on the helplessness of all the states that might make head against France? Certainly if we are convinced, as it appears we should be, that nothing can be expected from their exertions, while every thing may be hoped from their repose. When action and renown had ceased, what should induce the French people with patience to support the oppressions they suffer? Would not the multitude soon begin to discover, that, though their burthens remained, the equivalents for which those burthens were borne were totally withdrawn?-that the government was still seizing their persons, draining their purses, checking the cultivation of their lands?-prolonging the slavery of their friends at camps no longer either useful or glorious-abridging every enjoyment-scerning every complaint?-in a word, persisting to bear down the rights and liberties of a great people, without performing any one achievement that could extend the public dominion, or recompense the national pride? For a short time, indeed, they might continue to suffer, and submit: but, when a year or two had rolled away, with what feelings would they view their rulers?-Like other mobs, they would begin to grow reasonable on a reverse; and, having conquered as much as they could, they would pretend to despise conquest; and ask what the poor were to gain by the protraction of the war, and whether glory would pay the taxes, and all the other sensible questions which are so little in vogue with enthusiastic mobs, and yet occur so readily to mobs that are out of humour: and this feeling of discontent and disgust would be diligently fomented by all those turbulent adventurers who are invariably bred by the disorders of a state-men who hate whatever is; and, with them, would join the irritated and numerous body whom personal offences, or envy, had excited against the government-and the active friends and spies of foreign states and the reasonable few who could understand the advantages of freedom-and the busy informers who are fond of popular equality.

In considering the sum of these probabilities, we should never forget, that the constitution of modern society is eminently favourable to the internal freedom and external independence of nations. The use of printing-the diffusion of commercial opulence-and the full and ready intercourse which now connects all parts of the civilized world-have given a weight and an intelligence to public opinion, which it never possessed-in any forn. period of history. In all the great states of antiquity, the proportion of those who could judge of public measures was always incredibly small; and the great mass of the people, having notion of obtaining wealth or cen equence by the pursuits of praceful industry, had often a real interest in the injustice and usurpations

the force on our side had been increasing and improving, by diligent training and recruiting,-that of Bonaparte would have been degenerating, by disuse, toward the level of a new and inexpert militia. It would naturally decline in its numbers, its habits, and its spirit. Thus, France would have lost, and her opposers would have gained and then, if a coalition could be formed on solid principles, it might indeed conduce to that deliverance of Europe which we talk of so idly at the present day.

In fine, if France be now far stronger, and the continental powers far weaker, than when she first beat them at the beginning of her revolutionary career, the latter surely cannot hope to gain any thing by renewing that unequal contention ;-and, if it be evident that both the ambition and the power of France have been chiefly fostered and encouraged by the irritation and impotence of those successive attacks which have exhausted the strength of her enemies, it seems reasonable to make the experiment, at least, of an opposite policy; and to try the effects of that repose which may recruit the strength and spirits of the vanquished, and soften down the discipline, the force, and the animosity of the victors.

In what we have now stated, we have purposely avoided the discussion of the great and important question as to the probability of our obtaining peace, or the consequences of our accepting of it, at this critical moment. Such a question is far too momentous to be considered incidentally in the course of another speculation; but we hope very soon to be able to lay before our readers an article devoted to its discussion.

ART. II. The Borough: a Poem, in Twenty-four Letters. By the Rev. G. Crabbe, LL. B. dvo. pp. 344. London, 1810.

WE E are very glad to meet with Mr Crabbe so soon again; and particularly glad to find, that his early return has been occasioned, in part, by the encouragement he received on his last appearance. This late spring of public favour, we hope, he will yet live to see ripen into mature fame. We scarcely know any poet who deserves it better; and are quite certain there is none who is more secure of keeping with posterity whatever he may win from his contemporaries.

The present poem is precisely of the character of the Village and the Parish Register. It has the same peculiarities, and the same faults and beauties; though a severe critic might perhaps add, that its peculiarities are more obtrusive, its faults

greater,

greater, and its beauties less. However that be, both faults and beauties are so plainly produced by the peculiarity, that it may be worth while, before giving any more particular account of it, to try if we can ascertain in what that consists.

And here we shall very speedily discover, that Mr Crabbe is distinguished, from all other poets, both by the choice of his subjects, and by his manner of treating them. All his persons are taken from the lower ranks of life; and all his scenery from the most ordinary and familiar objects of nature or art. His characters and incidents, too, are as common as the elements out of which they are compounded are humble; and not only has he nothing prodigious or astonishing in any of his representations, but he has not even attempted to impart any of the ordinary colours of poetry to those vulgar materials. He has no moralizing swains or sentimental tradesmen; and scarcely ever seeks to charm us by the artless manners or lowly virtues of his personages. On the contrary, he has represented his villagers and humble burghers as altogether as dissipated, and more dishonest and discontented, than the profligates of higher life; and, instead of conducting us through blooming groves and pastoral meadows, has led us along filthy lanes and crowded wharfs, to hospitals, almshouses, and gin-shops. In some of these delineations, he may be considered as the satirist of low life,-an occupation sufficiently arduous, and in a great degree new and original in our language. But by far the greater part of his poetry is of a different and a higher character; and aims at moving or delighting us by lively, touching, and finely contrasted representations of the dispositions, sufferings, and occupations of those ordinary persons who form the far greater part of our fellow-creatures. This, too, he has sought to effect, merely by placing before us the clearest, most brief, and most striking sketches of their external condition,the most sagacious and unexpected strokes of character,-and the truest and most pathetic pictures of natural feeling and common suffering. By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his style, he forces us to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which we are in general but too eager to escape;-and then trusts to nature for the effect of the representation.

