Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  9thly. Public curiosity and general admiration are excited by poems, affirmed to be from the Erse of Ossian. Chatterton, with characteristic promptitude, instantly publishes, not imitations, but a succession of genuine translations from the Saxon and Welsh, with precisely the same language and imagery, though the Saxon and Welsh were derived from different origins, the Teutonic and Celtic; (which bishop Percy has most satisfactorily shown in his able and elaborate preface to ‘Mallet’s Northern Antiquities,’) and whose poetry, of all their writings, was the most dissimilar; as will instantly appear to all who compare Taliessin, and the other Welsh bards, with the Scandinavian Edda of Saemond.

  10thly. Mr. Walpole is writing the history of British painters; Chatterton, (who, to a confidential friend, had expressed an opinion that it was possible, by dexterous management, to deceive even this master in antiquities,) with full confidence of success, transmits to him ‘An Account of eminent Carvellers and Peyncters who flourished in Bristol, and other parts of England, three hundred years ago, collected for Master Canynge, by Thomas Rowley!’

  Chatterton’s communication furnishes an amusing specimen of the quaint language with which this beardless boy deceived the old antiquarian. It commences thus:

  ‘Peyncteynge ynn Englande, haveth of ould tyme bin in use; for sayeth the Roman wryters, the Brytonnes dyd depycte themselves yn soundry wyse, of the fourmes of the sonne and moone, wythe the hearbe woade: albeytte I doubt theie were no skylled carvellers,’ &c. &c.

  Mr. Walpole was so completely imposed upon, that, in his reply, without entertaining the slightest suspicion of the authenticity of the document, he reasons upon it as valid, and says, ‘You do not point out the exact time when Rowley lived, which I wish to know, as I suppose it was long before John al Ectry’s discovery of oil painting; if so, it confirms what I have guessed, and have hinted in my anecdotes, that oil painting was known here much earlier than that discovery, or revival.’

  Another important argument, may be adduced from the following reflection: all the poets who thus owe their existence to Chatterton, write in the same harmonious style, and display the same tact and superiority of genius. Other poets living in the same, or different ages, exhibit a wide diversity in judgment, fancy, and the higher creative faculty of imagination, so that a discriminating mind can distinguish an individual character in almost every separate writer; but here are persons living in different ages; moving in different stations; exposed to different circumstances; and expressing different sentiments; yet all of whom betray the same peculiar habits, with the same talents and facilities of composition. This is evidenced, whether it be —

  The Abbatte John, living in the year - - 1186

  Seyncte Baldwin - - - - - - 1247

  Seyncte Warburgie - - - - - - 1247

  John De Burgham - - - - - - 1320

  The Rawfe Cheddar Chappmanne - - - - 1356

  Syr Thybbot Gorges - - - - - - 1440

  Syr Wm. Canynge - - - - - - 1469

  Thomas Rowley - - - - - - 1479

  Carpenter, Bishoppe of Worcester

  Ecca, Bishoppe of Hereforde

  Elmar, Bishoppe of Selseie

  John Ladgate, or,

  Mayster John à Iscam.

  And the whole of these poets, with the exception of Ladgate, completely unknown to the world, till called from their dormitory by Chatterton! Such a fact would be a phenomenon unspeakably more inexplicable than that of ascribing Rowley to a youth of less than sixteen, who had made ‘Antique Lore’ his peculiar study, and who was endued with precocious, and almost unlimited genius.

  Those who are aware of the transitions and fluctuation, which our language experienced in the intermediate space comprised between Chaucer and Sir Thomas More; and still greater between Robert of Gloucester, 1278, and John Trevisa, or his contemporary Wickliffe, who died 1384, know, to a certainty, that the writers enumerated by Chatterton, without surmounting a physical impossibility, could not have written in the same undeviating style.

  Perhaps it may be affirmed that numerous old parchments were obtained from the Muniment Room or elsewhere. This fact is undeniable; but they are understood to consist of ancient ecclesiastical deeds, as unconnected with poetry, as they were with galvanism.

  Let the dispassionate enquirer ask himself, whether he thinks it possible for men, living in distant ages, when our language was unformed, and therefore its variations the greater, to write in the same style? Whether it was possible for the Abbatte John, composing in the year 1186, when the amalgamation of the Saxon and the Norman formed an almost inexplicable jargon, to write in a manner, as to its construction, intimately resembling that now in vogue. On the contrary, how easy is the solution, when we admit that the person who wrote the first part of the “Battle of Hastings,” and the death of “Syr Charles Bawdin,” wrote also the rest.

  Does it not appear marvellous, that the learned advocates of Rowley should not have regarded the ground on which they stood as somewhat unstable, when they found Chatterton readily avow that he wrote the first part of the “Battle of Hastings,” and discovered the second, as composed three hundred years before, by Thomas Rowley? This was indeed an unparalleled coincidence. A boy writes the commencement of a narrative poem, and then finds in the Muniment-Room, the second part, or a continuation, by an old secular priest, with the same, characters, written in the same style, and even in the same metre!

