One of the largest publishing houses in London, that of Messrs. Cassell, Petter, and Galpin, was founded by John Cassell, a Lancashire carpenter, who walked to London, and when he arrived in the metropolis, found himself with the handsome sum of twopence-halfpenny in his pocket. He was an earnest teetotaller, and became known as a temperance lecturer. He next commenced the sale of coffee, and finding that there was little wholesome reading for the class to which he originally belonged, he commenced a cheap publication, called the Working-man’s Friend. In time other works followed. He then got an immense number of stereos of engravings from French publications, and began to publish illustrated periodicals. In time he was joined by Messrs. Petter and Galpin, printers; and after Mr. Cassell’s lamented death the firm developed the business, till it became one of the most gigantic character. As an illustration of the remarkable extent of the firm’s business, I may mention that, at a tea-meeting, held in the Cannon Street Hotel in the early part of 1878, at which more than 600 workmen were present, Mr. Jeffery, one of the partners, stated, “That Messrs. Cassell, Petter, and Galpin, with the view of benefiting those of their employÉs who had already given, or might hereafter give, long and faithful service to the firm, had resolved to set aside, from year to year, a fixed proportion of their profits to form a fund, out of which certain benefits might, at their discretion, be paid. The scheme would provide for the payment of a sum of money, varying according to length of service, to the family or representative of any person who might die in their employment after seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years’ service, or, as the case might be, for the payment of bonuses of similar amounts to those who, having served at least seven years, might be incapacitated by old age, after the age of sixty-five, or who might before that age be totally unable to perform any labour owing to accident or disease. It had been estimated that the fund about to be instituted would provide for the following payments:—To overseers and managing clerks, after seven years’ service, £50; after fourteen years’ service, £75; after twenty-one years’ service, £100: to clickers, sub-foremen, and first-class clerks, after seven years’ service, £37 10s.; after fourteen years’ service, £56 5s.; after twenty-one years’ service, £75: to workmen, workwomen, and clerks, after seven years’ service, £25; after fourteen years’ service, £37 10s.; after twenty-one years’ service, £50. The scheme, which also provided for some other payments, would come into operation from the commencement of the present year. It was intended that a periodical revision of these tables should be made by an actuary. The amount appropriated for carrying out the proposal for 1878 amounted to £600, and Messrs. Cassell, Petter, and Galpin wished to set out the fact that these benefit arrangements were voluntary on their part, and might be withdrawn by them, wholly or in any particular case, if they should see reason for doing so.” It is wonderful, indeed, that such a business should have sprung from the unaided efforts of a raw, uneducated, uncouth Lancashire lad.

Originally, most of the great London publishers were anything but wealthy men. Jacob Tonson started with a capital of £100, left him by his father, a barber-sturgeon in Holborn. He is reported to have said when he died, “I wish I could have the world to begin again, because then I should have died worth £100,000, whereas I am now only worth £80,000.”—Lintott, the great rival of Tonson, left his daughter £55,000, and his son became high sheriff of Sussex.—Edmund Curll, who was born in the West of England, after passing through several menial capacities, became a bookseller’s assistant, and then kept a stall in the purlieus of Covent Garden.—Thomas Guy, whose name is still held in veneration as the founder of Guy’s Hospital, was the son of a coalheaver and lighterman. Very early he seems to have contracted most frugal habits. According to Nichols, he dined every day at his counter, with no other table-cloth than an old newspaper; and he was quite as economical in his dress. In order to get a frugal helpmate, he asked his servant-maid to become his wife. The girl, of course, was delighted, but presumed too much on her influence over her careful lover. One day, seeing that the paviers, repairing the street in front of the house, had neglected a broken place, she called their attention to it; but they told her that Guy had carefully marked a particular stone, beyond which they were not to go. “Well,” said the girl, “do you mend it; tell him I bade you, and I know he will not be angry.” However, Guy was, and the marriage did not take place. As a bachelor, Guy lived to a ripe old age. The cost of building Guy’s Hospital was £18,793, end he left £219,499 as an endowment. He left also money to Tamworth, his mother’s birthplace, which he represented in parliament for many years; £400 a-year to Christ’s Hospital, and £8,000 to his relative.—Robert Dodsley, who made a handsome fortune as a publisher, commenced life as a footman.—The far-famed Lackington was the son of a drunken cobbler at Wellington, and had no education at all. Loafing about the streets all day as a child, he thought he might turn his talents to account by crying pies, and as a pie-boy he acquired such a pre-eminence that he was soon engaged to vend almanacs. At fourteen he left this vagrant life to be apprenticed to a shoemaker. He came to London with half-a-crown and a wife; but in time he scraped together £25, and started in business in Chiswell Street. His plan was to sell for ready money, and at low prices. He then bought remainders of books which were generally destroyed, and thus he made a fortune. On his chariot, when he started one, he put for his motto, “Small profits do great things.” Again, he was very fond of repeating, “I found all I possess in small profits, bound by industry, and clasped with economy.”

