304

PAIN PREFERRED AS THE STRONGEST.

sympathise with it as heartily as we do with sorrow, we have no doubt that no other sensation would ever be intentionally excited by the artists that minister to delight. But the fact is, that the pleasures of which we are capable are slight and feeble compared with the pains that we may endure; and that, feeble as they are, the sympathy which they excite falls much more short of the original emotion. When the object, therefore, is to obtain sensation, there can be no doubt to which of the two fountains we should repair; and if there be but few pains in real life which are not, in some measure, endeared to us by the emotions with which they are attended, we may be pretty sure, that the more distress we introduce into poetry, the more we shall rivet the attention and attract the admiration of the reader.

There is but one exception to this rule and it brings us back from the apology of Mr. Crabbe, to his condemnation. Every form of distress, whether it proceed from passion or from fortune, and whether it fall upon vice or virtue, adds to the interest and the charm of poetry-except only that which is connected with ideas of Disgust · -the least taint of which disenchants the whole scene, and puts an end both to delight and sympathy. But what is it, it may be asked, that is the proper object of disgust? and what is the precise description of things which we think Mr. Crabbe so inexcusable for admitting? It is not easy to define a term at once so simple and so significant; but it may not be without its use, to indicate, in a general way, our conception of its true force and comprehension.

It is needless, we suppose, to explain what are the objects of disgust in physical or external existences. These are sufficiently plain and unequivocal; and it is universally admitted, that all mention of them must be carefully excluded from every poetical description. With regard, again, to human character, action, and feeling, we should be inclined to term every thing disgusting, which represented misery, without making any appeal to our love, respect, or admiration. If the suffering person be amiable, the delightful feeling of love and affection

WHAT OBJECTS MERELY DISGUSTING.

305

tempers the pain which the contemplation of suffering has a tendency to excite, and enhances it into the stronger, and therefore more attractive, sensation of pity. If there be great power or energy, however, united to guilt or wretchedness, the mixture of admiration exalts the emotion into something that is sublime and pleasing and even in cases of mean and atrocious, but efficient guilt, our sympathy with the victims upon whom it is practised, and our active indignation and desire of vengeance, reconcile us to the humiliating display, and make a compound that, upon the whole, is productive of pleasure.

The only sufferers, then, upon whom we cannot bear to look, are those that excite pain by their wretchedness, while they are too depraved to be the objects of affection, and too weak and insignificant to be the causes of misery to others, or, consequently, of indignation to the spectators. Such are the depraved, abject, diseased, and neglected poor creatures in whom every thing amiable or respectable has been extinguished by sordid passions or brutal debauchery; - who have no means of doing the mischief of which they are capable whom every

On

one despises, and no one can either love or fear. the characters, the miseries, and the vices of such beings, we look with disgust merely: and, though it may perhaps serve some moral purpose, occasionally to set before us this humiliating spectacle of human nature sunk to utter worthlessness and insignificance, it is altogether in vain to think of exciting either pity or horror, by the truest and most forcible representations of their sufferings or their enormities. They have no hold upon any of the feelings that lead us to take an interest in our fellow-creatures; - we turn away from them, therefore, with loathing and dispassionate aversion; we feel our imaginations polluted by the intrusion of any images connected with them; and are offended and disgusted when we are forced to look closely upon those festering heaps of moral filth and corruption.

It is with concern we add, that we know no writer who has sinned so deeply in this respect as Mr. Crabbe

306

CRABBE DEALS TOO MUCH IN THEM.

who has so often presented us with spectacles which it is purely painful and degrading to contemplate, and bestowed such powers of conception and expression in giving us distinct ideas of what we must ever abhor to remember. If Mr. Crabbe had been a person of ordinary talents, we might have accounted for his error, in some degree, by supposing, that his frequent success in treating of subjects which had been usually rejected by other poets, had at length led him to disregard, altogether, the common impressions of mankind as to what was allowable and what inadmissible in poetry; and to reckon the unalterable laws by which nature has regulated our sympathies, among the prejudices by which they were shackled and impaired. It is difficult, however, to conceive how a writer of his quick and exact observation should have failed to perceive, that there is not a single instance of a serious interest being excited by an object of disgust; and that Shakespeare himself, who has ventured every thing, has never ventured to shock our feelings with the crimes or the sufferings of beings absolutely without power or principle. Independent of universal practice, too, it is still more difficult to conceive how he should have overlooked the reason on which this practice is founded; for though it be generally true, that poetical representations of suffering and of guilt produce emotion, and consequently delight, yet it certainly did not require the penetration of Mr. Crabbe to discover, that there is a degree of depravity which counteracts our sympathy with suffering, and a degree of insignificance which extinguishes our interest in guilt. We abstain from giving any extracts in support of this accusation ; but those who have perused the volume before us, will have already recollected the story of Frederic Thompson, of Abel Keene, of Blaney, of Benbow, and a good part of those of Grimes and Ellen Orford-besides many shorter passages. It is now time, however, to give the reader a more particular account of the work which contains them.

The Borough of Mr. Crabbe, then, is a detailed and minute account of an ancient English sea-port town, of

CRABBE'S BOROUGH THE CHURCHYARD.

307

the middling order; containing a series of pictures of its scenery, and of the different classes and occupations of its inhabitants. It is thrown into the form of letters, though without any attempt at the epistolary character ; and treats of the vicar and curate the sectaries-the attorneys the apothecaries; and the inns, clubs, and strolling-players, that make a figure in the place: - but more particularly of the poor, and their characters and treatment; and of almshouses, prisons, and schools. There is, of course no unity or method in the poemwhich consists altogether of a succession of unconnected descriptions, and is still more miscellaneous in reality, than would be conjectured from the titles of its twentyfour separate compartments. As it does not admit of analysis, therefore, or even of a much more particular description, we can only give our readers a just idea of its execution, by extracting a few of the passages that appear to us most characteristic in each of the many styles it exhibits.

One of the first that strikes us, is the following very touching and beautiful picture of innocent love, misfortune and resignation-all of them taking a tinge of additionsl sweetness and tenderness from the humble condition of the parties; and thus affording a striking illustration of the remarks we have ventured to make on the advantages of such subjects. The passage occurs in the second letter, where the author has been surveying, with a glance half pensive and half sarcastical, the monuments erected in the churchyard. He then proceeds:

"Yes! there are real Mourners I have seen
A fair sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she dress'd nor vainly seem'd to expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her wearied Parents sunk to sleep,
She sought this place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted Youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd where they 'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting-scene

308 CRABBE'S BOROUGH THE SAILOR'S DEATH

66

Where last for sea he took his leave; that place
With double interest would she nightly trace," &c.
'Happy he sail'd; and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort Men at Sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw no danger; danger's he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the Fever in his blood:
His Messmates smil'd at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smil'd, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain.
"He call'd his friend, and prefac'd with a sigh
A Lover's message
Thomas! I must die!
Would I could see my Sally! and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say till death, I wore it for her sake:
Yes! I must die! blow on sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that! and let me not despair—
One last fond look! - and now repeat the prayer.'

He had his wish; had more; I will not paint
The Lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint-
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
Yes! I must die'- and hope for ever fled!

AND

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime.

To her he came to die; and every day

She took some portion of the dread away!
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,

Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head :
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh life, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

"One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so - perhaps he will not sink.'
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; -
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and plac'd him in his chair;