ng those summer months in the great city. Plodding
the streets from day to day with his manuscripts, living mainly upon
bread and water, not retiring to bed at night until near the morning,
and then seldom closing his eyes, yet in this time guilty of no sort
of known immorality, sending home frequent letters abounding in
expressions of most fervid hopes and in promises of silks and other
fine things to the objects of his affection, few cases could have
appealed more piteously for help. The wits who might have succored
were out of town. Goldsmith lamented that he had not known him.
Johnson, with his stern kindness, if such a thing had been possible,
could have saved him from despair. His deportment in the family with
whom he lived was without exception of decorum, although he showed
that any movement toward familiarity with him was offensive. In his
sore stress he began to write papers upon politics, which were
accepted by the partisan press. It was at the time when the arbitrary
encroachments of George III. were met by the audacious courage of
Mayor Beckford. Chatterton attached himself to the popular side; yet
he seemed to have regret for the mistake in so doing, because of the
comparative want of money in that party. In a long letter written to
his sister, most of which is occupied with his great undertakings, he
spoke thus of his political works:

"But the devil of the matter is, there is no money to be got on this
side of the question. Interest is on the other side. But he is a poor
author who cannot write on both sides. I believe I may be introduced
(and if not I'll introduce myself) to a ruling power in the court
party. I might have a recommendation to Sir George Colebrook, an East
India director, as qualified for an office by no means despicable; but
I shall not take a step to the sea whilst I can continue on land." In
the midst of this struggle Beckford, the champion of popular rights,
died suddenly, and the Walmsleys afterward testified that this event
put Chatterton "perfectly out of his mind."

Soon after this he removed to Brook Street, Holborn, and became a
boarder in the house of one Angell, a sack-maker. Here he continued to
work day and night until desperation, long threatened, seized upon
him. Court journals grew tired of articles showing little talent for
political discussion, and he became ragged and almost shoeless. In the
only despondent letter ever sent to his mother, he wrote of having
stumbled