THE LIFE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.B. BY HIS SON THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, A. M. CAMBRIDGE & BOSTON : JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY MDCCC XXXIV. jififris CAMBRIDGE PRESS: METCALF, TORRY, AND BALLOT TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES, CANON OF SALISBURY, &c. &c. &c. THESE MEMOIRS OF HIS DEPARTED FRIEND AND BROTHER-POET ARE INSCRIBED, IN TESTIMONY OF THAT GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE RESPECT WHICH HAS DESCENDED FROM MR. CRABBE TO HIS children's CHILDREN. PREFACE. 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 favor 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 transmit- ted it to his friend Mr. Rogers, who expressed himself in terms equally flattering to an inexpe- rienced writer ; and who — as, indeed, Mr. Moore had done before — gave me the most valuable species of assistance I could have received, by in- dicating 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 viii PREFACE. personal reminiscences of him, with which I have been kindly permitted to enrich this humble Me- moir. The letters and extracts of letters from Sir Wal- ter 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 labors as it was honor- able 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 has been ren- dered 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 occa- sion. On the assistance I have received from my brother, and another member of my own family, it would be impertinent to dwell. Pucklechurch, Jan. 6, 1834. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. 1754—1775. Mr. Crabbe's Birth, Parentage, and early Education. — His Ap- prenticeship to a Surgeon. — His Attachment to Miss Elmy, afterwards his Wife. — Publication of " Inebriety," a Poem. 1 CHAPTER H. 1775—1780. 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 28 CHAPTER HL 1780. Mr. Crabbe's Difficulties and Distresses in Loudon. — Publication of his Poem, " The Candidate." — His unsuccessful Application to Lord North, Lord Shelburne, and other eminent Individuals. — His " Journal to Mira." 46 CHAPTER IV. 1781. Mr. Crabbe's Letter to Burke, and its consequences. — The Publi- cation of " T h£- Lib rary." — He is domesticated at Beaconsfield. — Takes Orders. — Is appointed Curate at Aldborough. . 85 X CONTENTS. CHAPTER. V. 1782 — 1783. Mr. Crabbe's Appointment as domestic Chaplain to the Duke of Rutland. — Removes to Belvoir Castle. — Publication of " The Village." 106 CHAPTER VI. 1784 — 1792. Mr. Crabbe marries. — He resides successively at Belvoir Castle, at his Curacy of Stathern, and at his Rectory of Muston. — In- crease of his family. — Publication of " The Newspaper." — Visits and Journeys. — His Mode of Life, Occupations, and Amusements. 122 CHAPTER VII. 1792 — 1804. Mr. Crabbe's Residence in Suffolk, — At Parham, — At Glemham, — And at Rendham 144 CHAPTER VIII. 1805—1814. Mr. Crabbe's Second Residence in Muston. — PubUcation 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 Regent at Belvoir. — Death of Mrs. Crabbe. — Mr. Crabbe's Removal from Leicestershire — Lines written at Glemham after my Mother's Decease. 173 CONTENTS. XI CHAPTER IX. 1814 — 1819. Mr. Crabbe's Residence and Habits of Life at Trowbridge. — His Study of Fossils. — His Correspondence with Mary Leadbeater. ' — His Journal kept during a Visit to London. — Letters to and from Mr. Crabbe. — His " Tales of the Hall." — Visit to Sir Walter Scott at Edinburgh, &c 206 CHAPTER X. 1823 — 1832. The closing Years of Mr. Crabbe's Life. — Annual Excursions. — Domestic Habits. — Visit to Pucklechurch. — His last Tour to Clifton, Bristol, &c. — His Illness and Death. — His Fune- ral 275 LIFE THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. CHAPTER I. 1754 — 1775. MR. CRABBE'S birth, PARENTAGE, AND EARLY EDUCATION. HIS APPRENTICESHIP TO A SURGEON. HIS ATTACH- MENT TO MISS ELMY, AFTERWARDS HIS WIFE. PUBLI- CATION OF "inebriety," a poem. As one of tlie severest calamities of life, the loss of our first and dearest friends, can be escaped by none whose own days are not prematurely cut short, the most pious affection must be contented to pray that the afflic- tion may come on us gradually, and after we have formed new connections to sustain us, and, in part at least, fill up the void. In this view, the present writer has every reason to consider with humble thankfulness the period and circumstances of his father's departure. The grow- ing decline of his bodily strength had been perceptible to all around him for several years. He himself had long set the example of looking forward with calmness to the hour of his dissolution ; and if the firmness and resigna- tion of a Christian's death-bed must doubly endear his 1 2 LIFE OF CRABBE. memory to his children, they also afford indescribable consolation after the scene is closed. At an earlier period, Mr. Crabbe's death would have plunged his family in insupportable suffering : but when the blow fell, it had many alleviations. With every softening circumstance, however, a con- siderable interval must pass, before the sons of such a parent can bear to dwell on the minor peculiarities of his image and character ; — a much longer one, ere they can bring themselves to converse on light and ludicrous incidents connected with his memory. The tone of some passages in the ensuing narrative may appear at variance w^ith these feelings ; and it is therefore neces- sary 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 when I was thus occu- pied, although his health was evidently decaying, there was nothing to forbid the hope that he might linger for years among us, in the enjoyment 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 mistakes of importance. But 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 construinor into unfilial levity certain passages of this ALDBOROUGH. 3 little work : but at the same time, I feel that Mr. Crabbe himself would have wished his son, if he attempted to write his life at all, to do so, as far as might be possible, with the unbiassed fairness of one less intimately con- nected with him. To impartiality, certainly, I cannot pretend ; but I hope partiality does not necessarily imply misrepresentation. I shall endeavour to speak of him as his manly and honest mind would have wished me to do. I shall place before the reader, not only his nobler quali- ties, but the weaknesses and infirmities which m.ingled 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 exaggeration of really characteristic traits, is an office which my respect for my father — even if there were nothing else — would render it impossible for me to attempt. I am sustained by the belief, that his country- men at large respect his memory too much to wish that his history should be turned into any thing like a romance, and the hope that they will receive with indul- gence a faithful narrative, even though it should be a homely one. I have in vain endeavoured to trace his descent beyond his grandfather. Various branches of the name appear to have been settled, from a remote period, in Norfolk, and in different seafaring places on the coast of Suffolk ; and it seems probable that the first who assumed it was a fisherman.* A pilot by name Crabbe, of Walton, was * " I cannot account for the vanity of that one of my ancestors 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 4 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 generations in the station of farmers, or wealthy yeomen ; 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 South wold an apparently an- cient 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 nar- row 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 he 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 extraordinary faculty of calculation ; and, during many years of his life, was the factotum, as the Poet expressed it, of Aldborough. Soon after his trouble ; but he has brought upon ine, his descendant after 1 know not how many generations, a question beyond my abilities to answer." — Mr. Crabbe to Mr. Chantrey, Dec. 11, 1822. ALDBOROUGH. 5 final settlement in his native town, he married a widow of the name of Loddock, a woman of the most amiable disposition, mild, patient, affectionate, and deeply reli- gious 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.* His next brother, Robert, was bred to the business of a glazier, and is now livinor in retirement at Southwold. John Crabbe, the third son, served for some time in the royal navy, and became subsequently the captain of a Liverpool slave-ship. Returning from a successful voyage, he married the owner's daughter ; and, on his next excursion, he perished by an insurrec- tion of the slaves. The negroes, having mastered the crew, set the whole of them adrift in an open boat ; and neither Captain Crabbe nor any of his companions were ever again heard of. The fourth brother, William, also took to a seafaring life. Being made prisoner by the Spaniards, he was carried to Mexico, where he became a silversmith, married, and prospered, until his increasing riches attracted a charge of Protestantism ; the conse- quence of which was much persecution. He at last was * 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 diamond panes, almost impervi- ous 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. 1* Q LIFE OF CRABBE. obliged to abandon Mexico, his property, 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 any thing 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 dodo?' ! " This was the first, and it was also the last, tidings that ever reached my father of his brother William ; and, upon the Aldborough 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 Returned 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 sheltered 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 preached no foreign doctrine to my wife, And never mentioned Luther in my life ; Their forms I followed, whether well or sick, And was a most obedient Catholick. But I had money — and these pastors found My notions vague, heretical, unsound.' ALDBOROUGH. 7 " Alas, poor Allen ! through this wealth were seen Crimes that by poverty concealed had been : Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown. Are in an instant through the varnish shown. They spared his forfeit life, hut 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, he wrought, and there among Some laboring seamen heard his native tongue : Again he heard. — he seized an offered hand — ' And when beheld you last our native land ? ' He cried, ' and in what country ? quickly say.' The seamen answered — strangers all were they — One only at his native port had been ; He landing once the quay and church had seen." &c. The youngest of this family, Mary, became the wife of Mr. Sparkes, a builder in her native town, where she died in 1827. Another sister, as has been mentioned, died in infancy ; and I find among my 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. " But it was misery stung me in the day Death of an infant sister made his prey ; For then first met and moved my early fears A father's terrors and a mother's tears. Though greater anguish I have since endured, Some healed in part, some never to be cured. Yet w^as there something in that first-born ill So new, so strange, that memory feels it still." MS. 8 ' LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 "terrors" of his father. The Salt-master was a man of imperious temper and violent passions ; but the darker traits of his character had, at this period, showed themselves only at rare inter- vals, and on extraordinary occasions. He had been hitherto, on the whole, an exemplary husband and father ; and was passionately devoted to the little girl, whose untimely death drew from him those gloomy and savage tokens of misery, which haunted, fifty years after, the memory of his gentler son. He was a man of short stature, but very robust and powerful ; and he had a highly marked countenance, not unlike in lineaments, as my father used to say, to that of Howard the philanthro- pist ; but stamped with the trace of passions which that illustrious man either knew not or had subdued. Aldborough — (or, as it is more correctly written, Aldeburgh) — was in those days, a poor and wretched place, with nothing of the elegance and gaiety which have since sprung up about it, in consequence of the resort of watering parties. The town lies between a low hill or cliff, on which only the old church and a few better houses were then situated, and the beach of the German Ocean. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved streets, running between mean and scrambling houses, the abodes of seafaring men, pilots, and fishers. The rancre of houses nearest to the sea had suffered so much from repeated invasions of the waves, that only a few scattered tenements appeared erect among the desola- tion. I have often heard my father describe a tremendous spring-tide of, I think, the first of January, 1779, when ALDBOROUGH. 9 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 succes- sive ridges — large loUed 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 pre- paring their tackle, or sorting their spoil — and nearer the gloomy old town-hall (the only indication of munici- pal dignity) 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 engag- ing aspect — open commons and sterile farms, the soil poor and sandy, the herbage bare and rushy, the trees " feiv and far between," and withered and stunted by the bleak breezes of the sea. The opening picture of " The Village " was copied, in every touch, from the scene of the Poet's nativity and boyish days : " Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ; From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest weaves its withered ears ; * " From an accurate plan of the borough, which was taken in 1559, it appear? that the church was then more than ten times its present distance from the shore ; and also that there were Denes of some extent, similar to those of Yarmouth, between the town and the sea, which have long been swallowed up and lost. After very high tides, the remains of wells have been frequently discovered below high-watermark." — Mdborough Described, by the Rev. James Ford, p. 4. 10 LIFE OF CRABBE. Rank weeds, that every art and care defy. Reign o'er the land, and rob the bhghted rye ; There thistles spread their prickly arms afar. And to the ragged infants threaten war." The *' broad river," called the Aid, approaches the sea close to Aldborough, within a few hundred yards, and then turning abruptly continues to run for about ten miles parallel to the beach, — from which, for the most part, a dreary stripe of marsh and waste alone divides it, — until it at length finds its embouchure at Orford. The scenery of this river has been celebrated as lovely and delightful, in a poem called " Slaughden Vale," written by Mr. James Bird, a friend of my father's; and old Camden talks of *' the beautiful vale of Slaucrh- den." I confess, however, that though I have ever found an indescribable charm in the very weeds of the place, i never could perceive its claims to beauty. Such as it is, it has furnished Mr. Crabbe with many of his happiest and most graphical 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 minuteness of a Dutch landscape : — " Here samphire banks and saltwort bound the flood, There stakes and sea- weeds withering on the mud ; And higher up a ridge of all things base. Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place. . . . Yon is our quay ! those smaller hoys from town. Its various wares for country use bring down." &c. &c. The powerful effect with which Mr. Crabbe has de- picted the ocean itself, both in its calm and its tempestu- ALDBOROUGH. H ous 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 doubt- ed 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 desthied to distinction as a portrayer of character, few scenes could have been more fiivorable 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 approach 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 describ- ed as — " a wild, amphibious race, With sullen woe displayed 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 happen- ed to be somewhat above the mass in point of situation, was the remove so great as to be marked with any con- siderable difference in point of refinement. Masculine 12 LIFE OF CKABBE. and robust frames, rude manners, stormy passions, labo- rious days, and, occasionally, boisterous nights of merri- ment, — 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 the graver classics, with, as his son thought long afterwards, remarkable judgment, and with powerful effect : but his chosen intellectual pursuit was mathe- matical calculation. He mingled with these tastes not a little of the seafaring habits and propensities of the place. He possessed a share in a fishing-boat, in which he 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 amuse- ments at an unknovv^n place, and no little exultation in his father's crack vessel, ** made it," he said, " a morn- ing of exquisite delight ; " and, among the JMSS. which he left, are the following verses on this early incident : — ALDBOROUGH. 13 " Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide, And our boat gUding, where alone could glide Small craft — and they oft touched on either side. It was my first-born joy — I 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.' " The linnet chirped upon the furze as well, To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. Without was Paradise — because within Was a keen relish, without taint of sin." But it appears that, as in other sublunary pleasures, the best part of this day's sport was the anticipation of the morning ; for he adds, — " As the sun declined. The good found early I no more could find. The men drank much to whet the appetite. And, growing heavy, drank to make them light ; Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. The lads played 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 wash- ing of the surge, the future Poet had but few qualifica- tions for a sailor. The Salt-master often took his boys a-fishing with him ; and sorely was his patience tried with the awkwardness 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 2 X4 LIFE OF CRABBE. tiling ever be good for?" This, however, 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 education than his worldly circumstances could well afford. My father was, indeed, in a great measure, self-edu- cated. After he could read at all — and he was a great favorite with the old dame who taught him — he was unwearied in reading ; and he devoured without re- straint whatever came into his hands, but especially works of fiction — those little stories and ballads about ghosts, witches, and fairies, which were then almost exclusively the literature of youth, and which, whatever else might be thought of them, served, no doubt, to strike out the first sparks of imagination in the mind of many a youthful poet. Mr. Crabbe retained, to the close of life, a strong partiality for marvellous tales of even this humble class. In verse he delighted, from the earliest time that he could read. His father took in a periodical work, called '' Martin's Philosophical Magazine," which contained at the end of each number, a sheet of " oc- casional poetry." The Salt-master irreverently cut out these sheets when he sent his magazines to be bound up at the end of the year ; and the " Poet's Corner " be- came the property of George, who read its contents until he had most of them by heart. The boy ere long tried to imitate the pieces which he thus studied ; and one of which, he used to say, particularly struck his childish fancy by this terrible concluding couplet, — " The boat went down in flames of fire, Which n»ade the people all admire." BUNGAY. 15 Mild, obliging, and the most patient of listeners, he was a great favorite with the old dames of the place. Like his own " Richard," many a friendly " matron wooed him, quickly won, To fill the station of an absent son." He admired the rude prints on their walls, rummaged their shelves for books or ballads, and read aloud to those whose eyes had failed them, by the winter even- ing's fireside. Walking one day in the street, he chanced to displease a stout lad, who doubled his fist to beat him ; but another boy interfered to claim benefit of clergy for the studious George. " You must no meddle with him," he said ; '' let Jii?n alone, for he ha' got I'arning." His father observed this bookish turn, and though he had then no higher view for him in life than that he should follow his own example, and be employed in some inferior department of the revenue service, he resolved to give George the advantage of passing some time in a school at Bungay, on the borders of Norfolk, where it was hoped the activity of his mind would be disciplined into orderly diligence. I cannot say how soon this re- moval 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 Bungay 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 delicate child had hitherto been dressed by his mother. Seeing the other boys begin to dress themselves, poor George, in great confusion, whispered to his bed-fellow, " Master G , can you put on your shirt ? — for — for I 'm afraid I cannot." 15 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 terrible name of " the black hole." George was the first that entered ; and, the place being crammed full with offenders, the atmosphere soon became pestilen- tially close. The poor boy in vain shrieked that he was about to be suffocated. At last, in despair, he bit the lad next to him violently in the hand. " Crabbe is dying — Crabbe is dying," roared the sufferer ; and the sentinel at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush out into the air. My father said, " A minute more, and I must have died." I am unable to give any more particulars of his resi- dence at Bungay. When he was in his eleventh or twelfth year, it having now been determined that he should follow the profession of a surgeon, he was remov- ed to a school of somewhat superior character, kept by Mr. Richard Haddon, a skilful mathematician, at Stow- market, in the same county ; and here, inheriting his father's talent and predilection for mathematical science, he made considerable progress in such pursuits. The Salt-master used often to send difficult questions to Mr. Haddon, and, to his great delight, the solution came not unfrequently from his son ; and, although Haddon 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. Crabbe''s first essay in verse was- a stanza of doggrel, cautioning one of these little damsels against being too much elevated about a new set of blue ribands to her straw bonnet. STOWMARKET. 17 After leaving this school, some time passed before a situation as surgeon's apprentice could be found for him ; and, by his own confession, he has painted the manner in which most of this interval was spent, in those beauti- ful lines of his *' Richard," which give, perhaps, as striking a picture of the " inquisitive sympathy " and solitary musings of a youthful poet as can elsewhere 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 endangered men esteemed so well ; No ships were wrecked upon that fatal beach But I could give the luckless tale of each. In fact, I lived for many an idle year In fond pursuit of agitations dear : For ever seeking, ever pleased to find The food I sought, I thought not of its kind. «« I loved to walk where none had walked 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 favorite stations, where I stood And heard the murmurs of the ocean-flood. With not a sound beside, except when flew Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew. . . . When I no more my fancy could employ — • I left in haste what I could not enjoy. And was my gentle mother's welcome boy." The reader is not to suppose, however, that all his hours were spent in this agreeable manner. His father 2* 18 LIFE OF CRABBE. employed him in the warehouse on the quay of Slaugh- den, in labors which he abhorred, though he in time became tolerably expert in them ; such as piling up but- ter and cheese. He said long after, that he remembered with regret the fretfulness and indignation wherewith he submitted to these drudgeries, in which the Salt-master himself often shared. At length an advertisement, head- ed " Apprentice wanted," met his ftither's eye ; and George was offered, and accepted, to fill the vacant sta- tion 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 county ; with whom he parted within about ten miles of the residence of his future master, and proceed- ed with feelings easily imagined in a low-spirited, gentle lad, to seek a strange, perhaps a severe, home. Fatigue also contributed to impart its melancholy ; and the recep- tion augmented these feelings to bitterness. Just as he reached the door, his master's daughters, haying eyed him for a few 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 ornamental 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 'pren- tice " 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 plough- WICKHAM-BROOK — WOODBRIDGE. xg boy. How astonished would he have been, when carry- ing medicines on foot to Cheveley (a village at a con- siderable 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, exclaim- ing — " Quique olim alhus erat nunc est contrarius alho — 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 received from the seer a condescend- ing compliment. 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 con- cluded his apprenticeship with a Mr. Page, surgeon at Woodbridge, a market town seventeen miles from Aid- borough. Here he met with companions suitable 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 v/eek 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 acquaint- ance at Aldborough. This friend was at the time 20 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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," &lc. &c. Miss Brereton's residence was at Framlingham, and her great friend and companion 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 ac- cordingly on his next " lover's journey," was introduced to Miss Brereton and her friend, and spent in their so- ciety a day which decided his matrimonial lot in life. * 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 inexhaustible theme. In an autobiographical sketch, published some years ago to accompany a portrait in the New Monthly Magazine, he says of himself, " He had, with youthful indiscretion, written for publications wherein Damons and Delias begin the correspondence * William Springall Levett died in 1774 ; and the following epitaph, written at the time by Mr. Crabbe, may be worth pre- serving : — " What ! though no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust j What ! though no earthly thunders sound his name, Deatli gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame ; One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess — More should we mourn him, did we love him less." Green's History of Framlingham, p. 163. WOODBRIDGE. 21 that does not always end there, and where diffidence is nursed till it becomes presumption. There was then a Lady's Magazine, published by Mr. Wheble, in which our young candidate wrote for a prize on the subject of Hope,* — and he had the misfortune to gain it ; in con- sequence of which he felt himself more elevated above the young men, his companions, who made no verses, than it is to be hoped he has done at any time since, when he has been able to compare and judge with a more moderate degree of self-approbation. He wrote upon every occasion, and without occasion ; and, like greater men, and indeed like almost every young versi- fier, he planned tragedies and epic poems, and began to think of succeeding in the highest line of composition, before he had made one good and commendable effort in the lov/est." 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 Woodbridge, among which occur " The Judgment of the Muse, in the Metre of Spenser," * After long- search a copy of Wheble's Magazine for 1772 has been discovered, and it contains, besides the prize poem on Hope, four other pieces, signed " G. C, Woodbridge, Suffolk : " " To Mira," " The Atheist reclaimed," " The Bee," and " An Alle- gorical Fable." As might be supposed, there is hardly a line in any of these productions which I should be justified in reprinting. I shall, however, preserve the conclusion of the prize poem. " But, above all, the toet 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 plots he tries, To win the laurel, and possess the prize." 22 LIFE OF CRABBE. — " Life, a Poem," — " An Address to the Muse, in the Manner of Sir Walter Raleigh," — an ode or two, in which he evide itly aims at the style of Cowley, — and a profusion of lyrics " To Mira ; " the name under which it pleased him to celebrate Sarah Elmy. A parody on Shenstone's '* My time, oh ye Muses," opens thus : — " My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped. Ere you or your whimsies got into my head ; I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest, "And my heart played a regular tune in my breast. But now, lack-a-day ! what a change for the worse, 'T is as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse. " My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind, Could guide my pen gently to what I designed. I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle. Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle ; But since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves. And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves." 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, WOODBRIDGE. 23 As sylphs who dwell in purest air. As fays who skim the dusky dale. As Venus was when Venus fled From watery Triton's oozy hed. " 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 ''Inebriety, a Poem," — in which, how- ever rude and unfinished as a whole, there are some couplets not deficient in point and terseness, and not a little to indicate that devotion to the style of Pope, which can be traced through all the maturer labors of his pen. The parallel passages from the Dunciad and the Essay on Man, quoted in the notes, are frequent ; and to them he modestly enough alludes in " The Preface," from which, as an early specimen of his prose, it may be worth while to extract a paragraph : — " Presumption or meanness are both too often the only- articles to be discovered in a preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance nothing in favor of the following little Poem, did it not appear a cruelty and disregard to send a first production naked into the world. "The World! — how presumptuous, and yet how tri- fling the sound. Every man, gentle reader, has a world of his own, and whether it consists of half a score or half a 24 LIFE OF CRABBE. thousand friends, 't is his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my world, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest labor, nothing doubting the clemency of the chmate, 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, se- cure in immortal fame, would forgive me : forgive me, too, my friendly critic ; I promise thee, thou wilt find the ex- tracts from that Swan of Thames the best part of the performance." 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 ^Yinter stern his gloomy front uprears, A sable void the barren earth appears ; The meads no more their former verdure boast, Fast bound their streams, and all their beauty lost. The herds, the flocks, in icy garments mourn. And wildly murmur for the Spring's return ; The fallen branches from the sapless tree. With glittering fragments strow the glassy way ; From snow-topped hills the whirlwinds keenly blow. Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below ; Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies ; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air ; The floating air their downy substance glides Through springing waters, and prevents their tides ; Seizes the rolling waves, and as a God, Charms their swift race, and stops the refluent flood. The opening valves, which fill the venal road. Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood. The laboring pulse a slower motion rules. The tendons stiffen, and the spirit cools ; "INEBRIETY, A POEM." 25 Each asks the aid of Nature's sister, Art, To cheer the senses, and to warm the heart. 'i"he gentle Fair on nervous tea reUes, Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes ; An inoffensive scandal fluttering round. Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound ; Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, The colonel Burgundy, and Port his grace. (He was not yet a ducal chaplain.) " See Inebriety I her wand she waves, And, lo ! her pale — and, lo ! her purple slaves. Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape. Of every order, station, rank, and shape ; The king, who nods upon his rattle-throne, The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ; The slow-tongued bishop, and the deacon sly. The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ; The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great. Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state. " Lo ! proud Flaminius at the splendid board. The easy chaplain of an atheist lord, Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense. And clouds his brain in torpid elegance ; In China vases, see ! 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 I 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 honor. It is only just to let the student of his maturer verses and formed character see in what way the careless 3 26 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 ; The reverend wig, in sideway order placed, The reverend band, by rubric stains disgraced, The leering eye, in wayward circles rolled, Mark him the Pastor of a jovial fold ; Whose various texts excite a loud applause. Favoring the bottle, and the Good Old Cause. See the dull smile, which fearfully appears, When gross Indecency her front uprears. The joy concealed the fiercer burns within, As masks afford the keenest gust to sin : Imagination lielps 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 drowned. Rather than hear hii God blasphemed, he takes The last loved glass, and then the board forsakes. Not that religion prompts the sober thought, But slavish custom has the practice taught : Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion Has a true Levite bias for promotion ; Vicars must with discretion go astray, Whilst bishops may be d d the nearest way." * Such, in his twentieth year, was the poetry of Crabbe. His Sarah encouraged him, by her approbation of his verses ; and her precept and example were of use to him in a minor matter, 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 *" Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence." WOODBRIDGE. 27 inelegant. 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 painftil 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 sup- pose, 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. 28 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER II. 1775 — 1780. TERMINATION OF MR. CRAEBE'S APPRENTICESHIP. VISIT TO LONDON. HE SETS UP FOR HIMSELF AT ALDBO- ROUGH. FAILURE OF HIS PLANS THERE. HE GIVES UP HIS BUSINESS, AND PROCEEDS TO LONDON AS A LIT- ERARY 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, how- ever, 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 labors of the ware- house on Slaughden quay. His pride disdained this homely employment ; his spirit rose against what he considered arbitrary conduct : he went sullen and angry to his work, and violent quarrels often ensued between him and his father. He frequently confessed in after- times that his behaviour in this affair was unjustifiable, and allowed that it was the old man's poverty, not his will, that consented to let him wear out any more of his days in such ignoble occupation. I must add, however, that, before he returned from Woodbridge, his father's habits had undergone a very unhappy change. In 1774, there was a contested elec- tion at Aldborough, and the Whig candidate, Mr. Charles ALDBOROUGH. 