he House of Hanover_, which Fox--who was, however,
prejudiced--declared to be full of impudent falsehoods.

Of his career little more need be said: he was too shrewd a man to need
sympathy; he took care of himself. He was successful in his pecuniary
schemes; as agent of the Nabob of Arcot, he had a seat in parliament for
ten years, and was quite unconcerned what the world thought of his
literary performances. He had achieved notoriety, and enjoyed it.

But, unfortunately, his forgery did fatal injury by its example; it
inspired Chatterton, the precocious boy, to make another attempt on public
credulity. It opened a seductive path for one who, inspired by the
adventure and warned by the causes of exposure, might make a better
forgery, escape detection, and gain great praise in the antiquarian world.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.--With this name, we accost the most wonderful story of
its kind in any literature; so strange, indeed, that we never take it up
without trying to discover some new meaning in it. We hope, against hope,
that the forgery is not proved.

Chatterton was born in Bristol, on the Avon, in 1752, of poor parents, but
early gave signs of remarkable genius, combined with a prurient ambition.
A friend who wished to present him with an earthen-ware cup, asked him
what device he would have upon it. "Paint me," he answered, "an angel with
wings and a trumpet, to trumpet my name over the world." He learned his
alphabet from an old music-book; at eight years of age he was sent to a
charity-school, and he spent his little pocket-money at a circulating
library, the books of which he literally devoured.

At the early age of eleven he wrote a piece of poetry, and published it in
the _Bristol Journal_ of January 8, 1763; it was entitled _On the last
Epiphany, or Christ coming to Judgment_, and the next year, probably, a
_Hymn to Christmas-day_, of which the following lines will give an idea:

How shall we celebrate his name,
Who groaned beneath a life of shame,
In all afflictions tried?
The soul is raptured to conceive
A truth which being must believe;
The God eternal died.

My soul, exert thy powers, adore;
Upon Devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the day.
The God from whom creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful tongue,
From Him I'll catch the lay.

Some member of the Chatterton family had, for one hundred and fifty years,
held the post of sexton in the