hardly fulfilled. He obtained a fellowship in 1751, and in 1757 was appointed Professor of Poetry. He was also rector of Kiddington and of Hill Farrance in Somerset. He loved his pipe and his tankard, and had, it is said, but two sermons-one of them his father's, and the other a printed one. Oxford remained his home, and the even tenor of his life was only varied by his occasional publications, one of which, The Triumph of Isis, in praise of Oxford (and in reply to Mason), made his name widely known; and another, an elaborate Essay on Spenser's Faerie Queene (1754), gained for him a higher repute. Long after (1785) he edited the minor poems of Milton, an edition which Professor Masson pronounced the best ever produced, and which Leigh Hunt said was a wilderness of sweets. Some of the notes show true insight, while others display Warton's taste for antiquities and for architecture, his sympathy with old-world superstition, and his intimate acquaintance with the Elizabethan writers. In the famous History of English Poetry (1774-78), which finally established his reputation, Warton poured out the treasures of a full mind. His antiquarian lore, his love of antique manners, and his enthusiasm found appropriate exercise in tracing the stream of our poetry from its fountain-springs down to the luxuriant reign of Elizabeth, 'the most poetical age of our annals,' as he said to the amaze of an age that thought itself vastly superior to all earlier periods, and had been accustomed to think of the older writers as merely unpolished and uncouth. Pope and Gray had planned schemes of a history of English poetry, in which the authors were to be arranged according to their style and merits. Warton adopted the chronological arrangement, as giving freer scope for research, and as enabling him to exhibit, without transposition, the gradual development in our poetry and the progress of our language. The untiring industry and learning of the poet-historian accumulated a mass of materials equally valuable and curious. As was inevitable, many of his discoveries have been superseded by other discoveries, many of his theories have had to be corrected or largely expanded. His plan was defective, his translations from old French and English were by no means accurate, and he sometimes wanders from his subject or overlays it with extraneous details. But he was a sagacious, far-sighted, and independent investigator of a new and wide field; and his work, variously judged by contemporary and subsequent critics, remains a vast storehouse of facts connected with our early literature, till then all but unknown even to the educated. The scheme excluded the drama, so rich a part of our early imaginative literature. The third volume comes down to the end of the Elizabethan period; the fourth, which would have included Pope, was never published. On the death of Whitehead in 1785, Warton was

appointed poet-laureate. His learning gave dignity to an office then held in small esteem. The same year he was made Camden Professor of History. He wrote humorous verse and prose, satires on Newmarket and other places, and produced an edition of Theocritus and Lives of two college benefactors; and he was clearly the man to make the Inquiry into the Authenticity of the Rowley Poems of poor Chatterton, which gave an unfavourable verdict.

Both as poet and critic Warton greatly promoted the new movement in English poetry. In his verse, though it was largely imitative of Spenser, Milton, or Gray, and even of Pope, there was evident a then unusual and unfeigned love of nature, of the romantic and chivalrous. His affection for Gothic architecture and the antique is highly significant, and comes out in many of his verses. As a critic he was really the first to use or appreciate the poetic treasures hid in our ancient libraries; and his History of English Poetry may fairly be ranked with Percy's Reliques as having contributed to give a vital impulse to poetry. His mock-heroics and burlesques were in their way admirable. His sonnets, not seldom awkward and even wooden, were thought his most perfect work, and they revived interest in sonnet-writing. On the whole, his critical theories and sympathies were in advance of his practice. The Pleasures of Melancholy, his poems on royal births, deaths, and marriages even before the laureate era, and even some of his odes belong almost wholly to the old school. His first official ode on the king's birthday provoked the clever squib, Probationary Odes for the Laureateship, some of which are almost Whitmanesque. some of his best things, such as the story of Blondel and Richard, and the poem given below, in which Henry II. on his way to head the Irish expedition is entertained with the story of Arthur, breathe not a little of the spirit of romance. Warton unquestionably influenced Bowles, and after him or through him, Coleridge; and Lamb and Hazlitt were sincere admirers. These are passages from the History of English Poetry:

Chaucer.

