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before the monarch, he described, with matchless eloquence, the horrors of an adulterous life, its abomination in the eye of God, its scandal to man, and the public and private evils which attend it: but he managed his discourse with so much address that he kept the king from suspecting that the thunder of the preacher was ultimately to fall upon him. In general, Bourdaloue spoke in a level tone of voice, and with his eyes almost shut. On this occasion, having wound up the attention of the monarch and the audience to the highest pitch, he paused. The audience expected something terrible, and seemed to fear the next word. The pause continued for some time: at length, the preacher, fixing his eyes directly on his royal hearer, and in a tone of voice equally expressive of horror and concern, said, in the words of the prophet, I thou art the man!" then, leaving these words to their effect, he concluded with a mild and general prayer to heaven for the conversion of all sinners. A miserable courtier observed, in a whisper, to the monarch, that the boldness of the preacher exceeded all bounds, and should be checked. “No, sir," replied the monarch ; "the preacher has done his duty; let us do ours.When the service was concluded, the monarch walked slowly from the church, and ordered Bourdaloue into his presence. He remarked to him his general protection of religion, the kindness which he had ever shown to the Society of Jesus, his particular attention to Bourdaloue and his friends. He then reproached him with the strong language of the sermon; and asked him, what could be his motive for insulting him, thus publicly, before his subjects? Bourdaloue fell on his knees: “God is my witness that it was not my wish to insult your majesty; but I am a minister of God, and must not disguise his truths. What I said in my sermon is my morning and evening prayer. May God, in bis infinite mercy, grant me to see the day when the greatest of kings shall be the holiest.- The monarch was affected, and silently dismissed the preacher: but, from this time, the court began to observe that change which afterward, and at no distant period, led Louis to a life of regularity and virtue.

GEORGE CRABBE, 1754–1832.

GEORGE CRABBe was born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the 24th of December, 1754, and was the son of an officer of the customs. He was

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apprenticed to an apothecary, and had received an education merely suffi. cient to qualify him for that occupation, but by no means answering to that eminent literary success which he afterwards attained. His poetical taste was first kindled by the perusal of verses, which from time to time ap. peared in the “ Philosophical Magazine''-a periodical taken by his father. The attractions of the Muse soon overcame those of Æsculapius, and in 1778 he quitted the profession of medicine, which he had always disliked, and went to London, determining to apply himself to literature. He had but little more in his pocket than a bundle of his poems; and these, alas! he could find no one who would venture to publish; so that at length he printed, at his own risk, his first published work, “The Candi. date," which appeared anonymously in 1780. It was favorably noticed in the “Monthly Review," to the editor of which it was addressed. Finding, however, that he could not hope for much success while he remained personally unknown, without any introduction, and impelled by distress, he made himself known to Edmund Burke. From this moment his fortune was made. That great and good man received him with much kindness, read his productions with approbation, afforded him the advantage of his criticism and advice, recommended him to Dodsley, the publisher, invited him to his house, and introduced him to some of his distinguished literary friends, among whom were Johnson, Reynolds, and Fox.

Crabbe's first published poems, after his acquaintance with Burke, were " The Library," and "The Village," both of which received the benefit of the observations of the great statesman and critic, and the second of which was mainly composed at Burke's residence at Beaconsfield. In 1781, Crabbe, who had been qualifying himself for “the church," at Burke's recommendation, was "ordained a deacon, and took priest's orders the following year," and he, of course, had two or three "liv g8" presented him.' In 1783, appeared “The Village,” which had received the corrections and commendations of Dr. Johnson. He next produced " The News. paper," in 1785, after which his poetical labors were suspended for some time, probably on account of the duties of his profession, and the cares of a growing family, though he ascribes it to the loss of those early and distinguished friends who had given him the benefit of their criticism. In 1809, appeared “The Parish Register;" in 1810 one of his best poems, "The Borough;" and in 1812 “Tales in Verse.” His last publication was entitled "Tales of the Hall," and was published in 1819. The latter years of his life he spent in the tranquil and amiable exercise of his domestic and clerical duties, at the rectory of Trowbridge, esteemed and admired by his parishioners, among whom he died, after a short illness, on the 8th of February, 1832.

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Lord Chancellor Thurlow bestowed upon bin, successively, the " living" of Frome St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, which he held for six years, and the rectories of Muston and West Allington, in the diocese of Lincoln.

• Johnson, in a letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds, thus writes: “I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant."

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Crabbe is one of the most original of English poets, and, as has been well remarked, “his originality is of that best kind, which displays itself not in tumid exaggeration or flighty extravagance-not in a wide departure from the sober standard of truth-but in a more rigid and uncompromising adherence to it than inferior writers venture to attempt.” He is pre-emi. nently the poet of the poor, describing with graphic minuteness their pri. vations, temptations, and vices.' But, while he spares some of their vices, he does more justice to their virtues, and renders them more important objects of consideration than perhaps any other imaginative writer. His chief characteristics are simplicity, force, pathos, and truth in describing character, and through these, and the originality of his style, he compels us to bestow our attention on objects that are usually neglected. He had a heart to feel for his fellow man, in however low and humble a sphere he may be placed, and he directs our sympathy where it is well for the cause of humanity that it should be directed, but where the squalidness of misery and want too frequently repels it.2

An edition of his poems, in eight volumes, was published by Murray in 1834, the first volume being occupied by a very pleasing piece of filial biography by his son, the Rev. George Crabbe.3


Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;

" Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people of England pretty much as they are, and as they must appear to every one who will take the trouble of examining into their condition; at the same time that he renders his sketches in a very high degree interesting and beautiful-by selecting what is most fit for description-by grouping them into such forms as must catch the attention or awake the memory-and by scattering over the whole such traits of moral sensibility, of sarcasm, and of useful reflection, as every one must feel to be natural and own to be powerful.”

Edinburgh Review, vol. xii. p. 133. • Though his having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, too painful, and too just, may have deprived his works of so extensive, or, at least, so brilliant a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attained; yet I venture to believe that there is no poet of his times who will stand higher in the opinion of posterity. He generally deals with “the short and simple annals of the poor ;" but he exhibits them with such a deep knowledge of human nature, with such general ease and simplicity, and such accurate force of expression, whether gay or pathetical, as, in my humble judgment, no poet, except Shakspeare, has excelled.

J. Wilson Croker, in Boswell's Johnson, vol. viii. p. 164. • See articles in "Edinburgh Review," vol. xii. p. 131 ; vol. xvi. p. 30; vol. xx. p. 277; vol. xxxii. p. 118; vol. Ix p. 255.

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Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed,
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below;
Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride imbitters what it can't deny.
Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance,
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor tease
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that's wretched pave the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines bis languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with sost discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.



But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit;
With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks bis haste to go,

He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murderous band a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience marked in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.


Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there; When Phæbe Dawson gaily crossed the green, In haste to see and happy to be seen; Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, And ease of heart her every look conveyed; A native skill her simple robes expressed, As with untutored elegance she dressed; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phæbe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gained, Her beauty won them and her worth retained; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wished her well, whom yet they wished away; Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power; When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

At length, the youth, ordained to move her breast, Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed; With looks less timid made his passion known, And pleased by manners most unlike her own; Loud though in love, and confident though young, Fierce in bis air, and voluble of tongue; By trade a tailor, thongh, in scorn of trade, He served the squire, and brushed the coat he made;

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