Pulse en una miniatura para ir a Google Books.
|
Cargando... The Rowley Poemspor Thomas Chatterton
   Actualmente no hay Conversaciones sobre este libro.  SamuelJohnsonLibrary | Feb 15, 2008 |  sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
In 1763, an 11-year-old boy named Thomas Chatterton began publishing mature works of poetry. Before long, he was fooling the literary world by passing his work off as that of a non-existent 15th-century poet named Thomas Rowley-which he did until unmasked by Horace Walpole. Brought up in poverty and without a father, he studied furiously and went on to try and earn a living from his writing. After impressing the likes of the Lord Mayor, William Beckford and the radical leader John Wilkes, he eagerly looked for an outlet in London for his political works, but was unable to make a decent living and, despairing, poisoned himself himself at the age of seventeen. Chatterton had a significant impact on Romantic artists including Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats; with numerous notable poems, plays, and paintings having been dedicated to him since his untimely death. This volume contains Chatterton's controversial collection of poetry by the invented Thomas Rowley, which was not discovered to be a fake until after he died. Contents include: "Editor's Introduction" and "Poems, Supposed to Have Been Written in Bristol". As part of our poetry imprint, Ragged Hand, Read & Co. is republishing this classic collection of poetry now in a new edition complete with John Keats' "Sonnet to Chatterton" (1848). No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
Debates activosNingunoCubiertas populares
 Google Books — Cargando...GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)821.6Literature English English poetry 1745-1799Clasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio: No hay valoraciones.¿Eres tú?Conviértete en un Autor de LibraryThing. |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
On Monday, April 29 [1776], he and I made an excursion to Bristol, where I was entertained with seeing him enquire upon the spot, into the authenticity of 'Rowley's Poetry', as I had seen him enquire upon the spot into the authenticity of 'Ossian's Poetry’. George Catcot, the pewterer, who was as zealous for Rowley, as Dr. Hugh Blair was for Ossian, (I trust my Reverend friend will excuse the comparison,) attended us at our inn, and with a triumphant air of lively simplicity called out, ' I'll make Dr. Johnson a convert.' Dr. Johnson, at his desire, read aloud some of Chatterton's fabricated verses, while Catcot stood at the back of his chair, moving himself like a pendulum, and beating time with his feet, and now and then looking into Dr. Johnson's face, wondering that he was not yet convinced. We called on Mr. Barret, the surgeon, and saw some of the originals as they were called, which were executed very artificially; but from a careful inspection of them, and a consideration of the circumstances with which they were attended, we were quite satisfied of the imposture, which, indeed, has been clearly demonstrated from internal evidence, by several able criticks.
Honest Catcot seemed to pay no attention whatever to any objections, but insisted, as an end of all controversy, that we should go with him to the tower of the church of St. Mary, Redcliff, and view with our own eyes the ancient chest in which the manuscripts were found. To this, Dr. Johnson good-naturedly agreed ; and though troubled with a shortness of breathing, laboured up a long flight of steps, till we came to the place where the wonderous chest stood. ' There, (said Catcot, with a bouncing confident credulity,) there is the very chest itself'.' After this ocular demonstration, there was no more to be said…
Johnson said of Chatterton, ‘This is the most extraordinary young man that has encountered my knowledge. It is wonderful how the whelp has written such things.'
We were by no means pleased with our inn at Bristol. 'Let us see now, (said I,) how we should describe it.' Johnson was ready with his raillery. ' Describe it, Sir ?—Why, it was so bad that Boswell wished to be in Scotland!'