But

Chaucer's vein of humour, although conspicuous in the Canterbury Tales, is chiefly displayed in the Characters with which they are introduced. In these his knowledge of the world availed him in a peculiar degree, and enabled him to give such an accurate picture of ancient manners as no cotemporary nation has transmitted to posterity. It is here that we view the pursuits and employments, the customs and diversions of our ancestors, copied from the life, and represented with equal truth and spirit, by a judge of mankind whose penetration qualified him to discern their foibles or discriminating peculiarities; and by an artist who understood that proper selection of circumstances, and those predominant characteristics, which form a finished portrait. We are surprised to find, in so gross and ignorant

an age, such talents for satire and for observation on life; qualities which usually exert themselves at more civilised periods, when the improved state of society, by substi tuting our speculations, and establishing uniform modes of behaviour, disposes mankind to study themselves, and render deviations of conduct and singularities of character more immediately and necessarily the objects of censure and ridicule. These curious and valuable remains are specimens of Chaucer's native genius, unassisted and unalloyed. The figures are all British, and bear no suspicious signatures of classical, Italian, or French imitation. The characters of Theophrastus are not so lively, particular, and appropriated.

The Reformation and Literature.

It is generally believed that the reformation of religion in England, the most happy and important event of our annals, was immediately succeeded by a flourishing state of letters. But this was by no means the case. For a long time afterwards an effect quite contrary was produced. The reformation in England was completed under the reign of Edward VI. The rapacious courtiers of this young prince were perpetually grasping at the rewards of literature; which being discouraged or despised by the rich, was neglected by those of moderate fortunes. Avarice and zeal were at once gratified in robbing the clergy of their revenues, and in reducing the church to its primitive apostolical state of purity and poverty. The opulent see of Winchester was lowered to a bare title its amplest estates were portioned out to the laity; and the bishop, a creature of the protector Somerset, was contented to receive an inconsiderable annual stipend from the exchequer. The bishoprick of Durham, almost equally rich, was entirely dissolved. A favorite nobleman of the court occupied the deanery and treasurership of a cathedral with some of its best canonries. The ministers of this abused monarch, by these arbitrary, dishonest, and imprudent measures, only proved instruments, and furnished arguments, for restoring in the succeeding reign that superstitious religion which they professed to destroy. By thus impoverishing the ecclesiastical dignities, they countenanced the clamours of the catholics, who declared that the reformation was apparently founded on temporal views, and that the protestants pretended to oppose the doctrines of the church solely with a view that they might share in the plunder of its revenues. In every one of these sacrilegious robberies the interest of learning also Exhibitions and pensions were in the mean time subtracted from the students in the universities. Ascham, in a letter to the Marquis of Northampton dated 1550, laments the ruin of grammar schools throughout England, and predicts the speedy extinction of the universities from this growing calamity. At Oxford the public schools were neglected by the professors and pupils, and allotted to the lowest purposes. Academical degrees were abrogated as antichristian. Reformation was soon turned into fanaticism. Absurd refinements concerning the inutility of human learning were superadded to the just and rational purgation of christianity from the papal corruptions. The spiritual reformers of these enlightened days, at a visitation of the last-mentioned university, proceeded so far in their ideas of a superior rectitude as totally to strip the public library, established by that munificent patron Humphrey duke of Gloucester, of all its books and MSS.

suffered.

Chapman's 'Homer.'

