pays no regard to the brilliancy of their hues, less that is horrible, and nothing that can be the sweetness of their odours, or the graces said to be absolutely disgusting, and the picof their form. Those who come to him for ture which is afforded of society and human the sole purpose of acquiring knowledge may nature is, on the whole, much less paintul participate perhaps in this indifference; but and degrading. There is both less misery the world at large will wonder at them-and and less guilt; and, while the same searching he will engage fewer pupils to listen to his and unsparing glance is sent into all the dark instructions, than if he had condescended in caverns of the breast, and the truth brought some degree to consult their predilections in forth with the same stern impartiality, the the beginning. It is the same case, we think, result is more comfortable and cheering. The in many respects, with Mr. Crabbe. Relying greater part of the characters are rather more for the interest he is to produce, on the curi- elevated in station, and milder and more ous expositions he is to make of the elements amiable in disposition; while the accidents of human character, or at least finding his of life are more mercifully managed, and forown chief gratification in those subtle inves-tunate circumstances more liberally allowed. tigations, he seems to care very little upon It is rather remarkable, too, that Mr. Crabbe what particular individuals he pitches for the seems to become more amorous as he grows purpose of these demonstrations. Almost older, the interest of almost all the stories every human mind, he seems to think, may in his collection turning on the tender pas serve to display that fine and mysterious sion-and many of them on its most romantic mechanism which it is his delight to explore varieties. and explain;—and almost every condition, and every history of life, afford occasions to show how it may be put into action, and pass through its various combinations. It seems, therefore, almost as if he had caught up the first dozen or two of persons that came across him in the ordinary walks of life, and then fitting in his little window in their breasts, and applying his tests and instruments of observation, had set himself about such a minute and curious scrutiny of their whole habits, history, adventures, and dispositions, as he thought must ultimately create not only a familiarity, but an interest, which the first aspect of the subject was far enough from leading any one to expect. That he succeeds more frequently than could have been anticipated, we are very willing to allow. But we cannot help feeling, also, that a little more pains bestowed in the selection of his characters, would have made his power of observation and description tell with tenfold effect; and that, in spite of the exquisite truth of his delineations, and the fineness of the perceptions by which he was enabled to make them, it is impossible to take any considerable interest in many of his personages, or to avoid feeling some degree of fatigue at the minute and patient exposition that is made of all that belongs to them. These remarks are a little too general, we believe-and are not introduced with strict propriety at the head of our fourth article on Mr. Crabbe's productions. They have drawn out, however, to such a length, that we can afford to say but little of the work immediately before us. It is marked with all the characteristics that we have noticed, either now or formerly, as distinctive of his poetry. On the whole, however, it has certainly fewer of the grosser faults and fewer too, perhaps, of the more exquisite passages which occur in his former publications. There is nothing at least that has struck us, in going over these volumes, as equal in elegance to Phobe Dawson in the Register, or in pathetic effect to the Convict's Dream, or Edward Shore, or the Parting Hour, or the Sailor dying beside his Sweetheart. On the other hand, there is far The plan of the work,-for it has rather more of plan and unity than any of the for mer,-is abundantly simple. Two brothers, both past middle age, meet together for the first time since their infancy, in the Hall of their native parish, which the elder and richer had purchased as a place of retirement for his declining age-and there tell each other their own history, and then that of their guests, neighbours, and acquaintances. The senior is much the richer, and a bachelor-having been a little distasted with the sex by the unlucky result of an early and very extravagant passion. He is, moreover, rather too reserved and sarcastic, and somewhat Tory ish, though with an excellent heart and a powerful understanding. The younger is very sensible also, but more open, social, and talk ative-a happy husband and father, with a tendency to Whiggism, and some notion of reform-and a disposition to think well both of men and women. The visit lasts two or three weeks in autumn; and the Tales, which make up the volume, are told in the after dinner tète à têtes that take place in that time between the worthy brothers over their bottle. The married man, however, wearies at length for his wife and children; and his brother lets him go, with more coldness than he had expected. He goes with him, however, a stage on the way; and, inviting him to turn aside a little to look at a new purchase he had made of a sweet farm with a neat mansion, he finds his wife and children comfortably settled there, and all dressed out and ready to receive them! and speedily discovers that he is, by his brother's bounty, the proprietor of a fair domain within a morning's ride of the Hall-where they may discuss politics, and tell tales any afternoon they think proper. Though their own stories and descriptions are not, in our opinion, the best in the work, it is but fair to introduce these narrative brothers and their Hall a little more particularly to our readers. The history of the elder and more austere is not particularly probablenor very interesting; but it affords many pas sages extremely characteristic of the author. He was a spoiled child, and grew up into a That sun-excluding window