their destiny determined by the conditions of their childhood. The
Chattertons for a hundred and fifty years had been sextons in St. Mary
Redcliffe, the last being John, uncle of the poet. Whatever might have
been in the transmission through several generations of ghostly
interest in this monument of the Middle Ages, it is known that to
Thomas Chatterton it was of all earthly objects the one most
interesting. For the sports of other lads he had no heart; his leisure
time was spent in the church, and in the study of its history and its
varied quaint literature. In time he began to imitate the ancient
manuscripts now in his mother's house, and with ochre, charcoal, and
black lead, his success in that line was marvellous. These habits
induced others kindred, among them absence of mind, under whose
influence, sometimes, when in the company of others, he gazed silently
at and about them with dreaminess, as if he was thinking how to
connect contemporary things strange to him with those, his only
familiars, two centuries before. It seems a pity for such a spirit to
be without other guides than a weak, toiling mother, and a teacher
dull and despotic as the head-master of the Blue Coat School. Of other
things than books he had opportunities to learn little. The sense of
honorable duty, either he had not been taught or its principles had
been inculcated in ways too meaningless to make enduring impression
upon his being. Under influences more benign he might have made a
career, if not more brilliant, more felicitous. At the age of ten
years he wrote some verses entitled "On the Last Epiphany," which,
printed in _Farley's Journal_, showed that he had, if not high poetic
genius, at least extraordinary sensibility of rhythm. Unfortunately
his mind conceived for most of what he saw around him a hostility
which drove him to express it in satirical phrase. A church-warden,
whose name of Joseph Thomas would not have survived but for
Chatterton's verses, was made immortal for the changes made by him
while intent upon destroying ancient monuments, interfering with his
own ideas of churchyard regularities. Some of the levellings of this
man, particularly of an ancient cross mentioned by William of
Worcester three centuries back, were scourged with a lash much
imitating that of Alexander Pope, perhaps the only really existing
poet whom he sought to imitate. Praises accorded to him inspired the
feeling that if he could meet opportunities entirely favorable, he
could become illustrious; and it is touching to note that in this
ambition his leading thought was to be able to lift his mother and
sister far above their lowly estate. Insufficiently taught in
principles of personal rectitude, persuaded that greatest possessions
were obtainable mainly through fraud, he commenced that strange career
which none but a mind so little instructed could have failed to see
must end in disaster. There can hardly be a doubt that insanity, if
not born with him, was settling upon his understanding and that no
degree of careful guidance or successful venture would have imparted
entire relief.
In his fifteenth year he was apprenticed to John Lambert, an attorney
of Bristol, by whom he was set to copying legal documents, an
employment that lent many hours of leisure, which he devoted to study
in heraldry and Old English. With these he became familiar, and then
he began those impostures that were the bane of his short remnant of
life. The first of these had for its victim, one Burgum, a pewterer,
whose ignorance and vanity exposed him to the lad's designs to obtain
money from him by flattery. Like many others in such conditions, the
pewterer had eager desire to be thought a descendant of ancestry
formerly of high lineage. One day he was told by Chatterton that among
the ancient parchments appertaining to Saint Mary Redcliffe, he had
discovered one with blazon of the De Bergham arms, and he intimated
that from that noble family he, the pewterer, may have descended. The
document was made out wholly by Chatterton. Investigation satisfied
Burgum fully, and in return for the discovery he gave the boy a
crown-piece. This compensation seemed so inadequate that the
discoverer afterward celebrated it thus:
"Gods! What would Burgum give to get a name
And snatch the blundering dialect from shame?
What would he give to hand his memory down
To time's remotest boundary? A crown!"
