ah, luckless lot ! It was the mandrake : and the sound Of anguish deeply smother'd shot Into my breast with pang profound. 270 CRABBE'S WORKS. XXIV. " I would I were a soaring bird," Said Folly, " 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 I Spurn earth, and to the air aspire. XXV. And this, before, might I have done If I had courage — that is all : 'T is easier now to soar than run ; Up ! 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 by some favouring power, I come in safety 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 Who may my fixed spirit shake ; 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 My mind, and 1 resume my chain. v xxvm. 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. Now 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 what fieshless things they stare ! Yes ! I am seated with the dead : How great, and yet how mean they are ! Yes ! I can scorn them while I dread. XXX. They 're gone ! — and in their room I see A fairy being, form and dress Brilliant as light ; nor can there be On earth 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. Yet, as I wonder and admire, The grace 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 shall 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 '. this is not the native home Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet I XXXIII. 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 ! — 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 misery as mine ! XXXV. Wretches ! if ye were only poor, You would my sympathy engage ; Or were ye vicious, and no more, I might be fill'd with manly rage ; Or had ye patience, wise and sage We might such worthy sufferers call ; But ye are 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 effort to subdue my cares. — 'T is made ! — and I to freedom wake ! TALES. 271 TALES. 1 TO HER GRACE ISABELLA, DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND. 2 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, whatever objections have been made to the language of dedicators, such addresses must be considered as perfectly consistent with reason and propriety ; 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 superiority and celebrity, of personal merit when peculiar or extraordinary, of dignity, elegance, wealth, and beauty ; 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. Vet the causes and motives for an address of this kind rest not entirely with 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, 3 or pride not illaudablc 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 satisfaction, and to hear mentioned with veneration and delight. Such, Mm.!.' im. arc the various kinds of eminence for which an author on these occasions would probably seek, and they meet in your Grace : such too arc 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 os an offering of the utmost respect and duty, from, May it please your Grace, Your Grace's Most obedient, humble, and devoted servant, Muston, July 31, 1812. Geo. Cradbe. 1 [First published in August, 1R1 2. Sec ante, p. 56.] 3 [Seo ante, p. 32.] 3 [On the dentil of the Duke of Rutland, in 1787, the Duchess, desirous of retaining in the neighbourhood the pTOtini of her lamented husband, gave Mr. Crablie a letter to the 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 Belvoir. Mr. Crabbe proceeded to London, but was not, on this occasion, very courteously received bv Lord Thurlow. " No," he growled ; " by G — 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 (bought our hero, who each instant found His courage rising, from the numbers round. As when a felon hos escaped and fled. So long, that law conceives the culprit dead; ■Vnd hack recall'd her myrmidons, intent On some new game, and with a stronger scent ; Till slo' 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 whoso 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, Remomb'rlng well that vilo 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 bis 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, h" had heard, that numbers bad design, Their business finish'd, to sit down and dine ; This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right To show by day that he could speak at night. Bosfa the design — for be 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 ; be could not fight, nor fly : He saw a man to whom he gave the pain. Which now he felt must be rcturn'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 — anil so forbore, In playful spite to draw it to the shore. Hnmmond 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 w ho the man of that dark frown posscss'd — Rector of Bradley and of Barton-w est ; " 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 nnd thrcat'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 '. — 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 say, if this rebellious cur " Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir." Ahmn'd by this, he lash'd his sold to rage, Bum'd w ith strong shame, ond hurried to engage. As Q 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 disdain; But w hen that turkey, at his own barn-door, Sees one poor struying puppy and no more, (A foolish puppy who had left the pack, Thoughtless what foe was threat'ning at his back.) He moves about, as ship prepared to sail, He hoists his proud rotundity of tail. The half-scal'd eyes and changeful neck he 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. 280 CRABBE'S WORKS. So look'd our hero in his wrath, his cheeks Flush'd with fresh fires and glow'd in tingling streaks, His 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 Were fix'd to view him, or were turn'd to hear. " My friends, you know me, you can witness all, " How, urged by passion, I restrain my gall ; " And every 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 therein — 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 cntrapp'd — yes, so it came to pass, " 'Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class ; " Each to his country bore a hellish mind, " Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind ; " The land that nursed them, they blasphemed ; the laws, " Their sovereign's glory, and their country's cause : " And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who " Rebellion's oracle ? You, caitiff, you I" He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm And fix'd the Man of Words, as by a charm. " How raved that railer ! Sure some hellish power " Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour, " Or I had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due " On him, the guide of that infuriate crew ; " But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear'd, " Such mingled yell of lying words I heard, " That I conceived around were demons all, " And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall. " Oh ! could our country from our coasts expel " Such foes ! to nourish those who wish her well : 5 [This tale is not judiciously placed at the portal to tempt hesitating readers to go forward. The fault, however, is entirely in the subject, which commands no strong or general interest ; for it is perfectly well conceived and executed. The object of it is to show, that a man's fluency and force and intrepidity of speech depend very much upon his confidence 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 ; He 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 sought to draw- Courage to speak, but still remain' d the awe ; One moment rose he with a forced disdain. 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 growPd defiance, sought the door, Cursed the wdiole 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, you witness' 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, Look'd his full self, and fill'd his ample chair ; Took one full bumper to each favourite cause, And dwelt all night on politics and laws, AVith high applauding voice, that gain'd him high applause. 5 hibits the orthodox, loyal, authorative Justice Bolt struck quite dumb in an assembly of Jacobins into which he happens to stray ; and the Jacobin orator, in like manner reduced to stammering and imbecility, when detected at a dinner of parsons. The description of Justice Bolt is admirable, and may stand for a portrait of more than one provincial dictator. — Jeffkey.] Drawn l>y RBfrgtftTfR.A BENEATH TOH TREE, OB SERVE AN ANCIENT PAIR A SLEEPING MAN; A WOMAN" IN BEB CHAIR, watching ns looks with truo) and FENsira air « T.T-lr U i TALE II.— THE PARTING HOUR. •281 TALE II. THE PARTING HO UK. 1 .... I did not take my leave of him, but had Most prettv things to say : ere I could tell him How I would think of him, at certain hours Such thoughts and such ; — or ere I could Give him that parting kiss, which I had set Betwixt two charming words— comes in my father. Cymbeline. Grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with 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 verv moment that she bade me tell it, Wherein 1 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 his weary bones among you ; Give him a little earth i'or 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 links that bind those various deeds are seen, And no mysterious void is left between. But let these binding links be all destroy'd, All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd : Let that vast gap be made, and then behold — This was the youth, and lie 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 IS or 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 longhave loved, Keep their good name and conduct unreproved : Thus life's small comforts they together share, And while life lingers for the grave prepare. 1 [Mr. Crabbe's fourth brother, William, 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, lie at last was obliged to abandon Mexico, his pro- perty, and his family ; and was discovered, in the year 1803, bv an Aldborongh 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 drive Life's common cares, and those alone survive, Mix with each thought, in every action share, Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer. To David Booth, his fourth and last-bora 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 limb ; 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 flx'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 follow'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. Judilli in gaining hearts had no concern, Rather 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 ; Ivor 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 dcep'ning tide ; Yet none who saw the rapid current flow Could the first instant of that danger know. The lovers waited till the time should come When they together could possess a home : In cither 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 Aldborongh and his family ; and great was his perplexity when he was informed that his eldest brother, George, was a clergyman. "This cannot be (no- George," said the wanderer — " he was a doctor!" This was the first, and it was also the last, tidings that ever reached Mr. Crabbe of his brother William ; and, upon the Aid- borough sailor's story of his casual interview, it is obvious that he built this tale.— See ante, p. 2.] 282 CRABBE'S WORKS. Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid : " Dress and amusements were her sole employ," She said — " entangling her deluded hoy ; " 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. Duil 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 seem'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 ooat, and begg'd for more delay : But his own Judith call'd him to the shore, Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more ; — And there he found her — faithful, mournful, true, Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu ! The ebbing tide had 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 ! 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 I" And 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 then may happen in a year, when things " Of vast importance every moment brings ! " But hark ! an oar !" she 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 glorious, 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 Ids 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 — " Now, 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, tenderest 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-night ; For see ! — his friends come hast'ning to the beach, And now the gunwale is within the reach : " Adieu! — farewell! — -remember!" — and what more Affection taught, was utter'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 return'd the weeping maid. They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled ; But when return d the youth ? — the youth no more Keturn'd exulting to his native shore ; But forty years were past, and then there came A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame, His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his frame : Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay, Was Allen landing in his native bay, Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. 