d if
the excellent Crabbe could have put into his box a few of Burns's
lyrics, or even a copy of Cowper's 'Task,' one might have augured better
for his prospects. But what chance was there for a man who could still
be contentedly invoking the muse and stringing together mechanic echoes
of Pope's couplets? How could he expect to charm the jaded faculties of
a generation which was already beginning to heave and stir with a
longing for some fresh excitement? For a year the fate which has
overtaken so many rash literary adventurers seemed to be approaching
steadily. One temporary gleam of good fortune cheered him for a time. He
persuaded an enterprising publisher to bring out a poem called 'The
Candidate,' which had some faint success, though ridiculed by the
reviewers. Unluckily the publisher became bankrupt and Crabbe was thrown
upon his resources--the poor three pounds and box of surgical
instruments aforesaid. How he managed to hold out for a year is a
mystery. It was lucky for him, as he intimates, that he had never heard
of the fate of Chatterton, who had poisoned himself just ten years
before. A Journal which he wrote for Mira is published in his Life, and
gives an account of his feelings during three months of his cruel
probation. He applies for a situation as amanuensis offered in an
advertisement, and comforts himself on failing with the reflection that
the advertiser was probably a sharper. He writes piteous letters to
publishers, and gets, of course, the stereotyped reply with which the
most amiable of publishers must damp the ardour of aspiring genius. The
disappointment is not much softened by the publisher's statement that
'he does not mean by this to insinuate any want of merit in the poem,
but rather a want of attention in the public.' Bit by bit his surgical
instruments go to the pawnbroker. When one publisher sends his polite
refusal poor Crabbe has only sixpence-farthing in the world, which, by
the purchase of a pint of porter, is reduced to fourpence-halfpenny. The
exchequer fills again by the disappearance of his wardrobe and his
watch; but ebbs under a new temptation. He buys some odd volumes of
Dryden for three-and-sixpence, and on coming home tears his only coat,
which he manages to patch tolerably with a borrowed needle and thread,
pretending, with a pathetic shift, that they are required to stitch
together manuscripts instead of broadcloth. And so for a year the wolf
creeps nearer the door, whilst