stances which might, and often have oc- I poetic perdition-those drops of concencurred. It reminds us of the pathos of trated bitterness—those fatal bodkin stabs “Rosamond Gray,” that beautiful story of --and those invectives, glittering all over Lamb's, of which we once, we regret to with the polish of profound malignitysay, presumptuously pronounced an un- which are Pope's glory as a writer, and his favorable opinion, but which has since shame as a man. commended itself to our heart of hearts, We have repeatedly expressed our opiand compelled that tribute in tears which nion, that in Crabbe there lay a higher we had denied it in words. Hazlitt is power than he ever exerted. We find evitotally wrong when he says that Crabbedence of this in his “ Hall of Justice” and carves a tear to the life in marble, as if his his “ Eastace Grey.” In these he is fairly pathos were hard and cold. Be it the in earnest. No longer dozing by his parstatuary of woe-has it, consequently, no lor fire over the “Newspaper,” or napping truth or power ? Have the chiselled tears in a corner of his “ Library,” or peeping in of the Niobe never awakened other tears, through the windows of the“Workhouse,” fresh and burning from their fountain or recording the select scandal of the “BoHorace's vis me flere, &c., is not always a rough ”– he is away out into the wide and true principle. As the wit, who laughs open fields of highest passion and imaginanot himself, often excites most laughter in tion. What a tale that“ Hall of Justice” others, so the calm recital of an affecting hears to be paralleled only in the “Thounarrative acts as the meek rod of Moses sand and One Nights of the Halls of applied to the rock, and is answered in Eblis !”—a tale of misery, rape, murder, gushing torrents. You close Crabbe's tale and furious despair ; told, too, in language of grief, almost ashamed that you have of such lurid fire as has been seen to shine left so quiet a thing pointed and starred o’er the graves of the dead; but, in 'with tears. His pages, while sometimes “ Eustace Grey,” our author's genius wet with pathos, are never moist with reaches its climax. Never was madnesshumor. His satire is often pointed within its misery-its remorse—the dark comwit, and sometimes irritates into invective;panions," the ill-favored ones,” who cling but of that glad, genial, and bright-eyed to it in its wild way and will not let it go, thing we call humor (how well named, in its although it curse them with the eloquence oily softness and gentle glitter !) he has of Hell—the visions it sees--the scenery it little or none.

Compare, in order to see creates and carries about with it in dreadful this, his “Borough” with the “ Annals of keeping—and the language it uses, high the Parish.” How dry, though powerful, aspiring but broken, as the wing of a the one; how sappy the other! How pro- struck eagle---so strongly and meltingly refound the one ; how pawky the other! vealed. And yet, around the dismal tale Crabbe goes through his Borough, like a there hangs the breath of beauty, and, like scavenger with a rough, stark, and stiff poor Lear, Sir Eustace goes about crowned besom, sweeping up all the filth : Galt, with flowers-the flowers of earthly poetry like a knowing watchman of the old school -and of a hope which is not of the earth. -a canny Charlie,-keeping a sharp look- | And, at the close, we feel to the author out, but not averse to a sly joke, and all that strange gratitude which our souls having an eye to the humors as well as are constituted to entertain to those who misdemeanors of the streets. Even his wit have most powerfully wrung and tortured is not of the finest grain. It deals too them. much in verbal guibbles, puns, and an- Would that Crabbe had given us a centitheses with their points broken off. His tury of such things. We would have preferpuns are neither good nor bad-the most red it to the “ Tales of the Hall," " Tales fatal and anti-ideal description of a pun of Greyling Hall,” or more tidings from that can be given. His quibbles are good the “ Hall of Justice.” It had been a enough to have excited the laugh of his darker Decameron and brought out more curate, or gardener ; but he forgets that effectually—what the “ Village Poorthe public is not so indulgent. And house" and the sketches of Elliott have though often treading in Pope's track, since done-the passions, miseries, crushed he wants entirely those touches of satire aspirations, and latent poetry, which dwell at once the lightest and the most wither- in the hearts of the plundered poor; as ing, as if dropped from the fingers of a well as the wretchedness which, more puncmalignant fairy—those faint whispers of tually than their veriest menial, waits often behind the chairs, and hands the golden the trunk of a tree gives to its smallest, its dishes of the great.

