But it is unnecessary here to dwell on these opinions of mine. Every man should be welcome to follow his own opinions on the all-important subject of religion. If these are founded in truth, there can be no fear of their being injured by unreserved discussion. Whatever the creed may be, there can be no objection to the religion of a virtuous man; and it is to be hoped that the distinctions and bickerings amongst different denominations of Christians will cease, and the causes of them be thought of no more importance than whether a man uses his quid of tobacco in the right cheek or in the left.
After this digression, I must now turn my attention again to London. My friend Mr. Watson was very desirous to get me work with Mr. Pingo, in the Mint; and, from his being so well-known and respected by the gentlemen in most of the government offices, he thought this might be easily accomplished. My mind was, however, bent quite another way, and no more was done for me in that business. The constant attention and kindness of my London friends, whose company I enjoyed, was unabated. They walked with me everywhere, and the house of William Gray was a home to me. I met other Newcastle friends, every Monday night, at the “Hole-in-the-Wall,” Fleet Street, where I went to see the Newcastle newspapers. Some of these occasionally wanted assistance, and got my last sixpence. At this time I earned a deal of money; and, from my habits of temperance, I spent little for my own living, and thus discovered what a small sum was sufficient to make me independent, and I never lost sight of the inestimable value of being so. I, however, never had a surplus of cash long in my possession; for one or another had occasion for it, and I could not bear to see distress without relieving it.
Notwithstanding my being so situated amongst my friends, and being so much gratified in seeing such a variety of excellent performances in every art and science,—painting, statuary, engraving, carving, &c.,—yet I did not like London. It appeared to me to be a world of itself, where everything in the extreme might at once be seen: extreme riches, extreme poverty, extreme grandeur, and extreme wretchedness—all of which were such as I had not contemplated before. Perhaps I might, indeed, take too full a view of London on its gloomy side. I could not help it. I tired of it, and determined to return home. The country of my old friends—the manners of the people of that day—the scenery of Tyneside—seemed altogether to form a paradise for me, and I longed to see it again. While I was thus turning these matters over in my mind, my warm friend and patron, Isaac Taylor, waited upon me: and, on my telling him I was going to Newcastle, he enquired how long it would be before I returned. “Never,” was my reply; at which he seemed both surprised and displeased. He then warmly remonstrated with me upon this impropriety of my conduct, told me of the prospects before me, and, amongst many other matters, that of his having engaged me to draw in the Duke of Richmond’s Gallery; and he strenuously urged me to change my mind. I told him that no temptation of gain, of honour, or of anything else, however great, could ever have any weight with me; and that I would even enlist for a soldier, or go and herd sheep at five shillings per week, as long as I lived, rather than be tied to live in London. I told him how sensible I was of his uncommon kindness to me, and thanked him for it. My kind friend left me in the pet, and I never saw him more. He afterwards, when an old man, visited Newcastle, but left it again without my knowing it till after he was gone. At this I felt much grieved and disappointed. I do not remember how long he lived after this; but a memoir of him was published in the “Analytical Magazine” at the time, together with a letter I had written to him sometime before his death, which he never answered. He was, in his day, accounted the best engraver of embellishments for books, most of which he designed himself. The frontispiece to the first edition of “Cunningham’s Poems” was one of his early productions; and at that time my friend Pollard and myself thought it was the best thing that ever was done.[[20]]
The same kind persuasions were urged upon me by Mr. Hodgson, to remain in London, as had been used by Mr. Taylor, which ended in a similar way. The former, however, went further, and told me that, if I were determined upon leaving London, and would continue to work for him in Newcastle, he would furnish me with plenty of it; and that he would begin by giving me as much as would keep me employed for two years. This was particularly pleasing to me, because I could not bear the thoughts of beginning business in Newcastle in opposition to my old master, for whom I had the greatest respect.
Having spent the evening till a late hour with my friends at the “George,” in Brook Street, and in the morning taken leave of my landlord and landlady, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, and their family, in Wharton’s Court, Holborn, I then posted off to the Pool, and got on board a collier; and, after a very short passage, arrived in sight of St. Nicholas’ Church steeple, about the 22nd June, 1777.
CHAPTER VIII.
The first thing after my arrival in Newcastle was to see my old master, and the next to engage my old lodgings at Hatfields, and to fit up a work bench there. I then set to work upon my wood cuts. This, however, was interrupted by other jobs; and the first of the kind was that of engraving a copper plate of the “Theban Harp,” for the Rev. James Murray, for some of his publications.[[21]] Some of the silversmiths also began to press their jobs upon me. I had not, however, been long at work for myself till proposals were made to me to join in partnership with my late master; and this was brought about by a mutual friend (?) This proposal—which was to set me down at once in a well-established business—I did not relish so warmly as our mutual friend expected. I had formed a plan of working alone, without apprentices, or being interrupted by any one; and I am not certain, at this day, whether I would not have been happier in doing so than in the way I was led to pursue. I had often, in my lonely walks, debated this business over in my mind; but, whether it would have been for the better or the worse, I can now only conjecture. I tried the one plan, and not the other: perhaps each might have had advantages and disadvantages. I should not have experienced the envy and ingratitude of some of my pupils, neither should I, on the contrary, have felt the pride and the pleasure I derived from so many of them having received medals or premiums from the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, and taken the lead, as engravers on wood, in the Metropolis. Notwithstanding this pride and this pleasure, I am inclined to think I should have had—balancing the good against the bad—more pleasure in working alone for myself.
During my absence in London, Mr. Beilby had taken an apprentice with a premium; and, to make us equal, I took my brother John as mine. With him I was extremely happy. He was constantly cheerful, lively, and very active, and my friends were his friends. Mr. Beilby was as well pleased with him as I could possibly be; for, besides his affable temper, he took every kind of work in hand so pleasantly, and so very soon learned to execute it well, that he could not miss giving satisfaction. This he continued to do as long as he was with us; but other parts of his conduct, when he arrived at manhood, was not so well, and gave me great uneasiness; for he got acquainted with companions whom I thought badly of, and my remonstrances respecting them proved in vain. He would not, as he called it, be dictated to by me; but this I persisted in till it made us often quarrel, which was distressing to me, for my regard for him was too deeply rooted ever to think of suffering him to tread in the paths which led to ruin, without endeavouring to prevent it. To the latest day of his life, he repented of having turned a deaf ear to my advice; and as bitterly and sincerely did he acknowledge the slighted obligations he owed me. He rued; and that is as painful a word as any in the English language.