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-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

all the literary lights to do homage to his genius. Who knows what Chatterton's hopes of fame and fortune were, when a boy of seventeen he set out for London, alone?

There is no need to tell how pitifully small his realizations were. Every one has heard of that struggle with poverty, that hope deferred, that bitter humiliation of failure, which, with his old pride, he hid from Bristol friends, and finally that black and awful despair in which his young life ended.

The utter wreck of Chatterton's career was due to the fatal combination in him of genius and weakness. True genius inevitably cuts a man off from outside support. He can understand his fellow-men, for genius is eternal sympathy as well as "eternal patience," but his fellowmen can never understand him. If he has not the strength to be self-sufficient; if, having genius, he seeks to lean upon others, he must either quench the fire within him, or lose his faith in humanity. Throughout. Chatterton's short life, we find this strange weakness, this yearning for sympathy. He tried to find sympathy, as a little child among his school-companions, and failed. He tried to make his shadowy friend Rowley a substitute for human help, and failed. His appeal to Walpole, boyish freak though it seems, was his last attempt to find support from outside. Then came his desperate efforts at dependence on self, his lonely London life, and wretched death.

I have said very little in regard to what is usually considered the great blemish on Chatterton's character-his forging of the Rowley manuscript. When we consider that he was a child, that his motives were at first entirely innocent, and that he had no one in the world to guide him, we dare not judge him harshly. After reading his life there can be nothing but pity in our hearts for the proud, impetuous, heaven-gifted boy, who died of starvation and despair, in London so long ago.


Early one dismal November day, plain Mr. Brown was about to cross Brooklyn bridge. He had spent the preceding day in the city wandering about watching.with interest the throbbing life of the metropolis, and rejoicing in the quieter existence which was his lot. A banker in a small town in central New York, it was his custom to pay occasional visits, either for business or pleasure, to his friends in New York or Brooklyn. As he ascended the steps on the Brooklyn side he saw a strong, honest looking Irish woman selling papers. She had seized upon an empty packing box of moderate size which had been left near by. The larger number of her papers were on the box held down by several stones so that the occasional gusts of wind might not blow them away. A few she kept in her hand ready to make quick sales. Mr. Brown had not yet purchased his morning paper. The woman's face attracted him and he decided to buy of her. She served him pleasantly, expressing regret that she would have to keep him waiting in the "drizzle" until she obtained change for his proffered half-dollar. “But sure Sorr," she said, "Danny'll be but a minute, a wee minute. Danny, me darlint, be quick now wid the gentleman's change." Mr. Brown was wondering where Danny was, whether he was called from the sky, or summoned from the ground, when a noise was heard inside of the news-stand and quickly a little head, with close dark curls, a pair of bright eyes, a roguish mouth and a thousand freckles, surmounting a sturdy little body evidently in its first and very fragmentary Knickerbockers, appeared around the lower corner of the box. Danny took the money and disappeared with it. Mr. Brown reflected that Danny was a New York street gamin and that his baby life was safe; still he did not feel comfortable until he saw the boy reappear, threading his way among the horses and wagons. The mother greeted the boy with "The Saints preserve the Tribune Sir? The Vir

gin be praised! Ye back, Danny, and quick you was too, darlint-Tribune? Give the gentleman the change, and thank him for awaitin', and then get ye back into the box out of the wet-Tribune, sir?" Mr. Brown gave the bright little fellow a penny and watched him crawl into his little house, then walked away.

The next hot summer Mr. Brown, in his cool house, recalled his "Tribune boy," as in his thoughts he had called Danny, and as he sat reading his paper his attention was caught and fixed by the news of the Fresh Air Fund. "Wife," said he, "we have no children and we both love them. Suppose we import one for the summer or a few weeks at least. I'd like to get Danny, but there isn't much chance of his being our Fresh Air-I guess I could get several of our neighbors to take each a boy or girl, and we aren't so far from the city that the Tribune would object to sending them." They talked the matter over between themselves, then with their neighbors, with the result that the sultry days of August found eight happy Fresh Air children in the town, and Danny among them. Poor Danny! he was hardly recognizable as the sunny faced lad of the November day. His former sturdy frame looked very feeble, and his little smile was pathetically bright. But soon Mrs. Brown's motherly care, together with good country air and food, brought back the old color and chased away the fever's legacy of chills. The out-of-door life brought the freckles too. Danny could never be a handsome lad. He would always have a bright attractive face, but, with all its freckles, a droll one.

Danny was an affectionate little fellow, truthful, and brave with all the keenness and quick wit of the street Arab. A very rough diamond, yet with such promise of value that Mr. Brown, urged by his wife, decided to keep him longer than the summer, and if he proved teachable and his mother agreed, finally to adopt him.

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