ric." His favourite studies, however, were herald- of ministry at Bristol, not excepting Mr. Catcott, and ry and English antiquities; and one of his chief other of his friends and patrons. His character, occupations was in making a collection of old English words from the glossaries of Chaucer and others. During these pursuits, he employed his pen in writing satirical essays, in prose and verse; and, about the same period, gave way to fits of poetical enthusiasm, by wandering about Redcliffe meadows, talking of the productions of Rowley, and sitting up at night to compose poems at the full of the moon. "He was always," says Mr. Smith, "extremely fond of walking in the fields; and would sometimes say to me, Come, you and I will take a walk in the meadow. I have got the cleverest thing for you imaginable. It is worth half-acrown merely to have a sight of it, and to hear me read it to you." This he would generally do in one particular spot, within view of the church, before which he would sometimes lie down, keeping his eyes fixed upon it in a kind of trance. In 1769, he contributed several papers to the Town and Country Magazine, among which were some extracts from the pretended Rowley, entitled Saxon poems, written in the style of Ossian, and subscribed with Chatterton's usual signature of Dunhelmus Bristoliensis. But his most celebrated attempt at imposture, in this year, was an offer to furnish Horace Walpole with some accounts of a series of eminent painters who had flourished at Bristol, at the same time enclosing two small specimens of the Rowley poems. Mr. Walpole returned a very polite reply, requesting further information; and, in answer, was informed of the circumstances of Chatterton, who hinted a wish that the former would free him from an irksome profession, and place him in a situation where he might pursue the natural bias of his genius. In the mean time, however, Gray and Mason having pronounced the poems sent to Walpole to be forgeries, the latter, who, nevertheless, could not, as he himself confesses, help admiring the spirit of poetry displayed in them, wrote a cold monitory letter to our author, advising him to apply himself to his profession. Incensed at this, he demanded the immediate return of his manuscripts, which Walpole enclosed in a blank cover, after his return from a visit to Paris, when he found another letter from Chatterton, peremptorily requiring the papers, and telling Walpole "that he would not have dared to use him so, had he not been acquainted with the narrowness of his circumstances." Here their correspondence ended, and on these circumstances alone is the charge founded against Mr. Walpole of barbarously neglecting, and finally causing the death of, Chatterton. Mr. Walpole, observes Dr. Gregory, afterward regretted that he had not seen this extraordinary youth, and that he did not pay a more favourable attention to his correspondence; but to ascribe to Mr. Walpole's neglect the dreadful catastrophe which happened at the distance of nearly two years after, would be the highest degree of injustice and absurdity. Our author now entered into politics; and, in March, 1770, composed a satirical poem of one thousand three hundred lines, entitled Kew Gardens, in which he abused the Princess-dowager of Wales and Lord Bute, together with the partisans also, in other respects, began to develope itself in an unfavourable light; but the assertion that he plunged into profligacy at this period, is contradicted by unexceptionable testimony. The most prominent feature in his conduct was his continued and open avowal of infidelity, and of his intention to commit suicide as soon as life should become burdensome to him. He had also grown thoroughly disgusted with his profession; and purposely, it is supposed, leaving upon his desk a paper, entitled his Last Will, in which he avowed his determination to destroy himself on Easter Sunday, he gladly received his dismissal from Mr. Lambert, into whose hands the document had fallen. He now determined to repair to London; and on being questioned by Mr. Thistlethwayte concerning his plan of life, returned this remarkable answer: "My first attempt," said he, "shall be in the literary way; the promises I have received are sufficient to dispel doubt; but should I, contrary to еxресtation, find myself deceived, I will, in that case, turn Methodist preacher. Credulity is as potent a deity as ever, and a new sect may easily be devised. But if that, too, should fail me, my last and final resource is a pistol." Such was the language of one not much beyond seventeen years of age; certainly, as Dr. Aikin observes, not that of a simple, ingenuous youth, "smit with the love of sacred song," a Beattie's minstrel, as some of Chatterton's admirers have chosen to paint him. At the end of April, he arrived in the metropolis; and, on the 6th of May, writes to his mother that he is in such a settlement as he could desire. " I get," he adds, "four guineas a month by one magazine; shall engage to write a history of England, and other pieces, which will more than double that sum. Occasional essays for the daily papers would more than support me. What a glorious prospect!" His engagements, in fact, appear to have been numerous and profitable; but we are cautioned, by Dr. Gregory, against giving implicit credence to every part of Chatterton's letters, written at this time, relative to his literary and political friends in the metropolis. It seems, however, that he had been introduced to Mr. Beckford, then lord mayor, and had formed high expectations of patronage from the opposition party, which he at first espoused; but the death of Beckford, at which he is said to have gone almost frantic, and the scarcity of money which he found on the opposition side, altered his intentions. He observed to a friend, that "he was a