expression of passion, and the work of moral stimulation, verse and prose meet as co-equals, prose undertaking the rougher and harder duty, where passion intermingles with the storm of current doctrine, and with the play and conflict of social interests,-sometimes, when thus engaged, bursting into such strains of irregular music, that verse takes up the echo, and prolongs it in measured modulation, leaving prose rapt and listening to hear itself outdone; and, lastly, that in the noble realm of poetry or imagination, prose also is capable of all exquisite, beautiful, and magnificent effects, but that by reason of a greater ease with fancies when they come in crowds, and of a greater range and arbitrariness of combination, verse here moves with the more royal gait. And thus prose and verse are presented as two circles or spheres, not entirely separate, as some would make them, but intersecting and interpenetrating through a large portion of both their bulks, and disconnected only in two crescents outstanding at the right and left, or, if you adjust them differently, at the upper and lower extremities. The left or lower crescent, the peculiar and sole region of prose, is where we labour amid the sheer didactic, or the didactic combined with the practical and the stern. The right or upper crescent, the peculiar and sole region of verse, is where pathēsis, at its utmost thrill and ecstacy, interblends with the highest and most daring poiesis."

This is vigorous thinking and writing; and the Professor's volume contains many such passages. We would in especial instance the Essays on the "Literature of the Restoration,” on "Wordsworth," and on "Scottish Influence on British Literature." But the longest and finest composition of the work, a gem in literary biography,-is its "Chatterton, a story of the year 1770." There is perhaps no name in British poetry of the same frequency of occurrence, that is so purely a name, as that of

"The marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride."

Such of his poems as were written in modern English, and in his own proper name and character, are not pleasing, and, sooth to say, not more than clever; while his poems written in the character of Rowley are locked up in what is virtually a dead tongue, considerably different from that of Chaucer or the "King's Quair," or, in short, from any other tongue

ever written by any other poet. And as there is but little temptation to master a language, and that, too, a language which never was spoken, for the sake of a few poems, however meritorious, most men are content to take the fame of the Rowley writings on trust, or at least to determine by brief specimens that they are in reality the wonderful compositions which the critics of the last age pronounced them to be. And so Chatterton is now very much a bright name associated with a dark story. Further, of the story, little more survived in the public mind than would have furnished materials for an ordinary newspaper paragraph. Chatterton had not been very fortunate in his biographers; and it was but known, in consequence, that, living in an age not unfamiliar with literary forgery,-it is unnecessary to give instances within sight of the great Highland mountains,—he had fabricated a volume of old English poems greatly superior to any old English poems ever written, with the single exception of those of Chaucer; that, quitting his native place, where he had succeeded in earning not more than the modicum of honour which prophets ordinarily achieve for themselves when at home, he had gone to force his upward way among the wits of London; and that there, in utter destitution and neglect, he had miserably destroyed himself. Such was all that was generally known of Chatterton, even by men of reading. Professor Masson's singularly interesting and powerful biography fills up this sad outline as it was never filled up before; and shows how deep a tragedy that of the poor boy was, who, after achieving immortality, "perished in his pride," at about the age when lads who purpose pursuing the more laborious mechanical professions are preparing to enter on their apprenticeships. Further, without aught approaching to formal apology for the offences and shortcomings of the hapless lad, it shows us what a mere boy he was, in all except genius, at the time of his death. Sir Walter,

in referring, in his "Demonology," to the young rascals on whose extraordinary evidence so many old women were burnt as witches in Sweden, has some very striking, and, we think, very just remarks, on the obtuseness of the moral sense in most children, especially boys. "The melancholy truth, that the 'human heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked,' is by nothing proved so strongly," we find him saying, "as by the imperfect sense displayed by children of the sanctity of moral truth. Both gentlemen and the mass of the people, as they advance in years, learn to despise and avoid falsehood,—the former out of pride, and from a remaining feeling, derived from the days of chivalry, that the character of a liar is a deadly stain on their honour; the other, from some general reflection upon the necessity of preserving a character for integrity in the course of life, and a sense of the truth of the common adage that 'honesty is the best policy.' But these are acquired habits of thinking. The child has no natural love of truth, as is experienced by all who have the least acquaintance with early youth. If they are charged with a fault while they can hardly speak, the first words they stammer forth are a falsehood to excuse it. Nor is this all. The temptation of attracting attention, the pleasure of enjoying importance, the desire to escape from an unpleasing task, or accomplish a holiday, will at any time overcome the sentiment of truth,—so weak is it within them." A sad picture, but, we fear, a true one; and in reading the tragic story of Chatterton, we were oftener than once reminded of it. We see in almost every stage of his progress the unripe boy, precocious in intellect, and in that only. But with the following powerful passage, taken from the closing scene in the sad drama, we must conclude,—meanwhile recommending Professor Masson's work to our readers, as one of singular interest and ability :—