29 Long, sought and found a very able and zealous partisan and agent in Mr. Crabbe. From that period his family dated the loss of domestic comfort, a rooted taste for the society of the tavern, and such an increase in the violence of his temper, that his meek-spirited wife, now in poor health, dreaded to hear his returning footsteps. If the food prepared for his meal did not please his fancy, he would fling the dishes about the room, and all was misery and terror. George was the chief support of his afflicted mother, — her friend and her physician. He saw that her complaint was dropsical, and, from the first, anticipated the fatal result which, after a i^ew years of suffering, ensued. One of his favorite employments was to catch some small fish called " buts," the only thing for which she could muster a little appetite, for her nightly meal. He was in all things her dutiful comfort- er ; and it may be supposed that, under such circum- stances, he was not sometimes able to judge favorably of her husband's conduct, even where there might be nothing really blameworthy in it. To him, he acknowl- edged his father had always been " substantially 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 with- drawing him, for a time, from the practice of versifica- tion. He appears, indeed, to have had, at this period, every disposition to pursue his profession with zeal. *' The time," he says, in the sketch already quoted, " had come, when he was told, and believed, that he had more important concerns to engage him than verse ; and therefore, for some years, though he occasionally found time to write lines upon ' Mira's Birthday ' and ' Silvia's 3* 30 LIFEOFCRABBE. Lapdog,' though he composed enigmas and solved re- buses, 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 Wheble's Magazine; and the mor- tifications he daily underwent may be guessed at from the following incident, v*^hich 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 visiter 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, inculcating pride and rebellion. He heard it in sad silence : his spirit was, indeed, subdued, but he refused to take any decided step in opposition to his parent's will, or rather the hard necessities of his case. " My friends," said my father, in concluding this story, ** had always an ascendancy over me." I may venture to add, that this was the consequence purely of the gen- tle 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. ALDBOROUGH. 31 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 Slaugh- den quay, ostensibly to walk the hospitals, and attend medical lectures in customary form, but in reality with a purse too slenderly provided to enable him to do this ; and, in short, with the purpose, as he said, of " picking up a little surgical knowledge as cheap as he could." He took up his quarters in the house of an Aldborough family, humble tradespeople, who resided somewhere in Whitechapel ; and continued there for about eight or ten months, until his small resources were exhausted, when he returned once more to Suffolk, but little, I suspect, the better for the desultory sort of instruction that had alone been within his reach. Among other distresses of this time, he had, soon after he reached London, a narrow escape from being carried before the Lord Mayor as a resurrectionist. His landlady, having discovered 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 misfor- tune 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 countenance 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 inno- cence of the charge. On his return to Aldborough, he engaged himself as an assistant in the shop of a Mr. Maskill, who had lately commenced business there as a surgeon and apoth- ecary, — a stern and powerful man. Mr. Crabbe, the 32 LIFE OF CRABBE. first time lie had occasion to write his name, chanced to misspell it Mashoell ; and this gave great oflence. " D — n you, Sir," he exclaimed, " do you take me for a proficient in deception? Mask-i7/ — Mask-?'//; and so you shall find me." He assumed a despotic authority which the assistant could ill brook ; and yet, conscious how imperfectly he was grounded in the commonest details of the profession, he was obliged to submit in silence to a new series of galling vexations. Nor was his situation at all improved, when, at the end of some miserable months, Mr. Maskill transferred his practice to another town, and he was encouraged to set up for himself in Aldborough. 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 de- ficiencies far better than any one else did. He had, moreover, a clever and active opponent in the late Mr. Raymond ; and the practice which fell to his share was the poorest the place afforded. His very passion for botany was injurious to him ; for his ignorant patients, seeing him return from his walks with handfuls of weeds, decided that, as Dr. Crabbe got his medicines in the ditches, he could have little claim for payment. On the other hand, he had many poor relations ; and some of these, old women, were daily visiters, to request " some- ALDBOROUGH. 33 thing comfortable from cousin George ; " that is to say, doses of the most expensive tonics in his possession. " If once induced these cordial sips to try, All feel the ease, and few the danger fly ; For while obtained, of drams they 've all the force, And when denied, then drams are the resource." Add to all this, that the poor leech was a lover, separated from his mistress, and that his heart was in the land of imagination — for he had now resumed his pen — and it is not wonderful that he soon began to despair alto- gether of succeeding in his profession. Yet there was a short period when fortune seemed somewhat more favorable to him, even in Aldborough. In the summer of 1778, the Warwickshire militia were quartered in the town, and his emoluments were con- siderably improved in consequence. He had also the pleasure of finding his society greatly estimated by the officers, and formed a very strong friendship with one of them, Lieutenant Hayward, 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 favorite subject of Botany, which proved of advantage to him in more ways than one : for the possession of them induced him to take up more accurately than heretofore the study of the lan- guage in which they were composed ; and the hours he now spent on Hudson's " Flora Anglica"* enabled him * In one of his early Note-books he has wiitten : — " Ah ! blest be the days when with Mira I took The learning of Love 34 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 conver- sation. 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 tole- rated. Tlie uncle, Mr. Tovell, a wealthy yeoman of the highest class so denominated, — 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 Beccles ; and here my father found a society more adapted to his When we pluck'd Uie wili blossoms that blush'd in the grass, And I tau;^ht my dear maid of their species and class ; For Conway, the friend of mankind, had decreed That HuJson should show us the wealth of the mead." Mr. Conway's character is familiar to every reader of his cousin Horace Walpole's Letters. ALDBOROUGH. 35 acquiremerts. 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.* 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 Journey ; " while near Bec- cles, 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 disappointmejit 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 purpose : — means she to a female friend 7 " &c. For truth compels me to say, that he was by no means free from the less amiable si^n of a strong attachment — jealousy. The description of tliis self-torment, which occurs in the sixth book of " Tales of the Hall," could only have been produced by one \\ ho had undergone the pain himself; and the catastrophe which follows may be considered as a vivid representation of his happier hours at Beccles. 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 might, without any coquettish inclination, occasion painful surmises in a sensitive lover, Vv^ho could only at intervals join her circle. In one of these visiis to Beccles, my father was in the most imminent danger of losing liis life. Having, on a * Miss Elmy's father was now no more. He had been a tanner at Beccles, but failed in his business, and went to Guadaloupe, where he died some time before Mr. Crabbe knew the family. 36 LIFE OF CRABBE. sultry summer's day, rowed his Sarah to a favorite fish- ing spot on the river Waveney, he left her busy with the rod and line, and withdrew to a retired place about a quarter of a mile off, to bathe. Not being a swimmer, nor calculating his depth, he plunged at once into dan- ger ; for his foot slid on the soft mud towards the centre of the stream. He made a rush for the bank, lost his footing, and the flood boiled over his head : he struggled, but in vain ; and his own words paint his situation : — " An undefined sensation stopped my breath ; Disordered views and threatening signs of death Met in one moment, and a terror gave I cannot paint it — to the moving grave : My thoughts were all distressing, hurried, mixed, On all things fixing, not a moment fixed. Brother, I have not — man has not the power To paint the horrors of that life-long hour ; Hour ! — but of time I knew not — when I found Hope, youth, life, love, and all they promised, drowned." Tales of the Hall. My father could never clearly remember how he was saved. He at last found himself grasping some weeds, and by their aid reached the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe, cordially approving their son's choice, invited Miss Elmy to pass some time beneath their roof at Aldborough ; and my father had the satis- faction to witness the kindness with which she was treated by both his parents, and the commencement of a stronor attachment between her and his sister. During this visit* he was attacked by a very dangerous fever; * At this period the whole family were still living together. Some time after, my father and his sister had separate lodgings, at a Mr. Aldrich's. PARHAM. 37 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 conva- lescence, he actually cried like a child, because he was considerately denied the food which his renovated stom- ach longed for. I have heard them laugh heartily at the tears he shed, because Sarah and his sister refused him a lobster on which he had set his affections. For a con- siderable time, he was unable to walk upright ; but he was at length enabled to renew, with my mother, his favorite rambles — to search for fuci on the shore, or to botanise on the heath : and again he expresses his own feelings, in the following passage of " The Borough : " — " See ! one relieved from anguish, and to-day- Allowed to walk, and look an hour away. Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain, He comes abroad, and is himself again. He stops, as one unwilling to advance. Without another and another glance. . . . With what a pure and simple joy he sees Those sheep and cattle browsing at their ease ! Easy himself, there 's nothing breathes or moves, But he would cherish ; — all that lives he loves." On Miss Elmy's return to Parham, she was seized with the same or a kindred disorder, but still more vio- lent 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 bit- terness of losing a fond and faithful heart. I remember being greatly affected, 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 flow- 4 38 LIFE OF CRABBE. ers; intending, after her death, to take them to Aldbo- rough, and keep them for ever. The disorder at last took a favorable turn. But a calamity of the severest kind awaited her uncle and aunt. Their only child, a fine hale girl of fourteen, humored by her mother, adored by her father, was cut off in a few days by an inflammatory sore throat. Her parents were bowed down to the earth ; so sudden and unexpected was the blow. It made a permanent altera- tion at Parham. Mr. Tovell's health declined 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 astonish- ment 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 the reception he should meet with, and well knew what she must suffer from the first bitterness of minds too uncultivated to sup- press their feelings. He found it as painful as he had foreboded. 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 consolation. After a long silence, Mr. Tovell observed, — "She is now out o^ every body's way, poor girl ! " One of the females remarked, that it PARHAM. 39 was wrong, very wrong, to grieve, because she was gone to a better place. " How do I know where she is gone?" was the bitter reply ; and then there was another long silence. But, in the course of time, these gloomy feelings sub- sided. 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 un- diminished, 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 attach- ment 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 requited 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 compe- tent livelihood ; and he, instead of being in a position to maintain a family, could hardly, by labor which he ab- horred, 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 attention the works of the British poets and of his favorite 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. 40 LIFE OF CRABBE. " 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 cheer- less 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 morning — " that I determined to go to London and venture all." In one of his early note-books, under the date of De- cember 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 remembered ; — 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 cor- ALDBOROUGH. 41 rect 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 I 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, inclinations, 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 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 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 youthful adventurer, whose fate it is probable would, in some degree, have aflected his spirits, if it had not caused an alteration in his purpose. Of Chatterton, his extraordinary abilities, his enterprising 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 4=* 42 LIFE OF CRABBE. influence upon a mind rather vexed with the present than expecting much from the future, and not sufficiently happy and at ease to draw consolation from vanity — much less from a comparison in which vanity would have found no trifling mortification." * When his father was at length informed that he felt it to be of no use to struggle longer against the difficulties of his situation, the old man severely reproached him with the expenses the family had incurred, in order to afford him an opening into a walk of life higher than their own ; but when he, in return, candidly explained how imperfectly he had ever been prepared for the exer- cise of his profession, the Salt-master in part admitted the validity of his representation, and no further opposed his resolution. But the means of carrying this resolution into effect were still to seek. His friends were all as poor as him- self; and he knew not where to apply for assistance. In this dilemma, he at length addressed a letter to the late Mr. Dudley North, brother to the candidate for Aldborough, requesting the loan of a small sum ; " and a very extraordinary letter it was," said Mr. North to his petitioner some years afterwards : " I did not hesi- tate for a moment." * " Talking," says my brother John, " of the difficulties of his early years, when, with adecUning practice, riding from one cottage to another, and glad to relieve his mind by fixing it on the herbs that grew on the way-side, he often made the assertion, which I could never agree to, that it was necessity that drove him to be an author ; — and more than once he quoted the line — ' Some fall so hard that they rebound again.' " ALDBOROUGH. 43 The sum advanced by Mr. North, in compliance with his request, was Jive pounds ; and, after settling his affairs at Aldborough, and embarking himself and his whole worldly substance on board a sloop at Slaughden, to seek his fortune 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 par- took of their fare. In looking back to the trifling incidents which I have related in this chapter, I feel how inadequate is the con- ception they will convey of feelings so deep and a mind so exuberant. These were the only circumstances that I heard him or others mention relative to that early period ; but how different would have been the descrip- tion, had he himself recorded the strongest of his early impressions ! Joining much of his father's violence with a keen susceptibility of mortification, his mind must have been at times torn by tumultuous passions ; always tem- pered, however, by the exceeding kindness of his heart. There can scarcely be a more severe trial than for one conscious of general superiority to find himself an object of contempt, for some real and palpable defects. With a mind infinitely above his circumstances, he was yet incompetent to his duties, both in talent and knowledge ; and he felt that the opinion of the public, in this respect, 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 distress- ing then, were unquestionably favorable to his education as a poet, and his moral character as a man. 44 LIFE OF CRABBE. The following lines, from a manuscript volume, appear- ed to have been composed after he had, on this occasion, bidden farewell to Miss Elmy : — " The hour arrived ; I sighed and said, How soon the happiest hours are fled ! On wings of down they lately flew. But then their moments passed with you ; And still with you could I but be. On downy wings they 'd always flee. " Say, did you not, the way you went. Feel the soft balm of gay content ? Say, did you not all pleasures find. Of which you left so few behind ? I think you did : for well I know My parting prayer would make it so ! " May she, I said, life's choicest goods partake ; Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake — The bliss of one, the esteemed of many live. With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give I " I shall conclude this chapter with the stronger verses in which he, some months after, expressed the gloomier side of his feelings on quitting his native place — the very verses, he had reason to believe^ which first satisfied Burke that he was a true poet : — " Here wandering long, amid these frowning fields I sought the simple life that Nature yields ; Rapine, and wrong, and fear usurped her place. And a bold, artful, surly, savage race, Who, only skilled 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 venturous way. Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. ALDBO ROUGH. 45 As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, And wait for favoring winds to leave the land, While still for flight the ready wing is spread — So waited I the favoring hour, and fled : Fled 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 fierce tide, with more imperious sway, Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away, When the sad tenant weeps from door to door. And begs a poor protection from the poor." The Villase. 46 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER III. 1780. MR. CRABEE'S difficulties AND DISTRESSES IN LONDON. "—PUBLICATION OF HIS POEM, " THE CANDIDATE." HIS UNSUCCESSFUL APPLICATIONS TO LORD NORTH, LORD SHELBURNE, AND OTHER EMINENT INDIVIDUALS. HIS " JOURNAL TO MIRA." Although the chance of his being so successful in his metropolitan debut as to find in his literary talents the means of subsistence must have appeared slender in the eyes of Mr. Crabbe's Suffolk friends, and although he himself was any thing but sanguine in his anticipa- tions ; — yet it must be acknowledged, that he arrived in London at a time not unfavorable for a new candidate in poetry. The field may be said to have lain open be- fore 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 persons, 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, Chatterton had paid the bitter penalty of his imprudence, 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 depressed." The stu- pendous Johnson, unrivalled in general literature, had, from an early period, withdrawn himself from poetry. Cowper, destined to fill so large a space in the public LONDON. 47 eye, somewhat later, had not as yet appeared as an au- thor ; * and as for Burns, he was still unknown beyond the obscure circle of his fellow-villagers. The moment, there- fore, might appear favorable for Mr. Crabbe's meditated appeal ; f and yet, had he foreseen all the sorrows and disappointments 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 him- self 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, * Cowper's first publication was in 1782, when he was in the fiftieth year of his age. t I find these lines in one of his note-hooks for 17S0 : — " When summer's tribe, 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 wintery 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 widowed 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." 48 LIFE OF CRABBE. near to some friends of whose kindness he was assured, and was probably loth to lose that domestic and cheerful society which he doubly felt in a world of strangers." The only acquaintance he had on entering London was a Mrs. Burcham, 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 in- vited 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 sup- posed, that with such friends to lean upon, he would have been secure against actual distress ; but his was, in some points, a proud spirit : he never disclosed to them the extent of his difficulties. Nothing but sheer starvation could ever have induced him to do so ; and not even that, as long as there was a poor-house in the land to afford him refuge. All they knew was that he had come to town a literary adventurer : but, though ignorant of the exact nature of his designs, as well as of the extreme narrowness of his pecuniary resources, they often warned him of the fate of Chatterton — of whose genius and misfortunes, as we have seen, he had never heard while he remained in Suffolk. To be near these friends, he took lodgings close to the Exchange, in the house of Mr. Vickery,* a hair-dresser, then or soon afterwards of great celebrity in his calling ; " Mr. Vickery is still in life, a most respectable octogenarian. He laments that his memory retains little of Mr. Crabbe, except that he was " a quiet, amiable, genteel young man ; much esteem- ed by the family for the regularity of all his conduct." LONDON. 49 and on the family's removing some months later to Bish- opsgate Street, he accompanied them to their new residence. I may mention that, so little did he at first foresee the distress in which a shilling would be precious, that on taking up his quarters 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 pur- suits for 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 com- posed 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 which his chief study was to improve in versifi- cation, to read all such books as he could command, 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 evening at a small coffee-house near the Exchange, where, if prudence allowed only the most frugal refreshment, he had a more gratifying entertainment in the conversation of several young men, most of them teachers of mathe- matics, who, in his own words, " met after the studies and labors of the day, to commence other studies and labors of a lighter and more agreeable kind ; and then it was," he continues, " that Mr. Crabbe experienced the inestimable relief which one mind may administer to another. He particularly acknowledges his obligations 5 50 LIFE OF CRABBE. to Mr. Bonnycastle, the" (late) " Master of the Military Academy at Woolwich, for many hours of consolation, amusement, and instruction." With Mr. Bonnycastle he formed a close intimacy and attachment ; and those who are acquainted with the character of that respected man will easily imagine the pleasure and advantage Mr. Crabbe must have derived from his society. To emi- nence in his own vocation he joined much general knowledge, considerable taste in the fine arts,* collo- quial talents of a higli order, and a warm and enlarged heart. Another of this little company was Mr. Isaac Dal by, afterwards professor of mathematics in the Mili- tary College at PJarlow, and employed by the Ordnance department on the trigonometrical survey of England and Whales ; and a third was the well-known mathematician, Reuben Burrow, originally a merchant's clerk in the City, who subsequently rose to high distinction in the service of the East India Company, 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 companions, 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 period, was any thing but robust, and he often walked with Mr. Bonnycastle, when he went to the various schools in the suburbs, but still more frequently strolled * At one time, Mr. Bonnycastle was employed to revise and cor- rect a MS. of Cowper ; but be and that poet did not agree in their tastes — Mr. Bonnycastle being a staunch advocate for the finish and polish of Pope, while the other had far different models in higher estimation. LONDON. 5t alone into the country, with a small edition of Ovid, or Horace, or Catullus in his pocket. Two or three of these little volumes 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 fa- vorite haunt was Hornsey-wood, and there he often renewed his old occupation of searching for plants and insects. On one occasion, he had walked farther than usual into the country, and felt himself too much ex- hausted 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 himself 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 pressing difficulties of his situation had been overcome. When, many years afterwards, Mr. Bonnycastle was sending his son to London, he strongly enforced upon the young gentleman the early example of his friend, Mr. Crabbe, then enjoying the success of his second series of poems. '' Crabbe," said he, '' never suffered his attention to be diverted for a moment by the novelties with which he was surrounded at that trying period ; but gave his whole mind to the pursuit by which he was then striving to live, and by which he in due time attained to competence and honor." When my father had completed some short pieces in verse, he offered them for publication ; but they were rejected. He says in his sketch, " He was not encour- aged by the reception which his manuscripts experienced 52 LIFEOFCRABBE. from those who are said to be not the worst judges of literary composition. He was, indeed, assured by a bookseller, who afterwards published for 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 respect he was unfortunate : while preparing a more favorable piece for the inspection of a gentleman whom he had then in view, he hazarded the publication of an anonymous performance, and had the satisfaction of hearing, in due time, that something (not much, indeed, — but a something was much,) would arise from it ; but while he gathered encouragement, and looked forward to more than mere encouragement from this essay, the pub- lisher failed, and his hope of profit was as transitory as the fame of his nameless production." This production* was "The Candidate, a Poetical Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly Review," which was published early in 1780, by " H. Payne, opposite Marlborough House, Pall Mall ; " a thin quarto of 34 pages, and bearing on the title-page a motto from Horace ; — " Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe poetoe," &LC. It was a call on the attention, not an appeal from the verdict, of those whom he considered the most influential critics of the time; and it received, accordingly, a very cold and brief notice in their number for August ; wherein, indeed, nothing is dwelt upon but * There was no name in its title-page : the author, however hinted his name : — " Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, And shepherds — though the harshest — envy mine." — p. 91. LONDON. 53 some incorrectness of rhymes, and " that material defect, the want of a proper subject." Nor was the Gentleman's Magazine more courteous. " If," said Mr. Urban, " the authors addressed agree with us in their estimate, they will not give this Candidate much encouragement to stand a poll at Parnassus." 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 several of those eminent individuals who were then generally considered as liberal patrons of lite- rature. Before he left Aid borough 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 reception at this nobleman's door, in Berkeley-square, in 1780,^ with the courteous welcome which he received at a subsequent period in that same mansion, now Lansdowne House. He wrote also several times to the Lord Chan- cellor Thurlow ; but with little better fortune. To the first letter, which enclosed a copy of verses, his Lordship returned 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 dis- respectful lines, intimating that, in former times, the encouragement of literature had been considered as a duty appertaining to the illustrious station he held. Of this effusion the Chancellor took no notice whatever. 5# 54 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 manuscript 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 J now transcribe it ; interweaving, as it proceeds, a few observations, which occur to me as necessary to make it generally intelligible. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." " ' Sunt lachrimas rerum, et meutem mortalia tangunt.' " ' He felt whate'er of sorrows wound the soul. But viewed Misfortune on her fairest side.' " Ap?'il 21, 1780. — I DEDICATE to you, my dear Mira, this Journal, and I hope it will 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. Vickery's, near the Exchange : rather too expensive, but very convenient — and here I, on reflection, 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 Epis- tle to Prince William Henry.' " "THE HERO; AN EPISTLE." ^^ [I must here interrupt the Journal for a moment, to explain. The " principal work " alluded 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 explained, Of science disputed, and tenets maintained .... These, and such speculations on these kind of things. Have robbed my poor Muse of her plume and her wings ; Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire. The spirit extracted, extinguished the fire ; Let out all the ether, so pure and refined. And left but a mere caput mortuum behind." With respect to the " Epistle to Prince William Hen- ry " — now King William TV., — I need only remind the reader that his Royal Highness had recently been serv- ing with honor under Admiral Rodney, and was about to return to sea. The Poet, after many cautions against the flattery of courtiers, &:.c. &.c., thus concluded his Epistle. I copy from his note-book : — " Who thus aspiring sings ? wouldest 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 lothly leaves thee to the shock of war, 56 LIFE OF CRABBE. And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar, Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, Without her misery and without her care. For, ah ! 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, How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease ; * How some, fike Savage, sickened by degrees ; How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread ; Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.t " One of this train — and of these wretches one — Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son — Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed. On Henry, laurels ; on his poet, bread ! " Unhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse ; Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse ; Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex. And every friend, and every brother vex ! Each fond companion ! No, I thank my God ! There rests my torment — there is hung the rod. * Eustace Budgell drowned himself in the Thames in 1736 : the miseries of Otway and Savage are familiar to every reader. t Goldsmith, on his return to England, was so poor that it was with difficulty he was enabled to reach the metropolis with a few halfpence only in his pocket. He was an entire stranger, and without any recommendation. He offered himself to several apoth- ecaries, in the character of a journeyman, but had the mortification to find every application without success. At length he Was admitted into the house of a chemist. This example was often in my father's thoughts. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." ^J To friend, to fame, to family unknown, Sour disappointments frown on me alone. AVho hates my song, and damns the poor design, Shall wound no peace — shall grieve no heart but mine ! " Pardon, sweet Prince ! the thoughts that will intrude, For want is absent, and dejection rude. Methinks I hear, amid the ahouts of Fame, Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name ; And, Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day. One British bard should grieve when all are gay. No ! let him find his country his redress, And bid adieu to every fond distress; Or, touched too near, from joyful scenes retire. Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire ! " We now return to my father's Journal.] " April 25. — Reading the ' Daily Advertiser ' of the 22d, I found the following : — ' Wanted an amanuensis, of grammatical education, and endued with a genius ca- pable of making improvements in the writings of a gentleman not well versed in the English language.' Now, Vanity having no doubt of my capacity, I sent im- mediately the following note to a Mrs. Brooke, Coventry- street, Haymarket, the person at whose house I was to enquire : — * A person, having the advantage of a gram- matical education, and who supposes himself endowed with a genius capable of making emendations to the writings of any gentleman not perfectly acquainted with the English language, would be very happy to act as an amanuensis, where the confinement was not too rigid, &LC.' 