The Golden Shoemaker / or 'Cobbler' Horn

by J. W. Keyworth

The months passed. Christmas came, and was left behind, and now spring had fairly set in.

“The Golden Shoemaker” had become a person of great consideration to the dignitaries of his church. It is true there were those amongst its wealthy members by whom he was unsparingly criticised behind his back. But this did not deter them from paying him all manner of court to his face. He was startled at the importance which he had suddenly acquired. His acquaintance was sought on every side; and he found himself the subject of a variety of polite attentions to which he had been an entire stranger until now. Men of wealth and position who, though they were his fellow-members in the church, had never yet shaken him by the hand, suddenly discovered that he was their dear friend.

There was one rich man whose pew in the church was next to that of “Cobbler” Horn. Though this man had sat side by side with his poor brother for many years, in the house of God, he had seemed unaware of his existence. But no sooner did “Cobbler” Horn become “the Golden Shoemaker” than the attitude of his wealthy neighbour underwent a change. The first sign of recognition he bestowed upon his recently-enriched fellow-worshipper was a polite bow as they were leaving the church; next he ventured to show “Cobbler” Horn the hymn, when the latter happened to come late one day; and, at length, on a certain Sunday morning, as they were going out, he stepped into the aisle, and proffered his hand to “the Golden Shoemaker,” for a friendly shake. “Cobbler” Horn started, and drew back. It was not in his nature to be malicious; and to decline the offered civility was the furthest thing from his thoughts. He was simply lost in amazement. The gentleman who was offering to shake hands with him was one of the most important men in Cottonborough. But his great astonishment arose from the fact that this mighty personage, after sitting within reach of him in the house of God for so many years, without bestowing upon him the slightest sign of recognition, should suddenly desire to shake him by the hand! The man noticed his hesitation, and was turning away with offended dignity. But “Cobbler” Horn quickly recovered himself, and, taking the hand which had been offered to him, gave it a heartier shake than it had, perhaps, ever received before.

“It was not that, Mr. Varley,” he said, “I’m glad enough to shake hands with you, as I should have been long ago. But it did seem such a queer thing that we should have been sitting side by side here all these years, and you should never have thought of shaking hands with me before. I suppose the reason why you do it now is that the Lord has seen fit to make me a rich man. Now I really don’t think I’m any more fit to be shaken hands with on that account. Personally, I’m very much the same as I’ve been any time these twenty years past; and it does seem to me a bit strange that you and others should appear to think otherwise.”

“Cobbler” Horn spoke in a pleasant tone, and there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. But Mr. Varley was not amused. Regarding “Cobbler” Horn with an expression of countenance which was very much like a scowl, he turned upon his heel and withdrew; and, during the week, he arranged for a sitting in another part of the church.

Mr. Varley was not the only rich and influential member of the church who had recently discovered in “Cobbler” Horn a suitable object of friendly regard. But the most cordial and obsequious of his wealthy fellow-members were ready enough to criticise him behind his back.

With the advice and help of the minister, he had begun to “make the millions fly,” in good earnest; and his phenomenal liberality—prodigality, it was called by some—could not, in the nature of things, escape notice. It soon became, in fact, the talk of the town and of the country round. But it was by the members of his church that “Cobbler” Horn’s lavish benefactions were most eagerly discussed. Various opinions were expressed, by his fellow-Christians, of “the Golden Shoemaker,” and of the guineas with which he was so free. Some few saw the real man in their suddenly-enriched friend, and rejoiced. Others shook their heads, and said the “Shoemaker” would not be “Golden” long at that rate; and some scornfully curled their lips, and declared the man to be a fool. But the most bitter of “Cobbler” Horn’s critics were certain of his wealthy brethren who seemed to regard his abundant liberality as a personal affront.

There were many wealthy members in Mr. Durnford’s church. The minister sometimes thought, in his inmost soul, that his church would have been but little poorer, in any sense of the word, for the loss of some of the rich men whose names were on its roll. With all their wealth, many of them were not “rich towards God.” But Mr. Durnford was circumspect. It was his endeavour, without failing in his duty, either to his Divine Master, or to these gilded sheep of his, to make what use of them he might in connection with his sacred work.

There was little, it is true, to be got out of these wealthy men but their money, and they could not be persuaded to part with much of that; but the minister did not give them much rest.

One pleasant spring evening, Mr. Durnford set out on one of what he called his “financial tours” amongst this section of his members. The first house to which he went—and, as it proved, the last—was that of a very rich brewer, who was one of the main pillars of the Church. There were other members of Mr. Durnford’s flock who were of the same trade. This was not gratifying to Mr. Durnford; but what could he do? The brewers were blameless in their personal behaviour, regular in their attendance in the sanctuary, and exact in their fulfilment of the conditions of church membership; and he could not unchurch them merely because they were brewers. If he began there, it would be difficult to tell where he ought to stop. Nor did he scorn their gifts of money to the cause of God. He was pleased that they were willing to devote some portion of their gains to so good a purpose; his regret was that the portion was so small.