We are wearied for him of the world's dark sight: yet in the same book is recorded that the same publisher owed him L10 19s. 6d.! This sum might have saved him, but he was too proud to ask for money; too proud to complain; too proud to accept the invitation of his acquaintances, or his landlady, to dine or sup with them; and all too proud to hint, even to his mother and sister, that he was any thing but prosperous. Ardent as if he had been a son of the hot south, he had learned nothing of patience or expediency. His first residence was at Mrs. Walmsley's, in Shoreditch, but, doubtless, finding the lodging too expensive, he removed to a Mr. Angell's, sac (or dress) maker, 4, Brook Street, Holborn. This woman, who seems to have been of a gentle nature, finding that for two days he had confined himself to his room, and gone without sustenance, invited him to dine with her; but he was offended, and assured her he was not hungry. It is quite impossible to account for this uncalled for pride. It was his nature. Lord Byron said he was mad: according to _his_ view of the case, all eccentricity is madness; but in the case of unhappy Chatterton, that madness which arises from "hope deferred," was unquestionably endured. Three days before his death, pursuing, with a friend, the melancholy and speculative employment of reading epitaphs in the churchyard of St. Pancras, absorbed by his own reflections, he fell into a new-made grave. There was something akin to the raven's croak, the death-fetch, the fading spectre, in this foreboding accident: he smiled at it, and told his friend he felt the sting of speedy dissolution:-- "Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the earth on which he moved alone." At the age of seventeen years and nine months, his career ended; it was shown that he had swallowed arsenic in water, and so-- "perished in his pride!" An inquest was held, and yet though Englishmen--men who could read and write, and hear--who must have heard of the boy's talents, either as a poet, a satirist, or a political writer--though these men were guided by a coroner, one, of course, in a more elevated sphere than those who usually determine the intentions of the departed soul--yet was there not one--NOT ONE of them all--with sufficient veneration for the casket which had contained the diamond--not one with enough of sympathy for the widow's son--to wrap his body in a decent shroud, and kneel in Christian piety by his grave!--not one to pause and think that, between genius and madness, "What thin partitions do their bounds divide!"