Few have done better than the Chamberses, of Edinburgh. After months of pence-scraping and book-hoarding, Robert succeeded in collecting a stock worth about fifty shillings; and with nothing but these and his yearnings for independence, and his determination to write books by-and-by, but at present to sell them, he, at the age of sixteen, opened a little shop—a stall—in Leith Street. His brother William also started as a bookseller and printer in the same neighbourhood.

William Chambers was born in Peebles, April 16th, 1800; and Robert, coming next in order in the family, was born July 10th, 1802. The father carried on the hereditary trade of the manufacture of woollen and linen clothes. The grandfather held the office of elder of his church for the last thirty years of his existence. The grandmother was a little woman of plain appearance, a great stickler on points of controversial divinity, a rigorous critic of sermons, and a severe censor of what she considered degenerating manners. The mother was a beauty, and her pretty face led her into an alliance which, in the end, could have been productive of little happiness. Mr. Chambers speaks of his father as “accurate, upright, aspiring in his tastes and habits, with a fund of humour and an immense love of music.” He made some progress in science. “Affected, like others at the time, with the fascinating works of James Fergusson on astronomy, he had a kind of rage for that branch of study, which he pursued by means of a tolerably good telescope, in company with Mungo Park, the African traveller, who had settled as a surgeon in Peebles, and one or two other acquaintances.” The failing of his father was his pliancy of disposition. He was cheated with his eyes open. For such men worldly ruin is only a question of time. In a little while the family were driven from Peebles, and William had to fight the battle of life on his own account. His education, which closed when he was thirteen, had been by no means an expensive one. Books included, it had cost somewhere about sis pounds. For this he was well grounded in English. The most distressing part of his school exercises consisted in learning by heart the catechism of the Westminster Assembly of Divines—a document which he tells us it was impossible for any person under maturity to understand, or to regard in any other light than as a torture. In the case of the two brothers there was a curious malformation. They were sent into the world with six fingers on each hand, and six toes on each foot. By the neighbours this was considered lucky. In the case of William, the superfluous members were easily removed. It was not so with Robert. The supernumerary toes on the outside of the foot were attached to or formed part of the metatarsal bones, and were so badly amputated as to leave delicate protuberances, calculated to be a torment for life. This unfortunate circumstance, by producing a certain degree of lameness and difficulty in walking, no doubt helped to make Robert the studious and thoughtful man he was. Thus, indisposed to boyish sports, his progress in education was rapid. Indeed as William confesses, he was left far behind. In 1813, the family difficulties came to a head, and an emigration from Peebles to the gude auld town of Edinburgh was necessitated. Henceforth the mother seems to have been the head of the family. Chambers senior seems to have been a bit of an incumbrance. Poor themselves, they were surrounded by companions in misfortune. Widows of decayed tradesmen, teachers in the decline of life too old to teach, licensed preachers to whom an unkind fate had denied all church preferments, genteel unmarried women who had known better times, and who had now to eke out a precarious existence by colouring maps, or sewing fine needlework for the repository. This little pauperised colony, clinging as it were on to the skirts of respectability, was located on flats in that part of Edinburgh where rents were not of the highest, nor the houses of the grandest architectural character. Here they met with noteworthy individuals, and here William found his first situation as a bookseller’s assistant, with the magnificent salary of four shillings a-week. Lad as he was, William then laid down a resolution, which was not only heroical, considering the depressed circumstances of his family, which may not only be held up as an example to others, but which laid most assuredly the foundation of his success in after-life. “From necessity,” he tells us, “not less than from choice, I resolved to make the weekly four shillings serve for everything. I cannot remember entertaining the slightest despondency on the subject.” For a lad of fourteen thus to resolve, showed that he had the right spirit to conquer circumstances, and to win an old age of respectability and renown. As at this time his father was appointed commercial manager of a salt manufactory, called Joppa Pans—a smoky, odorous place, consisting of a group of buildings situated on the sea-shore, half-way between Portobello and Musselburgh—William was left by himself in Edinburgh to do the best he could. Of course he went to lodge with a Peebles woman, and was surrounded by a host of Peebleshire people, whose delight in the evening was to call up reminiscences of texts, and preachers, and sermons, and to discuss Boston’s “Marrow,” the “Crook in the Lot,” and the “Fourfold State.” It is to be feared we have not much improved on this. Such modes of spending the evening were certainly quite equal to the modern ones of frequenting music-halls, or of reading some of the trash now issued from the press. We must add that William Chambers had read Franklin’s autobiography, and had imbibed somewhat of his spirit. It is thus that a good, genuine book goes on bearing fruit. It is thus a good example tells in all strata of society. It is thus the life of one man is a blessing in all after time. William Chambers all the while pursued with more or less diligence his studies. He always rose at five in the morning to have a spell at reading. In the same way he made some progress in French, with the pronunciation of which he was already familiar, from the speech of the French prisoners of war in Peebles. He likewise dipped into several books of solid worth, such as Smith’s “Wealth of Nations,” Locke’s “Human Understanding,” Paley’s “Moral Philosophy,” and Blair’s “Belles Lettres.” His brother Robert, who had come to live with him, seems also to have done the same. In 1816, the latter became self-supporting; he had up to that time continued his studies in the hope of becoming a clerk or teacher. All hope in that direction, fortunately for himself and his country, was abandoned, and with a few old books, the remnant of the family library, he started in the world as a second-hand bookseller in Leith Walk. It was in 1819 that William did the same—having left his employers—with five shillings in his pocket, to which sum his weekly wages had latterly been considerately advanced. Unfortunately, Robert had cleared out the family stores, and there was no stock-in-trade with which William could furnish his scanty shelves. He was so fortunate, however, as to get a limited amount of credit from a London publisher of cheap standard literature, and thus he began a career of which he or any one else might well be proud. Bookselling by itself, however, was not sufficient; he tried caligraphy; he taught himself bookbinding; he mastered the art of printing; he became a publisher. His first book, of course, was a cheap edition of Burns’ Songs.