gives the room; youth of a romantic and contemplative turndreaming, in his father's rural abode, of divine nymphs and damsels all passion and purity. One day he had the good luck to rescue a fair lady from a cow, and fell desperately in love:-Though he never got to speech of his charmer, who departed from the place where she was on a visit, and eluded the eager search with which he pur- So much for Squire George-unless any sued her, in town and country, for many a reader should care to know, as Mr. Crabbe long year: For this foolish and poetical pas- has kindly told, that-"The Gentleman was sion settled down on his spirits; and neither tall," and, moreover, "Looked old when foltime nor company, nor the business of a Lon-lowed, but alert when met." Of Captain don banker, could effect a diversion. At last, at the end of ten or twelve years-for the fit lasted that unreasonable time-being then an upper clerk in his uncle's bank, he stumbled upon his Dulcinea in a very unexpected way and a way that no one but Mr. Crabbe would either have thought of—or thought of describing in verse. In short, he finds her established as the chère amie of another respectable banker! and after the first shock is over, sets about considering how he may reclaim her. The poor Perdita professes penitence; and he offers to assist and support her if she will abandon her evil courses. The following passage is fraught with a deep and a melancholy knowledge of character and of human nature. Richard, the story is more varied and rambling. He was rather neglected in his youth; and passed his time, when a boy, very much, as we cannot help supposing, Mr. Crabbe must have passed his own. He ran wild in the neighbourhood of a seaport, and found occupation enough in its precincts. "Where crowds assembled I was sure to run, "She vow'd-she tried!-Alas! she did not know Of one dispos'd to paint their dismal case; As her health fails, however, her relapses become less frequent; and at last she dies, grateful and resigned. Her awakened lover is stunned by the blow-takes seriously to business-and is in danger of becoming avaricious; when a severe illness rouses him to higher thoughts, and he takes his name out of the firm, and, being turned of sixty, seeks a place of retirement. [stand, "He chose his native village, and the hill He finds that object of his awe his own; Who gave the sad survivors' doleful tale, Once he saw a boat upset; and still recollects enough to give this spirited sketch of the scene. "Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic near, And the winds roaring, and the women led! 64 And who is she apart! She dares not come He also pries into the haunts of the smug- jest books, and hymns, and indelicate ballads! The character of this woman is one of the many examples of talent and labour misapplied. It is very powerfully, and, we doubt not, very truly drawn-but it will attract few readers. Yet the story she is at last brought to tell of her daughter will command a more general interest. "Ruth-I may tell, too oft had she been told!- "There was a sailor boy, and people said They are betrothed-and something more than betrothed-when, on the eve of their wedding-day, the youth is carried relentlessly off by a press-gang; and soon after is slain in battle!-and a preaching weaver then woos, with nauseous perversions of scripture, the loathing and widowed bride. This picture, too, is strongly drawn ;-but we hasten to a scene of far more power as well as pathos. Her father urges her to wed the missioned suitor; and she agrees to give her answer on Sunday. "She left her infant on the Sunday morn, A creature doom'd to shame! in sorrow born. "And she was gone! the waters wide and deep "But O! what storm was in that mind! what strife, That could compel her to lay down her life! Richard afterwards tells how he left the sea and entered the army, and fought and marched in the Peninsula; and how he came home and fell in love with a parson's daughter, and courted and married her;-and he tells it all very prettily,-and, moreover, that he is very happy, and very fond of his wife and children. But we must now take the Adelphi out of doors; and let them introduce some of their acquaintances. Among the first to whom we are presented are two sisters, still in the bloom of life, who had been cheated out of a handsome independence by the cunning of a speculating banker, and deserted by their lovers in consequence of this calamity. Their characters are drawn with infinite skill and minuteness, and their whole story told with great feeling and beauty;-but it is difficult to make extracts. The prudent suitor of the milder and more serious sister, sneaks pitifully away when their fortune changes. The bolder lover of the more elate and gay, seeks to take a baser advantage. Then made he that attempt, in which to fail Then was there lightning in that eye that shed Is shameful,--still more shameful to prevail. Its beams upon him,--and his frenzy fled; Abject and trembling at her feet he laid, Despis'd and scorn'd by the indignant maid, Whose spirits in their agitation rose, Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose: As liquid silver in the tube mounts high, Then shakes' and settles as the storm goes by!"