LIVES OF ILLUSTRIOUS
SHOEMAKERS.

BY
WILLIAM EDWARD WINKS.

NEW YORK:
FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers,
10 and 12 Dey Street.

[PREFACE.]

Time out of mind The Gentle Craft has been invested with an air of romance. This honorable title, given to no other occupation but that of shoemakers, is an indication of the high esteem in which the Craft is held. It is by no means an easy thing to account for a sentiment of this kind, or to trace such a title to its original source. Whether the traditionary stories which have clustered round the lives of Saints Anianus, Crispin and Crispianus, or Hugh and Winifred, gave rise to the sentiment, or the sentiment itself is to be regarded as accounting for the traditions, one cannot tell. Probably there is some truth in both theories, for sentiment and tradition act and react on each other.

Certain it is, that among all our craftsmen none appear to enjoy a popularity comparable with that of “the old Cobbler” or “Shoemaker.” Most men have a good word to say for him, a joke to crack about him, or a story to tell of his ability and “learning,” his skill in argument, or his prominence and influence in political or religious affairs. Both in ancient times and in modern, in the Old World and in the New, a rare interest has been felt in Shoemakers, as a class, on account of their remarkable intelligence and the large number of eminent men who have risen from their ranks.

These facts, and especially the last—which has been the subject of frequent remark—may be deemed sufficient justification for the existence of such a work as this.

Another reason might be given for the issue of such a book as this just now. A change has come over the craft of boot and shoe making. The use of machinery has effected nothing short of a revolution in the trade. The old-fashioned Shoemaker, with his leathern apron and hands redolent of wax, has almost disappeared from the workrooms and streets of such towns as Northampton and Stafford in Old England, or Lynn in New England. His place and function are now, for the most part, occupied by the “cutter” and the “clicker,” the “riveter” and the “machine-girl.” The old Cobbler, like the ancient spinster and handloom weaver, is retiring into the shade of the boot and shoe factory. Whether or no he will disappear entirely may be questionable; but there can be no doubt that the Cobbler, sitting at his stall and working with awl and hammer and last, will never again be the conspicuous figure in social life that he was wont to be in times gone by. Before we bid him a final farewell, and forget the traditions of his humble yet honorable craft, it may be of some service to bring under one review the names and histories of some of the more illustrious members of his order.

Long as is the list of these worthy “Sons of Crispin,” it cannot be said to be complete. Only a few examples are taken from Germany, France, and the United States, where, in all probability, as many illustrious Shoemakers might have been met with as in Great Britain itself. And even the British muster-roll is not fully made up. With only a few exceptions, living men are not included in the list. Very gladly would the writer have added to these exceptions so remarkable a man as Thomas Edward, the shoemaker of Banff, one of the best self-taught naturalists of our time, and, for the last sixteen years, an Associate of the Linnæan Society. But for the Life of this eminent Scotchman the reader must be referred to the interesting biography written by his friend Dr. Smiles.

In writing the longer sketches, free and ample use has been made of biographies already in existence. But this has not been done without the kind consent of the owners of copyrights. To these the writer tenders his grateful acknowledgments. To the widow of the Rev. T. W. Blanshard he is indebted for permission to draw upon the pages of her late husband’s valuable biography of “The Wesleyan Demosthenes,” Samuel Bradburn; to Jacob Halls Drew, Esq., Bath, for his courtesy in allowing a liberal use to be made of the facts given in his biography of his father, Samuel Drew, “The Self-Taught Cornishman;” and to the venerable Thomas Cooper, as well as to his publishers, Messrs. Hodder & Stoughton, for their kind favor in regard to the lengthy and detailed sketch of the author of “The Purgatory of Suicides.” This sketch, the longest in the book, is inserted by special permission of Messrs. Hodder & Stoughton.

The minor sketches have been drawn from a variety of sources. One or two of these require special mention. In preparing the notice of John O’Neill, the Poet of Temperance, the writer has received kind help from Mr. Richard Gooch of Brighton, himself a poet of temperance. Messrs. J. & J. H. Rutherford of Kelso have also been good enough to place at the writer’s service—but, unfortunately, too late to be of much use—a copy of their recently published autobiography of John Younger, the Shoemaker of St. Boswells. In the all-too-brief section devoted to American worthies, valuable aid has been given to the author by Henry Phillips, Esq., jun., A.M., Ph.D., Corresponding Member of the Antiquarian Society of Philadelphia, U.S.A.

In all probability the reader has never been introduced to so large a company of illustrious Sons of Crispin before. It is sincerely hoped that he will derive both pleasure and profit from their society.

WILLIAM EDWARD WINKS.

Cardiff, 1882.

[CONTENTS.]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

[CHAPTER I.]

SIR CLOUDESLEY SHOVEL

THE COBBLER’S BOY WHO BECAME AN ADMIRAL.

“Honor and shame from no condition rise;

Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Fortune in men has some small difference made,

One flaunts in rags, one nutters in brocade;

The cobbler aproned and the parson gowned,

The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned.

“What differ more’ (you cry) ‘than crown and cowl?’

I’ll tell you, friend,—a wise man and a fool.

You’ll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,

Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk;

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;

The rest is all but leather or prunella.”

—Pope, Essay on Man.

SIR CLOUDESLEY SHOVEL.

On the south side of the choir of Westminster Abbey may be seen a very handsome and costly monument, on which reclines a life-sized figure in marble, representing a naval commander. The grotesque uniform and elaborate wig are of the style of Queen Anne’s time. The commander himself has all the look of a well-bred gentleman and a brave officer. He is a capital type of the old school of naval heroes, stout in person, jolly in temper, but terrible in action, by whom our shores were defended, our colonies secured to us, and the power and stability of the British Empire were established for centuries to come. These men had, in many instances, risen from the lowest social status, and had been compelled to begin their nautical career in the humblest fashion, accepting the most menial position the naval service could offer them. When they came to hold positions of command, they had, perhaps, no culture nor general education; the little knowledge they possessed was confined to the arts of navigation and warfare, and this they had picked up in actual service. Such knowledge served them well, and made them equal to any emergency. It made them capable of deeds of valor and enterprise, that brought renown to their own name and honor to their country. They could sail round the world; they could, by their discoveries, add new territories to the British crown, and open up splendid fields for commercial enterprise; they could keep their vessels afloat in a gale of wind, get to windward of the enemy if they wanted, pour a broadside into him, board and capture his vessels or blow up his forts; and, very often fighting against fearful odds, beat him by dint of superior skill in seamanship and greater courage in action. Such a commander was “old Benbow,” whose name appears so often in the nautical songs of the last century; and such a commander was his contemporary, Sir Cloudesley Shovel, to whose memory the handsome monument just referred to is erected. Let us pause for a moment to read the inscription. It runs thus:

“Sir Cloudesley Shovel, Knt., Rear-Admiral of Great Britain, Admiral and Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet: The just reward of long and faithful services. He was deservedly beloved of his country, and esteemed though dreaded by the enemy, who had often experienced his conduct and courage. Being shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, in his voyage from Toulon, the 22d of October 1707, at night, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, his fate was lamented by all, but especially by the seafaring part of the nation, to whom he was a worthy example. His body was flung on the shore, and buried with others in the sands; but being soon after taken up, was placed under this monument, which his royal mistress has caused to be erected to commemorate his steady loyalty and extraordinary virtues.”

If a stranger to Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s history were to stand looking at this fine monument, admiring the fine figure which adorns it and reading the glowing epitaph, he would no doubt be greatly amazed if the intelligent verger by his side were to whisper in his ear, “That man was once a cobbler’s boy; the first weapons he ever used in fighting the battle of life were the awl and hammer and last.”

Yet such was really the case. It is true he did not remain long at his humble craft. He left it, indeed, sooner than any of the notable men whose life-story we have to tell in this book; yet he wore the leathern apron long enough to entitle him to a place in the category of Illustrious Shoemakers.

Cloudesley Shovel was born in the county of Norfolk in the year 1650, at a village called Clay, lying on the coast between Wells and Cromer. His parents are said to have been in but “middling circumstances;” but it is to be feared that even this modest term describes a better position than they actually held. They were evidently of the humblest class, and had no means of giving their boy either a good education or a good start in the way of business. Cloudesley came by his rather singular name as no doubt thousands had done before his time, and have done since. It was given him in honor of a relative who was in good circumstances, and in the hope that it might probably be a “means of recommending him to this relative’s notice.” But fortunately, as it proved for him, and proves also for many others, no fortune was left him. His parents were glad to send him to the village shoemaker to learn the art and mystery of making and mending boots and shoes.

Finding the drudgery of a sedentary occupation and the flatness and quietude of village life irksome to his active temperament and aspiring spirit, after a few years’ work at shoemaking, he made off to sea. His taste lying in the direction of the royal naval service, he went and joined himself to a man-of-war. Here he had the good fortune to come under the care and command of Sir John Narborough. This distinguished officer had once been in Cloudesley’s position as a man-of-war’s cabin-boy, and having shown himself a smart sailor and an industrious student of navigation, had been rapidly promoted by his generous captain, Sir Christopher Myngs. Sir John Narborough was therefore well disposed, by his kindly disposition and his own early experience, to favor any youth of promise placed in similar circumstances to those through which he himself had passed. In young Cloudesley the gallant captain seems to have seen his own character portrayed and his own career enacted over again. The lad was smart at seamanship, and uncommonly diligent when off watch in the study of any nautical books he could lay hands on. He seems to have found out very early in his course that the secret of success in life lies in being ready, when the time comes, to seize and use the great opportunities of fortune which sooner or later come in every one’s way; that fortune waits on diligence and courage; and that the future is pretty secure to the man who, whatever be his position, works hard and does his plain duty every day.

The first incident in his naval career is an illustration of this. He was on board the flag-ship commanded by Admiral Sir John Narborough in one of the most hotly contested battles fought between the English and the Dutch. The masts of the flag-ship were shot away early in the engagement. The admiral saw that his case was hopeless, however bravely his men might fight, unless the English reserve, which lay some distance off to the right, could be brought round to his aid. The thing wanted was to get a message conveyed to the captain of the reserve. Signalling was out of the question, of course; the message must be carried to the ships somehow. Yet he saw plainly that in such a hurricane of shot and shell, and with so many of the enemy’s vessels close at hand, no boat could hope to reach the English ships. But a man might swim to them! Acting on this thought, Sir John wrote an order and called aloud for volunteers to swim with it, under the fire of the enemy, to the neighboring ships. Among the able-bodied sailors who presented themselves for the terrible duty young Cloudesley stood forth. Looking at him with admiration mingled with something like pity, the admiral exclaimed, “Why, what can you do, my fearless lad?” “I can swim, sir,” said young Cloudesley, and added in the spirit of a patriot and a hero, “If I be shot, I can be easier spared than any one else.” After a moment’s hesitation on the part of the tender-hearted admiral, the paper was handed to the boy, who placed it between his teeth and plunged into the water. Cheered by his comrades, he swam on through a perfect hail of shot, bearing, as it seemed, a charmed life, until at length the smoke of battle concealed him from their view. The gallant Sir John and his brave crew held on in the most determined manner until it seemed that no hope was left that the brave lad had reached the friendly vessels in safety and delivered the message. They were beginning to think of him and of themselves as lost, when a sudden and terrific roar of cannon on their right announced that the English vessels were bearing down on the Dutch. In a few hours the enemy was flying in all directions. The cabin-boy was not forgotten when the honors and rewards of victory came to crown the events of that terrible day, for all agreed that he had done a deed that deserved well of his country. When the sun was setting on the sad scene of wreck and ruin, the courageous yet modest youth came and stood once more on the deck of the flag-ship. As soon as the old admiral saw him he spoke to him a few words of generous appreciation and sincere thanks, finishing with the significant remark, “I shall live to see you have a flag-ship of your own.” The prediction came true, as we shall presently see.

Not very long afterward Cloudesley Shovel was made lieutenant of His Majesty’s navy. The first opportunity he had of distinguishing himself in this capacity was on an expedition sent out by the British to punish the corsairs of Tripoli. These lawless and daring rogues had long infested the Mediterranean, doing immense mischief to commerce and committing sad depredations all along the coast, wherever they found it possible to land with safety. No vessel or port, from the Levant to the Straits of Gibraltar, was safe from their attack. Sir John Narborough was therefore commissioned to bring them to terms or effectually punish them. Arriving before Tripoli, their headquarters, in the spring of 1674, he found the enemy in great strength under the shelter of their formidable forts, and decided, first of all, according to his instructions, to try the effect of negotiations. Lieutenant Shovel, then only twenty-four years of age, a tall thin young man, with little on his face to indicate that he had come to manhood, was sent with a message for the Dey of Tripoli, asking for satisfaction for the past and security for the future. This message was delivered in a spirit becoming a British sailor acting on behalf of the interests of his country; but the Dey, a haughty and imperious man, refused to treat with such a youth, and one, too, who held so subordinate a position, and after treating him with insolence, sent him back to his admiral with an indefinite answer. The wily ex-cobbler, however, had kept his eyes open while on land, and on returning to Sir John, gave him so good an account of the character of the fortifications and the disposition of the pirate fleet, that he was sent back to the Dey with a second message, and instructed to make further observations. He was treated on his second visit with even greater insolence, but took all quietly, not caring how much he was detained by the Dey’s abuse, so long as he could look round him and obtain a good view of the enemy’s strength and position. Coming back once more to his vessel, he explained the whole situation, and described a plan of attack which he felt confident would be successful in destroying the vessels lying at anchor in the bay. The admiral was so much pleased with his lieutenant’s smartness, and so satisfied that his plan was practicable if conducted with skill and courage, that he decided to intrust the execution of it to “his boy Shovel.” On the night of the 4th of March the young lieutenant took command of all the boats of the fleet, which had been filled with combustible material, rowed quietly into the harbor under cover of the darkness, made straight for the guard-ship, which he set on fire and thoroughly disabled, thus preventing it from giving orders to the other ships, and, before the enemy could prepare for action, fired and blew up his vessels one after another, and then leaving them in a state of the utmost confusion and distress, brought all his boats back to the British fleet without the loss of a single man. It was a brave exploit, cleverly conceived and brilliantly executed. As a wholesome castigation of these impudent pirates it was of the utmost value; and more than this, it crippled their power for mischief for a long time to come.

