THOMAS CHATTERTON,

A LEAF OUT OF THE "LIVES OF THE POETS."

NOT BY SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

"I thought of Chatterton, the wondrous boy,

The sleepless soul that perish'd in his pride."-WORDSWORTH. "We poets, in our youth, begin in gladness;

But thereof comes, in the end, despondency and madness.—IBID.

"His big heart swelled with pride, and the death of the youth was dark in his soul." MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.

THE dim light of a November day-break (A.D. 1752) coldly streaked the east, and the streets of the city of Bristol were soaking from the effects of a sullen heavy rain that had fallen since midnight, when, in one of the narrow thoroughfares that abut upon Redcliffe Hill, a hammering, which with little cessation was continued for a quarter of an hour, startled many of the inhabitants of the locality from their sleep, some of whom, recognising in the grey dawn that peeped in at their casements a messenger beckoning them forth to the toil of another day, leaped out of bed, and proceeded to equip themselves; while others, who had no work to do, or were disposed to take it idly, bestowed a malediction on the party whose noise had prematurely disturbed their slumbers.

The noise proceeded from a little girl, snugly wrapped in a thick woollen shawl, who resolutely thumped with her fists upon the door of a small tenement. At the end of the time specified, an upper window was thrown open, and a shaggy head protruded into the street. A large pair of eyes surveyed the applicant, and a rough noise demanded what she wanted.

"Please, Mr. Padd," said the child, "mother's taken very ill, and wants Mrs. Padd to come to her directly,—'mediately, please.'

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Who d'ye come from?" demanded the voice.

With this announcement the head disappeared, and the child, with hurried steps, set off on her return homeward.

It was a wretched morning: the darkness of the night still maintained a struggle with the dawn. The rain came plashing to the earth, flooding the pavement, and choking sinks and gutters. The dim outlines of the houses loomed dismally through the obscure and murky light, which was beginning to overspread the city.

As the child emerged upon Redcliffe Hill, the imposing structure of St. Mary's the finest parish church in the United Kingdom-stood boldly in relief, from amidst a dense cloud of mist that had gathered in that quarter and enveloped every other object. A loud crash of thunder caused the girl to start suddenly, and in affright. It was followed by another and another in rapid succession, while in the brief interval between the second and third reports, a bright ball of fire shot almost perpendicularly into the earth, burying itself beneath the muniment room, a chamber bearing that designation, situated immediately over the north porch of the church, and afterwards so intimately connected with the life of Chatterton and associated eternally with his memory.

The descent of the fire-ball had been observed by the child alone, of all the inhabitants of Bristol. The loud crashing of the thunder, however, enough to have roused the seven sleepers, or the princess who was doomed to slumber for a century, was distinctly heard by all, and was the subject of much comment during the rest of the day; thunder in November bearing some analogy to snow at Midsummer.

A few minutes brought the child to her home. On making her way up stairs, she found her mother, who was in bed, much worse than when she left the house to run for Mrs. Padd. The sound of an infant's voice, faintly proceeding from the bed clothes, astonished the child, and she began to weep bitterly. At this juncture the voice of Mrs. Padd was heard below.

"Get a light, will ye?" she cried, "would ye have a midwife break her neck upon the stairs?"

For the light, however, the midwife did not tarry, but stumbling into the apartment as she could, she sat herself down in a chair, declaring that in all her born days she had never witnessed such weather, and trusting that it boded good, and was in nowise connected with the end of the world and the extinction of all things sublunary. "Sich lightening-sich thunder," added Mrs. Padd, I never see since I wos a infant, and it wos on the day the old king, as wos George the First, died. They said as how it wos all a owing to that, and perhaps it wos."

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An infant's voice, uttering a half-stifled wail, had an electrical effect upon Mrs. Padd. She sprang from her chair, as if her hand had inadvertently rested on a torpedo, and darted to the bedside.

"God in heaven!" she cried, "It's a blessed babby, and I wos'nt bye to assist it at the birth."

And then she commenced replacing the bed-clothes as rapidly as she had thrown them off.

"I shouldn't wonder," she remarked, addressing herself to herself, for the mother was insensible, and the girl who had summoned her did not enter into her consideration at all, "but wot it wos born when that ere thunder was a roaring. If 's 'be it wos, wot a child it will be !"

Upon what line of reasoning Mrs. Padd grounded her conclusion we cannot take it upon ourselves to determine, but certain it is that she was assured, in her own mind, that the child would make a noise in the world.

Meanwhile the girl, who had been groping about the apartment, struck a light, and applied herself, at the midwife's directions, to the task of making a tire. That done, and other preliminaries having been observed, the good woman prepared some caudle, and put in requisition the other accessories of a lying-in chamber, every now and then soothing the mother, whom she had restored to consciousness, with such speeches as the following.

"Keep a good heart. Wot a thing it wos! Lor' bless me! Only to think he should be born before I could get here, and I didn't lose no time neither. Bless his dear soul, fine babby as he is!"

"Is it a boy then?" inquired the mother, faintly, and pressing the child as it lay snugly in her arms.