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 sail parting, of the last embrace 4 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 Tuni'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 ffierry tumult and of vulgar joys: Seamen returning to their ship, were come, With idle numbers straying from their home ; Alien 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 dnmc address' d : "The Iiootlml 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 she 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 nt last to dwell ; " They had a married daughter, and n> son, '• But they were dead, and now remain'd not one." ' [Original MS. :— III a elenr eve the lover sail'd, nnil one As clear anil bright on aged Allen shone: On the spot snnction'd hy tin* last embrace 'Die old ninn stood I and llgh'd upon the place.] 5 [" Ijist summer I went down to my native town, w here I found the streets mueh narrower and shorter than I thought I had left them. Inhabited In* a new nice of people, to whom I was very little known. My play fellows were grown old, nnd forced me to suspect 1 was no longer young. My onlv remaining friend had changed his principles, and was liecom'o the tool ot the predominant faction. I wandered about for live days, and took the llrst convenient opportunity of returning to a place where, if there is not much happiness, there is, at least, such n diversity of good and evil, that slight vexations do not fix upon the heart." — Dr. Johnson.] * [Origin il MS.:— " 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 talc — ' " 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 meekly said, " And what became of the forsaken maid ? " The woman answer'd : " I remember now, " She used td tell the lasses of her vow, " And of her lover's loss, and I have seen " The gayest hearts grow sad where she ha3 been ; 11 Yet in her grief she married, and was made " Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obcy'd, " And early buried — but I know no more : " And hark ! our friends are hast'ning to the shore." 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 remcmber'd there remnin'd a few, But of no favourites, ami the rest were new: 3 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, nnd 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, 4 He saw but few whom he had seen before; The older people, as they met him, cast A pitying look, oft speaking as they pnss'd — " The man is Allen Booth, and it appears " He dwelt among us in his early years : Oft to his children had the father told When- he resided in the years of old ; When, without thought, his feeling and his pride The native tow n adorn'd nnd magnified ; 'Hie streets, the markets, anil the quays were nil Spacious and grand, and every building tall : Ttie tower nnd church w ere sea-marks leagues from bind — Men were amazed to see them look so grand I I lis father's house was then in Allen's eyes, Hut far increased in beauty and in size ; And their small area where the schoolboys play'd, Room for tin army bad his fancy math? : Hut now the dark nnd feeble mind debased, Contracted, sullied all that fancy graced, All spaces dwindled — streets but nlleys seem'd : Then dreamt he now, or absent had he drcain'd ? The church itself, the lofty tower, die scene Of so much glory, was debased nnd mean : The mind each object in dull clothing dress'd, And its ow n sadness on each scene impress'd ] 284 CRAEBE'S WORKS. " We sec the name engraved upon the stones, " AVhere this poor wanderer means to lay his bones." Thus where he 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 hear; 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 rnis'ry in her lot endured ; Her husband died ; her children sought their bread In various places, 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 my 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 willi 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 the)' 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 they bore their prey, Who grieving landed from their sultry bay : And inarching 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 j 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 English 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 I pray'd, " If due obedience to the laws were paid : " My g°od adviser taught me to be still, " Nor to make converts had I power or will. ' " I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife, " 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 well or sick. " And was a most obedient Catholic. " But I had money, and these pastors found li My notions vague, heretical, unsound : " A wicked book they seized ; the very Turk " Could not have read a more pernicious work ; " To me pernicious, wdio if it were good " Or evil qucstion'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 dusty 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 spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly, Or for his crime and contumacy die ; Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight : His wife, his children, weeping in his sight, All urging 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 lie 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 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 ; 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 Allen join the crew, Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past, They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast; But him they 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 : War 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 ■ 't is my lovely land. TALE III. — THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. 285 " See ! there my dwelling — oh ! delicious scene " Of my best lite : — unhand me — are ye men ?" And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brusl.'d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind. He told of bloody fights, and how at length The iagc of battle gave his spirits strength : "f was in the Indian seas his limb he lost, And he was left half-dead upon the coast; But living guin'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 Hew- To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew: He saw his parents, saw his fnv'rite maid, No feature wrinkled, not n 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. lie 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, Ami bow confused and troubled all appear'd ; His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd, Ail views in future blighted and destroy'd : His were a medley of bcwild'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 pjcen ;— So strong his eager fancy, he affrights The faithful widow by its powerful flights; For what disturbs him he aloud will tell. Anil cry — " 'T is she. my wife ! my Isabel ! '• Where are my children i" — 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 office ; her attention see ! While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree, • [This tain contains passages of great beauty and pathos. The story is simplv that of a youth and a maiden in humble life, who had loved each other from their childhood, but were too poor to marry. Tile youth goes to Hie West Indies to push his fortune ; but is captured by tho Spnninrds and e.imed to Mexico, where, in tni- course of time, though still sighing for his first love, lie marries a Spanish girl, and lives twenty years with her and his children, lie is then im- pMMN and carried round the world for twenty years longer, and is at. last moved by an irresistible impulse, when old, and ■flittered, and lonely, to seek his native tow n, and the scene of his youthful vows. Me comes and finds his Judith, like himself, in a state of widowhood ; hut still brooding, like himself, over the memory of their early love. She had waiti d 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 frcm 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 unnumbcr'd rills, where cv'ry gale Breathes the rich fragrance of the ncighb'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, When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? This is the joy that now so plainly speaks In the warm transient flushing of his checks ; For he is list'ning to the fancied noise Of his own children, eager in their joys: All this he feels, n 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. I'anse then, And weigh thy value with an even hand ; If thou lieest rated by thv estimation, Thou dost deserve enough. bhrchant of Venice. 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), I will live a bachelor. — ilueh Ado alxjut Not/nag. Throw physic to the dogs, 1 '11 none of it. — itachclli. I lis promises are, as he then was, mighty; And his performance, as he now is, nothing. //, try nil. Gwvx 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, and they still cling together, in sad and (Tjbdueil alTection, to the exclusion of 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 pathos, and in some places with such truth and force of colouring, as to outdo the cflorts of the first dramatic representation. There is something sweet and touching, and in a high vein of poetry, in the story which Allen tells to Judith of all his adventures, and of those other ties, of which it still wrings her bosom to hear him speak. The close is extremely beau- tiful, and leaves upon the mind that impression of sadness which is both salutarv and delightful, because it is akin to pity, and mingled with admiration and esteem.— Jeffrey.] 286 CRABBE'S WORKS. Far different he from that dull plodding tribe Whom it was his amusement to describe ; Creatures no more enliven'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 thresh'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 with 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 favouring 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. Gwpi 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 still tenour of his chosen life ; Much 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 lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill ; 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 Seat ; At much expense was each apartment graced, His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste ; In full festoons the crimson curtains fell, The sofas rose in bold elastic swell ; Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints ; The weary eye saw every object shine, And all was 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 eye 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 purpose 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 ; Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin, Of ending thoughtless — and of these was Gwyn. 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 are 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 affairs 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. 1 " 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 see a man in priestly fetters bound ; ' [Original MS. :— Because in beaten ways we ever tread, And man by man, as sheep by sheep, is led, None start aside, but in the paths 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 olive : " 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; ■• AVIio has no judgment, must a creed espouse : " Advanced in life, our boys arc bound by rules, " Arc 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 ? " Forced to be kind ! compell'd to be sincere ! " Do chains and fetters make companions dear? '• l'ris'ncrs indeed we bind ; but though the bond '• May keep them safe, it docs not make them fond : " The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, " All 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 you feel, remember, or can guess; " Noy, 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 shockles, nor confess they're bound ; " In all that most confines them tiny confide, " Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride ; " E'en as the pressure galls them, they declare " (Gooil souls !) how happy and how free they arc ! " \-i 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 enthrnll'il 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, wcaken'd and afraid : " Then if 1 yield, my frailty is not known ; '• And, if 1 stand, the glory is my own. •• When Truth and Keason are our friends, we seem " Alive ! awake ! — the superstitious dream. * [" I.o I, who erst beneath n tree Suig B amid net and Bowzybee, 1 And Blouzelind, ami 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 Bttdden thunder none expect to hear. He 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 !" Wisdom like this, as oil things rich and rare, Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care; in books he sought it, which his friends might view, When 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 nppear'd, and near a splendid book Composed by Gay's " good lord of Bolingbrokc :"- With these were mix'd the light, the free, the vain, And from a corner pcep'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 he read When deeper studies had confused the head. Such his resources, treasures where he sought For daily knowledge till his mind w as fraught : Then, when his friends were present, for their use He would the riches he had stored produce; lie found his lamp burn clearer when each day He drew for all he puqiosed 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 With 11 fair damsel — his no vulgar taste ; The neat llcbcccu — sly, observant, still, Watching his eye, and waiting on his will ; simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek, Her 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. With 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 gooil lord of Bolin|;liroke." Oat, Prologue to S/upfwrd's IVcclt.'] 