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CHA industry, that fragment of paper had been preserved unharmed. It was destined to start the mind of Chatterton on its swift and terrible career. By chance the boy took it up, fixed his eyes upon the large capitals illumined with gorgeous colours, and grew solemn with emotion. Not by the persuasive caresses of a mother, not by the indestructible hornbooks of Pyle Street free school, but by the gentle force of colour, was the soul of Chatterton aroused from its chrysolitic sleep. Once liberated from the blind dominion of instinct, his mind passed by a sudden transition into the highest type of genius. "At eight years of age he was so eager for books that he read from the moment he waked, which was early, until he went to bed, if they would let him." About this time the thought that he was destined to be great seized him like a passion. This ambition was no ephemeral fancy, flitting in moments of conceit across the mind, but a stern reality, enthroning itself imperially in the centre of his being. Wandering alone on the banks of the Avon, sitting beside the sepulchre of Canynge, in full view of the chiselled towers and lofty steeple of St. Mary, Redcliff, or gazing upon the frolic and mirth of boyish pastime, the consciousness of future fame haunted him like a spirit. This is the key to his strange behaviour—the melancholy which clouded his gayest moments, the unaccountable fits of crying which alarmed his friends, the dreary solitude in which he loved to indulge, and the veil of mystery behind which he performed his greatest achievements. On the 3rd of August, 1760, close upon his eighth year, he was admitted to the blue-coat school, endowed by a Bristol gentleman of the name of Colston. The prospect of entering Colston's school threw him into great enthusiasm—"Here," he said, "I shall get all the learning I want." But the routine of reading, writing, and arithmetic soon damped his ardour. From the first dawn of intelligence his mind exhibited astonishing vigour and rapidity. As if conscious that life was short, he flew through his career with lightning speed. In his eleventh year he had the thoughts and experiences of a man. He had already read seventy volumes; neat copy-books and ingenious sums were objects of no attraction. The proffered advantages of school were spurned away as chaff; he wanted solid nutritive knowledge. This he found in the study of history and divinity. Three circulating libraries were soon laid under contribution, and barely sufficed to meet the demands of the blue-coat boy. What books fell into his hands in the course of this reading is not known. It is interesting to learn that among them was Speght's Chaucer, the glossary of which he transcribed for his own use. Once a week, on Saturday afternoons, the blue-coat boys were at liberty to visit their friends. Chatterton spent these half-holidays invariably in the little cottage on Redcliff hill, with his mother and sister. They were very fond of him, and believed thoroughly in his future fame; upon them the tendrils of his affection fastened and grew. In the storms of life, the hold upon them was never lost. In school he was known as a proud, perhaps overbearing boy. Social familiarity was impossible. The nearest approach he could make to it, was to mount the church-steps, and "repeat poetry to those whom he preferred among his schoolfellows." Nevertheless he had a kind heart. The sight of a beggar on the old bridge drew tears to his eyes. At home he was all love. One of the greatest pleasures he anticipated from his approaching greatness, was that of being able to present his mother and sister with rich gowns and pretty bonnets. Much as he loved them, however, they shared little of his society. In a lumber-room, fitted up for his own use, he would remain under lock and key all day. If they remonstrated, his short answer was—"I have a work on hand." What was he doing with so much secrecy in this little chamber Saturday after Saturday? "In this room he had always by him a great piece of ochre in a brown pan, pounce bags of charcoal dust, and a bottle of blacklead powder." When he came down to tea, his face and hands were begrimed with yellow and black. It must have been on one of these Saturday visits, sometime before the summer of 1764, that Chatterton made the famous discovery of what he called the manuscripts of Rowley. It thus happened:—One day his eye was caught by some thread papers which his mother and sister used. The writing upon them appeared old, and the characters uncommon. After submitting his mother to a cross-examination, he was led to a full discovery of all the parchments which remained. To the last day of his life he continued to set a high value upon them. Even on that solemn morning when the time and manner