  Another extraordinary feature in the question, is the following; there are preserved in the British Museum, numerous deeds and proclamations, by Thomas Rowley, in Chatterton’s writing, relating to the antiquities of Bristol, all in modern English, designed no doubt, by the young bard, for his friend Mr. Barrett; but the chrysalis had not yet advanced to its winged state.

  One of the proclamations begins thus:

  “To all Christian people to whom this indented writing shall come, William Canynge, of Bristol, merchant, and Thomas Rowley, priest, send greeting: Whereas certain disputes have arisen between,” &c., &c.

  Who does not perceive that these were the first rough sketches of genuine old documents that were to be?

  In an account of “St. Marie Magdalene’s Chapele, by Thomas Rowley,” deposited also in the British Museum, there is the following sentence, which implies much: “Aelle, the founder thereof, was a manne myckle stronge yn vanquysheynge the Danes, as yee maie see ynne mie unwordie Entyrlude of Ella!”

  It is Rome or Carthage. It is Rowley or Chatterton: and a hope is cherished that the public, from this moment, will concur in averring that there is neither internal nor external evidence, to authorize the belief that a single line of either the prose or the verse, attributed to Rowley, or the rest of his apocryphal characters, was written by any other than that prodigy of the eighteenth century, Thomas Chatterton.

  The opinion entertained by many, that Chatterton found part of Rowley, and invented the rest, is attended with insurmountable objections, and is never advanced but in the deficiency of better argument; for in the first place, those who favor this supposition, have never supported it by the shadow of proof, or the semblance even of fair inferential reasoning; and in the second place, he who wrote half, could have written the whole; and in the third, and principal place, there are no inequalities in the poems; no dissimilar and incongruous parts, but all is regular and consistent, and without, in the strict sense of the word, bearing any resemblance to the writers of the period when Rowley is stated to have lived.

  Whoever examines the beautiful tragedy of Ella, will find an accurate adjustment of plan, which precludes the possibility of its having been conjointly written by different persons, at the distance of centuries. With respect, also, to the structure of the language, it is incontrovertibly modern, as well as uniform with itself, and exhibits the most perfect specimens of harmony; which cannot be interrupted by slight orthographical redundancies, nor by the sprinkling of a few uncouth and antiquated words.

  The structure of Rowley’s verse is so unequivocally modern, that by sub
stituting the present orthography for the past, and changing two or three of the old words, the fact must become obvious, even to those who are wholly unacquainted with the barbarisms of the “olden time.” As a corroboration of this remark, the first verse of the song to Aella may be adduced.

  ”O thou, or what remains of thee,

  Aella, thou darling of futurity.

  Let this, my song, bold as thy courage be,

  As everlasting — to posterity.”

  But, perhaps, the most convincing proof of this modern character of

  Rowley’s verse, may be derived from the commencement of the chorus in

  Godwin.

  ”When Freedom, dress’d in blood-stain’d vest,

  To every knight her war-song sung,

  Upon her head wild weeds were spread,

  A gory anlace by her hung.

  She danced on the heath;

  She heard the voice of death;

  Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue,

  In vain essay’d his bosom to acale, [freeze]

  She heard, enflamed, the shivering voice of woe,

  And sadness in the owlet shake the dale.

  She shook the pointed spear;

  On high she raised her shield;

  Her foemen all appear,

  And fly along the field.

  Power, with his head exalted to the skies,

  His spear a sun-beam, and his shield a star,

  Round, like two flaming meteors, rolls his eyes,

  Stamps with his iron foot, and sounds to war:

  She sits upon a rock,

  She bends before his spear;

  She rises from the shock,

  Wielding her own in air.

  Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on,

  And, closely mantled, guides it to his crown,

  His long sharp spear, his spreading shield, is gone;

  He falls, and falling, rolleth thousands down.”

  Every reader must be struck with the modern character of these extracts, nor can he fail to have noticed the lyrical measure, so eminently felicitous, with which the preceding ode commences; together with the bold image of freedom triumphing over power. If the merits of the Rowleian Controversy rented solely on this one piece, it would be decisive; for no man, in the least degree familiar with our earlier metrical compositions, and especially if he were a poet, could hesitate a moment in assigning this chorus to a recent period.

  It is impossible not to believe that the whole of Rowley was written at first in modern English, and then the orthographical metamorphose commenced; and to one who had prepared himself, like Chatterton, with a dictionary, alternately modern and old, and old and modern, the task of transformation was not difficult, even to an ordinary mind. It should be remembered also, that Chatterton furnished a complete glossary to the whole of Rowley. Had he assumed ignorance, it might have checked, without removing suspicion, but at present it appears inexplicable, that our sage predecessors should not have been convinced that one who could write, in his own person, with such superiority as Chatterton indisputably did, would be quite competent to give words to another, the meaning of which he so well understood himself.