Such is an outline of the career of the brothers. Then comes the old story of success, of literary and business renown, of happy domestic life, and of the end of all. Both brothers were indefatigable writers. “Altogether,” writes William, “as nearly as can be reckoned, my brother produced upwards of seventy volumes, exclusively of detached papers, which it would be impossible to enumerate.” His whole writings had for their aim the good of society, the advancement, in some shape or other, of the true and the beautiful. “It will hardly be thought,” he modestly and affectionately adds, “that I exceed the proper bounds of panegyric in stating that, in the long list of literary compositions of Robert Chambers, we see the zealous and successful student, the sagacious and benevolent citizen, and the devoted lover of his country.” A similar eulogium may be pronounced on William himself.

Robert Chambers, the younger brother, thus makes us acquainted with his evening studies while a lad at his native town of Peebles:—

“Among that considerable part of the population who lived down closes and in old thatched cottages, news circulated at third or fourth hand, or was merged in conversation on religious or other topics. My brother and I derived much enjoyment, not to say instruction, from the singing of old ballads, and the telling of legendary stories, by a kind old female relative, the wife of a decayed tradesman, who dwelt in one of the ancient closes. At her humble fireside, under the canopy of a huge chimney, where her half-blind and superannuated husband sat dozing in a chair, the battle of Corunna and other prevailing news was strangely mingled with disquisitions on the Jewish wars. The source of this interesting conversation was a well-worn copy of L’Estrange’s translation of Josephus, a small folio of date 1720. The envied possessor of the work was Tam Fleck, ‘a flichty chield,’ as he was considered, who, not particularly steady at his legitimate employment, struck out a sort of profession by going about in the evenings with his Josephus, which he read as the current news; the only light he had for doing so being usually that imparted by the flickering blaze of a piece of parrot coal. It was his practice not to read more than from two to three pages at a time, interlarded with sagacious remarks of his own by way of foot-notes, and in this way he sustained an extraordinary interest in the narrative. Retailing the matter with great equability in different households, Tam kept all at the same point of information, and wound them up with a corresponding anxiety as to the issue of some moving event in Hebrew annals. Although in this way he went through a course of Josephus yearly, the novelty somehow never seemed to wear off.

