: materials of the Poet), who searches the heart of man, (and of woman too), both in its weakness and its strength; who studies in the living volume of society; and, like the painter, is for ever filling his mind with the most diversified forms of nature; by whom every character is delineated, every feeling analysed, and every passion observed; to whom, from the regal chamber to the peasant's cabin, every form of life is known and estimated;-in the life of such a person, often so dangerously, though nobly employed, it would be singular indeed if there were no circumstances to attract our curiosity, to excite our sympathy, and to increase our knowledge. Let those who have hung with a delight they wished not to control, over the pages which his affectionate biographer consecrated to the melancholy history of the immortal Tasso; of him who laid his neglected laurels under the feet of princely beauty, and expiated his unequal love in the dungeons of Ferrara ;-let him who has read with sorrow, and perhaps with indignation, the history of those wasted hopes, and that broken heart, that once beat so high in the bosom of the poet of Scotland :— but why attempt to select examples, when all must be instructive? A Poet, of necessity, is a man of great eminence. It is truly said, that" the world sees twenty great commanders to one great poet!" Poetry contains the very first essence of wisdom; it is the perfection of human thought; and the sons of Apollo are by birthright the heirs of immortality. Say not then that there is nothing inviting to curiosity even in the silent meditations, the pensive musings, the tranquil scenes, the soft abstractions, and the delightful pursuits, of the children of the Muses! What would not any one give to know something of the life and history of our morning-star-of Chaucer? Of Shakespeare every letter would be weighed against "fine gold." To know what Milton talked about when eating his egg at supper-to hear Spenser discoursing in an arbour— to sail in a boat to Chertsey with Cowley-to sit on a bench with Pope and Patty Blount-to find ourselves at dinner between Swift and Arbuthnot— to drink tea with Gray, and hear him say to us, Sir, have you read Dante?"-to walk arm in arm with Collins in his hat and feathers-to watch Thomson gnawing his peaches off his wall, being too idle to take his hands out of his pockets-to see Young writing poetry in a thunderstorm, and Mrs. Hallowes, the housekeeper, running out with a cloak and umbrella-to hear Cowper repeating the "Task" to Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austin, in the little square parlour at Olney :-all these desires, if fulfilled, would compose all we can conceive of real human felicity. These things, however, cannot be; and it is the part of wise men to content themselves with easy and attainable advantages. Here, then, before us, is one-the life of one of our best poets, as well as latest, written in knowledge, in affection, in impartiality; written when all is fresh and vivid in the recollection; written before error could mingle with truth, or before the finer and more curious and evanescent features of the mind became faded or forgotten. In short, here is the history of George Crabbe, related by the best and most appropriate biographer, his own son. A very modest and ingenuous preface informs us, that the work was submitted in MS. to Mr. Moore, and afterwards to Mr. Rogers, both warm friends of their brother-bard; from whose advice Mr. Crabbe profited in the arrangement of his book; that Mr. Campbell and Miss Baillie, (honoured names!) drew up accounts of their personal reminiscences; that letters from Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Canning, and others, were contributed to enrich the biography; and the correspondence of persons as illus trious for talents as for birth, Grey and Lansdowne and Holland, were cheerfully allowed to be published; while, to secure a correctness of composition, the assistance of a friend of high literary distinction was called in to polish and arrange the whole for the press. With such commendable care has filial duty performed its pleasing task; and we now proceed to give to our readers some account, extracted from it, of the life and character of the Poet whom they have so long admired, who has excited the activity of their imaginations, and moved the affections of their hearts, and who has often drawn from them, (the poet's tribute, willingly paid,) equally approving smiles and tears. Mr. Crabbe had commenced the collection of materials for his father's life, some years since, and he had fondly cherished the hope of submitting them to his judgment; of this he was deprived, by the sudden and violent illness which closed the Poet's mortal career, and left his son to seek other assistance and advice. Not much can be traced of the family:-the Suffolk Crabs crawl forward instead of backward; and whether they came from 'crusty fish or sour fruit,' cannot now be ascertained. As the coast of Suffolk and Norfolk seems to have been their habitation for ages; we rather incline to the former, especially as one of the family now at Southwold, exhibits an ancient coat of arms- "6 Gules, three crab fish Or." The Poet's grandfather was a burgess of Aldborough, and died, it is supposed, in narrow circumstances. His son George (for the Crabbes, like the Guelphs, run on the name of George), kept a small parochial school in the porch of the church at Orford; but at length rose to be Collector of the Salt Duties at Aldborough. He married the widow Loddock, a better woman than always falls to the share of poets or their parents (who now and then pick up a Shrew), for she was mild, patient, affectionate, and deeply religious; by her he had six children, all of whom, except a girl, lived to mature years. George Crabbe, the Poet, was born at Aldborough on Christmas Eve, 1754. One of his brothers was a glazier, who by pains acquired an independence, and is the one who possesses the family arms before-mentioned. Another was captain of a slave ship, and perished in an insurrection of the