  But the thought will naturally arise, what could have prompted Chatterton, endued as he was, with so much original talent, to renounce his own personal aggrandizement, and to transfer the credit of his opulence to another. It is admitted to be an improvident expenditure of reputation, but no inference advantageous to Rowley can be deduced from this circumstance. The eccentricities and aberrations of genius, have rarely been restricted by line and plummet, and the present is a memorable example of perverted talent; but all this may be conceded, without shaking the argument here contended for.

  There is a process in all our pursuits, and the nice inspector of associations can almost uniformly trace his predilections to some definite cause. This, doubtless, was the case with Chatterton. He found old parchments early in life. In the first instance, it became an object of ambition to decipher the obscure. One difficulty surmounted, strengthened the capacity for conquering others; perseverance gave facility, till at length his vigorous attention was effectually directed to what he called “antique lore:” and this confirmed bias of his mind, connected as it was, with his inveterate proneness to impose on others, and supported by talents which have scarcely been equalled, reduces the magnified wonder of Rowley, to a plain, comprehensible question.

  Dean Milles, in his admiration of Rowley, appeared to derive pleasure from depreciating Chatterton, who had avowed himself the writer of that inimitable poem, “The Death of Syr Charles Bawdin,” but well knowing the consequences which would follow on this admission, he laboured hard to impeach the veracity of our bard, and represented him as one who, from vanity, assumed to himself the writing of another! Dean Milles affirms, that of this “Death of Syr Charles Bawdin,” “A greater variety of internal proofs may be produced, for its authenticity, than for that of any other piece in the whole collection!” This virtually, was abandoning the question; for since we know that Chatterton did write “The Death of Syr Charles Bawdin,” we know that he wrote that which had stronger proofs of the authenticity of Rowley than all the other pieces in the collection!

  The numerous proofs adduced of Chatterton’s passion for fictitious statements; of his intimate acquaintance with antiquated language; of the almost preternatural maturity of his mind; of the dissimilitude of Rowley’s language to contemporaneous writers; and of the obviously modern structure of all the compositions which the young bard produced, as the writings of Rowley and others, form, it is presumed, a mass of Anti-Rowleian evidence, which proves that Chatterton possessed that peculiar disposition, as well as those pre-eminent talents, the union of which was both necessary and equal to the great production of Rowley….”

  J. C.

  THE WEARY PILGRIM

  Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,

  Look beyond these realms of night;

  Mourn not, with redemption near,

  Faint not, with the goal in sight.

  Grief and pain are needful things,

  Sent to chasten, not to slay;

  And if pleasures have their wings,

  Sorrows quickly pass away.

  Where are childhood’s sighs and throes?

  Where are youth’s tumultuous fears?

  Where are manhood’s thousand woes?

  Lost amidst the lapse of years!

  There are treasures which to gain,

  Might a seraph’s heart inspire;

  There are joys which will remain

  When the world is wrapt in fire.

  Hope, with her expiring beam,

  May illume our last delight;

  But our trouble soon will seem,

  Like the visions of the night.

  We too oft remit our pace,

  And at ease in slumbers dwell;

  We are loiterers in our race,

  And afflictions break the spell.

  Woe to him, whoe’er he be,

  Should (severest test below!)

  All around him like a sea,

  Health, and wealth, and honors, flow!

  When unclouded suns we hail,

  And our cedars proudly wave;

  We forget their tenure frail,

  With the bounteous hand that gave.

  We on dangerous paths are bound,

  Call’d to battle and to bleed;

  We have hostile spirits round,

  And the warrior’s armour need.

  We, within, have deadlier foes,

  Wills rebellious, hearts impure;

  God, the best physician, knows

  What the malady will cure.

  Earth is lovely! dress’d in flowers!

  O’er her form luxuriant thrown,

  But a lovelier world is ours,

  Visible to faith alone.

  Here the balm and spicy gales,

  For a moment fill the air;

  Here the mutable prevails,
/>   Permanence alone is there.

  Heaven to gain is worth our toil!

  Angels call us to their sphere;

  But to time’s ignoble soil

  We are bound, and will not hear.

  Heaven attracts not! On we dream;

  Cast like wrecks upon the shore

  Where perfection reigns supreme,

  And adieus are heard no more.

  What is life? a tale! a span!

  Swifter than the eagle’s flight;

  What the boasted age of man?

  Vanishing beneath the sight.

  Yet, our ardours and desires

  Centred, circumscribed by earth;

  Whilst eternity retires —

  As an object nothing worth!

  Oh, the folly of the proud!

  Oh, the madness of the vain!

  After every toy to crowd,

  And unwithering crowns disdain!

  Mighty men in grand array,

  Magnates of the ages past,

  Kings and conquerors, where are they?

  Once whose frown a world o’ercast?

  Faded! yet by fame enroll’d,

  With their busts entwined with bays;

  But if God his smile withhold,

  Pitiful is human praise.

  With what sadness and surprise,

  Must Immortals view our lot; —

  Eager for the flower that dies,

  And the Amaranth heeding not.

  May we from our dreams awake,

  Love the truth, the truth obey;

  On our night let morning break —

  Prelude of a nobler day.

  Harmony prevails above,

  Where all hearts together blend;

  Let the concords sweet of love,