“‘Weel, Tam, what’s the news the nicht?’ would old Geordie Murray say, as Tam entered with his Josephus under his arm, and seated himself at the family fireside.

“‘Bad news, bad news,’ replied Tam. ‘Titus has begun to besiege Jerusalem—it’s gaun to be a terrible business;’ and then he opened his budget of intelligence, to which all paid the most reverential attention. The protracted and severe famine which was endured by the besieged Jews was a theme which kept several families in a state of agony for a week; and when Tam in his readings came to the final conflict and destruction of the city by the Roman general, there was a perfect paroxysm of horror. At such sÉances my brother and I were delighted listeners. All honour to the memory of Tam Fleck.”

We must again quote from Robert’s reminiscences the following characteristic anecdotes of the grandmother of the Chamberses:—

“She possessed a good deal of ‘character,’ and might also be taken for the original of Mause Headrigg. As the wife of a ruling elder, she possibly imagined that she was entitled to exercise a certain authority in ecclesiastical matters. An anecdote is told of her having once taken the venerable Dr. Dalgliesh, the parish minister, through hands. In presence of a number of neighbours, she thought fit to lecture him on that particularly delicate subject, his wife’s dress: ‘It was a sin and a shame to see sae mickle finery.’

“The minister did not deny the charge, but dexterously encouraged her with the Socratic method of argument: ‘So, Margaret, you think that ornament is useless and sinful in a lady’s dress?’

“‘Certainly I do.’

“‘Then, may I ask why you wear that ribbon around your cap? A piece of cord would surely do quite as well.’

“Disconcerted with this unforeseen turn of affairs, Margaret determinedly rejoined in an under-tone: ‘Ye’ll no hae lang to speer sic a like question.’

“Next day her cap was bound with a piece of white tape; and never afterwards, till the day of her death, did she wear a ribbon, or any morsel of ornament. I am doubtful if we could match this out of Scotland. For a novelist to depict characters of this kind, he would require to see them in real life; no imagination could reach them. Sir Walter Scott both saw and talked with them, for they were not extinct in his day.

“The mortifying rebuff about the ribbon perhaps had some influence in making my ancestress a Seceder. As she lived near the manse, I am afraid she must have been a good deal of a thorn in the side of the parish minister, notwithstanding all the palliatives of her good-natured husband, the elder. At length an incident occurred which sent her abruptly off to a recently-erected meeting-house, to which a promising young preacher, Mr. Leckie, had been appointed.

“It was a bright summer morning, about five o’clock, when Margaret left her husband’s side as usual, and went out to see her cow attended to. Before three minutes had elapsed, her husband was aroused by her coming in with dismal cries: ‘Eh, sirs! eh, sirs! did I ever think to live to see the day? O man, O man, O William—this is a terrible thing, indeed! Could I ever have thought to see’t?’

“‘Gracious, woman!’ exclaimed the worthy elder, by this time fully awake, ‘what is’t? is the coo deid?’ for it seemed to him that no greater calamity could have been expected to produce such doleful exclamations.

“‘The coo deid!’ responded Margaret; ‘waur, waur, ten times waur. There’s Dr. Dalgliesh only now gaun hame at five o’clock in the morning. It’s awfu’, it’s awfu’! What will things come to?’

“The elder, though a pattern of propriety himself, is not recorded as having taken any but a mild view of the minister’s conduct, more particularly as he knew that the patron of the parish was at Miss Ritchie’s inn, and that the reverend divine might have been detained rather late with him against his will. The strenuous Margaret drew no such charitable conclusions. She joined the Secession congregation next day, and never again attended the parish church.”

