Chatterton has been designated by many as the Crichton of his time; but that extraordinary individual cannot be fairly compared with him, when we consider either the precocity or the sum of his talents. It must be remembered that the admirable Crichton studied at the University of St. Andrews under Rutherford and Buchanan, and that when he left that seat of learning, he was rather more than three years older than Chatterton was at the time of his death; Crichton, therefore, derived all the advantages of an elegant and classical education, whilst Chatterton received his scanty stock of scholastic lore from a charity school, where only reading, writing, and arithmetic were taught. The end, both of Chatterton and Crichton, was disastrous, too often the fate of great geniuses; one perished in his pride and "solemn agony" in a garret, in High Holborn, and the other fell by the sword of his pupil in the streets of Mantua. Full of hope, confident of success, and the desperate resolution of suicide which he had formed, being probably diverted for a time by his escape from professional thraldom, Chatterton, lured by the promises of booksellers,6 who flattered

6 How much Chatterton, with all his knowledge, knew of the arts of booksellers, may be gathered from the following poem, which he has denominated "The Art of Puffing, by a Bookseller's Journeyman."

"Vers'd by experience in the subtile art,
The myst'ries of a title I impart :

his abilities to reap their prolific harvest from his exertions, dependent upon his own resources for the future, and with no other experience than the past, left for ever the city of his birth, from which he had never before been absent for a day; and set forth to play his unexperienced part in the great metropolis. In the following lively letter to his mother, he describes the incidents of his journey:

"Here I am, safe, and in high spirits.-To

give you a journal of my tour would not be unneces

Teach the young author how to please the town;
And make the heavy drug of rhime go down.

Since Curl, immortal, never dying name,

A double pica in the book of fame,
By various arts did various dunces prop,
And tickled every fancy to his shop:
Who can like Pottinger ensure a book?
Who judges with the solid taste of Cooke?
Villains exalted in the midway sky,
Shall live again, to drain your purses dry:
Nor yet unrivall'd they; see Baldwin comes,
Rich in inventions, patents, cuts, and hums:
The honorable Boswell writes, 'tis true,
What else can Paoli's supporter do?
The trading wits endeavour to attain,

Like booksellers, the world's first idol-gain :
For this they puff the heavy Goldsmith's line,
And hail his sentiment, tho' trite, divine;
For this, the patriotic bard complains,
And Bingley binds poor liberty in chains:
For this was every reader's faith deceiv'd,
And Edmund swore what nobody believ'd:

sary. After riding in the basket to Brislington, I mounted the top of the coach, and rid easy; and was agreeably entertained with the conversation of a quaker in dress, but little so in personals and behaviour. This laughing Friend, who is a carver, lamented his having sent his tools to Worcester, as otherwise he would have accompanied me to London. I left him at Bath; when, finding it rained pretty fast I entered an inside passenger to Speenhamland, the half-way stage, paying seven shillings. 'Twas lucky I did so, for it snowed all night, and on Marlborough Downs the snow was near a foot high.

"At seven in the morning I breakfasted at Speenhamland, and then mounted the coach-box for the remainder of the day, which was a remarkable fine one. Honest gee-hoo complimented me with assuring

For this the wits in close disguises fight;
For this the varying politicians write;
For this each month new magazines are sold,
With dullness fill'd and transcripts of the old.
The Town and Country struck a lucky hit,
Was novel, sentimental, full of wit:
Apeing her walk, the same success to find,
The Court and City hobbles far behind:
Sons of Apollo learn, merit's no more
Than a good frontispiece to grace her door;
The author who invents a title well,
Will always find his cover'd dullness sell
Flexney and every bookseller will buy,-
Bound in neat calf, the work will never die.

"July 22, 1770."

;

"VAMP.

me, that I sat bolder and tighter than any person who ever rid with him.-Dined at Stroud most luxuriantly, with a young gentleman who had slept all the preceding night in the machine; and an old mercantile genius, whose school-boy son had a great deal of wit, as the father thought, in remarking that Windsor was as old as our Saviour's time.

"Got into London about five o'clock in the evening -called upon Mr. Edmunds, Mr. Fell, Mr. Hamilton, and Mr. Dodsley. Great encouragement from them; all approved of my design;-shall soon be settled. Call upon Mr. Lambert; shew him this, or tell him, if I deserve a recommendation, he would oblige me to give me one-if I do not, it will be beneath him to take notice of me. Seen all aunts, cousins all well-and I am welcome. Mr. T. Wensley is alive, and coming home.-Sister, grandmother, &c. &c. &c. remember.

Flushed at first with the imaginary dawn of noontide splendour which was never to shine upon him; and believing his numerous essays in the periodical publications of the day to be so many steps on the ladder of preferment; he hastens, in his second and

third communications, to pour out the fulness of his intoxicated heart to that mother who was never to see

him more:

"Shoreditch, London, May 6th, 1770.

"Dear Mother,

I am surprised that no letter has been sent in answer to my last. I am settled, and in such a settlement as I would desire. I get four guineas a month by one Magazine: shall engage to write a History of England, and other pieces, which will more than double that sum. Occasional essays for the daily papers would more than support me. What a glorious prospect! Mr. Wilkes knew me by my writings since I first corresponded with the booksellers here. I shall visit him next week, and by his interest will insure Mrs. Ballance the Trinity-House. He affirmed that what Mr. Fell had of mine could not be the writings of a youth; and expressed a desire to know the author. By the means of another bookseller I shall be introduced to Townshend and Sawbridge. I am quite familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there. A character is now unnecessary; an author carries his character in his pen. My sister will improve herself in drawing. My grandmother is, I hope, well. Bristol's mercenary walls were never destin'd to hold me-there, I was out of my element: