His hopes of obtaining eminence as a political | lyric and heroic poems, pastorals, epistles, ballads, writer now became extravagantly sanguine, and &c. Sublimity and beauty pervade many of them; he already seems to have considered himself a and they display wonderful powers of imagination man of considerable public importance. "My and facility of composition; yet, says Dr. Aikin, company," he says, in a letter to his sister, "is there is also much of the commonplace flatness courted everywhere; and could I humble myself and extravagance, that might be expected from a to go into a compter, could have had twenty places juvenile writer, whose fertility was greater than before now; but I must be among the great; state his judgment, and who had fed his mind upon matters suit me better than commercial." These stores collected with more avidity than choice. bright prospects, about July, appear to have been The haste and ardour, with which he pursued his suddenly clouded; and, after a short career of various literary designs, was in accordance with dissipation, which kept pace with his hopes, he his favourite maxim, “that God had sent his creafound that he had nothing to expect from the pa- tures into the world with arms long enough to tronage of the great; and, to escape the scene of reach any thing, if they would be at the trouble of has mortification, made an unsuccessful attempt to extending them." 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 sui-magazines, were all the effervescences of the same cide 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. 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 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, 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 Ho-senior, the proprietor of the Critical Review, not mer, 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, 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 incohe rent, 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 Han wounde hys bugle horne, 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 Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe And to Syr Charles dydd goe. But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, And eke hys lovynge wyfe, Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. "O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, 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 Who, though mayhap hee has donne wronge, "Hee has a spouse and children twaine; Yff that you are resolved to lett Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne, "Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven Thatt dydd mee being gyve I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. "By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven, Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, "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 Runns over att thyne eye; Ys ytte for my most welcome doome Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. "Whan through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde "Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee; Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte, And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere; I make no doubte butt hee ys gone, Hee taughte mee justice and the laws And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe "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, "Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! And godlie Henrie's reigne, Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies For those of bloude and peyne? Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne, And mangled by a hynde, I doe defye the traytour's power, "Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, 66 Yett ynne the holie book above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Mye name shall lyve for aie. "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe : Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe! "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, 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, Praie Godde that every Christian soule "Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, "Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, And nowe the officers came ynne "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Truste thou ynne Godde above, And ynne theyre hertes hym love: Thatt I theyre fader runne; Florence should dethe thee take-adieu! Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; "Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !"- Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. "Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude, Wythe lookes fulle brave and sweete; Before hym went the council-menne, The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt. 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, "O Thou thatt savest manne fromme synne, To hys most welcom fate Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, "Thou seest me, Edwarde! tray tour vile! Butt bee assured, disloyall manne! I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to die, Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face, To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde; Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs And to the people hee dyd saie, "As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande, Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne. And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. "You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge, Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde, And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, And teares, enow to washe't awaie, The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre Ynnto foure partes cutte; And everye parte, and eke hys hedde, One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, Ilys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, MYNSTRELLES SONGE. O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, Gon to hys death-bedde, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Gonne to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Harke, the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Ynne the briered delle belowe ; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, See the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere uponne mie true love's grave, Mie love ys dedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, I die I comme; mie true love waytes.— Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. |