The generous Sir John Narborough fully appreciated the courage and skill of his youthful subordinate, and gave him the most honorable mention in the official letters sent to the authorities at home. He was at once promoted to the rank of captain. This office he held for eleven years, until the death of Charles II. in 1685. During the three years of James II.’s reign, Captain Shovel is said to have been in every naval engagement that occurred. He had therefore ample opportunity of distinguishing himself and obtaining still further promotion. Soon after the accession of William III., Captain Shovel was conspicuous by his daring and clever manœuvring at the battle of Bantry Bay. He was then in command of the ship “Edgar,” and the favorable notices he had received from Admiral Hobart brought his gallantry before the attention of his monarch, who conferred upon the brave captain the honor of knighthood. Captain, now Sir Cloudesley Shovel, was held in high esteem by King William III., who intrusted him with the difficult and responsible duty of conveying the troops to Ireland in 1690, on the occasion of the Irish rebellion which terminated in the bloody battle of the Boyne. This duty was discharged with so much ability that the King decided to promote Sir Cloudesley to the rank of “rear-admiral of the blue.” In conferring this reward upon the gallant commander, the grateful monarch marked his sense of the value of the service rendered by delivering the commission with his own hands. Before the year came to a close Sir Cloudesley added one more item to the long list of his services by giving timely assistance to General Kirke at the siege of Waterford. This town was held by the adherents of James II., and had long defied all attempts of General Kirke to take it. The chief strength of the town lay in Duncannon Castle, on which an attack was made by Sir Cloudesley’s ships and men. A surrender was speedily negotiated, and the influential town of Waterford fell into the hands of the English. Two years after this the King declared him “rear-admiral of the red,” giving him at the same time the command of the squadron which was to convey the King to Holland.

Soon after his return from Holland he was ordered to join the fleet then under the command of Admiral Russell, and bore a very important part in the brilliant naval victory known as the battle of La Hogue. His last services during the reign of William III. were rendered in connection with the bombardment of Dunkirk, which he undertook at the King’s express command. The author of the “Lives of British Admirals,”[1] referring to the esteem in which Sir Cloudesley Shovel was held by his king and country at the close of this reign, says, “He was always consulted by His Majesty whenever maritime affairs were under consideration.”

His first service in the reign of Queen Anne was performed as “admiral of the white.” The town of Vigo in Spain had been captured by Sir George Rooke, and Sir Cloudesley was ordered to go out and bring home the spoils of the united Spanish and French fleets, which lay disabled in the harbor. This difficult task was accomplished with a rapidity and dash which made so favorable an impression on the court, that on his return “it was immediately resolved to employ him in affairs of the greatest consequence for the future.” In 1703 he was put in command of the grand fleet, and protected the interests of England from the hostile attempts of the French and allied powers in the Mediterranean. At the battle of Malaga in 1704, Sir Cloudesley’s division of nine ships led the van, and had to bear the brunt of the enemy’s attack to such an extent, that at the beginning of the engagement he was almost entirely surrounded by the French, and more than 400 of his men were either killed or wounded. On his return home he was presented to the Queen by Prince George, and shortly afterward received the appointment of commander-in-chief and rear-admiral of the English fleet. As Admiral Shovel he won great credit for the part he took in the capture of the important city of Barcelona in 1705.

In the month of October, 1707, after bearing an honorable part in the expedition under Prince Eugene against Toulon, he set sail with ten ships of the line, five frigates, and other war vessels for the shores of England. But he was destined never to see again the country he had served so nobly and loved so well. By some strange mischance, which has never been fully accounted for, his own vessel and several others, on the night of the 22d of October, struck on the rocks of the Scilly islands and perished. The brave admiral and his three sons-in-law, who were on board his vessel, besides a large number of officers and seamen, were drowned. The body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was washed on shore, and having been found by a number of smugglers, was stripped of an emerald ring and other valuables, and buried in the sand. On attempting to sell their booty, the miscreants found that the ring they prized so much betrayed their guilty secret. They were compelled to point out the spot where the body had been concealed. England, of course, could not allow one of her noblest sons to lie in so ignominious a grave. The body was at once removed to London by express order of Her Majesty Queen Anne, and laid in the most honorable grave the nation had to give—

“In the great minster transept,

Where the lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings and the sweet choir sings

Along the emblazoned wall.”[2]

[CHAPTER II.]

JAMES LACKINGTON

SHOEMAKER AND BOOKSELLER.

Sutor Ultra Crepidam Feliciter Ausus.
—Latin Motto, Quoted on Frontispiece to “Lackington’s Memoirs.”

I. LACKINGTON,

Who a few years since began Business with five Pounds,
Now sells one Hundred Thousand Volumes Annually.
—From Frontispiece to First Edition of “Memoirs and Confessions,” 1791-92.

“I will therefore conclude with a wish, that my readers may enjoy the feast with the same good humor with which I have prepared it.... Those with keen appetites will partake of each dish, while others, more delicate, may select such dishes as are more light and better adapted to their palates; they are all genuine British fare; but lest they should be at a loss to know what the entertainment consists of, I beg leave to inform them that it contains forty-seven dishes of various sizes, which (if they calculate the expense of their admission tickets) they will find does not amount to twopence per dish; and what I hope they will consider as immensely valuable (in compliance with the precedent set by Mr. Farley, a gentleman eminent in the culinary science), a striking likeness of their Cook into the Bargain.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, pray be seated; you are heartily welcome, and much good may it do you.”—From Preface to Lackington’s “Memoirs and Confessions,” published 1826.

JAMES LACKINGTON.

One of the most successful booksellers of the last century was James Lackington, whose enormous place of business at the corner of Finsbury Square, London, was styled somewhat grandiloquently “The Temple of the Muses.” A flag floated proudly over the top of the building, and above the principal doorway stood the announcement, no less true than sensational, “The Cheapest Bookshop in the World.” Lackington was an innovator in the trade, and had introduced methods and principles of doing business which at first awaked the ire of the bookselling fraternity, but were at length generally adopted, thus inaugurating a new era in the history of this important business. His name cannot be omitted from any complete history of booksellers, and it is none the less deserving of a place in the category of illustrious shoemakers; for Lackington commenced life as a shoemaker, and for some time after he had entered on bookselling speculations continued to work at the humble trade to which he had served an apprenticeship.

When Lackington was about forty-five years of age, and had made a considerable fortune in the bookselling trade, he wrote and published a singular book, in which he narrated the principal events in his life, under the form of “Letters to a Friend.” This book bears the title “Memoirs and Confessions,” and is certainly one of the most remarkable autobiographies ever presented to the world. What portion of its contents may be referred to by the term “memoirs” as distinguished from “confessions” it is impossible to say, but certain it is that there are many things in the book which its author would have done well to blot as soon as they were written, and of which he was no doubt heartily sorry and ashamed in after-life. Among the worst of these were his strictures and reflections on the Wesleyan Methodists, to whom he had belonged in early life, and from whom he had received no small benefit, temporal as well as spiritual. When the second edition of his memoirs came to be printed in 1803, his character had undergone a happy change. He then saw things in a different light, and made full and complete acknowledgment of the faults which marked the first edition; expressed in very decided albeit very conventional terms his faith in Christian truth, and his debt of obligation to the religious people whom he had so sadly maligned. But words were not enough to satisfy his ardent, thorough-going nature. His benefactions to the Wesleyan Society were very considerable, and he seemed toward the close of his life to have found great satisfaction in making the best use of the ample means at his disposal. With all his faults he was an estimable man, honest, truthful, and generous. He was never ashamed of his lowly birth and humble apprenticeship, nor turned his back on his poor relations, but ever sought them out and helped them when he had the power to do so. His success in business was owing to his shrewd common-sense, his rare insight into character, his good judgment as to the public taste and requirements, his capital method of assorting and classifying his stock and strict keeping of accounts, his courageous yet prudent purchases, and his strict adherence to a few sound maxims of economy and thrift. None but a man of original and uncommon powers of mind could have launched out on new speculations and adventures as Lackington did with the same uniform and certain success, and none but a man of good sense and lofty feeling would have been proof against the ill effects which so often attend on success. There is a touch of vanity in his memoirs, it is true, but it is not the vanity of a man who is vain and does not know it; he is quite conscious of his egotism, and indulges in it with thorough good-humor as a hearty joke. He was rather fond of display, kept a town-house and a country-house when he could afford it, and set up a “chariot,” as the phrase went in those days, and liveried servants. Yet it was not many men in his position who would have taken for a motto to be painted on the doors of his carriage the plain English words which express the principle on which his business had been made to bear such wonderful results. “But,” he remarks, “as the first king of Bohemia kept his country shoes by him to remind him from whence he was taken, I have put a motto on the doors of my carriage constantly to remind me to what I am indebted for my prosperity, viz.,

“SMALL PROFITS DO GREAT THINGS.”

The Lackington family had been farmers in the parish of Langford, near Wellington, in Somersetshire. They were members of the Society of Friends, and held a respectable position in the locality. For some cause, not fully explained in the memoirs, James Lackington’s father was apprenticed to a shoemaker at Wellington. He made an imprudent marriage, and for a time forfeited his father’s approval and favor; but when the good-wife proved herself to be a very worthy and industrious woman, the old man relented and set his son up in business. This, however, was of no advantage to him; in fact, it proved his ruin. He might have remained a steady and hard-working man, bringing up his children honorably, if he had remained a journeyman. The position of a master presented temptations that were too much for his weak disposition. Lackington’s own words will best describe his unhappy circumstances in youth and the character of his father. “I was born at Wellington, in Somersetshire, on the 31st of August (old style), 1746. My father, George Lackington, was a journeyman shoemaker, who had incurred the displeasure of my grandfather for marrying my mother, whose maiden name was Joan Trott.... About the year 1750, my father having several children, and my mother proving an excellent wife, my grandfather’s resentment had nearly subsided, so that he supplied him with money to open shop for himself. But that which was intended to be of very great service to him and his family eventually proved extremely unfortunate to himself and them; for as soon as he found he was more at ease in his circumstances he contracted a fatal habit of drinking, and of course his business was neglected; that after several fruitless attempts of my grandfather to keep him in trade, he was, partly by a very large family, but more by his habitual drunkenness, reduced to his old state of a journeyman shoemaker. Yet so infatuated was he with the love of liquor, that the endearing ties of husband and father could not restrain him: by which baneful habit himself and family were involved in the extremest poverty; so that neither myself, my brothers, nor sisters, are indebted to a father scarcely for anything that can endear his memory, or cause us to reflect on him with pleasure.”

James, as the oldest child in the family, fared for a time rather better than the rest. He was sent to a dame-school and began to learn to read; but before he could learn anything worth knowing, his mother, who was obliged to maintain her children as best she could, found it impossible to pay the twopence per week for his schooling. For several years his time was divided between nursing his younger brothers and sisters and running about the streets and getting into mischief. At the age of ten he began to feel a desire to do something to earn a living. His first venture in this way showed his ability and gave some promise of his success as a man of business. Having noticed an old pieman in the streets whose method of selling pies struck the boy as very defective, the boy was convinced that he could do the work much better. He made known his thoughts to a baker in the town, who was so pleased with the lad’s spirit that he at once agreed to take the little fellow into the house and employ him in vending pies in the streets, if his father would grant permission. This was soon obtained. In this queer enterprise young Lackington met with remarkable success. He says: “My manner of crying pies, and my activity in selling them, soon made me the favorite of all such as purchased halfpenny apple-pies and halfpenny plum-puddings, so that in a few weeks the old pie merchant shut up his shop. I lived with this baker about twelve or fifteen months, in which time I sold such large quantities of pies, puddings, cakes, etc., that he often declared to his friends in my hearing that I had been the means of extricating him from the embarrassing circumstances in which he was known to be involved prior to my entering his service.”

Such a story is a sufficient indication of character. It exhibits the two qualities which distinguished him as a man—good sense and courage. Another story of his boyhood is worth telling for the same reason. He was about twelve years of age when he went one day to a village about two miles off, and returning late at night with his father, who had been drinking hard as usual, they met a group of women who had turned back from a place called Rogue Green because they had seen a dreadful apparition in a hollow part of the road where some person had been murdered years before. Of course the place had been haunted ever since! The women dared not go by the spot after what they had seen, and were returning to the village to spend the night. Lackington and his father laughed at the tale, and the dauntless boy engaged to walk on in front and go up to the object when they came near it in order to discover what it was. He did so, keeping about fifty yards ahead of the company and calling to them to come on. Having walked about a quarter of a mile, the object came in sight. “Here it is!” said he. “Lord have mercy on us!“ cried they, and were preparing to run, ”but shame prevented them.” Making a long file behind him, the order of procedure of course being according to the degree of each person’s courage, they moved on with trembling steps toward the ghost. Although the boy’s “hat was lifted off his head by his hair standing on end,” and his teeth chattered in his mouth, he was pledged in honor and must go on. Coming close to the dreaded spectre, he saw its true character—“a very short tree, whose limbs had been newly cut off, the doing of which had made it much resemble a giant.” The boy’s pluck was the talk of the town, and he “was mentioned as a hero.”

His merits as a pie vender had made him a reputation, and now an application was made to his father to allow James to sell almanacs about the time of Christmas and the New Year. He rejoiced immensely in this occupation and drove a splendid trade, exciting the envy and ire of the itinerant venders of Moore, Wing, and Poor Robin to such a degree that he speaks of his father’s fear lest these poor hawkers, who found their occupation almost gone, should do the daring young interloper some grievous bodily harm. “But,” he says, “I had not the least concern; and as I had a light pair of heels, I always kept at a proper distance.”