We now pass on to Mr. William Chambers. He gives us a capital picture of an old Edinburgh book auction:—

“Peter was a dry humorist, somewhat saturnine from business misadventures. Professedly he was a bookseller in South College Street, and exhibited over his door a huge sham copy of Virgil by way of sign. His chief trade, however, was the auctioning of books and stationery at the agency office—a place with a strong smell of new furniture, amidst which it was necessary to pass before arriving at the saloon in the rear, where the auctions were habitually held. Warm, well-lighted, and comfortably fitted up with seats within a railed enclosure, environing the books to be disposed of, this place of evening resort was as good as a reading-room—indeed, rather better, for there was a constant fund of amusement in Peter’s caustic jocularities—as when he begged to remind his audience that this was a place for selling, not for reading books—sarcasms which always provoked a round of ironical applause. His favourite author was Goldsmith, an edition of whose works he had published, which pretty frequently figured in his catalogue. On coming to these works he always referred to them with profound respect—as, for example: ‘The next in the catalogue, gentlemen, is the works of Oliver Gooldsmith, the greatest writer that ever lived, except Shakspeare; what do you say for it?—I’ll put it up at ten shillings.’ Some one would perhaps audaciously bid twopence, which threw him into a rage, and he would indignantly call out: ‘Tippence, man; keep that for the brode,’ meaning the plate at the church-door. If the same person dared to repeat the insult with regard to some other work, Peter would say: ‘Dear me, has that poor man not yet got quit of his tippence?’ which turned the laugh, and effectually silenced him all the rest of the evening. Peter’s temper was apt to get ruffled when biddings temporarily ceased. He then declared that he might as well try to auction books in the poor-house. On such occasions, driven to desperation, he would try the audience with a bunch of quills, a dozen black-lead pencils, or a ‘quare’ of Bath-post, vengefully knocking which down at the price bidden for them, he would shout to ‘Wully,’ the clerk, to look after the money. Never minding Peter’s querulous observations further than to join in the general laugh, I, like a number of other penniless youths, got some good snatches of reading at the auctions in the agency office. I there saw and handled books which I had never before heard of, and in this manner obtained a kind of notion of bibliography. My brother, who, like myself, became a frequenter of the agency office, relished Peter highly, and has touched him of in one of his essays.”

A wealthy old man was Hutton, of Birmingham, who thus describes his early struggles to set up in business as a bookbinder:—

“A bookbinder, fostered by the frame, was such a novelty that many people gave me a book to bind, chiefly my acquaintances and their friends, and I perceived two advantages attend my work. I chiefly served those who were not judges; consequently, that work passed with them which would not with a master. And coming from a stockinger, it carried a merit, because no stockinger could produce its equal.

“Hitherto I had only used the wretched tools and the materials for binding which my bookseller chose to sell me; but I found there were many others wanting, which were only to be had in London; besides, I wished to fix a correspondence for what I wanted, without purchasing at second-hand. There was a necessity to take this journey; but an obstacle arose—I had no money.

“My dear sister raised three guineas; sewed them in my shirt collar, for there was no doubt of my being robbed, and put eleven shillings in my pocket, for it was needful to have a sop to satisfy the rogues when they made the attack. From the diminutive sum I took, it may reasonably be supposed I should have nothing left to purchase.

“On Monday morning at three, April 8th, I set out. Not being accustomed to walk, my feet were blistered with the first ten miles. I must not, however, sink under the fatigue, but endeavour to proceed as if all were well; for much depended on this journey. Aided by resolution I marched on.

“Stopping at Leicester, I unfortunately left my knife, and did not discover the loss till I had proceeded eleven miles. I grieved, because it was the only keepsake I had of my worthy friend, Mr. Webb. Ten times its value could not have purchased it. I had marked it with ‘July 22, 1742, W. H.’

“A mile beyond Leicester I overtook a traveller with his head bound. ‘How far are you going?’ he asked. ‘To London,’ replied I. ‘So am I.’ ‘When do you expect to arrive?’ ‘On Wednesday night.’ ‘So do I.’ ‘What is the matter with your head?’ said I; ‘have you been fighting?’ He returned a blind answer, which convinced me of the affirmative. I did not half like my companion, especially as he took care to walk behind me. This probably, I thought, was one of the rogues likely to attack me. But when I understood he was a tailor my fears rather subsided, nor did I wonder his head was wrapped.

