No. CXLIV.

On the Poems attributed to Rowley.

THERE are many truths which we firmly believe, though we are unable to refute every argument which the extreme subtilty of refined learning may advance to invalidate them. When I read the researches of those learned antiquaries who have endeavoured to prove that the poems attributed to Rowley were really written by him, I observe many ingenious remarks in confirmation of their opinion, which it would be tedious if not difficult to controvert. But I no sooner turn to the poems than the labours of the antiquaries appear only a waste of time and ingenuity, and I am involuntarily forced to join in placing that laurel, which he seems so well to have deserved, on the brow of Chatterton.

The poems bear so many marks of superior genius that they have deservedly excited the general attention of polite scholars, and are considered as the most remarkable productions in modern poetry. We have many instances of poetical eminence at an early age; but neither Cowley, Milton, nor Pope ever produced any thing, while they were boys, which can justly be compared to the poems of Chatterton. The learned antiquaries do not indeed dispute their excellence. They extol it in the highest terms of applause. They raise their favourite Rowley to a rivalry with Homer; but they make the very merit of the works an argument against the real author. Is it possible, say they, that a boy could produce compositions so beautiful and so masterly? That a common boy should produce them is not possible; but that they should be pro

duced by a boy of an extraordinary genius, such a genius as is that of Homer and Shakspeare, such a genius as appears not above once in many centuries, though a prodigy, is such a one as by no means exceeds the bounds of rational credibility.

That Chatterton was such a genius his manners and his life in some degree evince. He had all the tremulous sensibility of genius, all its eccentricities, all its pride, and all its spirit. Even his death, un-fortunate and wicked as it was, displayed a magnitude of soul, which urged him to spurn a world, where even his exalted genius could not vindicate him from contempt, indigence, and contumely.

Against the opinion of his superiority of genius, the miscellanies which he published in a periodical pamphlet are triumphantly produced. But what proof is there that all which are attributed to him were really his own? They are collected after his death; collected, I suppose, by conjecture, and published in a separate volume, with all the typographical errata of the hasty pamphlets from which they are reprinted. But in many of the pieces which were confessedly written by him there are marks of genius, not indeed equal to those of the counterfeit Rowley, but such as prove, that the boy who wrote them could write better. In composing the ancient poems all his attention had been exerted. It was the first, and seems to have been the greatest object of his life, to raise himself to future eminence by the instrumentality of a fictitious poet of a former age. Nights, if not days, were devoted to the work; for we have it on record, that he used to sit awake in his chamber during the silence of midnight. But the little compositions which he wrote for the magazines, were either written in a careless mood, when he relaxed his mind from his grand work, or in a moment of distress, when an extem

porary essay or copy of verses was necessary to procure him a halfpenny roll and a draught of small beer. When he found that the editors were more desirous of quantity than quality, and, amidst the numerous volunteers in their service, seemed backward to engage with one who wanted a stipend, he foresaw that even the little which nature wanted would not be supplied-He saw, and resigned his indignant spirit.

Unfortunate boy! short and evil were thy days, but thy fame shall be immortal. Hadst thou been known to the munificent patrons of genius-But wast thou not known to one? If fame report thy treatment truly, it was not kind of thee, Horatio; it was not like thyself, for thou art gentle in thy nature. Wast thou not considered as the oracle of taste, the investigator of all that is curious in arts and literature?-It was then, at last, thy only pride and pleasure to bring to light a catalogue of royal and noble authors.-What hadst thou to do with reptiles? with a poor, friendless, and obscure charity-boy? Besides, exclaims Horatio, it was a forgery, a horrid, a vile forgery-Impostors are not to be encouraged.-But let us ask thee, Didst not thou put a false name to thy own romance,-to thy own poor production, for such it is when compared with the sublime excellence of Chatterton ? If, indeed, thy neglect of the poor boy arose from mistake or inadvertency, and I think it might, the generous public freely forgives thee;-but if from pride and insolence, the present and all future times will probably resent an omission, which hastened one of the greatest geniuses which England ever knew, at the age of a boy, to that bourne from which no traveller returns.

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Unfortunate boy! poorly wast thou accommodated during thy short sojourning among us ;

rudely wast thou treated,-sorely did thy feeling soul suffer from the scorn of the unworthy; and there are, at last, those who wish to rob thee of thy only meed, thy posthumous glory. Severe too are the censures of thy morals. In the gloomy moments of despondency, I fear thou hast uttered impious and blasphemous thoughts, which none can defend, and which neither thy youth, nor thy fiery spirit, nor thy situation can extenuate. But let thy more rigid censors reflect, that thou wast literally and strictly but a boy. Let many of thy bitterest enemies reflect what were their own religious principles, and whether they had any, at the age of fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen. Surely it is a severe and an unjust surmise, that thou wouldst probably have ended thy life as a victim of the laws, if thou hadst not finished it as thou didst; since the very act by which thou durst put an end to thy painful existence proves, that thou thoughtest it better to die than to support life by theft or violence. The speculative errors of a boy who wrote from the sudden suggestions of passion or despondency, who is not convicted of any immoral or dishonest act in consequence of his speculations, ought to be excused and consigned to oblivion. But there seems to be a general and inveterate dislike to the boy, exclusively of the poet; a dislike which many will be ready to impute, and, indeed, not without the appearance of reason, to that insolence and envy of the little great, which cannot bear to acknowledge so transcendent and commanding a superiority in the humble child of penury and obscurity.

Malice, if there was any, may surely now be at rest; for "Cold he lies in the grave below." But where were ye, O ye friends to genius, when, stung with disappointment, distressed for food and raiment, with every frightful form of human misery.

painted on his fine imagination, poor Chatterton sunk in despair? Alas! ye knew him not then, and now it is too late,

For now he is dead;

Gone to his deathbed,

All under the willow tree.

So sang the sweet youth, in as tender an elegy as ever flowed from a feeling heart.

In return for the pleasure I have received from thy poems, I pay thee, poor boy, the trifling tribute

of

my praise. Thyself thou hast emblazoned; thine own monument thou hast erected. But they whom thou hast delighted feel a pleasure in vindicating thine honours from the rude attacks of detraction. Thy sentiments, thy verse, thy rhythm, all are modern, all are thine. By the help of glossaries and dictionaries, and the perusal of many old English writers, thou hast been able to translate the language of the present time into that of former centuries. Thou hast built an artificial ruin. The stones are mossy and old, the whole fabric appears really antique to the distant and the careless spectator; even the connoisseur, who pores with spectacles on the single stones, and inspects the mossy concretions with an antiquarian eye, boldly authenticates its antiquity; but they who examine without prejudice, and by the criterion of common sense, clearly discover the cement and the workmanship of a modern mason.

But though I cannot entertain a doubt but that the poems were written by Chatterton, yet I mean not to dictate to others, nor will I engage in controversy. I have expressed my feelings as those of a reader, who, though he respects the study of antiquities, dislikes the blind prejudices of the mere antiquary. I leave the weapons of controversy to be