t his hand in his
pocket and pulled out one of the very few copper coins which were left
there and gave it to the woman.

'Lord bless you, my dear,' she said, 'you've a kind heart, and you look
as thin as a rod yourself. I hear,' she said confidentially, 'they've
got forty-five pounds of meat in there, and puddin' and punch and baccy.
Ah! it's a queer world, that it is!' and then she passed on, the smell
of the viands becoming more tantalising every minute.

There is something very pathetic in the position of the Bristol poet on
that spring evening--alone, and as he thought deserted, and driven to
despair by what he believed to be the ill-treatment of the people of
Bristol.

After the lapse of a hundred and twenty years the memory of that boyish
figure still haunts the streets of Bristol, and there comes a vain and
helpless longing that at that critical moment of Chatterton's life some
hand of blessed charity had been stretched out to him, some word of
loving counsel and sympathy offered him.

It was the young eagle chafing against the bars of his cage, wounding
his wings in every vain attempt to soar above his prison house; it was
the prisoner held captive by chains, of his own forging, it may be, but
not the less galling. The gift bestowed by the hand of God was soiled by
its contact with earthly desires, and the Giver altogether unrecognised,
and His divinity unfelt.

Chatterton, on this evening, was drifting on a sea of doubt and
perplexity, nursing within angry passions of hate and revenge, and yet
through all was to be seen the better self trying to assist itself, as
when he gave his poor mite to the starving woman, and going to his home
made his mother's heart sing for joy as he cast off his gloom, praised
the frugal supper she set before him, and told her the day was soon
coming when she should feast with him in London, whither he was bent on
going as soon as possible. The very next day this scheme was rendered
comparatively easy of accomplishment.

Mr Barrett, probably when discussing Chatterton's story over the punch
bowl at the Crown, got up a little subscription for him, and sent for
him to communicate the intelligence on the next morning.

And now indeed Hope, holy sister, swept through the poet's sky in crown
of gold and robe of lily white. Dire despondency was changed into
raptures of joy, and his mother, though with a pain at her heart, busied
herself to enter into all the little preparations for