*****
Even in Birmingham the trade of bookselling was introduced at a comparatively recent date. Dr. Johnson tells us that his father used to open a bookstall here on market days; and Boswell adds, in a note, that there was not then a single regular bookshop in the whole town. Elsewhere he tells us that “Mr Warren was the first established bookseller in Birmingham, and was very attentive to Johnson, who he soon found could be of much service to him in his trade by his knowledge of literature; and he even obtained the assistance of his pen in furnishing some numbers of a periodical essay, printed in the newspaper of which Warren was proprietor.” Mr Warren, however, though Johnson’s first encourager, has long since been forgotten, and Birmingham bookselling is now universally identified with the name of William Hutton; and from his autobiography, published in 1816—perhaps the most interesting record of a self-made life that has ever been personally indited—we give a short sketch of his career.
William Hutton was born at Derby, in 1723. His father, a drunken wool-comber, scarcely brought home wherewithal to keep the wretched family from starvation, and “consultations were held (when the child was six years old) about fixing me in some employment for the benefit of the family. Winding quills for the weaver was mentioned, but died away. Stripping tobacco for the grocer, by which I was to earn fourpence a week, was proposed, but it was at last concluded that I was too young for any employment.” Next year, however, the result of the consultation wasotherwise, and he was placed in a silk-mill; the youngest, and by far the smallest, of the 300 persons employed, a lofty pair of pattens were tied on to his feet so that he might be able to reach the engine; and he continues:—“I had now to rise at five every morning, summer and winter, for seven years; to submit to the cane whenever convenient to the master; to be the constant companion of the most rude and vulgar of the human race; never taught by nature, nor ever wishing to be taught.” Brutally treated, so that the scars of his chastisements remained on his body through life, he left the mill as soon as ever his apprenticeship expired; “a place,” he says, “most curious and pleasing to the eye,” but which had given him a seven years’ heart-ache. He was now bound for another term to an uncle—a stocking-maker at Nottingham. “My task was to earn for my uncle 5s.10d.a week. The first week I could reach this sum I was to be gratified with sixpence, but ever after, should I fall short or go beyond it, the loss or profit was to be my own.” In this situation, he was not only thrashed by his master, but starved by his aunt; and, goaded by the taunts of the neighbours, he fled away, but was reluctantly compelled to return. In 1744 his apprenticeship expired, and for two years longer he remained as a journeyman in the same employment, but he now made the melancholy discovery—for all trade was in a very wretched condition at the time—that he had served two separate terms of seven years, to two separate trades, and yet could subsist upon neither.
A gradually acquired taste for reading led him to purchase a few books, and their tattered condition prompted him to try his hand at binding; and, as hecould get no employment in his own avocations, he determined to start afresh as a bookbinder. His friends sneered at his ambitious hopes, but his sister supported him firmly. There were no binding tools to be purchased then in the country, so his sister “raised three guineas, sewed them in my shirt-collar, for there was no doubt but I should be robbed,” and put eleven shillings in his pocket as a sop to the expected highwayman, and off he started for London, walking fifty-one miles the first day and reaching it on the third. Here he invested his three guineas in tools, and stayed three days, seeing all that could be seen for nothing, his only paid entertainment being a visit to Bedlam, which cost a penny. Three days more, and he was back at Nottingham, terribly worn-out and footsore, but with fourpence still remaining out of his little travelling fund.
He now took a small shop, fourteen miles from Nottingham, at an annual rent of twenty shillings, and “in one day became the most eminent bookseller in Southwell,” but he still lived at Nottingham. “During the rainy winter months,” he says, “I set out from Nottingham at five every Saturday morning, carried a burthen of from three to thirty pounds’ weight to Southwell, opened shop at ten, starved it all day upon bread, cheese, and half a pint of ale; took from 1s.to 6s., shut up at four, and by trudging through the solitary night and the deep roads five hours more, I arrived at Nottingham by nine, where I always found a mess of milk-porridge by the fire, prepared by my valuable sister. But nothing short of resolution and rigid economy could have carried me through this scene.”
There was little profit, however, in such a life,laborious as it was, and in 1750 he made an exploring journey to Birmingham, where he found there were only three booksellers—Warren, Aris, and Wollaston, and here he resolved to settle, hoping that he might escape the envy of “the three great men.”