At the age of fourteen he was bound for seven years to Mr. Bowden of Taunton, a shoemaker. The indentures made Lackington the servant of both Mr. and Mrs. Bowden, so that, in case of the death of the former, the latter might claim the service of the apprentice. The Bowdens were steady, religious people who attended what Lackington calls “an Anabaptist meeting,” i.e., we presume, a Baptist chapel, for the Baptists long bore the opprobrious epithet which was first given to them in Germany and Holland at the time of the Reformation. The Baptists of Taunton in 1760 seem to have been a dull, lifeless class of people, if we may judge from the type presented in the family of the quiet shoemaker with whom James Lackington went to live. Yet they were on a par with the vast majority of churches, established or non-established, in that age of religious apathy in England. The boy accompanied the family twice on the Sabbath to the “meeting,” and heard, yet not heard, sermons full of sound morality, but devoid of anything like vigorous, soul-searching, and soul-converting gospel truth, and delivered, withal, in the flattest and most spiritless manner. The ideas of the family were as circumscribed as their library, and that was small and meagre enough, in all conscience. It may be worth while to give an inventory of its contents. It will cover only a line or two of our space, and will be of some use to those, perhaps, who are apt to mourn their own poverty as regards books, and their small advantages, though, perchance, they may have access to free libraries or cheap subscription libraries, or may be able to buy or borrow all they could find time to peruse if only they had the wish to read. Imagine a youth with any taste for literature living in a sleepy town like Taunton in 1760, and looking over his master’s bookshelves and finding there a school-size Bible, “Watts’ Psalms and Hymns,“ Foot’s ”Tract on Baptism,“ Culpepper’s ”Herbal,” the “History of the Gentle Craft,” an old imperfect volume of receipts on Physic, Surgery, etc., and the “Ready Reckoner.” Bowden was an odd character, evidently. One of his strange customs is thus described: “Every morning, at all seasons of the year and in all weathers, he rose about three o’clock, took a walk by the river’s side round Trenchware fields, stopped at some place or other to drink half a pint of ale, came back before six o’clock and called up his people to work, and went to bed again about seven.”

“Thus,” says Lackington, “was the good man’s family jogging easily and quietly on, no one doubting but he should go to heaven when he died, and every one hoping it would be a good while first.”

The visit of “one of Mr. Wesley’s preachers” led to the conversion of the two sons of Lackington’s employer, and set the young apprentice on a train of thought and inquiry which eventually led him also to cast in his lot with the Methodists. He was then about sixteen years of age, and had so little knowledge of reading that he gladly paid the three halfpence per week which his mother allowed him as pocket-money to one of the young Bowdens for instruction. Yet he had at this time no literary taste, and no thought beyond the limited round of devotional reading, which consisted chiefly of the Bible, and the tracts, sermons, and hymns of the Wesleys. His desire to hear the Methodist preachers was so great at this time, that one Sunday morning, when his mistress had locked the door to prevent his going out for this purpose, he jumped out of the bedroom window, fondly imagining that the words of the ninety-first Psalm, the eleventh and twelfth verses, which he had just been reading, would be sufficient guarantee of his safety in perpetrating such an act of rashness and folly. The last three years of his apprenticeship were spent in the service of his master’s widow, Mr. Bowden having died when Lackington had served about four years. When he was just twenty-one, and about six months before the expiration of his time, a severe contest for the representation of Taunton in Parliament took place, and the friends of two of the candidates purchased his freedom from Mrs. Bowden’s service in order to secure both his vote and his services. The scenes of excitement and dissipation into which he was thrown at this time unsettled his mind, and for a time entirely ruined his religious character. The election over, he went to live at Bristol, and lodged in a street called Castle Ditch, with a young man named John Jones, a maker of stuff shoes, who led him into dissipation. Jones, however, had been pretty well educated, and managed to awaken in Lackington’s mind a desire for more knowledge than he then possessed. He was, indeed, wofully ignorant, had no idea of writing, and when he began to feel a thirst for general reading, confesses that he dared not enter a bookseller’s shop because he did not know the name of any book to ask for. His friend Jones picked up at a bookstall a copy of Walker’s “Paraphrase of Epictetus,” which seems to have charmed the young shoemaker immensely, and to have turned him for a time into a regular stoic.

The taste for reading once awakened, he soon grew weary of a life of sin and folly. One evening he turned into a chapel in Broadmead to hear Mr. Wesley, who was preaching there. The old fire of religious enthusiasm was once more enkindled, and burned as fiercely as ever. His companions were soon brought to join the Wesleyan Society, and for a time the little knot of shoemakers working together lived a life of intense religious devotion, working hard and singing hymns or holding religious conversation all day, reading the works of leading evangelical divines during the greater part of the night, and seldom allowing themselves more than three hours’ sleep.

The religious was combined with the philosophic mind. He bought copies of such books as Plato on the “Immortality of the Soul,” Plutarch’s “Lives,” the “Morals of Confucius,” etc.; and, speaking of this time, he says: “The pleasures of eating and drinking I entirely despised, and for some time carried the disposition to an extreme. The account of Epicurus living in his garden, at the expense of about a halfpenny per day, and that when he added a little cheese to his bread on particular occasions he considered it as a luxury, filled me with raptures. From that moment I began to live on bread and tea, and for a considerable time did not partake of any other viand, but in that I indulged myself three or four times a day. My reasons for living in this abstemious manner were in order to save money to purchase books, to wean myself from the gross pleasures of eating, drinking, etc., and to purge my mind and make it more susceptible of intellectual pleasures.”

Leaving Bristol in 1769, he lived for a year at Kingsbridge, Devonshire, where he worked as a maker of stuff and silk shoes. In 1770 he went back to Bristol, and lodged once more with his old friends, the Joneses. At the end of that year he married Nancy Smith, an old sweetheart, whom he had fallen in love with seven years previously, “being at Farmer Gamlin’s at Charlton, four miles from Taunton, to hear a Methodist sermon.” Nancy was dairymaid then, and was accounted handsome; she was a devout Methodist, and an amiable, industrious, thrifty woman. But they were wretchedly poor at the time of their marriage, and had to go and live in lodgings at half a crown a week. “Our finances,” he remarks, “were but just sufficient to pay the expenses of the (wedding) day, for in searching our pockets (which we did not do in a careless manner), we discovered that we had but one halfpenny to begin the world with. ’Tis true we had laid in eatables sufficient for a day or two, in which time we knew we could by our work procure more, which we very cheerfully set about, singing together the following strains of Dr. Cotton:

‘Our portion is not large indeed,

But then how little do we need!

For Nature’s calls are few.

In this the art of living lies,

To want no more than may suffice,

And make that little do.’

“The above, and the following ode by Mr. Samuel Wesley, we did scores of times repeat, even with raptures:

‘No glory I covet, no riches I want,

Ambition is nothing to me:

The one thing I beg of kind Heaven to grant

Is a mind independent and free.

‘By passion unruffled, untainted by pride,

By reason my life let me square;

The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied,

And the rest are but folly and care.

‘Those blessings which Providence kindly has lent

I’ll justly and gratefully prize;

While sweet meditation and cheerful content

Shall make me both healthy and wise.

‘How vainly through infinite trouble and strife

The many their labors employ;

When all that is truly delightful in life

Is what all, if they will, may enjoy.’”

Sound sense and true philosophy this; and sorely did the young shoemaker and his much-enduring wife feel the need of such philosophy to hearten and console them when four and sixpence a week was all they had to spend on eating and drinking, and when, as he states, “strong beer we had none, nor any other liquor (the pure element excepted); and instead of tea, or rather coffee, we toasted a piece of bread, at other times we fried some wheat, which, when boiled in water, made a tolerable substitute for coffee; and as to animal food, we made use of but little, and that little we boiled and made broth of.” That the cheerful sentiments with which they set out in life did not fail them under the stress of such hardships as these is sufficiently shown by the statement with which he closes the chapter which deals with this part of his history: “During the whole of this time we never once wished for anything that we had not got, but were quite contented, and with a good grace in reality made a virtue of necessity.”

After three years Lackington resolved to go to London in the hope of meeting with better work and pay. It was indeed dire necessity that drove him to take this step. Incessant suffering and semi-starvation seemed inevitable if he remained in Bristol. His wife had been extremely ill almost from the beginning of their residence in the city, probably owing to the change from country air and active employment to the close atmosphere and sedentary occupation to which she was now accustomed. Her continued illness and his own hopeless state of poverty drove him to make the venture. Accordingly, having given her all the money he could spare, he set off for the metropolis, and arrived there in August, 1774, with half a crown in his pocket.

Once in London, the tide of his fortune turned. He soon found plenty of work and got good wages. In a month his wife was sent for, and the two worked so industriously and lived so economically, that before long Nancy changed her cloth cloak for one of silk, and her worthy husband indulged in the luxury of a greatcoat, the first he had ever worn. When he had been in London about four months he received tidings of the death of his grandfather, who had left ten pounds apiece to each of his grandchildren. He was so ignorant of money matters that he had no notion of obtaining the money except by going down to Somersetshire to fetch it, and the sum was accounted so prodigious, that he at once set off to claim his property; “so that,” he says, “it cost me about half the money in going down for it and in returning to town again.“ ”With the remainder of the money,“ he adds, ”we purchased household goods; but as we then had not sufficient to furnish a room, we worked hard and lived hard, so that in a short time we had a room furnished with our own goods; and I believe that Alexander the Great never reflected on his immense acquisitions with half the heart-felt enjoyment which we experienced on this capital attainment.” Now and then he visited the old bookshops and added a few books to his small library. One Christmas Eve he went out with half a crown in his pocket to purchase the Christmas dinner. Passing by an old bookshop, he could not resist the inducement to turn in and look over the stock. He intended to spend only a few pence on some book; but a copy of Young’s “Night Thoughts,” which he very much coveted, was so tempting a prize, that, without hesitation, he laid down his half-crown for the purchase of it. On returning home, he had no slight difficulty to persuade his wife of “the superiority of intellectual pleasures over sensual gratifications.“ ”I think,” said he to his patient spouse, “that I have acted wisely; for had I bought a dinner, we should have eaten it to-morrow, and the pleasure would have been soon over; but should we live fifty years longer, we shall have the ‘Night Thoughts’ to feast upon.”

In June, 1775, one of his Wesleyan friends looked in on Lackington and his wife as they sat at work making boots and shoes, and told them of a “shop and parlor” which were then to let in Featherstone Street, where it was suggested Lackington might obtain work as a master-shoemaker. He at once fell in with the proposal, and added that “he would sell books also.” He does not seem to have formed any intention of bookselling previous to this interview, but the prospect of having a shop of his own led him to think how easy and pleasant it would be to combine the two kinds of business. He says in his own naïve manner: “When he proposed my taking the shop, it instantly occurred to my mind that for several months past I had observed a great increase in a certain old bookshop, and that I was persuaded I knew as much of old books as the person who kept it. I further observed that I loved books, and that if I could but be a bookseller, I should then have plenty of books to read, which was the greatest motive I could conceive to induce me to make the attempt.” His friend engaged to procure the shop, and Lackington bought “a bag full of old books, chiefly divinity, for a guinea,” which, together with his own little library and some scraps of old leather, were worth five pounds. With this stock he “opened shop on Midsummer Day, 1775, in Featherstone Street, in the parish of St. Luke.”

He borrowed five pounds from a fund which Wesley’s people had raised for the purpose of lending out on a short term to men of good character who were in need of help in business or domestic difficulties. No interest appears to have been required, and he states that the money was of great service to him. At this time they lived in the most economical and sparing manner, “often dining on potatoes, and quenching their thirst with water,” for they could not forget the trials through which they had passed, and, haunted by the dread of their recurrence, were determined, if possible, to provide against them.

After six months his stock had increased to £25. “This stock I deemed too great to be buried in Featherstone Street; and a shop and parlor being to let in Chiswell Street, No. 46, I took them.” His business in the sale of books proved so prosperous, that, in a few weeks after removing to Chiswell Street, he disposed of his little stock of leather and altogether abandoned the gentle craft. At this time his stock consisted almost entirely of divinity, and for a year or two he “conscientiously destroyed such books as fell into his hands as were written by free-thinkers: he would neither read them himself, nor sell them to others.” He makes some curious and sagacious remarks on bargain-hunters who frequented his shop at this time, while his stock was low and poor, and who in their craze after “bargains” often paid him double the price for dirty old books that he afterward charged when he had a larger stock, and had adopted the principle of selling every book at its lowest paying price. These people, he observed, forsook his shop as soon as he began to introduce better order and to appear “respectable!”[3] He had not been long in Chiswell Street, before both his wife and himself were seized with fever. She died and was buried without his having once seen her after her illness. The shop was left in the care of a boy, his house was put in charge of nurses, who robbed him of his linen and other articles, kept themselves drunk with gin, and would have left him to perish. The timely presence of his sister saved his life, and several Wesleyan friends saved him from ruin by locking up his shop, which the nurses and boy together would soon have emptied. Although he wrote the whole story in after-years in a vein of flippant sarcasm and irreverence for religion, he was constrained to acknowledge his great obligation to the friends whose religion prompted them thus to act the good Samaritan to him in his dire extremity. “The above gentlemen,” he says, “not only took care of my shop, but also advanced money to pay such expenses as occurred; and as my wife was dead, they assisted in making my will in favor of my mother.“ ”These worthy gentlemen,“ he adds, ”belong to Mr. Wesley’s Society (and notwithstanding they have imbibed many enthusiastic whims), yet would they be an honor to any society, and are a credit to human nature.”

In 1776 he married Miss Dorcas Turton, a friend of his first wife. It seems to have been her influence, to a large extent, that drew him away from Wesleyanism and religion. She was a woman of considerable education, and a great reader, kindly and affectionate in her disposition, a dutiful daughter to her aged and dependent father, whom she had supported after his failure in business by keeping a school. But she seems to have had no thought of religious truth as a basis for character and an impulse to right conduct, and her absolute indifference to religion soon told on the mind of a sensitive and impulsive man like Lackington. “I did not long remain in Mr. Wesley’s Society,” he writes, referring to this same year 1776, “and, what is remarkable, I well remember that, some years before, Mr. Wesley told his society in Broadmead, Bristol, in my hearing, that he could never keep a bookseller six months in his flock.”

Two years afterward Lackington entered into partnership for three years with Mr. Denis, an honest man, as he is emphatically styled, who brought a considerable sum of money into the business, by means of which the stock was at once doubled, and the sales vastly increased. Lackington now proposed the issue of a sale catalogue, to which his partner reluctantly consented. Both partners were employed in writing it, but the larger share fell to Lackington, whose name alone appeared on the title-page. It was issued in 1779, and the first week after its publication the partners took, what they regarded as the “large sum” of twenty pounds. Denis, finding his money pay better in business than in the Funds, invested a larger sum in stock, but when Lackington, who according to the terms of the agreement was sole purchaser, began to buy, as his partner thought, too largely, they had a dispute over the matter and dissolved partnership on friendly terms a year before the term of partnership had expired. Denis, to the end of his life, remained friendly with Lackington, and used to call in every day on passing his shop to inquire what purchases and sales he had effected, and now and then the honest man lent his old partner money to help in paying bills.