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 58 LIFE OF CRABBE. that the gentleman was provided — twelve long miles walked away, loss 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 supposed : he might be a sharper, and would not, or an author himself, and conse- quently could not, pay me. He might have employed me seven hours in a day over law or politics, and treated me at night with a Welsh rabbit and porter ! — It 's all well ; I can at present buy porter myself, and am my own amanuensis. " N. B. Sent my poem to Dodsley, and required him to return it to-morrow if not approved, otherwise its au- thor would call upon him. ^^ April 28. — Judging it best to have two strings to the bow, and fearing Mr. Dodsley's will snap, I have finished another little work, from that awkward-titled piece, ' The Foes of Mankind ; ' have run it on to three hundred and fifty lines, and given it "a still more odd name, ' An Epistle from the Devil.' To-morrow I hope to transcribe it fair, and send it by Monday. " Mr. Dodsley's reply just received. ' Mr. Dodsley presents his compliments to the gentleman who favored him with the enclosed poem, which he has returned, as he apprehends the sale of it would probably not enable him to give any consideration. He does not mean by this to insinuate a want of merit in the poem, but rather a want of attention in the public' " Once more, my Mira, I '11 try, and write to Mr. Becket : if he fails me ! — I know not how I shall ever get sufficient time to go through my principal design ; "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 59 but I 've promised to keep up my spirits, and I will. God help me ! " April 28. — I thank Heaven my spirits are not at all affected by Dodsley's refusal. I have not been able to get the poem ready for Mr. Becket to-da , but will take some pains with it. " I find myself under the disagreeable necessity of vending, or pawning, some of my more useless articles ; accordingly have put into a paper such as cost about two or three guineas, and, being silver, have not greatly less- ened in their value. The conscientious pawnbroker allowed me — ' 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. ^' 3Iai/ 1. — Still in suspense; but still resigned. I think of sending Mr. Becket two or three little pieces, large enough for an eighteen-penny pamphlet : but, not- withstanding this, to set about the book I chiefly depend upon. My good broker's money reduced to five shillings and sixpence, and no immediate prospect 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 ono than the first. God only knows, and to Him I readily, and not unresignediy, leave it. " 3Ia7/ S. — Mr. Becket has just had my copy. I have made about four hundred and fifty lines, and enti- tled them * Poetical Epistles, with a Preface by the 60 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 Morley ! — 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 prog- nostic 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. " 3Ia7/ 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 called upon, has had a pretty long time to deliberate upon my ' Epistles.' If they will do, I shall continue them ; Lon- don affording ample matter 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 unaccounta- ble courage. " Mai/ 10. — Mr. Becket says just what Mr. Dodsley wrote, 't was a very pretty thing, ' but. Sir, these little "THE POET'S JOURNAL." Ql 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 dis- heartened 1 My dearest Mira, not I ! The wanting a letter from you to-day, and the knowing myself to be possessed 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 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 veri/ 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 collection ; 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 determine, how far my poetical talents may or may not merit applause. For the first time in my life that I 6 62 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 particular notice if this passage is remarked ; if not, I shall conclude 't was mere self-love, — but if so, 't was the strangest, and at the same time, strongest disguise she ever put on. " You shall rarely find the same humor 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 26. — O ! my dear Mira, how you distress me : you enquire 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 certainty. ^^ 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 loss than eight shillings more ; but twenty-one shillings and three-pence would yet be so poor a superfluity, that the Muse would never visit till "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 63 the purse was recruited ; for, say men what they will, she does not love empty pockets nor poor living. Now, you must know, my watch was mortgaged for less than it ought ; so I redeemed and repledged it, which has made me, — the tailor paid and the day's expenses, — at this instant worth (let me count my cash) ten shillings — a rare case, and most bountiful provision of fortune ! " Great God ! I thank thee for these happy spirits : seldom they come, but coming, make large amends for preceding gloom. " I wonder what these people, my Mira, think of me. Here 's Vickery, his wife, two maids, and a shop full of men : the latter, consequently, neither know nor care who I am. A little pretty hawk-eyed girl, I 've a great notion, thinks me a fool, for neglecting the devoirs a lodger is supposed to pay to an attendant in his house : I know but one way to remove the suspicion, and that in the end might tend to confirm it. " Mrs. Vickery is a clear-sighted woman, who appears to me a good wife, mother, and friend. She thinks me a soft-tempered gentleman — I 'm a gentleman here not quite nice enough. " Mr. Vickery is an honest fellow, hasty, and not over distinguishing. He looks upon me as a bookish young man, and so respects me — for he is bookish himself — as one who is not quite settled in the world, nor has much knowledge of it ; and as a careless, easy-tempered fellow, who never made an observation, nor is ever likely to do so. " Having thus got my character in the family, my employment remains (I suppose) a secret, and I believe 't is a debate whether I am copying briefs for an attor- 64 LIFE OF CRABBE. ney, or songs for * the lady whose picture was found on the pillow t' other day.' " N. B. We remove to Bishopsgate Street, in a day or two. Not an unlucky circumstance ; 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 presented to the eyes three volumes of Dryden's works, octavo, five shillings. Prudence, however, got the better of the devil, when she whispered me to bid three shillings and sixpence : 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 's the vilest thing in the world to have but one coat. My only one has happened with a mischance, and how to manage it is some difficulty. A confounded stove's modish ornament caught its elbow, and rent it half away. 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 somewhat thicker, the elbow is a good one yet. " These are foolish things, Mira, to write or speak, and we may laugh at them ; but I '11 be bound to say they are much more likely to make a man cry, where they happen, — though I was too much of a philosopher for that, however not one of those who preferred a ragged coat to a whole one. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 65 ** On Monday, I hope to finish my book entirely, and perhaps send it. God Almighty give it a better fate than the trifles tried before ! '' Sometimes I think I cannot fail ; and then, knowing how often I have thought so of fallible things, I am again desponding. Yet, within these three or four days, I 've been remarkably high in spirits, and now am so, though I 've somewhat exhausted them by writing upwards of thirty pages. " I am happy in being in the best family you could conceive me to have been led to ; — people of real good character and good nature ; whose circumstances are affluent above their station, and their manners affable beyond their circumstances. Had I taken a lodging at a different kind of house, I must have been greatly distressed ; but now I shall, at all events, not be so be- fore 't is determined, one way or other, what I am to expect. " I keep too little of the journal form here, for I al- ways 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. — I give you, my dear Miss Elmy, a short abstract of a Sermon, preached this morning by my favorite clergyman, at St. Dunstan's.* There is nothing particular in it, but had you heard the good man, reve- * The Rev. Thomas Winstanley, of Trinity College, Cambridge, A. M., was appointed rector of St. Dnnstan's in the East, in Janu- ary, 1771, — succeeding the celebrated Dr. Jortin, author of the Life of Erasmus, &c. This eminently respectable clergyman died in February, 1789. 6* 66 LIFE OF CRABBE. rend 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 blas- pheme, or to pantomimes and farces, where men seek to deform the creatures God stamped his own image upon. What, I wonder, can Mr. Williams,* as a free-thinker, or Mr. Lee Lewis, f as a free-speaker, find so entertain- ing to produce, that their congregations 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 con- fined 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 whis- pered. Some have the word preached to their outward ears ; some have it suggested, inwardly, in their hearts. None are omitted in this universal invitation ; none shall * About this time, David Williams, originally a dissenting minis- ter in Glamorganshire, published " Lectures on the Universal Principles of Religion and Morality," " Apology for professing the Religion of Nature," &c., and attempted to establish a congrega- tion, on the avowed principles of deism, in Margaret Street, Cavendish Square : but this last plan soon failed. He died in 1816. t 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. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." qj 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 contempla- tion 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 paUiates, still it sounds a lesson to pride ; — still I repeat it, ' Few are chosen.' How doubly lessening! — 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 call- ed 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 limita- tion 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 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 de- pend upon him who calls, but upon those who are called. Complain not that you want an invitation to heaven, but 68 LIFE OF CRABBE. complain that you want the inclination to obey it. Say not that you cannot go, but that you will not part with the ob- jects 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 re- spect to it. Those who accept the invitation are such as go like guests. Those who think themselves honored 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 sanctification, and they will, therefore, go in the disposition 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 profes- sion, 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 hardness of heart. " But to what are we called? To everlasting happiness! Consider, I implore you, whether it is worth the trouble of looking afler. Do by it as by your worldly bargains, which surely do not offer more. Examine the truths it is founded upon ; they will bear examination. Try its merits; they will stand the trial. You would grieve to see thousands of saints in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves shut out : and yet, shut out you will be into everlasting darkness, un- less you rightly obey the call which you have heard. It is "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 59 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 sub- stance of the good Doctor's discourse. 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, and often re- peat it, till it shall hardly fail of making an impres- sion. " I have this night been drawing out my letter to Lord North. I have diligently read it over, and believe it far the most consequential piece I ever executed, whether in prose or poetry. Its success will soon prove whether it is in the power of my talents to obtain me favor. " 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. You will perceive there is art in it, though art quite consistent with truth — for such is actually the case with me. My last shilling became eight-pence yes- terday. The simplicity of the style is, I hope, not lost in endeavouring at the pathetic ; and if his Lordship is 70 LIFE OF CRABBE. indeed a literary man, I am not without hope, that it may be a means of obtaining for me a better fortune than hitherto has befallen us. " May 22. — I have just now finished my book, and, if I may so say, consecrated it, by begging of Him, who alone can direct all things, to give me success in it, or patience under any disappointment I may meet with from its wanting that. I have good hope from my letter, which I shall probably copy for you to-morrow, for I find I can't to-day. This afternoon I propose to set out for Westminster, and I hope shall not meet with much diffi- culty in getting the book delivered to his Lordship. — '' — I am now returned from Downing Street, Lord North's place of residence. Every thing at this time becomes consequential. I plagued myself lest I should err in little things — often the causes of a person's doing wrong. The direction of the letter, and the place to call at, puzzled me ; I forgot his Lordship's name, and had no Court Calendar. See how trifles perplex us ! How- ever, my book is safely delivered, and I shall call again on Wednesday, when I hope to be told something. " I know not how totally to banish hope, and yet can't encourage it. What a day will to-morrow be to me ! a day of dread and expectation. Ah, dear Mira, my hopes are flying ; I see now my attempt in its darkest side — twice, nay, three times unsuccessful in a month I have been here — once in my application to the person adver- tising, and twice in the refusal of booksellers. God help me, my Sally, I have but a cowardly heart, yet I bear up as well as I can ; and if I had another shilling would get something to-night to keep these gloomy "THE POET'S JOURNAL." Jl thoughts at bay, but I 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. " O ! what pains do we take, what anxiety do we feel, in our pursuit of worldly good — how reproachful a com- parison 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 ! " 3Iay 23. — Here follows, my dearest Sally, a copy of my letter. I am in tolerable spirits this morning, but my whole night has been spent in waking and sleeping visions, in ideas of the coming good or evil ; names, by the way, we learn early to misplace. Sometimes I have dwelt upon all my old views and romantic expectations ; have run from disappointment to disappointment ; and such as the past has been, so, said I, shall be the future. Then my vanity has told fairer things, and magnified my little talents, till I supposed they must be thought worthy of notice. So that from fear to flattery, and from hope to anxiety, I passed a varied and unquiet night. To-day 1 am at least more composed, and will give you the let- ter promised." * # * * [Some leaves are here torn out.] 72 LIFE OF CRABBE. " Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, and my compass lost, My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last. Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast. My anchor, Hope, scarce fixed enough to stay Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away, I sail along, unknowing how to steer. Where quicksands he and frowning rocks appear. Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark. The rapid sword-fish, and the ravening shark. Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell. And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea ? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me ! A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears — Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings. Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings." " June 5. — Heaven and its Host witness to me that my soul is conscious of its own demerit. I deserve nothing. I do nothing but what is worthy reproof. I expect nothing from what is nearest in my thoughts or actions to virtue. All fall short of it ; much, very much, flies from it. " I make no comparison with the children 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. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 73 " June 6. — I will now, my dearest Mir a, 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 determi- nations. " To the Right Honorable the Earl of Shelburne. " Ah ! Shelburne, blest with all that 's good or great To 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 favoring beams enlightening 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 reflection 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. 7 74 LIFE OF CRABBE. Your Lordship will not, cannot, be greatly displeased with an unfortunate man, whose wants are the most urgent ; who wants a friend to assist him, and bread, " I will not tire your Lordship with a recital of the vari- ous 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 compassion, but, I hope, engage your approba- tion. 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 httle venal borough in Suffolk, it was there suggested to me that Lord North, the present minister, was a man of that liberal disposition, that I might hope success from a representation 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 petition, 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 insolent domestic, determined my suit, and my opinion of his Lordship's private virtues. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 75 " My Lord, I now turn to your Lordship, and entreat to be heard. I am ig^norant 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, un- less 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 war- rants, 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 hon- estly, in any situation. Your Lordship has my fortune in your power, and I will, with respect and submission, await your determination. I am, my Lord, &c. &c." '' — You see, my dear Mira, to what our situation here may reduce us. Yet am I not conscious of losing the dignity becoming a man : some respect is due to the superiority of station ; and that I will always pay, but I cannot flatter or fawn, nor shall my humblest request be so presented. If respect will not do, adulation shall not ; but I hope it will ; as I 'm sure he must have a poor idea of greatness, who delights in a supple knee bending to him, or a tongue voluble in paltry praise, which con- science says is totally undeserved. 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 sayest the fools at Court denied, Growl vengeance, — and then take the other side : The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power, As sweets unsheltered run to vapid sour. 76 LIFE OF CRABBE. But thou, the counsel to my closest thought, Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought. The Muse I court ne'er fawned on venal souls, Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls ; She, yet unskilled in all but fancy's dream, Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. But when she sees a titled nothing stand The ready cipher of a trembling land, — Not of that simple kind that placed alone Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none, — But those which, joined to figures, well express A strengthened tribe that amplify distress. Grow in proportion to their number great. And help each other in the ranks of state ; — When this and more the pensive Muses see. They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee ; To Court on wings of agile anger speed. And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed. Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest. And fright base action from sin's wavering breast ; For though the knave may scorn the Muse's arts. Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Some, though they wish it, are not steeled enough, Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof. " And what, my friend, is left my song besides ? No school-day wealth that rolled in silver tides, No dreams of hope that won my early will, Nor love, that pained in temporary thrill ; No gold to deck my pleasure-scorned abode, No friend to whisper peace, — -to give me food ; — Poor to the World I 'd yet not live in vain. But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain. " Yet shall not Satire all my song engage In indiscriminate and idle rage ; True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line, And long — if vanity deceives not — shine. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 77 For though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, And unadorned, my heart-felt murmurs flow, Yet time shall be when this thine humble friend Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. A man — for other title were too poor — Such as 't were almost virtue to adore, He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale. As the sun vapors from the dew-pressed vale ; Himself uninjuring shall new vv^armth infuse. And call to blossom every want-nipped Muse. Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice. His name harmonious thrilled on Mira's voice ; Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring, And Shelburive's fame through laughing valleys ring." " Pay me, dear, for this long morning's work, with your patience, and, if you can, your approbation. I sup- pose we shall have nothing more of this riot in the city, and I hope now to entertain you with better things. God knows, and we will be happy that it is not the work of accident. Something will happen, and perhaps now. Angels guide and bless you ! *' June 8. — Yesterday, my own business being de- cided, I was at Westminster at about three o'clock in the afternoon, and saw the members go to the House. The mob stopped many persons, but let all whom I saw pass, excepting Lord Sandwich, whom they treated roughly, broke his coach windows, cut his face, and turned him back. A guard of horse and foot were immediately sent for, who did no particular service, the mob increasing and defeating them. *' I left Westminster when all the members, that were permitted, had entered the House, and came home. In my way I met a resolute band of vile-looking fellows, 7* 78 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 appearance. I crossed St. George's Fields, which were empty, and came home again by Blackfriars' Bridge ; and in going from thence to the Ex- change, 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 likewise other parts, of which I can give you no description. Akerman had in his cus- tody four prisoners, 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 instant. 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 Alder- man Bull's, bowing as he passed along. He is a lively- looking young man in appearance, and nothing more, though just now the reigning hero. "THE POET'S JOURNAL." 79 " By eight o'clock, Akerman's house was in flames. I went close to it, and never saw any thing so dreadful. The prison was, as I said, a remarkably strong building ; but, determined to force it, they broke the gates with crows and other instruments, and climbed up the outside of the cell part, which joins the two great wings of the building, where the felons were confined ; and I stood where I plainly saw their operations. They broke the roof, tore away the rafters, and having got ladders they descended. Not Orpheus himself had more courage or better luck ; flames all around them, and a body of sol- diers expected, they defied and laughed at all opposition. " The prisoners escaped. I stood and saw about twelve women and eight men ascend from their confine- ment to the open air, and they were conducted through the street in their chains. Three of these were to be hanged on Friday. You have no conception of the phrensy of the multitude. This being done, and Aker- man'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 en- trance to so many volcanoes. With some difficulty they then fired the debtor's prison — broke the doors — and they too, all made their escape. " Tired of the scene, I went home, and returned again at eleven o'clock at night. I met large bodies of horse and foot soldiers coming to guard the Bank, and some houses of Roman Catholics near it. Newgate was at this time open to all ; any one might get in, and, what was never the case before, any one might get out. I did both ; for the people were now chiefly lookers on. The mischief was done, and the doers of it gone to another part of the town. 80 LIFE OF CRABBE. " But I must not omit what struck me most. About ten or twelve of the mob getting to the top of the debt- ors' prison, whilst it was burning, to halloo, they appeared rolled in black smoke mixed with sudden bursts of fire — like Milton's infernals, who were as familiar with flame as with each other. On comparing notes with my neighbours, I find 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 dear- est 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." * * * 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 character and conduct at this, the most melancholy period of his life — to make a very few extracts. I. " O 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 PRAYERS AND M ED I TAT ION S. — 1780. gl 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 expecta- tions. " 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, I cannot receive comfort even there ; if thou art with me, I cannot miss it. The treasures of eternal Ufe are thine ; O Lord, give me of those treasures ; give me a foretaste of thy pleasures, that I may look more indifferently upon the earth and its enjoyments. Lord ! where are thy old loving- kindnesses ? Forgive me, most gracious Saviour ; and restore me to thy favor. O give me the hght 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 be thine. O, cast me not away from thee. My sins are great, and often repeated. They are a burthen to me, I sink under them ; Lord, save me, or I perish. Hold out thine hand ; my faith trembles 5 Lord, save me ere I sink. " I am afflicted in mind, in body, in estate ; Oh ! be thou my refuge ! I look unto thee for help, from whence all help Cometh ; I cast off" all dependence on the world or mine own endeavours : thou art my God, and I willtrust in thee alone. 82 LIFE OF CRABBE. " O Lord Jesus Christ, who didst deliver us from dark- ness and the shadow of death, illuminate, enlighten me ; comfort me, O Lord, for I go mourning. O be thou with me, and I shall live. Behold, I trust in thee, Lord, forsake me not. Amen.^' IIL "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 happened 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 torment. Never again to be cheered with the comforts of divine grace, how sad ! to be totally forsaken of it, how tremen- dous ! " 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 grow dormant in the brain, and all is over — all over with the clay, and with the immortal all to come. " Of the ten thousand vital vessels, the minute, intricate network of tender-framed machinery, how long have they wrought without destroying the machine ! How many parts necessary to being, how long held in motion ! Our hours are miracles : shall we say that miracles cease, when, by being, we are marvellous ? No, I should not think the PRAYERS AND M E D I T ATION S. — 1780. §3 summons wonderful ; nor partial, for younger have been summoned ; nor cruel, for I have abused mercy ; nor tyran- nical, for I am a creature, a vessel in the hands of the pot- ter : neither am I without conviction that, if it be better for me to Uve another day, I shall not die this. " But what of awe, of fear, in such a call ? where is he who then thinks not — if he has permission to think — sol- emnly ? God his Judge, and God his Redeemer ; Terror visible, and Mercy slighted, are then to be heard : — the moment at hand that brings heaven, or hell ! where is an opiate for the soul that wakes then ? " O thou blessed Lord, who openedst the gate of life, let me live in true faith, in holy hope : and let not my end sur- prise me ! Ten thousand thoughts disturb my soul : be, thou greatest and fairest among ten thousand, — be thou with me, O my Saviour ! Return ! return ! and bring me hope ! " IV. " Amid the errors of the best, how shall my soul find safety ? Even by thee, O Lord ! Where is unlettered Hope to cast her anchor ? Even in thy blessed Gospel ! Serious examination, deep humihty, earnest prayer, will obtain certainty. *' God is good. Christ is our only Mediator and Advo- cate. He suffered for our sins. By his stripes we are healed. As in Adam all die, so in Christ all are made alive. Whoso believeth shall be saved. But 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 can do nothing of himself j but Christ is all in all; and, Whatsoever things ye shall ask in the name of Jesus, shall be granted. This is sufficient, this is plain ; I ask no philosophic researches, no learned definitions ; I want not to dispute, but to be saved. Lord ! save me, or I perish. 84 LIFE OF CRABBE. I only know my own vileness ; I only know thy sufficiency; these are enough ; witness Heaven and Earth, my trust is in God's mercy, through Jesus Christ, my blessed Redeem- er. Amen ! " " 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 : O be thou my helper in the needful time of trouble. " Why art thou so far from me, O my Lord ? why hidest thou thy face ? I am cast down, I am in poverty and in affliction : be thou with me, O my God ; let me not be wholly forsaken, O my Redeemer ! " 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." LETTER TO BURKE. §5 CHAPTER IV. 1781. MR. CRABBE'S letter TO BURKE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. THE PUBLICATION OF '' THE LIBRARY." HE IS DO- MESTICATED AT BEACONSFIELD. TAKES ORDERS. IS APPOINTED CURATE AT ALDBOROUGH. It is to be regretted that Mr. Crabbe's Journal does not extend over more than three months of the miserable year that he spent in the city. During the whole of that time he experienced nothing but disappointments and repulses. His circumstances were now, indeed, fearful- ly critical : absolute want stared him in the face : a gaol seemed the only immediate refuge for his head ; and the best he could hope for was, dismissing all his dreams of literary distinction, to find the means of daily bread in the capacity of a druggist's assistant. To borrow, with- out any prospect of repaying, was what his honesty shrunk from ; to beg was misery, and promised, more- over, 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 reputation to an undeserving work ; but he was fully persuaded, that it must be some very meritorious and extraordinary performance, such as he had not the vanity to suppose himself capable of produc- ing, that would become popular, without the introductory probat of some well-known and distinguished character. 86 LIFE OF CRABBE. Thus thinking, and having now his first serious attempt nearly completed, afraid of venturing without a guide, doubtful whom to select, knowing many by reputation, none personally — he fixed, impelled by some propitious influence, in some happy moment, upon Edmund Burke — one of the first of Englishmen, and, in the capacity and energy of his mind, one of the greatest of human beings." The letter which the young poet addressed to Burke must have been seen by Mr. Prior, when he composed his Life of the great statesman ; but that work had been published for nine years before any of Mr. Crabbe's family were aware that a copy of it had been preserved ; nor had they any exact knowledge of the extremity of distress which this remarkable letter describes, until the hand that penned it was in the grave. It is as fol- lows : " To Edmund Burke, Esq. "Sir, — I am sensible that I need even your talents to apologize for the freedom I now take ; but I 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. " 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 requi- site studies, the design but served to convince me of a pa- rent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last, I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered LETTER TO BURKE 87 myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the com- mon necessaries of life, till my abilities should procure me more 3 of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only : I wrote, and fancied per- fection in my compositions ; whe:* I wanted bread they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of repu- tation, 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 hght ; 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 ask- ed his Lordship's permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be free from all pohtical 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 profit- able method for me, and therefore endeavoured to circulate copies of the enclosed Proposals. "I am afraid. Sir, I disgust you with this very dufl nar- ration, but believe me punished in the misery that occasions it. You will conclude, that, during this time, I must have been at more expense than I could afford ; indeed, the most parsimonious could not have avoided it. The printer de- ceived me, and my httle 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 88 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 confessed my ina- bility, and obtained, with much entreaty, and as the greatest favor, a week's forbearance, 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 introduction. I appeal to you. Sir, as a good, and, let me add, a great man. I have no other pretensions to your favor than that I am an unhappy one. It is not easy to support the thoughts of confinement ; and I am coward enough to dread such an end to my suspense. "Can you, Sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety ? — 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 favor ; but you will forgive me. Sir, if you do not think proper to re- lieve. It is impossible that sentiments like yours can pro- ceed 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 distressed in my distresses. My connec- tions, once the source of happiness, now embitter the re- verse 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 consolation from looking to the end of it. I am, Sir, with the greatest respect, your obedient and most humble servant, George Crabbe.'* LETTER TO BURKE. 89 " Mr. Burke was, at this period (1781), engaged in the hottest turmoils of parliamentary opposition, 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 adventurer, spurned by the opulent and rejected by the publishers, his last shilling gone, and all but his last hope with it ; he came out virtually 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 manners 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 unso- phisticated child — a bright example of the close affinity between superlative talents, and the warmth of the gene- rous 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 consequences of the letter to Burke — the happiness, the exultation, the inestimable benefits that resulted to my father, — ascribing, indeed, my own existence to that great and good man's condescension and prompt kind- ness — I may be pardoned for dwelling upon that inter- view with feelings of gratitude which I should but in vain endeavour to express. 8* 90 LIFE OF CRABBE. But sensible as I am of the importance of Mr. Burke's interference in my fatlier's behalf, I would not imply that there was not ample desert to call it forth. Enlarged as was Mr. Burke's benevolence, had not the writings which were submitted to his inspection possessed the marks of real genius, the applicant would probably have been dis- missed with a little pecuniary assistance. I must add that, even had his poems been evidently meritorious, it is not to be supposed that the author would have at once excited the strongest personal interest in such a mind, unless he had, during this interview, exhibited the traits of a pure and worthy character. Nay, had there appear- ed any offensive peculiarities of manner and address — either presumption or meanness — though the young poet might have received both kindness and patronage, can any one dream that Mr. Burke would have at once taken up his cause with the zeal of a friend, domesticated him under his own roof, and treated him like a son ? In mentioning his new yrotege, a few days afterwards, to Reynolds, Burke said, "■ He has the mind and feelings of a gentleman." Sir Joshua told this, years later, to my grateful father himself. The autobiographical sketch thus continues the narrative of this providential turn in his affairs : — " To Mr. Burke, the young man, with timidity, indeed, but with the strong and buoyant expectation of inexpe- rience, submitted a large quantity of miscellaneous compo- sitions, on a variety of subjects, which he was soon taught to appreciate at their proper value : yet such was the feeling and tenderness of his judge, that in the very act of condemnation, something was found for praise. Mr. Crabbe had sometimes the satisfaction of hearing, when the verses LETTER TO BURKE. 9| were bad, that the thoughts deserved better ; and that, if he had the common faults of inexperienced writers, he had frequently the merit of thinking for himself. Among those compositions, were two poems of somewhat a superior kind, — ' The Library ' and ' The Village : ' these were selected by Mr. Burke ; and with the benefit of his judgment, and the comfort of his encouraging and exhilarating predictions, Mr. Crabbe was desired to learn the duty of sitting in judg- ment upon his best efforts, and without mercy rejecting the rest. When all was done that his abilities permitted, and when Mr. Burke had patiently waited the progress of im- provement in the man whom he conceived to be capable of it, he himself took ' The Library ' to Mr. Dodsley, then of Pall Mall, and gave many lines the advantage of his own reading and comments. Mr. Dodsley listened with all the respect due to the reader of the verses, and all the apparent desire to be pleased that could be wished by the writer ; and he was as obliging in his reply as, in the very nature of things, a bookseller can be supposed to be towards a young candidate for poetical reputation : — ' He had declined the venturing upon any thing himself: there was no judging of the probability of success. The taste of the town was ex- ceedingly capricious and uncertain. He paid the greatest respect to Mr. Burke's opinion that the verses were good, and he did in part think so himself : but he declined the haz- ard of publication ; yet would do all he could for Mr. Crabbe, and take care that his poem should have all the benefit he could give it.' - " The worthy man was mindful of his engagement : 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 insensible of the value of money, he gave to the author his profits as a publisher and vender of the pam- phlet ; and Mr. Crabbe has seized every occasion which has 92 LIFE OF CRABBE. offered to make acknowledgment for such disinterested con- duct, 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 considera- ble 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 labor, and whose judgment directed that labor to its most useful attainments. " The exertions of this excellent friend in favor of a young writer were not confined to one mode of affording assistance. Mr. Crabbe was encouraged to lay open his views, past and present ; to display whatever reading and acquirements he possessed ; to explain the causes of his disappointments, and the cloudiness of his prospects ; in short, he concealed nothing from a friend so able to guide inexperience, and so willing to pardon inadvertency. He was invited to Beaconsfield, the seat of his protector, and was there placed in a convenient apartment, supplied with books for his information and amusement, and made a mem- ber of a family whom it was honor as well as pleasure to become in any degree associated with. If Mr. Crabbe, no- ticed 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 benevo- lence 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 gratitude ; 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 pro- priety." BEACONSFIELD. 