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higher merit, and imparts a far higher grati- |ors, ploughmen, and artificers. If the poet fication. The chief delight of poetry consists, not so much in what it directly supplies to the imagination, as in what it enables it to supply to itself-not in warming the heart by its passing brightness, but in kindling its own latent stores of light and heat;-not in hurrying the fancy along by a foreign and accidental impulse, but in setting it agoing, by touching its internal springs and principles of activity. Now, this highest and most delightful effect can only be produced by the poet's striking a note to which the heart and the affections naturally vibrate in unison;-by rousing one of a large family of kindred impressions;by dropping the rich seed of his fancy upon the fertile and sheltered places of the imagination. But it is evident, that the emotions connected with common and familiar objects-with objects which fill every man's memory, and are necessarily associated with all that he has ever really felt or fancied, are of all others the most likely to answer this description, and to produce, where they can be raised to a sufficient height, this great effect in its utmost perfection. It is for this reason that the images and affections that belong to our universal nature, are always, if tolerably represented, infinitely more captivating, in spite of their apparent commonness and simplicity, than those that are peculiar to certain situations, however they may come recommended by novelty or grandeur. The familiar feeling of maternal tenderness and anxiety, which is every day before our eyes, even in the brute creation and the enchantment of youthful love, which is nearly the same in all characters, ranks, and situations-still contribute far more to the beauty and interest of poetry than all the misfortunes of princes, the jealousies of heroes, and the feats of giants, magicians, or ladies in armour. Every one can enter into the former set of feelings; and but a few into the latter. The one calls up a thousand familiar and long-remembered emotionswhich are answered and reflected on every side by the kindred impressions which experience or observation have traced upon every memory: while the other lights up but a transient and unfruitful blaze, and passes away without perpetuating itself in any kindred and native sensation.

can contrive, therefore, to create a sufficient interest in subjects like these, they will infallibly sink deeper into the mind, and be more prolific of kindred trains of emotion, than subjects of greater dignity. Nor is the difficulty of exciting such an interest by any means so great as is generally imagined. For it is common human nature, and common human feelings, after all, that form the true source of interest in poetry of every description;and the splendour and the marvels by which it is sometimes surrounded, serve no other purpose than to fix our attention on those workings of the heart, and those energies of the understanding, which alone command all the genuine sympathies of human beingsand which may be found as abundantly in the breasts of cottagers as of kings. Wherever there are human beings, therefore, with feelings and characters to be represented, our attention may be fixed by the art of the poetby his judicious selection of circumstancesby the force and vivacity of his style, and the clearness and brevity of his representations.

Now, the delineation of all that concerns the lower and most numerous classes of society, is, in this respect, on a footing with the pictures of our primary affections-that their originals are necessarily familiar to all men, and are inseparably associated with their own most interesting impressions. Whatever may be our own condition, we all live surrounded with the poor, from infancy to age;-we hear daily of their sufferings and misfortunes;and their toils, their crimes, or their pastimes, are our hourly spectacle. Many diligent readers of poetry know little, by their own experience, of palaces, castles, or camps; and still less of tyrants, warriors, and banditti ;but every one understands about cottages, streets, and villages; and conceives, pretty correctly, the character and condition of sail

In point of fact, we are all touched more deeply, as well as more frequently, in real life, with the sufferings of peasants than of princes; and sympathise much oftener, and more heartily, with the successes of the poor, than of the rich and distinguished. The occasions of such feelings are indeed so many, and so common, that they do not often leave any very permanent traces behind them, but pass away, and are effaced by the very rapidity of their succession. The business and the cares, and the pride of the world, obstruct the development of the emotions to which they would naturally give rise; and press so close and thick upon the mind, as to shut it, at most seasons, against the reflections that are perpetually seeking for admission. When we have leisure, however, to look quietly into our hearts, we shall find in them an infinite multitude of little fragments of sympathy with our brethren in humble life-abortive movements of compassion, and embryos of kindness and concern, which had once fairly begun to live and germinate within them, though withered and broken off by the selfish bustle and fever of our daily occupations. Now, all these may be revived and carried on to maturity by the art of the poet;-and, therefore, a powerful effort to interest us in the feelings of the humble and obscure, will usually call forth more deep, more numerous, and more permanent emotions, than can ever be excited by the fate of princesses and heroes. Indepen dent of the circumstances to which we have already alluded, there are causes which make us at all times more ready to enter into the feelings of the humble, than of the exalted part of our species. Our sympathy with their enjoyments is enhanced by a certain mixture of pity for their general condition, which, by purifying it from that taint of envy which almost always adheres to our admiration of the great, renders it more welcome and satisfac tory to our bosoms; while our concern for their sufferings is at once softened and endeared to