In 1780 he resolved to give no credit to any one, and to sell all his books at the lowest price bearing a working profit. The effect of this new method of doing business was remarkable in many ways. Long credit seems to have been common in the trade in those days, most bills were not paid within six months, many not within a twelvemonth, and some not within two years. “Indeed,” he adds, “many tradesmen have accounts of seven years’ standing; and some bills are never paid”(!) After recounting the disadvantages of the credit system, he says: “When I communicated my ideas on this subject to some of my acquaintances, I was much laughed at and ridiculed; and it was thought that I might as well attempt to rebuild the Tower of Babel as to establish a large business without giving credit.” The offence given to some old customers was very great, and for a time he lost them, but they soon returned on learning how much lower his books were now marked than those of other booksellers. As to others who would only deal on credit, he cared little when he observed their anger, very wisely remarking that “some of them would have been as much enraged when their bills were sent in had credit been given them.” The booksellers themselves were not a little annoyed by the innovations of the dauntless trader, and appear to have said some bitter things about him and his stock. Some of them were “mean enough to assert that all my books were bound in sheep,” and he adds, in language that does him credit, “As every envious transaction was to me an additional spur to exertion, I am therefore not a little indebted to Messrs. Envy, Detraction & Co. for my present prosperity, though, I assure you, this is the only debt I am determined not to pay.”

This adoption of the “no credit” system was the first decided step toward Lackington’s wonderful success in business. In five years his catalogues contained the names of thirty thousand books, and these were generally of a much better description.

The most startling innovation he made in the trade of bookselling, and the one which led to the largest amount of opposition on the part of his fellow-tradesmen, was in regard to the way of dealing with what are called “remainders.” When a bookseller found a book did not sell well, it was his custom to put what remained into a private sale, “where only booksellers were admitted, and of them only such as were invited by having a catalogue sent them.“ ”When first invited to these trade-sales,“ he says, ”I was very much surprised to learn that it was common for such as purchased remainders to destroy one half or three fourths of such books, and to charge the full publication price, or nearly that, for such as they kept on hand. For a short time I cautiously complied with this custom.” But he soon became convinced of the folly of this practice, and resolved to keep the whole stock of books and sell them off at low prices. By this means he disposed of hundreds of thousands of volumes at a small profit, which amounted to a larger sum in the end than if he had destroyed three out of four and sold the rest at the original retail price. This course made him many enemies in the trade, who tried to injure him, and even did their best to keep him out of the sale-rooms. It was, however, of no avail: his business increased enormously, his customers appreciating his method, whether the booksellers did or not. He often bought enormously; “West says he sat next to Lackington at a sale when he spent upward of £12,000 in an afternoon.”[4] It was no uncommon thing for him to buy several thousand copies of one book, and at one time he had ten thousand copies of Watts’ Psalms and the same number of his Hymns in stock. Of course he found it necessary to sell out rapidly, or business would soon have come to a dead-lock; for, as he justly observes, “no one that has not a quick sale can possibly succeed with large numbers.“ ”So that I often look back,“ he remarks, ”with astonishment at my courage (or temerity, if you please) in purchasing, and my wonderful success in taking money sufficient to pay the extensive demands that were perpetually made upon me, as there is not another instance of success so rapid and constant under such circumstances.” It is interesting to notice how trifling a circumstance it was which led him to adopt the plan of selling every article at the lowest remunerative price. “Mrs. Lackington had bought a piece of linen; when the linen-draper’s man brought it into my shop three ladies were present, and on seeing the cloth opened asked Mrs. L. what it cost per yard. On being told the price, they all said it was very cheap, and each lady went and purchased the same quantity; those pieces were again displayed to their acquaintance, so that the linen-draper got a deal of custom from that circumstance; and I resolved to do likewise.“ He admits that he often sold a ”great number of articles much lower than he ought, even on his own plan of selling cheap, yet that gave him no concern,“ ”but if he found out that he had sold any articles too dear,“ he declares that ”it gave him much uneasiness.“ He reflects in his own simple fashion: ”If I sell a book too dear, I perhaps lose that customer and his friends forever, but if I sell articles considerably under their real value the purchaser will come again and recommend my shop to his acquaintances, so that from the principles of self-interest I would sell cheap.”

The following observations of a shrewd observer are worth quoting as a testimony to the change which had begun to come over the minds of the people of this country in regard to reading, about a hundred years ago: “I cannot help observing that the sale of books in general has increased prodigiously within the last twenty years [1791]. According to the best estimation I have been able to make, I suppose that more than four times the number of books are sold now than were sold twenty years since. The poorer sort of farmers, and even the poor country people in general, who before that period spent their winter evenings in relating stories of witches, ghosts, hobgoblins, etc., now shorten the nights by hearing their sons and daughters read tales, romances, etc.; and on entering their houses, you may see ‘Tom Jones,’ ‘Roderick Random,’ and other entertaining books stuck up on their bacon-racks, etc.; and if John goes to town with a load of hay, he is charged to be sure not to forget to bring home ‘Peregrine Pickle’s Adventures;’ and when Dolly is sent to the market to sell her eggs she is commissioned to purchase ‘The History of Pamela Andrews.’ In short, all ranks and degrees now read. But the most rapid increase of the sale of books has been since the termination of the late war.”[5]

He tells the story of his going to reside in the country and set up a carriage, horses, and liveried servants in his own quaint and self-complacent style. “My country lodging by regular gradation was transformed into a country house, and the inconveniences attending a stage-coach were remedied by a chariot.” This house was taken at Merton in Surrey. Referring to the captious remarks of his neighbors, he says: “When by the advice of that eminent physician, Dr. Lettsom, I purchased a horse and saved my life by the exercise it afforded me, the old adage, ‘Set a beggar on horseback, and he’ll ride to the devil,’ was deemed fully verified; they were very sorry to see people so young in business run on at so great a rate!” The occasional relaxation enjoyed in the country was censured as an abominable piece of pride; but when the carriage and servants in livery appeared, “they would not be the first to hurt a foolish tradesman’s character, but if (as was but too probable) the docket was not already struck, the Gazette would soon settle that point.” It appears that some of these wiseacres speculated as to the means by which the fortunate bookseller had made his large fortune. Some spoke of a lottery ticket, and others were sure that he must have found a number of “banknotes in an old book to the amount of many thousand pounds, and if they please can even tell you the title of the old book that contained the treasure.“ ”But,” he jocosely remarks, “you shall receive it from me, which you will deem authority to the full as unexceptionable. I found the whole of what I am possessed of, in—small profits, bound by industry, and clasped by economy.”

It is curious to notice the frank and simple manner in which he speaks of his profits, and of the way in which he did his business. “The profits of my business the present year [1791] will amount to four thousand pounds,“ he writes, and goes on to say that ”the cost and selling price of every book was marked in it, whether the price is sixpence or sixty pounds, is entered in a day-book as they are sold, with the price it cost and the money it sold for; and each night the profits of the day are cast up by one of my shopmen, as every one of them understands my private marks. Every Saturday night the profits of the week are declared before all my shopmen, etc., the week’s profits, and also the expenses of the week, then entered one opposite another; the whole sum taken in the week is also set down, and the sum that has been paid for books bought. These accounts are kept publicly in my shop, and ever have been so, as I never saw any reason for concealing them.” He speaks in the same letter of selling more than one hundred thousand volumes annually, and adds, in his own complacent manner, “I believe it is universally allowed that no man ever promoted the sale of books in an equal degree!”

Lackington at length quitted Chiswell Street, and took the enormous building at the corner of Finsbury Square, which was styled “The Temple of the Muses,” and to which the public were invited as the cheapest bookshop in the world. He declared in his catalogue that he had half a million of books constantly on sale, “and these were arranged in galleries and rooms rising in tiers—the more expensive books at the bottom, and the prices diminishing with every floor, but all numbered according to a catalogue which Lackington compiled by himself.”[6] His profits on the first year’s trade at “The Temple of the Muses” amounted to £5000. He retired from business in 1798, having made a large fortune.

His capacity for business was remarkable. Until he was nearly thirty years of age he had no opportunity of exercising it. But once having given up the gentle craft, in which he was no great proficient, he proved himself one of the smartest and cleverest business men in London. We can readily pardon the simple vanity of the self-made and self-taught merchant prince who writes about his recently acquired chariot in the following strain: “And I assure you, sir, that reflecting on the means by which the carriage was procured adds not a little to the pleasure of riding in it. I believe I may, without being deemed censorious, assert that there are some who ride in their carriages who cannot reflect on the means by which they were acquired with an equal degree of satisfaction.” For several years, both before and after he retired from business, he made a journey through different parts of England and Scotland, calling at the chief towns, such as York, Leeds, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Carlisle, Lancaster, Manchester, Bristol, and inspecting the bookshops. His observations are of the most quaint and out-of-the-way character. At Newcastle he found nothing more remarkable to record than “the celebrated crow’s nest affixed above the weather-cock on the upper extremity of the steeple in the market-place,” and the famous brank, an iron instrument, shown in the town-hall, and used in olden time to punish notorious scolds. At Glasgow the most notable spectacle, and one that calls forth a considerable amount of remark, is that of the washerwomen, whose practice of getting into their tubs, placed by the river-side, and dollying the linen with their bare feet, awoke his profound astonishment. Of his visits to Bristol and the west of England, the scene of his early life, he gives the following curious and interesting account: “In Bristol, Exbridge, Bridgewater, Taunton, Wellington, and other places, I amused myself in calling on some of my masters, with whom I had, about twenty years before, worked as a journeyman shoemaker. I addressed each with, ‘Pray, sir, have you got any occasion?’ which is the term made use of by journeymen in that useful occupation when seeking employment. Most of those honest men had quite forgot my person, as many of them had not seen me since I worked for them, so that it is not easy for you to conceive with what surprise and astonishment they gazed on me. For you must know that I had the vanity (I call it humor) to do this in my chariot, attended by my servants; and on telling them who I was, all appeared to be very happy to see me. And I assure you, my friend, it afforded me much real pleasure to see my old acquaintances alive and well.” Coming to Wellington, his birthplace and home during boyhood, he says: “The bells rang merrily all the day of my arrival. I was also honored with the attention of many of the most respectable people in and near Wellington and other parts, some of whom were pleased to inform me that the reason of their paying a particular attention to me was their having heard, and now having themselves an opportunity of observing, that I did not so far forget myself as many proud upstarts had done; and that the notice I took of my poor relations and old acquaintance merited the respect and approbation of every real gentleman.”

Lackington’s kindness to his own relatives, and to the poor, was one of his best qualities. In fact, he declares in 1791 that he would have retired from business five years previously if it had not been for the thought of his poor relations, many of whom were helpless, and whom he felt bound to relieve and protect. Besides supporting his “good old mother“ for many years, he says, ”I have two aged men and one aged woman whom I support: and I have also four children to maintain and educate; ... many others of my relations are in similar circumstances and stand in need of my assistance.” He also made provision for the support of the very aged parents of his first wife, Nancy.

On abandoning business he left his third cousin George Lackington at the head of the firm, while he and his wife went to live at Thornbury in Gloucestershire, in order to be in the neighborhood of the Turtons, his wife’s relations. He bought two estates in Alvestone, on one of which was a genteel house, where he lived in good style for several years. Here he employed his time in visiting the sick and poor, and sometimes in preaching. For he had now returned to the faith of a Christian, and threw himself with his accustomed ardor into all kinds of religious work. His contrition for the severe and ungracious things he had said of the Wesleyans in the first editions of his “Memoirs” was evidently very deep. He acknowledges in plain terms that he owed to them all his early advantages, and the moral and mental awakening which opened before him a new path in life. He says, in the introduction to his last edition of his book, “If I had never heard the Methodists preach, in all probability I should have been at this time a poor, ragged, dirty cobbler.... It was also through them that I got the shop in which I first set up for a bookseller.”

He built a small chapel at Thornbury on his own estate, where the Wesleyan ministers regularly officiated. In 1806 he removed to Taunton, where he resided for about six years, built a chapel at a cost of £3000, adding £150 a year for the minister.

On the decline of his health in 1812, he went to live by the seaside at Budleigh Sulterton, in Devonshire. Here also he erected a chapel which cost £2000, and endowed it with a minister’s stipend of £150 per annum.

James Lackington died of paralysis in the seventieth year of his age, on the 22d of November, 1815, and was buried in the Budleigh Churchyard. None will deny the successful bookseller the right to the Latin motto with which he has adorned the frontispiece to the first edition of “Memoirs and Confessions,” viz., Sutor ultra crepidam feliciter ausus.[7]

[CHAPTER III.]

REV. S. BRADBURN

THE SHOEMAKER WHO BECAME THE PRESIDENT OF THE WESLEYAN CONFERENCE.

“I was a poor ignorant cobbler.”—Samuel Bradburn, Life of Samuel Bradburn, p. 227.

“During forty years Samuel Bradburn was esteemed the Demosthenes of Methodism.”—Abel Stevens, LL.D., quoted on title-page of Life of S. B.

“I have never heard his equal; I can furnish you with no adequate idea of his powers as an orator; we have not a man among us that will support anything like a comparison with him.... I never knew one with so great a command of language.”—Dr. Adam Clarke.

“The generous and noble-minded Samuel Bradburn, whose ability as a public speaker was all but unrivalled.”—Rev. Thomas Jackson, President of the Wesleyan Conference.

SAMUEL BRADBURN.

In the winter of 1740 the press-gang men were busy at their abominable work in most of the maritime and inland towns of England, and, among other places, Chester seems to have sent certain unwilling recruits to make up the rank and file of the army, and replenish the navy of His Majesty King George II. Many are the tales of cruelty which belong to this miserable period in the history of our army and navy. Thousands of able-bodied men were carried away by main force from their peaceful occupations, from home and friends, and everything that was dear to them, and compelled to do duty for their country in foreign climes. Sons, husbands, fathers of families, steady, honest, industrious, law-abiding citizens, or worthless waifs and strays, it mattered not—all who might be of service, and could be easily caught, were seized and hurried off to the nearest military or naval depot, and were soon lost sight of by their distressed relations, and were, perhaps, never heard of again until their names were reported in the list of killed and wounded in battle. Now and then the life of enforced military or naval service was tolerable and even pleasant from a soldier’s or sailor’s point of view and ended happily enough with an honorable discharge and pension. A wretched beginning had not always a wretched course and a miserable ending, for the Briton of those days was a much-enduring creature, and had strong notions about “serving his country,” and soon learned to tolerate and even enjoy a condition of things which, to say the least, was unjustifiable and tyrannical.

