e numerous, always when they
have once tasted will return, to the visions and the melodies--

Of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

Another poet whose death brings him within our range, and who may be
said to belong, with some striking differences of circumstance as well
as individual genius, to the same school, was James Thomson, second of
the name in English poetry, but a curious and melancholy contrast to
that Epicurean animal, the poet of _The Seasons_. He was born at
Port-Glasgow on 23rd November 1834, and was the son of a sailor. His
parents being in poor circumstances, he obtained, as a child, a place in
the Royal Caledonian Asylum, and, after a good education there, became
an army schoolmaster--a post which he held for a considerable time. But
Thomson's natural character was recalcitrant to discipline and
distinguished by a morbid social jealousy. He gradually, under the
influence of, or at any rate in company with, the notorious Charles
Bradlaugh, adopted atheistic and republican opinions, and in 1862 an act
of insubordination led to his dismissal from the army, for which he had
long lost, if he ever had, any liking. It is also said that the death of
a girl to whom he was passionately attached had much to do with the
development of the morbid pessimism by which he became distinguished.
For some time Thomson tried various occupations, being by turns a
lawyer's clerk, a mining agent, and war correspondent of a newspaper
with the Carlists. But even before he left the army he had, partly with
Mr. Bradlaugh's help, obtained work on the press, and such income as he
had during the last twenty years of his life was chiefly derived from
it. He might undoubtedly have made a comfortable living in this way, for
his abilities were great and his knowledge not small. But in addition to
the specially poetical weakness of disliking "collar-work," he was
hampered by the same intractable and morose temper which he had shown in
the army, by the violence of his religious and political views, and
lastly and most fatally by an increasing slavery to drink and chloral.
At last, in 1882, he--after having been for some time in the very worst
health--burst a blood-vessel while visiting his friend the blind poet
Philip Bourke Marston, and died in University College Hospital on 3rd
June.

This melancholy story is to be found sufficiently reflected in his
works. Those in prose, though not contemptible