UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIF0RJN14 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 LIBRARY
 
 
 , CALIF* 
 
 2' 8 2 5
 
 * 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 TRULY EMINENT 
 
 ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 BY PERCIVAL STOCKDALE. 
 
 
 Johnson, with admiration oft I see 
 The Critick and the Bard conjoined in thee : 
 But prejudices, too, as oft I find, 
 Corrupt, debase, mislead thy noble mind. 
 Hence, against thee, I seize the cause of truth ; 
 A cause that I adored, from early youth. 
 Oh ! may her voice inspire my latest breath ! 
 And soothe reflexion in the hour of death ! 
 
 Ed Io Anche son pittore. Corregio. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 ItmDon, 
 
 PRINTEP BY D. N. SHURY, BERWICK STREET, SOHO, 
 
 FOR THE AUTHOUR : 
 
 AND SOLD BY 
 MESS. LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER ROW J 
 AND W. CLARKE, NEW BOND STREET. 
 
 1807. 
 
 6 KK> Z
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 

 
 
 I 
 
 1W 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 Page 
 
 Lecture XI. YOUNG (continued) 1 
 
 XII. THOMSON 74 
 
 XIII. CHATTERTON.. 145 
 
 XIV. CHATTERTON (continued). . # .. ... . 238 
 
 XV. CHATTERTON (continued) 3U 
 
 XVI. CHATTERTON (continued) 391 
 
 XVII. CHATTERTON (continued) 45 1 
 
 XVIII. CHATTERTON (continued) ud 
 
 XIX. GRAY ^.... 538 
 
 XX. GRAY 611 
 
 APPENDIX .. 642 
 
 
 i m
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 LECTURE XI. 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 The sentiments of our poet, sometimes, 
 and particularly in his Night-Thoughts, 
 swell to bombast. In allusion to this ex- 
 cess, when he was riding, one day, through 
 a little town, with my Lord Chesterfield, 
 his noble friend, observing that there was 
 painted on a board, over a shop -door, 
 " Fustian sold here" read the inscrip- 
 tion to Young, and asked him, " when he 
 " had changed his lodgings?" 
 
 But in these Night-Thoughts, there are 
 many, many passages, compared with 
 which, all the brilliant bons-mots of Stan- 
 hope are eclipsed; as the stars fade before 
 the orient-sun. Indulge me with a per- 
 mission to give you, from these poems, 
 one or two examples of their excellence. 
 To give you every example of their tran- 
 
 VOL. II. b
 
 scendent excellence, would be to tran- 
 scribe most of the verses which they 
 contain. 
 
 We should reap the best effects from 
 the following passage, if we gave it our 
 serious, and practical attention: it would 
 make us graver than we commonly are; 
 yet it would make us happier. I take it 
 from the second night. 
 
 Who venerate themselves, the world despise. 
 
 For what, gay friend, is this escutcheoned world, 
 
 Which hangs out death, in one eternal night ! 
 
 A night that glooms us, in the noon-tide ray ; 
 
 And wraps our thoughts, at banquets, in the shroud! 
 
 Life's little stage is a small eminence; 
 
 Inch high, the grave above; that home of man, 
 
 Where dwells the multitude ; we gaze around ; 
 
 We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while 
 
 We sigh, we sink; and are what we deplored ; 
 
 Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot ! 
 
 Is Death at distance ? No ; he has been on thee; 
 And given sure earnest of his final blow. 
 Those hours that lately smiled, where are they now ? 
 Pallid, to thought, and ghastly ; drowned ; all drowned, 
 In that great depth, which nothing disembogues; . 
 And dying, they bequeathed thee small renown. 
 The rest are on the wing; how fleet their flight ! 
 Already has the fatal train took fire; 
 A moment, and thg world's blown up to thee! 
 The sun is darkness ; and the stars are dust ! 
 
 Night lid. Vol. Hid. pages, 33, 34.
 
 The moral pleasures, and advantages of 
 the night, Young's favourite season, for 
 poetry, and philosophy; and the moral 
 disadvantages, from the glare, agitation, 
 and tumult of the day; are, in these lines 
 of the fifth night, finely imagined, and 
 expressed : 
 
 Let Indians; and the gay, like Indians, fond 
 Of feathered fopperies, the sun adore : 
 Darkness has more divinity for me: 
 It strikes thought inward ; it drives back the soul> 
 To settle on herself; our point supreme ! 
 There lies our theatre; there sits our judge. 
 Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene; 
 'Tis the kind hand of Providence, stretched out 
 'Twixt man, and vanity; 'tis reason's reign, 
 And virtue's, too ; these tutelary shades 
 Are man's asylum, from the tainted throng. 
 T^ight is the good man's friend, and guardian, too -; 
 It no less rescues virtue than inspires. 
 
 Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below ; 
 Her tender nature suffers in the croud ; 
 Nor touches on the world, without a stain. 
 The world's infectious: few bring back, at eve, 
 Immaculate, the manners of the morn. 
 Something we thought, is blotted ; we resolved, 
 Is shaken ; we renounced, returns again. 
 Each salutation may slide in a sin, 
 Unthought before ; or fix 1 a former flaw. 
 Nor is it strange; light; motion; concourse; noise; 
 All, scatter us abroad ; thought, out-ward bound ; 
 
 b2
 
 Neglectful of our home-affairs, flies off; 
 And leaves the breast unguarded, to the foe. 
 
 Night Vth. Vol. Hid. pages, 105, 106. 
 
 The unencumbered, excursive, and 
 happy range of the soul, when emanci- 
 pated from the body, is described in the 
 following lines of the sixth night, with 
 that variety, vigour, and sublimity, which 
 peculiarly mark the poetry of Young: 
 
 Thy nature, immortality, who knows ; 
 And yet, who knows it not? It is but life, 
 In stronger thread of brighter colour spun; 
 And spun for ever; dipt, by cruel Fate, 
 In Stygian dye ; how black, how brittle, here! 
 How short our correspondence with the sun ! 
 And, while it lasts, inglorious ! Our best deeds, 
 How wanting in their weight! our highest joys, 
 Small cordials, to support us, in our pain, 
 And give us strength to suffer. But how great, 
 To mingle interests; converse; amities, 
 With all the sons of reason! scattered wide, 
 Through habitable space ; wherever born ; 
 I lowe'er endowed ! To live free citizens 
 Of universal nature ! To lay hold, 
 By more than feeble faith, on the Supreme! 
 To call Heaven's rich, unfathomable mines, 
 I Mines, which support Aichangels in their state) 
 Our own ! To rise in science, as in bliss ; 
 Initiate in the secrets of the skies ! 
 To read creation ; read its mighty plan, 
 In the bare bosom of the Deity!
 
 The plan, and execution, to collate ! 
 
 To see, before each glance of piercing thought, 
 
 All cloud; all shadow, blown remote; and leave 
 
 No mystery but that of love divine ; 
 
 Which lifts us on the Seraph's flaming wing, 
 
 From earth's Aceldama ; this field of blood ; 
 
 Of inward anguish ; and of outward ill; 
 
 From darkness; and from dust; to such a scene! 
 
 Love's element! true joy's illustrious home! 
 
 From Earth's sad contrast (now deplored) more fair! 
 
 What exquisite vicissitude of fate ! 
 
 Blest absolution of our blackest hour ! 
 
 Night Vlth. Vol. Hid. pages, 144, 145. 
 
 In the Consolation, or ninth night, after 
 exposing the insufficiency of all terrestrial 
 objects to our happiness, he breaks forth 
 into this picturesque, and powerful re- 
 monstrance, on death. The latter of the 
 two paragraphs, which I shall now quote, 
 would be quite in the gigantick sublimity 
 of Milton, if it had the simplicity, which 
 (whatever prejudiced pedants may dogma- 
 tize to the contrary) beautifully decorates 
 his loftiest flights, . 
 
 Lorenzo ! such the glories of the world ! 
 What is the world itself? Thy world ; a grave ! 
 Where is the dust that has not been alive? 
 The spade ; the plough, disturb our ancestors; 
 From human mould we reap our daily bread. 
 B 3
 
 The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes ; 
 And is the cieling of her sleeping sons. 
 O'er devastation we blind revels keep; 
 Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel. 
 The moist of human frame the sun exhales; 
 Winds scatter through the mighty void the dry. 
 Earth repossesses part of what she gave ; 
 And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire. 
 Each element partakes our scattered spoils ; 
 As nature wide, our ruin spreads; man's death 
 Inhabits all things but the_thoughts of man. 
 
 Nor man alone ; his breathing bust expires ; 
 His tomb is mortal ; empires die ; where, now, 
 The Roman ; Greek? They stalk, an empty name ! 
 When down thy vale, unlocked by midnight thought, 
 That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, 
 O! Death! I stretch my view; what visions rise ! 
 What triumphs; toils imperial; arts divine, 
 In withered laurels, glide before my sight ! 
 What length of far-fam'd ages, billowed high 
 With human agitation, roll along, 
 In unsubstantial images of air! 
 The melancholy ghosts of dead renown ; 
 Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause ! 
 With penitential aspects, as they pass, 
 All point at earth; and hiss at human pride ; 
 The wisdom of the wise; and praucings of the great ! 
 
 Night IXth. Vol. IVth. pages, 6, 7. 
 
 I must quote one sublime passage more, 
 from the ninth night; on the Heavens; 
 which declare the glory of God. It should 
 be quoted, were it only on account of its 

 
 reference to a grand, and awful idea of 
 Newton; whose mind, expanded beyond 
 all mortality but his own, comprehended 
 those deeps of complication and immen- 
 sity, which were hardly imaginable by 
 other men. 
 
 O, let me gaze ! of gazing there's no end ! 
 O, let me think ! Thought, too, is wildered here. 
 In midway flight imagination tires ; 
 Yet soon reprunes her wings, to soar anew ; 
 Her point unable to forbear, or gain ; 
 So great the pleasure ; so profound the plan t 
 A banquet this, where men, and angels, meet ; 
 Eat the same manna ; mingle earth, and Heaven. 
 How distant some of these nocturnal suns ! 
 So distant (says the Sage) 'twere not absurd, 
 To doubt, if beams, set out at Nature's birth, 
 Are yet arrived at this so foreign world ; 
 Though nothing half so rapid as their flight. 
 An eye of awe, and wonder let me roll; s 
 
 And roll forever. Who can satiate si^ht 
 In such a scene! in such an ocean wide 
 Of deep astonishment! where depth ; height ; breadth, 
 Are lost in their extremes ; and where, to count 
 The thick-sown glories, in this field of fire, 
 Perhaps a Seraph's contemplation fails. 
 Now, go, ambition ; boast thy boundless might 
 In conquest, o'er the tenth part of a grain. 
 
 Night IXth. Vol. IVth. page, 44. 
 
 When he wrote these Night-Thoughts, 
 b4
 
 8 
 
 he was in his grand climacterick; in his 
 sixty-third year. Examples of this kind 
 ought to impell, and fire us, to prosecute 
 the ingenuous exercise, and exertions of 
 the mind, to the last. What can give us 
 such active, and ethereal entertainment; 
 what can keep us so independent, for our 
 true enjoyment of life, of a trifling,. vain, 
 and selfish world? So long as the intel- 
 lectual strength of the man of temper- 
 ance, literature, and talents, does not fail, 
 it is always improving; improving in the 
 acquisition of knowledge, and the habits 
 of application. The annals of Young, 
 Dryden, Waller, and of many illustrious 
 men, in arts, and arms; may convince us 
 that the powers of the mind lose not their 
 force, in proportion with those of the 
 body. From these premises, I may ven- 
 ture to assert that our poet could not have 
 written (as he actually did not write) so 
 admirably well at twenty-five, or thirty, 
 as he wrote at sixty-three. 
 
 The true Estimate of Human Life is a 
 treatise which was worthy of being dedi- 
 cated to a Queen who was ambitious of 
 being thought attentive to learning, and 
 a patroness of its professours. The mis- 

 
 fortunes, and miseries of human life, in 
 this long, but eloquent sermon, as I may 
 term his essay; for he prefixes a text to it, 
 are assembled in close, and striking array. 
 It is written very much in Young's man- 
 ner; which I have already endeavoured 
 clearly, and amply to describe. In this 
 performance, it is his ruling aim, to show, 
 that the practice of virtue, and the anti- 
 cipation of Heaven, are the only enjoy- 
 ments; the only consolations of man, 
 One part, however, of the tenour of this 
 work, is, I think, exceptionable: like 
 many Divines, as I have before observed, 
 he too harshly embitters the cup of life; 
 he deprives our employments, and plea- 
 sures, of that real satisfaction, with which 
 they are certainly attended, when we pro- 
 secute, and enjoy them, without invading 
 the rights; without wounding the welfare 
 of others. Yet it is, on the whole, an 
 excellent Christian discourse; ingeniously, 
 and happily calculated to deliver us from 
 the tyranny of imagination; and to fix in 
 our minds the legitimate empire of rea- 
 son, and religion. 
 
 To the Centaur not fabulous, his capital 
 work in prose, great merit must be al- 
 

 
 10 
 
 lowed. He wrote it in his seventy- third 
 year, with the vigour, and fervour of his 
 genius. It contains the beauties, and the 
 faults of Young. The very title, and rul- 
 ing metaphor, image, or simile of the 
 Centaur, is in his singular, and grotesque 
 manner. We have, in this work, his ori- 
 ginality; his force, his sublimity; and we 
 have the same unmanly decoration of 
 whimsical, and elaborate ornament. In 
 some of his religious and pious passages, 
 there is more declamation, and eloquence, 
 than moral argument, and moral proof; 
 and this, indeed, must often be the fate of 
 such passages. It is a book, however, 
 which well deserves attentive perusal. It 
 justly, and ardently satirizes vice; and it 
 presents, in bright, and amiable colours, 
 the strongest incentives to virtue. 
 
 I must now beg leave to take a view of 
 his Conjectures on original Composition, 
 an astonishing work; if we consider the 
 spirit, and fire with which it abounds; and 
 the age of the authour, when it was writ- 
 ten. Permit me to let you see how the 
 writers of the Biographia Britannica 
 flounder, on this subject. " His Conjec- 
 " tures on original Composition" (say 

 
 11 
 
 these gentlemen) " when considered as 
 " the composition of a man turned of 
 " eighty, we are not surprized so much 
 " that it has faults, as how it should come 
 " to have beauties. It is indeed strange 
 " that the load of fourscore years was not 
 " able to sink that vigorous fancy which 
 " here bursts the bounds of judgement; 
 " and breaks the slavish shackles of age, 
 " and experience. This work seemed a 
 " brightening before death;" &c. and 
 more of this old woman's jargon. What 
 ideas must common readers entertain of 
 many of our great men, if they are satis- 
 fied with the pictures of them which are 
 exhibited by these Dutch dawbers ? From 
 their account one would imagine that in 
 the Conjectures on original Composition, 
 there was not a little of the delirium of old 
 age; that the authour had survived his 
 judgement, and experience. But, in fact, 
 this animated letter would have done him 
 great credit, if he had written it in the 
 meridian of his life: his plan is a generous 
 one; and the execution is worthy of the 
 plan. He stimulates men of talents to 
 quit the low, beaten path of imitation ; to 
 take a higher ground; to consider the 

 
 12 
 
 celebrated writers of antiquity, as their 
 counsellours, and friends; not as their 
 masters, and dictators; and to trust to the 
 vigour, fertility, and judgement, of their 
 own minds. This advice he establishes on 
 his knowledge of the powers of human 
 nature; and on great examples; and he 
 enforces, and adorns it with a nervous, 
 and oratorical style. There is a juvenile 
 fire; a juvenile rapidity, in his intellectual 
 motions: it is the cruda Deo, viridisque 
 Senectus. I never read such a perform- 
 ance of a man of fourscore. Parts of it, 
 indeed, are sunk, not by the weight of 
 years, but by the weight of prejudices: 
 an old Greek prejudice which makes him 
 superstitiously, and extravagantly exalt 
 Pindar, and Homer, above their deserts : 
 this errour has been common to him, and 
 other famous men; from whose minds we 
 might have expected an emancipation 
 from scholastick trammels : it is an errour 
 which only affects the head. But in his 
 Conjectures on original Composition, he 
 suffered a depression from a more inglo- 
 rious prejudice; from envy, and resent- 
 ment against a superiour, and departed 
 genius; whom he worshipped with the
 
 \ 
 
 13 
 
 profoundest veneration, whilst that genius 
 was upon earth. This was a prejudice of 
 the heart; and a deplorable prejudice in 
 him, who, through a long life, had been a 
 zealous, powerful; and, I believe, a sincere 
 advocate, for the universally benevolent 
 spirit of Christianity, in verse, and prose. 
 This charge I shall corroborate, hereafter. 
 Let me now take a more particular view 
 of this Essay on original Composition; 
 which deserves a firmer title than that of 
 Conjectures, 
 
 It cannot be impertinent to recite the 
 following animated paragraph, which de- 
 scribes the effects that original writing 
 produces in the mind of the reader. 
 il We read imitation" (says he) " with 
 " something of his languor, who listens to 
 " a twice-told tale: our spirits rouzeat an 
 " original; that is a perfect stranger; and 
 " all throng to learn what news from a 
 " foreign land; and though it comes like 
 " an Indian prince, adorned with feathers 
 " only, having little of weight; yet of our 
 " attention it will rob the more solid; if 
 " not equally new. Thus, every telescope 
 " is lifted at a new- discovered star; it 
 " makes a hundred astronomers, in a mo-
 
 14 
 
 " ment; and denies equal notice to the 
 " sun. But if an original, by being as 
 " excellent as new, adds admiration to 
 " surprize; then are we at the writer's 
 " mercy; on the strong wing of his ima- 
 " gination we are snatched from Britain 
 " to Italy; from climate to climate; from 
 " pleasure to pleasure; we have no home; 
 u no thought of our own; till the magi- 
 " cian drops his pen; and then falling 
 " down into ourselves, we awake to flat 
 " realities; lamenting the change; like 
 " thebeggarwho dreamthimself aprince." 
 Conjectures on original Composition, 
 Vol. Vth. page 91. 
 
 In another part of his work, he thus re- 
 monstrates against an implicit, and idola- 
 trous veneration of the ancients. " But 
 " why are originals so few? Not because 
 " the writer's harvest is over; the great 
 " reapers of antiquity having left nothing 
 " to be gleaned after them; nor because 
 " the human mind's teeming-time is past; 
 " or because it is incapable of putting 
 " forth unprecedented births; but because 
 " illustrious examples engross; prejudice; 
 " and intimidate. They engross our at- 
 " tent ion; and so prevent a due inspec-
 
 15 
 
 " tion of ourselves: they prejudice our 
 "judgement in favour of their abilities; 
 " and 60 lessen the sense of our own; and 
 M they intimidate us with the splendour 
 " of their renown; and thus under diffi- 
 " dence bury our strength. Nature's im- 
 " possibilities, and those of diffidence, lie 
 "wide asunder." Ibid. p. 93. 
 
 In the following passage, the veteran 
 
 poetical hero stimulates genius to assert 
 
 its prerogatives, with uncommon energy 
 
 of sentiment, and style; and undoubtedly, 
 
 with a conscious, and noble pride in its 
 
 past atchievements. " Rome was apow- 
 
 " erful ally to many states. Ancient au- 
 
 " thours are our powerful allies; but we 
 
 " must take heed that they do not succour 
 
 " till they enslave, after the manner of 
 
 " Rome. Too formidable an idea of their 
 
 " superiority, like a spectre, would fright 
 
 " us out of a proper use of our wits; and 
 
 " dwarf our understanding, by making a 
 
 " giant of theirs. Too great awe for them 
 
 " lays genius under restraint; and denies 
 
 " it that free scope; that full elbow-room, 
 
 " which is requisite for striking its most 
 
 " masterly strokes. Genius is a master- 
 
 " work-man; learning is but an instru-
 
 16 
 
 " merit; and an instrument, though most 
 " valuable, not always indispensable. 
 " Heaven will not admit of a partner in 
 the accomplishment of some favourite 
 spirits; but rejecting all human means, 
 assumes the whole glory to itself. Have 
 not some, though not famed for erudi- 
 tion, so written as almost to persuade 
 us that they shone brighter, and soared 
 higher, for escaping the boasted aid of 
 that proud ally." Ibid. Vol. Vth. page 
 
 97- 
 
 From this extraordinary production I 
 have transcribed so much, for two rea- 
 sons : it contains incitements to literary 
 glory which are, at once, rational, and 
 ardent; and it exhibits vigorous, and 
 blooming specimens of a flourishing men- 
 tal old age, which are almost unparalleled 
 in the annals of learning, and poetry. 
 
 I have now arrived at the task of pain- 
 ful justice. You will be pleased to favour 
 me with your attention, while I show you 
 the gross, and I believe, the resentful cri- 
 tical injustice, of which he was guilty to 
 his great superiour, Pope. It is evident 
 to me, (otherwise I would not take up the 
 subject in so decided a manner) that the
 
 17 
 
 free remarks of Mr. Pope, on the genius, 
 and poetry of Young, excited in the breast 
 of the latter, a resentment which was, at 
 least, never extinguished till the pious 
 poet ceased to be a writer. We may have 
 reasons even to suspect that these Conjec- 
 tures on original Composition were not 
 written merely to evince its transcendent 
 excellence above imitative poetry; and 
 embolden aspiring minds to encounter the 
 arduous and splendid object: I am afraid, 
 that by giving all its merited eulogy to the 
 higher species of composition, he meant 
 incontrovertibly to ascertain Pope's me- 
 diocrity in poetry ; whom he classes, with- 
 out reserve, with mere imitative poets. 
 We shall see presently, that he expressed, 
 if he did not sincerely entertain, a very 
 different, a far more advantageous judge- 
 ment, of that elegant, spirited, and great 
 genius; while his publick opinions were 
 accessible to Pope. We cannot but feel a 
 degree of contempt for that person (how- 
 ever highly respectable he may be, in ge- 
 neral) who, in speaking, or in writing, 
 takes those liberties with the dead, which 
 he would not have ventured to take with 
 the living. I do not say, that we may not, 
 voL.n. c
 
 18 
 
 consistently with a manly character, give 
 our opinion more distinctly, and openly, 
 of one who is deceased ; of an execrable 
 King, for instance; than we would have 
 published it, while he lived; because the 
 contest would be unequal; our property; 
 our person might be violated by the arm 
 of power. But I think I may venture to 
 aver, that the previous reserve, and dissi- 
 mulation; and the following unmasked 
 battery; are unquestionable marks of pu- 
 sillanimity; when the conflict between 
 the living parties could only have been 
 waged by their intellectual powers. As I 
 shall make my present citations only to 
 lay before you his ungenerous hostilities 
 to Pope; it will be but necessary for me 
 to extract short, and detached passages. 
 Imitators and translators" (says he) 
 are somewhat of the pedestal kind ; and 
 sometimes rather raise their original's 
 reputation, by showing him to be by 
 them inimitable, than their own. Ho- 
 mer has been translated into most lan- 
 guages. ***** 
 It is much to be feared that his so nu- 
 merous translators are but as the pub- 
 lished testimonials of so many nations,
 
 19 
 
 " and ages, that this authour, so divine, is 
 " untranslated still." Conjectures, &c. 
 Vol. Vth. pages 112, 113. After these ob- 
 lique strokes (indeed^ they are almost di- 
 rect) he pretends to do justice to Pope as 
 the translator of Homer. He allows that 
 " he has done great things;" but he as- 
 serts that " he might have done greater." 
 He blames him for not translating the 
 Grecian poet into blank verse: and he 
 merely rails against rhyme, as Johnson 
 merely rails against blank verse; for there 
 is as little argument, and fair criticism, in 
 the strictures of the one as of the other, 
 on the two species of verse. I flatter my- 
 self, you will agree with me, that they are 
 both excellent, when atchieved by great 
 masters, in each way. Nothing, however, 
 could be more judicious than Mr. Pope's 
 choice of rhyme, in translating the Iliad; 
 there was not sense, and force; and well- 
 framed fiction enough in Homer, to hear 
 him up, in English blank verse; and to 
 modern, cultivated judgement. He de- 
 manded all the golden tissue, and variety, 
 that Pope's elegance, pathos, and vigour 
 could give him; to please distinguishing, 
 and experienced minds. Every thing was 
 
 c2
 
 20 
 
 necessary that could be done for him, to 
 make him at all agreeable to unpreju- 
 diced readers of taste ; rhyme was one ad- 
 dition; one ornament; it gave one amuse- 
 ment more; therefore it was an important 
 auxiliary. If you think me presumptu- 
 ous; and irreverent to Homer; I am only 
 speaking; perhaps, indeed, more expli- 
 citly, and frankly, the substance of what 
 Johnson said before. J appeal unto 
 Ccesar. 
 
 " But supposing" (adds Dr. Young) 
 " Pope's Iliad to have been perfect in its 
 " kind, yet it is a translation still; which 
 " differs as much from an original as the 
 " moon from the sun." Ibid, pages 114, 
 115. This assertion is as defective in lo- 
 gick as it is in generosity. The world may 
 have, and it has, translations, which are 
 superiour to their originals. I am satis- 
 fied, for my own part, that the Iliad of 
 Pope is infinitely finer, and greater than 
 the Iliad of Homer. I have said so much 
 on this subject that I shall say no more. 
 I only beg leave to observe, that, for my 
 part, I am a perfect Endymion; I am en- 
 amoured of the moon; she speaks more 
 reason, pleasure, and delight, to my ima-
 
 21 
 
 gination, than her fiery, overpowering 
 brother; whom Young, himself, in his 
 calm temper of philosophical contempla- 
 tion, beautifully terms; 
 
 Rude drunkard, rising rosy, from the main ! 
 
 But I do not mean to pervert the sense in 
 which he compares the two poets with the 
 two luminaries : and in his ordinary view, 
 and acceptation of them, Pope is, to me, 
 " the greater; Homer, the lesser ruling 
 " light;" to speak in the phraseology of 
 Moses. 
 
 After having undervalued the great, and 
 original genius of Swift, with much fasti- 
 diousness, and false delicacy; he proposes 
 this question: " Would not his friend, 
 " Pope, have succeeded better in an ori- 
 " ginal attempt? Talents untried are 
 " talents unknown. All that I know, is, 
 " that contrary to these sentiments, he 
 " was not only an avowed professor of 
 " imitation, but a zealous recommender 
 " of it also. Nor could he recommend 
 " any thing better except emulation, to 
 " those who write. One of these, all 
 " writers must call to their aid; but aids 
 " they are, of unequal repute: imitation 
 
 c 3
 
 22 
 
 " is inferiority confessed; emulation is 
 " superiority contested, or denied. Imi- 
 " tation is servile; emulation generous; 
 " that fetters; this fires; that may give a 
 " name; this, a name immortal." * * 
 " Emulation exhorts us, instead of learn - 
 " ing our discipline for ever, like raw 
 " troops, under ancient leaders in compo- 
 " sition, to put those laurelled veterans in 
 " some hazard of losing their superiour 
 " posts in glory." 
 
 " Such is emulation's high spirited ad- 
 " vice; such her immortalizing call. Pope 
 " would not hear, pre-engaged with imi- 
 " tation; which blessed him with all her 
 " charms. He chose rather, with his 
 " name-sake of Greece, to triumph in the 
 " old world, than to look out for a new. 
 " His taste partook the errour of his reli- 
 " gion; it denied not worship to saints, 
 " and angels; that is, to writers, who, 
 " canonized for ages, have received their 
 " apotheosis, from established, and uni- 
 " versal fame. True poetry, like true re- 
 " ligion, abhorrs idolatry; and though it 
 " honours the memory of the exemplary, 
 " as guides, in the way to glory; real, 
 
 though unexampled excellence is its 
 
 it
 
 23' 
 
 " only aim; nor looks it for any inspira- 
 '* tion less than divine." * * * 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Afterwards, Dr. Young proceeds in the 
 following illiberal, and absurd manner. 
 " Though we stand much obliged" [to 
 Pope] " for his giving us a Homer, yet 
 " had he doubled our obligation by giving 
 " us a Pope. Had he a strong imagina- 
 " tion, and the true sublime? That 
 " granted, we might have had two Ho- 
 " mers instead of one; if longer had been 
 " his life. For I heard the dying swan 
 " talk over an epick plan, a few weeks 
 " before his decease." Ibid, pages, 117; 
 118; 119. 
 
 I shall now give you the amount of the 
 passages which I have last quoted. To 
 save appearances (like his cautious friend, 
 Dr. Warton) he makes it questionable, or 
 doubtful, whether Nature had endowed 
 Pope with vigorous, original, and sublime 
 poetical powers? But it is evident, from 
 what I have already quoted, that he would 
 not allow the most accomplished of poets 
 any of the qualities which I have here spe- 
 cified; that he merely thought him an 
 elegant, accurate, imitative writer; and 
 
 c4
 
 24 
 
 that he was so far from possessing fervour, 
 originality, and invention, that his soul 
 was not warm enough even to impell him 
 to emulation. 
 
 In answer to this cold, and ungenerous 
 criticism of Dr. Young, first give me leave 
 to take some notice of the emulative spi- 
 rit, and execution of Pope. I have said so 
 much of this great poet, that I will be as 
 concise as I can. I shall wave his victory 
 over Homer; though that cannot be rea- 
 sonably disputed. We all know that he 
 entered the satirical, and epistolary lists 
 with Horace; and I should suppose that 
 every impartial, and judicious reader 
 would be convinced that the Latin origi- 
 nal is, in general, comparatively, deficient 
 in force, and variety; and that the English 
 poet is equally spirited, and copious. The 
 strain of Dr. Warburton's annotations, 
 and the remarks of other eminent criticks, 
 flow, to this effect. Here our illustrious 
 Englishman, from the spur of emulation, 
 hath obtained a decided victory over a 
 great Roman. 
 
 Young asks " if Pope would have suc- 
 ceeded in an original attempt?" * * 
 u If he had a strong imagination, and the
 
 25 
 
 "true sublime?" It cannot, surely, be 
 difficult, satisfactorily, and decisively to 
 answer these questions; though to answer 
 them, gives them more consequence than 
 they deserve ; for they are certainly im- 
 pertinent. Who, that only reads his Eloisa 
 to Abelard, can doubt whether he had a 
 strong imagination, and the true sublime? 
 The tender and energetick pathos which 
 flows through that poem, as well as seve- 
 ral of its passages which are extremely 
 sublime, prove that he completely pos- 
 sessed both these requisites, in a true poet. 
 If they who have adopted Dr. Young's, 
 and Dr. Warton's estimation of Pope's 
 poetical abilities, demand more examples 
 of his powers in the sublime; I refer them 
 to his Prologue to Cato; to his Universal 
 Prayer; to several passages in his Essay 
 on Man; and his other works. 
 
 It would be tautology, after what I have 
 written, and after what has been written 
 by superiour criticks, elaborately to show, 
 from the Rape of the Lock alone, that the 
 question, " Whether he would have sue- 
 " ceeded in an original attempt," must 
 have been a question of palpable super- 
 ficiality; or of malignant prejudice. By
 
 26 
 
 his Eloisa to Abelard, he moved; he agi- 
 tated; he enraptured; he completely con- 
 quered ; he triumphed over the old world ; 
 not with a little civick crown; nor with 
 the humbler ovation; but with the pomp, 
 and the laurel, of a splendid hero. By 
 his Rape of the Lock, he discovered, and 
 he subdued, another hemisphere of fancy; 
 and thus our English Alexander was more 
 victorious in poetry, than the Grecian 
 Alexander was, in war. 
 
 Young, as I have observed, had a viti- 
 ated taste in the sublime, as in other 
 branches of poetry; a taste which he fos- 
 tered by his practice. His critical palate 
 resembled that of an epicure, which can 
 relish nothing but what is prepared with 
 the richest, and most exquisite culinary 
 art. To such a palate; genuine; unadul- 
 terated; the most nourishing food; is flat, 
 and insipid. Through all Pope's poetry;, 
 through his strongest, and noblest strains; 
 there is ease, and simplicity; they glide; 
 they flow; even in his rapidity there is 
 insinuation, even in the sweep of his all- 
 pervading fire, there is a lambent course. 
 All this might appear to Young to be mere 
 regularity, and imitation. The muse of
 
 27 
 
 Pope, as she mounted, soared steddily, 
 like the eagle; there was no flutter; no 
 struggle ; no unexpected wheeling, in her 
 ascent; therefore she did not strike Young; 
 who mistook effort for strength ; and ec- 
 centricity for grandeur. Hence, the ver- 
 dict which might have been suggested by 
 a bad taste, was thrown out by envy. 
 
 Dr. Young, in his best poetry, has given 
 a direct, and repeated contradiction to the 
 inanimate picture which he afterwards 
 drew of Mr. Pope, as a poet, in his Con- 
 jectures on original Composition. In his 
 Love of Fame; and in his first Satire, he 
 distinctly pronounces Pope the first of 
 his cotemporary poets : 
 
 Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train ; 
 Nor hears that virtue which he loves, complain ? 
 
 The concluding paragraph of his first 
 Night is so greatly poetical, that I beg 
 leave to quote the whole : 
 
 The spritely lark's shrill matin wakes the morn ; 
 Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing- on my breast, 
 I strive with wakeful melody to cheer 
 The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel, like thee ; 
 And call the stars to listen ; every stal- 
 ls deaf to mine , enamoured of thy lay !
 
 28 
 
 Yetbe not vain ; there are who thine excell ; 
 
 And charm through distant ages. Wrapt in shade ; 
 
 Prisoner of darkness ; to the silent hours, 
 
 How often I repeat their Tage divine ; 
 
 I lull my griefs ; and steal my heart from woe. 
 
 I roll their raptures ; but not catch their fire ! 
 
 Dark; though not blind ; like thee, Moeonides ; 
 
 Or Milton, thee ! ah! could I reach your strain ! 
 
 Or his, who made Mceonides our own ! 
 
 Man, too, he sung; immortal man /sing; 
 
 Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life ; 
 
 What, now, but immortality can please ! 
 
 O ! had he pressed his theme ; pursued the track, 
 
 That opens out of darkness into day ! 
 
 O! had he mounted on his wing of fire ; 
 
 Soared where 1 sink ; and sung immortal man ; 
 
 How had it blessed mankind, and rescued me! 
 
 Close of Night 1st. Vol. Hid. p. 13. 
 
 Of the same poet he says that he made 
 Moeonides our own; and that his transla- 
 tion of Moeonides " differs as much from 
 " the original as the moon from the sun." 
 He would persuade us that this poet is a 
 mere imitative, correct writer; yet to this 
 very poet, he gives a wing of fire; on 
 which he only could mount, who could 
 be, like Pope, original, fervid, and impe- 
 tuous, when he pleased. 
 
 Be it observed, that all the lines which
 
 29 
 
 I have now quoted, were written while 
 Mr. Pope was living. 
 
 In the beginning of the seventh Night, 
 and very soon after Pope had paid the debt 
 of mortality, he thus apostrophizes his 
 illustrious shade; 
 
 Pope ! who could'st make immortals, art thou dead? 
 I give thee joy ; nor will I take my leave ; 
 So soon to follow. 
 
 Night Vllth. Vol. Hid. p. 175. 
 
 A mere imitative poet, however, is so 
 poor a mortal himself, that, I think, he 
 cannot well, in the poetical meaning of 
 the expression, make immortals. 
 
 Neither General Young; nor his aid de 
 camp, Dr. Warton, durst have written of 
 Pope, during his life, as they wrote of 
 him, after his death. They were even 
 awed into silence, or encomium, by the 
 refracted light, shot from this glorious 
 sun, just after he had sunk into the ocean 
 of eternity. When they had recovered 
 from their sacred fear; when their dread, 
 and worship had left them ; had left them 
 convinced that the rampart of time was 
 raised between them and him; when he 
 had taken possession of his ever-bloom*
 
 30 
 
 ing, and fragrant bower, in the heart of 
 Elysium ; then they ventured to publish 
 their impotent impertinence to his me- 
 mory; with a timidity which was equalled 
 by its injustice. 
 
 Before I dismiss this immediate sub- 
 ject, I shall take the liberty to transcribe 
 some odd, vague, timid remarks of Mr. 
 Croft. After having quoted the highly 
 encomiastick lines on Pope, from the first 
 Night, he thus proceeds. " To the au- 
 " thour of these lines, Dr. Warton chose, 
 K in 1756, to dedicate his Essay on the 
 " Genius and Writings of Pope; which 
 " attempted, (whether justly or not) to 
 " pluck from Pope his wing of fire; and 
 " to reduce him to a rank at least one de- 
 u gree lower than the class of English 
 " poets. Though the first edition of this 
 " Essay was, for particular reasons, sup- 
 " pressed; another was printed. The 
 n Dedication still remained. To suppose, 
 " therefore, that Young approved of War- 
 " ton's opinion of Pope, is not unnatural. 
 " Yet the authour of the passage just 
 " quoted, would scarcely countenance, by 
 " patronage, such an attack upon the fame 
 " of him whom he invokes as his muse.
 
 31 
 
 " Part of Pope's third book of the Odys- 
 " sey, deposited in the Museum, is writ- 
 " ten upon the back of a letter signed 
 " E. Young; which is clearly the hand- 
 " writing of our Young. The letter dated 
 " only May 2d. seems obscure; but there 
 " can be little doubt but the friendship he 
 " requests was a literary* one; and that 
 " he had the highest literary opinion of 
 " Pope." 
 
 " Dear Sir, May 2d. 
 
 " Having been often from home, I 
 
 " know not if you have done me the fa- 
 
 " vour of calling on me. But be that as 
 
 " it will, I much want that instance of 
 
 " your friendship I mentioned in my last; 
 
 " a friendship, I am very sensible I can 
 
 " receive from no one but yourself. I 
 
 " should not urge this thing so much, but 
 
 " for very particular reasons; nor can you 
 
 " be at a loss to conceive how a trifle of 
 
 " this nature may be of serious moment 
 
 " to me; and while I am in hopes of the 
 
 " great advantage of your advice about 
 
 " it, I shall not be so absurd as to make 
 
 * "I am told it was a prologue to one of his tragedies,". .
 
 32 
 
 " any further step without it. I know 
 H you are much engaged; and only hope 
 " to hear of you at your entire leisure. I 
 " am, Sir, your most faithful, and obe- 
 " dient servant, 
 
 " E. Young." 
 
 
 " Nay, even after Pope's death" (conti- 
 nues Mr. Croft) " he says, in Night seven, 
 
 Pope, who couldst make immortals, art thou dead ? 
 
 " Either Warton, then, dedicated his 
 " book to a patron who disapproved its 
 " doctrine; or Young, in his old age, bar- 
 " tered, for a dedication, an opinion enter- 
 " tained of his friend, through all that 
 46 part of life, when he could best form 
 " opinions." Croft's Life of Young: 
 Lives of the Poets: Vol. IVth. pages: 406; 
 407; 408. 
 
 I will not entertain so poor an opinion 
 of Mr. Croft's penetration as not to be 
 satisfied that he saw the true state of this 
 literary case. He must have declined 
 from being explicit, for some personal, 
 and not very manly reasons. One might 
 imagine that he had forgotten that Young
 
 33 
 
 wrote his Conjectures on original Compo- 
 sition; those Conjectures were published 
 in the year 1759: and Warton's book on 
 Pope came out three years before. The 
 most liberal mind, if it will honestly 
 speak out, cannot doubt that Warton was 
 perfectly acquainted with the opinion of 
 Pope, which Young wished to have pub* 
 lished to the world. The man whom he 
 had been anxious to consult, as his poeti- 
 cal oracle; whom he had exalted to the 
 cerulean summit of Parnassus, he now 
 sunk to the dull region of mediocrity; to 
 the humble vale of imitation. I doubt 
 not that he had actually employed Dr. 
 Warton to open the literary campaign: if 
 he did; I have still a meaner opinion of 
 the instrument of this envy, than of its 
 first mover. Whatever may be my faults, 
 as a man, or a writer (and I fear that, in 
 both views, they are many) I love to speak 
 the truth; without reserve, and without 
 malevolence; whenever I feel it incum- 
 bent on me to speak it. With whatever 
 misconduct I may be charged; no one will 
 tax me with the cautious, and nice trim- 
 ming; with the Atticus-like prudence, of 
 Mr. Croft. My generous criticks have 
 
 VOL. II. i>
 
 34 
 
 often refused to distinguish between an 
 allowable; a commendable warmth, and 
 malignity. In polite literature, especi- 
 ally, I never thought that what was coldly 
 written, deserved to be 1 read. Let your 
 hireling criticks rail ; or let them affect to 
 despise; I will never write with the con- 
 ceit of apathy; I will never write with an 
 intellectual morbid non-chalance; when 
 my own honest fame; or that of a great 
 authour is in question. You will, there- 
 fore, excuse my particular, and diffusive 
 account of Young's, and Warton's unge- 
 nerous treatment of one of the first of 
 poets ; you will excuse my particular, and 
 warm vindication of him. Neither the 
 excuse, nor the vindication are foreign to 
 my present, nor to my grand general ob- 
 ject: a solicitous, and anxious wish to 
 restore, as far as my little contribution 
 can operate, a taste for genuine, but de- 
 pressed poetry, amongst us. And nothing 
 can tend more to reproduce this charming 
 disposition of sentiment, than a proper 
 estimate of, and taste for, Pope. The pre- 
 tended critical judgement of Young, on 
 our most elegant, spirited, and nervous 
 poet; a judgement, that was first echoed,
 
 35 
 
 in publick, by Dr. Warton; before his old, 
 and venerable master ventured, and con- 
 descended, in publick, to reverberate his 
 own echo; under the mask of imparti- 
 ality; nay, under the mask of friendship; 
 this unjust, and injurious judgement hath 
 since been adopted by many little imita- 
 tive cri ticks; equally destitute of learning, 
 and of talents. He, who is industrious to 
 repell these hostilities ; to refute these er- 
 rours; and consequently, to prevent their 
 future propagation ; is a friend to the re- 
 publick of letters. 
 
 I have not yet done with Young's in- 
 justice to Pope. He attacks him in an- 
 other, and more covered way. He sacri- 
 fices him at the shrine of Addison That 
 the sacrifice may be more magnificent; 
 and to make the thrust at Pope as effectu- 
 al, but more oblique; Swift is likewise 
 immolated, at the same shrine. He tells 
 us, what no impartial, judicious, and ani- 
 mated critick will believe; that " the 
 " wing of Addison mounts him above his 
 u cotemporaries." P. 133. Addison was 
 a very classical ; a very fine genius; if you 
 please; but soaring very high ; and espe- 
 cially above his great cotemporaries, was 
 
 d2
 
 36 
 
 not his talent. " He has" (says Dr. 
 Young) u a more refined; decent; judi- 
 " cious; and extensive genius than Pope, 
 " or Swift. To distinguish this triumvi- 
 " rate from each other; and, like Newton, 
 " to discover the different colours, in 
 " these genuine, and meridian rays of 
 " literary light; Swift is a singular wit; 
 " Pope, a correct poet; Addison, a great 
 " authour." Ibid. p. 133. If Newton, 
 Dr. Young, had not been more accurately 
 acquainted with solar, than you are, with 
 intellectual light, as you, here, expose 
 yourself, our unparalleled philosopher 
 would have missed apart of that immense 
 fame which he hath justly acquired. As 
 our critick has indulged himself in a lux- 
 uriant parade of false, and feminine deli- 
 cacy, on the objects of Swift's imagina- 
 tion, I am very willing to refuse the palm 
 of decency to that very great man , and to 
 give it to Addison. Both -Swift, and Pope, 
 however, were endowed with more forci- 
 ble, and original genius, than Addison. 
 Their genius was not less; but more vari- 
 ous; more extensive, than his; and in 
 judgement, they were his equals. We 
 expatiate, with reluctance, on subjects
 
 37 
 
 which are almost evident, of themselves; 
 and it is difficult for a mind of any gene- 
 rosity to keep its temper sufficiently col- 
 lected for discussion; when illiberal, and 
 invidious disparagements are thrown on 
 departed, and capital genius. I own that 
 I feel an indignation (and I cannot but 
 think it warrantable) for the flagrant in- 
 jury which is here done to the memory of 
 Pope. A great poet is a superiour being 
 to a great prose-writer. To be a first-rate 
 poet, demands more enlarged; elegant; 
 and interesting intellect; more vigour; 
 fertility; fire, and harmony of imagina- 
 tion; than any other mental excellence. 
 And surety, in Pope, we have decency; 
 judgement; extent; and refinement of 
 poetical genius, in their most complete, 
 and high perfection. As it would be ab- 
 surd, and ridiculous^ to compare Pope, 
 and Addison, as poets, I shall not deign 
 deliberately to compare them. Pope had 
 those various, rich, and glowing charac- 
 teristicks, which Nature grants but to a 
 few, far more eminently than Addison; 
 therefore, Pope was far the more rare, and 
 exalted genius. 
 
 After showing the dramatick defects of 
 d 3
 
 38 
 
 the tragedy of Cato; " How rich In re- 
 " putation must that authour be," (says 
 Young) " who can spare a Cato, without 
 " feeling the loss!" P. 133. As a poet, 
 (who is the first of human artists, in pene- 
 trating the heart, and soul) if you rob 
 Addison of his Cato, you impoverish him 
 indeed. He cannot spare that tragedy, 
 by any means: it has not invention; it 
 has not originality; the prologue, written 
 by Pope, in poetical excellence; in force; 
 beauty; and sublimity of poetry, is worth 
 the whole play; while Pope was serving, 
 he was eclipsing his friend : and yet it is 
 certain that Addison hath shown far more 
 vigour, and expression, as a poet, in his 
 Cato, than in any of his other poetical 
 productions. 
 
 " And yet (perhaps you have not ob^ 
 " served it)" (continues Young to his 
 friend Richardson) " what is the common 
 " language of the world; and even of his 
 " admirers, concerning him ? They call 
 " him an elegant writer: that elegance 
 " which shines on the surface of his com- 
 " positions, seems to dazzle their under- 
 " standing; and render it a little blind to 
 " the depth of sentiment which lies be-
 
 39 
 
 u neath. Thus, (hard fate!) he loses 
 " reputation with them, by doubling his 
 " title to it. On subjects the most in- 
 '* teresting, and important, noauthour of 
 " his age has written with greater; I 
 " had almost said, with equal weight: 
 u and ^hey who commend him for his 
 " elegance, pay him such a sort of com- 
 " pliment, by their abstemious praise, as 
 " they would pay to Lucretia, if they 
 " should commend her only for her 
 " beauty." Ibid: pages, 134; 135. 
 
 This is a very exaggerated representa- 
 tion of the acumen of Addison's mind. 
 Neither his unprejudiced admirers, nor 
 his ingenuous enemies, can so properly 
 characterize his productions by any single 
 word, as by elegance. Justness, and beau- 
 ty of thought, and sentiment, are the 
 essential constituents of my idea of ele- 
 gance. As to that elegance which shines 
 on the surface of his compositions, by 
 which, I suppose, Dr. Young means, his 
 choice, and arrangement of words ; I can 
 say nothing to it; for when I view it 
 singly, I can have no distinct, and positive 
 conception of it; it makes, of itself, so 
 lifeless an object, that it deserves no praise. 
 
 d4
 
 40 
 
 It is the substance, and mode of thinking, 
 which form, and produce the style. From 
 clear, strong, and noble ideas, naturally; 
 necessarily, result congenial expressions; 
 and a congenial order of expression. The 
 language of a weak, or confused thinker, 
 is not worth mentioning. Addison, if we 
 consider all his excellencies, is, undoubt- 
 edly, one of the first prose-writers, in the 
 English language; he is a fine writer. 
 Whatever Dr. Young may have thought, 
 or may have affected to think, of his 
 weight, and depth of thinking; these are 
 not, in him, distinguishing properties. 
 As acritick; a moralist; a divine; (for in 
 his serious papers he is a most attractive 
 preacher) his great merit consists in giving 
 sentiments which might arise to common 
 good sense, and reflexion, their full sub- 
 stance, and their natural decorations; in 
 presenting them in happy combinations; 
 and in a clear, and picturesque light. 
 Analogous to his thoughts is his language; 
 it has not the variety; the force; the fire, 
 of original, and commanding genius ; it 
 is perspicuous; luminous; adorned with 
 chaste; with most engaging graces. In 
 revolving a subject thoroughly; in sur-
 
 41 
 
 veying it in its different points of view; in 
 exploring, and illuminating its, depths; in 
 discussing it completely, to all appearance, 
 in the compass of a short essay, perhaps 
 the authour of the Rambler has excelled 
 all other writers. In these respects, Mr. 
 Addison is much his inferiour. Conse- 
 quently, the style of Johnson is more 
 forcible, and comprehensive, than that of 
 Addison ; but it has not the fine simpli- 
 city; the Attic beauties of Addison: with 
 all its admirable powers, it is often formal; 
 stiff; and scholastick. For Johnson's 
 mind, both by nature, and by habit, had 
 repelled the softer graces ; but there never 
 was a more just, and refined taste than 
 Addison's. 
 
 In the writings of this great man, genius 
 is principally, and peculiarly displayed, in 
 his polite, and fine humour; in the deli- 
 cate, but poignant irony, with which he 
 describes human failings, and extravagan- 
 cies. With this talent is intimately con- 
 nected his consummate art in drawing 
 characters of pleasing, and engaging sin- 
 gularity; characters, which will always 
 attract, and delight mankind; because 
 they are founded on nature ; and interest
 
 42 
 
 our affections. These excellencies John- 
 son never could attain; his moral know*- 
 ledge was' chiefly theoretical, with the 
 living manners of men; with the nicer 
 discriminations of character, he was but 
 little acquainted. Hence, his humour, 
 and his characters (for he sometimes at- 
 tempts both) are as uninteresting, and 
 vapid, as they are elaborate. 
 
 Let me not be thought uncharitable, if 
 I cannot but suspect that Young's high, 
 and unmerited praise of Addison's virtue, 
 and practical piety, partly flowed from an 
 ungenerous dislike of Pope. Young must 
 have well known the base treatment which 
 Pope received from Addison; treatment, 
 which, at length, extorted from our gene- 
 rous, and divine poet, that severe, and im- 
 mortal retaliation which it well deserved. 
 Young bestows on Addison's mode of dy- 
 ing a profusion of superstition; of holy 
 bombast. " By their fruits ye shall know 
 them." A good, and generous tenour of 
 life is an infallible moral criterion of the 
 heart, and mind: the clergy naturally lay 
 a great stress on the scene of a death -bed; 
 a disinterested, and liberal man lays none. 
 The influence of a distemper may shake
 
 43 
 
 the best of souls with unmerited horrour; 
 a natural, and habitual firmness of mind 
 may enable a bad character to quit this 
 earthly stage with calmness, and decorum. 
 I wish to maintain the faith of Johnson; 
 and to avoid the infidelity of Bolingbroke, 
 and Hume; but, with the religion of John- 
 son, let me meet death, like them, unap- 
 palled, and serene.; not with tKe super- 
 stitious,' and gloomy fears, of our very 
 unequal, and inconsistent Christian phi- 
 losopher. 
 
 Mr. Addison lent his friend Sir Richard 
 Steele, a hundred pounds: and sent an 
 execution into his house, because he could 
 not pay the money. He translated the 
 first book of the Iliad, from his envy of 
 Pope's fortune, and glory: he prevailed 
 with Tickell to pretend that he was the 
 authour of the translation: a miserable 
 translation it was, comparatively with 
 Pope's ; yet to Pope's, Addison gave it a 
 decided, and publick preference. I want 
 only these facts, to pronounce upon the 
 general virtue of the man who commits 
 them. I am far from presuming to think 
 that they might not be forgiven by a mer- 
 ciful God. I shall only say that I can at-
 
 44 
 
 tribute no virtuous, and exemplary merit 
 to the death of such a man. It may have 
 been a rational, and serene death ; in con- 
 sequence of a long, and sincere repent- 
 ance; it may have been an acting; a the- 
 atrical death; effected by assumed forti- 
 tude, and artful hypocrisy. 
 
 I am afraid that I ought strenuously to 
 apologize for this digression; but I know 
 that you will forgive me; if I at all deserve 
 to be forgiven. You will be lenient to 
 that zeal; to that enthusiasm, if you please, 
 which I feel for Pope; you will not think 
 those excursions from my main subject 
 altogether impertinent, and absolutely di- 
 gressive, which are, certainly, in some de- 
 gree, connected with it; and in which, I 
 flatter myself, I have not been inattentive 
 to literary criticism, and moral observa- 
 tions. 
 
 As, of the two, I would rather be cen- 
 sured with redundancy, than with mate- 
 rial omission, I think it proper to say 
 something, here, of Dr. Young's talent in 
 writing prose. We may observe, in gene- 
 ral, in prose that is written by favourites 
 of the Muses, the vivacity, and colouring 
 of the poet; there is this animation, and
 
 45 
 
 this lustre, in the unmeasured diction of 
 Young. His eloquence, and that of Pope, 
 have much the same merit ; they are both 
 worthy of great men; but they are far 
 surpassed by the prose of Dry den; which 
 flows with a spirit peculiar to its authour; 
 with a majesty; a magnificence of man- 
 ner; metaphor; and simile, that would 
 have done honour to the greatest orator. 
 
 From the two sermons which are in- 
 serted in his works, we may infer that he 
 was not a happy writer for the pulpit. 
 We have a very long discourse, which he 
 preached before the House of Commons, 
 on the 30th of January. It treats kings 
 with a profound, and courtly homage: it 
 is not adapted to general apprehension; 
 for the thoughts are affectedly sententious; 
 and they are complex, and pointed; in 
 his favourite way. 
 
 A short time before his death, he pub- 
 lished his poem of Resignation. It is far 
 inferiour to his great poetical composi- 
 tions; it shows that his flame of poetry, 
 as well as his vital activity, were, now, 
 subsiding. I shall be bold enough, how- 
 ever, to quote Johnson's absolute contra- 
 diction of this opinion: when I meet with
 
 46 
 
 just, and vigorous criticism, in the wri- 
 tings of this great man, I am not sur- 
 prized; I am as little surprized when I 
 meet with arrogant, and dictatorial ab- 
 surdities. 
 
 " His last poem" (says he) " was The 
 " Resignation; in which he made, as he 
 " was accustomed, an experiment of a 
 " new mode of writing; and succeeded 
 " better than in his Ocean, or his Mer- 
 " chant. It was very falsely represented, 
 " as a proof of decaying faculties. There 
 " is Young, in every stanza; such as he 
 " often was, in his highest vigour." Life 
 of Young: p. 428. 
 
 In answering this dogma, I can only be 
 at the pains to refer my sensible audience 
 to the poem itself. By what reason John- 
 son was induced to give this poem an 
 eulogy which it by no means deserved, it 
 is not easy to discover; perhaps two of his 
 reasons were, its piety; and its expostu- 
 lations with Voltaire. But what violation 
 of poetical justice may we not expect from 
 a critick, who made a poet of Mother 
 Watts; and of Sir Richard Blackmore; 
 of rough; and fierce; and rumbling me- 
 mory?
 
 47 
 
 It appears that this poem was written, 
 to gratify two ladies. Vanity, like our 
 other passions, is contagious ; and Young, 
 even in his old age, might catch it. He 
 must be of a rougher make than mine, 
 who can censure this weakness (if, indeed, 
 it deserves that humiliating appellation) 
 in one, who had devoted a very long life 
 to poetry; to virtue; to religion; who, as 
 Dryden says of the spirit in the Lyre; had 
 " sung so sweetly, and so well." I own, 
 I am pleased that he wrote Resignation. 
 Nothing should be more interesting to 
 man, than the history of the human mind. 
 To mark the gradual, and early progress ; 
 the gradual, and late decay, of genius ; is, 
 to gain useful, and important accessions, 
 both to moral, and intellectual know- 
 ledge. But let us hear what sentence the 
 judges of the biographical tribunal pro- 
 nounce on this last work of a very aged 
 poet : I mean, the collectors of the Bio- 
 graphia Britannica. "That taper which 
 " blazed as it declined" (say these literary 
 clowns) " was, at last, shamefully exhi- 
 " bited to the publick, as burning in the 
 " socket; in a poem intituled, The Resig- 
 " nation; the last, and worst of all Dr.
 
 48 
 
 " Young's performances. This he pub** 
 " lished but a short time before his death; 
 " which happened, April 12th; 1765." 
 Biog. Britan. Supplement : Article, Young: 
 pages, 258, 259. Printed, anno, 1766. 
 O! fools, and slow of heart, to feel the 
 force of reason, and humanity! 
 
 In great attempts, 'tis glorious, even to fail I 
 
 What shame; what discredit, could it 
 reflect on Young, that while he was tak- 
 ing his leave of the world, he wrote, on 
 his good old principles, as well as he pos- 
 sibly could; but not with that vigour with 
 which he wrote before? In extreme old 
 age, a state of perfect ease, is, at least, 
 allowable; but in strenuous exertion, at 
 that commonly desponding period, there 
 is a peculiar glory; though that exertion 
 should be short of its aim. Why, ye 
 manglers of poetry; ye butchers of fair 
 fame; the great man was dying consist- 
 ently, and heroically; he was dying in a 
 splendid profession; it was Young, launch- 
 ing into the eternal world, which he had 
 long contemplated; it was Agesilaus, 
 fighting his old age, and the Egyptians, a 
 little before he expired; it was the late
 
 49 
 
 illustrious Chatham; pleading, with his 
 dying breath, the cause of equal, and har- 
 monious government; the cause of politi- 
 cal, and civil liberty. 
 
 By the apology which Young himself 
 makes for his writing so late in life, these 
 cold, and heavy criticks, would have been 
 softened into sentiments more mild, and 
 just; if rocks could be mollified. 
 
 " If" (says he) " we consider life's end- 
 " less evils, what can be more prudent 
 " than to provide for consolation under 
 " them? A consolation under them, the 
 " wisest of men have found in the plea- 
 " sures of the pen: witness, among many 
 " more, Thucydides; Xenophon; Tully; 
 " and Seneca; Pliny the younger; who 
 " says; " In uxoris infirmitate, et ami- 
 " coram periculo, aut morte turbatus, ad 
 " studia,unicumdoloris levamentumcon- 
 " fugio." u And why not add to these, 
 " their modern equals; Chaucer; Raw- 
 " leigh; Bacon; Milton; Clarendon; un- 
 f* der the same shield; un wounded by 
 " misfortune; and nobly smiling in dis- 
 " tress? 
 
 " Composition was a cordial to these, 
 " under the frowns of Fortune; but evils 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 50 
 
 " there are, which her smiles cannot pre - 
 " vent, or cure. Among these, are the 
 " languours of old age! If those are held 
 " honourable, who, in a hand benumbed 
 " by time, have grasped the just sword, in 
 " defence of their country; shall they be 
 " less esteemed, whose unsteady pen vi- 
 " brates to the last, in the cause of reli- 
 " gion; of virtue; of learning? Both these 
 " are happy in this, that by fixing their 
 " attention on objects most important, 
 " they escape numberless little anxieties; 
 " and that tcedium vitce, which often 
 " hangs so heavy on its evening-hours. 
 " May not this insinuate some apology 
 " for my spilling ink, and spoiling paper, 
 " so late in life?" Conjectures on Origi- 
 nal Composition: Vol. Vth. pages, 88, 89. 
 
 I shall now quote, and examine the two 
 concluding paragraphs of Johnson's cri- 
 tical observations on Young. They are 
 as erroneous; odd; inconsistent, and un- 
 accountable, as many of his other effu- 
 sions. 
 
 " His versification is his own; neither 
 " his blank, nor his rhyming lines have 
 " any resemblance to those of former 
 '" i writers : he picks up no hemisticks ; he
 
 61 
 
 " copies no favourite expressions; he* 
 " seems to have laid up no stores of 
 " thought, or diction; but to owe all to 
 " the fortuitous suggestions of the present 
 " moment. Yet I have reason to believe, 
 " that when once he had formed a new 
 " design, he then laboured it with very 
 " patient industry; and that he composed 
 " with great labour, and frequent re- 
 11 visions. 
 
 " His verses are formed by no certain 
 " model; for he is no more like himself, 
 " in his different productions than he is 
 " like others. He seems never to have 
 " studied prosody; nor to have had any 
 " direction but from his own ear. But 
 " with all his defects, he was a man of 
 " genius, and a poet." Vol. IVth. p. 431* 
 octavo edition. 
 
 The remark, that his thoughts, and dic- 
 tion resemble not those of other poets, 
 ought not to have been a remark particu- 
 larly applied to Young: it is applicable to 
 every poet, who, with him, can claim vi- 
 gour, and originality. To suppose that 
 he had laid up no stores of sentiment, and 
 style, is to rank him with those numerous 
 petty writers, who play off their transitory 
 
 e2
 
 51 
 
 vapours, without previous reading, and 
 reflexion. How is it possible for an au- 
 thour to acquire eminence, and celebrity; 
 without having carefully perused the great 
 masters of literary thought, and expres- 
 sion; without having worked them into 
 the texture; into the essence of his mind? 
 Do not the productions of Young evi- 
 dently show, not only the man of capital 
 talents; but likewise the accomplished 
 scholar; the close, and profound thinker; 
 the sublime philosopher? But to say that 
 he sat down to write, without having laid 
 up any intellectual treasures; is really to 
 class him with those illiterate, vain peo- 
 ple, who fancy that they can be distin- 
 guished writers, because they are pre- 
 sumptuously determined to write. That 
 active, and plastick intellect, which reads; 
 reflects ; and thinks, to such excellent pur- 
 poses; prevents mental indigestion, and 
 superficiality; prevents mean, and dull 
 plagiarism. From such an intellect, be 
 assured, you have many advantages, from 
 literature; many, from a long, and accu- 
 rate experience, and use, of language. 
 But you have no cold, and servile imita- 
 tion j you have no impertinent, and osten-
 
 53 
 
 tatious pedantry; you have no Dutch, 
 tessellated fabrick. His learning, as Sprat 
 says of Cowley, with an injudicious, or 
 flattering complaisance, is not embossed on 
 his mind, but enamelled. The gold which 
 he has acquired by a persevering, and am- 
 bitious application, is melted down, with 
 that which he inherited from Nature, by 
 the fervour of his genius, into one glow- 
 ing mass : that mass takes proportion ; 
 symmetry; animation; and eloquence, 
 from the finishing hand of the master; 
 judgement gives a form to the flow which 
 was produced by ardour. From this na- 
 tural, and powerful confederacy, of ele- 
 gant knowledge, and art, with ethereal 
 spirit; the beautiful, and striking system 
 has the merit of being exclusively his own; 
 since there is only one Being who is capa- 
 ble of absolute creation. 
 
 No sensible, and manly writer ever 
 owed " all his thoughts to the fortuitous 
 " suggestions of the present moment;" 
 because every such writer must have a 
 plan, or design. But the most deliberate, 
 and comprehensive mind will always owe 
 much to the suggestions of that moment. 
 
 e3
 
 54 
 
 He has formed the plan; the outline of 
 his work; but what particular expression 
 it will gain; how, in many places it will 
 be filled ; must be left to the moment of 
 progressive, expanding, and working ge- 
 nius; to the moment of inspiration. In 
 one sense, these suggestions may be termed 
 fortuitous; the poet is not satisfied with 
 any ideas that arise lightly, and rapidly in 
 his mind; but in the intenseness of his 
 thinking; in the current of his imagina- 
 tion; he will select from different ideas, 
 some which he prefers to the rest; and of 
 which he perceived not even the embryo, 
 when he sat down to write. It will some- 
 times happen, too, that in a moment, the 
 most fortunate image will meet, and strike 
 him; such an image as he could never have 
 raised by the most eager exertions of the 
 mind. By what intellectual operation, 
 and result, such an image springs up, I 
 leave to those to explain, who pretend to 
 account for every thing: the fact has often 
 been experienced by those who are habi- 
 tuated to composition. In these views; 
 and in these, only, it can, with any pro- 
 priety be said, that Young, or, indeed,
 
 55 
 
 any authour of common sense, was in- 
 debted " to the fortuitous suggestions of 
 " the present moment." 
 
 We are told by Johnson that the man 
 " who owed all to the suggestions of the 
 " present moment," did " form designs i'' 
 and we are likewise tautologously told, 
 that " he then laboured them with very 
 " patient industry; and that he composed 
 " with great labour;" &c. You will for- 
 give me if I do not argue with a man, 
 when he deserts common sense. I should 
 not have deigned to quote him, here; nor 
 in many other places, were it not from my 
 ardent wish to remove from the minds of 
 the literary publick, that dictatorial, and 
 tyrannical imposition which they have 
 long suffered from a name. 
 
 Dr. Johnson asserts that " Young co- 
 " pies no favourite expressions." This is 
 a great mistake. I could give more proofs 
 than one, that he has not only copied a 
 favourite expression, but even the persuit 
 of a favourite thought. However, that I 
 may not be tedious, I shall give but one 
 example of each kind. The first Night 
 contains the following fine verses ; 
 
 e4
 
 56 
 
 A soul immortal, spending all her fires } 
 Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness ; 
 Thrown into tumult ; raptured, or alarmed, 
 At aught this scene can threaten, or indulge j 
 Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 
 To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 
 
 , Night 1st: 
 
 Here you will observe, that the strenua nos 
 exercet inertia, of Horace, is literally co- 
 pied; for it is literally translated. In the 
 fifth Night, are these lines, equally in* 
 structive, and poetical; 
 
 Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below ; 
 Her tender nature suffers in the croud ; 
 Nor touches on the world, without a stain. 
 The world's infectious: few bring back, at eve, 
 Immaculate, the manners of the morn. 
 Something we thought, is blotted ; we resolved, 
 Is shaken ; we renounced, returns again. 
 Each salutation may slide in a sin, 
 Unthought before; or fix a former flaw. 
 
 Night Vth. 
 
 This is but a free translation of a passage 
 of Seneca: I have taken notice of the two 
 passages before. " Nunquam a turba 
 " mores quos habui, refero; aliquid ex eo 
 "' quod composui, turbatur; aliquid ex his 
 " quae fugavi, redit; inimica est multo- 
 m rum conversatio." Seneca,
 
 57 
 
 u He is no more like himself " (says our 
 great critick) " in his different produc- 
 " tions, than he is like others." This is 
 a strange misrepresentation of his poetical 
 complexion. I am tired of attending to 
 absurdities, which are only sanctified by 
 prejudice. I grant that he has very little 
 resemblance to any poet but himself. 
 But his own predominant manner he can 
 never totally suppress. It is prominent 
 in the passion of his tragedies; in the so- 
 lemnity of his Night-Thoughts; it discri- 
 minates even his Love of Fame, from the 
 compositions of all other poets: he is, 
 there, not so much at his ease as I could 
 wish; though he is not seated on his gor- 
 geous poetical throne. 
 
 Young had made another gross omis- 
 sion; according to the critical theory of 
 Johnson. " He seems never to have stu- 
 " died prosody; nor to have had any 
 " direction but from his own ear." The 
 plodding idea of study is not applicable to 
 an English poet's acquisition of English 
 prosody; it glides into his mind imper- 
 ceptibly; it flows spontaneously, with his 
 genius. " He had not any direction but 
 " from his own ear." I should be glad to
 
 5S 
 
 know what other direction a poet needs, 
 in versification, but his own ear, or, to 
 speak more pertinently, and effectually, 
 his own poetical soul. As to the study of 
 prosody, let it employ the lucubrations of 
 those, who, in spite of Nature, will be 
 poets ; or, of the unhappy boys, who, with- 
 out any talents for poetry, are obliged, by 
 the stupid, and barbarous tyranny of 
 schoolmasters, to count their poetical^e^ 
 upon their fingers. What Dr. Johnson 
 hath asserted concerning the originality 
 of his thoughts, and numbers, concerning 
 their peculiarity to himself, is perfectly 
 just and true. 
 
 " With all his defects," (adds our cri- 
 tick) " he was a man of genius, and a 
 " poet." He was, in fact, a man of great 
 genius; he was a great poet. His works 
 abound with the utmost poetical vigour; 
 originality; and sublimity; therefore, it is 
 absurd not to allow that he was a great 
 poet. After this encomium, I am sure 
 you will not charge me with a Johnsonian 
 incongruity for having animadverted on 
 his faults. Faults, alas! will always make 
 a part of the human character, even in its 
 extreme greatness! Nay, the benevolent
 
 59 
 
 Creator balances his beam of justice here 
 below, with a divine accuracy; to console 
 humble, to teach humility to exalted souls; 
 to convince weak, or wicked men, that the 
 universe is governed by a Supreme Mind! 
 They who cultivate the noblest virtues, 
 and the noblest genius, commonly sink as 
 loiv, by their faults, as they soar high, by 
 their flame. Religious, and critical inqui- 
 sitors may damn them; but perhaps they 
 will be pardoned by you. 
 
 Young was deficient in judgement, and 
 taste ; hence he was excluded from the 
 very summit of Parnassus. He was de- 
 ficient in the reasoning faculty; it is not 
 the faculty that crushes the powers of 
 imagination; as Dr. Warton has observed: 
 no; it leads them to consummate great- 
 ness; he was deficient in the image of 
 God. It was the excellence of this faculty 
 which made Milton, Dryden, and Pope 
 superiour even to Young, and to Gray; it 
 was the excellence of this faculty which 
 made them superiour to Akenside; and 
 far superiour to Parnell; to Goldsmith; 
 and to Smart. Assiduous be our culture; 
 profound be our veneration of reason! It 
 is as powerful an auxiliary; it is as indis-
 
 60 
 
 pensable a concomitant, of the fine arts, 
 as it is of science: it was given us to regu- 
 late, and enhance our dearest pleasures'; 
 our dearest interests; to establish, and 
 watch over our perpetual fame, and our 
 perpetual happiness ; it is our harbinger, 
 and our guide, to each immortality. 
 
 According to my custom, you will per- 
 mit me to take a view of the moral cha- 
 racter of Young : it shall be but a short 
 one; for I have been obliged to take some 
 particular notice of that character as I 
 proceeded in my remarks on his writ- 
 ings. V Whatever promotes virtue," (says 
 Young himself) " promotes something 
 " more; and carries its good influence 
 " beyond the moral man." Conjectures 
 on original Composition; Vol. Vth. p. 110. 
 I have repeatedly observed, (and princi- 
 pally from my regard for the happiness of 
 those young persons who may make a part 
 of my audience) that generous principles, 
 and generous conduct, have a natural, and 
 strong tendency, to invigorate, and exalt 
 the intellectual atchievements of the mind. 
 Virtue is a friend to all those passions 
 which are attended with no evil conse- 
 quences ; and which promote the welfare,
 
 61 
 
 and, therefore, the real pleasure of man- 
 kind. These passions, indeed, may be 
 termed the ramifications, or the blossoms 
 of virtue. It is her province to preserve 
 health; independence of the world; peace, 
 and serenity of mind; clearness, and 
 acuteness of understanding; expansion, 
 and brightness of imagination ; therefore 
 I need not surely add, that she contributes 
 more than any other aid, to secure, and 
 aggrandize the triumphs of literary am- 
 bition. As an object, or a habit, she is 
 simple, yet sublime: her practice, and 
 her influence, give a purity; a dignity; a 
 majesty of thinking: this tone of soul 
 mixes with our efforts in literature; re- 
 fines their spirit ; collaterally buoys them 
 up, as they ascend ; and raises them to its 
 own celestial heights. 
 
 Young was a sincerely virtuous, and a 
 pious man. His virtue, and piety, how- 
 ever, were not of a robust make. They 
 throve, in the shades of solitude, and re- 
 tirement : there, conscience bore them its 
 delightful testimony; there, they consoled 
 the heart; animated the genius; and be- 
 friended the neighbours of their posses - 
 sour. But when they were removed into
 
 62 
 
 the world, they caught its contagion; their 
 theory had not influence enough to pro- 
 duce a corresponding practice: he grew 
 fond of splendid, and powerful society; 
 and this fever of the mind was the cause 
 of much unsuccessful, and degrading adu- 
 lation. In September, 1764, " he added 
 " a kind of codicil" [to his will] " wherein 
 m he made it his dying intreaty to his 
 " househeeper, to whom he left .1000, 
 " that all his manuscripts might be de- 
 " stroyed as soon as he was dead; which 
 " would greatly oblige her deceased 
 " friend." Croft; p. 416. " Were every 
 " thing that Young ever wrote to be pub- 
 " lished" (says Mr. Croft) " he would only 
 66 appear, perhaps, in a less respectable 
 " light, as a poet; and more despicable, 
 " as a dedicator; he would not pass for a 
 " worse Christian; or for a worse man." 
 P. 409. If this passage is sense, it is cer- 
 tainly paradoxical. Surely the despicable 
 dedicator must lower our opinion of the 
 moral agent; surely, flattery, and servi- 
 lity derogate considerably from the good 
 man; and by a necessary consequence, 
 from the good Christian. 
 
 Some parts of the fortune of Young
 
 63 
 
 will always be mysterious. That talents, 
 and virtue should be unsuccessful, is not 
 altogether new: but that very eminent 
 talents, and great decorum of manners, 
 joined to an intimacy with several states- 
 men ; some of whom were worthy men, 
 and had a taste for polite learning; that 
 all these advantages, with his profusion 
 of eulogy, should not have raised a good 
 clergyman, and a great poet, higher in the 
 church than to the rectory of Welwyn; is 
 a problem, in society, of difficult solution. 
 There is something, indeed, equally odd, 
 and unaccountable, in his conduct, and in 
 his fortune. It is rather surprizing that 
 he should have missed his aim at ecclesi- 
 astical dignities; it is rather surprizing 
 that he, who had long actuated, and filled 
 solitude with the finest imagery; with 
 imagery which ought to detach the soul 
 from sublunary objects; it is rather sur- 
 prizing that this man should have persued 
 his aim, with disingenuous, and debasing 
 arts. 
 
 To the good clergyman I revert with a 
 particular pleasure. That he was highly 
 esteemed as a parish-priest, was demon- 
 strated to me by an occurrence which
 
 64 
 
 happened to myself. I trust that it will 
 demonstrate likewise to you, Dr. Young's 
 parochial excellence; and it will be rather 
 entertaining. Give me leave, then, to 
 relate it to you. About seventeen years 
 ago, when some business had called me 
 into Hertfordshire, I visited the abode of 
 Dr. Young, at Welwyn. The house in 
 which he had lived, was not a parsonage-% 
 house; it was the Doctor's property; and 
 was then possessed by his son; who, when 
 I viewed it, was not upon the spot. His 
 old house-keeper was there; who, with 
 great civility, showed me the house, and 
 garden. I was in his bed-chamber; where, 
 she told me he frequently rung, in the 
 night, for light; and pen* and ink, and 
 paper. She showed me the room where 
 , he used to dine; and where his last illness 
 seized him, a little after dinner. A tear, 
 with the eloquence of which I was pene- 
 trated, rushed into her eye. A feeling 
 mind inevitably visits such scenes, with a 
 kind of worship, and idolatry. After I had 
 thoroughly surveyed this hallowed man- 
 sion; hallowed by his virtues, and by his 
 genius ; I walked through the village ; and 
 joined a few decent; grave; elderly men,
 
 65 
 
 who were conversing in the street. I 
 asked them if they remembered, and knew 
 their rector, Dr. Young? Their answer 
 was, that " it would be strange if they 
 " couldjvrget him." After the inquiries 
 which! thought most important, I learned 
 from their united, and earnest informa- 
 tion, that he was an excellent, and exem- 
 plary parish-minister; as well as a fa- 
 mous man; exact in his practice, but 
 cheerful in his manners; constant, and 
 zealous, in the duties of his office; but 
 particularly attentive to his poor, and 
 distressed parishioners; whom he visited, 
 and relieved, like a tender, and affection- 
 ate father. You see, the Night-Thoughts 
 had not evaporated in poetry* To close 
 this narrative; and to corroborate its evi- 
 dence ; while I was talking to these good 
 people, a ragged, ill-looking fellow came 
 up to us; who seemed to be the notorious 
 profligate of the village. When he found 
 that we were talking of Dr. Young, he said 
 something disparaging; and contemptu- 
 ous, of his memory. One of my compa- 
 nions gave him a look of severe reproof; 
 and added: " Dr. Young could only be 
 " disliked by such men as you." 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 
 
 Let us take our leave of him for the pre- 
 sent, while we view him in this engaging; 
 in this captivating light. While, with 
 such a mind as he possessed, he was the 
 master, and disposer of his own time ; in 
 his hallowed retirement, at Welwyn; hal- 
 lowed, by the abode of a good, and great 
 man; while he was there, intent on the 
 glorious persuits of literature, and poetry; 
 or on the more sacred duties of a clergy- 
 man, and a Christian; he had reason to 
 thank Providence for his external disap- 
 pointments. So he must often have 
 thought, himself; as it is evident from his 
 works, that he fully estimated, as they de- 
 served, the virtuous exercise, and plea- 
 sures of the mind. I must make one cita- 
 tion more from his Conjectures on origi- 
 nal Composition; it will be of great use 
 to us, if we think, and act properly, after 
 giving it our serious consideration ; it will 
 detach us from the fluctuating, and tu- 
 multuous ocean of trifles, and of vice; 
 from the region of intoxication; of pain; 
 of mortification; and it will fix us, for the 
 best enjoyment of our existence, on a 
 foundation of adamant. 
 
 While we are constant, as writers, to the
 
 service of virtue, " The more composi- 
 tion" (says he) ** the better. To men of 
 letters, and leisure, it is not only a noble 
 amusement; but a sweet refuge. It 
 improves their parts; and promotes 
 their peace: it opens a back-door, out 
 of the bustle of this busy, and idle world, 
 into a delicious garden of moral, and 
 intellectual fruits, and flowers ; the key 
 of which is denied to the rest of man- 
 kind. When stung with idle anxieties; 
 -or teized with fruitless impertinehce; or 
 yawning over insipid diversions; then 
 we perceive the blessings of a lettered 
 recess. With what a gust do we retire 
 to our disinterested, and immortal 
 friends, in our closet; and find our 
 minds, when applied to some favourite 
 theme, as naturally, and as easily, qui- 
 eted, and refreshed, as a peevish child 
 (and peevish children are we all, till we 
 fall asleep!) when laid to the breast f 
 Our happiness no longer lives on cha- 
 rity; nor bids fair for a fall, by leaning 
 on that most precarious, and thorny pil- 
 low, another 's pleasure, for our repose. 
 How independent of the world is he, 
 who can daily find new acquaintance, 
 f2
 
 68 
 
 (t 
 
 that, at once entertain, and improve 
 " him; in the little world; the minute, 
 " but fruitful creation, of his own mind!" 
 Conjectures on original Composition; 
 Vol. Vth. pages, 87, 88. 
 
 Take, my friends, this advice; take this 
 representation of our purest, our sublim- 
 it happiness, while we are on earth (what- 
 ever our station, and external pdwers are) 
 from a very old man; from a man of 
 great talents; and of long, and varied ex- 
 perience; who thoroughly knew, by many 
 practical instances, how insufficient is the 
 pageantry of life; or the smiles of For- 
 tune, to our real well-being; who tho- 
 roughly knew that we might very proba- 
 bly be deceived out of our happiness, by 
 others; but that the generous God of uni- 
 versal nature, had formed us capable of 
 ascertaining it to ourselves. The true hap- 
 piness of man is proved, without any com- 
 plex demonstration : is not his mind the 
 nobler part of his constitution ? Must not 
 he be happiest, then, in the virtuous ex- 
 ercise of this nobler part? While he is 
 employed in this exercise, trifles, and vice, 
 are totally excluded; he is impassive to 
 the depravation of sensual pleasure: tern-
 
 69 
 
 perance is, then, his natural companion, 
 and his friend ; and thus ample provision 
 is made for the welfare of the whole hu- 
 man system. While Cicero disputes, be- 
 fore him, in his Tusculan recess; while 
 Sherlock proposes to him his arguments 
 for virtue, and a future state; while the 
 ghosts of Socrates, and Cato, pass, in re- 
 view, before him; the merely nominal, 
 and titular great, are annihilated, to his 
 imagination; he feels no envy of their 
 splendour; no solicitude for their protec- 
 tion. When the poet, who has been the 
 subject of these discourses; who, in his 
 own words, was crowned; shadowed with 
 the laurels of Apollo; when the infirmity 
 of his vigorous mind was cured of its love 
 of baubles, by disappointed, and mean 
 secular, though it was ecclesiastical am- 
 bition; when he was imbowered in his 
 garden, at Welwyn, with his literary wor- 
 thies about him; how insignificant must 
 he have deemed those very men who had 
 frustrated his sanguine expectations ! How 
 must a Walpole; a Pelham; nay even a 
 Melcombe, have shrunk, in^ the just, and 
 abstracted comparison ! 
 
 If youth would but attend to this hum- 
 f 3
 
 70 
 
 ble advice; to these candid remonstrances; 
 which are unfeignedly meant for their 
 good ; they might anticipate a long life of 
 health; of happiness; of true dignity, and 
 honour. If their moral sentiments are 
 not so strong as I could wish, let their 
 pride plead the cause which I have been 
 endeavouring to enforce. Let us, with 
 whatever difficulty; with whatever con- 
 flict, assert our own individual empire. If 
 we are Lords of ourselves, we shall never 
 be slaves to others. 
 
 I trust that the fair sex will not refuse 
 me their attention, while I address them 
 with sincerity, and respect. The female 
 mind is capable of the finest expansion, 
 and embellishment ; therefore, it should 
 devote many hours to such reading as, at 
 once affords the most intellectual im- 
 provement, and the most rational enter- 
 tainment. It would be impertinent in me, 
 particularly to point out to them this kind 
 of reading. Their own good sense; their 
 own delicacy of taste; if they will but ex- 
 ert them ; and their learned friends, will 
 select for them, from the immense multi- 
 plicity of publication s^ far better than / 
 can. When I presumed to say so much
 
 n 
 
 to ladies, I had in my eye, the vast inun- 
 dation of modern novels ; the disgrace of 
 the press; the moral pestilence of the pub- 
 lick. The time which is prostituted to 
 the reading of them, is not merely thrown 
 away; it is prostituted to the worst effects; 
 they not only foster a mental indolence; 
 which is a very humiliating, and danger- 
 ous state; but stupid, and inartificial, as 
 they are, in fable; character; and events; 
 they are apt to take a fatal hold of the 
 imagination; and to make their reader a 
 victim to unguarded passion. They con- 
 spire with the destructive operation of 
 luxury; their vile scenes corrupt the 
 heart; and their vile manner of writing 
 corrupts the taste. Forsake, then, this 
 baleful atmosphere; this poisoned Erebus 
 of the fancy; and retire to the Elysian 
 Fields of elegant, and polite literature; of 
 luminous, and pathetick philosophy. Let 
 not those invaluable, and immortal souls, 
 ignobly; ignominiously, feed on garbage; 
 who were born to feast on celestial nectar, 
 and ambrosia; who were born to quaff 
 immortality, and joy ! 
 
 Consider, too, your interest, in the im- 
 f 4
 
 n 
 
 proved influence of beauty; a cultivated 
 understanding will suffuse, and animate, 
 your charms, with something than beauty 
 dearer;, with the eloquent expression of 
 intellectual graces; with emanations of 
 sentiment, expanded, and refined. It will 
 accelerate, and secure your conquests, 
 with every man who is worthy of your 
 attention, and affections. 
 
 Let us thank Heaven who made us ca- 
 pable of enjoying intellectual pleasures; 
 and of feeling; of knowing them, to be 
 our best pleasures. Nay, let us thank, as 
 we are taught to bless, even our enemies. 
 Let us thank disappointment; adversity; 
 persecution; had it npt been for them, we 
 might have been continually agitated with 
 false good, and with false evil; but if they 
 permanently fix ; if they rivet our main 
 attention, to the superiour objects, to 
 which it should be our strenuous endea- 
 vour; our warm ambition, to ascend; in- 
 stead of being, ultimately,* our enemies, 
 they will be our kindest, and most bene- 
 ficent friends : to them we shall be in- 
 debted for all the good of which they 
 were industrious to deprive us: we shall
 
 73 
 
 be indebted to them for the securest inde- 
 pendence; for the richest affluence; the 
 independence of virtue; the affluence of 
 the mind.
 
 74 
 
 LECTURE XII. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 I shall now give my best attention to 
 the works of Thomson : and if my view of 
 those works shall be found to be, in any 
 degree, worthy of them, it will certainly 
 make not the least acceptable part of 
 these Lectures. /Thomson was a great 
 poet; but though inferiour to some, 
 whose excellences I have endeavoured to 
 display, perhaps he is read more, and 
 makes deeper impressions in our minds 
 than any one of our other poets^ For he 
 paints thescenes_j2fL Nature w iiicJi--are 
 most interesting^a nd affecting ; to which 
 we are Hgi ost habituated ; and to \vhich we, 
 theref ore, most frequen tly recurr; and he 
 paints_them_ wkh-^glpwing colours ; and 
 with a choice, and assemblage of objects, 
 by whlcBTTie^ls eminently distinguished
 
 75 
 
 above allother^oei^. Those who are not 
 properly acquainted with Thomson (and 
 they are the great majority of his readers) 
 seem only to be sensible of his uncommon 
 merit, as a descriptive poet. But cer- 
 tainly, in his moral strains, in which he 
 oft en expands, and expa tiates, h e is en- 
 titl ed to our high esteem, and admiratio n. 
 Th ey speak distinctly, and forcibly , to the 
 unde rstanding, and to the heart . They 
 inculcate the most natural, and the noblest 
 religion; they inculcate that warm, and 
 universal philanthropy, which, from such 
 a religion, is the necessary, and most be- 
 neficent deduction. Ev ery image is pre- 
 sented to the fancy , which can excite 
 humanity and compassion; all the poeti- 
 cal apparatus is displayed, and thrown 
 into the most vigorous and beautiful ac- 
 tion, that can make selfishness, and bar- 
 barity odious; that can deterr us from 
 incurring the guilt of those detestable 
 crimes. Thoms on, in his poetical t heo- 
 logy, andmo rality, like^ jtriie^oet^jLyoids 
 all metaph ysical re asoning ; all abstracted, 
 and complic ated argum ent. Doeshewish 
 to inspire^y ou with true reli gion; with a 
 rational, yet ard ent de votion ?_he^ leads
 
 76 
 
 you, immediately, " fi^m_Naliii^-upJto 
 " Nature's God." Heexhibits to Lyou the 
 magnificence^ Jiiej2ea_uty^_an(L the har- 
 mor^of the universe ; the spring pours 
 forth its luxuriant sweets ; andjthe senses, 
 and Jheimaj^^^ : the 
 
 sea^roars^ ^d^jDyerflowsJts^ bounds; the 
 thunder peals4 the__lightning flashes 
 through the hemisphere ; yet the crea- 
 turesj_and thejH^cji^r^realiorLare___pre- 
 seryed. Then, " the heavens declare the 
 " glory of God," and " the firmament 
 u showeth" the stupendous works of the 
 Divine Artificer, in the luminous, and 
 emphatical language of our bard: the 
 celestial motions, and revolutions are re- 
 presented with a corresponding majesty, 
 by the vast, and splendid poetical orrery : 
 on our minds rushes the Supreme Mind; 
 the Deity; the Being of infinite power, and 
 wisdom; and of eternal existence. 
 uSo, in his morality; he does not in- 
 struct us with the severity of reasoning; 
 with the ingenious, but cold distinctions, 
 and subtleties of the schools^ Inspj red as 
 he is, by the Muses; withouranyiformal, 
 and^ didactick process, he__inflames you 
 with a love of virtue,an d with a hatred of
 
 77 
 
 vice. With^im, ._all is Jiving 1 _active, and 
 dr amatick. The offices of humanity take 
 their figures; their colouring; and their 
 passions : benevolent power, and its ob- 
 jects, are personified, in striking attitudes; 
 and with pathetick/ features: tyrants 
 frown; and their victims bleed before us, 
 by the magical operation of numbers; 
 these expressive scenes awake, and actu- 
 ate those emotions, by which the senti- 
 ments that most adorn human nature, 
 are agitated and refined. The solemn 
 philosopher endeavours to take you by 
 the siege of syllogism; and wins his way 
 to your citadel of reason by slow ap- 
 proaches : the poet, with eagle- speed; 
 through a tract of verdure, and of roses, 
 assails your heart, and soul; you instanta- 
 neously yield to the rapidity, and brilli- 
 ancy of his march ; and your captivity is 
 your pleasure. 
 
 /^The religious, and benevolent strains 
 with which the poetry of Thomson is emi- 
 nently characterized, flowed, all, from the 
 sincerity, and ardour of his soul; they 
 were, indeed, but so many transcripts of 
 his habitual sentiments, and conduct.^ 
 He was anenemy to all profaneness; to
 
 78 
 
 evei5L-spcis-oJixeligion. Indeed, the 
 mind of a poet is happily, and particu- 
 larly formed to observe, and to admire all 
 order; symmetry; harmony; beauty; and 
 sublimity. It is formed to admire these 
 objects; not in the cooler degree of good, 
 yet common minds; but with the warmth 
 of rapture; with the most exquisite de- 
 light. His moral practice, it is true, may 
 not be so uniformly analogous to this the- 
 ory, and to these feelings, as we might 
 wish; for that very susceptible frame, 
 which is so powerfully attracted to those 
 worthy, and great objects, by which it is 
 exalted, and refined, is likewise unfortu- 
 nately liable to be allured to those inferi- 
 our, but captivating objects, by which it 
 is debased, and corrupted. Ho w could a 
 mi nd like Thomson's, go abroad, an d 
 take a vi ew of the univ erse; how could it 
 retnr^home and take a view of its 
 own ope rations; without knowing, tode * 
 monst ration, the existence f and p rovi- 
 dence , of a God; andjwithoiUjn^sLlium- 
 bly, and devou tly adorin ^Jujn ? To throw 
 our faculties into a sluggish, and putrid 
 channel; to throw them into a substance, 
 and direction, contrary to this pure and
 
 79 
 
 vigorous flow; to be daily conversant with 
 the works of the Deity, with a stupid, or 
 profane indifference; to feel no religious 
 impressions from their influence; or to 
 affect to feel none; nay, to be industrious 
 to propagate the monstrous nonsense of 
 atheism; to laugh at the works of God, 
 when we insist on their divine origin ; and 
 to sport with his name; this disposition, 
 and these habitudes render any creature 
 in human shape the most contemptible; 
 the most abominable of beings. 
 
 Totally the contrast of this most hide- 
 ous moral deformity, was our elegant, 
 pathetick, and sublime poet. Every day, 
 and night read him lectures of piety, 
 which he imbibed, with a heart full of 
 gratitude, and rapture. It was not only 
 the " sun," " who cometh forth from his 
 " chamber, as a bridegroom, and" who 
 " rejoiceth as a giant, to run his course;" 
 nor was it only " the moon;" " rising 
 " in clouded majesty;" then, " apparent 
 " queen, unveiling her peerless light; and 
 " throwing her silver mantle o'er the 
 " earth:" it was not only these more 
 energetical proclaimers of their Divine 
 Authour that composed the mind of
 
 so 
 
 Thomson to humility, and awe; or raised 
 it to triumph, and exultation; with these 
 sacred sentiments he was not less in spired 
 by the ejejrantjjia n by the gran d^objects 
 of Nature : the whole system of creation 
 was his^vast, and splendid volume of divi- 
 nity: Aejnever could forget the oracles of 
 celesti al truth ; they were breathed J:ohim, 
 atmorn, l^^e^rcse^Jnjragrance; andat 
 eve, by-the nightingale, in^musick. 
 
 I should suppose that nothing forms the 
 mind of man more to 'true- benevolence, 
 and humanity, than a high enjoyment of 
 what is good, in this life; and a long, and 
 pungent experience of its evils. Of this 
 severe, but salutary school, the poet seems 
 particularly doomed to be a disciple, 
 from his exquisite sensibility ; and from 
 his unequal, and iniquitous situations. 
 Therefore, whatever niay^be^_ln_gneral, 
 the faults, orjhe vices of a poet; without 
 any partiality toan^extrao1rdinary_class 
 of beings; f thinF wlfmayventure to as- 
 sert, that a poet would always be generous 
 to those who needed his protection; if he 
 was enabled by fortune to exercise his 
 generosity. It is well known that Thom- 
 son was ejxtremely atfectionate~tQ.
 
 81 
 
 lations; and that his ^ j^ijanthmpy ^a3 
 ardent; and as active as his circumstances 
 would permit. His co nversation was 
 niilcL__and u nass u ming, like his Joye_of 
 man; he seldo m showed angerj^ajidMn- 
 dignation, bu t ^ when J ^ hear d^ome hor* 
 ri & t ale of op pression, and barbarity* 
 Thus are his numbers doubly consecrated 
 to posterity; they were inspired by capital 
 genius; and considered as his moral the- 
 ory, they are a copy of his practice. We 
 may likewise observe; that vice is only 
 vice, in proportion to its bad effects; and 
 that human actions can only with pro- 
 priety be denominated virtuous ; as they 
 promote the happiness of the individual, 
 and of mankind. But this private, and 
 publick happiness are promoted by no- 
 thing so much as by ardent, and active 
 benevolence; as they are most materially* 
 and extensively injured by the exercise 
 of a cruel, and tyrannical disposition. 
 One might think it superfluous, at this 
 period of literary discriminations, to ad- 
 vance this doctrine; to mark these dis- 
 tinctions; but it is the duty of every li- 
 beral writer never to quit his hold of 
 selfish hypocrisy, and superstition; they 
 
 VOL. II. * G
 
 82 
 
 will keep their ground as long as they 
 can; as long as they can, they will sub- 
 stitute symbols, and words, for things; 
 they will substitute that legerdemain, or 
 magick, which cannot be kept in play 
 without them, for disinterested, and no- 
 ble conduct; or, in other terms, for genu- 
 ine Christianity. 
 
