Crabbe has lost nothing."

George Crabbe was born on December 24th, 1754, at Aldborough, Suffolk. His
father was a poor man; and Crabbe, with little early education, was
apprenticed to a surgeon, and afterwards practised; but his aspirations
were such that he went to London, with three pounds in his pocket, for a
literary venture. He would have been in great straits, had it not been for
the disinterested generosity of Burke, to whom, although an utter
stranger, he applied for assistance. Burke aided him by introducing him to
distinguished literary men; and his fortune was made. In 1781 he published
_The Library_, which was well received. Crabbe then took orders, and was
for a little time curate at Aldborough, his native place, while other
preferment awaited him. In 1783 he appeared under still more favorable
auspices, by publishing _The Village_, which had a decided success. Two
livings were then given him; and he, much to his credit, married his early
love, a young girl of Suffolk. In _The Village_ he describes homely scenes
with great power, in pentameter verse. The poor are the heroes of his
humble epic; and he knew them well, as having been of them. In 1807
appeared _The Parish Register_, in 1810 _The Borough_, and in 1812 his
_Tales in Verse_,--the precursor, in the former style, however, of
Wordsworth's lyrical stories. All these were excellent and very popular,
because they were real, and from his own experience. _The Tales of the
Hall_, referring chiefly to the higher classes of society, are more
artificial, and not so good. His pen was most at home in describing
smugglers, gipsies, and humble villagers, and in delineating poverty and
wretchedness; and thus opening to the rich and titled, doors through which
they might exercise their philanthropy and munificence. In this way Crabbe
was a reformer, and did great good; although his scenes are sometimes
revolting, and his pathos too exacting. As a painter of nature, he is true
and felicitous; especially in marine and coast views, where he is a
pre-Raphaelite in his minuteness. Byron called him "Nature's sternest
painter, but the best." He does not seem to write for effect, and he is
without pretension; so that the critics were quite at fault; for what they
mainly attack is not the poet's work so much as the consideration whether
his works come up to his manifesto. Crabbe died in 1832, on the 3d of
February, being one of the famous dead of that fatal year.

Crabbe's