An incident connected with the life-story of the subject of this sketch will illustrate some of the worst features of the system referred to, and show the sort of hardship and injustice to which “the free and noble sons” of Britain were exposed up to a time almost within the memory of men still living. Two men sat drinking and chatting in a friendly manner in an ale-house in Chester one night early in the year 1740. It does not seem that either of them was the worse for liquor, or that anything unpleasant had passed between them to spoil the pleasure of their intercourse. In fact, the two men had known each other years before, and both seemed glad to renew their acquaintance. The younger of the two was only twenty-one years of age, and had been married but a few days previously to a young woman of nineteen summers, to whom he was deeply attached. After staying as long as he deemed expedient he rose to go home, when to his amazement the pretended “friend” and old acquaintance turned upon him with the words, “You shall not leave this room to-night; you have now no master but the king, and you must serve him, as you have taken his money.” Guessing what was meant, the poor fellow felt in his pocket and found that his companion had secretly slipped three guineas into it as king’s bounty. It was vain for the enraged and distracted young man to throw the money on the floor, and declare he would none of it nor the king’s service, that he was but just married, and had no wish to be a soldier, for armed men stood round the door and prevented escape. It was vain also to appeal to the magistrates of that day, for though they must have been perfectly well acquainted with the nefarious tricks of pressmen and recruiting officers, they accepted the evidence of the officer against the recruit, and adjudged him a legal soldier, because, forsooth, he had received the king’s bounty and so enlisted. Such was the experience of Samuel Bradburn’s father, and in two days after the event just narrated he was hurried off to his regiment, without a chance of saying good-by to his friends or making any further efforts for his own release. Their grief, and the agony of mind endured by the young bride, may be imagined. She had no choice but to part from him, perhaps forever; or to get permission to attach herself to the regiment, and follow her husband’s fortunes as a soldier. No true woman and worthy wife would hesitate long, and the noble-hearted Welsh girl[8] soon resolved not to leave her husband. The regiment was ordered to Flanders, and took part in several battles, in one of which Bradburn was severely wounded, and on the conclusion of the war in 1748 ordered to Gibraltar, where Samuel was born, 5th October, 1751, and where he spent the first twelve years of his life.

The soldier’s family numbered thirteen children, and as his pay was but scanty, it may be supposed that the education of each of its members could not have been a very important or costly affair. In short, we have another story to add to those already told of a life of singular devotedness and usefulness which had no fair foundation of sound and thorough education. Bradburn himself declares that he went to school for only a fortnight during his twelve years’ life at Gibraltar. The fee was a penny a week, and on its being raised to three halfpence the boy was removed, for the father’s poor pittance would not allow of the extra strain upon it of a halfpenny per week. And so, says the biographer, almost with an air of triumph, “the education of one of the greatest modern pulpit orators cost only twopence!”

Bradburn’s father appears to have been a remarkably thoughtful and exemplary sort of man for a soldier, in those days. Though he never united with the Methodists, he was much attached to them, and had derived great profit from their preaching at the camp in Flanders. His children were brought up in a strictly religious manner, always going to service on Sunday, and being compelled to read a daily portion of Scripture, and repeat a Scripture lesson from week to week. According to his light, he did his best to bring his children up well; and one of them, at all events, profited by his training, for Samuel became very thoughtful and serious, and was accounted, by his neighbors, one of the best boys in the town.

On his discharge from the army Bradburn went to live in the old city from which he had been so cruelly carried away about twenty-three years before. Samuel was then nearly thirteen years of age, and a situation was soon found for him as an out-door apprentice to a shoemaker, to whom he was bound for eight years. Brought up under the influences of Methodism, and accustomed to listen to a class of preachers who had done more than any others to awaken and keep alive the flames of religious revival and zeal, young Bradburn’s mind was always more or less under the influence of deep religious conviction. His history, as a youth, presents the most astonishing contrasts of religious fervor and sinful excess. Yet his worst moods did not last long, and, however far he went in the way of transgression, his consciousness of the evil of sin never left him, and he had always sufficient moral sensibility left to make him profoundly miserable when he dared to reflect. Acts of daring wickedness, and defiant or profane language, only served as a cover to a troubled heart and a restless conscience. The story of his early life, with its alternate seriousness and folly, anxiety about his soul’s welfare and mad recklessness, reads wonderfully like that of John Bunyan. How like the records of the life of the Bedford tinker are these entries in the diary of the Chester shoemaker: “One evening, being exceedingly cast down, and finding an uncommon weight upon my spirits, I went to preaching, and while Mr. Guilford was describing the happiness of the righteous in glory, my heart melted like wax before the fire. In a moment all that heaviness was removed, and the love of God was so abundantly shed abroad in my heart, that I could scarcely refrain from crying out in the preaching-house.“ ... ”When preaching was over, I went into a place near St. Martin’s Churchyard, which adjoined the preaching-house, and there I poured out my soul before the Lord in prayer and praise, and continued rejoicing in God my Saviour most of the night.” He was then less than fourteen years of age; his companions at the work-room were of a godless sort, and after a few months’ enjoyment of mental peace and joy, their injurious influence began to tell upon him. By degrees he abandoned his prayerful habits, and surrendered himself to the power of evil, until at length he “became acquainted with the vilest of the vile,” and imbibed their spirit and followed their example. To what depths he sank the following sentences from his diary will show: “It is impossible to express the feelings of my mind, on some occasions during this apostasy from God; especially once, when one of the greatest reprobates I ever knew was constrained to own that he was shocked to hear me swear such oaths as I often did.[9] ... For a moment I felt a degree of compunction, but gave away to despair and drowned the conviction.” The reproof which Bunyan received under similar circumstances led him to drop the practice of swearing; but Bradburn went on in his evil ways as resolutely as ever. For several years he seems to have led a reckless life, joining in vicious company, indulging a passion for “gaming,” or gambling, to such an extent that he would even go to bed and rise and dress again when the rest of the household were asleep, in order to go out through the window and join his gambling and betting companions. At last he became so enamoured of sinful follies that he snatched the opportunity, which a few words of complaint from his father afforded, to take offence and leave home, “in order to go and lodge with some abandoned young men, in order to have his full swing without being curbed by any one.” His wages were but small, and as he took half of them home he had but a small pittance to live upon: yet such was his craze at this time for bad company and “gaming,” that he lived often for two days on a penny loaf, and went in rags rather than confess his error to his parents and ask their aid. One good quality kept him from utter ruin at this time, and it seems to have been the only one that remained in a lively state. He speaks of “the affection he had for his mother, whom he still loved as his own soul.” He could not endure her tears and tender reproofs, and left his home in order that he might not have to suffer the constant reproach of her good character and loving entreaties. To such lengths will a passion for sinful amusements drive even a youth of sensitive nature and generous disposition. Nothing can be more deplorable than the account he gives of his sinful infatuation at this the worst period of his youthful career. “I spent almost a twelvemonth in this truly pitiable way of life, and during that time do not remember enjoying one satisfactory moment. My clothes were now almost worn out, and my wages were not sufficient to supply me with more; yet, such was my folly, I still persisted in the same way, glorying even in my shame, till my life seemed nearly finished, and the measure of my iniquity almost full; and, to all appearance, there was but a step betwixt me and everlasting death.”

At eighteen years of age this miserable course of sin came to an end. Bradburn was led “by the hand of Providence to work in the house of a Methodist.” He had about this time, also, become so weak and ailing in health, as the result of his pernicious habits, that he was compelled to yield to his parents’ entreaties to go and live at home. Good example, kind words, and wise counsel, combined with the beneficial effects of separation from his old companions, soon began to tell upon his conscience. As might be expected, the sense of sin, when once it was awakened in him, was most intense. It was no wonder that such a youth as Samuel Bradburn should have “experiences” which men of a milder temperament are strangers to, and cannot perhaps appreciate. After he had mused for a time, and thought upon his ways, he became suddenly, and, as it seemed then, most unaccountably convinced of sin, and led to cherish the most anxious concern to find peace with God. “One evening,” he writes in his diary, “at the close of the year 1769, while I was making a few cursory remarks on the season, and looking at some decayed flowers in a garden adjoining the house I worked in, I was suddenly carried, as it were, out of myself with the thought of death and eternity.... My sins were set as in battle array before me, particularly that of ingratitude to a good and gracious God. This caused my very bones to tremble, and my soul to be horribly afraid. Hell from beneath seemed moved to meet me.... The effects of those convictions were such that I could scarcely reach home, though but a little way off. I went to bed, but found no rest. I sunk under the weight of my distress, gave myself up to despair, and for some time lost the use of my reason.” For several days the poor sin-stricken youth lay as if in a high fever, and raved of judgment and perdition. It was three months ere he entered into a state of quiet, firm, intelligent, Christian faith, bringing peace and rest to his mind. His excellent and godly master helped him somewhat during this long and terrible struggle in the “slough of despond.” Several “evangelists,” in the character of gospel ministers, pointed out the way of life to him, but they were not of so much service as might have been expected. A “roll which he carried in his hand,” on which was written, “The Door of Salvation Opened by the Key of Regeneration,” was of great value in showing the way to the blessedness he sought. In fact, it was during the reading of this little treatise on the life of faith that his spirit first seemed to hear the divine words, “Peace, be still.” There could be no mistake about the young shoemaker’s conversion. Account for it as men might, the change was marvellous, and infinitely beneficial, as we shall see, no less to his neighbors than to himself; for Samuel Bradburn was intensely social, and bound to influence his friends in one way or another, as well as to be influenced by them. It was impossible for him to remain inactive when a great impulse moved within him. The desire to go out and speak of the joy he had found, and the means by which he had found it, soon became a ruling passion. It is the desire which makes the philanthropist, the preacher, the missionary. The language in which he attempts to describe that indescribable joy of the renewed heart is but another reading of the old gospel truth: “If any man be in Christ he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”[10] Alluding to the reading of the little book above mentioned, he says: “Such an unspeakable power accompanied the words to my soul, that, being unable to control myself, I rose from my seat and went into the garden, where I had spent many a melancholy hour; but, oh, how changed now! Instead of terror and despair I felt my heart overflowing with joy, and my eyes with grateful tears. My soul was in such an ecstasy that my poor emaciated body was as strong and active as I ever remember it, and not at that time only, for the strength and activity remained. I had now no fear of death, but rather longed to die, knowing that the blessed Jesus was my Saviour; that God was reconciled to me through Him; that nothing but the thread of life kept me from His glorious presence. Now the whole creation wore a different aspect. The stars which shone exceeding bright appeared more glorious than before. Such was my happy frame that I imagined myself in the company of the holy angels, who, I believed, were made more happy on my account, and doubtless those ministering spirits did feel new degrees of joy on seeing so vile a sinner, so wretched a prodigal, come home to the arms of his heavenly Father.[11] O Thou eternal God!“ he exclaims, ”Thou transporting delight of my soul! preserve and support, me through life, that I may at last enjoy the heaven of love which I then felt overpowering my spirit.”

Bradburn at once joined the Methodist Society at Chester. His master’s son, a boy of twelve, and many other young people, began to attend the “class-meetings” about the same time. Among his work-fellows, also, there were some who rejoiced in the light which now filled young Bradburn’s soul, and their conversation and hymn-singing while at work, and their union in prayer before quitting the workroom at the close of the day, made the new time a perpetual Sabbath, and the shoemaker’s room “a perfect paradise.” In March, 1770, after the usual period of probation, he was admitted to full membership, and received what the Methodists call “his first ticket.” He was not long in discovering, as every one else has done in similar circumstances, that the change, though genuine, was not complete. An outburst of passion, and a growing desire after disputation on theological matters, in which he found himself contending for mastery rather than truth, gave him to see that a sound and secure religious character is a matter of growth and culture and can only be maintained by watchfulness and prayer, and the careful formation of habits of piety. And as Thomas à Kempis finely says, “Custom is overcome by custom,” so Bradburn found it, and in order to put a bar between his spirit and possible temptations, changed his way of living, his companions, and his books. One day, when John Wesley was administering the Lord’s Supper in the little chapel at Chester, Bradburn was seized with the idea that he must become a preacher. For a long time he strove hard to drive it from his mind. But the more he did so the more it seemed to possess him. His sense of unfitness for so great an office as that of the preacher, his exalted notions of the sacredness and responsibility attaching to the office, and his own deepening conviction, which nothing could resist, that it was his duty before God to devote himself to the work, made him for a time positively wretched. He tried the effect of change of residence upon his feelings in the matter. He was now twenty years of age, and out of his time. But on visiting his relations at Wrexham, he found that they and their friends of the Wesleyan Society, to whom he was introduced, had a common feeling that such a young man ought surely to exercise his gifts as a speaker. In answer to their entreaties he spoke several times in their meetings, and thus made his first start in public speaking. Still the question of preaching was left unsettled, and disturbed his mind night and day. It became a positive burden to him—“the burden of the Lord,” indeed, and no power of his own could remove it. Six months after this brief visit to Wrexham, he obtained a situation, and went to reside in Liverpool, where he fell in with people much to his mind, who were exceedingly kind to him. They, however, no sooner came to know him than their opinion was strongly expressed to the same purport as that of his friends in Chester and Wrexham. In four months he left Liverpool and returned home, the great life-question still upon his mind. He dare not settle it, in one way or the other; all he could do was to resolve to live as near to God as possible, commit his way unto Him, and submissively wait for the direction of Divine providence. In this condition of mind he passed the rest of the year 1772. At the beginning of the following year he found employment at Wrexham, and there took up his abode in the congenial society of his relations and religious friends. Soon after this the event occurred which decided the severe and agonizing mental struggle to which he had been subjected for the last twelve months, and determined the whole course of his life, and the employment of his rare gifts as a preacher of the Gospel. On Sunday, February 7th, 1773, the preacher for the day failed to appear. Young Bradburn was invited by the leaders of the congregation to take the service. Trembling from head to foot, almost blind with fear and excitement, and casting himself on divine aid, he mounts the pulpit stairs. The opening part of the service gives him confidence, and when the time for preaching comes, he is able to speak with much freedom and fervor to an appreciative and thankful audience. In the evening he is once more asked to occupy the pulpit, and this time he delivers a discourse which is not too long for the hearers, though it lasts for more than two hours. The next week he preaches to the same people three times; and now the question is settled, and settled, as he and his friends are fain to believe, in a providential way: Samuel Bradburn is called to be a preacher, and a preacher of no ordinary power. He has not waited all these long months for nothing. He has not run before he was sent. He has not tarried in the desert like Moses, like Elijah, like Saul of Tarsus, to learn the truth and will of God, with no beneficial results. He has been called of the Holy Spirit to the work, and to the work of preaching he must now give himself and his very best powers, or a woe will rest upon him. He and his Methodist friends would not trouble themselves for one moment about the question of his being a shoemaker, or remaining a shoemaker, if he is to become a preacher. One apostolic precedent was as good as twelve to them in a matter of this kind, and Paul did not cease to be a tent-maker when the Holy Ghost said to the church at Antioch, “Separate me Barnabas and Saul to the work whereunto I have called them.”[12]

