Who has not heard of the Harpers of New York, whose publishing house in Franklin Square was, and it may be is, the largest of the kind in the world; as they do all the business connected with the publication of a book under one roof. In 1810, James Harper left his rural home on Long Island, to become a printer. His parents were devout Methodists. His mother was a woman of rare gifts. She embraced him on his departure, and bade him never forget the altar of his God, his home, or that he had good blood in his veins. In his new office all the mean and servile work was put upon the printer’s devil, as he was called. At that time Franklin Square was inhabited by genteel people—wealthy merchants; and poor James Harper’s appearance attracted a good deal of unpleasant comment. His clothes, made in the old homestead, were coarse in material, and unfashionable in cut. The young swells made fun of the poor lad. They shouted to him across the streets—“Did your coat come from Paris?” “Give us a card to your tailor.” “Jim, what did your mother give a yard for your broadcloth?” Sometimes, in their insolence, the fellows came near, and, under pretence of feeling the fineness of the cloth, would give an unpleasant nip. The lad had a hard life of it; but he resolved not to be imposed upon. One day, as he was doing some menial work, he was attacked by one of his tormentors, who asked him for his card. He turned on his assailant, having deliberately set down a pail that he was carrying, kicked him severely, and said, “That’s my card; take good care of it. When I am out of my time, and set up for myself, and you need employment—as you will—come to me and I will give you work.” Forty-one years after, when Mr. Harper’s establishment was known throughout all the land—after he had borne the highest municipal honours of the city, and had become one of the wealthiest men in New York—the person who had received the card came to Mr. James Harper’s establishment, and asked for employment, claiming it on the ground that he had kept the card given him forty-one years before. With great fidelity James served out his time. His master was pleased with him. In a patronising way he told him, when he was free, he should never want for employment. James rather surprised his old master by informing him that he intended to set up for himself; that he had already engaged to do a job, and that all he wanted was a certificate from his master that he was worthy to be trusted with a book. In a small room in Dover Street, James, and his brother John, began their work as printers. Their first job was 2,000 volumes of “Seneca’s Morals.” Their second book laid the foundation of their fortune. The Harpers had agreed to stereotype an edition of the Prayer-book for the Episcopal Society of New York. Stereotyping was in a crude state, and the work was roughly done. When the Harpers took the contract, they