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Aye, is it!" replied the midwife," and a boy of a hundred, or a hundred thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand: I shall call him

Boney Herges, as we reads of in the Bible, for if he wasn't born when them thunder claps happened, never say my name is Martha Padd any more,-don't."

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Oh, had his father but lived!" ejaculated Mrs. Chatterton. "How long is it since he died?" inquired the midwife; three months, is it?"

is

It's not

"Two months and twenty-six days," replied the mother, "this

"The twentieth of November," interrupted the midwife.

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If he had but lived a little longer-only to have seen the child!" and the widow wept bitterly over the infant as it nestled in her bosom.

A boy of twelve years old, hurried on a Saturday afternoon, in July, 1764, from the gates of Colston's charity school, situated in St. Augustine's Back, in the good city of Bristol, to the small tenement formerly visited by the professional Mrs. Padd, who had long since slept with her fathers in Redcliffe Churchyard. This boy-this child, for he was little more, wore the tonsure-cap and the peculiar costume of the school founded by the benevolent merchant of Queen Anne's reign. A blessing rest upon his memory, and upon the memory of all who educate the poor! Dark raven locks clustered round the child's forehead, and fell in curls upon his shoulders. His features were peculiarly striking and handsome. Delicate in limb, chaste in bodily outline, lithe and agile as the skipping roe-no heir to princely fortunes, no petted scion of a lordly race, no child of wealthy parents, ever equalled him in grace and beauty. With a step as light and swift as that of the fawn, he fled homeward to greet his mother and sister. This child was THOMAS CHATTERTON.

"Home already, Tom?" cried a young woman, hastening to throw her arms around him as he entered his mother's house,-" Home already? why St. Mary's clock has only this moment struck twelve." The speaker was the little girl who twelve years before had summoned Mrs. Padd.

Yes, dear Mary," answered the boy, I am home soon, for I ran all the way-I couldn't be long coming home to you, you know." Well, now you are here, and as this is your half-holiday, I hope you will stay with mother and myself, and not go and shut yourself up in that back room the whole afternoon," said Mary Chatterton.

Sister dear," replied the child, sweetly, "I must go to my little room. I have only one afternoon in the whole week to call my ownonly one afternoon in which to write-to write. You know I love you, dearest Mary, and our mother; you know we both love her tenderly. It is to make us all rich, one day, sister, that I persist in shutting myself up in that little back room."

"But what do you there? Why will you not let us know how you spend your time? Why will you always lock the door, and take the key away?"

"What do I there? I write."

"But what do you write?"

The entrance of Mrs. Chatterton into the apartment prevented the

child's reply. She was accompanied by a man who carried a basket of earthenware and china, which he deposited on, the floor before he seated himself.

"Why, here is Tom come home, I declare!" cried the widow, and she hurried to caress her son, who folded his arms around her neck and kissed her affectionately.

"Poor Tom," said the gratified mother, stroking the dark hair of her handsome and petted child. "He doesn't often come home to see us-only once a week."

"I am better away, mother dear," replied the boy. "I am not a burden upon you, and besides," added the child proudly, "at the school, I learn."

"Come, neighbour," said Mrs. Chatterton, turning to the dealer in earthenware, what have you got to show us? You remember Tom, don't you? You, who are an old friend of our family? See how he is grown, and how handsome he looks."

Aye, he is grown, and he is handsome indeed," returned the dealer; "I must see what I have got that will please him. Serve the youngest first, you know, Mrs. Chatterton. I will make him a present of any little article he takes a fancy to. Here are lambs and sheep, all in chaney-the best chaney, I warrant. Here is a girl going to market. Here are a dog and a cat with gold collars round their necks.-Come, Tom, choose where you like.".

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Oh, they are very pretty!" cried Mrs. Chatterton.

Yes, indeed, they are," assented the child's sister.

But the child himself scarcely bestowed a glance at the toys which attracted such admiration.

"Here is a cup with Thomas' upon it, in gold letters. Would you like that, Tom?" queried the generous dealer,

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or if you fancy any thing better, tell me what it is, and I will get it for you.' The boy-the boy of twelve years old-answered in the memorable words recorded by his admiring biographers.

Paint me an angel with wings, and a trumpet, that he may trumpet my name over the world."

It is evening. The setting sun sheds his glorious farewell rays upon the matchless pile of St. Mary Redcliffe.

There is a boy alone in this church.

Alone-for no human being but himself is present-no footsteps but his own fall on the silent pavement, or are echoed by the vaulted roof. But oh, not alone! for his own aspiring thoughts people: the solitude. And I too, perhaps I," said this boy, this child-said Thomas Chatterton, for he it was, communing with himself, as, with folded arms and wrapt in meditation, he halted opposite the ancient tomb of Canynge-a name familiar to all readers of the poet's works.

"Yes-perhaps I," he repeated.

He thought of Chaucer and Shakspeare, and Spenser and Milton. Entering a pew, he stretched himself on the cushioned seat.

The rays of the setting sun disappeared and gave place to the sombre melancholy hues of twilight. By degrees a deeper shade came on-deeper, deeper, until the old church, within and without, was in darkness. The boy slept and dreamed..

It appeared to him that a monk approached him with eyes beaming