Soon after the events just referred to, Bradburn resolved to go and see the Rev. John Fletcher, Vicar of Madeley in Shropshire, the friend of Lady Huntingdon, and Benson, and John Wesley. Fletcher had a reputation for piety and usefulness which few men in his day could equal and none surpass. He was a great favorite with the followers of John Wesley, not alone because of his friendship with their leader, but on account of his saintly life, his evangelistic zeal, and his rare catholicity of spirit. None worked more faithfully and diligently than he at the College of Trevecca in Wales, of which he was for several years the president. Yet he received no emolument for his labors. “Fletcher was no pluralist, for he did his work at Trevecca without fee or reward, from the sole motive of being useful.”[13] It is said of his apostolic work at Madeley, that “the parish, containing a degraded, ignorant, and vicious population employed in mines and iron works, became, under his diligent Christian culture, a thoroughly different place. His public discourses, his pastoral conversations, his catechising of the young, his reproofs to the wicked, his encouragements to the penitent, his accessibility at all hours, his readiness to go out in the coldest night and the deepest snow to see the sick or the sorrowing, his establishment of schools, and his personal efforts in promoting their prosperity—in short, his almost unrivalled efforts in all kinds of ministerial activity, have thrown around Madeley beautiful associations not to be matched by the hills and hanging woods which adorn that hive of industry.”[14] Bradburn was lovingly received at the Madeley vicarage, stayed for several days with the family, and preached in one of the rooms of the house to a congregation of villagers. If Fletcher could not ask his shoemaker friend to officiate in the church, seeing that he had taken no holy orders, the good vicar had no difficulty or scruple in regard to his guest’s preaching the Gospel in the house. On leaving, young Bradburn carried away, as a precious treasure of the heart, a deep sense of Fletcher’s holy character, and never forgot the good man’s characteristic remark, “If you should live to preach the gospel forty years, and be the instrument of saving only one soul, it will be worth all your labor.” Returning home, he went on with his work as a shoemaker, preaching on Sundays in the chapels at Flint, Mold, Wrexham, etc., until the beginning of the following year, when he went to reside with friends at Liverpool. Here his preaching was so much enjoyed by the congregations of the “circuit” that he was pressed to stay and minister to them till July, when it was hoped that some arrangement might be made by the Conference in London by which he would be permanently and officially appointed to labor among them. Although he had become somewhat popular by this time, and was warmly welcomed wherever he went on account of his earnestness and rough eloquence, he was sometimes regarded with distrust because of his youthful and unclerical appearance and manner. One good man, who generally entertained the preacher on his visits, was so annoyed at the sight of “a mere lad” “travelling the circuit, that he sent young Bradburn to take his meals and sleep in the garret with the apprentices.” After the morning sermon, however, which surprised and delighted all who heard it, “he was judged worthy to sit in the preacher’s chair” at the table of his host, and at night was allowed to sleep in the “prophet’s chamber.” In September of that year he was not a little surprised to find himself appointed by the Conference as a regular “travelling preacher on the Liverpool circuit.” It was about this time he had his first interview with John Wesley. The veteran evangelist’s simple and kindly manner affected the young preacher deeply, and his advice was wonderfully like him: “Beware,” said Wesley, holding young Bradburn by the hand, “beware of the fear of man; and be sure you speak flat and plain in preaching.”

In these early days of Methodism, when the denomination was undergoing the process of rapid growth, it was impossible to wait for men, to meet the urgent need of the churches, who had gone through a regular process of ministerial education and training. Such as had the requisite character and the gift of speech were “called out” and placed over churches in a manner that would not have been tolerated in later times, when colleges had come to be established. Yet the work done by men of Bradburn’s stamp was genuinely apostolic, and served, under the divine blessing, to lay broad and deep the foundations of that Wesleyan denomination which, in the present day, yields to none of the so-called “sects” in the culture and moral power of its ministry. It is not to be supposed that the fluent young shoemaker was insensible to his need of education. The first year’s work in Lancashire taxed his mental resources severely, and set him wondering many times whether he should be able to go on preparing new sermons in order to preach repeatedly to the same congregation. It was consequently an immense relief to him when the year came to an end, and he found that the Conference at Leeds had set him down for an entirely new field of labor, at Pembroke, in South Wales.[15]

Bradburn felt his poverty in more ways than one. Wesleyan ministers were then but poorly paid, and men of his generous character, who found it easier to give to the needy than to economize and save, were often in great straits for funds. On his way down to Pembroke he was reduced to his last shilling, and, but for this meeting with Wesley at Brecon, might have found it an awkward matter to reach his destination. “Apply to me when you want help,” said Wesley to his friend, and very soon proved his sincerity by prompt assistance when the young pastor made known his straitened circumstances. The following story is too good to be omitted. In reply to Bradburn’s appeal Wesley sent the following short letter, inclosing several five-pound notes:

“Dear Sammy: Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.—Yours affectionately, John Wesley.”

To which Bradburn replied:

“Rev. and Dear Sir: I have often been struck with the beauty of the passage of Scripture quoted in your letter, but I must confess that I never saw such useful expository notes upon it before.—I am, Rev. and dear Sir, your obedient and grateful servant, S. Bradburn.”

The year spent in South Wales was happy and prosperous, and the churches at Pembroke, Haverfordwest, and Carmarthen were greatly increased and well organized under the care of Bradburn and his colleague. By the Conference in 1776 he was sent to Limerick, and from thence, in four months, such was the severity of the strain upon his health, he was removed to Dublin. Here he had met, on first landing in Ireland, with the young lady who was afterward to become his wife. It was a case of “mutual admiration” and “love at first sight.” Bradburn was a passionate lover, and could ill brook the delay of two years which had to pass away before he took the beautiful Miss Nangle to his own home. In one of his anxious moods, when sick of love and hope deferred, he rose from his sleepless bed to pray for divine guidance and favor in regard to the serious business of courtship. It was his custom to pray aloud, and supposing his colleague, who occupied the same bed, to be fast asleep, he did not balk his prayer in this instance, finishing a fervent appeal for divine direction with the simple words, “But, Lord, let it be Betsey.“ His bedfellow humorously responded, ”Amen,” and broke out into a hearty laugh at poor Bradburn’s expense. John Wesley, who favored the match, and generously interceded in his friend’s behalf, both with a much-dreaded stepmother and the fair one herself, conducted the marriage ceremony in the house of a friend. He had invited the bride and bridegroom-elect, and Mrs. Karr the stepmother, “to breakfast with him at Mrs. King’s,[16] the morning after his arrival, being his birthday; as soon as she (Mrs. Karr) entered he began the ceremony and married us in the parlor. Pride would not let her affront Mr. Wesley, and she was forced to appear satisfied.“ ”Wesley,” says Bradburn’s biographer,[17] “more than once took up cudgels for his preachers when in difficulties of this kind, but not in such a summary manner.”

Relegated to the Cork and Bandon circuit, he had a very trying time of it for about a year. One of his memoranda made at this time gives us a glimpse of his acquirements from his own common-sense point of view, for Bradburn was a thoroughly sensible and humble man, who never yielded to ignorant flattery of his pulpit eloquence, nor gave way, as some self-made men and popular preachers have done, to vanity and conceit. Self-examination was with him a genuine business, conducted in a reverent spirit and an honest and altogether healthy fashion. By this means he came to know himself and act accordingly. Not many men in his position would have written so sensibly as this: “Cork, March 31st (1779).—I have read and written much this month, but sadly feel the want of a friend to direct my studies. All with whom I have any intimacy, know nothing of my meaning when I speak of my ignorance. They praise my sermons, and consider me a prodigy of learning; and yet what do I know? a little Latin, a little philosophy, history, divinity, and a little of many things, all of which serves to convince me of my own ignorance!” At this time, and for many years after, he preached forty sermons a month, and sometimes fifty. Even if they were all old sermons, which would not often be the case, how could a man so employed find time or energy for close and continuous study? The next four years are spent at Keighley, Bradford, and Leeds in Yorkshire. When at Keighley he “travelled” for a time with Wesley, and had an opportunity of observing the way in which that sainted man wholly devoted his gifts, his time, and his money to the service of God and his fellow-men. Wesley’s stipend from the Society in London was £30 a year, but the sale of books, the generosity of the friends at Bristol, and occasional preaching fees and sundry legacies, brought his yearly income up to £1000 or £1200; yet he rarely spent more for himself than his meagre stipend, and regularly gave away all the rest. “Thus literally having nothing, he possessed all things; and though poor, he made many rich.”[18] At Leeds, Bradburn was offered the pastorate of an Independent Church with a greatly increased salary, but the loyal Methodist refused the tempting offer. His next appointment was to Bristol, where he had the misfortune to lose his darling Betsey, who died of decline in her twenty-ninth year. His colleague had suffered a similar bereavement, and the stern yet tender-hearted Wesley, then in his eighty-third year, actually set off from London “in the driven snow” to go down to Bristol and comfort the two sorrowing preachers. Bradburn did not long remain a widower. At Gloucester he met Sophia Cooke, “the pious and godly” Methodist to whom Robert Raikes of Sunday-school fame had spoken about the poor children in the streets, and asked her, “What can we do for them?“ Miss Cooke replied, ”Let us teach them, and take them to church!” The hint was acted upon, and Raikes and Miss Cooke “conducted the first company of Sunday scholars to the church, exposed to the comments and laughter of the populace, as they passed along with their ragged procession.” A better wife for the earnest Methodist preacher could not have been found than the woman who thus showed her good sense, her piety, and her courage, in starting the Sunday-school movement. In 1786 Wesley showed his appreciation of Bradburn’s excellent qualities by getting him appointed to the London Circuit in order to have his assistance in superintending the affairs of the Connection. Here he met with Charles Wesley, and, at the time of his death in 1788, Bradburn stood by the dying man’s bed offering up earnest prayer for him, and calling to his mind the truths of that Gospel which he had done so much to spread throughout the world by his unrivalled hymns. John Wesley himself died three years afterward, 2d March, 1791, and Bradburn, then at Manchester, published a pamphlet entitled, “A Sketch of Mr. Wesley’s Character,” in which he gave a most interesting epitome of the chief points in the history and labors of his father in the Gospel. Bradburn, now looked upon as one of the foremost men in the Connection, united with eight others in issuing a circular giving an outline of policy for the guidance of the Conference at its next session. The utmost care and wisdom were needed in order to keep the various elements of Methodism together; and few men in those days were more conspicuous and useful than Bradburn in guiding the counsels of the assembled ministers. He was elected to preach before the Conference at its next session in Manchester, and so moved his audience by his impassioned appeal for unity and loyalty to the good cause that had now lost its earthly leader, that all in the chapel rose to their feet in response to his stimulating words. In 1796, when stationed at Bath, he was made secretary of the Conference, and held the office three years in succession. In 1799 his brethren showed their esteem for him by choosing him as President, and thus giving him the highest honor which they had it in their power to bestow.

Among Methodists Bradburn is regarded as one of the most eloquent and powerful preachers the denomination has produced. He had all the natural gifts of a great orator, and these, combined with fervent piety and a single and lofty purpose in preaching, invested his discourses with a charm and an influence rarely wielded by public speakers. “Possessed of a commanding figure, dignified carriage, graceful action, mellow voice, ready utterance, correct ear, exuberant imagination, an astonishing memory, and an extensive acquaintance with his mother tongue, he could move an assembly as the summer breeze stirs the standing corn.”[19] This elocutionary power was not gained without much care and diligent labor. He was a hard reader, and a most painstaking sermonizer, for though he never used the manuscript in the pulpit but preached extempore, after the fashion of the times, he nevertheless prepared his discourses with great skill and labor. The following sentences from his biography will sufficiently illustrate this point.[20] “His own bold, easy, and correct English was such as no man acquires without perseverance in a right use of means. His diligence may be inferred from one of his reported sayings on leaving Manchester—that he had twelve hundred outlines of sermons untouched (not used in preaching in the circuit) at the end of three years’ ministrations. The result of such endowments, improved, with such assiduity, amid all the hindrances and discouragements of a laborious and harassing vocation, was, that to be comprehensive and lucid in arrangement; beautifully clear in statement or exposition; weighty, nervous, and acute in argumentation; copious, various, and interesting in illustration; overwhelming in pathos; to wield at will the ludicrous or the tender, the animating, the sublime, or the terrible—seems to have been habitually in his power.” The Rev. Richard Watson, author of the “Institutes,” “walked twenty miles to hear the far-famed Mr. Bradburn preach; and he never lost the impression which that distinguished orator produced.” Watson thus describes his impressions: “I am not a very excitable subject, but Mr. Bradburn’s preaching affected my whole frame. I felt a thrill to the very extremity of my fingers, and my hair actually seemed to stand on end.” The biographer of the Rev. Jabez Bunting says of Bradburn: “His career was brilliant and useful; and perhaps more men longed, but durst not try, to preach like him than like any other preacher of his time.... Bradburn was without exception the most consummate orator we ever heard.” And the author of Bradburn’s life concludes the citation of a number of testimonies with the following strongly expressed opinion of his merits as a pulpit orator: “Methodism has produced a host of preachers renowned for pulpit eloquence. The names of Benson, Lessey, Watson, Newton, Beaumont, and others, stand out in bold relief on the page of her history, but the highest niche in her temple of fame belongs, most unquestionably, to Samuel Bradburn.”