“Determined upon a separation, I marched apace for half-an-hour. ‘Do you mean to hold this rate?’ ‘It is best to hold daylight while we have it.’ I found I could match him at walking, whatever I might do at fighting. In half-an-hour more we came to a public-house, when he gave up the contest. ‘Will you step in and drink?’ ‘No, I shall be moving slowly; you may soon overtake me.’

“I stopped at Brixworth, having walked fifty-four miles, and my whole expense for the day was fivepence.

“The next night, Tuesday the 9th, I reached Dunstable. Passing over Finchley Common on the third day, I overtook a carter, who told me I might be well accommodated at the ‘Horns,’ in St. John’s Street (Smithfield), by making use of his name. But it happened, in the eagerness of talking and the sound of his noisy cart, he forgot to tell his name, and I to ask it.

“I arrived at the ‘Horns’ at five; described my director, whom they could not recollect. However, I was admitted as an inmate, and then ordered a mutton-chop and porter; but, alas! I was jaded, had fasted too long; my appetite was gone, and the chop nearly useless.

“This meal, if it may be called a meal, was the only one during my stay; and I think the only time I ever ate under a roof. I did not know one soul in London, therefore could have no invitations. Life is supported with a little; which was well for me, because I had but little to give it. If a man has any money he will see stalls enough in London, which will supply him with something to eat, and it rests with him to lay out his money to the best advantage. If he cannot afford butter he must eat his bread without. This will tend to keep up his appetite, which will always give a relish to food, though mean; and scantiness will add to that relish.

“Next morning I breakfasted in Smithfield, upon frumenty, at a wheelbarrow. Sometimes a half-pennyworth of soup and another of bread; at others bread and cheese. When nature calls, I must answer. I ate to live.

“If a man goes to receive money it may take him long to do his business. If to pay money, it will take him less; and if he has but little to pay, still less. My errand fell under the third. I only wanted three alphabets of letters, figures, and ornamental tools for gilding books, with materials (leather and hoards) for binding.

“I wished to see a number of curiosities, but my shallow pocket forbade. One penny to see Bedlam was all I could spare. Here I met with a variety of curious anecdotes, for I stayed long, and found conversation with a multitude of characters. All the public buildings fell under my eye, which were attentively examined; nor was I wanting in my inquiries. Pass where I would I never was out of the way of entertainment. It is reasonable to suppose that everything in London was new and wonderful to a youth who is fond of inquiry, but has scarcely seen anything but rags and dung-carts. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, Guildhall, Westminster Hall, &c., were open to view; also both Houses (of Parliament), for they were sitting. As I had always applied deification to great men, I was surprised to see a hawker cram the twopenny pamphlets into a member’s face, who, instead of caning her, took not the slightest notice.

“I joined a youth who had business in the Tower, in hopes of admission; but the warders, hearing the northern voice, came out of their cells, and seeing dust upon my shoes, reasonably concluded I had nothing to give, and, with an air of authority, ordered me back.

“The Royal Exchange, the Mansion House, the Monument, the gates, the churches, many of which are beautiful; the bridges, river, vessels, &c., afforded a fund of entertainment. I attended at Leicester House, the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales—scraped acquaintance with the sentinels, who told me, had I been half-an-hour sooner, I should have seen the prince and his family take coach for an airing.

“Though I had walked 129 miles to London, I was upon my feet all the three days I was there. I spent half a day in viewing the west end of the town, the squares, the parks, the beautiful building for the fireworks, erected in the Green Park, to celebrate the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748. At St. James’s I accosted the guard at the bottom of the stairs, and rather attempted to advance; but one of them put forward the butt-end of his piece that I might not step over. At St. James’s, too, I had my pocket picked of a handkerchief, which caused me to return home rather lighter. The people at St. James’s are apt to fill their pockets at the expense of others.“Observing, in one of the squares, the figure of a man on horseback, I modestly asked a bystander whom it represented? He observed, in a surly tone, ‘It’s strange you could see nobody else to ask without troubling me; its George I.’