 T homson, then, was a man of great 
 virtueThewas a man of the hlgh ^~yjjv 
 tuej for hejwas a man of universal be ne- 
 volence, intendment, and in jife. That, 
 certainly, must be the most excellent 
 virtue which makes us most resemble the 
 Divine Nature : and what says Cicero ? 
 " Homines ad Deos nulla re propius 
 " accedunt quam salute m hominibus 
 " dando." 
 
 It is indeed evident, f rom th e vigour, 
 and comple^norCoXjrhojn^ojy^wntmgs , 
 that he was humane, and beneficent. 
 TTie^is^r^aTh^^andJa^ Janguage^ by 
 whichjyou secjthe_^oji]^and real character 
 of the man. I know, w T e are every day 
 told, that we must not presume to deter- 
 mine what the authour is, from his book; 
 and the remark, if it is limited to general 
 validity, is true. The morality of a lite-
 
 83 
 
 rary work, and the morals of him by 
 whom it was composed, are, too often, 
 at an unfortunate, and melancholy vari- 
 ance : hence, the writer is commonly ac- 
 cused of hypocrisy. The accusation is 
 unjust to him, and to the cause of virtue; 
 which it deprives of a strong argument 
 in its defence; of a seasonable tribute to 
 its irresistible influence. We never at 
 first, before the understanding is dark- 
 ened by bad habits, become votaries to 
 vice, from an injudicious choice. Passion 
 prevails over reason; and thus we sub- 
 mit to the ignominious captivity. Yet 
 virtue, even when she is deserted, natu- 
 rally charms the human mind; she still 
 charms the renegado, by whom she has 
 been long deserted. These propositions 
 will acquire a strength, in proportion to 
 the strength of abilities of the man to 
 whom they are applied. When a Boling- 
 broke, in his closet, free from all mean 
 passions, and temptations, beautifully, 
 and sublimely displays the heroick vir- 
 tues which may be practised in exile ; he 
 is, during the auspicious hour, the good 
 man; the noble-minded patriot whom he 
 describes. He writes with a pure sinceri- 
 
 g2
 
 S4 
 
 ty; with an unaffected fervour: the rec- 
 titude of his imagination condemns the 
 habitual depravity of his will. 
 
 Yet in doctrines, and descriptions of 
 this kind, fancy, and ingenuity are the 
 predominant characteristicks. You have 
 an elegant selection, and arrangement of 
 words ; you have the ardour, and the flow, 
 and the energy of eloquence; for these 
 words, and this eloquence, are the vehi- 
 cles of that warmth with which a liberal 
 mind; with which talents, in the prose- 
 cution of a noble subject, must necessa- 
 rily be inflamed. Still, however, there 
 are wanting those impressive, and inde- 
 lible marks, those infallible criteria, by 
 which the moral and practical sincerity 
 of the writer is ascertained. The genius 
 is evinced; but the man is not indubita- 
 ble. 
 
 j But both the substance, and the colour- 
 ing of Thomson's poetry show that his 
 / life was animated, and directed, by those 
 I amiable, and God-like virtues which 
 \ adorned, and dignified his verse, 
 ^hejaejarlijj ie s oul is pour ed forth, in 
 eve ry line. You see an anxiety; a ten- 
 derness^ an interest for tn e cause wh ich
 
 85 
 
 hejpjeads; which absorbs the whole man; 
 and which are wanting in those literary 
 works that are produced merely by the 
 exertion of the understanding, and the 
 imagination. As an advocate for the ge- 
 neral weal, he is not only inspired by 
 genius, but thrilled with a sympathy which 
 penetrates the whole frame. The luxury 
 of woe; a strong feeling for the human 
 species, at once, painful, desirable, and 
 delightful, pours forth a simple, yet pow- 
 erful, and victorious eloquence (victori- 
 ous, at least, for the moment), which the 
 schools never taught, and which the mere 
 intellectual faculties never seized. He con- 
 jures you by our :_comj non natur e; by our 
 fraternal ties^ by your own exper ience; 
 by your own sufferings ; he entreats you, 
 with tears, to lose no opportunit y of e x- 
 erting humanity; to be the zeal ous, active , 
 and indefati gable friendsof mankin d. So 
 ingenuous, and ardent is our captivating 
 advocate; he so unaffectedly " glows, and 
 " trembles, while he writes;" that he is, 
 then,, evidently performing the divine 
 office which he recommends. As an ex- 
 ample of this invaluable species of elo- 
 quence, in which all the heart is engaged, 
 
 G3 
 
 .-ar-
 
 86 
 
 and which may easily be distinguished from 
 that rhetorical eloquence, which, com- 
 paratively, is but artificial, and meretri- 
 cious; permit me to refer you to a letter 
 from Thomson to his sister, which you 
 will find in Johnson's life of our poet : 
 it was communicated to the Doctor by 
 Mr. Boswell; but if it had been picked up 
 in the street, its internal evidence amounts 
 to such demonstration, that we could no 
 more have doubted of its authenticity, 
 than of the sincere, tendej^an d arde nt 
 afFectiorv_which moved, and guided the 
 hand of the^rigrT~ ~~ 
 
 The strokes in writing, representing 
 the mind of the person who drew them, 
 produce the same effect with those in a 
 masterly portrait ; the work of a painter; 
 which immediately assure us of a true 
 likeness ; of a striking resemblance to the 
 original. In such a portrait, art hath 
 emulated nature with so fortunate an 
 ambition; the features bear with such an 
 emphasis, on each other; the colours are 
 so happily blended, and adjusted to those 
 features ; and the whole picture produces 
 such a strength, and novelty of expression; 
 amidst the infinite variety of human as-
 
 8/ 
 
 pects, and characters; that we are cer- 
 tain that the artist hath done justice to 
 the person who sat to his performance ; 
 a person, whom, perhaps, we have never 
 seen. 
 
 I shall now beg leave to observe, that if 
 it was in the power of the most exquisite 
 writing; of the most exquisite poetry; 
 to purify the human heart, and to reform 
 the human conduct; if we could possibly 
 be prevailed with to despise a false, glar- 
 ing, and tawdry splendour ; and to grow 
 enamoured of the inimitable elegance; 
 beauty; simplicity and sublimity of nature; 
 if we could be soothed, at least, into some 
 faint resemblance of the amiable Gentoos; 
 into something like an aversion from 
 barbarity; from persecuting, and mur- 
 dering innocent, and beautiful animals, 
 for our favourite entertainment; if we 
 could be taught the practice of a rational 
 and manly religion ; at an equal distance 
 from profaneness, and superstition; if we 
 could make the abridgement of our own 
 wants (an attainment as inestimable as 
 it is rare ; for it goes hand in hand with 
 temperance; and it has health for its re- 
 ward!) if we could make the abridge- 
 
 G4
 
 88 
 
 ment of these wants, and the relief of the 
 wants of others, the fixed, and invariable 
 constituents of our happiness; if these 
 blessed effects could have been produced 
 by human powers; after they have been 
 preached by the celestial voice of Christ, 
 for many centuries, in vain; they, would 
 have been produced by the^poetry of 
 Thomson. , 
 
 Th e vigour of Thomson's poetry Js 
 cha rged with ^ rexmenily- ._. degenerating 
 into bombast, by some cri ticks; and par- 
 ticularly by a Mr. John Scott; from whose 
 pen we have an octavo volume of " Cri- 
 " tical Essays on some of the poems of 
 " several English poets." I own that the 
 authority of these Critical Essays is, with 
 me, very insignificant. This writer 
 would have had more pleasure, as a man 
 conversant with poetry; and he would 
 have done more justiceto his great authours, 
 if he had read their works with a warmer 
 and uninterrupted admiration of their 
 beauties;' and with less frigid cavil on 
 their faults; or rather on their trifling 
 inaccuracies. Mr. Scott was an acquaint- 
 ance of Dr. Johnson; whom illness and 
 death prevented from writing his life;
 
 89 
 
 but it was afterwards very well written 
 by Mr. Hoole; an elegant, and respecta- 
 ble authour; in whom it would be cynical, 
 not only not to pardon, but not to love, 
 the amiable partiality of the friend. 
 
 Th at force which almost always be ars 
 t he poetry of Thomson powe rfully along, 
 is, if I may use the expression, as gene- 
 rally enforced by perspicuity, and sim- 
 pJidty^^JETere, he far excells Young; who 
 frequently excells him, in the ublimej> 
 which is the utmost degree of poetical 
 excellence. Young is too often inatten- 
 tive to clearness; which, in poetry, is an 
 indispensable requisite. We have to 
 contend with an involution of sense, and 
 language, when we should be borne on 
 the ardour, and rapidity of genius, of 
 which he was a most eminent master; 
 though they sometimes unfortunately 
 mount him beyond the regions of judge- 
 ment, and of taste. Th e mnse g f Thorn- 
 so n throws not such impediments in ou r 
 wayj__nor can I recollect, or find one in- 
 stance of her towering to the bombast; 
 of her invading of those heights that sup- 
 press poetical respiration. He never 
 transgresses, from that strength, eleva-
 
 90 
 
 tion, a nd glow of though t, an d lan guage, 
 which characterize poetry; which distin- 
 guish it from common thinking, and 
 writing; he never transgresses, from his 
 pure, and genuine ^ fire, to that injudici- 
 ous desertio n of natu re; to that wild ex- 
 travagance of sentiment; to those gigan- 
 tick, and monstrous images; and to the 
 congenial inflated, and pompous language, 
 which constitute bomhast; or the false 
 sublime. 
 
 I do not, indeed, think that the sublime, 
 with all its vigour, and electrical effect, 
 is a characteristick of Thomson, as a 
 poet. The tender; the benevolent; the 
 naturally, and poetically pious ; the des- 
 criptive; the picturesque; the personi- 
 fication of the passions; and of other 
 striking, though inanimate objects; are 
 his leading, and rnling -cJ^araiiteriftHrks . 
 I am far from meaning to say, that he is 
 incapable of the sublime; nay, he fre- 
 quently attains it; b ut it is a sublim e 
 of a scertain, and secondary species ; not 
 of the _ astonishing : unparallel ed Miltonj - 
 an impetus, and gr andeur. I will endea- 
 vour toexplain myself with more accuracy, 
 and distinction. Thomson is sublime,
 
 91 
 
 by presenting to us magnificent, but wel l- 
 knowiTimages, wi th a noble arra ngement, 
 an d languag e; rather than b y transport - 
 ing jis_with ori^inalsublimity of thought ; 
 and jvlt h ima ges, which he__Jiimself hath 
 invented ^ or aggrandized . A quotation 
 from Thomson, and another from Milton; 
 while they evidently show, will justify 
 my distinction. I shall here beg leave to 
 recite some verses, which I take from the 
 hymn, at the end of the Seasons; a hymn 
 which has all the merit that beautiful, 
 and great imagery, beautifully, and 
 greatly expressed, can give it. 
 
 In Winter, awful Thou ; with clouds, and storms 
 Around Thee thrown ; tempest o'er tempest rolled ; 
 Majestick darkness, on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime ; Thou bid'st the world adore ; 
 And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast ! 
 
 V. 16th. 
 
 The following lines, too, are of similar 
 excellence to those which I have just 
 quoted : 
 
 Ye softer floods that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale; and thou, majestick main, 
 A secret world of wonders, in thyself, 
 Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 
 V. 51st.
 
 92 
 
 From this justly celebrated hymn I shall 
 give you one extract more; in which the 
 grand images are happily connected; and 
 expressed with energy. 
 
 Great source of day ; best image, here below, 
 Of thy Creator ! ever pouring wide, 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 On Nature write, with every beam, His praise ! 
 The thunder rolls! be hushed, the prostrate world j 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn! 
 
 V. 66th. 
 
 In these passages, we have certainly 
 the sublime; but it is principally effected 
 by the objects which are presented to us; 
 it owes little to the masterly art; to the 
 more fervid inspiration; to the bold, and 
 creative genius of the poet. 
 
 I have said much on Milton; I wish 
 that the justness of my observations on 
 that unrivalled poet may, in some degree, 
 warrant their number! my quotations 
 from him, now, shall, therefore, be con- 
 cise : nor shall my remarks on those 
 quotations be tedious. The true sublime, 
 however ; the peculiar sublimity of Mil- 
 ton, will be evidently displayed. Toward 
 the close of the fourth book of Paradise 
 Lost, when the phalanx of the angel,
 
 93 
 
 Gabriel, began to hem Satan round with 
 ported spears; the stature, spirit, and dig- 
 nity of the infernal hero, are thus des- 
 cribed: 
 
 On the other side, Satan alarmed, 
 
 Collecting all his might, dilated stood, 
 Like Teneriff, or Atlas, unremoved ; 
 His stature reached the sky ; and on his crest 
 Sat horrour plumed ! 
 
 B. IVth. V. 98. 
 
 Near the end of the sixth book of that 
 divine poem, the Messiah rushes on, to 
 attack the hosts of Pandaemonium, in the 
 following terrifick majesty : 
 
 He, on his impious foes right onward drove j 
 Gloomy as night; under his burning wheels 
 The stedfast Empyrean shook throughout j 
 ' All, but the throne itself of God ! 
 
 B. Vlth. V. 831. 
 
 A concurrence of new, vast, awful, and 
 tremendous objects, sent home, to the 
 soul, with a force, and ardour of senti- 
 ment, and language, which are worthy of 
 them, conspire to work up the passages 
 which I have now quoted, to as high a 
 sublimity as it is possible for the mind of
 
 $4 
 
 man to conceive. By the very alarm, 
 which Satan felt, at first ; the immediately 
 subsequent, and glorious throw of intre- 
 pidity ; the collected fortitude, and firm- 
 ness, with which he stood resolute against 
 his foes, are aggrandized, to our imagina- 
 tion. The stature, and ornaments of the 
 subterranean chief; the immense objects 
 of similitude which are applied to him ; 
 all mark the vast, and unbounded mind, 
 by which they were produced. In the 
 second quotation, by the gloomy terrour, 
 with which the Messiah moves to battle; 
 by the shaking of the stedfast Empyrean, 
 through its unlimited extent; and by the 
 exception, and contrast, of this trembling 
 of the heavens, in the eternal immobility 
 of the throne of God; the poet still ex- 
 pands, and rises, in his infinite sublimity. 
 There is a peculiar art; or rather a pecu- 
 liar divine afflatus, in the poetry of Mil- 
 ton; he is fired with his own pictures; 
 therefore they are sure to fire his readers. 
 But as he proceeds to paint, his mental 
 forms grow too vivid, and too expanded 
 for his pencil; they take too much of the 
 fervour, and immensity of his mind, to 
 admit of representation. From what he
 
 95 
 
 has expressed, he sees, with the eye of 
 fancy, what he has left unexpressed; what 
 is not turned to actual shape, by the pen 
 of the poet; what is too great, or too fine 
 for expression: his imagination enjoys 
 all its play, and its luxury; it rejoices, 
 and triumphs in the persuit of the fleet- 
 ing meteor; in throwing it, with varied 
 sallies, into something like a form, and 
 pressure. The susceptible reader catches 
 the mental vivacity, activity, and expan- 
 sion of the poet ; he participates his agi- 
 tation ; his invention, and his rapture. 
 
 Thomson, in whatever light we view 
 him, as a p oet, has the great merit of ori- 
 gihality. ~ The gr and, and the delightf ul 
 sTelieTo F nature are pa rt ic.ularljT formed 
 to at tract , and charm a poetica Hmagina-. 
 tion; therefore, they have been the__ 
 favourit e themes of poets of all ages . 
 Vpt the d p srriptions of rhpsp spptipq^ \ n 
 the Seasons _of Thomson, and i n hj s nth pi- 
 works ^are his own : as a descriptive poet7\^ 
 indeed; or, as a painter ofj^ur al objectSj J U 
 he has not his equaL_ jHjs scene ry is evi- 
 dently gro uped, and executed, from h is 
 own ^bservatlojia; sa_Jnter^ting^ go 
 striking; so much to the life^__are_ the
 
 96 
 
 fonxisj the colours ; the arrangem ent^ 
 and the jig ect of the whole. His morality 3 
 andjiis_^iety, t oo, have their nov elty; 
 their p eculiar beau ty, and dignity : he 
 unfo jds, and urges them, wi th thejmost 
 persuasiy_tapicksf with a tender, yet 
 siibduin^forcej' hejpleads the_ cause of 
 his^dis tressed neighbour ; anolof his inde ^ 
 pende nt, et ernal, omnipotent, and bene- 
 ficein^God^ with^njrresistihle stre am o f 
 thejpaiheikk ; with_a c aptivating luxu ry 
 of poetical eloq uence , unknown b efore. 
 
 Style is the copy of thought; therefore, 
 as our substance, and manner of thinking 
 are, such will our words, and such will 
 their order be. The language, like the 
 Six sentiments of Thomson, hasan._essence, 
 V and a structnre^hy which it : js prominent- 
 ly discriminated from the styles of other 
 poefsT^ The "s tyle of his poetry is almost 
 constantly imp ressive.; and his epithets 
 are often a sjhappjly a pplied to th e ir oh~ 
 jects _as they arenew^^ His numbers, in 
 general, flow with an exuberance, and 
 harmony, responsive to the exquisite sen- 
 sibility, and warmth of the soul of their 
 authour; their modulation, however, 
 has its peculiarity; themusick of their so-
 
 97 
 
 norous march is sometimes interrupted 
 by a stiffness, and ruggedness of idiom ; 
 by words unnaturally, and harshly com- 
 pounded; and by other uncouth, hard, 
 and abrupt words, closing a line, or a , 
 paragraph. Sense, force, and expression, 
 ought, undoubtedly, to be ruling objects 
 with a poet; but even for their sakes, he 
 should not sacrifice elegance, and harmo- 
 ny of diction : whenever he does, he de- 
 parts from the character of a poet : when 
 he connects; when he blends all these 
 objects, amicably, and con amove, he at- 
 chieves the duty of a true, and great poet. 
 Thomso n has been accused by respec t- 
 able criticks of sometimes dwelling to o 
 longlTn~his i mmediate subj ect. I speak 
 with deference to their opinion; but on 
 
 /7mfjmhjpj2t M f> n^y^ r rJwHl g tAA l^Ug ff>r 
 
 mgjjJ oY in reading hi s works, and parti- 
 cularly his S easons, my m ind is kept, 
 th roug hout. in a lively, strong, and pl ea- 
 surable curren t; without a moment's dead 
 stagnation; without a moment*^ languo ur." 
 But if he is, sometimes redundant, it is 
 not the redundance of antithesis, and con- 
 ceit; it is not a puerile, Ovidian redun- 
 dance: in his excess, the reis still a strengt hs 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 y* 
 
 98 
 
 and_variety; ai\arirliHnnal fine light, or 
 shadej^Goloumig : it is the excess of a 
 blooming, and , ^l uxuriant tree ; an excess 
 that jotl would prun^with^ regret . In 
 this part of my Lecture, it will not be im- 
 proper to introduce a passage or two from 
 Johnson's critical remarks on our poet. 
 I am the more inclined to think favour- 
 ably of some of my own sentiments on 
 the poetry of Thomson, that they coincide 
 with those of that great man. 
 
 a As a writer (says Johnson) he is 
 ' entitled to ~one^jpraise of the highest 
 " kind; his mode of thinking, and of ex- 
 
 1 pressing hisjhoug^ts^ original. His 
 " blanlTverse is no more the blank verse 
 " of Milton, or of any other poet, than 
 " the rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of 
 i( Cowley. His numbers; his pauses; his 
 " diction; are of his own growth; without 
 " transcription; without imitation. He 
 i thinks in a peculiar train: and he thinks 
 
 " always^ s a man of genius: he*looks 
 round on nat ure, and on life, with the 
 eye jwhich Nature_b estows only on a 
 p oet; t he eye that distinguishes, in every 
 thing presented to its view, whatever 
 
 " there is, on which imagination can de-
 
 99 
 
 " light to be detained; and a mind that, 
 " at once, comprehends the vast, and at- 
 " tends to the minute. The reader of the 
 " Sea sons wonders that he never s aw 
 " before ^ what Thomson shows him^ 
 " and that he ne ver yet has felt w hat 
 
 " Thomson imp resses." ft * ~~*T 
 
 " His diction is, in the highest degree, 
 " jlorid, a nd-J uxiiriao ?; such as may be 
 u said to be, to his images, and thoughts, 
 " b oth their lustre, and their sha de; such 
 " as invests them with splendour; through 
 " which, perhaps, they are not. always 
 " easily discerned. It is too exuberant; 
 " and sometimes ni'ay be charged with 
 " filling the ear more than the mind." 
 Life of Thomson : Vol. Vlth. pages 235; 
 236. 
 
 Of the justice of the last charge, I can- 
 not say that I am satisfied. T hat the style_ 
 o f Thomson is florid, splendid, and exu - 
 b erant, every reader of the least dis- 
 cernment must acknowledge: but I do 
 not remember to have ever felt that it was 
 unsubstantial, or obscure. Surely, i f per * 
 spicuity, and an unin terrupted tenour of 
 interesti ng sentiment, are characteristicks 
 
 H2
 
 100 
 
 of any poet, they are j jiaracteristicks of 
 h im whom I have now in view . 
 
 Allu ding; to the Season s^-" His is on e 
 " o f the worksl ifobserves our critick) " in_ 
 66 which blank ve rse seems properly used. 
 " Thomso n's wide expansion ofigeneral 
 " view^^ and ^ his enumeration of circum- 
 " stantial ^ varietie s, would have been qb- 
 " structed, and embarrassed, byjihe fre- 
 U i qnejTHnt erseetion .s q thpspnsp- which 
 " are the_jieces sary effects of rh yme." 
 Page 235. 
 
 This is certainly a curious observation ; 
 if we recollect all the contemptuous re- 
 marks which have been thrown out by 
 Johnson against blank verse. But they, 
 who are determined, at all hazards, to 
 espouse, and defend a bad cause, are very 
 apt to fall into palpable inconsistencies. 
 If " blank verse is only verse to the eye," 
 how could Thomson rank so high, as a 
 poet, in Johnson's estimation; for cer- 
 tainly true, and generous verse is an essen- 
 tial constituent of excellent poetry? But 
 if blank verse improperly applied to Thom- 
 son's " wide expansion of general views;" 
 and his " enumeration of circumstantial 
 " varieties;" or, in other words; in the
 
 101 
 
 words of Johnson's Imlac; in his Prince 
 of Abyssinia; to " all that is awfully great, 
 " or elegantly little;" (for the objects of 
 the Seasons take no less a range;) if blank 
 verse is applied with a peculiar propriety ; 
 if it is applied with more propriety than 
 rhyme, to so vast_a_ region : and to such 
 varion g^ qnd ront rasted images; OUF great 
 critick, then, in spite of himself; and ap- 
 parently unconscious of a plain, and in- 
 evitable consequence, gives the absolute 
 palm to blank verse, when he has brought 
 blank verse, and rhyme directly into com- 
 petition. 
 
 But the preference of the one species of 
 versification to the other, is more a mat- 
 ter of fancy, and of individual taste, than 
 of decisive judgement, and of immutable 
 truth. Hence, the preference is as little 
 to be claimed, when any particular sub- 
 ject of the poet is in question. Neither 
 general nor specifick objects should de- 
 termine the poet to the use of either kind 
 of verse; he should be determined only by 
 his own genius; by that mode of versifi- 
 cation, in which, he must be* sensible, by 
 experience, that Nature meant that he 
 should excell. I would not be so repeat- 
 
 h 3
 
 102 
 
 edly tenacious of this theory, if it was not 
 demonstrated to me by the annals of Eng- 
 lish poetry. And if any thing could in- 
 validate this theory ; if any thing could 
 annihilate its force; (I mean, with my 
 own private judgement; while I entertain 
 a proper respect for the differing judge- 
 ment of others) if any thing could induce 
 me universally to recommend the adop- 
 tion of blank verse to the poets of the 
 rising generation; it would be the very 
 great advantage which is attributed to it 
 by Johnson ; in the passage which I have 
 just quoted; that of leaving the thoughts; 
 the sallies ; the fire of the poet, more un- 
 circumscribed, and free. 
 
 I am afraid that in the course of these 
 Lectures I have too often wished for your 
 attention to my defence of blank verse. 
 The defence of it, from me, must be im- 
 partial. I am a great admirer of Pope; 
 therefore I must be a great admirer of ex- 
 cellent rhyme. I was, however, particu- 
 larly desirous that blank verse should 
 have its merit, in your esteem; for two 
 reasons; I was solicitous to remove the 
 prejudices against it which so great an 
 authority as Dr. Johnson's might have
 
 103 
 
 fixed in your minds; and I have been in- 
 dustrious to restore that species of versifi- 
 cation to its proper value, which is essen- 
 tial to the sublimest poetry in the world; 
 to the poetry of Milton. But I am ap- 
 prehensive that in the lapse of a few years, 
 in which melancholy, perhaps, hath some- 
 times invaded more lively, and encourag- 
 ing ideas, I may have been guilty of tau- 
 tology; without diversifying my reason- 
 ing, and my topicks, I may frequently 
 have recurred to the same subject. I have 
 not, however, willingly, or consciously, 
 exactly re- traversed the same ground; 
 and mere failures of memory, liberality, 
 and humanity will be eager to excuse. I 
 very sensibly feel that faculty decline in 
 me; but the very failure is a salutary me- 
 mento; it reminds me of my age; it re- 
 minds me that the time is approaching, 
 when my heart will vibrate to the strains 
 of poetry no more; when it will be cold, 
 and insensible to the pathos of Thomson, 
 and to the sublime of Milton. 
 
 Though we must be convinced that 
 Thomson was a great poet, by whatever 
 he has written, his m aster- pieces-ar^j mi- 
 questionably his Seasons. The happy 
 
 h4
 
 104 
 
 cho ice of a subject is as much a proof of 
 the^poet^jud gernentj and tasl^ aslHs 
 pro pitious toJi is poeticaL _snccess. The 
 difP^rniL s^a^ns present obj ects which 
 are most interes ting to ourfeelijigs; to 
 our discursive faculties; to the best pow- 
 ers of the mind; objects, whoj5e_jre_tujni 
 alwa ys affords a rational. ancL a new jplea- 
 sure4 a delightfuWeneratio n of their fir st 
 causej if, fortunately for the true, and 
 full enjoyment of our existence, we are 
 under the salutary dominion of virtue; or 
 if we are yet sensible, and alive to her im- 
 pressions. These obj ects we re never 
 painte^l_so_justly; so c ompletely; with 
 such^triking-forms^ and in suclLglpwing 
 colours, _...a_Jhe2i_are__brgJli and 
 
 they_are ; likewjseadorned, a nd dignifi ed 
 with the humane, the moral, the religious 
 sentime nts, wh ich they naturally excite : 
 with a copious, and splendid eloquence; 
 with_pemliar fqrce^and beauty. ^We_ 
 ne ed not therefore, be su rprized, that the 
 Seas ons are as much read , a nd remem - 
 heredj_as any poems in the English, or in 
 any ather language , It is not incumbent 
 on me to saymuch more of these beauti- 
 ful productions, for two reasons, their
 
 105 
 
 excel lence is thoroughly felt f and know n, 
 b y every personj rfreading, a nd taste ; and 
 it has been strongly enforced by what I 
 have already quoted from Dr. Johnson; 
 and by what I shall now beg leave to 
 transcribe. 
 
 " Hi s descriptions of extended scen es, 
 " and general effects," (say^s^uj^cele- 
 bratecfcntick) ^"rlringlje^sirjeaas-the-wfeeie 
 magiiificencej)f JVatuxe, whether pleas- 
 ing or dreadful. The gaiety of spring; 
 the splendour of summel^fThejtranguil- 
 lity oTajuUnTnr^h^rtheTiorrour of win- 
 ter, take,~m~therr^:urns, possession of 
 the mind. The poet leads u s throug h 
 the appearances of things, jas _jthey_are 
 successively vari ed by th e vicissitud es of 
 the year ; andjmparts to mspmuch of 
 his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts 
 expand with- Ms imagery, and kindle 
 with feis _sentim ents. Nor is the natu- 
 ralist without his p art in the enter tain- 
 ment; for he is assisted to recollect, and 
 to combine ; to range his discoveries; 
 and to amplify the sphere of his con- 
 templation." Pages 235, 236. 
 This is just, and generous, and poetical 
 criticism. With the next paragraph I
 
 106 
 
 ij 
 
 am not so well satisfied. " These poems 
 (continues our authour) " with which I 
 " was acquainted at their first appearance, 
 " I have since found altered, and en- 
 " larged, by subsequent revisals; as the 
 " authour supposed his judgement to 
 " grow more exact; and as books, orcon- 
 " versation extended his knowledge, and 
 " opened his prospects. They are, I 
 " think, improved, in general; yet I know 
 " not whether they have not lost part of 
 " what Temple calls their race; a word, 
 " which, applied to wines, in its primitive 
 " sense, means, the flavour of the soil." 
 P. 236. 
 
 A poem must always be greatly im- 
 proved by the future serious, and strenu- 
 ous attention of its authour; if he pos- 
 sesses the genius, and the judgement of 
 Thomson. Consequently, the latter part 
 of this passage is the result of the fastidi- 
 ousness of the moment ; of a false delica- 
 cy; of a fancied refinement on critical 
 observation; in short, of a little triumph 
 (inferiour to the triumphs of which John- 
 son should have been ambitious) in having 
 started a new, pretty, quaint simile. 
 
 Though I have observed that it was not
 
 107 
 
 necessary for me to be at all diffuse in my 
 remarks on the Seasons yet on review- 
 ing some notes, which, in the year 1793, 
 I was engaged to write by a bookseller, 
 who was then publishing an edition of 
 those poems, I flatter myself that you will 
 not think an extract or two from them 
 altogether superfluous, or uninteresting. 
 Permit me to give you the first general 
 note; or preliminary view of the authour. 
 " Perhaps no poems have been read 
 " mo re generally, or with more p leasure 
 a than th e Seasons of Thoms on. This 
 " was a natural consequence of the ob- 
 jects which they present, and of the 
 " genius which they display. In descrip - 
 " ti ve poetry, or as a poetical painter, I 
 " do _not know a njeg ual to T homson. 
 " The pictures of other poets, compara- 
 " tively with his, often want precision; 
 " colour, and expression; because they 
 " are more copies from books than origi- 
 " nals^ rather secondary description s7 
 " than transcripts made immediately 
 " from the living volume of Nature. 
 " With ^Aer Thomson was intimately ac- 
 " quaintedj and as his judgement, and 
 " his taste were equal to his diligent ob-
 
 i i 
 a 
 
 10S 
 
 " servation, the whole groupe of objects, 
 " in his descriptions, is always peculiarly 
 " striking, or affecting; from their natu- 
 " ral, and happy relation to one another. 
 " Hence, peculiarly in this poet, a little 
 " natural object, apparently insignificant, 
 " of itself, takes consequence from its 
 association to others, and very much 
 heightens, or enforces the awful, or 
 w beautiful assemblage. Thomson's poe- 
 " t ry is stiUmor e nobly recommend ed to 
 " his_re^dej^_hy-ajiio^La miable mo rality, 
 " andj^HgionxJhe painter, and the sage 
 " are very fortunate auxiliaries to each 
 "other. The stru cture of his verse is 
 '^p " charac^ejis_tic^lly_his own : true genius 
 
 AMr ^ " disdains all mechanical, and servile imi- 
 " tation: that verse is always perspicuous; 
 " energetick; fully, and clearly expressive 
 " of his ideas; not so easy, always, and 
 " flowing in its close, as we could wish. 
 " The favourite objects of his mind did, 
 " not_jcaj3l^ajte_Jiis^^ 
 " they aiiiaid f _ajidmaj^eiy^ 
 " and his life. Hewas a most benevolent, 
 
 0^ " asj^ll^^a-^i^ai_jnam Hewas a poet 
 " of tlieJxsJLciass ; hejajLjm_iHiQojir_to 
 w Scotland; to Eump4__tajaiankind."
 
 109 
 
 From my notes on Summer I shall beg 
 leave to give you rather a large extract. 
 It will contribute, I hope, in some degree, 
 to illustrate, and enforce his poetical me- 
 rit; and to vindicate him from ground- 
 less, and hypercritical censure. And when 
 I consider the unfortunate ground on 
 which I have stood, in the republick of 
 letters, and in the world, I think it proper 
 once more to assure you, that whatever 
 plain,' and downright language I may 
 have used, or shall use, in the course of 
 these Lectures, proceeds from my zeal for 
 literary justice; for the memory of de- 
 parted greatness; not from the least in- 
 citement of mean envy; or of meaner 
 personal resentment. I will not be so 
 ungrateful to the liberality of manners 
 which you have already shown me, as to 
 apprehend the unfavourable reception of 
 this declaration; if you honour it with 
 your belief, you will be the better pre- 
 pared to agree with me, that the gross 
 errours; the mere assertions; the sic volo; 
 sicjubeo; the stet pro ratione voluntas, 
 of a celebrated, but imperious authority, 
 should be combated, and subdued, with 
 an opposition, and refutation, particu-
 
 110 
 
 larly unequivocal, direct, and explicit; 
 tor our judgement is apt to be " ravished 
 " with the whistling of a name ;" and 
 powerful prejudices are only successfully 
 opposed; they are only decisively con- 
 quered, by honest, and unreserved argu- 
 ment; by just, and strong expressions. 
 He is not worthy to defend elegant, or 
 moral truth, who sacrifices a particle of 
 it to false delicacy; to disingenuous com- 
 plaisance. 
 
 I shall now quote some observations 
 which I have prefixed to my notes on^ar- 
 ticular passages of Thomson's tjummgi 
 
 " Among the many futile, absurd, and 
 ** ungenerous passages in Johnson's Lives 
 " of the Poets, is the following remark on 
 " the Seasons. 6 The__great_defect_of^the 
 " * Seasonsis^w^nJ_^f_method; but for 
 " '- this, I know not that there was any 
 ^" * remedy. (Of many appearances sub- 
 " ' sis ting alK at once, no rule can be 
 * given why one should be mentioned 
 6 before another; Vet thememory wants 
 ' the b^ivf^d^^^^j^^cu^o^^h 
 6 not excited by suspense, or expecta- 
 
 nt 
 
 it 
 
 it 
 
 a 
 
 " ' tion.' I must beg leave to assert that 
 " what I have now quoted is absolute
 
 Ill 
 
 nonsense. Therefore, as it is not en- 
 titled to a particular refutation, let it be 
 refuted by the poem which now engages 
 my attention ; and which is l onger Jb y 
 se veral hun dred lines than the other 
 seasons. It has all The orderT^nthme- 
 thod that any sensible, and liberal cri- 
 tick; that any reader, except a dry, for- 
 mal pedant, could wish. The poet sur- 
 veys, paints, and enforces, with a glow- 
 ing, and animated pencil ; with an a f- 
 fecti ng, and sublime moralit y, jmd 
 relig ion, a summer's morning ; noon; 
 evening; an d nig ht; as they ^ succeed 
 one another ^ in the course of n ature ; 
 (for surely the many appearances, in 
 any season, do not subsist all at once.) 
 If tliis is not method, I know not 
 what is. The most admired poems 
 have their episodes, which by no means 
 destroy, or confuse, the order of the 
 principal fable. His_ description of 
 noon is expanded with_an interesting 
 pictme^fth^_tojiid^zon.e^ tOLwiiichJje 
 devotes 460 lines. The rich, and ardent 
 colouring of this picture is congenial 
 with the climate which it represents.
 
 112 
 
 If these lines are a digression, they are 
 naturally connected with the main 
 subject; they never lose sight of it; 
 therefore they keep it continually in the 
 mind of the reader. For his moral, and 
 pious apostrophes, originating from his 
 immediate objects; for his charming 
 episodes, derived from the same sources; 
 he cannot be reasonably taxed with a 
 neglect of regularity. To point out the 
 particular beauties of his Celadon and 
 Amelia; of his Damon and Musidora, 
 would be to affront the good sense, and 
 good sentiments of my readers. They 
 are beautiful tributes to virtue; to piety; 
 to our best affections. They alone 
 evince the falsehood, and the folly of 
 another strange observation of our ar- 
 bitrary critick; ' That it does not ap- 
 ' pear that he had much sense of the 
 ' pathetick.' The person who wrote 
 this of Thomson, must either have lost 
 all remembrance of his authour, when 
 he wrote it; or his own mind must have 
 been ill adapted to symp athize^ w ith 
 pathetick writing. The l pathetirk\ is 
 one of the leading chaj^cj^ristick^of
 
 113 
 
 " the^ Seasons^ it inspired the numbers* 
 " and the life of this great Caledonian 
 " poet. ***** 
 
 * * * 
 
 " After . having described /sum me r,\ and 
 " its effects, in our fortunate island, he, 
 " very forcibly > and I think, with great 
 " regularity, expatiates on those inesti* 
 " mable blessings which are peculiarly 
 " enjoye ^by the inhabitants of Britain., 
 " He then pays his tribute oFjudiciously 
 u distinguished eulogy (and certainly with 
 " no incoherent deviation from his ruling 
 " objects) to those illustrious characters, 
 " who have distinguished, and elevated 
 "the annals of this country; and he 
 " closes the season with a peroration to 
 " philosophy; the noble instructor, and 
 " guide of life; a peroration which is cha* 
 " racterized with elegance, and with a fine 
 " enthusiasm. Allthis I beg leave to call 
 
 " rpcmhrify., and a be^iitlfnTmefhod. 
 
 " What pur formidable critick means 
 " by telling us that * In reading the 
 " ' Seasons, memory wants the help of 
 " * order; and the curiosity is not excited 
 " i by suspense, or expectation;' it is 
 " difficult to say. It is so unsubstantial, 
 
 VOL. II. I
 
 114 
 
 u and random a censure, that it may be 
 " applied, with equal propriety, to the 
 " best poem of Virgil, or of Pope. To 
 " excite that eager, and anxious curiosity, 
 " suspense, and expectation, which it is 
 " incumbent on the writer of a novel, or 
 " of a drama, to raise, did not enter into 
 " the_planof the Seasons ; yet in reading 
 " them, every mind that has a genuine 
 " taste for poetry, is always warmly in- 
 " terested, and affected, as it goes along; 
 " it procee^s_wJ^li_a__deJ ightful expec ta- 
 " tion; for it expects to meet with most 
 " excellent poetry; and it is never disap- 
 " pointed; with poetry which flows in a 
 u natural, and easy ..succession of senti- 
 " ments^_and jmagery . By Thomson 
 " led a pot enter erat res; therefore, nee 
 "jacundia deserit hunc, nee lucidus 
 " or do. Horace's Art of Poetry, V. 40. 
 
 " According to the edict of Johnson, 
 (t ' The dj ction of Thomson is>tQQjexube- 
 6 rant; and sometimes may be charged 
 ' with filling the ear more than the 
 mind.' I should be sorry to lose a 
 " single expression of that most amiable, 
 " and immortal poet. There is not a 
 " feeble, not a superfluous word, in the 
 
 hi
 
 115 
 
 " Seas ons; not a word jwhijA^xLoes not 
 " contribute to inform th ejnind; to en* 
 " rich the fancy; or to improve the 
 " heart." 
 
 I fear that after my best endeavours, I 
 am very remote from accuracy, and con- 
 sistency; and that I in vain aspire to that 
 symmetry of plan, and of ideas, of which 
 we have complete examples in my great 
 masters in the art of composition; and 
 which I should wish, myself, to combine. 
 In consequence of looking into my notes 
 on the beautiful poems of the Seasons, I 
 have now been more diffuse on them than 
 I at first intended. Th^ranscendeinVand 
 singularjneritof those_poems ; the warm , 
 and durable in terest which they secure in 
 thehieart, andjnind; will, I am persuaded, 
 prevail with you to excuse me for survey- 
 ing them with deliberate, and repeated 
 attention; and for patiently extracting 
 the poisoned shafts with which their fame 
 hath been wounded. They will be read 
 with a most lively pleasure by susceptible 
 souls, while human nature is continued; 
 if the English language is known so long. 
 They are adapted, with a peculiar poetical 
 felicity, to engage, and to charm feeling 
 
 12
 
 116 
 
 / minds, of all habits, and in all circum- 
 stances; to delight the fancy that is en- 
 amoured of rural scenes , to soothe, or to 
 transport, the lover; to inflame laudable 
 ambition; to console, and fortify the dis- 
 tressed; and to exalt, an d go vern, sue- 
 cess/z^virtue. 
 
 I make my observations on his works, 
 in the order in which they are printed. 
 His poem to the memory of Sir Isaac 
 Newton is worthy of the good; the great ; 
 the astonishing man, to whose glory it is 
 consecrated. In this poem, the severer 
 truths of science are worked into attract- 
 ive, and beautiful pictures, by the genius 
 of the poet: the mind is forcibly stimu- 
 lated to intellectual atchievements ; the 
 sublimity of the poetry rises to heights 
 collateral with the sublimity of the New- 
 tonian philosophy; and we are as warmly 
 inspired with reverence for the virtues 
 that amiably characterized his life, as with 
 admiration of the powers that super- 
 eminently distinguished his mind. 
 
 The poem of Britannia, too, flows in 
 the humane, generous, patriotick strains, 
 which predominate in the poetry of 
 Thomson; which give it a soft; insinuat-
 
 117 
 
 ing; pathetick force; or a noble; ardent; 
 and commanding vigour. In this poem, 
 our empire of the sea, which I hope that 
 we shall ever maintain, is asserted with 
 all the flaming spirit of poetical elo- 
 quence. Peace, too, has all the honours 
 which it could receive from a benevolent 
 soul, and from a lover of the fine arts: 
 luxury is deprecated; and its corruptions 
 of the mind are justly, and forcibly dis- 
 played. With this temperate and sage 
 morality, his extravagant eulogy on com- 
 merce is not very consistent. I have al- 
 ready taken the liberty to censure Young 
 for making commerce the large, and ela- 
 borate theme of his encomium. I have 
 no doubt that there are many commercial 
 persons whom I should esteem, and re- 
 spect, if I knew them; such persons will 
 pardon one who has long weaned himself 
 from all imitative, and servile attachment 
 to the world; from all ambition for corn- 
 mow popularity; for common fame; such 
 persons will pardon me for speaking my 
 real, but unembittered sentiments on 
 great national objects; for viewing them 
 through an abstracted; and through a 
 poetical, and Arcadian medium ; for I am 
 
 i3
 
 118 
 
 satisfied that thus to view them, is to 
 view them in a just, moral, and virtuous 
 light. It is very worthy of a modern 
 statesman, with his absurd ideas of what 
 constitutes the wealth, and strength, and 
 happiness of a people; it is very worthy 
 of a member for Liverpool, or Bristol, to 
 labour, and harangue for commerce, at 
 all events: but the mind of a poet, as 
 Nature forms it, is particularly formed 
 for the ardent practice of benevolence, 
 and of all virtue; however it may act be- 
 neath its constitution, by too great a com- 
 mixture of extreme sensibility with an 
 alluring, and corrupted world. There- 
 fore, to plead the cause of commerce, was 
 very unworthy of those poets, whose 
 numbers are fraught with the most hu- 
 mane, and generous morality; and whose 
 lives were as amiable as their numbers. 
 For commerce, especially when it hath 
 risen to its last, its fatal improvements, 
 hath always effected what was its natural, 
 its necessary tendency, to effect; it hath 
 diffused luxury, with all its baleful refine- 
 ments, over an unfortunate, and devoted 
 land. For it is the very energy of luxury, 
 to enfeeble the body, and the soul; to
 
 119 
 
 vitiate the taste; to emasculate the talents 
 of a nation; to eradicate humanity; and 
 indeed, all publick virtue. 
 
 For his adulation, in hrs Britannia, to 
 the reigning family, let the motive of gra- 
 titude excuse him; a sentiment which 
 operates with a peculiar force, in a sus- 
 ceptible mind. Frederick, Prince of 
 Wales, a friend of good, and great men, 
 had rewarded Thomson's merit, and had 
 honoured him with his personal at- 
 tention. 
 
 His poem of Liberty, in five parts ; his 
 longest poem, if we except the Seasons, 
 comes now under my consideration. He 
 wrote it, after he had travelled on the 
 Continent; where his love of the English 
 Constitution must have been much aug- 
 mented by the many ocular examples that 
 were presented to him, of the bad effects 
 of superstitious, and arbitrary govern- 
 ment, in the different states which he 
 visited. On this poem, I find, in my last 
 literary memoranda, that I have these re- 
 marks. " Liberty is, on the whole, a very 
 " noble poem; fraught with interesting 
 " poetical history, which exhibits the 
 " causes, and consequences of liberty, and 
 
 i4
 
 120 
 
 " slavery. It abounds, too, with magni- 
 " ficent imagery." By a subsequent part, 
 however, of this account of the poem, I 
 find that I have esteemed it more highly 
 w^hen I lately read it, than I did, some 
 years ago. Yet the impressions which the 
 two perusals gave me, will be found not 
 to have been absolutely inconsistent with 
 each other. For I cannot better give 
 what is essentially my opinion of the 
 poem of Liberty, at large; nor can I bet- 
 ter answer the illiberal misrepresentations 
 which it hath suffered from our great 
 critick, than by transcribing a passage or 
 two from my notes to the Seasons, which 
 I have already quoted. " ' Thomson's 
 " * poem of Liberty' (says Dr. Johnson, 
 in his life of our poet,) " * when it first 
 " ' appeared, I tried to read; and soon 
 " ' desisted. I have never tried again; 
 " ; and ' therefore will not hazard either 
 " ' praise or censure.' ". Pages 236, 237. 
 Murphy's edition. 
 
 This crude, and superficial stricture is a 
 kind of critical corollary to some equally 
 trifling propositions which he had thrown 
 out, on this poem, in a preceding part of 
 his life of Thomson,
 
 121 
 
 " As Liberty was written by the authour 
 " of the Seasons, I am persuaded that the 
 " reader will easily forgive me for offering 
 " him, here, some remarks on its merit, 
 " and on the fastidious manner in which 
 " it was treated by Dr. Johnson. Most 
 " poets have their conspicuous master- 
 " piece; and the Seasons are Thomson's, 
 " beyond all controversy. The spirit, 
 " and style with which a poem is executed, 
 " depends greatly on the judgement, and 
 " taste, with which its fable is chosen, 
 " and arranged. The plan of Liberty, 
 " which, unfortunately, is minutely, and 
 " circumstantially historical, spreads a 
 " damp, and a languor through several 
 " parts of the poem. I must likewise ac- 
 " knowledge that the composition of its 
 " language often wants the perspicuity of 
 " the authour of the Seasons. It is, how- 
 " ever, as often marked with the manner 
 " of a great master; and it hath several 
 " passages which are completely worthy 
 " of the poet by whom they were written. 
 " It may seem surprizing that a lexico- 
 66 grapher had not patience to peruse the 
 " poem of Liberty. He, who, one day, 
 " told the authour of these notes that he
 
 122 
 
 a 
 
 liked muddling work (that was his ex- 
 " pression.) For the disgust, however, 
 " which this unfortunate poem soon gave 
 " him, I can easily account to those who 
 " are at all acquainted with his real ha- 
 " bits, and character. 
 
 " With all his atchievements in the 
 " republick of letters, he gave way to long 
 " intervals of the most unmanly, and tor- 
 11 pid indolence. This indolence pre- 
 " vented him from being properly ac- 
 " quainted with several books which are 
 " carefully perused by every man who 
 " deserves the title of a scholar. I was 
 " not a little surprized when he told me 
 w that he had only read parts of my Lord 
 u Clarendon's History. If he recoiled 
 H from a history which is written with 
 " great genius, and strongly in favour of 
 " towering prerogative; we need not won - 
 " der that he was violently repelled from 
 a poem which is fraught with encomi- 
 ums on equal liberty. For, the other 
 reason, undoubtedly, why he so soon 
 desisted, after he had begun to read that 
 poem, was his prejudiced, and ungene- 
 rous dislike of the glorious subject: he 
 treats the very word, liberty, which, 
 
 u
 
 123 
 
 properly understood, comprehends eve- 
 ry thing that is dear to man, with an 
 indecent, and contemptible contempt, in 
 his Lives of the Poets, and in several of 
 his other works. The well-proporti- 
 oned, and fair fabrick of our constitu- 
 tion, is half-way between the star- 
 chamber of Samuel Johnson, and the 
 tap-room of Thomas Paine. 
 " There are several very fine passages in 
 the poem of Liberty. But Johnson, as 
 I have already observed, disliked the 
 subject. Surely, a poem which is 
 adorned with the following imagery, 
 and language, might have been perused 
 by one, whose talents were too often 
 obliged to submit to works of mere in- 
 dustry, and labour. Liberty thus de- 
 scribes the Genius of the Deep; whom 
 she met, as she was advancing toward 
 Britain; after she had left the more 
 northern nations : 
 
 ........ As o'er the wave-resounding deep; 
 
 To my near reign, the happy isle I steered, 
 With easy wing ; behold, from surge to surge, 
 Stalked the tremendous Genius of the Deep! 
 Around him clouds, in mingled tempest, hung: 
 Thick-flashing meteors crowned his starry head ; 
 And ready thunder reddened in his hand ;
 
 124 
 
 As from it streamed compressed, the glowing cloud. 
 Where'er he looked, the trembling waves recoiled ; 
 He needs but strike the conscious flood, and shook, 
 From shoar to shoar, in agitation dire, 
 It works his dreadful will. To me, his voice, 
 Like that hoarse blast that round the cavern howls, 
 Mixed with the murmurs of the falling main, 
 
 Addressed, began 
 
 Liberty ; Part 4th. V. 293. 
 
 I shall take my leave of this poem, by- 
 extracting from its fourth part, a fine en- 
 comium on our limited monarchy, and 
 on our laws. We might naturally sup- 
 pose that a whole composition, in which 
 there are many splendid passages, might 
 have been read, at least, with patience, 
 and perseverance, by the greatest poet; 
 by the most fastidious critick. 
 
 ... Thrice happy ; did they know 
 
 Their happiness, Britannia's bounded Kings ! 
 
 What, though not theirs the boast, in dungeon-glooms 
 
 To plunge bold Freedom ; or to cheerless wilds 
 
 To drive him from the cordial face of friend ; 
 
 Or fierce to strike him at the midnight-hour, 
 
 By mandate blind ; not justice that delights 
 
 To dare the keenest eye of open day. 
 
 What though no glory to controul the laws, 
 
 And make injurious will their only rule, 
 
 They deem it! what; though tools of wanton power; 
 
 Pestiferous armies swarm not at their call ! 
 
 What, though they give not a relentless crew
 
 125 
 
 Of civil furies, proud Oppression's fangs ; 
 
 To tear, at pleasure, the dejected land; 
 
 With starving Labour pampering idle Waste! 
 
 To cloath the naked; feed the hungry ; wipe 
 
 The guiltless tear from lone Affliction's eye ; 
 
 To raise hid Merit ; set the alluring sight 
 
 Of Virtue high to view ; to nourish arts 
 
 Direct the thunder of an injured state ; 
 
 Make a whole glorious people sing for joy ; 
 
 Biess humankind; and through the downward depth 
 
 Of future times, to spread that better sun, 
 
 That lights up British soul : for deeds like these, 
 
 The dazzling, fair career, unbounded lies ; 
 
 While (still superiour bliss!) the dark abrupt 
 
 Is kindly barred ; the precipice of ill ! 
 
 Oh ! luxury divine! O ! poor to this, 
 
 The giddy glories of despotick thrones ! 
 
 By this ; by this, indeed, is imaged Heaven ! 
 
 By boundless good ; without the power of ill ! 
 
 And now, behold ! exalted as the cope 
 That swells immense, o'er many-peopled earth, 
 And like it, free, my fabrick stands complete ; 
 The Palace of the Laws. To the four Heavens, 
 Four gates impartial thrown. Unceasing crowds ; 
 With Kings themselves the hearty peasant mixed, 
 Pour urgent in : and though to different ranks 
 Responsive place belongs, yet equal spreads 
 The sheltering roof o'er all ; while plenty flows, 
 And glad contentment echoes round the whole. 
 Ye floods, descend; ye winds, confirming, blow ! 
 Nor outward tempest ; nor corrosive time ; 
 Nought but the felon, undermining hand 
 Of dark Corruption, can its frame dissolve; 
 And lay the toil of ages in the dust. 
 
 Liberty ; Part 4th. V. 1145.
 
 126 
 
 May our British Kings ever be thankful 
 for that unrivalled political constitution, 
 which prohibits them from doing evil; 
 and may they ever exercise, with a pater- 
 nal affection, and with a truly royal mu- 
 nificence, that divine prerogative with 
 which it endows them, of doing all pos- 
 sible good! * Might the actual dispensa- 
 tion of our laws be as accessible, and salu- 
 tary to the inferiour orders of the com- 
 munity, as they are equal, and equitable, 
 in theory! and let us offer our ardent 
 supplications to Heaven, ere it be too 
 late ; and if our supplications can avail ; 
 that the felon, undermining hand of dark 
 corruption, may not dissolve the fair, and 
 august fabrick of this admirable consti- 
 tution; and lay the toil of ages in the 
 dust ! 
 
 His Elegy to the memory of Lord Tal- 
 bot, inspired by sincere, and overflowing 
 gratitude, and abounding with warm, and 
 extensive praise, is a tribute, however, to 
 universally acknowledged, and great de- 
 sert. The topicks of encomium are art- 
 fully, and agreeably varied ; the poetry is 
 luminous, and pathetick; and its march 
 has a dignity worthy of the strains which
 
 127 
 
 are consecrated to private, and publick 
 virtue. 
 
 I come now to his Castle of Indolence; 
 his best poem, after the Seasons. It is, 
 indeed, a master-piece of poetry; it con- 
 tains an infinite variety of entertainment, 
 and instruction. It is equally, and emi- 
 nently distinguished, by generous, and 
 noble sentiment: and by fertile, and in- 
 ventive imagination. The thoughts are 
 vigorous; the pictures glowing, and di- 
 versified; the language florid, and har- 
 monious. He is equally happy in adopt- 
 ing his old, and great master, Spenser's 
 versification; and his allegorical scenes, 
 and characters. The appendages, and the 
 doctrine of Indolence, are contrasted, 
 with a most emphatical morality, and 
 painting, to the companions, and ani- 
 mating strains, of the Knight of Arts, 
 and Industry. 
 
 The following stanza, from the Castle 
 of Indolence, will deeply interest those 
 distinguishing, and good minds, who re- 
 gret the unprotected fate of poetry; un- 
 protected, when its merit alone, however 
 transcendent, pleads for patronage; and 
 only rewarded, and stimulated, as it de-
 
 128 
 
 serves, when it is favoured by objects, 
 which are quite extrinsick, and foreign, 
 to its own genuine excellence; by the 
 contemptible selfishness of power; or by 
 some vain, and gay circumstances, which 
 are yet more contemptible. 
 
 Is there no patron, to protect the Muse ; 
 And fence for her, Parnassus' barren soil? 
 To every labour its reward accrues; 
 And they are sure of bread, who swink, and moil : 
 But a fell tribe the Aonian hive despoil; 
 As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee : 
 Thus while the laws not guard the noblest toil, 
 Ne for the Muses other meed decree ; 
 They praised are alone; and starve right merrily. 
 
 Castle of Indolence; Canto II. Stanza 2d. 
 
 How prophetick are these lines of our 
 monthly literary assassins; who, with a 
 pretence of candid, and liberal criticism, 
 have notoriously stabbed the interest, and 
 the fame, of authours of unquestionable 
 merit; and yet are exempted from justice; 
 in a country which boasts that its laws 
 are peculiarly tender of property, and 
 reputation ! 
 
 Thomson, too, as it appears from these 
 lines, thought that some encouragement 
 was necessary to the well-being of a poet;
 
 129 
 
 and to the happy exertions of his genius : 
 and is not this an evident truth ? Shall 
 those incentives to arduous atchievement, 
 which will always operate most powerfully 
 on human nature, be lavished on grosser 
 beings; and are frames of the finest sensi- 
 bility to have none? In this opinion 
 Thomson differed from the late Horace 
 Walpole; who so rigorously asserts that 
 a poet only needs pen, ink, and paper, 
 that we may infer from his words, with- 
 out very much aggravating their import, 
 that he classed a poet with a chameleon ; 
 or that the matter which contributed to 
 perpetuate his mind, might support his 
 body. The practice of this man was per- 
 fectly consonant with his theory. If 
 " aught this scene can threaten or in- 
 " dulge," should discompose, and wound 
 the mind; it would be, to see a little crea- 
 ture, pampered with luxury, vain of here- 
 ditary ignominy; and adulated into an idea 
 that his puny, and pigmy intellect, is 
 coefficient, and commensurate with the 
 vigour, and expansion of genius ; it would 
 be, to see this creature throwing its arro- 
 gance on innate greatness; insensible to 
 its adversity; insulting its pains! But I 
 
 VOL. II. K
 
 130 
 
 am anticipating the part of another Lec- 
 ture: the venal criticks; the convivial 
 parasites; the tinsel connexions of this 
 moral, and literary culprit, shall not 
 skreen him from poetick justice: I will 
 bring him to her honest tribunal, when 
 I request your attention to another poet; 
 to the golden strains and to the iron fate, 
 of a young human prodigy ! 
 
 But let active, and ingenuous minds ; 
 let minds peculiarly privileged by Hea- 
 ven ; and trained worthily of their high 
 privileges, by severe, but salutary disci- 
 pline; let such minds, and their friends, 
 be consoled; let them be, for ever devoted 
 to pure, and indeprivable enjoyments, by 
 the stanza which immediately follows that 
 which I have already quoted. 
 
 I cai-e not, Fortune, what you me deny; 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky ; 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening face. 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods, and lawns, by living stream, at eve. 
 Let health my nerves, and finer fibres brace ; 
 And I their toys to the great children leave : 
 Of fancy; reason; virtue ; nought can me bereave. 
 
 Castle of Jndolence ; Canto II. Stanza 3d. 
 
 The Epitaphs, Songs, and other smaller
 
 131 
 
 pieces of Thomson, are not unworthy of 
 their authour; they flow with the general 
 current of his soul : in a tender strain of 
 sentiment; of refined passion; and of vir- 
 tue. Among these productions, his Hymn 
 to Solitude seems to claim the pre- 
 eminence. 
 
 The poetry of Thomson's Plays is very 
 nervous, and impassioned; and their dra- 
 matick merit, however severely it has been 
 criticised, and censured, is considerable. 
 Tancred and Sigismunda is now almost 
 his only tragedy which is admitted on the 
 stage; but from the exclusion of the rest, 
 we cannot undervalue them ; if we recol- 
 lect what trifles; what buffoonery, are, 
 in these times, received with avidity, and 
 applause. His Edward and Eleonora is 
 a pathetiek, a beautiful tragedy; though 
 it were to be wished, in general, that 
 his dramatick performances were more 
 marked with the simplicity; with the 
 easy, but powerful strokes of Nature, than 
 with the more elaborate eloquence of 
 Young, and of Rowe. 
 
 I shall think myself very fortunate if 
 you feel that 1 have not detained you too 
 long with my remarks on Thomson, as a 
 
 K2
 
 m 
 
 poet. I shall how return, for awhile, to 
 his ruling character, as a man. I can 
 give you an anecdote of him, which alone 
 is a demonstrative evidence of his hu- 
 mane, and affectionate disposition: I am 
 sure, it will be interesting to every mind 
 that is alive to tender obligations. I had 
 it from indisputable authority; and it has 
 deeply impressed me, from my boyish 
 days. The interview which I am going 
 tb relate was communicated to me about 
 the year 1751 ; when I was at the gram- 
 mar-school of Berwick upon Tweed ; and 
 for the honour of our poet's excellent 
 heart, it should not be lost to the world. 
 Mr. Robert Taylor, who was, for many 
 years, a bookseller at Berwick, was well 
 acquainted with Thomson's relations. 
 They were in poor circumstances; and 
 perhaps the following transaction princi- 
 pally referred to a sister of Thomson, to 
 whom he wrote a kind letter, which has 
 been published by Johnson. I have al- 
 ready made some observations on that 
 letter; and at the close of this Lecture, I 
 intend to give it a more particular atten- 
 tion. IVJr. Taylor was a very active man 
 in his business, which frequently called
 
 133 
 
 him to the south of England. When he 
 was preparing to take a journey to that 
 quarter, a relation of Thomson gave him 
 a letter to the poet; in which his pecuniaiy 
 assistance was solicited; and which Mr. 
 Taylor promised to deliver to him, with 
 his own hand. Accordingly, he went 
 from London to Kew, on purpose to visit 
 him . Thomson had not yet risen, when 
 Mr. Taylor arrived at his house, in a fore- 
 noon. The name of the stranger was 
 sent up; and of the person who had en- 
 trusted to him the letter. Thomson im- 
 mediately rose; and received him with all 
 possible expedition. After giving the 
 bookseller the kindest welcome, he read 
 the letter with very visible, and strong 
 emotions. He then opened his bureau: 
 and showed Mr. Taylor all the money 
 which he then possessed, and which was 
 twenty guineas. He put ten into his 
 hand; and desired him to transmit that 
 sum to the writer of the letter, without 
 loss of time. " I am a shamefully lazy 
 " correspondent" (added he) (( but 1 hope 
 " that I shall answer this letter soon. In 
 " the mean time, desire my friends, when - 
 " ever they are in distress, to apply, to tne: 
 
 k3
 
 134 
 
 " they shall never be disappointed; unless 
 " I have absolutely no power to relieve 
 " them." These words, which I thought 
 the most pathetick of all speeches, were 
 interrupted by a conflict of sensibility, 
 and by tears. Mr. Taylor, in consequence 
 of the pressing request of the poet, stayed 
 with him till the next morning. They 
 passed their time with much agreeable 
 conversation, and with much heart-felt 
 remembrance of Scotland. 
 
 Permit me now to recite to you the 
 letter which he wrote to his sister, while 
 he was on a rural visit to Lord Lyttleton, 
 in the year 1?47; about a year before his 
 death. It is a letter which deserves our 
 particular attention; by some of this com- 
 pany it may not have been seen ; or it 
 may have been forgotten. In a former 
 part of my observations on Thomson, I 
 made a particular reference to this letter. 
 
 I remarked, that b y the simpli city, and 
 tenderne ss of its mann er; by_its " warmth 
 
 II fronvthe soul, and faithfulness to her 
 n fires," it proved, beyond the possibility 
 of a doubt, tt^dis^osition, and mental 
 habits of its ajithoun that it was a crite- 
 rion of his heart; and of the conduct
 
 135 
 
 which p redom inated in Jris^ life. In my 
 zeal; in my enthusiasm for the genius, 
 and the productions of our great poets, I 
 have not forgotten their lives ; the virtues 
 of which (to use the very words of Thom- 
 son) make " the more endearing song." 
 
 ' ' Hagley, in Worcestershire, 
 October 4th, 1747. 
 " My dear Sister, a 
 
 " I thought you had known me better 
 than to interpret my silence into a de- ^ 
 cay of affection; especially as your 
 behaviour has always been such as 
 rather to increase than diminish it. -%_ 
 Don't imagine, because I am a bad cor- * 
 respendent, that I can ever prove an l 
 unkind friend, and brother. I must do 
 myself the justice to tell you, that my 
 affections are naturally very fixed, and 
 constant; and if I had ever reason of 
 complaint against you (of which, by 
 the bye, I have not the least shadow) I 
 am conscious of so many defects in my- 
 self, as dispose me to be not a little 
 charitable, and forgiving. 
 " It gives me the truest heart-felt satis- 
 " faction to hear that you have a good, 
 
 k4
 
 136 
 
 kind husband; and are in easy,' con- 
 tented circumstances; but were they 
 otherwise, that would only awaken, 
 and heighten my tenderness towards 
 ou. As our good, and tender-hearted 
 arents did not live to receive any ma- 
 erial testimonies of that highest human 
 ratitude I owed them (to which no- 
 thing could have given me equal plea- 
 sure) the only return I can make them, 
 now, is, by kindness to those they left 
 behind them. Would to God poor 
 Lizzy had lived longer, to have been a 
 farther witness of the truth of what I 
 say; and that I might have had the 
 pleasure of seeing once more, a sister 
 who so truly deserved my esteem, and 
 love. But she is happy; while we must 
 toil a little longer here below\ Let us, 
 'however, do it cheerfully, and grate - 
 ' /fully; supported by the pleasing hope 
 *)of meeting again on a safer shoar; 
 ( where, to recollect the storms, and dif- 
 i ficulties of life, will not perhaps be in- 
 6 consistent with that blissful state. You 
 ' did right to call your daughter by her 
 1 name; for you must needs have had a 
 1 particular, tender friendship for one
 
 137 
 
 " another; endeared as you were by na- 
 " ture; by having passed the affectionate 
 " years of your youth together; and 'by 
 " that great softner, and engager of j 
 " hearts, mutual hardship. That it was/ 
 " in my power to ease it a little, I account 
 " one of the most exquisite pleasures ofj 
 " my life. But enough of this nielan- 
 M choly, though not unpleasing strain. 
 
 "I esteem you for your sensible, and 
 " disinterested letter to Mr. Bell; as you 
 " will see by my letter to him: as I ap- 
 " prove entirely of his marrying again, 
 " you may readily ask me why I do not 
 " marry at all? My circumstances have, 
 " hitherto, been so variable, and uncer- 
 " tain, in this fluctuating world, as to in- 
 " duce to keep me from engaging in such a 
 " state; and now, though they are more 
 " settled, and of late (which you will be 
 " glad to hear) considerably improved; I 
 " begin to think myself too far advanced 
 " in life for such youthful undertakings; 
 " not to mention some other petty rea- 
 " sons that are apt to startle the delicacy 
 " of difficult old batchelors. I am, how- 
 " ever not a little suspicious that was I to 
 " pay a visit to Scotland (which I have
 
 138 
 
 a 
 
 some thought of doing soon) I might 
 " possibly be tempted to think of a thing 
 " not easily repaired, if done amiss. I 
 " have always been of opinion that none 
 6 make better wives than the ladies of 
 ' Scotland; and yet who more forsaken 
 " than they; while the gentlemen are 
 " continually running abroad, all the 
 " world over? Some of them, it is true, 
 " are wise enough to return for a wife. 
 "You see I am beginning to make in- 
 " terest already with the Scots ladies. 
 " But no more of this infectious subject. 
 "I Pray let me hear from you now and 
 "jthen; and though I am not a regular 
 " correspondent, yet perhaps I may mend 
 " in that respect. Remember me kindly 
 " to your husband; and believe me to be, 
 " your most affectionate brother, 
 
 " James Thomson." 
 
 We must now be strongly impressed 
 with a most advantageous idea of Thom- 
 son's moral character. The grave, and 
 formal doctors of our duty, though they 
 are particularly rigourous in their ex- 
 actions from others, (especially, of petty, 
 and ostensible actions,) are not so tena-
 
 139 
 
 cious (at least, in their own conduct) of 
 the very essence of Christianity; huma- 
 nity; or tenderness to mankind. Yet 
 " love," or active, and universal benevo- 
 lence, is, in the language of our celestial 
 code, " the fulfilling of the law." And, 
 indeed, when we consider that every spe- 
 cies of tyranny, and oppression, produces 
 more misery; and every modification of 
 sympathy, and beneficence, more happi- 
 ness to the world, than all the other ope- 
 rations of the human mind; we shall find 
 that the voice of Nature, and the voice of 
 Reason, are, in this, as in every moral 
 instance, in a most harmonious, and 
 charming unison, with our divine religion. 
 To crown, therefore, our praise of Thom- 
 son, we may safely pronounce h im a true, 
 practic^lxhrktian. We can say nothing 
 higher of a man's temporal importance, 
 if it is rightly understood ; we can say no- 
 thing higher of his enjoyment, even of 
 this transitory life; if that enjoyment, 
 too, is properly comprehended; than that 
 his conduct is animated, and directed, by 
 the spirit of Christianity. A most gener- 
 ous, and heavenly system ! which will al- 
 ways have the love, and the zeal of every
 
 140 
 
 sensible head; whiclij^^ctiiated byan 
 hcme^t^^iidifieling-Jieart; of every inde- 
 pendent, and ingenuous mind; whether 
 he is smiled, or frowned on, by the hier- 
 rarchy ; who, by their luxury, and pride, 
 and pomp of life, are the representatives 
 of any thing rather than of the christian 
 religion. So remote, indeed, is the time 
 in which our Saviour lived; so extraordi- 
 nary, and astonishing, are his mission, 
 and character ; and so far from the con- 
 stant course of nature are all the other 
 objects which ushered, and accompanied 
 his revelation ; that an honest, and vir- 
 tuous man may, to some degree, be a 
 sceptick ; but he will be a sceptick with 
 that modesty, and moderation which the 
 subject of his scepticism deserves : while 
 he doubts, he will revere ; while he fe*ars 
 that a system which provides more effec- 
 tually than all others, for the well-being; 
 for the comfortable existence of mankind, 
 maybehuman; he will most ardently wish 
 that it may be divine! Such was the scep- 
 ticism of the unprejudiced, and illustrious\ 
 Rousseau. He states the main topicks, 
 and arguments, in favour of Christianity, 
 and against it, when it is considered as a di-
 
 141 
 
 vine revelation, perspicuously, and com- 
 pletely; and he gives them all their force. 
 I must honestly acknowledge, that the re- 
 sult of this fair, and dispassionate reason- 
 ing, is, a reluctant diffidence; with a pre- 
 ponderance of belief. But as the first 
 beauty in the universe is, moral beauty; 
 it is no wonder that his susceptible, and 
 elegant soul was morally enamoured with 
 the character of Jesus Christ. Admiring 
 the character, and charmed with it ; as 
 every sensible, and good heart must be ; 
 the just, and glowing colours ; the force, 
 and splendour of eloquence, with which 
 he exhibits it, in a comparison between 
 Christ, and Socrates, which is drawn by 
 this great, and amiable sceptick, do as 
 much honour to our excellent religion, 
 as it is injured, and vilified, by the tawdry, 
 and meretricious glare of prelatical splen- 
 dour; by its enormous luxury; by its 
 proud processions ; by its mechanical, 
 and insolent magnificence. This last 
 epithet cannot be thought too violent ; if 
 we look back to the heavenly example, of 
 whom these men pretend to be the imme- 
 diate, and regular ministers ; if we look
 
 U2r 
 
 back to the humility of his manners ; and 
 to the humbleness of his life* 
 
 Such was the scepticism of the elegant, 
 and sublime Rousseau ; whose reasoning 
 faculties were as acute, and vigorous, as 
 his imagination was warm, and luxuriant. 
 And I must think it an unquestionable 
 truth ; that deliberate, and vindictive 
 hostilities against Christianity ; the best 
 guide of our lives; the best soother of our 
 woes; the best friend to all true pleasure; 
 were never maintained by any man who 
 was, at once, good, and great. To rail at 
 it, or to ridicule it, are infallible proofs of 
 a bad taste, and of a bad heart. To per- 
 secute this divine institution, from the 
 press, with a malignity of the deepest 
 dye ; to attack it with a savage ferocity ; 
 to attempt to undermine it, with a miser- 
 able, and illiterate sophistry ; to make it 
 the subject of low, clownish gambols of 
 the mind; which pass with the writer, and 
 with his gang, for wit ; this gothick war- 
 fare was reserved for our intellectual 
 ruffians, and assassins ; it was reserved for 
 the literary profligacy of the present times. 
 
 I am almost assured that you will, at
 
 143 
 
 any time, excuse a digression ; if it is not 
 quite foreign from my main subject ; in 
 defence of a religion ; which, if we had 
 resolution, and constancy to practise, we 
 should be rewarded with the highest pos- 
 sible enjoyment of good fortune; and in 
 the worst, we should not be absolutely 
 unhappy. Our superficial, and confident 
 infidels, and atheists may charge me as 
 peremptorily as they please, with abuse : 
 I deem them the most mischievous ene- 
 mies to mankind ; _therefore, as a friend 
 to mankind, I am satisfied that I have 
 only given them their just, and proper 
 epithets, and appellations. You will, I 
 am sure, as liberally excuse my repeated, 
 and prolonged attention to the moral 
 character of a poet ; as you will undoubt- 
 edly, agree with me, that the practice of 
 virtue not only gives the purest pleasure, 
 and the supreme dignity to life ; but that 
 it likewise contributes, more than any 
 other auxiliary, to animate, and exalt 
 genius : a Chesterfield often says to his 
 pupil, while he is recommending to his 
 imitation a hypocritical phantom of po- 
 lished vice;" Remember the Graces!" 
 But all graces fade, and shrivel before
 
 144 
 
 those of virtue ! Wherever she moves, we 
 feel the influence of a Majesty Divine ! 
 Her smile illumines, and cheers a droop- 
 ing world. Her bloom is Elysian, and 
 eternal. Ever, then, be the burden of 
 my song (enforced, I hope, meliore plectro 
 than that of Stanhope) Remember the 
 Graces !
 
 145 
 
 LECTURE XIII. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 Several years elapsed from the time 
 when I wrote my sentiments, and obser- 
 vations on Thomson; that amiable, and 
 ardent poet; to the date of my calling up 
 to my particular recollection, the illustri- 
 ous, and immortal, but unfortunate, and 
 melancholy subject, which I shall now beg 
 leave to introduce to your attention. 
 Disagreeable, and discouraging objects 
 had interrupted my much loved studies. 
 But in spite of difficulties, and obstruc- 
 tions, I collected my mind; and with any 
 intellectual vigour of .which I was capable, 
 I applied to a task which had long been 
 interwoven with my heart. Many, even 
 of the most worthy, and illustrious men, 
 have suffered hardships from the cradle to 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 
 
 the grave. Obstinate, and unrelenting 
 adversity is often the lot of man : but it 
 is his duty; it is his honour, to resist, and 
 to conquer, the oppressive effects of its 
 opposition. This is a fine, and sublime 
 kind of virtue. There are little creatures 
 in the human form which are always at 
 war with merit; but they should be anni- 
 hilated in the mind of the poet, when he 
 recollects, that, in spite of their puny, and 
 momentary efforts, there is an immor- 
 tality of fame on earth: and a more glo- 
 rious immortality in heaven ; an absolute 
 eternity, and a God. Oh! that these re- 
 flexions had often passed deliberately, and 
 maturely, in the mind of that most ad- 
 mirable youthful prodigy; from whose 
 grave I shall endeavour to tear the weeds 
 with which it has been profaned by the 
 dull, the malignant, and the slaves to arti- 
 ficial consequence; and to plant myrtles, 
 and laurels, in their place ! Oh ! that Ms 
 high, and great soul, which, if it had for- 
 tunately addressed but a particle of Chris- 
 tianity, would have been gently, and 
 kindly treated; and would probably have 
 been a distinguished honour to human 
 nature; oh ! that it had been a little more
 
 U7 
 
 flexible to its fortune, in one view; and 
 emerged from it, and towered above it, 
 in another; that it had not thrown itself 
 on the stoical, but relied firmly on the 
 christian school; that it had preserved a 
 patience in the most unworthy, in the 
 most horrible circumstances (without 
 which virtue we can neither be good, nor 
 great) till he had arrived at his splendid 
 meridian , till he had shone forth with all 
 his glory! The feelings of the truly hu- 
 mane would then have escaped many pain- 
 ful images; they would have escaped the 
 pain of investigating much pedantick rub- 
 bish ; and an honest indignation at stupid, 
 cold, and insensible erudition; and of a 
 most debasing, and abject sycophantry to 
 the great. 
 
 Your freedom from prejudice; your 
 good sense, and the generosity of your 
 hearts (I doubt not that you possess all 
 these virtues) expect that I am to inform 
 you that I shall, in this Lecture, with the 
 best exertion of my humble abilities, take 
 a comprehensive, and I hope, not an in- 
 complete view, of the astonishing genius, 
 and of the fate which will ever be deeply 
 
 l2
 
 v 148 
 
 lamented by the truly wise, and good, of 
 Thomas Chatterton !' 
 
 The honour of our country; the eter- 
 nal glory of the republick of letters, is 
 concerned in this object. If Chatterton 
 had lived to the usual term of human life, 
 England would have been splendidly 
 adorned with one great poet more; with 
 as great a poet as it was possible for hu- 
 man nature to produce. His meridian 
 would have been analogous to his dawn: 
 what a blaze of glory would then have 
 been spread over our poetical hemisphere! 
 I know that Mr. Walpole (I hope that he 
 will be long, and best known by that 
 name) with his usual penetration, judge- 
 ment, and taste, and with his usual gene- 
 rosity to our divine, young poet, doubts 
 that his genius would have fulfilled its 
 promises, if he had lived much longer. 
 Mediocrity of poetical talents (if, in- 
 deed, these talents are compatible with 
 poetry) have often disappointed the early, 
 and flattering expectations which they 
 raised; genuine, and great talents^ never. 
 It is almost superfluous to cite examples 
 of this truth* Shakespeare, Milton, Pope,
 
 149 
 
 Dr. Johnson; Cowley, the last, and the 
 least (for all his conceited, and metaphy- 
 sical stuff disgusts me) warrant, and prove 
 my assertion. The same ingenious cri- 
 tick mentions, and in the same period, 
 and compares Chatterton, and Psalmana- 
 zar. I care not if Psalmanazar, and his 
 island of Formosa, and his invented lan- 
 guage, _and the five huge quarto volumes 
 of Mr. Walpole were thrown into the 
 sea: but I should be extremely concerned 
 if we should forget the memory, and lose 
 the writings; the elegant, and animated 
 fictions ; and the miscellanies themselves, 
 of the poet, whose fate, semper acerbum, 
 and whose name, semper honor atum (sic 
 dli voluistis) habebo. 
 
 I am afraid that I have undertaken this 
 fair, and generous task, at too advanced, 
 and languid an age : permit me to caU it 
 generous; for all my judgement, all my 
 sentiments on this interesting, and impor- 
 tant object, shall be purely dictated by a 
 warm contempt of uncharitable dispo- 
 sitions; of all temporizing, and mean re- 
 serve; and by an ardent love of moral, 
 and literary justice; and of the golden 
 law of humanity. The subject demanded 
 
 l3
 
 150 
 
 lively spirits; and the honest fire of better 
 years. I am launching into the Baltick, 
 when I should be consecrating my votive 
 picture in the temple of the god of the 
 ocean. But I am addressing liberal, and 
 benevolent judges; your sympathy with 
 the inauspicious causes of the delay will 
 give a relief to the weakness of the per- 
 formance. My sincerity, and frankness, 
 however, shall atone, as far as they can 
 atone, for my want of presence of mind; 
 of penetration, and of energy. My 
 observations, and animadversions, my 
 praise, and my censure, shall be unre- 
 strained with any unmanly, and ignomi- 
 nious awe; they shall flow from the inge- 
 nuous principles which I have asserted; 
 and therefore they shall flow with a per- 
 fect freedom. I do not presume to claim 
 any extraordinary merit; the image of 
 superiour, and expiring genius is before 
 me; and it overwhelms me with grief ; it 
 prostrates me with humility. I shall only 
 beg leave to observe, that the value of the 
 fair, and determined freedom which I 
 shall exercise, will not be lost on unpre- 
 judiced, and liberal minds; for that free- 
 dom, when it is directed by talents more
 
 151 
 
 vigorous than mine, produces, or ought -to 
 produce, if it is attended with the conse- 
 quences which it deserves, the most in- 
 structive, the most salutary, and the most 
 glorious effects. It distinguishes, and 
 determines, in those departments of mo- 
 rality, which are inaccessible to the laws ; 
 it is a Chancellour in the court of the 
 kingdom of Minerva; the laurels which 
 were intercepted from genius, by envy, 
 and adulation, it tears from the brows to 
 which they were sacrilegiously prostituted, 
 and assigns them to their legitimate heirs: 
 in its intrepid, and indefatigable per- 
 suit of those truths which are of the ut- 
 most consequence to mankind, it scorns 
 to be checked, for a moment, by the me- 
 teors of vanity; by the phantoms of 
 fashion, and the pygmies of arrogance, 
 which presume to stand in its way; it be- 
 stows a well-deserved, and immortal eu- 
 logy, on the Cosmos, and the Lorenzos de' 
 Medici; who munificently anticipated, 
 instead of obdurately rejecting the views 
 of indigent, and persevering talents: it 
 lifts the golden scale of poetical justice, 
 and contrasts these august fathers of lite- 
 rature, with little creatures environed 
 
 l4
 
 152 
 
 with affluence, and reposing on luxury; 
 mistaking whim for talent, and passion 
 for taste; lavishing a great sum on a glit- 
 tering gem, or an inanimate picture; 
 while they are inexorable to the petitions 
 of oppressed genius; deaf to its pathetical 
 complaints ; dead to its divine aspirations. 
 May this fair, and manly freedom be for 
 ever transmitted to some sons of English 
 literature; and let them be watchful to 
 exert it on interesting, and important 
 emergencies: seasonably, and unreserv- 
 edly diffused, it may produce great na- 
 tional good; it may prevent great national 
 evil; if indeed a phlegmatick statesman 
 will allow that true poetry delights, in- 
 structs, and polishes a nation; it may 
 rescue a future Chatterton (if God Al- 
 mighty ever again grants an equal phae- 
 nomenon to an ungrateful world) it may 
 rescue some future Ghatterton from fa- 
 mine, and from death. 
 
 Accept, or forgive some prefatory dis^ 
 course, before I enter on the stamina of 
 my work: prejudices, if it is possible, are 
 to be cleared away from the memory of 
 the dead, and from the character of the 
 living.
 
 153 
 
 ^ 
 
 When an authour thinks it incumbent 
 on him to animadvert on the conduct, or 
 the writings of a person who is highly 
 favoured by fortune, it is required of him 
 by a too complaisant, and partial world, 
 however base the conduct, or however 
 dull the writings may be, which he in- 
 tends to censure, that he should address 
 the man who has accidentally more power 
 than himself, in terms of the most unex- 
 ceptionable deference, and respect. Hence 
 the nerves of thought, and language are 
 emasculated ; they fall short of truth ; the 
 complexion, and the soul of eloquence 
 are tainted; she wears a sickly hue; she 
 has a drooping, and an abject manner; 
 she ventures not the closeness, and 
 strength of her arguments; the variety, 
 the force, and the beauty of her imagery; 
 to instruct, and enrapture the world : it 
 is a profane, and slavish tribute, " at the 
 " shrine of luxury, and pride;" not a sa- 
 cred, and free-will offering, at the altar of 
 wisdom. Yet thanks be to genius, and to 
 Providence, these prostrations are gene- 
 rally made by those whose minds are as 
 weak as their hearts are sordid: the Di- 
 vine Economist is almost continually
 
 154 
 
 drawing tne exertion of fine talents to- 
 wards himself; He seldom suffers them 
 to go out of their way. 
 
 Thus, agreeably to my theory, which, 
 I am sorry to say, is established by the 
 practice of mankind, if such an opponent 
 of wealth, or power,' hath asserted that 
 the object of his remonstrances, and re- 
 prehensions, is perfidious , avaricious, and 
 tyrannical ; though he has completely 
 deserved these epithets, by the most evi- 
 dent, and abandoned acts ; the pamphlet, 
 or the book, and the authour, are imme- 
 diately sentenced to proscription by a 
 polite auto da fe; though he has been 
 disinterestedly, and virtuously endeavour- 
 ing to supply the deficiency of the laws ; 
 to mortify with publick shame a great, 
 and unrelenting offender against the com- 
 munity. The work is pronounced to be 
 grossly, and scandalously abusive; though 
 none but the obnoxious words could have 
 been used, without a confusion of ideas; 
 without a misapplication of language ; 
 without a desertion of justice. Abuse , 
 however, is the word; the order of the 
 day; a sentence of Laconian brevity; but 
 not of Laconian truth, and virtue : it has,
 
 155 
 
 however, all the desired effect on the 
 crowd ; on " the great vulgar, and the 
 small;" who are by no means Lacedaemo- 
 nians; it completely damns the authour, 
 and his works ; who yet retains hopes of 
 ample justice; of a literary resurrection. 
 But the parties who are interested for their 
 favourite, would be fools, indeed, if they 
 took the pains to enforce and dignify the 
 retort, abuse, with any auxiliaries of rea- 
 son. Let this retort be thrown out by 
 himself, with an affected indifference, and 
 disdain; let it be echoed by his convivial 
 parasites, by his venal criticks, and by 
 modish life; and it will effectually super- 
 sede the toil of argument; the patience 
 of refutation. 
 
 I am advancing to the point which I 
 have had in view; I shall endeavour to 
 give you a true definition, and descrip- 
 tion; the genuine signification, and im- 
 port of the word, abuse. 
 
 Abuse, in its philological acceptation, 
 is simply a misuse, or misapplication 
 of language. Hence, to apply terms of 
 severe crimination (however warrantably, 
 and properly they may be used, on several 
 occasions, by classical, and elegant writ-
 
 156 
 
 ers) to apply such terms where they are 
 by no means deserved, is palpable, and 
 flagrant abuse. To lavish high, and al- 
 together unmerited praise, is the direct 
 inversion of this abuse: it is poetically 
 expressed, and illustrated by Dr. Young : 
 " Praise undeserved is satire in disguise." 
 But all low, vulgar language; all that 
 language which is comprized in scurrility, 
 is absolutely, and universally abuse: it is 
 abhorrent from all propriety, and dignity 
 of language. To throw it on the good, 
 shows a profligate, to dart it at the bad, 
 shows an indelicate mind. It is never 
 justifiable; it is never admissible; it will 
 never be used by the true gentleman ; by 
 the liberal scholar. 
 
 I shall here make a reference which 
 probably may produce an instance of the 
 common perversion of the word, abuse. 
 Mr. Walpole, in his pretended, and puri- 
 tanical vindication of his conduct to 
 Chatterton, reminds me of one of the gods 
 of the Egyptians, which weeps while it. 
 destroys. After the death of our young 
 poet, he collected some of his papers, 
 which tended to injure, and shade his me- 
 mory; and he printed them at Strawberry-
 
 157 
 
 hill; whence had often issued incongru- 
 ous, flimsy, and languid productions. 
 He imagined that to bring odium on the 
 character of Chatterton was to support 
 his own. A man must tremble for the 
 strength of his cause, who can stoop to 
 such detestable, yet impotent, modes of 
 defence. In his account of Chatterton, 
 he gives us a list of those pieces; their sub- 
 jects; and his manner of treating them. 
 One of them is addressed to Charles Jen- 
 kinson, Esq. " This (says Mr. Walpole) 
 " is an abusive letter, signed Decimus." 
 Another is a letter to Lord Mansfield. 
 This he pronounces " a very abusive let- 
 " ter." I have not seen either of the let- 
 ters; nor do I wish to see them, any far- 
 ther than as they were written by Chat- 
 terton. But I can easily conceive that 
 letters to Charles Jenkinson, and to the 
 late Lord Mansfield, might have been very 
 severe, without being abusive; if we use 
 impartial, and proper language 
 
 I shall now give an example of real 
 abuse; in the form of totally unmerited 
 praise. Mr. Walpole's apology for his 
 treatment of Chatterton was published in 
 the year 1782, in four Gentleman's Maga-
 
 158 
 
 zines. The editor of that Magazine in- 
 troduces the different parts of the apology, 
 by bestowing on its authour very eminent 
 literary titles; he invites our attention to 
 this elegant, masterly, admirable writer. 
 All the writings of the late Lord Orford, 
 both in verse, and prose, unless our men- 
 tal sight is so despicably weak as not to 
 be able to view them without the mere- 
 tricious, and imaginary gloss which his 
 situation in life threw over them, are be- 
 low mediocrity. But whenever he makes 
 Chatterton his unfortunate subject, he 
 sinks beneath himself. All, then, is 
 weakness, confusion, insipidity, and bar- 
 barism of style; self-contradiction; alter- 
 nate pity, praise, and crimination. The 
 reproofs of conscience, and the apprehen- 
 sion of publick discredit, relax the nerves 
 which were feeble, by nature. The timi- 
 dity of the heart depresses the weakness 
 of the head. 
 
 If my definition of abuse is just (and I 
 think that it cannot easily be exploded) 
 the terms, profligate, abandoned, forger, 
 and impostor; terms which convey the 
 most detested ideas ; are, in my humble 
 opinion, as they have been applied to
 
 159 
 
 Chatterton, most criminal, and barbarous 
 abuse; as I hope, hereafter, to prove. 
 They have been applied to him by the 
 editors of his works, both of the clergy, 
 and of the laity; by cautious, and plausi- 
 ble men; who have, therefore, passed a 
 moral muster in life, with decency, and 
 decorum. With an anxious, and servile 
 reverence, they have been tender of the 
 great; but they have given friendless, and 
 deserted indigence no quarter: its inde- 
 fatigable application ; its unparalleled ge- 
 nius; its ardour for poetical glory; its 
 generous, and noble virtues, which began 
 to blow; all these powerful advocates 
 could not atone for its failings ; could not 
 save it from their preposterous, and in- 
 quisitorial condemnation. Rigidly to re- 
 quire from an unexperienced boy; 
 rigidly to require from astonishing, but 
 immature talents, which must necessarily 
 be strongly fermented by passion, and 
 imagination ; rigidly to require from this 
 prodigy, the attentive, and comprehen- 
 sive judgement, and consequently the 
 mature, and accurate virtue of the man, 
 is an instance of tyranny, in the ethical
 
 160 
 
 chair, in which absurdity, and barbarity? 
 contend for the predominance. 
 
 Mr. Bryant, too, often abuses our juve- 
 nile, but great poet, agreeably to my sim- 
 ple, but sure criterion of abuse. Good 
 God! can the mild, the prudent, the pious 
 Mr. Bryant be guilty of, abuse? He is, 
 according to my literary, and moral creed. 
 " Puerile ignorance;" " the unlettered 
 " boy;"" the boy of Bristol;"" the 
 "young man of Bristol:" " the blun- 
 " ders of the ignorant boy, who was con- 
 " tinually hunting in Kersey's Dictionary, 
 "in a most servile manner;" all this is 
 ..he superciliousness, and pride; or, in 
 other words, the abuse; the ungenerous, 
 and arrogant misapplication of language; 
 of the low, conceited pedant, and antiqua- 
 rian ; of the despiser of a being of an order 
 superiour to his own; of the despiser of 
 one of the most admirable works of 
 God! 
 
 I have observed that honest, and severe 
 truths, when they are published against 
 the highly fortunate; however strongly 
 the publication of them may be warranted 
 by justice, are generally termed abuse.
 
 161 
 
 
 
 Consistently with this Turkish despotism 
 in the intellectual regions of a free state ; 
 if an illiberal authour insults a poor, and 
 unprotected person, on whom perhaps his 
 Maker hath bestowed the most splendid 
 endowments, with very harsh, and unde- 
 served language; a literary Sultan; and 
 his Janizaries, and Muftis, see nothing 
 gross; nothing indelicate, in this treat- 
 ment; though it is the obloquy of an un- 
 feeling heart ; the very extremity of abuse. 
 I am sorry that it is in my power to de^ 
 monstrate this moral proposition by the 
 history of Chatterton. No favourite per- 
 suit seems more effectually to deaden all 
 that is generous, and godlike, in the hu- 
 man mind, than that of a verbal critick, 
 and minute antiqusfrian. I should have 
 said that minds formed in the lowest scale 
 of nature, can alone be engrossed by such 
 ignoble and childish persuits. These men 
 sit down to dispute on the origin of the 
 poems of the imagined Rowley. On the 
 one side we have to encounter the most 
 monstrous, and disgusting chimeras, ob- 
 truded on us by the most absurd, and 
 extravagant demands; and often war- 
 ranted by no better authority than that of 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 162 
 
 duplicity, and bad faith. On the other, 
 we meet a series of just arguments, and 
 fair examples ; the cold, and hard accu- 
 racy of reasoning, and detail ; which make 
 some atonement for a want of animation, 
 and sentiment ; and even of that angelick 
 humanity, which it is supposed that lite- 
 rature particularly improves. These gen- 
 tlemen have been very ungrateful to a 
 great, but unfortunate hero, by whom 
 Rowley was created; for he opened to 
 them a new, and large field, for their ad- 
 mired sports; he instituted their Olym- 
 pick games. They are often obliged to 
 mention their benefactor; but they always 
 mention him with contempt, when we 
 consider his comparative, and unrivalled 
 excellence ; they are always careful to 
 sink his virtues, and to aggravate his 
 faults : on tjiis article of war (if we trace 
 it to its source, I wish that we may not 
 find it a law of nations) the combatants 
 on either side are perfectly agreed, through 
 their whole contest; they adhere to it, 
 with a ruthless, and inexorable precision. 
 These critical Machiavellis, in one of their 
 characteristic^, adopted this exterminat- 
 ing spirit of the Florentine; "partly from
 
 163 
 
 the hardness of their nature; and partly 
 from a temporary, but unsubstantial 
 policy. They sacrificed a demi-god to a 
 common mortal; they could not have 
 done justice to the greatness of the one; 
 they could not have embalmed his memo- 
 ry with an honest commiseration; without 
 exposing the littleness of the other. For 
 though perhaps their hearts never burned 
 within them, like those of the travellers 
 to Emmaus; I am confident that they 
 would have shown some christian warmth, 
 in favour of Chatterton : if they had not 
 been intimidated, and congealed, by the 
 frozen, and evil genius of Walpole: to 
 him they hold an invariable strain of 
 deference, respect, and adulation, which 
 discredits them extremely. For it will 
 not be difficult to prove his insensibility 
 to talents, which he himself calls miracu- 
 lous, when their possessour, naturally 
 solicitous to emerge from indigence, and 
 oppression, requested of him that assist- 
 ance which might easily have been grant- 
 ed; an insensibility, which, in spite of 
 many miserable subterfuges, and pallia- 
 tions, argues a far worse disposition than 
 any act in the short-lived, and unesta- 
 
 m2
 
 164 
 
 blished conduct of our illustrious youth. 
 This partial, and servile homage com- 
 pletely discredits these men, when we 
 recollect the invidious, and opprobrious 
 epithets, and appellations, with which 
 they insult his memory. To all those 
 who are, I will not say what Christians, 
 but what mere men ought to be, he al- 
 ways iv as, and always will be, an object 
 of tenderness, compassion, and admira- 
 tion. These inquisitors, and unmerciful 
 censors, have, in their treatment of Chat- 
 terton, been guilty of the very quintes- 
 sence of abuse; of a refinement on its 
 barbarity. They who do not like this ar- 
 dour, which is fair, nay commendable, I 
 hope, may, if they please, term it mere 
 declamation : but what my zeal has now 
 asserted, I trust that my reasoning will, 
 hereafter, prove. All this rude irreve- 
 rence to the manes of Chatterton hath 
 been received with distinct approbation, 
 or with timid acquiescence. The rude- 
 ness was shown to himself, and to his 
 works, by discreet, and guarded men: 
 they were perfect masters in the game of 
 life; they knew where they might insult 
 with safety; and where their incense would
 
 165 
 
 meet its reward; vanity delighting va- 
 nity; and little pride remunerating with 
 its toys more diminutive servility. Dis- 
 cretion is a most useful companion 
 through life; without any labour; without 
 any danger, we obtain the Lilliputian 
 guide: it is true, she is a pigmy being; 
 but she has a power of prodigious energy; 
 she redeems dullness, absurdity, vices, and 
 crimes. Nay, the little urchin, amongst 
 her other stupendous tricks of magick, 
 sometimes steals upon us, in the form, 
 and panoply of Minerva; in the shade, 
 and the semblance of heroick virtue. 
 