288 CRABBE'S WORKS. And what they saw not, fancied ; said 't was sin, And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn : But lie despised their rudeness, and would prove Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love ; " Pools 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 lie 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 that 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 wdien we plan the best, Something arises to disturb our rest : For though in spirits high, in body strong, Gwyn something felt— he knew not what — wi wrong ; He wish'd to know, for 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 I" 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 Mollet — 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 ; Who 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 Gwyn 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 eat and drink, When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or think. 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 ofFer'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, He felt disposed to fix his station there : To gain his purpose he perform'd the part Of a good actor, ami 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 east wind Had all its influence on a nervous mind ; When past the' parlour's front it fiercely blew, And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew, This strange physician said — " Adieu '- adieu ! TALE HI.— THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. " Farew ell ! — Heaven bless you !— if you should — but no, " You need not fear — farewell ! '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, lie cried in terror — " Oh ! be where thou art: " Come, thou art young, and unengaged ; oh ! come, " .Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine home ; " I have now symptoms that require thine aid, " Do, Doctor, stay : " — th' obliging Doctor stny'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'ritc nag bestride, lie sought permission — " Doctor, may I ride? " (Rebecca's eye 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 ; I!ul where such friends in every enre 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; While the chief vizier cased his lord of cares, And bore himself the burden of nlfnirs: 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 nnd old ; When philosophic writers foil'd to clear The 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 he 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 iii 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 tnfst ; " 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 I should hear : <; Send for that man ; and if report be just, " ], like Cornelius, will the teacher trust ; " But if deceiver, I tJic vile deceit " Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat." To Doctor Mollet 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. " My 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 Gwvnwas told : " Alas ! " the Doctor said, " how hard to hold " These easy minds, where all impressions made " At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade ; " For while so strong these new-born fancies reign, " Wc must divert them, to oppose is vain : " You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed " The bigot's thrcat'nings or the zealot's creed ; " Shook by a dream, he next for truth 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." ll'iJW had been ostler at a busy inn, Wh^ e he beheld nnd grew in dread of sin ; Then to a Baptists' meeting found his way, 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 mndc the wishes known Of his good patron, but conccal'd his own ; He of s!l 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 n bold intent : Their minds at first were deeply vcil'd ; disguise FormM the slow speech, and oped the eager eyes; Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown On every view, nnd all the business shown. W isp, 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 W ith Gwyn, and every rival power expel (A dubious point), yet he, with every care, Might soon the lot of the rejected share ; And other Wisps he found like him to reign, Ami then be thrown upon the world again : He thought it prudent then, and felt it just, The present guides of his new friend to trust : U 290 CRABBE'S WORKS. True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart Of the cool Doctor, was beyond his art ; But mild Rebecca he 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 Gwyn 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 Rebecca 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 nymph to say, " You must be married : will you name the day ?" She smiled, — " 'T is well : but should he not comply, " Is it quite safe th' experiment 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 the crime ? — " You must be married ; will you name the time ?" 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 sold his books, and has renounced his sin ; Mollet his body orders, AVisp his soul, And o'er his purse the Lady 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. 3 3 [This tale is of a coarser texture than the preceding ones, though full of acute observation and graphic delineation of ordinary characters. The hero is not a farmer turned gentle- man, but a gentleman turned farmer— a conceited, active, talking, domineering sort of person— who plants, and eats, and drinks with great vigour— keeps a mistress, and speaks with audacious scorn of the tyranny of wives, and the impo- sitions of priests, lawyers, and physicians. Being but a shallow fellow, however, at bottom, his confidence in his opinions declines gradually as his health decays ; and being TALE IV. PROCRASTINATION. 1 Heaven witness I have been to you ever true and humble. Henry VIII. Gentle lady, \ft hen I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had. Merchant of Venice. The fatal time Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love, And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon. Richard III. I know thee not, old man ; fall to thy prayers. Henry IV. Farewell, Thou pure impiety, thou, impious purity, For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love. Much Ado about Nothing. Love will expire— the gay, the happy 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 ; More luckless still their fate, who are the prey Of long-protracted hope and dull delay : 'Mid 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 Rupert was the swain approved : A wealthy Aunt her gentle niece sustain'd, He, with a father, at his desk remain'd ; The youthful couple, to their vows sincere, Thus loved expectant ; year succeeding year, 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, And 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 with mar- rying his mistress, and submitting to be triply governed by three of her confederates, in the respective characters of a quack doctor, a methodist preacher, and a projecting land steward. — Jeffrey.] 1 [Mr. Crabbe's sons have no doubt but that their mother's residence, at one time, with her rich old aunt, who was very partial to her, and abounded in trinkets, suggested this sup- position.] TALE IV.— PROCRASTINATION, 291 And thus the pair, with expectations vain, Beheld the seasons change and change again : Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, AVhere cruel aunts impatient girls refused : "While hers, though teasing, boasted to t>e kind. And she, resenting, to be all resign'd. The dame was sick, and when the youth 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 ! here the boy " And you together my estate enjoy :" Thus to the lovers was her 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 Kupert's evening call Obtain'd an hour, made sweet amends for all ; So long they now each other's thoughts had known, That nothing scem'd exclusively their own : But witli the common wish, the mutual fear, They now had travelled to their thirtieth year. At length a prospect open'd — but nla8 ! Long time must yet, before the union, pass. Kupcrt 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 ; nny, love, suppress that sigh ; " The kind must suffer, 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 ; lie for uncertain duties doom'd to steer, While hers remain'd too certain a id severe. Letters arrived, and Kupert fairly told " His cares were many, and his hopes were cold : " The view more clouded, that was never fair, " Anil love alone preserved him from despair ;" In other letters brighter hopes he drew, " His 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 hade her see how her poor aunt sustain'd The ills of life, nor munnur'd nor complain'd. 2 Allusion is hen made, not to the well-known species of sumnr/i, called the poison-oak, toxicodendron, but to flic uvas, or poison-tree of .lava : whether it be real or imaginary, this is no proper place for inquiry. 3 [*' Fierce in dread silence on the blasted heath Fell Upas sits, tin* Hydra tree of death. I» I 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 Zoom 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, With the kind notice — " They will be your own." This hope, these comforts, chcrish'd day by day, To Dinah's bosom made a gradual way ; Till love of treasure had as large a part, As love of Kupert, in the virgin's heart. Whether it be that tender passions fail, From their own nature, while the strong prevail ; Or whether av'ricc, like the poison-tree,* Kills all beside it, and alone will be ; 3 AVhatcvcr cause prcvail'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 clcan'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 goin'd at length such sway, That other passions shrank to make it way ; Komantic 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 Kupert's friend. Seldom she wrote, 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 renson'd, they prescribed, — at last, Like honest men, they said their hopes were past ; Then came a priest — 'tis 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, While all they left the virgin's enre became ; St. irk. 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' important duty for the donor's sake ; She too was heiress to the widow's taste, iter 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 Kafllcs's History of Java, vol. i,, p. '14. " Almost every one," says Sir Thomas, 11 has heard of its fabulous historv — a history which, from its extravagant nature, its susccptioilitv of poetical onament, its alliance witli 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 with the wonders of the Lerna hydra, the Chimera, or any other of the classic fictions of anti- quity."] 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 live, but more to live at ease : Yet could she not a broken vow defend, And Heav'n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend. Month after month was pass'd, and 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 the 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 fill'd the Widow's breast, When she reflected on the hoards possess'd ; But livelier joy inspired th' ambitious Maid, When she the purchase of those hoards display'd : 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 cull'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 polish'd volumes stood ; Shown 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 the pictured case, Through the pure crystal shone the enamel'd face ; And while on brilliants moved the hands of steel, It click'd from pray'r to pray'r, from meal to meal. Here as the lady sat, a friendly pair Stept in t' admire the view, and took their chair : They then related how the young and gay AVere thoughtless wandering in the broad highway : How 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, nothing seem'd to see, But sat and sigh'd in pensive 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 ! " sard 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 boy, " But time has left us something to enjoy." " What ! thou hast leam'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 !" return'd the maid, " This 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 " These 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." llnlf angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed ; " Dinah," said he, " dost thou respect thy vows? " What spousal meaiTst 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 post, " 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, " Mcan'st thou to take me, now I 'm wrcck'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 con 1 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 lmfl'is o'er my features spread: " Perchance my speech is rude ; for I among " 'I'll' untamed have been, in temper and in tongue ; •• Bave been trep&nn'd, have lived in toil and care, " And wrought for wealth I was not doom'd to share ; " It toach'd me deeply, for 1 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 weuried, and at last " This doubt of thee — a childish thing to tell, " Hut certain truth — my very throat they swell: " They stop the breath, ami but for shame could I " (iivc way to weakness, and with passion cry; " These are unmanly struggles, but I feel " This hour must end them, nnd perhaps will henl." Here Dinah sigh'd, as if afraid to speak — And then repealed — " They were frail and weak : '• His soul she lov'd, and hoped he had 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 his hard And bronzed broad hand ; then told her his regard, Mis best respect were gone, hut love had still Hold in his heart, and govcrn'd yet the will — 4 [This talc lins something of the character of the ' Parting Hour ;' lint more painful nnd less rclined. It, is founded like it on the story of a betrothed youth nnd maiden, whose mar- '<■«:•• '» prevented liy their poverty; and the youth eoes to pursue his fortune at sea, while the damsel awaits 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, Tic 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; When 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 — " Stoy," Her air expresses, — " Hark to what I say ! " Ten paces off, poor Bupert 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 nil his earthly prospects died away: " 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, blcss'd nnd loved." But Dinah moves — she hnd observed before The pensive Bupert 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 Knell eye should sec her. and each heart upbraid ; One way rcniain'd — the way the Levitc took, Who 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. 