of his death had in all probability been determined, and there remained no inducement to perpetuate a deception, he expressed in significant language his appreciation of their worth. The tendency of modern criticism is to disparage these papers as containing nothing of a literary character. The truth is, we are in complete ignorance of their contents. That Chatterton should have been allured to palm some of his best poems upon an old monk of the fourteenth century is not to be wondered at; that he should have so completely succeeded remains to this day a marvel. These very manuscripts no doubt suggested the idea. Their history is shortly this:—In a room over the north porch of Redcliff church, some half a dozen chests, supposed to contain legal documents, were forced open in 1727 under the superintendence of an attorney. The deeds referring to the church were removed, and all the other parchments were left there scattered about as being of no value. In 1748, Chatterton's father being nearly related to the sexton, was permitted to take away from time to time "baskets full" of these documents for covering bibles and copy-books. Mrs. Chatterton also found them useful for "making dolls, thread papers, and the like." It was the bulk which survived these depredations that afterwards obtained such celebrity as the manuscripts of Rowley. From the De Burgham pedigree, it is evident that Chatterton, while yet in the blue-coat school, had not only conceived the plan of his literary imposture, but had actually entered upon its execution. Attached to the genealogical tree was a poem, "The Romaunte of the Cnyghte," actually written by an illustrious ancestor of the pewterer! It is chiefly noticeable as being the first in point of time of those antique poems on which the fame of Chatterton mainly rests. But it was not until he had left school and entered upon his apprenticeship as lawyer's clerk, that the Bristol people became aware of his existence. His first adventures in literature had produced no great sensation. "The last Epiphany or Christ's coming to Judgment;" "Sly Dick;" "The Churchwarden and the Apparition;" and "Apostate Will," were smart pieces for a boy not yet in his teens. But they had not moved the world—not even Bristol. One morning in 1768, however, when the municipal excitement of opening a new bridge was at its height, the inhabitants of Bristol were startled with a remarkable paragraph in Felix Farley's Journal. It contained a graphic account of the opening several centuries before of the old bridge; under the signature of "Dunkelmus," who had extracted it from ancient documents in his possession! Inquiries were instituted, and the authorship was traced to Chatterton. At first he gave evasive answers, then prevaricated, afterwards retracted, and finally made the statement to which he adhered all his life. The success of the adventure flattered his vanity, and concealed from his view the degradation of his conduct. His moral nature, originally weak, had never been cultivated, and his intellect asserting a supremacy over his whole being, urged him forward against terrible odds. Nothing but some strong internal convulsion could now restore him to manly honesty and peace. It was the crisis of his life. If our estimate of Chatterton is correct, it was at this juncture, that he deliberately resolved upon that career of unscrupulous imposture, which has exposed him to the just censure of aftertimes. Horace Walpole was at this time collecting materials for his Anecdotes of Painting in England, Chatterton inclosed him "The Ryse of Peyncteyne in Englande, wroten by T. Rowlie, 1469, for Master Canynge!" Barret the surgeon was engaged in writing a history of Bristol. Chatterton from time to time supplied him with invaluable facts! On the 21st December, 1768, he informed Mr. Robert Dodsley, a London publisher, that he had in his possession "poems and interlude, and perhaps the oldest dramatic pieces extant, wrote by one Rowley, a priest of Bristol, who lived in the reigns of Henry IV. and Edward IV." This sixteenth year was the busiest of his life. "The Bristowe Tragedy;" tragical interlude called "Ella;" a fine pastoral entitled "Elinore and Inga," were all completed before the close of 1768. In the meantime his professional studies were sadly neglected. Mr. Lambert was a rough-handed gentleman, and sometimes administered correction to the young apprentice in the form of a "blow or two." Then he made Chatterton sleep with the footboy, and take his meals with the servants, which was not pleasant. The scraps of poetry found about the floor were characteristically called "stuff," and hurled at Chatterton's head. On the whole, his "life was miserable." There was found in the office that will, written in contemplation of suicide, which one cannot read without a