us, by the recollection of our own exemption from them, and by the feeling, that we frequently have it in our power to relieve them. From these, and from other causes, it appears to us to be certain, that where subjects, taken from humble life, can be made sufficiently interesting to overcome the distaste and the prejudices with which the usages of polished society too generally lead us to regard them, the interest which they excite will commonly be more profound and more lasting than any that can be raised upon loftier themes; and the poet of the Village and the Borough be oftener, and longer read, than the poet of the Court or the Camp. The most popular passages of Shakespeare and Cowper, we think, are of this description: and there is much, both in the volume before us, and in Mr. Crabbe's former publications, to which we might now venture to refer, as proofs of the same doctrine. When such representations have once made an impression on the imagination, they are remembered daily, and for ever. We can neither look around, nor within us, without being reminded of their truth and their importance; and, while the more brilliant effusions of romantic fancy are recalled only at long intervals, and in rare situations, we feel that we cannot walk a step from our own doors, nor cast a glance back on our departed years, without being indebted to the poet of vulgar life for some striking image or touching reflection, of which the occasions were always before us, but-till he taught us how to improve them-were almost always allowed to escape.

Such, we conceive, are some of the advantages of the subjects which Mr. Crabbe has in a great measure introduced into modern poetry-and such the grounds upon which we venture to predict the durability of the reputation which he is in the course of acquiring. That they have their disadvantages also, is obvious; and it is no less obvious, that it is to these we must ascribe the greater part of the faults and deformities with which this author is fairly chargeable. The two great errors into which he has fallen, are-that he has described many things not worth describing;-and that he has frequently excited disgust, instead of pity or indignation, in the breasts of his readers. These faults are obvious and, we believe, are popularly laid to his charge: Yet there is, in so far as we have observed, a degree of misconception as to the true grounds and limits of the charge, which we think it worth while to take this opportunity of correcting.

The poet of humble life must describe a great deal--and must even describe, minutely, many things which possess in themselves no beauty or grandeur. The reader's fancy must be awaked-and the power of his own pencil displayed:-a distinct locality and imaginary reality must be given to his characters and agents and the ground colour of their common condition must be laid in, before his peculiar and selected groups can be presented with any effect or advantage. In the same way, he must study characters with a minute

and anatomical precision; and must make both himself and his readers familiar with the ordinary traits and general family features of the beings among whom they are to move, before they can either understand, or take much interest in the individuals who are to engross their attention. Thus far, there is no excess or unnecessary minuteness. But this faculty of observation, and this power of description, hold out great temptations to go further. There is a pride and a delight in the exercise of all peculiar power; and the poet, who has learned to describe external objects exquisitely, with a view to heighten the effect of his moral designs, and to draw characters with accuracy, to help forward the interest or the pathos of the picture, will be in great danger of describing scenes, and drawing characters, for no other purpose, but to indulge his taste, and to display his talents. It cannot be denied, we think, that Mr. Crabbe has, on many occasions, yielded to this temptation. He is led away, every now and then, by his lively conception of external objects, and by his nice and sagacious observation of human character; and wantons and luxuriates in descriptions and moral portrait painting, while his readers are left to wonder to what end so much industry has been exerted.

His chief fault, however, is his frequent lapse into disgusting representations; and this, we will confess, is an error for which we find it far more difficult either to account or to apologise. We are not, however, of the opinion which we have often heard stated, that he has represented human nature under too unfavourable an aspect; or that the distaste which his poetry sometimes produces, is owing merely to the painful nature of the scenes and subjects with which it abounds. On the contrary, we think he has given a juster, as well as a more striking picture, of the true character and situation of the lower orders of this country, than any other writer, whether in verse or in prose; and that he has made no more use of painful emotions than was necessary to the production of a pathetic effect.