He obtained the use of half a little shop for the moderate premium of one shilling per week, but he had as yet to find wherewith to stock it. On a visit to Nottingham, he met a friendly minister, who asked, for the weather was inclement, why he had ventured so far without a great-coat, and who on receiving no reply, shrewdly guessed Hutton’s impoverished condition, from his draggled, thread-bare garments, and offered him a couple of hundred-weight of books at his own price, and that price to be postponed to the future, and by way of receipt the young bookseller gave him the following: “I promise to pay to Ambrose Rudsall £1 7s., when I am able.” The debt was speedily cancelled.
His period of probation was sufficiently severe: “Five shillings a week covered all my expenses, as food, washing, lodging, &c.,” but by degrees the better-informed and wealthier of the young clerks and apprentices began to frequent his shop, and were attracted by his zeal, and his evident love for the books he sold. With his skill in binding, he could furbish up the shabbiest tomes, and greatly increase their marketable value. By the end of his first year he found that he had, by the most rigid economy, saved up twenty pounds. Things were brightening, but the overseers, who at that time possessed a terrible power over the poorest classes, ostensibly dreading lest he should become chargeable to the parish, refused his payment of the rates, and bade him removeelsewhere. In this strait he exhibited much worldly wisdom, and invested half his little hoarding in a fine suit of clothes, purchased from one of the overseers, who happened to be a draper.
In the following year, 1751, he took a better shop, next door to a Mr. Grace, a hosier, and in a quiet, undemonstrative manner, fell in love with his neighbour’s niece. “Time gave us,” he says, “numberless opportunities of observing each other’s actions, and trying the tenour of conduct by the touchstone of prudence. Courtship was often a disguise. We had seen each other when disguise was useless. Besides, nature had given to few women a less portion of deceit.” The uncle at length consented to the match, and, with Sarah, Hutton received a dowry of £100; and, as he had already amassed £200 of his own, from this happy moment his fortunes ran smoothly upwards.
He now increased an otherwise profitable trade by starting a circulating library—perhaps the first that was attempted in the provinces; and about this same time, 1753, he acquired a very useful friend in the person of Robert Bage, the paper-maker, and undertook the retail portion of the paper business. “From this small hint,” he says, “I followed the stroke forty years, and acquired an ample fortune.” And yet, though waxing yearly richer and richer, he adds, “I never could bear the thought of living to the extent of my income. I never omitted to take stock or regulate my annual expenses, so as to meet casualties and misfortunes.” By degrees he became invested with civic dignities, and little by little he acquired the standing of a landed proprietor. Without neglecting his business he now found leisure for literarycomposition; and in his last work—“A Trip to Coatham”—he tells us, “I took up my pen, and that with fear and trembling, at the advanced age of fifty-six, a period when most would lay it down. I drove the quill thirty years, during which time I wrote and published thirty books.”
His first work, the “History of Birmingham,” appeared, and these thirty tomes of verse and prose followed in quick succession.
In 1802 he published his best-known work, the “History of the Roman Wall.” Antiquarians had, before this, described the famous line of defence, but hitherto no one had attempted a personal inspection. Seventy-five years old, still hale and hearty, with an enthusiasm akin to that of youth, he started on foot for Northumberland, accompanied by his daughter on horse-back. Intent upon reaching the scene of his antiquarian desires, “he turned,” writes his daughter, “neither to the right nor the left, except to gratify me with a sight of Liverpool. Windermere he saw, and Ullswater he saw, because they lay under his feet, but nothing could detain him from his grand object.” On his return journey, after every hollow of the ground, every stone of the Wall, between Carlisle and Newcastle, had been examined, he was bitten in the leg by a dog, but even this did not restrain him. Within four days of home “he made forced journeys, and if we had had a little further to go the foot would have knocked up the horse! The pace he went did not even fatigue his shoes. He walked the whole 600 miles in one pair, and scarcely made a hole in his stockings.”