 If rough language is abuse, in propor- 
 tion to the importance of the person to 
 whom it it is applied, according to the 
 prevailing, but inconclusive logick of the 
 world; I shall endeavour to correct, and 
 invigorate that logick, by directing its 
 predicate, not to fictitious, external, and 
 social; but to real, inherent, and inde- 
 privable personal excellence. If it was 
 insufferable presumption from a poor boy 
 of a generous nature, to acquaint Mr. 
 Walpole, with a becoming spirit, that he 
 was properly sensible of his arrogant, and 
 contemptuous neglect of him ; with what 
 
 m3
 
 166 
 
 censure severe enough shall we condemn 
 the ungrounded calumny; the inhuman 
 reproaches, that were thrown on a being 
 infinitely superiour to Walpole^-on Chat- 
 terton himself? For what is Pomfret, 
 when we think of Homer? what is the 
 amusing gleam of the earth-born glow- 
 worm, compared with the enrapturing 
 rays that descend from Heaven, and from 
 Apollo ? Permit me to remind those who 
 may not be altogether pleased with my 
 art of emblazoning, that my office of he- 
 raldry contains armorial bearings which 
 are far more ancient, more noble, and 
 venerable, than those of the Brunswicks, 
 and Bourbons; they sprung, and their 
 degrees were marshalled, in the council 
 of the skies; and they were sent down 
 to earth, by God, at the time of the 
 creation. 
 
 How dreadfully oppressive appears the 
 fate of the poor; when it is not softened, 
 and informed, by the spirit of humanity ! 
 No respite is given to their bodies; no in- 
 dulgence to their minds ! In them, even 
 indications of those qualities which de- 
 mand our love, and our esteem, are fre- 
 quently construecl into crimes, When
 
 16/ 
 
 Mr. Walpole, with an unfeeling, and un- 
 pardonable rudeness, had delayed for six 
 weeks, the return of the specimens of poe- 
 try that Chatterton had sent to him, the 
 youth, with a fair, and manly sensibility, 
 told him, in a letter, " that he would not 
 " have so long neglected him, if he had 
 " not been poor, and friendless." To the 
 truth of this assertion, every one who is 
 at all acquainted with human nature will 
 immediately assent. And the assertion 
 was the glowing blossom of a noble pride j 
 of an independent spirit, without which 
 there is no virtue. The courtly gentle- 
 man, who saw nothing but poverty on one 
 side, and rank (though it was most igno- 
 miniously inherited) on the other, ob- 
 served, in the usual style of such men, on 
 such occasions, that the letter which con- 
 tained that ingenuous remonstrance, 
 " was singularly impertinent." If there 
 is an inexpressibly elegant, and fine lux- 
 ury, in indulging the humane, and pa- 
 thetick emotions, it is better to have been 
 trained in the school of the Carthaginian 
 queen, than at Houghton, or in Berkley- 
 square. The obnoxious expression of my 
 hero (whom, in spite of priests, I hope to 
 
 m4
 
 168 
 
 canonize in the calendar of Parnassus) 
 would have been accepted by a soul con- 
 genial with his own, as an omen, as an 
 oracle of future greatness : he would have 
 invited him to town; he would have 
 clasped him to his heart. But the man 
 whom Chatterton addressed, as a patron 
 of literature, resembled the portentous 
 victim that was sacrificed before the death 
 of Caesar he had no heart, 
 
 I may be told, not by any of my audi- 
 ence, but by some Partridge of a Fielding; 
 " De mortuis nil nisi bonum." It is a 
 monkish, doating adage. It is worne to 
 tatters by your phlegmatick, and demure 
 scribblers: even Mr. Tyrwhitt adopts it, 
 when he tenderly and delicately, mentions 
 one of our English Dutch commentators, 
 who had signed himself Anonymous; and 
 who had presumed to sit in judgement on 
 the old poetry of Chatterton. This gen- 
 tleman is actually flat ter, and more absurd 
 than Mr. Bryant, and Dean Milles. There 
 is in antiquarians, an esprit de corps, re- 
 sembling that of churchmen; their com- 
 petitors in gravity, and gravitation. Mr. 
 Tyrwhitt is too conscientious, and civil- 
 ized, to utter a syllable against Mr. Bryant,
 
 169 
 
 (even where he must have seen that he 
 was both weak, and disingenuous) or 
 against the departed Anonymous: but on 
 every occasion, he speaks most unchari- 
 tably, and unfeelingly, of the departed 
 Chatterton. To the de mortuis nil nisi 
 verum I cheerfully subscribe ; to this rule, 
 with my best information, and judge- 
 ment, I shall always be religiously atten- 
 tive. But let conspicuous merit, let noto- 
 rious guilt, be characterized by posterity, 
 as they deserve. I shall never hesitate to 
 arraign the avarice, hypocrisy, and obdu- 
 racy ; while it shall be my heartfelt plea- 
 sure, to commemorate the open, and 
 generous disposition, and the benevolence 
 of the dead. When a king of old Egypt 
 died, it was the civil office of a publick 
 speaker, to pronounce a funeral oration 
 over his body, before it was conveyed 
 across the Nile, to its place of interment. 
 (Hence arose the classical Styx, and Cha- 
 ron ; and Tartarus ; and the Elysian fields.) 
 It was the peculiar duty of this orator, to 
 give a faithful, and striking picture of the 
 departed monarch; to consecrate his vir- 
 tues, or to execrate his crimes : thus the 
 succeeding prince was most powerfully
 
 170 
 
 deterred from vice, and stimulated to vir- 
 tue. With the same disinterestedness am 
 I now speaking; with the same ardour 
 for the publick good. Nor let me be pro- 
 fanely ridiculed for the inferiority of my 
 subject: the productions of great poets 
 have a national influence, as well as the 
 conduct of great kings. This truth seems 
 no* to have made its proper impression in 
 England, by the conduct of our cold, 
 prosalck statesmen. It is my wish, as it 
 is my effort, to warn, and intimidate fil- 
 ature Walpoles, if a future Chatterton 
 should arise; to make those prudent, 
 from fear, who may be ungenerous, by 
 nature; and to prepare some distinguished 
 individual, of an elegant soul, and of a 
 publick spirit, or some wise, and good 
 government, jealous, and enthusiastick 
 for the glory of all its fine arts, to turn, 
 with the sentiments of adoration, toward 
 the east of their literary republick; when- 
 ever such a rising sun. of poetry shall 
 illumine its horizon. 
 
 Whatever other invidious charges have 
 been brought against me by dullness, and 
 malevolence, I believe that they have 
 never accused me of cowardice, as an au-
 
 171 
 
 thour. I wish that Mr. Walpole was yet 
 alive, for very different reasons. I wish 
 that he, and some celebrated persons were 
 now amongst us, who have payed the last 
 debt to Nature; that I might have been 
 subject to a full refutation, if I deserved 
 it; and that I might have had the honour 
 to plead before a larger tribunal of true 
 critical acumen; which is always dipped 
 in the balm of liberality. I am erecting 
 a beacon near the rock on which the poe- 
 tical first-rate of Chatterton bulged, only 
 from publick views ; therefore I hope that 
 I deserve not resentment, and malignity; 
 but that I am rather, in some degree, en- 
 titled to good will, and approbation. 
 When I shall have left this world, myself, 
 in the name of humanity, and religion, 
 let not my ashes be wantonly, and cruelly 
 insulted; but let my faults be honestly 
 recorded; not by the ignorance, and in- 
 sensibility of some slave of the press ; but 
 by the distinguishing mind, and good in- 
 tentions of a moral, and virtuous censor; 
 in his pages, they may be useful to the 
 conduct of the rising generation. If I 
 have not dwelt too long on an unimpor- 
 tant subject, permit me to add, that per-
 
 172 
 
 haps I may live. to execute this instruct- 
 ive task with my own hand : if I perform 
 it, I publicly promise beforehand, that I 
 shall be more direct, and ingenuous, 
 against myself than the good future bio- 
 grapher would be, whom I have had in 
 my eye. I shall provide a fund of conso- 
 lation, and satisfaction, for my last years, 
 in the soothing consciousness that I shall 
 make some amends to mankind, by my 
 posthumous services, for the little good 
 which I did, while I lived. 
 
 If I seem too particular; if I am even 
 too diffuse, your penetration, as well as 
 your goodness, will excuse me. My main 
 subject (I mean, the history of Chatter- 
 ton) is rare; and it is as uncommonly in- 
 teresting: it is composed of extraordi- 
 nary, complicated, and exemplary instan- 
 ces of every manly sentiment; and of a 
 glorious, but mistaken determination, 
 from an excess of that sentiment, to die. 
 I know that you will pardon some singu- 
 larity in this address; the occasion is sin- 
 gular; I hope that it never will again 
 occurr, in the moral, social, and literary 
 world. 
 
 Nor have I, without reason, very amply
 
 173 
 
 treated the subject of abuse. If we con- 
 sider the term deliberately, and what it 
 properly, and completely implies; if we 
 mark its various degrees, and discrimina- 
 tions; we shall avoid many errours; and 
 we shall be instructed by many truths; 
 which, without this useful scrutiny, would 
 be inaccessible to our minds: they will 
 not be checked by the superciliousness of 
 the rich ; nor by that contempt, and op- 
 pression, which repell the warrantable 
 freedom of the poor. It hath still been 
 my wish to make these Lectures of Criti* 
 cism as extensively useful as I could; to 
 dignify them with a moral strain. This 
 deviation, I hope, is not culpably, is not 
 impertinently digressive. 
 
 I have been told that nothing more can 
 be said on the subject of Chatter ton than 
 what has already been presented to the 
 publick. To .the philological, and anti- 
 quarian toils, and efforts; to the weak, 
 and ridiculous conjectures, and visions of 
 the pedant; to the series of just, and de- 
 cisive, but inanimate, and frigid criti- 
 cism; to the undistinguishing stupidity, 
 which, yet presumed to exhibit faults, and 
 beauties; to the cowardly silence, and yet
 
 174 
 
 more cowardly adulation; to the das- 
 tardly, yet insolent vindications, which 
 have originated from his history, and fate; 
 no additions can be made. The fair field 
 of judicious, liberal, and animated criti- 
 cism on his works; of an open, gene- 
 rous, and pathetick interest in his des- 
 tiny; of an independent, and explicit 
 censure, contempt, and detestation of un- 
 feeling parasites; of a refutation, or ra- 
 ther an exposure, of a timorous, feeble, 
 and hypocritical self-defence; this fer- 
 tile, and luxuriant field has been, hitherto, 
 unoccupied; at least, it has not been re- 
 gularly, and thoroughly engaged; I wish 
 that it had been destined to the abilities 
 which it merits; but justice will not yet 
 be done to Chatterton; for it has been 
 reserved for me. 
 
 It is an impossibility for me, and I do 
 not regret the impossibility, whatever un- 
 popularity it has, or may cost me, to write 
 on any interesting subject, without inde- 
 pendence of mind, and what I think fair 
 freedom. That freedom, of all the lite- 
 rary objects which ever engaged my at- 
 tention, the present eulogy demanded. 
 The spirit of departed genius seemed to
 
 175 
 
 demand it of me. If several persons who 
 are highly favoured with publick esteem, 
 have applied the severest language to 
 Chatterton, with injustice, and inhu- 
 manity; I, surely, have a right to reta- 
 liate a severity of language on them, in 
 the cause of justice, and Awmanity. Nor 
 should I have mentioned them with any 
 disagreeable expressions, if they had not 
 shown dispositions which I abhorr; a 
 sordid idolatry to Fortune; a hard, unre- 
 lenting nature; and the most contemptu- 
 ous, and vilifying aspersions, when the 
 essence, and the circumstances of their 
 theme emphatically called for the reverse. 
 I look up to all that was truly magnani- 
 mous in the character of Caesar, with 
 humility; yet, I thank God, I can forget 
 my private wrongs as soon as he forgot 
 them; unless I am menaced with the 
 truncheon of some mock-Pompey: but 
 when cruel, and atrocious injuries are 
 done to those who have been singularly 
 great, and singularly unfortunate; and 
 who are dead, and cannot resist their op- 
 pressours; those injuries I love to re- 
 member; and openly to resent; and if I 
 can, with some effect. There is a class of
 
 176 
 
 beings who will certainly murmur; but 
 conscience acquits me; acquits me, did 
 I say ? She rewards me ; 
 
 I know it virtue; and I feel it fame; 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 Permit me still to make some general 
 observations ; before I enter on our criti- 
 cal disquisitions. They shall* not be desul- 
 tory, and vague ; they shall be connected 
 with the principal objects, to which I hope 
 to be honoured with your attention. Al- 
 most all evil has its good; by the unerring 
 temperature of the Divine economy; 
 otherwise, in His works, there would be 
 some destructive jarring, and collision. 
 This observation is not only applicable to 
 the physical, and moral, but likewise to 
 the literary world. The " new meanders 
 " of ductile dulness" may suggest the duc- 
 tility of better sentiments, and observa- 
 tions; the conceit, and trifles of the pe- 
 dant, and antiquary, may excite a con- 
 trasted strain of liberal, and useful 
 writing: the rigorous fate of indigent, 
 and unprotected authours, sometimes 
 overwhelms them; but sometimes it hap- 
 pily stimulates them ; it makes them the
 
 177 
 
 more ambitious to rise above poverty, and 
 envy; it calls their attention from the 
 pageantry, and frippery of life, to a con- 
 templation of truly beautiful, and sub- 
 lime objects: it gives a collected dignity; 
 an intellectual, and moral majesty to the 
 mind; and instead of weakening the 
 spring of its exertions, it invigorates its 
 elasticity. The same hard fate may sug- 
 gest observations,' and resources, to a 
 friend of genius, and of mankind, which 
 would remove, which would abolish that 
 fate; and they should be accepted; they 
 should be improved, and matured into 
 execution, by those who have unlimited 
 power to relieve distress, and to reward 
 merit. 
 
 England has been highly, and justly 
 celebrated, for learning, and for genius. 
 It excells modern Europe in all, and an- 
 cient Europe, in many kinds of compo- 
 sition. It has produced statesmen, too, 
 it has produced ministers of state, who 
 were as elevated by Nature, as by For- 
 tune, and station ; who were as victorious 
 with the powers of the mind; with the 
 force of eloquence, as they were with their 
 fleets, and armies. Such men must have 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 178 
 
 enjoyed the eloquence of a great authour, 
 in prose; or his more captivating charms, 
 in poetry. Their minds, too, at once ex- 
 panding, and comprehending, must have 
 been sensible that such authours were 
 great benefactors to their country; that 
 they prepared for it its noblest entertain- 
 ment; that they adorned it, not only with 
 the surface, but with the substance of ele- 
 gance; that they breathed into it the 
 celestial spirit of humanity; that they 
 cherished, and augmented all its virtues; 
 and consequently, its happiness. I am 
 truly concerned to compare these minis- 
 ters with such a wretch as Charles the Se- 
 cond. They enjoyed " the feast of rea- 
 " son, and the flow of soul;" indifferent, 
 like him, to the woes, and mortifications ; 
 indifferent to the wants of those from 
 whose mighty magick they received the 
 banquet. Is it not surprising; is it not 
 unaccountable, that in this country, and 
 with these governours, some civil institu- 
 tion has not been formed, to watch, and 
 observe the fair blow of genuine talents; 
 j:o foster them with the genial warmth, 
 and sunshine of paternal care, and en- 
 couragement; and to protect them from
 
 179 
 
 the frost of selfishness, and from the 
 blight of despair? It is not compatible 
 with my present plan, particularly to con- 
 struct a rational, obvious, and easy pro- 
 ject; but every unprejudiced, and sensible 
 person will allow that nothing can be 
 more practicable than its completion, and 
 execution. The wants of great genius r if 
 it is at all regulated by virtue, are easily 
 supplied; it is rich, and splendid, in 
 learning; in ideas; in imagery; in ambi- 
 tion, and in glory. The society which I 
 propose, might be established under the 
 auspices, and support of Government; 
 at a comparatively imperceptible part of 
 the vast expenditure which is lavished on 
 the great officers of state, when they are 
 dismissed, or when they resign; who 
 were largely recompensed for their pub- 
 lick services, while they held their re- 
 spective departments ; and who have often 
 cancelled all their publick services by the 
 grossest political blunders ; and by trea- 
 chery, and peculation. 
 
 Most of our illustrious writers have 
 emerged from obscurity, by their mental 
 force; and most of them have been poor, 
 and indigent; or, at least, all their lives, 
 
 N2
 
 180 
 
 in very narrow circumstances. At no 
 period of the history of a great commu* 
 nity, will transcendent merit alone be a 
 man's effectual friend; he must learn the 
 gradual, and painful art of conciliating 
 the fashionable, and the powerful to his 
 interest ; he must stoop to a kind of squa- 
 lid chymical process; he must be incor- 
 porated with heterogeneous bodies; he 
 must be amalgamated with gold, to com- 
 mand bis fortune. There is a spirit in 
 true genius which may counteract itself; 
 its very lustre may send it into dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Thus it is easy to see what has often 
 been the case; that fine talents may be at 
 the mercy of booksellers. Important 
 truth is much dearer to me than these 
 traders. But I by no means intend par- 
 ticularly to criminate, or reproach them. 
 They are men; and as interest is habitu- 
 ally their ruling object, they will persue 
 it, with very little, or no tenderness for 
 the rights, or for the distress of others. 
 They will keep a hawk's eye on the poor, 
 and industrious, but bright, and culti- 
 vated mind. Like their brethren of iron 
 memory, they will kindly invite an un-
 
 181 
 
 experienced, and ardent Chatterton, from 
 his unfeeling Bristol, to a more unfeeling 
 metropolis ; they will hold forth to him 
 honours, and generosity. He comes; he 
 is caught in their fangs; his poverty, and 
 his want of friends excite not the domes- 
 tick, and convivial exhilaration; they 
 suggest not the pecuniary liberality; they 
 only dictate the harder bargain. The 
 idea of his unexampled talents (for the 
 owls feel some glimmering of that hea- 
 venly light) instead of softening their 
 hearts, cases them with harder steel. 
 With the true spirit of avarice, and rapa- 
 city, they are now determined to have as 
 much as is possible, for as little as is pos- 
 sible; agreeably to a maxim of their bre- 
 thren of the Synagogue. All the rest of 
 this nefarious oppression is unrelenting 
 barbarity, on the side of trade; on that of 
 sensibility, and delicacy, it is horrour, and 
 despair. 
 
 After this faithful account of the treat- 
 ment which a poor, and friendless authour 
 must always expect, what shall we say to 
 the following remark of Mr. Bryant; 
 " His bad success in his last stage of life 
 " shows that he did not answer the ex- 
 
 n3
 
 182 
 
 " pectations of those who employed 
 " him*." What sentence is equal to this 
 impious and inhuman indignity? With 
 what severity of censure shall we stigma- 
 tize it as it deserves ? What expansion of 
 charity can make it an object of its allevi- 
 ation ? To reason against it would be to 
 profane reason. If it proceeded from ig- 
 norance of life, it was the ignorance of an 
 idiot; and though in his book, he often 
 approaches to that ignorance, the passage 
 which I have now quoted is the wretched 
 effort of a little scholastick pride, which 
 tumbles down every thing that stands in 
 its way; dashes, and flounders, per fas 
 atque nefas; while it persues the mon- 
 strous, and ridiculous phantom of a sick 
 man's dream. 
 
 But booksellers, and their emissaries 
 have, of late, been industrious to disse- 
 minate an extraordinary concession of 
 Dr. Johnson, in their favour; who, it 
 seems, in his latter, and in every sense, 
 weaker years, allowed that " booksellers 
 " were a very respectable body of men; 
 " and the best patrons of learning." Dr. 
 
 * Bryant's Observ. p. 491.
 
 183 
 
 Johnson was a great man ; but he had his 
 littleness, and his inconsistency; he fre- 
 quently spoke, and wrote, not from uni- 
 form, and well established principles; 
 but from the impressions of the moment. 
 He publickly disdained, and reprobated 
 an obligation which he afterwards in- 
 curred; and even a pension, when he had 
 long possessed it, unnecessarily seduced 
 him. The consciousness of his late, but 
 pleasing consequence; the consciousness 
 that he was now lord of those who used to 
 lord it over him, soothed his pride; and 
 their flattery disarmed him. He would 
 not have prostituted his praise of the libe- 
 rality of booksellers, when his forttfne, 
 and his just pretensions were at war with 
 each other; when he was in the parsi- 
 monious pay of booksellers; when he 
 wrote his London, and his Vanity of Hu- 
 man Wishes; his Life of Savage; his 
 Dictionary, and his Rambler; when he 
 was in the plenitude of his intellectual 
 powers; of his literary glory. 
 
 I have two anecdotes (among many 
 others) of this great man, which are very 
 pertinent to my present purpose. I was 
 mentioning to him some base treatment 
 
 N 4
 
 184 
 
 which I had received from one of those 
 men: " You need not, Stockdale," (said 
 he) " represent to me the case of an au- 
 " thour, and a bookseller: I have had 
 " long, and painful experience of them, 
 " and I know them thoroughly." My 
 second anecdote is truly interesting; and, 
 I think, pathetick. He had been much 
 indisposed, for some time, with a disorder 
 in his eyes. I visited him, when he was 
 recovering, on a Sunday-morning, at his 
 house, in Johnson's Court, Fleet-street. 
 When I expressed " my pleasure to find 
 " that his eyes were so much better;" he 
 told me that " he felt himself so well that 
 " he had intended to go abroad on that 
 " day; but that he could not think of any 
 " particular place to which he should go." 
 I replied, that " I should have imagined 
 *' that he never could have been at a loss 
 " for such an object." The tear stood in 
 his eye; and he said;" My dear Stock- 
 '* dale; I lived many years in London, 
 i( and had no place to go to" These are 
 accurately his words; and by the pathos 
 with which they were delivered, they are 
 engraven on my heart. But would this 
 have been the situation of Johnson in
 
 185 
 
 London, for many years, if booksellers 
 had been really " a very respectable class 
 " of men;" if they had been the liberal, 
 and protecting friends of distinguished 
 literary desert ? The reverse of this com- 
 pliment, empty, and ungrounded as it is, 
 and of injurious tendency; the reverse 
 of it is the truth. According to the stea- 
 dy, and undeviating views of commerce, 
 the treatment of booksellers to authours 
 is invariably modelled, and determined by 
 two considerations; the ability of the au- 
 thours to serve their interest; and their 
 support, or want of it, from private for- 
 tune, or from powerful connexions. If 
 these men could be actuated by pure gene- 
 rosity, would an Otway have died of fa- 
 mine; w T ould Dry den have, all his life, 
 been in embarrassment, and distress; 
 would he have dreaded the insolence of 
 the older Tonson; would Johnson him- 
 self have been oppressed with penury, 
 long after the maturity of his life ; would 
 his melancholy signature, Impransus, 
 have been necessary, when he was writing 
 to Cave, his friend, but his employer? 
 Would the exquisite feelings; would the 
 nobly aspiring soul of Chatterton have
 
 186 
 
 been stung, to despair? No: let the in- 
 genuous, and enterprizing, but unfriend- 
 ed young authour, beware of relying on 
 the plausibility of booksellers ; when they 
 initiate him into dangerous, and delusive 
 labour. Let him be guarded against 
 their selfishness, and little tyranny, by 
 Dr. Johnson's true character of them; 
 before he made his complaisant, and cor- 
 rupt recantation; and let his honest blunt- 
 ness expunge, and atone for his flattery. 
 Let us not forget the fate of his Dryden; 
 the mortifications which he suffered from 
 his Egyptian task-masters; let us not for- 
 get " the mercantile ruggedness of that 
 " race, to which the delicacy of the poet 
 " was sometimes exposed." 
 
 Dr. Gregory, whose mind could not see, 
 and feel the superlative excellence of his 
 hero; and who was, therefore, very ill 
 qualified to write his life, and to comment 
 on his works, in a paragraph too mean for 
 quotation, attempts, though with evident 
 hesitation, and consciousness of a bad 
 cause; and with feeble, and futile sophis- 
 try, to apologize for Mr. Walpole's neg- 
 lect of the poefrcal adventurer. He makes 
 the inattention of that honourable gen-
 
 187 
 
 tleman to Chatterton more excusable as 
 literature was not protected by the state. 
 This is the very reason that would have 
 determined a generous man who pos- 
 sessed a large fortune, and was animated 
 with an unaffected love of letters, to seize 
 an opportunity of befriending genius, 
 contending with difficulties; to seize an 
 opportunity of practically resenting the 
 stupid, and barbarous negligence of states- 
 men. Dr. Gregory, as a biographer, and 
 a critick, does not demand very serious, 
 and elaborate attention: in the prosecu- 
 tion, however, of my observations on this 
 memorable subject, I shall take some no- 
 tice of the new, and accommodating mo- 
 rality which he hath invented, in favour 
 of the great. 
 
 I shall now enter on the more imme- 
 diate objects of critical disquisition. And 
 I enter on them with some apprehension ; 
 lest I should unwarily be discredited by 
 that ignorance of interesting objects; by 
 that pedantry, self-conceit, and desertion 
 of common sense, by which criticks are 
 often ignominiously distinguished. It 
 will be my particular duty carefully to 
 avoid these unamiable, and despicable
 
 188 
 
 qualities; as I think that I have a right 
 freely to censure the persons who have 
 shown them in their writings; especially 
 when they are so insensible to their own 
 insignificance as to treat exalted merit 
 with ins.olence, and contempt. 
 
 A part of my critical attention I must 
 give to Mr. Bryant. That gentleman 
 drove through all the absurdities of the 
 supposition that the beautiful, and asto- 
 nishing fictions of Thomas Chatterton 
 were the productions of a real Thomas 
 Rowley. Surely I may be certain that no 
 credit is now given to those absurdities. 
 It will not, however, be unconnected with 
 my plan, nor unimportant to my audi- 
 ence, to take a view of the reveries; of the 
 weak sophistry; and indeed of the evi- 
 dently disingenuous representations of 
 Mr. Bryant. Such a view will show what 
 a disproportionate consequence, men, 
 who, perhaps, have been naturally mo- 
 dest, will take to themselves, from the 
 accidental, and unaccountable acquisition 
 of a considerable character in the repub- 
 lick of letters : it will show, in what a 
 profundity of sinking mere erudition lies, 
 when it is compared with the force, and
 
 189 
 
 manly direction of reason; with generous, 
 and noble sentiment; and with the full 
 display of these properties, by the powers 
 of original, and sublime genius. It will 
 teach us to spurn that authority which 
 has merely the superficial, and temporary 
 sanction of mode; not the infallible, and 
 eternal verdict of nature; it will contri- 
 bute to teach us an ardent, and practical 
 benevolence; it will prompt us, on every 
 fair occasion, to exert our utmost power 
 to rescue human excellence, of whatever 
 kind, from the load of misfortunes, and 
 obstructions, with which it may be de- 
 pressed ; and to redeem it into open, and 
 propitious day. By this view, we may be 
 warned against those prejudices which are 
 hostile to all momentous truth; we may 
 more deeply discern, and more justly va- 
 lue those objects which deserve the deli- 
 berate attention of the mind: and thus we 
 may improve in the knowledge of literary 
 elegance, and in the practice of exalted 
 virtue. 
 
 I shall always endeavour to write from 
 the honest impression with which my im- 
 mediate subject is fixed in my mind. I 
 had occasion, many years ago, to address
 
 190 
 
 Mr* Bryant, on a weak, and absurd con- 
 struction, which he had obtruded on the 
 first stanza of Mr. Pope's beautiful, and 
 sublime Universal Prayer. In my letter 
 to him, on that subject, I treated him with 
 the greatest respect. I gave him liberal 
 credit for the esteem in which he was held 
 by society, and I loved the book in which 
 the preposterous criticism was contained: 
 it was well written ; and in defence of the 
 Christian religion. In his observations 
 on the poems of his fancied Rowley, he 
 gave me a picture of himself extremely 
 different from that which was presented 
 in his former book. In those observa- 
 tions, he sunk extremely, as a writer; we 
 may account for this descent by the dis- 
 parity of his subjects. In his former 
 work he defended a rational, and substan- 
 tial; in his latter, he maintained a whim- 
 sical, and chimerical cause. Many parts 
 of this work, too, were necessarily dis- 
 gusting, and provoking, to a friend of in- 
 genuous learning, and of mankind. They 
 are marked with a pride in petty, scho- 
 lastick attainments; with hasty, and dog- 
 matical assertions, unsupported by lite- 
 rary judgement, and taste; and with a
 
 191 
 
 coldness, and inhumanity, (totally repug- 
 nant to the Christian faith of the authour) 
 to prodigious genius; under the severest 
 frowns of Fortune; and under the tragical 
 effects of its own despair. My mind, too, 
 was differently actuated, from the differ- 
 ent fate of the two poets. Pope's immor- 
 tality was founded upon a rock; it could 
 not be affected by a capricious quibble; 
 the dawn of Chatterton's fame yielded a 
 dubious light ; it was depressed by dark 
 clouds; like the rising life of the authour. 
 And Mr. Bryant was industrious to draw 
 over it an impenetrable, and eternal 
 shade. The fortune of Pope was as pros- 
 perous as can be hoped; that of Chatter- 
 ton, as horrible as can be feared. Hence 
 arose my gentle sentiments, in the one 
 case; and my ardent emotions, in the 
 other ; and if the fair exhibition of these 
 two contrasted poetical images are not 
 decisively eloquent, in my favour, it would 
 be superfluous to say more in my vin- 
 dication. 
 
 Before I more directly apply my obser- 
 vations to Mr. Bryant's critical theory; 
 and before I give my quotations from it, I
 
 192 
 
 shall beg leave to remind you of some 
 characteristicks of an antiquary. 
 
 An antiquarian is a being of a most 
 depraved appetite; he prefers the husks, 
 and the refuse, to the spirit, and the pith 
 of learning. This inordinate preference 
 originates from a nature which is at war 
 with elegance, taste, and imagination. 
 The more remote, and uncouth the ob- 
 jects of his researches are, the more ea- 
 gerly he investigates them; and the more 
 highly he prizes them when they are 
 found. It is his pride; it is his glory, to 
 know what none but himself knows ; and 
 what none but he, and his fraternity 
 would wish to know. He would have 
 more pleasure in recovering the dullest 
 old authour from Herculaneum, than in 
 hearing that another person had found all 
 the lost books of Livy. No celebrated 
 genius hath equalled the self-importance 
 of this little creature; who confounds the 
 successful drudgery that ascertains the 
 meaning of the most insignificant word 
 in the most uninteresting passage of a 
 great poet, with the composition of a Pa- 
 radise Lost. Emboldened by this infa-
 
 193 
 
 tuating self-importance, if the most 
 absurd crotchet strikes his childish fancy, 
 he violently persues it, in spite of the 
 most awful interdicts of the temple of 
 Apollo: enamoured of his little object, 
 which eludes, while it attracts him, he in- 
 discriminately, and precipitately persues 
 it over profane, and consecrated ground ; 
 inflexible to argument; sacrilegious to 
 fame. In his delirious fever, he breaks 
 through the monuments of elegant art; 
 he drives over the flowers, and laurels of 
 Parnassus; like his brother knight-errant, 
 in the ironical poem, while he persues 
 " the emperour of Morocco." To speak 
 in a more plain, and definitive language; 
 when he is determined to fabricate; or 
 forge his arbitrary, and wild conjectures 
 into facts, he rudely insults the most ele- 
 vated talents ; he shakes off the restric- 
 tions of honesty; and he hardens his heart 
 against the feelings of humanity. 
 
 This man must use terms like other 
 writers, though he is treating of objects 
 of which he has no just perception : there- 
 fore, when he is criticizing a poetical pas- 
 sage, he will tell you that it is beautiful, 
 or sublime, or below mediocrity, I must 
 
 VOL. II. o
 
 194 
 
 insist that he can have no just perception; 
 for he has no }ust feeling, of these poetical 
 qualities. How can he pretend to eluci- 
 date, and illustrate the master-strokes of 
 genius; the tenour of whose criticism is 
 cold, and verbal; who never wrote one 
 elegant, and animated period; and from 
 the languor, and confusion of whose com* 
 ments, we may certainly infer that he 
 neither felt, nor knew the hallowed 
 ground which he profaned ? How can he 
 presume to admire, and distinguish burn- 
 ing pages, who never caught a spark from 
 the fire of his authour? He may, indeed, 
 skim over the surface; he may scramble 
 among the vehicles of poetry; but he will 
 always be unacquainted with its soul, and 
 essence; as a late right honourable sena- 
 tor ivas with the idea of blushing, in the 
 opinion of Junius ; with which idea that 
 poignant writer asserts that he was no 
 more conversant than a man born blind 
 was with scarlet, or sky-blue. 
 
 And yet such men, with an air of supe- 
 riority; with an arrogant, and presump- 
 tuous disdain, have corrected, and repre- 
 hended celebrated poets, who with sensible, 
 and spirited notes had illustrated other
 
 195 
 
 poets, and who were worthy of their great 
 authours; as criticks, they were congenial 
 with a Longinus, a Dryden, and a Burke. 
 Those dull pedants had irreverently for- 
 gotten the well-known remark of " the 
 " great high-priest of all the nine," whom 
 I have now mentioned ; and who asserted 
 (and with justice, in complete propriety) 
 that " no man is fit to comment upon a 
 " poet but a poet." 
 
 I should be wanting in the respect 
 which I owe you; I should defeat my own 
 aim, if I oppressed you with Gothick eru- 
 dition; with verbal opium. Yet I shall 
 request your attention to some passages of 
 Mr. Bryant's book, on a subject which 
 was once so much controverted; but on 
 which I trust that now, there can be little 
 dispute. The book is entitled, " Obser- 
 " vations upon the Poems of Thomas 
 u Rowley, in which the authenticity of 
 " those poems is ascertained." The title 
 is characteristick of the performance; it 
 consists of hasty confidence, and false as- 
 sertion. Yet the specimens that I shall 
 give you from this work of labour, and 
 perplexity, will not be without their vise: 
 they will show you, among many other 
 
 o2
 
 196 
 
 instances, that particular men may be for- 
 tunate beyond their deserts, in the acqui- 
 sition both of literary, and moral fame : 
 to the mind they will be guards against 
 imposing appearances; they will prevent 
 it from being led into great errours, by 
 specious, but illegitimate authority. I 
 must present the features of one or two 
 more of the critical, and antiquarian tribe: 
 when I have taken my leave of these 
 disgusting objects; of this Tartarus of the 
 spirits of tormented words; I hope that 
 you will accompany me into the Elysian 
 Fields of Chatterton ; in which I have no 
 doubt that his vindicated, and beatified 
 soul enjoys eternal felicity. In the rep- 
 tile, man, we find a little envious, malig- 
 nant, and tyrannical being; industrious 
 to depress others that it may raise itself. 
 In the Deity we may behold, with grati- 
 tude, and pleasure ineffable, a being who 
 is as good, as he is wise, and great; a be- 
 ing, the divinely accurate, and complete 
 economy of whose justice, paternally pe- 
 netrating the whole constitution, and 
 frame of man, largely remunerates his 
 virtues; and tenderly allows for his faults. 
 Man, from his very narrow, and weak
 
 197 
 
 understanding, is a partial, and unchari- 
 table judge; from his very limited power, 
 he has a jealous, and despotick disposi- 
 tion : but the omnipotence as well as the 
 omniscience of God, make him a God of 
 the most expanded mercy. 
 
 It is the opinion, or rather the dogma 
 of Mr. Bryant, that the poems of his 
 Rowley were written in provincial dia- 
 lects; and particularly in the old Scotch 
 dialect. The latter fancy he attempts to 
 support by many references to Gawin 
 Douglas's translation of the JEneid. No- 
 thing can be more improbable, and absurd 
 than this hypothesis. It would, indeed, 
 be very convenient for all the rest of his 
 unsupported theory ; and if it was at all 
 favoured by any facts, or circumstances, 
 in the constant history of literature, it 
 might seem, but even then, only to super- 
 ficial observers, to lessen the incredibility 
 of that theory. How happily this hypo- 
 thesis accommodates Mr. Bryant, must 
 be evident to every one. It gives him the 
 range of provinces ; of kingdoms; which, 
 indeed, every wild-goose chace demands. 
 I have no doubt that the penetrating mind 
 of Chatterton foresaw what food he was 
 
 o3
 
 198 
 
 preparing for the coarse maw of rapacious 
 antiquarians; of the Bryants, and the 
 Milleses, of his time; and that he, very 
 fairly, amused himself with the idea. 
 Hence his unparalleled ingenuity, if we 
 consider his age, and his opportunities of 
 acquiring knowledge, in imitating our old 
 language; and in fabricating terms ex- 
 tremely like it; but of which they never 
 made a part. In favour of these gentle- 
 men, he raised a ghost, of the existence of 
 which it was the interest of their critical 
 superstition to support the belief. If the 
 real Chatterton is protected by common 
 sense, and taste, they give him no refuge ; 
 no quarter. They persue, and hunt him 
 down, with the fury of a Nimrod; if he 
 has recourse to the doubles of a hare, they 
 wind him; if he outruns the stretch of a 
 fox, they overtake him. They have qua- 
 lified themselves to hunt through coun- 
 ties, and through kingdoms : to-day they 
 are in Somersetshire: to-morrow, in 
 Yorkshire, and in Durham; and on the 
 day following, in the heart of Scotland. 
 In short, they drive " to Greenland, Zem- 
 " bla, or the Lord knows where." They 
 are determined to bury poor Chatterton
 
 199 
 
 in eternal oblivion. With a frantick, and 
 unrelenting chace, the archeological ne- 
 cromancers continually earth him, and 
 start their phantom in his stead. They 
 raise Archbishop Turgott, and Bishop 
 Douglas from the dead; and impress them 
 into the chace; these holy men, by the 
 force of diabolical magick, renounce their 
 integrity, and consecrate the spectre. 
 
 Many of the words in the poems of this 
 chimerical Rowley are used by Chaucer. 
 But Chaucer was conversant with our 
 great metropolis; he was politely, and 
 highly educated himself; and he had the 
 most intimate social connexions with per- 
 sons of the first rank, and education in 
 the kingdom. Is it possible that he could 
 have had so vitiated, and depraved a taste; 
 and so preposterous a judgement, as not 
 to have been carefully attentive, in his 
 writings, to the most legitimate, and ele- 
 gant language that was afforded by the 
 times ? Is it not still a grosser absurdity 
 to suppose that Rowley, a man of a mira- 
 culous mind, who anticipated the philo- 
 logical and poetical elegance, and har- 
 mony of three centuries after himself 
 {this may be asserted, often of his lan- 
 
 o4
 
 200 
 
 guage; almost always of his versification) 
 is it not still a grosser absurdity to sup- 
 pose that he would deign to adopt the 
 harshness, and vulgarity of provincial dia- 
 lects? I am now going to mention an 
 eminent man, whose example alone, if we 
 had not many others, is sufficient to ex- 
 plode the ostentatious critical doctrine of 
 Mr. Bryant, of the indispensable necessity 
 of a regular scholastick education, to 
 form, and to produce genius. It was very 
 natural for Mr. Robert Burns, (whose 
 death well deserved our grief;) with the 
 prejudices, and habits which had grown 
 up with him, in his native country; it 
 was very natural for Mm to incorporate 
 into several of his poetical productions, the 
 old words, and pronunciation, that were 
 commonly used in Scotland. I am far from 
 meaning to reproach his memory : in the 
 limited, and unworthy sphere in which he 
 had moved, those prejudices, and habits 
 were almost unavoidable; they were, 
 therefore, very excusable; nay, they might 
 be amiable ; in some instances, they indi- 
 cate a weak, and ungenerous mind; but 
 in others, they may be the concomitants 
 of a great soul; of a Robert Burns; riveted
 
 201 
 
 to the domestick, and tender affections ; 
 and ardent for the publick good. But to 
 return to the tenour of my argument 
 Mr. Pope was a prodigy in early genius; 
 and it grew, and matured, as he began; 
 in force of mind he equalled his father, 
 Dryden; in elegance, and poetical mu- 
 sick (the most delightful of all musick) 
 he far excelled him. In improving our 
 English poetry, he made a large, an asto- 
 nishing progress ; he marked it, he raised, 
 and beautified it, with a new, and promi- 
 nent aera. But the steps of Mr. Pope were 
 the steps of a child, in comparison with 
 the giant- steps of Mr. Bryant's Rowley; 
 he was an infant to him (if, indeed, this 
 fine monster had ever existed) in the pow- 
 ers which beautify, and aggrandize: yet 
 what can be more ridiculous nonsense 
 than to suppose that Pope would have 
 professedly written in the idiom of Gawin 
 Douglas, or of Robert Burns ? 
 
 I think that it must now be evident that 
 the absurdity of supposing that this ima- 
 ginary poet wrote in provincial dialects 
 can only be exceeded by the serious, and 
 elaborate belief in his existence. It is 
 certain that he would, least of all/writein
 
 202 
 
 the Scotch dialect; in the style, or idiom 
 of Gawin Douglas; which was not, pro- 
 perly, a provincial dialect; but the verna- 
 cular language, or rather the mode of 
 speaking an established language, that was 
 peculiar to a nation; to an independent 
 kingdom; which had been long governed 
 by its own laws, and customs, and by its 
 own monarch s. It was likewise divided 
 from England by strong, and violent na- 
 tional prejudices, and antipathies; which, 
 I hope that I may now, with truth, ob- 
 serve, have been mitigated, or annihilated, 
 by the lenient, but victorious hand of 
 Time. I have only revived the remem- 
 brance of these particulars, to show, that 
 it was impossible for an English poet, mi- 
 raculously informed, and elegant, of the 
 fifteenth century, to write in the idiom of 
 Scotland; if we rationally reflect on his 
 literature, taste, and local situation. 
 
 Spenser's pretended use of the Somer- 
 setshire dialect is of no service to the cause 
 of Mr. Bryant. In his Pastorals he affects 
 a rustick dialect; he adopts the real dia- 
 lect of no county. It is with regret that I 
 utter a word of censure against a great, 
 and venerable poet, of a powerful genius ;
 
 203 
 
 of a most exuberant imagination. But 
 his taste was not so good as his fancy was 
 glowing, and expansive. He wrote in a 
 style that was antiquated, even in the reign 
 of Elizabeth ; and even that style he tor- 
 tured with his own peculiar affectations : 
 hence Ben Jonson, that learned critick as 
 well as poet, boldly asserts that " he wrote 
 " no language." 
 
 It is well known that the Romans were 
 solicitously attentive (more than any other 
 people; perhaps more than the Greeks, 
 their boasted masters) to improve, and 
 polish their language : their literary was 
 as active as their warlike ambition; and 
 by its ardour, impelling the natural great- 
 ness, and magnificence of their minds, by 
 which they formed and executed all their 
 plans, in a manner unattained by other 
 nations; their language, at length, in 
 energy, and perfection, became the first 
 language in the world. Their poets, and 
 historians, availed themselves of the cap- 
 tivating powers which they inherited from 
 their ancestors; they were emulous to 
 write in the finest, and most impressive 
 classical purity, and elegance ; they were 
 the faithful depositaries of the intellectual
 
 204 
 
 as well as warlike honours of their coun- 
 try. They never deigned to write but in 
 the fixed, and most approved Roman lan- 
 guage: they scorned to disgrace the con- 
 flicts for liberty; the triumphs of the 
 capitol, with vulgar phraseology; with 
 provincial barbarity. 
 
 Nor do I think that the use of the vari- 
 ous dialects of ancient Greece, by her ce- 
 lebrated authou^s, gives any weight, in 
 the eye of reason, and sound judgement, 
 to Mr. Bryant's hypothesis of provincial 
 writing. Both Asiatick, and European 
 Greece, in their free, and best days; be- 
 fore ambition, and tyranny had destroyed 
 their liberty, and enervated their learning, 
 were divided, not into provinces, but into 
 independent states. The dialects of the 
 different states made a part of their esta- 
 blished, and polite language: in them, 
 therefore, their most liberal, and best 
 educated societies conversed; in them 
 their orators, poets, and historians wrote; 
 and dignified by these authorities, they 
 were adopted by elegant, and sublime 
 genius, over all Greece. Besides these 
 dialects, I doubt not that there was, I 
 will call it, if you please, a language of the
 
 205 
 
 vulgar, and lowest inhabitants of Greece; 
 for such an unwarranted, and rustick oral 
 intercourse hardly deserves the name of a 
 language. It was distinguished from the 
 genuine, and polished Greek of the re- 
 spective communities, rather by the abuses 
 of pronunciation than by absolutely dif- 
 ferent words. Analogous to this distinc- 
 tion are the vulgar habits of conversation, 
 in the civilized countries of modern times; 
 the various dialects of the counties of 
 England; of the shires of Scotland; of 
 the patois of France, and of Italy, essen- 
 tially correspond with this description. 
 To their proper company they were con- 
 fined; they were never admitted to mix 
 with the elevated strain of a polite, and 
 accomplished poet; except in the fancy of 
 a puerile critick; who was determined to 
 drag aside the heaviest impediments that 
 stood in the way of him, and the literary 
 toy of which he was enamoured. 
 
 The inferiour strength of my arguments 
 will be greatly corroborated by a quota- 
 tion from a note of Mr. Tyrwhitt, in the 
 vindication of his Appendix to his edition 
 of the Works of Chatterton. The criti- 
 cism is equally ingenious, perspicuous,
 
 u 
 
 66 6 
 
 206 
 
 and incontrovertible. " Spenser's pro- 
 " vincialities are evidently affected; and 
 " not deducible from any natural dialect. 
 " The translation of the iEneis by Gawin 
 " Douglas, is, indeed, as Mr. Bryant says, 
 " entirely provincial; but can he be seri- 
 " ous when he adds that * much of the 
 " * same language is to be found in the 
 " ' poems attributed to Rowley; and, 
 " ' therefore, that no book can be applied 
 " ' preferable to this, in order to authen- 
 ' ticate those poems; either in respect 
 to orthography, or style?' If this 
 " were so, one might be led to conclude, 
 " either that the dialects of Scotland, and 
 " Somersetshire, were very similar; or that 
 " Rowley resided, and was probably born 
 " in the former, rather than in the latter 
 " district: but without coming to any 
 " conclusion, at present, I would wish the 
 " reader to compare part of a stanza, 
 " which Mr. Bryant, in his 434th page, 
 " has quoted from Gawin Douglas, with 
 " an equal number of lines in Rowley; 
 " and judge himself, how the two writers 
 " agree in orthography, and style."- 
 Vindication: p. 5. note. 
 This gentleman, in a series of sensible,
 
 207 
 
 and decisive observations, has refuted, to 
 moral demonstration, the conceits of Mr. 
 Bryant, and of the Dean of Exeter; he 
 has evinced their weak, obstinate, and 
 disingenuous defence of an extravagant, 
 and ridiculous opinion. And thus he h#S 
 exempted me (for your generous expecta- 
 tions may be disappointed by my inabi- 
 lity, but not by my indolence) from the 
 toil of examining much thorny, and pain- 
 ful erudition; in which, I cheerfully own 
 that Mr. Tyrwhitt is my master, with an 
 infinite superiority. He is as rational, 
 and accurate, as the two gentlemen, his 
 opponents, are absurd, vague, and incon- 
 clusive. I sincerely regret that my ho- 
 nest praise must be succeeded by serious, 
 and warm expostulation. It is a tribute 
 which I owe to the manes of the great 
 departed; it is an act of justice which I 
 owe to myself. I wish that Mr. Tyrwhitt 
 had shown himself as impartial, generous, 
 and humane a man, as he is a just, and 
 acute critick. To little Anonymous, who 
 was the aide de camp to the two generals, 
 Bryant, and Milles; and who fell in the 
 battle, he shows a religious, a supersti- 
 tious tenderness; to him he applies the
 
 208 
 
 monastick dotage, De mortuis nil nisi bo- 
 num. If this idea, Mr. Tyrwhitt, ex- 
 tracted from your breast every sting of 
 censure against that insignificant crea- 
 ture; ought it not to have restrained you 
 from repeatedly heaping opprobrious, and 
 ignominious terms; I will venture to 
 say, ill-grounded calumnies, on the ashes 
 of Chatterton? Your excess of severity 
 to him, and of adulation to others, are 
 equally reprehensible. With what sin- 
 cerity could you tell us that " whatever 
 " came from Mr. Bryant was valuable;" 
 at the very time when you were oblig- 
 ing the publick by annihilating his critical 
 futility; by detecting his critical dupli- 
 city? Indeed, you present uniform, and 
 undistinguishingcomplaisance,and praise, 
 to him, and to Dr. Milles; though you 
 yourself have exposed (and you could not 
 do otherwise, when you seriously, and at- 
 tentively wrote against them) their errours; 
 their blunders; their gross absurdities; 
 and their literary dishonesty. Sir, if im- 
 posture was applicable to the youth, whom 
 I shall ever lament, it was applicable to 
 them; and from a worse disposition, as I 
 hope to prove, with regard to the effects of 
 the different impositions, the cri ticks are
 
 209 
 
 annihilated, in the comparison. Chatter- 
 ton, if you will, with the gloom of a Pha- 
 risee, call him an impostor, was an 
 impostor in light, and glory; in that 
 beauty which captivates the heart; in that 
 sublimity which exalts the soul; but those 
 gentlemen, at once your antagonists, and 
 friends, are impostors in little quirks, and 
 evasions; in serious, and deliberate false- 
 hoods; to gratify a petty passion ; in the 
 puny triumphs of dullness over murdered 
 words, and syllables ; triumphs, in which 
 dullness alone can delight. 
 
 One reason for Mr. Tyrvvhitt's gentle 
 treatment of Anonymous, was, that, in his 
 pamphlet, he had shown " much can- 
 u dour, and good manners." The image 
 r of the great, but poor, and distressed 
 Chatterton, called for more liberality 
 from the critick ; for more moral genero- 
 sity from the man; for he was a magna- 
 nimous being; so singularly magnani- 
 mous, that he praised Walpole, after he 
 had used him basely; and when he ex- 
 pected no favour from him. I am under 
 a necessity of explaining words of daily 
 occurrence, even to professedly verbal cri- 
 ticks. I have endeavoured to give the full 
 
 VOL. II. P
 
 210 
 
 signification of the word, abuse; let me 
 give you the complete import of the word, 
 candour. Candour, then, to interpret it 
 concisely, signifies not only a mildness, 
 and gentleness ; but likewise, an imparti- 
 ality; a plainness, and openness of dispo- 
 sition; a direct avowal, and defence of 
 truth, on every pressing occasion; con- 
 trouled only by the fear of God; and per- 
 fectly unembarrassed with any servile 
 fear, or convenient respect of man. This 
 definition is illustrated by the Latin foun- 
 tain of the English word ; for it signifies 
 clearness, and brightness; and it implies 
 a perfect transparency of our thoughts, 
 and words. 
 
 If then I have, on this, and on other 
 occasions, written with the utmost sin- 
 cerity, and frankness; when my subjects 
 demanded the exercise of these qualities ; 
 regardless of the fortune of my interest; 
 and of the frowns of power; and if I have 
 always exerted my humble, but ingenu- 
 ous abilities, with a particular warmth, 
 and intrepidity, when they were excited 
 by weakness, and distress, on one hand; 
 and by tyranny, and oppression, on the 
 other; -I shall be so far satisfied with my-
 
 211 
 
 self; I shall think that I have kept a firm 
 allegiance to true candour; and to the 
 best good manners; not to that candour, 
 and to those good manners, with which 
 deceitful criticks, with war in their hearts, 
 to gratify an unmanly pride, soothe, and 
 cajole one-another; not to that candour, 
 and to those good manners, which never 
 scruple to injure a helpless individual, 
 while they retain the smiles of a vain, and 
 powerful world; but to the candour, and 
 good manners, of a more aspiring spirit; 
 of a moral elevation; to the candour, and 
 good manners, which never praise, or 
 blame, but at the command of justice; 
 and which would, at any time, vindicate 
 the insulted merit, or plead for the neg- 
 lected woes, of one, at the risk of offend- 
 ing many. 
 
 Mr. Bryant takes an unbounded range 
 for his critical adventures : he gives a part 
 of the poems which are under the name 
 of his Rowley, to several authours, and 
 to very early times. He traces them even 
 to the twelfth century; to the reign of 
 Richard the First. Mr. Bryant is as ro- 
 m an tick a crusader in letters, as that 
 prince was in arms. The bait that was 
 
 p2
 
 212 
 
 caught by an appetite eager to devour im- 
 possibilities, was thrown out for it, by the 
 varied ingenuity, and by the inexhaustible 
 genius of Chatter ton. By our poetical 
 Proteus his forms were changed with ease; 
 and they were assimilated to nature. 
 Encumbered with the weight of his an- 
 tique dress, he sometimes threw it off, 
 that his cotemporaries might be more for- 
 cibly struck with his personal elegance; 
 with his polished graces. There is a great 
 disparity in the appearance of the old 
 English, in the poems which have been 
 attributed to Rowley. For example, in 
 the Bristowe Tragedie, or the Dethe of 
 Sir Charles Bawdin; a pathetick, and 
 beautiful poem of 392 lines, there are not 
 more than six words to which a mere 
 modern English reader will want a glos- 
 sary. 
 
 But I am persuaded that our youthful 
 bard, who was endowed with an equal 
 strength, and versatility of talents, was a 
 prophet as well as a poet. He not only 
 foresaw the entertainment which his poe- 
 try would give to polite scholars ; and the 
 admiration which it would receive from 
 them; but likewise the doubts; the dis-
 
 213 
 
 putes; the pretended discoveries; the in- 
 glorious victories which it would procure, 
 for more grave, and saturnine men; for 
 men of musty habits, and dark researches. 
 It was in his plan, to actuate sentiment, 
 and to charm imagination, in feeling, and 
 excursive minds; but he likewise meant 
 (and his intention had all its effects) to 
 stimulate dullness, and to enliven torpor; 
 to rouze, and to agitate the phlegm of the 
 antiquary. 
 
 The dissimilar verbal structure of these 
 poems suggested very useful inferences to 
 Mr. Bryant; it supplied him with aids 
 which were extremely favourable to his 
 irregular sallies, and bold invasions; it 
 gave him a diversity of persons ; a range of 
 countries; an expanse of ages; by this 
 fortunate source, he has auxiliaries ready 
 to support him, at a moment's notice 
 auxiliaries of terrifick powers, and of 
 awful names; the pious Turgott, Pierce 
 Ploughman; Robert of Gloucester; an 
 infinite number of poetical worthies, com- 
 pletely clad in old armour, are always 
 ready to take the field, under his mystick 
 banner. Of every height; of every depth, 
 in the regions of fancy, he has taken pos- 
 
 p3
 
 214 
 
 session; and thus he can form, and ex- 
 tend, as he pleases, his critical cordon of 
 posts, observation, and defence, in the 
 war of books " militant here on earth." 
 
 I have hitherto principally taken a ge- 
 neral view of Mr. Bryant's capacity, at- 
 tainments, and resources, as an antiqua- 
 rian: I shall now immediately address 
 him, as a verbal critick, or philologist. 
 
 He has given us two prolix, and tedious 
 octavo-volumes, in which he professes 
 minutely to criticize the words which are 
 only to be found in the poems of Chat- 
 terton ; or which he has applied to a par- 
 ticular sense. Yet it is remarkable that 
 he omits to take any notice of many of 
 those words. It is yet more remarkable 
 that on some of them he makes a few su- 
 perficial, cursory observations ; then drops 
 them; and tells us that he will investigate 
 them more deliberately hereafter. But 
 the promised investigations never appear; 
 our Alpheus sinks in Saxony; but he ap- 
 pears not again in Britain. Of his dis- 
 criminating acuteness I shall now give 
 you a specimen; or a sample; to use his 
 own favourite expression; to speak in his 
 Aldermanick style,
 
 215 
 
 The third Eclogue of Chatterton, or 
 Rowley, begins with these lines : 
 
 Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte ? 
 Goe, serche the logges, and bordels of the hynde. 
 
 " There is certainly a mistake" (says 
 Mr. Bryant) " in the second verse: for 
 " the plural logges is a dissyllable, and 
 " makes a fault in the rythm. Besides, 
 " in those times, an hind had but one 
 " lodge, or bordel; and he was perhaps 
 " well off to have that. Even now we 
 " never speak of the cottages of the shep- 
 " herd, nor of the huts of the labourer. 
 u The passage, therefore, for the sake of 
 " metre, and of sense, should be cor- 
 " rected; and the words rendered lodge, 
 " and bordel, in the singular: 
 
 Goe, serche the logge, and bordel of the hynde. 
 
 u 
 
 That is, go, look into the weather* 
 " boarded cottage of the peasant." 
 Bryant: p. 83. 
 
 The logges^ and the bordels, signify the 
 lodgings, and the cottages of the hind. 
 Aloggit signifies lodged, in Chaucer, In 
 
 p4
 
 216 
 
 examining this instance of sagacious, and 
 masterly criticism, I must first observe 
 that Chatterton undoubtedly meant that 
 we should pronounce the plural, logges, 
 as one syllable; and he understood the art, 
 as well as the spirit of verse, better than 
 Mr. Bryant, with all his rythm. He like- 
 wise commits a gross, and palpable er- 
 rour, in asserting that the addition of the 
 plural s, makes the word a dissyllable : to 
 make it one syllable, in the plural num- 
 ber; and consequently to pronounce it 
 loggs, is agreeable to the general analogy, 
 ancient as well as modern, of the use of 
 English words, of a similar structure, 
 and of a similar grammatical distinction. 
 In either analogy, the e, at the end of the 
 singular number, by no means co-operates 
 with the s, to make the plural a dissylla- 
 ble. As to the hynde, that expression, as 
 it is connected with the rest of the line, 
 has, as clearly, and obviously, a plural, 
 and collective signification, as the word 
 people, or commonwealth, or society ; or 
 any other words, which bring a plural, or 
 collective sense, more prominently, but 
 not more distinctly, to our view. If I 
 should say that we are apt to despise the
 
 217 
 
 poor man; would any person who had 
 passed the threshold of the august fabrick 
 of the English language, imagine, that I 
 meant any one particular poor man, and 
 not the poor, in general? Mr. Bryant says 
 that " even now, we never speak of the 
 " cottages of the shepherd, nor of the 
 " huts of the labourer." Surely we may 
 use these expressions with perfect pro- 
 priety: and whenever we may use them, 
 we shall speak better English than is 
 sometimes written by Mr. Bryant; whose 
 style is frequently coarse, and vulgar; 
 and I may venture to add, ungrammati- 
 cal. I should never have pressed him so 
 closely, if he had not disdainfully under- 
 valued the power of extraordinary talents 
 to form the great, and distinguished au- 
 thour. Of this often exemplified truth 
 he had an almost miraculously shining 
 proof before him; if, like an owl, he had 
 not shut his eyes against a flood of day. 
 I would never have pressed him so closely, 
 if he had not presumed to shoot his fret- 
 full quills of Latin, and Greek, against 
 the vigorous, and sublime pinion; against 
 the variegated, and celestial plumage, of 
 the Muse. Chatterton is, almost, on every
 
 218 
 
 occasion, treated by Mr. Bryant with a 
 superlative contempt. The true poetical 
 believers are often reminded of the igno- 
 rant, and illiterate boy of Bristol. And 
 he tells us that it was very easy for some 
 persons whom he mentions, and who must 
 have been very inadequate judges of rising 
 intellectual merit, to estimate the talents 
 of a poor charity -boy : as if poor mental 
 abilities necessarily resulted from a poor 
 station; as if Fortune could defeat the 
 eternal power of the Almighty; and 
 make a mind little, which he had 
 made to be great. The prose of Chat- 
 terton is far more elegant, and spirited 
 than that of his hard, and dry censor, by 
 whom it is despised; and who perempto- 
 rily insists that he had neither time, nor 
 opportunities, to acquire literary know- 
 ledge, or to form his taste by reading. 
 Before I answer this assertion, I shall 
 observe, that it is not in the power of Mr. 
 Bryant to produce an instance of Chat- 
 terton's ignorance of the common use of 
 the English language, so palpable, and 
 glaring, as that which he shows, in his 
 own remarks on " the logges, and bordels 
 " of the hynde." I shall now observe
 
 219 
 
 that genius is a fine, and a lofty object: 
 that it is beyond the sight of pur-blind 
 intellects ; and that it is of a most vivaci- 
 ously active; of a most energetically plas- 
 tick nature; and that it can do for itself 
 what schools, and colleges cannot do for 
 thousands. This is my text; Chatterton 
 is my comment. Conscious of his innate 
 powers (for they worked wonderfully in 
 him, almost from his cradle) and already 
 fired with a thirst for knowledge, and for 
 glory; when he was eight years old, he 
 expended the little pocket-money which 
 was allowed him by his mother, on read- 
 ing from a circulating library. At ten 
 years of age, he made a catalogue (which 
 has been unfortunately lost) of the books 
 which he had read; they amounted to 
 seventy. I doubt not that the choice of 
 those books was as judicious as the extent 
 of the reading was surprizing; when we 
 consider his circumstances, and situation. 
 From that period to the time of his death, 
 without ever encroaching on his obliga- 
 tions of business, he lost not a moment 
 that day, that night could afford him, in 
 prosecuting literary application, and ex- 
 ertion, with an Athenian spirit, and with
 
 220 
 
 a Lacedaemonian temperance. Mr. Bry- 
 ant repeatedly asserts that Chatterton's 
 access to books must have been very 
 limited. I do not see the force of this as- 
 sertion. Bristol is one of the largest, and 
 most opulent towns in England; and 
 though it is a commercial town, it un- 
 doubtedly has a great number of useful, 
 and excellent books ; of many of which 
 the assiduity, and ardour, and interesting 
 manner of Chatterton might easily ob- 
 tain the perusal. Many people will gra- 
 tify the reading, who will not relieve the 
 starving man. Therefore I am convinced 
 that our unfortunate youth was astonish- 
 ingly learned, for his years. I am not 
 speaking of the externals, I am speaking 
 of the essence of learning: I am speaking 
 of that instructive, rich, and various 
 knowledge (perhaps it is more advanta- 
 geously acquired from one language than 
 from many) which is the strengthening, 
 and salutary food of a vigorous, compre- 
 hensive, and elegant mind: a food which 
 becomes coalescent, and connatural with 
 the constitution of that mind; spontane- 
 ously, and genially blends with its opera- 
 tions; actuates, and impells its nerves;
 
 221 
 
 gives the mild, or the animated glow to 
 its colours; the soft, or the majestick air 
 to its graces. Yes; I am speaking of the 
 spirit, of the soul of learning; moderate, 
 indeed, is my comparative estimate of its 
 appendages, of its apparel; though it be 
 of the golden tissue of Greece, and Rome. 
 This best of learning grew up with Chat- 
 terton; the magnitude of his genius had 
 room to play in the extent of his informa- 
 tion. Shall I not endeavour to vindicate 
 the wrongs of such an injured being as 
 this? Shall I not justly return the terms 
 of reproach, and contempt, to infinitely 
 inferiour beings, who imjustly aspersed, 
 and presumed to despise him; who in- 
 sulted, and profaned his memory, with 
 uncharitable censures; with flaming ana- 
 themas? Forgive this digression : it arose, 
 I hope, not unnaturally, from the critical 
 objects by which it was suggested. I shall 
 now descend from Chatterton, to converse 
 again with Mr. Bryant alone. To mix in 
 the fray of his logomachy; to survey the 
 pictures, and images of his adulterated, 
 and spurious taste, may not be without its 
 use: by exposing the insignificance, the 
 folly, of minute, anatomical criticism; by
 
 222 
 
 showing the errours, the deformities of a 
 false, and vulgar taste; we may the more 
 justly value, we may the more accurately 
 distinguish, the true. 
 
 In the beginning of the Battle of Has- 
 tings, the poet addresses the sea, in these 
 words; 
 
 O ! sea ! our teeming donore ! &c. 
 
 This is a very poetical mode of expres- 
 sion; and it is very intelligible; its mean- 
 ing is obvious, at this day. But Mr. Bry- 
 ant, finding, as I suppose, that donore was 
 too modern a term for the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, or rather for the time of Turgott 9 
 and William Iiiifus, according to his in- 
 credible conjecture; first makes honour- 
 able mention of Mr. Tyrwhitt's improve- 
 ment of the invocation; and then pro- 
 poses his own. " Mr. Tyrwhitt" (says 
 our critick) " thinks that instead of " O! 
 (i sea! our teeming donore! the true 
 " reading was, ! sea-o'er- teeming Do- 
 "ver!" Why Mr. Tyrwhitt, who was 
 convinced that Rowley was an imaginary 
 being, and who is, in general, a good cri- 
 tick, should have exposed himself in this
 
 223 
 
 ridiculous manner, I cannot imagine. Of 
 his pretended correction I own that I can 
 make no sense: but Mr. Bryant thinks it 
 " a very ingenious alteration, and highly 
 " probable." So it is; if to be absurd is 
 to be ingenious; and if high probability, 
 and extreme improbability convey the 
 same idea. The general inflexibility of 
 verbal cri ticks never bends but when they 
 bow to one another. After his compli- 
 ment to Mr. Tyrwhitt, he proceeds: - 
 " But instead of forming a decompound" 
 (and a monstrous one it is) "I should 
 " rather separate the second term, and 
 " read, O sea! o 5 er- teeming Dover!" by 
 which he would mean, o'er -flowing Do- 
 ver; though the word, teeming, in his 
 fabricated compound, rejects the sense to 
 which he would force it, after all the cut- 
 ting, and chopping of our literary Pro- 
 crustes. In his observations on the whole 
 passage, he dashes with his usual bold- 
 ness ; he discovers in it a reference to a 
 terrible inundation, which happened in 
 the reign of William Rufus, and over- 
 whelmed Dover, and many other places 
 on the southern coast of our island: 
 (though no man would have made the
 
 224 . 
 
 discovery but himself). He concludes 
 that " the first sketch of the Battle of 
 " Hastings was produced by Turgott;" 
 who lived at the very time to which he 
 creates a reference. ^ The whole chain of 
 conjectures purely imaginary, on this in- 
 vocation to the sea, is displayed from the 
 404th to the 408th page of Mr. Bryant's 
 learned lucubrations on the poems of 
 Thomas Rowley. Before I take leave of 
 this critical tournament, I must observe, 
 that in consequence of Mr. Tyrwhitt's 
 emendation; in consequence of his de- 
 compound, and distorted epithet; O sea- 
 der -teeming Dover! the fancy of the poet 
 must have been as unnatural as the wild 
 conceits of his commentators; for he 
 must have imagined that Dover, not the 
 sea, would have risen, and sunk, with a 
 dreadfully portentous deluge: 
 
 Thou wouldst have rose, and sunk, wy th tydes of bloude. 
 
 This verse is a continuation of the poet's 
 address to the sea; and it is the very se- 
 cond line after, "O sea! our teeming 
 " donore!" In all Mr. Bryant's catalogue 
 of Chatterton's errours, and inconsit>ten-
 
 225 
 
 ces, are there any so monstrous, so ridi- 
 culous as this? He pays a compliment 
 to the ingenuity of Mr. Tyrwhitt, for a 
 blunder, of which, if it had been com- 
 mitted by the poor charity-boy of Bris- 
 tol, he would have expressed his contempt, 
 with all the pride of pedantry ; with all 
 the flint of insensibility: I should have 
 said, if he could have perceived it; for by 
 not taking notice of it ; nay, by praising 
 it, he more than recommitted the blunder 
 himself. 
 
 After some previous remarks, I shall 
 select from Mr. Bryant's magazine of 
 heaped, and promiscuous criticism, a cu- 
 rious observation, which will not only 
 show his taste in poetical, but in human 
 beauty; it will convince us that while he 
 is elegant in his choice of words, he is an 
 Q\egantjvrmarum spectator. 
 
 The majestick beauty of the fair Kene- 
 walcha, the wife of the valiant Adhelm, is 
 represented by an original simile, in the 
 second canto of the Battle of Hastings : 
 
 As the blue Bruton risynge from the wave, 
 Like sea-gods seeme, in most majestic guise ; 
 And rounde aboute the risynge waters lave ; 
 And their longe hayre arounde their bodie flies ; 
 
 VOL. II. 2
 
 226 
 
 Such majestie was in her porte displaid ; 
 
 To be excelld bie none but Homer's martial maid. 
 
 Battle of Hastings: lid. Part. v. 395. 
 
 To one capital observation on colour, 
 taken from the school of Titian, or of 
 Reubens, I shall particularly beg your 
 attention. But in my way to it, I shall 
 take notice of some inferiour objects. 
 Here our stern critick once more animad- 
 verts on the supposed ignorance of poor 
 Chatterton, the humble, and illiterate 
 transcriber of his Rowley. Bruton, he 
 says, should have been Brutons, as it is 
 immediately connected with plural verbs. 
 But this alteration is by no means neces- 
 sary. Bruton is here used in a collective 
 sense, like the bordels of the hynde ; and 
 as their bodie is used, in this very passage, 
 for their bodies. I do not say that this 
 mode of expression is right, in more cul- 
 tivated, and modern language; I mean, 
 the Bruton, preceding a plural verb : but 
 whoever is, at all acquainted with our old 
 writers, knows that grammar is often 
 more grossly violated by them than it is 
 in this instance. 
 The word risynge repeated after a slight
 
 227 
 
 interval, offends the delicate gentleman* 
 With equal delicacy he therefore proposes 
 that instead of risynge, in the third line, 
 we should read, swizing : for to swize, he 
 tells us (and I know no more of this Attic 
 word than what he tells us) " denotes the 
 " sound of waters, either running, or 
 " otherwise put in motion." Bryant; p. 
 264. I will not formally impeach this 
 word; but whether it would be better to 
 endure the sound of rising, twice, or of 
 swizing once, let the taste of my audience 
 determine. 
 
 This passage gives Mr. Bryant a fine 
 opportunity of entering into a learned 
 dissertation on the custom of the old Bri- 
 tons of painting their bodies with glas- 
 tum, or woade. On that dissertation I 
 should be loth to dwell. Our critick ob- 
 serves that " Kenewalcha, as a beauty 
 " must be supposed to have had fine hair; 
 " and all persons of a delicate texture, 
 " have, from the blueness of their veins, 
 " an azure tint communicated to their 
 " complexions." P. 266. He seems to 
 be enamoured of this barbarous blue taste 
 of our ancestors. I do not think that the 
 Grand Signior would have chosen Mr, 
 
 2
 
 228 
 
 Bryant for his arbiter elegantiarum : I 
 am sure. that / would not, if I was a Sul- 
 tan. Let the cerulean tint adorn the 
 veins, and the eyes of the fair, in the 
 name of nature, and of charms : but let it 
 not presume to encroach on the limits 
 which are assigned to it by Nature; let it 
 not presume to shade the candour of the 
 lily, and the blush of the rose : if it does, 
 Mr. Bryant may take his Kenewalcha to 
 himself, and his blue Brutons along with 
 her. The woade of the old Britons must 
 have injured the beauty of a fine form as 
 much as the notes of an antiquarian cri- 
 tick injure the beauties of a fine poem. 
 
 I am not an indiscriminately rapturous 
 admirer of any poet; nor do I think this 
 one of the first of Chatterton's similes; 
 though it is as good as many of Homer. 
 In four stanzas immediately following 
 that which the critick has quoted, there 
 are far more beautiful similes applied to 
 Kenewalcha, of which Mr. Bryant takes 
 no notice. In the estimation of some 
 judges, the odd, and the grotesque are 
 preferred to the regular; to the elegantly 
 striking. These judges, too, can seldom 
 form a right opinion on objects of taste,
 
 229 
 
 from their prejudices in favour of mere 
 antiquity. As " a saint in crape is twice 
 " a saint in lawn," these men, in com- 
 paring old, or what they fancy to be old, 
 with modern poetry of equal merit, al- 
 ways find an infinite superiority in the 
 former. Mr. Bryant was under the domi- 
 nion of these prejudices, when he thus 
 praises the simile which had so powerfully 
 attracted his admiration, in terms which, 
 as far as they exaggerate, are bombast. 
 " There is great beauty as well as propri- 
 " ety, in this similitude ; more, perhaps, 
 " than may at first appear; and the lines 
 " as well as the conception are very no- 
 " ble. P. 264. He was under the domi- 
 nion of these prejudices, when with a con- 
 tempt which was equally illiberal, and 
 ignorant; a contempt which showed that 
 he knew nothing vitally of poetry, he al- 
 lowed no merit to the productions which 
 are avowedly Chatterton's ; though they 
 are animated with a spirit, and present 
 pictures congenial with those of his anti- 
 quated compositions. The momentous 
 truth of this assertion I hope to prove; if 
 there are any just, and general laws in 
 criticism; if there are any fine, and sub- 
 
 S>3
 
 230 
 
 lime images in poetry; and if we have 
 reason, to estimate, and approve the one ; 
 and sentiment, to feel, and admire the 
 other. 
 
 The stanza which contains Mr. Bry- 
 ant's favourite simile concludes with this 
 line, as the climax of the poet, in praise of 
 Kenewalcha : 
 
 To be excelld by none but Homer's martial maid. 
 
 Our hypercritick thinks the line too trite, 
 and modern, to be admitted as genuine. 
 You see how the predilection goes : take 
 the rust from the medal, and it is not 
 worth a farthing. 
 
 Poor Vadius long with learned spleen devoured, 
 Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scoured. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 The simile of the blue Brutons is infe- 
 riour to many^similes which are despised 
 by Mr. Bryant; I mean, to many similes 
 in the fictitious translations from old Sax- 
 on, and British poems, which are con- 
 tained in Chatterton's miscellanies. But 
 they are not sanctioned with the powerful 
 idea of antiquity; which often creates 
 beauties, and annihilates faults.
 
 231 
 
 When a critick is peremptory, and self-" 
 sufficient, surely something of the pe- 
 remptory is allowable, in return. I shall 
 venture to maintain that the rejected line 
 contains the noblest image in the stanza. 
 But Mr. Bryant, in his critical farrago, 
 wages a constant war against poetical 
 aptitude; poetical elegance; poetical 
 grandeur; and against Chatterton! 
 
 I shall now give some instances of wil- 
 ful mistakes ; from an inordinate passion 
 for mangling an authour, and playing the 
 despot in criticism. It is likewise impos- 
 sible for the fairest judgement not to 
 ascribe these perversions of an authour's 
 meaning, and of his use of words, to a dis- 
 ingenuous disposition. 
 
 The second Eclogue in the old language 
 is written on a martial subject; on the 
 victory of Richard the First over the Sara- 
 cens, in the Holy Land. The minds of 
 the Saracens, agitated, and alarmed, at 
 the sight of the hostile ships, are divided 
 between courage, and apprehension. 
 Their alternate resolution, and hesitation, 
 are thus clearly described; clearly, to 
 every one who is disposed to see distinct 
 images, and to apprehend common sense: 
 
 4
 
 - 232 
 
 The reyning foemen, thynckeynge gif to dara, 
 
 Boun the merk swerdej theie seche to fraiej theie blyn. 
 
 That is, " the enemy running, or ad- 
 " vancing fast; yet doubting whether or 
 " no they should venture; prepare the 
 " dark sword; they seek to fight, or offer 
 " battle; they cease, stop, or stand still.'* 
 Nothing can be more indisputable than 
 this evident meaning of the verses. But 
 Mr. Bryant, after many erroneous, and 
 confident remarks, old details, and ex- 
 pressions of contempt, on the transcriber's 
 ignorance, thus pretends to correct the 
 latter line; 
 
 Boun the merk swerde ; and seek the faie to blynn. 
 
 In quoting, or rather in misrepresenting 
 these lines, he has been guilty, I will not 
 say, of two gross oversights, but of two 
 palpable impositions. He totally omits 
 these words in the former line; 
 " thynckeynge gif to dare;" which ex- 
 press the hesitation of the Saracens, and 
 prepare the mind for the close of the lat- 
 ter verse; " theie seche to fraie; theie 
 " J>lyn;" which completely, and as clearly
 
 233 
 
 expresses that hesitation. No boasted 
 candour, or critical hypocrisy can draw 
 its unwholesome shade over a deliberate 
 fallacy, in his destruction of this passage. 
 For he gives us the word Jraie, in the se- 
 cond line, without the comma after it, 
 which makes the sense good, and poeti- 
 cal; but without the comma, the words, 
 and the sense, which, if it is retained, it 
 properly divides, become nonsense; or, 
 are labouredinto nonsense by Mr. Bryant. 
 He, too, who is so very quick, and magis- 
 terial in his animadversions, and correc- 
 tions, should know that blynn is never 
 used, with propriety, in the old English 
 language, but as a neutral verb. This, 
 and much more he ought to know, from 
 the English erudition of his friend, Mr. 
 Tyrwhitt; and I hope that this gentle- 
 man's vindication of his Appendix hath, 
 long ago, convinced Mr. Bryant of many 
 great errours which he committed; and 
 of much hasty, and unfounded censure, 
 with which he aspersed the abilities; and 
 I may add, the accuracy, of his despised 
 boy; which were both infinitely superiour 
 to his own. And I may venture to assert, 
 that in this, and in every other instance
 
 234 
 
 where he attempts to improve on the au- 
 thour, his false emendations greatly in- 
 jure, and impair the force of the original 
 text, as we received it from Chatterton. 
 But I have a heavier charge against him 
 than any defects in the critical faculty; 
 a charge which has been often fulminated, 
 and with all the papal terrours, against 
 my unfortunate young hero, by the can- 
 dour, and good manners of Mr. Bryant, 
 and of other fortunate criticks; the 
 charge of serious imposition; or of im- 
 posture ; in the favourite, and hackneyed 
 term of the literary synod. For delibe- 
 rately to mutilate passages; to suppress 
 material parts of their contents; to make 
 them speak what sentiments, and in what 
 language we please; to gratify a scholas- 
 tick vanity; or to support, and promote 
 a visionary scheme; is certainly one spe- 
 cies, and a very selfish, and mean species 
 of imposture. I must here obviate the 
 frowns, and the reprobation of some very 
 candid, polite, and Christian criticks, by 
 desiring them attentively to observe, that 
 I would never have applied the harsh, 
 and uncharitable term, imposture, as I 
 have now applied it, with truth, and
 
 235 
 
 justice, had it not been often, and with 
 less equity, and, I hope, with a rare inhu- 
 manity, thrown on the grave of the 
 young, the unfortunate, and the great. 
 De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Mr. Tyrwhitt; 
 you adopted the maxim, when I cannot 
 think that you were particularly obliged 
 to its cautious, and religious observance: 
 why you spared the critical insignificance, 
 and impertinence of Anonymous ; why 
 you not only spared but praised Mr. Bry- 
 ant, though you were well acquainted 
 with that absurdity, and duplicity, which 
 you were even proving, detecting, and 
 refuting, while you spared, and praised 
 him ; and why you are altogether unspar- 
 ing; why you show no indulgence, no 
 mercy to the memory of him, who was 
 often the subject of weaker conjectures, 
 and arguments than yours; I shall leave 
 to be determined, rather by your contem- 
 plative than by your practical distinc- 
 tions, between just, virtuous, and inde- 
 pendent censure, and unwarrantable, par- 
 tial, and inhuman severity; between ho- 
 nest praise, and servile adulation. 
 
 In the last poetical passage of which I 
 have taken a view, Mr. Bryant, as I have
 
 236 
 
 observed, with a wilful, and unfair de- 
 sign, suppresses half of a line, " thine- 
 " keynge gif to dare; 1 which opens a 
 sentiment that is completed in the follow- 
 ing line; " theie seche to Jraie; theie 
 " blynn." " Mr. Bryant, in his quota- 
 " tion," (says Mr.Tyrwhitt) " has omitted 
 " the clause, thinckeynge gif to dare; 
 " though it certainly gives light to what 
 " follows." If Mr. Tyrwhitt had written, 
 because, instead of, though, he would, for 
 once, have applied to the half-bold, and 
 half-timid deception of a brother anti- 
 quarian the reproof which it deserved. 
 
 " I think" (says Mr. Bryant) " nothing 
 " can show more satisfactorily than this 
 " passage, that Chatterton had an original 
 " before him which he did not under- 
 " stand." If he did not understand it, 
 Mr. Bryant, you would not understand it. 
 Merely not to understand a passage, is 
 surely innocent, according to all right 
 literary laws; but in cases like the pre- 
 sent, proudly, and obstinately to pretend 
 not to understand it; to pervert its mean- 
 ing, and to deface its elegance, is, in my 
 humble opinion, according to those laws, 
 highly criminal. You have amply, you
 
 237 
 
 have tediously shown, that you have no 
 taste for poetry; you have no perception 
 of its sense; you have no sensibility to 
 its beauties. It was you who had an ori- 
 ginal before you which you did not un- 
 derstand; you were unworthy of the sub- 
 stance; Nature avenged her cause; pu- 
 nished your presumption with a critical 
 delirium ; and sent you to hunt a shade. 
 See Bryant; pages 93, 94, 95, 96. Tyr- 
 whitt: Vindication; pages 193, 194.
 
 238 
 
 LECTURE XIV. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 As I thought it my literary, and moral 
 duty to give my opinion of Mr. Bryant, 
 without reserve, I must quote two or three 
 examples, more, to corroborate the justice 
 of that opinion. 
 
 Some cherisaunei 'tys to gentle mynde : 
 
 " the first line of the Entroductionne to 
 " the tragycal enterlude of iElla." 
 
 Chatterton, by adopting a typographi- 
 cal errour from Kersey's Dictionary, in- 
 stead of the right word, cherisaunce, 
 which signifies, comfort, had written che- 
 risaunei, with e, i, at the end. Mr. Bry- 
 ant, in a string of imaginary, inconsistent,
 
 239 
 
 petulant, and contemptuous remarks on 
 this very pardonable mistake, exceeds 
 himself. The customary tribute is again 
 paid to Mr. Tyrwhitt, at the expence of 
 Chatterton " Mr. Tyrwhitt" (he says) 
 " with his usual judgement, has restored 
 " the original reading, which was cer- 
 " tainly as he represents it : 
 
 " Some chcrisaunce it is to gentle mynde." 
 
 After floundering through many mistakes, 
 which he attributes to Chatterton, and 
 which retort upon himself, he thus at- 
 tempts to humble the great, and to exalt 
 the comparatively little man. " Of these 
 " mistakes the transcriber would never 
 " have been guilty, if he had possessed a 
 " fiftieth part of the learning, and saga- 
 " city of the editor." It is, here particu- 
 larly incumbent on me to quote a passage 
 from Mr. Tyrwhitt's vindication of his 
 Appendix : it will show that JVIr. Bryant 
 has a sagacity beyond that of all other 
 criticks, in discovering faults which never 
 existed; and that his praise, as well as his 
 censure, is often without the least foun- 
 dation. .
 
 240 
 " Cherisaunei: Ent. I. 
 
 Some cherisaunei 'tys to gentle' mynde. 
 
 In my edition of these poems, when I 
 was but a novice in genuine archaeolo- 
 gical language, I set this down among 
 the evident mistakes of the transcriber, 
 and corrected it, very probably, as I 
 thought, into cherisaunce it ys. My 
 excuse must be, that I had not then seen 
 Kersey; who, from a mistake, as it 
 seems, of the printer, has this article; 
 cherisaunei, (O.) comfort, Mr. Bry- 
 ant, p. 562, allows that this word was 
 borrowed by Chatterton, from Kersey; 
 though before, p. 106-7, he has taken a 
 great deal of pains to point out the 
 several steps, by which Chatterton, 
 whom he there considers as an ignorant 
 transcriber from MSS, arrived at such a 
 complication of mistakes as are to be 
 found in this passage." Vindication of 
 Appendix, p. 177* 
 
 Here Mr. Tyrwhitt is sufficiently expli- 
 cit, and faithful, to convince Mr. Bryant 
 of his precipitance, or rather of his deli- 
 berate injustice; if he could be convinced
 
 241 
 
 of it. He has not, indeed, remonstrated 
 against his unfair, and inconsistent criti- 
 cism, with that plainness, and ingenuous 
 warmth, which it deserved: that disagree- 
 able task was left for me; a sense, how- 
 ever, of my literary, and, I hope, of my 
 moral duty, softened what was painful: 
 and I should have despised myself, if I had 
 eluded these obligations. 
 
 Mr. Bryant invents a curious process of 
 Chatterton's fancied blunders on the word 
 cherisaunce; blunders, which he supposes 
 to have originated from his ignorant at- 
 tempts to supply those letters of the words 
 which had been defaced in the old manu- 
 script from which he copied; though he 
 afterwards openly asserts that he had bor- 
 rowed the word from Kersey's Dictionary; 
 " in which he tells us that Chatterton used 
 " to hunt, in a most servile manner" 
 This is the haughty, and stupid language 
 of one who neither knew how to appre- 
 ciate the industry, nor the talents of our 
 astonishing youth. At the bottom of the 
 very page in which he allows that he had 
 the word from Kersey, he refers to that 
 part of Kersey which contains the word; 
 but he omits to take any notice of the ty- 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 
 
 pographical erf out there by which cheri- 
 saunei is printed, for cherisaunce : and at 
 the same place, that his friends might not 
 have it in their power to plead a lapse of 
 memory for the total inconsistency of his 
 preceding with his subsequent opinion, he 
 likewise refers to the former part of his 
 own work, in which he ascribes the or- 
 thographical corruption of the word to the 
 complicated ignorance of Chatterton, and 
 to his illiterate endeavours to supply what 
 was rendered illegible by time. I can 
 conceive nothing more illiberal, and in- 
 congruous, than this aggregate of dispa- 
 ragement, and of crude, imaginary no- 
 tions. I shall therefore more justly apply 
 his own words to him than he applied them 
 to Chatterton: " We have, in this ex- 
 " ample, all the misconceptions of a bad 
 " critick, who was guilty of a complica- 
 " tion of mistakes:" and I will add, of 
 disingenuous inconsistences, Mr. Bryant 
 knows, or should know, that cherisaunce 
 is to be found in Chaucer, and in our 
 other old authours : I shall therefore close 
 my remarks on this article, by observing, 
 that if we carefully consider the single 
 mistake of copying cherisaunei from Ker-
 
 us 
 
 sey's Dictionary, instead of writing the 
 word, cherisaunce, as it should have been 
 written; that single mistake is almost a 
 decisive proof, that the poems which have 
 been supposed to be Rowley's, are the real 
 compositions of Chatter ton. See Bryant, 
 pages 106, o62. 
 
 No, bestoikerrc, I wylle go. '.Ella. v. 91. 
 
 To beswicke, is the proper old verb; it sig- 
 nifies to deceive. Kersey had copied it 
 erroneously, best oike, from Skinner's Ety- 
 mologicon, where it was indistinctly 
 printed. From bestoike, Chatterton form- 
 ed the substantive, bestoikerre; agreeably 
 to the analogy of our language; but with 
 a violation of orthography, by the mis- 
 take into which he was led by Kersey. 
 This is an honest, and obvious account of 
 the errour; and the cause of it Mr. Bry- 
 ant must have seen, if he had not been 
 determined not to see it. He is again 
 completely refuted; and what is worse, 
 his unfairness is exposed, by his tender, 
 friend, and antagonist, Mr. Tyrrwhitt. 
 
 " Bestoiker. M. 91. Deceiver. Chatter- 
 " ton. See also, JE. 1064.- Mr. Bryant 
 
 r2
 
 244 
 
 " allows, p. 108. that this word has been 
 " put, by mistake, for Beswiker. I won- 
 " der that he, who appears to have had 
 " Kersey at hand, did not advert to the 
 following article in him ( To bestoike, 
 ' (O.) to betray f which, I am per- 
 suaded, misled Chatterton. But then 
 " there would have been no room for the 
 " inference, ' that this young man could 
 " ' not read the characters with which he 
 " ' was engaged.' I cannot see that the 
 letters in Skinner are so well defined, 
 u but that Kersey might as easily have 
 *' been led into such a mistake by them as 
 *' by those of a manuscript. " Vindica- 
 tion of Appendix: pages 167, 168. 
 
 " Chatterton" (says Mr. Bryant) " has 
 " idly expressed the word, bestoikerre. It 
 " is plain that this young man could not 
 " read the characters with which he was 
 " engaged. To decipher the characters 
 " in old writings, requires a competent 
 " knowledge in the language which they 
 " transmit: but of this Chatterton was 
 (i confessedly destitute." Bryant, pages 
 109, 110, 111. x No young person could 
 ever be more unjustly, and cruelly charg- 
 ed with idleness, whether indolence, or
 
 245 
 
 negligence is meant, than Chatterton. 
 This tribute is due to his memory, if he 
 really was not Mr. Bryant's Rowley. But 
 what shall we think of that idleness which 
 rejected glaring truth, to obtrude on us, 
 in its place, miserable sophistry, and pal- 
 pable falsehood? I wish, from my heart, 
 however idle young men may be, that the 
 strenua inertia of old men may be more 
 usefully, and innocently employed. If 
 we could suppose Mr. Bryant ingenuous 
 in his researches, he shows an ignorance 
 greater than that of any school-boy; he 
 is unacquainted even with the use of a 
 Dictionary. But this is morally impos- 
 sible; you know the alternative. Chat- 
 terton's formation of the word, bestoi- 
 kerre, and the source from which he 
 formed it, make another damning proof 
 against a Bryant, and a Milles; but a gra- 
 tifying, and glorious proof, to the admir- 
 ers of stupendous genius, in early youth, 
 that he was the authour of the poems 
 which were published under the name of 
 Rowley. When Caesar passed the Rubi- 
 con, he passed it from an expanded, from 
 a glorious ambition ; he passed it for the 
 empire of the world. But how shall we 
 
 r3
 
 246 
 
 estimate that childish, I was going to say, 
 that more criminal ambition, which be- 
 trays the commonwealth of letters, for a 
 ivordf 
 
 I must gi*e one instance more of Mr. 
 Bryant's accuracy in making critical in- 
 ferences, and of his good faith. You must 
 excuse the perseverance of my poetical 
 zeal: " 'Tis not a private loss;" the 
 world " demands your tears." I am not 
 indulging a selfish, malignant resents 
 ment: of which I hope that I have been 
 more frequently than justly accused; I 
 am combating the man who despises 
 Chatterton. 
 