All powerful and pathetic poetry, it is obvious, abounds in images of distress. The delight which it bestows partakes strongly of pain; and, by a sort of contradiction, which has long engaged the attention of the reflecting, the compositions that attract us most powerfully, and detain us the longest, are those that produce in us most of the effects of actual suffering and wretchedness. The solution of this paradox is to be found, we think, in the simple fact, that pain is a far stronger sensation than pleasure, in human existence; and that the cardinal virtue of all things that are intended to delight the mind, is to produce a strong sensation. Life itself appears to consist in sensation; and the universal passion of all beings that have life, seems to be, that they should be made intensely conscious of it, by a succession of powerful and engrossing emotions. All the mere gratifications or natural pleasures that are in the power even of the most fortunate, are quite insufficient to fill this

distress, whether it proceed from passion or from fortune, and whether it fall upon vice or virtue, adds to the interest and the charm of poetry-except only that which is connected with ideas of Disgust—the least taint of which disenchants the whole scene, and puts an end both to delight and sympathy. But what is it, it may be asked, that is the proper object of disgust? and what is the precise description of things which we think Mr. Crabbe so inexcusable for admitting? It is not easy to define a term at once so simple and so significant; but it may not be without its use, to indicate, in a general way, our conception of its true force and comprehension.

vast craving for sensation: And accordingly, | Crabbe, to his condemnation. Every form of we see every day, that a more violent stimulus is sought for by those who have attained the vulgar heights of life, in the pains and dangers of war-the agonies of gaming-or the feverish toils of ambition. To those who have tasted of those potent cups, where the bitter, however, so obviously predominates, the security, the comforts, and what are call ed the enjoyments of common life, are intol,erably insipid and disgusting. Nay, we think we have observed, that even those who, without any effort or exertion, have experienced unusual misery, frequently appear, in like manner, to acquire a sort of taste or craving for it; and come to look on the tranquillity of ordinary life with a kind of indifference not It is needless, we suppose, to explain what unmingled with contempt. It is certain, at are the objects of disgust in physical or exterleast, that they dwell with most apparent satis-nal existences. These are sufficiently plain and faction on the memory of those days, which have been marked by the deepest and most agonising sorrows; and derive a certain delight from the recollections of those overwhelming sensations which once occasioned so fierce a throb in the languishing pulse of their existence.

unequivocal; and it is universally admitted, that all mention of them must be carefully excluded from every poetical description. With regard, again, to human character, action, and feeling, we should be inclined to term every thing disgusting, which represented misery, without making any appeal to our love, respect, or admiration. If the suffering person be amiable, the delightful feeling of love and affection tempers the pain which the contemplation of suffering has a tendency to excite, and enhances it into the stronger, and there fore more attractive, sensation of pity. If there be great power or energy, however, united to guilt or wretchedness, the mixture of admiration exalts the emotion into something that is sublime and pleasing: and even in cases of mean and atrocious, but efficient guilt, our sympathy with the victims upon whom it is practised, and our active indignation and desire of vengeance, reconcile us to the humiliating display, and make a compound that, upon the whole, is productive of pleasure.

The only sufferers, then, upon whom we cannot bear to look, are those that excite pain by their wretchedness, while they are too depraved to be the objects of affection, and too weak and insignificant to be the causes of misery to others, or, consequently, of indignation to the spectators. Such are the depraved, abject, diseased, and neglected poor-crea