But a complete and regular version of Homer was reserved for George Chapman. He began with printing the Shield of Achilles in 1596. This was followed by seven books of the Iliad the same year. Fifteen books were printed in 1600. At length appeared, without date, an entire translation of the Iliad under the following title, The Iliads of Homer, Prince of Poets. Neuer before in any language truely translated. With a comment uppon some of his chief places: Done according to the Greeke by George Chapman. At London, printed for Nathaniel Butter.' It is dedicated in English heroics to Prince Henry. This circumstance proves that the book was printed at least after the year 1603, in which James I. acceded to the throne. Then follows an anagram on the name of his gracious Mecenas prince Henry, and a sonnet to the sole empresse of beautie queen Anne. In a metrical address to the reader he remarks, but with little truth, that the English language, abounding in consonant monosyllables, is eminently adapted to rhythmical poetry. The doctrine that an allegorical sense was hid under the narratives of epic poetry had not yet ceased; and he here promises a poem on the mysteries he had newly discovered in Homer. In the Preface, he declares that the last twelve books were translated in fifteen weeks: yet with the advice of his learned and valued friends, Master Robert Hews and Master Harriots. It is certain that the whole performance betrays the negligence of haste. He pays his acknowledgments to his 'most ancient, learned, and right noble friend, Master Richard Stapilton, the first most desertfull mouer in the frame of our Homer.' He endeavours to obviate a popular objection, perhaps not totally groundless, that he consulted the prose Latin version more than the Greek original. He says, sensibly enough, 'it is the part of euery knowing and iudicious interpreter, not to follow the number and order of words, but the materiall things themselues, and sentences to weigh diligently; and to clothe and adorne them with words, and such a stile and forme of oration, as are most apt for the language into which they are conuerted.' The danger lies in too lavish an application of this sort of cloathing, that it may not disguise what it should only adorn. I do not say that this is Chapman's fault but he has by no means represented the dignity or the simplicity of Homer. He is sometimes paraphrastic and redundant, but more frequently retrenches or impoverishes what he could not feel and express. In the meantime, he labours with the inconvenience of an aukward, inharmonious, and unheroic measure, imposed by custom, but disgustful to modern ears. Yet he is not always without strength or spirit. He has enriched our languages with many compound epithets, so much in the manner of Homer, such as the silver-footed Thetis, the silver-throned Juno, the triple-feathered helme, the highwalled Thebes, the faire-haired boy, the silver-flowing floods, the hugely peopled towns, the Grecians navybound, the strong-winged lance, and many more which might be collected. Dryden reports that Waller never could read Chapman's Homer without a degree of transport. Pope is of opinion that Chapman covers his defects by a daring fiery spirit that animates his translation, which is something like what one might imagine Homer himself to have writ before he arrived to years of discretion.' But his fire is too frequently darkened

My copy once belonged to Pope; in which he has noted many of Chapman's absolute interpolations, extending sometimes to the length of a paragraph of twelve lines. A diligent observer will easily discern that Pope was no careless reader of his rude predecessor. Pope complains that Chapman took advantage of an unmeasurable length of line. But in reality Pope's lines are longer than Chapman's. If Chapman affected the reputation of rendering line for line, the specious expedient of chusing a protracted measure which concatenated two lines together, undoubtedly favoured his usual propensity to periphrasis.

Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon.

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,
Of painful pedantry the poring child,

Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by Time and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled
On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered piety displays
Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.

To the River Lodon.

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath the azure sky and golden sun-
Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and sun so pure,
No more return to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed

From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature,
Nor with the muse's laurel unbestowed.

The Grave of King Arthur.
Stately the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state

And warlike splendour Henry sate;
Prepar'd to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof,

A thousand torches flam'd aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam,
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty-window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps, that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:

While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fring'd with umbrage brown,
From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown,
From many a shaggy precipice
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
And many a sunless solitude
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose ;

And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme :
'O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
On Tintaggel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sleety shower;
Round the rough castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide:
When Arthur rang'd his red-cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed !
Yet in vain a paynim foe
Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,
O'er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,
To her green isle's enamel'd steep,
Far in the navel of the deep.
O'er his wounds she sprinkl'd dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew:
On a rich enchanted bed,
She pillow'd his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she wav'd an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtain clos'd around.
There, renew'd the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,
By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
Owns the monarch's high command:
Thence to Britain shall return
(If right prophetic rolls I learn),
Borne on victory's spreading plume,
His ancient sceptre to resume;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;

His knightly table to restore,
And the brave tournaments of yore.'
They ceas'd when on the tuneful stage
Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage;
His silver tresses, thin besprent,
To age a graceful reverence lent;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd;
With time's faint rose his features glow'd;
His eyes diffus'd a soften'd fire,
And thus he wak'd the warbling wire:

'Listen, Henry, to my reed!
Not from fairy realms I lead
Bright-robed tradition, to relate
In forged colours Arthur's fate;
Though much of old romantic lore
On the high theme I keep in store :
But boastful fiction should be dumb,
Where truth the strain might best become.
If thine ear may still be won