poor author, who could write on both sides;" and it appears that he actually did so, as two essays were found after his death, one eulogizing, and the other abusing, the administration, for rejecting the city remonstrance. On the latter, addressed to Mr. Beckford, is this indorsement: Accepted by Bingley-set for, and thrown out of the Lost by his death on this essay £1 11 6 Am glad he is dead by........... ...3 3 550 £3 13 6 | His hopes of obtaining eminence as a political writer now became extravagantly sanguine, and he already seems to have considered himself a man of considerable public importance. "My company," he says, in a letter to his sister, "is courted everywhere; and could I humble myself to go into a compter, could have had twenty places belore now; but I must be among the great; state matters suit me better than commercial." These bright prospects, about July, appear to have been suddenly clouded; and, after a short career of dissipation, which kept pace with his hopes, he found that he had nothing to expect from the patrouage of the great; and, to escape the scene of his mortification, made an unsuccessful attempt to obtain the post of surgeon's-mate to the coast of Africa. It is less certain to what extent he was now employed by the booksellers, than that he feit the idea of dependence upon them insupportable, and soon fell into such a state of indigence as to be reduced to the want of necessary food. Such was his pride, however, that when, after a fast of three days, his landlady invited him to dinner, he refused the invitation as an insult, assuring her he was not hungry. This is the last act recorded of his life; a few hours afterward, he swallowed a dose of arsenic, and was found dead the next morning, August the 25th, 1770, surrounded by fragments of numerous manuscripts, which he appeared to have destroyed. His suicide took place in Brook-street, Holborn, and he was interred, in a shell, in the burying-ground of Shoe lane workhouse. This melancholy catastrophe is heightened by the fact, that Dr. Fry, head of St. John's College, Oxford, had just gone to Bristol, for the purpose of assisting Chatterton, when he was there informed of his death. The controversy respecting the authenticity of the poems attributed to Rowley is now at an end; though there are still a few, perhaps, who may side with Dean Milles and others, against the host of writers, including Gibbon, Johnson, and the two Wartons, who ascribe the entire authorship to Chatterton. The latter have, perhaps, come to a conclusion, which is not likely to be again disputed, viz. that however extraordinary it was for Chatterton to produce them in the eighteenth century, it was impossible that Rowley could have written them in the fifteenth. But, whether Chatterton was or was not the author of the poems ascribed to Rowley, his transcendent genius must ever be the subject of wonder and admiration. The eulogy of his friends, and the opinions of the controversialists respecting him, are certainly too extravagant. Dean Milles prefers Rowley to Homer, Virgil, Spencer, and Shakspeare; Mr. Malone" believes Chatterton to have been the greatest genius that England has produced since the days of Shakspeare;" and Mr. Croft, the author of Love and Madness, asserts, that "no such human being, at any period of life, has ever been known, or possibly ever will be known." This enthusiastic praise is not confined to the critical writers; the British muse has paid some of her most beautiful tributes to the genius and memory of Chatterton. The poems of Rowley, as published by Dean Milles, consist of pieces of all the principal classes of poetical composition: tragedies, lyric and heroic poems, pastorals, epistles, ballads, &c. Sublimity and beauty pervade many of them; and they display wonderful powers of imagination and facility of composition; yet, says Dr. Aikin, there is also much of the commonplace flatness and extravagance, that might be expected from a juvenile writer, whose fertility was greater than his judgment, and who had fed his mind upon stores collected with more avidity than choice. The haste and ardour, with which he pursued his various literary designs, was in accordance with his favourite maxim, "that God had sent his creatures into the world with arms long enough to reach any thing, if they would be at the trouble of extending them." In 1778, a miscellaneous volume of the avowed writings of Chatterton was published; and, in 1803, an edition of his works appeared, in three volumes, octavo, with an account of his life, by Dr. Gregory, from whom we have before quoted. The general character of his productions has been well appreciated by Lord Orford, who, after expatiating upon his quick intuition, his humour, his vein of satire, the rapidity with which he seized all the topics of conversation, whether of politics, literature, or fashion, remarks, "Nothing in Chatterton can be separated from Chatterton. His noblest flight, his sweetest strain, his grossest ribaldry, and his most commonplace imitations of the productions of magazines, were all the effervescences of the same ungovernable impulse, which, cameleon-like, imbibed the colours of all it looked on. It was Ossian, or a Saxon monk, or Gray, or Smollett, or Junius; and if it failed most in what it most affected to be, a poet of the fifteenth century, it was because it could not imitate what had not existed." In person, Chatterton is said to have been, like his genius, premature; he had, says his biographer, a manliness and dignity beyond his years, and there was a something about him uncommonly prepossessing. His most remarkable feature was his eyes, which, though gray, were uncommonly piercing; when he was warmed in argument, or otherwise, they sparkled with fire; and one eye, it is said, was still more remarkable than the other. The