remotest, to even its withered leaves. And We have not space nor time to dilate yet, without apparent intention, Crabbe has on his other works individually. We pre- done good moral service. He has shed fer, in glancing back upon them as a whole, much light upon the condition of the

poor. trying to answer the following questions; He has spoken in the name and stead of the 1st, What was Crabbe's object as a moral poor dumb mouths that could not tell their poet? 2dly, How far is he original as an own sorrows or sufferings to the world. He artist? 3dly, What is his relative posi- has opened the “mine,” which Ebenezer tion to his great contemporaries? And, Elliott and others, going to work with a 4thly, what is likely to be his fate with firmer and more resolute purpose,

have dug posterity-1st, his object. The great dis- to its depths. tinction between man and man, and author 2dly, His originality. This has been and author, is purpose. It is the edge and questioned by some critics. He has been point of character; it is the stamp and the called a version, in coarser paper and print, superscription of genius ; it is the direction of Goldsmith, Pope, and Cowper. His paon the letter of talent. Character without thos comes from Goldsmith-his wit and it is blunt and torpid. Talent without it satire from Pope—and his minute and liteis a letter, which, undirected, goes no whi- ral description from Cowper. If this were ther. Genius without it is bullion, sluggish, true, it were as complimentary to him as splendid, uncirculating. Purpose yearns his warmest admirer could wish. To comafter and secures artistic culture. It ga- bine the characteristic excellences of three thers as by a strong suction, all things which true poets is no easy matter. But Crabbe it needs into itself. It often invests art has not combined them. His pathos wants with a moral and religious aspect. This altogether the naiveté of sentiment and was strongly impressed upon us when lately curiosa felicitas of expression which disseeing Macaulay and Wilson on one plat- tinguish Goldsmith's “ Deserted Village."

How great the difference in point of He has something of Pope's terseness, but native powers ! How greater, alas! in point little of his subtlety, finish, or brilliant maof purpose and cultivation! There is in lice. And the motion of Cowper's mind Wilson's great, shaggy soul and body, what and style in description differs as much might make many Macaulays. But it has from Crabbe's as the playful leaps and gamnever been fully evolved. He has not done bols of a kitten from the measured, downwith his might what his hand found to do. right, and indomitable pace of a houndHe has been little else than a vast, lazy the one is the easiest, the other the severest, earth-god, pelting nuts in the summer of describers. Resemblances, indeed, of a woods, or gathering pebbles on the margins minor kind are to be found; but still, of the summer waters ; or, rather, he rises Crabbe is as distinct from Goldsmith, Cowup before his worshippers glorious and idleper, and Pope, as Byron from Scott, as Nebuchadnezzar's golden image. But, i Wordsworth, and Coleridge. since Shakspeare, no clearer, larger, sunnier Originality consists of two kinds--one, the soul has existed among men. And yet Ma- power of inventing new materials; and the caulay, though manifestly belonging to an other, of dealing with old materials in a inferior race, mounted on this pedestal of new way. We do not decide whether the purpose, stands higher than he. Crabbe's first of these implies an act of absolute creaartistic object is tolerably clear, and has tion; it implies all we can conceive in an been already indicated. His moral purpose act of creative power, from elements bearis not quite so apparent. Is it to satirize, ing to the result the relation which the or is it to reform vice? Is it pity, or is it Alphabet does to

the " Iliad”-genius contempt, that actuates his song? What brings forth its bright progeny, and we feel are his plans for elevating the lower classes it to be new. In this case you can no more in the scale of society ? Has he any, or anticipate the effect from the elements than does he believe in the possibility of their you can, from the knowledge of the letters, permanent elevation ? Such questions are anticipate the words which are to be commore easily asked than answered. We pounded out of them. In the other kind must say that we have failed to find in him of originality, the materials bear a larger any one overmastering and earnest object, proportion to the result--they form an apsubjugating everything to itself, and pro- preciable quantity in our calculations of ducing that unity in all his works which what it is to be. They are found for the poet,