 In the Memoirs of Sir William Ca- 
 nynge, and in some farther account of 
 him, written by Rowley the priest, which 
 are both in Chatterton's miscellanies, we 
 are told that Edward the IVth proposed 
 to Canynge, for his second wife, a relation 
 of the Queen; a lady of the family of the 
 Wyddevilles; that he disliked the propo- 
 sal, and took orders, to avoid it. The 
 King highly resented his refusal ; and he 
 was obliged to pay him a fine of three 
 thousand marks, to obtain his reconcilia- 
 tion. Mr. Bryant is as well assured that
 
 247 
 
 this account of Canynge, in old English, 
 was written by Rowley, as the world, I 
 suppose, is now convinced that Chatter- 
 ton was its authour. Proceeding on this 
 assurance, he asks how it was possible for 
 Chatterton, at his years, and in his limited 
 situation, to be acquainted with these, 
 and many other facts (real, and supposed) 
 which are mentioned in the poems of the 
 imaginary Rowley? The knowledge of 
 many facts, in publick, and in private 
 life, was accessible to Chatterton; to a 
 youth who had read seventy authours, 
 before he was eleven years old; whose in- 
 dustry^ and judgement infinitely sur- 
 passed his age. The great probability, 
 I may say, the certainty of his very exten- 
 sive knowledge, is ably, and circumstan- 
 tially proved by Mr. Tyrwhitt. Of Ca- 
 nynge's ordination, and of the payment 
 of the fine, there can be no doubt. They 
 are recorded in the Register of the Bishop 
 of Worcester; and in the epitaph which 
 is inscribed on Canynge's monument, in 
 the church of St. Mary RedclifFe at Bris- 
 tol. And of these two facts we have no 
 other au then tick records. I shall quote 
 from Mr. Tyrwhitt, more faithfully than 
 
 R4
 
 248 
 
 he is quoted by Mr. Bryant, this gentle- 
 man's curious evidence, by which Ca- 
 nynge's ordination, to avoid the disagree- 
 able marriage is ascertained. " Of Sir 
 " William Canynge's going into orders" 
 (says Mr. Bryant) " to avoid the marriage 
 " proposed by King Edward, we have the 
 " following evidence, for which we are 
 " indebted to Mr. Tyrwhitt. It is certain, 
 " from the Register of the Bishop of Wor- 
 " cester, that Mr. Canynge was ordained 
 " Acolythe by Bishop Carpenter, on the 
 " 19th of September, 1467, and received 
 " the higher orders of sub-deacon, dea- 
 " con, and priest, on the 12th of March, 
 " 1468, O. S. on the 2d and 16th of April, 
 " 1468, respectively. " This evidence was 
 " produced by me [In trod. Account; p. 
 " 23.] to show the time of Canynge's 
 "going into orders; which it does, I 
 " think, very precisely: but 1 never 
 " dreamt of its being applied to show that 
 " he went into orders, to avoid a marriage 
 " proposed by King Edward, of which the 
 Register says not one word. On the 
 contrary, I hope to demonstrate very 
 clearly, that the dates ascertained by the 
 " Register are totally inconsistent with
 
 249 
 
 " those in the Memoirs ; and of conse- 
 " quence, that neither the Memoirs, nor 
 " the Storie of William Canynge, which 
 " agrees with them in the same extrava- 
 " gant fiction, could possibly have been 
 " written by a genuine Rowley." Vindi- 
 cation of Appendix, p. 107. 
 
 Mr. Tyrwhitt never dreamt that his real 
 evidence would be so strangely applied. 
 Here the mildness of the disciple (which 
 never scruples to overshoot its bounds, 
 when it ought to be more particularly cir- 
 cumspect, and reverent) is, with good rea- 
 son, stimulated above its usual submission 
 to its great master in archceo logical learn- 
 ing. Many other assertions ; many other 
 misquotations are hazarded by Mr. Bry- 
 ant, in the course of his work; to give a 
 being to objects which never existed but 
 in his own mind. 
 
 One instance more may be entertaining, 
 in which Mr. Tyrwhitt almost emerged 
 from his prudent, and systematical tran- 
 quillity; in which he almost rose from a 
 Chesterfield to a Cato; when he was 
 rouzed to some sensibility by one of Mr. 
 Bryant's unexampled absurdities. Row- 
 ley's account of Canynge's ordination says
 
 250 
 
 that he was ordained on Saturday, the 
 19th of September; the day of St. Mat- 
 thew. This is inconsistent with the Re- 
 gister of the Bishop of Worcester. The 
 inconsistency; the solution of the incon- 
 sistency; and Mr. Tyrwhitt's pertinent, 
 and strong observations on that solution, 
 I shall give in his own words. 
 
 " For the present let us suppose, upon 
 " the single evidence of the Memoirs, that 
 " King Edward was at Bristol in Septem- 
 " ber 1467; that he formed the strange 
 " scheme of making the fortune of one of 
 his wife's cousins by marrying her to 
 master Canynge; and that master Ca- 
 nynge had no way of avoiding the match 
 but by stealing into orders. The ac- 
 " count goes on to say, that ' on the Fry- 
 " ' day following he was prepared; and 
 ' ordained the nexte day' (i. e. Satur- 
 day,) ' the day of St. Matthew ; and on 
 6 Sunday sung his first mass.' But this 
 is a flat contradiction of the Register; 
 which says that Canynge received his 
 ' first orders on the nineteenth of Sep- 
 6 tember, 1467; for the day of St. Mat- 
 6 thew, as every one knows, is the twen- 
 ' tieth of that month; and moreover, in
 
 251 
 
 " the year 1467, the day of St. Matthew 
 " fell not on a Saturday, but on a Sunday; 
 " another historical fact, with which the 
 " account in the Memoirs is totally incon- 
 " sis tent. Mr. Bryant indeed has hit 
 " upon a curious method of reconciling 
 " these contradictions, by supposing that 
 " the day of St. Matthew, in the Memoirs, 
 " means the vigil; or, as he calls it, the 
 " fast of St. Matthew; i.e. in common 
 " acceptation, the day before the day of 
 " St. Matthew. If he has discovered any 
 " arguments by which he has been able 
 " to make this supposition probable to 
 " himself, I admire his ingenuity; if he 
 " can make it probable to others, I shall 
 " certainly never venture again to dispute 
 " with so powerful a master of the arts of 
 " persuasion." Vindication of Appendix; 
 pages 110, 111. Now I think it undeni- 
 able that repeatedly, wilfully, and per- 
 versely, to make authours, and records 
 say what they never meant to say, is 
 downright falsification; and that is Dr. 
 Johnson's definition of imposture. 
 
 If we consider Mr. Bryant, in his dis- 
 dainful strictures on Chatterton, as an 
 ungenerous critick, we need not be sur-
 
 252 
 
 prized that from his treatment of that 
 great, but unfortunate young poet, he 
 hath incurred this literary characteris- 
 tick; if we recollect his invidious, and 
 most uncharitable animadversions on the 
 nobly pious exordium of Mr. Pope's Uni- 
 versal Prayer; animadversions which are 
 entirely without foundation; and which 
 could not have arisen in the mind of any 
 man but himself. If we consider him as 
 a critick perfectly eccentrick, and vision- 
 ary, we must allow that it has always been 
 his taste, and his glory, pertinaciously to 
 espouse the improbable, and the mon- 
 strous; to deform elegant passages, and 
 to deny important, and prominent facts, 
 of which mankind, before him, had not 
 entertained a doubt. Nothing can be too 
 absurd for that fancy; nothing can stand 
 in the way of that pen, which has unfeel- 
 ingly demolished, and destroyed the 
 glowing texture, and the interesting ima- 
 ges of classical story; which has waged a 
 war against Troy, more exterminating 
 than that of Ajax, and Achilles; which 
 hath written it out of all existence. The 
 whole fate of that renowned city is me- 
 morable, and singular: in ancient times,
 
 253 
 
 after it fell by arms, its ashes were conse* 
 crated to immortality, by a Pont if ex max- 
 imus of Apollo; by a divine poet; and in 
 modern times, a gallant soldier; a great 
 favourite utriusque Minei*vce, hath res- 
 cued them from the annihilating sacrilege 
 of a rude, and profane antiquarian ; and 
 hath restored them to their hallowed 
 ground. My friend Captain Francklin, 
 in his accurate, animated, and picturesque 
 remarks, and observations on the Plain 
 of Troy, hath done justice to himself, 
 while he vindicated the geographical, and 
 historical veracity, and indeed the poeti- 
 cal glory of Homer; with a classical, and 
 elegant spirit, which were worthy of an 
 unaffected, and rapturous admirer of that 
 venerable, and immortal bard. He hath 
 shown that the relaxing climate, and the 
 more relaxing luxury of India, were not 
 able to enervate a vigorous mind; that 
 like Ulysses, he was proof against the 
 bowls of Circe; that they had not infused 
 into his breast the least oblivion of West- 
 minster, and of hisfather. 
 
 What a strange undertaking! To at- 
 tempt to destroy the universal, and well- 
 established belief of three thousand years!
 
 254 
 
 It is difficult to say whether the attempt 
 was more at war with common sense, or 
 common modesty; or with the heartfelt 
 interest of poetical beauty. What a cold 
 heart, and hand must they be, that would 
 endeavour to obliterate from imagination 
 the striking scenes of the father of Grecian 
 poetry; the palace, and the city of the old, 
 and good, but unfortunate Priam; the ro- 
 mantick heights of Callicolone; the fer- 
 tile, and Elysian plain of Troy; the me- 
 andering course of the Simois, and the 
 Scamander; the everlasting fig-tree; 
 which, by the power of Homer's magick, 
 still " lives in description, and looks green 
 " in song;" the tomb of ancient Ilus, and 
 of the later heroes! What an opinion - 
 ative, what an esprit de tr avers must that 
 be, which could suppose that the poet 
 would repeatedly, circumstantially, and 
 minutely, and with a folly as unparalleled 
 as ineffectual, mention allthese objects, if 
 they had never, in reality, existed ! Mr. 
 Bryant has been very industrious to ac- 
 quit Chatterton; but he has been equally 
 industrious to convict Homer, of impos- 
 ture. I spurn the mercantile criteria of 
 aTyrwhitt, and a Walpole; I am not so
 
 255 
 
 cruelly partial as to confine forgery to 
 writing; any more than I am still so much 
 more cruelly undistinguishing as to con- 
 found the guilt of forging a poem with 
 that of forging a Bank-bill. But I must 
 insist that to forge a city, and its territo- 
 ries, is as absolute an imposture as to forge 
 a heroick poem ; perhaps it is more cri- 
 minal; (if, indeed, this harsh epithet can, 
 with propriety, be applied to inferiour, 
 and trifling offences ;) as it may intro- 
 duce a more inconvenient embarrassment, 
 and confusion into the learned world. 
 Hence, if Mr. Bryant's theory of the non- 
 existence of Troy should be credited here- 
 after, by his frigid, and merciless brother- 
 antiquarians, as little quarter may be 
 given to the memory of Homer as hath 
 been granted to that of Chatterton; espe- 
 cially as the cowardly animosity of the 
 presumptuous, and unfeeling tribe is apt 
 to be particularly hostile to departed ge- 
 nius ; and in proportion as that genius 
 was indigent, and great. 
 
 That the love of fame is a universal 
 passion, is a part of Dr. Young's moral, 
 and poetical theory. If this position is 
 true, by what an infinite variety of ways
 
 256 
 
 do we endeavour to ascend to the temple 
 of the goddess? We prosecute our favou- 
 rite aim by every trifle of pedantry, as well 
 as by the persuit of those great, and splen- 
 did objects which captivate the dazzled 
 imagination ; or which obtain, as they de- 
 serve, the moral applause of mankind. If 
 we wish to be distinguished we should de- 
 termine to endeavour to accomplish " a 
 " noble end by noble means:" for life is 
 short; and we are accountable to Heaveru 
 Mr. Bryant, in his inelegant, and rustick 
 phraseology, repeatedly observes that 
 Chatterton was greedy of praise. I am 
 satisfied that Mr. Bryant had this avarice 
 of air; by his affectation of a whimsical 
 originality; by the objects which he in- 
 vented, and endeavoured to establish, in 
 the field of literature; objects which were 
 perfectly calculated to startle, and sur- 
 prize, but by no means to afford rational 
 information, and rational pleasure. I do 
 not mean altogether to vindicate Chatter- 
 ton's mode of aspiring to poetical glory; 
 for we should not sport with truth, either 
 in great, or in small transactions; it is a 
 sacred, a divine object. I shall only, at 
 present, observe, that he courted the ad-
 
 257 
 
 miration of the world, by an astonishing 
 application, and ingenuity; by an exertion, 
 and display of astonishing genius. And 
 this application, and exertion were em- 
 ployed on affecting, and sublime subjects; 
 on subjects which warmly interest the 
 human mind. His ardour for celebrity I 
 shall, therefore, class with the ambition of 
 heroes: but they who persue distinction 
 by a love of musty researches, and un- 
 couth monsters, must have a depraved, 
 and distempered intellectual appetite: 
 they reject a salutary, and elegant regale; 
 they delight to feed on garbage : then, let 
 them take to themselves Mr* Bryant's 
 coarse, and animal epithet; it is as ex- 
 pressive of their little fever, as the idea 
 which it conveys is abhorrent from the 
 agitation of a great soul; they are greedy 
 of praise, 
 
 I must beg leave to trespass a little far- 
 ther on your patience; while I say some- 
 thing on the late Dr. Milles, the Dean of 
 Exeter. This man was so weak, and dis- 
 ingenuous a creature; and the little learn- 
 ing that he had was so meagre, and piti- 
 ful, that the wonder from him would have 
 been, if he had shown any degree of ta- 
 
 VOL. II. s
 
 258 
 
 lent; any literary sincerity; any manly, 
 and respectable knowledge. He was the 
 companion of Mr. Bryant in the critical 
 knight-errantry; in their painful, but 
 vain efforts, to create a Rowley; to sub- 
 stantiate a shadow. Both the gudgeons 
 were hooked by the shining bait which 
 was thrown out for them by Chatterton. 
 From two or three intellectual features 
 you will know the whole character of this 
 gentleman's mind. 
 
 He boldly infers from the poems of his 
 Rowley, that their authour was a perfect 
 master of Homer, in the original. * This 
 is the constant manner of the man; to 
 suppose, and assert, without the least 
 foundation. This is a silly, ridiculous 
 inference, for several reasons. It is totally 
 improbable that any priest of the fifteenth 
 century could read Homer, like a mas- 
 terly Grecian, in the original. If he was 
 at all acquainted with Homer, he must 
 have gained any knowledge that he had of 
 that great poet, from some Latin transla- 
 tion. I repeat it; none of the poems af- 
 forded him the least foundation to sup- 
 pose that his visionary Rowley knew any 
 thing of Homer, in the Greek original.
 
 259 
 
 In the Battle of Hastings, indeed, there 
 are several instances of imitations of Ho- 
 mer, in one of his worst properties; in 
 his hunting of similes to death. The 
 fault, however, is redeemed by the poeti- 
 cal beauties which the similes of our Eng- 
 lish poet contain. And by the use of those 
 similes it is demonstrated to us that Chat- 
 terton, their authour, had an intimate 
 acquaintance with Mr. Pope's admirable, 
 and immortal translation of the Iliad; a 
 translation which has done inexpressible 
 honour to its authour; and which has 
 thrown a reflected, and additional glory 
 on the memory of Homer. I am sur- 
 prized that Mr. Tyrwhitt has not laid a 
 particular stress on this great, am in- 
 structive object of Chatterton's English 
 literature; where he, justly, and with 
 some spirit remonstrates against this fool- 
 ish conceit of the Dean of Exeter. His 
 friend, Mr. Bryant, too, took it into his 
 head that this Rowley " was a person of 
 " much reading; one who was qonver- 
 " sant both with ancient, and modern 
 " literature." This he would prove, 
 ** from the frequent allusions to ancient 
 " ceremonies, and customs; and from the 
 
 s2
 
 260 
 
 " references to Greek, and Roman au- 
 " thours." Tyrwhitt: Vindic: pages 146, 
 147. I have attentively read all the poems ; 
 and therefore I may venture to declare 
 that both the assertion, and the pretended 
 proof, are the mere inventions of a bold, 
 and fertile imagination. But whatever 
 these two gentlemen think may serve their 
 cause, they will assert, without any scru- 
 ple, or hesitation. Some of their asser- 
 tions, and subterfuges are so despicable, 
 that I am almost ashamed to take notice 
 of them: but the cause of moral, of lite- 
 rary truth, should supersede any inferiour 
 personal considerations. When they are 
 hardly pressed, they endeavour to cover 
 their weakness under the following miser- 
 able resources: " I am told by a very 
 " learned, and respectable gentleman that 
 " this was really the case:" " This word 
 "is to be found in one authour:" " I 
 " know where to find several manu- 
 " scripts:" and with many such airy re- 
 ferences are we mocked by these honest 
 criticks. The Dean of Exeter evidently 
 makes Mr. ShierclifF say what he never 
 could have said; if we consider, and com- 
 pare the collateral circumstances: and
 
 261 
 
 when he cannot account for Chatterton's 
 improper, and unauthorized use of the 
 old word, lisseth, in a fair way, he imme- 
 diately fabricates, or forges his own word, 
 glisseth; a word which no man ever heard, 
 or saw, before; and thus he murders the 
 difficulty. See Tyrwhitt's Vindic. pages 
 127 181, 182. These mean subterfuges; 
 these paltry tricks ; this critical sleight of 
 hand, which are habitual, and common, 
 with these gentlemen, may surely, with 
 propriety, be denominated, imposture. 
 
 The Dean of Exeter assures us that the 
 figure of master Canynge on one of the 
 two monuments which were erected to 
 his memory in RedclifF church, " exactly 
 " verifies a portraiture of him, as it ap- 
 66 pears among Rowley's papers." What 
 a superficial mind must that have been 
 which could have brought this futile cir- 
 cumstance to the aid of his contemptible 
 suppositions! This figure of master Ca- 
 nynge was never seen by the eye of Tho- 
 mas Rowley; but it had been often sur- 
 veyed by the bright, and luminous eye of 
 Thomas Chatterton; and his fancy was 
 more bright, and luminous than his eye; 
 and had the art of turning its interesting 
 
 S3
 
 262 
 
 objects to shape, with a wonderful facility 
 and execution. There was a gross eye 
 which could discern the stone of the sta- 
 tuary; but its obnubilated rays could not 
 mount to the soul of Chatterton, 
 
 I must give you a specimen of the phi- 
 lological skill of this Dean of Exeter; of 
 this man of most profound erudition. 
 
 Whose eyne dyd feerie sheene, like blue-hayred defs, 
 That dreerie hauge on Dover's emblaunched clefs, 
 
 Eng. Met. v. 9. 
 
 are two lines in Chatterton's Englysh Me- 
 tamorphosis; and blue-hayred defs, ac- 
 cording to his interpretation, are meteors, 
 or vapours. M But," says the Dean, 
 " they rather mean, spectres, oy fairies, 
 *' which might be supposed to inhabit 
 " these cliffs. Deffenetyll, in the P. parv. 
 " is explained, Archangelus. Deff'e } 
 w therefore, may signify, spirit" This 
 formidable critick knew less than a com- 
 mon school-boy how to use a dictionary. 
 For on the authority of the little dicti- 
 onary, from which he presumes to correct 
 our illustrious poet, and to speak con- 
 temptuously of him, deffe netyll simply 
 nieans deaf nettle; or the herb which is
 
 263 . 
 
 more commonly called, dead nettle. Now, 
 unfortunately for antiquarian destiny, of 
 this plant, archangel is the technical, or 
 botanical term; and it was as unfortu- 
 nately mentioned by the Dean's Diction- 
 ary of Old Words; for it was the Charyb- 
 dis which absorbed scholastick, and cleri- 
 cal dignity. Mr. Tyrwhitt exposes this 
 despicable blunder of the Dean, in a vein 
 of excellent critical precision, and of* en- 
 tertaining pleasantry. " Though," says 
 he, " I believe meteors, or vapours, to be 
 " not a less fanciful interpretation of defs 
 " than spectres, or fairies, its total want 
 " of foundation cannot so easily be de- 
 " monstrated." Vindic: pages 202, 203. 
 It is not impossible that the word def 
 might have the metaphorical signification 
 that Chatterton gave it, in some diction- 
 ary of old English with which he was con- 
 versant. To Mr. Tyrwhitt's apposite re- 
 mark I shall add, that, in general, criticks, 
 and antiquarians have but microscopick 
 eyes; formed only to admit a small, and 
 immediate object : we may j ustly apply to 
 them the lines which Mr. Pope, but not 
 with equal justice, applies to heroes; es- 
 
 S4
 
 264 
 
 pecially as he particularly mentions Alex* 
 ander: 
 
 Not one looks forward; onward still he goes; 
 Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. 
 
 Essay on Man. 
 
 The eyes of the wild Scythians, to which 
 the simile is applied, might well he com- 
 pared with fiery meteors, or vapours ; but 
 what similitude had they to spectres, an- 
 gels, or archangels? You will certainly 
 now agree with me, that it ill became this 
 priest of Bceotia to throw the foflowing 
 contemptuous, and ignorant stricture at 
 Chatterton. Alluding to the words, the 
 meaning of which it was supposed that he 
 had mistaken " The glossaries" (says the 
 Dean) " in which alone they existed, were 
 " not in his hands; nor was it within his 
 " ability, to understand them, if they had 
 (( been before him." Milles: p. 514. This 
 passage reminds me of the dull, and lo- 
 quacious pedant, who presumed to teach 
 Annibal the art of war. My last, and ho- 
 nest tribute to the memory of the Dean 
 of Exeter shall be, my unreserved opinion 
 that a more proper person could not have 
 been found in all Europe, for a president
 
 265 
 
 to a society of antiquarians. I shall close 
 this part of my observations with a passage 
 from the eloquent, and spirited Boling- 
 broke, which my memory has frequently 
 presented to me while I was contemplat- 
 ing my heroes of the verbal chivalry of 
 old times. " I had rather take the Darius 
 u . whom Alexander conquered, for the son 
 ** of Hystaspes, and make as many ana- 
 " chronisms as a Jewish chronologer, 
 " than sacrifice half my life, to collect all 
 " the learned lumber that fills the head of 
 " an antiquary." On the Study of His- 
 tory. 
 
 I shall now take some view of the exter- 
 nal evidence that Chatterton was the real 
 authour of the poems which are attributed 
 to Rowley. The delusion is, at least, 
 greatly vanished; therefore I need not 
 treat this part of my subject so circum- 
 stantially, and minutely as it has been 
 discussed by others. To omit it, how- 
 ever, would be neglectful; it may not 
 have engaged the attention of many of 
 my audience: to inquire into important 
 truth; to ascertain, and to establish it, 
 must ever be agreeable employments to a 
 reasoning, and reflecting being. And sen-
 
 266 
 
 timent, and generosity will read the dis- 
 puted poetry, with a double pleasure; 
 with a purer, and more forcible enthusi- 
 asm; when they know that it was pro- 
 duced by a most extraordinary person; 
 by an intellectual phaenomenon. As to the 
 internal evidence of the real authour of 
 these poems, it will make an essential, and 
 the most agreeable part of my main ob- 
 ject. The tints, and the fragrance of the 
 roses will expiate the perplexities, and the 
 punctures of the thorns. 
 
 When our young poet was little more 
 than five years old, he was dismissed from 
 school, as a stupid, unimprovable boy. 
 Perhaps, while the elements of knowledge 
 were injudiciously, and rudely inculcated, 
 the mental dawn of the puerile scholar 
 was already working, and rising within 
 him; and while the pedagogue was sink- 
 ing to Erebus, he was already asserting 
 his Olympus. When he was rusticated 
 from Pyle-street, " his mother" (says Mr. 
 Bryant) " took him in hand herself." 
 P. 519. As this gentleman takes every 
 opportunity to pay his equally just, and 
 elegant compliments to my much ad- 
 mired, and much regretted youth: I,
 
 267 
 
 surely, have a right to pay my plain, and 
 unreserved compliments to him ; though 
 I hope that their spirit will be more just, 
 and their language more justifiable. Ca* 
 villing pedants, insulting talents, extort a 
 philological rigour, even from liberal 
 minds. So " his mother took him in 
 n hand herself;" this language is worthy 
 of the Partridge, or of the Thwackum of 
 the glorious Fielding, 
 
 " Mrs. Chatterton" (I quote from Dr. 
 Gregory) " was rendered extremely un- 
 " happy by the apparently tardy under- 
 " standing of her son; till he Jell in love, 
 " as she expressed herself, with the illu- 
 " minated capitals of an old musical ma- 
 " nuscript, in French, which enabled her, 
 " by taking advantage of the momentary 
 " passion, to initiate him in the alphabet. 
 " She taught him, afterwards, to read, 
 " from an old black-lettered Testament, 
 " or Bible." Gregory; p. 4. The Doc- 
 tor judiciously observes that probably 
 these objects by which his eye, and fancy 
 were struck, at an early period of his life; 
 that this very mode of initiating him in 
 the elements of learning, might be the 
 first motives by which he was afterwards
 
 268 
 
 impressed with an attachment to antiqui- 
 ties; an attachment which he prosecuted 
 with so much ardour. I by no means 
 agree with Helvetius, that all who are pro- 
 perly organized, are equally adapted, by 
 Nature, to any acquirements of the mind; 
 and that all future excellence is the result 
 of a choice determined by external, and 
 accidental circumstances: but I have no 
 doubt that as those objects, or circum- 
 stances, attract observation, strike the 
 fancy, and engage the affections, the pow- 
 ers of true genius (which are providenti- 
 ally rare, when we consider the envy, and 
 cruelty of man) are frequently thrown in- 
 to particular motions, and directions. 
 What I have now written is rather anec- 
 dote than evidence: I proceed, therefore, 
 to facts of more decisive proof, 
 
 If Thomas Rowley, the pageant of our 
 criticks, had been the authour of these 
 poems, he must have been extremely dis- 
 tinguished, and celebrated; if hot while 
 he lived, after his death. But not the 
 least notice is taken of him by any old 
 biographer, or historian; not even by 
 William of Worcester, who was himself 
 of Bristol, and frequently mentions Ca-.
 
 269 
 
 nynge. That Canynge, who was a col- 
 lector of curious, and valuable books from 
 all quarters; which were, undoubtedly, to 
 compose his library, should lock up the 
 manuscripts of one particular authour, in 
 a chest that was placed in the tower of a 
 church; and that the lock should have had 
 six keys, which were entrusted to different 
 persons; is a story that could have had no 
 weight but with credulous, positive, and 
 stupid minds. The chest only contained 
 what was often destined to such reposito- 
 ries, in old times; deeds of law; money, 
 and jewels. But if we admit, for a mo- 
 ment, the ridiculous notion; like other 
 incredible fictions, it is fruitful of absur- 
 dities. For the chest was opened; and 
 its contents were taken out, and examin- 
 ed, in the year 17^7 : but till more than 
 forty years after, the name of Rowley was 
 never mentioned; when, in 1768, Chat- 
 terton published, in Farly's Bristol-Jour- 
 nal, and in the old English, an account of 
 the ceremonious, and magnificent open- 
 ing of the old bridge. About that time, 
 Chatterton informed some inhabitants of 
 Bristol, that there were, in his possession, 
 many manuscripts of poems which were
 
 270 
 
 written by Thomas Rowley, a priest, in 
 the fifteenth century. Those manuscripts, 
 he said, were parts of the heap of old 
 writings which were taken from the chest 
 that was in the tower of Red -cl iff church. 
 And thus, according to his account,. they 
 must have been brought to his father's 
 house, in the year 1748, with a great num- 
 ber of parchments that had been depo- 
 sited in the chest. I must here observe 
 that no poems were ever produced as Row- 
 ley's, but by Chatterton. 
 
 I shall quote a passage from Mr. Tyr- 
 whitt, which ingeniously, and effectually 
 exposes the absurdity of this mysterious, 
 and magical chest. 
 
 " Supposing for the present, that such 
 " a whim might have entered into the 
 " head of Canynge as might have led him 
 " to deposite a fair transcript of his 
 " friend's poems in a church-chest rather 
 " than in a library; is it possible to sup- 
 " pose that this transcript was, at that 
 " time, the only existing copy of those 
 ' * poems ? Had the authour destroyed all 
 " his original draughts? Had he never 
 " given any copies to any other person? 
 "Besides, according to the Memoirs of
 
 271 
 
 " Canynge, by Rowley, which Mr. Bry- 
 " ant cites so frequently, Rowley survived 
 " Canynge several years. Was he under 
 " any restriction never to compose any 
 " more poems; nor even an elegy on his 
 " patron's death? Or lastly, could he be 
 " so insensible of even laudable ambition, 
 " as to trust the immortality of his own, 
 " and his friend's fame, to a single copy 
 " of his works, and that locked up in an 
 " almost inaccessible repository?" Tyr- 
 whitt: Vindic: p. 119. 
 
 Chatterton was, in general, very observ- 
 ant of his literary drama; of the person- 
 age, and character, which he had given to 
 Rowley: but he sometimes dropped that 
 attention; naturally claiming his own 
 greatness; or obliquely reproaching an 
 insensible world for neglecting it. He 
 owned to Mr. Barrett that the first part of 
 the Battle of Hastings was his own com- 
 position. Depressed with melancholy, on 
 some particular occasion, before he left 
 Bristol, he wrote a will: even at that 
 juncture, we see the rays of genius dart- 
 ing through the cloud of distress. In 
 that will there is the following memorable 
 clause. ' I leave Mr. Clay field the sincer-
 
 272 
 
 1 est thanks my gratitude can give ; and I 
 6 will, and direct, that whatever any per - 
 1 son may think the pleasure of reading 
 ' my works worth, they immediately pay 
 ' their own valuation to him, since it is 
 6 then become a lawful debt to me; and to 
 
 6 him, as my executor, in that case.' 
 
 " If it should be asked, but why then did 
 " he not explicitly declare himself the au- 
 " thour of the works attributed to Row- 
 " ley? I can only answer, that, possibly, 
 " in the jit of sullen despair, which 
 " had determined him to quit the world, 
 " he might equally disdain, either to con- 
 " fess, or to continue, his imposture." 
 Tyrwhitt: Vindic: p. 1S9. By the ex- 
 pression, my ivorks, nothing could pos- 
 sibly then be meant, but the works which 
 he had published, as Rowley's. Mr. Tyr- 
 whitt supposes a very natural question; 
 Why he did not openly acknowledge him- 
 self the real Rowley? I cannot omit to 
 censure the barbarous, or stupid answer 
 which he gives to that question, as it de- 
 serves. The temper of mind, Mr. Tyr- 
 whitt, which determined him to quit life, 
 was not a Jit of sullen despair, as you 
 have misrepresented it, with an equal
 
 273 
 
 want of judgement, and of enlightened 
 humanity. Nor was it a fit of rage, as it 
 was as uncharitably, or ignorantly, but 
 more savagely termed by your friend, Mr. 
 Bryant. It was the result of a long esta- 
 blished, however erroneous habit of think- 
 ing: it was a consciousness of extraordi- 
 nary endowments, and prerogatives of 
 Nature, insulted by the minions of For- 
 tune; persecuted, and oppressed, with all 
 the horrours of adversity: it was a reso- 
 lution as deliberately formed, as it was 
 firmly executed, to retire from an unequal 
 conflict of exquisite sentiment with an 
 unfeeling world. Mr. Bryant's barbarous 
 taunt, in his expression of rage; the coarse, 
 and merciless insult of a hard, and rough 
 mind, to unfortunate genius, overwhelm- 
 ed with unutterable distress, refers to his 
 tearing of his manuscripts into small 
 fragments, immediately before the fatal 
 catastrophe. This act was not an effect 
 of rage; it was a deliberate, a regularly 
 determined deed; it was a deplorable part 
 of the execution of a tragical plan. I am 
 far from saying, for I am far from think- 
 ing, that his suicide, that any suicide, 
 while we retain our senses, is justifiable: 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 
 
 but there is a splendour, even in the er- 
 rours, and absurdities; there is a splen- 
 dour even in the guilt of great souls ; and 
 I would not have it injured; I would not 
 have it violated; I would not have it 
 clouded, by vulgar, and contaminating 
 breath. To tear his manuscripts into 
 small, illegible pieces, was consistent with 
 his farewell views of the world, on his last 
 melancholy day; it was not an abrupt, and 
 insulated act of impotent rage; it was in- 
 timately connected with his past fortune, 
 and with his approaching fate. In conse- 
 quence of his experience of mankind; in 
 consequence of the sentiments which na- 
 turally flowed from that experience, he 
 did right (fool that I am, myself, to 
 fame, present, and posthumous!) he did 
 right in thus annihilating his inestimable 
 poetical treasures; the world was un- 
 worthy of them. His own sublunary de- 
 struction followed that of his works. The 
 dead is arraigned, and prosecuted: by a 
 petty jury, of beings perfectly at their 
 ease, and, therefore, uninformed, and 
 impassive, in genuine morality, he is pro- 
 nounced guilty, with a sentence of un- 
 qualified condemnation. But where there
 
 275 
 
 is omniscience, there must be mercy, as 
 unerring as it is extensive : in that mercy 
 methinks I see Chatterton comprehended : 
 he obtains a pardon from the Sovereign of 
 the Universe. If I am mistaken, I am in- 
 nocently, and humbly mistaken; but can 
 the following ideas be very repugnant to 
 the nature of the Deity? " Thy conduct, 
 " unfortunate youth, was precipitate, and 
 " violent. To oppose a brave, and perse- 
 " vering breast against the worst evils, is 
 *' the sublimity of virtue: to fly fromsuf- 
 " fering, by flying from life, is, to aban- 
 " don virtue; it is to encroach on My 
 " moral government of the world; it is to 
 " usurp My providence. Thou hast mis- 
 " taken a hopeless resolution for true he- 
 " roism; an act of disdain, for an act of 
 " magnanimity. But 2 am thy heavenly 
 father; and I will treat thee with a leni- 
 ty which thou hast not experienced 
 from thy unnatural brethren, on earth, 
 " I favoured thy birth with the rarest en- 
 " dowments: but My celestial blossoms 
 " are often blighted by the profane frost 
 " of man. Yet by thy immature judge- 
 " ment, and by thy juvenile fire, and 
 " fancy, faults might be mistaken for vir- 
 
 T2
 
 276 
 
 " tues to which they bore some resem- 
 " blance. My knowledge pervades all 
 " things; it is perfectly acquainted with 
 " the stamina; with the essence, with all 
 " the workings of matter, and of mind. 
 " Great pressures; contending forces, 
 " must, sometimes produce dreadful tem- 
 " porary effects, in the physical, and rao- 
 " ral world. There never was a more 
 " excessive sensibility than thine, since 
 " the creation of man: since that time, 
 " there never was a more excessive human 
 " obduracy than that which it was thy 
 " sublunary fate to encounter. An irre- 
 " gular event followed, where consummate 
 66 virtue was requisite to counteract na- 
 66 ture: the fine object was crushed by its 
 " deformed, and heavy foe. This was thy 
 " misfortune only in the moment of thy 
 " life; but it shall be amply redeemed; 
 " for My power of conferring happiness 
 " is infinite; it is commensurate with 
 " space, and w T ith eternity." 
 
 Mr. Walpole is as undistinguishing, and 
 unfeeling, as a Bryant, and aTyrwhitt, on 
 the melancholy subject of the suicide, and 
 its remarkable circumstances. Yet one 
 observation, in the defence, or apology,
 
 277 
 
 to which I have already referred; an ob- 
 servation, which it would be unfair in me 
 not to select, is an excellent reproof of 
 those two criticks, and himself. " He 
 " preserved" (says he) " a dignity in de- 
 " spair." This is a concise, but just, and 
 strong description, of the last act of his 
 tragedy. What a pity it is that this re- 
 mark was not characteristick of the gene- 
 ral strain of what Mr. Walpole hath writ- 
 ten on Chatterton! Oh! si sic omnia 
 dixisset! si sic omnia fecisset! " How 
 " had he blessed mankind, and rescued 
 " me!" blessed the world with a lumi- 
 nary of genius, which is not seen for ages; 
 and rescued me from the melancholy 
 office of paying to one memory my tribute 
 of grief, and admiration; and from the 
 pain of censuring another, with that ex- 
 plicit impartiality which was demanded 
 by justice, and by virtue. While he res- 
 cued me from pain, what pleasure would 
 he have afforded me, in celebrating his 
 well-applied humanity, and generosity to 
 Chatterton ! The novelty of the objects 
 would have attracted, and animated my 
 eulogy: the patron would have been al- 
 most as extraordinary a theme as the poet, 
 
 t3
 
 '278 
 
 in the annals of our English nobility: 
 thanks to an ^indefinable, to a monstrous 
 humanity, which murders while it pro- 
 tects; thanks to a savage taste, which 
 delights in the disfigurement, in the de- 
 struction of a man! The laurels of our 
 Muses droop before the flourishing ho- 
 nours of a Belcher, and a Burke. How is 
 the latter glorious, and immortal name, 
 vilified, and disgraced! 
 
 When vulgar souls; when your Bry- 
 ants, your Tyrwhitts, and your Gregorys, 
 presume to make laws for the rapid, and 
 elevated motions of great minds; when 
 they presume to tell us how they are im- 
 pelled, and affected, in their atchieve- 
 ments; in their exigences; in the pro- 
 gress, and in the accomplishment of their 
 despair; when they talk of their sullen 
 Jits; of their rage; of their bitterness of 
 heart (this is one of the abusive, and in- 
 congruous expressions of Mr. Bryant), 
 they remind us of what Conde said to Tu- 
 renne, when they, were conversing on the 
 anecdotes, and memoirs, which had been 
 published concerning themselves, by pal-, 
 try scribblers: " These fellows" (said 
 Conde) " rnake us think, and speak, and 
 
 ..
 
 279 
 
 "act, just as they would have thought, 
 " and spoken, and acted, if they had been 
 " in our stations, offices, and situations." 
 Am not I wandering strangely, you will 
 say, from the object which I had imme- 
 diately under my consideration? What 
 has all this to do with the external evi- 
 dence that Chatterton was the authour of 
 the antiquated poems ? I think that it is 
 connected with that evidence. All the 
 remarkable passages of the Life of that 
 extraordinary youth were analogous to a 
 great scale of human existence : collated, 
 and compared, they announced the inde- 
 fatigable, the fervid, the exalted mind; 
 they announced the true Rowley. When 
 he knew no want, he habituated himself 
 to a light, and simple diet; that his facul- 
 ties might be the more free, and active, 
 in their generous persuits. When he was 
 desired to make a substantial meal, he 
 used to reply, that " he wished not to 
 " make himself more stupid than God 
 " had made him." Is it not to be se- 
 verely regretted, that this amiable, that 
 this nobly ambitious young creature, 
 should have pined under the pressure of 
 want? But do not you all feel as much 
 
 t4
 
 280 
 
 indignation as myself, at the sullen fit of 
 despair; at the rage; at the bitterness 
 of heart; with which he is charged by a 
 Bryant, and a Tyrwhitt ? do not you all 
 feel as much indignation, and compassion, 
 as myself, when I inform you, that for 
 the three days which preceded the day of 
 his death, he had been absolutely without 
 food? As Mr. Walpole said, " he pre- 
 " served a dignity in despair;" he pre- 
 ferred independence before life. The last 
 period of his existence, and all its pre- 
 ceding tenour, evinced the unparalleled 
 youth, who, in situations extremely un- 
 favourable to liberal learning, had applied 
 intensely to study; had acquired a large 
 fund of various knowledge; and a mas- 
 terly art in various kinds of composition. 
 His unexampled industry, I may say from 
 his infancy, in acquiring ancient, and 
 modern English literature; an industry 
 which his mechanical toil on the barren 
 heath of the law {barren of what I call 
 wealth) could not abate: the engaging, 
 manly, and striking deportment of the 
 boy;- the enthusiasm, the rapture with 
 which he read his Rowley to his acquaint- 
 ance, and friends; and which could only
 
 281 
 
 proceed from a consciousness that he was 
 the man; the fixed, and absorbed atten- 
 tion with which he used to survey Red- 
 clifF church, from Red-clifF meadows; 
 the singular, and ethereal emanations of 
 genius which used to dart from his eye, 
 when his soul was actuated by those di- 
 vine emotions, and agitations, which are 
 unknown, and unimaginable,^.to criticks, 
 to antiquarians; to dunces: all these 
 essential facts, and momentous circum- 
 stances, proclaim him to have been a 
 human prodigy; whose life, though short, 
 was characterized with that force, and 
 originality with which he ivrote; and 
 whose death, more unfortunate than cri- 
 minal, was deplorably distinguished with 
 a corresponding energy. 
 
 How ill Qualified certain persons are (as 
 I have already observed) to criticize the 
 conduct, and character of minds which 
 are extremely different from their own, I 
 shall farther evince by two short quota- 
 tions from Mr. Tyrwhitt. And I hope 
 that in all our literary history their equals 
 are not to be found, for an ignorance of 
 the constitutional, and established ten- 
 dency, and operations of active, and ex-
 
 282 
 
 cursive minds; and for an insensibility to 
 their high achievements, and to their 
 deep distress. " A spice of madness" 
 (says Mr. Tyrwhitt) " I should suspect to 
 " be a common ingredient in a great lite- 
 " rary impostor; and I think it plain, 
 " from various circumstances of Chatter- 
 " ton's personal history, that he had a 
 " proper share of that constitutional qua- 
 " lification." . . . . " We are told by his 
 " sister that she had heard him fre- 
 " quently say, that he found he studied 
 " best toward the full of the moon; and 
 " would often sit up all night, and write 
 " by moon-light The circumstance of 
 " his sleeping very little is confirmed by 
 " the evidence collected by the authour 
 " of Love and Madness. Whether this 
 " wakefulness should be considered as the 
 " cause, or the effect of a distempered 
 " mind, I leave to be determined by the 
 "faculty; it certainly added much to the 
 " time of his active life." Tyrwhitt: Vin- 
 dic: pages 141 153. How constitutional 
 madness is at all connected with literary 
 imposture, I shall leave common sense to 
 determine. If there is a natural connex- 
 ion between them, I can easily prove that
 
 283 
 
 some of the men, to whom Mr. Tyrwhitt 
 habitually, and profoundly bowed, were 
 far fitter for Bedlam than Chatterton was; 
 for their impostures (I am sick of the 
 hackneyed abuse of the word; therefore I 
 hate to use it even where it is deserved) 
 their impostures ended in demonstrating 
 that they were a set of prevaricating, 
 whiffling, trifling creatures: therefore 
 madness might well be attributed to them: 
 they strutted, and fretted their hour upon 
 the stage; for no rational, and interesting 
 end; not to acquire a dignified renown, 
 but to obtain ignominy. But Chatter- 
 ton's was, comparatively, a regular, a 
 systematical insanity, if you will pardon 
 the apparent inconsistency of the expres- 
 sion : his fine fictions reflected a flood of 
 glory on him who formed them; his mad- 
 ness, in letters, was congenial with the 
 madness, in arms, which, with as gross 
 an absurdity, was attributed to Alexander 
 of Macedon ; and not with a little folly, 
 and stupidity, to Charles of Sweden. 
 
 " The conscious moon" (says one of 
 the greatest of poets) " through every 
 " distant age," " hath held a lamp to 
 " ivisdom." But here Mr. Tyrwhitt ap-
 
 284 
 
 prehends that she held a lamp to insanity. 
 Perhaps I may be brought into the predi- 
 cament of madness by these profound 
 judges of human nature, for making a 
 very obvious, and common observation; 
 that the stillness of night, and its sacred 
 luminary's effect on the imagination, of 
 a soft, but impressive religion, and awe, 
 make it a season extremely propitious, in 
 many studious, and active minds, to as- 
 piring contemplation; to noble thought. 
 Our illustrious youth; for making the 
 most of time; for emancipating himself 
 into nocturnal freedom, from the vile 
 vassalage of the day; was entitled to vir- 
 tuous respect, and praise; not to stupid, 
 and profane contempt, and derision. For 
 God's sake, Mr. Tyrwhitt, if you, and 
 your colleagues, must, from your nature, 
 be invariably discreet, and safe; if you 
 must, for ever, be prudently, and uni- 
 formly complaisant; do not class with 
 madness that honourable eccentricity 
 which mounts above your sordid sphere; 
 and acknowledges no centre of its attrac- 
 tion, and revolution, but that of inde- 
 pendence, and glory. Let genius have its 
 vigils, of a regular, but ardent application,
 
 285 
 
 and ambition; unaspersed ; unviolated: 
 and let you, and your friends, " sleep on, 
 " and take your rest;" unmolested; un- 
 censured; if you will respect; if you will 
 spare, your superiours. The tenour of 
 your lives, comparatively with the activity 
 of distinguished talents, is a perpetual 
 sleep; it is, indeed, a sleep, which, from 
 the crudities of undigested words, is often 
 disturbed with a strange perturbation, and 
 confusion; it is often bewildered with in- 
 coherent, and fantastick dreams. 
 
 " Whether this wakefulness" (says Mr. 
 Tyrwhitt) " should be considered as the 
 " cause, or the effect of a distempered 
 " mind, I leave to be determined by the 
 "faculty " None are more apt to per- 
 plex, and obscure, clear, and self-evident 
 cases, in their respective departments, 
 than critical, and medical men. Com- 
 mon sense will easily solve the wakeful- 
 ness of an active, and aspiring mind, 
 into the natural effect of its activity, and 
 strenuous ambition; without having a 
 stuped, and barbarous recourse to insa- 
 nity. The poetical vigils of Chatterton 
 have been the bright vigils of many poets: 
 indeed, to be a poet, is to be a madman,
 
 286 
 
 in the estimation of blockheads. I have 
 no doubt, Mr. Tyrwhitt, that there have 
 been consultations of fools, on the subject 
 of Chatterton's lucubrations; therefore, 
 do not tempt the faculty to expose them- 
 selves, for no good purpose : a consulta- 
 tion of physicians, in this case, would be 
 a work of medical supererogation. 
 
 That neither the capacity of the sup- 
 posed authour, nor the time which he had 
 at his own disposal, made it practicable 
 for him to have composed these poems, 
 will be found, when we consider the stu- 
 pendous abilities, and the intense, and 
 persevering industry of Chatterton, a pre- 
 text as weak, and futile, as all the other 
 sophistry which has been urged in favour 
 of the authenticity of Rowley. As to the 
 time that was requisite for the perform- 
 ance, it is proved, by a calculation of 
 Mr. Tyrwhitt, that if he had written only 
 twelve lines in a day, the poems of Row- 
 ley would have been completed within the 
 year. As far as mere intellectual dili- 
 gence, and labour go, his example has 
 been surmounted: in the application of 
 that diligence, and labour; in working 
 them into the fair, and lofty fabricks of
 
 287 
 
 fancy, it, probably, has never been 
 equalled. Dr. Wotton, at the age of six 
 years, acquired a considerable knowledge, 
 in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew tongues: 
 and we learn from Dr. Johnson's life of 
 John Phillip Barreter, that he was a great 
 adept in five languages, when he was but 
 nine years old. When I come to that part 
 of my plan in which I intend particularly 
 to exemplify the genius of Chatterton, I 
 shall give a surprizing specimen of his 
 early poetical powers; surprizing; for it 
 was written in his twelfth year. This pro- 
 minent circumstance, joined but to a few 
 others of those which I have already in- 
 troduced, are sufficient to decide the 
 question, with any judge who is flexible 
 by reason. It is decided by many words 
 which are in Rowley's poems, and which 
 are no-where else to be found; it is de- 
 cided by Chatterton's adopting of the er- 
 roneous orthography of some words, as 
 they were printed in Kersey's Dictionary; 
 it is expressly decided by his bequest of 
 the contingent value of his works to Mr. 
 Clayfield; and by his owning to Mr. Bar- 
 rett that he himself was the authour of the 
 first part of the Battle of Hastings. Of
 
 288 
 
 what weight against these proofs are the 
 vague, and superficial conversations of 
 Dr. Milles, and Mr. Bryant, with the sages 
 of Bristol, who seem to have had as de- 
 sultory, and childish minds as themselves? 
 Was a Barrett, a Catcott, a Capel, a Ca- 
 rey, and a Ruddall; men of common, and 
 unenlarged understandings (I will allow 
 them the sagacity of the good women, to 
 enforce their authority) were they pro- 
 per, and competent judges of the domes- 
 tick habits, and of the retired exertions of 
 a Chatterton? Had they sense, and li- 
 berality, justly, and generously to account 
 for those peculiarities of manner, which 
 are always the concomitants of original, 
 and great genius; for that majesty of 
 thought which disdains impertinences, 
 and trifles; for that unconquerable si- 
 lence, which is absorbed in beautiful, or 
 grand ideas; were they capable to pene- 
 trate,, and comprehend the juvenile 
 strength of his mind? could they reason- 
 ably presume to estimate what he could 
 effect, by his avarice of time, and by his 
 vigorous, and immortal efforts, in its 
 short duration ? 
 There is one argument equally preju-
 
 289 
 
 diced, frivolous, and pedantick, with 
 which Mr. Bryant often attempts to en- 
 force his chimerical theory; that it is 
 impossible for an authour to write well; 
 or, in other words, to distinguish him- 
 self by his talents, without an intimate 
 acquaintance with the learned languages. 
 I admire, I revere the immortal writers 
 of Greece, and Rome ; I am grateful to 
 their memories : they have recreated ; 
 they have animated; they have delight- 
 ed my solitary hours; to me, they have 
 peopled a dreary, cold, northern desert, 
 with an assemblage of elegant ; of ma- 
 jestic; of god-like existence; the genial 
 warmth of the dead has atoned for the 
 sepulchral chillness of the living. The 
 generous virtues ; the easily accessible, 
 the kind society of the heathen, have 
 expiated to me, as far as my private 
 happiness was concerned (and that, to 
 me, was every thing) the barbarities of 
 the christian world. I am ready to own 
 that their eloquence, their philosophy, 
 and their poetry, received additional 
 charms, and persuasives, from the beau- 
 tiful, and vigorous organs, in which they 
 are conveyed. 1 am ready to own that 
 
 VOL. II. u
 
 290 
 
 " truths divine come mended, from their 
 " tongues."-* Yet let us not, like " the 
 " world's victor," be " subdued by sound;" 
 let us not confound the surface with 
 the essence of things : let us not ascribe 
 the birth; the maturity; the ethereal 
 lustre; the pompous procession of great 
 ideas, and images, to the superstitious 
 talisman ; to the cabalistick force of 
 words. Let us not profanely suppose 
 that original, inventive, and fervid ge- 
 nius, the immediate, and powerfully 
 operative gift of God, cannot work all 
 its destined, and glorious way, unless it 
 is tricked out with the comparatively 
 little meretricious ornaments ; with the 
 comparatively impotent contrivances,, and 
 arts of man. The various, and excel- 
 lent opportunities of mental improve- 
 ment, on our celebrated publick foun- 
 dations, shall ever be respected by me; 
 they cultivate and strengthen a modest 
 mediocrity of talents; the greatest abili- 
 ties, as by such abilities they are used, 
 they enrich, embellish, and recommend: 
 but neither schools, languages, nor uni- 
 versities, can work a torpid sterility, into 
 a luxuriant fertility of nature. They can-
 
 291 
 
 not exercise a moderate intellect into that 
 large capacity which comprize^ all the 
 force, and extent of reason; all the pa- 
 thos, and delicacy of sentiment; all the 
 forms, and colours of imagination; and 
 which is ever taking new light, and new 
 fire, while it admits, and persues them. 
 There is no substitute for genius; it is a 
 rare, and incommunicable species; emi- 
 nently raised above the common sphere 
 of the human kind. And when its ar* 
 dens virtus, or its cequus Jupiter, hath 
 shown it the way that leadeth to Olym- 
 pus; and it once hath set off in its glori- 
 ous course; all its essential requisites; 
 all its exuberant supplies, are within its 
 own attainment ; or at its own command. 
 Two or three plain, and simple questions 
 will confirm this doctrine. How many 
 grave, and elaborate pedants have our 
 schools, and universities produced ? But, 
 in comparison, how few luminous, and 
 highly distinguished writers? Was 
 Shakespeare acquainted with Latin, and 
 Greek? those miraculous intellectual 
 specificks, which animate the dead? Yet 
 what is Plautus, or Terence; what is So- 
 phocles, or Euripides, to him? What 
 
 U 2
 
 292 
 
 O'Keeffe is to Congreve; what Southey is 
 to Pope. Would you see the disagree- 
 able effects of exquisite learning, when it 
 is devoured by an inordinate appetite, 
 and perverted into stubborn phlegm, and 
 gross humours, by a weak digestion?-^ 
 Look into Mr. Bryant, and into the Dean 
 of Exeter. Would you contrast the dis- 
 gusting sight, with viewing the vigorous, 
 and con amove form; the animated flush; 
 the celestial glow of health, and beauty? 
 
 Os> humerosque deo similis ; namque ipsa decoram 
 Cassariem gnato genitrix,lumenque juventae 
 Purpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores : 
 
 Virg. ^neid. Lib. 2d. 
 
 would you view these captivating objects, 
 produced by elegant, and interesting 
 knowledge, easily prepared, and excel- 
 lently digested? I recommend to your 
 earnest attention the pedant's idle youth ; 
 the illiterate, and ignorant transcriber ; 
 the poor charity -boy of Bristol*. 
 
 * No person ever more highly valued all the opportunities, 
 and means of improving the mind than Cicero ; and he prose- 
 cuted them with ardour, and industry. But he gave them only 
 that secondary consequence, above which they will ne?er be 
 esteemed by men of genius: he would not. allow them that pri-
 
 293 
 
 Mr. Bryant allows that " he was con- 
 " versant in Milton, Shakespeare, and 
 " Thomson : beyond these" (adds this 
 diver in Greek, and Latin) " he does not 
 " seem to have aspired." P. 563. In the 
 name of the highest poetry; in the 
 name of the higher, of the Divine Being 
 who gave it, how was it possible for him 
 to aspire beyond a communication with 
 these demi-gods ; unless he had presumed 
 to think of touching the throne of Heaven 
 itself? Thomson, in complete, and vivid 
 descriptions of nature; and in a tender, 
 and sublime morality, which he deduces 
 from those descriptions, leaves the im- 
 mortal authour of the Eclogues, and 
 Georgicks; Shakespeare, in the action, 
 
 mary importance to which they are preposterously raised by 
 weak, and conceited pedants. Hence he makes tho following 
 observations, with a liberality of soul, and with a true know- 
 ledge of human nature. li Ego multos homines excellenti ani- 
 " mo ac virtute fuisse, et sine doctrina, naturae ipsius habitu ? 
 u prope divino, per seipsos : et moderatos, et graves extitisse 
 " fateor. Etiam illud adjungo, sspius ad laudem, atque vir- 
 il tuteniy naturam sine doctrina, quam sine natura valuisse doc* 
 li trinam. Atque idem ego contendo, cum ad naturam eximi- 
 " am, atque illustrem, accesscrit ratio quaedam, conformatioqtis 
 11 doctrina?, turn illud nescio quid praeclarum, ac singulare 
 u solercexistcre." Pro ArchlaPoeta. 
 
 u3
 
 294 
 
 and life of the drama; in a masterly know- 
 ledge of human nature; in the most in- 
 structive, luminous, and forcible poetry, 
 leaves all ancient, and modern dramatick 
 writers ; and Milton, in the choice of his 
 subject; in the grandeur, in the infinity 
 of his objects; in a mind corresponding 
 with them; and in the thunder, and 
 lightning of poetry; leaves every epick 
 muse; the Egeria of Homer himself not 
 excepted, far behind him. But by the 
 ideas of excellence with which Mr. Bry- 
 ant here shows that he was possessed, you 
 see the doting infatuation of men of mere 
 erudition; of criticks, and antiquarians; 
 they have no taste for the pith, they are 
 perpetually nibbling at the shell of learn- 
 ing. Their little interest is engaged in 
 the progression of grammar ; in the pro- 
 sody of language; they imbibe not the 
 easy, yet ardent flow; they mount not 
 with the intrepid, and enthusiastick flights 
 of the poet. They clamber heavily on 
 the Gradus ad Parnassum; they soar not 
 lightly to the holy mountain. In most 
 kinds of composition we equal the an- 
 cients; in works of imagination, but 
 especially in poetry, we far excell them.
 
 295 
 
 Our language, merely as a language, is, I 
 acknowledge, inferiour to the Greek, and 
 Roman tongues; but under the govern- 
 ment of our literary monarchs, it has been 
 made to speak more wonderful things, 
 and consequently, with a more victorious 
 emphasis, than they. Such is the form- 
 ing, such is the creating power of trans- 
 cendent genius. I shall add, that if we 
 duly consider all the advantages, all the 
 excellences of the English tongue; it is, 
 at least, not surpassed by any modern 
 language. Therefore, effectually to re- 
 pell, if it is possible, the pretensions of 
 these presumptuous criticks; to explode 
 their authority, and that of their musty 
 records, I will venture to assert, that, on 
 the strong, and broad foundation of Eng- 
 lish literature, alone; and with that am- 
 bitious industry which is generally the 
 companion of true genius ; it may acquire 
 all the useful information; all the elegant, 
 and sublime knowledge, which are requi- 
 site to embody, and adorn the productions 
 of the man who aspires after immortal 
 glory. When I consider the vast^ and 
 indefatigable application of Chatterton, 
 which was only less astonishing than his 
 
 u4
 
 296 
 
 genius; when I consider the beautiful, 
 and august intellectual fabrick which was 
 raised on that application ; and when I 
 consider the spirit of Shakespeare, Milton, 
 and Thomson, blended with his own; 1 
 trust that you will not think me too 
 proud, or too romantick, if I declare that 
 I would rather possess the knowledge that 
 Chatterton possessed, and the soul with 
 which he was animated, than all the 
 learning of all antiquarians, as it 
 affected their minds; or as it has been 
 transmitted in their labours; from Grce- 
 vius, and Gronovius, down to Bryant, 
 and to Brand. 
 
 Such men as those whom I have in my 
 eye, with all their contempt of superiour 
 minds, do not absolutely understand 
 those English poets whom they have read, 
 and whom they pretend to admire. Mr. 
 Bryant, intending to show that it was 
 impossible for Chatterton to write with 
 such excellence as to merit fame, quotes 
 one of the very fine stanzas of Mr. Gray's 
 beautiful, and celebrated Elegy ; 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bearj 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
 
 297 
 
 Genius may lie dormant, for life, in the 
 breast of the peasant; he may never be 
 rouzed to such a sense of it as may pro- 
 duce its action: no favourable external 
 circumstances may draw it forth : it may 
 not have leisure to feel that consciousness 
 of its powers which impells attempt : it 
 may for ever be buried under its destiny 
 obscure; under that labour which begins, 
 and ends with the day; under the corrod- 
 ing anxieties; under the chilling penury 
 of domestick life. To these " gems of 
 " purest ray serene;" to these " unseen 
 " flowers," the beautifully apposite stanza 
 was applied: not to those geniuses who 
 have been principally self-taught; of 
 whom there have been many examples; 
 who, by some propitious incentive, from 
 without; or by some powerful internal 
 call, have redeemed the misfortunes of 
 their education by judicious, and perse- 
 vering study; have emerged from the 
 shade of obscurity; and have asserted 
 their splendid day. It was ignorance, and 
 rudeness, to apply the verses to a Chatter- 
 ton; to a poetical Alcides; who had al- 
 most in his cradle strangled the deadly 
 foes to the improvement, and exploits of
 
 298 
 
 the mind, poverty, and obscurity; and 
 who, in very early youth, with a rapidity 
 greater than that of Alexander, and with 
 a better glory, had conquered large pro- 
 vinces of knowledge; and a world of 
 imagination. 
 
 I shall quote two passages from Mr. 
 Bryant's book, and take some notice of 
 them, as concisely as I can. Considered 
 in themselves, they are beneath censure; 
 but in superficial times, authours often 
 obtain weight, and authority, from no 
 intrinsick title; it is, therefore, not only 
 fair, but laudable, to endeavour to re- 
 move prejudice, and to do justice to ex- 
 traordinary desert. " How came Chat- 
 " terton by such obsolete and common 
 " words? It may be said, from these very 
 " dictionaries:" [from dictionaries of the 
 Saxon language: from Skinner, and 
 from Kersey:] " but can it be imagined 
 " that by poaching, and purloining, in 
 " this abject manner, he composed these 
 " excellent poems? We may as well 
 " suppose that a pedlar built York- cathe- 
 " dral, by stealing a tile, or a stone, in 
 " every parish that he passed through." 
 Bryant : pages 422, 423. If we read
 
 299 
 
 this passage with attention, it will be dif- 
 ficult to say whether it is more disgrace- 
 ful to the authour, for its unfounded, 
 and stupid contempt; for its miserable 
 attempt at reasoning; or for its still more 
 unfortunate floundering in the bathos of 
 comparison. Mr. Bryant, in all his dis- 
 quisitions concerning the authenticity of 
 these poems, refuses Chatterton any men- 
 tal powers, or leaves them quite out of 
 the question. He is continually robbing 
 the stupendous boy of his native strength, 
 and activity; and giving them all to his 
 literary servants; to his literary instru- 
 ments. The organs of speech are mi- 
 nutely watched; but the mind is totally 
 overlooked, or despised; the mind that 
 worked, that formed, that composed them 
 into a consistent, mellifluous, and illu- 
 mined strain. This incongruity is not 
 very surprizing in men who are almost 
 destitute of mind, themselves ; and whose 
 lives have been devoted to a kind of deli- 
 rious industry, in digging up, and dis- 
 persing the fragments, and ruins of learn- 
 ing; instead of contemplating, and wor- 
 thily describing the beautiful, and august 
 fabricks of the great literary, and poetical
 
 300 
 
 architects. Every reader allows, and ad- 
 mires the powers of Achilles; and when 
 we speak of the " Pelian javelin," that 
 was " in his better hand," we rest not for 
 a moment on the martial weapon; we 
 accompany the vigour, the brandishing, 
 and the missive lightning of its hero. To 
 answer you, Mr. Bryant, in your own 
 humility of simile, I will descend to ob- 
 jects with which I am not very deeply 
 enamoured. Skinner, and Speght, and 
 Kersey, were the grooms, and the whip- 
 pers in, of my mighty hunter; of my 
 poetical Nimrod; but he controuled the 
 motions of these vassals: he was the mas- 
 ter of Ambition's noble chace; he gave 
 the grand, and rapid impulse, in the in- 
 terminable field of glory. You, Sir, and 
 your fraternity, are, in your abject man- 
 ner, the poachers, and the purloiners: 
 you traverse, and hunt, and make dread- 
 ful ravages, and destruction, in the bloom- 
 ing regions of Parnassus, without the least 
 legitimate qualification. The laws of 
 poetry give you no title to commit such 
 depredations : if the world^new you pro- 
 perly; and if you properly knew your- 
 selves, you would be classed with the
 
 301 
 
 lowest of our commoners, in the repub- 
 lick of letters; and yet you have the con- 
 fidence to dispute the privileges of our 
 first peers. As to your simile of York- 
 minster, and the pedlar, it is altogether 
 so inapplicable, so disjointed, and so 
 monstrous a thing, that I despair of fol- 
 lowing it, with any prospect of success; 
 and therefore I abandon the regular per- 
 suit. I shall only observe, that Chatter- 
 ton was a Wren, or a Palladio ; and that 
 you, and such as you, are the little itine- 
 rant pedlars, whose idle, and childish 
 curiosity prompts you to visit the temple 
 which his genius erected: you can only 
 view it with microscopick eyes: your 
 puerile fancies are struck with some in- 
 genious fret- work of a pillar; with some 
 rich colours of a window; all the rest is a 
 height that makes you giddy; an expan- 
 sion in which you are lost. Your little 
 perceptions admit, and are amused with 
 detached particles of the large edifice; but 
 you have not souls to comprehend, and 
 admire, the masterly design; the varie- 
 gated conformity ; the reflecting, and re- 
 flected graces; the grandeur, and the 
 beauty of the whole.
 
 302 
 
 Mr. Bryant, after a long train of infer- 
 ences, which are not supported by one 
 substantial predicate; after many evi- 
 dences, and proofs, which are only 
 founded on his own assertions, at his 
 578th page, favours us with the following 
 curious problem, or discovery. " That 
 " the world arose from chaos, I can easily 
 " imagine, because it was by means of a 
 " divine hand. But that a jargon of 
 " words should produce an Iliad, I cannot 
 " conceive: it is therefore plain that he 
 " was not the authour." Whence, I pray, 
 is this evidence deduced ? Only from your 
 own premises; and who will give them 
 any weight? What man in his senses, who 
 is acquainted with Chatterton's early 
 penetration, and study; and with the 
 writings which were published under his 
 name, will ever suppose that he could 
 make nothing better of our old English 
 than a jargon of words ? It certainly 
 would be difficult to find, in the literary 
 world, more egregious examples than 
 those which I have given in my two last 
 quotations, of the insolence of mecha- 
 nical, and servile memory, to free, and 
 excursive genius. Such criticism (if we
 
 303 
 
 can give the name to effusions of conceit, 
 and obstinacy) deserve the utmost seve- 
 rity of censure. That censure has a be- 
 neficial tendency; it tends to repress a 
 groundless, and supercilious confidence; 
 to vindicate injured merit; and to 
 strengthen, and enlarge the empire of ele- 
 gant, and important truth. Guard, then, 
 for ever, with your just, and benevolent 
 esteem, any liberal, and independent ad- 
 venturer, who devotes his interest, and his 
 life, to the prosperity of that empire, 
 from the false, and malignant stigma, of 
 literary despotism, and abuse. 
 
 I have no doubt that if Chatterton had 
 lived, and if he had been treated by so- 
 ciety as he deserved, he would have disco- 
 vered the almost innocent imposition 
 which he put upon the world. He cer- 
 tainly had many generous, and noble 
 qualities ; but a tenacious, and invincible 
 veracity was not amongst his early vir- 
 tues. Mr. Bryant is as positive, and ab- 
 surd on his moral, as he is on his poetical 
 character. He is either too contemptu- 
 ous, or too respectful to our authour. In 
 the latter treatment, indeed, he seldom 
 errs. On the object, however, which is
 
 304 
 
 now before me, his encomium is unfouncU 
 ed, and extravagant. He confounds a 
 uniformity of fiction; a practical as well 
 as a poetical perseverance, with unshaken 
 integrity. Though that perseverance, in 
 a few instances, gave way to an ingenu- 
 ous ambition ; to the natural, and im- 
 portunate demands of truth. The young 
 Chatterton, with all his disadvantages of 
 education ; with his poor opportunities of 
 inquiry, and information, knew man- 
 kind; knew with what ease they might 
 be duped: he knew their caprices, and 
 extravagances, better than the old Bryant. 
 These verbal cri ticks seem to know no- 
 thing of the great, or small springs that 
 move human nature. One would think 
 that their meditations, and dreams, not 
 under the philosophick shade, but under 
 the grammatical tree of Aristotle; one 
 would think that their anxious nicety to 
 correct passages, and adjust words, kept 
 them in a total ignorance of what is 
 taught in the school of man. " He would 
 " not" (says Mr. Bryant) " avail himself 
 " of praise, to which, he knew, he had no 
 " claim. Had he acted the contrary part, 
 " though he might have been, at last, de-
 
 305 
 
 " tected, yet the immediate advantages 
 " must have been great. But necessitous 
 -" as he was, and humbled, he would not 
 " accept of bread upon those terms: his 
 " spirit was above it." Bryant : pages 
 493-4. Nothing can show inexperience, 
 or inattention, more than this mode of 
 reasoning. If Chatterton, in composing, 
 and fabricating his old poems, had inte- 
 rest principally in view; even this poor 
 charity-boy of Bristol, with an under- 
 standing far surpassing his years, must 
 have known that he would have an infi- 
 nitely better chance to be largely reward- 
 ed for the communication of them, by 
 making the world believe that they really 
 were the productions of Rowley, than by 
 acknowledging that they were his own. 
 Indeed, if he had been a favourite of For- 
 tune, great respect would have been payed 
 to his own compositions. But in viewing 
 this part of my subject, we must not only 
 consider the obscurity of his situation, 
 but likewise the form and pressure of the 
 times. We live in an age, when imita- 
 tion, fashion, power, give popularity to 
 the most despicable trifles; when a base 
 literary complaisance to vanity, and pro- 
 vol. 11. x
 
 306 
 
 fligacy, is far more than an ample substi- 
 tute for manly, disinterested genius; and 
 when a rational, though ambitious per- 
 suit of great intellectual objects is dwin- 
 dled to a doting affection for quibbles of 
 criticism, and baubles of antiquity. In 
 such an age, the poetry of a priest of the 
 fifteenth century, if it was even consider- 
 ably inferiour to that of the fictitious 
 Rowley, would bring far more emolu- 
 ment to its fortunate possessour, than a 
 new Shakespear would gain; if such a 
 bold, but poor adventurer ; if such a self- 
 distinguished prodigy should again arise; 
 and if he should give us tragedies equal 
 to those of Hamlet, Macbeth, and 
 Othello. 
 
 I shall now give a more immediate, and 
 particular attention to the various evi- 
 dences that all the poems which were pub- 
 lished under the name of Rowley, were, 
 undoubtedly, the compositions of Chat- 
 terton. Some of those evidences I have 
 already had occasion to mention : I shall 
 here introduce them with more accuracy. 
 
 There are several words in these poems 
 which are not to be found in any old 
 English writer; and which we may there-
 
 307 
 
 fore conclude that Chatterton himself had 
 formed. For though cri ticks* and anti- 
 quarians may mangle knots which they 
 cannot solve as much as they please, I 
 trust that the arbitrary, and ridiculous 
 notion that those elegant poems were 
 written in provincial dialects, has been suf- 
 ficiently refuted. Words which were used 
 by our best old English authours, have 
 a different signification in Rowley from 
 the meaning which, in those authours* 
 they convey. Legitimate, and well-ap- 
 proved old words are erroneously written; 
 they have palpable orthographical faults. 
 Some new old words, (if I may be allowed 
 the expression) have been formed from 
 other old words which are warranted by 
 good authority; yet they have been form- 
 ed agreeably to the analogy of grammar, 
 and custom. Into some of these errours 
 he has been led by his attention to Ker- 
 sey; but! doubt not that many of them 
 were voluntary errours; ingenious, and 
 seducing peculiarities. It was certainly, 
 at first, the intention of Chatterton to 
 puzzle, as well as to entertain the pub- 
 lick; to stimulate the love of conjecture, 
 as well as to inspire the warmth of admi- 
 
 x2
 
 308 
 
 ration. In both these views, misfortune 
 was successful ; he had a proper contempt 
 for vulgar criticks, and antiquarians; he 
 knew their extravagant, yet insignificant 
 pretensions, and theirimperious demands; 
 and I should have given him a more cor- 
 dial absolution than that of a priest, for 
 meditating his future sport with them; 
 if he had not obliged me to reud them. 
 
 Before we come to the irresistible, and 
 victorious evidences, there are other 
 proofs of an inferiour, or secondary na- 
 ture, which are worthy of our notice; 
 because with every reasonable mind, they 
 will have the force of decisive proofs. In 
 this collection of poems, which has occa- 
 sioned a strenuous war of words, we have 
 two tragedies, Mlla, and Goddwyn, which 
 are written on heroick subjects of our 
 English history. They both abound with 
 high poetical merit; iElla is particularly 
 marked with that character. Now an 
 instance cannot be produced, so early as 
 the fifteenth century, of a drama con- 
 structed on a merely domestick, civil, or 
 military basis. Mysteries, or sacred sub- 
 jects alone, employed, in those days, the 
 rude, and Gothick dramatick muse; and
 
 309 
 
 her coarse, and superstitious productions 
 were acted in monasteries, or in churches. 
 In the tragedy of iElla, we have two pass- 
 ages which are written in blank verse; a 
 species of English versification, which 
 was totally unknown to the age in which 
 Rowley w r as supposed to live. Blank 
 verse was invented in Italy, in the begin- 
 ning of the sixteenth century; and it was 
 first introduced into English poetry by 
 the Earl of Surrey. The various forms 
 of composition ; the profusion of pictu- 
 resque, and striking similes; the beauti- 
 ful, and magnificent groupes of personi- 
 fication, enforced with corresponding 
 charms, and pomp of diction, which cha- 
 racterize these poems, could never have 
 been the poetical atchievements of that 
 barbarous age. And a crowd of the most 
 cogent facts, and circumstances demon- 
 strate that they were the productions of 
 Thomas Chatterton. It is almost de- 
 monstrated even by his closing of stan- 
 zas with the Alexandrine line ; which was 
 not used in English verse till a century 
 after the time of the supposed Rowley. 
 Whoever wishes to see a complete collec- 
 tion of what may be termed the minute, 
 
 x3
 
 310 
 
 collateral, or secondary proofs, judici* 
 ously arranged, and decisively supported, 
 may find it in that book of Mr, Tyrwhitt, 
 to which I have often referred, and to 
 which I have been much obliged,
 
 311 
 
 LECTURE XV. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 I am now entering, with pleasure, more 
 directly on the field of fame. Though I 
 must yet beg leave to make some previ- 
 ous observations. Mr. Bryant gives us 
 long quotations from some of our old 
 poetical barbarians, who are, however, 
 his particular favourites, to show their 
 equality to the spirit, and taste of Row- 
 ley. I shall more explicitly refer to those 
 quotations, in a proper place: they will 
 supersede all argument against Mr. Bry- 
 ant, on the subject: they will convince 
 you of an absurdity of comparison, 
 which, if they should not be produced, 
 you would not believe to be possible. In 
 another way, he gives a mortal stab to his 
 
 x4
 
 312 
 
 own cause: he opposes one passage to 
 another of Spenser; and he gives us an 
 extract from Spenser, which he contrasts 
 with an extract from a poem of Sir John 
 Cheeke, which he wrote on the death of 
 Edward the Sixth. The former quotation 
 from Spenser is rough, and altogether 
 unharmonious; the latter is poetically 
 flowing, and musical. The extract from 
 Spenser, with which that from Cheeke is 
 contrasted, is rugged, and harsh; the spe- 
 cimen from Cheeke is observant of the 
 measure, and the ear. He must have 
 fancied, however, that he was very closely 
 urged in maintaining his hypothesis ; for 
 he reduces himself to the necessity of 
 quoting a line and a half, or a single line, 
 from his illustrious bards, to show that 
 they were as great masters in the com- 
 plete art of poetry, as his friend Rowley. 
 There, he needed not to have been so 
 parsimonious; so profuse, and injudici- 
 ous he is, at other times, in bringing quo- 
 tations to support that critical sophistry, 
 which those very quotations refute. From 
 these examples he positively infers, that 
 by the flow, and polish of the numbers, 
 we cannot even probably conjecture the
 
 313 
 
 age in which the poet wrote them. But 
 from these examples may we not conjec- 
 ture; may we not safely affirm; may we 
 not, without any pedantick arrogance, 
 insist on the reverse? Do they not plainly 
 show that a regular, and uniform ele- 
 gance, and harmony of poetical compost- 
 tion, was far from being established ; was 
 far from being acquired; was far from 
 being known in England, even in the 
 sixteenth century? Is it possible more 
 effectually to evince the futility of his 
 theory, and of the object for which it 
 contends, than to observe, that, of his 
 two contrasted quotations from Spenser, 
 and from the same poem (a poem of in- 
 considerable length) the former passage 
 is extremely rude, and dissonant; and 
 the latter very smooth, and flowing; and 
 that in all the poems of his Rowley, there 
 is not a line so unmeasured, and rough, 
 as those harsh verses are which he quotes 
 from Spenser? I shall close what I can- 
 not but at present think a climax of evi- 
 dent, and incontrovertible confutation, 
 by farther observing, that almost every 
 one of the three thousand lines of which 
 Rowley consists, are modulated with a
 
 3U 
 
 harmony that would have been approved 
 by Pope, These lines exhibit various 
 poetical treasures ; simple, and interest- 
 ing pastorals; beautiful, and pathetick 
 elegies: eloquent tragedies, with diver- 
 sified, and prominent characters; and 
 the vigour, and sublimity of the epick 
 muse. I can never recollect all this as- 
 semblage of almost incredible juvenile 
 excellence, without indignation for the 
 treatment, and grief for the catastrophe of 
 its authour. Of absurdity can there be 
 a greater combination; of absurdity can 
 there be a greater monster; than to sup- 
 pose that elegant, and emphatical forms 
 of composition were produced ; and that 
 this harmony was attuned, by our monks, 
 and priests, and Goths of the fifteenth 
 century? When I mentioned the har- 
 mony that would have been approved by 
 Pope, I might have mentioned the har- 
 mony that would have been approved by 
 Milton; the harmony of our divine later 
 poet, who has been undervalued by pe- 
 dantry, and who has been treated with 
 contempt by some ignorant coxcombs of 
 the present age, was more applicable to 
 my present ruling object; because Chat-
 
 315 
 
 terton wrote principally in rhyme. But 
 as Milton is the greatest master of the 
 elevation; of the grandeur; of the creative 
 powers of poetry; so is he, of its graces. 
 It was not mere rhyme which constituted 
 the harmonious versification of Pope; his 
 tuneful soul lived ; it flowed along the 
 line. The want of rhyme; that little, 
 but significant ornament, when it is ap- 
 plied by a great master, could not be un- 
 favourable to the harmony of Milton; 
 perhaps it was advantageous to it; per- 
 haps, from that want, his harmony had a 
 gravity; a dignity; a free, and overpow- 
 ering force; worthy, and characteristick 
 of the objects which it displayed. He 
 was, in the long maturity of genius, what 
 Chatterton was, while he anticipated his 
 meridian; a comet of rare appearance/ 
 and of the first magnitude, in the poetical 
 sky. His manner of. writing, I mean, in 
 his poetry, whatever illiberal prejudice, 
 or short-sighted criticism may have said, 
 must have been pronounced easy, and 
 elegant language, by the best judges, of 
 our Augustan age. He was as much a 
 master of the tender, and beautiful, as he 
 was, of the striking, and -sublime. He
 
 316 
 
 shook off the cumbrous apparel of his 
 age; and he seized, not merely in pro- 
 phetick vision, but in substance, the 
 more graceful dress of a future aera. In 
 style, as in imagination, " he passed the 
 " bounds of place, and-time." 
 
 I shall take the liberty to recommend 
 the poems which were written in old 
 English by Chatterton, and which were 
 published by hirn, as Rowley's, to the at- 
 tention, to the perusal of this audience. 
 Their trouble of applying to a glossary, 
 for the meaning of the antiquated words, 
 will be exuberantly repayed by rich veins 
 of poetry. This use, however, of our an- 
 cient idiom, and language, will prevent 
 me from giving as large examples of the 
 genius of the poet, as I should wish, in 
 my present vindication of his merit, to 
 display. For it is my desire rationally to 
 entertain, not pedantically to fatigue 
 you. But as to treat any object of dig- 
 nity superficially, is, indeed, a disrespect 
 to those to whom we mean to give infor^ 
 mation, or pleasure, by communicating 
 our views of those objects, I have been 
 carefully on my guard against that negli- 
 gence. And as I thought it incumbent
 
 317 
 
 on me to confute groundless, and perverse 
 criticism; and to repell ungenerous, and 
 insolent contempt, with particular inves- 
 tigation, and remonstrance; I shall, for 
 once, be fortunate in my literary endea- 
 vours, if my introduction, and discussion 
 of minuter objects, hath not been tedious, 
 or altogether uninteresting. Therefore 
 in the examples which I shall now pro- 
 duce, I hope that the lustre of unequalled 
 young genius will not be obscured by the 
 veil of antiquity. If you will but be 
 pleased to observe the harmony of the 
 verse (if I could do it justice in reciting it) 
 that alone will convince you of the ex- 
 travagant absurdity of giving it to the 
 fifteenth century. I shall first quote the 
 following introductory lines to the second 
 canto of the Battle of Hastings; because 
 I flatter myself that I have the objects of 
 their prayer, as much in practice, as I 
 have them at heart. 
 
 Oh ! Truth ! immortal daughter of the skies ; 
 
 Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies ; 
 
 Teach me, fayre saincte ! thy passynge worth to pryze; 
 
 To blame a friend, and give a foeman praise. 
 
 There is a new, and fine poetical image
 
 318 
 
 in iElla; where Birtha says to that 
 hero; 
 
 Thy name alleyne wylle putte the Danes to flyghte ; 
 The ayre thatt beares y tt woulde presse downe the foe. 
 
 Jl\a. v. 340. 
 
 Here is a passage in MUa, boldly charac- 
 terized with the imagery, and eloquence 
 of the tragick, and epick muse : 
 
 Soldyers. 
 Onn, /Ella, onn; we longe for bloddie fraie; 
 Wee longe to here the raven synge in vaynej 
 Onn, jElla, onn ; we certys gayne the daie, 
 Whanne thou doste leade us to the leathal playne. 
 
 Celmonde. 
 Thie speche, O Louerde, fyreth the whole trayne ; 
 Theie pancte for war, as honted wolves for breathe } 
 Go, and sytte crowned on corses of the slayne; 
 Go, and y wielde the massie swerde of deathe. 
 
 iEUa. v. 663. 
 
 The exploits of iElla are nobly painted, 
 in a martial, and energetick description: 
 
 Nor dydde hys souldyerres see hys actes yn vayne 
 Heere a stoute Dane uponne hys compheere felle; 
 Heere lorde, and hyndleette sonke uponne the playne > 
 Heere sonne, and fadre trembled ynto helle.
 
 319 
 
 Chief Magnus sought hys waie; and, shame to telle! 
 Hee soughte hys wai for flyghtej botte ^Ella's speere 
 Uponne the flyynge Dacyannes schoulder fellej 
 Quy te throvve hys boddie, and hys harte ytte tare ; 
 He groned, and sonke uponne the gorie greene; 
 And wythe hys corse encreased the pyles of Dacyannei 
 sleene. 
 
 JEW*, v. 774. 
 
 Of his talents for pastoral poetry I can 
 give a very happy specimen, by extract- 
 ing some passages from the Minstrel's 
 first song in iElla. I do some injustice to 
 the song, by not quoting it all. 
 
 " MynstrelW s Song, bie a Manne, and JVbmanne." 
 
 Manne. 
 Tourne thee to thie shepsterr swayne ; 
 
 Bryghte sonne has ne droncke the dewe, 
 From the floures of yellowe hue ; 
 
 Tourne thee Alyce, backe agayne. 
 
 Womanne. 
 No, bestoikerre, I wylle go, 
 
 Softlie tryppynge o'ere the mees; 
 Lyche the sylver-footed doe, 
 
 Seekeynge shelterr yn grene trees. 
 
 Manne. 
 See the moss-growne daisey'd banke, 
 
 Pereynge ynne the streme belowe; 
 Here we'lle sytte, in dewie danke ; 
 
 Tourne thee, Alyce, do notte goe.
 
 320 
 
 Womanne. 
 I've hearde erst mie grandame saie, 
 
 Yonge damoyselles schulde ne bee, 
 Inne tbeswotie moonthe of Maie, 
 
 Wythe yonge menne bie the gvene wode tree. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Marine. 
 See ! the crokynge brionie 
 
 Rounde the popler twyste hys spraie ; 
 Rounde the oake the greene ivie 
 
 Florryschethe, and lyveth aie. 
 
 Let us seate us bie thys tree, 
 
 Laughe, and synge to lovynge ayres ; 
 
 Comme, and doe notte coyen bee; 
 Nature made all thynges bie payres. 
 
 Womanne. 
 Tempte meene to the foule thynge; 
 
 I wylle no mannes leuisnne be ; 
 Tyll syr preeste hys songe doethe synge, 
 
 Thou shalt neere fynde aught of mee, 
 
 Manne. 
 Bie our ladie her yborne, 
 
 To-morrovve, soone as ytte ys daie, 
 I' lie make thee wyfe, ne bee forsworne, 
 
 So tyde me lyfe or dethe for aie. 
 
 Womanne. 
 Whatt dothe lette, botte thatte now 
 
 We attenes, thos hondeyn honde, 
 Unto divinistre goe, 
 
 And bee lyncked yn wedlocke bonde :
 
 321 
 
 Manne. 
 I agree, and thus I plyghte 
 
 Honde, and harte, and all that's myne ; 
 Goode Syr Rogerr, do us ryghte, 
 
 Make us one, at Cothbertes shryne. 
 
 Bothe. 
 We wylle ynn a bordelle lyve, 
 
 Hailie, thoughe of no estate; 
 Everyche clocke moe love shall gyve \ 
 
 Wee ynn godenesse wylle bee greate. 
 
 ^Ella. v. 87. 
 
 I should suppose that you would rather 
 wish to see all, the variety of poetical ta- 
 lent of this young favourite of the nine 
 muses. You will certainly allow that he 
 was equal to the tender melancholy of 
 elegy, when I give you some lines from 
 his Elinoure, and Juga. This poem was 
 sent to the man who deprived himself of 
 the high honour of giving an easy, and 
 effectual protection, and encouragement 
 to Chatterton. It was, indeed, a most 
 extraordinary performance, from a boy. 
 Whether he had sent it as his own, or as 
 the production of another, will always be 
 of very little consequence with generous 
 minds, when they reflect that such poeti- 
 cal excellence was atchieved by tender 
 
 VOL. II. Y
 
 322 
 
 years. It would have affected into liber- 
 ality any literary heart but that of a 
 Walpole. 
 
 Elinoure, and Juga. 
 
 Onne Ruddeborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate; 
 Theire teares faste dryppeynge to the vvaterre cleerej 
 Echone bementynge for her absente mate, 
 Wha atte Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge 
 speare. 
 
 Juga. 
 When mokie clouds do hange upon the leme 
 Of ledenmoon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte; 
 The tryppeynge faeries weve the golden dreme 
 Of selyness, whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte ; 
 Thenne (botte the seynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryte 
 Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'llholde dystraughte 
 Hys bledeynge claie-colde corse, and die eche daie ynn 
 thoughte. 
 
 Elinoure. 
 Ah, woe bementynge wordes! what wordes can shewel 
 Thou limed ryver, on thie linche maie bleede 
 Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres 
 
 fiowe*, 
 And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede ! 
 Haste, gentle Juga, try ppe ytte oere the meade, 
 To knowe, or wheder we muste waile agay'ne % 
 Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain.
 
 323 
 
 Soe sayinge, lyke tvva levy n- blasted trees, 
 
 Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne ; 
 
 Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees, 
 
 To where seyncte Albons holie shrynes remayne. 
 
 There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were 
 
 slayne ; 
 Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes syde, 
 Yelled theyre leathalle knelle; sonke ynn the waves, and 
 
 dyde. 
 
 I shall now recite three stanzas from 
 the second* part of the Battle of Hast- 
 ings: they contain the most animated, 
 and lively descriptions of the horrours, 
 and the beauties of nature; and of the 
 " pomp, pride, and glorious circumstance 
 " of war;" conveyed in that vigorous, and 
 nobly sounding verse, which the subject, 
 and its images require, and deserve. Let 
 it be remarked, here, that Chatterton 
 avowed himself to Mr. Barrett to be the 
 real authour of the first part of the Battle 
 of Hastings. Who, then, can reasonably 
 dispute that he wrote the second part? 
 When we reflect on this direct avowal, 
 
 * I should have given a quotation or two from the first part 
 of the Battle of Hastings, Chatterton's own avowed work, had 
 it not chiefly contained descriptions of the great variety of 
 wounds by which the heroes fell in battle: it was, in that re- 
 spect, too Homerick for my taste. 
 
 y2
 
 324 
 
 and on the elegance, and force of com- 
 position, in the following lines; can we, 
 for a moment doubt that he was the au- 
 thour of all the poetry which is ascribed 
 to Rowley ! -> 
 
 As when the erthc, torne by convulsyons dyre, 
 In reaulmes of darkness, hid from human syghte, 
 The warring force of water, air, and fyre, 
 Brast from the regions of eternal nyghte, 
 Thro the darke caverns seeke the reaulmes of lyght ; 
 Some loftie mountaine, by it's fury torne, 
 Dreadfully moves, and causes grete affryght ; 
 Nowe here, nowe there, majestic nods the bourne, 
 And awfulle shakes, mov'd by the Almighty force ; 
 Whole woods, and forests nod, and ryvers change theyr 
 course. 
 
 So did the men of war at once advaunce, 
 Linkd man to man,enseemed one boddie light ; 
 Above, a wood, yform ? d of bill, and launce, 
 That noddyd in the ayre, most straunge to syght. 
 Harde as the iron were the menne of mighte; 
 Ne neede of slughornes ; to enrovvse theyr mindej 
 Eche shooty age spere yreaden for the fyghte j 
 More feerce than fallynge rocks, more swefte than 
 
 wynd, 
 With solemne step, by ecclioe made more dyre, 
 One single boddie all theie marchd, theyr eyen on fire. 
 
 And now the gveic-eyd morn with vi'letsdrest, 
 Shakyng the dew-drops on the flourie meedes, 
 Fled with her rosie radiance to the west j
 
 325 
 
 Forth from the easterne gatte the fyerie steedes 
 Of the bright sunne awaytynge spirits leedes : 
 The sunne, in fierie pompe cnthrond on hie, 
 Svvyfter than thoughte alonge hys jernie gledes, 
 And scatters nyghtes remaynes from oute the skie : 
 He sawe the armies make for bloudie fraie; 
 And stopt his driving steedes, and hid his lyghtsome raye. 
 
 Battle of Hastings : Part lid. p. 1 9 1 . 
 
 To warrant all that I have said of Mr. 
 Bryant's critical justice, and taste, let me 
 request you to endure a single quotation 
 from one of his highly admired old Eng- 
 lish poets. In my manner of introducing 
 this quotation, I shall take care, however, 
 to do ample justice to his very extraordi- 
 nary comparison of one poet with ano- 
 ther. It shall be introduced, and fol- 
 lowed, with his own words. The quota- 
 tion is taken from an old poem, entitled, 
 " The Ploughman's Vision;" which was 
 written in the fourteenth century, by 
 Robert Langelande of Cleyberie. " He 
 " is not only" (says Mr. Bryant) " in re- 
 " spect to diction, as ancient;" [as Row- 
 ley] " a circumstance we might well ex- 
 " pect; but oftentimes as modern, though 
 " a century before him. But though he 
 " abounds with antique terms, yet his 
 
 y3
 
 326 
 
 ' diction is clear, and his words flow for 
 ' the most part in their natural order; 
 ' and his arrangement, in most instan- 
 6 ces, varies very little from that which is 
 ' in use at this day. His lines are often 
 6 extended to fifteen syllables, but gene- 
 6 rally are fewer; and the metre is a kind 
 6 of imperfect anapaestick measure; at- 
 
 * tended with an uniform alliteration. I 
 ' will give a sample of some of the verses, 
 ' where the poet represents himself as 
 ' taking a view of Nature, which he calls, 
 
 * kind: 9 
 
 And slepyng I se all thys, and sythen ca.vaekind t 
 And named me by name, and bade me nimen hede, 
 And through the wonders of this world wyt to take : 
 And on a mountain in the mydle erth hight as me 
 
 thought 
 I was fette forth by ensamples to know, 
 And through ech creature, and kynd, my Creatour to 
 
 love. 
 I se the sunne, and the sea, and the sonde after, 
 And where the brydes and beastes by her makes they 
 
 yeden 
 Wyld wormes in woodcs, and wonderful fowles. 
 
 Byrdes I beheld that in bushes made nestes ; 
 
 Had never wyghte wytte to worke the leste. 
 
 I had wonder at whom and where the pie learned 
 
 To lygge the stickes, in which she layeth, and breadeth. 
 
 Nys wryght, as I wene, could worch her nest to pay.
 
 327 
 
 And yet me marvelled more, ho we many other bird* 
 Hydden, and hylden her egges full derne 
 In maryesand mores, for men should hem not find: 
 And hydden her egges, when they therfro went, 
 For fear of other fowles, and for wylde beastes. 
 
 And sithen I loked on the sea, and so forth on the starres. 
 
 Many selkouthes I see, but not to se now. 
 
 I see floures in the frythe and her fayre colours, 
 
 And how among the grene grasse growed so many huis, 
 
 And some sour, and some swete; selkought me thought: 
 
 Of her kindes, and of her coloures to carp it were long. 
 
 Ploughman's Vision: fol. 58. 
 
 So much for Pierce Ploughman; alias, 
 Robert Langelande of Cleyberie; and 
 his kind of imperfect anapcestick mea- 
 sure. I beg your pardon for giving you 
 the pain of hearing all this wretched stuff. 
 I thought that in justification of the es- 
 teem in which I hold Mr. Bryant's lite- 
 rary merit, to vouch this criterion of his 
 critical acumen, and of the aptitude of 
 his mind to receive poetical impressions, 
 was a duty which I owed to myself. As I 
 did not chuse altogether to murder your 
 patience, I have not quoted as far as the 
 verses which are praised for their high 
 colouring, and which are honoured with 
 the supposition of Milton's knowledge, 
 
 Y4
 
 328 
 
 and imitation of them. I certainly stop- 
 ped in time: you have lost nothing: what 
 I have quoted is just as good as what fol- 
 lows. It is not improbable that Milton 
 never saw those famous verses: their au- 
 thour has personified human diseases; 
 Milton did the same. Does it follow that 
 Milton took the idea from this Plough- 
 man? The idea was natural, and easy: 
 it was obvious to genius; it might have 
 been laboured into birth by a dunce. 
 But criticks will always take the circum- 
 bendibus of a Lumkin, instead of the 
 plain, and direct road. They are for ever 
 distorting the common, and easy effects 
 of nature, into the affected, and painful 
 efforts of labour, and art. Thus, while 
 they triumph in their erudition, they only 
 expose their stupidity. 
 
 The " Bristowe Tragedie;" or, the 
 " Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin," is an 
 uncommonly beautiful poem; it is writ- 
 ten with as much^accuracy as animation; 
 and though it consists of 392 lines, it has 
 but one word which is not perfectly intelli- 
 gible to English readers, of common edu- 
 cation, at this day; another proof, if we 
 want another, that these poems could not
 
 329 
 
 have been written in the fifteenth century. 
 The poem abounds with pathetick, and 
 tragical description; with a pious, and 
 elevated strain of Christian morality ; and 
 with the magnanimous eloquence of the 
 dying hero. I flatter myself that some 
 extracts from it will not be unacceptable 
 to my audience. That I may not be too 
 prolix, I must quote it to its disadvan- 
 tage: for I shall be obliged, in some de- 
 gree, to break its even, and invigorating 
 connexion. 
 
 Wee all must die, quod brave Syr Charles ; 
 
 Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne j 
 Detbe is the sure, the certaine fate 
 
 Of all wee mortall menne. 
 
 Saye, why, my friend, thie honest soul 
 
 Runnsoverr, att thyne eye; 
 Is ytte for my most welcome doome 
 
 Thatt thou doste chikUlykc crye ? 
 
 Before I sawe the lyghtsomesunne, 
 
 Thys was appointed mee ; 
 Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge 
 
 Whatt Goddeordeynes to bee ? 
 
 Howe oft ynne battaile have I sloode, 
 
 Whan thousands dy'd arounde; 
 Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode 
 
 Imbrcw'd the fatten'd grounde :
 
 330 
 
 Howe dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte 
 
 That cutte the airie waie, 
 Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 
 
 And close myne eyes for aie ? 
 
