We must now leap over nine years-the account of which offers many delightful little anecdotes and most touching extracts from Mr. Crabbe's letters and diaries-and come down at once to the closing scene. The tic doloreux visited him with increasing frequency and anguish from 1822 to 1831. On the 7th of January of this last year he thus writes to his affectionate biographer : I do not like drowsiness-mine is an old man's natural infirmity, and that same old man creeps upon me more and more. I cannot walk him away: he gets hold on the memory, and my poor little accounts never come right. Let me nevertheless be thankful: I have very little pain. 'Tis true, from a stiffness in my mouth, I read prayers before we take our breakfast with some difficulty; but that being over, I feel very little incommoded for the rest of the day. We are all in health, for I will not call my lassitude and stupidity by the name of illness. Like Lear, I am a poor old man and foolish, but happily I have no daughter who vexes me.' The son thus continues : 'In the course of this month, I paid him a visit, and stayed with him three or four days; and if I was satisfied with the indications of his improved health when with us, I was most agreeably surprised to find him still stronger and in better spirits than I had witnessed for the last three years. He had become perceptibly stouter in that short interval: he took his meals with a keen appetite, and walked in a more upright position; and there were no counter-tokens to excite our suspicions. It is true he observed that he did not like the increase of flesh; but it was said in that light and cheerful manner that imported no serious fears. On the 29th I received a letter from my brother, stating that he had caught a sharp cold, accompanied with oppression in the chest and pain in the forehead, for which he had been bled. He added, that my father felt relieved, and that he would write again immediately; but on the following morning, while I was expecting an account of his amendment, a chaise drove to the door, which my brother had sent me to save time. In fact, all hope of recovery was already over.' A week terminated this good man's sufferings. During the days that preceded his departure, we had not one painful feeling arising from the state of his mind. It was more firm than I ever remembered, under any circumstances. He knew there was no chance of his recovery, and yet he talked at intervals of his death, and of certain consequent arrangements, with a strong, complacent voice; and bid us all adieu without the least faultering of the tongue, or moisture of the eye. The awfulness of death, apprehended by his capacious mind, had a tendency to absorb other feelings; yet was he calm and unappalled; and intervals of oblivion, under the appearance of sleep, softened his sufferings and administered an opiate to his faculties. faculties. One of his characteristics-exuberance of thought, seemed sometimes, even when pleased, as if it oppressed him; and in this last illness, when he was awake, his mind worked with astonishing rapidity. It was not delirium; for on our recalling his attention to present objects, he would speak with perfect rationality; but, when uninterrupted, the greater portion of his waking hours were passed in rapid soliloquies on a variety of subjects, the chain of which from his imperfect utterance (when he did not exert himself) we were unable to follow. We seldom interrupted the course that nature was taking, or brought him to the effort of connected discourse, except to learn how we could assist or relieve him. But as in no instance (except in a final lapse of memory) did we discover the least irrationality, so there was no despondency-on the contrary, the cheerful expressions which he had been accustomed to use were still heard from him,-nay, even that peculiar elevation of the inner side of the eyebrows, which occasionally accompanied some humorous observation in the days of his health, was once or twice visible. But, if we were thankful for his firmness of mind, we had to lament the strength of his constitution. I was not aware how powerful it was till tried by this disease. I said, "It is your great strength which causes this suffering." He replied, "But it is a great price to pay for it." 'On one essential subject it would be wrong to be silent. I have stated, that the most important of all considerations had an increasing influence over his mind. The growth was ripening with his age, and was especially perceptible in the later years. With regard to the ordinances of religion, he was always manifestly pained if, when absent from home on a Sunday, he was induced to neglect either the morning or evening services: in his private devotions, as his household can testify, he was most exemplary and earnest up to the period of this attack; yet, at that time, when fear often causes the first real prayer to be uttered, then did he, as it were, confine himself to the inward workings of his pious and resigned spirit, occasionally betrayed by aspirations most applicable to his circumstances. Among the intelligible fragments that can never be forgotten, were frequent exclamations of "My time is short; it is well to be prepared for death:""Lucy," this was the affectionate servant that attended along with his sons, "dear Lucy, be earnest in prayer! May you see your children's children." From time to time he expressed great fear that we were all over-exerting ourselves in sitting up at night with him; but the last night he said, "Have patience with me-it will soon be over. Stay with me, Lucy, till I am dead, and then let others take care of me.' "This night was most distressing. The changes of posture sometimes necessary, gave him extreme pain, and he said, "This is shocking." Then again he became exhausted, or his mind wandered in a troubled sleep. Awaking a little refreshed, he held out his hand to us saying as if he felt it might be the last opportunity, "God bless you!