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and all he has to do is, with skill and ener-tuent parts; but there will be some one elegy, to construct them. Take, for instance, ment which escapes them-laughing, as it Shakspeare's “ Tempest,” and Coleridge's leaps away, at their baffled sagacity, and

Anciente Marinere”—of what more crea- proclaiming the original power of its Creative act can we conceive than is exemplified tor; as jn the chemical analysis of an in these? Of course, we have all had be- Aerolite, amid the mere earthly constituents forehand ideas similar to a storm, a desert there will still be something which declares island, a witch, a magician, a mariner, a its unearthly origin. Take Creation as hermit, a wedding-guest ; but these are only meaning, not so much Deity bringing somethe Alphabet to the spirits of Shakspeare thing out of nothing, as filling the void with and Coleridge. As the sun, from the invi- his Spirit, and genius will seem a lower sible air, draws up in an instant all pomps form of the same power. of cloudy forms-paradises brighter than The other kind of originality is, we think, Eden mirrored in waters, which blush and that of Crabbe. It is magic at secondtremble as their reflection falls wooingly hand. He takes, not makes, his materials. upon them-mountains which seem to bury He finds a good foundation—wood and their snowy or rosy summits in the very stone in plenty--and he begins laboriously, heaven of heavens-throne-shaped splen- successfully, and after a plan of his own, to dors, worthy of angels to sit on them, Aush- build. If in any of his works he approaching and fading in the west-seas of aerial es to the higher property, it is in “ Eustace blood and fire-momentary cloud-crowns Grey,” who moves here and there, on his and golden avenues, stretching away into wild wanderings, as if to the rubbing of the azure infinite beyond them ;-80, from Aladdin's lamp. such stuff as dreams are made of, from the This prepares us for coming to the third mere empty air, do these wondrous ma-question, what is Crabbe's relative position gicians build up their new worlds, where to bis great contemporary poets? We are the laws of nature are repealed--where all compelled to put him in the second class. things are changed without any being con- He is not a philosophic poet, like Wordsfused—where sound becomes dumb and worth. He is not, like Shelley, a Vates, silence eloquent—where the earth is empty, moving upon the uncertain but perpetual and the sky is peopled--where material and furious wind of his inspirations. He is beings are invisible, and where spiritual not, like Byron, a demoniac exceeding beings become gross and palpable to sense- fierce, and dwelling among the tombs. He where the skies are opening to show riches is not, like Keats, a sweet and melancholy -where the isle is full of noises—where voice, a tune bodiless, bloodless—dying beings proper to this sphere of dream are away upon the waste air, but for ever to be met so often that you cease to fear them, remembered as men remember a melody however odd or monstrous—where magic they have heard in youth. He is not, like has power to shut now the eyes of kings Coleridge, all these almost by turns, and, and now the great bright eye of ocean, besides, a Psalmist, singing at times strains where, at the bidding of the poet, new, so sublime and holy, that they might seem complete, beautiful mythologies, down at snatches of the song of Eden's cherubim, one time sweep across the sea, and anon or 'caught in trance from the song of Moses dance from the purple and mystic sky- and the Lamb. To this mystic brotherwhere all things have a charmed life, the hood Crabbe must not be added. He ranks listening ground, the populous air, the with a lower but still loftier band-with still or the vexed sea, the human or the Scott (as a poet), and Moore, and Hunt, imaginary beings--and where, as in deep and Campbell, and Rogers, and Bowles, dreams, the most marvellous incidents are and James Montgomery, and Southey; and most easily credited, slide on most softly, surely they nor he need be ashamed of each and seem most native to the place, the cir- other, as they shine in one soft and peacecumstances, and the time. " This is crea- ful cluster. tion,” we exclaim; nor did Ferdinand We are often tempted to pity poor posseem to Miranda a fresher and braver crea- terity on this score.

