English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 3: Queen Anne and the GeorgesMitchell, Donald Grant
History
English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 3: Queen Anne and the Georges
Mitchell, Donald Grant
English literature -- History and criticism; Great Britain -- Intellectual life
There is not a more princely house among the baronial homes of England.
It sits among wooded hills--which to the eye of a Suffolk man would be
mountains--where Lincolnshire and Leicestershire join: the towers of
Lincoln Cathedral are in sight at the north, and Nottingham Castle in
the west: and there is a glitter in some near valley of an affluent of
the Trent, shining amid billows of foliage; while within the stately
{236} home,[9] the Suffolk doctor could have regaled himself with
examples of Rubens and of Murillo, of Teniers, Poussin, and Vandyke.
The Duke of Rutland was a kindly man, a sentimental lover of
literature, enjoying the verse of Crabbe, and proud of patronizing him,
but lacking the supreme art of putting him at ease among his titled
visitors; perhaps enjoying from his high poise, the disturbing
embarrassments with which the good-natured poet was beset under the
bewildering attentions of some butler, who outshone the host in his
trappings, and in his lordly condescension to the level of an
apothecary's apprentice.
It was not altogether pleasant for Crabbe; and when afterward he had
married his old flame of Aldborough, and by invitation of the Duke (who
was absent in Ireland) was allowed to partake of the hospitalities of
the castle, the ironical obsequience of the flunkeys all, drove him
away from the baronial roof. Through the influence of friends he
secures livings,--first in Dorset, and afterward {237} in
Leicestershire (1789), almost within sight of Belvoir towers.
Hereabout, or in near counties, where he has parochial duties, he
vegetates slumberously, for twenty years or more. He preaches,
practises his old apothecary craft, drives (his wife holding the
reins), idles, writes books and burns them, grows old, has children,
loves flowers, and on one occasion, mounts his horse and gallops sixty
miles for a scent of the salt air which he had snuffed as a boy.
Meanwhile the old haunts in London, which he knew for so brief a day,
know him no more; his old friends are dead, his hair is snowy, his
purposes wavering.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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