negroes. The fourth became a silversmith at Mexico, but left it in consequence of persecution for conscience' sake, and was last heard of on the coast of Honduras, where he met with an Aldborough sailor, who told him that his brother George was a Parson. "That can't be our George," said the astonished craftsman, "he was a Doctor." The fact was, that virtually he united the two professions for some time-attending both to soul and body, and expelling every kind of evil, physical and mental; every parson, he thought, ought to be medicinally given, and should read Galen as well as Grotius, and know something also of common and canon law-conversant with Burn and Bynkershoeck—thus will he be able, with dignity and comfort to himself, to supply all the wants of his parish, to meet his inveterate foe, Satan," in all his Proteus transformations, and to occupy the useful stations of parson, apothecary, and custos rotulorum. The death of his infant sister made an unusually deep and distressing sensation on the Poet's mind. Mr. Crabbe discovered the following MS. lines among his father's papers : But it was misery stung me in the day Tho' greater anguish I have since endured, The old salt-collector was a man of passionate and impetuous disposition; he was fondly attached to his child, and its untimely death drew from him those gloomy and savage tokens of misery, which 50 years after haunted and disturbed the memory of his son. The Poet was early studious, his father sometimes read aloud passages of Milton and Young, and he seized with avidity the poetical pages of Martin's Philosophical Magazine, which his father threw away as rubbish. The first couplet that he recollects admiring was the following: : The boat went down in flames of fire, But adieu to the Muses! He was sent to school at Bungay, and had nearly perished by being shut up in a dog-kennel by his master, with many of his schoolfellows, for playing at soldiers. Then he was removed to Mr. Haddon's, a surgeon at Stowmarket, when he was about 12 years old, it being determined that he should follow the profession of medicine. While waiting for a situation as surgeon's apprentice, he returned to Aldborough, and was employed in piling up butter and cheese in the warehouse of the quay at Slaughden, in Slaughden-vale, a vale immortalized in the poems of Mr. Bird, and which owes indeed all its beauty to his poetrySmiles in description, and looks green in song. In fact, Suffolk poets know nothing of scenery, and, like Dr. Syntax, ought to sally forth from home in search of the picturesque. Our Poet Crabbe cared nothing about it. Bernard Barton does not know a sand-bank from CaderIdris; and Mr. Bird never saw a vale in his life that was more than thirty yards long, and as many feet deep. The boasted Vale of Slaughden, gentle reader, is a mixture of a withered common, a rushy moor, a sandy heath, and a slimy marsh. The old Duchess of Manchester used to say, that the grass in Huntingdonshire was blue; we may say in Suffolk it is grey, for we defy a person to find a green field in the whole county. But to return from our digression-" sat prata biberunt." Our Poet at length saw in the papers " Apprentice wanted," and hastened off to Wickham Brook, near Bury. Unfortunately for his outward man, he had just had his head shaved, and wore an outrageous kind of countrymade scratch: when he reached the house, some smart young ladies, the daughters of the surgeon, who were standing at the door, saw him approaching, and after eyeing him and his amorphous peruke for some moments, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, crying out-"La! la! here's our new prentice! La!" This was a mortification he owns (for Crabbe was always a very janty and gallant swain to the ladies), that he never forgot. Nothing particular happened here, except his surprising a conjuror by talking Latin to him, and he soon willingly moved off (for he had to sleep with the ploughboy) to Mr. Page's at Woodbridge. While at Wickham, he mentions his carrying medicine afoot to Cheveley (the Duke of Rutland's), little thinking that in a few years he was to sit as an honoured guest at the illustrious owner's table. Such are the vicissitudes of the world, and such are also the powerful ascendancy and the rightful claims of genius! Now approached one of the great epochs of our Poet's life. He became intimate with a Mr. Lovett, who was paying his addresses to a Miss Brereton; and Miss Brereton was the friend of a Miss Elmy, the niece of a Mr. Tovell of Parham. Mr. Lovett said-"Why, George, you shall go with me to Parham, there is a young lady there that will just suit you." He accordingly went, was introduced, made himself agreeable, put as much sugar on his cake* as he could, spent a day in the society of the fair one, fell in love, and decided at once his matrimonial lot in life. Crabbe was now eighteen, and considering that his head was filled with poetry and love, he conducted himself very rationally. He wrote, as all rising poets do, for Magazines; celebrated the beauties of his fair one under the name of Mira, and printed Odes and Elegies in imitation of Spenser and Shenstone. At last he ventured a higher flight, and printed a poem called "Inebriety," in which he roasted the Parsons; and we are sorry to find that his gentle Sarah stirred the satirical fire by her approbation of his verses. However, we will pass over The reverend wig in sideway order placed, The reverend band by rubric stains disgraced,t and mention that he now commenced his love of botany, a pursuit that innocently and delightfully filled up many hours of his life, and which only declined at last with a very advancing age. At the end of 1775 he once more went back to Slaughden and the butter casks. Perhaps this was the most unhappy part of his life. His pride disdained his employment, he went sullen and angry to his work, and violent quarrels arose between him and his father. In this wretched and forlorn situation he persevered for some time, alternately moving firkins, and writing lines on Silvia's lap-dog. At length his father made an