English Men of Letters: Crabbe

by Alfred Ainger

Crabbe's son and biographer remarks with justice that the time of his father's arrival in London was "not unfavourable for a new Candidate in Poetry. The giants, Swift and Pope, had passed away, leaving each in his department examples never to be excelled; but the style of each had been so long imitated by inferior persons that the world was not unlikely to welcome some one who should strike into a newer path. The strong and powerful satirist Churchill, the classic Gray, and the inimitable Goldsmith had also departed; and more recently still, Chatterton had paid the bitter penalty of his imprudence under circumstances which must surely have rather disposed the patrons of talent to watch the next opportunity that might offer itself of encouraging genius 'by poverty depressed.' The stupendous Johnson, unrivalled in general literature, had from an early period withdrawn himself from poetry. Cowper, destined to fill so large a space in the public eye somewhat later, had not as yet appeared as an author; and as for Burns, he was still unknown beyond the obscure circle of his fellow-villagers."

All this is quite true, but it was not for such facile cleverness as The Candidate that the lovers of poetry were impatient. Up to this point Crabbe shows himself wholly unsuspicious of this fact. It had not occurred to him that it was possible for him safely to trust his own instincts. And yet there is a stray entry in his diary which seems to show how (in obedience to his visionary instructor) he was trying experiments in more hopeful directions. On the twelfth, of May he intimates to his Mira that he has dreams of success in something different, something more human than had yet engaged his thoughts. "For the first time in my life that I recollect," he writes, "I have written three or four stanzas that so far touched me in the reading them as to take off the consideration that they were things of my own fancy." Thus far there was nothing in what he had printed—in Inebriety or The Candidate—that could possibly have touched his heart or that of his readers. And it may well have been that he was now turning for fresh themes to those real sorrows, those genuine, if homely, human interests of which he had already so intimate an experience.

However that may have been, the combined coldness of his reviewers and failure of his bookseller must have brought Crabbe within as near an approach to despair as his healthy nature allowed. His distress was now extreme; he was incurring debts with little hope of paying them, and creditors wore pressing. Forty years later he told Walter Scott and Lockhart how "during many months when he was toiling in early life in London he hardly over tasted butcher-meat except on a Sunday, when he dined usually with a tradesman's family, and thought their leg of mutton, baked in the pan, the perfection of luxury." And it was only after some more weary months, when at last "want stared him in the face, and a gaol seemed the only immediate refuge for his head," that he resolved, as a last resort, to lay his case once more before some public man of eminence and character. "Impelled" (to use his own words) "by some propitious influence, he fixed in some happy moment upon Edmund Burke—one of the first of Englishmen, and in the capacity and energy of his mind, one of the greatest of human beings."

It was in one of the early months of 1781 (the exact date seems to be undiscoverable) that Crabbe addressed his letter, with specimens of his poetry, to Burke at his London residence. The letter has been preserved, and runs as follows:—

