by that sort of fustian which now disfigured the diction of our tragedy. . . My copy once belonged to Pope; in which he has noted many of Chapman's absolute interpolations, extending sometimes to the length of a paragraph of twelve lines. A diligent observer will easily discern that Pope was no careless reader of his rude predecessor. Pope complains that Chapman took advantage of an unmeasurable length of line. But in reality Pope's lines are longer than Chapman's. If Chapman affected the reputation of rendering line for line, the specious expedient of chusing a protracted measure which concatenated two lines together, undoubtedly favoured his usual propensity to periphrasis. Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon. Deem not devoid of elegance the sage, Who turns of these proud domes the historic page, To the River Lodon. Ah! what a weary race my feet have run The Grave of King Arthur. And warlike splendour Henry sate; A thousand torches flam'd aloof: From the proud gallery glitter'd bright: While gifted bards, a rival throng, Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,) And to the strings of various chime 'Listen, Henry, to my reed! With songs of Uther's glorious son; Never yet in rhyme enroll'd, Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower; What time the glistening vapours fled 'When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest, But when he fell, with winged speed, Bore him to Joseph's towered fane, rede, tale. Each trace that time's slow touch had worn ; 'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew! Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword, The pavement's hallow'd depth explore ; There shall thine eye, with wild amaze, There shalt thou find the monarch laid, Shine victorious in the van, Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan : Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.' And ope, from its tremendous gloom, Ev'n now, with arching sculpture crown'd, [AUTHOR'S NOTE.]-King Henry the Second having undertaken an expedition into Ireland, to suppress a rebellion raised by Roderick King of Connaught, commonly called O Connor Dun, or the Brown Monarch of Ireland, was entertained, in his passage through Wales, with the songs of the Welsh bards. The subject of their poetry was King Arthur, whose history had been so disguised by fabulous inventions, that the place of his burial was in general scarcely known or remembered. But in one of these Welsh poems sung before Henry, it was recited, that King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, was interred at Glastonbury abbey, before the high altar, yet without any external mark or memorial. Afterwards Henry visited the abbey, and commanded the spot described by the bard to be opened: When digging near 20 feet deep, they found the body, deposited under a large stone, inscribed with Arthur's name. This is the ground-work of the [preceding] ode: But for the better accommodation of the story to our present purpose, it is told with some slight variations from the Chronicle of Glastonbury. The castle of Cilgarran, where this discovery is supposed to have been made, now a romantic ruin, stands on a rock descending to the river Teivi, in Pembrokeshire; and was built by Roger Montgomery, who led the van of the Normans at Hastings. From a Panegyric on Oxford Ale. Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail juice benignant! O'er the costly cups Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught, Let pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night; My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless, With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught, While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus' reign; but o'er my soul A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What though sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies. was born at Bristol, 20th November 1752. His father, a sub-chanter in the cathedral, and master of a charity school, was a roistering fellow, yet a lover of books and coins, a dabbler in magic; he had died in the August before the poet was born. The mother, a poor schoolmistress and needlewoman, brought up her boy and his sister beneath the shadow of St Mary Redcliffe, that glorious church where their forefathers had been sextons since the days of Elizabeth. He seemed a dull, dreamy child till his seventh year; then he 'fell in love' with an old illuminated music folio, and, quickly learning to read from a black-letter Bible, began to devour every book that fell in his way. He was a scholar of Colston's Bluecoat Hospital from 1760 till 1767, and then he was bound apprentice to Lambert, an attorney. In December 1762 he wrote his first poem, On the Last Epiphany; in 1763 borrowed Speght's blackletter Chaucer from a lending library; and in the summer of 1764 produced the first of his pseudo-antiques, Elinoure and Juga, which imposed on the junior usher of his school, and which he professed to have got from Canynge's Coffer in the muniment-room of St Mary's. Next, early in 1767, for one Burgum, a pewterer, he concocted a pedigree of the De Bergham family (this brought him ten shillings); and in 1768 he hoaxed the whole city with a description, from an old manuscript,' of the opening of Bristol Bridge in 1248. His life at Lambert's was a sordid one; he slept with the footboy, and took his meals in the kitchen. Yet, his duties over-and he discharged them well -he had ample leisure for his darling studies, poetry, history, heraldry, music, antiquities. An attempt to draw Dodsley had failed, when, in March 1769, he sent Horace Walpole a 'transcript' of The Ryse of Peyncteynge, written by T. Rowlie, 1469, for Mastre Canynge. Walpole, quite taken in, wrote at once to his unknown correspondent, expressing a thousand thanks for the manuscript, deploring his ignorance of the 'Saxon language,' and half offering to usher the Rowley Poems to the world. Back came a fresh batch of manuscript, and with it a sketch of Chatterton's own history. The poems, however, being shown to Mason and Gray, were pronounced