4 with an old female relation at home. He is crossed with many disasters, and is not heard of for many years. In the mean time, tlie virgin gradually imbibes her aunt's paltry love for wealth and finery ; and when she comes, alter long sordid ex- pectation, to inherit her hoard, feels that those new tastes 294 CRABBE'S TALE V. THE PATRON. 1 It were all one, That I sliould love a bright peculiar star, And think to wed it ; she is so much above me : In her bright radiance and collateral heat Must I be comforted, not in her sphere. All's Well that Earls Well. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness' favours, dream as I have done, — Wake and find nothing. Cymbdinc. And since Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which I fear a madness held me. Tempest. A borough-bailiff, who 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 const 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 John, 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 youthful lover, gives herself up to comfortable gossiping and formal ostentatious devotion. At last, when she is set in her fine parlour, with her china, and toys, and prayer-books around her, the im- patient man bursts into her presence, and reclaims her vows. She answers coldly, that she has now done with 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 cold-blooded cant on the warm and unsus- pecting nature of her disappointed suitor. — Jeffrey.] 1 [The numberless allusions to the nature of a literary de- pendant's existence in a. great lord's house which occur in Mr. Crabbe's writings, and especially in the tale of * The l'atron,' are quite enough to lead any one who knew his cha- racter and feelings to the conclusion that, notwithstanding the kindness and condescension of the Duke and Duchess of Rutland, — which were uniform, and of which he always spoke WORKS. Inspired by feelings all such works infused, John snateh'd a pen, and wrote as he perused : "With the like fancy he could make his knight Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight ; With the like knowledge he could make him ride From isle to isle at Parthenissa's 2 side ; And with a heart yet 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 her flight : His notions of poetic worth were high, 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 elaim'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 heard 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 call'd before him all his heart desired ; " Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess, " And beauty next an ardent lover bless ; with gratitude, — the situation he filled at Belvoir was at- tended 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.— Life, ante, p. 32. " 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 culti- vating some honourable profession, and qualifying himself to play a more respectable part in society than the mere poet. And as the best corollary of my doctrine, I would make him get your tale of 'The Patron' by heart from beginning to end."— Sir Walter Scott to Mr. Crabbe. See ante, p. 57.] 2 [The title of a romance written by Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, and published in 1GG5. " Budgell, in his History of the Boyles, says that ' few who can relish any romance will dislike this :' and Langbane tells us that ' it yields not, either in beauty, language, or design, to the works of the famous Scuderi or Calprenade, however famous they may be amongst the French for pieces of this nature.' " — Siog. Bril.] 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 ring and lamp ! 3 what need of you, When Fancy's self such magic deeds can do? Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind, To common subjects stoop'd our poet's mind ; And oft when wearied with more ardent flight, He felt a spur satiric song to write ; A rival burgess his bold Muse attack'd, And whipp'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, 't is true, had held in pay Klectors many for the trying day ; But in such golden chains to bind them all Required 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 Damcr, both prepared to run ; And partial numbers saw with vast delight Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight. Our poet's father, at a first request, Gave the young 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, Might 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." " T 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 their friend succeed, That much discretion would the poet need. Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal The poet felt, and made opposers feel, By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet !) An invitation to his noble seat. 3 [See. in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, the History of Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp.] The father ponder'd, doubtful if the brain Of his proud boy such honour could sustain ; Pleased with the favours offer'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 such 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 suffered 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 see 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 Bailiffs 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 with lords. Now was the Sister of his Patron seen — A lovely creature, with majestic mien; Who, softly smiling, while she look'd so fair, Praised the young poet with such friendly air ; Such winning frankness in her looks cxpress'd, And such attention to her brother's guest ; That so much beauty, join'd with speech so kind, Kaised strong emotions in the poet's mind ; Till reason fail'd his bosom to defend, From the sweet power of this enchanting friend. — Rash boy ! what hope thy frantic mind invades? What love confuses, and what pride persuades ? Awake to truth ! shouldst thou deluded feed On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed. What say'st thou, wise one ? — " that all powerful Love " Can fortune's strong impediments remove; 296 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth, " The pride of genius with the pride of birth." While thou art dreaming thus, the Beauty spies Love in thy 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 thy daring mind to glory call ? — That thou may'st dare and suffer, 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 fix'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 joy, 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 always pass for what 'tis truly worth : " Whereas this genius, like a bill must take " Only the value our opinions make. " Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain, " Treat those of common parts with proud disdain ; 4 [Goldsmith. " Those who were in any way distinguished excited envy in him to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances of" it are hardly credible." — Choker's Boswcll, vol. i. p. 422.] 5 [" Yes, I am proud ; I must he proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me ; Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone." Pope, Epilogue to Satires.] 6 fCharfres was a man infamous for all manner of vices. He died in Scotland, in 1731. The populace at his funeral raised a great riot, almost tore the body out of the coffin, and cast dead dogs, &c. into the grave along with it.] i [John Ward, of Hackney. Being convicted of forgery, he was expelled the House of Commons, suffered on the pillory, and afterwards imprisoned. During his imprisonment, his " The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide, " They 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 ; " Kay, different talents would their envy raise ; " Poets have sicken'd at a dancer's praise ; " And one, the happiest writer of his time, 4 " Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime ; " That Rutland's Duchess wore a heavenly smile — " 'And I,' said he, 'neglected all the while-! ' " 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 song. " Hear me, my 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 '11 attack again ; " 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 ; 5 " But grant they fear'd him, was it further said, " That he reform'd the hearts he made afraid ? " Did Chartres mend ? 6 Ward,' Waters, 8 and a score " Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore? '• Was Cibber 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 and 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 and fame. 9 amusement was to give poison to dogs and cats, and see them expire by slower or quicker torments.] 8 [A dexterous attorney, who, by a diligent attendance on the necessities of others, acquired an immense fortune, and represented the borough of iiridport in parliament. He died in 1745.] 0 [" Pope, in 1 7«, published a new edition of the Dunciad, in which he degraded Tibbald from his painful pre-eminence, and enthroned Cibber in his stead. Colley resented the affront in a pamphlet, which, Pope said, ' would be as good as a dose of hartshorn to him ; ' hut his tongue and his heart were at variance. I have heard Mr. Richardson relate that lie attended his father, the painter, on a visit, when Cibber's pamphlet came into the hands of Pope, who said, ' these things are my diversion.' 'I hey sat by him while he perused it, and saw his features writhing with anguish ; and young Richardson said to his father, when they returned, that he hoped to be preserved from such diversion as had that day been the lot of Pope."— Johnson.] 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 and 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 ! 