93 It was in the course of one of their walks amidst the classical shades of Beaconsfield, that Burke, after some conversation on general literature, suggested by a pas- sage of the Georgics, which he had happened to quote on observing something that was going on in his favorite farm, passed to a more minute enquiry into my father's early days in Suffolk than he had before made, and drew from him the avowal, that, with respect to future affairs, he felt a strong partiality for the church. " It is most fortunate," said Mr. Burke, " that your father exerted himself to send you to that second school : without a little Latin we should have made nothing of you ; now, I think we shall succeed." The fund of general knowl- edge which my father gradually showed in these rambles, much surprised his patron. " Mr. Crabbe," he said early to Sir Joshua Reynolds, " appears to know some- thing of every thing." Burke himself was a strong advocate for storing the mind with multiform knowledge, rather than confining it to one narrow line of study ; and he often remarked, that there was no profession in which diversity of information was more useful, and indeed, necessary, than that of a clergyman. Having gone through the form — for it was surely little more — of ma- king proper enquiries as to the impression 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 favorable representations of Mr. Dudley North and Mr. Charles Long, he was eventually successful. 94 LIFE OF CRABBE. Meantime, nothing could be more cordial than the kindness with which ray father was uniformly treated at Beaconsfield. Let no one say that ambition chills the heart to other feelings. This obscure young writer could contribute in nothing to the reputation of a states- man and orator, at the very apex of influence and re- nown ; yet never had he been so affectionately received as when, a pennyless dependant, he first entered the hall of that beautiful mansion ; and, during the whole of his stay, he was cheered by a constancy of kind and polite attention, such as I fear to describe, lest I should be sus- pected 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 ex- pected 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 feel- ings 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, en- couraged 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 Lon- BEACONSFIELD. 95 don for the winter, my father accompanied them ; and, it being inconvenient for them to afford him an apartment at that time in their town house, he took lodgings in its neighbourhood. He, however, continued to dine com- monly at Mr. Burke's table, and was introduced by him to several of the clubs of which he w^as 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 honor of meeting Dr. Johnson ;' and I much regret that so little is in my power to tell of their intercourse. My father, however, said, that, at this first interview, he was particularly unfortunate : making some trite remark, or hazarding some injudicious ques- tion, he brought on himself a specimen of that castiga- tion which the great literary bashaw was commonly so ready to administer. He remembered with half comic terror the Doctor's ^ro7/>/; but this did not diminish Mr. Crabbe's respect and veneration for the Doctor, nor did his mal-d-propos, 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 attention with which he subsequently read and revised " The Village." Had I 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 information. 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 dis- posed to communicate. One maxim of Johnson's, how- 96 LIFE OF CRABBE. ever, 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."* When " The Library " was published, the opinion of Burke had its effect upon the conductors of the various periodical works of the time ; the poet received commen- datory 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 i^rotege ; 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 Rey- nolds, 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 to make him feel de- pendent for alms, — my father was at this time occasion- ally reduced to distress for an immediate supply of money. In an interval of something like his former misery, — at all events, of painful perplexity, — he re- ceived a note from the Lord Chancellor, politely inviting him to breakfast the next morning. His kind patron had spoken of him in favorable terms to the stern and formidable Thurlow, and his Lordship was now anxious to atone for his previous neglect. He received Mr. * I owe this to the recollection of my father's friend, Miss Hoare, of Hampstead. "THE LIBRARY." 97 Crabbe with more than courtesy, and most condescend- ingly said, " The first poem you sent me, Sir, I ought to have noticed — and I heartily forgive the second." They breakfasted together, and, at parting, his Lordship put a sealed paper into my father's hand, saying, " Accept this trifle, Sir, in the mean time, and rely on my embracing an early opportunity to serve you more substantially when I hear that you are in orders." As soon as he had left the house he opened the letter, expecting to find a pres- ent of ten, or perhaps twenty pounds ; it contained a bank note for a hundred ; a supply which effectually relieved him from all his present difficulties, while his new patron's accompanying promise must have eased him of any apprehensions which might yet haunt his mind as to his future prospects in the world. I am enabled to state — though the information never came from my father — that the first use he made of this good fortune was, to seek out and relieve some ob- jects of real indigence — poor scholars like himself, whom he had known when sharing their wretchedness in the city : and I must add, that, whenever he visited London in later years, he made it his business to enquire after similar objects of charity, supposed to be of re- spectable 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 1 or who, — I may safely appeal to all that knew him, — ever sacrificed time and trouble in the cause of benevolence, throughout every varying scene of his life, more freely than Mr. Crabbe ? No wonder it was his first thought, on finding himself in possession 9 98 LIFEOFCRABBE. of even a very slender fund, to testify his thankfulness to that Being who had rescued himself from the extreme of destitution, and to begin as early as possible to pay the debt he owed to misfortune. Mr. Crabbe, having passed a very creditable exami- nation, was admitted to deacon's orders, in London, on the 21st of December, by the Bishop of Norwich ; who ordained him a priest in August of the year following, in his own cathedral. Being licensed as curate to the Rev. Mr. Bennett, rector of Aldborough, he immediately bade a grateful adieu to his illustrious patron and his other eminent benefactors — not forgetting his kind and hospitable friends in Cornhill — and went down to take up his residence once more in his native place. The feelings with which he now returned to Aldbo- rough may easily be imagined. He must have been more than man had he not exulted at the change. He left his home a deserter from his profession, with the impu- tation of having failed in it from wanting even common abilities for the discharge of its duties — in the estima- tion 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 something of his literary talent, as a hare-brained visionary, never destined to settle to any thing with steadiness and sober resolution ; on all hands convicted certainly of the " crime of poverty," and dismissed from view as a destitute and hopeless out- cast. He returned, a man of acknowledged talents; a successful author, patronized and befriended by some of the leading characters in the kingdom ; and a cler- gyman, wdth every prospect of preferment in the church. ALDBOROUGH. 99 His father had the candor to admit, that he had under- rated his poetical abilities, and that he had acted judi- ciously 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 glo- ried in the boldness of his adventure, and was proud of its success : he fondly transcribed " The Library " with his own hand ; and, in short, reaped the reward of his own early exertions to give his son a better education than his circumstances could well afford. On the state of mind with which the young clergyman now revisited Parham — on the beautiful 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 encouraging and confiding friend there, he could not stand higher now than he had done when all the rest of the world despaired of or disowned him ; but, with the hospitality and kindness he had long experi- enced from her relations, there was now mingled a respect to which he had previously been a stranger. He heard no more taunts about that " d d learning." On his first entrance, however, into his father's house, at this time, his joyous feelings had to undergo a pain- ful revulsion. That affectionate parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness and suffering, had she wit- nessed his success, was no more : she had sunk under the dropsy, in his absence, with a fortitude of resigna- tion closely resembling that of his own last hours. It happened that a friend and a neighbour was slowly yielding at the same time to the same hopeless disorder, and every morning she used to desire her daughter to 100 LIFE OF CRABBE. see if this sufferer's window was opened ; saying, cheer- fully, " she must make haste, or I shall be at rest before her." My father has alluded to his feelings on this oc- casion in the " Parish Register." '• Arrived at home, how then he gazed around On every place where she no more was found ; The seat at table she was wont to fill, The fireside chair, still set, hut vacant still ; The Sunday pew she filled with all her race, — Each place of 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 called for ather tears r — No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint ! The patient sufferer ! the enduring saint ! Holy and cheerful ! but all words are faint ! " Mr. Crabbe's early religious impressions were, no doubt, strongly influenced by those of his mother ; and she was, as I have already said, a deeply devout woman ; but her seriousness was not of the kind that now almost exclusively receives that designation. Among persons of her class, at least at that period, there was a general impression that the doctrinal creed ought rather to be considered the affair of the pastor than of the humble and unlearned members 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 exemplify. The contro- versial spirit, in a word, lighted up by Whitfield and Wesley, had not as yet reached the coast of Suffolk. ALDBOROUGH. 101 Persons turned through misfortune, sickness, or any other exciting cause, to think with seriousness of secur- ing their salvation, were used to say to themselves, " I must amend and correct whatever in my life and con- versation 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 dispositions and devout affections." Not from their own strength, however, did they hope and expect such im- provement : they sought it from, and ascribed it to, " Him from whom all good counsels and works do pro- ceed," and admitted, without hesitation, that their own best services could be made acceptable only through the merits of their Redeemer. Thus far such persons ac- corded 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 Christians 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 them- selves palpably evil. Such was the religion of Mrs. Crabbe ; and, doubtless, her mildness, humility, patient endurance 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 9* 102 LIFE OF CRABBE. from the snares that beset, with peculiar strength, young men early removed from the paternal roof. The juvenile apprentice is in many respects too much his own master ; and though my father, in his first service, escaped with no worse injury than the association with idle lads gene- rally brings with it, yet, in his second apprenticeship, and afterwards, in the beginning 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 " measured merriment," in which the young doctor had his share. It seems probable that the seriousness 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 recovery 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 together every evening ; and ALDBOROUGH. 103 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, con- tain proofs that he was in the habit of composing ser- mons, 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 habitu- al attention he paid to religious topics, that I need not enlarge further upon the subject. He certainly was not guilty of rushing into the service of the altar without having done his endeavour 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. But I am bound to add, that in a later period of life, and more especially during the last ten years of it, he became more conscious of the importance of dwelling on the doctrines as well as the practice of Christianity, than he had been when he first took orders ; and when a selection of his Sermons is placed, as I hope it ere long will be, before the public, it will be seen that he had gradually approached, in sub- stantial matters, though not exactly in certain peculiar ways of expression, to that respected body usually de- nominated Evangelical Christians of the Church of England ; with whom, nevertheless, he was never class- ed by others, nor, indeed, by himself. And what, it will naturally be asked, was his reception by the people of Aldborough, when he reappeared among them in this new character ? " The prophet is not with- out honor, save in his own country : " — this scriptural 104 LIFE OF CRABBE. proverb was entirely exemplified here. The whisper 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 de- corum ; and others again bruited about a most groundless rumor that he had been, when in London, a preacher among the Methodists. For this last report there was, indeed, no foundation at all, except that an Aldborough sailor, happening one day to enter Mr. Wesley's chapel at Mooriields, had perceived my father, who had gone thither, like himself, from pure curiosity, standing on the steps of the pulpit ; the place being so crowded that he could find no more convenient situation. But perhaps the most common, as well as unworthy, of all the rumors 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 asked him how he felt when he entered the pulpit at Aldborough for the first time, he answered, " I had been unkindly received in the place — I saw unfriendly countenances about me, and, I am sorry to say, I had too much indignation, — though mingled, I hope, with better feelings, — to care what they thought of me or my sermon." Perhaps, as he himself remarked, all this may have been well ordered for my father. Had there been nothing to operate as an antidote, the circumstances of his altered position in life might have tempted human infirmity, even in him, to a vain-glorious self-esteem. He appears to have ere long signified some uneasiness of feeling to the Lord Chancellor, whose very kind an- swer concluded in these words : — "I can form no opin- ALDBOROUGH. 105 ion of your present 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 prefer- ment, that I shall try to find an early opportunity of serving you. I am, with great regard, dear Sir, your faithful friend and servant, Thurlow." 106 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER V. 1762 — 1783. MR. craebe's appointment as domestic chaplain to THE DUKE OF RUTLAND. REMOVES TO BELVOIR CAS- TLE. 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 Southwold ; but the two brothers, much attached to each other's society, made a point of meeting one evening of each week at Blythborough, about half way between their places of residence. I need hardly add, that my father passed also a considerable part of his time under the same roof with Miss Elmy, who still prudently resisted every proposition of immediate marriage, being resolv- ed 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 as Mr. Burke had already accomplished, would no doubt have been disposed to say, or to think, " Now, young man, help yourself: " but it was far other- wise with Mr. Crabbe's illustrious benefactor. He was anxious to see his "protege raised as high as his friend- ship could elevate him ; and he soon was the means of placing him in a station such as has, in numerous in- BELVOIR CASTLE. X07 stances, led to the first dignities of the church. My father received a letter from Mr. Burke, informing him that, in consequence of some conversation he had held with the Duke of Rutland, that nobleman would willingly receive him as his domestic chaplain at Belvoir Castle, so soon as he could get rid of his existing engagements at Aid- borough. This was a very unusual occurrence, such situations in the mansions of that rank being commonly filled either by relations of the noble family itself, or by college acquaintances, or dependants recommended by political service and local attachment. But, in spite of political difference, the recommendation of Burke was all-powerful with the late Duke of Rutland, the son of the great Marquis of Granby ; for this nobleman, though not what is usually called a literary man, had a strong partiality for letters, a refined taste 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 soci- ety 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 offer- ed 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 occasion. He was now morally sure of being, within no long interval, placed in a situation that would enable him to have a house and a wife of his own, and to settle for life in the enjoyment of at least a moderate competency. 108 LIFE OF CRABBE. What his hopes exactly amounted to when this change took place, or what apprehensions chequered them when he approached Belvoir, or what were his impressions on his first reception there, are questions which I never ven- tured to ask of him. It would have been highly interest- ing, 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, notwithstanding 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 circum- stances, and productive in his mind of some of the acutest sensations of wounded pride that have ever been traced by any pen. The Duchess* was then the most celebrated beauty in England ; and the fascinating grace of her manners made the due impression on my father. The Duke himself was a generous man, '' cordial, frank, and free ; " and highly popular with all classes. His establishments of race-horses, hunters, and hounds, were extensive, be- cause it was then held a part of such a nobleman's duty * Lady Mary-Isabella Somerset, daughter of the late Duke of Beaufort. She died in 1831. BELVOIR CASTLE. 109 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 sequestered part of his domain, to converse on 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 them ; but their guests, and, above all, perhaps, their servants, might not always treat him with equal respect. I must add, that although the state of the castle was by no means more strict than is usual in great establishments — and certain- ly not marked by the princely dignity and grandeur that have distinguished Belvoir in our own day — yet it could not but have been oppressive to a person of Mr. Crabbe's education and disposition. He might not, I can well believe, catch readily the manners appropriate to his sta- tion, — his tact was not of that description, — and he ever had an ardent passion for personal liberty, inconsist- ent with enjoyment under the constraint of ceremony. With great pleasure, then, did he always hear of the preparations for removing to Chevely, 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 tlie winds — when the family resorted to Croxton Park (a small seat near Bel- voir), to fish in the extensive ponds, &c. These times of relaxation contrasted delightfully with the etiquette at 10 110 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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, and butterflies, and collecting mosses, lichens, or other botanical specimens ; for this employment carried his imagination 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 exchange his station for a much more humble dwelling, and in this mood he once composed some verses, which I have heard him repeat, acknowl- edging they were not of the most brilliant 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 favor — 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 : . . . . " When ladies ^^ing, 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." BELVOIR CASTLE. m I have heard my father mention but few occurrences 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 mark- ed a trait in the Duke's mind peculiarly pleasing — his strong affection for his brother, Lord Robert Manners, who died of wounds received in leading his Majesty's ship Resolution against the enemy's line, in the West Indies, on the memorable 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 request to Belvoir Castle. The Duke first held it up with a shout of exultation and triumph — glorying in the bravery of his beloved brother ; and then, as the thought of his danger flashed suddenly into his mind, sank on his chair in a burst of natural and irrepressible feeling. Mr. Crabbe was particularly attached to the unfortu- nate Mr. Robert Thoroton, a relative of the family, who generally resided at the castle. He was, it is true, a man of pleasure, and of the world, but distinguished by warm, frank-hearted kindness, and ever evinced a par- ticular predilection to my father. He was remarked, even in the Belvoir hunt, for intrepid boldness, and once spurred his horse up the steep terraces to the castle-walls — a mad feat ! Nor was he much less rash when, as my father one day (in an unusual fit of juvenile merriment) was pursuing him, he sprang over the boundary of the glacis — a steep and formidable precipice. He after- wards accompanied the Duke to Ireland, and is men- tioned in the singular work of Sir Jonah Barrington. After the Duke's death, he was involved in difficulties ; and, under the maddening sufferings of an incurable 112 LIFE OF CRABBE. disorder, he terminated his existence. Among the pub- lic characters of that time, the visiters at Belvoir who paid the most attention to Mr. Crabbe were the Duke of Queensberry, the Marquis of Lothian, Dr. Watson the celebrated Bishop of Llandaff, and Dr. Glynn. A few months after Lord Robert's death, ray 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 direc- tions for the painting of the beautiful picture from which the well-known print of the melancholy event is en- graved. It seems to have been on this occasion that he received the following letter — From Mr. Burke. " Dear Sir, — I do not know by what unlucky accident you missed the note I left for you at my house. I wM'ote 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 considers himself as infinitely honored 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 unhappy language you use about these matters. You do not easil}^ please such a judgment as your own — that is natural ; but where you are difficult every one else will be charmed. I am, my dear Sir, ever most affectionately yours, " Edmund Burke." By the time the family left Belvoir for the London season, my father had nearly completed for the press his poem of " The Village," the conclusion of which had been suggested by the untimely death of Lord BELVOIR CASTLE. 113 Robert Manners. Through Sir Joshua Reynolds, he transmitted it to Dr. Johnson, whose kindness was such, that he revised it carefully, and whose opinion of its merits was expressed in a note which, though it has often been printed, I must allow myself the gratification of transcribing here. Dr. Johnson to Sir Joshua Reynolds. " March 4, 1783. " Sir, — I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and 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 will be least liked : it were better to contract it into a short sprightly address. I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success, I am. Sir, your most humble servant, " Samuel Johnson." Boswell says, ^' the sentiments of Mr. Crabbe's ad- mirable poem, as to the false notions of rustic happiness and rustic virtue, were quite congenial with Dr. John- son's 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 mean- ing better than in the words of the manuscript. I shall give an instance, marking the original by Roman, and Johnson's substitution in Italic characters : " ** • In fairer scenes, where peaceful pleasures spring, Tityrus the pride of Mantuan swains might sing : 10* 114 LIFE OF CRABBE. But, 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 way? ' " ' On Mincio's banks, in Casar's bounteous reign. If Tityrus found the golden age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong. Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song 7 From Truth and JVature shall we widely stray. Where Virgil, not where fancy leads the way 1 ' " Here," says Boswell, ''we find Dr. Johnson's poet- ical and critical powers undiminished. I must, however, observe, that the aids he gave to this poem, as to ' The Traveller ' and ' Deserted Village ' of Goldsmith, were so small, as by no means to impair the distinguished merit of the author." * Mr. Boswell ought to have ad- ded, that the six lines he quotes formed the only passage in the poem that was not in substance 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 * Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. 55. "THE VILLAGE." X15 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 consent, greatly raised, and permanently estab- lished, by this poem. *' The Library," and " The Vil- lage," 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 uncon- sciously, 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 "' mechanic 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 exhibit that rare union of force and minuteness for which the author was afterwards so highly distinguished, 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 pretensions. The sudden popularity of " The Village " must have produced, after the numberless slights and disappoint- ments already mentioned, and even after the tolerable success of " The Library," about as strong a revulsion in my father's mind as a ducal chaplaincy in his circum- stances; but there was no change in his temper or manners. The successful author continued as modest as the rejected candidate for publication had been patient and long-suffering. 115 LIFE OF CRABBE. No sleeping apartment being vacant at the Duke of Rutland's residence in Arlington Street, Mr. Crabbe ac- cidentally procured the very rooms shortly before occu- pied 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 painting the Infant Hercules,* then preparing for the Empress of Russia. I heard him speak of no public character of that time (except Mr. Burke) with that warmth of feeling with which he regarded Sir Joshua. I have no 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 favor which he himself did not possess. Sir Joshua was never apparently discomposed by any thing under the sun — under all circumstances, and at all times, he was ever the same cheerful, mild companion, the same perfect gentleman — happy, serene, and undisturbed. My fa- ther spoke with particular pleasure of one day passed at that house, when his Grace of Rutland and a select company dined there — Miss Palmer, the great artist's niece, afterwards Marchioness of Thomond, presiding. * Sir Joshua mentioned that this was his fourth painting on the same canvass. "THE VILLAGE." II7 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 especially 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 Col- lege, Cambridge, 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 Thur- low ; and this is another of those incidents in his life, which I much regret that he himself has given no ac- count of; for I should suppose many expressions charac- teristic of the rousjh old Chancellor mio;ht have been recorded. 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," gave him the small livings of Frome St. Quintin, and Ever- shot, in Dorsetshire ; and Mr. Crabbe, that he might be entitled to hold this preferment, immediately obtained the degree of LL.B. from the Archbishop of Canterbury (Dr. Moore), instead of waiting for it at Cambridge. In the autumn of 1783, after a long absence, my father went to Suffolk ; and Miss Elmy being then at Beccles with her mother, he bent his steps thither ; and it was in one of their rides in that neighbourhood, that they had the good fortune to view the great and memo- rable meteor which appeared in the month of August in that year. At that moment my mother and he were re- 118 LIFE OF CRABBE. turning, in the evening, over a wide open common near Beccles. It was late, dull, and cloudy : in an instant the dark mass opened just in front of them. The clouds were rolled back like a scroll ; and the glorious phenom- enon 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 sub- stance in successive sheaths of fire, and scattering lesser meteors, as it moved along. My mother, who happened to be riding behind, said that, even at that awful moment (for she concluded that the end of all things was at hand), she was irresistibly struck with my father's atti- tude. He had raised himself from his horse, lifted his arm, and spread his hand towards the object of admira- tion 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 latter end of the year. Being now in circumstances which enabled him to afford himself a view of those spectacles which he had hitherto abstained from, and with persons who invited him to accompany them, he went occasionally to the theatres, especially to see Mrs. Siddons. Of her talents he expressed, of course, the most unbounded admiration ; but I have heard him also speak of Mrs. Abingdon and Mrs. Jordan (the latter especially, in the character of Sir Harry Wildair), in such terms as proved that he fully appreciated the exquisite grace, and then unrivalled 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 enquired, with some displeasure, who he was that had so intruded there; LONDON. 119 but hearing it was the poetical chaplain of his friend the Duke of Rutland, he expressed himself 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 appointed Lord-Lieu- tenant 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 preferment on the Bel- voir 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 Pope, 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 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 Rutland by such a character as Mr. Burke, and afterwards by his own reputation and conduct, should not have accompanied his Grace to Dublin, and finally been installed in a dig- nitary'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 accepted it ; and his irregular edu- cation was an effectual bar to any very high preferment 120 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 na- ture nor circijmstances had qualified him for it. The aristocracy of genius approaches too near the aristocracy of station : superiority of talent is apt, without intention, to betray occasional presumption. It is true, subser- viency would be always despised ; but a cool, collected mind — never thrown off its guard — pleased with what passes — entering into the interests of the day, but never betrayed into enthusiasm, — is an indispensable qualifi- cation for that station. Mr. Crabbe could never con- ceal his 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 con- versation was interesting, he might not always retire as early as prudence 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 Slaughden, and among the uneducated, though nature had given him the disposition of a gentle- man — the politeness of a mild and Christian spirit — he may at that early period have retained some repulsive 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 gratified the circles of Belvoir. BELVOIR CASTLE. 121 These circumstances will easily account for his not accompanying the family into Ireland, without supposing the least neglect or unkindness in his patrons, or any insensibility on their part to his sterling merits : on the contrary, he never ceased to receive from every indi- vidual of that noble house the strongest testimonies of their regard ; and he was not only most amply satisfied with the favors they had conferred, but felt a strong per- sonal 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 Suffolk, and hastened to Beccles with the grateful intelligence that he was at length entitled, without imprudence, to claim the long- pledged hand of Miss Elmy. 11 122 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER VI. 1784—1792. MR. CRABBE MARRIES. — HE RESIDES SUCCESSIVELY AT BELVOIR CASTLE, AT HIS CURACY OP STATHERN, AND AT HIS RECTORY OF MUSTON. INCREASE OF HIS FAMI- LY. 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 residence in the apartments destined for their use, at Bel voir 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 conven- ience should be consulted 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 domestics, of an absent family ; and Mr. Crabbe, before a year and a half had elapsed, took the neighbouring curacy of Stathern, and transferred 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 Belvoir, survived but a few hours ; their next, the writer of these pages, saw the light at Stathern, in Novem- ber, 1785. They continued to reside in this obscure parsonage for four years ; during which two more STATHERN 123 children were added to their household, — John Crabbe, so long the affectionate and unwearied assistant of his father in his latter days (born in 1787), — and a daugh- ter (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 Celvoir, 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 mere 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 natural history : he cultivated botany, especially that of the grasses, with insatiable ardor. Entomology was another especial favorite ; and he gradually made himself expert in some branches of geological science also. He copied with his own hand several expensive works on such subjects, of which his situation could only permit him to obtain a temporary loan ; and, though manual dexterity was never his forte, he even drew and colored after the prints in some of these books with tolerable success : but this sort of labor, he, after a little while, discontinued, as an unprofit- able 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 sports- man ; 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 124 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 appur- tenances 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 toicn. 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 personal fatigue to at- tend the sick bed of the peasant, in the double capacity of physician and priest ; and had often great difficulty in circumscribing 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 the surgeon, he exhibited a sagacity which, under better circumstances, might have conducted him to no mean rank as a physician. In the course of 1784, my father contributed a brief memoir of Lord Robert Manners to the Annual Regis- ter, published by his friend, Mr. Dodsley ; and in 1785 he appeared again as a poet. " The Newspaper," then published, was considered as in all respects of the same class and merits with <* The Library ; " and the author was anew encouraged by the critics, and by the opinions "THE NEWSPAPER." 