Almost to the last he preserved his physical powers comparatively intact. When he was eighty-eight, hewrites—“At the age of eighty-two I considered myself a young man. I could, without fatigue, walk forty miles a day. But during the last few years I have felt a sensible decay, and, like a stone rolling downhill, its velocity increases with its progress. The strings of the instrument are one after another giving way, never to be brought into tune.” Yet he did not die till 1815, at the ripe old age of ninety-two.
*****
At the close of the last century Hutton lost a valuable collection of books, and other valuable property, through the lawless riots that took place in his native city; of these disturbances the author of thePresssays:—
“When Birmingham, for riots and for crimes,Shall meet the keen reproach of future times,Then shall she find, amongst our honoured race,One name to save her from entire disgrace.”
“When Birmingham, for riots and for crimes,Shall meet the keen reproach of future times,Then shall she find, amongst our honoured race,One name to save her from entire disgrace.”
“When Birmingham, for riots and for crimes,Shall meet the keen reproach of future times,Then shall she find, amongst our honoured race,One name to save her from entire disgrace.”
This “one name” was that of John Baskerville, a printer, a contemporary of Hutton, and one of the most famous English type-founders. Commencing life as a schoolmaster, his inclination for books turned his attention to type-founding, but he spent £600 before he produced one letter that thoroughly satisfied his exquisitely critical taste, and probably some thousands before his business began to prove remunerative; and, after all, his printing speculations yielded more honour than profit. Upon paying a heavy royalty to the University of Cambridge, he was allowed to print a Bible in royal folio, which, for beauty of type, is still unrivalled; but the slender and delicate form of his letters were, as Dr. Dibdin remarks, better suited to smaller books, and show to the greatest advantage in his 12mo. “Virgil” and“Horace.” His strenuous endeavours, and his large outlay, met with but little return; and he writes of the “business of printing” as one “which I am heartily tired of, and repent I ever attempted.” He died in 1775, and appears to have printed nothing during the last ten years of his life. By the direction left in his will, he was buried under a windmill in his own garden, with the following epitaph on his tomb-stone: “Stranger! beneath this cone, in unconsecrated ground, a friend to the liberties of mankind directed his body to be inurned. May the example contribute to emancipate thy mind from the idle fears of superstition, and the wicked arts of priesthood.” His fount of type was unluckily allowed to leave the country, and was purchased by Beaumarchais, of Paris, who produced some exquisite editions, particularly of Voltaire’s works, but who lost upwards of one million livres in his speculations.
*****
A successful modern bookselling venture in this city resulted from the establishment of the “Educational Trading Company (Limited)”—a novel phase in the trade—of which the chief proprietor and chairman was Mr. Josiah Mason. The business management was placed in the hands of Mr. Kempster, and, by a thorough system of travellers, who personally canvassed the proprietors of schools and colleges, offering them very liberal terms, a large connection was almost immediately established. The company’s operations were, of course, confined to the publication of cheap educational works; and some of these, such as Gill’s and Moffat’s series, attained a wide popularity, and necessitated, in 1870, the opening of a London branch at St. Bride’s Avenue, and another branch house at Bristol.
One of the most famous booksellers and printers of the West of England was Andrew Brice, who was born in Exeter in the year 1690. He was educated in early life with a view to the ministry, but family misfortunes obliged him to become apprentice to Bliss, a printer in that city. Long before the expiry of his apprenticeship the improvident young printer married, and, being unable to support a wife and two children upon the pittance he received, he enlisted as a soldier in order to break his indentures, and, by the interest of his friends, soon procured a discharge. He commenced business on his own account, and started a newspaper, but, possessing only one kind of type, he carved in wood the title and such capitals as he stood in need of. Becoming embarrassed through a law suit, in which heavy damages were cast against him, he was obliged to bar himself in his own house to escape the debtor’s gaol. He spent seven long years in this domestic confinement, but still continued to conduct his business with assiduity, and, as a solace, to compose a poem, “On Liberty,” the profits of which enabled him to compound with the keepers of the city prison. After regaining his freedom his business largely increased, and, in 1740, he set up a printing-press at Truro, the first introduced into Cornwall; the miners were, however, at that time in little need of literature, and he soon removed the types to Exeter. Among his chief publications were the “Agreeable Gallimanfly; or, Matchless Medley,” a collection of verses chiefly the production of his own pen; the “Mob-aid,” so full of newly-coined words that, in Devonshire, “Bricisms” were for long synonymous with quaint novelty of expression; and the folio “GeographicalDictionary,” which occupied ten years in publication and is still far from complete. Brice was at all times a shielder of the oppressed; and when the Exeter play-actors were purchased out of their theatre by the Methodists, who converted it into a chapel, and indicted them as vagrants, he published a poem—“The Playhouse Church; or, new Actors of Devotion,” which so stirred up popular feeling that the Methodists were fain to restore the place to its former possessors, who, under Brice’s patronage, opened their house for some time gratis to all comers. In gratitude the players brought his characteristics of speech and dress into their dramas, and even Garrick eventually introduced him, under, of course, a pseudonyme, in the “Clandestine Marriage.” At the time of his death, in 1773, he was the oldest master-printer in England. His corpse lay for some days in state at the Apollo Inn; every person admitted to view it paid a shilling, and the money so received went towards defraying the expense of his funeral, which was attended by three hundred freemasons, for he had not only been a zealous member of the fraternity, but at the period of his decease he was looked upon as the father of the craft.