Like most men of genius he had a strong sense of humor, enjoyed a joke most heartily, was ready and pithy in repartee, and seldom at a loss for spirit and tact in extricating himself from difficulties. Many a good story might be told, did space allow, in illustration of this feature of his character. One or two must suffice. Perhaps the smartest thing he ever did in outwitting the early opponents of Methodism was done in a certain small town, in one of his own circuits, where, in the early days of the movement, the preacher and his friends had often “been driven off the field by a mob, headed by the clergyman.” Bradburn understood the state of affairs thoroughly, and resolved to go down to the parish and preach in the open air. Notice of his coming was duly forwarded, and the clergyman ordered constables and others to be in attendance at the time and place appointed for the service. Meanwhile Bradburn having “provided himself with a new suit of clothes, borrowed a new wig of a Methodist barber,“ and ”went to the place, put his horse up at the inn, attended the morning service at church, placed himself in a conspicuous situation so as to attract the notice of the clergyman, and, when the service was closed, he went up to him on his way out, accosted him as a brother, and thanked him for his sermon. The clergyman, judging from his appearance and address that he was a minister of some note, gave him an invitation to his house. Bradburn respectfully declined, on the ground that he had ordered dinner, and expressed a hope that the clergyman would dine with him at the inn. He did so, and Bradburn having entertained him until dinner was over with his extraordinary powers of conversation, managed to refer to the open-air service which was to be held, and the clergyman stated his intention to arrest the preacher and disperse the congregation, and asked Bradburn to accompany him, which he did. On arriving at the appointed place they found a large company assembled; and as no preacher had made his appearance, the clergyman concluded that fear had kept him away, and was about to order the people to their homes when Bradburn remarked that it would “be highly improper to neglect so favorable an opportunity of doing good, and urged him to preach to them. He excused himself by saying that he had no sermon in his pocket, and asked Bradburn to address them, which, of course, he readily consented to do, and commenced the service by singing part of the hymn beginning—

‘Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing

My great Redeemer’s praise,’

and, after praying, delivered an impressive discourse from Acts 5:38, 39, ‘And now I say unto you, Refrain from these men, and let them alone; for if this counsel or this work be of men, it will come to nought: but if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found even to fight against God.’ This not only deeply affected the people, but so delighted the clergyman, that although he knew, as the service proceeded, that he had been duped, he heartily thanked Bradburn for the deception he had practised on him, and ever afterward, to the day of his death, showed a friendly disposition toward Methodism.”[21]

The same readiness of resource and good humor were shown in the management of the affairs of the society in his capacity as a pastor. On one occasion, when he resided in Manchester, two ladies, district visitors, went to the house of an old woman, a member of the society, who was a laundress, and finding her hard at work accosted her with the remark: “Betty, you are busy.” “Yes, mum,” said Betty, “as busy as the devil in a whirlwind!” Shocked by such an indecorous speech, the visitors threatened to report it to Mr. Bradburn. Afraid of what she had done, and the consequence, if it should come to the preacher’s ears, Betty, as soon as the ladies had gone away, set off by the quickest route to see Mr. Bradburn and relate the whole affair, and thus anticipate the report from the ladies themselves. She found Bradburn “engaged in his vocation as cobbler for his family.” “He listened to Betty’s simple story, and engaged to put the matter right, if she would try to be more guarded in the future. She had scarcely got clear away when the two ladies arrived with their melancholy story of Betty’s irreverence. They were asked into the room, and seeing him at his somewhat unclerical employment, one of them observed quite unthinkingly, ‘Mr. Bradburn, you are busy!’ ‘Yes,’ returned Bradburn, with great gravity, ‘as busy as the devil in a whirlwind!’ This remark from Betty was sufficiently startling, but from Bradburn it was horrifying. Seeing their consternation, he explained how busy the devil was in Job’s days, when he raised the whirlwind which ‘smote the four corners of the house,’ where the patriarch’s children were feasting, and slew them. It is, perhaps, needless to add that the two ladies left without mentioning the object of their visit.”[22]

Hating the false pride which leads a man to forget his humble origin, and the canting way in which some men talk of their sacrifices in entering the ministry, he once severely rebuked two young men who made a parade in company of having “given up all for the ministry.” “Yes, dear brethren,“ said he, ”some of you have had to sacrifice your all for the itinerancy; but we old men have had our share of these trials. As for myself, I made a double sacrifice, for I gave up for the ministry two of the best awls in the kingdom—a great sacrifice, truly, to become an ambassador of God in the church, and a gentleman in society!” His ready wit was sometimes displayed like that of Hugh Latimer, Dean Swift, and Sydney Smith, in the selections of texts for sermons on special occasions. Preaching at the opening of a chapel entirely built with borrowed money, he took as a text the words of the young man to Elisha the prophet:[23] “Alas, master, for it was borrowed.” On a snowy winter’s day, when the congregation was very small, he selected the words which describe the character of the virtuous woman,[24] “She is not afraid of the snow.”

That Samuel Bradburn was not perfect none will need to be told, yet it will surprise and pain every one to read that so great and good a man, honored and beloved of his brethren for many years, and useful beyond computation as a preacher, should have been “overtaken in a fault,” for which the Conference, in the exercise of a rigorous discipline, saw fit to suspend him for a year. After the lapse of this time he came back again to his old position, penitent and humble, like David or Peter, and like them fully restored to the Divine favor. This singular and melancholy event appears to have been due as much to mental as moral derangement, and in a short while, such was the sincerity of his sorrow and the blameless character of his after-life, his brethren were thankful to forget it, and to place him once more in positions of high trust and honor in the Connection. The last ten years of his life were spent in the important circuits of Bolton, Bath, Wakefield, Bristol, Liverpool, and East London. He died in London, July 26th, 1816, in the sixty-sixth year of his age. At the time of his decease the Conference was sitting in London. As a token of esteem and affection all its members joined in the funeral service at the New Chapel, City Road. He was buried in Old Methodist graveyard, City Road, by the side of his friend John Wesley, in the last resting-place of many of the fathers and founders of the Wesleyan Connection.

[CHAPTER IV.]

FROM THE SHOEMAKER’S STOOL TO THE EDITOR’S CHAIR.

“Not mine the soul that pants not after fame—

Ambitious of a poet’s envied name,

I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove

The grateful influence of the stream I love.”

—The Baviad; William Gifford.

“It is on all hands conceded, that the success which attended the ‘Quarterly’ from the outset was due, in no small degree, to the ability and tact with which Gifford discharged his editorial duties.”—Encyclopædia Britannica.

“I am not more certain of many conjectures than I am that he never propagated a dishonest opinion, nor did a dishonest act.”—Writer in the Literary Gazette.

WILLIAM GIFFORD.

The field of literature seems always to have had a special charm for shoemakers. If the reader will glance for a moment at the list of names given at the end of this book, this fact will be at once apparent. Half, or more than half, the names given in that list are in some way or other connected with literature. The connection is but slight in many instances, perhaps, and the reputation it conferred only local and temporary. Few of our shoemakers, even though we have thought well to style them “illustrious,” can be said to have made a great and lasting name in the world of letters; and none of them it must be confessed have attained to first rank as prose or poetical writers. But there are worthies in our list, associated alike with the humble craft of shoemaking and the higher walks of literature, whose names the world will not willingly let die, and we venture to think that the subject of this sketch is one of the number.

William Gifford was the first editor of the London Quarterly Review. The high and influential position held by this journal was mainly due in the first instance to Gifford’s talent and excellent management. The London Quarterly was started in opposition to the famous Edinburgh Quarterly; George Canning, the celebrated statesman, and Sir Walter Scott, the great novelist, being the prime movers and early patrons of the enterprise, for the Edinburgh, under the clever management of Jeffrey, and supported by such writers as Sydney Smith and Brougham, was then too liberal in its tone to suit the taste of the brilliant Foreign Secretary and his Tory friends. It was no slight testimony to the abilities of the man who was chosen as the first editor of the new Quarterly that his election should have been cordially approved by the first of Scottish novelists, and one of the most influential of English statesmen.

Gifford was the author of two satirical poems, the “Baviad” and “Maeviad,” directed against the tawdry and sentimental rhymesters of a certain school which flourished in his day.[25] His scathing satire succeeded in putting an end to their trash. Gifford published also a translation of the Latin poets, Juvenal and Persius. To the latter he prefixed the story of his own early life as a poor cobbler’s apprentice. From this interesting autobiography the materials for the following sketch have been chiefly selected. William Gifford’s best title to fame was, no doubt, his edition of the “Early English Dramatists”—Ford, Massinger, Shirley, and Ben Jonson. His generous and able vindication of Jonson reflects credit both upon the critic and the poet. It should be added that Gifford’s editorship of the Quarterly extended over fifteen years, and that during the whole of this period he was the writer of a large number of its most able articles.

Having taken a glimpse of the work accomplished by William Gifford as a critic, a scholar, and an editor in the latter years of his life, let us turn to look at his circumstances in boyhood and youth, when, as a miserable cobbler’s apprentice, he began to yearn after knowledge and to cherish ambitious dreams. The contrast between the first and last scenes in the drama of life could hardly be more wonderful than that which is presented in the history of the man who passed from the cobbler’s stool to the editor’s chair.

William Gifford was born at the small town of Ashburton, in South Devon, in 1757. His father, who was a man of spendthrift and profligate habits, died of the effects of his evil conduct before he had attained the age of forty. In twelve months afterward Gifford’s mother died, leaving William, and a little brother two years old, orphans, and, it would seem, penniless. As no home could be found for the infant, he was sent to the workhouse. William, then thirteen years of age, fell into the hands of a man named Carlisle, who had stood as his godfather, a worthless fellow, who had appropriated the few things left by the mother, on pretence of claiming them for debt. This man put William to school, where he began to show signs of ability; but he was allowed no chance of making progress; for, at the end of three months, grudging the slight cost of his tuition, Carlisle took the boy from his books and playmates, and put him to the plough. It was soon found that he was too weak for such heavy work. His guardian now tried to get the boy out of hand altogether, by sending him off to Newfoundland as an errand-boy in a grocery store. This unkind project, however, being doomed to failure, it was resolved that the troublesome charge should be got rid of by making him a sailor.

We give the account of what happened at this period in his own words: “My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had no heart to resist anything. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbay fishing-boats. I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and the matter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. A coaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went when little more than thirteen years of age. It will easily be conceived that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast, but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot. Yet if I was restless and discontented it was not so much on account of this as of my being prevented reading, as my master did not possess a single book of any description, excepting a Coasting Pilot.”

Gifford was on board this vessel for about twelve months, a time of untold suffering and degradation. In fact, his position was so deplorable that some women from Ashburton, who went down to Brixham to buy fish, shocked to see the boy running about the beach in ragged clothes, spoke so plainly on their return home about the hardship of his lot, that his godfather was compelled for very shame to send for him home again. He was once more put to school, and now made such rapid strides in arithmetic that on an emergency he was invited to assist the school-master. He goes on in his own narrative to say that these encouragements led him to entertain the idea that he might be able to get his own living by teaching, and as his first master “was now grown old and infirm, it seemed unlikely that he should hold out above three or four years, and I fondly flattered myself,“ he adds, ”that notwithstanding my youth I might possibly be appointed to succeed him.” It is worth while to notice that he was but a boy in his teens when he first began to feel the noble spirit of ambition stir within him, and to cherish the laudable desire to rely upon his own efforts for his maintenance. It was this lofty and self-reliant spirit which carried him past all his difficulties; and, truth to tell, no one has ever done anything remarkable in the world without it. The youth who is altogether destitute of ambition, and is ever on the look-out for the help of friends, lacks the first elements of success in life. But Gifford’s bravery and persistence of mind had to be severely tested before meeting with their due reward.

Proceeding with his pathetic story, he says: “I was about fifteen years of age when I built these castles in the air. A storm, however, was collecting, which unexpectedly burst upon me and swept them all away. On mentioning my plan to my guardian, he treated it with the utmost contempt, and told me he had been negotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker of some respectability, who had liberally consented to take me, without fee, as an apprentice. I was so shocked at this intelligence that I did not venture to remonstrate, but went in sullenness and silence to my new master, to whom I was bound till I should attain the age of twenty-one. At this period I had read nothing but a romance called ‘Parismus,’ a few loose magazines—the Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted with; these, with the ‘Imitation of Thomas à Kempis,’ which I used to read to my mother on her death-bed, constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.”

The account which follows has few things to equal it in the records of struggling genius. It will serve to show how abject and apparently hopeless was his condition as a student at this time of his life, and will show also, what it may be hoped no youth who reads these pages will fail to learn, how marvellous is the power of energy and perseverance to triumph over apparently insuperable obstacles.

“I possessed,” Gifford writes, “at this time but one book in-the world; it was a treatise on algebra given to me by a young woman who had found it in a lodging-house. I considered it a treasure; but it was a treasure locked up, for it supposed the reader to be acquainted with simple equations, and I knew nothing of the matter.” He then speaks of meeting with a book called Fenning’s “Introduction” belonging to his master’s son, who, by the way, was discovered afterward to have been all through this time a secret rival for the head-mastership. This “Introduction” gave Gifford just the information required to carry him forward into the study of algebra. But he was compelled to study it by stealth, lest it should be taken from him, and he goes on to say: “I sat up for the greater part of several nights successively and completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my own, and that carried me pretty far into the science. This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one; pen, ink, and paper, therefore, were for the most part as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource, but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl; for the rest my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.”

Strange to say, although he displayed so much ability and zeal in the study of mathematics, he was not destined to achieve distinction in that department of study. A very trifling incident led to the exercise of new gifts, and turned the tide of his evil fortune. A shopmate had made a few verses on the blunder of a painter in the village who was engaged to paint a lion for a sign-board, and had produced a dog instead. Gifford thought he could beat the verses of his shopmate, and accordingly tried his hand at rhyme. His associates all agreed in pronouncing young Gifford’s verses the better of the two. This encouraged him to try again, and in the course of a short time he had composed about a dozen pieces. He says: “They were talked of in my little circle, and I was sometimes invited to repeat them out of it. I never committed a line to paper—first, because I had no paper; and, second, because I was afraid, for my master had already threatened me for inadvertently hitching the name of one of his customers into a rhyme.” The rest of this account of his poetical adventures would be amusing if it were not for the pathos which underlies it, and the fact that it is the prelude to one of the most painful incidents in the sad story of Gifford’s early life. Referring to these recitals of his poetical pieces he says: “These repetitions were always attended by applause, and sometimes by favors more substantial; little collections were now and then made, and I have received sixpence in an evening(!). To one who had long lived in the absolute want of money such a resource seemed a Peruvian mine. I furnished myself by degrees with paper, etc., and, what was of more importance, with books of geometry and of the higher branches of algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry even at this time was no amusement of mine. I only had recourse to it when I wanted money for my mathematical pursuits. But the clouds were gathering fast. My master’s anger was raised to a terrible pitch by my indifference to his concerns, and still more by my presumptuous attempts at versification. I was required to give up my papers, and when I refused, was searched, my little hoard of books discovered and removed, and all future repetitions prohibited in the strictest manner. This was a severe stroke, I felt it most sensibly, and it was followed by another, severer still, a stroke which crushed the hopes I had so long and fondly cherished, and resigned me at once to despair. Mr. Hugh, Smerdon, the master of the school on whose succession I had calculated, died and was succeeded by a person not much older than myself, and certainly not so well qualified for the situation.”

