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In this the stories, though in every other respect resembling the first series, were connected with each other by the persons of the narrators, two brothers, who having been parted since their youth, meet when middle-aged in the house of the elder, and amuse each other with their different experiences.

Though Crabbe occupies so marked a place in the history uf English poetry, he has not met in our own generation with all the attention which he deserves. Something of this comparative neg. lect is to be attributed to changes in society; the altered position of the poor has fortunately deprived his poems of much of the reality they once possessed. Something too must be ascribed to the revolutions of taste. We liave been long accustomed to look at Nature and peasant life through the philosophic medium created for us by Wordsworth and his followers. From the poetical standpoint of this school Crabbe is as far removed as he is from the conventional pastoralism of his predecessors. His intention is simply to paint things as they are, and modern ideology therefore finds in his poetry an uncongenial atmosphere. But beyond this it must be allowed that of all standard English writers Crabbe makes the largest demands on the patience of his readers. His great defect is an incurable want of taste. Like Rembrandt, to whose work his poetical chiaroscuro has a striking analogy, he seems, while impressing the imagination with powerful effects of light and shade, to delight at the same time in the exhibition of the most vulgar details. These he introduces into his poetry without the slightest attempt at generalisation or selection. In the midst of a passage of sustained tragic pathos he shocks us by the appearance of some incredibly mean thought or word ; his shrewd humour runs without restraint into coai seness; and he frequently oversteps the line that divides the horrible from the terrible.

Yet after making full deduction for these defects we have still left a body of powerful and original poetry, and indeed the defects themselves arise from that strong bent of genius which makes Crabbe's verse such an admirable foil to the insincerity of the fashionable pastoral. The extraordinary minuteness of his de scriptions of actual nature becomes excusable when we take into consideration the deep moral truth which he seeks to convey in them. As an observer and painter of the individual truths of nature no poet has ever approached him. He had a scientific interest and curiosity about all living objects, and this, though it impaired his sense of beauty, gave him an unrivalled power

in placing the scenes and persons he described before the mind of the reader. Whether he paints a storm on the East Coast, or exhibits the succession of images passing through the imagination of the condemned felon, or shows the mental stages by which the enthusiast of virtue proceeds to crime, everything is represented with an appearance of scientific precision, which in an ordinary poet would be offensive, but which from Crabbe's point of view is just and necessary. At the same time, with all this Duïch minuteness, he possessed, as we see in The Lover's Journey, and Delay has Danger, exceptional skill in describing Nature in the aspect which she presents to minds labouring under strong emotions. His powers of pathos are extraordinary, and his faculty of giving pain is often put to an illegitimate use. When his humour is under his control it is admirable, and of all the poets who have used the heroic couplet, Pope himself not excepted, he is the best writer of easy dialogue. As a painter of character he evidently modelled himself on Pope, but the style of the two poets is as different as their genius. Pope, an unequalled observer within a limited compass, is most careful to choose rare types and to embody their prominent features in the most select and pregnant words; Crabbe, on the other hand, trusts to the largeness of his experience, and to the general human interest of his descriptions, and, though preserving the antithetical form of Pope's verse, makes comparatively little attempt at epigrammatic expression It is noticeable that, as his subjects become more numerous and extended, his care in composition seems to diminish ; there is far more literary finish in The Village than in Tales of the Hall.

W. J. COURTHOPE.

THE VILLAGE AS IT IS.

(From The Village, Book I.]

Fled are those times, when in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains :
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty, or their nymph's rehearse ;
Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.

On Mincio's banks, in Cæsar's bounteous reign,
If Tityrus found the golden age again,
Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song ?
From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,
Where Virgil, not where fancy, leads the way?

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No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast,
Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast ;
Where other cares than those the Muse relates,
And other shepherds dwell with other mates;
By such examples taught, I paint the cot,
As Truth will paint it and as bards will not :
Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain,
To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ;
O’ercome hy labour, and bowed down by time,
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ?
Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed ?-
Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,
Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?
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 waves its withered ears ;

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye :
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war ;
There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;
O’er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.

THE CONVICT'S DREAM.

[From The Borough, Letter xxiii.]

Yes ! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain :
He see the judge and jury-when he shakes,
And loudly cries ‘Not guilty !' and awakes :
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compelled to sleep.

Now comes the dream again: it shows each sceno
With each small circumstance that comes between,
The call to suffering, and the very deed-
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;
Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,
While he in fancied envy looks at them:
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be :
A priest attends-it seems the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.

At this his terrors take a sudden flight, He sees his native village with delight; The home, the chamber, where he once arrayed His youthful person ; where he knelt and prayed :

Then too the comfort he enjoyed at home,
The days of joy; the joys themselves are come ;-
The hours of innocence; the timid look
Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took,
And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears,
Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.

All now is present; 'tis a moment's gleam,
Of former sunshine---stay delightful dream !
Let them within his pleasant garden walk,
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.

Yes! all are with him now, and all the while Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile: Then come his sister and his village friend, And he will now the sweetest moments spend Life has to yield ;-No! never will he find Again on earth such pleasure in his mind : He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, Love in their looks and honour on the tongue : Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows, The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows Pierced by no crime and urged by no desire For more than true and honest hearts require, They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Through the green lane-then linger in the mead ; Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, And pluck the blossoms where the wild bees hum; Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed; Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way O'er its rough bridge-and there behold the bay! The ocean smiling to the servid sunThe waves that faintly fall and slowly runThe ships at distance and the boats at hand; And now they walk upon the seaside sand, Counting the number and what kind they be, Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea ; Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold

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