effort to send him to town, when he was very near being carried before the Lord Mayor for cutting up his landlady's child.' This peril, however, he escaped, and continuing some eight or ten months, till his funds were exhausted, he once more returned to Aldborough. Here he engaged himself to Mr. Maskill, whom he grievously offended by calling him Mr. Maskwell, and when he left, George Crabbe set up for himself. Alas! his very virtues were a hindrance to him. As he was a botanist, he was seen returning often into the town with weeds, and grasses, and roadside plants, and so the folks at Aldborough decided, that as he got his medicine for nothing, they would decline any payment: things were no better when he went to Parham, for Miss Elmy's uncle, old Mr. Tovell, as soon as he saw him, used to ask, "What was the good of his d-d learning." We must pass over his narrow escape from being drowned in the Waveney, and his recovery from a fever that had nearly ended his days, to come to the time when the Muses began to have a strong hold on him. He resolved to forsake Esculapius for Apollo; and one gloomy day in 1779, as he strolled up the bleak and cheerless cliff at Aldborough, he stopped opposite a muddy piece of water, and taking it for the waters of Helicon, said, "I will go to London." To effect this, he applied to his neighbour, the late Mr. Dudley North, for the loan of 57. which was immediately sent, and after paying his debts, he found 37. in his pocket when he set off to make his fortune in the metropolis. "Without black velvet breeches what is man?" says the anthor of the Man of Taste; but let us ask what was man in Crabbe's days An expression of a lady concerning his manner to the female sex. + Mr. Crabbe was not at all averse to the due circulation of the bottle, and his Suffolk neighbours often mention some of his feats, while the old ladies in the eastern part of the county remark the attractive warmth of his manners to them, when he joined them from the dinner table. "D-n it, Sir," said a Suffolk 'squire to us the other day, "the only day Crabbe ever dined with me, he made love to my sister." There are some ladies even now near us, who inform us with smiles (being assured of their safety) that they have been frightened at his warmth. GENT. MAG. VOL. I. 2 K without a tye-wig. Accordingly, our youthful bard, not wishing to meet the Muses in an undress, out of his 37. purchased a fashionable tye-wig, and then took lodgings at Mr. Vickery's, opposite the Exchange. Here he lived in great seclusion, and in great privation of course: but steadily pursuing his inflexible purpose of improving his talents, preserving the most honourable feelings of independence, and keeping his wig in excellent buckle. Sometimes he was reduced even to a very few shillings, and was in much woeful perplexity. He wrote to Lord Shelburne, who did not answer him, and to Lord Thurlow, who did. He tried Messrs. Dodsley and Beckett in vain, and he must either have starved, or parted with his peruke, or returned to Slaughden and the butter firkins, when he fortunately thought of addressing himself to Edmund Burke. This was in 1781. Politics were raging, the blazing fires of London were scarcely extinct in their ashes, and Burke was employed in wielding the wild democracy of the House' -but he heard the youthful Poet with smiles of benevolence-he attended to his history with patience and benignity-he encouraged him, advised him, soothed his misfortunes, opened his house, and spread his table for him-made Dodsley publish his poem, and got him into orders. Crabbe was a long and frequent guest at Beaconsfield, and nothing could exceed the friendly hospitality, and the delicate and polite attentions which he received there. We must give an instance, that may be instructive to some great persons of our acquaintance in their treatment of poets. "One day some company of rank not having arrived, as expected, the servants kept back some costly dish that had been cooked. Mrs. Burke asked for it. The butler said, 'It was kept back, as the company had not come.'What, is not Mr. Crabbe here? Let it be brought up immediately.' Now, if this is not real politeness, arising from delicacy of mind, good feeling, and a genuine sense of what is right and decorous, we never met with it-truly, this anecdote must not be forgotten. Burke soon introduced him to Fox, and Reynolds, and Dr. Johnson ; and Lord Thurlow asked him to breakfast, and gave him a 100%. note; and the Bishop of Norwich ordained him, and he was actually licensed to the curacy of Aldborough. His flock might have received him better than they did; but, as far as we can see, Suffolk flocks like best wealthy Shepherds. However, they reported that he had been a Methodist preacher in London, merely because an Aldborough sailor once accidentally saw him standing in a Methodist chapel in Moorfields. And so he was not very comfortable, and grew indignant, and did not care what they thought of him or his sermons, and wrote to Lord Thurlow to complain of his situation. Lord Thurlow did nothing; but Burke, faithful to his friendship, procured him the situation of Chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir. There accordingly he went, and left the society of the Aldborough pilots for that of the Duke of Queensberry, the Marquess of Lothian, and the Bishop of Llandaff. He now acquired fresh popularity by publishing the Village,` which succeeded even better than the 'Library; and Lord Thurlow gave him two small livings in Dorsetshire, telling him, "by God, he was as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen." He became LL.B. and soon after, in the church of Beccles, received from the hand of the Rev. Peter Routh, the long and prudently-withheld blessing of Miss Elmy, of Parham. Crabbe now settled at the curacy of Strathern, near Belvoir, and lived as all clergymen should live-taking care of his flock and himself, digging in his garden, planting olive branches round his table, catching butterflies, collecting fossils, writing verses, making sermons, going out airing in a huge |