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 spark 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 answer,— 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 affect no wit ; " They hazard nothing, nothing they assume, " But know the useful art of acting dumb. " Yet to their eyes each varying look appears, " And every word finds entrance at their ears. " Thou art Religion'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 powers confide ; " What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain, li They will deny, and dare thee 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 : " Blen 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, and cry, ' The good 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 ? " When 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 Divine! and dote upon the sound ; " Remember, too, that though the poor have ears, " They take not in the music of the spheres ; " They must not feel the warble and the thrill, " Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will ; " Beside, 't is freedom in a youth 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, shrewd, insidious throng ; " Who look upon thee as of doubtful race, " An interloper, one who wants a place : " Freedom with these, let thy free soul condemn, " Nor with thy heart's concerns associate them. " Of all be cautious — but be most afraid " Of the pale charms that grace My Lady's Maid ; " 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 her actions speak : " At first her folly 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 upon a book ; " Let her once see thee on her features dwell, " And hear one sigh, then liberty fareSvcll. " But, John, remember we cannot maintain " A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain. 298 CRABBE'S WORKS. " Doubt much of friendship : shouldst thou find a friend " Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend ; " Should he the praises he has heard report, " And confidence (in thee confiding) court; " Much 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 thi-ough the island would the 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 the foggy morn, the day was brief, Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods Roar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods : All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew, That still displayed their melancholy hue ; Save the green holly 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 fill'd his soul with gloom : Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose, And cried, " One hour my fortune will disclose ; " Terrific hour ! from thee have I to date " Life's loftier views, or my degraded state ; " For now to be what I have been before " Is so to fall, that I can rise no more." The morning meal was past ; and all around The mansion rang with each discordant sound ; Haste was in every foot, and every look The traveler'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 ! — presumptuous scribbler ! — you, " To dream such dreams ! — be sober, and adieu !" Then came the Noble Friend — " And will my Lord " V ouchsafe 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 his 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 caress'd ; admired " Were here my songs ; she smiled, and I aspired. " The change how grievous I" 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 ; here 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 the night's approach. His father met him with an anxious air, Heard his sad tale, and check'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 feverish mind Admitted this, and half his grief resign'd : But, when three months had fled, and every day Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away, The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull ; He utter'd nothing, though his heart was full ; Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks, And all forgetful of his Muse and books ; Awake he mourn'd, but in his sleep perceived A lovely vision that his pain relieved : — • His soul, transported, hail'd the happy seat, Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet ; Where 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 call'd friends, because they are not foes : TALE V.— THE PATRON. 299 " John ? " they would say ; he, starting, turn'd around ; " John ! " there was something shocking in the sound : 111 hrook'd he then the 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, hoth cool and brief, But still it gave the burthen'd heart relief : Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the 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 appcar'd, And his 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 press'd ; The shining tables, curiously inlaid, Were all in comfortless proud style display'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 offer'd to his trembling hand : " No more ! " he cried : " disdains he to afford " One kind expression, one consoling word ? " With troubled spirit ho 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 possess'd, " Not likely in their chancels yet to rest ; " And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he, my lord, " 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 disgi-aced — 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 suffer'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 high romantic views Did that one visit to the soul infuse, Which, cherish'd with such love, 't was worse than death to lose ! Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life ; On these low duties duteous he would wait, 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' official pen ; Who 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 Made 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 to scramble and to climb ; He little thought his son, his hope and pride. His favour'd boy, was now a home denied : Yes ! while the parent was intent to trace How men in office climb from place to place, By day, by night, o'er moor, and heath, and hill, Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill. Thus as he sat, absorb'd in all the care And all the hope that anxious fathers share, 3U0 CRABBE'S WORKS. 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 ! " they all exclaim'd ; " explain " Thy grief, thy suffering :" — but they ask'd in vain : The friend told all he knew ; and all was known, 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 young 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 beainiug all on 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'ning 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 rcmain'd ; Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at Love, And the wild sallies of his youth reprove ; 10 [" Let every man of letters, who wishes for patronage, read D'Alember't's ' Essay on Living with the Great,' before lie enters the house of a patron : and let him always remem- ber the fate of Racine, who, having drawn up, at Madame de Maintenon's secret request, a memorial that strongly painted the distresses of the French nation, the weight of their taxes, and the expenses of the Court, she 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 — but as the poet's heart Was all unfitted for his earthly part ; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair Would, 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 humble 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. Bly Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told, Was much affected, 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 son 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 ; 10 portunity of Louis XIV., but showed him her friend's paper, j against whom the king immediately conceived a violent | indignation, because a poet should dare to busy himself with politics. Racine had the weakness to take this anger so . much to heart, that it brought on a low fever, which hastened his death." — WaktokJ TALE VI. — THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 301 " 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." 11 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, let him iii' ;i handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and sav, 41 Father, as it pleases me." — Muck 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 jig, 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 I contemn'd for pride and scorn so much ? Much Ada 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 unqucstion'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 respe'et, And never pardon'd freedom or neglect. They had one daughter, and this favourite child Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled ; H [' 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 hist taken notice of by a noble- man in the neighbourhood, who promises to promote him in the church, and invites him to pass an autumn with him at 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 years, She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears : But Sybil then was in that playful time, When 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, AVhcre 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, AVho 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 1 were not our rulers yet. Fix'd were their habits ; they arose betimes. Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party- 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 b) r chosen friends, and there appear'd His stern, strong features, whom they all revered ; For there in lofty air was seen to stand The bold Protector of the conquer'd land ; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door, Bidding 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 the arms of his disap- pointed parents. The history of the poet's progress, the lather'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. — Jeffrey.] 1 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. 302 CRABBE'S WORKS. I i The stern still smile each friend approving gave, Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave. 2 There stood a clock, though small the owner'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 cheer'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 churchmen 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 he felt, suppress'd : Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece, Had he suspicions that 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 Sybil, pleased and unconfmed, 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 dress " A grave conformity of mind express ; 5 [Such was the actual consolation of a small knot of Pres- byterians in a country town, about sixty years ago.] " Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, " The more t' enjoy when we return again." Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled. Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught 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 him ; 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 with 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 she 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 youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth ; In a light drab he uniformly dress'd, And look serene th' unruffled mind express'd ; A hat with ample verge his brows o'erspread, And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head ; Yet might observers in his speaking eye Some observation, some acuteness 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 laughter 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 and discreet ; The pair must love whenever they should meet ; Then ere the widow or her son should choose Some happier maid, he would explain his views : Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, With strong desire of lawful gain cmbued ; TALE VI.— THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 303 To all he said, she bow'd with much 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 discern'd, 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 : The parting came ; — and when the Aunt perceived The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved — To love for her that tender grief she laid, That various, soft, contending passions made. "When Sybil rested in her father's arms, His pride exulted in a daughter's charms ; A maid accomplish'd ho was pleased to find, Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mind : But when the fit of pride and fondness lied, 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, she 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 whon 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 she delights to trace, " Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah'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 Youth 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 answer'd, calling up an air sedate, " I have not vow'd against the holy state." " No folly, Sybil," said the 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." " My aunt," said Sybil, " will with pride protect " One whom a father can for this reject ; " Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy " My 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 thy Youth " Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth." " But will he love ?" said Sybil; " I am told " That these mild creatures arc by nature cold." " Alas !" the matron answer'd, " much I dread " That dangerous love by which the young are led ! " 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 choice rely ! " Your love, like that display'd upon the stage, " Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage ; — " More prudent love our sober couples show, " All that to mortal beings, mortals owe ; " All flesh is grass — before you give a heart, " Kemember, 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 ; 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 Josiali," 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; " Keceive 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 her 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 coupJe 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 the cheek had spread, Where the soft down half veil'd the purest red; And the serene deportment that proclaim'd A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed : But then with these she saw attire too plain, 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 affected 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 " Want and excess, abounding and yet cold ; " Here needed, there display'd, in many a wanton fold: " Both health and beauty, learned authors show, " From 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 thy 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 true tokens of a noble mind ; " But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys " Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys; TALE VI. -THE FRANK COURTSHIP. 