Now it does not appear that Shakspeare or Homer were such early prodigies; so that by this reasoning he must take precedence of them too, as well as of Milton, Cowley, and Pope.  The reverend and classical writer then breaks out into the following melancholy raptures:—­

      “Unfortunate boy! short and evil were thy days, but thy fame shall
be immortal.  Hadst thou been known to the munificent patrons of genius . . . 
      “Unfortunate boy! poorly wast thou accommodated during thy short
sojourning here among us;—­rudely wast thou treated—­sorely did thy feelings suffer from the scorn of the unworthy; and there are at last those who wish to rob thee of thy only meed, thy posthumous glory.  Severe too are the censures of thy morals.  In the gloomy moments of despondency, I fear thou hast uttered impious and blasphemous thoughts.  But let thy more rigid censors reflect, that thou wast literally and strictly but a boy.  Let many of thy bitterest enemies reflect what were their own religious principles, and whether they had any at the age of fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen.  Surely it is a severe and an unjust surmise that thou wouldst probably have ended thy life as a victim to the laws, if thou hadst not ended it as thou didst.”

Enough, enough, of the learned antiquaries, and of the classical and benevolent testimony of Dr. Knox.  Chatterton was, indeed, badly enough off; but he was at least saved from the pain and shame of reading this woful lamentation over fallen genius, which circulates splendidly bound in the fourteenth edition, while he is a prey to worms.  As to those who are really capable of admiring Chatterton’s genius, or of feeling an interest in his fate, I would only say, that I never heard any one speak of any one of his works as if it were an old well-known favourite, and had become a faith and a religion in his mind.  It is his name, his youth, and what he might have lived to have done, that excite our wonder and admiration.  He has the same sort of posthumous fame that an actor of the last age has—­an abstracted reputation which is independent of any thing we know of his works.  The admirers of Collins never think of him without recalling to their minds his Ode on Evening, or on the Poetical Character.  Gray’s Elegy, and his poetical popularity, are identified together, and inseparable even in imagination.  It is the same with respect to Burns:  when you speak of him as a poet, you mean his works, his Tam o’Shanter, or his Cotter’s Saturday Night.  But the enthusiasts for Chatterton, if you ask for the proofs of his extraordinary genius, are obliged to turn to the volume, and perhaps find there what they seek; but it is not in their minds; and it is of that I spoke.  The Minstrel’s song in AElla is I think the best.

      “O! synge untoe my roundelaie,
      O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
      Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
      Lycke a rennynge ryver bee. 
          Mie love ys dedde,
          Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
          Al under the wyllowe-tree.