apher exclaimed, "In this gloom of
solitude I have protracted my work, till those whom I wished to please
have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty
sounds;" but, if it be applauded in his own, that praise has come too
late for him whose literary labour has stolen away his sight. Cotgrave
had grown blind over his dictionary, and was doubtful whether this
work of his laborious days and nightly vigils was not a superfluous
labour, and nothing, after all, but a "poor bundle of words." The
reader may listen to the gray-headed martyr addressing his patron,
Lord Burghley:

"I present to your lordship an account of the _expense of many hours_,
which, in your service, and to mine own benefit, _might have been
otherwise employed_. My desires have aimed at more substantial marks;
but _mine eyes_ failed them, and forced me to _spend out their vigour
in this bundle of words_, which may be unworthy of your lordship's
great patience, and, perhaps, _ill-suited to the expectation of
others_."

A great number of young authors have died of over-study. An
intellectual enthusiasm, accompanied by constitutional delicacy, has
swept away half the rising genius of the age. Curious calculators have
affected to discover the average number of infants who die under the
age of five years: had they investigated those of the children of
genius who perish before their thirtieth year, we should not be
less amazed at this waste of man. There are few scenes more
afflicting, nor which more deeply engage our sympathy, than that
of a youth, glowing with the devotion of study, and resolute to
distinguish his name among his countrymen, while death is stealing on
him, touching with premature age, before he strikes the last blow.
The author perishes on the very pages which give a charm to his
existence. The fine taste and tender melancholy of Headley, the
fervid genius of Henry Kirke White, will not easily pass away; but
how many youths as noble-minded have not had the fortune of Kirke
White to be commemorated by genius, and have perished without their
fame! Henry Wharton is a name well known to the student of English
literature; he published historical criticisms of high value; and he
left, as some of the fruits of his studies, sixteen volumes of
MS., preserved in the Archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth. These
great labours were pursued with the ardour that only could have
produced them; the author had not exceeded his thirtieth year when