For talented people to share and use their gifts to full advantage, somebody first needs to ferret them out. In 1879, a Manchester-based medical student and aspiring writer named Francis Thompson received a copy of Thomas De Quincey’s memoir, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, from his mother. De Quincey’s flowery descriptions of the pleasures and pains of opium stirred Thompson’s unease at the prospect of a medical career and nudged him toward a different path. Already unwell with what was probably his first bout of tuberculosis, Thompson started taking opium himself both for symptom relief and for literary inspiration.

After failing his final examinations, he abandoned his studies to seek his fortune in London as a poet. But his deepening drug addiction triggered a steady descent into destitution. Short-lived jobs as an assistant in a boot shop, a newspaper seller and a match-stick vendor petered out. Thompson’s literary ambitions were dealt a blow when libraries refused him entrance due to his unkempt appearance. Soon he was reduced to sleeping rough under the arches of Covent Garden.

Throughout this desperate time, he wrote. His pockets were stuffed with scraps of paper inscribed with verse. His style was distinctive: He tended to use obscure or self-coined words and unusual punctuation, parentheses and turns of phrase. His themes were often mystical or spiritual—his parents were Catholic converts, and Thompson had considered the priesthood before starting his medical studies. But the language and imagery of his work were deeply colored by his experiences of poverty and addiction.

In February 1887, he pushed an essay and some poems penned on scruffy paper through the door of the offices of the magazine Merry England, with the following post-script: “Please address your rejection to the Charing Cross Post Office.” It took six months for Wilfrid and Alice Meynell, the husband-and-wife team who edited the journal, to properly examine the scribblings. Immediately, they recognized an unusual talent, and took to the streets of London in search of Thompson. Eventually, they tracked down and “saved” him—initially feeding and lodging him in their own home, and at last providing him with an outlet for his writing. Although he didn’t find great fame in his lifetime, he went on to publish a handful of critically acclaimed poetry volumes. Later figures inspired by his work include G.K. Chesterton and J.R.R. Tolkien. But Francis Thompson’s rescue was only ever a partial success. Over time, his life drifted back toward disorder, characterized by bouts of ill health, opium use and frequent moves between lodging houses, monastic retreats and the homes of well-meaning patrons. While the Meynells demonstrated a clear sense of responsibility toward the talent they had uncovered and nurtured—something not always apparent in contemporary tales of discovery and sudden success—Thompson remained set on a tragic trajectory. He died at the age of 47, ruined by the deadly combination of Mycobacterium tuberculosis and opiate addiction.