*****
Another West of England worthy, though he was only a bookseller for the short space of seven years, has perhaps higher claim upon our attention than any other provincial bibliopole. Joseph Cottle was born at Bristol in the year 1770, and at the age of twenty-one he became a bookseller in his native city. In 1795 he published a volume of his own “Poems”—and himself an author he was generously able to appreciate the work of better men. Through extraordinary circumstances he became acquaintedwith Coleridge, Southey, Wordsworth, and Lamb, when they were still unknown to fame, and with a rare perception of genius he was able to assist them materially towards the goal of success. From his interesting “Early Recollections,” we gather that one evening Coleridge told him despondently that he had been the round of London booksellers with a volume of poems, and that all but one had refused to even look over the manuscript, and that this one proffered him six guineas for the copyright, which sum, poor as he was, he felt constrained to decline. Cottle at once offered the young author thirty guineas, and actually paid the money before the completion of the volume, which appeared in 1796.
To Southey he made the same bid for his first volume, and the offer was eagerly accepted. Cottle at once, however, added, “You have read me some books of your ‘Joan of Arc,’ which poem I perceive to have great merit. If it meet with your concurrence I will give you fifty guineas for this work, and publish it in quarto, when I will give you in addition fifty copies to dispose of among your friends.” Southey corroborates this account, and further says, “It can rarely happen that a young author should meet with a bookseller as inexperienced and as ardent as himself; and it would be still more extraordinary if such mutual indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret to both. But this transaction was the commencement of an intimacy which has continued without the slightest shade of displeasure at any time on either side to the present day.” Cottle ordered a new fount of type “for what was intended to be the handsomest book that Bristol had ever yet sent forth,” and owing, perhaps, more to the party feelings of theperiodical press, and the subject of the poem, than to any intrinsic merit, other than as holding out vague hope of future promise, the young author acquired a sudden reputation, which was afterwards fully sustained by his prose if not by his poetry.
Later on Cottle was introduced to Wordsworth, who read him portions of his “Lyrical Ballads.” The venturous bookseller made him the same offer of thirty guineas for the first-fruits of his genius, saying that it would be a gratifying circumstance to issue the first volumes of three such poets, and (a veritable prophecy) “a distinction that might never again occur to a provincial bookseller.” After mature consideration, Wordsworth accepted the offer; but the “Lyrical Ballads,” in which also Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner” first appeared, went off so slowly that he was compelled to part with the greater part of the five hundred copies to Arch, a London bookseller. We have already related how Cottle, and after him, Longman, rendered material assistance to Chatterton’s sister, by an edition of the poems of the Sleepless Boy who perished in his Pride, and how in 1798 Cottle disposed of all his copyrights to Longman, and obtained his consent to return the copyright of the “Lyrical Ballads” to the author.
