quets. In one respect he was right; for this most mean and heartless profligate was a fit companion for the scoundrels of the Mythology-for the tyrant and the sensualist, the betrayer and the pander, whether called by the names of Jupiter or Bacchus, of Mercury or Mars. And yet this Verrio (insolent puppy!) had written up in this banqueting-room, set apart for high and solemn festivals

"Antonius Verrio, Neapolitanus,

Non ignobili stirpe natus,

Molem hanc Felicissima Manu decoravit."*

The double conceit of the Italian,-his pride of birth, and his pride of skill in his art-was altogether too ludicrous.

Next to St. George's Hall there was a Guard Chamber, with matchlocks and bandoleers, and such like curiosities, and a rapid sketch of the Battle of Nordlingen, painted for a triumphal arch by Rubens, worth all the works of Verrio, plastered as they are with real ultramarine. They say it was painted in four-and-twenty hours. Certainly genius can do great things. The last time I saw this Guard Chamber was on a solemn occasion; but I shall never forget the scene which it presented. In costume, in arrangement, in every particular, it carried the imagination back three centuries. That occasion was when George III. closed his long years of suffering, and lay in state previous to interment. This chamber was tenanted by the yeomen of the

"Antonio Verrio, a Neapolitan, born of a not ignoble race, adorned this building with a most happy hand."

guard. The room was darkened-there was no light but that of the flickering wood fire which burnt on an ancient hearth, with dogs, as they are called, on each side the room; on the ground lay the beds on which the yeomen had slept during the night they stood in their ancient dresses of state, with broad scarves of crape across their breasts, and crape on their halberds; and as the red light of the burning brands gleamed on their rough faces, and glanced ever and anon amongst the lances, and coats of mail, and tattered banners that hung around the room, all the reality connected with their presence in that place vanished from my view, and I felt as if about to be ushered into the stern presence of the last Harry-and my head was uneasy. In a few moments I was in the chamber of death, and all the rest was black velvet and wax lights.

CRABBE'S MODERN ANTIQUES.

IT is seventy years ago since George Crabbe published his poem of The Village.' His age was twenty-nine. He was then in orders, and was domestic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland. But what a life the young man had passed through, before he had attained that social position !-Born in what was then a wretched fishing hamlet, Aldborough-roughly brought up-imperfectly educated-apprenticed to a surgeon, without means to complete his professional studies-lingering hopelessly about his native place,-he at last resolved to cast himself upon the wide ocean of London, and tempt the fearful dangers that belonged to the career of a literary adventurer. Here he struggled and starved for a year. During the first three months of his London life he sent manuscript poems to the booksellers, Dodsley and Becket, which they civilly declined. He addressed verses to Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who informed him that his avocations did not leave him leisure to read verses. He sold his clothes and his books, and pawned his watch and his surgical instruments. His one coat was torn, and he mended it himself. He was reduced at last to eightpence, but the brave man never despaired. He had a strong sense of

religion, and he was deeply attached to one who became his wife after thirteen years of untiring constancy. His faith and his love held him up, and kept him out of degradation. At last he wrote a letter to Edmund Burke. It contained this passage: "In April last I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries of life till my abilities should procure me more; of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to my delusion." Burke saved Crabbe from the fate of many a one who perished in those days, when patronage was dying out; and the various resources for the literary labourer that belong to the extension of reading had scarcely begun to exist. Burke persuaded Dodsley to publish 'The Library;' and the Bishop of Norwich to ordain its author, without a degree. His lot in life was fixed. Thurlow invited him to dinner, and telling him he was "as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen," gave him two small livings. He published 'The Village' in 1783, and 'The Newspaper' in 1785. From that time to 1807, the world had forgotten that a real poet, of very original talents, had appeared, for a short season, and was no more heard of. When Crabbe was fiftythree years of age, he again published a poem. This was 'The Parish Register.' 'The Borough' speedily followed. His Tales' were in the same vein. Their success was triumphant. The author whose worldly means were reduced to eightpence

in 1780, sold the copyright of his poems, in 1817, to Mr. Murray, for three thousand pounds.

During these twenty-five years, when Crabbe was living in the seclusion of unpretending duty, he was gathering materials for works which are among the most valuable pictures of English life, as it existed in a generation that is recently past. It is the object of this paper to trace some of those representations of Classes that may now be termed obsolete. Old Aubrey says of Shakspere"His comedies will remain wit as long as the English language is understood, for that he handles mores hominum." It is the same with Crabbe. He rarely deals with those individual peculiarities which the early writers used to term "humours." His satire and his pathos are essentially generic. He paints individual characters, and their costume is peculiar; but it is not the mere caprice of the sitter that has settled the costume. It tells of past manners and modes of thought. It is historical. Sir Roger de Coverley is an individualised portrait ;-so Parson Adams;

so my Uncle Toby ;-but they are each great general representatives of human nature in their particular age and position. Thus, Crabbe did not wear a cassock, or choose a footman for his travelling companion; but in his simplicity and knowledge, Thurlow saw his resemblance to Parson Adams. Inferior masters paint coxcombities that have no relation to universal modes of thought or action. Shepherds say, that out of a thousand