described as the most wretched of his life. He then spent another seven years with his uncle, a stockingweaver of Nottingham, where he was begrudged every meal he tasted. "My aunt," he said, "kept a constant eye upon the food and the feeder. This curb galled my mouth to that degree that to this day I do not eat at another's table without fear."

During his apprenticeship with his uncle, his taste for books and reading seems to have been first developed. He continued to work for his uncle until his death, when he was cast upon the world without a home. He managed to set up a stocking-frame in his sister's house, but found little or no demand for his labour. "The manufacturers," he said, "would neither employ me nor give for my goods anything near prime cost. As I stood like a culprit before a gentleman of the name of Bennet, I was so affected that I burst into tears to think that I had served seven years to a trade at which I could not get bread."

As making stockings would not yield him the means of living, Hutton resolved to try another business; and as taste led him to books, he determined to become a bookseller. His qualifications for his new business were small enough—a little reading and writing, with the ability of cobbling up the old books which fell in his way, were his capital and stock in trade. It was a weary time before his noble perseverance overcame all obstacles. Having walked to London and back to lay out a few shillings in the purchase of tools, he fixed upon Southwell, a small town about fourteen miles from

Nottingham, as the scene of his first experiment. Nothing short of the most surprising resolution and rigid economy could have carried him through the year he devoted to this effort. Walking for ten hours, and starving in his miserable shop for six hours, to secure receipts varying from one to six shillings-a task he regularly executed every market day—was not a very cheerful or brilliant success; but he held on. His increased experience of the business induced him to try new ground, and on the 25th day of May 1750 he commenced business in Birmingham, in a shop the rent of which was one shilling per week. One gentleman gave him a little encouragement by trusting him with a few old books and taking in exchange a note from Hutton, which ran thus:-"I promise to pay Ambrose Rudsdall one pound seven shillings when I am able.” A debt subsequently cheerfully paid.

His weekly expenses during his first year in Birmingham did not exceed five shillings; at the end of the year he had saved twenty pounds. It was all right with him now; his courage and self-reliance had met with their reward. The next thirty years of his life passed on in an even and prosperous tenor. He became so highly estimated for his prudence and good sense that in 1768 he was chosen one of the overseers of the poor; and in 1772, one of the judges in the Court of Requests a small-debts court. The Birmingham riots occasioned his withdrawal from public office, though his life and health were prolonged for many years. At the age of eighty-five he walked a tour of six

hundred miles, to collect materials for an antiquarian publication. He died at the age of ninety-two, notwithstanding that his youth had been surrounded with so many depressing influences. His habits, no doubt, tended much to prolong his life and preserve his health. He viewed strong liquors with absolute abhorrence, and considered water alone as the most refreshing beverage. Such was the happy disposition of his mind, and such the firm texture of his body, that “ninety-two years,” says his daughter, “had scarcely the power to alter his features or make a wrinkle in his face." The moral of Hutton's life is-Courage and Self-reliance. He early learned to depend upon himself, and that lesson he has left for all who come after him. He was a man in all relations of life; he did not allow poverty and privation to cow and overcome him - he overcame them; and now his life and example call upon the desponding and despairing to quit themselves like men.

XIX.

“My Dear, be a Good Man.”

"So spake the cherub, and his grave rebuke
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
Invincible: abashed the devil stood,

And felt how awful goodness is."-MILTON.

IR WALTER SCOTT when on his death-bed said to his son-in-law: "Lockhart, I have but a minute to speak to you. My dear,

be a good man; be virtuous, be religiousbe a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." Sir Walter had had a successful life, not unaccompanied by disappointment, but notwithstanding full of that which men covet and earnestly desire. His success in life had been great; men everywhere conspired to laud and applaud his name, and to praise his genius. This adulation, which was not unmerited, was not the source of his rejoicing when he came to die. During his long life he had written books which will be a source of pleasure to countless numbers yet unborn; and when about to leave the world he could look back upon his unexampled literary career with the satisfaction of knowing that he had not written a line that he would desire to blot.

But literary fame, and the satisfaction which accompanies an industrious life, were not the source or kind of "comfort" needed on a death-bed. Sir Walter commended to his son-in-law virtue, goodness, and religion, as the source and means by which death-bed peace could alone be secured. If it were otherwise, if talents and ability, applause and fame, were the passports to a peaceful ending of life, how few could attain that consummation! Happily the man in the meanest condition, surrounded by the most adverse circumstances, whose mental powers are of the most meagre character, and whose life has been passed in obscurity, known only by a few humble friends, can yet attain to heights of virtue and goodness which will place him on a level with saints, and make the chamber where he meets his fate "privileged beyond the walks of life, quite on the verge of heaven."

Life cannot be a success if its ending is not successful. History is full of instances of failures at the moment when life is about to be yielded and all opportunities are ended. Cardinal Mazarin, when told by his physician that he could only live two months longer, was filled with despair. A few days after this sentence had been pronounced he left his bed in his night-cap and shirt and dragged himself along his magnificent picture - gallery, muttering as he went, "Must I quit all these?" Addressing an attendant, he said: "Look at the Correggio!—this Venus of Titian !— that matchless Deluge of Caracci! Ah, my friend, I must quit them all!-Farewell, dear pictures, that I