305 I I " 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." " Spoak'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 maystbe 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 that hides thy sober face ? " Docs 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 mayst not speak of love " Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, " And those becoming youth and nature tried: " Not till exterior freedom, spirit, case, " 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 ! 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 : 3 ["The 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 daughter of a rigid Quaker, having been educated from home, conceives a slight prejudice against the ungallant manners of the 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 you 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 cur peace, Josiah ? say." " Yes ! my good neighbour," said the gentle youth, " Xely securely on my care and truth ; " And should thy comfort with my efforts cease, " And only then, — perpetual is ttry 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 cxclaim'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 ? " — " All 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 ! in three plain words thy mind ex- press •■ " Wilt thou have this good youth ?" — " Dear father ! yes." 3 persuasion for a husband; but is so much struck with the beauty of his person, and the cheerful reasonableness of his deportment, at their 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 tine traits of natural coquetry. — Jeffrky.] 306 CRABBE'S WORKS. TALE VII. THE WIDOWS TALE. AU me I for auglit that I could ever read, Or ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth ; Hut 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 sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. Midsummer Night's Dream. Oh ! thou didst then ne'er love so heartily, If thou rememberest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into. As You Like It. Cry the man mercy ! love him, take his offer. As Yuu Like It. To Farmer Moss, in 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 iaid 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; AVith 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 ; AVhcn the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again — She could not breathe ; but with a heavy sigh, Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye ; She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine, And wonder'd much 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 !" said the Farmer, in an angry tone ; " These are your school-taught airs ; your mother's pride " Would send you there ; but I, am now your guide. — " Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, " And, this despatch'd, let business be your care ; " Look to the lasses, let there not be one " AVho 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 ; " AYhcn thus employ'd, should our young neigh- bours view, " A useful lass, — you may have more to do." Dreadful were these commands : but worse than these The parting hint — a Farmer could not please : 'T is true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry 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 ; There 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. " AVhat 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, " Yon shall see twenty better worth your love." These Nancy 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, " 'Tis odds against us she will take a worse." Then met the friends; the Widow heard the 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." TALE VII.— THE 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 romantic 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 talcs 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 sec 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 arc painful to my failing sight, " And oftener read from duty than delight ; " (Yet let me own, that T can sometimes find " Both joy and duty in the act combined ;) " But view me rightly, you will see no more " Than a poor female, willing 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 .V 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 sj'mpathising 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 ! — WIDOW'S TALE. 307 " What ! can you smile ? Ah ! smile not at the grief " That woos your pity and demands relief." " Trifles, my love : you take a false alarm ; " Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm : " Duties in every state demand your 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." " What 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 suffer'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 arc who, dreaming so, " AVaste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe. " There is no spirit sent the heart to move " AVith 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' eyes the heart of kings transfix ; " And who but am'rous peers or nobles sigh, " When titled beauties pass triumphant by ? 308 CRABBE'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 haste 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 the 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 offspring 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 fill'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 " Wo 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 blcss'd at last ?" A smile again adorn'd the Widow'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 then join'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 light ; " 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 'twas 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 was this cottage ; he inclosed this ground, " And planted all these blooming shrubs around ; " lie to my room those curious trifles brought, " And with assiduous love my pleasure sought ; '• !le 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 your 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 til' 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 offend ; " 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 ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they 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 ; Ho fear'd to lose her, and began to sec 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 cxpress'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 I, 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 CRABBE'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. 1 TALE VIII. THE MOTHER What though von have beautv, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? As You Lilte It th-!tT,]ii n , 0t ^'l ry , I,er ; t i 10U » h she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before lie 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 Well that Ends Well. T . . . Be this sweet Helen's knell : lie left a wife whose words all ears took captive Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve Humbly call'd Mistress. All 's Well that Ends Well 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 wrote a billet, and a novel read, And with her fame her vanity was fed ; Each word, each look, eacli action was a cause For nattering 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, AVho for a poor support herself resign'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 must suppliant paupers stand, To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand : 1 [ The Widows Tale 'is rather of the facetious order. It contains the history of a farmer's daughter, who comes home from boarding-school a great deal too fine to tolerate the gross habits, or submit to the filthy drudgery, of her lather's house ; but is induced, bv the warning historv and sensible exhortations of a neighbouring widow, in whom she And now, her education all complete She talk'd of virtuous 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 distressed her to remain at ease' Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tea-o She tried Ins patience in a thousand modes, And tired it not upon the roughest roads. Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh'd *or 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 • JNo— that," she answered, "should for her be done ; " ?° w ^ ould she sa Y what pleasures were around ? « w S 6 V S Certain man y mi S ht b e 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 lull." She talk'd of building-" Would she plan a room ? " — « n°n COUld live ' as hc dcsired > "i gloom." Call then our friends and neighbours."—" Ho 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 Mother's angry taunt, " Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt :" Long time had Lucy 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 plain 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, and marry a jolly young farmer in the neighbourhood. The account of her' horrors' on first 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."— Jeffrey.] 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 : j In rising splendour with the one it reign'd, ; And in the other was by care sustain'd, | The daughter's charms increased, the parent's yet remain'd. Leave we these ladies to their daily care, To sec 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; Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere, Her duty joy, and her companion dear ; In tender friendship and in true respect Lived Aunt and Niece, 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, Hail more than beauty in each speaking grace, 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 Was the pure meekness of a will resign'd ; A tender spirit, freed from all pretence Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence; Bless'd in protecting fondness she reposed, W ith 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 Hector 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, Thcyown'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 him all she wish'd to find, With slight exception of a lofty mind : A certain manner that exprcss'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, she thought, Had oft COnfeSS'd) that he her favour sought; But when he kncel'd, (she wish'd him not to kneel,) Ami spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel ; When too the prudent aunt herself confess'd Her wishes on the 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 gcntlo aunt, with smiles that angels wear, Dispcll'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 he 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 — the 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 youthful pair removed From fear of want — by mutual friends approved — Short time to wait, and in that time to live With all the pleasures hope and fancy give; Their equal passion raised on just esteem, When reason sanctions nil 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 yield 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 : These 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 traveling all the while ; And when desired to speak, she sigh'd to find Her pause olTended ; '* Envy made her blind i " 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 mother's face: " It is your duty," said tlf imperious dame, li (Advanced your fortune.) to advance your name, " And with superior rank, superior offers 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." CRABBE'S WORKS. Adarm'd was Lucy, was in tears — " A fool ! | " Was she a child in love ? — a miss at school ? " Doubts any mortal, if a change of state I " Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date ?" I I 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 name ; She firmly vow'd her purpose to pursue, Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu ! 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." I 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 Hector came | With larger offers and with bolder claim ; i But the stern lady would attend no more — She frown'd, and rudely pointed to the door ; Whate'er he wrote, he saw unread return'd, And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn'd : Nay, fix'd suspicion where he might confide, And sacrificed his passion to Ins pride. Lucy, meantime, though threaten'd and distress 'd ; ! Against her marriage made a strong protest : I All was domestic war ; the Aunt rebell'd Against the sovereign will, and was expell'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 angry 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, I " And read the conduct of your reverend cheat ; " See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd " The creature married — of his falsehood proud ! " False, did I say? — at least no whining fool ; " And thus will hopeless 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.'' 1 [These were the very words of Mr. Crabbe's own mother (luring her last illness. It happening that a friend and neighbour was slowly yielding at the same time to the same hopeless disorder as herself, she every morning used to desire Some spirit Lucy 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 she 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 fear'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 she 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 toll'd the bell, " There's one," she said, " hath i press'd " Awhile before me to the bed of rest :" 1 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 ; her daughter to see if this sufferer's window was opened ; saying cheerfully, " She must make haste, or I shall be at rest before her." — See ante, pp. 29, 30.] TALE IX.