How is it to manage ture than does to us each strange settler, with the immense number of excellent whom genius has planted upon its own fa- works which this age has bequeathed, and vorite isle. Critics may, indeed, take these is bequeathing to it? How is it to econoimaginary beings—such as Caliban and mise its time so as to read a tithe of them ? Ariel—and analyse them into their consti- | And should it in mere self-defence proceed to decimate, with what principle shall the We have tried to draw his mental, but process be carried on, and who shall be ap- not his physical likeness. And yet it has pointed to preside over it? Critics of the all along been blended with our thoughts, twenty-second century, be merciful as well like the figure of one known from childas just. Pity the disjecta membra of those hood, like the figure of our own beloved we thought mighty poets. Respect and and long-lost father. We see the venerable fulfil our prophecies of immortality. If ye old man, newly returned from a botanical must carp and cavil, do not, at least, in excursion, laden with Aowers and weeds mercy, abridge. Spare us the prospect of (for no one knew better than he that

every this last insult, an abridged copy of the weed is a flower—it is the secret of his “Pleasures of Hope,” or “ Don Juan,” a new poetry), with his high narrow forehead, his abridgment. If ye must operate in this way, grey locks, his glancing shoe-buckles, his be it on “Madoc,” ( Kehama, or the clean dress somewhat ruffled in the woods, “Couse of Time.” Generously leave room for his mild countenance, his simple abstracted “O'Connor's Child”in the poet's corner of a air. We, too, become abstracted as we journal, or for“ Eustace Grey” in the space gaze, following in thought the outline of his of a crown piece. Surely, living in the Mil- history-his early struggle - his love-his lennium, and resting under your vines and adventures in London-his journal, where, fig-trees, you will have more time to read than on the brink of starvation, he wrote the we, in this bustling age, who move, live, affecting words “ O Sally for you—-"his eat, drink, sleep and die, at railway speed, rescue by Burke—his taking orders—his If not, we fear the case of many of our return to his native place—his mounting poets is hopeless, and that others, besides the pulpit stairs, not caring what his old Satan Montgomery and the author of enemies thought of him or his sermon--his “Silent Love,” would be wise to enjoy marriage-the entry, more melancholy by their present laurels, for verily there are far than the other, made years after in renone else for them.

ference to it, yet happiness was deniedSeriously, we hope that much of Crabbe's the publication of his different workswriting will every year become less and the various charges he occupied—his childless readable, and less and less easily like surprise at getting so much money for understood; till, in the milder day, men the “ Tales of the Hall”—his visit to shall have difficulty in believing that such Scotland-his mistaking the Highland physical, mental, and moral degradation, chiefs for foreigners, and bespeaking them in as he describes, ever existed in Britain ; bad French-his figure as he went, dogged and till, in future Encyclopædias, his name by the caddie through the lanes of the auld be found recorded as a powerful but barba- town of Edinburgh, which he preferred infirous writer, writing in a barbarous age. nitely to the new-the" aul'fule” he made of The like may be the case with many, who himself in pursuit of a second wife, &c., &c.; have busied themselves more in recalling so absent do we become in thinking over the past or picturing the present, than in all this, that it disturbs his abstraction, he anticipating the future. But there are, or starts, stares, asks us into his parsonage, have been among us, a few who have and we are about to accept the offer, when plunged beyond their own period, nay, be- we awake, and, lo! it is a dream. yond“ all ages”—who have seen and shown us the coming eras :

"As in a cradled Hercules you trace The lines of empire in his infant face.”

ANECDOTE OF SIMPSON.-Simpson, the actor,

would never take medicine; and his medical man And their voice must go down, in tones was often obliged to resort to some stratagem to imbecoming more authoritative as they last, not recollect the name-in which the hero is senand in volume becoming vaster as it rolls, tenced in prison to drink a cup of poison. Harry like mighty thunderings and many waters, Simpson was playing his character one night, and through the minster of all future time ; in had given directions to have it filled with port wine, lower key, concerting with those now awful to find it contained a dose of senna! He could not voices from within the veil, which have throw it away, as he had to hold the goblet upside already shaken earth, and which uttered down, to show his persecutors he had drunk every “ once more,” shall shake not earth only, Slowness of a poisoned martyr; but he never forgave

drop of it. Simpson drank the medicine with the but also Heaven. High destiny ! but not his medical man this trick, as he fully proved at his his whose portrait we have now drawn. death-for he died without paying him his bill.

from Bentley's Miscellany.



