Mrs. Angell. That was over a month ago, sir. Then he always was telling of what he was going to do for his mother; but now he seems so hopeless, and still he writes so hopefully to her. I do not believe he has had a morsel of food these two days. He is too proud to take anything from me. He says he is not hungry, and yet he looks almost famished. Bertha. Poor Chatterton! Burgum. Why does he not work? Mrs. Angell. He does work, sir--all night sometimes--writing, writing, writing. Burgum. I mean at something profitable--looking up pedigrees, for instance,--the boy has a genius for pedigrees. Mrs. Angell. I believe he is trying to get an appointment as a surgeon's mate. My husband, good man, offered to secure him a place as a compter; but Mr. Chatterton stormed about the house. Burgum. A poet's gratitude. Bertha. A poet's indignation 'gainst a clown. Mrs. Angell. My husband is no clown, lady. Bertha. I beg your pardon, Madam. Burgum. [To Mrs. Angell.] Pay no attention to her: she is as crazy as Chatterton. Bertha. I would I were. Burgum. Bah! You are half in love with the beggar already. Mrs. Angell. If he had a chance, sir, I think he would make something great. Bertha. I am sure of it! Burgum. You never met him. Bertha. But I have seen him, and have read his poems. Burgum. That doggerel in the "Town and County"? [Taking a paper from table.] Here is more of it. [Glances at paper.] What's this? [Reads.] "Gods! what would Burgum give to get a name And snatch his blundering dialect from shame?" The ingrate! "What would he give to hand his memory down To time's remotest boundary--a crown. Would you ask more, his swelling face looks blue; Futurity he rates at two pounds two." Zounds! this of a de Burgum--a descendant of Simon de Seyncte Lyze, a companion of William the Conqueror! Mrs. Angell. Be not angry with him, sir; he is not like one of us. Enter Chatterton, who pauses near doorway. Burgum. Thank heaven for that! I will not longer brook The impudence of this ungrateful boy, Who mutters, rants, and doth himself opine One of the brooding darlings of the world. By what right is he moody and revengeful? Bertha. He is as nature made him: full of pride And fierce resentment 'gainst a callous race. Give him but patience to endure neglect-- Quell his rebellious spirit, and you take From his tossed soul God's gift of poesy. Chatterton. [Coming forward.] Lady, were I the poet of my dreams, Instead of Chatterton, I could not word My gratitude to you. Bertha. 'Tis Chatterton! Chatterton. Well, Burgum, what's the news? Burgum. [Aside.] Impertinence! Mrs. Angell. [To Chatterton.] Be seated, sir; you must be very tired; You have not been at home since ten o'clock. The day-- Chatterton. [Sinking upon a chair.] Clouds, sunshine, rain--I'll sleep to-night. Mrs. Angell. Is there not something I can get you, sir?