With songs of Uther's glorious son;
Henry, I a tale unfold,
Never yet in rhyme enroll'd,

Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
Which in my youth's full early flower,
A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line,
Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn,
Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,
What time the glistening vapours fled
From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head;
And on its sides the torrents gray
Shone to the morning's orient ray.
'When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
Snatch'd him, by Merlin's potent spell,
In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
Slaughter'd kings in glory go:

But when he fell, with winged speed,
His champions, on a milk-white steed,
From the battle's hurricane,

Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,
In the fair vale of Avalon :
There with chanted orison
And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stoled fathers met the bier;
Through the dim aisles, in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep entomb'd in holy ground,
Before the altar's solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,
No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
Away the ruthless Dane has torn

rede, tale.

Each trace that time's slow touch had worn;
And long o'er the neglected stone
Oblivion's vale its shade has thrown :
The faded tomb, with honour due,

'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew !
Thither, when conquest has restor❜d
Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
When peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
Haste thee to pay thy pilgrim vows.
There, observant of my lore,

The pavement's hallow'd depth explore ;
And thrice a fathom underneath
Dive into the vaults of death.

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
On his gigantic stature gaze;

There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
All in warrior-weeds array'd;
Wearing in death his helmet-crown,
And weapons huge of old renown,
Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
So may thy ships securely stem
The western frith: thy diadem

Shine victorious in the van,

Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan :
Thy Norman pike-men win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay:
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare:
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrew.'
Amid the pealing symphony
The spiced goblets mantled high ;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns a while his bold emprise :
Ev'n now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated floor to trace ;

And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wonderous tomb :
Ev'n now, he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
Ev'n now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-temper'd metal made;
And drag to-day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.

O'er the sepulchre profound

Ev'n now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
He plans the chantry's choral shrine,
The daily dirge, and rites divine.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE.]-King Henry the Second having undertaken an expedition into Ireland, to suppress a rebellion raised by Roderick King of Connaught, commonly called O Connor Dun, or the Brown Monarch of Ireland, was entertained, in his passage through Wales, with the songs of the Welsh bards. The subject of their poetry was King Arthur, whose history had been so disguised by fabulous inventions, that the place of his burial was in general scarcely known or remembered. But in one of these Welsh poems sung before Henry, it was recited, that King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, was interred at Glastonbury abbey, before the high altar, yet without any external mark or memorial. Afterwards Henry visited the abbey, and commanded the spot described by the bard to be opened: When digging near 20 feet deep, they found the body, deposited under a large stone, inscribed with Arthur's name. This is the ground-work of the [preceding] ode: But for the better accommodation of the story to our present purpose, it is told with some slight variations from the Chronicle of Glastonbury. The castle of Cilgarran, where this discovery is supposed to have been made, now a romantic ruin, stands on a rock descending to the river Teivi, in Pembrokeshire; and was built by Roger Montgomery, who led the van of the Normans at Hastings.

From a Panegyric on Oxford Ale.
Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail juice benignant! O'er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
Let pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;
My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless,
With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,
While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus' reign; but o'er my soul
A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod

Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What though sore ills

Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight's gleam
Haply remaining), heart-rejoicing ale

Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
Meantime, not mindless of the daily talk
Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;
While ale inspires, and lends its kindred aid,
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of logic! But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where, ale, thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. . . .

Martinus Smiglecius, a Polish Jesuit, was the author of a Logica Disputationibus Illustrata.

Thomas Warton's poems were collected in 1791, and reprinted in 1802. His History of English Poetry was re-edited by Richard Price in 1824, and sadly mangled in W. C. Hazlitt's edition in 1874. There is a eulogistic Life of Joseph by Wooll; for the younger brother, see the Life in Mant's edition of his poems (1802), and John Dennis's Studies in English Literature (1876).