character of Chatterton has been sufficiently developed in the course of the preceding memoir; his ruling passion, we have seen, was literary fame; and it is doubtful whether his death was not rather occasioned through fear of losing the reputation he had already acquired, than despair of being able to obtain a future subsistence. This is rendered at least plausible, by the fact of his having received pecuniary assistance from Mr. Hamilton, senior, the proprietor of the Critical Review, not long before his death, with a promise of more; that he was employed by his literary friends, almost to the last hour of his existence; and that he was aware of the suspicions existing that himself and Rowley were the same. Though he neither confessed nor denied this, it was evident that his conduct was influenced by some mystery, known only to himself; he grew wild, abstracted, and incoherent, and a settled gloominess at length took possession of his countenance, which was a presage of his fatal resolution. He has been accused of libertinism, but there are no proofs of this during his residence either at London or Bristol; though many of his productions show a laxity of principle which might justify the supposition. The best qualities in his character were the negative ones of temperance and affection for his family, to whom he sent small presents out of his first gains, and always spoke of their welfare as one of the principal ends of his exertions. But what deeper affliction could he have brought upon them than that caused by the last act of his life? His sister says, that "he was a lover of truth from the earliest dawn of reason;" yet his life was one continued career of deception. He is to be pitied for his misfortunes, and admired for his genius; but, with Kirke White in our remembrance, we could wish to forget all else that belonged to Chatterton. BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN. THE featherd songster chaunticleer And tolde the earlie villager The commynge of the morne: Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes "Thou'rt ryght," quod he, "for, by the Godde Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, "O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, "I greeve to telle: before yonne sonne Hee hath uppon hys honour sworne, "We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles, Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared: "Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out, To gett all thynges ynne reddyness Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, "I'm come," quod hee, " unto your grace, "Thenne," quod the kynge, "youre tale speke out, You have been much oure friende: Whatever youre request may bee, "My nobile leige! alle my request Ys for a nobile knyghte, Who, though mayhap hee has donne wronge, "Hee has a spouse and children twaine; "Speke not of such a traytour vile," "My nobile leige!" goode Canynge sayde, "Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, "But yff wythe bloode and slanghter thou Beginne thy infante reigne, Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows "Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile "My nobile leige! the trulie brave "Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven "By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven, Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe. "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate Of all wee mortall menne. "Say why, my friende, thie honest soul Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; "Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye "Whan through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte, " And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, "Ah, goddelyke Henry! Godde forefende, "My honest friende, my faulte has beene "Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, "I make no doubte butt hee ys gone, "Hee taughte mee justice and the laws And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause from the ryghte: "Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande To feede the hungrie poore, "And none can saye but alle mye lyfe "I have a spouse, goe aske of her I have a kynge, and none can laie "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, "Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce "Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe! "Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace, "Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, And mangled by a hynde, "Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, My lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, "Yett ynne the holie book above, "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe And nowe the belle began to tolle, Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynn quiet lett mee die; Praie Godde that every Christian soule Maye looke onne dethe as I. "Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? ""Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe And nowe the officers came ynne "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Teache them to runne the nobile race Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; "Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyse !"Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Before hym went the council-menne, The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came; Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a cloth-ladye sledde, Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge; The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, "Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! Butt bee assured, disloyall manne! "Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, "Whylst thou, perhapps, for some few yeares, "Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave! |