's
'rough and cynical readers,' I admit that I can read the story of the
convicted felon, or of Peter Grimes, without indulging in downright
blubbering. Most readers, I fear, can in these days get through pathetic
poems and novels without absolutely using their pocket-handkerchiefs.
But though Crabbe may not prompt such outward and visible signs of
emotion, I think that he produces a more distinct tendency to tears than
almost any poet of his time. True, he does not appeal to emotions,
accessible only through the finer intellectual perceptions, or to the
thoughts which 'lie too deep for tears.' That prerogative belongs to men
of more intense character, greater philosophical power, and more
delicate instincts. But the power of touching readers by downright
pictures of homespun griefs and sufferings is one which, to my mind,
implies some poetical capacity, and which clearly belongs to Crabbe.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] It seems, one is sorry to add, that Murray made a very bad bargain
in this case.

_WILLIAM HAZLITT_

There are few great books or great men that do not sadden us by a sense
of incompleteness. The writer, we feel, is better than his work. His
full power only reveals itself by flashes. There are blemishes in his
design, due to mere oversight or indolence; his energy has flagged, or
he has alloyed his pure gold to please the mob; or some burst of wayward
passion has disturbed the fair proportions of his work, and the man
himself is a half-finished or half-ruined fragment. The rough usage of
the world leaves its mark on the spiritual constitution of even the
strongest and best amongst us; and perhaps the finest natures suffer
more than others in virtue of their finer sympathies. 'Hamlet' is a
pretty good performance, if we make allowances; but what would it have
been if Shakespeare could have been at his highest level all through,
and if every element of strength in him had been purified from every
weakness? What would it have been, shall we say, if he could have had
the advantage of reading a few modern lectures on aesthetics? We may,
perhaps, be content with Shakespeare as circumstances left him; but in
reading our modern poets, the sentiment of regret is stronger. If Byron
had not been driven into his wild revolt against the world; if Shelley
had been judiciously treated from his youth; if Keats had had healthier
lungs; if Wordsworth had not grown rusty in his solitude; if Scott had
not been tempted into