“I could not forbear mentioning at night, to my landlord at the ‘Horns,’ the curiosities I had seen, which surprised him. He replied, ‘I like such a traveller as you. The strangers that come here cannot stir a foot without me, which plagues me to that degree I had rather be without their custom. But you, of yourself, find out more curiosities than I can show them or see myself.’

“On Saturday evening, April 13th, I set out with four shillings for Nottingham, and stopped at St. Alban’s. Rising the next morning, April 14th, I met in the street the tailor with the muffled head, whom I had left near Leicester. ‘Ah! my friend, what are you still fighting your way up? Perhaps you will reach London by next Wednesday. You guessed within a week the first time.’ He said but little, looked ashamed, and passed on.

“This was a melancholy day. I fell lame, from the sinews of my leg being overstrained with hard labour. I was far from home, wholly among strangers, with only the remnant of four shillings. The dreadful idea operated in fears!

“I stopped at Newport Pagnell. My landlord told me ‘my shoes were not fit for travelling;’ however, I had no other, and, like my blistered feet, I must try to bear them. Next day, Monday, 15th, I slept at Market Harborough, and on the 16th called at Leicester. The landlady had carefully secured my knife, with a view to return it should I ever come that way. Reached Nottingham in the afternoon, forty miles.

“I had been out nearly nine days;—three in going, which cost three and eightpence; three there, which cost about the same; and three returning, nearly the same. Out of the whole eleven shillings I brought four pence back.

“London surprised me; so did the people, for the few with whom I formed a connection deceived me by promising what they never performed, and, I have reason to think, never intended it. This journey furnished vast matter for detail among my friends.

“It was time to look out for a future place of residence. A large town must now be the mark, or there would be no room for exertion. London was thought on between my sister and I, for I had no soul else to consult. This was rejected for two reasons. How could I venture into such a place without a capital? And how could my work pass among a crowd of judges? My plan must be to fix upon some market town within a stage of Nottingham, and open a shop on the market-day, till I should be better prepared to begin the world at Birmingham.

“I therefore, in the following February, took a journey to that populous place, to pass a propable judgment upon my future success.

“I fixed upon Southwell as the first step of elevation, fourteen miles distant, a town as despicable as the road to it. I went over at Michaelmas, took a shop at the rate of 20s. a-year, sent a few boards for shelves, tools to put them up, and about two hundred weight of trash, which a bookseller would dignify with the name of books (and with, perhaps, about a year’s rent of my shop); was my own joiner, put up the shelves and their furniture, worth, perhaps, 20s., and in one day became the most eminent bookseller in the place.

“During this wet winter I had to set out at five every Saturday morning (carrying a burthen of three pounds’ weight to thirty), open shop at ten, starve in it all day upon bread, cheese, and half a pint of ale; take from 1s. to 6s., shut up at four, and by trudging through the deep roads and the solitary night five hours more, arrive at Nottingham by nine, carrying a burthen from three to thirty pounds, where I always found a mess of milk porridge by the fire, prepared by my valuable sister.

“Nothing short of a surprising resolution and rigid economy could have carried me through this dreadful scene.” But Hutton did not despair; he lived to a good old age, and was a wealthy man.

The life of Kelly, the London publisher, is full of interest. Thomas Kelly was born at Chevening, in Kent, on the 7th of January, 1779. His father was a shepherd, who, having received a jointure of £200 with his wife, risked the capital first in a little country inn, and afterwards in leasing a small farm of about thirty acres of cold, wet land, where he led a starving, struggling life during the remainder of his days. When only twelve years old, barely able to read and write, young Kelly was taken from school and put to the hard work of the farm, leading the team or keeping the flock; but he was not strong enough to handle the plough. The fatigue of this life, and its misery, were so vividly impressed upon his memory, that he could never be persuaded to revisit the neighbourhood in after-life; and though at the time he endeavoured to conceal his feelings from his family, the bitterness of his reflections involuntarily betrayed his wishes. He fretted in the daytime until he could not lie quietly in his bed at night; and early one morning he was discovered in a somnambulent state in the chimney of an empty bedroom, “on,” as he said, “his road to London.” After this, his parents readily consented that he should try to make his way elsewhere, and a situation was obtained for him in the counting-house of a Lambeth brewer. After about three years’ service here the business failed, and he was recommended to Alexander Hogg, bookseller, of Paternoster Row. The terms of his engagement were those of an ordinary domestic servant; he was to board and lodge on the premises, and to receive £10 yearly; but his lodging, or, at all events, his bed, was under the shop counter.