Thomas Chatterton

was born at Bristol, 20th November 1752. His father, a sub-chanter in the cathedral, and master of a charity school, was a roistering fellow, yet a lover of books and coins, a dabbler in magic; he had died in the August before the poet was born. The mother, a poor schoolmistress and needlewoman, brought up her boy and his sister beneath the shadow of St Mary Redcliffe, that glorious church where their forefathers had been sextons since the days of Elizabeth. He seemed a dull, dreamy child till his seventh year; then he 'fell in love' with an old illuminated music folio, and, quickly learning to read from a black-letter Bible, began to devour every book that fell in his way. He was a scholar of Colston's Bluecoat Hospital from 1760 till 1767, and then he was bound apprentice to Lambert, an attorney. In December 1762 he wrote his first poem, On the Last Epiphany; in 1763 borrowed Speght's blackletter Chaucer from a lending library; and in the summer of 1764 produced the first of his pseudo-antiques, Elinoure and Juga, which imposed on the junior usher of his school, and which he professed to have got from Canynge's Coffer in the muniment-room of St Mary's. Next, early in 1767, for one Burgum, a pewterer, he concocted a pedigree of the De Bergham family (this brought him ten shillings); and in 1768 he hoaxed the whole city with a description, 'from an old manuscript,' of the opening of Bristol Bridge in 1248.

His life at Lambert's was a sordid one; he slept with the footboy, and took his meals in the kitchen. Yet, his duties over-and he discharged them well -he had ample leisure for his darling studies, poetry, history, heraldry, music, antiquities. An attempt to draw Dodsley had failed, when, in March 1769, he sent Horace Walpole a 'transcript' of The Ryse of Peyncteynge, written by T. Rowlie, 1469, for Mastre Canynge. Walpole, quite taken

in, wrote at once to his unknown correspondent, expressing a thousand thanks for the manuscript, deploring his ignorance of the 'Saxon language,' and half offering to usher the Rowley Poems to the world. Back came a fresh batch of manuscript, and with it a sketch of Chatterton's own history. The poems, however, being shown to Mason and Gray, were pronounced by them to be forgeries; and Walpole's next letter was a letter of advice to stick to his calling, that so, when he should have made a fortune, he might unbend himself with the studies consonant to his inclinations.' A curt request for the return of the MSS. lay six weeks unanswered during Walpole's absence in Paris. A second came, still curter; and, snapping up poems and letters,' Walpole returned both to him, and thought no more of him or them'-until, two years after, Goldsmith told him of Chatterton's death.

Was it jest or grim earnest, a boyish freak or a suicide's farewell, that 'Last Will and Testament of Thomas Chatterton . . . executed in the presence of Omniscience this 14th of April 1770'? Anyhow, falling into his master's hands, it procured the hasty cancelling of his indentures; and ten days later the boy quitted Bristol for London. There he arrived with his poems, and perhaps five guineas in his pocket, and lodged first at one Walmsley's, a plasterer, in Shoreditch; next, from the middle of June, at Brooke Street, Holborn. Abstemious, sleepless, he fell to work as with a hundred hands, pouring forth satires, squibs, stories, political essays, burlettas, epistles in Junius's style (for 'Wilkes and liberty'), and the matchless Balade of Charitie. For a while his prospects seemed golden. The publishers spoke him fair; he obtained an interview with the Lord Mayor Beckford; in the first two months he earned eleven guineas (at the rate of from a farthing to twopence a line); and he sent home glowing letters, with a box of presents for his mother and sister. Then Beckford died; the 'patriotic' publishers took fright; the dead season set in; he had overstocked the market with unpaid wares; a last desperate application failed for the post of surgeon to a Bristol slaver. He was penniless, starving, yet too proud to accept the meal his landlady offered him, when, on 24th August 1770, he locked himself into his garret, tore up his papers, and was found the next morning dead-poisoned with arsenic. They buried him in the paupers' pit of the Shoe Lane Workhouse, a site usurped fifty-six years later by Farringdon Market.

For eighty years the Rowley controversy was waged with no less bitterness than ignorance, the Rowleyans including Jacob Bryant (1781), Dean Milles (1782), and Dr S. R. Maitland (1857); the anti-Rowleyans, Tyrwhitt (1777-82) and Thomas Warton (1778-82). The subject was once and for ever laid to rest by Professor Skeat in his edition of Chatterton's Poetical Works (2 vols. 1875). Vol. i. contains Chatterton's acknowledged poems, seventy