125 of Mr. Burke and others of his eminent friends in Lon- don, Yet, successful as his poetical career had been, and highly flattering 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 Belvoir, which he contributed to Mr. Nichols's account of Leices- tershire, shortly afterwards, he from this time, withdrew entirely from the public view. His " Parish Register " was published at the interval of twenty-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 village life, hardly catching, from time to time, a single glimpse of the brilliant socie- ty in which he had for a season been welcomed, and gradually forgotten as a living 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 Elegant Extracts." It might, under such circumstances, excite little surprise, if I should skip hastily over the whole interval from 1785 to 1807 — or even down to my father's sixtieth year (1813), when he at last reappeared in the metropolis, and fig- ured as a member of various literary institutions there, and among the lions, as they are called, of fashionable life ; — but I feel that, in doing so, I should be guilty of a grave omission ; and I hope the son of such a father will be pardoned for desiring to dwell a little on him as he appeared in those relations which are the especial test of moral worth — which, if well sustained, can im- 11* 126 LIFE OF CRABBE. part a brightness to the highest intellectual reputation, and which dwell on my memory as affording the most estimable traits of his character. Not long after his marriage, in passing through Lon- don, on his way to visit his livings in Dorsetshire, he had the satisfaction of presenting his wife to Mr. and Mrs. Burke, when he and she experienced the kindest recep- tion ; but this was only a casual glimpse of his illustrious friend. I believe my father offered him the dedication of " The Newspaper," as well as some of his earlier publications ; but that great man, probably from mod- esty, declined any thing 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. Baker, once a candidate for that county ; and they returned charmed with their excursion, yet resumed with undiminished zest the enjoyment of their own quiet little parsonage. Never, indeed, was any man more fitted for domestic life than my father ; and, but for circumstances not under his control, — especially the delicate state of health into which my mother 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 activity 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 inexhausti- ble resource within himself, and never for a moment, I STATHERN. 127 may say, suffered under that ennui which drives so many from solitude to the busy search for notoriety. I can safely assert that, from the earliest time I recollect him, down to the fifth or sixth year before his death, I never saw him (unless in company) seated in a chair, enjoying what is called a lounge — that is to say, doing nothing. Out of doors he had always some object in view — a flower, or a pebble, or his note-book, in his hand ; and in the house, if he was not writing, he was reading. He read aloud very often, even when walking, or seated by the side of his wife, in the huge old fashioned one-horse chaise, heavier than a modern chariot, in which they usually were conveyed in their little excursions, and the conduct of which he, from awkwardness and absence of mind, prudently relinquished to my mother on all occa- sions. 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. Num- berless were the manuscripts which he completed ; and not a ^ew of them were never destined to see the light. I can well remember more than one grand incremation, — not in the chimney, for the bulk of paper to be con- sumed would have endangered the house, — but in the open air, — and with what glee his children vied in as sisting him, stirring up the fire, and bringing 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 Botany in English ; which, after he had made great progress in it, my father laid aside, in consequence mere- ly, I believe, of the remonstrances of the late Mr. Davies, 128 LIFE OF CRABBE. vice-master of Trinity College, Cambridge, with whom he had become casually acquainted, and who, though little tinged with academical peculiarities, could not stomach the notion of degrading such a science by treat- ing 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 would have had the honor 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 mention- ing, as one instance, the humble trefoil, now known as the TrifoUum siiffocatum. But, even if Mr. Crabbe had sent no ** Parish Register" before him, when he, after his long retirement, reappeared in the upper walks of life, there would have been no possibility of suspecting that his village existence had been one of intellectual torpor. He mixed, on that occasion, 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 dehut, that all his social feelings had been quickened, all his mental powers expanded and strengthened, in the interval that had pass- ed. Why, such being the case, he for so great a period of his life remained unmoved by the stimuli of reputa- tion or money, or the pleasure of select society, is a question which will never, I suppose, be quite satisfac- torily answered. It was, T 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 STATHERN. 129 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 re- ceived visits, except in his clerical capacity ; but there was one friend whose expanding 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 mechanist of no small eminence, who at this period was the incumbent of Goadby, and occasionally lived there, though his prin- cipal 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, digni- fied old gentleman of the last generation — grave and polite, but full of humor and spirit. In the summer of 1787, my father and mother paid Dr. Cartwright a visit at Doncaster ; but when she entered the vast building, full of engines thundering with resistless power, yet under the apparent management of children, the sight of the little creatures, condemned to such a mode of life in their days of natural innocence, quite overcame her feel- ings, and she burst into tears. On their return, Mrs. Elmy paid them a visit, and remained for some months with them. My mother's mother was a calm, composed, cheerful old lady, such as all admire, and as grandchil- dren 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. 130 LIFE OF CRABBE. In October of the same year occurred a most unex- pected event, to which I have already alluded — the untimely death of the Duke of Rutland, at the viceregal 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 cherished ambitious views, he might have grieved for himself too. I have stated, that the Duke's disposition was generous and social : these traits meeting the spirit of the Irish, whom it was his wish to attach, and the customs of that period unhappily tempting him to prolong 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 reduction 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 present at the melancholy solemnity. The widowed Duchess did not forget the protege 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 livings Mr. Crabbe held in Dorsetshire for two of superior value in the vale of Belvoir. My father pro- ceeded to London, but was not, on this occasion, 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, wait- ed on him personally to renew her request ; and he MUSTON. X3X yielded. My father, having passed the necessary exami- nation at Lambeth, received a dispensation from the Archbishop, and became rector of Muston, in Leices- tershire, and the neighbouring parish of Allington, in Lincolnshire. It was on the 25th of February, 1789, that Mr. Crabbe left Stathern, and brought his family to the parsonage of Muston. Soon after this his father died. My grand- father, 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 had for many years before been to the members of his own family. 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 ultimate- ly 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 132 LIFE OF CRABBE. recalling for a moment one could almost cry to retain. Now and then, under peculiar circumstances, this youth- ful tenderness of feeling does return, when the spirits are depressed either by fatigue or illness, or some other soft- ening 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 straight- way all is (to such salutary sensations) cold and insensi- ble 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 no- only good, but free from any taint of the corruption 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. M U S T N . -[33 Always visibly happy in the happiness of others, espe- cially 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 rewarding 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 confinement 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 fountains, 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, un- mixed with any of the less loveable expressions that, in too many faces, obscure that character — but preemi- nently /«^Aer/y ; conveying the ideas of kindness, intel- lect, 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 labored in his garden until his naturally pale complexion acquired a tinge of fresh healthy red ; or as, coming lightly towards us with some unexpected present, his smile of indescrib- able benevolence spoke exultation in the foretaste of our raptures. But, I think, even earlier than these are my first recol- lections 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 12 134 LIFE OF CRABBE. singing the plaintive air of "Kitty Fell/' till, though I could not have been more than three years old, the melo- dy 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 enviable than that of a child on his first journey with indulgent parents ; there is perpetual excitement and novelty, — " omne ignotum pro magnifico,^^ — 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 pres- ent is enjoyed in a way wholly impossible with those who have a long past to remember, and a dark future to anti- cipate. Never can I forget my first excursion into Suf- folk, in company with my parents. It was in the month of September, 1791, — (shortly after my mother had recovered from her confinement with her fourth son, Edmund Burke Crabbe, who died in infancy,) — 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 return- ed with some unsightly weed or bunch of moss, to him precious. Then, in the evening, when we had reached our inn, the happy child, instead of being sent early as usual to bed, was permitted to stretch himself on the car- P A R H A M . 135 pet, 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 clamor of the streets — every thing 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 establishment was that of the first-rate yeoman of that period — the Yeoman that already began to be styled by courtesy an Enquire. Mr. Tovell might possess an estate of some eight hun- dred pounds per annum, a portion of which he 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 dovecot, and the well-stored fishponds, were such as might have suited a gentleman's seat of some conse- quence ; but one side of the house immediately over- looked a farm-yard, full of all sorts of domestic animals, and the scene of constant bustle and noise. On enter- ing 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 handsome drawing-room, and at the other a fine old staircase of black oak, polished till it was as slippery as ice, and 136 LIFE OF CRABBE. having a chime-clock and a barrel-organ on its landing- places. But this drawing-room, a corresponding dining parlor, 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 occa- sional visit with which Mr. Tovell was honored 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-uncle occupied an arm-chair, or, in attacks of gout, a couch on one side of a large open chimney. Mrs. Tovell sat at a small table, on which, in the evening, stood one small candle, in an iron candlestick, plying her needle by the feeble glim- mer, 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, inspiriting the work, whether it were done ill or well. After the important business of the dairy, and a hasty breakfast, their re- spective 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 mis- PARHAM. 137 tress : — " You wash such floors as these 1 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 aside table, called a houter ; — with the principals, at the table, perchance some travelling rat-catcher, or tinker, or farrier, or an occasional gardener in his shirt sleeves, his face probably streaming with perspiration. My father well describes, in '' The Widow's Tale," my mother's situation, when living in her younger days at Parham : — " 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, Filled with huge balls of farinaceous food ; With bacon, mass saline ! where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen : When, from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new ; When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain. Soiled by rude hinds who cut and came again ; She could not breathe, but M'ith a heavy sigh, Reined the fair neck, and shut the offended eye ; She minced the sanguine flesh 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 12* 138 LIFE OF CRABBE. in waves, mistress and maids, taking off their shoes, retired to their chambers for a nap of one hour to the minute. The dogs and cats commenced their siesta by the fire. Mr. Tovell dozed in his chair, and no noise was heard, except the melancholy and monotonous coo- ing 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, whoever came, it was comparatively a dull evening, unless two especial Knights Companions were of the party; — one was a jolly old farmer, with much of the person and humor 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 muscular. He was a bachelor, and famed for his indiscriminate attachment to all who bore the name of woman, — young or aged, clean or dirty, a lady or a gipsy, it mattered not to him ; all were equally admired. He had peopled the village green ; and it was remarked, that, whoever was the mother, the children might be recognised 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 sometimes rendered the colloquies over the bowl peculiaily piquant ; and so soon as his voice began ALDBOROUGH. — BECCLES. 139 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 understanding 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, re- mained, to have the full benefit of their wit, neither pro- ducing the slightest restraint, nor feeling it themselves. After we had spent some weeks amidst this primitive set, we proceeded to Aid borough, where we were re- ceived with the most cordial welcome by my father's sister and her worthy husband, Mr. Sparkes. How well do I remember that morning ! — my father watching the effect of the first view of the sea on my countenance, 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 odors of the beach. What variety of emotions had he not experienced on that spot ! — how unmingled would have been his happiness then, had his mother survived to see him as a husband and a father ! We visited also on this occasion my grandmother Mrs. Elmy, and her two daughters, at the delightful town of Beccles ; and never can I forget the admiration with which I even then viewed this gem of the Waveney, and the fine old church (Beata Ecclesia), which gives name to the place ; though, as there were no other children in the house, there were abundant attractions of another kind more suited to my years. In fact, Beccles seemed a paradise, as we visited froni house to house with our kind relations. From this town we proceeded to a sweet 140 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 Wal- dron, late of Tamworth, — dear, good-humored, 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 manners, that the per- fect 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 morn- ing rides, she generally drove my father in her phaeton, and interested him exceedingly by her strong understand- ing 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 Ilopton, a few 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 with an application of his own, the lines from Anacreon — MUSTON. 141 " Oft am 1 by women told, Poor Anacreon ! thou growest old ; See, thine hairs are falling all, Poor Anacreon ! how they fall ! Whether I grow old or no, By these signs I do not know ; But this I need not to be told, 'T is time to live if I grow old." My father was much struck by his reverend appearance 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 po- liteness. Shortly after our return from Suffolk, the parsonage at Muston was visited by the late Mr. John Nichols, his son, (the present " Mr. Urban,") 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 wliich he had previously, as I have stated, undertaken to write a chapter of natural history ; and was gratified, after his friend's return to London, by a present of some very fine Dutch engravings of plants, splendidly colored. 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 de- clined ; and he never acted more wisely than in so doing. Like the late Archbishop Moore, when tutor to the sons of the Duke of Marlborough, he might easily have " read 142 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 fa- ther's humble parsonage, and nothing could have repaid him for submitting to such an interruption of all his domestic habits and favorie pursuits. About this time he became intimately acquainted 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 enclosing a new garden for botanic specimens, and had just com- pleted the walls, when he was suddenly summoned into Suffolk to act as executor 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 curate at Muston, and to go and reside at Parham, taking the charge of some church in that neighbourhood. Though tastes and affections, as well as worldly inter- ests, prompted this return to native scenes and early acquaintances, it was a step reluctantly taken, and, I believe, sincerely repented of. The beginning was omi- nous. 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 impressive tone, MUSTON. 143 ** 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 bis ears like a super- natural voice. X44 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER VII. 1792 — 1804. MR. CRABEE'S residence IN SUFFOLK, AT PARHAM, AT GLEMHAM, AND AT RENDHAM. In November, 1792, we arrived once more at Par- ham ; — 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 remem- ber jumping for very joy, and exclaiming, '* Here we are — here we are, little Willy * and all ! " but my spirits sunk into dismay when, on entering the well-known kitchen, all there seemed desolate, dreary, and silent. Mrs. Tovell and her sister-in-law, sitting by the fireside weeping, did not even rise up to welcome my parents, but uttered a few chilling words, and wept again. All this appeared to me as inexplicable as forbidding. How little do children dream of the alterations that elder people's feelings towards each other undergo, when death has caused a transfer of property ! 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 * My father's seventh and youngest child. PARHAM. 145 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, perhaps, 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 tenderness ; 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 found the disadvantage of succeedinor such a man as Mr. Tovell. He invited none of the old compotators, and if they came, received them but coolly ; and it was soon said that " Parham had passed away, and the glory thereof." When the paper of parish rates came round, he per- ceived that he was placed on a much higher scale of payment than his wealthy predecessor had ever been for the very same occupation ; and when he complained of this, he was told very plainly, — " Why, Sir, Mr. Tovell was a good neighbour : we all miss him sadly ; and so, I suppose do you, Sir ; and — and " " I understand you," said my father, " perfectly ; now, Sir, I refuse this rate : take your remedy." He resisted this charge ; and the consequences may be guessed, 13 14G LIFE OF CRABBE. Having detected the bailiff in some connection with smugglers, he charged him with the fact. The man flew into a violent passion, grasped a knife, and ex- claimed, with an inflamed countenance, '* No man shall call me a rogue ! " My father smiled at his rage, and said, in a quiet tone, — " Now, Robert, you are too much for me : put down your knife, and then we can talk on equal terms." The man hesitated : my father added, lifting his voice, " Get out of the house, you scoundrel ! " and he was obeyed. On all occasions, indeed, he ap- peared to have a perfect insensibility to physical danger. I have said that Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe were not in the habit of visiting. In fact, his father's station and strait- ened circumstances, and the customs of his native place, had prevented his forming any early habit of such in- tercourse. His own domestic and literary pursuits indisposed him still further ; and my mother's ill health combined to prevent any regular sociality with the fami- lies in their neighbourhood ; but both at Muston and Parham they had some valued friends occasionally re- siding with them for many weeks, especially an old lady of Aldborough, who had been intimate with my father's family, and was fallen into poverty, and who was ever received with cordiality and respect. But, at one house, in the vicinity of Parham, my father was a frequent visiter. To Mr. Dudley North he felt himself attached by the ties of gratitude, and strongly attracted both by the mutual knowledge of Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, and other public characters, and by his own superior mind and manners ; for though, according to Mr. Boswell's ac- count of a conversation. Dr. Johnson mentions him somewhat lightly to Mrs. Thrale, yet it is to be remem- PARHAM. 147 bered that that lady provoked him to it by her reiterated eulogium, and, moreover, that Mr. North was a Whig. But he was distinguished, even among the eminent characters of the day, for the high polish of his man- ners and the brilliancy of his wit. Though a silent member of the House (for he had a strong impediment in his utterance), '' yet," said Mr. Fox, " we owe to Dudley's suggestions some of the best hits we have made." From this friend, whose seat (Little Glemham Hall) was within two miles of Parham, my father received every kindness and attention. I remember a well-stored medicine chest arriving one morning — for Mr. Crabbe still continued to administer to the poor gratis — and game, fruit, and other produce of his domain were sent in profusion. It was in the autumn of 1794, or 1795, that he had the honor of meeting at Mr. North's, a large party of some of the most eminent men in the kingdom, — the Honorable Charles (now Earl) Grey, the Earl of Lauderdale, Mr. Fox, Mr. Roger Wilbraham, Dr. Parr, Mr. St. John, and several other public charac- ters. Mr. Fox, cordially recognising my father, ex- pressed his disappointment that his pen had been so long unemployed ; and it was then that he promised to revise any future poem which Mr. Crabbe might prepare for publication. One day, — for it was a shooting party, and they stayed about a fortnight, — in passing from the saloon to the dining-room, while there was a momentary pause, Mr. Fox playfully pushed my father first, saying, *' If he had had his deserts,* he would have walked * Alluding to his station at Belvoir. 148 LIFE OF CRABBE. before us all." If this was an unmerited compliment, it was assuredly, a very good-humored one. Annoyances out of doors and within probably induced him, shortly after his arrival in Suffolk, to pay a visit of several months to his sister at Aldborough ; and when there, he had the great satisfaction of placing my brother John and myself under the tuition of one of the good old dames who had taught himself his letters. On returning to Parham, he undertook the charge of Sweffling, for the respected incumbent of that parish, the Reverend Rich- ard Turner of Great Yarmouth. Another curacy (Great Glemham) was shortly added to this ; and, thenceforth, his occupations and habits were very much what they had used to be at Muston. He had been about four years at Parham before another residence, quite suitable to his views, presented itself; and the opportunity of changing occurred at a moment when it was more than ever to be desired. In March, 1796, Mr. Crabbe lost his third son, a fine promising lad, then in his sixth year. His family had been seven, and they were now reduced to two. The loss of this child was so severely felt by my mother, that it caused a nerv- ous disorder, from which she never entirely recovered ; and it became my father's very earnest wish to quit Parham, where the thoughts of that loss were unavoida- bly 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 rent ; and, on the 17th of October, the lares were removed from Parham, where they had been always unpropitious, to this beautiful residence, where my pa- rents remained for four or five years, to their entire satis- GLEMHAM. 149 faction. 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 Ipswich, under the care of the late excellent Mr. King, in whom my father had the most perfect confidence ; but I passed, of course, my vacations at home ; and never can I cease to look back to my days at Glemham as the golden spot of my existence. In June, 1798, on Mr. King's retiring from the school at Ipswich, I returned home in earnest ; 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 occasional visits of a month or two to Muston, the associ- ations of our happiest years are all with Glemham and other scenes in his native county. Glemham itself is, and ever will be, the Alhambra of my imagination. That glorious palace yet exists ; ours is levelled with the ground.* A small, well-wooded park occupied the whole mouth of the glen, whence, doubtless, the name of the village was derived. In the lowest ground stood the commodious mansion ; the approach 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 whitethorn and oak. Here the purple-scented violet perfumed the air, and in one place colored the ground. On the left of the front, in the * A new and elegant mansion has been built on the hill, by Dr. Kilderbeck, who bought the estate. 13* 150 LIFE OF CRABBE. narrower portion of the glen, was the village ; on the right, a confined view of richly wooded fields. In fact the whole parish and neighbourhood resemble a combination of groves, interspersed 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 glowworm, and the nightingales are pouring forth their melody in every direction. My father was a skilfid mathematician ; and, imper- fectly as he had been grounded in the classics at school, he had, as I have stated, been induced, by various mo- tives, 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 favor- ite work of this description. But, there may be great defects in a domestic 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 in- dulgent mind as his, conscious, too, of its own hatred to restraint, was not likely to enforce the necessary disci' pline. So that, to my infinite satisfaction, this new academy had much more of vacation than term-time : contrasted 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 GLEMHAM. X51 Glemham ; 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 forlorn. Along these we wandered sometimes till the moon had risen, — my mother leading a favorite little niece who lived with us, my father reading some novel aloud, while my brother and I caught moths or other insects to add to his collec- tion. Since I have mentioned novels, I may say that even from the most trite of these fictions, he could some- limes catch a train of ideas that was turned to an excel- lent 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, interesting, for they suggested some pleasing imaginings, 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 believe 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 favorite if she were tired, and so we proceeded home- ward, while on the right and left, before and behind, 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 glowworms to place upon the lawn before our windows, and reach the house only in time for sup- per. 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 1^2 LIFE OF CRABBE. a large box of the most reputable works recently pub- lished, especially of travels ; and never can I forget the deep interest with which we heard my father read Sted- man'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 the subject. Some (I think miscalled " good readers " ) are so wonderfully correct and emphatic, that we are obliged to think of the read- ing, instead of the story. In repeating any thing 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 circumstance), and among his large and fine family was one daughter so eminently beautiful and graceful as to excite general admiration ; and the writer (now fifteen) very naturally fancied himself deeply in love with her. On returning home, my heart was too full to trust myself near the chaise, so I rode far behind, calling the setting sun and the golden tints of the west to witness my most solemn determination to raise myself to a rank worthy of this young enchantress. We stopped at an inn to rest the horses, and my father began to read aloud the well-known mock heroic from the " Anti- jacobin," — " Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! Ye bore Matilda from my view. Forlorn I languished at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen." GLEMHAM. I53 In itself the song is an exquisite burlesque ; but the cadence he gave it was entirely irresistible, and at the words, " Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen," I could sup- press the accumulated grief no longer. " O ho ! " said he, " I see how the case is now ! " and he shut the book, and soothed me with inexpressible kindness. My father, now about his forty-sixth year, was much more stout and healthy than when I first remember him. Soon after that early period, he became subject to ver- tigoes, which he thought indicative of a tendency to apoplexy ; and was occasionally bled rather profusely, which only increased the symptoms. When he preached his first sermon at Muston, in the year 1789, my mother foreboded, as she afterwards told us, that he would preach very few more : but it was on one of his early journeys into Suftblk, in passing through Ipswich, that }ie had the most alarming attack. Having left my mother at the inn, he walked into the town alone, and suddenly staggered in the street, and fell. He was lifted up by the passengers, and overheard some one say, significantly, " Let the gentleman alone, he will be better by and by; " for his fall was attributed to the bottle. He was assisted to his room, and the late Dr. Club was sent for, who, after a little examination, saw through the case with great judgment. " There is nothing the matter with your head," he observed, '' nor any apoplectic tendency ; let the digestive organs bear the whole blame : you must take opiates." From that time his health began to amend rapidly, and his constitution was renovated ; a rare effect of opium, for that drug almost always inflicts some partial injury, even when it is necessary : but to him it was only salutary — and to a constant but slightly 154 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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, dignified, middle-aged man. His countenance was never ordinary, but health of itself gives a new charm to any features ; and his figure, which in his early years had been rather thin and weakly, was now muscular and almost athletic. During the whole time my father officiated in Suffolk, he was a popular preacher, and had always large con- gregations ; for, notwithstanding what I have observed on this subject, and that he adopted not what are called evangelical principles, 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 sig- nified 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 ren- dered so prominent at that time by many of his breth- ren. 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 affectation, 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 sermon with earnest- ness, and in a voice and manner, on some occasions, GLEMHAM. I55 peculiarly affecting ; but he made no attempt at extem- pore 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 exemption from fear or solicitude. " I must have some money, gentlemen," he would say, in stepping 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 ; I must give you the rest when we meet again." Or, he would walk into a pew near a window, and stand on the seat and finish his sermon, with the most admirable indifference to the remarks of his congregation. He was always, like his own Author- Rector, in the Parish Register, ' ' careless of hood and band," &c. I have mentioned that my mother was attacked, on the death of her son William, 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 witnessed 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 herself and others was great indeed. Then she would sing over her old tunes again — and be the frank, cordial, charming woman of earlier days. This severe domestic affliction, however, did not seri- ously 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 156 LIFE OF CRABBE. ill 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 smoothness. 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 walk- ing and versifying, which I hardly ever observed when he was preaching or reading. The ^ hand was moved up and down ; the pace quickened. He was, nevertheless, fond of considering poetical composition as a species of task and labor, and would say, ' I have been hard at work, and have had a good morning.' " My father taught himself both French and Italian, so as to read and enjoy the best authors in either language, though he knew nothing of their pronunciation. He also continued all through his residence in 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 car- ried the greatest and most indefatigable 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 ardor ; but, generally speak- ing, I should be inclined to say, that those usually con- sidered as the least inviting had the highest attractions for him. In botany, grasses, the most useful, but the least ornamental, were his favorites ; 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 GLEMHAM. I57 — at all events, he never seemed to be captivated with the mere beauty of natural objects, or even to catch any taste for the arrangement of his own specimens. Within the house was a kind of scientific confusion ; in the garden, the usual showy foreigners gave place to the most scarce flowers, and especially to the rarer weeds, of Brit- ain ; 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 armor and defence, And love of method serves for lack of sense." Whatever truth there may be in these lines, it is certain that this insensibility to the beauty of order was a defect in his own mind ; arising from what I must call his want of taste. There are, no doubt, very beautiful detached passages in his writings, — passages apparently full of this very quality. It is not, however, in detached parts of a poem that the criterion of this principle prop- erly lies, but in the conduct of the whole ; in the selec- tion of the subject and its amplifications ; in the relative 14 158 LIFE OF CRABBE. - 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 de- monstrate the high rank of his other qualifications 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 indif- ference to almost all the proper objects of taste. He had no real love for painting, or music, or architecture, or for what a painter's eye considers as the beauties of landscape. But he had a passion for science — the sci- ence 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 at all times find luxury in the most dry and forbidding calculations. One of his chief labors at this period was the com- pletion 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 interfered, and made him put the manuscript into the fire. But among other prose writings of the same period some were of a class which, perhaps, 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 hours to the writing of Novels, and he brought not less than three such works to a conclusion. The first was entitled '* The Widow GLEMHAM. I59 Grey ; " but I recollect nothing of it except that the principal character was a benevolent humorist, a Dr. Allison. The next was called " Reginald Glanshaw, or the Man who commanded Success ; " a portrait of an assuming, overbearing, ambitious mind, rendered inter- esting 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 with a description of a wretched room, similar to some that are presented in his poetry, and that, on my mother's telling him frankly that she thought the effect very inferior to that of the corresponding pieces in verse, he paused in his reading, and, after some reflection, said, *' Your remark is just." The result was a leisurely ex- amination 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 dedi- cations 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. He 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 1799, he opened a communication with Mr. Hatchard, the well- known bookseller, and was encouraged to prepare for publication a series of poems, sufficient to fill a volume X60 LIFE OF CRABBE. — among others, one on the Scripture story of Naaman : another, strange contrast ! entitled ** Gipsy Will ; " and a third founded on the legend of the Pedlar of Svvaffham. But before finally committing his reputation to the haz- ards of a new appearance, he judiciously paused to con- sult the well-known taste of the Reverend Richard Turner, already mentioned as rector of Sweffling. This friendly critic advised further revision, and his own ma- ture opinion coinciding with that thus modestly hinted, he finally rejected the tales I have named altogether ; deferred for a further period of eight years his reappear- ance 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 honored man. He considered his judgment a sure safeguard and reli- ance in all cases practical and literary. The peculiar characteristic of his vigorous mind being an interest, not a seeming, but, a real interest, in every object of nature and art, he had stored it with multifarious knowledge, and had the faculty of imparting some portion of the in- terest he felt on all subjects, by the zeal and relish with which he discussed them. With my father he would converse on natural history, as if this had been his whole study ; with my mother, on mechanical contrivances and new inventions, for use or ornament, as if that were an exclusive taste ; while he would amuse us young folks with well-told anecdotes, and to walk or ride with him GLEMHAM. 