Alexander Hogg, of 16, Paternoster Row, had been a journeyman to Cooke, and had very successfully followed the publication of “Number” books. In the trade he was looked upon as an unequalled “puffer;” and when the sale of a book began to slacken, he was wont to employ some ingenious scribe to draw up a taking title, and the work, though otherwise unaltered, was brought out in a “new edition,” as, according to a formula, the “Production of a Society of Gentlemen: the whole revised, corrected, and improved by Walter Thornton, Esq., M.A., and other gentlemen.”

Kelly’s duties were to make up parcels of books for the retail booksellers; and his zeal displayed itself even in somnambulism; for one night, when in a comatose state, he actually arranged in order the eighty numbers of “Foxe’s Martyrs,” taken from as many different compartments. He spent all his leisure in study, and soon was able to read French with fluency, gaining the proper accent by attending the French Protestant School in Threadneedle Street. The good old housekeeper, at this time his only friend, was a partaker of all his studies; at all events, he gave her the benefit of all the more amusing and interesting matter he came across. His activity, though it rendered the head shopman jealous, attracted Hogg’s favourable attention, and the clever discovery of a batch of stolen works still further strengthened the interest he felt in the serving-boy. The thieves, owing to the lad’s ingenuity, were apprehended and convicted, and Kelly had to come forward as a witness. “This was my first appearance at the Old Bailey; and as I was fearful I might give incorrect evidence, I trembled over the third commandment. How could I think, while shaking in the witness-box, that I should be raised to act as her Majesty’s First Commissioner at the Central Criminal Court of England?”

Half of his scanty pittance of £10 was sent home to aid his parents; and as his wages increased, so did his dutiful allowance. In this situation Kelly remained for twenty years and two months, and at no time did he receive more than £80 per annum; and it is believed that when his stipend reached that petty maximum, he defrayed the whole of his father’s farm rent. That he was not entirely satisfied with his prospects is evident from the fact that, about ten years after he joined Hogg, he accepted a clerkship in Sir Francis Baring’s office; but so necessary had he become to the establishment he was about to leave, that his master prevailed upon him to accept board and residence in exchange for what assistance he might please to render over the usual hours. After six weeks of this work, poor Kelly’s health began to suffer, and it was plain that he must confine his labours to one single branch of trade. “Thomas,” said his master, sagaciously enough, though, probably, with a view to his own interests, “you never can be a merchant, but you may be a bookseller.” This advice chimed in with his inclination, if not with his immediate prospects, and Kelly devoted himself to bookselling.

At length Hogg, falling into bad health, and desiring to be relieved from business, proposed to Kelly that he should unite in partnership with his son; but Kelly thought it better to start on his own account. In 1809, therefore, he commenced business in a little room in Paternoster Row, sub-rented from the landlord, a friendly barber. For the first two years his operations were confined solely to the purchase and sale of miscellaneous books on a small scale, and the limited experiment proved successful. Of Buchan’s “Domestic Medicine” he bought 1,000 copies in sheets, at a low price, and having prefixed a short memoir of his author, and divided them into numbers, or parts, he went out himself in quest of subscribers; and 1,000 copies of the “New Week’s Preparation” were treated in like manner, and with similar success. Kelly lived to be Lord Mayor of London.

Mr. Routledge, the founder of the well-known publishing-house of that name, commenced business by opening a little shop in Ryder’s Court, Leicester Square, for the sale of cheap and second-hand books.

Few booksellers have done better than the Heywoods of Manchester. Abel began life as a warehouse-boy, on the scanty pittance of 1s. 6d. a-week. John Heywood, at the age of fourteen, found employment as a hand-loom weaver. Within ten years his wages rose from 2s. 6d. a-week to 30s., and when in receipt of this latter sum he regularly allowed his mother 20s. a-week. For some time he was with his brother, and then he took a little shop. It has been truly remarked by Mr. Henry Curwen, in his “History of Booksellers,” that the career of the two Heywoods is a striking example of the labour, energy, and success which Lancashire folk are apt to think the true attributes of the typical Manchester man.