The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,—'Do not find or force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle—most of them professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas Rowley'—issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical of the day called The Town and Country Magazine, and to it from time to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the author compelled him to restore them. Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought, 'There is one remedy for all.' At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in his bed. He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. 'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!' Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural—resembling a huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many of his verses. BRISTOWE TRAGEDY.1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, 2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God 4 Then with a jug of nappy ale 5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, 6 But when he came, his children twain, 7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, 8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun 9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 11 Then Canterlone he did go out, 12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, 13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; 14 'My noble liege! all my request 15 'He has a spouse and children twain— 16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' 17 'Justice does loudly for him call, 18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, 19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, 20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; 21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou 22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile 23 'My noble liege! the truly brave 24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, 25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, 26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, 27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul 29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, 30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye 31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means 32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, 33 'How oft in battle have I stood, 34 'How did I know that every dart, 35 'And shall I now from fear of death 36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend 37 'My honest friend, my fault has been 38 'In London city was I born, 39 'I make no doubt that he is gone 40 'He taught me justice and the laws 41 'He taught me with a prudent hand 42 'And none can say but all my life 43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her 44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, 45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice 46 'O fickle people, ruined land! 47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, 48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, 49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, 50 'Yet in the holy book above, 51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne 52 'Now death as welcome to me comes 53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing 54 And now the bell began to toll, 55 And just before the officers 56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; 57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? 58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go 59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, 60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go 61 And now the officers came in 62 'I go to life, and not to death; 63 'Teach them to run the noble race 64 Then Florence raved as any mad, 65 Till tired out with raving loud, 66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, 67 Before him went the council-men, 68 The friars of St Augustine next 69 In different parts a godly psalm 70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; 71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 72 Behind him five-and-twenty more 73 Saint James's friars marched next, 74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, 75 And after them a multitude 76 And when he came to the high cross, 77 At the great minster window sat 78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough 79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! 80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; 82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years 83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! 84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, 85 'To him that so much dreaded death 86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 87 And now the horses gently drew 88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, 89 And to the people he did say,— 90 'As long as Edward rules this land, 91 'You leave your good and lawful king 92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, 93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head 94 And out the blood began to flow, 95 The bloody axe his body fair 96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, 97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, 98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;— MINSTREL'S SONG.1 O! sing unto my roundelay, 2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, 3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, 5 See! the white moon shines on high; 6 Here upon my true love's grave, 7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars 8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] [1] 'Cryne:' hair. [2] 'Rode:' complexion. [3] 'Dent:' fix. [4] 'Gree:' grow. [5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. [6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, 2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds 3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought 4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite 5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, 6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, 7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, 8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, 9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair 10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, 11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; 12 With sweet semblatË, and an angel's grace, 13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here 14 Full many champions, and men of lore, 15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, 16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, 17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, 18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, 19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, 20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) 21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] 22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, 23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; 24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! 25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul [1] 'Amenged:' mixed. [2] 'Wraytes:' flags. [3] 'Swithin:' quickly. [4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. [5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. [6] 'Digne:' worthy. [7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. [8] 'Forgard:' lose. [9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. [10] 'A crochee:' a cross. [11] 'Adawe:' awake. [12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. [13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. [14] 'Maynt:' many. [15] 'Dulce:' sweet. [16] 'Mockler:' more. [17] 'Ying:' young. [18] 'Bighes:' jewels. [19] 'Ent:' bag. [20] 'Adigne:' worthy. KENRICK.TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war. Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like a wolf roaming for prey. Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail at the approach of the sun. Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into terror. Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: pursue the black companies of the enemy. Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like yourselves. Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he burnt up the ranks of his enemy. Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock before the sword of Mervin. Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on his hand. Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the howling winds. Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his knees are red with the gore of the foe. Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance around him. Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to the foundation of the black rock. Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY.1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, 2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, 3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, 4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, 5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace 6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, 7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, 8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, 9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, 10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, 11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, 12 Now—but what further can the muses sing? 13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, 14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, 15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, 16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill 17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; 18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! 19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! |