bsolete words, and in
the mis-spelling of common ones.

"No sooner," proceeds the Doctor, "do I turn to the poems, than the
labour of the antiquaries appears only waste of time; and I am
involuntarily forced to join in placing that laurel, which he seems so
well to have deserved, on the brow of Chatterton. The poems bear so many
marks of superior genius, that they have deservedly excited the general
attention of polite scholars, and are considered as the most remarkable
productions in modern poetry. We have many instances of poetical
eminence at an early age; but neither Cowley, Milton, nor Pope, ever
produced any thing while they were boys, which can justly be compared to
the poems of Chatterton. The learned antiquaries do not indeed dispute
their excellence. They extol it in the highest terms of applause. They
raise their favourite Rowley to a rivalry with Homer: but they make the
very merits of the works an argument against their real author. Is it
possible, say they, that a boy should produce compositions so beautiful
and masterly? That a common boy should produce them is not possible,"
rejoins the Doctor; "but that they should be produced by a boy of an
extraordinary genius, such as was that of Homer or Shakspeare, though a
prodigy, is such a one as by no means exceeds the bounds of rational
credibility."

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