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Whispers the clover down at her feet,
“The daisy has not our fragrance sweet.
See how boldly she holds her head!
Gather us, Rosalie dear, instead."

But Rosalie careless passes them by,
Bearing her daisy sheaf.

Rosalie's lover kneels in the grass.

"Rosalie, dearest, do not pass

Leaving my heart to wither alone,

Stoop and gather it, love, for thine own."

But Rosalie laughs and passes him by,
Bearing her daisy sheaf.

De Temporibus et Moribus.


In the heart of the busy commercial town of Bristol stands the beautiful old church of S. Mary Redcliffe, one of the finest specimens of Norman architecture in England. Entering its dim silence from the noisy, glaring streets, one is straightway carried from the commonplace present back to the long dead past, when the knights and merchants of Bristol, whom these battered effigies represent, thronged the church at high mass on feast days; and the names recorded on these dusty tablets were names of those still living in the minds of men.

Over a hundred years ago, there wandered among these tombs a child-a boy of seven, quite lost beneath the dusky, echoing arches which towered high above him. Day after day he came, and strolling about in the great empty church, spent hours in dreamy musings. If you had happened into the peaceful place, and seen the little lonely figure sitting with its head leaning against the stone tomb of "William Canynge, Founder of the Church," the sexton would have told you that it was his nephew, Thomas Chatterton, an idle little dunce. This, at least, was the flattering opinion which his relatives held of the silent lad who would not mind his books.

His mother was a poor sewing woman; his father, dead before his birth, had been master of a free school in the neighborhood. It was his mother's great hope to have her child educated "as became the son of a scholar." But when, at the age of six, he was sent to the same school of which his father had been master, his teacher bade him go home again, saying that it was impossible for him to learn. His mother was bitterly disappointed. at his stupidity; there was no place for him at home, and

so the poor child sat alone crying silently for hours, with a hopeless sense of wrong upon him.

One day, however, a pile of old parchments from the muniment-room of S. Mary's was brought into the house by his sexton-uncle, and the child's eye was caught by some illuminated capitals. He gathered up armfuls of the musty old documents, and trudged upstairs with them to a lumber-room under the roof. Here he pored over a black-letter Bible until he had learned to read. Then he would shut himself up in his garret for hours, and when his mother or sister came to see what he was at, would fly into a passion with "I wish you would bide out of the room-it is my room!" He was seized with a passionate desire to learn. Even at this early age he felt that those about him were not with him, that he had an inherited right to a kingdom of which they knew nothing. If he could only enter it-the wonderful kingdom of thought!

At last, as he supposed, the opportunity came. He was elected, when eight years old, a pupil of the Bluecoat School at Bristol. Now he should learn everything in the world, he should be able to understand what those strange thoughts meant which came to him when he was alone. He went to school, and was instructed in "the principles of Christian doctrine as laid down in the Church catechism." The bitterness of that disappointment, and the scorn and hatred of the narrow minds around him which came upon the poor child! He must find resources in himself.

In these days he would run away from his school-fellows, and seek his old sanctuary in the great dim church; and here the friendless boy created for himself a friend and helper. As he took refuge from boyish persecutions, and lay still by the old stone tomb, in fancy there came to him the figure of a priest of the old days-a wise and wonderful man to whom he told all his troubles, and who gave him that for which he had such a passionate craving

-sympathy. In this imagined personage, who speedily became real to him, and whom he called "Rowley," perhaps a name he had come across in some old record, he found a sufficient resource for his lonely moods.

It was about this time that Chatterton found he could write, and found also that his pen was an efficient weapon. His boyish contempt for the stupidity, and arrogance of his teachers, his proud resentment at the patronage of older boys, all found vent in stinging satire and caricatures, which, published anonymously in a local paper, made the whole neighborhood smart.

But it was when the spirit of the long past was about him in the old church, that the real poetry in him awoke. He lived, in the character of his friend Rowley, amid the romance and beauty of the Middle Ages, all the sordidness of his real life at home and at school forgotten. Rowley was, in his fancy, both priest and man of letters, the most remarkable poet of his times; in fact, he was Chatterton's ideal of culture and wisdom, a man of different race from the sordid tradesmen, the pewterers and grocers of Bristol. What more natural than that the boy's first real poetic effort should be the writing of something which he could fancy came from the pen of his beloved master?

When, however, he had finished the poem of “ Elinoure and Juga," the earliest product of his genius, he felt the need of more tangible sympathy and help than his ghostly counsellor could give him. men thought of his work. favorite tutor, one Phillips, a man, we are told,

He must find
So he took the

out what real

poem to his

"of some

poetic knowledge and faculty." Perhaps from a sudden timidity, perhaps from the desire to get an unbiased judgment, Chatterton represented the manuscript to have been found in a heap of old papers and to be really the work of Rowley. We can guess with what eagerness he awaited Phillips's opinion, half hoping, perhaps, that the deception would be discovered and his own genius with

it. But poor Phillips, in spite of his poetic faculty, was completely taken in. Then the spirit of mischief awoke in Chatterton, for we must remember that he was only twelve, and finding the worthies of Bristol such easy dupes he resolved to keep up the fraud. Accordingly, ancient manuscripts, poems and tragedies by Rowley, began to come to light with astonishing rapidity, and the boy's keen satirical humor fairly revelled in the gullibility of his elders. Poor child of thirteen, how little he realized that his pastime was to terminate so fatally!


The enjoyment of this kind of sport was necessarily solitary. Chatterton had by this time outgrown Rowley as a friend and confidant, and the longing for intercourse with an equal mind was again strong upon him. A daring project come into his head, and with his usual recklessness he proceeded at once to carry it out. He wrote to Horace Walpole-to Walpole, the great Sage of Piccadilly "assumed the style of a brother antiquarian, and sent him a bogus manuscript entitled "Peyncting yn Englande." Walpole's flattering reception of the remarkable production and his subsequent discovery of the fraud are well known. He wrote a note of reproof and admonition to the erring boy, but not one word in recognition of his wonderful genius. It is always disappointing to get advice where we looked for sympathy, and when Walpole took no notice of Chatterton's request for the return of his manuscript, all the disappointed ambition and hurt pride in Chatterton's nature flashed up into the passionate outburst which Walpole calls "a singularly impertinent note." Thus by the boy's own folly another possible source of help was cut off from him.

Well, he would seek his fortune alone, since there was no one on whom he could rely. Once out in the world. of London, away from this petty, commonplace Bristol life, he should find encouragement and sympathy. He would write something which should bring Walpole and

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