to-day such, episodes may be chiefly known to
exist through a parenthesis in one of Macaulay's _Essays_, where he
speaks of "that pathetic passage in Crabbe's _Borough_ which has made
many a rough and cynical reader cry like a child."

The passage referred to is the once-famous description of the condemned
Felon in the "Letter" on _Prisons_. Macaulay had, as we know, his
"heightened way of putting things," but the narrative which he cites, as
foil to one of Robert Montgomery's borrowings, deserves the praise. It
shows Crabbe's descriptive power at its best, and his rare power and
insight into the workings of the heart and mind. He has to trace the
sequence of thoughts and feelings in the condemned criminal during the
days between his sentence and its execution; the dreams of happier days
that haunt his pillow--days when he wandered with his sweetheart or his
sister through their village meadows:--

"Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile.
Then come his sister and his village friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield,--No! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue.
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,
The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows;
Pierced by no crime and urged by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane,--then linger in the mead,--
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,--
And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Whore dwarfish flowers among the grass are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge--'and there behold the bay!--
The ocean smiling to the fervid sun--
The waves that faintly fall and slowly run--
The ships at distance and the boats at hand,
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number, and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea:
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glittering waters on the shingles rolled;
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,
And search for cri