away before the great want of nature--want of bread--which it had
failed to bestow. We have seen, ay, in one little year, the flashing eye
dimmed--the round cheek flattened--the bright, hopeful creature, who
went forth into the world--rejoicing like the sun to run his
course--dragged from the waters of our leaden Thames, a discolored
remnant of mortality--recognized only by the mother who looked to him
for all the world could give!

This is horrible--but it is a tragedy soon played out. There are
hundreds at this moment possessed of the _consciousness_ of power
without the _strength_ to use it. To such, a little help might lead to a
life of successful toil--perhaps the happiest life a man can lead. A
heritage of usefulness is one of peace to the last. We knew another
youth, of a more patient nature than he of whom we have just spoken. He
seemed never weary. We have witnessed his nightly toil; his daily labor;
the smiling patience with which he endured the sneers levelled, _only_
in English society, against "_mere_ literary men." We remember when, on
the first day of every month, he used to haunt the booksellers' shops to
look over the magazines, cast his eyes down the table of contents, just
to see if "his poem" or "his paper" had been inserted--then lay them
down one after another with a pale sickly smile, expressive of
disappointment, and turn away with a look of gentle endurance. The
insertion of a sonnet, for which perhaps he might receive seven
shillings, would set him dreaming again of literary immortality; and at
last the dream was realized by an accident, or rather, to speak
advisedly, by a good Providence. He became known--known at once--blazed
forth; something he had written attracted the town's attention, and
ladies in crowded drawing-rooms stood upon chairs to see that poor,
worn, pale man of letters: and magazines, and grave reviews, and
gayly-bound albums, all waited for his contributions--charge what he
pleased; and flushed with fame, and weighed down with money--money paid
for the very articles that had been rejected without one civil line of
courtesy--the great sustaining hope of his life was realized; he married
one as worn and pale with the world's toil, as himself--married--and
died within a month! The tide was too tardy in turning!

Who shall say how many men of genius have walked, like unhappy
Chatterton, through the valley of the shadow of death, and found no
guide, no consolation--no hope; if, t