by them to be forgeries; and Walpole's next letter was a letter of advice to stick to his calling, that so, when he should have made a fortune, he might unbend himself with the studies consonant to his inclinations.' A curt request for the return of the MSS. lay six weeks unanswered during Walpole's absence in Paris. A second came, still curter; and, ‘snapping up poems and letters,' Walpole returned both to him, and thought no more of him or them'-until, two years after, Goldsmith told him of Chatterton's death. Was it jest or grim earnest, a boyish freak or a suicide's farewell, that 'Last Will and Testament of Thomas Chatterton . . . executed in the presence of Omniscience this 14th of April 1770'? Anyhow, falling into his master's hands, it procured the hasty cancelling of his indentures; and ten days later the boy quitted Bristol for London. There he arrived with his poems, and perhaps five guineas in his pocket, and lodged first at one Walmsley's, a plasterer, in Shoreditch; next, from the middle of June, at Brooke Street, Holborn. Abstemious, sleepless, he fell to work as with a hundred hands, pouring forth satires, squibs, stories, political essays, burlettas, epistles in Junius's style (for 'Wilkes and liberty'), and the matchless Balade of Charitie. For a while his prospects seemed golden. The publishers spoke him fair; he obtained an interview with the Lord Mayor Beckford; in the first two months he earned eleven guineas (at the rate of from a farthing to twopence a line); and he sent home glowing letters, with a box of presents for his mother and sister. Then Beckford died; the 'patriotic' publishers took fright; the dead season set in; he had overstocked the market with unpaid wares; a last desperate application failed for the post of surgeon to a Bristol slaver. He was penniless, starving, yet too proud to accept the meal his landlady offered him, when, on 24th August 1770, he locked himself into his garret, tore up his papers, and was found the next morning dead-poisoned with arsenic. They buried him in the paupers' pit of the Shoe Lane Workhouse, a site usurped fifty-six years later by Farringdon Market. For eighty years the Rowley controversy was waged with no less bitterness than ignorance, the Rowleyans including Jacob Bryant (1781), Dean Milles (1782), and Dr S. R. Maitland (1857); the anti-Rowleyans, Tyrwhitt (1777-82) and Thomas Warton (1778-82). The subject was once and for ever laid to rest by Professor Skeat in his edition of Chatterton's Poetical Works (2 vols. 1875). Vol. i. contains Chatterton's acknowledged poems, seventy eight in number; vol. ii. the forty-three Rowley poems, with an essay thereon by the editor. Almost unconsciously Professor Skeat establishes Chatterton's wondrous originality. Theft from an unknown poet?-there is not the slightest indication that Chatterton had ever seen a MS. of early date.' Indebtedness to Chaucer?-he had 'read very little of this excellent author. . . . If he had really taken pains to read and study Chaucer, or Lydgate, or any old author earlier than the age of Spenser, the Rowley Poems would have been very different. They would then have borne some resemblance to the language of the fifteenth century, whereas they are rather less like the literature of that period than of any other. . . . The metres are mostly wrong, the rimes are sometimes faulty; the words [taken mostly from Kersey's Dictionary, and 93 per cent. of them misused] are wrongly coined, or have the wrong number of syllables ; and the phrases often involve anachronisms, or, occasionally, plagiarisms.' These last from such recent poets as Dryden and Gray-from the former of whom he boldly stole the line, 'And tears began to flow; from the latter adapted the conception, 'closed his eyes in endless [everlasting] night.' Among Chatterton's critics there have been some-Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Rossetti, amongst them-whose precious tributes attest the boy-poet's divinity. No man can tell what Chatterton might have done; what he did do is patent to every one. Had Shakespeare died, or Milton, in his eighteenth year, or even Keats, the world had never heard of their existence. But he, a lad, with chances vastly less than theirs, had by then written his name so high in Fame's temple that purblind pilgrims must accept his achievement on hearsay. If he had lived to be famous, the fraud of the 'poet-priest Rowley' would not, belike, have been more hardly blamed than that of Jedediah Cleishbotham.' As it is, the conscientious critics have found it less difficult to dilate on Chatterton's pride and scepticism, his vices and deceit-nay, on the meteorology of 1770, than to master the difficult Rowleyan dialect, and to gauge the genius of this nursling of mediævalism, this harbinger of the Renascence of Wonder, to use Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton's definition of the neo-Romantic movement. For Mr Watts-Dunton it was reserved to point out Chatterton's metrical inventiveness, and his 'undeniable influence, both as to spirit and as to form, upon the revival in the nineteenth century of the romantic temper that temper, without which English poetry can scarcely perhaps hold a place at all when challenged in a court of universal criticism. . . . As a youthful poet showing that power of artistic self-effacement which is generally found to be incompatible with the eager energies of poetic youth-as a producer, that is to say, of work purely artistic and in its highest reaches unadulterated by lyric egotism--the author of the Rowley Poems (if we leave out of consideration the acknowledged poems), however inferior to Keats in point of sheer beauty, stands alongside him in our literature, and stands with him alone.' The Prophecy, a Political Satire. When vile Corruption's brazen face See Pension's harbour, large and clear, ... When time shall bring your wish about, Then is your time to strike the blow, Bristowe Tragedie, or the Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin. The feathered songster, Chanticleer, Has wound his bugle-horn, The coming of the morn: |