"Gone"-that is all! But they do know: and for them it is to chant broken-hearted the refrain of his own roundelay,

"My love is dead

Gone to his death-bed

All under the willow tree."

It is not alone for reason of the romantic aspects of the story that I have given you this glimpse of the boy Chatterton, but because there was really much literary merit and great promise in his work; in some respects, he reminds us of our American Poe-the same disposition to deal with mysteries, the same uncontrolled ardors, the same haughty pride; and although Chatterton's range in all rhythmic art was far below that of Poe, and although he did not carry so bold and venturous a step as the American into the region of diableries, he had perhaps more varied fancies and more homely tendernesses. The antique gloss which he put upon his work was unworthy his genius; helping no way save to stimulate curiosity, and done with a crudeness which, under the light of modern philologic study, would have deceived no one. But under this varnish of archæologic fustian and mould, there is show of an imaginative power and of a high poetic instinct, which

will hold critical respect1 and regard as long as English poetry shall be read.

LAURENCE STERNE

JUST two years before Chatterton died in Holborn, another noted literary character-Laurence Sterne2-died in old Bond Street, at what were fashionable lodgings then, and what is now a fashionable tailor's shop; died there almost alone; for he was not a man who wins such friendships as hold through all weathers. A well known friend of the sick man-Mr. Crawford-was giving a dinner that day a few doors off; and Garrick was a guest at his table; SO was David Hume, the historian; half through the dinner, the host told his footman to go over and ask after the sick man; and this is the report the footman gave to outsiders: "I went to the gentleman's lodgings, and the

1 Dr. Skeat as a philologist—is naturally severe upon a thief of archaisms, whose robberies and arrogance did puzzle for a while even the archeologists.

Per contra-there is a disposition among many recent critics to rank him high among the pioneers of the “New Romantic" movement in England; Vid. Rodin NoelEssays on the Poets; also Athenæum, No. 3073.

2 Sterne: b. 1713; d. 1768. Life, by H. D. Traill; a fuller one by Percy Fitzgerald.

mistress opened the door. Says I-'How is Mr. Sterne to-day?' She told me to go up to the nurse; so I went, and he was just a-dying; I waited a while; but in five minutes he said, 'Now it's come.' Then he put up his hand, as if to stop a blow, and died in a minute. The gentlemen were all very sorry." And all the sorrow anywhere save in the heart of his poor daughter Lydia-was, I suspect, of the same stamp. His wife certainly would get on very well without him: she had for a good many years already.

You know the name of Mr. Sterne, I daresay, a great deal better than his works; and it is well enough that you should. A good many fragments drift about in books of miscellany which you are very likely to know and to admire; for some of them are surely of most exquisite quality. Take for instance that talk of Corporal Trim with Uncle Toby about the poor lieutenant, and of his ways and times of saying his prayers:

"When the Lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that in about ten minutes he would be glad if I would step upstairs. 'I believe,' said the landlord, 'he is going to say his prayers, for there was a book

laid on the chair by the bedside, and as I shut the door I saw him take up a cushion.'

"I thought,' said the curate, 'that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all.'

"'A soldier, an' please your Reverence,' said I, 'prays as often as a parson; and when he is fighting for his king and for his own life, and for his honor too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world.'

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"""T was well said of thee, Trim!' said my Uncle Toby.

"But when a soldier,' said I, 'an' please your Reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the trenches, up to his knees in cold. water, or engaged for months together in long and dangerous marches-detached here-countermanded there; benumbed in his joints;-perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on, he must say his prayers how and when he can. I believe,' said I, for I was piqued," quoth the Corporal, "for the reputation of the army-I believe, an't please your Reverence-that when a soldier gets time to pray he prays as heartily as a Parson-though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy.'

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'Thou should'st not have said that, Trim,' said my Uncle Toby; 'for God only knows who is a hypocrite and who is not. At the great and general review of us all, Corporal, at the day of

judgment (and not till then) it will be seen who have done their duties in this world and who have not, and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly.'

"I hope we shall,' said Trim.

"It is the Scripture,' said my Uncle Toby, 'and I will show it thee in the morning.""

Now this beautiful naturalness, this delightful, artistic abstention from all rant or extravagance, makes us wish overmuch that the whole guileless character of my Uncle Toby had been as charmingly and as decently set in the text; but unfortunately, there is a continuous embroidery of it all with ribald blotches, and farfetched foulness of speech; nor is his coarseness -like that of Fielding-half excused by the coarseness of the age; it is inherent and vital: Fielding, indeed, is vulgar and coarse, and obstreperous—with the scent of bad spirits and bad company on him;1 but this other, though a parson, and perfumed, and wearing may be, satin small-clothes, has vile and grovelling tastes that overflow in double-meanings of lewdness: even Goldsmith, who was not squeamish, calls him "the blackguard parson." It is

1Notwithstanding there was almost always evidence of gentlemanly instincts at bottom; and under the scoriæ of a dissipated life and habits the sparkling of a soul of honor.