means of satisfying an appetite if he had one. Thenceforth Chatterton's London life was a veritable fight for life. Forced to barter his

genius for a mere mess of pottage, he found himself unable to collect even this paltry pittance. The laborer was not worthy of his hire. And what a laborer he was! The midnight oil was his nightly companion. Poem after poem, satire after satire, loyal articles for the ministry and scathing denunciation for the opposition, catchy songs for public entertainments and furious tirades for any hireling publisher who offered him an opportunity to

feel the joy that yeomen feel In foemen worthy of their steel,

all poured from the pen of this indefatigable writer of seventeen summers. Perhaps all literature contains no better example of tireless energy. Assuredly, as far as appreciation of merit goes, it never could be more truly said of any writer that he cast his pearls before swine.

True to his favorite maxim that diligence will accomplish anything, Chatterton bore his cross with fortitude until starvation brought him to death's door. Then, though in his own words he felt the "sting of a speedy dissolution," he stoically refused all invitations to dine, for his pride shrank from offers prompted by compassion, and one morning he was found lying in the midst of his manuscripts, with an arsenic bottle at his side, telling all too clearly the fearful step to which desperation and pride had driven him.

Though we may condemn Chatterton for keeping up the deception as to the fictitious, for fictitious he undoubtedly was; though we may question the will-power of one whose famous "Declaration of Faith" said: "The Roman Church is undoubtedly the true church," and then rushed blindly to the grave of the excommunicated, we must not omit the brighter side of his life. While the pangs of hunger were gnawing at his vitals, he wrote encouraging letters and sent little mementos to his mother and sister. While he looked in vain for the fulfilment of his youthful dreams, he was promising his sister that "she would walk in silk and silver hae in store," and filial affection struggled with his utter desolation in his last will: "I leave my mother to the protection of my friends, if I have any."

If the bull may be pardoned, Chatterton's death was the real beginning of his literary life, for he has been in the public eye ever since. Was Rowley a real personage? Would Chatterton have fulfilled the promise of his youth? What is the real value of his works? These and a hundred kindred topics have kept alive Chatterton "dead where once the living" Chatterton refused to "beg his bread."

Owing to the young poet's confession that he forged one poem, the disclosure of his friend that Chatterton discolored parchments to make them look antique, the failure of history to mention any such a person as Rowley, the verdict of to-day seems to be that the old monk existed only in the imagination, but "adhuc sub judice lis

est." The poems themselves present a much more inviting study, for some passages in them have won admiration from the most reluctant critic. Mr. Watts speaks of the "Ballad of Charity" as the most artistic work of its time. All agree that the tragedy, "Ella," shows the past at its best. It sparkles with such effective word-paintings as

When Autumn, sad but sunlit, doth appear,
With his gold hand gilding the fallen leaf-
Bringing up winter to fulfil the year;

Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf,
When all the hills with woolly seeds are white-

When lightning flares and gleams afar at night.

Wordsworth placed Chatterton on an equality with Ossian, when he read :

Like a red meteor shall my weapon shine;

Strong as a lion's whelp I'll be in the fight-
Like fallen leaves the Darian shall be slain,

Like a loud sounding stream shall be my might.

After all, however, Chatterton appeals to us, not so much by what he did as by what he would have done, we look upon him as Tennyson looked upon the possibilities of progress "That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do." If our own study of the boy bard did not lead us, like some, to rank him next to Shakespeare, we could at least say that high indeed would be the position in store for the author of whom Southey cried:

'Mid others of less note came one frail form,

With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;

And his own raging thoughts along that rugged way,
Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey.

And Coleridge added:

O, Chatterton, that thou wast still alive--
Sure thou would spread thy canvas to the gale,
And love with us the tinkling team to drive

O'er peaceful freedom's undivided dale.

And now that the world has all but agreed upon the poetic ability of Chatterton, who in life received but a stone when he asked for bread, well might the "marvellous boy, stricken in his prime," leave as his world-view the words of the wise man of old: "All is vanity and vexation of spirit."

P. F. D.

The Holy Cross Purple.

THE HOLY CROSS PURPLE is a Literary Magazine, published at Holy Cross College, Worcester, Mass. Its aim is to cultivate a high literary spirit among the students by exercising them in both critical and creative composition. It serves also as a bond between the Alumni and their Alma Mater chronicling their successes and telling briefly the important happenings of college life.

Subscription: One dollar a year, payable in advance; single copies, 15 cents. THE HOLY CROSS PURPLE is issued every month, excepting August and September.

Entered at the Post Office at Worcester, Mass., as second-class mail matter.

BOARD OF EDITORS.

Editor-in-Chief: JOHN F. MURPHY, 'OI.

The home season of the base-ball team opened so auspiciously on Saturday, April 13th, with a victory won from the strong Tufts College team,