Poor Gifford! hard, indeed, was thy lot; an orphan without friends, helpers, or sympathizers, having no proper leisure or means for study or recreation, and even the little pleasure and profit wrung from a few ciphering books and doggerel verses snatched away by cruel hands; trodden down like a worm in the mire, and every particle of talent and ambition threatened with extinction! For six long years this misery lasted in one form or another, while he strove to hope on against hope, and found himself compelled to labor at a trade which he declares he hated from the first with a perfect hatred, and never, consequently, made any progress in. What could be more miserable and disheartening? But to the industrious and patient, as “to the upright, there ariseth light in the darkness.” No darker hour occurred in all Gifford’s miserable boyhood and youth than that which is described in the sentences just quoted. And now the light is about to appear. A friend comes upon the scene, to whose generous interference the unhappy cobbler owed the educational advantages he afterward enjoyed. His obligations to this benefactor were always most readily and warmly expressed; for whatever faults Gifford might have, he was never charged with the meanness of forgetting his lowly origin, and the generous friend by whom he had been rescued from a wretched condition and introduced to a happier state of life. He speaks of his benefactor as bearing “a name never to be pronounced by him without veneration.” This gentleman, Mr. Cooksley, was a surgeon in the neighborhood. He had accidentally heard of the young cobbler’s poetry, and sought an interview with him. Gifford went down to the surgeon’s house, and, encouraged by the kindness he received, told the story of his attempts at self-culture, and of the hardships he had undergone. Deeply moved by the touching story, and convinced of the young man’s natural abilities and desert of encouragement, Mr. Cooksley resolved, there and then, on liberating the youth from the thraldom of his situation. The first thing was to free him from the bonds of his apprenticeship, and the next to give him the advantages of regular instruction. He was then twenty years of age, and he says, “My handwriting was bad, and my language very incorrect.” Accordingly, a subscription was started to furnish funds for this twofold purpose. It read as follows: “A subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in writing and English grammar.” The kindness of Cooksley and a few other friends, whose sympathies were enlisted by his generous zeal for the youth, enabled him to receive two years’ instruction from a clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Smerdon, who resided in the locality. Such was the progress made by Gifford, that at the end of that time his instructor pronounced him quite prepared for the university. Again Mr. Cooksley proved a friend. By his efforts and promises of support Gifford was entered at Exeter College, Oxford. Unfortunately his noble patron died before Gifford could take his degree. But he was not suffered to leave Oxford on account of Mr. Cooksley’s death. He found a second patron in Lord Grosvenor, by whose aid the grateful undergraduate was enabled to finish his term. The culture which he received in the university must have been very thorough and complete, evincing itself in refinement of manner as well as scholarship of no ordinary degree, for in the course of a few years after leaving Ashburton, we learn that the late shoemaker was taken into the family of Lord Grosvenor as private tutor and travelling companion to his son Lord Belgrave. The circumstance which led to Lord Grosvenor’s patronage of Gifford was remarkable, and deserves to be recorded as an illustration of the fact that an accident may lead to the most important events in our history. But we must premise, first of all, as a safeguard against a false inference or false hopes, that such accidents are sure to come in the way of industrious, clever and deserving men. If they occur to men of a different stamp they are of no avail. If William Gifford had not been a hard-working student, such a circumstance as the accidental perusal of one of his letters by a person for whom it was not intended could not have helped his fortunes in the least. It appears that he had been in the habit of corresponding with a friend in London on literary matters. His letters to this friend were sent under covers, and in order to save postage were left at Lord Grosvenor’s. One day the address of the literary friend was omitted, and his lordship, supposing the letter to be for himself, opened and read it. The contents excited his admiration, and awakened his curiosity to know who the author could be. He was sent for, and after an interview, in which, for the second time in his life, he told the story of his early struggles to willing and sympathizing ears, he was invited by Lord Grosvenor to come and reside with him.

It is deeply gratifying to record instances of disinterested generosity of this kind, and to read the glowing language in which the thankful young student refers to the kindness of his noble patron. Referring to the invitation to live with Lord Grosvenor, and his promise of honorable maintenance, Gifford says, “These were not words of course, they were more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him, and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, and a kind and affectionate esteem that has known neither diminution nor interruption, from that hour to this, a period of twenty years.”

In 1794, his “Baviad” was published, in imitation of the satires of Persius, and in the following year the “Mæviad,” after the style of Horace. These names were taken from the third Eclogue of Virgil—

“He may with foxes plough and milk he-goats,

Who praises Bavius or on Mævius dotes.”

These terribly virulent satires, like those of Boileau and Pope, were aimed at contemporary poets of an inferior order, and like them, too, were most crushing in their effect. The Della Cruscan School[26] never smiled, or rather smirked, again after the issue of the Baviad and Mæviad. But it is a rare thing to meet with a critic or a satirist who escapes the danger of committing a fault in condemning one. Gifford did not escape this danger. His lines certainly did not answer to the epigram—

“Satire should, like a polished razor keen,

Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen.”

His unhappy victims were hacked and hewed in pieces in a merciless and barbarous manner; while the spectators enjoyed the savage sport, and accorded the cruel executioner a wreath of laurel for the vigor and talent displayed in his unenviable task. These satires first made Gifford’s name in the world of letters. But his fame as a scholar was established chiefly on his translations of Persius and Juvenal, and his excellent editions, with valuable notes, of the early “English Dramatists.” Speaking of Gifford’s edition of Ben Jonson’s dramatic and other works, John Kemble, the most accomplished actor of his day, says, “It is the best edition, by the ablest of modern commentators, through whose learned and generous labors old Ben’s forgotten works and injured character are restored to the merited admiration and esteem of the world.”

The celebrity thus obtained, along with the friendship of the leading Tory politicians of the day, secured for Gifford the position of editor of the London Quarterly. It ought to be stated that when Mr. Channing started the Anti-Jacobin in 1797, Gifford was entrusted with the conduct of that journal, and had thus acquired a little experience of journalism. His connection with this paper, which came out weekly, lasted only for a year. But he managed the Quarterly, as we have said, for fifteen years, that is, from 1809, the date of its commencement, to 1824, when ill-health compelled him to lay his pen aside.

The plan of this new journal had originated with John Murray, the famous publisher, and had received the hearty support of Walter Scott, Egbert Southey, Canning, Rose, Disraeli, and Hookham Frere. The first number, containing three articles by Walter Scott, was published on the 1st February, 1809, and was immediately sold out, a second edition being called for. Canning wrote for the second number, and Southey became a constant and most prolific contributor. “For the first hundred and twenty-six numbers he wrote ninety-four articles, many of them of great permanent value.“[27] At John Murray’s ”drawing-rooms,” where the leading literary men of the day were wont to assemble at four o’clock, Gifford met with a brilliant assemblage of poets, novelists, historians, artists, and others. Murray the publisher delighted “to gather together such men as Byron, Scott, Moore, Campbell, Southey, Gifford, Hallam, Lockhart, Washington Irving, and Mrs. Somerville; and, more than this, he invited such artists as Lawrence, Wilkie, Phillips, Newton, and Pickersgill, to meet them and paint them, that they might hang forever on his walls.“[28] It was in reference to one of Murray’s ”publishers’ dinners” Byron wrote the lines in which occurs the following allusion to Gifford:

“A party dines with me to-day,

All clever men who make their way;

Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey

Are all partakers of my pantry.

My room’s so full—we’ve Gifford here,

Reading MS. with Hookham Frere,

Pronouncing on the nouns and particles

Of some of our forthcoming articles.”

A writer in the Literary Gazette,[29] who had the pleasure of Gifford’s personal acquaintance, has made the following interesting notes upon his private character, and his conduct as an editor. “He never stipulated for any salary as editor; at first he received £200, and at last £900 per annum, but never engaged for a particular sum. He several times returned money to Murray, saying ‘he had been too liberal.’ Perhaps he was the only man on this side the Tweed who thought so! He was perfectly indifferent about wealth, I do not know a better proof of this than the fact that he was richer, by a very considerable sum, at the time of his death than he was at all aware of. In unison with his contempt of money was his disregard of any external distinction; he had a strong natural aversion to anything like pomp or parade. Yet he was by no means insensible to an honorable distinction, and when the University of Oxford, about two years before his death, offered to give him a doctor’s degree, he observed, ‘Twenty years ago it would have been gratifying, but now it would only be written on my coffin.’

“His disregard for external show was the more remarkable, as a contrary feeling is generally observable in persons who have risen from penury to wealth. But Gifford was a gentleman in feeling and in conduct, and you were never led to suspect he was sprung from an obscure origin except when he reminded you of it by an anecdote relative to it. And this recalls one of the stories he used to tell with irresistible drollery, the merit of which entirely depended on his manner. It was simply this: At the cobblers’ board, of which Gifford had been a member, there was but one candle allowed for the whole coterie of operatives; it was, of course, a matter of importance that this candle should give as much light as possible. This was only to be done by repeated snuffings; but snuffers being a piece of fantastic coxcombry they were not pampered with: the members of the board took it in turn to perform the office of the forbidden luxury with their finger and thumb. The candle was handed, therefore, to each in succession, with the word ‘sneaf’ (Anglice, snuff) bellowed in his ears. Gifford used to pronounce this word in the legitimate broad Devonshire dialect, and accompanied his story with expressive gestures. Now on paper this is absolutely nothing, but in Gifford’s mouth it was exquisitely humorous. I should not, however, have mentioned it, were it not that it appears to me one of the best instances I could give of his humility in recurring to his former condition.... He was a man of very deep and warm affections. If I were desired to point out the distinguishing excellence of his private character, I should refer to his fervent sincerity of heart. He was particularly kind to children and fond of their society. My sister, when young, used sometimes to spend a month with him, on which occasions he would hire a pianoforte, and once he actually had a juvenile ball at his house for her amusement.”

Speaking of the spirit he displayed as editor of the Quarterly, the same writer says: “He disliked incurring an obligation which might in any degree shackle the expression of his free opinion. Agreeably to this, he laid down a rule, from which he never departed, that every writer in the Quarterly would receive at least so much per sheet. On one occasion, a gentleman holding office under Government sent him an article, which, after undergoing some serious mutilations at his hands preparatory to being ushered into the world, was accepted. But the usual sum being sent to the author, he rejected it with disdain, conceiving it a high dishonor to be paid for anything—the independent placeman! Gifford, in answer, informed him of the invariable rule of the Review adding, that he could send the money to any charitable institution, or dispose of it in any manner he should direct, but that the money must be paid. The doughty official, convinced that the virtue of his article would force it into the Review at all events, stood firm in his refusal; greatly to his dismay the article was returned. He revenged himself by never sending another.”

Speaking of his relation to the Tory Government of the day, the writer says: “It is true his independence of opinion might seem to be interfered with by the situations he held, but they were bestowed on him unsolicited, and from motives of personal regard. I am sure every one acquainted with him will admit that he would have rejected with scorn any kindness which could be considered as fettering the freedom of his conduct in the smallest degree. I am not more certain of many conjectures than I am that he never propagated a dishonest opinion nor did a dishonest act.... If the united influence of the Anti-Jacobin and the Quarterly be considered, we may probably be justified in assigning to Gifford’s literary support of Government a rank second only to Burke.”

William Gifford died worth a considerable fortune, which he left, as a token of undying gratitude, to Mr. William Cooksley, the son of his first generous patron and benefactor.

We append a few selections from Gifford’s poetical works, as samples of his style and quality as a writer. The first is from the “Baviad,” and represents him in the character of a satirist exposing the vanities of the “Delia Cruscan” school of poets; and the second, taken from the “Mæviad,” exhibits him in the more genial light of a faithful friend, commemorating his early intercourse with his companion and fellow-student, Dr. Ireland, Dean of Westminster:

“For I was born

To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn;

On bloated pedantry to pour my rage,

And hiss preposterous fustian from the stage.

Lo, Delia Crusca! In his closet pent,

He toils to give the crude conception vent.

Abortive thoughts that right and wrong confound,

Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound,

False glare, incongruous images combine;

And noise and nonsense clatter through the line,

’Tis done. Her house the generous Piozzi lends,

And thither summons her blue-stocking friends;

The summons her blue-stocking friends obey,

Lured by the love of poetry—and tea.

The bard steps forth in birthday splendor drest,

His right hand graceful waving o’ er his breast,

His left extending, so that all may see

A roll inscribed, ‘The Wreath of Liberty.’

So forth he steps, and with complacent air,

Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair;

With lemonade he gargles first his throat,

Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note:

And now ’tis silence all. ‘Genius or muse’—

Thus while the flowery subject he pursues,

A wild delirium round th’ assembly flies;

Unusual lustre shoots from Emma’s eyes;

Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands;

And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.

* * * * * * *

Hear now our guests:—‘The critics, sir, they cry,

Merit like yours the critics may defy;’

But this indeed they say, ‘Your varied rhymes,

At once the boast and envy of the times,

In every page, song, sonnet, what you will,

Show boundless genius and unrivalled skill.’

* * * * * * *

Thus fooled, the moon-struck tribe, whose best essays

Sunk in acrostics and in roundelays,

To loftier labors now pretend a call,

And bustle in heroics one and all.

E’en Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing—

Bertie who lately twittered to the string

His namby pamby madrigals of love,

In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,

Where airy lays, wove by the hand of morn,

Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!

Happy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise,

And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!

Happier the bards who, write whate’er they will,

Find gentle readers to admire them still!

* * * * * * *

Oh for the good old times! when all was new,

And every hour brought prodigies to view,

Our sires in unaffected language told

Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold;

Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art;

And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.

Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves;

Less to display our subject than ourselves:

Whate’er we paint—a grot, a flower, a bird,

Heavens! how we sweat, laboriously absurd!

Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound,

In rattling triads the long sentence bound;

While points with points, with periods periods jar,

And the whole work seems one continued war!”

Not less poetical, and certainly much more pleasant in its tone, is this reminiscence of his early friendship with Dr. Ireland:

‘Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years

Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares,

Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power,