— ARABELLA. 315 Till, in a bless' d ami glorious reverie, She seem'd the Saviour os on earth to see, And, ftll'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' intenscness of the w orking 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 Wu 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 ; Her looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene, In the still glory of the midnight scene : There at her Saviour's feet, in visions blcss'd, Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd ; In patience waiting for the first-born rny 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 (lying hours ; But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before, Ami the mind wandcr'd from its views no more; Till death approarh'd, when every look express'd A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. The mother lives, and hns enough to buy Th' attentive ear and the submissive eye Of abject natures — these are daily told, How t riuniph'd beauty in the days of old ; How, by her window seated, crowds have cast Admiring glances, wondering ns 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 Unaffectillg 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 requlr'd, And. gazing, slowly from the glass retired. TALE IX. ARABELI, A. 1 Thrice blessed they tliat master so their blood — Hut earthly happier is the rose distill'd, Than that which, withering on the virsiin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. Midsummer Nighl't Dream. I something do excuse the thing I hate, For his advantage whom I deaj'.y love. Measure fur Measure. Contempt, farewell 1 and maiden pride, adieu ! Much Ado about Xuilting. 1 [A nureeon of Ipswich had an addition to his family just as he had obtained the consent of a young ladv to marry him. Tlif breaking till' nf fin- 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.] Or a fair town where Doctor Hack was guide, His only daughter was the boast and pride — Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone. She like a bright anil polish'd brilliant shone; Her father own'd her for his prop and stay, Able to guide, yet willing to obey ; Pleased with Iter 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 shown; Who in her youth had nil 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; Tor, whatsoever wise mammas might say, To guide a daughter, this was not the way ; From such applause disdain nnd 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 felt the 6hock) She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke: Her mind within the maze of history dwelt, And of the moral Muse the beauty felt; The merits of the Roman pnge she knew, And could converse with More * and Montague : Tints she became the wonder of the town. 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. ' [Hnnnah More, authoress of ' Ccclebs in Search of a Wife/ &c. &c. flee, died at the age of eighty-six, in 1S3.'»: the celebrated Mrs. Montague died, aged eighty, in 1800.] 314 CRABBE'S WORKS. I Thus Fame in public fix'd tlie 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 uotice 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, who hides that man should seek, Or who by silence hints that they should speak ; But with discretion all the sex she view'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 state, Or still be happy in a virgin's fate : — He must be one with manners like her own, His life unquestion'd, his opinions known ; 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 his 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 ; To 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 esteem'd as wise Must think alike, though some assumed disguise ; That every reasoning Bramin, Christian, Jew, Of all religions took their liberal view; And of her own, no doubt, this learned Maid Denied the substance, and the forms obey'd : And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express'd Of her opinions, and his own profess'd : " All states demand this aid, the vulgar need " Their priests and pray'rs, their sermons and their creed ; " And those of stronger minds should never speak " (In his opinion) what might hurt the weak : " A man may smile, but still he should attend " His hour at church, 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 Hulmcs 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 Huntly 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 affection prove — ■ " Kespect, 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 his own will obeys ; " And will she love the being who prefers, " With so much ardour, 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, " And I will pass with thee the smiling year : " Then pressing grew the youth ; the more he press'd, The less inclined the maid to his request : " Let June arrive." — Alas ! when April came, It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame ; Nor could the Lover 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' unwelcome truth was shown, 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 penitence and pray'r, His vows, his tears ; she left him in despair : TALE IX. — ARABELLA. 315 His 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 rcturn'd : " Forgiving woman is deceived and spum'd : " Say that the crime is common — shall I take " A common man my wedded lord to make ? " Sec ! a weak woman by his arts bctray'd, " An infant born his father to upbraid ; " Shall I forgive his vilcness, 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 rcturn'd the smile. First to admire, to praise her, and defend, Was (now in years advanced) a virgin-friend : Much she prefcrr'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 yot'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 fur vice, But he that shows it may be over-nice : There arc 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 hear 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 flown to London for a week. And then rcturn'd, to every friend's surprise, With twice the spirit, and with half the size? She spoke not then -but, after years had ilown, A better friend had Ellen never known : Was it the lady her mistake had seen ? Or had she also such a journey been ? No: 'twas the gradual change in hnftSon hearts, That time, in commerce with the world, imparts; That on the roughest temper throws disguise, 1 And steals from virtue her asperities. The young 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 i3 changed with them. Let us proceed : — Twelve brilliant years were past, , Yet each with less of glory than the lost. 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 ; irr whether 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 offcr'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 fruit, the virgin, first austere, Then kindly softening with the ripening year. Now was the lover urgent, and the kind And yielding lady to his suit inclined : " A little time, my friend, is just, is right ; " Wc must be decent in our neighbours' sight :" Still she allow'd him of his hopes to speak, And in compassion took off week by week ; Till few remain'd, when, wenried 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? Wliy all their triumph \\lien a maid disdains The tyrant sex, ami scorns to wear its chains ? Is it pure joy to see a sister flpwn From the false pleasures they themselves have known ? 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 duly made, Came the kind Friend her burthen to unlade : — " Alas ! my 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, " Yt r ilt 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 own 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 mother 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 I 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 upon the floor, Paused — then replied — " I wish 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 they more than we have often seen ? " Children half-clothed who round their village stray, " In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they " Will the dark colour of their fate betray: 3 As the author's purpose in this tale may be mistaken, he wishes to observe that conduct like that of the lady's here described must be meritorious or censurable just as the motives to it are pure or selfish ; that these motives may in a great measure be concealed from the mind of the agent ; and that we often take credit to our virtue for actions which spring originally from our tempers, inclinations, or our in- difference. It cannot therefore be improper, much less im- moral, to give an instance of such self-deception. 1 [" It was in his walks between Aldborough and Beccles that .Mr. Crabbe passed through 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 ; "f 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." 3 TALE X. THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. 1 The sun is in the heavens, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton. King John. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. Midsummer TfighCs Dream. Oh ! how this spring of love resembleth Th* uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all her beauty to the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away. Tieo Gentlemen of Verona. And happily I have arrived at last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. Tamin i) 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 indiff 'rence rise : When minds are joyful, then we look around, And 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 ' The Lover's .Tourney while near Beccles, in another direction, 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 tigures out some- thing that, on one of these visits, befell himself, and the feelings with which he received it. ' Gone to a friend, she tells me ;— I commend Her purpose :— means she to a. female friend,' ' S.-C. For truth compels me to say that he was by no means free from the less amiable sign of a strong attachment— jealousy." — Life, 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' effects endure ; But Love in minds his various changes makes, And cdothes 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 month 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 blcss'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 gorsc," said he, " with golden bloom, " Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume ; " And this gay ling, with nil its purple (lowers, " 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; " Anil then how fine this herbage ! men may say " A heath is barren ; nothing is so gay: " Barren or bare to enll such charming scene " Argues a mind posscss'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 ; " AVith what delight is labouring man repaid! " The very lane has sweets that all admire, " The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier; " Sec ! 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, " -\nd snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn ; 11 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 common pasture wild and wide; Small black-Icgg'd sheep devour with hunger keen The meagre herbage, flcshless, lank, and lean : Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray, And there, with other blaclt-legs,- find their prey. He saw some scatter'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 ? " AVith 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 nn envious pang they sec, " 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 nt 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 " lie 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 flics, 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, AVith 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 n sunken boat resists the tide, That frets and hurries to th' opposing side; Tin' 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 : a [" finmblors or sharpen on the turf or in the cock-pit ; ■0 Cftllctl, perhaps, from their appearing generally in boots, or else from game-cocks, whose logs are always black." CJkose.] 