Nor is it otherwise with Crabbe.

The fascination which his readers find in him--readers not perhaps found in the ranks of those who prefer their poetry on "hand-made paper"-- is really the result of the slow and patient dissection of motive and temptation, the workings of conscience, the gradual development of character.

These processes are slow, and Crabbe's method of presenting them is slow, but he attains his end.

A distinction has lately been drawn between "literary Poetry," and "Poetry which is Literature." Crabbe's is rarely indeed that of the former class.

It cannot be denied that it has taken its place in the latter.
The apology for Crabbe's lengthiness might almost be extended to the singular inequalities of his verse.