 And shall I nowe,for feere of dethe 
 Looke wanne, and bee dysmayde ? 
 
 Ne! fromm my herte flie childy she feere, 
 Be alle the manne display'd. 
 
 *###### 
 
 Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, 
 
 Of parents of grete note; 
 My fadre dydd a nobile amies 
 
 Emblazon onnehys cote: 
 
 I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone 
 
 Where soone I hope to goe ; 
 Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 
 
 From oute the reech of woe. 
 
 Hee taughte mee justice and the laws 
 
 Wyth pitie to unite; 
 And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe 
 
 The wronge cause from the ryghte: 
 
 Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande 
 
 To feede the hungrie poore, 
 Ne lett mye servants dry ve awaie 
 
 The hungrie fromme my doore : 
 
 And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe 
 
 I have hys wordyes kept ; 
 And summ'd the actyonns of the daie 
 
 Eche nyghte before I slept.
 
 331 
 
 I have a spouse, goe aske of her, 
 
 Yffldefyl'd her bedde ? 
 I have a kynge, and none can laie. 
 
 Blacke treason onne my hedde. 
 
 Whatte tho' I onne a sledde be drawne, 
 
 And mangled by a hynde, 
 1 doe defye the traytor's pou'r; 
 
 Hee can ne harm my mynde ; 
 
 Whatte tho' uphoisted onne a pole, 
 Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre 
 
 And ne ryche monument of brasse 
 Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; 
 
 Yett ynne the holie booke above, 
 Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, 
 
 There wy the the sarvants of the Lorde 
 Mye name shall ly ve for aie. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Sweet Florence! novve I praie forbere, 
 
 Ynne quiet lett mee die ; 
 Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule 
 
 May looke onne dethe as I. 
 
 Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teeres? 
 
 Theye washe my soule awaie, 
 And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, 
 
 Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie. 
 
 'Tys butt a journie I shall goe 
 
 Untoe the lande of blysse; 
 Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, 
 
 Receive thys holie kysse.
 
 332 
 
 Then Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, 
 Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, 
 
 Ah, cruele Edwarde,bloudiekynge! 
 My herte ys well nyghe broke : 
 
 Ah, sweete Syr Charles ! why wylt thou goe, 
 
 Wythoute thye lovyng wyfe ? 
 The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, 
 
 Ytte eke shall ende mye life. 
 
 I have reserved for the last magnificent 
 display of the old poetry of this wonderful 
 boy, the greater part of the chorus, with 
 which his second tragedy of Goddwynn is 
 concluded. It appears to me that for 
 propriety, and sublimity of sentiment, 
 imagery, and personification, with which 
 this chorus is superlatively distinguished, 
 the boasted talent in writing odes, of the 
 Greek, and Roman schools, must yield 
 the palm to Mr. Bryant's charity- scholar 
 of Bristol; who seems, here, in the dawn 
 of youth, to enter the lists, and to main- 
 tain a glorious, and a dubious tourna- 
 ment, with our immortal Dry den; an old, 
 and hoary, but vigorous, and accomplish- 
 ed cavalier; clad in the splendid panoply 
 of poetical armour; cruda deo, viridis- 
 que senecta.
 
 333 
 
 Part of the chorus which concludes 
 the tragedy of Goddwyn : 
 
 Whan Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste, 
 
 To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, 
 Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde j 
 A gorie anlace bye her honge. 
 
 She daunced onne the heathe ; 
 
 She hearde the voice of deathe ; 
 
 Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, 
 
 In vayne assayled henbosomme to acale ; 
 She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe ; 
 And sadnesse in the owlette shake the dale. 
 She shooke the burled speere, 
 On hie she jeste her sheelde, 
 Herfoemen all appere, 
 And flizze alonge the feelde. 
 Power, wy the his heafod straught ynto the skyes, 
 
 Hys speere, a sonne-beame, andhissheelde, a sfcarre, 
 Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes, 
 Chaftes with hys yronnefeete, and soundesto war. 
 She syttes upon a rocke, 
 She bendes before hys speere ; 
 She ryses from the shocke ; 
 Wieldynge her owne yn ayre. 
 
 In this chorus he hath personified pow- 
 er with an almost unequalled expression, 
 force, and sublimity. Permit me again 
 to recite four lines of that personification ; 
 after having modernized the old words ? 
 that the creating genius of the poet may
 
 334 
 
 have a more unobstructed, and stronger 
 effect : 
 
 Power, with his head exalted to the skies ; 
 
 His spear, a sun-beam-, and his shield a star; 
 Flashing their flame, like meteors, rolls his eyes; 
 
 Stamps with his iron feet, and sounds to war. 
 
 Here, you surely have poetical invention; 
 here you have the grand imagery of the 
 epick strain ; Algarotti's gigantesca sub- 
 limit a Miltoniana, in perfection : and all 
 this you have from, a poor boy, of ex- 
 tremely hard fortune, and circumscribed 
 opportunities ; and which he probably 
 wrote in his fifteenth year. Now, I de- 
 clare, before this respectable assembly, 
 that I should have been so queer, absurd, 
 and romantick a merchant (if my fate had 
 sunk me down to the squalid mines of 
 Peru, instead of leading me to the laurel- 
 groves of Academus) that for these asto- 
 nishing bursts of genius, I should have 
 forgiven the unexperienced youth, with 
 a gentle, and divine remonstrance, which 
 I wish that in many cases we could practi- 
 cally adopt; " go, and sin no more, lest 
 " a worse thing befall thee;" I should 
 have forgiven him, if he had even com-
 
 335 
 
 mitted a forgery on my counting-house. 
 Let not the cautious be shocked; let not 
 the obdurate rail; my sacrifice to poetry 
 would have been sanctioned by the sacri- 
 fice which I owed to Christianity; which 
 I owed to genuine morality. He was of 
 a tender, and flexible age; and that ten- 
 derness, and flexibility, conducted by a 
 humane, and generous hand, would have 
 raised him to a high maturity, and stabi- 
 liment in virtue. The juvenile nobleness 
 of soul that would have been reared, and 
 invigorated by an Allworthy, was de- 
 pressed, and chilled to death, by a WaU 
 'pole, I know that for the legal felony 
 which I have mentioned, our commercial 
 Indians would immediately have raised 
 the war-whoop, and have had him by the 
 neck. But I trust that I have not so 
 learned, or, to speak properly, unlearned 
 Christ, I trust that I have not so far for- 
 gotten some good heathenish doctrines of 
 disinterested humanity; of moral expan- 
 sion: I trust that I am not such a preju- 
 diced, and national dupe to unequal, and 
 sanguinary laws; of which the very unre- 
 flecting, and precipitate rigour, is the 
 principal cause, in an exemplary view, of
 
 336 
 
 their ineffectual, and despised execution. 
 What, then, shall we think of the cold, 
 and hard reflexions ; of the cruel, and in- 
 sulting epithets, and titles, which were 
 heaped on the memory of extreme genius, 
 and misfortune, by the prudence, and 
 sanctity of the age; for impositions which 
 did no injury to an individual, or to so- 
 ciety; and which, if they had not, to good, 
 and warm hearts, been redeemed by their 
 glory, would have been pardoned by them, 
 for the youth of the offender, and for the 
 smallness of the offence. The effects of 
 those impositions would have been almost 
 perfectly innocent, if they had not pro- 
 duced a disputatious, and uncharitable 
 fever in the spiritual constitutions of the 
 discreet saints of the earth; if they had 
 not excited tantas iras animis celestlbus. 
 
 I come now to Chatterton's miscella- 
 nies; to the pieces which were published 
 with his own name; and most of which 
 are written in a modern style. Here 
 Mr. Bryant erects his antique triumphal 
 arch of criticism: here, crowned with a 
 civick wreath, as the victorious champion 
 for the poetical honours of old England, 
 he loudly claims for his much injured,
 
 337 
 
 and insulted Rowley, the foolishly dis- 
 puted laurel. According to the various 
 formation of the mind of man, it was, 
 unfortunately in human fate, that I 
 should differ extremely from this gentle- 
 man in my literary, and poetical senti- 
 ments, and taste. The very strongest 
 evidences, in his judgement, which he 
 brings to prove the truth of his rivetted 
 opinion, or rather of his absolute cer- 
 tainty, beyond a shadow of doubt; in my 
 humble opinion, invincibly demonstrate 
 the reverse. The flight of the muse must 
 be directed to the elevation of her objects ; 
 the miscellaneous, and modern poems of 
 Chatterton were occasional productions; 
 they were written on subjects of inferiour 
 dignity to those which inspired his old 
 poetry; and which therefore demanded a 
 greater vigour, and sublimity of numbers. 
 But even in these compositions of a se- 
 condary pith, and moment, a genius of 
 the most happy versatility; richly vari- 
 ous, beautiful, grand, and masterly; with 
 powers infinitely beyond his years, may 
 be distinctly, and prominently seen, by 
 unprejudiced, and sensible readers; who 
 are unaffectedly susceptible of the warmth, 
 
 VOL. II. z
 
 338 
 
 and delight which are communicated by 
 poetry. But these high poetical proper- 
 ties, however brightly they shone in the 
 works of Chatterton, were not seen by 
 Mr. Bryant. I wish that some friendly 
 angel had purged the. visual nerve of his 
 mind with heavenly euphrasy, and rue ; 
 for he had much to see; a luminous, and 
 singular phaenomenon, in the regions of 
 intellect; a human sun, darting meridian 
 ardour, and effulgence, in its early day. 
 He was accessory, himself, to the defects 
 of his mental opticks; the thick mist of 
 the scholastick atmosphere, had quenched, 
 or the dim suffusion of antiquity, and 
 Rowley, had veiled them. 
 
 In all the strictures, and remarks of 
 this hypercritical gentleman on the ac- 
 knowledged works of Chatterton, there is 
 a cynical fastidiousness, which betrays a 
 great want of taste; an ignorance of good, 
 and spirited writing. He has quoted a 
 part of his Essay on the Origin, Nature, 
 and Design of Sculpture; to show that he 
 was unacquainted with his subject; and 
 that he was a poor proficient in the use of 
 our language. If there are some inaccu- 
 racies in his account of the progress of
 
 339 
 
 the art of sculpture, they could only have 
 been uncandidly observed by petulance, 
 austerity, and moroseness : every critick, 
 who honourably deserves the name, would 
 have admired the diligence which had 
 procured him so much knowledge of the 
 subject, at his early age, and in his em- 
 barrassing situations. As to the language, 
 or style of that essay, I assert, without 
 hesitation, that both in spirit, and pro- 
 priety, it is infinitely superiour to Mr. 
 Bryant's, which is, in general vulgar, and 
 uncooth. If any person will take the 
 trouble to compare the two authours, as 
 writers of prose, he will not charge me 
 with having made too hasty, and peremp- 
 tory an assertion. His British, and Saxon 
 pieces, in the manner of Fingal, and what 
 he has written in old English, in his mis- 
 cellanies, show that surprizing fertility, 
 and fire of imagination, and that almost 
 equally surprizing knowledge of the an- 
 cient language, which he displayed to 
 greater advantage, in his more studied, 
 and venerable compositions. His " Apos- 
 " tate Will :" a poem which he wrote 
 when he was but eleven years old, charac- 
 terizes the extraordinary genius who 
 
 z 2
 
 340 ' 
 
 might have been, afterwards, the authour 
 of Rowley: as an early opening of great 
 talents, it is certainly as rare a phaenome- 
 non as Mr. Pope's Ode on Solitude, which 
 he wrote when he had passed his twelfth 
 year. The quotation of a part of it will 
 perhaps not be unacceptable. 
 
 In days of old, when Wesley's power 
 Gathered new strength, by every hour; 
 Apostate Will, -just sunk in trade, 
 Resolved his bargain should be made ; 
 Then streight to Wesley he repairs, 
 And puts on grave, and solemn airs ; 
 Then thus the pious man addressed; 
 Good Sir, I think your doctrine best; 
 Your servant will a Wesley be ; 
 Therefore the principles teach me. 
 The preacher then instructions gave, 
 How he in this world should behave. 
 He hears, assents, and gives a nod; 
 Says every word's the word of God ; 
 Then lifting his dissembling eyes, 
 How blessed is the sect ! he cries, 
 Nor Bingham, Young, nor Stillingfleet 
 Shall make me from this sect retreat. 
 He then his circumstance declared } 
 How hardly with him matters fared; 
 Begged him, next meeting, for to make 
 A small collection, for his sake ; 
 The preacher said, do not repine; 
 The whole collection shall be thine.
 
 341 
 
 With looks demure, and cringing bows, 
 
 About his business streight he goes ; 
 
 His outward acts were grave, and prim; 
 
 The Methodist appeared in him; 
 
 But be his outward what it will; 
 
 His heart was an apostate's still ; 
 
 He'd oft profess an hallowed flame ; 
 
 And every-where preached Wesley's name; 
 
 He was a preacher, and what not ; 
 
 As long as money could be got ; 
 
 He'd oft profess, with holy fire, 
 
 The labourer's worthy of his hire. 
 
 You will allow the verses to be extraor- 
 dinary, if you consider the age at which 
 they were written. Mr. Bryant, on every 
 occasion, equally rejects information, and 
 conviction, when they are against the ob- 
 ject which he arrogates. From what equi- 
 table reasoning could he conclude that 
 the reading of our manly youth was nar- 
 row, and superficial, when he might have 
 seen, from the verses which I have now 
 quoted, that in his eleventh year, those 
 great divines, Bingham, Young, and 
 Stillingfleet, were not unknown to him ? 
 
 One of his miscellaneous pieces is the 
 ." Death of Nicou;" an African eclogue. 
 Here Mr. Bryant gives us a long rhapsody 
 of undigested, and confused criticism; 
 
 z3
 
 342 
 
 with his usual strictures of contempt on 
 the illiterate youth ; for having made the 
 Tiber an African, and Arabian river. The 
 eclogue is written with a great variety, 
 richness, and force of imagination; and 
 in very strong, and musical numbers. 
 This is enough for my fair purpose ; as a 
 proof of bold, and persevering genius, 
 it is worthy of its authour; especially if 
 we reflect that it is one of his latest per- 
 formances; and that it therefore must 
 have been written, as several of his mis- 
 cellanies were, in awful, and appalling 
 circumstances; under the gripe of famine, 
 and with the prospect of approaching 
 death. This poem, as I have observed, 
 affords a new topick for Mr. Bryant's 
 exultation in the " ignorance of the boy;" 
 for could any instance have more evi- 
 dently proved him to be extremely illite- 
 rate ? He has made the Roman the African 
 Tiber! But to this charge, which, at 
 first sight, may seem to demonstrate his 
 unacquaintance with polite reading, I 
 shall honestly, and, I hope, satisfactorily 
 answer. Absolute maturity of judge- 
 ment, even in the application of proper 
 names, is not reasonably to be expected
 
 343 
 
 from the age of seventeen years. It is 
 not improbable that he sometimes com- 
 mitted voluntary, and premeditated mis- 
 takes; to invelop in the darker uncer- 
 tainty the authour of Rowley. But in 
 the present case I have no need of this 
 supposition. And can any man, in his 
 senses, suppose that the youth who had 
 read seventy authours when he was eleven 
 years old, had not, in his eighteenth year, 
 read translations of the Classicks, which 
 would have informed him that the Tiber 
 was a river of Italy? But Chatterton, 
 still animated by the muse; urged by 
 want; and negligent, from despondency, 
 in his choice of proper names for his Afri- 
 can eclogues, seems to have been deter- 
 mined merely by agreeable, and magnifi- 
 cent sound. I should suppose that a quo- 
 tation from the second eclogue to which 
 I have referred, would convince every im- 
 partial reader, of true, poetical discern- 
 ment, that he who wrote it was equal to 
 his old poetry. This truth, indeed, is 
 corroborated by many passages in his 
 miscellanies. 
 
 z4
 
 344 
 
 On Tiber's banks ; Tiber, whose waters glide, 
 
 In slow meanders, clown to Gaigra's side ; 
 
 And circling all the horrid mountain round, 
 
 Rushes impetuous to the deep profound ; 
 
 Rolls o'er the ragged rocks, with hideous yell ; 
 
 Collects its waves beneath the earth's vast shell ; 
 
 There, for awhile, in loud confusion hurled, 
 
 It crumbles mountains down, and shakes the worldj 
 
 Till borne upon the pinions of the air, 
 
 Through the rent earth the bursting waves appear; 
 
 Fiercely propelled, the whitened billows rise, 
 
 Break from the cavern, and ascend the skies ; 
 
 Then lost, and conquered by superiour force, 
 
 Through hot Arabia holds its rapid course. 
 
 On Tiber's banks, where scarlet jasmines bloom; , 
 
 And purple aloes shed a rich perfume j 
 
 Where, when the sun is melting in his heat, 
 
 The reeking tygers find a cool retreat ; 
 
 Bask in the sedges, lose the sultry beam, 
 
 And wanton with their shadows in the stream; - 
 
 On Tiber's banks, by sacred priests revered, 
 
 Where, in the days of old, a God appeared: 
 
 'Twas in the dead of night, at Chalma's feast, 
 
 The tribe of Alra slept around the priest. 
 
 He spoke; as evening thunders bursting near, 
 
 His horrid accents broke upon the ear. 
 
 .Attend, Alraddas, with your sacred priest ! 
 
 This day the sun is rising in the east ; 
 
 The sun, which shall illumine all the earthy - 
 
 Now, now is rising in a mortal birth. 
 
 He vanished, like a vapour of the night, 
 
 And sunk away in a faint blaze of light. 
 
 Swift from the branches of the holy oak, 
 
 Honour, confusion, fear, and torment Jproke;
 
 345 
 
 An<! stDI, when midnight trims her mazy lamrj, 
 Tiiey take their way through Tiber's watery swamp, 
 On Tiber's banks, close ranked, a warring train, 
 Stretched to the distant eJge of Galea's plain; 
 So, when arrived at Gaigra's highest steep, 
 We view the wide expansion of the deep; 
 See, in the gdding of her watery robe, 
 The quick declension of the circling globe ; 
 From the blue sea a chain of mountains rise, 
 Blended, at once, with water, and with skies; 
 Beyond our sight, in vast extension curled; 
 The check of waves; the guardians of the world*. 
 
 Death of Nicou. 
 
 Let us then leave geographical, and to- 
 pographical distinctions, and such com- 
 mon triumphs, to mathematical land- 
 surveyors, and frigid criticks. Let us, 
 like men, feel the soul of the poet, with 
 all his little pardonable errours, whether 
 they proceeded from consistent design, or 
 from deplorable accident. Let us be 
 eager to forgive the absurdities of a great 
 mind, while it is eclipsed, in glory. Let 
 it, with the extravagance of an Ariosto, 
 remove mountains, and transfuse rivers 
 into new regions; its fame cannot be 
 
 * I will not say that these verses are altogether free from 
 tautology, and bombast: but they are certainly most uncom- 
 monly distinguished by real energy, magnificence, and har- 
 mony ; when we consider the age of the poet.
 
 346 
 
 stung to death by a swarm of antiquari- 
 ans. One miracle is beyond its power; a 
 particle of its soul, even by reflexion, will 
 never transmigrate into the body of a cri- 
 tick. I care not where it makes its Tiber 
 flow, if delightfully borne, in fancy, along 
 its rapid stream, it carries me beyond the 
 reach of literary wasps, and drones. 
 
 His poetical epistle to Miss Bush of 
 Bristol is an affecting picture of melan- 
 choly fortune, and of the despair of love. 
 Dr. Gregory must have had a singular 
 penetration, when he discovered in these 
 natural, and easy lines, a resemblance to 
 the uninteresting, to the disgusting con- 
 ceits ; to the metaphysical stuff of Cowley. 
 
 Before I seek the dreary shore, 
 Where Gambia's rapid billows roar, 
 
 And foaming pour along; 
 To you I urge the plaintive strain j 
 And though a lover sings in vain, 
 
 Yet you shall hear the song. 
 Ungrateful, cruel, lovely maidj 
 Since all my torments were repaid 
 
 With frowns, or languid sneers j 
 With assiduities no more 
 Your captive will your health implore; 
 
 Or teize you with his tears. 
 Now to the regions where the sun 
 Does his hot course of glory run,
 
 347 
 
 And parches up the ground; 
 Where o'er the burning, cleaving plains, 
 A long, eternal dog-star reigns, 
 
 And splendour flames around: 
 There will I go ; yet not to find 
 A fire intenser than my mind, 
 
 Which burns, a constant flame: 
 There will I lose thy heavenly form ; 
 Nor shall remembrance, raptured, warm, 
 
 Draw shadows of thy frame. 
 In the rough element, the sea, 
 I'll drown the softer subject, Thee; 
 
 And sink each lovely charm; 
 No more my bosom shall be torne ; 
 No more by wild ideas borne, 
 
 I'll cherish the alarm. 
 Yet, Polly, could thy heart be kind, 
 Soon would my feeble purpose find 
 
 Thy sway within my breast : 
 But hence, soft scenes of painted woe ; 
 Spite of the dear delight I'll go ; 
 
 Forget her, and be blest. 
 
 His elegy to the memory of Mr. 
 Thomas Phillips, of Fairford, an amiable 
 friend, and, a brother poet, the last of 
 his miscellaneous performances of which 
 I shall take a view, abounds with the cha* 
 racteristicks of his Rowley. The picture 
 of winter, and of fancy, drawn by a very 
 juvenile mind, are worthy of Shakespeare, 
 or of Milton: they announce the aspiring,
 
 348 
 
 and adventurous prodigy, who, with a 
 bold and resistless hand, tore his maturi- 
 ty from the slow march of time. In the 
 oracular language of poetry they pro- 
 claim the indisputable author of iElla; 
 of Sir Charles Bawdin; of the battle of 
 Hastings ; and of all their other splendid 
 companions. " I am the man" says 
 the writer of this elegy : the oracle is 
 accepted; it is rejected by none but by 
 the deaf adder, who stoppeth his ears; and 
 " refuseth to hear the voice of the charm - 
 " er, charm he never so wisely." 
 
 When golden autumn, wreathed in ripened corn, 
 From purple clusters pressed the foamy wine; 
 Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn ; 
 And made the beauties of the season thine. 
 
 Pale, rugged winter, bending o'er his tread ; 
 His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew ; 
 His eyes, a dusky light, congealed, and dead j 
 His robe, a tinge of bright, ethereal blue ; 
 
 His train, a motleyed, sanguine, sable cloud, 
 He limps along the russet, dreary moor ; 
 Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud, 
 Roll the white surges to the sounding shore. 
 
 Fancy, whose various, figure-tinctured vest, 
 Was ever changing to a different hue :
 
 349 
 
 Her head, with varied bays, and flowerets drest, 
 Her eyes, two spangles of the morning-dew : 
 
 In dancing attitude she swept thy string ; 
 And now she soars, and now again descends ; 
 And now reclining on the zephyr's wing, 
 Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends. 
 
 Elegy on Mr. Phillips. 
 
 I flatter myself that I have the honour 
 of thinking, and feeling with you, when 
 the poetry of Chatterton is our object. 
 1 shall give you Mr. Bryant's opinion of 
 his talents, and acquirements; and then 
 it will be in your power to judge by what 
 pretensions that gentleman arrogates the 
 respectable province of a poetical critick. 
 Indeed he seems to me so ill qualified for 
 that important office (important, as long 
 as poetry shall be dear to ingenuous 
 minds) and he seems likewise so insensible 
 to the height of merit, and to the depth 
 of distress, in humble life, that I have re- 
 taliated his unworthy, his barbarous 
 treatment of Chatterton, with that un- 
 reserved and independent censure, which 
 became a writer who hath devoted a great 
 part of his literary exertions to the admi- 
 ration of genius, and to the contempt of
 
 350 
 
 fortune. My persevering honesty has 
 been of more external disadvantage to 
 me than my desultory faults ; but I have 
 too good an opinion of your generosity to 
 apprehend that this troublesome compa- 
 nion will make my present situation 
 tremble. At all events, there is a reflect- 
 ing substance within us, which atones 
 for our painful conflict in stemming 
 the swell of the world. That world I 
 should yet wish to please; but on fair 
 terms. Age accumulates the debts which 
 an old man owes to himself; and it im- 
 periously urges their liquidation : it ur- 
 ges him to be particularly careful, not 
 to temporize, on the brink of eternity ; 
 but then, with a peculiar care, and assi- 
 duity, to strengthen, and condense the 
 habits which his calm, and unprejudiced 
 reason had always most approved. 
 
 " I must confess" (says Mr. Bryant) 
 " that I see nothing of this prematurity 
 " of abilities in Chatterton; nor of the 
 " store of information which so far ex- 
 " ceeded his term of life; much less that 
 " comprehension, and that activity of 
 " understanding, with which he is said to 
 " have been gifted. I cannot perceive
 
 351 
 
 " any traces of these wonderful qualities. 
 " I believe there are many clerks, and 
 " apprentices in town, who, by reading 
 " plays, and magazines, and by frequent- 
 " ing the theatres, get a better knack of 
 " writing than was to be found in Chat- 
 " terton. His bad success, in his last 
 " stage of life, shows that he did not an- 
 " swer the expectations of those who 
 " employed him." 
 
 On the savage remark which closes this 
 passage, I have already given my senti- 
 ments. " The poems which have the 
 " name of Rowley affixed to them" (says 
 this judicious critick) il are certainly very 
 " line ; but those which we know assured- 
 " ly to have been composed by Chatter- 
 M ton, fall very short of such excellence. 
 " The best of them do not rise above me- 
 " diocrity; and many are very low, and 
 " abject ; and cannot be held in any de- 
 " gree of estimation." Bryant pp. 491 
 502. 
 
 To insult the memory of Chatterton 
 was as stupid as it was inhuman : to in- 
 sult the common sense; the common 
 perceptions of mankind, was the utmost 
 degree of insolence. Suffer a little more
 
 352 
 
 of this elegant, and liberal critick. 
 " When they" (his most sanguine friends) 
 " speak of him as a prodigy, they found 
 " their notion chiefly upon those sing- 
 " song compositions in verse, which he 
 " wrote to some young women at Bristol, 
 " and to other friends ; and which may 
 " be looked upon as very tolerable, for a 
 " person so young. But these persons 
 " never give the least hint about any his- 
 " torical knowledge ; nor mention any 
 " writer of consequence which he had 
 " read." p. 562. To dwell on this ab- 
 surd, and arrogant stuff, would give it 
 too much consequence. But Master Bry- 
 ant, if you please, with all your taunts 
 about Chatterton's ignorance, or super- 
 ficiality, you have openly allowed that 
 he was conversant with Shakespeare, 
 Milton, and Thomson ; and, I pray, are 
 not they writers of some little conse- 
 quence? Ah! Mr. Bryant! Illi, quot 
 critici ; quot Antiquarii ! 
 
 Where he charges Chatterton with that 
 cruelty (which was infinitely more appli- 
 cable to himself, and to his friend of 
 Exeter) for his just, but very moderate 
 freedom with Mr. Walpole, the stress
 
 353 
 
 
 
 that he lays on that person's rank, and 
 character, is as mean, and servile, as his 
 treatment of our young poet was unge- 
 nerous, and overbearing. Chatterton 
 was, at first, more gentle to Mr. Wal- 
 pole; and ultimately far more liberal to 
 him than he deserved. He had a perish- 
 able, a vamped up character; a meretri^ 
 cious varnish, with which he was fashion- 
 ably decorated by sable 'gowns, and blue 
 stockings : but, as a writer that was much 
 talked of, there have been few more in- 
 elegant, and feeble: as a man, I hope 
 that there have been few, of less benefit 
 cent dispositions. If two or three instances 
 are obtruded on me, instead of a confu- 
 tation of what I assert, by any poor logi- 
 cian on our ethical duties, I shall reply, 
 that / have my moral distinctions, if he 
 has not. If a person who is notoriously 
 parsimonious in acts of beneficence, 
 takes it into his head to heap favours on 
 a few individuals, who neither want 
 them, nor can bring any genuine, any 
 conspicuous title to them, you may term 
 this, profusion; whim; caprice; dotage; 
 a selfish repayment of adulation; any 
 thing but true generosity. That godlike 
 
 VOL. II. A A
 
 354 
 
 virtue, when it is the master of corres- 
 ponding external power, is inquisitive, 
 and indefatigable, to find, and to reward 
 merit; to relieve distress; and to recom- 
 pense that humble industry which has 
 long been its faithful servant. How far 
 the late Lord Orford was entitled to the 
 praise which is always due to these glo- 
 rious actions, surely the world, unless it 
 is still hoodwinked by prejudices, may, 
 by this time, easily, and accurately deter- 
 mine. The gold, which is, in general, 
 cruelly spared, fs, sometimes, absurdly 
 lavished. As to rank, that, of itself, is 
 nothing; it reflects respect, or contempt, 
 as it is connected with the virtues, or 
 with the vices of its owner : it may be the 
 high -seated, and hereditary citadel of 
 well-maintained honour; or it may be 
 the conspicuous, and permanent pillory 
 of personal disgrace. 
 
 I hope that many of my observations 
 on the writings, and fate of Chatterton, 
 will tend to illustrate a neglected, but 
 indisputable truth ; that when these read- 
 ing, and plodding men presume to feel, 
 and describe the bright emanations of the 
 , mind; and justly, and forcibly to discri-
 
 355 
 
 minate great, and original characters; 
 they desert the narrow walk to which they 
 were destined by nature; and trespass on 
 the blooming, and variegated ground, 
 which is, by her allotted to souls of a 
 more extensive range. Warm sentiment, 
 as well as vigorous reason, is requisite to 
 enable us properly to judge of poetical 
 excellence, and of poetical faults ; and if 
 we possess this degree of sentiment, and 
 reason, it will adjust, and impassion our 
 language, when we write on these inter- 
 esting subjects* Therefore the authours 
 to whom I now refer, know as much of 
 poetry (as I have remarked before) as 
 Junius's late right honourable senator 
 knew of blushing; or as, a man born blind 
 knows of scarlet or sky-blue. 
 
 As my unfortunate, but well-intended 
 literary efforts must soon have an end, I 
 wish not to be negligent, and idle, at the 
 last: nay, I wish to work with double 
 diligence. I shall be anxious to counter- 
 act with watchfulness, and assiduity, that 
 indolence, and those infirmities, which 
 gradually, but impressively, make their 
 daily inroads on old age. Humanity 
 will ever view them with a sympathetick 
 
 aa2
 
 356 
 
 eye; but to resist their oppression as far 
 as is possible, is the natural, and congru- 
 ous part of that spirit which has never 
 yielded to the most mortifying circum- 
 stances; to the most alarming prospects. 
 Consistently with this long strain of con- 
 duct, it was my determination to take a 
 large, and if I was equal to it, a complete 
 view, of my present great, but melancho- 
 ly subject. I shall, therefore, make some 
 particular references to Mr. Walpole's 
 defence of his treatment of Chatterton, 
 as it is detailed in the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine of 1782. The defence makes a long 
 letter to the editor of Chatterton's Miscel- 
 lanies. By these references you will be 
 sufficiently acquainted both with the be- 
 nevolent disposition, and with the ele- 
 gance, and force of Mr. Nichols's master- 
 ly 9 and admirable writer. I wish that 
 I could paint so durably as to transmit 
 both the poet, and the peer, in their genu- 
 ine form, and colours, to a late posterity. 
 Such pictures are interesting; they are 
 useful to society. They may stimulate, 
 and fortify genius; they may moderate 
 the insolence of wealth, and title, they 
 may make obduracy appear to soften.
 
 357 
 
 In the object which is now immediately 
 before me, there is something to console, 
 and flatter an old man's love of ease. 
 The passages of Mr. Walpole's defence, 
 to which I shall refer, will not require 
 many accurate animadversions; many 
 well-merited strictures. In the citation 
 of such passages, their answer, and the 
 condemnation of their authour are inclu- 
 ded. It is often, providentially, the na- 
 ture, and the sublunary punishment of 
 guilt, not to move a step, without being 
 caught in its own toils. 
 
 I shall first desire your attention to Mr. 
 Walpole's behaviour, on Chatterton's very 
 respectful application to him for his inter- 
 est, to remove him from the dull drudgery 
 of an attorney's apprentice, and to pro- 
 cure for him some little establishment, 
 compatible with his elegant studies, and 
 with his most laudable, and well-ground- 
 ed poetical ambition. No situation could 
 be more unfavourable to literary improve- 
 ment, and taste, than that to which his 
 early life was doomed; and no generous 
 man; no liberal judge of human nature; 
 no soul warmly impressed by the muses, 
 would have hesitated to befriend the au- 
 aa3
 
 358 
 
 thour of those specimens of high poetical 
 excellence which accompanied his appli- 
 cation. v The absolute certainty that he 
 was the authour of them ; and that they 
 were not written in the fifteenth century, 
 would have impelled, instead of prevent- 
 ing Mr. Walpole to assist him ; if he had 
 not been very deficiently sensible of his 
 own faults (however plausible he was on 
 that subject) and if he had not, therefore, 
 been an exactor of perfection from the 
 first, and unexperienced moral sense of 
 youth; especially if that youth was poor, 
 and friendless. 
 
 After the natural inquiries, in conse- 
 quence of Chatterton's letter, Mr. Wal- 
 pole found that he had given a true 
 account of himself; his family; and his 
 situation. Neither this account, however, 
 nor the proofs of miraculous genius, as 
 he afterwards termed it, with little am- 
 plification, could prevail with his heart 
 to rescue the young poet from the worst 
 of captivities; from the captivity of the 
 mind; from digging, as the slave of Lam- 
 bert, in the Peruvian mines of the law. 
 That attorney seems to have been as in- 
 sensible, or impassive a creature, to the
 
 359 
 
 stupendous talents of the boy, as his other 
 Bristol friends. I have said that Mr. 
 Walpole could not prevail with his heart; 
 that heart during its long pulsation, 
 never warmed; never dilated; never felt 
 a propensity to blend the flow of benevo- 
 lence with the Castalian fountain. It is,, 
 or it easily may be well known, that he 
 was, all his life, the enemy of illustrious 
 authours; unjust to the dead; injurious 
 to the living. But in the present emer- 
 gency, if something useful is not done, 
 something specious must be written; for 
 this actor of virtue well knew that while 
 a hypocrite retains his discretion; while 
 he saves his appearances, he, and the world 
 will always be on a very fair footing with 
 each other. Accordingly he sate down, 
 and gave him a bill on the sacred bank 
 of morality; this was one bold species of 
 forgery; for I never could find that in 
 that bank, he had any real capital. He 
 wrote to him a letter of advice ; the con- 
 stant substitute, with frozen souls, for 
 good offices, when they are requested. 
 I grow old, and forget; but I think that 
 I have heard, or read, that there are three 
 things which a man will do for you, who 
 
 A A4 
 
 m
 
 360 
 
 will never be prevailed with to do any 
 thing better; he will give you a pinch of 
 snufF; a letter of recommendation, if 
 you are going abroad; and good advice; 
 if you are distressed, or starving. Not only 
 to meet the unfortunate, and the deserv- 
 ing, with kind looks, and kind actions, 
 but to enquire where they are; that with 
 these looks, and these actions, they may 
 meet them; is the Christianity of the 
 Kyrls, and the Aliens: the pinch of 
 snufF; the letter of recommendation ; 
 the good advice, is the Jesuitism of the 
 Walpoles. 
 
 He tells us that " he wrote him a letter 
 " with as much kindness, as if he had 
 " been bis guardian." This cannot be 
 true; for if it had been true, our volunta- 
 ry, affectionate, and christian guardian, 
 would have given his poor, unprotected 
 ward, some substantial mark of his com- 
 passion. When on any urgent occasion, 
 we have the power to do much good, and 
 presume to mimick real goodness ; when, 
 on that occasion, we assume a sympathy 
 which we do not feel ; and only preach, 
 and advise ; all our boasted tenderness 
 is mere pretence ; a shameful insincerity.
 
 361 
 
 But it is my wonder, that this primitive 
 taint, of a conscienceinexpressibly tender, 
 when he advised his miraculous young 
 genius to persevere, with content, and 
 resignation, in tugging at Lambert's oar, 
 and to endeavour to discharge his filial 
 obligations to his mother ; did not strong- 
 ly represent to him the horrid crime of 
 his poetical forgeries; and strenuously 
 remonstrate against any future practice 
 of such a dreadful kind of imposture. 
 He only informs Chatterton that better 
 judges than himself doubted the authen- 
 ticity of the manuscripts. No man, 
 indeed, was less entitled than Mr. Wal- 
 pole, to reprehend him for transferring 
 his literary claims to an imaginary person; 
 as I shall, hereafter, show. 
 
 With an ungrateful return for all this 
 paternal, and anxious piety, we are told 
 that the person on whom it was bestowed, 
 sent " rather a peevish answer." The 
 truth of this charge is by no means prov- 
 ed. He only said that " he would not 
 " contend with a person of Mr. Walpole's 
 " learning; and desired that his poems 
 " might be returned." But the opinion 
 which even a pigmy, of wealth, and fashi- 

 
 362 
 
 on entertains of his own magnitude, is so 
 enormous, that if a person of accidental 
 inferiority expresses the least disapproba- 
 tion of his conduct, he may think him- 
 self treated with extraordinary indulgence, 
 if he is only insulted with the accusation 
 of peevishness. But the pampered, spoil- 
 ed, and grown children, whose ears are, 
 every day, lulled with the eunuch trill of 
 flattery; and who, therefore, cannot en- 
 dure the manly voice of honest, indepen- 
 dent 3 and salutary truth, (if it was proper- 
 ly accepted, and regarded;) these are 
 the peevish beings. I shall now quote 
 three very curious paragraphs from Mr. 
 Walpole's defence. They will demand 
 some ingenuous, and explicit observa- 
 tions. " When I received this letter" (the 
 proper letter, in which the return of the 
 poems was desired) " I was going to 
 " Paris, in a day or two; and either forgot 
 66 his request of the poems ; or perhaps not 
 (i having time to have them copied, defer- 
 " red complying till my return, which 
 " was to be in six weeks. I protest I do 
 " not remember which was the case; and 
 " yet, though in a cause of so little ton- 
 " portance, I will not utter a syllable of
 
 363 
 
 " which I am not positively certain; nor 
 " will charge my memory with a tittle be- 
 " yond what it retains." " Soon after 
 " my return from France, I received 
 " another letter from Chatterton, the 
 " style of which was singularly imperti- 
 " nent. He demanded his poems rough- 
 " ly; and added, that I would not have 
 dared to use him so ill, if he had not 
 acquainted me with the narrowness of 
 his circumstances." " My heart did 
 " not accuse me of insolence to him. I 
 " wrote an answer, expostulating with 
 " him on his injustice, and renewing good 
 " advice. But upon second thoughts, 
 " reflecting that so wrong-headed a young 
 " man, of whom I knew nothing, and 
 " whom I had never seen, might be absurd 
 " enough to print my letter, I flung it 
 " into the fire; and wrapping up both his 
 " poems, and letters, without taking a 
 " copy of either, for which I am now sor- 
 " ry, I returned all to him, and thought 
 " no more of him or them, till about a 
 " year and a half after, &c." Gentle- 
 man's Magazine, May 1782, p. 218 I 
 have nothing to say to his going to Paris; 
 it deserves no consideration. But I shall
 
 364 
 
 frankly say that to detain Chatterton's 
 manuscripts, six weeks, after what had 
 passed between them, was the height of 
 insolence, and barbarity. I will not say 
 that a mind of exalted morality I will 
 say that a mind of common generosity 
 would be particularly careful not to give 
 pain to the unfortunate, when it might be 
 easily prevented. A being, indeed, of a 
 superiour order of virtue would be religi- 
 ously tenacious of answering more expe- 
 ditiously the letter of a poor than of a rich 
 man ; that the mind of the former might 
 not possibly be wounded with the appre- 
 hension that he was despised. But this 
 doctrine to Mr. Walpole would have been 
 a dissertation on colours to a man born 
 blind. 
 
 I believe that I havq already given my 
 opinion of the manly, and spirited reply 
 with which the poet very justly resented 
 Mr. Walpole's long epistolary silence, 
 and detention of his papers. I have men- 
 tioned the effect which it would have pro- 
 duced on a generous mind. But as the 
 mind to which it was addressed was of a 
 very different constitution, its phlegma- 
 tick pride pronounced the letter in which
 
 365 
 
 that censure was contained, " a singularly 
 impertinent letter." -The letter was so far 
 from being impertinent, that it was 
 gentler than the haughty neglect deserved. 
 I wish that the treatment which external 
 weakness too often experiences from ex- 
 ternal power, would warrant me to assert 
 that Mr. Walpole's behaviour, during 
 the short epistolary intercourse between 
 Chatterton, and him, was singularly inso- 
 lent. 
 
 Chatterton, in his last letter to Wal/pole, 
 asserted, that he would not have dared to 
 use him so ill, if he had not been ac- 
 quainted with the disadvantages of his 
 situation. Of the truth of this assertion 
 there can be no reasonable doubt. If the 
 son of a lord had teized Mr. Walpole with 
 fifty letters, containing the most insigni- 
 ficant stuff, they would all have been an- 
 swered, with the most respectful punctu- 
 ality. 
 
 His inconsistent insolence is continual- 
 ly breaking forth. He calls the corres- 
 pondence with which he was very unwor- 
 thily honoured by Chatterton, " a cause 
 " of so little importance." Was the fate, 
 then, was any transaction of your miracle
 
 366 
 
 of poetical genius, of so little importance ? 
 I would rather have a faithful account of 
 one of Chattertovb s serious conversations 
 with his friends, than of all that you, Mr, 
 Walpole, through your long life, thought, 
 and said, and wrote. Unimportant as 
 you have been pleased to term the cause, 
 I shall apply to a very little, what Mr. 
 Pope applied to a very great man : I hope 
 that it will " damn you to everlasting 
 " fame." Unimportant as the cause was, 
 it drove you to the most pitiable subter- 
 fuges. For I strongly suspect that the 
 letter containing new, good, and gra- 
 tuitous advice, which Mr. Walpole flung 
 into the fire, was a mere airy forgery of 
 that gentleman's active, and tremulous 
 imagination. He disapproved of his own 
 conduct; he thought that it would be dis- 
 approved by the humane part of the 
 world; hence he invented the pretended 
 crime of the pretended letter; and hence 
 he protracted the little stratagem of af- 
 fected candour. But why should he have 
 dreaded Chatterton's publication of this 
 letter ? Could he imagine that a renewal 
 of that good advice which he made so high- 
 ly meritorious, would have hurt him with
 
 367 
 
 thepublick? Ihave a right to suspect 
 imposition, when the suspected imposi- 
 tion is in the neighbourhood of palpable 
 falsehoods. But that after he had sent 
 him his poems, and letters, he thought no 
 more of him or them, for a year and a 
 half; this assertion, if we consider the 
 substance, and circumstances of the whole 
 case, must be a direct, and impudent lie. 
 I should use improper terms; I should 
 entertain too moderate a resentment 
 against the most absurd, and insolent 
 falsehood, if I gave this effrontery softer 
 language. Whatever Mr. Walpole might 
 pretend, he often thought of Chatterton, 
 before his final catastrophe ; and as there 
 is a Divine moral economy, even in this 
 world, he thought of him with remorse, 
 and fear. 
 
 " Was my giving him advice" (says he) 
 " neglect? was my returning his papers, 
 " without a word of reproach on his ar- 
 " rogance, arrogant?" Ibid. p. 193. I 
 am so sick of your advice, that I wish to 
 turn away my mind from thinking of it. 
 Every school-boy will tell you, that to re- 
 turn papers, and letters, (especially after 
 an unreasonable, and shamefully long
 
 368 
 
 detention of them) without a word of an- 
 swer to the preceding letter, is more ex- 
 pressive of contempt, and indeed of re- 
 sentment, than the most resentful, and 
 contemptuous language. And this was 
 your arrogant return to a fine and noble 
 spirit; with whom, if you had had aeon- 
 genial spirit, you would have respectfully 
 acknowledged your negligence, and ar-, 
 dently espoused his fortune. 
 
 I must here give you another passage 
 of this perplexed, confused, unaccounta- 
 ble apologist. " Another reflexion oc- 
 " currs to me, and probably will to my 
 " accusers. I have complained of Chat- 
 " terton's unwarrantable letter to me, on 
 my not returning his MSS. Shall I not 
 be told, that I probably did not restore 
 to him that letter, I believe I did not, 
 I believe I preserved it; but what is be- 
 come of it in nine years, I cannot say; 
 I have lost, or mislaid it. If I find it, 
 " it shall be submitted to every possible 
 u scrutiny of the expert, before I produce 
 " it as genuine: and though I hope to 
 " be believed that such letter I did receive, 
 " and did mention to several persons long 
 " before I was charged with ill-treatment
 
 369 
 
 " of Chatterton, I desire no imputation 
 " should lie on his memory, beyond what 
 " his character, and my unprovoked as- 
 " sertions render probable. I could not 
 " feel regret on his re-demand of MSS. 
 " on which I had set no esteem. I might 
 u have preserved copies both of the poems, 
 " and of his letters, if I had been willing. No 
 " adequate reason can be given why I re- 
 " turned all promiscuously, but his insult, 
 "and my own indifference." Ibid. p. 
 300. The reflection that he probably 
 did not restore to Chatterton what he 
 calls the unwarrantable letter, with the 
 other papers, could not naturally have 
 occurred either to his accusers, or to his 
 friends : both parties would have been 
 morally certain that it was returned, 
 agreeably to the nature, and constant 
 practice of such transactions. The con- 
 trary reflection could only have occurred 
 to his own dark, perplexed, and malig- 
 nant mind; at once meditating false cri- 
 mination, and blundering apologies, to 
 give it some appearance of truth. Can- 
 dour itself, therefore, must own it to be 
 very odd that he did not return to Chat- 
 terton his unfortunate, and obnoxious 
 
 VOL. II. B B
 
 370 
 
 letter, when he sent to him all his other 
 papers. It seems that it was lost, or mis- 
 laid. These circumstances, and the for- 
 mal manner in which he proposes to have 
 its authenticity ascertained, " before he 
 " produces it as genuine," mustexite, in 
 the most unsuspicious minds, a doubt 
 that it ever existed. The apparent ten- 
 derness which he here shows for the me- 
 mory of Chatterton, and the cruel asper- 
 sions, with which, in other places, he 
 insults it, are glaring proofs of the dark, 
 and cowardly assassin of reputation. 
 The utmost despotism of a despicable ar- 
 rogance alone could make him imagine 
 that the letter in question could be, in 
 any view, disadvantageous to the memory 
 of the youth. It redounded entirely to his 
 honour. la one period, we are told, that 
 he retained the dreadfully daring letter; 
 and almost in the next, that he returned 
 all promiscuously. People who have a 
 certain base habit, should likewise have a 
 good memory. Chatterton's insult, and 
 Mr. Walpole's indifference, were, it 
 seems, the only adequate reasons that 
 could be given why ail was returned pro- 
 miscuously. These were not the reasons.
 
 371 
 
 What he calls an insult was the moderate 
 return of a high spirit to the utmost degree 
 of insolence. As to his indifference, in 
 one view of his conduct, he was by no 
 means indifferent. He returned all, or 
 he returned a part, from the petulant irri- 
 tation of a puny soul; provoked, when 
 it should have been delighted. His own 
 words contradict him; the expression, 
 that " all was returned promiscuously," 
 proclaims, not his indifference, but his 
 tumultuous resentment. He ought to 
 have been . ashamed of himself; of his 
 own admiration of Chatterton; if he 
 meant his literary indifference. In that 
 view, the word could only be the result 
 of an insensible stupidity; or of an absurd, 
 ridiculous, inconsistent, and lying pride. 
 All his life he struggled, (no man more in 
 vain; I allude to real desert) for the 
 highest human glory, intellectual fame, 
 all his life, he affected to despise it, when- 
 ever it came into competition with the 
 dirt that inflamed the rapacity of a Pizar- 
 ro, and an Almagro; whenever it came 
 into competition with the childish trin- 
 kets which are presented to courtly mini- 
 ons by kings. 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 
 
 His very notes ; his very labour to as- 
 certain the disputed letter, augment my 
 doubts : though I still hope that it did ex- 
 ist. He says that he often mentioned it 
 in company; and that he has no doubt 
 that his mention of it " came to Chatter- 
 " ton's knowledge." In the circle of his 
 acquaintance, he might very safely men- 
 tion it, though it had been a mere preme- 
 ditated idea. It is absurd to suppose that 
 any one of them would converse with 
 Chatterton: he was poor; and he had 
 been guilty of a most unpardonable crime 
 in the eye of the fashionable world; he 
 had offended Mr. Walpole. 
 
 " If he gave me that provocation" (says 
 Mr. Walpole; the provocation of the let- 
 ter) " it was true: if he did not, I had np 
 " reason to invent it." Yes, you had; for 
 if you did invent it, you thought, and you 
 thought justly, that all they who ought to 
 have applauded Chatterton for the letter, 
 would condemn him for it; I mean, all 
 they whose opinions are formed, and de- 
 termined by unreflecting fashion, and 
 servile imitation; not by reason, and 
 equity; and who allow no conduct, no 
 language of spirit, and independence, to
 
 373 
 
 the poor: and their number includes by 
 far the greater part of society : it includes 
 the powerful world, without* one excep- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. Walpole affected so warmly to ad- 
 mire the poetical powers of Chatterton, 
 that in one place, he bestows on them the 
 epithet, miraculous. The editor of the 
 Miscellanies deeply regrets that by the 
 premature death of their authour, the 
 world was deprived of the works which he 
 might have written, and which would 
 have contributed to the honour of our 
 nation. .This assertion, which, indeed is 
 warranted by a conditional moral certain- 
 ty, Mr. Walpole classes with "Jvnd" (or 
 foolish) " imaginations." Then it fol- 
 lows, from his own acknowledgement, 
 that the highest poetical excellence does 
 not contribute to the honour of a nation. 
 But what Chatterton even lived to write, 
 will contribute to the immortal honour 
 of our nation. How low are the objects 
 of a corrupt, and plodding statesman, 
 comparatively with those of a poet ! Did 
 Sir Robert Walpole's labours, and arts, 
 and elevation, contribute to the honour, 
 or to the disgrace of the British nation ? 
 
 BB 3
 
 374 
 
 " I should be more justly reproachable 
 " for having contributed to cherish an 
 " impostor, than I am, for having acceler- 
 " ated his fate. I cannot repeat the words 
 " without emotions of indignation, on 
 " my own account, and of compassion, 
 " on his. But I have promised to argue 
 " calmly, and I will" G. M. April, p. 
 191. I quote this passage as a compre- 
 hensive specimen of a most iniquitous, 
 and barbarous estimator of human con- 
 duct; of an affected philosopher; of a 
 callous heart, assuming the amiable virtue 
 of compassion; of a preposterous hypo* 
 crite; who while he stabs his victim, sheds 
 over it the tears of Iago. " Is it not hard" 
 (says he) " that a man on whom a forge - 
 " ry has been tried unsuccessfully, should, 
 " for that single reason, be held out to 
 " the world, as the assassin of genius? If 
 " a banker, to whom a forged note should 
 " be presented, should refuse to accept it, 
 " and the ingenious fabricator should 
 " afterwards fall a victim to his own slight 
 " of hand; would you accuse the poor 
 " banker to the publick, and urge that 
 " his caution had deprived the world of 
 * ( some suppositious deeds of settlement
 
 375 
 
 " that would have deceived the whole 
 " court of chancery, and deprived some 
 " great family of its estate ?" -April ; pp. 
 191, 192. But in other places, the good 
 man relaxes from these hard morals of 
 the usurer; but, I pray, observe, not with- 
 out the previous inconsistency of a feeble 
 understanding, and a guilty heart. <" Are 
 " you angry that /was not more a dupe 
 " than you? If I suspected hi s forgeries, 
 " how did they entitle him to my assist- 
 " ance ?" A little after he thus proceeds : 
 " I do not mean to use the term, forged, 
 " in a harsh sense: I speak of Chatter- 
 " ton's mintage, as forgeries of poems, in 
 " ancient language, 8tc." April p. 192. 
 " Though I had no doubt of his impo- 
 " sitions, such a spirit of poetry breathed 
 " in his coinage, as interested me for him; 
 " nor was it a grave crime in a young 
 " bard to have forged false notes of hand, 
 " that were to pass current only in the 
 " parish of Parnassus." May; p. 248. 
 God forbid that I should think of giving a 
 particular answer to these passages! I 
 shall only observe that more miserable 
 stuff was never obtruded on the world for 
 argument. And this ridiculous mode of 
 
 bb4
 
 376 
 
 arguing principally proceeds from his en- 
 deavours, as impotent as they are inhu- 
 man, to class the comparatively innocent 
 fictitious old poetry with that very cri- 
 minal species of forgery which attacks 
 property. This was evidently his design, 
 from the terms which he always misap- 
 plies to Chatterton's inoffensive imposi- 
 tion. Under this most ungenerous, and 
 wretched resource, he endeavoured to 
 shelter the guilt of which he was unavoid- 
 ably conscious, for having refused a very 
 practicable, moderate, and easy protecti- 
 on, and encouragement, to exalted, but 
 oppressed genius. Yet you see, that, in 
 spite of all this little disingenuous art, 
 reason corrects injustice, and barbarity; 
 and asserts her divine empire over the 
 mind. Conscience often intimidates, 
 and confounds those criminals whom 
 she cannot drag to the sentence which 
 they deserve. To apply to Chatterton, 
 and to the beautiful poems which he 
 only published under a feigned name, the 
 terms which express the most obnoxious 
 felonies; such as, for geries, forger, mint, 
 coiner; and other similar words of un- 
 qualified, and licentious abuse ;-r-was the
 
 377 
 
 moral turpitude of a creature, who was as 
 barbarously unmerciful to the conduct of 
 his neighbour as he was selfishly, and 
 pusillanimously tender to his own. This 
 farrago of inelegance, dullness, and disin- 
 genuity, is addressed to the editor of the 
 Miscellanies : that editor is as basely un- 
 generous to the young poet's moral cha- 
 racter as Mr. Walpole himself: yet he 
 very rationally supposes that if a seasona- 
 ble patronage had interposed between 
 him, and his bad fortune, it would have 
 saved him from ruin. This highly proba- 
 ble opinion, or rather certain conclusion, 
 is treated as a chimerical idea by Walpole, 
 and his flatterers : and indeed by ivhat 
 other persons could it have been held in 
 that estimation ? What impartial, and 
 sensible person can doubt that a very 
 small assistance would have propelled his 
 course, with a most auspicious gale, to 
 the luxuriant harbour, of virtue, and of 
 glory ; who knew " the genial current 
 " of his soul ;" his stoical temperance, 
 and his stoical pride ; his contempt of the 
 low, prebendal sensuality ; and of the 
 pomp, and vanity of the play-things of 
 artificial life ; his contempt of every in-
 
 378 
 
 feriour object, when it came into compe- 
 tition with the atchievements of the 
 mind ? 
 
 " Rowley would be a prophet, a fore- 
 " seer" (says Mr. Walpole) " if the poems 
 " were his ; yet in any other light, he 
 " would not be so extraordinary a phae- 
 " nomenon as Chatter ton ; whom, though 
 " he was a had man, as is said, I lament 
 " not having seen. He might, at that 
 " time, have been less corrupted, and 
 " my poor patronage might have saved 
 " him from the abyss into which he plun- 
 " ged. But alas ! how could- I surmise 
 " that the well-being, and existence of a 
 " human creature depended on my swal- 
 " lowing a legend ; and from an unknown 
 " person ? Thank God, so far from hav- 
 " ing any thing to charge myself with on 
 " Chatterton's account, it is very hypothe- 
 " tical to suppose that /could have stood 
 " between him, and ruin. It is one of 
 " those possible events, which we should 
 " be miserable indeed if imputable to a 
 " conscience that had not the smallest 
 " light to direct it! If I went to Bengal, 
 " I might perhaps interpose, and save 
 " the life of some poor Indian, devoted by
 
 379 
 
 " the fury of a British Nabob : but ami- 
 " able as such Quixotism would be, we 
 " are not to sacrifice every duty to the 
 " possibility of realizing one conscienti- 
 " ous vision." May : p. 249. Depraved, 
 and sordid a kind of being as human na- 
 ture is, we seldom meet with such a spe- 
 cimen of an unfeeling heart; with such 
 an elaborate, but transparent endeavour 
 to transfer our own baseness to the cha- 
 racter of another person; we seldom 
 meet with an affected humanity of such 
 demure, and hypocritical accomplish- 
 ment, as that which is presented to us in 
 the former part of this quotation; it out- 
 Blifils the culprit of the celebrated Field- 
 ing. In the latter part of the quotation 
 is exhibited such a monster of a case; call 
 it simile, illustration, or more properly, 
 confusion; as is not to be found in the 
 most exceptionable passages of any orator, 
 or poet : it surpasses the most unnatural, 
 and ridiculous extravagance of Black- 
 more, or of Lee. He talks of an amiable 
 Quixotism : yes; there is an amiable Quix- 
 otism; to which a Walpole never soared. 
 Don Quixote's was, in many respects, a 
 fine madness; it was an enthusiast in
 
 380 
 
 compassion; it was an enthusiast in he- 
 roick virtue. The mental disorder of 
 this apologist is an intermitting moral 
 fever; he is seized with a cold, icy fit, 
 whenever he thinks of the garret in Shore- 
 ditch, or in Brook-Street; the melancho- 
 ly abodes of a great, and indigent poet : 
 when Berkley- Square, and Strawberry- 
 Hill arise in his little fancy, the more 
 lasting hot fit of self-love succeeds; pleas- 
 ing in its access : in its decline corroding. 
 Or it is a malignant fever ; and of a re- 
 markably contagious nature ; infecting 
 many morbid, and effeminate constituti- 
 ons in high life. 
 
 He had the unprincipled cruelty ; the 
 mischievous, but puny art ; and the ver- 
 bal absurdity, to tell us^ that Chatterton, 
 " as it was said was a bad man" Let us 
 not forget that he died in his eighteenth 
 year. Fools, Mr. Walpole, may catch 
 your insinuation ; for if he had been, in 
 maturity of years, a man, he would have 
 been a more responsible moral agent. 
 You might have contributed to prolong 
 his life, in reality ', with a God-like provi- 
 dence : to prolong it, in idea, with your 
 invidious view, and expression,, was the
 
 381 
 
 action of a daemon. The world is not ge- 
 nerous ; yet he might have lived to be a 
 man, and a most glorious man, if he had 
 not, in one instance, terribly misapplied 
 his epistolary talent. The word, bad, as 
 a morally stigmatizing epithet, could 
 only have been applied to him, by a dull, 
 undistinguishing, and uncharitable being. 
 There never was a generous, ardent, and 
 great mind, without juvenile imprudences. 
 If cold, compact, and uniform discreti- 
 on, of a smooth surface ; of a hard, and 
 indissoluble substance; if such human 
 flint is good for any thing, let the Wal- 
 poles take it. To be proud, and to strut, 
 in the gay trappings of life ; to see, or to 
 respect no merit, where there is no for- 
 tune; consistently with this arrogant, 
 and impious prejudice, to affect to des- 
 pise genius in the poor, and unprotected; 
 while we sicken with a virulent envy at 
 the sight of its splendour ; to pretend to 
 melt with compassion, while our hearts 
 are adamant ; these are the infallible cha- 
 racteristicks of a completely, and incorri- 
 gibly bad man. " Consider, sir" (says 
 Mr. Walpole) " what would be the condi- 
 " tion of the world, what the satisfaction
 
 382 
 
 " of parents, and what Peruvian mines 
 " must be possessed by the Maecenases of 
 " the times, if every muse-struck lad, 
 " who is bound to an attorney, every 
 " clerk, 
 
 born his father's soul to cross, 
 
 And pen a stanza when he should engross, 
 
 " should have nothing to do but to draw 
 " a bill, or a couplet, on the patron of 
 " learning in vogue, and have his fetters 
 " struck off; and a post assigned to him 
 " under the government. The duties of 
 " office, perhaps, would not be too well 
 " executed by these secretaries of the mu- 
 " ses ; and though Apollo's kingdom 
 " would certainly come, king George's 
 " would not be too well served." G. M. 
 April; p. 192. Whether this passage is 
 more marked with ungenerous, and un- 
 feeling language 5 with egregiously false, 
 and impudent sophistry ; or with Grub- 
 Street attempts at wit, it would be diffi- 
 cult to determine. I shall here be obliged 
 to dislodge him from two of the holes in 
 which he shrinks from performing a no- 
 ble, and easily practicable species of liber-
 
 383 
 
 ality. To apply the lines of Mr. Pope to 
 Chatterton, is equally stupid, absurd, and 
 indecent. Those lines impeach, they do 
 not absolve his conduct. Every school- 
 boy knows that Mr. Pope had in his eye, 
 when he wrote them, young, pert, igno- 
 rant poetasters ; but by no means a Chat- 
 terton, whom this creature justly pro- 
 nounces a prodigy, a miracle of genius ; 
 and while with an inconsistency of which 
 he alone was capable, (arising from the 
 usual conflict betwixt his favourite, and 
 despicable family-pride, and his involun- 
 tary, his extorted admiration of mental 
 excellence) while with this inconsisten- 
 cy, he treats him with that indifference, 
 contempt, and with that uncharitable, 
 and inquisitorial spirit, on paper, with 
 which he had treated him before in action, 
 he writes the severest possible satire on his 
 own avarice, and insensibility. He should 
 have been ashamed to recall the image of 
 Mr. Pope to ingenuous memories. He 
 would not bestow a guinea to promote the 
 exertions, and prosperity, of early and 
 unrivalled genius ; Mr. Pope, with a com- 
 parative poverty of fortune, was practi- 
 cally generous to a comparative mediocri-
 
 384 
 
 ty of talents ; when it was almost dead to 
 fine fame, and to finer virtue. Yet let 
 me be tender to the memory of the 
 unfortunate Savage ! When the ex- 
 treme sensibility is powerfully as- 
 sailed, on the one hand, with plea- 
 sure, and on the other, with pain ; what 
 Hercules in virtue is equal to the combat ! 
 Mr. Pope viewed the abilities of the man 
 with esteem, and respect ; he viewed his 
 vices with a christian indulgence ; his dis- 
 tresses, with a christian compassion ; for 
 he had not, like a Walpole, determined 
 not to relieve them. Mr. Pope had gene- 
 rously engaged to contribute twenty 
 pounds annually to the support of Savage. 
 When we estimate the very different value 
 of money in the time of Mr. Pope, and in 
 the decline of Mr. Walpole's life, twenty 
 pounds a-year to Savage was about equi- 
 valent (my multiplying calculation is 
 moderate) to the annual gratuity of a gui- 
 nea a- week; if Mr. Walpole, amongst 
 his whimsical, lavish, and useless expen- 
 ditures, could have prevailed with his con-* 
 tracted heart to allow that pittance to 
 Chatter ton. If he could have arisen to 
 this very moderate pitch of beneficence,
 
 385 
 
 it is highly probable (I no more pretend 
 to retrospective certainty than to prophe- 
 cy) that Chatterton would have, now, been 
 living, and happy ; that he would have 
 been esteemed for the disinterested, and 
 expanded virtues; and admired for the 
 literary, and poetical powers of his mind; 
 that he would have been in the plenitude 
 of unrivalled fame; and consequently, 
 that he would have poured a flood of light 
 on the intellectual galaxy of his country. 
 A tributary ray would have shot down 
 to earth ; it would have shed a grateful, 
 and a pleasing gleam on the tomb of Wal- 
 pole. When the mind of Johnson was 
 working for several years, and not with 
 inglorious toil, on the Dictionary of the 
 English Language ; the generous protec- 
 tion of a Chesterfield, in the lapse of those 
 years ; to preclude want ; to alleviate 
 toil ; and to inflame ambition, bestowed 
 
 on him the sum of Ten Pounds ! This 
 
 was more, by ten pounds, than could be 
 obtained from Walpole, by the more strik- 
 ing, and original merit of Chatterton. 
 Yet what a pity it is, that Johnson, for 
 the honour of the highest gifts of heaven, 
 could not have dispensed with the accept- 
 
 VOL. II. C C
 
 386 ' 
 
 ance of that charity; of that charity? 
 no! of that insult, from an unanimated 
 puppet of polished mechanism! Ye sons 
 of vanity! why will you not rise above 
 your momentary passion ? Caesar panted 
 not more than you for distinction ; why 
 will you not, then, like him, but for bet- 
 ter causes, make it durable, and uncon- 
 fined ? Your external power will give 
 you what your internal insignificance de- 
 nies. From a glittering, childish, expen- 
 sive, and extravagant vanity, you have 
 only the life of an ephemeris; from an ob- 
 vious, cheap, and beneficent vanity, you 
 may secure immortality. With a small 
 particle of what you squander on little 
 human art; on stone, and colours; and 
 twinkling mimick stars; preserve, and 
 invigorate to proper action; appropriate, 
 to your lasting glory, the noblest works of 
 God! Relieve, and animate aspiring ge- 
 nius, and persevering virtue in distress. 
 Be not satisfied to shine in the narrow 
 circle of a court; the painted insects of 
 which, unless you feel a more sensible 
 vanity, will soon perish, like yourselves; 
 and you may jsail " along the stream of 
 " time," with the Johnsons, and if a hu-
 
 387 
 
 man comet appears while you live, with 
 the Chatterton of your age. 
 
 In this letter to the ungenerous editor 
 of Chatterton's Miscellanies, he estimates 
 his power to do good as falsely as he mis- 
 represents other objects. " My fortune 
 " is private, and moderate; my situation 
 " more private; my interest, none. I 
 " was neither born to wealth, nor to accu- 
 " mulate it. I have indulged a taste for 
 " expensive baubles, with little attention 
 " toceconomy: it did not become me to 
 " give myself airs of protection; and 
 " though it might not be generous, I have 
 " been less fond of the company of au- 
 (i thours than of their works." p. 192. 
 Four assertions, in the former part of 
 this quotation, are gross violations, and be- 
 cause he published them, impudent violati- 
 ons of truth. He was left in great affluence 
 by his father ; he enjoyed many thousand 
 pounds a-year; and when he died, he 
 left more than ,=100,000. I am writing 
 within his bounds. Therefore, notwith- 
 standing the diminished value of money; 
 the luxury of the times; and our enor- 
 mous crimes in India ; allow me to be so 
 
 c c2
 
 388 
 
 antiquated a man as to insist that Mr. 
 Walpole was immensely rich. His con- 
 nexions were extensive, and powerful; he 
 might easily have procured a small esta- 
 blishment for his petitioner; which would 
 have produced a pecuniary affluence to 
 a great mind, rich in genius, and of in- 
 tense application. Let him not talk of 
 his little regard for ceconomy; he was ava- 
 ricious; but even misers will have their 
 expensive, their extravagant whims. 
 And if he could have sublimated his 
 childish taste for those baubles of which 
 he owns that he was enamoured, to an ex- 
 alted moral taste for acts of generous, dif- 
 fusive, and judicious benevolence; Chat- 
 terton might have been made happy, and 
 completely illustrious, with the hundred- 
 thousandth part of the collective sum 
 which on those baubles he had idly, and 
 selfishly expended. You must now see 
 his theatrical, and meretricious modesty, 
 when he told us that " it did not become 
 " him to give himself airs of protection." 
 It is, indeed, altogether, a most igno- 
 minious letter; in every line of it, consci- 
 ous guilt breaks its thin covering: it is
 
 389 
 
 fraught with' a dastardly fear of the accu- 
 ser to whom it is addressed; with an 
 affected humility to him, and to the pub- 
 lick; who are too often easily deluded 
 gudgeons; when the little pride of wealth, 
 prostrated by cowardice, deprecates their 
 resentment; and seems to reverence their 
 opinion. The epistolary crouching of 
 Walpole I should have compared with the 
 supplications of an ancient gladiator, 
 populum extremd exorantis arena; had 
 not the unfortunate Roman Slave been 
 brave. 
 
 Aspersions have been thrown unjustly, 
 and cruelly : I will never hesitate to re- 
 taliate on iniquity; when I have justice 
 on my side. This man, in the course of 
 one letter, has been guilty of many forge- 
 ries on the sacred bank of truth. To as- 
 sume virtues of which we are totally 
 destitute; to endeavour to elude the force 
 of well -grounded accusations with the as- 
 sertions of falsehood, and with the can- 
 dour of timidity ; to be industrious to 
 deceive the publick into a belief of that 
 humanity, which, as we never practised, 
 we never felt; these impostures; these 
 
 cc3
 
 390 
 
 forgeries are far more criminal than 
 the ingenious, and splendid fiction, 
 which formed an imaginary, but high- 
 ly poetical priest of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury.
 
 LECTURE XVI. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 If Mr. Walpole sincerely deemed his 
 fortune moderate, and his life private, I 
 should have wished to know what he 
 really thought of the situations, and plea- 
 sures, of many worthy persons, who were 
 in circumstances infinitely more circum- 
 scribed than his own. He must have 
 concluded that the predominate descrip- 
 tion of the life of a very private gentleman 
 was imprisonment, and distress ; and that 
 every particle of enjoyment was annihila- 
 ted, to the poor. Indeed, with an infa- 
 tuation which often seems to intoxicate 
 the great, he might suppose that 
 people in the lower classes of society, 
 were, by nature, differently constituted 
 
 c c 4
 
 392 
 
 from himself; and consequently that he, 
 and they would be affected by external 
 impressions, with different modifications 
 of pain, and pleasure. If that was his 
 idea, I should then have wished to know 
 what would have been, in his opinion, 
 not a moderate fortune; but a fortune 
 affluent, and large enough to support the 
 dignity of titled worth; of true nobility; 
 or to varnish ; to redeem ; to warrant 
 the infamy of that peerage, with which a 
 minister of iniquity was rewarded who 
 made it his principal study; nay, his* 
 boasted art, to corrupt the vitals of the 
 British constitution. 
 
 He says that " he was less fond of the 
 " company of authours than of their 
 '"works." And he is frank enough al- 
 most to acknowledge that the preference 
 " was not generous." If, indeed, he had 
 been fond of the society of men of polite, 
 
 * il A celebrated minister had a book of rates of the probity 
 cc of each member of parliament ; and openly boasted of it, to 
 11 thedisgrace of the English." Rayal. History of theEuropean 
 settlements in the East and West Indies. 
 
 A free choice of books is. at present, not in my power ; there- 
 fore I am obliged to quote this passage from Justamond's affect- 
 ed, and barbarous translation.
 
 393 
 
 and accomplished learning, and of distin- 
 guished talents, he would so far have de- 
 parted from his real character : for as he 
 merely pretended to be an authour, him- 
 self, with all his inordinate self- love,he must 
 have felt himself uneasy, and embarras- 
 sed, while he was in the company of emi- 
 nent, and illustrious authours : the re- 
 flected gleams of the paternal coronet; 
 the weighty -gifts of the Peruvian god, 
 would give him little confidence, and 
 animation, when they were opposed to 
 the intellectual treasures of Apollo; to 
 the better gold which his influence ma- 
 tures; to his powerful, and celestial in- 
 spiration. For consistently with the 
 observation of Horace, if you should at- 
 tempt to overwhelm nature with a moun- 
 tain of gold, she will spring up; shove 
 the mountain off; and assert her empire. 
 Before I quit my particular attention 
 to Mr. Walpole, I request you to judge 
 from an example or two (indeed all his 
 defence is a series of such examples) how 
 far he deserves the rich literary incense 
 which was offered to him by the editor of 
 the Gentleman's Magazine ; how far he 
 deserves the character of an elegant, mas-
 
 394 
 
 terly, admirable writer. You know the 
 old and trite, but sensible adage; expede, 
 Herculem ; ex ungue, /eonem. 
 
 Chatterton informed him, in his first 
 letter, that " the possessour of the old 
 " poetry could furnish him with accounts 
 "of a series of great painters that had 
 " flourished at Bristol." " I was not 
 " likely" (says he) " to swallow a succes- 
 sion of great painters at Bristol." p. 
 247. It is certain that in this expression 
 the delicacy of the antiquary is greater 
 than that of the writer. But " the crea- 
 " ture is at his dirty work again" In 
 one of his compassionate fits, he thus ex- 
 presses his grief, and regret. " Alas ! 
 " how could /surmise that the well-being 
 " and existence of a human creature de- 
 " pended on my swallowing a legend !" 
 P. 249. 
 
 The writer of this tedious, and unsatis- 
 factory letter makes many impotent 
 efforts at various kinds of eloquence. 
 Permit me to give you a specimen of his 
 humour. In expostulating with the 
 editor of the Miscellanies, yet only for 
 just reproaches, after having accused him 
 of treating his rejection of Chatterton's
 
 395 
 
 request with an unwarrantable severity, 
 he adds, with an attick spirit peculiar to 
 himself; " and lest that rejection should 
 " want a name, you have baptized it, neg- 
 " lect, and contempt. 
 
 Here, as in a thousand other instances, 
 we see verified Horace's invincibility of 
 nature. No art can eradicate her essen- 
 tial deformities: and thanks be tolieaven, 
 it sometimes happens, that no sublunary 
 evils can suppress her beauties. The 
 best education that the world could af- 
 ford ; conversation with the most polished, 
 with the most highly cultivated society, 
 a personal knowledge of the most inter- 
 esting countries of Europe; the instruct- 
 ive, and animating display of the fine 
 arts; the daily impression of elegant, and 
 splendid objects; all these capital advan- 
 tages could not excite, in the breast of 
 Mr. Walpole, their corresponding forms ; 
 they could not subdue the natural coarse- 
 ness, and vulgarity of his mind. If I am 
 told that the short examples which I have 
 cited, are trifling, and insignificant, I re- 
 ply, that in literary composition, nothing 
 is trifling, or insignificant. Every par- 
 ticle of the whole, shows, to a discerning
 
 396 
 
 judge of that object, the vigorous, or the 
 feeble mind ; the elegant, or the barbarous 
 taste of the writer. And I likewise reply, 
 that the whole strain of the writings of 
 the late Lord Orford/ as well as of this 
 letter, is dull; unclassical; totally inele- 
 gant. But in this contemptible defence, 
 on which I have been animadverting with 
 a warrantable freedom, more sacred qua- 
 lities, his moral characteris ticks, are evi- 
 dently obnoxious to the censure of the 
 most liberal observer. Agreeably to my 
 preceding remarks, it is far from being 
 honourably distinguished by those con- 
 cise, and simple assertions, with which 
 conscious integrity supports its cause : on 
 the contrary, it betrays a mind trembling 
 under the sense of guilt, and disinge- 
 nuity; and therefore, by its minute, reite- 
 rated protestations, painfully solicitous 
 to be believed. 
 
 I have dwelt rather long on Mr. Wal- 
 pole's apology for his conduct to Chat- 
 terton. My motives were good; and if 
 I have been severe, I thought that severi- 
 ty was my duty. It has been my wish, 
 as I have already observed, to blend in- 
 structive, and useful views in morality,
 
 397 
 
 with literary entertainment. This most 
 important part of my plan it was impos- 
 sible to effect; these improving views I 
 could not present to you, in their full ex- 
 pansion, and in their vivid colours; if I 
 had suffered my mind to harbour a court- 
 ly, feudal, immoral respect of persons; 
 if I had contracted my views; if I had 
 dimmed their objects, with a reserve, and 
 timidity of sentiment, and language; with 
 a hand fearful of the malignity of criti- 
 cism, and of the frowns of the great. I 
 have endeavoured to lay before you, 
 openly, and completely, some striking 
 topicks in the ethical code, which may 
 have salutary ends; they may refresh the 
 memory; they may warm the heart ; 
 they may, at momentous junctures, ani- 
 mate, and exalt the conduct. We can- 
 not, too often for our generous practice, 
 calmly recollect, and feelingly consider, 
 how easily the fortunate acquire any kind 
 of high reputation; how frequently the 
 most virtuous, and glorious desert, is 
 chilled by their neglect, or harassed by 
 their malevolence; with what alacrity 
 and industry their dispositions are grati- 
 fied by the sycophants that surround
 
 398 
 
 them ; the adulators of their caprice ; the 
 instruments of their passions ; the minis- 
 tering elements to the gods of this lower 
 globe ; which, at their nod, by congealing 
 the moral atmosphere; or by breathing 
 into it a malignant agitation, destroy 
 some fine human fabrick of reason, and 
 fancy ; trample on its ashes, and enjoy 
 the ruin. 
 
 There are, indeed, several circum- 
 stances uncommon ; I hope, unexampled, 
 in the short, but eventful history of this 
 extraordinary young man. When we 
 consider his abilities ; his productions, 
 and his fate ; it seems rather surprising, 
 that, soon after his death, more attention 
 was not payed to his memory ; and that 
 he was not more the subject of general 
 conversation. It must be owned that his 
 works excited some warm, and on one 
 side of the question, very ridiculous cri- 
 tical conflicts ; but the literary world, 
 extensively, have never been so much in- 
 terested as might have been expected, in 
 so rare a phaenomenon. To solve what 
 at first sight, may appear enigmatical, an 
 iEdipus is not required. I am sorry that 
 the solution will make one memorable
 
 399 
 
 article more, in the melancholy history 
 of human nature, Chatterton, though 
 splendid by genius, was poor, obscure, 
 and depressed in station. His applicati- 
 on to Mr. Walpole; the returns to that 
 application; and his untimely death, had 
 made that person, with great justice, an 
 object of humane, and indignant censure. 
 Yet on such an occasion, the process of 
 the moral chymistry ultimately acts with 
 a result quite contrary to that of the phy- 
 sical : the dross is sublimated ; the 
 ethereal spirit is precipitated. Whether 
 this view of the subject is cynical, or true, 
 let the literary conduct of Mr. Tyrwhitt 
 determine. What prejudice, and mean- 
 ness influenced, and directed the remarks, 
 and the censures, of this learned, and 
 sensible critick, and commentator, can- 
 not, as I should suppose, be reasonably 
 disputed. Chatterton was long, and re- 
 peatedly, the object of his inquiries, and 
 observations. His moral character he 
 persecutes with an undistinguishing bar- 
 barity ; on his natural endowments ; on 
 his acquirements of knowledge, both, 
 unequalled, at his tender years, and with 
 his opportunities, he bestows not a single
 
 400 
 
 particle of the praise which they deserved. 
 A concurrence of singular circumstances 
 were evidently the causes of a singular 
 obduracy : this monstrous retention of 
 the voice of nature ; this obstinate stagna- 
 tion .of common sentiments ; however 
 constitutional they may have been to the 
 man, were more indissolubly fixed by the 
 polar frost of Walpole. All the annals of 
 literature, in all the world, cannot pro- 
 duce an instance of such a profligate 
 complaisance. To a servile obsequious- 
 ness to wealth, and title ; to the unavail- 
 ing pleadings of youthful genius, in un- 
 utterable distress ; to the most unmerciful 
 insults on its memory; I apply this 
 epithet, justly, which was applied with a 
 ruthless injustice to Chatterton's juvenile 
 sensibility ; the momentary irregularities 
 of which brought little, or no impeach- 
 ment on his heart. 
 
 " I am exerting my best endeavours to 
 " vindicate thy memory, thou transcend- 
 " ently great, but ill-fated youth ! I have 
 " repeatedly felt a solemn impulse to this 
 " generous though invidious task; and 
 " I trust that my sentiments have been 
 " in unison with that impulse. 1 have
 
 401 
 
 been thy ardent advocate ; yet not with 
 higher praise than was warranted by 
 thy desert; " without partiality, and 
 without hypocrisy." I could not have 
 done justice to thee, unless I had dis- 
 dained all temporizing reserve; unless 
 1 had felt a warmth, in some degree, 
 congenial with thy own. My ivarmth 
 was a warm admiration of a mind su- 
 periour to its fate; a warm compassion 
 for its misfortunes; a warm love of 
 noble, and amiable virtue; and a 
 warm detestation of puritanical tyrants, 
 and voluntary slaves. To this freedom, 
 and to this ardour, my style must have 
 been analogous, by the imperious ne- 
 cessity of nature. All this warmth 
 may be pronounced malignity by malig- 
 nant criticks ; but to their censure I 
 have been long habituated; and to 
 more liberal crrticks I hope that I shall 
 not appeal in vain. Thou transcend- 
 ently great, but ill-fated youth ! The 
 animating, the reprehensory gleams of 
 thy much-injured ghost, have often 
 pierced the gloom of this Boeotian at- 
 mosphere; they have rouzed, and sti- 
 mulated my languishing faculties; they 
 
 VOL. II. D D
 
 402 
 
 " have, in my old age, invigorated my 
 " reason; illumined, and enriched my 
 " fancy; they have renovated my mind, 
 " and given it a youthful play. Yet to 
 " certain prejudices, the very root on 
 " which they should soon decay, is apt to 
 " give them a stabiliment, and duration. 
 " Under their deadly night-shade, we 
 " may both be consigned to a temporary 
 " sepulture: shall we presume to be ex- 
 " emptedfrom the destiny of some of our 
 " glorious ancestors ? But as there is a 
 " final resurrection, and judgement for 
 " the man, there is an intermediate resur- 
 i6 rection, and judgement, for his produc- 
 " tions. Let us wait for the reforming 
 " power of time; for his adjusting equity. 
 " Let us wait for the prevailing voice of 
 " honest fame; for the oracular decision 
 " of posterity." 
 
 Let us now see to what enormous cri- 
 minality the artful, and mischievous for- 
 geries; the profligate impostures of Chat- 
 terton amount. It is very possible; it 
 is not improbable, that he had intended, 
 at some future time, to make the full 
 discovery, which was retarded, and ob- 
 structed, by the dullness, and rubbish of
 
 403 
 
 criticism. Ardent ambition, especially at 
 the commencement of its career, is tre- 
 mulous for its fortune, though it is bold 
 in its promotion. It might have been in 
 his plan, to wait for the proclamation of 
 fame in his favour; before he stepped 
 forth, and payed his personal homage to 
 the goddess. The late excellent Mr. Burke 
 (my mind, while I mention his name, is 
 divided between my admiration of his 
 talents, and my reverence of his virtues) 
 the late Mr. Burke published an essay 
 (which you may find in the fugitive pieces) 
 entitled, " A Vindication of the Natural 
 " Rights of Society ;" in which he deliber- 
 ately, and happily imitated the seducing 
 sophistry, and the magnificent declama- 
 tion of Lord Bolingbroke. It passed, for 
 some time, over England, agreeably to 
 the intention of the writer, for the genu- 
 ine production of that celebrated noble- 
 man. Mr. Burke, when he thought it 
 proper, revealed the secret. In the inte- 
 rim, he, undoubtedly, carefully kept it, 
 and guarded it in conversation. Truth 
 is never to be violated, when the violation 
 does the least injury; when it indicates a 
 mean heart. But when people are im- 
 
 dd 2
 
 404 
 
 placable against a falsehood which, at 
 least, does no harm ; I should be apt to 
 doubt their own habitual moral veracity ; 
 I should be apt to suspect their assump- 
 tion of a virtue. Literary fiction, when 
 it is formed for our innocent, for our im- 
 proving entertainment ; when it strength- 
 ens, and refines the moral sense ; or when 
 it recreates, without corrupting, the 
 imagination ; when by its artful machi- 
 nery, and interesting characters, it de- 
 ceives us into a tender sympathy with 
 human distress ; into an ardent throb for 
 heroick virtue ; when we are transported 
 to Thebes, or to Athens ; to the Danube ; 
 or the Ganges, at the will of the charming, 
 and powerful magician ; all this elegant 
 ingenuity ; all these speciosa miracula are 
 falsehood, if you please, in the rigid sense 
 of the word ; yet they are not only allow- 
 able, but worthy of encomium. If the 
 writer even substitutes for himself an 
 imaginary person ; and if this fiction 
 does no injury to the community, nor to 
 any individual ; is it not the utmost ini- 
 quity ; is it not the utmost barbarity, to 
 confound Ms disposition, with that of the 
 artful, and bold invader of property;
 
 405 
 
 with that of the rapacious culprit who 
 breaks the sacred ties of society ? Now, 
 the pamphlet of Mr. Burke, to which I 
 have referred, was as much a forgery, and 
 imposture, as the Rowley of Chatterton. 
 But Mr. Burke, both in theory, and in 
 practice, insisted on the substance, not on 
 the shadows of virtue. His mind came 
 pregnant with manly, and expanded 
 ideas, from the school of Socrates, and 
 from the genuine school of Christ : it was 
 not contracted, and shrivelled with hy- 
 pocritical scruples, because it was actu- 
 ated; because it was impelled, with all 
 its irresistible energy, by a most humane, 
 enlarged, and generous morality; dis- 
 played, on every suitable occasion, in cor- 
 responding deeds. 
 
 At Strawberry -Hill, a mountain which 
 has been delivered of many complete 
 mice, and of many unreducible monsters; 
 the Honourable Horace Walpole; the 
 intolerant censor of juvenile dissipation ; 
 the superstitious idolater of literal, and 
 inexorable truth ; printed, many years 
 ago, a dubious creature of his brain ; 
 half- novel, and half- romance. It was 
 entitled, " The Castle of Otranto." This 
 
 dd3
 
 406 
 
 nondescript of a confused fancy, would 
 be very characteristically described, and 
 represented, - 
 
 Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
 Jungere si velit, et vavias induccre plumas, 
 Undique coljatis membris ; aut turpiter atrum. 
 Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne. 
 
 Horace. Art Poetick. 
 
 In the title-page of his book, he announc- 
 ed to the world, as " a translation from 
 " the Italian, by Andrew Marshal." Now 
 I insist that this is as absolute a literary 
 forgery, or imposture (if we must give 
 heavy names to light offences) as any one 
 that Chatterton committed. I have 
 given a probable, and important reason 
 why he might chuse to appear in publick 
 in the habit of the fifteenth century. 
 But his enemy, and accuser seems to 
 have thrown out his decoy, in the wan- 
 tonness of literary sport. Or, I will al- 
 low him humility in one instance of his 
 life ; I shall suppose that he had an ap- 
 prehensive anxiety for the fortune of his 
 performance (though it was a descendent 
 of nobility) as it was, certainly, at least, 
 of an exotick form ; and that he thought
 
 407 
 
 it necessary previously to make it inter- 
 esting by some popular artifice. He 
 knew that we were infatuated with emas- 
 culated importations from Italy ; and on 
 this foundation it must be owned that he 
 anticipated the success of his work by a 
 very taking title. But, indeed it is very 
 probable that this imposture partly pro- 
 ceeded from the little creature's affected 
 contempt of the literary character; of 
 which a Frederick, an Alfred, the Anto- 
 nines, and Caesar were proud, to their im- 
 mortal honour. 
 
 In the language, then, of a Tyrwhitt, 
 or a Milles ; in the language of a critical 
 Draco ; the authour of the Castle of 
 Otranto, was, in his title-page, indisput- 
 ably guilty of a forgery, or imposture. It 
 was indeed, a double imposition ; con- 
 trived to deceive the publick, not only in 
 the title-page, but through the whole 
 book ; of which it had given us false, and 
 imaginary persons, as the authour, and 
 the translator. As far as Chatterton's 
 motives for the deceit were more cogent 
 than Walpole's, the latter showed, in his 
 deceit, a more fraudulent disposition. 
 Should it be urged that Mr. Walpole's 
 d d 4
 
 408 
 
 fraud was, comparatively, produced by a 
 momentary act of the mind ; and that 
 Chatterton's was the effect of a deliberate 
 plan; of a system of a long continuance 
 of deceit ; I reply, that the genius ; the 
 entertainment ; the poetical honours that 
 we acquired by the real Rowley, were 
 worth a thousand Castles of Otranto ; or 
 to distinguish with more propriety, that 
 he amply redeemed the popularity which, 
 for a while, was lavished on that delirious 
 rhapsody, by many readers, in an enlight- 
 ened nation. If I do not reason justly, 
 and closely, on my present subject, it is 
 my errour, not my intention. I set the 
 strong motives for the protracted, against 
 the weak motives for the short delusion : 
 so far I think that the moral account (as 
 hypocritical superstition has made it a 
 rigid account) is accurately balanced. I 
 then compare the result of each impos- 
 ture ; the literary glory of the one with 
 the literary ignominy of the other $ the 
 high pleasure of sentiment, and imagina- 
 tion, which was afforded by the one, with 
 the load, and the lassitude of mind, with 
 which unprejudiced, and sensible readers 
 were oppressed by the other. When to
 
 409 
 
 these considerations I add the importu- 
 nate, and formidable wants; the tender, 
 and unexperienced years of the young 
 poet; and the most affluent, and flatter- 
 ing circumstances ; the hoary age, hack- 
 neyed in the ways of the world, of the 
 moral Page who judged him ; I appeal, 
 not to a Cowley, nor to a Williams, of 
 the softer sex ; whose compassion, and 
 sympathy; whose generous tribute to 
 the memory of Chatterton almost atoned 
 for the barbarity of ours ; nor do I appeal 
 to a Hayley ; who, in elegant, and elegi- 
 ack numbers, has, to that memory been 
 equally generous ; nor to a humane, and 
 liberal Croft ; who, in the conduct of the 
 true gentleman, and the christian, was 
 almost emancipated from the priest : 
 no ; I now call on a Tyrwhitt and a 
 Bryant; if they can, for awhile, forget 
 their gothick homage to power, and obey 
 the dictates of conscience ; (hear me ye 
 spirits of Walpole, and of Milles !) I call 
 on these men to tell me, who was guilty of 
 the more criminal forgery, and impos- 
 ture? I flatter myself that my present 
 sentiments have the honour to be revibrat- 
 ed by the feeling souls of my audience ;
 
 410 
 
 who yet deplore all the hard fate of Chat- 
 terton ; and kindly fancy themselves 
 equally indebted to his genius, and to his 
 poverty. For my own part, 1 have always 
 (unfortunately, shall I say, or by a pecu- 
 liarity for which I ought to be grateful 
 to nature, and to its God !) I have always 
 estimated virtue, and vice, according to 
 the jus test view that I could take of their 
 causes, and effects ; and of the general 
 conduct of the human agents, whom they 
 influenced, and controuled ; without 
 any regard to the merely accidental, and 
 morally foreign objects, of particular cir- 
 cumstances, and situations ; without any 
 desertion from the manly defence of my 
 cause, to a servile respect of persons ; 
 without any regard to the smiles, or to 
 the frowns of fortune. The reverse of 
 this habit ; a mean flexibility to that 
 pressure which too much domineers over 
 the world ; an estimate of worth, and de- 
 merit, agreeable to the spurious, and 
 perishable modifications of man ; not to 
 the genuine, and adamantine substance 
 of truth; this convenient habit I have 
 always left, and I shall ever leave, to those 
 of the laity, with whom a coronet ; and
 
 411 
 
 to those of the church, with whom a mitre, 
 is the supreme good. 
 
 The strongest charge of imposture 
 against this honourable gentleman, and 
 right honourable lord still remains. I 
 shall now produce a bold example of his 
 progress, and improvement in forgery. 
 When we consider the timidity of the man, 
 we must give some credit to the hardiness 
 of the adventurer. I proceed, by a pro- 
 minence in fact. A climax is never to be 
 despised, either in literary composition, 
 or in moral censure. 
 
 When the illustrious Rousseau sought 
 an asylum in England from political, and 
 priestly persecution, this imp of envy, 
 and malignity, instead of soothing, deri- 
 ded his misfortunes. He played off one 
 of his contemptible, yet mischievous ma* 
 chinations, against him. He had the 
 presumption to assume the person of the 
 king of Prussia ; who was an elegant, and 
 for a king, a great writer : especially 
 when we compare him with his mimick, 
 Walpole. He wrote a letter, in the name 
 of that monarch, to Rousseau, in which 
 he exhausted all his puny efforts to ridi- 
 cule, and mortify the immortal citizen of
 
 412 
 
 Geneva. The literary world must re- 
 member that at that time, there was an 
 unfortunate dispute between him, and 
 David Hume. The spurious letter was 
 industriously calculated to inflame the 
 dispute; and it actually produced that 
 unhappy effect. Could any fair animad- 
 versions demonstrate the inhumanity, 
 and turpitude of Walpole's heart, more 
 forcibly than the simple recital of these 
 facts ? And yet no man was ever more 
 apt than he, to arraign the hearts, and 
 intentions of others. This letter, without 
 the exaggerating crimination ofpoorChat- 
 terton's enemies, whether we consider its 
 origin, or its consequences, may be pro- 
 nounced by candour itself, an infamous 
 forgery. It assumed the character of a 
 sovereign ; it insulted exquisite sensibi- 
 lity, in distress ; and it widened the disu- 
 nion of two respectable, amiable, and ad- 
 mirable friends. Mr. Walpole, and Mr. 
 Tyrwhitt ; the disciples of a cautious, and 
 delicate morality, have observed how apt 
 the human mind is to grow bolder in vice; 
 to advance from a less to a greater degree 
 of iniquity; from forging poems, to forg- 
 ing bank-notes. With my best attention
 
 413 
 
 to this moral scale, I cannot but think 
 that he who forges a letter from a living 
 person, with a most malicious design, 
 hath superseded all the other dangerous 
 habits of literary imposition; and anti- 
 cipates the gallows (if he is a needy person) 
 with a more diabolical improvement than 
 any poetical impostor. 
 
 Rousseau's return to this petty, but 
 base insolence, is rather entertaining. 
 He advertised the honourable forger in 
 the publick papers, with this preamble ; 
 " whereas one Horace Walpole, &c." 
 It is certain that the monosvllable one. 
 was never more properly applied : for in 
 the sacred human discrimination ; in the 
 distinctions of men, as they have been 
 appointed by God, and nature ; Walpole 
 was to Rousseau, what* one Burnet was to 
 Prior ; what one Welivood was to Milton, 
 
 * Whitlockc, in his memoirs, distinguishes Milton, the 
 greatest of all poets, by mentioning " one Milton ; a blind 
 " man." 
 