"He called on me,' is Mr Cross's statement, about half-past eleven

in the morning. As usual, he talked about various matters; and at last, probably just as he was going away, he said he wanted some arsenic for an experiment.' 'Mr Cross, Mr Cross,-before you go to your drawer for the arsenic, look at that boy's face! Look at it steadily; look till he quails; and then leap upon him and hold him!' Mr Cross does not look. He sells the arsenic (yes, sells, for somehow during that walk, in which he has disposed of the bundle [of manuscripts], he has procured the necessary pence), and lives to repent it. Chatterton, the arsenic in his pocket, does not return to his lodging immediately, but walks about, God only knows where, through the vast town. 'He returned,' continued Mrs Angell, about seven in the evening, looking very pale and dejected, and would not eat anything, but sat moping by the fire with his chin on his knees, and muttering rhymes in some old language to her. After some hours he got up to go to bed, and he then kissed her, a thing he had never done before.' Mrs Angell, what can that kiss mean? Detain the boy; he is mad; he is not fit to be left alone; arouse the whole street rather than let him go. She does let him go, and lives to repent it. 'He went up stairs,' she says, 'stamping on every stair as he went slowly up, as if he would break it.' She hears him reach his room. He enters, and locks the door behind him. "The devil was abroad that night in the sleeping city. Down narrow and squalid courts his presence was felt, where savage men clutched miserable women by the throat, and the neighbourhood was roused by yells of murder, and the barking of dogs, and the shrieks of children. Up in wretched garrets his presence was felt, where solitary mothers gazed on their infants, and longed to kill them. He was in the niches of dark bridges, where outcasts lay huddled together, and some of them stood up from time to time, and looked over at the dim stream below. He was in the uneasy hearts of undiscovered forgers, and of ruined men plotting mischief. He was in prison cells, where condemned criminals condoled with each other in obscene songs and blasphemy. What he achieved that night in and about the vast city came duly out into light and history. But of all the spots over which the Black Shadow hung, the chief, for that night at least, was a certain undistinguished house in the narrow street, which thousands who now dwell in London pass and repass, scarce observing it, every day of their lives, as they go and come along the thoroughfare of Holborn. At the door of one house in that quiet street the Horrid Shape watched; through that door he passed in towards midnight; and from that door, having done his work, he emerged before it was morning.

"On the morrow, Saturday the 25th August, Mrs Angell noticed that her lodger did not come down at the time expected. As he had lain longer than usual, however, on the day before, she was not alarmed.

But about eleven o'clock, her husband being then out, and Mrs Wolfe having come in, she began to fear that something might be the matter; and she and Mrs Wolfe went up stairs and knocked at the door. They listened awhile, but there was no answer. They then tried to open the door, but found it locked. Being then thoroughly alarmed, one of them ran down stairs, and called a man who chanced to be passing in the street to come and break the door open. The man did so ; and on entering they found the floor littered with small pieces of paper, and Chatterton lying on the bed, with his legs hanging over, quite dead. The bed had not been lain in. The man took up some of the pieces of paper; and on one of them he read, in the deceased's own handwriting, the words,-'I leave my soul to its Maker, my body to my mother and sisters, and my curse to Bristol. If Mr Ca': the rest was torn off. "The man then said,' relates Mrs Angell, that he must have killed himself; which we did not think till then. Mrs Wolfe ran immediately for Mr Cross, who came, and was the first to point out a bottle on the window containing arsenic and water. Some of the bits of arsenic were between his teeth, so that there was no doubt that he had poisoned himself.""-August 23, 1856.

A STRANGE STORY, BUT TRUE.*

It is now nearly forty years since an operative mason, somewhat dissipated in his habits, and a little boy, his son, who had completed his twelfth year only a few weeks previous, were engaged in repairing a tall, ancient domicile, in one of the humbler streets of Plymouth. The mason was employed in re-laying some of the roofing: the little boy, who acted as his labourer, was busied in carrying up slates and lime along a long ladder. The afternoon was slowly wearing through,

* Memoirs of Dr John Kitto, D.D., F.S.A., Editor of the "Pictorial Bible" and the "Cyclopædia of Biblical Literature," Author of "Daily Bible Illustrations," &c. Compiled chiefly from his Letters and Journals. By J. E. Ryland, M.A. With a critical estimate of Dr Kitto's life and writings. By Professor Eadie, D.D., LL.D., Glasgow.