There was a rose-tree in its pot on the table at which he wrote, and by it a scrap of paper, on which was written: "Dear, dear Brother Leonard, God bless you. I will let you know when we can meet again. Take care of this rose, Brother, and don't forget poor HELEN." Over the word "forget" there was a big round blistered spot that nearly effaced the word. Leonard leant his face on his hands, and for the first time in his life he felt what solitude really is. He could not stay long in the room. He walked out again, and wandered objectless to and fro the streets. He passed that stiller and humbler neighborhood, he mixed with the throng that swarmed in the more populous thoroughfares. Hundreds and thousands passed him by, and still--still such solitude. He came back, lighted his candle, and resolutely drew forth the "Chatterton" which the bookseller had lent him. It was an old edition in one thick volume. It had evidently belonged to some contemporary of the Poet's--apparently an inhabitant of Bristol--some one who had gathered up many anecdotes respecting Chatterton's habits, and who appeared even to have seen him, nay, been in his company; for the book was interleaved, and the leaves covered with notes and remarks in a stiff clear hand--all evincing personal knowledge of the mournful, immortal dead. At first, Leonard read with an effort; then the strange and fierce spell of that dread life seized upon him--seized with pain, and gloom, and terror--this boy dying by his own hand, about the age Leonard had attained himself. This wonderous boy, of a genius beyond all comparison--the greatest that ever yet was developed and extinguished at the age of eighteen--self-taught--self-struggling--self-immolated. Nothing in literature like that life and that death!