It is obvious, at first sight, that this is not a task for an ordinary hand; and that many ingenious writers, who make a very good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight landscapes, would find themselves quite helpless if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns. The difficulty of such subjects, in short, is sufficiently visible and some of the causes of that difficulty: but they have their advantages also;-and of these, and their hazards,

it

it seems natural to say a few words, before entering more minutely into the merits of the work before us.

The first great advantage of such familiar subjects is, that every one is necessarily perfectly well acquainted with the originals; and is therefore sure to feel all that pleasure, from a faithful representation of them, which results from the perception of a perfect and successful imitation. In the kindred art of painting, we find that this single consideration has been sufficient to stamp a very high value upon accurate and lively delineations of objects, in themselves the most uninteresting, and even disagreeable; and no very inconsiderable part of the pleasure which may be derived from Mr Crabbe's poetry, may be referred to its mere truth and fidelity, and to the brevity and clearness with which he sets before his readers, objects and characters with which they have been all their days familiar.

In his happier passages, however, he has a higher merit, and imparts a far higher gratification. The chief delight of poetry consists, not so much in what it directly supplies to the imagination, as in what it enables it to supply to itself;-not in warming the heart with its passing brightness, but in kindling its own lasting stores of light and heat;-not in hurrying the fancy along by a foreign and accidental impulse, but in setting it agoing, by touching its internal springs and principles of activity. Now, this highest and most delightful effect can only be produced by the poet's striking a note to. which the heart and the affections naturally vibrate in unison;-by his rousing one of a large family of kindred impressions;-by his dropping the rich seed of his fancy upon the fertile and sheltered places of the imagination. But it is evident, that the emotions connected with common and familiar objects,-with objects which fill every man's memory, and are necessarily associated with all that he has felt or fancied, are of all others the most likely to answer this description, and to produce, where they can be raised to a suflicient height, this great effect in its utmost perfection. It is for this reason that the images and affections that belong to our universat nature, are always, if tolerably represented, infinitely more captivating, in spite of their apparent commonness and simplicity, than those that are peculiar to certain situations, however they may come recommended by novelty or grandeur. The familiar feeling of maternal tenderness and anxiety, which is every day before our eyes, even in the brute creation,-and the enchantinent of youthful love, which is nearly the same in all characters, ranks and situations,still contribute more to the beauty and interest of poetry than all the misfortunes of princes, the jealousies of the rocs, and the fcats ef giants, magicians, or ladies in armour.

E

very one can enter into the former set of feelings; and but a few into the latter. The one calls up a thousand familiar and longremembered emotions,-and are answered and reflected on every side by the kindred impressions which experience or observation have traced upon every memory: while the other lights up but a transient and unfruitful blaze, and passes away without perpetuating itself in any corresponding sensation.

Now, the delineation of all that concerns the lower and most numerous classes of society, is, in this respect, on a footing with the pictures of our primary affections,—that their originals are necessarily familiar to all men, and are inseparably associated with a multitude of their most interesting impressions. Whatever may be our own condition, we all live surrounded with the poor, from infancy to age; we hear daily of their sufferings and misfortunes; and their toils, their crimes, or their pastimes, are our hourly spectacle. Many diligent readers of poetry know little, by their own experience, of palaces, castles or camps; and still less of princes, warriors and bandittis-but every one thoroughly understands every thing about cottages, streets and villages; and conceives, pretty correctly, the character and condition of sailors, ploughmen and artificers. If the poet can contrive, therefore, to create a sufficient interest in subjects like these, they will infallibly sink deeper into the mind, and be more prolific of kindred trains of emotion, than subjects of greater dignity. Nor is the difficulty of exciting such an interest by any means so great as is generally imagined. It is human nature, and human feelings, after all, that form the true source of interest in poetry of every description;—and the splendour and the marvels by which it is sometimes surrounded, serve no other purpose than to fix our attention on those workings of the heart, and those energies of the understanding, which alone command all the genuine sympathies of human beings, and which may be found as abundantly in the breasts of cottagers as of kings. Wherever there are human beings, therefore, with feelings and characters to be represented, our attention may be fixed by the art of the poet,-by his judicious selection of circumstances,-by the force and vivacity of his style, and the clearness and brevity of his representations. In point of fact, we are all touched more deeply, as well as more frequently, in real life, with the sufferings of peasants than of princes; and sympathize much oftener, and more heartily, with the successes of the poor, than of the rich and distinguished. The occasions of such feelings are indeed so many, and so common, that they do not often leave any very permanent traces behind them, but pass away, and are effaced by the very rapidity of their succession. The business and the cares, and the pride of the world, obstruct the development of the emotions to which they would naturally give C

VOL. XVI. NO. 31,