 Bishop Burnet, too, a phlegmatick, and vulgar historian ; 
 the most unchristian, and base traducer of the virtuous morals 
 of Dryden, introduces Prior into his coarse, and rude page ; 
 that elegant, and facetious poet ; that zngenium felix. ct versa- 
 tile, with the same contemptuous monosyllable; '* one 
 "Prior."
 
 414 
 
 Though the common, and most impor- 
 tant dictates of morality are obvious even 
 to untutored minds, moral cases may 
 arise, in which men of good conscience 
 may differ in their ethical judgement ; in 
 their estimation of a particular conduct. 
 If there was any guilt in the poetical de- 
 ceptions of Chatterton, they were, in my 
 sincere, and humble opinion, culpable, 
 hi the lowest degree ; and consequently, 
 far from deserving the ignominious ap- 
 pellations with which they were branded 
 by antichristian intolerance. His senti- 
 ments on this object most probably coin- 
 cided with mine ; therefore as his heart 
 could not accuse him while he framed 
 those beautiful fictions, they cannot 
 reasonably be produced among the evi- 
 dences of his enormous profligacy. But 
 Mr. Walpole could not plead this inno- 
 cence: without Chatterton's inducements 
 to impose upon the publick, he was deep, 
 and malignant in the crime of literary 
 forgery ; yet at the very idea of that crime 
 his conscientious delicacy shuddered : 
 that crime he reprobated in terms of the 
 severest censure ; therefore his own me- 
 mory must bear all the load of guilt with
 
 415 
 
 which he, and his unprincipled flatterers 
 were industrious to load that of another. 
 
 Though, I thank God, my mind has 
 not been dragged through a Walpolian 
 farrago of five huge quarto volumes, yet 
 I am well enough acquainted both with, 
 his disposition, and his writings, to ob- 
 serve, with an accurate veracity, that his 
 pen was often employed, through a long 
 life, to poison the moral, and literary 
 fame of the greatest men. Cervantes; 
 Fielding ; Addison ; Swift ; Johnson ; and 
 many more immortal names ; nay, the 
 epick majesty of Virgil himself, he hath 
 profaned with his impertinent censure, 
 and with his insolent contempt. This 
 little fretful porcupine hath darted its 
 quills against many fine Arabian coursers ; 
 against many lions, and elephants, -in the 
 forest of Minerva. 
 
 The proportion of the good, or bad ef- 
 fects of human conduct essentially con- 
 stitutes, and characterizes it, as virtue, 
 or vice, in its nature, and in its degree. 
 The deceptions of Chatterton did not 
 mislead us, in the history of the world, 
 like the fables of Psalmanazar ; they did 
 not wound the fame of the greatest of
 
 416 
 
 poets ; nor, consequently, injure the 
 poetical glory of bur celebrated island, 
 like the assassinating impostures of Laud- 
 er ; they encroached on no property ; 
 they injured no man ; at the worst, to 
 give the highest poetical honours to an 
 imaginary being ; to write verses for the 
 fifteenth, which, in strength, and harmo- 
 ny, adorn the eighteenth century ; ficti- 
 ons, which could only have been doubtful 
 to doting antiquarians, by whom, profes- 
 sionally, they should have been most 
 easily discovered ; at the worst, these 
 impositions are surely venial, at the tribu- 
 nal of candour, and liberality. But two 
 sorts of men were greatly obliged to the 
 authour of these deceptions ; vigorous, 
 and elegant minds, who delight in fine 
 poetry ; and critical, and scholastick 
 minds, who delight in quibbles ; whom 
 the lana carina often engages in warm, 
 and pertinacious disputes ; and whose 
 most heart-felt triumph is the discovery 
 of a wrong, and the restoration, and es- 
 tablishment of a right word. When to 
 these apologies (which, I hope, have the 
 force of substantial truth) we add his very 
 immature age, and that probably, if he
 
 417 
 
 had lived, he would have revealed the 
 whole secret ; I trust that I need make no 
 farther apologies to the judges whom I 
 wish to convince, and please. The me- 
 mory of Chatterton will be severely treat- 
 ed only by those who are insensible to the 
 benevolence of virtue, and to the impres- 
 sions of taste ; or by the hypocrites who 
 are eager to accuse others, because they 
 are conscious of great misconduct in 
 themselves. The compassion, and the 
 praise of this illustrious, and unfortunate 
 youth, will descend, from good, and re- 
 fined souls, to the latest British posterity; 
 and if such characters make any excep- 
 tions to their praise, the exceptions will be 
 moderate, and tender; and whenever 
 they are made, they will be soon effaced 
 by the splendid remembrance of his geni- 
 us. The specks of moral obliquity will 
 be lost in the blaze of mental excellence. 
 
 It is as -painful to me as it may appear 
 invidious, frequently to remark our indul- 
 gent, or severe estimate of human con- 
 duct, in proportion as the persons on 
 whose conduct we animadvert, are more, 
 or less favoured by fortune. But if a 
 partial, and prejudiced world wijl not do 
 
 VOL. II. E E
 
 418 
 
 justice to the unfortunate, in fact ; it 
 may be of some service to the cause of 
 virtue ; it may, in some degree, check 
 licentious calumny, to endeavour to esta- 
 blish, or promote social, and moral jus- 
 tice, in theory. They who cherish in 
 their minds, iniquitous, and oppressive 
 sentiments, deserve publick reprehension, 
 and disgust ; not they by whom those 
 sentiments are openly censured, and ex- 
 posed. I suppose that none who hear 
 me will doubt, that if the dreadfully ob- 
 noxious forgeries of Chatterton had been 
 fabricated by a prosperous, and affluent 
 person ; by a young man in high life ; 
 by the son of a lord ; they would have 
 escaped his red-hot ordeal of moral con- 
 demnation. Nay, the imposition would 
 have received the tribute of exaggerated 
 praise : (stern crimination, indeed, would 
 have been uncharitably, and absurdly ap- 
 plied ;) the encomium of a masterly in- 
 genuity in juvenile years ; of a complete 
 victory, and triumph over Homer, Shake- 
 speare, and Milton, would have been la- 
 vished on this offspring of noble intellect; 
 on this heir apparent to immortal glory. 
 Instead of our generous, and indignant re-
 
 419 
 
 sentment, at the opprobrious terms of Mr, 
 Tyrwhitt, we should have been lulled 
 with his incense of compliment, and adu- 
 lation. Mr. Bryant would not have 
 spurned the poor, and abject ; he would 
 have acknowledged the astonishing, the 
 wonderful boy ; not without the pedan- 
 tick hyperbole of academical homage; 
 and the sagacious, and eloquent Dean 
 Milles, while he adorned the brows of 
 young, and aspiring nobility, with a poe- 
 tical, would have prepared for himself 
 an episcopal crown. 
 
 Consistently with that particular, and 
 unreserved attention which I have hither- 
 to shown to social, moral, and poetical 
 justice, Dr. Gregory must contribute to 
 enlarge these Lectures. To the youth, 
 whose too short, and unhappy life he 
 writes, he is, in many places, fair, and 
 liberal ; and in many, partial against 
 him, and ungenerous. I have no doubt 
 that he would have been more consistently 
 benevolent, if his sentiments, like those 
 of others, had not been tainted with the 
 Walpolian influence. I do not presume 
 to say that he was warped, in his narrative, 
 by any kind of intercourse with Mr. Wal- 
 
 E E 2
 
 420 
 
 pole; I only mean, that prejudices, in 
 favour of the powerful, against the weak, 
 insensihly work, and prevail, even in ele- 
 vated minds (though they come not into 
 immediate contact with their idols) with 
 a seducing, and fascinating magnetism, 
 or magick, in social, and moral life. So 
 insidiously operative is this fascination, 
 that the person who is under its domi- 
 nion, is frequently insensible of its igno- 
 ble sway. So far there is an apology for 
 his deviation from independence. If Dr. 
 Gregory had not been seduced in this 
 manner, he never could have paid such 
 unmerited compliments to Mr. Walpole ; 
 he never could have been so cold in the 
 cause of Chatterton ; of humanity, and 
 of genius. Let us not presume strongly 
 to recommend the equal, and beneficent 
 spirit of christian freedom ; unless we 
 give it life, and action, in ourselves ; un- 
 less we practically prove its beauty. 
 
 i One great errour, and misfortune per- 
 vades his book : the man is overpowered 
 (by no means by the christian, for he ex- 
 alts the man) by the ecclesiastick. We 
 pronounce on human conduct from the 
 talmud of our rabbis, when we should
 
 421 
 
 have formed our moral judgement from 
 the unadulterated, unerring, and benign 
 code of the Gospel. It was absurd to be 
 severely censorious on a boy, for his ethi- 
 cal theory ; for his theological scepticism ; 
 or to suppose that free, and excursive in- 
 quiries, and decisions of the mind, with 
 its best judgement, will always materially 
 affect its practice. Alas ! we have innu- 
 merable instances of far more vice than 
 can be imputed to Chatterton's character 
 (which, indeed, was nobly virtuous, on 
 the whole) among those who pretend to 
 be believers; among those who really 
 are believers in Christianity. And the 
 dreadful catastrophe of suicide is not pe- 
 culiar to persons of profligate manners ; 
 it has often been committed by men, 
 wiiose tenour of life, before the fatal 
 stroke, has not only been irreproachable, 
 but eminently virtuous. This incontro- 
 vertible truth should make lawgivers 
 more tender of their stakes, and priests 
 of their anathemas. The stakes, indeed, 
 are seldom driven ; moderation, and 
 contentment preserve, in general, the 
 lower orders of society from despair. 
 But perjured juries, in this deplorable 
 e e 3
 
 422 
 
 case, almost always decide with a profli- 
 gate complaisance, or barbarity. The 
 sentence of the possession of reason con- 
 demns persons of low stations ; the pos- 
 session of a faculty, when they seemed to 
 be least under its direction ; and when 
 the others are acquitted of criminality, 
 from the supposed impossibility that they 
 possessed it ! Reason is denied to the 
 rich, that they may have honourable ob- 
 sequies ; it is allowed to the poor, that 
 their remains may be consigned to infamy. 
 Can we wonder at the partiality, and at 
 the insolence to conditions which prevail 
 in life ? Can we fondly hope that they 
 will ever be reformed ? No ; death itself 
 cannot subdue them : they defy the ad- 
 monition, and the interdict of the most 
 awful object of religion ; they worship 
 their golden idol they trample on their 
 unfortunate victim, even in the grave ! 
 
 Dr. Gregory's reasoning in favour of 
 Mr. Walpole is more uncommon than 
 conclusive. He cannot see how Chat- 
 terton could form any well-grounded ex- 
 pectations of assistance from Mr. Wal- 
 pole ; as the statesmen of this country 
 had, in general, neglected genius, which
 
 423 
 
 they certainly ought attentively to have 
 protected : and as it had been the com- 
 mon fate of genius to live, and die in dis- 
 tress ; and to have its distresses lamented 
 when it was no longer in the power of 
 this world to relieve them. This flimsy, 
 and unfeeling logick demands but a short 
 answer. It amounts to these positions ; 
 that where there is much publick miscon- 
 duct, it is not the duty of any individual, 
 when it is in his power, to counteract it. 
 That when the great majority of men 
 are bad, it is not the duty of any parti- 
 cular man to be good ; and that as poets 
 have generally been undervalued, neglect- 
 ed, and poor, it is absurd in them to 
 think of improving their fate : they ought 
 to submit to it with all christian resigna- 
 tion, and humility : a peculiar, and con- 
 trasted kind of heroism is required of 
 them; they must almost miraculously 
 effect a separation of the component parts 
 of man, before their natural dissolution ; 
 their souls must soar to heaven, while 
 their bodies sink under indigence, and 
 oppression. 
 
 Persons of a virtuous delicacy might 
 blush to read the following strain of rea- 
 
 EE 4
 
 424 
 
 soning from a clergyman ; from a pro- 
 fessed disciple of the benevolent, and 
 humble Jesus. " It can scarcely be 
 " deemed an instance of extraordinary 
 " illiberality that a private man, though 
 " a man of fortune, should be inattentive 
 " to the petition of a perfect stranger; 
 " a young man whose birth, or education 
 " entitled him to no high pretensions ; 
 " and who had only conceived an un- 
 "reasonable dislike to a profession both 
 " lucrative, and respectable." Gregory ; 
 p. 54. To possess a large fortune ; to 
 pretend to a taste, and love of literature ; 
 and yet to refuse the petition of a poor, 
 and unprotected youth ; to whose genius 
 he gave the highest admiration ; to re- 
 fuse him the interest that might with ease 
 have procured him a very moderate esta- 
 blishment in life ; or to withhold from 
 him the small annual encouragement 
 which would have saved him ; which 
 would have matured his greatness, and 
 made him happy ; and which this obdu- 
 racy expended on one of its vassals in 
 livery ; on one of the pageants of its little 
 pride, and vanity; to be thus powerful, 
 and thus unfeeling, is certainly an in-
 
 425 
 
 stance of illiberality; and insensible as 
 the fortunate often are to all inconveni- 
 ences but their own, I hope that it is an 
 instance of extraordinary illiberality. 
 When I come to " the petition of a perfect 
 " stranger; a young man whose birth, or 
 " education entitled him to no high pre- 
 " tensions ;" I feel an honest, and a war- 
 rantable indignation which I do not wish 
 to suppress. The disadvantages of his 
 birth, and education, were the very cir- 
 cumstances, which, in the most obvious, 
 and palpable morality, enforced his natu- 
 ral pretensions ; the highest, and most 
 sacred of all pretensions; the, beautiful, 
 and sublime endowments of his m'ind. 
 These very circumstances recommended 
 these pretensions to a particular atten- 
 tion ; to an effectual support. While 
 you mention the birth, and education of 
 Chatterton in a contemptuous manner, 
 you are in perfect agreement with the 
 gothick, and insolent creed of the world ; 
 but you apostatize from the doctrine ; 
 from the example ; and from the sublu- 
 nary fate of Jesus Christ, The divine 
 strain of his precepts is endeared to hu- 
 manity by inculcating respect for the
 
 426 
 
 poor, and a compassionate relief of their 
 miseries. He was not a modern priest ; 
 as he taught, he lived ; he was continual- 
 ly healing the infirmities, and supplying 
 the wants of the poor; he chose them for 
 his companions; for his favourites; for 
 his bosom-friends. And Dr. Gregory, be 
 pleased to recollect, that the birth, and 
 temporal accommodations of Jesus Christ 
 were inferiour even to those of Thomas 
 Chatterton. His circumstances, and si- 
 tuation, sir, in your estimate of human 
 conduct, should have aggravated, not 
 extenuated the guilt of Walpole. As to 
 his " unreasonable dislike," as you are 
 pleased to term it, " of a profession both 
 " lucrative, and respectable," it is so 
 miserable in sophistry, and so insulting 
 to genius, that I disdain to answer it. 
 What generous, and s)^mpathizing soul, 
 alive to the beauties, and to the pathos 
 of poetry, will not yet lament, that the 
 hand which could make its paper glow 
 with the ardent emanations of mind, was 
 obliged mechanically to freeze three hun- 
 dred and seventy four sheets with the ici- 
 cles of law ? Who, but a Walpole would 
 not have emancipated him from his bon-
 
 427 
 
 dage ? who, but a Gregory, would have 
 condemned him to it ? I know, good 
 Doctor, that you thought Chatterton a 
 heretick : but I could not have imagined 
 that, in the eighteenth century, we had 
 one inquisitor, who would have dared 
 even to approve of one auto daje, in this 
 country. 
 
 You say (p. 56.) that " Mr. Walpole 
 " was certainly under no obligation of 
 " patronizing Chatterton." He was not 
 under the least obligation to patronize 
 him, according to the rules of the court 
 of King's Bench ; nor even of the court of 
 Chancery. But in the court of Al- 
 mighty God, which I almost tremble to 
 name after the others, he was under ac- 
 cumulated obligations to patronize him. 
 According to the rules of that court, we 
 are not only to accept every fair occasion 
 of assisting, and befriending our fellow- 
 creature, but we are industriously to in- 
 quire for such occasions. And in confer- 
 ring our good offices, we are to imitate 
 the Divine fountain of mercy ; we are 
 not to be " extreme to mark what is done 
 " amiss ;" but we are carefully to look 
 within ourselves ; and hence we are to
 
 428 
 
 learn to be charitable, and generous to 
 others. Mr. Walpole was under no obli- 
 gation to patronize Chatterton ! How can 
 you say that, and afterwards preach, and 
 inculcate the beneficent doctrine of your 
 celestial master ; who made it the busi- 
 ness of his life, to evince, and exemplify 
 our universal obligation to do all possible 
 good to all men ; who " went about do- 
 " ing good ?" For heaven's sake, retain, 
 and support your christian, and leave 
 your Jewish tenets to the scribes, and pha- 
 risees of Chatterton ; to the Lamberts 
 of the age. 
 
 You say (p. 55.) " considering things 
 " as they are, and not as they ought to 
 " be, it was a degree of unusual conde- 
 " scension, to take any notice whatever of 
 " the application ; &c" You are a very 
 wary ambidexter ; a great adept in the 
 art of trimming between that humane 
 morality which you cannot but love, and 
 that arrogance to which a worse disposi- 
 tion obliges you to bow. For my own 
 part, when important truth is in questi- 
 on, I always take a decided ; I am sure 
 that I take a sincere ; and I hope that I 
 take the right part. No man is more
 
 429 
 
 thoroughly convinced than I am, of the 
 enormous, and overbearing self-esteem 
 by which human nature is actuated, 
 when the favours of fortune are not un- 
 der the guidance (as they seldom are) of 
 reason, reflexion, and religion. Yet I 
 must do the presumptuous, and fortunate 
 the justice to be assured, that most of 
 them who were men of letters, would have 
 treated Chatterton's application with 
 more politeness, attention, and generosi- 
 ty, than it received from Mr. Walpole. 
 So far was he from being entitled, on that 
 occasion, to the merit of unusual conde- 
 scension. Indeed, it is an equal absurdity 
 in idea, and in language, to apply con- 
 descension, in any degree, to a behaviour 
 w T hieh began with hypocrisy, and ended 
 with insolence. 
 
 You say (p. 56.) " to ascribe to Mr. 
 " Walpole's neglect, (if it even can merit 
 " so harsh an appellation) the dreadful 
 " catastrophe which happened at the dis- 
 " tance of nearly two years, would be the 
 6 ' highest degree of injustice, and absur- 
 " dity." I have given to this neglect 
 harsher, because they were the proper, 
 and mefited appellations. Here is one
 
 430 
 
 of the pliant softenings ; one of the repel- 
 ling perfumes, which are, every day, of- 
 fered at the shrine of rank, and affluence. 
 Without any absurdity, sir, we may assert 
 that Mr. Walpole's treatment of this very 
 excellent, and susceptible youth, was one 
 cause of his tragical death. He is a poor 
 reasoner, and philosopher, whose views 
 of human actions, and of human fate, are 
 not more extensive than the causes, and 
 effects of the moment. Great, and deci- 
 sive effects, both in the physical, and 
 moral world, are as often produced by 
 the concatenation of a thousand causes, 
 as by one detached, and immediate cause. 
 From the parental formation of the ten- 
 der mind frequently flow the whole 
 tenour, and complexion of a long human 
 life. By a parity, and fair analogy of 
 reasoning, one deplorable act may be 
 committed, which would not have been 
 committed if one kind, and provident 
 preventive had been applied, not only 
 two, but twenty years before its execution. 
 As I never took Mr. Walpole either for a 
 prophet, or a conjurer, I am certainly far 
 from accusing him of having foreseen 
 Chatterton's melancholy exit, when he
 
 431 
 
 refusedhim his assistance: yet I am satisfied 
 that every unprejudiced person who now 
 hears me, and who considers the unwor- 
 thy situations ; the moderate habits ; the 
 chastised wants of the young man ; and 
 his passion for poetry, which, to him, 
 was a substitute for the mines of Golcon- 
 da ; I am satisfied that every such person 
 can have no doubt that if Horace Walpole 
 had given to this young man a cheap, 
 and easy protection, he would, in all hu- 
 man probability, have been living at this 
 day ; highly esteemed for the generosity 
 of his nature; happy in the most propi- 
 tious of muses ; and crowned with poeti- 
 cal glory. This appears, impartially, to 
 me, as probable a case, as any character, 
 and fortune in life, which has resulted 
 from more complicated causes : it appears 
 as probable as that a virtuous education 
 generally produces a good, and a licenti- 
 ous education, a bad man. And let us 
 not forget that the moral substance may 
 be as much against us, if we refuse to do 
 a seasonable, and humane, as if we com- 
 mit a barbarous, and destructive action. 
 From deliberately, and perversely not 
 doing good, as much calamity may exist,
 
 432 
 
 as by deliberately, and violently doing 
 evil. And conscience will represent the 
 guilt as plainly, and strongly, to the 
 former as to the latter offender. Motives, 
 and effects are completely known to God ; 
 and He will, one day, demand an account 
 of both. There is a spurious negative 
 innocence, which has a sophisticated cre- 
 dit, from the venal breath of adulation, 
 and from the deficiency, and absurdity of 
 human laws ; but it is severely arraigned, 
 and condemned by the decrees of Heaven. 
 And how can it be' otherwise; since it 
 must often be evident, and atrocious 
 guilt, even in the judgement of man ? 
 
 If Dr. Gregory felt any symptoms of a 
 fever for a bishoprick, while he wrote the 
 life of Chatterton, he could not more 
 powerfully have stimulated the progress, 
 and accesses of that clerical, but unchris- 
 tian malady, than by the strain of his 
 biography. In its nature, and tendency, 
 it leads directly to a mitre. It is written 
 with all the prudential equilibrium of dis- 
 cretion; with a sanctified candour, hu- 
 manity, even praise of the weak ; yet cor- 
 rected, mixed, and confounded, with pro- 
 minent censure, and with very discernible
 
 433 
 
 Contempt; that it may not offend the 
 strong. 
 
 Every species of vice is inconsistent; 
 not only from the moral timidity with 
 which it is accompanied; not only from 
 our incongruous, and incoherent attempts 
 to defend it ; but likewise from the repel- 
 ling energy of the better part of our na- 
 ture ; from our honest, and involuntary 
 efforts to spurn its tyranny. Dr. Grego- 
 ry is often unequal ; nay, he often con- 
 tradicts himself, on the subject of Chat- 
 terton ; both as the critick of his works, 
 and the censor of his morals. Sometimes 
 he plunges him into vice, and infidelity ; 
 sometimes he seems to regret the depres- 
 sion, and exalts him to virtue. Many 
 parts of his description, and character of 
 our poet, strongly indicate the ardent, 
 and irresistible genius, which is often to- 
 tally insensible to external objects ; and 
 which must be the cause of a peculiarity 
 of manner > while it absorbs the man. In 
 some pages of his narrative, he is in unison 
 with the warm, generous, and elegiack 
 tribute of a Knox; and even with the 
 warrantable, and sympathizing astonish- 
 ment, and admiration of a Croft. Yet 
 
 VOL. II. FF
 
 434 
 
 who could have imagined that when this 
 biographer mentioned the poetical merit 
 of these pieces, he would have prefixed to 
 it the Dutch epithet, considerable f who 
 could have imagined that this biographer, 
 after having given us the most affecting 
 characteristicks of a noble disposition, 
 as well as of a sublime genius, could have 
 written the following paragraph ? " He 
 " has descended to the grave with a du- 
 " bious character ; and the only praise 
 " which can be accorded him by the 
 " warmest of his admirers, is that of an 
 " elegant, and ingenious impostor." 
 Gregory: p. 225. It is difficult to deter- 
 mine whether, in these remarks, we see 
 more of the effect of the torpid hypercritick, 
 or of the unchristian high priest. But let 
 me give him all the merit which he can 
 claim : he has, in several instances, spok- 
 en out, and more freely, and independent- 
 ly, than his co temporaries : for when he 
 wrote, Walpole was living; and fashion 
 was slavish, and imperious. 
 
 To every theme on which it is my for- 
 tune to write, I wish to do literaryjustice; 
 impartially, and explicitly ; to the utmost 
 extent of my limited judgement. I shall
 
 435 
 
 therefore quote some passages from his 
 book which do credit to the ingenuous 
 degree of his character; which give us a 
 just, and satisfactory idea of the head, 
 and heart of Chatterton ; and conse- 
 quently brand with a merited infamy, 
 the little Turk and his Janizaries ; the 
 tyrants, and oppressours, in its immature 
 greatness, of one of the first sublunary 
 creatures of God ; whose insolence even 
 profaned, and violated his ashes ; and 
 who, ashamed to acknowledge their guilt, 
 by some atonement, neglected his poor 
 surviving relations ; while their selfish- 
 ness, and vanity contributed to the sup- 
 port of his intellectual remains. You 
 will now be pleased to favour with your 
 attention some interesting quotations 
 from Dr. Gregory. " About his tenth 
 " year he acquired a taste for reading ; 
 " and out of the trifle which was allowed 
 " him by his mother for pocket-money, 
 " he began to hire books from a circulat- 
 " ing library. As his taste was different 
 " from children of Ms age, his dispositions 
 " were also different. Instead of the 
 " thoughtless levity of childhood, he pos- 
 " sessed the gravity, pensiveness, and 
 
 ff2
 
 436 
 
 " melancholy, of maturer life. His spi- 
 (i rits were uneven ; he was frequently so 
 " lost in contemplation, that for many 
 i( days together, he would say very little* 
 " and , apparently, by constraint. His 
 " intimates in the school were few, and 
 f those of the most serious cast. Between 
 " his eleventh and twelfth year, he wrote 
 " a catalogue of the books he had read, 
 " to the number of seventy. It is rather 
 " unfortunate that this catalogue was not 
 " preserved; his sister only informs us 
 " that they principally consisted of histo- 
 " ry, and divinity. At the hours allotted 
 " him for play, he generally retired to 
 " read ; and he was particularly solicitous 
 " to borrow books." p. 11. " He was 
 " always (says Mr. Smith) extremely 
 " fond of walking in the fields; particu- 
 " larly in Red-clifFe meadows, and of 
 " talking about these (Rowley's) manu- 
 " scrips, and sometimes reading them 
 " there. Come (he would say) you and 
 " I will take a walk in the meadow. I 
 " have got the cleverest thing for you 
 " imaginable. It is worth half-a-crown, 
 i( merely to have a sight of it, and to hear 
 " me read it to you.- When we arrived
 
 437 
 
 *' at the place proposed, he would produce 
 " his parchment, show it, and read it to 
 " me. There was one spot in particular, 
 " full in view of the church, in which he 
 " seemed to take a peculiar delight. He 
 " would frequently lay himself down, 
 " fix his eyes upon the church, and seem 
 " as if he were in a kind of trance. Then 
 " on a sudden, and abruptly, he would 
 " tell me; that steeple was burnt down 
 " by lightning ; that was the place where 
 " they formerly acted plays. His Sun- 
 " days were commonly spent in walking 
 " alone into the country about Bristol, 
 " as far as the duration of day-light would 
 " allow: and from these excursions he 
 " never failed to bring home with him 
 " drawings of churches, or of some other 
 " objects which had impressed his roman- 
 " tick imagination." p. 45. " Mrs. 
 " Newton, with that unaffected simplici- 
 " ty which so eminently characterizes her 
 " letter, most powerfully controverts the 
 " obloquy which had been thrown upon 
 " her brother's memory. She says, that 
 " while he was at Mr Lambert's, he visited 
 " his mother regularly, most evenings, 
 " before nine o'clock, and they were sel- 
 
 FF 3
 
 438 
 
 dom two evenings together without 
 seeing him." " He would also frequent* 
 ly, she says, walk the college-green, 
 with the young girls that statedly pa* 
 raded there, to show their finery ; but 
 she is persuaded that the reports which 
 charge him with libertinism are ill- 
 founded. She could not perhaps have 
 added a better proof of it, than his in* 
 clination to associate with modest 
 women. The testimony of Mr. Thistle* 
 thwaite is not less explicit, or less 
 honourable to Chatterton. The op- 
 portunities, says he, which a long ac- 
 quaintance with him afforded me, jus- 
 tifiy me in saying, that whilst he lived 
 atBristol, he was not that debauched 
 character he was represented. Tem- 
 perate in his living, moderate in his 
 pleasures, and regular in his exercises, 
 he was undeserving of the aspersion." 
 -pp. 69, JO, {t The activity of his mind 
 is almost unparalleled. But our sur- 
 prize must decrease, when we consider 
 that he slept but little ; and that his 
 whole attention was directed to literary 
 pursuits ; for he declares himself so ig- 
 norant of his profession, that he was
 
 439 
 
 n unable to draw out a clearance from 
 u his apprenticeship, which Mr. Lambert 
 " demanded." p. 80. " In a letter to 
 " his mother, he desires her to call upon 
 " Mr. Lambert. Show him this, says he, 
 " with uncommon dignity, and spirit ; 
 " or tell him, if I deserve a recommenda- 
 u tion, he would oblige me, to give me 
 " one : If I do not, it would be beneath 
 " him to take notice of me." p. 82. 
 " The person of Chatterton, like his geni- 
 " us, was premature : he had a manliness, 
 " and dignity, beyond his years ; and 
 " there was a something about him un- 
 " commonly prepossessing. His most 
 " remarkable feature was his eyes ; which 
 " though grey, were uncommonly pierc- 
 " ing ; when he was warmed in argu- 
 " ment, or otherwise, they sparkled with 
 " fire ; and one eye, it is said, was still 
 " more remarkable than the other. His 
 " genius will be most completely estimat- 
 ed from his writings. He had an un- 
 " common ardour in the pursuit of know- 
 " ledge, and uncommon facility in the 
 " attainment of it. It was a favourite 
 " maxim with him, that man is equal to 
 " any thing 5 and that every thing might 
 
 ff4
 
 440 
 
 *.' 
 
 be atchieved by diligence, and absti- 
 '' nence. His imagination, like Dryden's, 
 " was more fertile than correct ; and he 
 " seems to have erred, rather through 
 " haste, and negligence, than through 
 " any deficiency of taste." ******* 
 " If Rowley, and Chatterton be the same, 
 " it will he difficult to say, whether he ex? 
 " celled most in the sublime, or the sati- 
 "rical; and as a universal genius, he 
 " must rank above Dryden ; and per- 
 " haps only stand second to Shakespeare. 
 " If, on the other hand, we are to judge 
 " altogether from those pieces which are 
 " confessedly his own, we must undoub- 
 tedly assign the preference to those of 
 " the satirical class. In most of his seri? 
 " ous writings, there is iittle that indicates 
 " their being composed with a full rel- 
 " ish ; when he is satirical, his soul 
 % glows in his composition." p. 1Q1, &c. 
 " He stands charged with a profligate 
 " attachment to women ; the accusation, 
 " however, is stated in a vague, and de- 
 " sultory manner; as if from common 
 " report; without any direct, or decided 
 " evidence, in support of the opinion. 
 " To the regularity of his conduct, during
 
 441 
 
 (i his residence in Bristol, some respect- 
 *?. able testimonies have been already ex- 
 " hibited. It is, indeed, by no means 
 " improbable, that a young man of strong 
 " passions, and unprotected by religious 
 61 principles, might frequently be unpre- 
 " pared to resist the temptations of a licen- 
 " tious metropolis ; yet even after his ar- 
 " rival in London, there are some proofs 
 " in his favour, which ought not to be 
 " disregarded. During a residence of 
 " nine weeks at Mr. Walmsley's, he 
 " never staid out beyond the family 
 " hours, except one night, when Mrs. 
 " Ballance knew that he lodged at the 
 " house of a relation." 
 
 " Whatever may be the truth of these 
 (( reports, the list of his virtues still ap- 
 " pears to exceed the catalogue of his 
 " faults. His temperance was, in 
 " some respects, exemplary. He sel- 
 " dom eat animal food ; and never 
 " tasted any strong, or spirituous 
 " liquors : he lived chiefly on a morsel 
 f of bread, or a tart, with a draught 
 " of water. His sister affirms that he 
 " was a lover of truth, from the earliest 
 "dawn of reason; and that his school-
 
 442 
 
 *? master depended on his veracity, on all 
 66 occasions : the pride of genius will sel- 
 " dom descend to the most contemptible 
 " of vices, falsehood. His high sense of 
 " dignity has been already noticed, in 
 " two most striking instances ; but the 
 " most amiable feature in his character 
 " was his generosity, and attachment to 
 " his mother, and relations. Every fa- 
 " vourite project of his advancement in 
 " life was accompanied with promises, and 
 " encouragement to them : while in Lon- 
 " don, he continued to send them pre- 
 " sents, at a time when he was known 
 " himself to be in want ; and indeed the 
 " unremitting attention, kindness, and 
 " respect, which appear in the whole of 
 " his conduct towards them, are deserv- 
 " ing the imitation of those in more for- 
 " tunate circumstances, and under the in- 
 " fluence of better principles of faith than 
 " Chatterton possessed.'* 
 
 " He had a number of friends ; and 
 " notwithstanding his disposition to sa- 
 " tire, he is scarcely known to have had 
 " any enemies. By the accounts of all 
 " who were acquainted with him, there 
 " was something uncommonly insinuate
 
 " ing in his manner, and conversation, 
 (e Mr. Cross informed Mr. Warton that 
 " in Chatterton's frequent visits, while he 
 " resided in Brook-Street, he found his 
 " conversation, a little infidelity excepted, 
 " most captivating. His extensive, 
 " though in many instances, superficial 
 W knowledge, united with his genius, wit, 
 (( and fluency, must have admirably ac- 
 (e complished him for the pleasures of so* 
 f ciety. His pride, which, perhaps 
 " should rather be termed the strong con- 
 (i sciousness of intellectual excellence, 
 " did not destroy his affability. He was 
 66 always accessible, and rather forward 
 " to make acquaintance than apt to de- 
 M cline the advances of others. There is 
 t4 reason, however, to believe, that the 
 " inequality of his spirits affected greatly 
 ** his behaviour in company. His fits of 
 (( absence were frequent, and long. He 
 " would often look stedfastly in a person's 
 " face, without speaking, or seeming to 
 " see the person, for a quarter of an 
 " hour, or more." p. 108, &c. 
 
 Dr. Gregory favours his readers with 
 the following humane, and generous tri- 
 bute which Mr. Knox payed to his me-
 
 444 
 
 mory. " Unfortunate boy ! short, and 
 evil were thy days ; but thy fame shall 
 be immortal. Hadst thou been known 
 to the munificent patrons of genius !" 
 " Unfortunate boy! poorly wast thou 
 accommodated, during thy short so- 
 journing among us ; rudely wast thou 
 treated ; sorely did thy feeling soul suf- 
 fer from the scorn of the "unworthy ; 
 and there are, at last, thosewho wish to 
 rob thee of thy only meed, thy posthu- 
 mous glory. Severe, too, are the cen- 
 sures 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 excuse. 
 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 wouldest 
 probably have ended thy life as a victim 
 of the laws, if thou hadst not finished
 
 445 
 
 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 support 
 life by theft, or violence." 
 " The speculative errours of a boy, who 
 wrote from the sudden suggestions 
 of passion, or despondency ; who is 
 not convicted of any immoral, or dis- 
 honest act, in consequence of his spe- 
 culations, ought to be consigned to ob- 
 livion. But there seems to be a general, 
 and inveterate dislike to the boy, ex- 
 clusively of the poet ; a dislike which 
 many will be ready to impute, and in- 
 deed not without the appearance of rea- 
 son, to that insolence, and envy, of the 
 little great, which cannot bear to ac- 
 knowledge so transcendent, and com- 
 manding a superiority, in the humble 
 child of want, and obscurity." 
 " Malice, if there was any, may surely 
 now be at rest. For " ' cold he lies in 
 6 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
 
 446 
 
 ' fine imagination, poor Chattertoii 
 ' sunk in despair ? Alas ! ye knew him 
 ! not then; and now, it is too late; " ' For 
 ' f now he is dead;* " "' Gone to his 
 < < death-bed;"'" All under the wil- 
 ' ' low 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 re- 
 6 ceived from thy poems, I pay thee, poor 
 
 4 boy, the trifling tribute of my praise* 
 ' Thyself thou hast emblazoned ; thine 
 ! own monument thou hast erected : but 
 6 they whom thou hast delighted, feel a 
 
 5 pleasure in vindicating thine honours 
 from the rude attacks of detraction." 
 
 *mp. 120, &;c. 
 
 These quotations from Dr. Gregory's 
 life of Chatterton, abound with proofs of 
 a most amiable, and noble disposition ; 
 and of an original, and prodigious genius. 
 Mr. Walpole (a meaner heart than his 
 never impelled the animal economy) 
 adopted, or rather created the evil report, 
 that the young, and, in amoral sense, in- 
 completely formed original of this charm- 
 ing picture, was a bad man. He loads 
 his memory with the charge of almost
 
 447 
 
 every kind of profligacy. He was an in- 
 dustrious, and ingenious refiner on ini- 
 quity, and barbarity. After the death of 
 his victim, he carefully collected every 
 paper that was, in any way, injurious to 
 his reputation, and that was written by 
 inexperience, from the juvenile impulse 
 of the moment ; and printed them at 
 Strawberry- Hill ; not the sacred hill of 
 the muses, from which the pure, and 
 chrystal, and poetical Aganippe flowed ; 
 but a hill, blooming, indeed, with vernal, 
 and delusive honours ; but the parent of 
 a muddy, and contaminated fountain ; 
 prolifick of dullness, and envy; and of 
 presumptuous, absurd, and uncharitable 
 censure. This was his mode of apologiz- 
 ing for his treatment of Chatterton. The 
 moral baseness was aggravated ; it was 
 doubled, by the machination, by the 
 unfeeling efforts of this apology. The 
 strain of his flatterers ran parallel to his 
 own ; destitute of conscience as of senti- 
 ment, they threw every moral aspersion 
 on the character of Chatterton ; they had 
 even the audacity to assert, that if he had 
 lived to see many future years, he would, 
 in all probability, have grown so despe-
 
 44S 
 
 rate in wickedness, that he would have 
 suffered that premature death, from the 
 sentence of publick justice, which he rash- 
 ly inflicted on himself, with his own 
 hand. When you consider the cause of 
 this most unprincipled cruelty, to an un- 
 fortunate, and illustrious memory ; your 
 contempt, your detestation of it, must 
 act very powerfully in your minds* For 
 if we throw but a superficial eye on the 
 several circumstances of the case, it must 
 be evident, beyond all dispute, that Chat- 
 terton would never have been overwhelm- 
 ed with this torrent of obloquy, and in- 
 sult, if it had not taken its origin, and 
 its course, from a most immoral, servile, 
 and disgraceful respect for Walpole. His 
 persecution of the poet, even beyond the 
 grave, is rendered peculiarly odious, and 
 contemptible, by the mean hypocrisy 
 with which it is varnished 5 by its disinge- 
 nuous, and cowardly pretence to bene- 
 volence ; by the anxious adviser ; by 
 the tender guardian $ by the blasphemy 
 of a moral insensibility, arrogating to 
 itself a practical Christianity. 
 
 If I have all along been a warm, I have 
 been a conscientious advocate, for my
 
 449 
 
 much loved, for my much admired youth; 
 and I hope that you have not yet forgot- 
 ten my ingenuous pleading in his cause : 
 you have likewise heard what Dr. Gre- 
 gory, that accomplished Atticus ; I 
 mean, in trimming, has ventured not 
 only to narrate, but even to produce, as 
 his own opinion, in his favour. I must, 
 therefore, beg leave, again to repeat my 
 caution : I too well know the force both 
 of general, and individual prejudice ; but 
 I appeal to your unbiassed hearts, and to 
 your unbiassed understandings. I ask 
 them, which of the two parties has been 
 atrociously unjust, and abusive : I ask 
 them, if the enemies of Chatter ton have 
 not evidently deserved these epithets ; 
 and if, in censuring their extraordinary 
 iniquity, and barbarity, I have not used, 
 only that unreserved, strong, and ade- 
 quate language, which became an honest 
 man ; in whose breast every inferiour 
 consideration gave way to an ardent, and 
 commendable zeal, on a most affecting, 
 and interesting subject, to the cause of 
 humanity, truth, and justice. 
 
 The life, and the memory of Chatter- 
 ton were singular in misfortune. He is 
 
 VOL. II. G G
 
 450 
 
 vilified even by his apparent friends. 
 The editor of his Miscellanies, who pro- 
 fesses the highest admiration of his geni- 
 us ; who justly, and severely blames the 
 conduct of Mr. Walpole ; and who threw 
 that gentleman into the fright which pro- 
 duced his false, whining, and vulgar apo- 
 logy ; even he is so stupid, and foolish, as 
 to adopt the unfounded, and base calum- 
 ny which had been excited against him ; 
 he has the unreflecting temerity to tell 
 the publick, that " he possessed all the 
 " vices, and irregularities of youth; and 
 " that his profligacy was, at least, as con- 
 " spicuous as his abilities." I trust that 
 the pure, and preserving balm which has 
 been bestowed on the memory of Chat- 
 terton, by many impartial, and benevo- 
 lent hands, will prove an effectual antidote 
 against the wound of this inconsistent, 
 and vile assassin, who stabs with one 
 hand, while he pays his homage with 
 another.
 
 LECTURE XVII. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 On my last quotations I beg leave to 
 make some remarks, relative both to the 
 morals, and to the poetry of Chatterton. 
 
 " He declares himself so ignorant of 
 " his profession, that he was unable to 
 " draw out a clearance from his appren- 
 " ticeship, which Mr. Lambert demand- 
 " ed." Gregory : p. 80. This was one 
 of the many proofs that we have of that 
 immensity of genius which engrosses, and 
 transports its possessour; which makes 
 him elude even the grasp of an attorney. If 
 Chatterton's mind had been but naturally, 
 and strongly formed for elegant literature, 
 he could not have endured the trammels 
 of the law, without much pain ; nor 
 without an impelling anticipation of for- 
 
 G G 2
 
 452 
 
 tune, and of fame, in the profession. 
 But involved as his mind was, in the 
 images, and views of superlative genius, 
 it was impossible for him to give any 
 collected, and earnest attention to dry 
 forms, and mechanical operations; such 
 attention would have been a miracle ; for 
 it would have been incompatible with 
 " the genial current of his soul." If he 
 had accurately drawn' out his clearance 
 from Lambert, he would not so glorious- 
 ly have served his time under Apollo. 
 And yet a Walpole, and a Gregory, were 
 for chaining down this free, and ethereal 
 spirit, to the legal galley of precedents, 
 demurrers, replications, and rejoinders. 
 When such men give the law to indigent 
 abilities, they take every thing into their 
 statutes but common sense, nature, and 
 humanity. 
 
 In a letter to his mother he says [p. 82.] 
 " Tell Mr. Lambert, if I deserve a recom- 
 " mendation, he would oblige me to give 
 " me one ; if I do not, it would be be- 
 " neath him to take notice of me." 
 This passage is extremely charac- 
 ter!* stick of Chatterton : it shows that 
 independence, and elevation of soul,
 
 453 
 
 which made a part of his sublime mental 
 constitution ; and that veneration of 
 truth, which he always entertained, and 
 practised ; whenever truth was of moral 
 importance. 
 
 " It is by no means improbable" (says 
 Dr. Gregory) " that a young man of 
 " strong passions, and unprotected by 
 " religious principles, might frequently 
 " be unprepared to resist the temptations 
 " of a licentious metropolis." p. 109. 
 A young man may be frail, without being 
 profligate ; if he is sometimes frail, 
 though habitually virtuous, we need not 
 be anxious for his confirmation in virtue. 
 If he turns profligate, it is to be feared that 
 he is lost for ever. Our just hopes, and 
 fears of a youth will be in proportion to 
 our good sense ; to our liberality of sen- 
 timents; to our knowledge of human na- 
 ture. These were our Saviour's moral 
 criteria ; he knew what was in man ; and 
 therefore, as the judge of man, he was 
 mild, tender, and indulgent. But priests 
 act otherwise ; they are perpetually going 
 westward, when he is going to the east ; 
 the undistinguishing tyrants have an un- 
 distinguishing bed ; and they stretch, 
 
 GG 3
 
 454: 
 
 and chop, and hack, every victim that 
 they can seize, to one common, and de- 
 structive measure. How can it reason- 
 ably be supposed, that a susceptible young 
 person, though he may already have 
 made a great proficiency in amiable, and 
 generous virtue, will not yield to some 
 seduction, in an elegant, and gay metro- 
 polis ; whether he be a sceptick, or a true 
 believer ; especially if nature hath en- 
 dowed him with a great genius in the pro- 
 vince of imagination ; since that kind of 
 genius cannot exist without strong pas- 
 sions ? Nay, virtue herself, the goddess of 
 supreme attraction, cannot exist without 
 these passions; by modelling, and govern- 
 ing them, she acquires her title, and the 
 exercise of her empire ; completely mo- 
 delled, controuled, and directed by her 
 government, they incorporate with her 
 essence ; and flush her beauty with all its 
 animation. Hence, if a youth, in Lon- 
 don, is rigidly temperate, and accurate in 
 his conduct, we shall have reason to fear 
 for those future endowments, for those 
 future virtues, which are the only true 
 glory of human nature ; we shall have 
 reason to apprehend that his moral pro-
 
 455 
 
 cess will terminate, and be fixed in mere 
 spiritless discretion ; the caput mortuum 
 of virtue; or rather that it will reduce 
 his mind to a composition of base, and 
 malignant qualities ; and that his deter- 
 mined character will be the mean, and 
 infamous Bllfil 9 whom we hate, and de- 
 spise ; not the generous, and noble Jones, 
 whom we love, and admire. May the 
 actions of my friends, and myself, never 
 be at the mercy of those short-sighted, 
 and iron-hearted moralists, who, while 
 they rigorously exact the duties, make no 
 equitable allowances for the nature of 
 man ! 
 
 As I am now endeavouring fairly to re- 
 present the moral character of Chatterton, 
 and to do justice to his much injured me- 
 mory, I must take particular notice of 
 his sincere, and ardent affection for his 
 relations, and friends ; and of his con- 
 stant, and uniform attention to them, 
 during his short, and unfortunate abode 
 in London. The merit of his attention 
 can never be excelled, if we consider the 
 agitations, and tumults, which his feeling, 
 and great soul must then have often suf- 
 fered from its unequal, and oppressive 
 
 G G 4
 
 456 
 
 destiny. Good fortune is very apt to 
 make people forget their poor relations ; 
 a situation in which they ought most 
 kindly, and effectually to remember 
 them : it was Chatterton's favourite plea- 
 sure, or consolation, to send presents to 
 his grandmother, mother, and sister, 
 when he was in the most distressful, and 
 alarming circumstances ; when famine, 
 with all her horrours, was invading him ; 
 and when death made one of her appalling 
 train. While his spirits were raised by a 
 deceitful world, acting on the unexperi- 
 enced, and sanguine gaiety of youth, he 
 says to his sister, in a letter of the 30th 
 of May, 1770 ; " if money flowed as 
 " fast upon me as honours, I would give 
 " you a portion of five thousand pounds." 
 In the same letter he expresses a tender, 
 and affectionate sympathy with the friends 
 of Mrs. Carty, on a melancholy disorder 
 with which that gentlewoman was afflict- 
 ed ; and he writes a prescription for her 
 which is well adapted to her case. His 
 letter concludes in this impressive man- 
 ner : " I sincerely wish my mother, and 
 ?* grandmother happy ; when it is in my 
 t* power to make them so, they shall be
 
 457 
 
 a 
 
 so." Gregory; p. 254. On the 8th 
 of July, 1770, when his juvenile hopes 
 must have lost their bloom ; after he had 
 removed to Brook-Street in Holborne, he 
 thus concludes a letter to his mother, in 
 which he had mentioned several little pre- 
 sents that he had sent, and which he in- 
 tended to send to her, and to his sister, 
 and grand-mother: " Be assured, when- 
 " ever I have the power, my will wo'nt be 
 " wanting to testify that I remember 
 " you." A letter to his sister, of July 
 llth 1770> contains this affectionate, and 
 interesting period : "-Be assured that I 
 66 shall ever make your wants my wants ; 
 ft and stretch to the utmost to serve you." 
 
 The various, and authentick testimo- 
 nies which Dr. Gregory has communicat- 
 ed to us, of his veracity, of his religious re- 
 gard for moral truth, show, that he thought 
 his Rowley, and the antiquated dress 
 of his poetry, as allowable, and innocent 
 as any other poetical fictions ; and from 
 those testimonies we may likewise infer, 
 that he only meant to make an experi- 
 ment of his poetical fortune, and fame ; 
 and that he intended, at what he might 
 think a proper time, to make a full dis-
 
 458 
 
 covery to the world, of all his literary 
 ingenuity, and of the astonishing powers 
 of his mind. 
 
 The character of this youth was so far 
 from being base, and profligate, that in 
 all its leading instances, it was enchant- 
 ingly amiable, and astonishingly great. 
 When he was very young, nerhcips five, or 
 six years old, a m mufacturer promised 
 to Mrs. Chatterton a present of earthen 
 ware, for her children. " What device" 
 (said he to the boy) " shall I paint on the 
 " gift which I intend for you?" "Paint 
 " me (said he) an angel, with wings, and a 
 " trumpet, to trumpet my name over the 
 " world." Gregory ; a note at page 8. 
 So soon did a glorious ambition inflame 
 the breast of this boy, whom nature had 
 formed for a series of high atchievements; 
 if her kindness had not been defeated by 
 the rigour of man. This ambition is al- 
 ways born with genius ; and the greater 
 the genius is, the greater is the ambition. 
 It is necessary, to accomplish the provi- 
 dence of heaven ; to give mankind their 
 best instructions, and their best plea- 
 sure; to diffuse intellectual light, and 
 beauty over the world. It is this
 
 459 
 
 ambition which invigorates, and accele- 
 rates the wing of imagination ; which 
 buoys it up, above the storms of adversi- 
 ty, while they do not attack the principles 
 of life ; which keeps the mind impassive, 
 or superiour to a dreary situation, and to 
 obstinate neglect ; which makes us feast 
 on stale bread, and simple water ; which 
 makes us endure a Chesterfield, for our 
 patron, and a Walpole for our guardian. 
 
 A propos ! The ingenuous, and hu- 
 mane Mr. Walpole informs the publick, 
 that Chatterton " poisoned himself, on 
 " being refused a loaf of bread." Here, 
 we have the most cruel, and abandoned 
 insmuation ; that he poisoned himself 
 for a trifling cause. Thou unfeeling 
 wretch ! thou polished barbarian ! The 
 refusal of the loaf was a sentence of fate 
 which ought to have been pronounced on 
 thee ; it was the harbinger of famine, and 
 despair. The alternative to magnani- 
 mity then was, to beg in the streets of 
 London, or to die ! And whatever our 
 mitred pharisees ; whatever our IValpoli- 
 an christians may say, 7" shall beg leave 
 humbly, and sincerely ; and I hope, in 
 the true spirit of Christianity, to say, that
 
 460 
 
 as Chattertoa was the object of the alter- 
 native; the greatness of its object, and 
 the iniquity of his fortune, almost ex- 
 punged the guilt of the decision. 
 
 Dr. Gregory does injustice to Chatter- 
 ton, as a censor of his morals ; he does 
 injustice to him, as a critick of his writ- 
 ings. I shall not enter into the particu- 
 lars of his comparison of him with Dry- 
 den ; for the comparison is altogether 
 absurd, and ridiculous. The progress, 
 and the improvement in poetry, of the 
 one, went through a long life : and thanks 
 be to God, who protects, and invigorates 
 old age, if it is not wanting to itself; the 
 fire of Dryden was brightest, and most 
 ardent, at a short time before it mounted 
 to a better world. Dryden had been fa- 
 voured by Providence with a liberal, and 
 complete literary education ; he had re- 
 gularly stored his mind with all the trea- 
 sures of elegant learning ; by long, and 
 habitual reading, and reflexion ; by long, 
 and habitual exercise, and exertion of his 
 genius ; he was an old, and great master, 
 in the various arts of composition. Chat- 
 terton, as it were, instantaneously, seized 
 all his excellence, with a kind of poetical
 
 461 
 
 omnipotence ; he seized it from slavery ; 
 from time ; from poverty ; from the 
 most horrible circumstances that can be 
 imagined; he seized it from the brandished 
 dart of death. It ill becomes a dull 
 churchman, lounging, and dozing on a 
 sofa, to appreciate the deserts of two great 
 poets : even to accuse Dryden of negli- 
 gence, if we recollect the difficulties of 
 that illustrious mail, is as improper as it is 
 absurd ; but to censure the negligence of 
 Chatterton, whose life was infinitely short- 
 er, and whose distresses were far greater 
 than Dryden's, is a most unpardonable 
 insult' ; it is the very extreme of barbarity. 
 It is one of the many misfortunes of 
 genius, to be tried by formal, and phleg- 
 matick judges, who have not a particle in 
 their own constitutions, that is congenial 
 with poetry. Shakespeare, like Dryden, 
 is not naturally introduced, but prepos- 
 terously dragged, before this critical 
 tribunal; into this award of poe- 
 tical excellence. That divine poet, 
 unrivalled in his department, from an 
 imitative, and affected admiration of 
 him ; an admiration without precisi- 
 on, and without distinction : has often
 
 462 
 
 been compared with other poets, when 
 the different kinds of talent, or the differ- 
 ent kinds of writing, of those poets, made 
 the reciprocal merit, and consequently, 
 the reciprocal estimate of that merit, in- 
 compatible. When Dr. Gregory tells me 
 that " Chatterton must rank above Dry- 
 " den, and perhaps only stand second to 
 " Shakespeare;" " when Mr. Malone 
 " believes him to have been the greatest 
 " genius that England has produced, 
 " since the days of Shakespeare ;" these 
 gentlemen do not enounce the doctrine 
 of sound and rational criticism. And as 
 in the disquisitions of both, we never see 
 the penetrating ray of a Burke, nor the 
 impassioned sentiment of a Longinus ; 
 we must expect from both, cold, and 
 vague unideal conjectures ; yet frequent- 
 ly emboldened with a pragmatick sanc- 
 tion ; instead of apposite and illustrative 
 imagery; instead of instructive, and splen- 
 did truth. The absurdity of comparingChat- 
 terton with Shakespeare is as great as that 
 of comparing him with Dry den. English 
 literature (of which if we make a proper 
 use, we may dispense with all other liter- 
 ature) was far from maturity, in the reign
 
 463 
 
 of Elizabeth : yet the opportunities of 
 instructive reading, and conversation ; 
 the incitements to exertion, and to fame, 
 which Shakespeare enjoyed, were far 
 more advantageous than those which were 
 attainable by the unfortunate Chatterton. 
 I am not one of the pedants who give a 
 scholastick, and proud importance to ex- 
 ternal aids ^ I know that genius is almost 
 self-taught ; that it can work wonders on 
 its own invisible foundation. Yet a hap- 
 py, and extensive cultivation must en- 
 large, and invigorate every mind; and 
 the greatest minds will evidently draw 
 the most advantages from that cultiva- 
 tion. What crowns the absurdity of these 
 comparisons is, the extreme disparity in 
 the extent of their lives. Shakespeare 
 died in the decline of human life ; when 
 we may reasonably conclude that the 
 powers of his mind had arrived at all their 
 natural maturity; and when they had 
 gained all the advantages of social, atten- 
 tive, and studious improvement. Chat- 
 terton was cut off when he was just 
 blooming into life ; the fatal moment 
 which terminated his existence on earth,
 
 46i 
 
 at once precluded the physical, and el-> 
 borate growth of his mental force. 
 
 Let us compare, however, what may 
 reasonably be compared. As to what Dr. 
 Gregory says of Chatterton's negligence, 
 it is altogether groundless, and futile. 
 The care, and accuracy, which polish, and 
 adorn the poems that he wrote under the 
 name of Rowley, and which he undoubt- 
 edly meant for the decisive test of his ge- 
 nius, are as conspicuous as the poetical 
 spirit of their authour. If Dr. Gregory 
 still doubts whether those poems are the 
 real productions of Chatterton, I can 
 only say that I am answerable for no 
 man's folly but my own. Most of the 
 pieces which are confessedly Chatterton's, 
 were written on common occasions ; from 
 the momentary impulse of the heart, or 
 fancy. Yet I trust that it has been made 
 evident to you, that in some passages of 
 those more desultory compositions, the 
 personifier of Rowley hath unequivocally 
 appeared on his own poetical stage. In 
 continuing to compare what is compara- 
 ble, I shall farther observe, that his iElla, 
 and his Godwin, but especially the former,
 
 465 
 
 would not be unworthy companions of 
 the best dramatical productions of Shake- 
 speare : they are, indeed, far superiour to 
 several plays, which the tyranny of cus- 
 tom first, and the sanction of dry, verbal 
 criticks, afterwards, have classed with 
 the glories of that immortal man ; 
 and in which, I am satisfied that his ge- 
 nius, and his hand, had very little, if any 
 part. And as the sublime in writing, un- 
 doubtedly most eminently marks the 
 greatness of the poet, examples might 
 easily be produced, which would prove 
 that Chatterton ; the poor, despised cha- 
 rity-boy of Bryant, and the reprobate of 
 Walpole, was a poet superiour to Dryden ; 
 was a poet superiour to Shakespeare. 
 The sublime is by no means a prevailing 
 characteristick of either of these great 
 poets. I well remember that in one of 
 my conversations with Dr. Johnson, he 
 insisted, with his usual hardiness, and ex- 
 tremity of assertion, that it would be dif- 
 ficult to find one* sublime passage in 
 
 * This remark of Dr. Johnson on the poetry of Shakespeare 
 originated from his pernsal of my criticism on Dr. Goldsmith's 
 Deserted Village,in the Critical Review of June, 1770; in which I 
 had observed, that "none of the ancient poets are so sublime a* 
 
 VOL. II. H H
 
 466 
 
 Shakespeare. I never was a dupe to the 
 mere assertion of any man : but it is cer- 
 tain that sublimity is not the pride of 
 Shakespeare's poetry. A poet is not to 
 be blamed, or undervalued, because he is 
 not lavish of graces, and honours which 
 are not required in his peculiar province. 
 The sublime is not a constituent, it is not 
 a requisite of the drama. In all its re- 
 quisites ; in equal felicity in the tragick, 
 and comick vein ; in unfolding every 
 motion of the human heart ; in produc- 
 ing to our interested, and eager view, all 
 the variety, and all the various operations 
 of the human passions ; in expressing, in 
 painting them, with the utmost propriety, 
 perspicuity, and force of language; in 
 the most honourable department of a 
 great master of morality ; in awfully de- 
 terring us from vice ; in powerfully ex- 
 citing us to virtue ; in these inestimable 
 poetical properties ; in all this poetical 
 glory ; Shakespeare never was, and pro- 
 bably never will be equalled. And let 
 
 <s our divine Shakespeare, and Milton." In the course of 
 thirty two years, 1 hope that I have acquired more accuracy in 
 distinguishing poetical excellence. But I am as convinced as I 
 rver was, that all other poets are excelled by our great English 
 poets.
 
 467 
 
 me not forget, while I am offering my 
 humble, but grateful tribute, to the prince 
 of the British theatre ; to the prince of all 
 theatres ; let me not forget his inventive, 
 his creative genius. He could form, 
 when he pleased, a totally original drama; 
 aerial, and grotesque beings were at Ms 
 command : yet so happy were his com- 
 binations ; so charmingly fascinating was 
 his romance ; that even while he exceeded, 
 he seemed only to extend the bounds of 
 nature. 
 
 A transition from Shakespeare to Chat- 
 terton is in the perfect order of creation. 
 If we consider what he did, and what he 
 might have done ; if we consider his short 
 life, and to what an age it might naturally 
 have been prolonged ; what a great, what 
 an irreparable loss, must every sensible, 
 and cultivated mind feel that it has sus- 
 tained, in his death ! There is a quick- 
 ness, and vivacity ; there is a natural po- 
 liteness in some juvenile minds, which 
 are very different from genius ; yet they 
 cheat us with its appearance. These 
 properties are apt to throw themselves 
 upon paper ; our candour, and our affec- 
 tion are prepared to admire their effusi- 
 
 h h 2
 
 468 
 
 ons ; and youth deludes us with our in- 
 dulgence, and with our hopes. The 
 young versifier grows the man ; but his 
 literary attempts receive no progressive 
 strength ; the glittering veil vanishes ; he 
 takes his actual, and established place, in 
 the scale of intellect; and impartiality, 
 and good sense pronounce him but a 
 common character. This is not the case 
 with true genius* : if it breaks forth in 
 
 * We have illustrious examples of the vigour of genius increas- 
 ing with extreme old age. Temperance, that chaste hand- 
 maid of nature, will effect wonders. It would, however, be 
 absurd not to allow that our mental faculties often decline with 
 our bodily strength. Our nature admits various kinds of mo- 
 dification, of progress,' and of decay. Therefore, with Mr. 
 Walpole, and Dr. Gregory, and other superficial observers, 
 who, from ignorance, or inattention, promiscuously adopt com- 
 monly received opinions ; who, to liberal advocates for all the 
 possible, and well-kHOwn extent of our best powers, object 
 their imaginary premature [genius , and its doubtful promises ; 
 with those gentlemen : admitting their trite theory of the rise, 
 meridian, and decline of intellectual force ; for the sake of more 
 comprehensive, and useful argument ; I should beg leave to 
 reason in the following manner. To talk of premature genius, 
 is to talk what is not sense. Human minds differ infinitely in 
 their natural growth, as in all their other operations. The 
 genius which is completely mature at twenty years of age, is not 
 premature^ more than that which arrives not at its full maturity 
 till its fortieth year. They attain their utmost vigour at very 
 different periods of life ; but both, in the established, and regu- 
 lar order of nature.
 
 469 
 
 early life, it always mounts higher with 
 years ; it flourishes, it triumphs, under 
 the hoariness of age. Consequently, if 
 Chatterton had lived to those venerable 
 years, his genius, and his fame would 
 have been commensurate with their 
 number ; he would have excelled Dryden, 
 and Shakespeare; and every poet, of 
 every age, and nation. Milton himself; 
 who was an equally great master of the 
 beautiful, and of the sublime ; he who 
 hath always appeared to me, rather a de- 
 mi-god than a man ; he, who, in numbers 
 corresponding with their objects, led the 
 Cherubim, and Seraphim, to war; who 
 made " the stedfast empyrean shake 
 " throughout ; all but the throne itself of 
 " God," under the chariot of the Messiah; 
 who, in adequate strains, described the 
 thunder of the Almighty ; even Milton 
 himself, with all his divine energy, mag- 
 nificence, and majesty, must have bowed 
 before him. Justly, then, might the ju- 
 dicious, and benevolent Mr. Croft assert, 
 that " no such human being, at any pe- 
 " riod of life, has ever been known ; or 
 " possibly e\erwillbe known." Grego- 
 ry; p. 114. Will any frigid critick, with 
 hh3
 
 470 
 
 the obtrusion of his imitative, and trite 
 comparisons ; with his undistinguishing, 
 with his affected idolatry of Shakespeare; 
 will he presume to limit the power of the 
 Creator, in the formation of the human 
 mind ? Will he seem to say to him, by 
 dragging forth, on every occasion, his 
 fancied model of intellectual perfection ; 
 " hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther?" 
 Does he reflect that we are made after the 
 divine image ? And dares he, even in 
 thought, to circumscribe the expansion, 
 the amplification of that image ? Man is 
 a compound, a contrasted, a mysterious 
 being. He is limited, in his weakness ; 
 he is unlimited, in iris powers ; " Help- 
 " less immortal ! insect infinite !" " A 
 " worm ; a God !" 
 
 Dr. Gregory gives us the following ab- 
 surd piece of criticism. " It must not 
 " be dissembled that some (and many 
 " will think no inconsiderable) part of 
 " the charm of these poems may probably 
 " result from the got hick sublimity of the 
 " style. Whatever is vulgar in language 
 u is lost by time ; and a small degree 
 " of obscurity in an ancient authour gives 
 " a latitude to the fancy of the reader,
 
 471 
 
 >. 
 
 who generally imagines the style to be 
 " more forcible, and expressive than per- 
 " haps it intrinsically is. We gaze with 
 " wonder on an antique fabrick ; and 
 " when novelty of thought is not to be 
 " obtained, the novelty of language to 
 " which we are unaccustomed, is fre- 
 " quently accepted as a substitute. Most 
 66 poets, therefore, at least, such as have 
 " aspired to the sublime, have thrown 
 " their dialect at least a century behind 
 " the common prose, and colloquial 
 " phraseology of their time ; nor can we 
 " entertain a doubt that even Shakespeare 
 " and Milton have derived advantages 
 " from the antique structure of some of 
 " their most admired passages. The fa- 
 " cility of composition is also greatly in- 
 " creased where full latitude is permitted 
 " in the use of an obsolete dialect ; since 
 " anauthouris indulged in the occasional 
 " use of both the old, and the modern 
 " phraseology ; and if the one does not 
 " supply him with the word for which he 
 " has immediate occasion, the other, in 
 " all probability, will not disappoint 
 " him." Gregory; p. 152. 
 To talk of the gothick sublimity of 
 
 H H 4
 
 472 
 
 style is nonsense. There can be no subli- 
 mity in mere words, which are, here, 
 only, considered. I am certain that Mr. 
 Bryant was deluded into an admiration 
 of his Rowley's pOems, principally by this 
 gothick excellence which is so much over- 
 valued by Dr. Gregory ; but every sensi- 
 ble reader, of an unaffected, and genuine 
 taste, would have admired them as they 
 deserved, if they had been written avow- 
 edly by Chatterton, with the spirit, and 
 attention which he bestowed on them ; 
 and in the modern, but pure, and classi- 
 cal language which prevailed in our Au- 
 gustan age. In proportion as a poet is 
 obscure, in meaning, or in style, he is 
 impoetical ; all real obscurity checks that 
 pleasurable current; that enthusiastick 
 glow of the soul, which true poetry, more 
 than all the other fine arts, excites, and 
 impells . The painter, indeed, j udiciously 
 averted, and shaded the face of a father, 
 agonizing in grief; and our unrivalled 
 Milton throws out an uncircumscribed, 
 and terrifick sketch of the image of death ; 
 but can these instances of the most fortu- 
 nate art; of the unlimited conceptions of 
 the poet, be compared with a meagre ver-
 
 473 
 
 bal obscurity, which, in a moment, arrests 
 the flow of ideas, and numbers ; which 
 annihilates the fair creatures of sentiment, 
 and imagination ? No: in ftee instances, 
 the irregular, and incomplete, but bold, 
 and expressive strokes of the painter, 
 instead of weakening, mutilating, and 
 contracting, his picture, give it strength, 
 and animation ; and aggrandize its form, 
 and manner. The poet leaves an un- 
 bounded scope for the active, and plas- 
 tick workings ; for the spiritual delight 
 of his own mind ; and thus he provides 
 a similar field of active imagery ; of re- 
 fined entertainment, for his congenial 
 readers. This is not the obscurity, but 
 the light of genius ; streaming with the 
 rays which indicate its inspirer ; the 
 txn@o\ov Attoaxuv*. It opens the expansion ; 
 the infinity of poetical creation. The 
 mind seizes the hints of its great arche- 
 type ; connects, and finishes the rude, 
 *but prominent portrait; repeatedly re- 
 turns to its enraptured work ; improves 
 the figure to a more striking likeness ; 
 gives it a more awful aspect; a more 
 commanding air; and exults, and tri-
 
 474 
 
 umphs in its forming, in its creating 
 power. 
 
 Obscurity of style gives no latitude to 
 the fancy ; it has nothing to do with fancy; 
 it has but one, and that is a very bad ef- 
 fect^ it shuts out both the fancy, and the 
 understanding. As to those readers who 
 feel some occult, but interesting force, 
 and expression in what they do not un- 
 derstand ; and who accept, with pleasure, 
 novelty of words for novelty of thought ; 
 I am going to pass a sentence upon 
 them which they cannot fairly think 
 severe ; I only wish that they may always 
 read authours who have written agreeably 
 to their taste; and that true genius may 
 never be profaned by their perusal. A 
 foolish man " gazes with wonder at an 
 " ancient fabrick;" a wise man views it 
 with moral as well as poetical impressi- 
 ons ; with a religious awe. These sen- 
 timents are affected not only by the ven- 
 erable style of the old architecture ; but i 
 by corresponding objects of the eye, and 
 of the recollection ; by the circumjacent 
 landscape, which unites with it, in the 
 mute, butconnected, and strong eloquence
 
 475 
 
 of art, and nature ; by calling to me- 
 mory, or to imagination, the illustrious 
 worthies by whom it was once inhabited ; 
 and by melancholy, but salutary reflexi- 
 ons, on the fragility, and brevity of all 
 human glory. Can it be said that he 
 avails himself of such lively, and signifi- 
 cant auxiliaries as these, who, impover- 
 ished of ideas, levies a base contribution 
 on the shapeless, and unmeaning lumber 
 of obsolete words ? 
 
 It has been the constant, and stupid 
 custom of undistinguishing, and mecha- 
 nical criticks, in their ideas, and observa- 
 tions, totally to separate, and dissever 
 language from thoughts ; to tear the sur- 
 face from the essence ; the shell from the 
 pith of literature. This is a kind of lite- 
 rary impiety ; here it may be said, with 
 a more natural, and congruous orthodoxy, 
 than it is often pronounced in the con- 
 nubial rite; " those whom God hath 
 "joined together, let no man put asun- 
 " der." Indeed (I speak it with an, 
 humble, and prostrate reverence !) as 
 matter seems to be intimately, and won- 
 derfully connected with the supreme, and 
 eternal mind 5 and with an inconceivable
 
 476 
 
 quickness obeys his motions ; so man, 
 whom he formed, in some degree, after 
 his own image ; whom he formed, a 
 reasoning ; when he forms him an elo- 
 quenth\\\^ ; in the moment in which he 
 thinks justly, and elegantly, thinks in the 
 most just, and elegant words. Their 
 promptitude is more than instantaneous ; 
 nay there seems to be a perpetual coales- 
 cence between them, and their ideas : or, 
 again to compare what, in the compa- 
 rison, is infinitely small, and insignificant, 
 with what is infinitely great, and awful ; 
 a clearness, and force of expression seems 
 to flow from a clearness, and force of 
 thought; as creation flowed from the fiat 
 of the Creator. Ideas, and words, in the 
 act of composition, are soul, and body, to 
 each other ; you know nothing of them ; 
 therefore you can justly remark nothing 
 of them, but in their united state. 
 
 By all that I have urged, I did not mean 
 to say, that excellent literary composi- * 
 tion is an easy task. No ; it is an ardu- 
 ous ; it is, at once, a painful, and a pleas- 
 ing task : not the least painful to genius ; 
 for in writing, as in life, fools, and cox- 
 combs, are commonly most easily satis-
 
 477 
 
 fied with themselves, and their perform- 
 ances. But the difficulty lies in the 
 invisible, and mental work. To form, 
 and dispose your plan ; to select, as you 
 proceed, the most proper, and pertinent 
 ideas, from many which are apt to arise, 
 in a vigorous, and fertile mind ; to adjust, 
 and arrange these ideas, from the begin- 
 ning to the close of your plan, in a hap- 
 pily combined order, and harmony, of 
 prose, or poetry ; it is the accomplish- 
 ment of these difficulties that puts to the 
 stretch those faculties which are so highly 
 privileged, and so glorious, in this nether 
 world. But what have words been 
 doing, during all this charming, this cre- 
 ating process of the mind ? They have 
 kept a momentary, and indivisible time 
 with ideas ; the best words have been in- 
 dissoluble from the best thoughts : and 
 he who has abilities to meditate, and to 
 complete this golden concatenation, will 
 never divert it into any mean obliquity ; 
 he will never be obliged to substitute an 
 uncouth word for an elegant idea ; he 
 will never be an intellectual bankrupt; 
 when he owes us gold, he will not pay us 
 with a counter.
 
 478 
 
 The force of these remarks (and I hope 
 that they may claim some force, both 
 from nature, and from proper practice) 
 is not at all invalidated by two illustrious 
 examples, Spenser, and Chatterton. The 
 language of the fifteenth century, which 
 the latter was industrious to adopt, (and 
 surely, if we reflect on all his opposing 
 circumstances, we must admire his inge- 
 nuity, and success) we know that he 
 adopted, to serve a particular purpose ; 
 to promote a deception. And as he did 
 not use this vehicle of his thoughts, from 
 an inelegant taste ; from a barbarous 
 affectation ; and as it conveys highly cul- 
 tivated poetry ; we cheerfully take that 
 trouble to be familiar with its words, which 
 it is the duty of an undisguised poet to 
 prevent. 
 
 With regard to Spenser, his affectation 
 of language that was obsolete even in his 
 time, is well known ; and by good criticks 
 it has always been justly blamed. Some 
 great writers have had singularities which 
 no good writer would imitate ; but the 
 erroneous practice of the few condemns 
 not the judicious practice of the many ; 
 much less can we give it any force against
 
 479 
 
 the eternal laws of truth, and nature. 
 Taste does not always depend on the pro- 
 gressive refinement of ages ; we shall find 
 that in every age it is essentially included 
 in great genius ; as the less is included 
 in the greater ; though great geniuses 
 may not entirely escape the barbarisms 
 of their time. Nature, therefore, had 
 rather with a sparing hand implanted in 
 Spenser's mind the principles of taste. 
 He who aspires to excellence in literary 
 composition, should no more imitate 
 this fault of Spenser, than he should take 
 for his models many passages in the writ- 
 ings of our late justly celebrated Johnson, 
 which abound with words of a scholas- 
 tick hardness, and asperity. There is a 
 grammatical accuracy ; a gravity ; a dig- 
 nity ; a force ; nay, often a poetical ele- 
 gance in his manner ; but the love of the 
 sesquipedalia verba too frequently re- 
 turns ; because he, too, with a luminous, 
 and vigorous mind, and in a more polish- 
 ed age than that of Spenser, was deficient 
 in taste. There is no truly fine writing 
 without simplicity ; but as this simplicity 
 implies elegance too, it must be studied, 
 and acquired, to have its complete graces.
 
 480 
 
 Nor will it be acquired but by souls cor- 
 responding with its beauty ; by those 
 whom nature hath blessed with an acute- 
 ly distinguishing penetration, and with 
 a native delicacy of mind. Nor is it 
 necessary that this Minerva of eloquence 
 should be a plain, and unadorned god- 
 dess : Dionysiusof Halicarnassus, Cicero, 
 and Livy, among the ancients ; and Dry- 
 den (I have his admirable prose as well 
 as his poetry, in my eye) Dryden, Boling- 
 broke, and Burke, among the moderns ; 
 have shown that she can legitimately as- 
 sume a splendour ; a magnificence ; a 
 chastised pomp of dress, and manner. 
 
 Dr. Gregory ; to strengthen his whim- 
 sical doctrine of the cabalistical force of 
 mere words, introduces the two greatest 
 authorities in the world, that of Milton, 
 and Shakespeare. They, according to 
 his opinion, are among the writers, who, 
 aspiring to the sublime, found it necessa- 
 ry to invigorate their efforts by adopting 
 antiquated words ; by adopting the style 
 of a century before their own times. 
 Milton, and Shakespeare, are the very ex- 
 amples whom I should have chosen, to 
 demonstrate the futility of his theory,
 
 431 
 
 and to establish the truth of mine. The 
 faults of both poets, as they affected good 
 composition, principally resulted from 
 the imperfect, and rude state of literature, 
 at the age in which they lived. Literary, 
 as well as moral example is contagious ; 
 very virtuous men will, in some degree, 
 be infected with the one ; the most exalt- 
 ed genius will, occasionally, be debased 
 with the other. Indeed, in some pro- 
 vinces of the muse, the greatest poets have 
 thought themselves obliged, from the un- 
 generous motives of interest, (it is to be 
 lamented that excellent minds should 
 ever be reduced to this necessity) some- 
 times to comply with the vulgar, low 
 manners, and habits of their times. 
 Thus our unfortunate Dryden, as a dra- 
 matick writer, acknowledges that he had 
 written some scenes which were bad enough 
 to please. And hence, undoubtedly, 
 Shakespeare, the father, and the sovereign 
 of the British theatre, too often sinks in- 
 finitely below himself; and intersperses 
 the native effusions of his mind with 
 puns, and quibbles ; with unreasonable, 
 and miserable jesting, and humour, which 
 would damn the best written play, even 
 
 VOL. II. I i
 
 482 
 
 in these days, when we are sinking to an 
 insipid, and effeminate barbarity; the 
 prevailing lustre would not redeem the 
 dark spots ; if, indeed, in times of dege- 
 nerated understanding, and sentiment, 
 that lustre could be thoroughly seen, and 
 felt. We meet with no kind of obscurity 
 in Shakespeare, when he speaks directly, 
 and warmly, from himself; from the 
 clear, and exhaustless fund of nature, 
 which characterizes, while it supplies the 
 poet : we have nothing to check, nothing 
 to retard us, in accompanying the varied 
 flights of his muse; except the passages 
 to which I have referred, of a vicious elo- 
 quence ; and if we likewise except some 
 allusions to old facts, or customs, in his 
 unexceptionable, in his bright passages ; 
 the origin of which is inevitably lost, or 
 disputed, by a long lapse of time. All 
 these instances have not the least relation 
 to that unnatural, and elaborate verbal 
 obscurity ; to that antiquated mechanism, 
 which impressed Dr. Gregory with the 
 infinite, but repulsive ideas of the sub- 
 lime. 
 
 I think that I can apply analogous 
 reasoning, and with equal justice, to
 
 483 
 
 Milton* The constitutional beauty, 
 delicacy, and sublimity of his soul soared 
 to a celestial height, above the gross in- 
 tellectual atmosphere of his time ; yet 
 from its necessary intermixture with it, 
 it sometimes caught the infecting tinge 
 of its dusky vapours. The scholastick 
 pride of uncivilized learning sometimes 
 damped that heavenly fire which before 
 had heated the lips of Isaiah. A display 
 of remote reading, and of deep science, 
 sometimes loaded the muse's wing; 
 which was still more heavily, but rarely 
 depressed with the theological, and ca- 
 suistical lumber ; with the school-divini- 
 ty of Calvin, and Aquinas. .These faults 
 (I mention them without regret ; do the 
 specks of the sun injure the brightness, 
 and grandeur of our first luminary ?) 
 these faults, it must be owned, violate 
 that perspicuity, and improperly inter- 
 fere with those superiour, and interesting 
 objects, with which true poetry, in its 
 uninterrupted, and noble march, should 
 bear the mind of the reader along with it, 
 in an unobstructed, ardent, and delight- 
 ful strain. Yet these faults have no 
 affinity to the powerful and exalting 5 to 
 
 Ii2
 
 484 
 
 the occult, but sublime cabala, or rather 
 vocabulary of Dr. Gregory. 
 
 But I shall now proceed to decisive 
 proofs : as I will never be determined by 
 the notions, and assertions of others, I 
 shall always wish to establish my own 
 assertions, my own arguments, with all 
 the demonstration that I can give them. 
 It is the singular privilege of true, and 
 great genius, " to make the excellence 
 " which it does not find" to rise above 
 the coarseness, and vulgarity of its age ; 
 and to form a style of language, and ver- 
 sification. Thus the divine Pope improv- 
 ed, enriched, decorated, and beautified 
 the affluent inheritance which was be- 
 queathed to him by his august father, 
 Dryden; and thus Milton, and Shake- 
 speare, each of them directed by his par- 
 ticular genius, mounted to regions of the 
 muses, unknown before, I will not say, 
 to English, but to the poetical adventurers 
 of any nation. From those fertile, and 
 immeasurable domains of fancy, they 
 brought down a new variety of poetical 
 imagery, of captivating forms, and ma- 
 jestick motion ; clad in easy, and flowing 
 robes, that beamed with the undulating
 
 485 
 
 light ; with the vivid purple of the skies. 
 Did Milton, or Shakespeare ever feel a 
 poverty of soul that ohliged them to sub- 
 stitute lifeless words for animated ideas ? 
 On the contrary, in the general, and pre- 
 dominant strain of their poetry, their 
 words are always subservient, but easily, 
 and happily subservient, to their ideas. 
 In all the interesting dialogue of Shake- 
 speare (and surely his ^interesting dia- 
 logue is, comparatively, of very small, 
 and trivial extent) an easy, and perspicu- 
 ous, yet rich, various, and expressive 
 style prevails, that would do honour to an 
 age which had attained the perfection of 
 real elegance, and refinement. If this 
 species of lightning from Heaven, which, 
 in a moment, subdues, but without de- 
 stroying, had not been endowed with 
 this facility, with this rapidity to strike, 
 how could it so often have electrified the 
 world, even when the soul of Shakespeare 
 spoke from the soul of Garrick ? 
 
 It is with Milton as it is with Shake- 
 speare. When he writes from the unpre- 
 judiced, and unencumbered powers; 
 from the free, and irresistible fire of his 
 own mind (I speak of the general current 
 
 i i3
 
 486 
 
 of his poetry) his language corresponds 
 with his images, and emotions. The na- 
 tural grace of simplicity adorns, and dig- 
 nifies the majesty of the poet ; the flexi- 
 bility, and elasticity of ease impell, and 
 accelerate his force. To prove that this 
 is a true description of Milton's poetical 
 character, I might make numerous, 
 and decisive appeals ; it is proved by 
 those compositions of our unrivalled poet 
 which have contributed most to his well- 
 merited celebrity. His Comus, his Alle- 
 gro, and his II Pensoroso ; all the most 
 distinguished passages of his Paradise 
 Lost ; the speech of Satan on taking pos- 
 session of his infernal empire ; the un- 
 furling of his imperial ensign by the 
 cherub Azazel; his encounter with death, 
 at the gates of Pandaemonium ; his ad- 
 dress to the sun ; indeed all the speeches 
 of this diabolical hero ; the poet's beauti- 
 ful elegy on his own blindness, at the 
 beginning of the third ; and his almost 
 equally beautiful invocation of Urania, 
 at the beginning of the seventh book ; 
 the magnificent description of the first 
 orient sun, and moon ; and of the other 
 heavenly luminaries, immediately after
 
 487 
 
 the completion of the work of the crea- 
 tion ; all these masterly, and divine pas- 
 sages evince that unaffected, and perspi- 
 cuous energy, into which I wish to 
 vindicate him, from the blunderers, and 
 manglers of his high poetical reputation. 
 Thus the practice of Milton refutes the 
 Gregorian theory ; he attains the beau- 
 tiful ; he ascends to the sublime, by his 
 own native, and simple grace, and ma- 
 jesty; and where false criticism thinks 
 that he is most in need of its meretricious 
 dawbings, he disdains them most. For 
 all the celebrated passages to which I have 
 just referred, are perfectly^ intelligible, 
 and clear to readers of a common educa- 
 tion ; and yet they have the attick per- 
 fection of uniting elegance with ease. I 
 wish that Dr. Gregory, instead of sport- 
 ing an absurd theory, would prevail with 
 some of our poetasters to emulate, or 
 imitate the prevailing poetical language 
 of Milton ; as clear as it is forcible : as 
 simple as it is sublime : they would then 
 despise that affected, and distorted style, 
 of which they are, at present, so ridicu- 
 lously ambitious ; and they might possi- 
 bly acquire our classical, and best manner 
 
 n4
 
 488 
 
 of writing. But I am forgetting myself; 
 I am falling into one of Dr. Gregory's 
 capital errours ; I am for tearing body 
 from soul : it is the spirit of Milton that 
 informs the style of Milton. 
 
 Dr. Gregory, partly perhaps, from a 
 weak, and implicit faith in the Stagyrite 
 of England, imagined that Milton, to ob- 
 tain, or improve the sublime, had recourse 
 to a constrained, and obsolete phraseolo- 
 gy. Many of Dr. Johnson's criticisms 
 on Milton, are as absurd, as they are pre- 
 judiced, and illiberal. He not only 
 charges him with his own stiffness, and 
 pedantry of style, but with an absolute 
 confusion of language ; with a kind of 
 Babylonish dialect. If Dr. Johnson 
 would have submitted his pertinacity of 
 opinion to a cure, by a simple, but pow- 
 erful intellectual prescription ; a serious, 
 and dispassionate * review of the poetry of 
 Milton might have produced that good 
 effect. If he had been modestly, and 
 duly conscious of his scholastick barba- 
 risms ; or, to adopt his language, of his 
 own superfetations of style ; he would 
 not have fabricated a deformed structure 
 of words for Milton ; he would not have
 
 489 
 
 sent a genius to the tower of Babel, who 
 was infinitely his superiour, in the temple 
 of Apollo. Fortunate, and happy will be 
 the poet, who, without servile imitation ; 
 who, from the force of nature, shall ap- 
 proach to the poetical manner of Milton ; 
 and the writer who shall be ambitious to 
 excell in easy, luminous, and energetick 
 prose, will be distinguishing, and pru- 
 dent, if he carefully avoids the prominent 
 asperities ; the literary rocks of Johnson. 
 Literary, and poetical objects are deep- 
 ly impressed in my heart ; therefore I 
 wish not to skim, but diligently to discuss 
 their important topicks. The imaginary 
 force which Dr. Gregory gives to anti- 
 quated words, principally respects our 
 English poets ; yet what I have advanced, 
 I may support, and enforce, by the ex- 
 ample of Homer. There never was more 
 simplicity, I mean, more clearness, and 
 ease of expression, than we find in his 
 sublimest, and most admired passages; 
 which, I doubt not, were recited with an 
 equal familiarity, and delight, by the 
 peasants, and by the princes of his coun- 
 try. A good greek scholar can read no 
 greek authour with less difficulty than
 
 490 
 
 Homer ; the uninterruptedly, and obvi- 
 ously intelligible ; the perspicuous, and 
 the flowing ; the chaste ornaments of a 
 happy facility, are essential characterist- 
 icks of his poetry. It may be objected to 
 the present extent of my argument, that 
 in the early, and simple age of Homer, 
 he had no range of deserted language, to 
 supply him with this variegated style; with 
 this party-coloured patch -work of words, 
 which, by startling the reader, is to pass 
 with him, for the sublime. It may be 
 said that this quality had not yet attained 
 all its external, and verbal ; but supreme, 
 and complete excellence. I will readily 
 allow that the true perfection of poetical 
 composition was far from being attained 
 in the time of Homer ; that it was far 
 from being attained by Homer himself; 
 I will allow that a heterogeneous diver- 
 sity of reading; the foundation of this 
 artificial, and spurious poetical grandeur, 
 was not accessible to him, as it is to mo- 
 dern writers : I will allow, that to effect 
 this meretricious grandeur, he could not, 
 among his cotemporaries, avail himself 
 of that unnatural, and ridiculous affecta- 
 tion which constitutes the whole cha-
 
 491 
 
 racter of the poetasters of our times : 
 impertinent pretenders ! to whose pre- 
 sumptuous, and profane invocation, the 
 muses scorn to be propitious ; whom 
 they bless not with their smiles, and 
 graces of favour, and inspiration ; but in- 
 fatuate with their grimaces, and distorti- 
 ons, of resentment, and contempt. I 
 come now to the plain, and indisputable 
 inference which I draw, from introduc- 
 ing Homer, to corroborate, and evince 
 my argument. To question the sublimi- 
 ty of Homer, would be a critical impiety 
 against the father of poetry ; it would be 
 to insult a long successive series of the 
 sentiments of mankind. Hence it fol- 
 lows, that the most unaffected, easy, and 
 flowing language ; the language with 
 which the countrymen of the poet is 
 best acquainted, as it was the first, is 
 always the most proper organ of poe- 
 tical thoughts, in any age, or nation. 
 It is peculiarly adapted to the sub- 
 lime ; it favours its ascent to Heaven. 
 The waving, and translucent robe au- 
 spiciously floats on the soaring spirit. 
 Thus the agility, and prowess of the 
 intrepid soldier are best displayed in
 
 492 
 
 light armour ; and thus the rays of the 
 god of poets dart directly, vigorously, 
 and brightly, through serene aether; 
 while they are weakened, refracted, and 
 obscured, in a heavy atmosphere. 
 
 " Of the pieces," says Dr. Gregory, 
 " which are confessedly his own, we 
 " must undoubtedly assign the preference 
 " to those of the satirical class." Then 
 we shall s undoubtedly give a mistaken 
 preference. I might accumulate instances, 
 if I would, to disprove this assertion. 
 But a few will be sufficient. * His address 
 to Miss Bush of Bristol, on his intended 
 voyage to the coast of Africa ; his African 
 dialogues, notwithstanding the contempt 
 which they have incurred from his austere 
 literary censor, Bryant ; but above all, 
 his elegy to the memory of Mr. Thomas 
 Phillips of Fairford, are far more strongly 
 animated with the poetical spirit than 
 any of his satirical productions. That 
 elegy is eminently, and amiably distin- 
 guished by all the tenderness of friend- 
 ship ; it shows an extremely susceptible, 
 and feeling heart ; which deserved a treat- 
 ment very different from that which it 
 suffered from the insensibility of the
 
 493 
 
 world. It showed that his mind was more 
 agreeably engaged in amicable tribute 
 than in poignant satire. In that elegy, 
 the personifications of autumn, winter, 
 and fancy ; their characteristicks, and 
 appendages, excell any imagery of the 
 kind that is to be found in Spenser ; and 
 are only equalled by Milton. They pro- 
 claimed the elegant, and creative imagi- 
 nation, which was the authour of Rowley ; 
 but which, with all its Promethean heat, 
 could not dispell the fog that environed 
 the pericranium of Bryant, and of Milles. 
 " In most of his serious writings" (con- 
 tinues the Doctor) " there is little that 
 " indicates their being composed with 
 " a full relish; when he is satirical, his 
 " soul glows in his composition." I have 
 already spoken to the distinguished glow 
 of soul which is here foolishly attributed 
 to his satirical compositions. As to the 
 full relish, in which his serious writings 
 are unfortunately deficient, in Dr. Gre- 
 gory's exquisitely discriminating palate ; 
 I do not allow their inferiority ; I do not 
 apprehend the idea; and I very much 
 dislike the epicurean, and disgusting me- 
 taphor. On account, therefore, of its
 
 494 
 
 gross misapplication, I send it back to the 
 Doctor, and to his vintner; or let it be 
 the favourite expression of the descend- 
 ents of Quixote's Sancho; of the super- 
 lative, and infallible judgements of whose 
 ancestors, in the qualities of wine ; and 
 of their inconceivably nice discernment 
 of every atom of injury which it might 
 suffer from other substances, an unparal- 
 leled account is given by Sancho himself, 
 in the immortal work of Cervantes. 
 
 The 79th page of Dr. Gregory's Life of 
 Chatterton contains the following extra- 
 ordinary observations. " To write well 
 " in prose, is perhaps more the effect of 
 " art, of study, and of habit, than of na- 
 " tural genius. * The rules of metrical 
 " composition are fewer, more simple, 
 " and require a less constant exercise of 
 " the judgement. In the infancy of so- 
 " cieties as well as of individuals, there - 
 " fore, the art of poetry is antecedent to 
 " those of rhetorick, and criticism ; and 
 " arrives at perfection long before the 
 " language of prose attains that degree of 
 " strength, conciseness, and harmony, 
 " which is requisite to satisfy a delicate 
 " ear." In my observations on the life,
 
 495 
 
 writings, and character of Chatterton, I 
 have often given a particular attention to 
 weak, and futile criticism, and censure ; 
 for a reason which, I hope, is not insig- 
 nificant. This feeble criticism, and cen- 
 sure, may suggest, the language of com- 
 mon sense, on interesting topicks ; and 
 these objects will always deserve our seri- 
 ous recollection, and consideration. With 
 this view, I shall now beg leave to animad- 
 vert on the passage which I have quoted 
 from Dr. Gregory. 
 
 If I adopted his idea, that the art of 
 writing good poetry was sooner brought 
 to perfection than that of writing good 
 prose, the inference that I should draw 
 from these premises would be the Doc- 
 tor's mode of reasoning inverted. I 
 should infer, that of the two arts, to write 
 prose well, was the more arduous, and 
 rare ; and therefore, that it demanded 
 greater, and more extraordinary powers 
 of the mind. I am, however of a contrary 
 opinion : I think, with deference to better 
 judgements, that true poetry requires a 
 soul of a stronger, yet finer make ; of 
 more energy, and delicacy, than classical 
 nrose. Hence the poet must be a rarer
 
 496 
 
 being than the writer who is eloquent in 
 prose. This opinion, and the deduction 
 from it, are warranted, I may say, con- 
 firmed, by the literary history of the 
 world. In the progressive civilization of 
 celebrated states, far fewer authours have 
 extended their fame in poetry than in 
 prose. This truth will appear most evi- 
 dently, if we take a view of any celebrat- 
 ed people, when they have arrived at the 
 maturity of all their true politeness : for 
 then the greatest number of authours 
 give us room for the fairest comparative 
 calculation ; as then the spirit of emula- 
 tion most powerfully calls forth all the 
 various intellectual exertions. In the 
 best days of Greece, of Rome, and of* 
 England, how few were their great poets, 
 in proportion to their great writers in 
 prose ! Therefore the real improve- 
 ments in poetry ; those improvements 
 which unite the judicious, and the elegant 
 with the spirited, the original, and the 
 
 * I cannot make any remarks on French poets ; for I 
 should thank true taste, if it would tell me who they are. The 
 nation want vigorous, and noble sentiment ; and their language 
 is neither flowing, nor energetick : how, then, should they hare 
 *ven an adequate idea of poetry ?
 