A year afterward, on occasion of the completion of the new bridge over
the river Avon, he astonished the whole town by a paper printed in the
_Bristol Weekly Journal_, with the signature of "Dunelmus
Bristoliensis," which was pretended to have been discovered among
those multitudinous papers of the Treasury House, and which gave
account of the city mayor's first passage over the old bridge that had
been dedicated to the _Assumption of_ the Blessed Virgin by King
Edward III. and his queen, Philippa. Search for the sender was
expedited by his offer of further contributions on the same line, and
wonderful was the success attending his devices. No less than the
other citizens was misled William Barrett, a learned surgeon and
antiquary then engaged upon a history of Bristol. This man, who had
been signally kind to the orphan, availed himself freely of his
pretended findings, paid for them liberally, and used them in the
preparation of his book. What pleased him most was the discovery that
Bristol, among other notables two centuries back, had a great poet in
the person of Thomas Rowlie, a priest, who, among other things, had
written a great poem entitled "The Bristowe Tragedie; or, the Dethe of
Syr Charles Bawdin," founded upon the execution of Sir Baldwin
Fulford, in 1461, by order of Edward IV. This was indeed a great poem.
The muse of tragedy had inspired the young maniac with much of her
consuming fervor. The verses containing the intercession of Canynge
mayor of Bristol, and his ideas of the chiefest duties of a monarch
are among the most touching and noble among their likes in all
literature.
As a contributor to the _Town and Country Magazine_ he obtained many a
shilling, but far less often than what would have satisfied his eager
wants, foremost among which was to see his mother and sister
established in fine vestments and living in luxury. In time he grew to
feel contempt for the Bristol people, high and low, and then he turned
his eyes upon London. Application to Dodsley, the leading publisher,
was discouraged for want of acquaintance with his condition and
responsibility. He then essayed Horace Walpole, sending an ode on King
Richard I. for his work "Anecdotes of Painting," and undertaking to
furnish the names of several great painters, natives of Bristol. This
application was signed "John Abbot of St. Austin's Minster, Bristol."
In the letter he drew attention to the "Bristowe Tragedie" and other
Rowlie poems. Walpole, who was as cold as urbane, expressed some
curiosity to see these productions, which, when sent, he referred to
Gray and Mason. These pronounced them forgeries. Whereupon Walpole, in
the meantime informed of the real author and his condition, paid no
further attention to the papers for a while, even to the request to
return them. Enraged but undaunted by this failure he continued his
work, both in old and contemporary English speech, producing "Aella,"
"Goddwyn," "Battle of Hastings," "Consuliad," "Revenge," etc. At
length he grew restless to a degree beyond endurance. With the few
acquaintances of his own age he talked of suicide. Feeling himself a
stranger in that society, often spending whole nights in wakeful
dreams instead of restful sleep, incensed with limitless ambition, he
did indeed meditate upon making an end of himself. Among the papers on
his desk one day was found his will, a singular document, containing
among other things most incoherent bequests to several acquaintances,
as of his "vigor and fire of youth" to George Catcall, the
schoolmaster; "his humility" to the Rev. Mr. Camplin; his "prosody and
grammar" and a "moiety" of his "modesty" to Mr. Burgum; concluding
with directions to Paull Farr and John Flower, "at their own expense"
to erect a monument upon his grave with this inscription: "To the
memory of Thomas Chatterton. Reader, judge not. If thou art a
Christian, believe that he shall be judged by a Supreme Power; to that
power alone is he now answerable."
[Illustration: The Death of Chatterton, the Young Poet.]
This document led to his dismissal by the attorney, who, in April
1770, returned to him his indentures. He at once set out for London
with his manuscripts and a small sum of money raised by a few persons
in Bristol. Through the help of a female relative he got board at the
house of one Walmsley, a plasterer, in Shoreditch. In the history of
literature nothing can be found so much to be compassionated as the
life led by him during those summer months in the great city. Plodding
the streets from day to day with his manuscripts, living mainly upon
bread and water, not retiring to bed at night until near the morning,
and then seldom closing his eyes, yet in this time guilty of no sort
of known immorality, sending home frequent letters abounding in
expressions of most fervid hopes and in promises of silks and other
fine things to the objects of his affection, few cases could have
appealed more piteously for help. The wits who might have succored
were out of town. Goldsmith lamented that he had not known him.