If any thing of this kind, however, can be traced in real life-if the passion for emotion be so strong as to carry us, not in imagination, but in reality, over the rough edge of present pain-it will not be difficult to explain, why it should be so attractive in the copies and fictions of poetry. There, as in real life, the great demand is for emotion; while the pain with which it may be attended, can scarcely, by any possibility, exceed the limits of endurance. The recollection, that it is but a copy and a fiction, is quite sufficient to keep it down to a moderate temperature, and to make it welcome as the sign or the harbinger of that agitation of which the soul is avaricious. It is not, then, from any peculiar quality in painful emotions that they become capable of affording the delight which attends them in tragic or pathetic poetry-but merely from the circumstance of their being more intense and powerful than any other emotions of which the mind is susceptible. If it was the constitution of our nature to feel joy as keenly, or to sympathise with it as heartily as we do with sorrow, we have no doubt that no other sensa-tures in whom every thing amiable or restion would ever be intentionally excited by pectable has been extinguished by sordid pasthe artists that minister to delight. But the sions or brutal debauchery-who have no fact is, that the pleasures of which we are ca- means of doing the mischief of which they pable are slight and feeble compared with the are capable-whom every one despises, and pains that we may endure; and that, feeble no one can either love or fear. On the charas they are, the sympathy which they excite acters, the miseries, and the vices of such falls much more short of the original emotion. beings, we look with disgust merely: and, When the object, therefore, is to obtain sen- though it may perhaps serve some moral pursation, there can be no doubt to which of the pose, occasionally to set before us this humitwo fountains we should repair; and if there liating spectacle of human nature sunk to be but few pains in real life which are not, in utter worthlessness and insignificance, it is some measure, endeared to us by the emo-altogether in vain to think of exciting either tions with which they are attended, we may be pretty sure, that the more distress we introduce into poetry, the more we shall rivet the attention and attract the admiration of the reader.

There is but one exception to this rule and it brings us back from the apology of Mr.

pity or horror, by the truest and most forcible representations of their sufferings or their enormities. They have no hold upon any of the feelings that lead us to take an interest in our fellow-creatures;-we turn away from them, therefore, with loathing and dispassionate aversion-we feel our imaginations pol

ited by the intrusion of any images con- | altogether of a succession of unconnected nected with them; and are offended and descriptions, and is still more miscellaneous disgusted when we are forced to look closely upon those festering heaps of moral filth and corruption.

in reality, than would be conjectured from the titles of its twenty-four separate compartments. As it does not admit of analysis, therefore, or even of a much more particular description, we can only give our readers a just idea of its execution, by extracting a few of the passages that appear to us most characteristic in each of the many styles it exhibits.

letter, where the author has been surveying, with a glance half pensive and half sarcastical, the monuments erected in the churchyard. He then proceeds:—

"Yes! there are real Mourners-I have seen

It is with concern we add, that we know no writer who has sinned so deeply in this respect as Mr. Crabbe-who has so often presented us with spectacles which it is purely painful and degrading to contemplate, and bestowed such powers of conception and expression in giving us distinct ideas of what One of the first that strikes us, is the we must ever abhor to remember. If Mr. following very touching and beautiful picture Crabbe had been a person of ordinary talents, of innocent love, misfortune and resignation— we might have accounted for his error, in all of them taking a tinge of additional sweetsome degree, by supposing, that his frequent ness and tenderness from the humble consuccess in treating of subjects which had been dition of the parties; and thus affording a usually rejected by other poets, had at length striking illustration of the remarks we have led him to disregard, altogether, the common ventured to make on the advantages of such impressions of mankind as to what was allow-subjects. The passage occurs in the second able and what inadmissible in poetry; and to reckon the unalterable laws by which nature has regulated our sympathies, among the prejudices by which they were shackled and impaired. It is difficult, however, to conceive how a writer of his quick and exact observation should have failed to perceive, that there is not a single instance of a serious interest being excited by an object of disgust; and that Shakespeare himself, who has ventured every thing, has never ventured to shock our feelings with the crimes or the sufferings of beings absolutely without power or principle. Independent of universal practice, too, it is still more difficult to conceive how he should have overlooked the reason on which this practice is founded; for though it be generally true, that poetical representations of suffering and of guilt produce emotion, and consequently delight, yet it certainly did not require the penetration of Mr. Crabbe to discover, that there is a degree of depravity which counteracts our sympathy with suffering, and a degree of insignificance which extinguishes our interest in guilt. We abstain from giving any extracts in support of this accusation; but those who have perused the volume before us, will have already recollected the story of Frederic Thompson, of Abel Keene, of Blaney, of Benbow, and a good part of those of Grimes and Ellen Orford -besides many shorter passages. It is now time, however, to give the reader a more particular account of the work which contains them.