- The effects of this double trial on their different tempers are also very finely described. The gentler Lucy is the most resigned and magnanimous. The more aspi ring Jane suffers far keener anguish and fiercer impatience; and the task of soothing and cheering her devolves on her generous sister. Her fancy, too, is at times a little touched by her afflictions-and she writes wild and melancholy verses. The wander ings of her reason are represented in a very affecting manner;-but we rather choose to quote the following verses, which appear to us to be eminently beautiful, and makes us regret that Mr. Crabbe should have indulged us so seldom with those higher lyrical effu sions. "Let me not have this gloomy view, Till I, a fading flower, am dead! "I'll have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know; "There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, "O! take me from a world I hate, Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold; And not a Man to meet us there." Vol. i. pp. 212-215. "The Preceptor Husband" is exceedingly well managed-but is rather too facetious for our present mood. The old bachelor, who had been five times on the brink of matrimony, is mixed up of sorrow and mirth; but we cannot make room for any extracts, except the following inimitable description of the first coming on of old age,-though we feel assured, somehow, that this malicious observer has mistaken the date of these ugly symptoms; and brought them into view nine or ten, or, at all events, six or seven years too early. "Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, And must have all things in my order placed; "The Maid's Story" is rather long-though it has many passages that must be favourites with Mr. Crabbe's admirers. "Sir Owen Dale" is too long also; but it is one of the best in the collection, and must not be discussed so shortly. Sir Owen, a proud, handsome man, is left a widower at forty-three, and is Soon after jilted by a young lady of twenty; who, after amusing herself by encouraging his assiduities, at last meets his long-expected declaration with a very innocent surprise at finding her familiarity with "such an old friend of her father's" so strangely misconstrued! The knight, of course, is furious;and, to revenge himself, looks out for a handsome young nephew, whom he engages to lay siege to her, and, after having won her affections, to leave her,-as he had been left. The lad rashly engages in the adventure; but soon finds his pretended passion turning into a real one-and entreats his uncle, on whom he is dependent, to release him from the unworthy part of his vow. Sir Owen, still mad for vengeance, rages at the proposal; and, to confirm his relentless purpose, makes a visit to one, who had better cause, and had formerly expressed equal thirst for revenge. This was one of the higher class of his tenantry-an intelligent, manly, good-humoured farmer, who had married the vicar's pretty niece, and lived in great comfort and comparative elegance, till an idle youth seduced her from his arms, and left him in rage and misery. It is here that the interesting part of the story begins; and few things can be more powerful or striking than the scenes that ensue. inquires whether he had found the objects of his just indignation. He at first evades the question; but at length opens his heart, and tells him all. We can afford to give but a small part of the dialogue. 866 Sir Owen Twice the year came round- "And could you know the miseries they endur'd, shame! Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, [scene, That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see, unclean; "That evening all in fond discourse was spent ; That arm-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek-In this, the pause of nature and of love; "And you reliev'd?' "If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.' To give it up was Heav'n's own act to slight.' I felt it written-Vengeance is not ours!' "Then did you freely from your soul forgive?' "Sure as I hope before my Judge to live, Vol. ii. pp. 36-46. We always quote too much of Mr. Crabbe: -perhaps because the pattern of his arabesque is so large, that there is no getting a fair specimen of it without taking in a good space. But we must take warning this time, and forbear-or at least pick out but a few little morsels as we pass hastily along. One of the best managed of all the tales is that entitled "Delay has Danger;"-which contains a very full, true, and particular account of the way in which a weakish, but well meaning young man, engaged on his own suit to a very amiable girl, may be seduced, during her unlucky absence, to entangle himself with a far inferior person, whose chief seduction is her apparent humility and devotion to him. When now the young are rear'd, and when the old, The moral autumn is quite as gloomy, and far more hopeless. "The Natural Death of Love" is perhaps the best written of all the pieces before us. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a married pair, upon the causes of the difference between the days of marriage and those of courtship-in which the errors and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience, and provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable and reflecting, but somewhat insulting manner of the gentleman, are all exhibited to the life; and with more uniform delicacy and finesse than is usual with the author. "Lady Barbara, or the Ghost," is a long story, and not very pleasing. A fair widow had been warned, or supposed she had been warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother, that she would be miserable if she contracted a second marriage-and then, some fifteen years after, she is courted by the son of a tired-and upon whom, during all the years reverend priest, to whose house she had reof his childhood, she had lavished the cares of a mother. She long resists his unnatural passion; but is at length subdued by his urgency and youthful beauty, and gives him her hand. There is something rather disgusting, We cannot give any part of the long and we think, in this fiction-and certainly the finely converging details by which the catas-worthy lady could not have taken no way so trophe is brought about: But we are tempted likely to save the ghost's credit, as by enterto venture on the catastrophe itself, for the ing into such a marriage-and she confessed sake chiefly of the right English, melancholy, as much, it seems, on her deathbed. autumnal landscape, with which it con cludes: "In that weak moment, when disdain and pride, He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield, "The Widow," with her three husbands, is not quite so lively as the wife of Bath with her five ;—but it is a very amusing, as well as a very instructive legend; and exhibits a rich variety of those striking intellectual portraits which mark the hand of our poetical Rembrandt. The serene close of her eventful life is highly exemplary. After carefully collecting all her dowers and jointures— "The widow'd lady to her cot retir'd: |