Johnson, with his stern kindness, if such a thing had been possible,
could have saved him from despair. His deportment in the family with
whom he lived was without exception of decorum, although he showed
that any movement toward familiarity with him was offensive. In his
sore stress he began to write papers upon politics, which were
accepted by the partisan press. It was at the time when the arbitrary
encroachments of George III. were met by the audacious courage of
Mayor Beckford. Chatterton attached himself to the popular side; yet
he seemed to have regret for the mistake in so doing, because of the
comparative want of money in that party. In a long letter written to
his sister, most of which is occupied with his great undertakings, he
spoke thus of his political works:
"But the devil of the matter is, there is no money to be got on this
side of the question. Interest is on the other side. But he is a poor
author who cannot write on both sides. I believe I may be introduced
(and if not I'll introduce myself) to a ruling power in the court
party. I might have a recommendation to Sir George Colebrook, an East
India director, as qualified for an office by no means despicable; but
I shall not take a step to the sea whilst I can continue on land." In
the midst of this struggle Beckford, the champion of popular rights,
died suddenly, and the Walmsleys afterward testified that this event
put Chatterton "perfectly out of his mind."
Soon after this he removed to Brook Street, Holborn, and became a
boarder in the house of one Angell, a sack-maker. Here he continued to
work day and night until desperation, long threatened, seized upon
him. Court journals grew tired of articles showing little talent for
political discussion, and he became ragged and almost shoeless. In the
only despondent letter ever sent to his mother, he wrote of having
stumbled into an open grave one day while walking in St. Pancras's
Churchyard. The Angells, touched with his poverty and distress, kindly
offered him food, which, except in one instance, he declined. One
night after sitting with the family, apparently given over to
despondency, he took affectionate leave of his hostess and the next
morning was found dead from a dose of arsenic.
It was singular that the Rowlie writings were so far superior to his
productions in modern English. The latter were commonplace, the former
indicative of much genius. Indeed, one of the strongest evidences
against their genuineness was the moral impossibility of their
production in the age to which he assigned them. The imitation was as
pathetic as it was audacious, attempted thus in honor of a model that
never had existed.
[Signature of the author.]
ROBERT BURNS[8]
[Footnote 8: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess.]
By WILL CARLETON
(1759-1796)
[Illustration: Robert Burns.]
Robert Burns, the great lyric poet of Scotland, was born January 25,
1759, near the sea coast town of Ayr. His father, William Burness, had
all he could do to support a family of children, of whom Robert was
the eldest. The boy soon became a stalwart toiler and could turn a
furrow and reap a swath with the best of his comrades; but his mind
meanwhile grasped strongly and passionately all the literature to
which it could get access. This was limited in extent; the books in
his father's humble cottage were very few. He devoured, besides,
everything in prose and verse that he could buy or borrow; and there
were soon aroused in him all the longings of repressed genius and
unemployed ambition.
Many of Burns's poems have had music set to them; but he began his
rhythmical career by fitting poetry to music. A girl friend often
worked beside him in the fields, as was the custom in that locality.
She was a beautiful songstress, or at least seemed so to the untutored
peasant-boy, and Robert soon learned to put new words to many of her
tunes, not forgetting to include in them due commendations of the
young lady herself. These efforts naturally received more or less
applause; and the youth found his mind more and more drawn toward
poetic effort.
His first few years seem to have been spent in a half-happy,
half-careless boyhood; in them he had all the experiences of a poor
but healthy Scotch peasant-lad, toiling in the fields, catching now
and then a few weeks or months at school, coquetting with neighboring
lasses, but with poverty and lack of social position always barring
the way to his advancement.
Through all this, poetry was his solace and amusement; at the age of
fifteen he had written many verses which, although crude, contained
the promise of his subsequent career; but of course at that time they
were admired only by a limited circle of his neighbors and friends. He
also unhappily contracted certain convivial habits, which lasted in a
greater or less degree all through his life, which no one regretted
more than he did at times, and which greatly impaired and finally put
an early end to a brilliant career.
