The copyright of the “Encyclopædia” remained in his possession, and was turned to good account in the “National Encyclopædia,” and later on in the “English Encyclopædia,” in which, however, nothing was reprinted without thorough revision, many of the articles being entirely new.
Several of Mr. Knight’s productions, such as “The Land we Live in,” commenced in 1847, turned out, in the hands of the “copy publisher,” to be perfect mines of wealth.
In 1854 appeared the “Popular History of England;” it was completed in 1862.
In 1851 we find Mr. Knight going about as joint manager with Mr. Payne Collier, of that band of illustrious amateur actors who have become so famous. Among them we find Charles Dickens, Mark Lemon, G. Cruikshank, Wilkie Collins, and R. H. Horne. “A joyous time, this,” writes Mr. Knight, who had played the part of “One Tonson, a bookseller,” “left-legged Jacob” having, he adds, “but a paltry representative.”
Among Mr. Knight’s chief literary labours, we must instance his “Half-Hours with the Best Authors”--a book that has achieved a world-wide popularity; “Once upon a Time;” and “Passages of a Working Life for Half a Century” (in 3 volumes), a charming and interesting autobiography, to which we are indebted for most of the facts in this short notice of his life.
Full of years and of honours, Mr. Knight died at Addlestone, in Surrey, on the 9th of March, 1873, aged eighty-one; and five days afterwards was buried in the family vault at Windsor. The funeral was very large, from the number of literary men attending, who wished to show their feeling of affection and respect for the deceased. In the newspaper notices, too, the tribute of praise was unanimous and hearty; and it was resolved that the gratitude of writers and readers should not stop here. A committee has been formed to erect some kind of memorial, and many of the leading men of letters, as well as some of the leading publishers, are taking part in it. It has been hoped that this memorial may assume the shape of a free public library for London, and thus initiate a movement that, to our shame, has made such successful way in our great provincial towns. Nothing else could so appropriately perpetuate the memory of a life so earnest in its purpose of spreading cheap literature far and wide, so brave in difficulty, so utterly unmindful of self-gain in the work planned out and done; that none who know its story can gainsay Douglas Jerrold’s most happy epitaph, “Good Knight.”