161 was considered our happiest privilege. Mr. Turner is too extensively and honorably known to need any such eulogy as I can offer ; but my father's most intimate friend and chosen critic will forgive the effusion of my gratitude and respect. While at Glemham, as at Par- ham, my father rarely visited any neighbours except Mr. North and his brother Mr. Long ; nor did he often receive any visiters. But one week in 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 properly to urge all non-resident incumbents to return to their livings; and Mr. Dudley North, willing to retain my father in his neighbourhood, took the trouble to call upon the Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Prettyman, and to request that Mr. Crabbe might remain in Suffolk ; add- ing as an argument in favor of the solicited indulgence, his kindness and attention to his present parishioners. But his Lordship would not yield — observing, that they of Muston and Allington had a prior claim. " Now," said Mr. North, when he reported his failure, *' we must try and procure you an incumbency here ; " and one in his own gift becoming vacant, he very obligingly offered it to my father. This living * was, however, too small to be held singly, and he prepared ultimately (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 ; * The two Glemhams, both in the gift of Mrs. North, were lately presented to my brother John, who is now the incumbent. 14* 162 LIFE OF CRABBE. he would have sacrificed mere personal inclination with- out hesitation ; but he was looking to the interests of his children. In the autumn of 1801, Mr. North and his brother, having a joint property in the Glemham estate, agreed to divide by selling it ; and in October we left this sweet place, and entered a house at Rendham, a neighbouring village, for the four years we were to remain in the East Angles. In July, 1802, my father paid his last visit to Muston, previous to his final return. We passed through Cam- bridge in the week of the commencement ; 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 academi- cal ceremonies in all their imposing effect, and viewed them with the more interest, because I was soon after to be admitted to Trinity. The area below was entirely filled. The late Duchess of Rutland attracted much admiration. 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 dignified 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 whenever 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 epi- thet, — "a man," said my mother, — and it was agreed CAMBRIDGE. ' lg3 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 suspicions, or nar- row self-interest. He read my father's character at once, — felt assured of his honor, and when he rang at the gate for admission 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, benevo- lent smile, which said, " Dear Sir, you are freely wel- come to wander where, and to select what, you will, — I am sure you will do us no injury." On our return through Cambridge, I was examined, and entered ; and in October, 1803, went to reside. When I left college for the Christmas vacation, I found my father and mother 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 " Al- dersey" (dated from Ludlow), stating that, having read his publications, he felt a strong inclination to have the pleasure of his society - — that he possessed property enough for both, and requested him to relinquish any engagements 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 atten- tion, and he read it nearly through while standing at the counter, observing, " a new and great poet has ap- 164 LIFE OF CRABBE. peared ! " How often have I heard him repeat those striking lines near the commencement of that poem : — " The lady's gone into her 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 works which he opened so frequently — and he soon felt and acknowledged, with the public, that, in that simplicity was veiled genius of the greatest magnitude. Of Burns he was ever as enthusiastic an admirer as the warmest of his own countrymen. On his high appre- ciation of the more recent works of his distinguished contemporaries, it is needless to dwell.* * 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 appeared, he was in 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 prinoipal male characters. He thought they wanted gentleness and ui-banity ; especially Quentin Durward, Halbert Glendinning, and Nigel. He said Colonel Mannering's age and peculiar 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 yielding the credit of Hotspur's death to his old companion Falstaff. Henry, at Agincourt, ' covetous of honor,' was ordinary, he said, to this." SUFFOLK. 165 I have not much more to say with respect to my father's second residence in Suffolk ; but T must not dis- miss this period — a considerable one in the sum of his life — without making some allusion to certain rumors 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 loy, for the rector had always been a good kind gentleman, and much noticed by the Vukc ;" but by degrees the tale was more and more disseminated, and at length it gained a pretty general credence among a population, which, being purely agricultural, — and, therefore, connecting every notion of what was praise^ worthy with the maintenance of the war that, undoubt- edly, had raised agricultural prices to an unprecedented scale, — was affected in a manner extremely disagreeable to my father's feelings, and even worldly interests, by such an impression as thus originated. The truth is, that my father never was a politician, — that is to say, he never allowed political affairs to occupy much of his mind at any period of his life, or thought either better or worse of any individual for the bias he had received. But he did not, certainly, approve of the origin of the war that was raging while he lived at Parham, Glemham, and Rendham ; nor did he ever conceal his opinion, that this war might have been avoided, — and hence, in proportion to the weight of his local character, he gave offence to persons maintaining the diametrically oppo- 165 LIFE OF CRABBE. site view of public matters at that peculiar crisis. As to the term Jacobin, I shall say only one word. None could have been less fitly applied to him at any period of his life. He was one of the innumerable good men who, indeed, hailed the beginning of the French Revolution, but who execrated its close. No syllable in approbation 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, before my father was well convinced that to put liim down was the first duty of every nation that wished to be happy and free. With respect to the gradual change which his early sentiments on political subjects in general unquestion- ably underwent, I may as well, perhaps, 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 powers and capabilities above his station, is, to adopt what are called popular or liberal opinions. He peculiarly feels the disadvantages of his own class, and is tempted to look with jealousy on all those who, with less natural talent, enjoy superior privi- leges. But, if this young man should succeed in raising himself by his talents into a higher walk of society, it is perhaps equally natural that he should imbibe aristocratic sentiments : feeling the reward of his exertions to be valuable in proportion to the superiority of his acquired station, he becomes an advocate for the privileges of rank in general, reconciling his desertion of the exclu- sive interests of his former caste, by alleging the facility of his own rise. And if he should be assisted by pa- SUFFOLK. 167 tronage, and become acquainted with his patrons, the principle of gratitude, and the opportunity of witnessing the manners of the great, would contribute materially to this change in his feelings. Such is, probably, the natural tendency of such a rise in society ; and, in truth, I do not think Mr. Crabbe's case was an exception. The popular opinions of his father were, I think, ori- ginally embraced by him rather from the unconscious inflnence I have alluded to, than from the deliberate conviction of his judgment. But his was no ordinary mind, and he did not desert them merely from the vulgar motive of interest. At Belvoir he had more than once to drink a glass of salt water, because he would not join in Tory toasts. He preserved his early partialities through all this trying time of Tory patronage ; and of course he felt, on the whole, a greater political accord with the owner of Glemham and his distinguished guests. But when, in the later portion of his life, he became still more intimate with the highest ranks of society, and mingled with them, not as a young person whose fortune was not made, and who had therefore to assert his inde- pendence, but as one whom talent had placed above the suspicion of subserviency ; when he felt the full advan- tages of his rise, and became the rector of a lar^e town, and a magistrate, I think again, the aristocratic and Tory leanings he then showed were rather the effect of these circumstances, than of any alteration of judgment founded upon deliberate enquiry and reflection. But of this I am sure, that his own passions were never violently 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 opin- 158 LIFE OF CRABBE. ions arose entirely from motives of personal gratitude and attachment ; and he carried his impartiality so far, that I have heard him declare, he thought it very imma- terial who were our representatives in parliament, pro- vided they were men of integrity, liberal education, and possessed an adequate stake in the country. I shall not attempt to defend this apathy on a point of such consequence, but it accounts for circumstances which those who feel no such moderation might consider as aggravated instances of inconsistency. He not only felt an equal regard for persons of both parties, but would willingly have given his vote to either ; and at one or two general elections, I believe he actually did so ; — for example, to Mr. Benett, the Whig candidate for Wilt- shire, and to Lord Douro and Mr. Croker,* the Tory candidates at Aldborough. * I take the liberty of quoting what follows, from a letter with which I have lately been honored by the Right Honorable J. W. Croker: — " I have heard, from those who knew Mr. Crabbe earli- er than I had the pleasure of doing — (and his communications with me led to the same conclusion), that he never was a violent nor even a zealous politician. He was, as a conscientious clergyman might be expected to be, a church-and-king man ; but he seemed to me to think and care less about party politics than any man of his condition in life that I ever met. At one of my elections for Alde- burgh, he happened to be in the neighbourhood, and he did me the honor 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. My opinion of his admirable works, I took the liberty of recording in a note on Bosw^ell's Johnson. To that opinion, on reconsideration and frequent re-perusals of his poems, I adhere with increased confidence ; and I hope you will not think me presumptuous for adding, that I was scarcely more SUFFOLK. 169 He says, in a letter on this subject, " With respect to the parties themselves, Whig and Tory, I can but think, two dispassionate, sensible 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 for pure information, 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 becominor what France once was ; and the Whior must also grant, that there is at least an equal danger in an unsettled, undefined democracy ; the ever-changing laws of a popular government. Every state is at times on the inclination to change ; either the monarchical or the struck by his genius, than by the amiable simplicity of his manners, and the dignified modesty of his mind. With talents of a much higher order, he realized all that we read of the personal amiability of Gay." The note on Boswell, 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 having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, too painful, and too just, may have deprived his works of so extensive, or, at least ?o 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 generally deals with ' the short and simple annals of the poor ; ' but he exhibits them with such a deep knowledge of human nature, with such general ease and simplicity, and such accurate force of expression — whether gay or pathetical, as, in my humble judgment, no poet, except Shakspeare, has excelled." 15 170 LIFE OF CRABBE. popular interest will predominate ; and in the former case, I conceive, the well-meaning Tory will incline to Whiggism, — in the latter, the honest Whig will take the part of declining 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 tenor, not only of his published works, but of his private conversations and pastoral 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 larger 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 tremendous roar of the great gun on the fort, which shook every house in the town. After enquiring 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 horse- men 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, or there had been a concerted manoeuvre to try the fencibles, we never could learn with certainty ; but I remember that my father's coolness on the occa- MUSTON. 171 sion, when we mentioned it next day, caused some sus- picious 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 the letter, which he received, when on the eve of start- ing for Leicestershire, from the honored rector of SwefF- ling : — ^' It would be very little to my credit, if I could closCj 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 experienced 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 con- duct 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 persuaded, be as much gratified by your residence amongst them, as mine have been by your residence in Suffolk. Our personal intercourse must be somewhat diminished ; yet, I hope, opportunities of seeing each other will arise, and if 172 LIFE OF CRABBE. subjects of correspondence be less frequent, the knowledge of each other's and our families' welfare will always be acceptable information. Adieu, my dear Sir, for the present. Your much obliged and faithful friend, " R. TURMER." MUSTON. 173 CHAPTER VIII. 1805 — 1814. MR. CRABBE'S second RESIDENCE AT MUSTON. PUBLI- CATION OF "the PARISH REGISTER." LETTERS FROM EMINENT INDIVIDUALS. VISIT TO CAMBRIDGE. AP- PEARANCE OF "the BOROUGH," AND OF THE "TALES IN VERSE." LETTERS TO AND FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT AND OTHERS. A MONTH IN LONDON. THE PRINCE REGENT AT EELVOIR. 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 clergymen, but they had been often changed, and some of them had never resided within the parish ; and he felt that the binding influence of a settled and permanent minister had not been withdrawn for twelve years with impunity. A Wesleyan missionary had formed a thriving establishment in Muston, and the 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, with-' out bringing back disciples to the fold, 15* 174 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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 compared 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 mission were well calculated to excite not only regret, but indignation ; and, among other distressing incidents, was the de- 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 plough- man, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher himself; and the woman, whose moral character had been sadly deteri- orated since her adoption of the new lights, was at last obliged to be dismissed, in consequence of intolerable insolence. I mention these things, because they may throw light on some passages in my father's later poetry. By the latter part of the year 1806, Mr. Crabbe had nearly completed his " Parish Register," and the shorter poems that accompanied it, and had prepared to add them to a new edition of his early works ; and his desire to give his second son also the benefits of an aca- demical education was, I ought to add, a principal motive for no longer delaying his reappearance as a poet. He had been, as we have seen, promised, years before, in Suffolk, the high advantage 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 "THE PARISH REGISTER." 175 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 in- curable disease; and "he repeated an offer," says my father, in his preface, " which, though I had not pre- sumed to expect, I was happy to receive." The manu- script was immediately sent to him at St. Anne's Hill , " and," continues Mr. Crabbe, " as I have the informa- tion 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 ex- punged, 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 melan- choly satisfaction of adding, that this poem (and more especially the story of Phcebe Dawson, with some parts of the second book), were the last compositions of their kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great man." In the same preface my father acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Turner. " He, indeed," says Mr. Crabbe, *' is the kind of critic for whom every poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be happy to ac- quire. 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." 176 LIFE OF CRABBE. This preface is dated Muston, September, 1807 ; and in the same month the volume was published by Mr. Hatchard. It contained, with the earlier series. The Parish Register, Sir Eustace Grey, The Birth of Flat- tery, and other minor pieces ; and its success was not only decided, but nearly unprecedented. By " The Parish Register," indeed, my father must be considered as having first assumed that station among British poets, which the world has now settled to be peculiarly his own. The same character was afterwards still more strikingly exemplified and illustrated — but it was henceforth 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 in- troduced — but here there was nothing but a succession of such descriptions ; in them there had been no tale — this was a chain of stories ; they were didactic — here no moral inference is directly inculcated : finally, they were regularly constructed poems — this boldly defies any but the very slightest and most transparently artificial connections. Thus differing from his former self, his utter dissimilarity to any other author then enjoying public favor was still more striking ; the man- ner of expression was as entirely his own as the singu- lar 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 profound pathos, of a great original poet. Nor was " Sir Eustace Grey " less admired on other grounds, than " The Parish Register " was for the sin- "THE PARISH REGISTER." I77 gular 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 substan- tially with the Edinburgh Review ; and I believe that within two days after the appearance of Mr. Jeffrey's ad- mirable and generous article, Mr. Hatchard sold off the whole of the first edition of these poems. Abundantly satisfied with the decision of professional 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. Fi-om Mr. Bonnycastle. " 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 certainly otherwise have done. The pleasure of hearing from you, after a silence of more than twenty-eight years, made me Uttle solicitous to enquire how it has happened that two persons, who have always mutually esteemed each other^ should have no inter- course 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 de- pend upon the most sincere and cordial reception. I have a 178 LIFE OF CRABBE. daughter nearly twenty, a son upon the point of becoming an officer in the engineers, and tAVO younger boys, who at this moment are deeply engaged in your poems, and highly desirous of seeing the author, of whom they have so often heard me speak. They are, of course, no great critics ; but all beg me to say, that they are much pleased with your beautiful verses, which I have promised to read to them again when they have done ; having conceded to their eagerness the premices of the treat. It affords me the great- est gratification to find that, in this world of chances, you are so comfortably and honorably established in your profes- sion, and I sincerely hope your sons may be as well provi- ded 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 making myself known to them, as an old friend of their father's. For myself, I have had Httle 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 acade- my, this has made it more easy, and my situation as re- spectable 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 * " Beaconsfield, Nov. 30, 1807. (' SiRj — I am much ashamed to find that your very kind letter and very valuable present have remained so long un- * Of this lady, who died in 1812, Mr. Prior says: — " Added to affectionate admiration of Mr. Burke's talents, she possessed accom- "THE PARISH REGISTER." I79 acknowledged. But the truth is, when I received them, I was far from well ; and procrastination being one of my natural vices, I have deferred returning you my most sincere thanks for your gratifying my feelings, by your beautiful preface and poems. I have a full sense of their value and your attention. Your friend never lost sight of 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. Mans el* " 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 importance, 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 I been delighted with the perusal of the incomparable de- scriptions which you have laid before me ; with the easi- ness and purity of the diction, the knowledge of life and manners, and the vividness of that imagination which could plishments, good sense, goodness of heart, and a sweetness of manners and disposition, which served to allay many of the anxie- ties of his career. He repeatedly declared, that ' every care vanished the moment he entered under his own roof.' " — Life of Burke. * Afterwards Bishop of Bristol. His Lordship died in 1820. X80 LIFE OF CRABBE. 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. I 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 par- liament was not favorable — to read a work from which I anticipated much pleasure. I am now able, at the same time, to offer you my best thanks in sending me the poems you have lately published, and to say that my admiration of the author of ' The Library,' has not been diminished by the perusal of ' The Parish Register,' and the other ad- ditional poems. But all other praise must appear insipid, after that of Mr. Fox ; and I will only add, that I think that highest praise, for such I esteem it, was justly due to you. I well remember the pleasure which I had in meeting you at Mr. Dudley North's, and wish I could look to a revival of it. I have the honor to be, with great regard, Sir, &c. « Grey." From Roger Wilhraham, Esq. " Stratton Street, May 23, 1808. "Dear Sir, — Unless I had heard from our friend, Mr. North, that you had received complimentary letters from "THE PARISH REGISTER." Igl most of your friends on your late publication, I should not have thought of adding- my name to the number. The only reason for my silence was the fear of assuming much more of a literary character than belongs to me ; though, on the score of friendship for the author, and admiration of his works, I will not yield to the most intelligent and saga- cious critic. Perhaps, indeed, an earlier letter from me might have been authorized by the various conversations we have had together at Glemham, in which I so frequently took the liberty to urge you not to rest contented with that sprig of bays which your former publications had justly acquired, but to aim at a larger branch of thicker foliage. This I can truly say, my dear Sir, you have obtained by universal consent ; and I feel considerable pride in having the honor to be known to a person who has afforded so much real delight to a discerning public. — No, no. Sir, when we thought you idle, you were by no means so ; j^ou were observing man, and studying his character among the inferior orders of the community ; and the varieties that belong to his character, you have now described with the most perfect truth, and in the most captivating language. When I took up your book, the novelties of it first at- tracted my notice, and afterwards I visited my old acquaint- ances with as much pleasure as ever. The only regret I felt at the end was, that the book was not marked Vol. I. ; but that may be amended. In which hope I take my leave, assuring ji-ou of the very sincere regard, and real admiration of, yours most truly and sincerely, " Roger Wilbraha^m." From Mr. Canning. " Stanhope Street, Nov. 13, 1807. "Sir, — I have deferred acknowledging the civility of your letter, until I should at the same time acknowledge the pleasure which I had derived from the perusal of the 16 ]82 LIFE OF CRABBE. volume which accompanied it. I have lately made that volume the companion of a journey into the country. I am now therefore able to appreciate the value of your present, as well as to thank you for your obliging" attention in send- ing it to me. With some of the poems — ' The Village,' particularly — I had been long acquainted ; but I was glad to have them brought back to my recollection ; and I have read with no less pleasure and admiration those which I now saw for the first time. I have the honor to be, Sir, &c. &:c. " George Canning." From Lord Holland. " Sir, — Having been upon a tour in Scotland, I did not receive your book till my arrival at York, and was unwilling to answer your very obHging 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 honor of calling me a judge of such matters, I will venture to say, that it seems to me calculated to advance the reputa- tion 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 con- scious that your willingness to oblige has blinded your judgment ; but cannot conclude my letter without returning you thanks for such expressions of your partiality. I am. Sir, &c. " Holland." To these I may add a letter from Mr. Walter Scott, dated " Ashetiel, October 21st, 1809, " — acknowledg- ing the receipt of a subsequent edition of the same volume. "THE PARISH REGISTER." 183 *' Dear Sir, — I am just honored with your letter, which gives me the more sensible pleasure, since it has gratified a wish of more than twenty years' standing. It is, I think, fully that time since I was, for great part of a very snowy winter, the inhabitant of an old house in the country, in a course of poetical study, so very like that of your admirably painted ' Young Lad,' that I could hardly help saying, ' That 's me ! ' when I was reading the tale to my family. Among the very few books which fell under my hands was a volume or two of Dodsley's Annual Register, one of which contained copious extracts from ' The Village ' and ' The Library,' particularly the conclusion of book first of the former, and an extract from the latter, beginning with the description of the old Romancers. I committed them most faithfully to my memory, where your verses must have felt themselves very strangely lodged in company with ghost stories, border-riding ballads, scraps of old plays, and all the miscellaneous stuflf which a strong appetite for read- ing, with neither means nor discrimination for selection, had assembled in the head of a lad of eighteen. New pub- lications, 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, wdiich I could repeat at this moment. You may, therefore, guess my sincere delight, when I saw your poems at a later period assume the rank in the pubhc considera- tion, which they so w^ell deserve. It was a triumph to my own immature taste to find I had anticipated the applause of the learned and of the critical, and I became very desirous to offer my gratulor, among the more important plaudits which you have had from every quarter. I should certainly have availed myself of the freemasonry of authorship — (for our trade may claim to be a mystery as well as Abhorson's) 184 LIFE OF CRABBE. — to address to you a copy of a new poetical attempt, which I have now upon the anvil, and I esteem myself l)articularly obliged to Mr. Hatchard, and to your goodness acting upon his information, for giving me the opportunity of paving the way for such a freedom. I am too proud of the compliments you honor me with, to affect to decline them ; and with respect to the comparative view I have of my own labors 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 naturally soHcitous, have ever read any of my own poems ; while yours have been our regular ev^ening's amusement. My eldest girl begins to read well, and enters as well into the humor as into the sentiment 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 deservedly 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 inter- feres 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 honor of waiting upon you in my journey, and assuring you, in person, of the early admiration and sincere respect with which I have the honor to be, dear Sir, yours, Sec. "Walter Scott,'* "THE PARISH REGISTER." 185 In the manly and sensible views of literature and literary fame expressed in the last of these letters, Mr. Crabbe fully concurred. He enjoyed the sweetness of well-earned credit; but at his mature years, and with his strong religious 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 demonstrations 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 consciousness of defects ; limited by the consciousness that there were higher, nearer, and dearer interests in life than those of poetical ambition. How gratifying is the contemplation of such success, when it is only accessory to the more substantial pleas- ures of existence, namely, the consciousness of having fulfilled the duties for which that existence was espe- cially given, and the bright hope that higher and better things than this world can alSbrd await those vv'ho have borne the trials of adversity and prosperity with an humble and pious spirit ! How poor is such success when it is made " the pearl of great price ! " My brother now residing at Caius College, Cambridge, Mr. Crabbe more than once went thither, and remained a considerable time, dining in that college or Trinity every day, and passing his mornings chiefly in the bo- tanic 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, 16* 186 LIFE OF CRABBE. not only as a man who had formerly deserved the en- couragements 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 Cambridge dur- ing the Newmarket season, my father was driven by his son John in a tandem to the course ; and though he booked no bets, I have reason to think he enjoyed his ride quite as much as many of the lads by whom he was surrounded. Ever tenacious of important points of morality, no one looked with a more enlarged and be- nignant eye upon such juvenilities ; it always seemed to me as if his mind was incapable of seeing and appre- hending the little in any thing. Our respected friend Donn, being one of the con- gregation 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 convert to his own views of religion. Accordingly, he took his seat there, and paid great at- tention to the sermon, and on his return from church wrote the substance of it, and preached it at Muston the following Sunday ; telling his congregation 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 inhabitants of the town ; and they had the kindness to enrol his name as an hon- orary member. But few of his friends at Cambridge survive him : Dr. Mansel, Mr. Davis, Mr. Lambert, Mr. "THE BOROUGH." Ig^' 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 expressed a wish that my father would prepare some verses, to be repeated at the ensuing meeting of that admirable in- stitution for the benefit of distressed authors, " The Literary Fund ; " and it happened that a portion of a work then on the stocks, " The Borough," was judged suitable for the occasion: — with some additions, ac- cordingly, it was sent, and spoken at the anniversary, with all the advantage that Mr. Fitzgerald gave to what- ever he recited. Mr. Crabbe was now diligently occupied in finishing this poem, which had been begun while he lived at Rendham ; and as our kind friends at Aldborough had invited us to taste the sea air after four years' residence in the centre of the kingdom, my father carried his manuscript for completion, and for the inspection of that judicious friend at Great Yarmouth, without whose counsel he decided on nothing. Can it be questioned that he trod that beach again, to which he had so often returned after some pleasing event, with somewhat more of honest satisfaction, on account of the distinguished success of his late poems ! The term exultation, how- ever, could no longer be applicable ; he was now an elderly clergyman, and much too deeply did he feel the responsibilities of life to be " carried off his feet," as the Duchess of Gordon playfully expressed it, by any worldly fascinations. Mr. Turner's opinion of " The Borough," was, upon the whole, highly favorable ; but he intimated, that there were portions of the new work 188 LIFE OF CRABBE. which might be liable to rough treatment from the critics, and his decision, in both its parts, was confirmed by the public voice. As soon as we returned to Muston, Mr. Hatchard put it to the press : it was published in 1810, and in 1816 it had attained its sixth edition. The opinion of the leading Reviews was again nearly unanimous ; agreeing that " The Borough " had greater beauties and greater defects than its predecessor, " The Parish Register." With such a decision an author may always be well pleased ; for he is sure to take his rank with posterity by his beauties ; defects, where there are great and real excellences, serve but to fill critical dis- sertations. In fact, though the character was still the same, and the blemishes sufficiently obvious, " The Borough " was a great spring upwards. The incidents and characters in " The Parish Register " are but ex- cellent sketches : — there is hardly enough matter even in the most interesting 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 suffi- cient evolution of event and character, not only to please the fancy, but grapple with the heart. I think the '' Highwayman's Tale," in the twenty-third letter (Prisons) is an instance in point. We see the virtuous young man, the happy lover, and the despairing felon in succession, and enough of each state to give full force to its contrasts. I know that my father was himself much affected when he drew that picture, as he had been, by his own confession, twice before ; once at a very early period (see the "Journal to Mira"), and again when he was describing the terrors of a poor distracted mind, in his Sir Eustace Grey. The tale of "THE BOROUGH." 