"Sir,—I am sensible that I need even your talents to
apologise for the freedom I now take; but I have a plea
which, however simply urged, will, with, a mind like yours,
sir, procure me pardon. I am one of those outcasts on the
world who are without a friend, without employment, and
without bread.
"Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father who
gave me a better education than his broken fortune would
have allowed; and a better than was necessary, as he could
give me that only. I was designed for the profession of
physic, but not having wherewithal to complete the requisite
studies, the design but served to convince me of a parent's
affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last I
came to London with three pounds, and flattered myself this
would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries
of life till my abilities should procure me more; of these I
had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to
my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books
only: I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions;
when I wanted bread they promised me affluence, and soothed
me with dreams of reputation, whilst my appearance subjected
me to contempt.
"Time, reflection, and want have shown me my mistake.
I see my trifles in that which I think the true light; and
whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds
them superior to the common run of poetical publications.
"I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the brother
of Lord Rochford; in consequence of which I asked his Lordship's
permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing
it to be free from all political allusions and personal abuse,
it was no very material point to me to whom it was dedicated.
His Lordship thought it none to him, and obligingly consented
to my request.
"I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable
method for me, and, therefore, endeavoured to circulate
copies of the enclosed Proposals.
"I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this very dull narration,
but believe me punished in the misery that occasions it.
You will conclude that during this time I must have been at
more expense than I could afford. Indeed the most parsimonious
could not have avoided it. The printer deceived
me, and my little business has had every delay. The people
with whom I live perceive my situation, and find me to be
indigent and without friends. About ten days since I was
compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to avoid an arrest
for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to every
friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise: the time of
payment approached, and I ventured to represent my case
to Lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till
I received it of my subscribers, which I believe will be within
one month: but to this letter I had no reply, and I have
probably offended by my importunity. Having used every
honest means in vain, I yesterday confessed my inability, and
obtained with much entreaty and as the greatest favour a
week's forbearance, when I am positively told that I must,
pay the money or prepare for a prison.
"You will guess the purpose of so long an introduction. I
appeal to you, sir, as a good and, let me add, a great man.
I have no other pretensions to your favour than that I am
an unhappy one. It is not easy to support the thoughts of
confinement; and I am coward enough to dread such an end
to my suspense. Can you, sir, in any degree aid me with
propriety? Will you ask any demonstrations of my veracity?
I have imposed upon myself, but I have been guilty of no
other imposition Let me, if possible, interest your compassion.
I know those of rank and fortune are teased with
frequent petitions, and are compelled to refuse the requests
even of those whom they know to be in distress; it is, therefore,
with a distant hope I ventured to solicit such favour:
but you will forgive me, sir, if you do not think proper
to relieve. It is impossible that sentiments like yours can
proceed from any but a humane and generous heart.
"I will call upon you, sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the
happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my fate.
My existence is a pain to myself, and every one near and dear
to me are distressed in my distresses. My connections, once
the source of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my
fortune, and I have only to hope a speedy end to a life so
unpromisingly begun: in which (though it ought not to be
boasted of) I can reap some consolation from looking to the end
of it. I am, sir, with, the greatest respect, your obedient
and most humble servant,
GEORGE CRABBE."

The letter is undated, but, as we shall see, must have been written in February or March of 1781. Crabbe delivered it with his own hands at Burke's house in Charles Street, St. James's, and (as he long after told Walter Scott) paced up and down Westminster Bridge all night in an agony of suspense.

This suspense was not of long duration Crabbe made his threatened call, and anxiety was speedily at an end. He had sent with his letter specimens of his verse still in manuscript. Whether Burke had had time to do more than glance at them—for they had been in his hands but a few hours—is uncertain. But it may well have been that the tone as well as the substance of Crabbe's letter struck the great statesman as something apart from the usual strain of the literary pretender. During Burke's first years in London, when he himself lived by literature and saw much of the lives and ways of poets and pamphleteers, he must have gained some experience that served him later in good stead. There was a flavour of truthfulness in Crabbe's story that could hardly be delusive, and a strain of modesty blended with courage that would at once appeal to Burke's generous nature. Again, Burke was not a poet (save in the glowing periods of his prose), but he had read widely in the poets, and had himself been possessed at one stage of his youth "with the furor poeticus." At this special juncture he had indeed little leisure for such matters. He had lost his seat for Bristol in the preceding year, but had speedily found another at Malton—a pocket-borough of Lord Rockingham's,—and, at the moment of Crabbe's appeal, was again actively opposing the policy of the King and Lord North. But he yet found time for an act of kindness that was to have no inconsiderable influence on English literature. The result of the interview was that Crabbe's immediate necessities were relieved by a gift of money, and by the assurance that Burke would do all in his power to further Crabbe's literary aims. What particular poems or fragments of poetry had been first sent to Burke is uncertain; but among those submitted to his judgment were specimens of the poems to be henceforth known as the The Library and The Village. Crabbe afterwards learned that the lines which first convinced Burke that a new and genuine poet had arisen were the following from The Village, in which the author told of his resolution to leave the home of his birth and try his fortune in the city of wits and scholars—

"As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;
While still for flight the ready wing is spread:
So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;
Fled from those shores where guilt and famine reign,
And cried, 'Ah! hapless they who still remain—
Who still remain to hear the ocean roar;
Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;
When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,
And begs a poor protection from the poor!"

Burke might well have been impressed by such a passage. In some other specimens of Crabbe's verse, submitted at the same time to his judgment, the note of a very different school was dominant. But here for the moment appears a fresher key and a later model. In the lines just quoted the feeling and the cadence of The Traveller and The Deserted Village are unmistakable. But if they suggest comparison with the exquisite passage in the latter beginning—

"And as the hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from which it first she flew,"