Another bookseller, also a “man of letters,” but of very different calibre from poor John Dunton, must have a niche here, not because he was eminent as a publisher, but because he was, taken altogether, the most famous man who has ever stood behind a bookseller’s counter. One of our greatest novelists, his general life is so well known, that we will only treat here of his bookselling career. Samuel Richardson, born in 1689, was the son of a joiner in Derbyshire; a quiet shy boy, he became the confident and love-letter writer of the girls in his neighbourhood, gaining thereby his wonderful knowledge of womankind. Fond of books, and longing for opportunities of study, he was, at the age of sixteen, apprenticed to John Wilde, of Stationers’ Hall, but his master, though styling him the “pillar of his house,” grudged him, he says, “every hour that tended not to his profit.” So Richardson used to sit up half the night over his books, careful at that time to burn only his own candles. On the termination of his apprenticeship, he became a journeyman and corrector of the press, and six years later commenced business in an obscure court in Fleet-street, where he filled up his leisure hours by compiling indices, and writing prefaces and what he terms “honest dedications” for the booksellers.
Through his industry and perseverance his business became much extended, and he was selected by Wharton to print the True Briton; but, after the publication of the sixth number, he would not allow his name to appear, and consequently escaped the results of the ensuing prosecution. Through the friendly interest of Mr. Speaker Onslow he printed the first edition of the Journal of the House of Commons, completed in twenty-six folio volumes, for which, after long and vexatious delays, he received upwards of £3000. He also printed from 1736 to 1737 the Daily Journal, and in 1738 the Daily Gazette.
In 1740 Mr. Rivington and Mr. Osborne proposed that he should write for them a little volume of letters, which resulted in his first novel Pamela, the publication of which will be treated in our account of the Rivingtons. This was followed by Clarissa, one of the few books from which it is absolutely impossible to steal away, when once the dread of its size has been overcome. Though famous now as the first great novelist who had written in the English tongue, Richardson was not then above his daily work. He writes to his friend Mr. Defreval, “You know how my business engages me. You know by what snatches of time I write, that I may not neglect that, and that I may preserve that independency which is the comfort of my life. I never sought out of myself for patrons. My own industry and God’s providence have been my sole reliance.” In 1754, he was, to the great honour of the members, chosen master of the Stationers’ Company, the only fear of his friends being that he would not play the gourmand well. “I cannot,” writes Edwards, “but figure to myself the miserable example you will set at the head of their loaded tables, unless you have two stout jaw-workers for your wardens, and a good hungry court of assistants.”
Samuel Richardson, Bookseller and Novelist. 1689–1761.
(From a Picture by Chamberlin.)
The honourable post he occupied shows his position in the trade at this time. This was improved in 1760, by the purchase of a moiety of the patent of law-printer, which he carried on in partnership with Miss Lintot, grand-daughter of Bernard Lintot. He died in the following year, leaving funeral-rings to thirty-four of his acquaintances, and adding in his will, “Had I given rings to all the ladies who have honoured me with their correspondence, and whom I sincerely venerate for their amiable qualities, it would, even in this last solemn act, appear like ostentation.” It is impossible in treating of Richardson not to refer to his vanity; but the love of praise was his only fault, and it has grown to us, like the foible of a loved friend, dearer than all his virtues. It is not unpleasant to think that the ladies of that time, by the way in which they petted, coaxed, and humoured him, conferred an innocent pleasure upon the truest of all the delineators of their sex, except perhaps Balzac, who, if he knows it better, is more unfortunate in his knowledge. With all Richardson’s vanity, he drew a portrait of himself that is not far removed from caricature. “Short, rather plump than emaciated, notwithstanding his complaints; about five feet five inches; fair wig; lightish cloth coat, all black besides; one hand generally in his bosom, the other a cane in it, which he leans upon under the skirts of his coat usually, that it may imperceptibly serve him as a support, when attacked by sudden tremors or startlings, and dizziness which too frequently attacks him, but, thank God, not so often as formerly; looking directly foreright as passers-by would imagine, but observing all that stirs on either side of him without moving his short neck; hardly ever turning back; of a light brown complexion; teeth not yet failing him; smoothish face and ruddy cheeked; at some times looking to be about sixty-five, at other times much younger; regular even pace, stealing away ground rather than seeming to rid it; a gray eye, too often over-clouded by mistiness from the head; by chance lively—very lively it will be, if he have hope of seeing a young lady whom he loves and honours; his eye always on the ladies; if they have very large hoops, he looks down supercilious, and as if he would be thought wise, but, perhaps, the sillier for that; as he approaches a lady, his eyes are never set upon her face but upon her feet, and thence he raises it pretty quickly for a dull eye; and one would think (if one thought him at all worthy of observation) that from her air and (the last beheld) her face, he sets her down in his mind as so and so, and then passes on to the next object he meets.”
Among other letters to Richardson we come across an affecting one from Dr. Johnson: “I am obliged to entreat your assistance, I am under arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings.” As round Pope and Dryden formerly, so it is now round Johnson that the booksellers of the next decade cluster; and from the moment when first he rolled into a London bookseller’s shop, his huge unwieldy body clad in coarse country garments, worn and travel-stained, his face scarred and seamed with small-pox—to ask for literary employment, and to be told he had better rather purchase a porter’s knot, the future of the trade was very much wrapt up in his own. Forced by hunger to work for the most niggardly pay, he was yet not to be insulted with impunity. “Lie there, thou lump of lead,” he exclaims as he knocked down Osborne of Gray’s Inn Gate, with a folio. “Sir,” he explains to Boswell afterwards, “he was impertinent to me, and I beat him.”
Edward Cave, founder of the “Gentleman’s Magazine.” 1691–1754.