189 the Condemned Felon arose from the following circum- stances : — while he was struggling with poverty in London, he had some reason to fear that the brother of a very intimate friend, a wild and desperate character, was in Newgate under condemnation for a robbery. 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 forgot the being he then saw before him. He was pacing the cell, or small yard, with a quick and hurried step; his eye was as glazed and abstracted as that of a corpse : — " Since his dread sentence, nothing seemed to be As once it was ; seeing he could not see. Nor hearing hear aright .... Each sense was palsied ! " In the common-place book of the author the follow- ing 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 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 origi- nality 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, 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 developement X90 LIFE OF CRABBE. of character displayed in the variety of situations to whicli this class is liable." The preface to *' The Borough " shows how much his mind was engrossed and irritated, at this period, by the prevalence of Mr. Huntington's injurious doctrines in his neighbourhood, and even in his household. And his " Letter on Sects " not only produced a ridiculous threat from a Swedenborgian (dating from Peterborough) of personal chastisement ; but occasioned a controversy between the writer and the editor of the " Christian Ob- server," which appeared likely to become public. It ended, however, in mutual expressions of entire respect; and I am happy to think that the difference in their views was only such as different circumstances of education, &/C. might cause between two sincere Christians. " The Borough " was dedicated, in very grateful 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 whole period of his residence at Muston. At Belvoir he enjoyed from time to time the opportunity 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 class- es of society. He was particularly pleased and amused with the conversation of the celebrated " Beau Brum- mell." My brother and I (now both clergymen), having cura- cies in the neighbourhood, still lived at Muston, and all MUSTON. 19X 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 do- mestication invaded. When the evening closed, winter or summer, my father read aloud from the store which Mr. Colburn, out of his circulating library, sent and renewed, and nineteen in every twenty of these books were, as of old, novels ; while, as regularly, my brother took up his pencil, and amused our unoccupied eyes by some design strikingly full of character ; for he had an untaught talent in this way, which wanted only the me- chanical portion of the art to give him a high name among the masters of the time. One winter he copied and colored some hundreds of insects for his father, from expensive plates sent for his inspection 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 uninter- esting. Here were no groves nor dry green lanes, nor gravel roads to tempt the pedestrian 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 192 LIFE OF CRABBE. a 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, for through this opening, as in the deep frame of a picture, appeared, in the centre of the aerial canvass, the unrivalled Belvoir. 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 inhospitality quite foreign to his nature. If he neither shot nor danced, he appeared well pleased that we brought him a very respectable supply of game, and that we sometimes passed an evening at the assembly room of our metropolis, Grantham. My mother's declining state becoming more evident, he was, if possible, more attentive to her com- forts than ever. He would take up her meals when in her own room, and sometimes cook her some little nicety for supper, when he thought it would otherwise be spoiled. " What a father you have ! " was a grateful exclama- tion often on her lips. * See the lines on Muston in " The Borough," Letter L " Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ; That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow, "Wliere tlie reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow," &c. "TALES IN VERSE." I93 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 strik- ing as, and far less objectionable than, its predecessor, " The Borough ; " for here no flimsy connection is at- tempted between subjects naturally separate ; nor, conse- quently, was there such temptation to compel into verse matters essentially prosaic. The new tales had also the advantage of ampler scope and developement than his preceding ones. The public voice was again highly fa- vorable, 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 sent him a copy of all his works. His brother poet hon- ored him with the following beautiful reply : — «' Abbotsford, June 1, 1812. " Mr DEAR Sir, — 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 cop}^ 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 natural or moral, renders, I have often remarked, your works gen- erally delightful to those whose youth might render them insensible to the other beauties with which they abound. There are a sort of pictures — surely the most valuable, were it but for that reason — which strike the uninitiated 17 194 LIFE OF CRABBE. as much as 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, ' Virginihus puerisque ; ' and so did Pope when he told somebody he had the mob on the side of his version of Homer, and did not mind the high-flying critics at Button's. After all, if a faultless poem could be produced, I am satis- fied it would tire the critics themselves, and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen. " You must be delightfully situated in the Vale of Belvoir — a part of England for which I entertain a special kind- ness, for the sake of the gallant hero, Robin Hood, who, as probably you will readily guess, is no small favorite of mine; Ills indistinct ideas concerning the doctrine of meum and tuum being no great objection to an outriding borderer. I am happy to think that your station is under the protec- tion 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 around, is the Duke of Buccleugh, the head of my clan ; a kind and benevolent landlord, a warm and zealous friend, and the husband of a lady, ' com7ne il y en apeu.' They are both great admirers of Mr. Crabbe's poetry, and would be happy to know him, should he ever come to Scotland, and venture into the Gothic halls of a border chief. The early and uniform kindness of this family, with the friendship of the late and present Lord Melville, enabled me, some years ago, to ex- change my toils as a barrister for the lucrative and respect- able situation of one of the clerks of our supreme court, which only requires a certain routine of official duty, neither laborious nor calling for any exertion of the mind. So that mv time is entirely at my own command, except when I am attending the court, which seldom occupies more than two hours of the morning during sitting. I besides hold in eommendam. the sheriffdom of Ettrick Forest, — which is "TALES IN VERSE." X95 now no forest ; — so that I am a sort of pluralist as to law appointments, and have, as Dogberry says, two gowns, and every thing handsome about me. I have often thought it is the most fortunate thing for bards like you and me, to have an established profession and professional character, to render us independent of those worthy gentlemen, the re- tailers, or, as some have called them, the midwives of litera- ture, 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 hke ours. That, however, is only a mercantile way of looking at the matter ; but did any of my sons show poetical talent, of which, to my great satisfaction, there are no appearances, the first thing I should do, would be to inculcate upon him the duty of cultivating some honorable profession, and qualifying himself to play a more respectable part in society than the mere poet. And as the best corollary of my doc- trine, 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 sending your young men to college, and I should have writ- ten the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' for the purpose of buying a new horse for the Volunteer Cavalry. I must now send this scrawl into town to get a frank, for God knows it is not worthy of postage. With the warmest wishes for your health, prosperity, and increase of fame — though it needs not, — • I remain, most sincerely and affectionately, yours, ''Walter Scott." My father's answer to this kind communication haa been placed in my hands ; and I feel convinced that no offence will be taken by any one at an extract which I am about to give from it. The reader will presently dis- cover, that my father had no real cause to doubt the 196 LIFE OF CRABBE. regard of the noble person to whom he alludes, and who subsequently proved a most efficient patron and friend. Mr. Crabbe says to Sir Walter, — " Accept my very sincere congratulations on your clerk- ship, and all things beside which you have had the goodness to inform me of. It is indeed very pleasant to me to find that the author of works that give me and thousands de- light, is so totally independent of the midwives you speak of. Moreover, I give you joy of an honorable intercourse with the noble family of Buccleugh, whom you happily describe to me, and by whose notice, or rather notice of my book, I am much favored. With respect to my delightful situation in the Vale of Belvoir, and under the very shade 6f the castle, I will not say that your imagination has cre- ated its beauties, but I must confess it has enlarged and adorned them. The Vale of Belvoir is flat and unwooded, and save that an artificial straight-lined piece of water, and one or two small streams, intersect it, there is no other varie- ty 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 ap- pearance from the window of my parsonage, at which I now sit, at about a mile and a half distance. The duke also is a duke-like man, and the duchess a very excellent lady. They have great possessions, and great patronage, but — you see this unlucky particle, in one or other of Home Tooke's senses, will occur — but I am now of the old race. And what then ? — Well, I will explain. Thirty years since I was taken to Belvoir by its late possessor, as a domestic chaplain. I read the service on a Sunday, and fared sumptuously every day. At that time, the Chan- cellor, Lord Thurlow, gave me a rectory in Dorsetshire, small, but a living ; this the duke taught me to disregard as a provision, and promised better things. While I lived MUSTON. 197 with him on this pleasant footing, I observed many persons in the neighbourhood, who came occasionally to dine, and were civilly received. ' How do you do, Dr. Smith ? How is Mrs. Smith ? ' — 'I thank your Grace, well : ' and so they took their venison and claret. ' Who are these ? ' said I to a young friend of the duke's. ' Men of the old race, Sir ; people whom the old duke was in the habit of seeing — for some of them he 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 and I were of an age to a week ; and with the wisdom of a young man, I looked distantly on his death and my own. I went into Suffolk and married, with decent views, and prospects of views more enlarging. His Grace went into Ireland — and died. Mrs, Crabbe and I philoso- phised 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 Dorsetshire. They were at that time worth about 70/. or SO/, a year more than that, and now bring me about 400/. ; but a long minority ensued, — new connections 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, in- deed, but I almost repented the attempt, from the coldness of the reply. Yet, recollecting that great men are beset with appHcants of all kinds, I acquitted the duke of injus- tice, and determined to withdraw m3-self, as one of the old race, and give way to stronger candidates for notice. To this resolution I kept strictly, and left it entirel}'- to the family whether or no I should consider myself as a stranger, who, having been disappointed in his expectation, by un- foreseen 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 17* 198 LIFE OF CRABBE. his friends at the castle, without knowing whether I am to consider that notice as the promise of favor, or as a favor in itself — I have two sons, both in orders, partly from a promise 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 prop- erty that will keep them from pining upon a curacy. And what more .-* — I must not perplex myself with conjectur- ing. You find, Sir, that you are much the greater man ; for except v/hat Mr. Hatchard puts into my privy purse, I doubt whether 6001. be not my total rccei])ts ; but he at present helps us, and my boys being no longer at college, I can take my wine without absolutely repining at the enor- mity 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 f attered by what you mention of my Patron. Your praise is cur- rent coin." In the Slimmer of 1813, my mother, though in a very declining state of hedth, having a strong inclination to sec London once more, a friend in town procured us those very eligible rooms for sight-seers, in Osborne's Hotel, Adeiphi, which were afterwards occupied by their 8able 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 coiTee-house that was near. My father's favorite 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 interested by theatrical talent as I had MUSTON. 199 expected ; but he was one evening infinitely diverted at the Lyceum by Listen's Solomon Wiseacre, in *' Sh^rp and Flat," especially where he reads the letter of his dear Dorothy Dimple, and applies his handkerchief to his eyes, saying, "It is very foolish, but I cannot help it." He pronounced Listen *' 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 JMr. Bonnycastle. A fine, tall, elderly man cordially shook hands u'ith my father ; and we had, for the first time, the satisfaction of seeing one whose name had been from childhood familiar to us. He and my father hid, 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 comparative 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 en- gagements would permit. I have already mentioned, that, ever mindful when in town of his early struggle and providential deliver- ance, he sedulously sought out some objects of real distress. He now went to the King's Bench, and heard the cir- cumstances that incarcerated several of the inmates, and rejoiced in administering the little relief he could afford. We were not with him on these occasions ; but I knew 200 LIFE OF CRABBE. incidentally that he was several mornings engaged in this way. Soon after our return to Muston, my father was re- quested by the Rev. Dr. Brunton of Edinburgh, the hus- band of the celebrated novelist, to contribute to a new collection of psalmody, then contemplated by some lead- ing clergymen of the church of Scotland. He consulted Sir Walter Scott, and received the following interesting letter : — "My dear Sir, — I was favored with your kind letter sometime ago. Of all people in the world, I am least enti- tled to demand regularity of correspondence 5 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 my- self, though we speak together. 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 hearing the opinion of the judges upon an action for augmentation of stipend to him and to his brethren, it would not, I con- ceive, be a very favorable time to canvass a literary topic. But you are quite safe with him ; and having so much com- mand of scriptural 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 hynms which do not immediately recall the warm and exalted language of the Bible are apt to be^ how- MUSTON. 201 ever elegant, rather cold and flat for the purposes of devo- tion. You will readily believe that I do not approve of the vague and indiscriminate 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 Mater, the Dies Irce, 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 dignity 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 memory 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 charming talent. The opinions of reviewers are really too contradictory to found any thing upon them, w^hether they are favorable or otherwise; for it is usually their principal object to display the abilities of the writers of the critical lucubrations themselves. Your Tales are univer- sally 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. Brunton. That same autumn, an event occurred which broke up the family, and spoiled, if it did not entirely terminate, the domestic 202 LIFE OF CRABBE. habits of years. My mother died October 21st, in her sixty-third year, and was buried in the chancel of Mus- ton. During a long period before her departure, her mind had been somewhat impaired by bodily infirmities; and at last it sank under the severity of the disease. She possessed naturally a great share of penetration and acuteness ; a firm unflinching spirit, and a very warm and feeling heart. She 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 vari- ance, were cheerfully sacrificed. " Never," said her own sister, *' was there a better husband, except that he was too indulgent." But so large a portion of her married life was clouded by her lamentable 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 reasonable 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 considerable resemblance to acute cholera without sickness, 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 benefi- MUSTON. 203 cial, though his recovery was very gradual. His de- meanor, 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 Wiltshire, of which his Grace had the alternate presentation. To this offer, of which the Duke had at first rather mistaken the value, as compared 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 indif- ferent to him, nor was that occupation ever resumed again : besides, that diversity of religious sentiment, which I mentioned before, had produced a coolness in some of his parishioners, which he felt the more pain- fully, 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 fur as to ring the bells for his successor, before he himself had left the residence. Before he quitted Leicestershire he witnessed a scene of hospitality at the castle, which has not often been exceeded in magnificence. In January, 1814, the infant 204 LIFE OF CRABBE. heir of the House of 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 personal 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 magnificent entertainments ensued ; and my father, who was one of the company, had the honor 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 flat- tering m.anner. Before finally quitting Leicestershire, my father paid a short visit to his sister at Aldborough, from whom he was about to be still more widely divided ; and one day was given to a solitary ramble among the scenery of by-gone 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 this 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. TROWBRIDGE. 205 ** Then hurry from this place away ! It gives not now the bhss 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 3d of June, 1814, he was inducted to Trow- bridge 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, happier." To what these last words refer, I shall not guess ; but I well remember that, even after he had mingled with the lively society of Trowbridge, 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 convers- ing cheerfully as we walked together in the garden be- fore his window, it seemed to have brought back to his memory the times when he was not alone ; for, happen- ing 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 v/ere, however, gradually softened ; — he became contented and cheerful, and I hope I may add, positively happy. 18 206 LIFE OF CRABBE. CHAPTER IX. 1814 — 1819. MR. CUABBE'S residence AND HABITS OF LIFE AT TROW- BRIDGE. HIS STUDY OF FOSSILS. HIS CORRESPOND- ENCE WITH MARY LEADBEATER. HIS JOURNAL KEPT DURING A VISIT TO LONDON. LETTERS TO AND FROM MR. CRABBE. HIS "TALES OF THE HALL," ETC. When my brother and myself arrived, on the occa- sion aheady alluded to, within a mile of Trowbridge, my father appeared on the road, having walked out to meet us ; and, as he returned 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 inhabitants 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 humor 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 TROWBRIDGE. 207 depress him seriously. In answering the Duke of Rut- land's kind letter, offering him the rectory of Trow- bridge, 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 disposition, — a hermit without a hermit's resig- nation." What wonder that he was healthfully excited by the warm reception he was now experiencing among the most cultivated families of Trowbridge and its vi- cinity : by the attractive attentions of the young and gay among them, in particular, who, finding the old satirist in many things very different from what they had looked for, hastened to show a manifest partiality for his manners, as well as admiration of his talents ? — We were surprised, certainly, as well as delighted, to observe the tempered exuberance to which, ere many weeks had passed, his spirits, lately so sombre and desponding, were raised, — how lively and ready he appeared in every company, pleased with all about him, and evidently im- parting pleasure wherever he went. ' But a physical change that occurred in his constitu- tion, 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 symptoms. 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 occasional fits of low fever, and vexatiously disordering his digestive organs. In those days, " life is as tedious as a twice-told tale," was an expression not seldom in his mouth ; and he once told me, he felt that he could not possibly live more than six 208 LIFE OF CRABBE. or seven years. But now it seemed that he had recov- ered not only the enjoyment of sound heaUh, but much of the vigor and spirit of youthful feelings. Such a renovation of health and strength at sixty is rare enough ; and never, I believe, occurs unless there has been much temperance in the early period of life. Perhaps, he had never looked so well, in many respects, as he did about this time ; his temples getting more bare, the height of his well-developed forehead appeared as increased, and more than ever like one of those heads by which Wilkie makes so many converts to the beauty of human decay. He became stouter in person than he had been, though without fatness ; and, although he began to stoop, his limbs and motions were strong and active. Notwithstanding his flattering reception among the principal people of the place, he was far from being much liked, for some years, by his new parishioners in general : nor, in truth, is it at all diflicult to account for this. His immediate predecessor, the curate of the pre- vious rector, had been endeared to the more serious inhabitants by warm zeal and a powerful talent for preaching extempore, and had, moreover, been so uni- versally 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 feel- ing, bordering on ill-will, towards Mr. Crabbe himself, which was heightened by the prevalence of some reports so ridiculous, that I am almost ashamed to notice them ; such as, that he was a dissipated man — a dandy — even a gambler. And then, when he appeared among them, TROWBRIDGE. 209 the perfect openness of his nature, — that, perhaps, im- politic frankness which made him at all times scorn the assumption of a scruple which he did not really feel, led bun to violate, occasionally, 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 ex- ercise of his unwearied and extensive charity, he often so conducted himself as to neutralize, in coarse and bad minds, all the natural movements of gratitude ; mixing the clergyman too much with the almsgiver, and reading a lecture, the severity of which, however just, was more thought of than the benefaction it accompanied. He, moreover, soon after his arrival, espoused the cause of a candidate for the county representation, to whom the manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in his parish, was extremely hostile. Lastly, to conclude this long list, Mr. Crabbe, in a town remarkable for diversity of sects and warmth of discussion, adhered for a season unchang- ed to the same view of scriptural doctrines which had latterly found little favor even at simple Muston. As he has told us of his own Rector, in the " Tales of the Hall : " — " * A moral teacher ! ' some contemptuous cried ; He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied ; Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied. Still, though he bade them not on aught rely- That was their own, but all their worth deny, They called his pure advice his cold morality. * Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from wrong, But to a Christian higher points belong.' " 18* 210 LIFE OF CRABBE. But, while these things were against him, there were two or three traits in his character which wrought slowly, but steadily, in his favor. One was his boldness and uncompromising perseverance in the midst of opposition and reproach. During the violence of that contested election, while the few friends of Mr. Benett were al- most in danger of their lives, he was twice assailed by a mob of his parishioners, with hisses and the most virulent abuse. He replied to their formidable menaces by " ra- ting them roundly ; " and though he was induced to retire by the advice of some friends, who hastened to his suc- cour, yet this made no change in his vote, habits, or conduct. He continued to support Mr. Beiiett ; he walked in the streets always alone, and just as frequently as before ; and spoke as fearlessly. Mr. Canon Bowles, who was near him on this occasion, says, in a letter to the present writer, — " A riotous, tumultuous, and most appalling mob, at the time of election, besieged his house, when a chaise was at the door, to prevent his going to the poll and giving his vote in favor of my most worthy friend, John Benett of Pyl House, the present member for the county. The mob threatened to destroj'^ the chaise and tear him to pieces, if he attempted to set out. In the face of the furious assem- blage, he came out calmly, told them they might kill him if they chose, but, whilst alive, nothing should prevent his giving a vote at the election, according to his promise and principles, and set off, undisturbed and unhurt, to vote for Mr. Benett." He manifested the same decision respecting his re- ligious opinions ; for one or two reproachful letters made no impression, nor altered his language in the least. TROWBRIDGE. 211 Such firmness, where it is the effect of principle, is sure to gain respect from all Englishmen. But mildness was as natural to him as his fortitude ; and this, of course, had a tendency to appease enmity even at its height. A benevolent gentle heart was seen in his manner and countenance, and no occasional hastiness of temper could conceal it ; — and then it soon became known that no one left his house unrelieved. But, above all, the liberality of his conduct with re- spect to dissenters brought a counter-current in his favor. Though he was warmly attached to the estab- lished church, he held that " A man's opinion was hh own, his due And just pojseasion, whether false or true ; " * and in all his intercourse with his much-divided parish- ioners he acted upon this principle, visiting and dealing indiscriminately, and joining the ministers of the various denominations in every good work. In the course of a few years, therefore, not only all opposition died away, * He wrote thus to a friend on the subject : — " Thousands and tens of thousands of sincere and earnest beUevers in tlie Gospel of our Lord, and in the general contents of Scripture, seeking its meaning with veneration and prayer, agree, I cannot doubt, in essentials, but differ in many points, and in some which unwise and uncharitable persons deem of much importance ; nay, think that there is no salvation without them. Look at the good, — good, comparatively speaking — just, pure, pious; the patient and suf- fering amongst recorded characters ; — and were not they of differ- ent opinions in many articles of their faith .' and can we suppose their heavenly Father will select from this number a few, a very few, and that for their assent to certain tenets, which causes, in- dependent of any merit of their own, in all probability, led them to embrace ? " 212 LIFE OF CRABBE. but he became generally and cordially esteemed. They who differed from him admitted that he had a right also to his own religious and political opinions. His integrity and benevolence were justly appreciated ; his talents ac- knowledged, and his disposition loved. In the spring of 1815, my brother and I, thinking it probable that we might soon settle for life, each in some village parsonage, and that this was the only opportunity of seeing something of our native country — leaving my father in sound health and among attached friends, absorbed by his duties, his new connections and amuse- ments, — quitted Trowbridge about the same time, and continued absent from it, sometimes in London together, sometimes apart in distant places in the kingdom, for nearly two years. In that interval, though we constantly corresponded, I saw my father only twice. Calling, one day, at Mr. Ilatchard's, in Piccadilly, he said, " Look round," and pointed to his inner room ; and there stood my father, reading intently, as his manner was — with his knees somewhat bent, insensible to all around him. How homelike was the sight of that vene- rable white head among a world of strangers! He was engaged, and I was leaving town; and, after appointing a day to meet at Beccles, and a short cheerful half hour, we parteJ. When the time arrived, he joined my brother and me at Beccles, at the house of his kind sister-in-law, Miss Elmy ; where, after staying about a week, and being introduced to Lady Byron, who attracted his just admi- ration, he left us via Aldborough, and returned into Wiltshire. This was about the end of October, 1816. TROWBRIDGE. 213 I cannot pass this date — October, 1816 — without offering a remark or two, suggested by my father's diary and note-book of that period. He was peculiarly fond of the society and correspondence of females : all his most intimate friends, I think, were ladies ; and I be- lieve no better proof could be given of the delicacy and purity of his mind and character. He loved the very failings of the female mind : men in general appeared to him too stern, reserved, unyielding, and worldly; and he ever found relief in the gentleness, the tender- ness, and the unselfishness of woman. Many of his chosen female friends were married, but this was not uniformly the case ; and will it seem wonderful, when we consider how he was situated at this time, — that, with a most affectionate heart, a peculiar attachment to female society, and with un wasted passions, Mr. Crabbe, though in his sixty-second year, should have again thought of marriage ? He could say with Shakspeare's good old Adam, — I quote lines which, for their sur- passing beauty, he himself never could read steadily, — " Though I look old, yet am I strong and histy ; For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ; Nor did not with unbashful forehead vroo The means of weakness and debility : Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty but kindly." Moreover, a poet's mind is proverbially always young. If, therefore, youth and beauty could more than once warm his imagination to outrun his prudence — for, surely, the union of youth and beauty with a man of such age can never be wise — I feel satisfied that no 214 LIFE OF CRABBE. one will be seriously shocked with such an evidence of the freshness of his feelings. The critics of his last publication bestowed some good-natured raillery on the warmth with which he there expressed himself on cer- tain subjects — the increased tenderness of his love- scenes especially — and there occurred various inci- dents in his own later history that might afford his friends fair matter for a little innocent jesting ; but none that knew him ever regarded him with less re- spect on account of this pardonable sort of weakness ; and though love might be out of the question, I be- lieve he inspired feelings of no ordinary warmth in more than one of the fair objects of his vain devotion. These things were so well known among the circle of which at this period he formed the delight and orna- ment, that I thought it absurd not to allude to them. I have, however, no great wish to dwell on the subject ; though, I must add, it was one that never for a moment disturbed the tranquillity of his family ; nay, that, on one occasion at least, my brother and myself looked with sincere pleasure to the prospect of seing our father's happiness increased by a new alliance. Whether the two following sets of stanzas refer to the same period, I have not been curious to enquire. It is even possible that I may be wrong in suspecting any allusion to his personal feelings. I. " Unhappy is the wretch who feels The trembling lover's ardent flame, And yet the treacherous hope conceals By using Friendship's colder name. TROWBRIDGE. 215 " He must the lover's pangs endure. And still the outward sign suppress ; Nor may expect the smiles that cure The wounded heart's concealed distress. " When her soft looks on others bend. By him discerned, to him denied, He must be then the silent friend. And all his jealous torments hide. " When she shall one blest youth select. His bleeding heart must still approve ; Must every angry thought correct. And strive to like, where she can love. " Heaven from my heart such pangs remove, And let these feverish sufferings cease — These pains without the hope of love. These cares of friendship, not its peace. n. " And wilt thou never smile again ; Thy cruel purpose never shaken ? Hast thou no feeling for my pain, Refused, disdained, despised, forsaken ? *' Thy uncle crafty, careful, cold, His wealth upon my mind imprinted ; His fields described, and praised his fold. And jested, boasted, promised, hinted. " Thy aunt — I scorned the omen — spoke Of lovers by thy scorn rejected ; But I the warning never took When chosen, cheered, received, respected. " Thy brother, too — but all was planned To murder peace — all freely granted ; And then I lived in fairy land. Transported, blessed, enrapt, enchanted. 216 LIFE OF CRABBE. " Oh, what a dream of happy love ! From which the wise in time awaken ; While I must all its anguish prove, Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken I " • I am persuaded that but few men have, even in early life, tasted either of the happiness or the pain which at- tend the most exquisite of passions, in such extremes as my father experienced at this period of his life. In his young " true love, " indeed, he was so soon as- sured of a full return, that one side of the picture could scarcely have been then revealed to his view ; and I cannot but consider it as a very interesting trait in the history of his mind, that he was capable, at so late a stage, of feeling, with regard to the other side of it, so exactly as a man of five-and-twenty would have done under the same circumstances. But my brother, in December, 1816, married, with his entire approbation, the daughter of the late William Crowfoot, Esq., and sister to the present Dr. Crowfoot, of Beccles, and immediately came to reside as his curate at Trowbridge ; thus relieving him from much of the fa- tigue of his professional duties, as well as from domestic cares and the weariness of a solitary house. Soon after this I again joined the fiimily ; and, early in 1817, ray father had the satisfaction of marrying me to the daugh- ter of the late Thornas Timbrell, Esq., of Trowbridge, and of seeing my wife and myself established, within twenty miles of him, in the curacy of Pucklechurch ; where, during the rest of his life, he had always at his command a second, and, what was often refreshing to him, a rural home. TROWBRIDGE. 