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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
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