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.
He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for
'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.