 497 
 
 sublime; must have been, at least as 
 gradual as those of the latter species of 
 composition. I say real improvements ; 
 because imaginary improvements, and 
 imaginary perfection have been trans- 
 mitted down to us, from age to age ; and 
 we have implicitly embraced the phan- 
 toms. To pay no deference to long pre- 
 scription, would be bold, and arrogant ; 
 but surely the free, and ingenuous mind 
 may candidly, but without reserve, ex- 
 press its dissent from it ; when to the 
 most impartial inquiries ; to the most 
 accurate views of that mind, this prescrip- 
 tion is totally repugnant. A poetical 
 creed has, for almost three thousand 
 years, been obtruded on the world ; and 
 like other creeds, with a peremptory des* 
 potism over the mind ; a creed which I 
 think hard of belief, to the manly, and 
 independent exercise of reason. We 
 have been so long taught to believe, that 
 in the very infancy of Grecian literature, 
 Homer, without precedent, without any 
 example of the lowest degree of poetical 
 refinement, formed, I may say, created, 
 the perfection of poetry ; and of epick 
 poetry; by the untutored force of his 
 
 VOL. II. KK
 
 own genius. But nature, and common 
 sense ; (those abolishers of much clumsy 
 magick, if our freedom from prejudice 
 deserves their interposition) have always 
 told me, that in the poems of Homer, 
 the grossest, and most disgusting absur- 
 dities are blended with a simplicity; with 
 an eloquence ; with a fire ; that will al- 
 ways be the objects of our admiration ; 
 that will live for ever. As we have been 
 accustomed to view those absurdities 
 with a superstitious veneration ; nay, to 
 admire them, as the standards of taste ; 
 I speak of them, absolutely ; as they are 
 in themselves ; relatively to the unpolish- 
 ed times in which they were produced, they 
 deserve the greatest indulgence. I write 
 thus freely; but with reverence to res- 
 pectable criticks ; to show, that the per- 
 fection of poetry, by far the first of the 
 fine arts, could never be attained, at once, 
 by any mortal ; it is the effect of progress- 
 ive improvements, through a long course 
 of ages ; it is the effect of "study, and 
 " art, and habit/' (to use Dr. Gregory's 
 words) as well as the perfection of prose. 
 But with* all these advantages, both ex- 
 cellences must have a rare mental source
 
 499 
 
 in their respective authours ; a luminous, 
 comprehensive, elegant, and ardent mind, 
 by nature. Without this animating, this 
 invigorating principle, we may study, and 
 labour, and write, in either province, all 
 our lives, in vain ; as is demonstrated by 
 numerous, and unfortunate examples. 
 Let us not, therefore, talk of writing 
 prose, or poetry, ivell ; let us talk of writ- 
 ing them excellently : we shall then have 
 a substantial, and splendid object, for the 
 critical eye ; and if my present observa- 
 tions have any force, their force will be 
 the more sensibly felt. I do not think 
 myself obliged implicitly to acquiesce in 
 the Avtos E<py of Aristotle ; who absurdly 
 founded his rules for epick poetry on the 
 authority of Homer ; who had limited 
 himself by no rules ; and whose beauties 
 and sublimities were shaded with great 
 faults. Besides, what could be more ab- 
 surd than to insist that an epick poem 
 should be modelled, and conducted by one 
 general plan ? Why might not every 
 great poet who was devoted to the epick 
 muse, vary his plan ; his machinery ; his 
 episodes, and his incidents ; in short, 
 the ground-work, and the structure of 
 k k2
 
 500 
 
 his fable, and of its concomitant objects, 
 agreeably to the infinite diversity of the 
 powers, and operations of the human 
 mind ? 
 
 My opinion of Homer is not shaken 
 even by Mr. Pope's unqualified eulogy on 
 that venerable poet. Prejudices long es- 
 tablished, and sanctioned by the most 
 respectable authorities, will influence the 
 greatest minds ; and he must inevitably 
 have entertained a warm partiality, for 
 that original, and ardent poetry, which 
 had, for several years, inspired, and ac- 
 tuated his own muse. Epick, like other 
 kinds of poetry ; like other kinds of lite- 
 rary composition, in reciprocally distant 
 ages, received eminent improvements 
 from great masters. Virgil improved on 
 Homer ; and Milton on Virgil ; the Eng- 
 lish poet soared to heights which no 
 bold adventurer had hitherto explored. 
 Nor did he owe his astonishing superiori- 
 ty merely to the wonders of revelation ; 
 he improved on several admired passages 
 of the other two poets ; he excelled their 
 spirit of fire ; he excelled their powers of 
 invention. With regard to them; the 
 eclogues, and georgicks, and the six first
 
 501 
 
 books of the iEneid, gave me more plea- 
 sure than I received both from the Iliad, 
 and the Odyssey. I am ingenuously 
 speaking my own sentiments ; which I 
 am far from communicating as a decisive 
 authority to others. I shall here remind 
 you of the unfinished verses which were 
 left by Virgil, in his iEneid ; and of his 
 orders when he was dying, that the divine 
 poem should be committed to the flames. 
 I suppose it will be allowed that Virgil 
 was a good judge of what constituted, 
 and completed the form of poetry ; con- 
 sequently his taste was as delicate as his 
 imagination was warm : did he think 
 that excellent poetry could be written, 
 any more than excellent prose, without 
 study, and art, and habit, strengthening, 
 enriching, and refining the poetical ta- 
 lent ? Or did he think that perfect poetry 
 was the rhapsodies ; the wild effusions 
 of a barbarous age? 
 
 Similar, and analogous were the strik- 
 ing improvements in prose. It would be 
 prolix, and tedious minutely to demon- 
 strate an evident truth. Cicero improv- 
 ed on Plato, and Demosthenes; Caesar 
 on Xenophon; and Livy, the first of 
 
 kk3
 
 502 
 
 historians, on Herodotus, and Thucy- 
 dides. These great men as emulously, 
 and conspicuously surpassed their remot- 
 er literary ancestors, as they took the palm 
 from their immediate predecessours ; as 
 eminently, and conspicuously as the 
 prose of Dryden excelled that of Sir Phi- 
 lip Sydney, and of Ben Jonson ; or as 
 David Hume excelled Burnet ; nay even 
 Clarendon, in the historick page. 
 
 I beg that it may be remembered that 
 I never mean to separate the style, or 
 manner of writing, from the fine ethe- 
 real principle from which it springs ; and 
 that it seems to me indisputable that all 
 the progressive improvements in the dif- 
 ferent modes of composition, necessarily 
 flow from the gradual, general, and col- 
 lateral improvements of the human 
 mind ; and from its particular, and per- 
 sonal constitution ; with which they are 
 intimately, with which they are indis- 
 solubly connected. Shall we then ridicu- 
 lously imagine that the prose of Addison, 
 of Bolingbroke, and of Burke, were ac- 
 quired merely by study ; by art, and 
 habit; or shall we not justly conclude, 
 that they were as much the effects of ge-
 
 503 
 
 nius, as the poetry of Milton, of Dryden, 
 and of Pope ? 
 
 It is as absurd to suppose that the early 
 world would be more apt to write in verse 
 than in prose, as it is to suppose that 
 they would more readily converse in the 
 former than in the latter strain. Man, 
 by nature, prefers every kind of freedom 
 to every kind of restriction ; though ju- 
 dicious, and salutary restrictions are 
 necessary to accomplish every species of 
 virtue ; every species of glory. The laws 
 of the most ancient, and celebrated legis- 
 lators, with those of Moses inclusively, a 
 lawgiver of extreme antiquity, were writ- 
 ten in prose. Precepts of prudence, and 
 religion, were often, in ancient times, in- 
 culcated in verse ; only that they might 
 the more easily be retained by memory. 
 This kind of verse was delivered to the 
 world, for its morality, and piety ; not 
 for its poetical beauty. As to the infan- 
 cy, or very early life of individuals, not 
 one in a thousand boys will be so apt vo- 
 luntarily to make experiments of his ta- 
 lents in ver^e as in prose ; unless nature 
 is, in them perverted by the blundering 
 example of schoolmasters ; who press all 
 
 kk4
 
 501 
 
 their scholars, indiscriminately, into the 
 service of the muses : those tyrants of the 
 mind ; who, like the old tyrant of the 
 body, force every mental stature to one 
 common measure; to a bed, not of plea- 
 sure, but of torment. 
 
 " The rules of metrical composition'* 
 (says Dr, Gregory) " are fewer, and more 
 " simple, and require a less constant ex- 
 " ercise of the judgement" [than the 
 rules of prose.] The diametrical contra- 
 ry of this is the truth. But I do not like 
 to dwell on frivolous matter ; I do not 
 like to fight " as one who beateth the air." 
 I shall therefore content myself with ob- 
 serving, that it may be very proper for 
 merely grammatical, and technical men 
 in writing, to proceed like joiners, 
 and bricklayers, by rule, and line ; but 
 that men of true talents prosecute 
 their glowing work under a more free, 
 and animating direction ; their liberal 
 rules, guides, and limits, are, the magni- 
 ficent exuberance, and the accurate just- 
 ness of their own thoughts; with the well 
 retained examples of their great masters ; 
 not forcibly, and rudely, but gently, and 
 amicably impressing the forms, and ting-
 
 505 
 
 ing the colours of their own minds. Un- 
 fortunate must always be the reasoning 
 of a critick, who, through the tenour of 
 his remarks, considers a series of lan- 
 guage, and its producing, and efficient 
 cause, as two distinct, and different ob- 
 jects ; who separates thought made visible 
 from thought itself; from the pure intel- 
 lect which presents it, in vigour, and 
 sublimity ; in order, and in beauty, to the 
 mental eye : who unnaturally discrimi- 
 nates between mind, and its emanations ; 
 between the light, and the essence of the 
 soul. 
 
 I have always as explicitly shown my 
 unaffected, and ardent zeal for distin- 
 guished, and original genius as I have ex- 
 pressed my strong dislike of unwarrant- 
 able, and obtrusive presumption. Agree- 
 ably to this confirmed, and invincible 
 habit, (who, indeed, that feels its inde- 
 pendent, and lively pleasure would wish 
 to conquer it ?) I think myself obliged 
 to take notice of a strange passage in Dr. 
 Gregory's book, in which, with an equal 
 extreme of boldness, and absurdity, he 
 forces into a congeniality; into a simila- 
 rity : into an equality of greatness, two
 
 506 
 
 men whom nature formed as remote, in 
 mind, as the poles are, in matter, from 
 each other : he mentions together, plac- 
 ing them in intellectual apposition ; 
 blending them into a union of excellence; 
 " the abilities of a Newton, and a Bry- 
 " antr If the transcendent heroes in 
 literature, and in science, are thus to be 
 dragged down, and confounded with the 
 vulgar ; what will become of their post- 
 humous, and immortal glory ? It is easy 
 to account for the injustice which great 
 men suffer while they live : but that in- 
 justice is commonly redressed when death 
 has removed them from the jaundiced 
 eye of envy. But it has been particularly 
 reserved for these times, in which our 
 confidence is as remarkable as our viti- 
 ated, and contemptible taste, not only to 
 dispute, but to vilify the splendid fame 
 of several of our greatest men, who had 
 been long, and justly celebrated for vari- 
 ous kinds of mental pre-eminence*. To 
 
 * The impudent stupidity, and intellectual blasphemy of this 
 comparison is only equalled, or exceeded by a passage in the 
 Abbe Raynal ; who, though he assumes the august province of 
 a legislator to mankind, is, I think, the most disingenuous,
 
 507 
 
 compare a Newton with a Bryant, is to 
 compare a vigorous, original, and divine, 
 with a weak, pedantick, and frivolous 
 mind. Have a care, Dr. Gregory ; cler- 
 gyman that you are, you have, by this 
 comparison, been guilty (perhaps una- 
 wares) of intellectual sacrilege. Inad- 
 vertently ; or with a ridiculous perverse- 
 ness of opinion ; or with a prostituted 
 flattery, you have incurred the profane- 
 ness of an ignorant, and irreverent French 
 coxcomb ; who, at this time, throws his 
 contempt on the memory of Newton, 
 with all the superficial impertinence of 
 his country ; with all the disdain of Gal- 
 lick insolence. 
 
 Chatterton, in a letter of the 8th of 
 July, 1770 ; a very short time before his 
 death, mentions different kinds of presents 
 which he was then sending to his relations. 
 
 partial, vain, inconsistent, and declamatory writer that I ever 
 read. 
 
 " If one man alone" (says this extraordinary estimator of hu- 
 man excellence) " had been the inventor of the manufacture for 
 " figured stuffs, he would have displayed more intelligence than 
 ie Leibnitz or Newton." History of the European Settle- 
 ments, &c. B. XlXth Justamond's Translation.
 
 508 
 
 Among those presents were two fans : 
 " the silver one, he says, is more graver 
 " than the other ; which would suit my 
 sister best." Dr. Gregory observes that 
 this expression of more graver " confirms 
 " Mr. Bryant's opinion, that he was not 
 u well grounded in the first principles of 
 " grammar." Gregory ; p. 259. This 
 is a truly pitiable absurdity. How could 
 your partiality to the trifling pedantry of 
 Mr. Bryant make you forget that Chat- 
 terton was evidently a master, not only 
 in grammatical, but in spirited, and ele- 
 gant writing; and that he might have 
 been a model for inferiour authours ; if 
 he had not been beyond their apprehen- 
 sion, and emulation ? His prose is as 
 free, and eloquent as his poetry. If you 
 had not been blinded by grammatical 
 mechanism, you must have seen that the 
 more graver was an ironical expression ; 
 a verbal jest, on the common, well- 
 known, and barbarous idiom of the vul- 
 gar. It is highly probable that his sister 
 used this double, and anomalous compara- 
 tive, in conversation ; and I have no doubt 
 that, in his letter, he affixed a particular 
 mark, with his pen, to the solecism.
 
 509 
 
 That the natives of England should 
 study their own language grammatically, 
 is a good general rule ; a rule that should 
 not be slighted by men of the brightest 
 talents. But men of such talents often 
 prefer to this formal, yet respectable, 
 study, the instruction which they gain 
 from a more lively, and impressive ana- 
 logy ; from their careful, and constant 
 attention to the examples of our best au- 
 thours : and these men will not merely 
 connect their periods with a complete 
 grammatical precision ; they will enrich 
 them with all the copiousness ; they will 
 adorn them with all the graces of our lan- 
 guage. He must be well acquainted with 
 the vestibule of a temple who daily 
 waves aromatick incense before its altar. 
 What the little mind comprehends with 
 a microscopick limitation ; or surmounts 
 with the tardy progress of an opossum ; 
 the great mind seizes with a quick, and 
 comprehensive intuition ; or attains by a 
 few gigantick steps. It may be proper, 
 and prudent, in you, Dr. Gregory, deli- 
 berately, and gravely to consult with 
 Priscian : while you meditate, and at- 
 chieve your literary exploits. When we
 
 510 
 
 cannot make heroick sallies, we should 
 be careful to move in a compact, and se- 
 cure order. But the spontaneous ac* 
 quirements, and the excursive genius of a 
 Chatterton, supersede these phlegmatick 
 precautions. The regular army of words 
 are at his command ; not only in their 
 mechanical combination, but in their ac- 
 curate, and happy arrangement ; in their 
 perfect symmetry, strength, and beauty. 
 The style; the phalanx of this literary 
 general ; of this great Frederick, under 
 the auspices of the milder Minerva, moves 
 not with the unwieldy slowness of the 
 Dutch, but with the ease, and velocity of 
 the Prussian troops. His progress is as 
 ardent, and unbounded as his ambition ; 
 at the head of his rapid, and irresistible 
 forces ; of his we* irrefosrra, to whatever 
 quarter he directs his march, he per- 
 vades, and conquers ; their discipline, 
 their spirit, and their vigour, always, de- 
 cide the victory. 
 
 The observations of one of Dr. Grego- 
 ry's learned, and respectable friends, of 
 which he is pleased to make some notes 
 to his book, with the signature, O ; and 
 which he calls an able vindication of Mr.
 
 511 
 
 Walpole, are disingenuous, and truly 
 contemptible. The vulgar sophistry 
 with which those observations abound, 
 I have already condescended to answer ; 
 and I hope that it has been refuted. I 
 shall only take notice of one evident 
 falsehood with which they are stigmatized 
 by their authour ; as it evinces the heart 
 with which he wrote his vindication of 
 this uncommon peer ; for I so highly res- 
 pect the character of several of our En- 
 glish nobility, that, in justice to them, I 
 apply this epithet to the late Lord Orford, 
 And here I totally differ from the accom- 
 modating Dr. Gregory ; who, in his la- 
 boured, but feeble palliation of the 
 conduct of that titular nobleman, seems 
 to refuse all humane sentiment, and its 
 concomitant liberality of manners, to 
 persons in high life ; when he endeavours 
 to vindicate the hypocritical, unfeeling, 
 and disdainful rejection of the reasonable, 
 modest, and humble request of Chatter- 
 ton. The Doctor's learned, and respect- 
 able friend is guilty (as I have observed) 
 of a notorious falsehood ; he tells us 
 that " Mr. Walpole could not help con- 
 " eluding that the whole" [all that Chat-
 
 512 
 
 terton had communicated to him] " was a 
 " fiction, contrived by some one or more 
 " literary wags, who wished to impose on 
 " his credulity, and to laugh at him, if 
 " they succeeded ; and that Chatterton 
 " was only the instrument employed to 
 " introduce, and recommend these old 
 " writings." Gregory ; p. 63. The re- 
 verse of this bold assertion is the truth. 
 Mr. Walpole, in the defence which he 
 wrote of himself, repeatedly declares that 
 he had no doubt that Chatterton was the 
 real authour of the poetical specimens 
 which he had sent to him : and from 
 that certainty, he repeatedly mentions 
 his genius in terms of the highest admira- 
 tion ; though in other places, with an 
 incongruity which disgraces him, and 
 which often betrays the deepest dissimu- 
 lation, he professes a cold, and stupid in- 
 difference, both to Chatterton, and his 
 poetry. It has happened that assassins in 
 the dark have stabbed their friend instead 
 of their devoted victim. This learned, 
 and respectable vindicator should have 
 carefully suppressed the verses that he 
 quotes; which contain, on every account, 
 a most unmerited compliment from the
 
 513 
 
 young poet to JValpole's mental taste. 
 The moral magnanimity of this youth 
 must have been as prodigious as his poe- 
 tical genius. The compliment of Cicero 
 to Caesar, that " he forgot nothing but 
 " injuries," was far more applicable to 
 Chatterton. I am sorry from my heart, 
 that he threw his pearls before a being, 
 which, when it had received such an 
 offering before, " had turned again, and 
 " rent him." Indeed, in more senses 
 than one, the little elegant encomium 
 was prostituted. After the previous 
 treatment (which was so far from being 
 expiated that it was industriously aggra- 
 vated) it was an extravagant hyperbole 
 of forgiveness : it was as extravagant 
 a hyperbole of praise; for the reverse of 
 taste is the true literary character of Mr. 
 Walpole : his thoughts are always feeble ; 
 and they are always expressed in a vulgar, 
 and uncouth style. 
 
 A train of singular, and melancholy 
 circumstances, which do great discredit 
 to human nature, attended the fate of 
 the works of this young man, as well as 
 of himself. Editions of Rowley, and of 
 the Miscellanies, were published after 
 
 VOL. If. LL
 
 514 
 
 Chatterton's death ; yet the editors took 
 not the least liberal notice of his poor re- 
 lations. This very shameful omission 
 may Seem surprizing to those who have 
 not observed that we often act as if we 
 thought that it was not incumbent on us 
 to practise any delicacy ; any honesty, to 
 the unfortunate ; when we may safely 
 violate a moral regard to these virtues. 
 The cold, timid, pusillanimously proud, 
 and conscious Walpole, could not give 
 them his own example of this liberality ; 
 for he would have felt it a self-condem- 
 nation of his former conduct. The pub- 
 lishers of those works owed nothing to 
 the surviving friends of the poet, from 
 the obligations of common law, or upon 
 any act of parliament : but as they made 
 them their property, without making any 
 recompence to his necessitous friends, 
 they were guilty of literary piracy ; by 
 an act which was passed when man was 
 created; and was copied into his breast 
 by the finger of the Almighty. 
 
 I wish that the world would give me 
 fewer occasions of censure than of praise. 
 With what pleasure must a friend of hu- 
 manity pay his tribute of honest fame to
 
 515 
 
 Mr. Croft ! I had the honour to meet 
 that gentleman, at the house of a very 
 celebrated man, many years ago ; before 
 a bleak world had blighted the flowery 
 spells of fancy; while a rich flow of 
 youthful spirits was a substitute for for- 
 tune ; while " the bubble joy laughed in 
 "the cup of folly." This gentleman 
 embalmed the memory of Chatterton 
 with the aromatick praise which it de- 
 served, and with his christian compas- 
 sion ; and he alone of the learned (who 
 ought to be most eminently generous) 
 extended his practical benevolence to his 
 relations. His sister, in a letter to Mr. 
 Croft, assures him that " the only benefit 
 " that her mother, and she had reaped 
 ' 'from the labours of her dear brother, 
 " were what they had received from 
 " himr 
 
 I have only to regret that this worthy, 
 and virtuous clergyman should have sunk, 
 in one instance, to the stern, and bigoted 
 priest. He says that Chatterton " threw 
 " himself on the anger of his Creator." I 
 hope that some suicides will find that 
 mercy from the perfection of goodness 
 which criminal man denies them. But 
 ll2
 
 516 
 
 whatever may be their future fate, let us 
 take every opportunity to vindicate the 
 Deity from vile human passions. I ho- 
 nestly, and independently regret that pic- 
 tures of him, with these passions make 
 a considerable part of the service of our 
 church : they certainly have bad effects 
 on the minds, and manners of men; for 
 the ignorant either cannot, or will not be 
 taught to make the proper distinction 
 between metaphor, and simile, and real, 
 abstracted truth. Let these daring mis- 
 representations of the Almighty always 
 be confined to the violence of oriental 
 hyperbole. God must be, in his nature, 
 and in his action, equal, uniform, and 
 impassive : the diffusion of his mercy is 
 without weak emotion; the exercise of 
 his power is without painful resentment : 
 God cannot be angry. 
 
 Mr. Hamilton, a very wealthy printer, 
 and the principal proprietor of the Town 
 and Country Magazine ; a notorious ve- 
 hicle of scandal, and falsehood, was one 
 of the persons from whose interested 
 flattery, and promises of the most liberal 
 encouragement, Chatterton had fondly 
 anticipated great literary success in the
 
 517 
 
 metropolis. It was my misfortune to 
 know the man ; I wrote for him, at the 
 time to which I refer, in the Critical Re- 
 view ; and I can with rigorous truth, 
 assert, that from the older Tonson, down 
 to Osborne, there never was a more hard- 
 hearted, overbearing, and insolent fellow. 
 It is needless for me to suppose what his 
 treatment of the unprotected youth would 
 be, when his pale fortune was in its paler 
 wane ; and how probably that treatment 
 would accelerate his fate. I am now giv- 
 ing anecdotes of the year 1770. Since 
 the melancholy history of my young poet 
 occupied my mind, I well remember fre- 
 quently to have heard the name of Chat- 
 terton announced aloud, in Hamilton's 
 house, to the corrector of the press. I 
 doubt not that we have sometimes passed 
 each other, in the court in Fleet-Street, 
 where Hamilton lived ; it was Falcon 
 Court; its name, and the figure of the 
 bird at its entrance, were emblematical ; 
 for it was inhabited by a vulture. Like 
 our great lexicographer, I was, then, 
 always " providing for the day that was 
 " passing over me:" yet my circum- 
 stances were almost as much better than 
 ll3
 
 518 
 
 Chatterton's as his genius was superiour 
 to mine. If I had known his distresses, 
 I should certainly have relieved them ; 
 and perhaps even in consequence of my 
 puny aid, the youth who only lived for 
 glory, might have been living with glory, 
 still, A heart affluent in humanity, how- 
 ever circumscribed in power, might have 
 afforded to give him more assistance than 
 he could obtain from the poor patronage 
 of Walpole ; for this idea the crocodile 
 gives us of his external ability to do 
 good.
 
 LECTURE XV III. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 Dr. Johnson had made many inquiries 
 into the character, and fate of Chatter- 
 ton : he communicated to me the follow- 
 ing deplorable circumstances, immedi- 
 ately previous to his tragical death. To 
 a person who kept a chandler's shop in 
 Fetter-Lane, which is not far from Brook- 
 Street in Holborne, where he lodged, he 
 owed 3s. 6d. for quartern loaves. His 
 only sustenance, then, was, literally, 
 bread, and water. He had bought his 
 loaves very stale, that they might last the 
 longer. On his asking for another loaf, 
 the mistress of the shop refused it ; with 
 the habitual reason of people of her class ; 
 that " she could not afford to give credit." 
 The world had now h arras sed him out, 
 with a complete climax of evils ; and he 
 ll4
 
 520 
 
 left it ; not, as I am convinced, in a fit of 
 impotent rage ; as we are told by the 
 stupid flatterers of a selfish insensibility ; 
 but on the decision of a deliberate de- 
 spair, (which will always be deeply regret- 
 ted by humane, and enlightened minds ;) 
 yet with such exquisite, and heart- trans- 
 fixing feelings, as by those minds (espe- 
 cially if they have suffered a cruel adver- 
 sity) can more easily be conceived than 
 expressed. 
 
 My memory here fails me; but the 
 short, and emphatical description is the 
 interesting particular ; it is not material 
 from what person it came. Dr. Johnson 
 farther told me, that in his conversation, 
 either with Mrs. Ballance, a relation of 
 Chatterton, who had been a lodger with 
 him at Mr. Walmsley's, in Shore-ditch ; 
 or with Mrs. Angel, in whose house he 
 lodged, and died, in Brook-Street; he 
 asked her, " what seemed to be the pre- 
 " dominant disposition ; and what was 
 (i the common behaviour of the unfortu- 
 " nate youth ?" She replied, that " he 
 " was as proud as Lucifer; but that it was 
 " impossible not to love him." If I had 
 been able effectually to protect extraor-
 
 521 
 
 dinary, and neglected merit ; and if I had* 
 been endowed with a generous heart ; 
 I should gladly have accepted this omen. 
 What puritanical, and affected humility 
 may say, I care not : this was the youth 
 forme; this was the stem on which we might 
 have grafted, not the sneaking, and safe 
 qualities, which are most acceptable to a 
 magisterial, world ; but the independent; 
 the generous ; the noble virtues ! What 
 an honour was missed by the lilliputian 
 soul of Walpole ! If Chatterton had 
 lived, the moral expansion of his mind 
 would have been as vast, and unbounded, 
 as his genius. 
 
 A lover of human greatness, inde- 
 pendent of its trappings, dwells with a 
 lively pleasure ; with a degree of rapture, 
 on this phaenomenon. At an age when 
 others are children in mind, and actions, 
 as in years, his thoughts, and Misbehaviour 
 were those of a man. It was, indeed, 
 marked with those peculiarities which are 
 unavoidable when the soul is under the 
 rapturous dominion of its genius ; those 
 peculiarities which fools call pride ; and 
 which doting antiquarians call insanity. 
 The dainties of which boys are particular-
 
 522 
 
 ty fond, he despised ; he was eager only 
 for intellectual food. The young pupil of 
 Minerva was old in stoical discipline ; in 
 exhilarating temperance ; he would not 
 suffer gross obstructions to check the 
 energy of his mind. But he who deserves 
 fame can descend as well as soar ; can in- 
 vigorate the excursions of fancy with scho- 
 lastick toils, for the accomplishment of 
 glory. While this young Hercules of 
 mental vigour, wrote with equal force on 
 modern subjects, and in modern lan- 
 guage, both in verse, and prose ; by his 
 patient, and deep researches into our 
 ancient history, and ancient customs ; 
 and by his great proficiency in our old 
 English, he would have been a prodigy, 
 without his original, and sublime endow- 
 ments. But to these inferiour acquire- 
 ments he gave not a supreme dignity, 
 with a pedantick, and antiquarian absur- 
 dity ; he made them the vehicles, or the 
 concomitants ; not the essence, or the au- 
 thours of his fame. As he was ambitious 
 of our first honours, he was avaricious 
 of time ; the hours that were lost in me- 
 chanical, verbal, and base drudgery, he 
 carefully, and vigilantly redeemed ; what
 
 523 
 
 was retrenched from the flaming influ- 
 ence of Apollo, was recovered under the 
 mild, and tranquil reign of his beautiful 
 sister; who, from the plenitude of her 
 orb, illumined his mind with a poetical, 
 and meridian day. His growing virtues, 
 not less than his talents made his death a 
 deplorable event ; of both, indeed, he 
 was equally tenacious, when adversity 
 was contracting her last, and severest 
 frown : at that alarming juncture, the 
 immediate exertions of his poetical talents 
 were hallowed by the pious offices of the 
 son ; and by the affectionate attention of 
 the brother. It was almost impossible 
 for him to live longer ; his nature was far 
 exalted above the common scale of mor- 
 tals ; below it they were strenuous to sink 
 him ; the pressure was violent, intolera- 
 ble, and destructive ; it broke the spring 
 of his existence. I hope that his name 
 will be singularly auspicious in the annals 
 of English literature ; and I likewise hope 
 that the foes, and persecutors of his life, 
 and the traducers of his memory, will 
 be branded with eternal infamy ; for the 
 sake of moral justice, and of the benevo- 
 lent, and great virtues ; for the sake of
 
 524 
 
 unparalleled genius, and of practical 
 Christianity. 
 
 Mr. Bryant, in a passage of that book 
 to which I have often referred, seems to 
 applaud himself, after having insulted 
 the memory of Chatterton with every in- 
 dignity ; after having treated it with all 
 possible- contempt. He seems highly 
 pleased with his injustice, and cruelty ; 
 which had attempted to tear the wreath 
 of glory from unfortunate, but exalted 
 genius ; and to fix it on a fantastick 
 being; the creature of his own wild, and 
 uncultivated imagination. His expres- 
 sions, on that occasion, I shall beg leave 
 to apply to myself; and I hope, on a- 
 stronger foundation, and with a better 
 grace. " There is a very great satisfac- 
 " tion in doing justice to departed merit; 
 " and in restoring those honours which 
 " have been unjustly awarded." Bryant, 
 p. 505. 
 
 I have here offered you a sketch (I am 
 sensible that it is very imperfect, and 
 inadequate) of a character which will not 
 soon appear again ; amidst all that vari- 
 ety which the contemplation of man 
 affords, from the infinite diversity of his
 
 525 
 
 original dispositions, and of his persuits, 
 and situations. Before I come to the 
 end of my lectures ; and before I grate- 
 fully take my leave of this audience, I 
 must say something ; or I rrrast recapi- 
 tulate what I have said, of another extra- 
 ordinary person ; as he hath necessarily 
 been, to me, a very important object, in 
 the course of my observations. His 
 learning ; his talents ; his penetrating, 
 and comprehensive mind ; his elo- 
 quence ; the happily instinctive, and im- 
 plicit veneration which we pay to age ; 
 but above all these pretensions, his for- 
 tune, which was, at length, comparatively 
 good ; and which recommends us more 
 to the favour of the world than our in- 
 herent, and indeprivable titles to publick 
 esteem ; this aggregate of auspicious 
 qualities, and circumstances, gave him 
 all that consequence which his presump- 
 tuous, and. despotick pride demanded. 
 In the natural constitution, however, of 
 intellectual abilities, he was extremely 
 inferiour to Chatterton. I shall not make 
 owe part of his character absolutely m- 
 compatible ; though it may be strangely 
 inconsistent with another : I will not give
 
 526 
 
 provoking instances of his barbarous in- 
 solence in social life ; and afterwards pro- 
 pose him to the world, as a model ; as a 
 paragon of christian excellence : I will 
 not hold forth a picture that will be ab- 
 solutely unintelligible, to moral disquisi- 
 tion. Of such monstrous caricatures, I 
 have always left his weak, and treache- 
 rous ; at least, certainly, his very injudi- 
 cious friends, in unenvied, and full pos- 
 session. 
 
 The celebrated Dr. Johnson was a 
 learned man ; but his learning was far 
 from being accurate, and masterly ; how, 
 indeed, could it deserve that praise ; as he 
 had but incompletely read (so he himself, 
 to my surprize, acknowledged to me) 
 several of those capital authours who 
 deserve our most attentive perusal ? And 
 this unwarrantable habit had so foolish 
 an effect on him, that he perversely ima- 
 gined (as I have likewise heard him insist) 
 that all other scholars read in the same 
 slovenly manner. Indeed in this great 
 man, amongst his other uncommon in- 
 consistences (for we are all, more, or less, 
 inconsistent) long series of application, 
 and indolence ; of a collected, and dissi-
 
 527 
 
 pated mind, were alternately contrasted. 
 Yet this incongruity may be a conco- 
 mitant of genius ; it may partly proceed 
 from the different action of externals on 
 great sensibility. In prose, as in verse, 
 he was eloquent, vigorous, and splendid ; 
 but he was deficient in ease ; in flow ; in 
 the pure, transparent, and gliding stream 
 of attick elegance. He had the majesty 
 (too often the affected majesty) of the 
 monarch ; which he could not soften, 
 and endear with the affable, and polite 
 manner of the gentleman. We are apt to 
 be in extremes : Johnson was absorbed 
 in substantial, yet discursive thought ; 
 and Chesterfield sacrificed only to the 
 graces. Necessarily congenial with his 
 mode, of thinking was the body, and co- 
 lour of his style ; the frame, and com- 
 plexion of his incorporated thoughts. 
 It kept a stately march in the panoply of 
 learning ; for it was animated by a soul 
 of unbending dignity ; while the style of 
 Addison flowed in a finer, and more har- 
 monious current ; while the language of 
 Burke was accelerated with the more 
 intense ardour; and spangled with the 
 more effulgent rays of a most vivid ima-
 
 528 
 
 gination. Injustice to him, however, I 
 must not omit the agreeable exceptions to 
 this measured, and lordly walk : some of 
 his productions are written with ease, and 
 fluency ; yet without relaxing from the 
 native strength of their authour. 
 
 His practical morality, and his religion 
 were mixed, and inconsistent, like his 
 literary character. His uncommon hu- 
 manity, benevolence, and charity, were 
 discredited with a dictatorial, and insolent 
 pride, which no talents- can warrant, or 
 expiate : instead of arguing only to esta- 
 blish truth, (which ought always to have 
 been the paramount object with a chris- 
 tian philosopher) he often disputed with 
 extreme heat, and rudeness, for what he 
 knew to be sophistry ; merely to extort 
 an ignoble, indeed a very dishonourable 
 victory. His heart melted at a tale of 
 woe ; and he was liberal of substantial 
 relief to the poor, and distressed; yet 
 this consummate hero in moral atchieve- 
 ments (so his satirical encomiasts, as I 
 may call them, have described him) as he 
 had not the least command of temper, 
 would overwhelm the unfortunate with 
 the most insulting, and mortifying Ian-
 
 529 
 
 guage; if he was in a discontented hu- 
 mour ; or if they had expressed their 
 dissent from his opinion, in the most 
 respectful terms. 
 
 His religion was vitiated with impure 
 mixtures as well as his morality. His 
 piety was infected with a gloomy, and 
 monastick superstition. His desponding 
 fancy armed the Deity with terrours ; and 
 formed the most tremendous ideas of a 
 future state. Hence, that personal 
 courage, which, in the vigorous days of 
 his manhood, would have intrepidly re- 
 sisted the most desperate assassin, was 
 reversed with the fears of the old woman, 
 whenever the invisible world was the ob- 
 ject of his spiritual contemplation. From 
 religious superstition, religious, and poli- 
 tical bigotry are inseparable. He was an 
 idolater of monarchical, said priestly ty- 
 ranny ; and the idolatry which impress- 
 ed a dark severity in his mind, extended 
 its baleful influence to his writings. It 
 not only infected his moral, but his cri- 
 tical compositions ; its noxious, but I 
 hope, temporary vapour, clouded the 
 laurels of some of our greatest men. 
 
 They, however, who know mankind, 
 but who wish not to propagate seducing, 
 
 VOL. II, M M
 
 530 
 
 and dangerous errours, by painting them 
 better than they are, have a just, and leni- 
 ent apology for. these prejudices, and 
 faults ; when they recollect, and consider 
 the hereditary, and deep melancholy, 
 with which he was frequently oppressed. 
 We need not wonder ; and we ought not 
 indiscriminately to censure ; when we 
 find that this disorder misleads, and per- 
 verts the judgement ; for it even affects 
 the understanding. Agreeably to the 
 mixed, and contrasted creation, and eco- 
 nomy, with which the Supreme Being 
 hath constituted, and governs the uni- 
 verse, even the powerful melancholy of 
 which I speak, has its advantages as well 
 as its defects. If, at one time it excites, 
 in great minds, resentful prejudices, and 
 weak apprehensions ; at another, it pro- 
 duces a virtuous solemnity, an awful sub- 
 limity of thought. Indeed there can be 
 no true, and strongly effective genius, 
 without the love, and habit of calm, con- 
 templative, and severe thinking ; without 
 a moral, and refined pensiveness ; ab- 
 stracted from the material world; and 
 intent on the ideas of instructive reason ; 
 and on the objects of virtuous imagina- 
 tion. These affections, and habits con-
 
 531 
 
 Stitute that desirable, and amiable melan- 
 choly, which purifies, and exalts the 
 faculties of the soul ; and which a 
 thoughtless, giddy, and tumultuous 
 world, has the folly, and the presump- 
 tion, to confound with moroseness ; with 
 madness. These affections, and habits 
 disperse the light, and gay delusions of 
 life ; and collect, and concentrate sub- 
 stantial, arid salutary truth. By their 
 stimulating impulse, the mind works, 
 and revolves on itself; and thus multi- 
 plies, invigorates, and brightens its ope- 
 rations. 
 As 
 
 ' ' ' the fixed, and rioble mind 
 
 61 Turns all occurrence to its own advantage:" 
 
 even the rigour of adversity may be fa- 
 vourable to mental strength ; as a keen 
 air braces the corporeal nerves ; expells 
 indolence ; and promotes an active, and 
 lasting life. Genius may gain an addi- 
 tional, and propitious fire, from its deter- 
 mined, and heroick opposition to difficul- 
 ties, and distress : jealous of its invalu- 
 able, indeprivable, and eternal privileges; 
 and conscious of their force, it may rise 
 above a desponding languour; it may 
 resolve to penetrate through all its for- 
 m m 2
 
 532 
 
 midable hostilities ; and to disappoint the 
 triumphant, and satanick smile of envy. 
 Spurning the jilt fortune ; eager to give 
 one memorable proof more of her blind 
 partiality ; and to obtain a signal victory 
 over her capricious empire; he changes 
 the agitations of pain into the agitations 
 of pleasure : heated with the stubborn 
 conflict, he is the more heated with ima- 
 gination : by the impetuosity with which 
 he darts through his rude impediments, 
 he makes more extensive conquests in 
 the literary region than he would have 
 gained if those impediments had not dis- 
 puted his way. Persevering labour ac- 
 complishes the objects of dullness ; noble 
 passions, those of genius. The friendly 
 frowns of the world exalt his natural 
 powers with a new, and irresistible en- 
 thusiasm ; his achievements are inspired 
 by a moral, a practical, and glorious re- 
 sentment, I have no doubt that Chatter- 
 ton was thus impelled, while he struggled 
 with circumstances most inauspicious to 
 literature, and poetry ; while the manly 
 boy. was under the tyranny of an undis- 
 tinguishing, and stupid pedagogue; 
 While he copied the Norman, and Saxon 
 jargon of Lambert ; and while he suffered
 
 533 
 
 the pretended, and avaricious friendship ; 
 the half-faced felloivship, of a Calcott, 
 and a Barrett. I have no doubt that 
 Johnson was thus impelled, in the squa- 
 lid, and solitary gloom of the temple ; 
 in his unprotected, unpensioned, un- 
 fashionable days ; which were the days 
 of his true dignity ; of his true glory. 
 
 It is not improbable that to the blind- 
 ness of Milton we owe a blessing which 
 could only have atoned for the calamity. 
 Shut out from the cheering, from the 
 exhilarating view of the beautiful, and 
 grand objects of nature ; he had recourse 
 to the fair, and magnificent objects of 
 his own mind. From the organick dark- 
 ness proceeded a flood of immortal glory. 
 " So much the rather the celestial light, 
 " (to use his own beautiful language) 
 " shone inward ; and irradiated the 
 " mind, through all her powers." 
 
 I should have observed, that if adver- 
 sity is not quite oppressive, and over- 
 whelming ; and if it meets a mind suffici- 
 ently spirited, and vigorous, to avail 
 itself of the school of the severe discipli- 
 narian ; it is attended with some useful, 
 and generous effects, which are more 
 easily obtained. Like the melancholy of 
 
 m m 3
 
 534 
 
 true genius ; like the philosophically pen- 
 sive habit which I have endeavoured 
 justly to describe, it prevents our facul- 
 ties from being scattered on levity, and 
 falsehood ; and keeps them collected on 
 reflexion, and truth. It shows us the 
 futility of our eager persuits ; it evinces 
 to us the unmanly character of our com- 
 mon hopes, and fears ; and thus it 
 strengthens, and exalts the mind ; throws 
 it into a strain of persuasive, and com- 
 manding thought ; which ensures its 
 own independence, and self-enjoyment ; 
 and enables it forcibly to recommend the 
 attainment of these inestimable blessings 
 to the world. 
 
 If I recollect rightly, I have already 
 given you similar sentiments on these 
 topicks ; yet I think that they may, with- 
 out impropriety, be repeated, and again 
 enforced ; as they may have useful, and 
 salutary effects : for they tend to cool our 
 eagerness for a daily intercourse with a 
 vain, and selfish world ; and to redeem 
 the misfortunes of genius ; and the me- 
 lancholy hues of life which are presented 
 to its contemplation ; by showing it that 
 those very misfortunes ; that those dark 
 social, and moral shades, contribute to
 
 535 
 
 independence, vigour, and sublimity of 
 soul. 
 
 God forbid that by what I have said I 
 should have meant any malevolence to 
 the memory of Johnson; but I desire in- 
 flexibly, and explicitly to communicate 
 literary truth; and to improve our ac- 
 quaintance with the human mind. I see 
 no reason why we should not mention 
 his faults ; but his excellences entitle them 
 to our free, and ample pardon. As an 
 authour, he claims the veneration ; nay, 
 the admiration of posterity. He, him- 
 self, atchieved, in England, an arduous 
 work ; which, in other countries, had 
 long employed the united diligence, 
 judgement, and taste of whole academies. 
 He ascertained, and established the pro- 
 priety, and elegance of the English laiir 
 guage ; he wrote some excellent poetry ; 
 he enlarged our ethical knowledge ; and 
 he illustrated, and enforced the truths oi 
 Christianity. 
 
 I am now at the close of these Lectures ; 
 which have employed my attention, but 
 not without long intervals of disagreeable, 
 and painful interruptions, for several 
 years. I have been inured, through a 
 long life, to many discouragements from 
 
 m m L
 
 536 
 
 literary exertion ; yet I am not without 
 hopes that my perseverance will ultimate- 
 ly be attended with desirable effects. I 
 principally attribute my bad success to 
 our intolerance of explicit, and disinter- 
 ested truth : but the time will come when 
 such truth will be read with pleasure; 
 and when ingenuous freedom will pro- 
 cure esteem for the memory of the au- 
 thour. Therefore I shall be tenacious of 
 this independence, to my death ; and of 
 my inviolable attachment to it, I think 
 that I have given you the evidence of de- 
 monstration. I have been solicitous, 
 and diligent to do justice to our great 
 poets ; and to contribute to revive a true 
 taste for poetry; the first of the fine arts; an 
 art which very powerfully tends to improve 
 the understanding, and to meliorate the 
 heart. For sincerely ', and without a^ple- 
 netick inclination to disparage the times 
 in which I live, a classical taste for poe- 
 try, in England, is extremely degenerated, 
 or rather, almost extinct ; as every un- 
 prejudiced, and good critick must allow; 
 when he recollects the verses which have 
 been published ; and the encomiums 
 which their authours have received. For 
 my own part, I have warmly praised,
 
 537 
 
 without partiality ; and I have freely 
 censured, without malevolence. This, 
 perhaps, is not the way, universally to 
 please; but I am sure that it is the way, 
 if a man fortunately has abilities, univer- 
 sally to triform. Even wounded self-love 
 has not been able to warp me ; I have 
 given the tribute of ardent eulogy to those 
 by whom I have been materially injured. 
 The generous, and the good (and those 
 only I am addressing) will believe my 
 assertion ; and they will think that it 
 communicates a proof of a just mind.
 
 LECTURE XIX. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 When I first determined to write ob- 
 servations on our truly distinguished, and 
 great English Poets, with an open impar- 
 tiality, and with the best endeavours of my 
 mind, I likewise determined to limit my 
 views to those authours who had not only 
 written excellently, but extensively. To 
 this resolution, however, in the present in- 
 stance, I have not adhered; and I hope that 
 the enlargement of my plan will not be 
 found to have been injudicious. Gray wrote 
 but little poetry ; yet he was a very great 
 poet ; and a great poet was never treated 
 more unjustly, enviously, and malignant- 
 ly, than he has been treated by Dr. John- 
 son. I wish that the late Mr. Mason, 
 (who was himself a poet) or some other 
 man of talents, who was honoured with 
 his intimate acquaintance, had favoured 
 the world with a deliberate, regular, and
 
 539 
 
 spirited vindication of the true character, 
 and glory of his departed friend. The 
 performance of this liberal office was, in- 
 deed, almost incumbent on such a person ; 
 it would have done great credit to the 
 writer ; would have given additional viva- 
 city, and strength to the cause of litera- 
 ture ; and would have spared inferiour 
 efforts, and ingenuous pain to one of its 
 ardent, though unfortunate professours. 
 
 There is a peculiarity of disposition, 
 and of moral discipline, which, though 
 they are not deemed provident, and safe, 
 in the code of worldly wisdom, seem to 
 deserve what they seldom obtain, the 
 love, and esteem of mankind. A person 
 who is actuated by these grand movers 
 of his life, will publickly, and honestly, 
 and ardently defend what he thinks glo- 
 riously right, reprobate what he thinks 
 egregiously wrong, without any regard to 
 political, or secular consequences. He 
 will feel a generous resentment, or why 
 not a generous indignation, which he 
 will unreservedly express, when any spe- 
 cies of great merit is insulted, and op- 
 pressed, by encroaching, and enormous 
 power of any kind ? But he will be par- 
 ticularly jealous of the rights, and glory,
 
 540 
 
 of the distinguished abilities of the mind. 
 He will equally feel, with all the fine force 
 of exquisite sensibility, the wrongs which 
 they suffer, in himself, or others : from 
 arbitrary, precipitate, and visionary, yet 
 too popular, and decisive criticism ; he 
 will diligently, and zealously, (as if it were 
 his own cause) vindicate injured, and 
 calumniated genius ; while, perhaps, its 
 honours are not asserted by its bosom- 
 friends ; whose minds are not so easily 
 thrown into warm, and adventurous 
 motion. Let this temper, and this habit 
 be termed arrogance ; spleen; ill-nature; 
 whatever people who are really of that 
 description, may please to name them ; 
 they will be distinguished with epithets 
 of a very different acceptation, by the 
 few whose manners are directed by their 
 impulse ; and by the more frequent worth 
 which can feel, and approve the disinter- 
 ested, and benevolent spirit of independ- 
 ent minds. 
 
 I must own that the injustice, and ab- 
 surdity of Johnson's crude, and invenom- 
 ed strictures against Gray, have, in pro- 
 ductions of occasional, and temporary 
 criticism, frequently been brought forth, 
 and sensibly, and forcibly, to publick
 
 541 
 
 view. But I shall beg leave to proceed 
 in a manner different from that in which 
 the criticks to whom I allude, gave their 
 sentiments on this interesting subject. 
 They were too complaisant ; they payed 
 too profound a deference to our Stagyrite ; 
 who, in his rudeness, and iniquity to a 
 " * sun of glory" who had lately set (and 
 when he had set, could not " please" his 
 " envy," nor escape his detraction) de- 
 served no complaisance, nor deference. 
 They were " ravished;" they were infa- 
 tuated, " with the whistling of a name;" 
 for in trifling times, there is as light, su- 
 perficial, and volatile a fashion in litera- 
 ture, as in dress. I am far from mean- 
 ing to retaliate injustice on the memory 
 of Dr. Johnson ; I am far from meaning 
 that he owed his essential, permanent, 
 and highly respectable importance, as an 
 authour, to the delusive rays of fashion ; 
 that misleading, and fugitive meteor. I 
 shall only assert, that a blind prejudice, 
 which was ever stumbling on his autho- 
 rity; or, in other words, the indiscrimi- 
 nate fashion of admiring him, gave an 
 
 * Oppressed, we feel the beam directly beat ; 
 Those suns of glory please not till they set. 
 
 Pope j Imitations of Horace ; B. lid. Epistle 1st.
 
 542 
 
 oracular importance to much absurdity ; 
 
 to much nonsense, which discredited 
 both his writings, and his conversation. 
 And I likewise beg leave to declare that 
 if any man proposes laws of criticism, and 
 composition, to me, he must enforce 
 them with something more solid, and res- 
 pectable than his mere name. I will never 
 take nominal dogmas, and nominal in- 
 fluence, for strength of argument; nor 
 for elegance of sentiment, and taste. On 
 the contrary; on account of the over- 
 bearing weight of a name, I will, at any 
 time, the more minutely, strenuously, 
 and pertinaciously endeavour to expose 
 the fallacies which it has presumed to 
 impose on the world ; from an honest 
 zeal completely to eradicate, and explode 
 tfieir usurpation, and tyranny. While 
 we are engaged in this fair, and honour- 
 able cause, all our attention must be ab- 
 sorbed in truth ; we must bring disinge- 
 nuous, and base actions to their proper 
 light; we must give them their proper 
 names ; indifferent to future stings, from 
 venal criticks ; to ignorant, yet deciding 
 jests, from literary fops ; and to frowns, 
 and fulmi nations from the church. 
 
 I have another objection to the censures
 
 543 
 
 which I have seen of Dr. Johnson's treat- 
 ment of Mr. Gray ; they were not so par- 
 ticularly attentive to all that treatment as 
 the merit of the poet, and the authority 
 of the critick demanded. I should not 
 have thought it requisite; I should not 
 have thought it necessary, to persue the 
 ridiculous cavils, and contemptuous in- 
 sults, with which our gloomy, and super- 
 cilious critick hath endeavoured to ob- 
 scure the glory of this admirable poet, in 
 a closely connected train of inquiiy, and 
 refutation; if the literary edicts of that 
 critick, which are often characterized 
 with all the inconsistency, and freaks of 
 despotism, had not long obtained, or 
 rather arrogantly, and violently seized an 
 implicit assent ; a foolish, and servile ve- 
 neration. If this abject submission had 
 not ratified absurdity, the person who 
 gives those unreasonable remarks his par- 
 ticular attention, must be as miserably 
 employed as he was, who made them ; 
 for considered in themselves, they are 
 truly contemptible, and unworthy of the 
 slightest notice. Hence, if several ob- 
 jects of this Lecture should seem to be 
 minute, or tedious, permit me to observe 
 that they will not be altogether without
 
 544 
 
 their important use. To show what is 
 ivrong, naturally introduces the ideas, 
 and images of what is right. If they are 
 not presented, or suggested, by the suffi- 
 ciently extended thoughts, or clearness of 
 the writer, they will arise in the mind of 
 the judicious, and reflecting reader. 
 
 I should be presumptuous, as an au- 
 thour, and ungrateful, as a scholar, if I 
 did not, on this occasion, mention, with 
 respect, Mr. Wakefield's edition of the 
 Poems of Gray. I know that he has been 
 industrious (and his industry is always 
 illuminated with distinguished abilities) 
 to vindicate from gross injustice this 
 illustrious son of his alma mater ; who, 
 with all her passion for more abstruse, 
 yet most respectable science, has been 
 particularly auspicious to the education of 
 poets ; has produced the greatest poet 
 that ever existed in any age, or nation. 
 But in the large, and exuberant field of 
 liberal criticism, there will always be suffi- 
 cient room for two, for any number of 
 unfettered, and active spirits, to range ; 
 without the repulsive shock of a phleg- 
 matick tautology. Such is the various 
 constitution ; and therefore such is the 
 various display of the human mind. I
 
 545 
 
 write thus, because I have not in my pos- 
 session Mr. Wakefield's edition of Gray. 
 The literary thermometer is, here, at its 
 freezing point. The classical treasures, 
 and arrangements of Rome extend not 
 to Tomis. I read his book, with pleasure, 
 many years ago; but of its contents I 
 have not, at present, a strong recollection. 
 They would have regulated my judge- 
 ment, and adorned my sentiments. It 
 is impossible for my best feelings not to 
 fling aside every paltry caution (according 
 to their usual ardour) and pay a short, but 
 sincere tribute to the memory of that 
 excellent man. His learning was exten- 
 sive, and elegant ; and it was modelled, 
 and polished by a truly attick taste. The 
 integrity of his heart did honour to the 
 powers of his mind (how conquerouys, 
 and splendid usurpers shrink before 
 him !) that integrity could not have 
 been corrupted by an offer of the empire 
 of the world! His very faults were glori- 
 ous ; they were the excesses of a mind of 
 unbounded, and intrepid generosity ; they 
 resulted from a divine enthusiasm for 
 civil, and religious freedom ; for publick, 
 and private virtue. I owe this little tri- 
 bute to his memory, from gratitude as 
 
 VOL. II. N N
 
 546 
 
 well as from justice. Our sentiments on 
 some of the most important subjects were 
 diametrically opposite ; yet we entertain- 
 ed for each other the warmest good wishes ; 
 the warmest mutual esteem. I add, with 
 regret, that from our accidental situati- 
 ons, and connexions in life, there was no 
 personal intercourse between us ; but we 
 interchanged unequivocal, and strong 
 testimonies of the inevitable, and general 
 unison of our minds ; from the prevail- 
 ing strain of our natures, and of our in- 
 tellectual persuits. Let political, and 
 ecclesiastical power look down from their 
 artificial heights, and learn christian tole- 
 ration, and benevolence, from two private 
 men ; whom a disdain of hypocrisy, and 
 of misprision of truth, doomed to walk 
 in the humble vale of life. Accept, thou 
 amiable, and beautiful shade ! this inge- 
 nuous, and respectful offering, to thy 
 genius, and thy virtues! If thy happy, 
 and eternal state admits any sublunary 
 objects to thy view that a friend bestow* 
 ed on thy merit that honest eulogy which 
 hireling state -scribblers denied thee, will, 
 in some degree, deserve thy approbation. 
 The recollection that I was honoured with 
 the attention, and regard of Gilbert
 
 547 
 
 Wakefield, will always be propitious to 
 every temper of my mind ; it will invi- 
 gorate my active ; it will console my lan- 
 guid hours. 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Life of Gray, like many 
 of the pages which he gives to the other 
 poets, is really destitute of strength, and 
 elegance of composition ; a defect which 
 was partly a consequence of indolence, 
 and declining talents ; and partly of a 
 confidence in his long- established literary 
 character, and fame. But it must be evi- 
 dent to every dispassionate observer, 
 that the whole tenour of his estimate of 
 Gray flowed from that intoxication with 
 which flattery, and applause are apt to 
 shake the firmness of learning, and phi- 
 losophy. The insults which he threw on 
 Milton were odious; and they were 
 without foundation ; but they were, com- 
 paratively, desultory, and occasional ; 
 and some atonement was made for therri 
 by extorted, and high praise : nature, 
 and God compelled what a perverse, and 
 evil spirit reluctantly surrendered. When 
 he sate down to write on Gray, he was 
 determined uniformly to affront excel- 
 lence which looked him full in the face; 
 he was determined uniformly to contra- 
 
 N N2
 
 548 
 
 diet the voice of the many ; which, on 
 intellectual objects, is, of itself, by no 
 means decisive to sensible, and thinking 
 men : but he was likewise determined, 
 with the same unrelenting pertinacity, to 
 contradict the voice of the learned, and 
 elegantj/^w ; which, united to the verdict 
 of the man} r , ascertains, and fixes the 
 high pretensions of the poet ; and is pro- 
 phetick of his immortality. His smiles 
 were those of Cassius ; momentary, and 
 invidious ; and they were perfectly con- 
 sistent with this dark, and obstinate uni- 
 formity. His parsimonious interspersi- 
 ons of praise were bestowed on passages 
 not supereminently great ; or on trifles, 
 which, if the judgement of their authour 
 had been properly respected, would never 
 have been brought to light. He could 
 endure the .flowers that embellished the 
 crown of Gray, but he sickened at the 
 sight of the laurels that overshadowed 
 them. 
 
 What could be the powerful, and pro- 
 pelling motives that drove Dr. Johnson to 
 these bold, and unexampled hostilities ? 
 He was honest enough to acknowledge 
 that he w T as envious : probably, then, he 
 still felt the painful, and permanent ef-
 
 549 
 
 fects of cotemporary glory ; probably, like 
 his friend* Goldsmith, he had not yet re- 
 covered from the coup de soleil with which 
 he had been struck from Gray's meridian 
 splendour. Perhaps his envy, and hatred 
 might extend to a whole numerous, and 
 illustrious body ; he might envy them 
 their glorious affinity to the first of mor- 
 tals ; to a Newton, and a Milton ; like 
 an Oxonian, of old, and obsolete loyalty, 
 he might hate them for their manly en- 
 thusiasm for William, and the revolution; 
 while he sighed over the ruins of the 
 Stuart-race, or, with a feverish, and wild 
 ambition, he might aspire to a perfect 
 originality in criticism ; he might aspire 
 to give new laws for poetical composition, 
 which were totally of his own invention ; 
 laws, which were at war with the essence, 
 and genuine ornaments of poetry , and 
 which, therefore, could only be adopted 
 by the extreme weakness of passive obe- 
 dience to a despotick master. The new 
 poetical reign commenced with the sa- 
 crifice of a splendid victim selected from 
 
 * a ParncU's night-piece on death deserves every praise ; 
 " and I should suppose, with very little amendment, might be 
 u made to surpass all the night-pieces, and church-yard scenes 
 ' that haye since appeared." Goldsmith's Life of Parncll. 
 
 N N 3
 
 550 
 
 the old ; and Gray was immolated at the 
 inauguration of Johnson, 
 
 I should impartially, and sincerely sup- 
 pose that nothing less than the combined 
 force of all the sinister, and baleful causes 
 which I have now mentioned, could have 
 impelled our celebrated, but most illibe- 
 ral critick to such a fastidious, and irrati- 
 onal contempt of the long-established 
 constituents of a divine art, as they were 
 founded in nature. Forgive this long 
 introduction to the main objects to which 
 it leads my way. Let the powerful ob- 
 structions which I had to remove (I wish 
 that they may have yielded to my efforts) 
 be my ingenuous, and humble apology. 
 I shall now take as just, and accurate a 
 view as I can, of Mr. Gray's poetry, in 
 the order in which it lies before me ; and 
 of the sophistry, quibbles, and indeed, 
 violations of common knowledge, and o 
 common sense, with which it was rudely, 
 but I hope, impotently attacked, by Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 " Gray's poetry" (says Johnson) " is 
 " now to be considered : and I hope not 
 " to be looked on as an enemy to his 
 " name, if I confess that I contemplate 
 " it with less pleasure than his life." To
 
 551 
 
 his life he has been ungenerous ; as I 
 shall, hereafter, show. That mankind, 
 especially in proportion as they are dis- 
 tinguished by superiour abilities, should 
 have an ardent love of fame, is neither 
 immoral, nor absurd. It is implanted in 
 us by nature ; or, in other words, by the 
 Deity; and it stimulates to that intellec- 
 tual cultivation which produces the most 
 ornamental, and sublime sentiments, 
 and habits of thinking, to its possessour, 
 and to the world. The timid, affected, 
 and conscious apology, which faintly 
 varnishes this ominous introduction to 
 gross illiberality, is a poor atonement for 
 the offence. Johnson hath shown him- 
 self to be the greatest possible enemy to 
 the name of Gray. He hath wantonly 
 (I may add, with propriety) insolently 
 disparaged, and vilified his poetical fame; 
 than which, to a true poet, of however 
 modest, and unassuming a nature, 
 nothing can be dearer. We inflexibly 
 persevere in a generous opposition to im- 
 potent, and to powerful malice ; we en- 
 dure every hardship ; every mortification, 
 to secure its glory. If we, therefore, con- 
 sider the greatness of the object, and the 
 victory which we gain over ourselves, to 
 
 N N4
 
 552 
 
 obtain it; must not the man who endea- 
 vours to deprive us of it, be deemed a 
 kind of sacrilegious spoiler, by unpre- 
 judiced, and feeling minds ? 
 
 The Ode on Spring ; whether we take 
 a view of its vernal imagery; of its in- 
 structive, solemn, and impressive moral- 
 ity ; or of the easy, and happy art with 
 which its imagery, and morality are blend- 
 ed, is supremely beautiful. There cannot 
 be a finer ode on the subject, in any lan- 
 guage. 
 
 " It has something poetical ;" " the 
 " conclusion is pretty," This is a part 
 of Johnson's supercilious, and ridiculous 
 manner of abusing it. " The language is 
 too luxuriant." This is the censure that 
 he passed on a poetical style, the most ac- 
 curate, elegant, and glowing that can be 
 imagined. The rose, and the jasmine; 
 the luxury, and delight of a healthy frame, 
 are apt to disgust, and overpower a dis- 
 tempered constitution. His cavilling at 
 the cultured plain ; the daisied bank ; and 
 the honied spring ; is too frivolous, and 
 pedantick for my particular notice. He 
 says that " the thoughts have nothing 
 " new ;" that " the morality is natural 
 *< but too stale." Our dictatorial critick
 
 553 
 
 ought to have known, that in the province 
 of the moralist ; nay even in the province 
 of the poet ; it is perhaps impossible to 
 produce thoughts (by thoughts I here 
 mean moral sentiments) absolutely new. 
 Perhaps it was always impossible. Poe- 
 try has ever been only the bright, and 
 decorated counterpart of the simpler, and 
 fainter pictures in the human mind. It 
 is the duty, as it is in the power of poetry, 
 to illustrate, and enforce important, and 
 well-known tiuths, with more vigour, 
 and warmth of sentiment; with more 
 aptitude, variety, and splendourof image- 
 ry, than can be excited, and created, 
 by common men. The reader instan- 
 taneously feels, and acknowledges the 
 propriety, the beauty, and the grandeur 
 of the picture which is presented to his 
 view ; its objects are perfectly congenial 
 with his own ideas, which are limited to 
 a smaller scale, and to more frugal orna- 
 ments. The plainer, and humbler beings 
 meet with joy, the noble strangers; whom 
 they have long been taught to receive in 
 a moment, as their undoubted friends ; 
 for nature had prepared ; she had plan- 
 ned the charming interview. If the pro- 
 totypes of -this magnificent assemblage
 
 554 
 
 were not interwoven in the soul of man ; 
 how could the immediate admiration ; 
 how could the immediate enthusiasm be 
 produced, which, in sensible, and suscep- 
 tible minds, true poetry never fails to raise? 
 
 If I recollect aright, I have made more 
 ample observations on this unreasonable 
 novelty, or originality ; which, indeed, is 
 often inconsiderately demanded ; in that 
 part of my Lectures on Pope, where, I 
 hope that I have refuted the unreflecting, 
 and inconclusive irony, in which Dr. 
 Johnson is too apt to indulge himself ; 
 and with which he attempts to ridicule 
 the moral, and religious theory of the 
 Essay on Man; which are urged with 
 such poetical strength, and elegance ; 
 with such poetical beauty, and sublimity. 
 
 Ode the lid : on the death of a favour- 
 ite cat drowned in a tub of gold fishes. 
 
 " The poem on the Cat" (says our hy- 
 percritick) " was, doubtless, by its au- 
 " thour considered as a trifle ; but it is 
 " not a happy trifle." The au thour of 
 this immortal ode knew that the magick 
 of the poet could turn trifles into speciosa 
 miracula ; could " give to airy nothing 
 " a local habitation, and a name." 
 Therefore he must have been conscious
 
 555 
 
 that this ode was genuine poetry; and 
 that it was one of his harbingers to fame. 
 It was a very happy trifle ; and he must 
 have been a very unhappy critick who 
 condemned it. To call to remembrance 
 all the trifles which great poets have en- 
 nobled, and transmitted to future ages, 
 would be an impertinent, and infinite 
 labour. This ode has all the richness of 
 imagery, and diction ; it has that salu- 
 tary, and pathetick moral sentiment, 
 which characterize the productions of 
 Gray. The picturesque description of 
 the vase, and of the situation, and beauty 
 of the cat ; her different progressive at- 
 tempts to seize the shining objects which 
 tempted her to her destruction ; and her 
 neglected imploring cries, give to an at- 
 tentive, and lively mind, a degree of dra- 
 matick interest in the fate of the unfor- 
 tunate Selima. Domestick animals, 
 indeed, are only despised by cold, and 
 unfeeling souls ; but, here, the regard 
 which they gain from heart, and senti- 
 ment, is augmented by the inspiring force 
 of poetry. An importance is given to the 
 life of this humble favourite; a dignity to 
 her death ; and an old, and trite proverb 
 recovers youth, and strength, and autho-
 
 556 
 
 rity, by a pertinent, and impressive, 
 though humorous application. 
 
 Dr. Johnson remarks that in the first 
 stanza, " the azure flowers that blow," 
 *' show resolutely a rhyme is sometimes 
 " made when it cannot easily be found." 
 a fault, likewise, is, sometimes, indeed, 
 often, by our critick, resolutely made, 
 when it cannot easily be found. The 
 mention of the blowing of the flowers 
 enhances the painting ; and more strong- 
 ly impresses on the fancy their luxury 
 ance, and expansion. 
 
 Selima the Nymph the Cat ; are 
 the different appellations that Mr. Gray 
 gives to this little animal which he hath 
 consecrated to fame. The interchange 
 of nymph, and cat incurrs the captious 
 disapprobation of our stern critick. If 
 we recurr to the variety, and complexion 
 of Ovidian fable 5 and to that fair licence 
 in poetry which a generous Longinus 
 would allow, though it is altogether pro- 
 hibited by a rigorous Johnson ; we shall 
 find that these varied terms do not de- 
 serve his abrupt censure, as "violating 
 "poetical sense, and language;" with 
 which on the contrary, they are perfectly 
 consonant. I believe that I may venture
 
 557 
 
 to assert, without adopting an unjust se- 
 verity, that in his treatment of our truly 
 eminent poets, he sometimes violates 
 common sense ; and sometimes, with all 
 his philology, common, but proper lan- 
 guage. The poet here observes a very 
 judicious, and characteristick propriety ; 
 which either a critical phlegm could not 
 feel, or an envious jealousy wished to 
 depress. When the colouring, and per- 
 sonifications of poetry were to be present- 
 ed ; when the watery gods were to be 
 invoked ; when the cruel inattention of 
 the nereids, and dolphins was to be men- 
 tioned ; the titles of Selima ; the hapless 
 nymph ; the presumptuous maid, were 
 very apposite, and happy precursors, and 
 concomitants of all this fine poetical ima- 
 gery. But when he humorously enforced 
 a short moral apostrophe with a familiar, 
 and natural reference to the old remark 
 on a cat's propensity to fish, the domes- 
 tick, and general name of the animal 
 could only be used with propriety. Poe- 
 try is of an elastick, active, and pervad- 
 ing nature. Both gods, and men will 
 allow that it is her divine right " to dart," 
 and with a momentary rapidity of transi- 
 tion, " from heaven to earth ; from earth
 
 558 
 
 " to heaven." If the literary walk of 
 Johnson is, too often, a measured march 
 in buskins ; that heavy stateliness is in- 
 compatible with her gliding ease ; with 
 her graceful flexibility. I wonder, that, 
 amidst the havock which he is constantly 
 making of Gray's beautiful machinery, 
 he did not damn these gods of the water 
 to perdition 5 and leave poor Selima, not 
 only in the poetical, but in the literal 
 impossibility of being heard. 
 
 " The last stanza" (says he) " ends in 
 " no relation to the purpose. If what 
 " glistered had been gold, the cat would 
 " not have gone into the water; and if 
 " she had, would not the less have been 
 " drowned." Our prejudices, and passi- 
 ons, make us write as well as act, in dia- 
 metrical opposition to right reason. I 
 give this remark on the close of the ode, 
 as a piece of absolute nonsense ; a charac- 
 teristick that Johnson frequently, and 
 haughtily misapplies even to the cele- 
 brated passages of our great poets. At 
 least, I own that I can make no good sense 
 of the futile observation ; whether I en- 
 deavour to find its own more independent 
 meaning ; or its intended application. 
 It is one of the most leaden of prosaick
 
 559 
 
 bullets ; it flies off from every aim at its 
 object; and like the rest of the random 
 shot, leaves Gray invulnerable. A home- 
 ly adage of our ancestors, but useful, and 
 important to prudence, morality, and re- 
 ligion ; and therefore, to our happiness, 
 acquires (as I have already observed) an 
 elegance, and force, from a casual, and 
 slight event ; as that event is adorned, 
 and heightened by the ingenious, but 
 unconstrained, and assimilating art, and 
 address of the poet. Nothing could have 
 found a flaw in this little compact, .and 
 harmonious poetical fabrick, but an ob- 
 stinate, and implacable enmity against 
 distinguished merit. Surely it must now 
 be evident that " the last stanza ends in a 
 " great, and essential relation to the main 
 " purpose." 
 
 I should not so particularly have an- 
 swered this despicable criticism, had it 
 not been obtruded on the world under the 
 sanction of a great name ; and had I not 
 long been convinced, though unwillingly, 
 and with extreme regret, that with all 
 our natural, and manly love of liberty, 
 we are slavishly prone to an indolent ac- 
 quiescence in usurped, and excessive 
 power; to an implicit, and dastardly
 
 560 
 
 obedience to its iniquitous, and oppressive* 
 edicts, in the literary, as well as in the 
 political empire. I flatter myself that I 
 have already given to the unprejudiced, 
 free, and distinguishing reader a critical 
 demonstration of the injustice, and ab- 
 surdity of Dr. Johnson's observations on 
 the poems of Mr. Gray. Therefore, in 
 the prosecution of my defence (pf my 
 vindication, I hope) of this excellent, and 
 admired poet, it will not be requisite 
 (and it would be tedious, and fatiguing) 
 to follow him uninterruptedly through 
 all his mazes of ill-connected sophistry, 
 and arbitrary assertion. But when I take 
 a view of Gray's longer productions, I shall 
 not omit to examine, and to endeavour 
 to refute our unsparing critick's princi- 
 pal strictures on their principal parts : 
 hence the beauty, or grandeur of the 
 whole structure will be sufficiently seen ; 
 and the spirit, and tendency of all the 
 unavailing attacks on its strength, and 
 symmetry will be sufficiently evinced, 
 and exposed. 
 
 It is difficult to say whether his ode on 
 a distant prospect of Eton-College is 
 more to be admired for its descriptive 
 excellence ; for its animated, and forcible
 
 561 
 
 images ; or for its virtuous, and spirited 
 admonitions ; for the melancholy, but 
 interesting, and salutary strain o' its edi- 
 fying morality. The pure health ; the 
 sparkling vivacity ; the freedom from 
 care ; the joyous days, and balmy n ghts ; 
 the active, and ardent sports of our early 
 youth ; are here recorded with a lively, 
 and picturesque remembrance ; and they 
 are powerfully, and instructively con- 
 trasted with the ungoverned, and baleful 
 passions, which, in our maturer years, 
 are destructive of our virtue ; and conse- 
 quently, of our/ happiness; and which are 
 personified, and painted with an energe- 
 tick propriety. The contrast is continu- 
 ed, and completed by an equally animat- 
 ed, and afflictive being, which is given by 
 poetry to external human calamities; and 
 to the infirmities, and distempers of age. 
 [The former evils may my mind, by its 
 intent, and spirited exertions, repell, or 
 defeat ; for the latter, by its dispatch, and 
 fortitude, may it be vigorously prepared.] 
 The conclusion of the poem reminds us 
 of the general sufferings of mortality; 
 and consequently, of the moderated at- 
 tachment that we should entertain for 
 the most attractive objects of the present 
 
 VOL. II. o o
 
 562 
 
 world. The kindness of Providence to 
 youth, who indulges it with the bright 
 enjoyment of the sunshine of life, un- 
 clouded with the prospect of a tumultu- 
 ous futurity ; makes the last reflexion of 
 the moral and pensive muse. 
 
 Unguarded malice, or undistinguishing 
 errour, sometimes, when it means to ex- 
 press its contempt, bestows involuntary 
 praise. Johnson observes that u the 
 " prospect of Eton -College suggests no- 
 ic thing to Gray which every beholder 
 fi does not equally think, and feel." In 
 a qualified, and limited, but not in his 
 extravagant, and impossible sense, I 
 admit the truth of the proposition, I 
 am glad to know, from our papal chair 
 of critical infallibility, that Mr. Gray, in 
 this instance, like himself, and every true 
 poet, in other instances, where the scenes 
 of nature, and human feelings are to be 
 described, coincides with the general 
 views, and sentiments of mankind. The 
 prospect, however, of Eton-College would 
 not have suggested, even to a well-culti- 
 vated mind, such a variety of interesting 
 thoughts, and expressive images ; so poe- 
 tical a landscape, and so poetically peo- 
 pled, as arose in the warm, and fertile
 
 563 
 
 mind of Gray, when he composed his 
 noble poem. " His supplication to Father 
 M Thames" (continues Johnson) [I could 
 at first, hardly believe my sight] u to 
 " tell him who drives the hoop, or tosses 
 " the ball, is useless, and puerile : Father 
 " Thames had no better means of know- 
 " ing than himself." I produce this icy, 
 chillness, thrown over the heat, and ac- 
 tion of poetry, as the feeble dotage of 
 contradiction; as the last, and deepest 
 floundering of critical malignity. Deli- 
 berately to refute a quirk of folly, of 
 which a school-boy would have been 
 ashamed ; which would not have escaped 
 from the ignorance of a peasant, would 
 be to catch the Siberian frost of the cri- 
 tick. Let rivers, if you please, Dr. John- 
 son, flow on, in prose, in their usual, and 
 unexalted course : let their transparent 
 waters traverse blooming vales, and ve- 
 nerable groves ; unconscious of the ver- 
 dant, and romantick banks which adorn 
 them. But in verse they shall still enjoy 
 the higher animation ; the superiour at- 
 tributes, which have ever been given to 
 them by creating poets ; by them they 
 shall still be deified ; they shall contend 
 with heroes ; they shall be charmed with 
 
 oo2
 
 564: 
 
 musick ; from the enraged, and foaming 
 Xanthus of Homer, who attempted to 
 overwhelm Achilles ; and who panted 
 under the punishment of Vulcan ; to the 
 mild, and attentive Eurotas of Virgil ; 
 who ordered his laurels to learn the sub- 
 lime, and the tender strains of Silenus ; 
 and to the winding Thames of Pope, who 
 commanded his willows to repeat the 
 harmonious elegy of Thyrsis ; after he 
 had heard it with emotion. 
 
 As the superficial, bald, and mutilating 
 manner in which our disdainful critick 
 refers to the objects of the poet's invoca- 
 tion to Thames is worthy of the remark 
 with which it is accompanied, I shall 
 quote the elegant passage; in which a 
 reader of taste will be pleased, to observe 
 that poetical power can give importance, 
 and dignity even to puerile diversions. 
 
 Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race 
 
 Disporting on thy marge nt green 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace ; 
 
 Who foremost, now, delights to cleave, 
 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
 
 What idle progeny succeed, 
 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed ; 
 
 Oivurge the flying ball ?
 
 565 
 
 We are told that his epithet, " buxom 
 " health," is not elegant ; and that " he 
 " seems not to understand the word." < 
 A writer, who, practically, at least, had 
 no dislike to coarse, and low expressions, 
 should have been cautious of censuring 
 a want of elegancer None but himself 
 would pronounce the epithet buxom, as 
 it is here applied to health, inelegant ; or 
 in any way, improper. But " Gray 
 " seems not to understand the word." 
 To show whether he, or Johnson better 
 understood it, I shall appeal to Johnson 
 himself; his very dictionary condemns 
 him. His second definition of buxom is, 
 gay, lively ; brisk ; under which defini- 
 tion Crashaw has, " the buxom morn ; " 
 Milton " a daughter fair; " " so 
 " buxom, blithe, and debonair." And 
 Philips has his " buxom damsels." His 
 third definition of the word is wanton, 
 jolly ; and this definition is authenticated 
 by Dryden's " buxom bride of Jove." 
 And by his " buxom god of wine." It 
 must now be evident that buxom is a very 
 pertinently, and strongly proper epithet 
 for health ; and that Gray was perfectly 
 acquainted with the signification of the 
 oo3
 
 666 
 
 word ; which Johnson had either forgot- 
 ten, or would not recollect. 
 
 (i Gray * ( continues the Doctor, ) 
 " thought his language more poetical as 
 " it was more remote from common 
 " use." Finding in Dryden, " honey re - 
 " dolent of spring ;" ' fc an expression 
 " that reaches the utmost limits of our 
 " language ; Gray drove it a little more 
 " beyond common apprehension, by mak- 
 tt m g gales to be redolent of joy, and 
 " youth." This flimsy Sophistry is real- 
 ly sickening to sense ; but it came from 
 Johnson ; therefore I shall answer it as 
 satisfactorily, yet as concisely a^ I can. 
 To my answer I must premise that Dr. 
 Johnson's reprehension of an authour for 
 thinking his " language/' either of poetry, 
 or prose, more " poetical," or more elo- 
 quent, " as it was more remote from 
 " common use," or driven beyond com- 
 mon apprehension, was urged by him, 
 with a very bad grace. The fault, I own, 
 might, sometimes, be objected to Gray ; 
 but it was a predominant characteristick 
 of Johnson. The writer who was indus- 
 trious to make one part of a sentence 
 commensurate with the other ; to make
 
 567 
 
 it its antithesis, or its reflexion ; and 
 who often loaded his periods with scho- 
 lastick, and heavy words ; must have been 
 blind to his own very exceptionable style, 
 when he warmly recommended the attick 
 purity, and ease of Addison : and the great 
 moralist, whose life was deformed with 
 intolerably rough, and rude manners ; 
 and often in direct return for hospitality, 
 and kindness ; exerted but an incongru- 
 ous, and inconsistent zeal for the gentle, 
 and humane precepts of our humble, and 
 divine master. 
 
 He tells us that Diyden's " honey re- 
 " dolent of spring," " reaches the ut- 
 " most limits of our language." This 
 observation, as far as it is applied to lan- 
 guage, is not sense. He should have 
 said that it went as far as a propriety of 
 poetical imagery could go ; that it reached 
 
 the utmost limits of poetical licence. On 
 
 * 
 
 the contrary ; the figures have a natural, 
 and spontaneous affinity ; the ideas coin- 
 cide, without the least constraint ; they 
 are congenial with one another. The 
 odour of honey reminds us of spring; 
 need I, then, elaborately to prove, that 
 in the most warrantable force of the poe- 
 tical style, it is redolent of spring ? To 
 
 oo4
 
 ^568 
 
 show, therefore, that Gray, with the fair- 
 est latitude, as a poet, made his " gales" 
 to be " redolent of joy, and youth," will 
 be, almost tautology. Pierced with chill- 
 ing blasts from these northern heaths, 
 I have at once a pleasing, and a melan- 
 choly remembrance, that the vernal gales 
 from the heights of Windsor are often im- 
 pregnated with an aromatick fragrance. As 
 these fragrant gales announce the spring; 
 as they make a charming part of the 
 vernal sweets ; surely to the obvious fancy 
 of the poet ; to the obvious fancy of the 
 common man, they may be redolent of 
 spring. And between the healthy, lively, 
 and gay spring, and the joyous youth of 
 man, is there not a most natural,' and 
 striking analogy, and similitude ? Have 
 they not been felt, and approximated, by 
 the poets of almost every succeeding age ? 
 -" O ! primavera, giovenhi del anno !" 
 says the elegant Guarini. If, then, 
 Dryden's' honey redolent of spring, may 
 be easily allowed ; I hope that the " gales" 
 of Gray, " redolent* of joy, and youth," 
 are as well supported ; and that they are 
 not driven, with the least. violence, beyond 
 common apprehension. We might rea- 
 sonably suppose that Dr. Johnson, from
 
 569 
 
 many of his critiques on our English 
 poets ; but particularly from his remarks 
 on Gray, had drank a Lethe to all his 
 poetical knowledge ; either from the stu- 
 pifying effects of prejudice, or of more 
 venial age. 
 
 The Hymn to Adversity is, in every 
 respect, worthy of its authour. It 
 abounds with his force of instructive, and 
 pathetick sentiment, and of animated, 
 and adventurous fancy. The alarming, 
 and terrifying eiFects of adversity on vice, 
 and tyranny ; its repulsive influence on 
 the selfish, trifling, and vain idolaters of 
 good fortune ; and its maternal, and sa- 
 lutary discipline on the mind of persever- 
 ing, and benevolent virtue, are happily 
 distinguished, and described. In this 
 hymn, likewise, Gray's fortunate, and 
 high talent, in forming the persons of his 
 imagination, and invention, is as emi- 
 nent as in any of his other poems. The 
 conclusion of his invocation to Adversity 
 evinces the humane, and good, as well as 
 the great man ; it is a faithful, and glow- 
 ing transcript of that amiable Christianity 
 which was intimately felt by his heart, 
 and vigorously enforced by his mind. 
 
 Between Mr. Gray, and Mr. West, a
 
 570 
 
 most affectionate friendship had long sub- 
 sisted; a friendship which was formed, and 
 established by a similarity of persuits as 
 well as of dispositions. It has been re- 
 marked, and I believe with justice, that his 
 grief, and permanent regret for the death 
 of that amiable, and accomplished young 
 man, gave a lasting, and insurmountable 
 addition to that philosophical, and fine 
 melancholy, which, always, more or less, 
 makes a part of the constitution of great 
 genius. This tender, and indelible con- 
 cern ; this pathetically eloquent inmate 
 of the mind, which points to Heaven, did 
 honour to the deeply impressible sensibi- 
 lity, and to the thinking powers of Gray. 
 The death of a friend excites, in common 
 minds, a merely instinctive, and tempo- 
 rary grief, which is thrown aside sooner 
 than its external emblems. But as the 
 grief of our poet was more deeply, and 
 firmly rooted, it was more productive ; 
 it insinuated itself, with accessary, and 
 sublime ideas, into his imagination ; it 
 gave a persuasive, a commanding awe ; 
 a moral majesty to his muse. 
 
 " Of the Ode on Adversity" (says John- 
 son) " the hint was at first taken from 
 ff. ; O ! Diva gratum que regis Antium; 9 "
 
 571 
 
 " but Gray has excelled his original, by 
 " the variety of his sentiments, and by 
 " their moral application. Of this piece, 
 a at once poetical, and rational, I will 
 " not, by slight objections, violate the 
 " dignity." If, in using the word slight, 
 he had any reference to almost all his 
 objections to Mr. Gray's poetry, the epi- 
 thet was completely applicable. If Gray 
 took the hint for his Hymn to Adversity 
 from Horace's Ode to Fortune (though 
 I lay very little stress on the supposition) 
 it was merely a hint ; and therefore Dr. 
 Johnson is not warranted to mention the 
 one, at large, as the original of the other. 
 Gray raises the spirit of his ode with the 
 most important, and interesting moral 
 topicks ; Horace encourages the destruc- 
 tive spirit of ambition ; the domineering 
 spirit of his country. The ode of the 
 English eminently excells that of the 
 Roman poet, both in the dignity of its 
 substance, and in the energy of its man- 
 ner. The ancient poet has his parpurei 
 tyranni ; the modern, his purple tyrants ; 
 by the study of polite literature, we na- 
 turally, we necessarily imbibe the strain 
 of thinking, and the style of our great 
 ancestors ; I mean, freely, and generous-
 
 572 
 
 ly; not with a servile, and timorous imi- 
 tation. When this is not the case, what 
 rich treasures are squandered on dull- 
 ness, and inattention! Yet to kindred, 
 and fraternal souls, thus born, and thus 
 educated, pedantry, and its almost con- 
 stant companion, envy, will not allow 
 on just, and fair principles, a mutual 
 similarity of language ; a striking con- 
 geniality of thought. The scholastick 
 drone subsists by invading the honey of 
 the at tick bee. 
 
 Dr. Johnson acquires very little credit, 
 either as a man, or a critick, by asserting 
 that the Ode to Adversity is an imitation 
 of the Ode to Fortune ; and by bestowing 
 on it very luke-warm, and inadequate 
 praise. He has, however, given less 
 praise to those productions of Mr. Gray 
 which have equal, and to those which 
 have superlour, and more diversified 
 merit. Tell me, ye spirits, who are free- 
 born, and unsubmitting to every arbitra- 
 ry yoke; tell me if I am tainted with 
 Johnsonian spleen, if I suspect, and 
 apprehend, that this poor mite of lordly 
 approbation, insignificant as it is, was an 
 artful deception ; to veil that pride, and 
 envy, which were eager to depress con-
 
 573 
 
 tiguous, and transcendent merit ; and 
 which were anxious to conciliate a Mind 
 confidence in literary dogmas ; whose 
 manner insulted urbanity ; and whose 
 criticism insulted nature ? Timeo Da- 
 naos, vel dona ferentes ; not only if they 
 are specious, and have a religious mys- 
 tery ; but even if they are homely, and 
 parsimonious ; and held forth with a re- 
 luctant, and aukward hand. 
 
 I really think that we may venture to 
 assert, without hyperbolical compliment, 
 that the progress of poesy is an ode which 
 has not its^ superiour in the poetical 
 world. With every generous, and un- 
 prejudiced mind, who zealously enters 
 into the powers, and privileges of poetry ; 
 into a complete sense of the pleasure 
 which it affords, and of the dignity which 
 it holds, among the gifts of nature ; 
 with every mind ^o trained, and so ha- 
 bituated, this ode must always be a par- 
 ticular, a captivating favourite. It has 
 all the boldness, and fire of Pindar ; with 
 a more connected series of fine, and af- 
 fecting sense, and sentiment ; with a 
 more characteristick application, and 
 force of those emblematical figures which 
 give this authour a very high rank among
 
 571 
 
 inventive poets. We pass from the com- 
 prehensive history of the art to its consol- 
 ing, and animating morality; to its be- 
 neficent effects on the heart, and mind ; 
 and to its elegant, and sublime exempli- 
 fications in diversified genius ; with fre- 
 quent, and pleasing recurrences ; because 
 with distinct, and easy transitions. The 
 original objects ; the native description, 
 are interspersed, and blended with their 
 poetical adjuncts ; with their metaphors, 
 and similes, in the manner of Pindar ; 
 but without the least embarrassment, or 
 confusion. The arrangement of the 
 poem ; the selection, and the richness of 
 its imagery ; the delicacy, and yet the 
 spirit of its flow, are worthy of Pope ; the 
 pomp, and grandeur of its higher machi- 
 nery are truly Miltonian ; with the rap- 
 ture which he emulates, he once more 
 transports us to the living throne ; the 
 " sapphire blaze." Do not you already 
 lose your patience with any go thick bar- 
 barity that would attempt to marr, and 
 disfigure all this excellence ? The con- 
 clusion of this ode must be peculiarly ad- 
 mired by every one, who, with an ethe- 
 real flame, persues, or feels the honour 
 of genius, and of virtue. His profound
 
 575 
 
 deference to Dry den, his great master ; 
 his nobly humble homage to the good ; 
 his independent, and ardent assertion of 
 the infinite superiority of poetical talents 
 to merely nominal greatness, to the play- 
 things of his Walpole ; all these manly 
 sentiments are as generously, and finely 
 conceived as they are happily described, 
 and painted. They equally demand our 
 admiration, and gratitude ; our gratitude 
 for the proper esteem which they incul- 
 cate of our best possessions, and consola- 
 tions ; our admiration of the living pic- 
 tures of supreme poetical genius ; pictures 
 which are amicable, though opposite ; 
 which are nearly allied, though contrasted. 
 It is not without extreme reluctance ; 
 it is not without shivering, and recoiling, 
 that I pass from the luxuriant vales, and 
 Parnassian heights of Gray, to the " bar- 
 " ren rocks, and bleak mountains" of 
 Johnson. I must endure the pain of 
 quoting, and replying to some of the 
 harsh, and incoherent stuff (believe me, 
 the term is not opprobrious) which he 
 throws out against this incomparable 
 poem. " My process has now brought 
 " me" (says he) " to the wonderful 
 H wonder of wonders ; the two sister-
 
 576 
 
 " odes ; by which, though either vulgar 
 " ignorance, or common sense, at first 
 " universally rejected them, many have 
 " been since persuaded to think themselves 
 " delighted. I am one of those that are 
 "willing to be pleased; and therefore 
 " would gladly find the meaning of the 
 " first stanza of the progress of poetry." 
 I am sure that Johnson's admirers 
 ought to have wondered, and been 
 ashamed, at the manner in which he 
 ushers in what he presumed to write 
 against those beauties which he could not 
 see ; or rather which he could not endure. 
 This introduction is more worthy of a 
 Dennis, a Theobald, or a Gildon, than of 
 a strenuous advocate for the most bene- 
 volent morality ; and of a man whom 
 his country has honoured with the chair 
 of respectable criticism. The process of 
 Dr. Johnson is of a spurious, and unna- 
 tural chymistry ; which proceeds by no 
 just, and regular analysis ; he puts not 
 the gold of Gray to a fair, and honourable 
 torture ; from which it will always issue 
 with approved purity, and lustre; but 
 in direct violation of all critical science, he 
 labours to transmute it into the lead of 
 Blackmore, or of Pomfret (two of his
 
 577 
 
 most eminent English poets) with a dege- 
 nerate, and debasing alchymy. " I am 
 " one of those" says the good-natured 
 Doctor) " who are willing to be pleased." 
 If I thought myself authorized by Homer 
 to adopt the military delicacy of his he- 
 roes, I should apply to you, sir, while 
 you are writing in this manner, of Gray, 
 and while at the same time, you profess 
 a disposition to be pleased, some epithets 
 which Achilles bestows on Agamemnon. 
 A greater unwillingness to be pleased ; a 
 more obstinate determination not to be 
 pleased, was never more evident (to every 
 unprejudiced reader) in any one than it 
 is in you ; in many passages of your cri- 
 tical biography ; but especially in your 
 life of this much injured, and illustrious 
 poet. His two intermediate falsehoods, 
 in this paragraph, in asserting that these 
 odes were at first " universally rejected" 
 by any class of sensible readers ; and the 
 insult which he offers to men of learning 
 and taste, who, he tells us, were after- 
 wards, " persuaded to think themselves 
 " delighted ;" but who, undoubtedly, 
 met the genius of the poet, with a lively, 
 and unaffected pleasure ; deserve no par- 
 ticular, and argumentative attention. 
 
 VOL. II. P P
 
 573 
 
 The varied, rich, and vigorous open- 
 ing of the Progress of Poesy is perfectly 
 intelligible, and clear to every one whose 
 soul is susceptible ; moderately informed ; 
 and untainted with spleen. Permit me to 
 retort on his weak objections to a mag- 
 nificent, and sublime simile, the sentence 
 of contempt which it incurrs from him ; 
 that they are nonsense. He could only 
 have passed this groundless, and rude 
 sentence, from inadvertent, or wilful in- 
 attention, to the general nature, and use 
 of similes. Poets, in forming similes, 
 (especially, the ancient poets, whom 
 Johnson idolized) give a wide expansion, 
 and indefinite latitude to fancy. They 
 sport, and loosely wanton with their ad- 
 scititious images ; they seem to lose 
 sight of the substantial, and main objects 
 which those images were summoned to 
 illustrate. They frequently so far in- 
 dulge themselves in this pleasing devia- 
 tion, that in some similes, we can find but 
 a very few images, in a great number, 
 which throw a light, and lustre, on the 
 agents, or passions, which they were in- 
 tended to represent. Nor is it uncom- 
 mon with eminent, and judicious poets, 
 to interchange the ornament, and the
 
 579 
 
 substance ; independently to use a meta- 
 phor, or a part of a simile, for their im- 
 mediate, and literal ideas. Dr. Johnson 
 might have been a 'master of this critical 
 doctrine (so I presume to call it ; for it 
 has been transmitted, and repeated by 
 many superiour judges) from his intimate 
 acquaintance with the' old poets; but 
 particularly with Homer ; whom he ido- 
 lized ; and in comparison with whom I 
 once heard him say, that all other poets, 
 ancient, and modern, Were but babies. 
 Greek scholars, of more moderate, and 
 reasonable tempers than Johnson, will 
 pertinaciously maintain the same absurd 
 notion ; the same extravagant preference; 
 it certainly betrays a literary infatuation ; 
 a scholastick imbecillity* 
 
 He tells us that " the second stanza, 
 " exhibiting Mars' car, and Jove's eagle, 
 " are unworthy of notice ;" and that 
 " the third stanza sounds big with Del- 
 "phi, and Egean, and Missus, and 
 " Meander" If there ever was an in- 
 stance of a most disingenuous contrac- 
 tion, and distortion of poetical elegance, 
 and beauty; and of low, spiritless ridi- 
 cule ; it is what I have now quoted. But 
 he exposes himself, not Gray, to just ri- 
 
 pp2
 
 580 
 
 dicule. For what can be more contempt- 
 ible, and ridiculous, than to deny a poet 
 the apt, and pertinent use of those scenes, 
 and images, of which the greatest poets 
 have availed themselves, in all ages ? 
 " Criticism" (says he) " disdains to chase 
 " a school-boy to his common places." 
 and should not I disdain to chase the 
 nonsense which madly bespatters capital 
 poetry ? I have condescended, however, 
 to persue you through your new mean- 
 ders ; they are not taken only by ductile 
 dulness ; but likewise by artfully insidi- 
 ous, or precipitately despairing envy. 
 
