-the hardest moralist could not desire a sadder retribution; and they who love rather to seek in the corrupt mass of humanity for the original germs of the divine nature, will turn with Thomas Moore to the fair side, and acquiesce most cordially in the concluding words of his biography. "It would not be in the power, indeed, of the most poetical friend to allege anything more convincingly favourable of his character than is contained in the few simple facts, that, through life, with all his faults, he never lost a friend; that those about him in his youth, whether as companions, teachers, or servants, remained attached to him to the last; that the woman to whom he gave the love of his maturer years idolizes his name; and that, with a single unhappy exception, scarce an instance is to be found of any one once brought, however briefly, into relations of amity with him that did not feel towards him a kind regard in life and retain a fondness for his memory." In his last moments his heart fondly turned to his wife and child; and he commissioned his old servant, Fletcher, to deliver to them messages of an affection which then rose sublimely above all the resentments of earth. WHEN a youth, with a voracious appetite for books, an old lady, who kindly supplied me with many, put one day into my hands Crabbe's Borough. It was my first acquaintance with him, and it occasioned me the most singular sensations imaginable. Intensely fond of poetry, I had read the great bulk of our older writers, and was enthusiastic in my admiration of the new ones who had appeared. The Pleasures of Hope, of Campbell; the West Indies and World before the Flood, of Montgomery; the first Metrical Romances of Scott; all had their due appreciation. The calm dignity of Wordsworth, and the blaze of Byron, had not yet fully appeared. Everything, however, old or new, in poetry had a certain elevation of subject and style, which seemed absolutely necessary to give it the title of poetry. But here was a poem by a country clergyman,-the description of a seaport town, so full of real life, yet so homely and often prosaic, that its effect on me was confounding. Why, I said to myself, it is not poetry, and yet how clever! There is certainly a resemblance to the style of Pope; yet what subjects, what characters, what ordinary phraseology! The country parson, certainly, is a great reader of Pope; but how unlike Pope's is the music of the rhythm-if music there be! What an opening for a poem in fourand-twenty books! "Describe the Borough-though our idle tribe This cannot be; yet moved by your request, Could he, who sang so well the Grecian Fleet, And lengthen out my lays from door to door?' No, good parson! how should you? I exclaimed to myself. You see the absurdity of your subject, and yet you rush into it. He who sang of the Greek Fleet certainly would never have thought of singing of Alley, Lane, or Street! What a difference from Or "Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!' "The man for wisdom's various arts renowned, What a difference from "Arms and the man I sing, who forced by fate, Cr from the grandeur of that exordium :— "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that flowed Invoke thine aid to my adventurous song, Instruct me, for Thou knowest: Thou from the first Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, And mad'st it pregnant; what in me is dark And justify the ways of God to men." With this glorious sound in my ears, like the opening hymn of an archangel-language in which more music and more dignity were united than in any composition of mere mortal man, and which heralded in the universe, God and man, perdition and salvation, creation and the great sum total of the human destinies,-what a fall was there to those astounding words "Describe the Borough!" It was a shock to everything of the ideal great and poetical in the young and sensitive mind, attuned to the harmonies of a thousand great lays of the bygone times, that was never to be forgotten. Are we then come to this? I asked. Is this the scale of topic, and is this the tone to which we are reduced in this generation? Turning over the heads of the different books did not much tend to remove this feeling. The Church, Sects, the Election, Law, Physic, Trades, Clubs and Social Meetings, Players, Almshouse and Trustees, Peter Grimes and Prisons! What, in heaven's name, were the whole nine Muses to do with such a set of themes! And then the actors! See a set of drunken sailors in their ale-house : "The Anchor, too, affords the seaman joys, In small smoked room, all clamour, crowds, and noise; They come for pleasure in their leisure hour, And they enjoy it to their utmost power; Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while all But, spite of all, a book was a book, and therefore it was read. At every page the same struggle went on in the mind between all the old notions of poetry, and the vivid pictures of actual life which it unfolded. When I had read it once, I told the lender that it was the strangest, cleverest, and most absorbing book I had ever read, but that it was no poem. It was only by a second and a third perusal that the first surprise subsided; the first shock_gone by, the poem began to rise out of the novel composition. The deep and experienced knowledge of human life, the sound sense, the quiet satire, there was no overlooking from the first; and soon the warm sympathy with poverty and suffering, the boldness to display them as they existed, and to suffer no longer poetry to wrap her golden haze round human life, and to conceal all that ought to be known, because it must be known before it could be removed; the tender pathos, and the true feeling for nature, grew every hour on the mind. It was not long before George Crabbe became as firmly fixed in my bosom as a great and genuine poet, as Rembrandt, or Collins, or Edwin Landseer are as genuine painters. Crabbe saw plainly what was become the great disease of our literature. It was a departure from actual life and nature. "I've often marvelled, when by night, by day, To this home-truth, succeeds that admirable satirical description of our novel literature, which introduces the sad story of Ellen Orford. My space is little, but I must give a specimen of the manner in which the Cervantes of England strips away the sublime fooleries of our literary knight-errantry. "Time have I lent-I would their debt were less To flowing pages of sublime distress; And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears I early gave my sixpences and tears; Oft have I travelled in these tender tales, * I've watched a wintry night on cast.e walls, Most horrid was it :-for, behold the floor Has stains of blood, and will be clean no more. Yon beauteous nymph who must unmask the deed: Though windows rattle, and though tapestries shake, "Much have I feared, but am no more afraid, And help so distant 'tis in vain to call; From all this false sublime, Crabbe was the first to free us, and to lead us into the true sublime of genuine human life. How novel at that time, and yet how thrilling, was the incident of the sea-side visitors surprised out on the sands by the rise of the tide ! Here was real sublimity of distress, real display of human passion. The lady, with her children in her hand, wandering from the tea-table which ha been spread on the sands, sees the boatmen asleep, the boat adrift, and the tide advancing: "She gazed. she trembled, and though faint her call, And there was weeping, wailing, wrath, and blame." A A |