at
College, belonging to some rather free Cavalier words,

Troll, troll, the bonny brown Bowl,

with four bars interpolated to let in the Page. I have so sung it
(without a Voice) to myself these dozen years, since his Death, and so I
have got the words decently arranged, in case others should like them as
well as myself. Voila tout!

I thought, after I had written my last, that I ought not to have said
anything of an American Publisher of Crabbe, as it might (as it has done)
set you on thinking how to provide one for me. I spoke of America,
knowing that no one in England would do such a thing, and not knowing if
Crabbe were more read in your Country than in his own. Some years ago I
got some one to ask Murray if he would publish a Selection from all
Crabbe's Poems: as has been done of Wordsworth and others. But Murray
(to whom Crabbe's collected Works have always been a loss) would not
meddle. . . . You shall one day see my 'Tales of the Hall,' when I can
get it decently arranged, and written out (what is to be written), and
then you shall judge of what chance it has of success. I want neither
any profit, whether of money, or reputation: I only want to have Crabbe
read more than he is. Women and young People never will like him, I
think: but I believe every thinking man will like him more as he grows
older; see if this be not so with yourself and your friends. Your
Mother's Recollection of him is, I am sure, the just one: Crabbe never
showed himself in Company, unless to a very close and experienced
observer: his Company manner was exactly the reverse of his Books:
almost, as Moore says, '_doucereux_'; the apologetic politeness of the
old School over-done, as by one who was not born to it. But Campbell
observed his 'shrewd Vigilance' awake under all his 'politesse,' and John
Murray said that Crabbe said uncommon things in so common a way that they
escaped recognition. It appears, I think, that he not only said, but
wrote, such things: even to such Readers as Mr. Stephen; who can see very
little Humour, and no Epigram, in him. I will engage to find plenty of
both. I think Mr. Stephen could hardly have read the later Books: viz.,
Tales of the Hall, and the Posthumous Poems: which, though careless and
incomplete, contain Crabbe's most mature Self, I think. Enough of him
for the present: and altogether enough, unless I wish to become a
'seccatore' by my repeated, long, letters. . . .

Mr. Lowell was go