318 CRABBE'S WORKS. Here a grave Flora 3 scarcely deigns to bloom, Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume : The few dull flowers that o'er the place arc 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 run.' 4 " 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 undiscerning men ; " Here may the nice and curious eye explore " How Nature'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 gipsy 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'Iler with their prayers to greet : While yet Orlando held 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 ; i 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 express'd The vice implanted in her youthful 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 Traveler's face : 3 The ditches of a fen so near the ocean are lined with irregular patches of a coarse and stained lava; a muddy sedi- ment rests on the horse-tail and other perennial herbs, which in part conceal the shallowness of the stream ; a fat-leaved pale-flowering scurvy-grass appears early in the year, and the razor-edged bulrush in the summer and autumn. The fen itself has a dark and saline herbage ; there are rushes and arrow-head, and in a few patches the flakes of the cotton-grass are seen, but more commonly the sea-aster, the dullest of that numerous and hardy genus; the thrift, blue in flower, but withering and remaining withered till the winter scatters it; the saltwort, both simple and shrubby; a few kinds of grass changed by their soil and atmosphere, and low plants of two or three denominations undistinguished in a general view of the scenerv ;— such is the vegetation of the fen when it is at a small distance from the ocean ; and in this case there arise from it effluvia strong and peculiar, half saline, hsif pulrid, 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 °y. On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, And by the 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 Grandsire 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 ; ho 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 ! What 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 ! 5 But this Orlando felt not ; " Kogues," said he, " Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be ; " 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 nigh — " 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 there are others to whom singularity of taste or association of ideas has rendered it agreeable and pleasant. 4 [This picture of a fen is what few other artists would have thought of attempting, and no other than Mr. Crabbe 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 England ? 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 cliffs ; what a delicious picture would his unrivalled powers have enabled him to give to the world. — Jeffrey.] 5 [This picture is evidently finished con amore, and appears to us to be absolutely perfect, both in its moral and its phy- sical expression. — Jeffrey.] I 4i Say, where is Laura i" — " That her words must show," I A lass replied ; " read this, and thou shalt know I" ! • " What, gone ! — ' Ilcr 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 feel I must resign " The pleasing hope ; thou hadst been here, if mine. " A lady was it? — Was no brother there? " But why should I afflict me, if there were? " ' The way is pleasant.' What to me the way ? " I cannot reach her till the close of day. " My dumb companion ! is it thus wc speed ? " Not 1 from grief nor thou from toil art freed ; " Still art thou doom'd to travel and to pine, " for my vexation — What a fate is mine ! " Gone to a friend, she tells mc ; — I commend " Ilcr purpose : means she to a female friend ? " By Heaven, I wish she suffcr'd half the pain " Of hope protracted through the day in vain. •• Shall 1 persist to see th' ungrateful maid ? " Yes, I will sec her, slight her, and upbraid. •• What I in the very hour ? She knew the time, " And doubtless chose it to increase her crime." Forth rode Orlando by a river's side, Inland and winding, smooth, ami full, and wide. That roll'd majestic on, in one soft-flowing 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; He pass'd the way-side inn, the villnge 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 witli 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 •• Kilt 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; 319 ,; Woods ! waters ! meadows 1 Will they never end ? " 'T is a vile prospect : — Gone to sec a friend 1" Still on he rode ! a mansion fair and tall Uose 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, F.njoy'd and gave new beauty to the day ; Whose happy parents from their room were seen Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green. " Well !" said Orlando, " and for one so blcss'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 unconqucr'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'ller, lab'ring up a hill, look'd down Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town ; All he beheld were there alert, alive, The busiest bees that ever stock'd a hive : A pair were married, and the bells aloud Proclaim'd their joy, and joyful seem'd the crowd ; ' And now, proceeding on his way, he spied, Bound by strong tics, the bridegroom and the bride ; Fach by some friends attended, near they drew, j And spleen beheld them with prophetic view. " Married ! nay, mad 1" Orlando cried in scorn ; " Another wretch on this unlucky morn : " What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys? " Attempts to stirle doubt and fear by noise : " To me 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, 1 1 is 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 perplcx'd, he now began to find The softer thoughts engross the settling mind : He saw the mansion, and should quickly sec His Laura's self — and angry could he be? No ! the resentment melted all away " For this my grief a single smile will pay," tali: x.— the lover's journey. 320 CRABBE'S WORKS. Our trav'ller cried ; — " And why should it offend, " That one so good should have 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 I again be bless'd." While gentler passions thus his bosom sway'd, He reach'd the mansion, and he saw the maid ; " My Laura ! " — " My 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 appear'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'Ilei 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. 0 TALE XI. o [' The Lover's Journey ' is a pretty fancy, anil well exe- cuted : _ a t least as to the description it contains. A lover takes a long ride to see his mistress; and, passing in full hope and joy through a barren and fenny country, rinds beauty in everything. Being put out of humour, however, by missing the lady at the end of this stage, he proceeds through a lovely landscape, and finds everything ugly and disagreeable. At last he meets his fair one— is reconciled— and "returns along with her ; when the landscape presents neither beautv nor deformity, and excites no emotion what- ever in a mind engrossed with more lively sensations. There is nothing in any part of Mr. Crabhe's writings more exquisite than some of the descriptions in this story.— Jeffrey.] EDAVAliD SHOSE. Seem they grave or learned ? Why, so didst thou. — Seem they religious? Why, so didst thou ; or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion, or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish'd ar.ddeck'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 V, Better I were distract, So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by strong imagination lose The knowledge of themselves. Lean Genius ! thou gift of Heav'n ! thou light divine ! 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 thy proud thought con- fine, And make her sufferings, her impatiende, thine. 1 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 fcar'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 some, 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 : 1 [What Shakspeare says of the course of true love may be applied to the course of genius. How seldom it runs smooth — how seldom it finds a free channel ! and what obstacles are to be overcome before it can make one, even if it have strength and fortune finally to force its way I To say nothing of the " mute inglorious Miltons " who lie in many a church- yard — the mighty spirits which have never found opportuni- ties to unfold themselves — it is but too true that the greatest efforts of learning and industry and intellect have been pro- duced by men who were struggling with difficulties of every kind ;— such is the melancholy sum of what the biography of men of genius almost uniformly presents. — Southey.] TALE XI. — EDWARD SHORE. 321 Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake, And strength of mind but stronger madness make. "When Edward Shore had reaeh'd his twentieth year, He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear ; Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd, And trials there with manly strength sustain'd : With prospects bright upon the world he came, Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame : ?ilen watch'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, Iook'd around, And no employment but in seeking found ; He gave his restless thoughts to views refined, And shrank from worldly cares with wounded mind. Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws, " But who could plead, if unapproved the cause ?" 2 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 applause Where timid virtue found support in laws ; lie to all good would soar, would liy 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 tics like these we bind, " In virtue's freedom moves th' cnlightcn'd mind." " 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 [See ante, p. 197.] s [" Reason, the power To guess at right and wrong, die twinkling lamp Of wand'ring life, that winks anil wakes by turns, Fooling the follower betwixt shade and shining." Congreve.] " 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 Iook'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 : 3 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 lie disdain'd, And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd. Who 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 restj 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' 1 and Michaels, and the robbers all, Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call: * Fasil was a rebel chief, and Michael the general of the royal army in Abyssinia, when Mr. Bruce 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. 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 clay, 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, seem'd to feel the common flame, Soothed and delighted with the fair one's name ; And 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 himsclT, he saw the damsel poor ; And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved, To pain the being whom his 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 the 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 fiftieth year had seen, His fortune easy, and his air serene ; Deist and atheist call'd ; for few agreed AVhat 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 himself, 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 subject-will ; Of virtue's beauty, and 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, " Hear enthusiast ! thou wilt change thy style, " "When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit, " No more distress thee, and no longer cheat." Yet, lo ! 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 rather cause supplied : 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 cards, 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 survcy'd ; But oft the husband, to indulgence prone, Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone. " Do, my kind Edward — I must take mine case — " Name the dear girl the planets and the trees : " Tell her what 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 youthful face Shed a soft beauty and a dangerous grace. "When the young W r ife 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 ; "f is seen in infants — there indeed we find The features soften'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, constrained ; Within their room still restless they remain'd, And painfully they felt, and knew each other pain'd. Ah, foolish men ! 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 clays 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 must 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 offended 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 joy 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 strcngthen'd, in an evil cause, For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause ; Sad for a time, then eloquently wild, He gaily spoke as his companions smiled ; Lightly he rose, and with his 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 I 324 CRABBE'S WORKS. ! Such were the notions of a mind to ill I 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 ; Retiring 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 baffled 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 horror and a ghastly smile ; Then rose at once into the frantic rage, That force controll'd not, nor could love assuage. Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien ; 5 [This tale contains many passages of exquisite beauty. The hero is a young man of aspiring genius and enthusiastic temper, with an ardent love of virtue, but no settled prin- ciples either of conduct or opinion. He first conceives an attachment for an amiable girl, who is captivated with his conversation; but, being 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 lie 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 cnrapt, the half-known voice to hear, And starts, half conscious, at the falling tear. Barely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes ; Returning soon, he with impatience seeks His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and 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