The Borough of Mr. Crabbe, then, is a detailed and minute account of an ancient English sea-port town, of the middling order; containing a series of pictures of its scenery, and of the different classes and occupations of its inhabitants. It is thrown into the form of letters, though without any attempt at the epistolary character; and treats of the vicar and curate-the sectaries-the attornies-the apothecaries; and the inns, clubs, and strolling-players, that make a figure in the place: -but more particularly of the poor, and their characters and treatment; and of almshouses, prisons, and schools. There is, of course, no unity or method in the poem-which consists

A fair sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her wearied Parents sunk to sleep,
She sought this place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid:
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
For then she thought on one regretted Youth,
In ev'ry place she wander'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," &c.
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
"Happy he sail'd; and great the care she took,
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort Men at Sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Nor could she trace the Fever in his blood:
His Messmates smil'd at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smil'd, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain.
"He call'd his friend, and prefac'd 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.'

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"He had his wish; had more; I will not paint
The Lover's meeting: she beheld him faint-
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
Yes! I must die ;-and hope for ever fled!
"Still long she nurs'd him; tender thoughts
meantime
Were interchang'd, 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,
Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head:

She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer; Apart she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so- perhaps he will not sink.' A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,— A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and plac'd 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 treasur'd, and she loves them all; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people-death has made them dear! He nam'd his friend, but then his hand she prest, And fondly whisper'd, Thou must go to rest.' 'I go!' he said; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and flutt'ring was the sound; Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught at last A dying look of love-and all was past!—

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"She plac'd a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engrav'd-an offering of her Love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare

The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

"Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit; But if observer pass, will take her round, And careless seem, for she would not be found; Then come again, and thus her hour employ, While visions please her, and while woes destroy." pp. 23-27.

There is a passage in the same tone, in the letter on Prisons. It describes the dream of a felon under sentence of death; and though the exquisite accuracy and beauty of the landscape painting are such as must have recommended it to notice in poetry of any order, it seems to us to derive an uspeakable charm from the lowly simplicity and humble content of the characters-at least we cannot conceive any walk of ladies and gentlemen that should furnish out so sweet a picture as terminates the following extract. It is only doing Mr. Crabbe justice to present along with it a part of the dark foreground which he has drawn, in the waking existence of the poor dreamer.

"When first I came Within his view, I fancied there was shame, I judg'd Resentment; 1 mistook the airThese fainter passions live not with Despair; Or but exist and die:-Hope, Fear and Love, Joy, Doubt, and Hate, may other spirits move, But touch not his, who every waking hour Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power. He takes his tasteless food; and, when 'tis done, Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one; For Expectation is on Time intent, Whether he brings us Joy or Punishment.

"Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain; He hears the sentence, and he feels the chain; He seems the place for that sad act to see, And dreams the very thirst which then will be! A priest attends-it seems the one he knew In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. "At this his terrors take a sudden flightHe 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 at home, The days of joy; the joys themselves are come ;

The hours of innocence ;-the timid look
Of his lov'd maid, when first her hand he took
And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forc'd reserve, and his retreating fears.

"Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny smile:
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield:-No! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind. (among
He goes through shrubby walks these friends
Love in their looks and pleasure on the tongue.
Pierc'd by no crime, and urg'd by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane,-then linger in the mead,--
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,
And pluck the blossom where the wild-bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they
pass,

And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread.
And the lamb brouzes by the linnet's bed! [way
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their
O'er its rough bridge-and there behold the bay!—
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
Or lie like pictures on the sand below; [flow,
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 glitt'ring by:
Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour fire-
Tokens of bliss!"-pp. 323-326.

If these extracts do not make the reader

feel how deep and peculiar an interest may be excited by humble subjects, we should almost despair of bringing him over to our opinion, even by Mr. Crabbe's inimitable description and pathetic pleading for the parish poor. The subject is one of those, which to many will appear repulsive, and, to some fastidious natures perhaps, disgusting. Yet, if the most admirable painting of external objects the most minute and thorough knowledge of human character-and that warm glow of active and rational benevolence which lends a guiding light to observation, and an enchanting colour to eloquence, can entitle a poet to praise, as they do entitle him to more substantial rewards, we are persuaded that the following passage will not be speedily forgotten.

"Your plan I love not -with a number you Have plac'd your poor, your pitiable few; There, in one house, for all their lives to be, The pauper-palace, which they hate to see! That giant building, that high bounding wall, Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall' That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,

Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power: It is a prison, with a milder name,

66

Which few inhabit without dread or shame."—
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 care not say, it is the house they hate:

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