John Lucas, himself a poet, and proprietor of the admirable
Shoestring Press, (all the more admirable for having brought out a couple of my
things), has just written a book on George Crabbe. I’ve always thought Crabbe
tedious; he wrote long poems about village life and, with very few exceptions,
anything much longer than a page isn’t really poetry; it’s verse. But if John
thinks Crabbe worthy of a book then I should investigate, so I climbed on a
chair to reach the ‘C’s in my poetry shelves. I found just one little
paperback, published in 1886 by Cassell. There is an introduction by Professor
Henry Morley, and this contains a startling revelation — one that might partly
explain why Benjamin Britten and E.M. Forster were so interested in him — about
the time Crabbe spent apprenticed to a G.P.:
‘Crabbe swept out the surgery, carried out medicine, and
slept with the ploughboy.’
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