When Robert was twenty-five years old his father, the good William
Burness, died, and the family, who had kept well together, took a
farm about eight miles distant from the old home, near Ayr. Here the
young farmer-poet undertook to become a thorough and industrious
husbandman. He turned his attention toward the literature of the farm;
he tried to bend his powerful though dreamy mind toward the prosaic
and the practical. But the venture did not thrive; some of the
thousand-and-one casualties that are always besetting crops and
crop-growers came his way, and the brave venture which he and his
brother Gilbert had undertaken together, proved scant of success.
He, however, may be said to have done the greatest work of his life
upon that farm. It was while one day weeding the "kailyard," or
garden, with his brother, that he first decided, after they had talked
it carefully over, to be an author, and to write verses that would
"bear publishing." It is to be noticed that from this hour he became
more methodical with his muse and seemed to work toward a purpose; and
that within a short time after this resolve he wrote most of the poems
that have made his name immortal.
In 1786 it was definitely decided that the farm was not going "to
pay," and that his efforts as an agriculturist had failed. But these
were not the only troubles that were gathering in the young poet's
path. In 1785 he became engaged to his "Highland Mary." If we may
judge by his poems, this was the one among his numerous love affairs
in which his heart was most deeply enthralled; but there was another
in which he was inextricably and fatally entangled. It was with a
young girl, Jean Armour, to whom he seems to have been as sincerely
attached as his headlong, susceptible nature would allow him to be to
anyone. He made the best amends he could to "the bonnie lass" by
giving her his written acknowledgment of marriage--a process perfectly
legal in Scotland, though irregular--but her father still hoped for a
more advantageous alliance for his daughter, and refused her to the
poor poet; a sentiment in which the daughter, to all appearances,
heartily joined.
It is interesting to think of this poverty-stricken family rejecting
Burns, even after matters had gone thus far, on account of his lack of
wealth, when he had at that very time, in his little desk, poems for
which the world has since paid millions of pounds. But the future is
often unseen, even by those highest in learning and deepest in wit;
and it is little wonder that the unsophisticated family were unable to
know even the pecuniary value of our young ploughman's brain.
Discouraged and depressed the young poet resolved on emigrating to
Jamaica, as book-keeper of a wealthy planter. In order to procure the
money with which to pay the expenses of his journey, and no doubt
partly in pursuance of the plan made that day in the garden, he
decided to publish a small volume, by subscription, which he did, at
Kilmarnock, in July, 1786, having as the title-page of the book,
"Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect; by Robert Burns." It will be
seen that he now dropped the fifth and sixth letters from the name
inherited of his father, and the boy Burness became the man Burns.
This book achieved immediate and unexpected success; and having
realized a few pounds from its profits, Burns set out for Greenock,
where he was to take ship for his new West Indian home. But his poems
had attracted so much attention, and had been the cause of such
commendation, that he was finally encouraged to stay and enjoy some of
the fruits of his genius, which the world was now beginning to
discover.
In November of the same year, encouraged by verbal praises and written
commendations, some of them all the way from the literary centre of
Edinburgh, he journeyed to that city, where he was received with great
cordiality by many of the leading people, and urged to issue a second
edition of his poems, which he did in April of the ensuing year. It
was sold, like the first one, by subscription, and netted the author a
much larger sum; while it procured him fame, all through the country,
as "The Ploughman Poet."
During this year he took several tours in different parts of his
native Scotland, in company with congenial spirits, once going a very
little way into England. He was received gladly and hospitably
everywhere by those who had read and admired his poems. His journals
and letters during that period, probably upon the whole the most happy
in his life, teem with accounts of courtesies, hospitalities,
merry-makings, and gallantries, which he mentions as taking place all
along the route. His poetic pen never seems to have remained idle very
long at a time; and albums, fly-leaves, note-books, letters, and
sometimes windowpanes, received in turn his quaint and fiery verses.