-be good and come to me!" Even then, though we were all overpowered, overpowered, and lost all self-command, he continued firm. His countenance now began to vary and alter.. Once we had the satisfaction of seeing it lighted up with an indescribable expression of joy, as he appeared to be looking at something before him, and uttered these words, "That blessed book!"'' • After another considerable interval of apparent insensibility, he awoke, and said, in a tone so melancholy that it rang in my ears for weeks after," I thought it had been all over," with such an emphasis on the all! Afterwards he said, "I cannot see you now." When I answered, "We shall soon follow;" he said, "Yes, yes!" I mentioned his exemplary fortitude; but he appeared unwilling to have any good ascribed to himself. When the incessant presents and inquiries of his friends in the town were mentioned, he said, "What a plague I am to them all!" And in the course of the night, these most consolatory words were distinctly heard, "All is well at last!" Soon after, he said imperfectly, "You must make an entertainment;" meaning for his kind Trowbridge friends, after his departure. These were the last intelligible words I heard. Lucy, who could scarcely be persuaded to leave him, day or night, and was close by him when he died, says that the last words he uttered were, "God bless you-God bless you!" The shutters of the shops in the town were half closed, as soon as his death was known. On the day of his funeral, ninety-two of the principal inhabitants, including all the dissenting ministers, assembling of their own accord, in the school-room, followed him to the grave. The shops were again closed; the streets crowded; the church full. The terrible solemnity seems yet recent while I write. The leader of the choir selected the following beautiful anthem :"When the ear heard him, then it blessed him; And when the eye saw him, it gave witness of him. --: He delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to help him : Kindness and meekness and comfort were in his tongue." “ The worthy master of the free and Sunday school at Trowbridge, Mr. Nightingale, on the Sunday after his funeral, delivered an impressive address to the numerous children under his care, on the death of their aged and affectionate minister. It was printed, and contains the following passage. "Poor Mr. Crabbe,' said a little girl, the other day, very simply, poor Mr. Crabbe wilt never go up in pulpit any more, with his white head.' No, my children, that hoary head, found, as may yours and mine be found, in the ways of righteousness and peace, is gone to rest; but his memory is embalmed in the house of our God. Sacred is the honoured dust that sleeps beside the altar. Is there one of you who has not experienced his kindness?-who has not seen his eyes beam with pleasure to hear you repeat, Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done?' Religiously keep the Bibles he gave you; and when you read these words words of your Saviour- I go to prepare a place for you-and when I come, I will receive you to myself'-think of your affectionate minister, and that these were his dying words- Be thou good, and come to me."" The biographer closes his work by quoting these elegant verses, by whom written he does not inform us. "Farewell, dear Crabbe, thou meekest of mankind, With heart all fervour, and all strength of mind, To brand th' oppressor, and to shame the proud, Repentance ever was thy welcome child: In every state, as husband, parent, friend, With whirling shadows, wilder'd minds intrance, With pictured warnings through each polish'd page. We have now given our readers the means of judging for themselves of the personal career and character of this great poet, and of the manner in which his son has acquitted himself of his pious task as a biographer. We have only to add that it appears from one of Mr. Crabbe's letters here printed, that he had, as we indeed never doubted, a foundation of fact for every one of his tales. We have in the present volume several interesting specimens of the style in which he enlarged, condensed, or metamorphosed the subjects with which his observation of life furnished him, and we are led to expect a rich store of such information in the shape of notes to the poems, old and new, about to be included in an uniform and authoritative edition. We may, in the meanwhile, gratify ourselves, and, we presume, all our readers, by a single extract illustrative of what may be expected from the forthcoming annotated Crabbe. The poet's fourth brother, William, was a seafaring man. His nephew says: Being made prisoner by the Spaniards, he was carried to Mexico, where he became a silversmith, married, and prospered, until his increasing increasing riches attracted a charge of Protestantism; the consequence of which was much persecution. He at last was 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 anything 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 doctor." 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 66 no more Return'd exulting to his native shore." • Like William Crabbe, 'But There, hopeless ever to escape the land, Whilst I was poor,' said Allen, none would care But I had money-and these pastors found My notions vague, heretical, unsound. Alas, poor Allen! through his wealth were seen Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been: All urging him to flee-he fled, and cursed his flight. • He |