 " Idalia's velvet green, has something 
 " of cant." What he means by this fa- 
 vourite word, which he uses lavishly, and 
 promiscuously, Heaven knows ; it is one 
 of the ungentlemanlike, and nauseously 
 vulgar expressions, to which the Doctor 
 often descends. 
 
 I agree with Dr. Johnson, but not in 
 Ms vague, vulgar, and contemptuous 
 manner, in disapproving " Idalia's velvet 
 " green." The epithet diminutively 
 shrinks, with the little formality of hu- 
 man manufacture : it debases the simple, 
 and free luxuriance of rural nature. 1 
 beg leave to recommend to young poets
 
 581 
 
 a practical recollection of Dr. Johnson's 
 just, and important observation; that 
 " an epithet or metaphor drawn from 
 " nature, ennobles art ; an epithet, or 
 " metaphor drawn from art degrades 
 " nature." I likewise agree with Dr. 
 Johnson in disapproving the epithet of 
 many twinkling feet. The Greek lan- 
 guage admits it ; but it violates the Eng- 
 lish idiom. Whether, indeed, we consider 
 the words of this epithet, or their combi- 
 nation, they are equally unfavourable to 
 the poet. 
 
 Our noble poet sings, in his liberal, and 
 splendid strains, that in the good days of 
 Greece, the beautiful, and the grand ob- 
 jects of nature contributed to the inspira- 
 tion of the poet ; 
 
 Till tfle sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, 
 Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains ; 
 Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, 
 And coward vice that revels in her chains: 
 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
 They sought, Oh! Albion, next, thy sea-encircled 
 coast ! 
 
 " His position is, at last, false," (says 
 the Doctor.) " In the time of Dante, and 
 " Petrarch, from whom we derive our 
 
 pp3
 
 582 
 
 "first school of poetry, Italy was over* 
 " run by " ' tyrant power,' " and f* i cow* 
 ** ' ard vice ;' " nor was our state much 
 *' better, when we first borrowed the 
 '* Italian arts." 
 
 I would almost as willingly allow that 
 the unrivalled poetical genius of England 
 owed the origin of its high cultivation 
 to Frenchmen as to Italians. All Mr. 
 Gray's progress of poetry is historically 
 right. The dispersion of men of talents, 
 and erudition, from Constantinople, and 
 the art of printing, soon conveyed learn- 
 ing over Europe. It would be ungrateful 
 not to acknowledge that some noble Ita- 
 lian families greatly promoted its diffusi- 
 on : the names of Medici, and of Colon- 
 na will be ever dear to the lovers of the 
 muses : yet Chaucer was conversant with 
 the ancient authours in their original 
 languages ; of those authours there were 
 English translations in the time of Shake- 
 speare ; and it is evident,, from his works, 
 that he had acquired a great deal of use- 
 ful, and elegant knowledge, independent- 
 ly of Italian aid. The divine Milton was 
 profoundly, and universally learned, 
 His various, and extensive knowledge 
 went far beyond the tinsel of Italy, and
 
 583 
 
 ft 
 
 the frippery of France. It will likewise- 
 be found, that in proportion as our poli- 
 tical, and civil freedom, opened, our 
 minds were enlarged ; that poetry shook 
 ofFthe shackles of the tyrant, and took her 
 unlimited, her celestial range. But if 
 Dr. Johnson would have stooped from 
 his imperial heights to the wholesome 
 ground of dispassionate recollection, or 
 inquiry; he would r have found, and 
 perhaps to his surprize, and antipathy, 
 that England enjoyed, under the reign of 
 Edward the third, an ambitious, and 
 warlike prince, infinitely more constitu- 
 tional freedom than under the ignomini- 
 ous, and melancholy auspices of two of 
 his royal favourites, the execrable bro- 
 thers of the Stuart-line ; nay, with res- 
 pect to * parliamentary freedom, the 
 
 * Mr. Sharp has incontrovertibly ; with the clearest, and 
 most complete evidence, proved, that annual parliaments are 
 not only the reasonable, and equitable, but the legal, and esta- 
 blished privileges of Englishmen ; and that they were continu- 
 ally summoned, and held for many years of the reign of Edward 
 the third. Sir Edward Coke, in his 4th Inst. p. 9 : informs us 
 that '* an excellent law was made, Anno 3d : Edward Hid. c. 
 u 10. which being applied to the writs of parliament, doth, in a 
 " few, and effectual words, set down the true subject of a par- 
 u liament, in these words ; For the maintenance of the said 
 u articles, and statutes, and redress of divers mischiefs, and 
 ii grievances, which daily, happen, a parliament shall be holdeu 
 
 p p4
 
 584 
 
 source from which all political, and civil 
 purity, and corruption flow, more than 
 we enjoy at the present day. 
 
 But as truth is as dear to me as liberty, 
 I must observe, that while we view a most 
 respectable, and philosophical theory, we 
 must not forget incontrovertible, and 
 memorable facts. The moral salubrity 
 of freedom will, undoubtedly, in general 
 be more favourable than any other species 
 of government, to the health, vigour, and 
 atchievements of the human mind. But 
 the best authorized ; the most prevailing 
 general rules, will sometimes admit ex- 
 ceptions. Two of the most arbitrary 
 monarchs that ever lived, were the most 
 attentive, and generous patrons of the 
 muses ; who never found a more agree* 
 
 Ci every year, as another time was ordained by a statute."--* 
 u Item it is accorded, that a parliament shall be holden, every 
 l( year once; and more often, if need be." Sharp's Declaration 
 of the People's Natural Right to a Share in the Legislature : 
 p. 159 : note. In this note the authour justly exposes, and 
 decisively refutes the disingenuous, and slavish evasions, by 
 which the late Sir William Blackstone endeavours to annihilate 
 the plain sense, and invaluable effects of the excellent law by 
 which annual parliaments were enacted. When an unpreju- 
 diced, and independent mind reads the honest, learned, and un- 
 answerable treatise of Mr. Sharp, and reflects on the present 
 degenerate state of his country ; he may say, with a virtuous^ 
 and melancholy sigh 3 -Fuimus Troes !
 
 585 
 
 able abode than in their dominions. The 
 Roman poetry was at its highest glory- 
 in the reign of Augustus ; and the French 
 literature, in that of Louis the fourteenth. 
 For this good fortune of letters, under 
 the zenith of despotism, easy, and evinc- 
 ing reasons might be produced ; and in 
 my introduction to these Lectures, I be- 
 lieve that I have proposed them. I hope, 
 however, that I have said enough to show 
 that Mr. Gray's " position was not false." 
 " Of the third ternary" (observes our 
 critick) " the first gives a mythological 
 " birth of Shakespeare. What is said of 
 " that mighty genius is true ; but it is not 
 " said happily ; the real effects of this 
 " poetical power are put out of sight by 
 " the pomp of machinery." Not by the 
 pomp of machinery ; but by that affected 
 blindness that will not see. The pomp 
 of the machinery raises, with a corres- 
 ponding sympathy, the secluded scenes 
 of nature ; it is distinct, well arranged ; 
 rising in a sublime order ; and beautiful- 
 ly, and forcibly expressive of the future 
 variety, and greatness of the infant geni- 
 us. To read the stanza with attention, 
 gives us a flagrant instance of Dr. John- 
 son's injustice to Mr. Gray. He adds
 
 586 
 
 <c where truth is sufficient to fill the 
 u mind, fiction is worse than useless ; the 
 " counterfeit debases the genuine." 
 This remark might have been applicable 
 to a moral, or metaphysical disquisition ; 
 but to apply it to poetry, was the very 
 quintessence of absurdity. When his 
 mind was in its meridian, how contempt- 
 ible, and ridiculous would he have 
 thought the critick who had thrown forth 
 a stricture similar to that with which he 
 here attacks the figurative, and sublime 
 poetry of Gray, on the following noble 
 lines in an excellent prologue written by 
 himself, fifty-five years ago ? In these 
 lines, truth which is " sufficient to fill the 
 " mind," and to which the same great 
 dramatick genius is evidently entitled, is 
 certainly not " debased," but exalted, 
 and aggrandized, " by fiction," 
 
 Each change of many-coloured life he drew ; 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new ; 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign j 
 
 * And panting time toiled after him in vain. 
 
 * I cotild bring more, and striking instances of Dr. Johnson's 
 self-condemnation (though high animation, and imagery, are 
 not principal characlcristicks of his muse) from the vigorous, 
 and beautiful summary (in his " Vanity of Human Wishes") 
 f the history, and character of Charles of Swcedcn :
 
 587 
 
 We are told that " in all Gray's odes 
 " there is a kind of cumbrous splendour 
 " that we wish away." Indiscriminate 
 praise is neither sensible, nor honourable. 
 The poetry of Gray may, sometimes, 
 perhaps, with all its excellences, be too 
 elaborate, and injudiciously charged with 
 learned ornaments. But thou literary 
 empirick, (for in thy treatment of Gray, 
 I cannot sincerely call thee a regular 
 physician) " heal thyself." The fault 
 which he accidentally, and slightly com- 
 mits, is habitual, and prominent in thee. 
 The writings of thy best, and most vigor- 
 ous days, are loaded with that " cumbrous 
 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain, " 
 
 ********* 
 
 - * 
 
 Stern Famine guards the solitary coast ; 
 And Winter barricades the realm of frost. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Hide, blushing glory, hide Fultowa's day ! 
 
 surely, in that admirable description, there was literal (i truth 
 " sufficient to fill the mind ;" yet by the poetical persons, or in 
 other words, by the fictions which the poet introduced, that 
 truth was so far from being debased, that it was greatly enriched 
 and enforced ; indeed, it would have been, comparatively, un- 
 adorned, and uninteresting, without them. But circumstanti- 
 ally to refute such absurdities, unless the name, and authority 
 of Johnson were in question, would be a work of childish, and 
 tedious supererogation,,
 
 588 
 
 " splendour ;" with that gorgeous, and 
 heavy dress, which true taste most de- 
 voutly " wishes away." 
 
 We are likewise told that " the car of 
 " Dry den has nothing peculiar ; it is a 
 " car, in which any other rider may be 
 " placed." This is, again, an instance of 
 unjust, and impotent cavil ; of unmean- 
 ing petulance. The car of Dry den moved 
 with an accurate succeeding propriety, 
 after " the seraph wings of ecstacy," on 
 which Milton " rode." The wide field of 
 glory stretched before him ; the fiery, and 
 ethereal spirit of his coursers ; and their 
 !? long-resounding pace ;" admirably des- 
 sribe the easy, and ardent flow ; the neg- 
 ligent, and impetuous majesty of his 
 numbers. " Bright-eyed Fancy hover- 
 " ing o'er" his lyre, and enriching it with 
 her treasures, most expressively presents 
 to us the modern, and the greater Timo- 
 theus ; completely prepared for the cele- 
 bration of Alexander's Feast. 
 
 I have used my utmost endeavours to 
 vindicate the beauty, and the grandeur of 
 this ode from the captious, and arbitrary 
 injustice of a critick, whose sentence, I 
 fear, has, yet, too much authority. If in 
 executing this task, I have shown a warm
 
 589 
 
 resentment against the offender, I hope 
 that my disinterested zeal for illustrious, 
 and injured merit, will be my sufficient 
 apology. 
 
 The Bard is an ode which is highly poe- 
 tical, in sentiment, and in figure. It is 
 superiour in vigour, and in ornament, to 
 the most animated odes of Horace. It 
 has all that is legitimately bold, and strik- 
 ing in Pindar, without his wildly abrupt, 
 and rhapsodical transitions. The fire, 
 and invention of the poet are judiciously 
 modelled, and tempered with the art, and 
 symmetry of composition. The whole 
 strain, and pictures of the poem deserve 
 our admiration. The concluding stanza 
 (that part of a poem which should always 
 particularly draw forth the attention, and 
 exertion of the poet) is extremely inter- 
 esting ; not only by its peculiar poetical 
 excellence ; but by the series of elegant, 
 and grand objects, which are brought to 
 our lively, and ardent recollection. The 
 moral, and inexhaustible magick of 
 Spenser ; the all-subduing muse of Shake- 
 speare ; the empress of the heart of man ; 
 the unequalled, and heavenly sublime of 
 Milton ; the graceful, and powerful neg- 
 ligence of Dryden, which conquers while
 
 590 
 
 it seems to play * the ethereal spirit, and 
 the captivating harmony of Pope, are pre- 
 dicted, and painted in numbers worthy 
 of the national glory which they antici- 
 pate. I am now obliged to say some* 
 thing on the outrages on all the just, and 
 universally established laws of criticism, 
 which are committed by Johnson, in his 
 remarks on this ode ; because they are 
 the outrages of Johnson* 
 
 He, at first, bestows some praise on 
 this poem. But he soon repents of his 
 parsimonious tribute ; and sagaciously 
 observes that " to copy is less than to in- 
 " vent, and the copy has been unhappily 
 " produced at a wrong time. The fiction 
 " of Horace [the prophecy of Nereus] 
 " was, to the Romans credible ; but its 
 " revival disgusts us with apparent, and 
 " unconquerable falsehood. Incredulus 
 M odi* Nothing but the blindness of 
 partiality, or the feeblest intellectual 
 weakness can acquiesce in all this non- 
 sense. Algarotti, and he, and other such 
 criticks would persuade us that this ode 
 is an imitation of Horace's prophecy of 
 Nereus. If Mr. Gray really thought, 
 even superficially of that prophecy, when 
 he intended to write this far superiour
 
 591 
 
 ode, his memory must only have glanced 
 for a moment, at the production of Ho- 
 race. Nereus prophecies to Paris the 
 destruction of his country, while he sails 
 with Helen to Troy ; and the Bard of 
 Gray predicts to Edward the woes that 
 Heaven will send to him, and his posteri- 
 ty, for the selfish, and inhuman massacre 
 of his poetical brothers. The subject as 
 well as the strain of the two odes are as 
 different as we can suppose. Nereus pro- 
 phesied, and the Welsh bard prophesied ; 
 this is all the plagiarism, or all the imita- 
 tion ; yet for such resemblance as this ; 
 or even for more trivial similarities ; a 
 professed critick, from whom you might 
 expect sensible observations ; or a dull, 
 and corresponding pedant, who is conti- 
 nually popping up his head in as dull a 
 Magazine, or Review, discovers, with a 
 most pervading penetration, emulations, 
 imitations, and thefts, in some great anci- 
 ent or modern poet ; of which he never 
 dreamed ; and which never met a mo- 
 ment of his waking hours. Let me again 
 observe, that if you endeavour to deprive 
 poetry of all its fair, and embellishing 
 licence, you proclaim your ignorance of 
 the art ; and you attack its very vitals.
 
 592 
 
 The Romans no more believed the pro- 
 phecy of Nereus, than the English believe 
 the prophecy of Gray's Welsh Bard ; or 
 the agency of the Sylphs, and Gnomes, 
 in Pope's Rape of the Lock. Let us now 
 judge if " the fiction of Horace was, to 
 " the Romans, credible;" whether " its 
 '" revival disgusts us with apparent, and 
 " unconquerable falsehood ;" and whe- 
 ther the unfortunate existence of poetry 
 is to be reduced to the chronology of 
 states. 
 
 One might suppose that Dr. Johnson 
 had totally forgotten the wide range of 
 poetry ; and the rational sense in which 
 its extensive liberties were accepted, both 
 by the ancient, and modern world. Did 
 he insult the powerful, and unbounded 
 fancy of Shakespeare ; did he exclaim 
 against it, incredulous odi f - Did he 
 show it any disrespect, when he sate, in 
 critical judgement, on the airy dagger of 
 Macbeth ; and on the prophecies of his 
 witches, and of their apparitions ? We 
 give not a particle of absolute credit to 
 those fictions ; yet we are delighted with 
 them, from the art, and fervour of geni- 
 us, with which they are presenteid. 
 Long, since the days of sacred inspira-
 
 593 
 
 tion, a human, but extraordinary fore- 
 sight of future events has been extensive- 
 ly believed ; at least, by popular supersti- 
 tion; nay, the belief of it, in several parts 
 of the world, is not yet extinct. There- 
 fore, on a foundation thus prepared ; I 
 may say, thus natural, a poet may very 
 warrantably raise his prophetical super- 
 structure ; without violating a sufficient 
 consistency between the boldness of his 
 muse, and the habitual, and liberal 
 sentiments of mankind. Our very cer- 
 tainty, as believers in revelation, that 
 prophets have existed, makes this poeti- 
 cal use of prophecy, with reasonable men, 
 in some degree, glide more easily into 
 critical approbation. It is very warrant- 
 able, and fair for a modern poet, on the 
 free ground, without which he could not 
 act, to suppose that the Deity, who form- 
 erly denounced, by his prophets, to pro- 
 fane, and barbarous' tyrants, a series of 
 their particular punishments, might, in 
 later times, repeat such terrours, on ex- 
 traordinary occasions. Therefore, with 
 all the probability, and propriety, which 
 a true critick would require, Mr. Gray 
 makes his Bard predict to Edward the 
 woes which were to afflict himself, and 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 594 
 
 his race, for the murder of those inno - 
 cent, and virtuous men, who we're born 
 to give the world its most impressive in- 
 struction, and its noblest entertainment. 
 I hope that it is now evident that Dr. 
 Johnson's disgust against the prophecy of 
 the Bard was by no means the result of a 
 distinguishing judgement, or of a classical 
 taste. 
 
 What immediately follows is only a 
 continuation of this critical dotage ; of 
 this mad violation of all the rights of 
 poetry. Little could Gray have imagin- 
 ed that in an enlightened age, and by a 
 critick whom England has too supersti- 
 tiously revered, a privilege, the free, in- 
 dispensable, and eternal use of which, 
 by his co temporary, and preceding 
 poets, he hath generously praised, would 
 be denied to him, " of dressing truth 
 " severe in fairy fiction." Little could 
 he have imagined, that this literary Dioge- 
 nes would have thus contemptuously 
 trampled on the magnificent apparel of 
 our poetical Platos. 
 
 " We are improved" (he adds) " only 
 " as we find something to be imitated, 
 " or declined. I do not see that the Bard 
 " promotes any truth, moral, or politi-
 
 *' cal." It is not always the duty of 
 poetry to promote truths, either moral, or 
 political. It is to the honour of Gray's 
 poetry, that, through its general tenour, 
 it promotes both ;, and the ode, which, 
 not from its own faults, incurs all this 
 supercilious disdain, clearly, and strongly 
 inculcates political as well as moral truth. 
 It augments our esteem of that divine art 
 which inspires a love of liberty, and vir- 
 tue ; ,and it exposes the folly, and mad- 
 ness of that ambition which would secure 
 itself by crimes. 
 
 " His stanzas are too long" (says the 
 critick) "especially in his epodes; the 
 " ode is finished before the ear has learn - 
 " ed its measures ; and consequently, be- 
 " fore it can receive pleasure from their 
 " consonance, and recurrence." If an 
 untuned ear, and a disgusted mind cannot 
 harmonize with judicious, and charming 
 versification; well divided, and emphatical; 
 the reader, not the <poet is to be blamed. 
 
 " Of the first stanza" (continues our 
 critick) " the abrupt beginning has been 
 " celebrated. But technical beauties can 
 " give praise only to the inventor. It 
 " is in the power of any man to rush ab- 
 
 22
 
 596 
 
 " ruptly upon his subject that has read 
 " the poem of Johnny Armstrong Is 
 " thereever a man inall Scotland f" The 
 beginning of the ode has, indeed, been 
 justly celebrated for its very forcible pro- 
 priety ; for its immediate, and impetuous 
 expression of the grief, and indignation 
 of the Bard. To nature, then, and to the 
 common emotions of the human mind, 
 it owes its origin ; not to deliberate, and 
 ingenious invention, Those emotions 
 may break forth in a similar manner, on 
 an infinite variety of occasions ; therefore 
 this abruptness of exordium, especially as 
 it borrows neither words, nor ideas, may 
 be used by poets, with an unlimited repe- 
 tition. If this was not a just account of 
 the source, and character of this kind of 
 exordium, it could not have been so often 
 used by different poets ; it could not have 
 been so often used by the same poet, 
 without a servile, and hackneyed imita- 
 tion ; which would have deadened, in- 
 stead of animating, the beginning of 
 many beautiful, and sublime odes. I 
 suppose that Dr. Johnson never thought 
 of despising the " Quern virum, aut he- 
 ** roa .:" the " Bacchum in remotis car^
 
 597 
 
 " mina rupibus;" or the " Qualem 
 ** ministrum fulminis alitem*" of * Ho- 
 " race. He had as little reason to despise the 
 " Ruin seize thee, ruthless king," of Gray. 
 And because it is in the power of a poet- 
 aster to imitate, or naturally to seize one 
 of the distinguished, yet easy properties 
 of a great poet ; should the latter be illi- 
 berally, and invidiously, brought, for 
 a moment, into any degree of competition 
 with the former ? Nothing less than the 
 overflowing bile of the jaundiced fiend 
 could have impelled this miserable retort, 
 from the ballad of Johnny Armstrong, 
 It is again throwing the dirt of the dunces 
 of Pope : it is Dennis; or Welstead; 
 or Oldmixon ; not what Dr. Johnson 
 ought to have been. 
 
 " The initial resemblances, or allitera- 
 " tions, ruin, ruthless, helm, or hauberk, 
 " are below the grandeur of a poem that 
 
 * According to the critical inquisition of Dr. Johnson, we 
 may assert that Horace borrowed, or stole (and without ac- 
 knowledging the theft, like Mr. Gray) the abrupt, yet natural 
 beginning of these odes, from Pindar, and that we may, there 
 fore, despise this long, and justly admired mode of exordium, in 
 the Roman as well as in the English poet ; as it is merely " a 
 ' technical beauty; which can gire praise only to the in- 
 " Tentor." 
 
 S23
 
 598 
 
 " endeavours at sublimity." The endea- 
 vours of the poet have been completely 
 successful ; the ode is extremely sublime ; 
 nor can it be dragged down from its 
 heights by the most ponderous critical 
 gravitation. When the lines which con- 
 tain these obnoxious words are read by 
 unprejudiced candour, and good sense, 
 they will not be charged with affected 
 initial resemblances ; with studied alli- 
 teration. They flowed on, without em- 
 barrassment, or constraint ; in the ge- 
 nial stream of the poet's thought. What 
 a poor pretender to poetry must he be, 
 who is afraid to use two words in the same 
 line which begin with the same letter > 
 And to what a diminutive size must that 
 critical mind be shrivelled ; to what a 
 suspicion, and jealousy of letters; who 
 attributes this casual coincidence to me- 
 retricious art; to the little patches of 
 poetry ? 
 
 Our critick thus proceeds : " In the 
 " second stanza the Bard is well describ- 
 " ed ; but in the third we have the pueri- 
 " lities of obsolete mythology. When 
 " we are told that Cadwallo ' hushed 
 " c the stormy main;' and that Modred 
 66 ' made huge Plinlimmonbow his cloud-
 
 599 
 
 <c ' topped head ;' attention recoils from 
 " the repetition of a tale that even when 
 " it was first heard, was heard with 
 
 " scorn." 
 
 This dramatick heightening, this bold 
 animation of the material objects of na- 
 ture, will never be scorned but by an aus- 
 tere, and irreconcileable scorner. The 
 mythology, and the practice will never be 
 obsolete, while the world produces true, 
 and fairly adventurous poets. And this 
 vivid, and actuating spirit will always be 
 warrantable ; it will always be agreeable; 
 it will always give a lively pleasure ; 
 while its objects are not mean ; while 
 they do not excite laughter, and ridicule; 
 and while, in poetical form, and colour, 
 they are not incompatible, or inconsistent 
 with the principal object. My attention 
 recoils not ; it is more eagerly attracted 
 to the musick, and poetry of the Bard ; 
 while he recites the mighty magick ; the 
 speciosa miracula, of the harps of Modred, 
 and Cad wallo. 
 
 Some examples from ancient, and great 
 poets, of giving life, and motion to mat- 
 ter; and of representing future events, 
 by figures which could never be literally 
 realized, will be a decisive, and I hope,
 
 600 
 
 an agreeable refutation of Dr. Johnson's 
 objections to the similar liberties of our 
 English poet. 
 
 In the sixth eclogue of Virgil, when 
 Silenus begins his song 
 
 Turn vero in numerum Faunos, ferasque vidert;> 
 Ludere; turn rigidos motare cacumina quercus. 
 
 Horace adorns one of his noblest odes 
 with the miraculous effects of the musick, 
 and poetry of Orpheus : 
 
 -vocalem temere insecutie 
 Orphea Silvae ; 
 
 Arte materna rapidos morantem 
 Fluminum lapsus, celeresque ventos ; 
 Blandum et auritas fidibus canoris 
 Ducere quercus. 
 
 I suppose that Dr. Johnson would not 
 have pleaded, in favour of Horace, and 
 Virgil, that this poetical kind of omnipo- 
 tence was at all believed by Augustus, 
 or Maecenas; or by any other friends, 
 and admirers of those immortal poets. 
 Neither it, nor the mythology from 
 which it originated, was more credited by 
 them than it is by modern Europe. The 
 objects were the productions of a sportive,
 
 601 
 
 and pleasing imagination ; they were 
 embellished with elegant, vigorous, and 
 harmonious numbers ; and elevated, and 
 dignified by these enchanting aids, from 
 which the potestas quidlibet audendi re- 
 ceives its sanction, they afforded amuse- 
 ment ; they gave delight to the fancy to 
 which they were addressed. 
 
 I am happy to have an opportunity of 
 paying at once my critical respect, and 
 my religious veneration to the sacred 
 writings. The few passages that I shall 
 quote are eminent examples of the pa- 
 thetick, and exhilarating style of a beau- 
 tiful hyperbole. " Thou crownest the 
 " year with thy goodness ; and thy clouds 
 " drop fatness. They shall drop upon 
 " the dwellings of the wilderness ; and 
 " the little hills shall rejoice on every 
 " side. The folds shall be full of sheep ; 
 " the valleys also shall stand so thick 
 " with corn, that they shall laugh, and 
 " sing." Psalm LXV, vs. 13th 14th. 
 The muse of the royal poet who was 
 graced with a pastoral animation while 
 she walked on earth, assumed a celestial 
 animation when she mounted to Heaven. 
 " Their voices" [the voices of the stars,
 
 602 
 
 and planets] " are heard among them : 
 " their sound is gone out into all lands ; 
 " and their words unto the ends of the 
 " world. In them hath he set a taberna- 
 " cle for the sun ; who cometh forth as 
 " a bridegroom out of his chamber ; and 
 " rejoiceth as a giant to run his course." 
 Psalm XlXth, vs. 4th, 5th. The verse 
 which I shall now transcribe is a part of 
 the prophet Isaiah's lively, and strong 
 description of the spiritual kingdom of the 
 Messiah. The mild, and amiable virtues 
 which distinguish that kingdom, are, a 
 union of the most separate interests, of 
 the most divided passions, into peace, be- 
 nevolence, and pure and cordial affec- 
 tion. The picture in the page of the 
 prophet is prominent, and engaging; but 
 it is, as yet, weakly reflected back, by the 
 practice of the world. " The wolf shall 
 " dwell with the lamb ; and the leopard 
 " shall lie down with the kid; and the 
 " calf, and the young lion ; and the fat- 
 " ling together ; and a little child shall 
 " lead them." Isaiah : c. Xlth, v. 6th. 
 If we consider the licence of poetry alone, 
 the critical scorn with which Dr. Johnson 
 treated the prodigious effects of the strains
 
 603 
 
 of Modred, and Cadwallo, would have 
 been applicable, with equal justice, to 
 these passages. But from this profane 
 as well as injudicious contempt, he was 
 perfectly secured, by his early prejudices, 
 and partialities ; and what was more to 
 his credit, by his unshaken belief in reli- 
 gion. 
 
 The winding-sheet of Edward is next 
 examined by our curious critick. His 
 miserable quibble on the mode of weav- 
 ing it, and his general censure of Gray's 
 manner of conducting this part of his 
 machinery, are too trifling, and despica- 
 ble for particular animadversion. So- 
 lemnly to observe that " theft is danger- 
 " ous ;" after owning that Mr. Gray had 
 informed us that he had borrowed the 
 weaving of the web of Edward's destiny 
 from the northern bards, is an ill-timed 
 and preposterous austerity, which may, 
 with equal reason, condemn all avowed 
 imitation ; all new poetical objects, which 
 are either adopted from books, or from 
 the immense page of nature. I could 
 wish, indeed, that the elegant muse of 
 Gray had been satisfied with the genial 
 regions of classical poetry ; and had never 
 deviated into the cold, and dreary land of
 
 604 
 
 Norwegian* fable, and gothick mytholo- 
 gy. Its disgusting imagery was unworthy 
 
 * I could likewise wish that men of true poetical talents 
 might be as little seduced into an undistinguishing admiration, 
 or esteem of Oriental as of Norwegian poetry. The objects of 
 the two kinds of poetry are very different ; but their combina- 
 tion, and exhibition, are equally unnatural, and absurd. East- 
 ern poetry has, of late years, been highly praised, and warmly 
 recommended to our attention, by fashionable, nay, by respect- 
 able authority: but the highest authority should not check our 
 impartial inquiries into truth, and nature. A singU instance 
 will show the injudicious, and whimsical I may say, the 
 puerile genius of this poetry. In a hymn to Camdeo, or the 
 God of Love, which is translated by Sir William Jones, the bow 
 of that deity is of sugar-cane, or flowers ; the string is of bees ; 
 and each of the five arrows with which he is armed, is pointed 
 with an Indian blossom of heating quality. " These allego- 
 ries'* ('says Sir William Jones) " are equally new, and beauti- 
 " ful." If there was any poetical merit in mere novelty, good 
 criticks might have been pleased with many monsters which they 
 have sensibly rejected. Nor can there be any beauty in poetical 
 fiction, unless the play of imagination is tempered, and regulat- 
 ed by reason, and judgement. There must be eternal truth 
 in fiction. However immense ; however unlimited the poet's 
 field may appear ; he must, ever, in that field, keep an attentive 
 eye on the established, and immutable action, of the physical, 
 and moral world. If in his imagery, and description, he pays 
 no regard to the original, and permanent operations of nature ; 
 if he is satisfied with the unexamined, and incoherent bursts of 
 fancy ; his work will be as much beneath true poetry, as if he 
 should lose all sight of the essential, and general character of 
 man. The sugar-cane, or an arch of flowers, has not strength, 
 and elasticity for a bow ; and Indian blossoms, of whatever qua- 
 lity, for the points of arrows, cannot fire, or affect the frame, 
 which they cannot, even with the utmost poetical latitude, be
 
 605 
 
 of her powers ; it degraded her dignity. 
 A fastidious delicacy in mental, as in 
 
 supposed to pierce; which they cannot be supposed to reach; 
 for how childish is the supposition that an arrow is to be im- 
 pelled to flight by the nerveless inaction of a siring of bees ; a 
 string which was never yet formed by these animals, nor by 
 man, since the beginning of the world? To make the proper- 
 ties of the bee operate on the heart of the lover, is a preposter- 
 ous expedient: in all amorous poetical fable; and agreeably to 
 the natural, and literal warfare of the archer, the heart of >he 
 lover is to be wounded, not by the string, but by the shaft of the 
 bow. Such unfounded reveries are not u the fine frenzy of the 
 *' poet;" but the insanity of the lunatick. I cannot endure 
 the poet ; the iroiyrrj ; the man who should be the maker of an 
 imaginary, but fair creation ; yet who delights in absolute, 
 palpable, disgusting impossibilities ; and while he dashes through 
 thelicentious range of a disordered fancy, is continually rebelling 
 against the laws, and economy of the first and great Creator. 
 Horace, who was a judicious, and elegant critick, as well as 
 an elegant, and great poet, compares the rhaphsodies of such 
 writers with a picture, 
 
 cujus, velut ajgri somnia, vanae 
 
 Finguntur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
 Reddatur format 
 
 and from these crudities he justly turns away, with disgust : 
 
 Qoudcunque ostendis mihisic, incredulus odi. 
 O,uanto rectius hie qui nil molitur inepte, 
 
 may, with infinitely more justice be applied to Milton than to 
 Homer. And will the members of the Asiatick Society, after 
 all their Asiatick researches, presume to assert, that any pas- 
 sage in their Shaster, or Bhagvat-Geeta ; or in all the produc-
 
 606 
 
 domestick luxury, is sometimes cloyed 
 with its exquisite gratifications ; and has 
 
 tions of their Sanscreet language, is equal to the sublimestpas- 
 sages of the divine authour of Paradise Lost ? But what con- 
 stitutes the unparalleled sublime of those passages ? Not the 
 mere impetuous, and diffusive powers of imagination, and inven- 
 tion ; let loose to their own uncontrouled sallies, and extra- 
 Tagances ; but the fire, and excursions of those powers, guided, 
 and formed by the commanding, and majestick rule of reason, 
 into compact, and forcible sentiment; into gradual, and pro- 
 gressive elevation ; all the parts of which conspire, and co- 
 operate, as it ascends, to accomplish its astonishing grandeur? 
 When in the stupendous magnificence of his poetry, he describes 
 the spear of Satan ; to make the object more interesting, and aw- 
 ful, he leaves the substance, the constituent matter of that spear, 
 to be created by the fire, and activity of your own imagination ; 
 but by his reference to (i the tallest pine hewn in Norwegian 
 M Woods," you are to suppose that it was made of a firm, and 
 solid substance ; and that it was not, with oriental inconsist- 
 ency, an infernal vapour, or meteor; which never could have 
 if supported uneasy steps over the burning marie." The beau- 
 tiful, and noble world of true poetry takes all the graces, and 
 dignity of its motion, from its revolving round the indissoluble 
 axis of eternal, and immutable truth. 
 
 " Reason, and taste" (says Sir William Jones) lt are the 
 u grand prerogatives of European minds ; while the Asiaticks 
 *' have soared to loftier heights in the sphere of imagination." -. 
 Asiatick Researches, vol. 1st. Then give me the productions of 
 European minds, for my attention, and delight. Our eastern 
 critick, here, mistakes mere novelty, and wildness of fancy, 
 for the true sublime. In his translation of the ode to which I 
 have referred, and in his other translations of Indian poetry, he 
 has, I doubt not, done all for the originals that could be done ; 
 yet these translations are certainly not very interesting, and im- 
 pressive, to an unprejudiced, and sensible reader. Once nsorej
 
 607 
 
 recourse to inferiour, and vulgar fare. 
 By this degeneracy of mental perception, 
 
 it is reason, judgement, taste, (name the poetical superintend- 
 ent, and censor as you please,) that forms, and composes, in, 
 so natural, connected, and harmonious a manner as to capti- 
 vate the heart, and strike the soul. It is this watchful superin- 
 tendent, and censor, who produces the poetry that is written for 
 immortality. 
 
 I shall here beg leave to remark again what I have observed 
 in some other part of my Lectures, that a true, and genuine 
 poetical taste is always an inseparable concomitant of true, 
 and great poetical genius ; as in other subjects, the greater 
 often necessarily implies the inferiour quality. In such a ge- 
 nius, this taste will, in many instances, be found to be distin- 
 guishing, and complete, though he should even live in a bar- 
 barous age. For the truth of what I am observing, I appeal to 
 many; to most of the passages in Shakespeare, and in Milton, 
 which are written with equal perspicuity, energy, and beauty. 
 
 From this partiality for Indian poetry ; and from the inde- 
 fatigable pains which have been taken to draw it from the dark- 
 ness in which it had been long involved, we may reasonably 
 infer that there is an infatuation in literature, as in avarice, 
 love, or in any other of our passions. 
 
 I have been speaking of the general strain of Asiatick poetry : 
 all general observations admit exceptions. But I do not believe 
 that from all the volumes of Asia so many specimens of the true 
 sublime can be produced as are to be found in our holy scrip- 
 tures. While I take leave of this interesting subject, let ma 
 ask the learned Orientalists; as human life is short, and as 
 poetry, charming as it is, should not be its only business, why 
 should we ransack the languages ; and other arcana of far- 
 distant countries, in search of poetry, when we have it in such 
 abundance, and in such excellence, at home? Thcro is enough 
 of Roman, and of English poetry (the noblest poetry in the 
 world,) to instruct, and entertain the hours of serene thought;
 
 608 
 
 Gray's taste in reading as well as in writ- 
 ing, was sometimes extremely corrupted. 
 He admired the Fingal of Macpherson, 
 and spoke with contempt of the Eloisa of 
 Rousseau. 
 
 The first stanza of the second division 
 of stanzas thus begins : 
 
 Weave the warp, and weave the woof; 
 The winding-Sheet of Edward's race j 
 Give ample room, and verge enough 
 The characters of hell to trace. 
 
 The third verse Johnson calls " a 
 " wretched line." I think that he alone 
 could have given it this epithet. It is 
 sufficiently strong for the poet's purpose. 
 Poetry as well as prose, must, or should 
 relax, as its objects are weaker ; other- 
 wise it infallibly degenerates into bom- 
 bast. If its diction was always elevated, 
 and highly coloured, we should be justly, 
 
 of refined recreation ; to the most extended longevity. We 
 need not to have any recourse to the inefficient declamation of 
 Germany, nor to the gorgeous, glaring, and unnatural imagery, 
 and hyperboles of India. We miss the Complete attainment 
 of elegant, and inestimable knowledge, as often by the excess 
 as by the languour of our persuit. Our minds are bewildered, 
 and lost, in the mazes of a capricious variety ; or they are op- 
 pressed, and buried beneath a heap of words.
 
 609 
 
 and equally disgusted with its sameness, 
 and its impropriety. 
 
 To his personification of thirst, and 
 hunger, and to his mode of introducing 
 them, I think that I may venture to assert 
 that no critick but Dr. Johnson would 
 have objected. 
 
 " The ode" (he says) " might have been 
 " concluded with an action of better 
 "example. But suicide is always to be 
 " had, without expence of thought." 
 If suicide is ever excusable ; if it is ever 
 justifiable ; like the Bard of our poet 
 " headlong from the mountain's height ;" 
 " deep in the roaring tide to plunge to 
 " endless night ;" it is when we termi- 
 nate our life to avoid a worse death, 
 which we should certainly incurr, from 
 the mandate of a tyrant. How could 
 our critick presume to think that it was 
 the intention of the poet to make the 
 suicide of the Bard exemplary $ The re- 
 ligious, and superstitious severity of 
 Johnson often counteracted, and for a 
 time, extinguished his humanity. Every 
 breast that is adorned with a sensible, 
 and generous morality ; every breast 
 that is adorned with a properly under- 
 stood, and genuine christian morality ; 
 
 VOL. II. R R
 
 610 
 
 will feel the tenderest compassion, and 
 make the largest allowances, for many 
 cases of suicide ; an unfortunate, and de- 
 plorable act, which has been committed 
 by some of the greatest, and best of 
 men.
 
 LECTURE XX. 
 
 *... . p i 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 When he dismisses this fatal catas- 
 trophe, by remarking that it requires 
 no expence of thought, he shows his own 
 superficiality of thinking. This ground- 
 less remark equally charges Addison, 
 Otway, Shakespeare, and many other 
 illustrious poets, with a poverty of 
 thought. A large expence of glorious 
 thought has often preceded, while its 
 tenour gradually prepared, and dignified 
 the suicide of its dramatick heroes. But 
 to endeavour to demolish the fame of a 
 great poet by mere dogmatical assertion, 
 or contemptuous insult ; by rude, and 
 precipitate attacks, unauthorized by a 
 particle of reason, and argument ; or 
 more desperately to promote your endea- 
 vour, to attempt, at one crash, profanely 
 to strike to ruins the whole temple of the 
 
 R R 2
 
 612 
 
 muses ; to show all this unmerited con- 
 tempt ; to commit all this gothick vio- 
 lence, " requires no expence of thought." 
 
 The following quotation will be an em- 
 phatical instance of a very selfish depravity, 
 which is too common to human nature; 
 a keen perception of the faults of others ; 
 and at least an apparent insensibility to 
 our own. 
 
 " These odes are marked by glittering 
 " accumulations of ungraceful orna- 
 " ments ; they strike rather than please ; 
 " the images are magnified by affecta- 
 " tion ; the language is laboured into 
 " harshness. The mind of the writer 
 " seems to work with unnatural violence. 
 66 Double, double ; toil, and trouble. 
 " He has a kind of strutting dignity ; 
 (C and is tall by walking on tiptoe. His 
 "art, and his struggle are too visible; 
 " and there is too little appearance of 
 "ease, and nature." If Mr. Gray ever 
 affects this elaborate, and swelling digni- 
 ty, it but seldom injures his poetry; and 
 but in a small degree. But if I wished to 
 give to any one an accurate idea of the 
 ruling features of Johnson's eloquence, I 
 should copy this faithful, and striking 
 likeness which he has drawn of himself.
 
 613 
 
 Notwithstanding the peremptory, and 
 dictatorial sentence which is here pass- 
 ed on this poet ; a sentence which, un- 
 doubtedly, many readers have deemed 
 a piece of decisive, and unanswerable cri- 
 ticism ; I am still convinced (and I trust 
 that the opinion of many respectable 
 criticks will warrant my conviction) that 
 the poetry of Mr. Gray is, in general, 
 equally eminent for strength, and beauty; 
 that it flows with that ardent, but happily 
 attempered, and well-regulated spirit ; 
 and with that harmony of its constituent 
 parts as well as of its versification, which 
 are the charming, and admirable effects 
 of true genius ; of a judicious plan, and of 
 a masterly composition. 
 
 In a Life of Mr. Gray, which does far 
 more justice to him both as a man, and a 
 poet than has been vouchsafed to him by 
 Dr. Johnson ; I find that some superfici- 
 al, and pedantick pretenders to a taste for 
 poetry, have given almost the same cha- 
 racter of the celebrated elegy which our 
 leader in criticism, in the beginning of my 
 last quotation, has applied, in general, to 
 his Poems. " The elegy is thought by 
 " some" (says Dr. Knox, in his Essays) 
 
 RR 3
 
 (514 
 
 " to be no more than a confused heap of 
 " splendid ideas, thrown together, with- 
 " out order, and without proportion." > 
 The ideas of those people who had this 
 opinion of that beautiful elegy, must 
 always have been very confused : in esti- 
 mating the merit of the poem, they could 
 not disentangle that confusion, and make 
 those ideas accompany the imagination, 
 and sentiments of the poet, in a collateral 
 order ; in short, they could not raise their 
 little minds to a height, in some degree, 
 proportionable to the grandeur of the 
 muse. So unjust, and disparaging a cen- 
 sure of a most excellent poem was very 
 consonant with the abilities of weak, and 
 insignificant criticks ; nor was it incon- 
 sistent with Dr. Knox's abilities, when he 
 reflected on the stupid opinion, to hesi- 
 tate between assent, and disapprobation ; 
 but it was unw T orthy of Dr. Johnson, 
 who when he was distinguished by the 
 Rambler ; and when its authour was not 
 yet tainted with a pension, nor intoxicated 
 with adulation, wrote some papers of 
 judicious, and elegant criticism ; it was 
 unworthy of his manly achievements, to 
 discredit his aged fame ; and like a Dr.
 
 615 
 
 Knox, or the witling Kelly *, to show a 
 contempt of Mr. Gray's best productions. 
 Dr. Johnson informs us that "histrans- 
 " lations of Northern, and Welsh Poe- 
 " try deserve praise ; the imagery is pre- 
 " served; perhaps often improved; but 
 " the language is unlike the language of 
 " other poets." Subjects, and their con- 
 comitant images, and scenes, injudici- 
 ously chosen by the poet, are equal to a 
 privation of half of his natural powers of 
 excellence. I again wish that these north- 
 ern rhapsodies had for ever been confined 
 to their own bleak, and dismal abodes. 
 They have drawn a dark shade, and hide- 
 ous figures over the splendid muse of 
 Gray. The mechanical business of 
 weaving ; the texture of human entrails ; 
 and the gasping heads of warriours, for 
 
 * ''Some passages" [in the celebrated elegy] u have been 
 M censured by Kelly, in the Babbler ; and imitations of different 
 a authours hare been pointed out by other criticks. But 
 (i these imitations cannot be ascertained; asthere are number- 
 " less instances of coincidence of ideas ; so that it is difficult to 
 il say, with precision, what is, or is not a designed, or 
 ie accidental imitation." From a Life of Gray. The cen- 
 sure of Kelly, (who here with a very characteristick, though 
 unintended propriety, terms himself the Dabbler,) is of as littl* 
 consequence as the imitations that were detected by his brother- 
 criticks ; but ofrwhich the poet never thought. 
 
 R R 4
 
 616 
 
 the weights of the loom, render all this 
 martial havock still more disgusting. He 
 says that in his translations of these 
 Northern Poems, " the language is unlike 
 " the language of other poets." With 
 this remark, I suppose, he meant invidi- 
 ously to qualify the praise which he had 
 given to these sanguinary numbers, with 
 a peculiar absurdity ; as they obtained 
 that pittance of encomium which was 
 denied to the beautiful, and sublime pro- 
 ductions of Gray. But if we merely, and 
 independently consider the substance of 
 the remark, it is to the credit of the poet ; 
 for the greater the genius, his manner, or 
 style, either in prose or poetry, will be 
 the more original, and distinguishedly 
 characteristick of himself ; without dege- 
 nerating into an affectation, and stiffness 
 of language. 
 
 I thank God, the elegy written in the 
 country church-yard, has passed through 
 the fiery ordeal of this critical inquisitor, 
 uninjured ; and morally, and harmoni- 
 ously triumphing in all its poetical vir- 
 tues. But there is. a perverseness, even 
 in his praise. Almost every part of this 
 poem is instructively, and pathetical re- 
 fine : yet though the passage which begins
 
 617 
 
 " yet even these bones from insult to 
 "protect;" and to which the Doctor 
 seems to have given his decided prefer- 
 ence ; by the rude monumental orna- 
 ments which it presents, is marked with 
 rustick beauty ; it is inferiour, in 
 strength of sentiment, as it is in grandeur 
 of objects, to other passages of the elegy. 
 None of Gray's Poems are so much 
 read; are read with so much attention, 
 and recollection as this elegy. This con- 
 stant, and almost unavoidable preference, 
 is not to be ascribed to its absolute, and 
 unequalled excellence ; nor indeed, al- 
 together, to the confined, and undistin- 
 guishing taste of the reader. In the 
 higher powers, and atchievements of 
 poetry, it is certainly inferiour to the 
 Bard, and to the Progress of Poesy. But 
 it comes peculiarly home to the most in- 
 teresting affections; to the tender feel- 
 ings ; to the analogous, and endeared 
 sentiments of mankind. People of all 
 stations, professions, and attainments, 
 are more deeply impressed; and more 
 frequently, and with a more heart-felt 
 pleasure, converse with those objects 
 which they love, than with those which 
 they admire.
 
 618 
 
 It has been my literary fortune, because 
 it has been extorted from me by sincerity, 
 to differ extremely from Dr. Johnson, on 
 many subjects ; on many principles of 
 criticism ; while I have endeavoured to 
 shelter transcendent poetical merit from 
 the blight of envy. Which of us is right 
 in our different estimations of genius, 
 may possibly be ascertained, and decided, 
 even in the present times ; but probably, 
 in times more free from personal preju- 
 dice ; and therefore more just, and gene- 
 rous to honest fame. 
 
 The impartial diligence with which I 
 wish to do some justice to my critical 
 task, obliges me, with regret, to say some- 
 thing unfavourable to an elegy which I 
 very much admire. There is a peculiar 
 propriety; there is a literary policy ; (if 
 the expression may be allowed) in the 
 writer, who, when he is to close any com- 
 position ; summons, with a new effort, 
 all his force, and taste, that he may bring 
 his sentiments, and elegance, as it were 
 to a poetical focus; and that he may 
 thus leave, in the mind of the reader, 
 a deep, and delightful impression. In 
 this policy, Mr. Gray, at the end of his 
 elegy, has been deficient, or unsuccessful.
 
 619 
 
 The epitaph, in strength, and eloquence, 
 is inferiour to the rest of the elegy ; and 
 it is embarrassed with an abrupt, and ill- 
 placed parenthesis ; of which the uncon- 
 nected introduction, and improper situa- 
 tion, unseasonably retard, and weaken 
 the concluding sense. Pure impartiality, 
 and equity, are favourite objects in my 
 moral, and literary theory ; I wish to 
 omit no opportunity of making obser- 
 vations that may be of some advan- 
 tage to young, and ingenuous minds, 
 who may aspire to poetical, or to other 
 literary distinctions. I write for my 
 countrymen, and cotemporaries ; not- 
 withstanding all that has passed, and all 
 that shall be repeated, they may vouchsafe 
 to read me, before I die ; if they do not, 
 let me assure envy, and malice, that I 
 have the consolation of a mind which can 
 skim, in a moment, over their perishable 
 enmity, and existence, and dart into fu- 
 turity. Then, in spite of all that they 
 can do, to depress, and damp my ardour, 
 I shall still retain, under the pressure of 
 adversity, and of age, my unwearied di- 
 ligence ; my honest ambition ; for they 
 are impelled, and animated, by the irre-
 
 620 
 
 sistible, and therefore, not presumptu- 
 ous hope, that I write for ages. 
 
 His Welsh ode, and fragment, are not 
 encumbered with the horrid machinery 
 with which his Norwegian poetry is de- 
 formed; and therefore they afford us 
 poetical pleasure. They did not, how- 
 ever, deserve the exertions of the man who 
 wrote the Progress of Poesy, and the Elegy 
 in the Country-Church-Yard. On his ode 
 for the installation of the Duke of Graf- 
 ton, I cannot dwell with so much pleasure 
 as on most of his other poems. It is by 
 no means destitute of that lively, and ex- 
 pressive imagination, and of those pleas- 
 ing, and affecting sentiments, which, 
 whenever he wrote, were at his command. 
 To this ode, however, an objection may 
 perhaps, be justly made, which, in some 
 degree, is applicable to the Bard ; that it 
 has too many illusions to passages in our 
 history, which are remote from common 
 knowledge, and memory ; and, therefore, ' 
 do not strike, and affect, with that imme- 
 diate impulse, and sympathy, which are 
 the spontaneous, and genuine effects of 
 true poetry. In some parts of it, like- 
 wise, it sinks to an elaborate languour.
 
 621 
 
 Flattery; a degradation of the mind, 
 which, in general, Mr. Gray disdained, 
 is one of its humbling characteristicks. 
 For this imperfection a generous critick 
 will find an apology which redeems it, in 
 gratitude, and the occasion. 
 
 The state of the authour's mind when 
 he wrote the Long Story, to susceptible, 
 and congenial minds, will account for 
 the wildness, and extravagance of its hu- 
 mour, and its pictures. A poet, who had 
 no very considerable worldly, and vulgar 
 pretensions, was, undoubtedly, extreme- 
 ly pleased with the new attention which 
 his genius had drawn from ladies of high 
 rank, and fortune. This very flattering 
 accident threw him into a kind of rap- 
 ture which he probably had not before 
 experienced, of playful thoughts, and 
 grotesque ideas, which he lavished on this 
 long stoi^y ; with more exuberance than 
 judgement ; with more effort than wit : 
 yet it must have been interesting to the 
 self-love, and entertaining to the fancy of 
 the persons to whom it was addressed. 
 It could only have been written by a man 
 of genius ; but I cannot class it with Mr. 
 Gray's happy productions. 
 
 I am here likewise obliged to observe
 
 622 
 
 that he entertained a very erroneous par- 
 tiality for Pindar ; and that his beauties 
 are sometimes disfigured by an affected 
 imitation of the desultory, arid licentious 
 poetry of the Grecian bard*, and of his 
 compounded, and complicated words ; 
 which, though they are agreeable to the 
 genius of the Greek, are incongruous with 
 the structure of the English language. 
 Our early habits ; and even our venial 
 prejudices, mark, more or less, all the 
 tenour of our lives ; all the variety of our 
 persuits. Mr. Gray's college-life, though 
 it produced effects in him, as it has, in 
 many, which did honour to a celebrated 
 university, and to its distinguished disci- 
 ples ; gave him a scholastick turn of 
 
 * I have lately seen an ingenious, original, and bold exam- 
 ple, even in a feeble modern prologue, of that comprehensive 
 Pindarick energy which rather violently presses a variety of 
 ideas, and epithets, into one word. I take the example from an 
 address which was written by Mr. Kemble, and spoken by Mr. 
 Egerton, in the theatre at Stockton. 
 
 
 
 Ye pin-head-hearted heroes, pale, and wan; 
 
 Know, now, the soldier's occupation's gone. 
 
 I am ta a loss to determine, whether, in this inimitable couplet, 
 the responsive harmony of the rhyme ; the polite compliment 
 to our military spirit ; or the tremendous, and appalling epi- 
 thet, is entitled to most praise.
 
 623 
 
 mind, which, in some instances, was na- 
 turally transfused into his writings. 
 Our faculties are absolutely invigorated ; 
 they take easier, and more graceful 
 forms, from some familiarity with the 
 gay tumult of life ; from some experi- 
 ence of its dissipation. The stiffness of 
 learning becomes flexible, and polite ; 
 its asperities are softened, and lubricated, 
 by habitually, freely, and variously mix- 
 ing with the world. 
 
 I have not given such large quotations 
 from Gray as I have produced from our 
 other great poets, to exemplify their ge- 
 neral merit, and their varied excellence. 
 His productions, comparatively with 
 theirs, are few, and short ; by the help of 
 their* impressive beauties, and of their 
 
 * The Monthly Review for July, 1802, ascribes elegance, 
 and simplicity to the ode on a distant prospect of Eton-College. 
 Its elegance is indisputable ; but ignorance alone of poetical 
 distinctions w ould make simplicity one of its principal charac- 
 teristicks. Its language is elevated, and richly coloured ; 
 and it abounds with imaginary, and created persons. A 
 writer in the same Review, takes notice of some dull remarks of 
 an invisible brother ; of one who, with more propriety, and pru- 
 dence, of signature than of criticism, subscribes himself, Ignotus. 
 This man, they tell us, " in his sense of Gray's general merits, 
 Ci seems to have adopted Dr. Johnson's criticisms : but onsub- 
 f'jects of this nature" (they add) a diversity of opinions will
 
 624 
 
 moderate extent, they may be easily 
 stored in a memory which is brightened 
 with the colours of the muse ; with her 
 " orient hues, unborrowed of the sun." 
 
 I have been for some time employed, 
 and, on the whole, not disagreeably, (for I 
 felt, as I wrote) in vindicating the genius, 
 and the fame of an imnfortal poet, from 
 the edicts of an unjust, and oppressive 
 critical chair. I know that time never 
 fails ultimately to distribute to distin- 
 guished intellectual desert that ample 
 justice which is often denied to it by its 
 own capricious, and iniquitous age. There- 
 fore, while I dismiss'my observations on 
 the justly admired, but much injured 
 works of a favourite authour, I shall cheer- 
 
 li always subsist." On philosophical subjects of every kind, 
 there will always be many different opinions : but on the rank 
 which Gray holds, in poetical merit ; among unprejudiced, 
 and elegant scholars ; among men of true critical taste ; there 
 will always be a complete agreement. Here there can be no 
 hesitation ; unless perspicuity puzzles, or authority misleads, 
 the 4 stupidity of such criticks as a monthly reviewer, and his 
 friend, Ignotus. How long will a great part of a nation, cele- 
 brated for intellectual strength, and acquirements, be the dupes 
 of a superficial pedantry ; of its dry, and spiritless criticism; 
 of its pusillanimous trimming ; of its gross partiality, and ma. 
 lignant censure ! How long will this publick be dupes to the 
 venal slaves of vanity, aDd trade : to the unprincipled flatterers 
 of dullness, and assassins of genius !
 
 625 
 
 fully adopt the words of Dr. Johnson 
 himself (and himself he unconsciously 
 reprehended while he wrote them) as an 
 infallible prophecy of the lasting honours 
 which will be payed to the memory of 
 Mr. Gray, and of every other illustrious 
 writer who may suffer an unequal tempo- 
 rary fate. " By the common sense of 
 " readers uncorrupted with literary" [and 
 let me add, with personal, and malignant] 
 " prejudices ; after all the refinements of 
 " subtilty, and the dogmatism of learn- 
 " ing, must be finally decided all claims 
 " to poetical honours." 
 
 Let the tyrannical, the insolent, and 
 the inhumane, be branded, in the name 
 of virtue ; of neglected, and oppressed 
 genius, with their well- merited posthu- 
 mous infamy. But let the memory of 
 departed worth, and talents, be protected 
 with a moral, and intellectual zeal ; and 
 let them be adorned with never-fading 
 laurel. 
 
 Dr. Johnson informs us that he " con- 
 " templated Gray's Poetry with less plea- 
 " sure than his Life." To his Life, or that 
 which constituted his social, and moral 
 character, I think that he has been as un- 
 generous as he was to his writings. 
 
 VOL. II. s s
 
 a 
 
 626 
 
 We are told that " Gray seems to have 
 been very little delighted with acade- 
 " mical gratifications : he liked, at Cam- 
 " bridge, neither the mode of life, nor the 
 " fashion of study ; and lived sullenly on, 
 " to the time when his attendance on 
 " lectures was no longer required." If 
 he who reads this passage does not al- 
 ready see clearly, in the biographer, a 
 sullen dislike to the person whose life he 
 writes, he must be more prejudiced in 
 favour of Johnson than prepared proper- 
 ly to esteem Gray. Without doubt he 
 was highly gratified with the leisure which 
 he had to persue his studies, and to pro- 
 pitiate the muses ; with the happy op- 
 portunities for intellectual improvement 
 which were afforded him by a seat of 
 learning which had but one rival in the 
 world ; and by the enjoyment of learned, 
 and select society. There is a delicacy ; 
 a pensiveness ; a melancholy, interwoven 
 with true genius; especially when that 
 genius H inspired into a delicate bodily 
 constitution ; which is a very different 
 quality from sullenness. Sullenness 
 frowns on mankind ; this gentle quality 
 commiserates all their pains ; and with 
 justice, many of their pleasures. A per-
 
 627 
 
 son of this frame, and with these habits, 
 will naturally love retirement; and in 
 the love of retirement, sullen ness, I hope, 
 is not naturally included. He was averse, 
 perhaps too averse, from science ; from 
 the mathematical studies, for which 
 Cambridge has been long renowned; 
 but every generous mathematician will 
 pardon this dislike, in a mind heated 
 with the flame of poetry, and glowing 
 with the vivid, and various hues of ima- 
 gination. Youth, high in health, and 
 spirits, and with luxury at its command, 
 will often be too much addicted to dissi- 
 pation, licentiousness, and noisy mirth. 
 And age, if it is thoroughly acquainted 
 with human nature ; and if it throws its 
 impartial reflexions back to its own en- 
 trance on life ; will rather tenderly regret 
 than severely condemn these irregulari- 
 ties. They were altogether incompatible 
 with Mr. Gray's health, and with the cur- 
 rent of his mind ; and they frequently, 
 and very disagreeably, and rudely inter- 
 rupted, and molested, his studies, and 
 his peace. This inconsiderate, and in- 
 deed very uncivil, and ungentlemanlike 
 treatment, might, in the mildest, and 
 most amiable disposition, excite vexation, 
 
 s s 2
 
 628 
 
 and resentment ; but even the shade that 
 was drawn over a luminous, and beautiful 
 mind, by offence, and irritation, bore no 
 resemblance to the selfish, morose, and 
 proud sullenness, which brooded in the 
 mind of Johnson when he wrote the Life 
 of Gray. 
 
 Where he mentions the poet's travelling 
 with Mr. Walpole, he says that "they 
 " wandered through France into Italy;" 
 an expression which would justly have 
 excited laughter, and contempt, if it had 
 been used by any writer but Dr. Johnson. 
 " Gray's Letters" (he adds) " contain a 
 " very pleasing account of many parts of 
 " their journey." Then they were writ- 
 ten by a man who travelled with plan, and 
 attentive observation ; and not by a care- 
 less, and bewildered wanderer. Johnson 
 seems every- where industrious to count- 
 eract the judgement, and system of Gray, 
 as a writer : he commends those fugitive 
 pieces on which the authour set no value ; 
 and which, he would have wished, had 
 never seen the light : and he treats the 
 poems with contempt which had been 
 long admired by the most respectable 
 judges of literary merit ; and which were 
 ardently, and carefully composed by the
 
 629 
 
 strenuous, and anxious candidate for im- 
 mortality. 
 
 On his rupture with Mr. Walpole he 
 makes the following observation. " If 
 " we look without prejudice on the world, 
 " we shall find that men whose consci- 
 " ousness of their own merit sets them 
 M above the compliance of servility, are 
 " apt enough, in their association with 
 " superiours" [he might, perhaps, with- 
 out impropriety, have added, in fortune] 
 " to watch their own dignity, with 
 " troublesome, and punctilious jealousy ; 
 " and in the fervour of independence to 
 " exact that attention which they refuse 
 " to pay." As he thought it proper to 
 make a comment on the quarrel of the two 
 friends ; and as Mr. Walpole had taken 
 the blame of it to himself, I think that it 
 would have been but fair, and liberal to 
 let the censorial weight of the comment 
 press on the superiour fortune, and in- 
 feriour mind. I will not say that his re- 
 mark is altogether invidious, and without 
 foundation ; but I will venture to assert, 
 that " if without prejudice we look on 
 " the world, we shall find" that external, 
 and accidental power is not satisfied with 
 continuing to usurp from genius the esta- 
 
 s s3
 
 630 
 
 blished, and ridiculous precedence which 
 has been given to it by that world ; but 
 that it often aggravates this usurpation 
 by its own personal presumption, and in- 
 solence, in a direct violation of the order 
 of God, and nature. If Mr. Walpole 
 was, in one instance, liberal to a poet, 
 surely the critick might, in the same in- 
 stance, have been equally liberal ; who 
 had long been, himself, an authour ; and 
 who, as a poet, had written many lines 
 which have an indisputable claim to ex- 
 cellence. Though I must be allowed to 
 think, from my knowledge of mankind, 
 and from some knowledge of high life ; 
 that though Walpole's concession was, 
 in truth, the effect of conscious arro- 
 gance, yet when he made that concession, 
 he meant not that it should be believed ; 
 but that it should be accepted by the 
 offended person, and pass with the world, 
 as a fine specimen of the Chesterfield- 
 school ; as an ample apology, from for- 
 tune to talents, for any rudeness ; as a 
 charming example of complete polite- 
 ness ; his mean idolaters would say, of 
 magnanimity . I must farther observe, 
 that as infirmities, and faults are mixed 
 with the virtues of the best men, it is im-
 
 631 
 
 possible for the most impartial, and 
 candid moral writer, repeatedly, and va- 
 riously to censure the misconduct of 
 others, without tacitly including his own ; 
 but that an instance cannot easily be pro- 
 duced of one who like Dr. Johnson, so 
 often, and so strongly inveighed against 
 a laboured pomp of diction, and disagree- 
 able, and domineering manners; while 
 both these properties made a very promi- 
 nent part of his own character, as an au- 
 thour, and a man. 
 
 Nothing can show his inveterate pre- 
 judice against Milton more than that 
 slight regard with which he mentions his 
 Latin poetry ; while he speaks with great 
 esteem of the pieces which Gray wrote in 
 that language. But every impartial, and 
 good critick will find that they have no 
 very superiour merit ; but that Milton, as 
 a Latin poet, is a rival of the great Bucha- 
 nan. And here I must remark the fasti- 
 dious, and unreflecting taste of those cri- 
 ticks who fancy that it is impossible to 
 write in a new, and interesting manner, 
 in Latin verse, or prose. Is it not as 
 practicable for a man of genius, of the 
 present times, if he makes it an object 
 of his study, and ambition, to form, in 
 s s4
 
 632 
 
 both species of composition, a Latin style, 
 not mechanically imitative, but expressive 
 of the strain of his own mind, as it is to 
 form such a style in a modern language, 
 from an intimate, and familiar acquaint- 
 ance with its best * authours ? We are 
 authorized by several illustrious examples 
 to answer this question in the affirmative. 
 Polignac, Milton, and Buchanan, give an 
 irrefragable sanction to the affirmation. 
 
 Mr. Gray was, at Peter- House, repeat- 
 edly, and very much disturbed, by con- 
 temptuous, and insolent treatment ; 
 which greatly discredited the young men 
 w T ho thus disturbed him. " This inso- 
 66 lence" (says Dr. Johnson) " having en- 
 " dured it awhile, he represented to the 
 " governours of the society, among whom, 
 
 perhaps, he had no friends ; and find- 
 
 it 
 
 * It is by an intimate acquaintance with our best authours 
 that every good English writer forms his language, as a writer ; 
 not by conversation; which, in the best company, is never 
 sufficiently accurate, vigorous, and elegant, for composition. 
 Why might he not, as a Avriter in Latin, gain the same advan- 
 tage, from a masterly knowledge of the great Roman authours ? 
 I spoke of the formation of language : for, I repeat it ; the 
 distinguished modification, enforcement, and colouring of lan- 
 guage ; or what is properly called style, is the result ofanau* 
 thour's natural, and habitual manner of thinking j it is the dis- 
 play of the peculiar process of his own mind.
 
 633 
 
 " ing his complaint little regarded, re- 
 " moved himself to Pembroke-Hall." 
 From our knowledge of the history of so- 
 cial life; from the selfish, and cowardly- 
 nature of man ; a person may, certainly, 
 have few friends, who deserves to have 
 many. But I think that it cannot fairly 
 be deemed captious, or splenetick, to in- 
 sist, that the supposition of Mr. Gray's 
 want of friends has an invidious, and un- 
 generous air ; and that it naturally tends 
 to make an inconsiderate reader suspect 
 that there was something in his conduct, 
 and manners, which repelled friendship. 
 But it is evident (not, indeed, from what 
 we learn immediately from his biogra- 
 pher,) that he was a virtuous, and amiable 
 man ; therefore, if he had no friends 
 among the governours of St. Peter's Col- 
 lege, the severity of implication which 
 is connected with the fact, should fall on 
 those who withheld, not on him who did 
 not enjoy the friendship. 
 
 I am now writing agreeably to the order 
 in which his Life of Gray proceeds : where 
 he introduces, in that narrative, the two 
 celebrated odes, he tells us that Warbur- 
 ton replied to the stupid charge of obscu- 
 rity which had been brought against them ;
 
 634 
 
 that " they were understood as well as 
 " the works of Milton, and Shakespeare;" 
 " which" (adds Dr. Johnson) " it is the 
 " fashion to admire." Who would deign 
 any answer to a remark which confounds 
 all the possible eternal energy of nature, 
 and of poetry, co-operating on the human 
 mind, with the temporary, light, and 
 despicable influence of fashion ? 
 
 Injustice to the memory of the poet, 
 I shall here observe, that the anxiety, and 
 pain which he felt for having omitted to 
 give lectures on modern history, of which 
 he was the professour, sjiowed a delicate 
 sense of what he owed to conscience, and 
 to society. 
 
 The rough critick allows that " his 
 " mind had a large grasp" Most un- 
 doubtedly it had; but I should have 
 wished to express the idea by a metaphor 
 not quite so coarse, and vulgar." He 
 " was fastidious, and hard to please." 
 He never showed those qualities so fla- 
 grantly as they acted in you, when you 
 wrote his Life. 
 
 The Doctor observes that he had " a 
 " notion not very peculiar ; that he could 
 " not write but at certain times; or 
 " at happy moments ; a fantastick fop-
 
 6$5 
 
 " pery, to which my kindness for a man 
 " of learning, and virtue wishes him to 
 M have been superior." Yet the kind- 
 ness which you have shown for this man 
 of learning, and virtue, has been a deli- 
 berate, and almost unrelenting injustice, 
 to his virtue, and to his talents ; which 
 deserved more respect than all the learn- 
 ing in the world. To the proposition, 
 however, which immediately follows this 
 profession of kindness, I reply, that in 
 proportion as a man is phlegmatick, and 
 dull ; in proportion as he sinks to a mere 
 machine ; his gross faculties are at his 
 command; they will act, whenever he 
 chuses, in their heavy way. But this vo- 
 luntary motion cannot be acquired by a 
 fine mental frame, which has every other 
 advantage. It is exquisitely, if not 
 " tremblingly alive all o'er :" a heavy at- 
 mosphere will weaken, and depress ; a 
 pure sky will animate, and invigorate its 
 exertions. Intruding, and disagreeable 
 ideas will check ; more painful objects 
 will break the spell of the poetical * ma- 
 
 * I have been referring to the natural, and general effects of 
 these disadvantages, discouragements, and mortifications, on a 
 very feeling mind. I know that they have been counteracted, 
 and conquered, by heroick resolution, and a persevering ardour
 
 636 
 
 gick. But when its process is not retarded 
 by these oppressive clouds; and rude inter- 
 ruptions ; when the natural, and moral 
 world are equally benign ; it advances, 
 and is completed with a delightful agita- 
 tion; with an ethereal rapture of the 
 soul. As I am always gratified when my 
 sentiments on any interesting subject are 
 supported by respectable authority, it 
 gives me pleasure to know that this opi- 
 nion is very far from being peculiar : and 
 that its reverse could only be pronounced 
 a fantastick foppery, by a hard, and posi- 
 tive disposition ; ignorant of the consti- 
 tution, and powers of the human mind, 
 as they are affected in this respect ; and 
 particularly of the frame, and action of 
 genius. 
 
 I have repeatedly read, and with re- 
 peated pleasure, the literary, and moral 
 character which is drawn, of Mr. Gray, 
 by Mr. Temple ; and which is inserted in 
 Dr. Johnson's Life of the poet. I passed 
 many happy hours with that gentle- 
 man, in my younger years. But I have 
 
 to excel!. But such rare instances do not invalidate the com- 
 mon force of those effects ; much less do they authorize a pre- 
 cipitate love of contradictioa to treat them >vith an arrogant, 
 and dictatorial contempt.
 
 637 
 
 one capital objection to that character; 
 it seems to undervalue the effects, and 
 the fame of poetical genius. " Perhaps 
 " it may be said" (observes the good cler- 
 gyman) " what signifies so much know- 
 " ledge, when it produced so little ? Is 
 " it worth taking so much pains, to leave 
 " no memorial but a few poems ?" This 
 question, I think, will only be urged by 
 inelegant, and unfeeling souls. The 
 few poems which were published by Mr. 
 Gray did the greatest honour to their au- 
 thour's mind, and to a studious, and 
 literary life. For the improvement of 
 our best sentiments ; for the incitement 
 to our best actions ; they are worth a 
 thousand volumes of systematical mora- 
 lity ; they are worth a thousand bodies of 
 technical divinity. Those gloomy reason - 
 ers ; those enthusiastick visionaries, drag 
 you to a knowledge of your duties ; or 
 they rather make you forget that know- 
 ledge, in mental slumbers ; or disperse it 
 in fantastick dreams. The poet, at once, 
 attacks the source of our generous affec- 
 tions ; he seizes your heart ; he ravishes 
 you into virtue ; and from time to time, 
 by the repetition of his enchanting strains, 
 he keeps up your sublime emotions.
 
 638 
 
 Noble, and pathetick poems, like those 
 of Gray, evidently written to meliorate, 
 and refine our nature ; are the heavenly 
 panaceas of the soul ; the 
 
 certa piacula quae te 
 
 Terpure lecto poterunt recreare libello. 
 
 " There is no character" (says Mr. 
 Temple, in his moral, and literary pic- 
 ture of Gray) " without some speck; 
 " some imperfection ; and I think the 
 " greatest defect in his, was an afFecta- 
 " tion in delicacy ; or rather effeminacy ; 
 " and a visible fastidiousness, or con- 
 " tempt, and disdain of his inferiours in 
 " science. He also had, in some degree, 
 " that weakness which disgusted Voltaire 
 " so much in Mr. Congreve : though he 
 " seemed to value others chiefly accord- 
 " ing to the progress they had made in 
 " knowledge, yet he could not bear to be 
 " considered merely as a man of letters ; 
 " and though without birth, or fortune, 
 " or station, his desire was to be looked 
 " upon as a private, independent gentle- 
 44 man, who read for his amusement." 
 
 The distinguished, and great genius 
 will always have some painful circum-
 
 639 
 
 stances in his fortune, and some humili- 
 ating properties in his constitution, to 
 remind him that he is nearly related to 
 the large family of common mortals. 
 What seems more inconsistent ; more 
 incompatible with fine, and exalted 
 talents ; than the false delicacy ; the lan- 
 guid effeminacy, of a vain, and superfi- 
 cial coxcomb ? 
 
 Oh ! what a miracle to man is man ! 
 
 The essential form, and the habitual 
 conduct of the human mind are infinitely 
 diversified. In social intercourse, his 
 evident disdain of his inferiours in learn- 
 ing, and abilities, was equally unworthy 
 of the generous current of his soul. 
 When envious, and malignant ignorance, 
 and dullness, publickly affect to despise 
 genius; when they conspire with adver- 
 sity to depress it ; they deserve no quar- 
 ter. When they are civil, and inoffen- 
 sive : when they are not presumptuous ; 
 it is immoral ; it is cruel, in any way to 
 despise them ; to make them painfully 
 sensible of their inability to shine. We 
 ought rather to raise them to a temper- 
 ate satisfaction in themselves, than sink
 
 640 
 
 them to a mortifying consciousness of 
 their natural disadvantages. 
 
 His affected contempt of the literary, 
 and poetical character (for it must only 
 have been affected) was extremely repre- 
 hensible. It was shamefully ungrateful, 
 as well as absurd, and ridiculous, in Con- 
 greve, who was indebted to his genius 
 for a profusion of emoluments, of ho- 
 nours, and of fame. Voltaire, in his re- 
 sentment of that insolence, showed a 
 proper sense of the dignity of literary 
 distinction, and a proper zeal for its glory. 
 " Evil communication corrupts good 
 " manners." Perhaps Mr. Gray caught 
 the infection of this personal, but little 
 visionary consequence, from his inti- 
 macy with Mr. Walpole. But he should 
 have left the presumptuous conceit ; the 
 painted dream of vanity, to him, and to 
 all other beings, who prefer the delusions 
 of art ; the pageantry of human power, 
 before the endowments of nature; before 
 the inspiration of the Almighty. Pride \ 
 that pride which arrogates to itself an 
 imaginary, and supercilious importance, 
 ill becomes the constitutional state of 
 man ; a state which, in its nature, is tran- 
 sitory, and afflicted with many pains.
 
 641 
 
 But if any gift of Heaven demands an 
 enthusiasm of gratitude to its Divine 
 Donour ; if any gift of Heaven warrants 
 a strong, and ardent consciousness of its 
 inestimable value; an internal, pure, and 
 pious triumph in our existence ; a tri- 
 umph too emphatical for expression, and 
 too spiritual for show ; it is that intel- 
 lectual force, and fire ; that creative, and 
 diversified expansion of mind, which gives 
 birth to rich, various and interesting 
 thoughts ; and embodies them in con- 
 genial forms ; it is that irresistible, and 
 victorious energy of soul, which con- 
 quers all difficulties, and is superiour to 
 all situations ; which opposes to inso- 
 lence its repelling spring; to envy its 
 indefatigable perseverance ; which dis- 
 engages itself from earth, and asserts its 
 immortality. 
 
 VOL. II. T T
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 To a dispassionate, sensible, and phi- 
 losophical observer, it is curious, and 
 interesting, to mark the various, and very 
 different natural endowments of the hu- 
 man mind. Some learned, and ingeni- 
 ous men, who, indeed, were eminent 
 writers on subjects to which they were 
 adapted by nature ; and with which, by 
 their habitual studies they were well ac- 
 quainted, have likewise presumed to be 
 cri ticks on our great poets, without pos- 
 sessing much critical acumen, or discri- 
 mination. It is Dr. Adam Smith's opini- 
 on, that the poetry of Gray bears a strik- 
 ing resemblance to the sublime of Milton. 
 This observation is just, as far as it re- 
 lates to some of Gray's noblest passages. 
 The rest of his poetical criticism, which 
 may be found in his theory of moral sen- 
 timents, I shall not have the pleasure of 
 mentioning with equal approbation. He 
 is a great admirer of the cold, correct, 
 and tamely elegant Boileau ; and of the 
 French tragedy ; . which is principally 
 composed of little meagre rhymes ; and
 
 643 
 
 of the prolix ; bombastick ; frothy decla- 
 mation of Gallick eloquence. On such 
 a puerile taste, the muse of Shakespeare, 
 pervading the heart of man ; and that of 
 Milton, " with Heaven's artillery fraught," 
 are miserably thrown away. The same 
 gentleman, would make the display of 
 poetical genius, like that of a lady's court- 
 dress, almost merely an object of fashion, 
 " Pope, and Dr. Swift" (says he) " have, 
 6 each of them, introduced a manner 
 ' different from what was practised be- 
 6 fore. The quaintness of Butler has 
 6 given place to the plainness of Swift. 
 6 The rambling freedom of Dryden, and 
 1 the correct, but often tedious, and pro- 
 1 saick languour of Addison, are no long- 
 1 er the objects of imitation ; but all long 
 1 verses are now written after the man- 
 ' ner of the nervous precision of Pope." 
 I will speak to this futility as concisely as 
 I can. The manner of Pope, and Swift 
 were not introduced by those great men 
 whimsically, and as a fashion ; but in 
 consequence of the progressive improve- 
 ment of our poetry (in which must neces- 
 sarily be included the improvement of our 
 versification) varied, and heightened, by 
 the internal character of their own geni- 
 
 T T2
 
 644 
 
 us*. The feeble quality of quaintness (if 
 Dr. Smith understood the word) was never 
 more misapplied than it is here to But- 
 ler ; for what can be more inadequate 
 than the proper definition of quaintness 
 (i. e. a little, affected, conceited kind of 
 elegance) to our just ideas of the genius 
 of Butler; to the inventive powers of his 
 imagination ; to the bright, and conti- 
 nued scintillations of his wit ? To his 
 ludicrous wit his rhymes were character- 
 istically adapted ; indeed the working of 
 his mind spontaneously, and congenially 
 produced them ; for after all the blunders 
 that have attempted to tear the manner 
 from the matter, I again repeat it ; style 
 is but embodied thought. Dr. Swift 
 was a very great man ; but he was not a 
 very great poet ; as he was incapable of 
 
 * I here principally mean improvements in the art of poetry ; 
 in the elegance, and refinement of language ; in the order, con- 
 gruity, and natural, and judicious connexion of poetical com* 
 position ; all, indeed, animated with the soul ; all assuming a 
 particular character of form, and colour, from the genius of 
 their poet. As to the higher essence of poetry ; as to poetical 
 originality, and fire, and the happiest expressions of them ; they 
 are not confined to any age; nor arc they accomplished by gra- 
 dual improvements : they are a species of inspired eloquence : 
 even in barbarous times, their sell-taught authour astonishes his 
 uncivilized countrymen with their instantaneous perfection.
 
 645 
 
 Butler's poignancy, he could not have 
 adopted his versification without extreme 
 absurdity; therefore he modelled his 
 poetry by what Dr. Smith (and not, I 
 think, with much propriety of expression) 
 calls his plainness ; by a chastised * hu- 
 mour rather than wit ; and by simply 
 elegant verse ; and not of great force, and 
 elevation. 
 
 Dryden was obliged to write hastily ; 
 for he wrote for bread. But by your 
 leave, Dr. Smith, his is not a rambling 
 freedom ; it is the freedom of a great, and 
 fervid mind ; pouring on in a copious, 
 and shining flood of poetry ; glorious 
 even in his faults ; majestick even in his 
 negligence. Addison, in his poetical ca- 
 pacity, was very inferiour to the great 
 poet, of whom, in the next place, I shall 
 take a short view ; therefore I shall only 
 pay my tribute to his Cato. In that tra- 
 gedy he hath shown himself to be an ex- 
 cellent, a great poet : all is classical ; 
 elegant ; with a moral dignity ; with a 
 noble grandeur of sentiment; and with 
 
 * I beg leave particularly to observe, that I am here speaking 
 only of the poetry of Swift. Genuine, and masterly wit is a 
 leading charactcristick of his prose-writings. 
 
 TT 3
 
 646 
 
 language worthy of the sentiments which 
 it conveys. I should do it great injustice 
 if I compared it with the unnatural, in- 
 flated rhetorick of the French drama. 
 " The correct, but tedious, and prosaick 
 " languour," Dr. Smith ; which you as- 
 cribe to Addison, is most pertinently ap- 
 plicable to many of your idols, the 
 French poets. I wish that I could at all 
 redeem the merit of a charming tragedy 
 from our insensibility to true poetry ; and 
 from our barbarous passion for gorgeous, 
 and unmeaning theatrical monsters. 
 
 If we consider the various, and com- 
 plete excellences of Pope, we shall be 
 warranted to assert, that few greater poets 
 than he have existed. I believe that Dr. 
 Johnson very justly observes, that " he 
 " owed much to Dry den, but more to 
 " himself." And is u a nervous preci- 
 " sion" to be a principal, while it can 
 only be an inferiour characteristick of a 
 poet who greatly improved on Dry den ; 
 and who gave us a new, and astonishing 
 species of poetry ; from the elegance, 
 fertility, and fire of his own genius ? Take 
 your nervous precision to yourself, Dr. 
 Smith (your theory of moral sentiments 
 is in much want of it) but let it not, for
 
 647 
 
 a moment, be obtruded on my attention, 
 while I admire his divine genius; equally 
 elegant and inventive in " the Rape of the 
 ' ' Locke ;" or while I am enchanted with 
 the pictures, and irresistibly borne along 
 with the flame of his Eloisa. You tell us 
 that all long verses are now written after 
 the manner of his nervous precision. The 
 verses which are now written in our com- 
 mon, or epick measure have not even the 
 secondary, or subservient merit of his ner- 
 vous precision. Their authours cannot 
 disguise them in the subordinate graces of 
 that great man. I am always ready to 
 sacrifice a servile complaisance, to truth. 
 To prove what I assert, let me appeal to 
 unprejudiced, well-informed, and judi- 
 cious criticks : let them support, and 
 honour me with their opinion of our 
 weak, and childish prologues ; or of our 
 larger productions ; which, though per- 
 haps they are more highly esteemed, are 
 only more evident proofs of our poetical 
 insignificance. 
 
 Mr. Hume's critical taste in poetry; 
 the judgement with which he bestows 
 the highest rank in poetry, shall now en- 
 gage my attention. This great man ; 
 great, as a metaphysician, and a scepti- 
 
 tt4
 
 648. 
 cal philosopher ; was warmly admired by 
 Dr. Smith ; and he was, in many res- 
 pects, worthy of esteem as well as admi- 
 ration. We have an observation of this 
 gentleman (if I recollect aright, it is in 
 his essay * on simplicity, and refine- 
 ment in writing) to this effect; that 
 44 there is nothing new, or striking in 
 44 the thoughts of our best poets, if we 
 44 divest them of their style ; of the hap- 
 44 py chpice, and arrangement of words 
 44 in which they are presented." Then 
 there is not a great poet in the world. 
 Mr. Hume here falls into a common er- 
 rour ; that of considering the^ style rather 
 distinctly, and separately from the intel- 
 lectual substance with which it is indis- 
 solubly connected ; which gave it its be- 
 ing, form, and force. The style is al- 
 ways exactly congenial with the strength, 
 and manner of thinking of its authour, 
 
 * I now quote literally from Mr. Hume's book. u We may 
 '* observe that those compositions which we read the oftenest, 
 " and which every man of taste has got by heart, have the re- 
 i( commendation of simplicity ; and have nothing surprizing in 
 " the thought, when divested of that elegance of expression, and 
 u harmony of numbers with which it is clothed." ***** 
 w Each line; each word in Catullus has its merit; and I am 
 i( never tired of the perusal of him : but Parnell, after the 
 " fiftieth reading, is as fresh as at the first." Essay on- Simple 
 city, and Refinement in Writing.
 
 649 
 
 Of these properties language is the accu- 
 rately responsive organ ; or rather it is 
 the completion ; the perfection of their 
 energies. Shenstone was simple, and 
 easy ; because his soul was natural, and 
 flowing ; but with little strength : Pope 
 was elegant ; harmonious ; pathetick, and 
 sublime ; because all these archetypes, or 
 original qualities were in the essence of 
 his accomplished mind. To the other 
 beautiful qualities in Pope, there was 
 united in Milton, the astonishing sublime; 
 the sublime, in all its magnificence, and 
 grandeur ; because his muse was predes- 
 tined to describe the chariot of the Mes- 
 siah ; to launch the thunder of the Al- 
 mighty. 
 
 Surely, then, mere style, or language, 
 never was, as it never could, naturally, it 
 never could, possibly be praised, by well- 
 informed readers ; by them, the poet's 
 manner of expressing his ideas is admir- 
 ed, only as the vigorous, and splendid 
 nature of those ideas give it a dignity, 
 and lustre. A style deserves no commen- 
 dation which is not impregnated with 
 the spirit of genius ; if it is not actuated, 
 and burnished with that spirit, it must 
 always be feeble, and lifeless, like its
 
 650 
 
 weak, and presumptuous authour. In- 
 finitely various are the powers, and dis- 
 play of the human mind : sometimes a 
 nervous, nay, a great writer, in his ar- 
 dent intellectual progress, will be negli- 
 gent of the style, or manner in which he 
 expresses his thoughts ; but still, aided 
 by that ardour, even his negligent strokes 
 will hit you ; even in his roughness you 
 will feel an interest. This is another 
 proof, if another proof was wanting, that 
 it is thought which gives a commanding 
 character, and authority to style ; and 
 that style will attract, and fix, and grati- 
 fy our attention ; even when it is thrown 
 out by a careless vigour. Amid the infi- 
 nite variety of human faculties, and ex- 
 ertions, to which I have alluded, there are 
 poets who deserve our esteem, and love, 
 and moderate admiration, in whom we 
 find more elegance, and brilliancy of lan- 
 guage, than strength, and splendour of 
 thought. Inadequate judges in the fine 
 arts ; inferiour cri ticks of the Gallick 
 race ; are apt to prefer this terse, and 
 secondaty excellence ; these neat, and 
 spruce dwarfs of Parnassus, to the mus- 
 cular roughness ; to the Herculean, and 
 all- subduing force of our giants in poetry.
 
 651 
 
 To this injudicious, and unaspiring pre- 
 ference there is an opposite analogy 
 (here, again, I must beg leave to have my 
 eye on France) in that puerile, and fop- 
 pish taste which prefers the company, and 
 conversation of a coxcomb, in a gay and 
 fashionable dress, to the society of a man 
 of great good sense, and virtue, in home- 
 ly, and negligent apparel. Our truly 
 great poets, however, have united, in 
 their productions, every degree, and spe- 
 cies of poetical excellence. 
 
 In the opinion of Mr. Hume, and in 
 accurate consistency with his poetical 
 theory, Catullus, and Parnell were the 
 first of all poets. They, indeed, are two 
 of the poets who are far more distinguish- 
 ed by an elegant, and happy turn, or 
 manner of expression, than by strength, 
 and variety of sentiment. This beauty 
 of style, however; this curios a J elicit as, 
 was, in truth, a part ; for it was the bright 
 surface of the luminous, and equable 
 current ; or it was the immediate, and 
 plastick result of the more calm, and re- 
 gular graces of the mind. 
 
 " Each line, each word" (says Mr. 
 Hume) " in Catullus, has its merit; but 
 " Parnell, after the fiftieth reading, is as
 
 652 
 
 u fresh as at the first." This is certainly, 
 in a proportionable estimate of poetical 
 excellence, a very exaggerated encomium 
 on these two poets : it is exaggerated, 
 with regard to the abated effect which 
 even intellectual pleasure, often repeated, 
 produces in the mind. But if it is deserv- 
 ed by any poets, it is certainly deserved 
 by those poets who have traversed an 
 extensive, and variegated field ; and who 
 are extremely interesting, from a diver- 
 sity of genius as well as of subjects; 
 who have raised the elegant, and the beau- 
 tiful, to the vigorous, and the sublime ; 
 and who, therefore, give us, not only a 
 sedate, and easy, but a highly impassion- 
 ed pleasure 5 the agitation of delight j the 
 enthusiasm of rapture. These effects 
 may be produced by the poetry of Thom- 
 son ; of Pope ; of Young, and of Milton; 
 but they are beyond the power of Catul- 
 lus, and Parnell ; who have no great vari- 
 ety ; who are not eminently distinguished 
 by strength, and elevation; and whose 
 excellence lies not so much in the essence 
 as in the manner. Indeed I have often 
 wondered that a man of Mr. Hume's 
 moral decorum should have chosen Ca- 
 tullus for an object of his particular
 
 653 
 
 praise ; as the muse of that poet is, in ge- 
 neral, prostituted to a horrid obscenity. 
 
 The same gentleman, in a letter to the 
 late Dr. Robertson, mentions our justly 
 celebrated Swift ; " whom" (says he) 
 " I can often laugh with ; whose style I 
 " can even approve ; but surely can never 
 " admire. Were not their literature" 
 [that of the English] " still in a somewhat 
 " barbarous state, that authour's place 
 " would not be so high among their class- 
 " icks." The style of Swift is, on the 
 whole, chaste, elegant, and attick ; sim- 
 ple, and not so animated, and metapho- 
 rical as I could wish ; yet clearly, and 
 strongly expressive of his ideas. That he 
 can make us laugh, is his least praise ; 
 he gives us the most important moral, 
 political, and religious instruction; en- 
 forced with a moderately adorned, yet 
 commanding, and victorious eloquence ; 
 and with the powerful auxiliaries of a 
 fertile imagination; of an original inven- 
 tion. The literary judgement, and taste 
 of the reader who does not see, and feel 
 these excellences, " must be still in a 
 " somewhat barbarous state." Our En- 
 glish literature, in the days of Swift, was 
 in the complete reverse of a barbarous
 
 654 
 
 state ; it was in its Augustan period. 
 From the new, conceited, and vulgar 
 phrases ; from the laboured, and affected 
 strain which it hath assumed, since that 
 auspicious time ; we have reason to ap- 
 prehend, if not already to pronounce, its 
 barbarous degeneracy. 
 
 If my preceding observations are just, 
 we may infer that metaphysical cri ticks 
 miss their aim as much as metaphysical 
 poets. And it will be evident, I hope, 
 that in what I have said of Mr. Hume, I 
 have meant no disrespect to the literature, 
 and philosophy of Scotland. If Swift 
 was not admired by Mr. Hume, he is, 
 undoubtedly, admired by many north- 
 ern men of learning, and taste. From 
 the letter of Dr. Robertson, to which I 
 have referred, it appears that he was a 
 favourite of that celebrated writer ; and 
 his authority alone will, at least balance 
 that of Mr. Hume ; whom I never can 
 deem an able critick on poetry. As a 
 historian, I think that he is eminently 
 the first in the English language. I es- 
 teem, I admire his philosophical, and 
 argumentative talents ; though on some 
 important, and sacred subjects, which 
 are eternally dear to the heart, and mind
 
 655 
 
 of man, I trust that he is mistaken. For 
 freedom of rational disquisition, I shall 
 ever be a sincere, and strenuous advocate : 
 I am always as charmed when I contem- 
 plate the amiable image of a tolerant, 
 benevolent, and christian clergyman, as 
 I am disgusted when I recollect the little 
 creature that is meant by its representa- 
 tive monosyllable of severe secular appli- 
 cation ; priest. 
 
 I have, at length, brought to a conclu- 
 sion my Lectures on our great English 
 Poets ; a work which I have now prose- 
 cuted for several years ; for since I began 
 it, I have suffered many painful inter- 
 ruptions. If, after conquering the oppo- 
 sitions of malice, which have always been 
 hostile to the literary fortune of its au- 
 thour, it should make its way, as I wish, 
 and be honoured with the approbation, 
 and esteem of the learned, and the good ; 
 I shall think myself amply rewarded for 
 my trouble in composing it ; for all the 
 troubles of my life. I hope that I have not 
 passed the hours even of my old age im- 
 properly, while I renewed my acquaint- 
 ance with poetry ; if we converse with it 
 merely as a relaxation, we are innocently, 
 and elegantly amused ; if we give it our
 
 * 
 
 656 
 
 more serious, and studious attention, we 
 shall find it a powerful incentive to 
 virtue. 
 
 Consistently with my plan, and with 
 my sincerity, it was necessary for me, 
 however disagreeable the task was, and 
 however invidious it might appear ; on 
 many occasions, directly to oppose a cele- 
 brated writer ; in whose biographical 
 criticism I found much to commend ; 
 and I am sorry to add, more to blame. 
 And I am satisfied by my impartiality, 
 and by the conviction which results from 
 common penetration ; that if great parts 
 of Dr. Johnson's Lives of the English 
 Poets had not been recommended by the 
 imperious authority of a name; they 
 would only have excited a momentary 
 resentment; and been dismissed from 
 farther attention, with a calm, and deci- 
 sive contempt. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY D. N. SHURY, BERWICK STREET, SOHO. 
 
 '2 3 25

 
 * 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Kl AP ^ i Z 1968 
 
 JUN 18196* 
 APR 2219( 
 
 REC'D LD-URO 
 
 iRS 3 19? 
 
 MAR 91374 
 
 Lfl 
 
 oF 
 
 WO 4 
 
 !AV 1 7 1990 
 
 537 
 
 Form L9-Series 4939 
 
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