Lady Dacre-Mathias-Nicholini-Dr. Parr-Wilberforce-Gurney-Mrs. Fry-Mrs.

Opie-Charlotte Smith--Hannah More-Lord Byron-Miss Millbank-Queen Caroline.

Next to Shakspeare, my father admired, Gibbon, perhaps, with the sole exception of almost adored, the sublime writings of Mitford, whose simplicity of style and Milton, especially the sonnets and smaller strict adherence to the text of his Greek poems, and his prose works ; and he ob- authorities satisfied his classical taste. served it was not the vanity of a little In speaking of Literature, which must mind, but the conscious power of a great occupy so large a space in any Biography one, with the unaffected confession of that of my father, I ought to have commenced power, which induced Milton to express his with his earliest studies, I mean those to certainty that “whether in prosing or in which the public schools in England are versing there was in his writings that which exclusively devoted; the ancient classics, would live for ever.” The prejudices of Greek and Latin, being the two main oblater life, and the unwillingness with which jects at Winchester, where memory leads to my father ever turned to novelty,-an un- every distinction. He of course acquired willingness which extended itself even to a full knowledge of both, particularly the the minute details of his domestic affairs, latter, in which he was a perfectly accomand induced him almost to suffer any in-plished scholar; he wrote both in prose and convenience rather than change a servant, verse, and conversed in that language fluand to feel pain even at the altered arrange-ently; he had learnt Hebrew of a Jew, and ment of the furniture-led him to under- read the Bible in its own original tongue ; value modern poesy. Byron was not likely he had acquired a perfect knowledge of to suit him, a genius too earthly for my Italian, and delighted himself in the store father's refined and spiritual mind: he of its poetical riches, such, at least, as he admired the lament of " Tasso,” more be- so considered them, for he much admired cause it reminded him of his favorite Petrarch, and particularly Dante. From Torquato. Shelley became known only in the latter he often repeated the story of his very last years ; doubtless he would Count Ugolino in the Tower of Famine, and have appreciated his mighty genius which had so often told it, that he believed it soared into, and sang from the spiritual himself true, how the Count had heard with world. With Moore's smaller poems, those despair the heavy fall of the prison key, beautiful effusions of feeling and of tender- and the splash of the waters, as the jailor, ness set to the music of the Irish melodies after locking the portal, flung that key into he was much touched. Southey, Cole- the Arno, thus barring for ever all hope of ridge, and Wordsworth, he neither much rescue. It was a splendid idea, and I studied, nor much admired. Many were question whether Dante would not have the vain attempts exercised by Lady Beau- adopted it, had it occurred to him, or had mont to inoculate him with one spark of he thought it possible to increase the horher enthusiasm for the latter poet, while rors of the scene. Sir George at the same time entreated her The Canzones of Petrarch, as translated

not to ride her hobby-horse so very hard.” by his friend Lady Dacre, and which afterI remember upon one occasion her muslin wards appeared in Ugo Foscolo's life of scarf catching fire when she was declaiming, that poet, were much admired by the Bishop, and my father with some difficulty extin- who considered these translations to surpass guishing the flames.

any attempts of the kind. My father's taste for the Belles Lettres, They were first made public by Mathias, like his poetical inclinations, leant also, who, with his friend Nicholls, better known and naturally, towards “the works of his own by the name of Nicholini, on account of his day;" he would allow of no writers later than love for Italy, was my father's frequent Johnson, Addison, Swift, Sterne, Burke, guest. Mathias printed them at Naples at Arbuthnot; no historian after Hume and his own expense, and, of course, with the

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