his inclination’; and in this one must suppose that he was actuated by a very natural irritation at having been duped a second time by an expositor of antique poetry, rather than by any snobbish contempt for his correspondent, who had frankly confessed himself an attorney’s apprentice.  Chatterton then wrote twice to have his MS. returned, asserting at the same time his confidence in the authenticity of the Rowley documents.  Walpole for some reason returned no answer to either application, but left for Paris, where he stayed six weeks, returning to find another letter from Chatterton written with considerable dignity and restraint—­a last formal demand to have his manuscript returned.  Whereupon, amazed at the boy’s ‘singular impertinence,’ the great man snapped up both letters and poems and returned them in a blank cover—­that is to say without a word of apology or explanation.  He might have acted otherwise if he had been a more generous spirit, but an attempt had been made to impose upon him which had in part succeeded, and he can hardly be blamed for showing his resentment by neglecting to return the forgeries.  One may notice in passing that when Chatterton, more than a year later, committed suicide there were not wanting a great many persons absurd enough to accuse Walpole of having driven him to his death—­a contemptible suggestion.  Yet the connoisseur’s credit certainly suffers from the fact that he gave currency to a false account of the transaction in the hope of concealing his first credulity.[8]

We now come to the circumstance which procured Chatterton’s release from his irksome apprenticeship—­his threat of suicide.  He had often been heard to speak approvingly of suicide, and there is a story, which has, however, little authority, that once in a company of friends he drew a pistol from his pocket, put it to his head, and exclaimed ‘Now if one had but the courage to pull the trigger!’ This anecdote—­if not in fact true—­illustrates very well the gloomy depression of spirit which alternated with those outbursts of feverish energy in which his poems were composed.  And he had much to make him miserable when with a change of mood he lost his buoyancy and confidence of ultimate fame and success.  His ambition was boundless and his audience was as limited in numbers as in understanding.  He was as proud as the poor Spaniard who on a bitter day rejected the friendly offer of a cloak with the words ’A gentleman does not feel the cold,’ and his pride was continually fretted.  He was keenly conscious of the indignity of his position in Lambert’s kitchen; he seems to have been pressed for money, and though he ’did not owe five pounds altogether’ he probably smarted under the thought that all his hard work, all the long nights of study and composition in the moonlight which helped his thought, could not earn him even this comparatively small sum.  Again, he was not restrained from a contemplation of suicide by any scruples of religion—­for he has left