But however, in spite of all the opposition and trade rivalry, Catnach persevered; he worked hard, and lived hard, and was fitted to the stirring times. The Peninsular wars had just concluded, politics and party strife ran high, squibs, lampoons, and political ballads were the order of the day, and he made money. But he had weighty pecuniary family matters to bear up with, as thus early in his career, his father's sister also joined them, and they all lived and huddled together in the shop and parlour of No. 2, Monmouth-court. He did a small and very humble trade as a jobbing master, printing and publishing penny histories, street-papers, and halfpenny songs, relying for their composition on one or two out of the known "Seven Bards of the Seven Dials," and when they were on the drink, or otherwise not inclined to work, being driven to write and invent them himself. The customers who frequented his place of business were for the most part of the lowest grades of society:--those who by folly, intemperance, and crime, had been reduced to the greatest penury. Anyone with a few coppers in his pockets could easily knock out an existence, especially when anything sensational was in the wind. The great excitement throughout the country caused by the melancholy death of the Princess Charlotte, on the sixth day of November, 1817, was an event of no ordinary description. It was, indeed, a most unexpected blow, the shining virtues, as well as the youth and beauty of the deceased, excited an amount of affectionate commiseration, such as probably had never before attended the death of any royal personage in England. The Seven Dials Press was busily engaged in working off "papers" descriptive of every fact that could be gleaned from the newspapers, and that was suitable for street sale. Catnach was not behind his compeers, as he published several statements in respect to the Princess's death, and _made_ the following lines _out of his own head_! And had, continued our informant--a professional street-ballad writer--"_wood_ enough left for as many more":-- "She is gone! sweet Charlotte's gone! Gone to the silent bourne; She is gone, She's gone, for evermore,-- She never can return. She is gone with her joy--her darling Boy, The son of Leopold, blythe and keen; She Died the sixth of November, Eighteen hundred and seventeen."