217 In relating my own impressions of my father, I have often been apprehensive that I have described him in terms which those who did not know him may deem ex- aggeration ; yet am I supported by the testimony, not only of many who were well acquainted with his worth, but of one who knew him not, except by his publications and his letters. The talented individual who began the following correspondence, which was continued till her death in 1826, read and appreciated his character, nearly as well as the most intimate of his friends. The daughter of Richard Shackleton, the intimate friend of Burke, had met my father at Mr. Burke's table in the year 1784, when, just after his marriage, he had the pleasure of introducing his bride to his patron. This distinguished lady possessed that superiority of intellect which marked her family, and was evidently honored by Mr. Burke, not merely as the daughter of his old friend, but as one wor- thy to enjoy that high title herself. Her correspondence with Mr. Burke forms an interesting feature in Mr. Prior's able work. She was a poet, though not of the highest class, and sent to her eminent friend some pleas- ing verses on his residence at Beaconsfield, which drew forth a long and warm reply. How would he have been gratified had he lived to read the very superior publica- tions in prose, " Cottage Dialogues," ** Cottage Biogra- phy,'' &LC., which she gave to the world after she had changed her name to Leadbeater ! This excellent woman had not forgotten that early meeting with Mr. Crabbe ; and in November, 1816, he had the unexpected pleasure of receiving from her the first of a long series of letters ; his replies to which are rendered particularly interesting by the playful ingenuousness with which he 19 218 LIFE OF CRABBE. describes himself. They are, in fact, most valuable additions to his autobiographical sketch. From Mrs. Leadbeater. " Ballitore, 7th of llth month, 1816. " 1 BELIEVE it will surprise George Crabbe to receive a letter from an entire stranger, whom, most probably, he does not remember to have ever seen or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him at the house of Edmund Burke, Charles Street, James's Square, in the year 1784. I was brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the friend, from their childhood, of Edmund Burke. My dear father told thee, that ' Goldsmith's would now be the deserted village.^ Perhaps thou dost not remember this compliment ; but I remember the ingenuous modesty which disclaimed it. He admired ' The Village,' ' The Library,' and ' The Newspaper ' exceedingly ; and the delight with which he read them to his family could not but be accept- able to the author, had he known the sound judgment and th'e exquisite taste which that excellent man possessed. But he saw no more of the productions of the Muse he admired, whose originality was not the least charm. He is ctead — the friend whom he loved and honored, and to whose character thou dost so much justice in the Preface to ' The Parish Register,' is also gone to the house ap- pointed for all living. A splendid constellation of poets arose in the literary horizon. I looked around for Crabbe. ' Why does not he, who shines as brightly as any of these, add his lustre ? ' I had long thought thus, when, in an Edinburgh Review, I met with reflections similar to my own, which introduced ' The Parish Register.' Oh ! it was like the voice of a long-lost friend ; and glad was I to hear that voice again in ' The Borough ! ' — still more in the * Tales,' which appear to me excelling all that preceded them. Every work is so much in unison with our own TROWBRIDGE. 219 feelings, that a wish for information concerning- them and their author, received into our hearts, is strongly excited. One of our friends. Dykes Alexander, who was in Ballitore, in 1810 I think, said, he was personally acquainted with thee, and spoke highly of thy character. I regretted I had not an opportunity of conversing with him on this subject, as perhaps he would have been able to decide arguments which have arisen ; namely, whether we owe to truth or to fiction that ' ever new delight ' which thy poetry affords us ? Thy characters, however singular some of them may be, are never unnatural ; and thy sentiments, so true to domestic and social feelings, as well as to those of a higher nature, have the convincing power of reality over the mind ; and / maintain that all thy pictures are drawn from life. To enquire whether this be the case, is the excuse which I make to myself for writing this letter. I wish the excuse may be accepted by thee ; for I greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in making the enquiry. Though advanced in Ufe, yet from an education of peculiar sim- plicity, and from never having been long absent from my retired native village, I am too little acquainted with deco- rum. If I have now transgressed the rules it prescribes, I appeal to the candor and liberality of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by a strong enthusiasm. I am thy sincere friend, " Mary Leadbeater." '' P. S. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund Burke was educated by Abraham Shackleton, whose pupil he be- came in 1741, and from whose school he entered the college of Dublin in 1744. The school is still flourishing." To Mrs. Leadbeater. " Trowbridge, 1st of 12th month, 1816. " Mary Leadbeater ! — Yes, indeed, I do well remem- ber you ! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty demure lass, 220 LIFE OF CRABBE. standing a timid auditor while her own verses were read by a kind friend, but a keen judge. And I have in my memory your father's person and countenance, and you may be sure that my vanity retained the compliment which he paid me in the moment when he permitted his judg- ment to slip behind his good humor and desire of giving pleasure : — Yes, I remember all who were present ; and, of all, are not you and I the only survivors ? It was the day — was it not ? — when I introduced my wife to my friend. And now both are gone ! and your father, and Richard Burke, who was present (yet again I must ask — was he not ?) — and Mrs. Burke ! All departed — and so, by and by, they will speak of us. But, in the mean time, it was good of you to write. Oh very — very good. " But, are you not your father's own daughter ? Do you not flatter after his manner .'' How do you know the mischief that you may do in the mind of a vain man, who is but too susceptible of praise, even while he is conscious of so much to be placed against it .'' I am glad that you like my verses : it would have mortified me much if you had not, for you can judge as well as write Yours are really very admirable things ; and the morality is as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am not sure that I have read all that you have given us ; but what I have read has really that rare and almost undefinable quality, genius ; that is to say, it seizes on the mind, and commands attention, and on the heart, and compels its feelings. " How could you imagine that I could be otherwise than pleased — delighted rather ~ with your letter ? And let me not omit the fact, that I reply the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobing myself for church. You are a child of simplicity, I know, and do not love robing ; but you are a pupil of liberality, and look upon such things with a large mind, smiling in charity. Well ! I was putting on the great black gown, when my servant — (you see I can be TROWBRIDGE. 221 pompous, to write of gowns and servants with such famil- iarity) — when he brought me a letter first directed, the words yet legible, to ' George Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle,' and then by Lord Mendip to ' the Reverend ' at Trowbridge ; and at Trowbridge I hope again to receive these welcome evidences of your remembrance, directed in all their sim- plicity, and written, I trust, in all sincerity. The delay was occasioned by a change in my place of residence. I now dwell in the parsonage of a busy, populous, clothing town, sent thither by ambition and the Duke of Rutland. It is situated in Wiltshire, not far from Bath. " There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one of whom you probably mean ; and as he knew very little of me, I see no reason why he should not give me a good character. Whether it was merited is another point, and that will depend upon our ideas of a good character. If it means, as it generally does, that I paid my debts, and was guilty of no glaring, world-defying immorality — why, yes ! I was so far a good character. But before the Searcher of Hearts what are our good characters ? " But your motive for writing to m^e was your desire of knowing whether my men and women were really existing creatures, or beings of my own imagination .'' Na}^, Mary Leadbeater, yours was a better motive : you thought that you should give pleasure by writing, and — yet you will think me very vain — you felt some pleasure yourself in renewing the acquaintance that commenced under such auspices ! Am I not right ? My heart tells me that I am, and hopes that you will confirm it. Be assured that I feel a very cordial esteem for the friend of my friend, — the virtuous, the worthy character whom I am addressing. Yes, I will tell you readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured to paint as nearly as I could and dared ; for, in some cases, I dared not. This you will readily admit : besides, charity bade me be cautious. Thus far you are 19* 222 LIFE OF CRABBE. correct : there is not one of whom I had not in my mind the original ; but I was obliged, in some cases, to take them from their realsitutations, in one or two instances to change even the sex, and, in many, the circumstances. The near- est to real life was the proud, ostentatious man in ' The Borough,' who disguises an ordinary mind by doing great things ; but the others approach to reality at greater or less distances. Indeed, I do not know that I could paint merely from my own fancy ; and there is no cause why we should. Is there not diversity sufficient in society .'' and who can go, even but a little, into the assemblies of our fellow-wanderers from the way of perfect rectitude, and not find characters so varied and so pointed, that he need not call upon his imagination .'' " Will you not write again } ' Write to thee, or for the public i ' wilt thou not ask i To me and for as many as love and can discern the union of strength and simplicity, purity and good sense. Our feeling and our hearts is the language you can adopt. Alas, / cannot with propriety use it — our I too could once say ; but I am alone now 5 and since my removing into a busy town among the multi- tude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more melan- choly. But this is only at certain times ; and then I have, though at considerable distances, six female friends, un- known to each other, but all dear, very dear, to me. With men, I do not much associate ; not as deserting, and much less disliking, the male part of society, but as being unfit for it ; not hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor sufficiently acquainted with the every-day concerns of men. But my beloved creatures have minds with which I can better assimilate. Think of you I must; and of me, I must entreat that you would not be unmindful. Thine, dear lady, very truly, " George Crabbe." TROWBRIDGE. 223 I dare say no one will put an unfavorable interpretation on my father's condescension to Mrs. Leadheater's feel- ings, if, indeed, it was any thing but a playful one, in dating the above letter after the duaker fashion, " 1st of 12th month." I need not transcribe the whole of this excellent lady's next letter ; but the first and last para- graphs are as follows : — " Ballitore, 29th of 12th month, 1816. " Respected Friend, — I cannot describe the sensa- tions with which I began to read thy letter. They over- powered me. I burst into tears, and, even after I had recovered composure, found it necessary frequently to wipe my spectacles before I reached the conclusion. I felt aston- ishment mingled with dehght, to find that T, in my lonely valley, was looked upon with such benevolence, by him who sits upon the top of the hill. That benevolence encourages me again to take up the pen. — That day on which I had the pleasure of seeing thee and thy wife was the tenth day of the sixth month (June), 1784. It was the day thou introduced thy bride to thy friends. She sat on a sofa with Jane Burke ; thou stood with Edmund near the window. May I ask how long it is since thou wast visited by the affliction of losing her, and how many children are left to comfort thee ? But this is a delicate chord, and perhaps I should not touch it. The report of my having received a letter from thee quickly spread through Ballitore, and I was congratulated by my family, friends, and neighbours, with unfeigned cordiality, on this distinction ; for we partake in each other's joys and sorrows, being closely united in friendship and good neighbourhood. We are mostly a colony of Quakers ; and those who are not of our profes- sion, in their social intercourse with us conform to our sober habits. None of us are wealthy, all depending on industry 224 LIFE OF CRABBE. for our humble competence, yet we find time to recreate ourselves with books, and generally see every publication which is proper for our perusal. Some profess not to relish poetry ; yet thou hast contrived to charm us all, and sorry shall we be if thy next visit be to take leave. Therefore do not mar the pleasure we anticipate, by a threat so alarm- ing. In thy partiality for female society, I discern a resem- blance to dear Cowper, our other moral poet, but enlivened by that flow of cheerfulness, which he so sadly wanted. " I cannot define my motives for writing to thee. I per- fectly recollect that one of them was the wish to be assured of the reality of thy characters. I suppose, also, I wished to know thy own ; but I did not imagine I could give plea- sure to thee by such an address ; indeed, I feared offending, though that fear was dissipated when I opened one of thy volumes. How condescending art thou to gratify my curi- osity, and how glad am I to find myself right in my conjec- ture ! But I felt confident that what impressed our hearts so deeply must be truth. I could say much more, but I curb myself, considering who I am, and whom I address ; and am, with sentiments of gratitude and respect, sincerely thy friend, "Mary Leadbeater." I am approaching the period of my father's return to the high society of London ; and, perhaps, a few remarks on his qualifications for mixing in such circles may, with propriety, precede some extracts from the Journal which he kept during his first season in the metropolis. When he re-entered such society, his position was very diflferent from what it had been when he sat at the tables of Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and the Duke of Rutland. Then he was under the avowed TROWBRIDGE. 225 patronage of persons, whose station must have ensured him easy admittance among their equals, whatever might have been his own talents for society : but when he returned to high life, though his poetical reputation would, no doubt, have procured him an extensive intro- duction, nothing but his personal qualifications, agreea- ble or shining, could have enabled him to retain his place — nay, continually to enlarge the circle of his acquaintance, and see the cordiality of his distinguished admirers growing into the warmth and attachment of friendship. Now, certainly, all this was not to be attributed to any very shining qualities in his conversation. He had no talent for speaking — never, except at one or two public meetings, uttered a sentence in the form or tone of a speech in his life, but said (as was admirably remarked by Mr. Murray) " uncommon things in so natural and easy a way, that he often lost the credit of them." Nor were such conversational powers as he did possess always at his command — they required to be drawn forth and fostered. Perhaps, no man with an appearance so prepossessing was ever more distrustful of his powers to please. Coldness and reserve would benumb them ; and he would be abstracted, and even distressed. But where he was once received warmly, he generally felt that strong partiality which ever unlocked his heart and drew forth his powers ; and, under particular circum- stances, when his spirits were raised, he could be the most delightful of companions. Argument he sustained with great impatience : he neither kept close to his point, nor preserved his tem- per. This dislike of controversial discourse arose, in 226 LIFE OF CRABBE. part, probably, from a consciousness that he had not cultivated the faculty of close logical reasoning ; but partly, also, from an opinion, or rather feeling, that he had, against all pretence of colloquial equality. He had seen the submission paid to the opinions of Johnson and Burke ; and he always readily followed the lead of any one whom he thought skilled on the topic in question ; but when he ventured an assertion himself, he expected similar deference. And, to be candid, though what he said was pretty sure to be just, yet there was an unfair and aristocratic principle in this expectation, which I never could think quite in harmony with the general modesty of his nature. But he had a recommendation for the best society infinitely more availing than even the brilliancy of wit. In appearance, manners, and disposition, he was entirely the gentleman. Mr. Burke had discovered this stamp when he had recently left the warehouse of Slaughden, and since that time his walk had been at Belvoirj Glem- ham, and Cambridge, and his profession, his studies, his age, and his literary success, had fully ripened the char- acter. Perhaps it may be said, that no one so humbly born and bred, ever retained so few traces of his origin. His person and his countenance peculiarly led the mind from the suspicion of any, but an highly cultivated and polished education ; venerable, clerical, intellectual, — it seemed a strange inconsistency to imagine him, even in early youth, occupied as a warehouseman ; and, in fact, there was no company in which his appearance would not have proclaimed him an equal. But, above all, he had the disposition of a gentleman, the genuine politeness of a virtuous mind, and a warm and benevo- TROWBRIDGE. 227 lent heart, ready to enter into the interests of others, grateful for their attentions, and happy in their happi- ness. The vicinity of Trowbridge to Bath, Bowood, &c. drew Mr. Crabbe by degrees into the distinguished society of London. He was first introduced to the noble family of Lansdowne by his brother poet, and, in latter days, attached friend, the Reverend W. L. Bowles ; and it was, I believe, under that roof that he began an acquaintance, which also soon ripened into a strong friendship, with the author of the " Pleasures of Memo- ry." Mr. Rogers urged him to pay a visit in the sum- mer season to the metropolis : he did so, and, taking lodgings near his new friend's residence in St. James's Place, was welcomed in the most cordial manner by the whole of that wide circle, — including almost every name distinguished in politics, fashion, science, litera- ture, and art, — of which Mr. Rogers has so long been considered as the brightest ornament. His reception at Holland House was peculiarly warm, in consequence of his early acquaintance with the late Mr. Fox ; but, in- deed, every mansion of that class was now open to receive him with pride and pleasure ; nor were the attentions of royalty withheld. In this brilliant society, to which after this time he returned during some weeks for several successive seasons, he became personally acquainted with Mr. Moore, who soon afterwards came to reside at no great distance from Trowbridge, and maintained an affectionate intercourse with him to the last. He was also introduced, on one of these London visits, by Mr. Murray, of Albemarle Street, to his cor- respondent Sir Walter Scott; and the admiration and 228 LIFE OF CRABBE. respect they had long felt for each other, were but heightened and confirmed by mutual observation. I am happy to say, that among my father's papers have been found several note-books, containing short memoranda of these exciting scenes, and from them I shall extract various specimens. They will, however artless, convey, perhaps, no inadequate impression of the brilliant recep- tion he met with. A friend who saw much of him under these new circumstances, says, *' It is not easy to conjecture the effect which the modern world pro- duced on one who had associated with Burke, Reynolds, and Johnson. As for himself, there can be no doubt that he produced a very pleasing impression on those who now, for the first time, beheld and heard him. There was much of the old school in his manners, and even in llie disposition of his beautiful white hair ; but this sat gracefully on his time of life and professional character, and an apparent simplicity, arising from his strangeness to some of the recent modes of high life, was mingled with so much shrewdness of remark, that most people found his conversation irresistibly amusing. When in society which he particularly liked, he would manifest some of the peculiar traits which distinguish his writings, in keen pointed sarcastic humor, and pithy observations : and to this he joined, in the company of ladies, such a spice of the old-fashioned gallantry and politeness, as never fails to please when it is unaffected and genuine." I proceed to make some extracts from his London Journal of 1817. He reached town in company with his friend, Mr. W. Waldron, on the 19th of June : — LONDON, 1817. 229 " June 24th. — Mr. Rogers ; his brother, and family. Mr. and Mrs. Moore, very agreeable and pleasant people. Foscolo, the Italian gentleman. Dante, &c. Play, Kemble in Coriolanus. " 2Qth. — Mr. Rogers and the usual company at break- fast. Lady Holland comes and takes me to Holland House. The old building. Addison's room. Bacon. Mr. Fox. The busts and statues. Gardens very pleasant and walks extensive. Meet at Holland House Mr. Allen. He appears equally intelligent and affable. Must have a difficult part, and executes it well. A young Grecian under Lady Hol- land's protection. Meet Mr. Campbell. Mr. Moore with us. Mr. Rogers joins us in the course of the day. Met Mr. Douglas,* in my way, at the Horse Guards, and prom- ised to dine with him on Saturday. He says I cannot leave Holland House ; that it is experimentum crucis. Dinner. Mr. Brougham, who in some degree reminds me of Mr. Burke. Ready at all subjects, and willing : very friendly. Duchess of Bedford, daughter of the Duchess of Gordon. The confidence of high fashion. In the evening, Countess Besborough, a frank and affectionate character, mother of Lady Caroline Lamb, invites me to her house the next eve- ning. — Miss Fox. t I remember meeting her thirty years since ; but did not tell her so, and yet could not help ap- pearing to know her ; and she questions me much on the subject. Parry it pretty well. — Mrs, Fox.+ All the re- mains of a fine person ; affectionate manners and informed mind. Diffident and retiring. Appeared to be much affect- ed at meeting a friend of her husband. Invites me to her house ', and I am told she was much in earnest. Retire very late. * The late Hon. Sylvester Douglas, t Sister to the late Mr. Fox. X Widow of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 20 230 LIFh OF CRABBE. ''Ilth. — Breakfast with Mr. Brougham and Lady Hol- land. Lord Holland to speak at Kemble's retiring, at the meeting at Freemason's Tavern to-morrow. Difficulty of procuring me an admission ticket, as all are distributed. Trial made by somebody, I knew not who, failed. This represented to Lady Holland, who makes no reply. Morn- ing interview with Mr. Brougham. Mr. Campbell's letter.* * I take the liberty of inserting Mr. Campbell's letter ; — a letter full of what only a high mind in such eminent station would ex- press. My father had found Mr. Campbell a much younger man than he had expected. " Sydenham, June 25, 1817. " My dear Sih, — I sent an apology to Lady Holland for not being able to dine at Holland House to-day ; and at that very moment of writing, I felt that I owed also an apology to you for not testifying, by my acceptance of the invitation, the high value which I attached to an opportunity of meeting you. It was, in- deed, an indispensable engagement that kept me, otherwise it would have been an humiliating self-reflection to have neglected such an occasion of being in the company of Crabbe. You thought me an old man ; but, in addressing you, my dear Sir, I feel myself younger than even the difference of our years might seem to justify. I have a very youthful feeling of respect, — nay, if you will pardon me for the liberty of saying so, — something of a filial upward-looking affection for your matured genius and patriarchal reputation. This reverence for your classic name would have been equally strong in my mind if I had not been so fortunate as to form an acquaintance with you ; which your kind manners have made a proud era in the little history of my life. That time, and that spot, in the library of Holland House, I shall never forget, when you shook me a second time by the hand. It must be one of the most enviable privileges of your senior and superior merit to confer pleasure on such men as myself, by recognising them as younger brothers of your vocation. One token of your kindness was a promise to give me a day of your society. I would not be importunate on this head; but I cannot help reminding you of it, LONDON, 1817. 231 He invites us to Sydenham. I refer it to Mr. Rogers and Mr. Moore. Return to town. The porter dehvers to me a paper containing the admission ticket, procured by Lady Holland's means: whether request or command I know not. Call on Mr. Rogers. We go to the Freemason's Tavern. The room filled. We find a place about halfway down the common seats, but not where the managers dine, above the steps. By us Mr. Smith, one of the authors of the Re- jected Addresses. Known, but no introduction. Mr. Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle, and Mr. Campbell, find us, and we are invited into the Committee-room. Kemble, Perry, Lord Erskine, Mr. Moore, Lord Holland, Lord Ossory, whom I saw at Holland House. Dinner announc- ed. Music. Lord Erskine sits between me and a young man, whom I find to be a son of Boswell. Lord Holland's speech after dinner. The Ode recited.* Campbell's speech. Kemble's — Talma's. We leave the company, and go to Vauxhall to meet Miss Rogers and her party. Stay late. " '28th. — Go to St. James's Place. Lord Byron's new works, Manfred, and Tasso's Lament. The tragedy very fine — but very obscure in places. The Lament more per- spicuous, and more feeble. Seek lodgings, 37, Bury Street. Females only visible. Dine as agreed with Mr. Douglas- Chiefly strangers. My new lodgings a Httle mysterious. and assuring you that Mrs. Campbell has a very proper sympathy with me in the enthusiasm which I feel to have the honor of your presence under my roof. Our excellent friend Mr. Rogers, I trust, will accompany you, and you wull have the goodness to fix the day. Believe me, most estimable Sir, yours, truly, "T. Campbell." * This beautiful Ode is now included in Mr. Campbell's collec- tive works. 232 LIFE OF CRABBE. " '29th. — Breakfast at the Coffee-house in Pall Mall, and go to Mr. Rogers and family. Agree to dine, and then join their party after dinner. Mr. Stothard. Foscolo. Drive to Kensington Gardens in their carriage. Grosvenor Gate. Effect new and striking. Kensington Gardens have a very peculiar effect ; not exhilarating, I think, yet alive and pleasant. Return to my new lodgings. Enquire for the master. There is one, I understand, in the country. Am at a loss whether my damsel is extremely simple, or too knowing. " 30th. — Letter from Mrs. Norris.* Like herself. First hour at Mr. Murray's. A much younger and more lively man than I had imagined. — A handsome drawing-room above, where his friends go when they please, usually from two to five o'clock. Books of all, but especially of expen- sive, kinds. There new works are heard of, and there generally first seen. Pictures, by PhiUips, of Lord Byron, Mr. Scott, Campbell, Moore, Rogers (yet unfinished). Mr. Murray wishes me to sit. Advise with Mr. Rogers. He recommends. Dine with Lord Ossory. Meet Marquis and Marchioness of Lansdowne.f Engage to dine on Fri- day. Lord Gower. + * Mr. Crabbe was on terms of intUTiate fiiendship with Mr. and Mrs. Norris, of Hughenden Hall, near Wycombe, Bucks. t I take the liberty of inserting the following passage from a let- ter with which I have recently been honored by the noble mar- quis : — " Any testimony to your father's amiable and unaffected manners, and to that simplicity of character which he united to the uncommon powers of minute observation, would indeed be uncalled for ; as it could only express the common feeling of all who had access to his society." t Now Duke of Sutherland. LONDON, 1817. 233 "July 1st. — I foresee a long train of engagements. Dine with Mr. Rogers. Company : Kemble, Lord Ers- kine, Lord Ossory, Sir George Beaumont, Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Moore. Miss R. retires early, and is not seen any more at home. Meet her, at the Gallery in Pall Mall, with Mr. Westall. "2c?. — Duke of Rutland. List of pictures burned at Belvoir Castle. Dine at Sydenham, with Mr. and Mrs Campbell, Mr. Moore, and Mr. Rogers. Poets' Club." * * * * I here interrupt my father's Journal, in order to give part of a letter with which I have lately been honored by Mr. Campbell. " The first time I met Crabbe was at Holland House, where he and Tom Moore and myself lounged the better part of a morning about the park and library ; and I can answer for one of the party at least being very much pleased with it. Our conversation, I remember, was about novelists. Your father was a strong Fieldingite, and I as sturdy a Smollettite. His mildness in literary argument struck me with surprise in so stern a poet of nature, and I could not but contrast the unassumingness of his manners with the originality of his powers. In what may be called the ready-money small-talk of conversation, his facility might not perhaps seem equal to the known calibre of his talents ; but in the progress of conversation I recollect remarking that there was a vigilant shrewdness that almost eluded you by keeping its watch so quietl^^ Though an oldish man when I saw him, he was not a ' laudator tern- ports acti,' but a decided lover of later times. " The part of the morning which I spent at Holland House with him and Tom Moore, was one, to me at least, of memorable agreeableness. He was very frank, and 20* 234 LIFE OF CRABBE. even confidential, in speaking of his own feelings. Though in a serene tone of spirits, he confessed to me that since the death of his wife he had scarcely known positive happiness. I told him that in that respect, viz. the calculation of our own happiness, we are apt to deceive ourselves. The man whose manners are mild and tranquil, and whose conversa- tion is amusing, cannot be positively unhap])y. " When Moore left us we were joined by Foscolo ; and I remember as distinctly as if it had been yesterday, the contrasted light in which Crabbe and Foscolo struck me. It is not an invidious contrast — at least my feelings towards Ugo's memory intend it not to be so, — yet it was to me morally instructive, and, I need hardly say, greatly in favor of your father. They were both men of genius, and both simple. But, what a different sort of simplicity ! I felt myself between them as if I had been standing between a roaring cataract and a placid stream. Ugo raged and foamed in argument, to my amusement, but not at all to your father's liking. He could not abide him. What we talked about I do not recollect ; but only that Ugo's im- petuosity was a foil to the amenity of the elder bard. " One da}^ — and how can it fail to be memorable to me when Moore has commemorated it? — your father, and Rogers, and Moore, came down to Sydenham pretty early in the forenoon, and stopped to dine with me. We talked of founding a Poets' Club, and even set about electing the members, not by ballot, but viva voce. The scheme failed, I scarcely know how ; but this I know, that a week or so afterwards, I met with Perry, of the Morning Chron- icle, who asked me how our Poets' Club was going on. I said, * I don't know — we have some difficulty in giving it a name, — we thought of calling ourselves the Bees.^ ' Ah,' said Perry, ' that 's a httle different from the common re- port, for they say you are to be called the IVasps.' I was so stung with this waspish report, that I thought no more of the Poets' Club. LONDON, 1817. 235 " The last time I saw Crabbe was, when I dined with him at Mr. Hoare's at Hampstead. He very kindly came with me to the coach to see me off, and I never pass that spot on the top of Hampstead Heath, without thinking of him. As to the force and faith of his genius, it would be superfluous in me to offer any opinion. Pray pardon me for speaking of his memory in this very imperfect manner, and believe me, dear Sir, yours very truly, "T. Campbell." I return to Mr. Crabbe's Journal : — " Jw/y 3c?. — Letter from Trowbridge. I pity you, my dear John, but I must plague you. Robert Bloomfield. He had better rested as a shoemaker, or even a farmer's boy ; for he would have been a farmer perhaps in time, and now he is an unfortunate poet. By the way, indis- cretion 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 favors so disposed of. He is, however, to be pitied and assisted. Note from Mr. Murray respecting the picture. Go, with Mr. Rogers, in his carriage, to Wimbledon. Earl and Countess Spencer. The grounds more beautiful than any I have yet seen ; more extensive, various, rich. The profusion of roses extraordinary. Dinner. Mr. Heber, to whom Mr. Scott addresses one canto of Marmion. Mr. Stanhope. A pleas- ant day. Sleep at Wimbledon. " 4th. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Heber and Mr. Stanhope. Afterwards Mr. Rogers, Lady S., Lady H. A good picture, if I dare draw it accurately : to place in lower life, would lose the pecuharities which depend upon their station ; yet, in any station. Return with Mr. Rogers. Dine at Lansdowne House. Sir James 236 LIFE OF CRABBE. Mackintosh, Mr. Grenville, elder brother to Lord Grenville. My visit to Lord Lansdowne's father in this house, thirty- seven years since ! Porter's lodge. Mr. Wynn. Lord Ossory. ''5th. — My thirty lines done; but not well, I fear: thirty daily is the self-engagement. Dine at George's Coffee-house. Return. Stay late at Holborn. The kind of shops open at so late an hour. Purchase in one of them. Do not think they deceive any person in particular. " 6th. — Call at Mr. Rogers's, and go to Lady Spencer. Go with Mr. Re gers to dine at Highbury 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 enquires for John, Sec. His daughters agreeable women. Mr. Urban wealthy. Arrive at home in earl^^ 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 certainly they expect me at Hampstead, though I have made no promise. " 7th. — Abide by the proniise, and take all possible care to send m}' letter ; so that Mr. Hoare * may receive it before dinner. Set out for Holborn Bridge to obtain assist- ance. In the way find the Hampstead stage, and obtain a promise of delivery in time. Prepare to meet our friends at Mr. Rogers's. Agree to go to Mr. Phillips, and sit two hours and a half. Mrs. Phillips a very agreeable and beau- tiful woman. Promise to brcakfist next morning. Go to Holborn. Letter from Mr. Frere. Invited to meet Mr. Canning, &c. Letter from Mr. Wilbraham. Dinner at * The late Samuel Hoare, Esq. of Hampstead. LONDON, 1817. 237 Mr. Rog-ers's with Mr. 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 daughter. Lady B. the same frank character ; Mr. Grenville the same gentle and polite one : Miss O'Neil natural, and I think excellent ; and even her ' Catherine,' especially in the act of yielding the superiority to the husband, well done and touching. Lady Besborough obligingly offers to set me down at twelve o'clock. Agreed to meet the Hon. W. Spencer* at his house at Petersham, and there to dine next day with Mr. Wilbraham. " 8