In October he returned to Edinburgh, where he remained for some time,
filling social engagements, entangling himself in certain affairs of
the heart, and endeavoring to get a settlement with his publisher,
whom he considered as owing him the immediate payment of a
considerable sum of money. He also assisted a compiler in making
collections of old Scottish songs, and in furnishing new words to old
airs. It is a singular fact, that while Burns was willing to earn
money with the regular edition of his poems, he steadfastly declined
remuneration for his songs, claiming that he did the work for love.
With the natural Scotch thrift of his fathers, he soon decided that he
must have some more substantial occupation than that of a poet, and he
applied for and received a position in the Excise. To add to his
income he, in 1788, leased a farm on the river Nith, about twelve
miles from Dumfries. The place contained one hundred acres, and was
stated to be "more the choice of a poet than of a farmer." Its fine
situation and beautiful views compensated, perhaps, in Burns's mind,
for its sterility.
Here he brought his wife, Jean Armour, whom he had married under such
unpleasant circumstances a few years before, and to whom he was drawn
again as much by pity as by love, her parents having turned her out of
doors. It is hardly necessary to say that the parents received him
with open arms, now that he came with some signs of prosperity; and he
no doubt entered anew upon married life with their sincere, if
somewhat tardy, blessing.
[Illustration: Burns and Highland Mary.]
Upon this farm of "Ellisland" Burns lived three years, and during that
time he had three occupations--farmer, poet, and excise officer. In
the last-named he was in the habit of riding two hundred miles per
week, to different points throughout the county. He wrote
considerably, but perhaps not so well as if he had not been hurried
and worried by practical affairs. As an officer he is generally
admitted to have been thorough, correct, and at the same time humane;
as a farmer, he again failed, and in 1791 sold back the lease of his
place, pocketed, it is said, a loss of L300, and moved with his family
to Dumfries. Here he took up the plan of living entirely upon his
salary from the Government--L70 per annum. This would seem a meagre
stipend now; but it would at that time have enabled Burns to support
his family in comfort, though not in the way his abilities entitled
him to do. His position gave him some perquisites, and he had the hope
of an advance in his salary, which would follow a looked-for promotion
to the office of supervisor. He spent his time in the performance of
his duties, in collecting and writing songs for the above-mentioned
compilation of Scottish melodies, and in meeting and conversing with
the many friends whom his genius and geniality drew around him.
But his hopes and his health gradually failed together. Dumfries was
on one of the great stage lines that led to and from London, and it
was often invaded by tourists who were intent on "making a night of
it" with the well-known peasant-poet. In these bouts, in which he was
generally willing to recite his poems and sing his songs, he received
much pleasure and applause, but nothing else, save the wear and tear
of dissipation. His habit of outspoken opinion, in political and other
matters, proved obstacles to his advancement in the public service; he
fell gradually into debt, despondency, and disease--a mournful trio of
companions for the most brilliant of Scottish poets! "An old man
before his time," he lay down to die, in 1796, having lived, as time
is counted, only thirty-seven short years.
The fame of this great and unfortunate poet has increased since his
death; Scotchmen everywhere thrill with pride when Burns's magic name
is spoken, and the world in general has a sincere love for the
warm-hearted, plain-spoken bard, who turned his own soul to the gaze
of his fellow-beings, that they might the better know their own. The
space of this article will not permit even an enumeration of his
wonderful poems; the world may almost be said to know them by heart.
His "Cotter's Saturday Night," "Tam O'Shanter," "Bonnie Doon," "Auld
Lang Syne," "Bruce's Address," "A Man's a Man for a' That," and many
others that might be named, are likely to live for generation after
generation; and his character as a man, although subject in many
respects to severe criticism, can always be covered with a mantle of
loving charity, when we remember his generosity of heart, his manly
independence of spirit, his natural nobility of mind, and consider the
difficult circumstances and terrible temptations that encompassed his
stormy life.
[Signature of the author.]
SCHILLER[9]
[Footnote 9: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess.]
By B. L. FARJEON
(1759-1805)
[Illustration: Schiller.]