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another he lost four of his younger brothers and sisters, the expenses of their funerals being defrayed by him.

It was not until he was thirty-nine years of age that Thomas Kelly began business for himself. He had only a very small capital to start with, but trained for long years to a life of self-denial and patient resolution, he by degrees entered into more extensive undertakings, printing and publishing some important standard books, circulating them in numbers-a new idea at that time, and employing agents to sell them.

The reward of patient toil and industry was obtained; for, from this time Thomas Kelly's course was one of brilliant success; his trade transactions came to be estimated by hundreds of thousands of pounds, and as it has been in thousands of instances-an early life and youth of toil, steady and quiet application, was crowned by an old age of honour and fortune. Thomas Kelly-or Alderman Kelly, as he was usually called-became Lord Mayor of London. Full of days and of honour-his prospects brightened to the lasthe closed a useful valuable life, at the advanced age of eightyfour.

One incident will close our record of this good man—dutiful in his boyhood, patient and industrious in his youth-prosperous and useful in his manhood. Throughout his life he made an annual visit to the grave of his parents; and it was during these visits that a warm friendship was formed between Alderman Kelly and the Clergyman of the Parish, who from the first had been struck with the filial piety displayed in these yearly visits. It was to this friendship thus formed that we owe the admirable life of Alderman Kelly.

In this account of one of the many instances of a poor boy of our time and country becoming rich and great, every youth who reads it must acknowledge that Thomas Kelly's start in life was certainly not more hopeful than his can be. Here, at least, we have no happy chance, no sudden turn of fortune which the youth who reads this can compare despondingly with his own prospects, and sadly conclude that nothing of the kind can occur to him. In the life of this boy we have nothing of the kind; he began life under the most hopeless aspects as regards fame or fortune. A poor working boy on a small farm, then a shop boy, sleeping for years under a counter, with £10 a year (half of which went to his parents), fifteen years without a holiday-not setting up in business till thirty-nine years of age, then only in a small way. Surely such a life may encourage every boy who reads it to try to accomplish what, in spite of all that was against him, Thomas Kelly succeeded in doing.

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THOMAS CHATTERTON, OF BRISTOL.

The secret of this boy's success, as it is with thousands of successful men, was his conscientious, steady application, his faithful performance of duty towards his employers, his parents and all who had a claim upon him ;-and his great desire, as he himself says, " to live a life, not of great ambition, but one void of offence both to God and man." It was this, far rather than the mere pursuit of wealth, which influenced him through life.

Without God's blessing, riches, when they come, can impart no true, really lasting happiness. A docile, industrious, obedient Boyhood, blossoms naturally into an industrious Youth, and a useful, honourable, and successful Manhood.

Let every Youth who reads this Book, instead of desponding, follow the steps of this good Youth (as follow them you can), by setting before you God's favour as the great object above all else to be gained, and in doing so, you will one day find, as Thomas Kelly did, that you have gained honour, influence, success, and all else with it.

"

They that honour Me, I will honour; but they that despise Me shall be lightly esteemed."

old lady at the top window.

Notice the obliging

CHAPTER XIII.

'POOR BOYS AND HOW THEY BECAME FAMOUS.” No. 3.-A TRAGEDY.

THOMAS CHATTERTON, Of Bristol.

E have," says a recent writer-" biographies of successful-self-made, men, ad nauseam,' till we are sick of them; Smiles, Tupper, and the religious magazines are crammed with them. Men who seem to have combined 'getting on' and 'making money' with perfect piety in a manner perfectly startling, until we are compelled to doubt whether, in these modern times, they have not discovered a golden path in which it is possible to serve both God and Mammon.' Will no one give us a few beacons and warnings? Surely they cannot all succeed, else where are our eyes? How about the great army of the unsuccessful -the vicious-the fallen? To one who rises above his original station in life how many fall below it? Might not the histories of wasted, misspent lives be instructive? How is it that we never hear of them? Success may teach us some lessons, but it is from failure that we learn wisdom.”

"We are much bound to them that do succeed,

But in a more pathetic sense are bound

To those who fail !"

Having given two instances of successful boys, let us take the histories of two who were unsuccessful-not only in this life, but in the deepest and saddest sense of all!

In the great British Museum in London may be seen several letters written in a boyish hand, together with a number of poems written in the old 'Black Letter" Saxon English of 500 years ago on old parchment, or rather parchment supposed to have been blackened over a candle so as closely to resemble it. These papers thus carefully preserved by our nation, in the British Museum, were the work of a boy of sixteen-that wonderful boy, Thomas Chatterton, who died by his own hand when not quite 18 years old, being at the time reduced. to starvation in London, where he had gone to seek his fortune.

Let us imagine ourselves at Bristol (Chatterton's birth place) at about eight o'clock in the evening of the 24th of April, 1771. The old-fashioned coach of that day is just starting for London. Chatterton is in high spirits at leaving Bristol, and going to London-he is wrapped up for his

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journey a noble-looking youth, possessing a countenance described as very intelligent, and remarkably brilliant eyes. His widowed mother, and a few young men-Thomas's companions-have come to see Tom off. The guard blows his horn, the coachman cracks his whip, and the old-fashioned. coach of that day sets off to London through the dark. carrying with it one of the most wonderful boys England has ever produced, who has thus taken leave-as it proved, for ever -of his widowed mother and his birthplace, to seek his fortune in London.

Thomas Chatterton was a very poor boy; he had been brought up at the Blue Coat Charity School at Bristol. He had lost his father very early in life. At the school he was noted for his cleverness. He wrote poetry when only 12 years old. He was kind and good-natured to his comrades, but was easily provoked. He was a very proud boy, with much ambition, evidently feeling the poverty of his lot very keenly. He would, when quite a boy, give way to sudden bursts of weeping at very slight apparent grounds. One of those highly-gifted, sensitive minds, no doubt, so little suited to a life of penury; unsuited to submission, if not incapable of it; and therefore always exposed to the endeavours of those who consider it their duty to keep a "charity boy" in his place.

Chatterton soon became, however, noted and admired, not only in Bristol, but even in London-(where some of his writings had been published)—for his wonderful acquaintance with the literature of 500 years ago.

Having access to the Old Church at Bristol (St. Mary's), the boy had discovered in an old chest a number of old Blackletter Title Deeds, of no value, but which the boy spent hours in deciphering, and pondering over, till he had become master of the old words, &c., of the period, which require a glossary, or dictionary, to become intelligible to us.

It appears that having thus prepared himself, the boy, when only fifteen years of age, gave way to the temptation of composing some exquisite poetry of his own-which, for fire, grace, and imagination, has rarely, if ever, been equalled -and writing them in the old Black-letter style and words on parchment, which be blackened over a candle to appear ancient. He then gave out that he had discovered several old poems, written by a monk named Rowley, who lived 500 years ago. The Savans were greatly astonished, they had never even heard of such a writer (nor was it likely that they should have, seeing that he only existed in the imagination of the boy Chatterton), yet here were produced the most