Though Cottle henceforth gave up bookselling, he did not forego book-making. In 1798 he published his “Malvern Hills,” in 1801 his “Alfred,” and in 1809 the “Fall of Cambria.” These last effusions attracted the venom of Lord Byron’s pen, who writes in bitter prose, “Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I know not which, but one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, now writers of books that do not sell, have published a pair of epics,” and in bitterer verse:
“Bœotian Cottle, rich Bristowa’s boast,Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,And sends his goods to market, all alive,Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five.*****Oh, Amos Cottle!—Phœbus! what a nameTo fill the speaking trump of future fame!—Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment thinkWhat meagre profits spring from pen and ink!When thus devoted to poetic dreamsWho will peruse thy prostituted reams?Oh, pen perverted, paper misapplied!Had Cottle still adorned the counter’s side,Bent o’er the desk, or, born to useful toils,Been taught to make the paper which he soils,Plough’d, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.”
“Bœotian Cottle, rich Bristowa’s boast,Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,And sends his goods to market, all alive,Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five.*****Oh, Amos Cottle!—Phœbus! what a nameTo fill the speaking trump of future fame!—Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment thinkWhat meagre profits spring from pen and ink!When thus devoted to poetic dreamsWho will peruse thy prostituted reams?Oh, pen perverted, paper misapplied!Had Cottle still adorned the counter’s side,Bent o’er the desk, or, born to useful toils,Been taught to make the paper which he soils,Plough’d, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.”
“Bœotian Cottle, rich Bristowa’s boast,Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,And sends his goods to market, all alive,Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five.
*****
Oh, Amos Cottle!—Phœbus! what a nameTo fill the speaking trump of future fame!—Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment thinkWhat meagre profits spring from pen and ink!When thus devoted to poetic dreamsWho will peruse thy prostituted reams?Oh, pen perverted, paper misapplied!Had Cottle still adorned the counter’s side,Bent o’er the desk, or, born to useful toils,Been taught to make the paper which he soils,Plough’d, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.”
Of course, this confusion of the names of the two brothers was intentionally meant to strengthen the gibe. Though Cottle was at best an indifferent poet his name would have survived as a generous friend even if Lord Byron had not honoured him with his satire.
After having personally encouraged the youthful genius of such authors as Coleridge, Southey, and Wordsworth, and after having enjoyed their friendship and esteem, it was natural that Cottle, when their names had become familiar words in every household in England, should wish to preserve what he could of the history of their early days. In 1837 he published his “Early Recollections,” but as he had felt compelled to decline to contribute them in any mutilated form to the authorised, and insufferably dull, life of Coleridge, the work was greeted by theQuarterly Reviewwith a howl of contemptuous abuse, as consisting of the “refuse of advertisements and handbills, the sweepings of a shop, the shreds of aledger, and the rank residuum of a life of gossip.” This is certainly “slashing criticism” with a vengeance: Cottle based the value of his book upon the ground of his having been a bookseller, and to taunt him with the fact is as unmanly as the whole description of the work is false. He lays the slightest possible stress upon the assistance he had been able to render the illustrious authors pecuniarily, and only brings it forward at all as furnishing matter for literary history; and to most students the literary history of the early struggles of genius does possess the highest interest. Cottle was certainly unskilled in the art of composition, and was undoubtedly garrulous, but the gossip anent such writers, when prompted, as in this case, by truth and affection, is worth tomes of disquisitions upon their virtues or their faults. Joseph Cottle died as recently as 1854, and his memory is already half-forgotten, and yet had we wished to close our annals of the “trade” by tributes paid by illustrious writers to the worth and integrity of its members, we could find none more fitting than the letters of two famous poets to an obscure provincial bookseller.
“Dear Cottle,—On the blank leaf of my poems I can most appropriately write my acknowledgments to you, for your too disinterested conduct in the purchase of them.... Had it not been for you none, perhaps, of them would have been published, and some not written.“Your obliged and affectionate friend,S. T. Coleridge.”
“Dear Cottle,—On the blank leaf of my poems I can most appropriately write my acknowledgments to you, for your too disinterested conduct in the purchase of them.... Had it not been for you none, perhaps, of them would have been published, and some not written.
“Your obliged and affectionate friend,S. T. Coleridge.”
Again:—
“Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten those true and most essential acts of friendshipwhich you showed me when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had no other.... Sure I am that there never was a more generous or kinder heart than yours, and you will believe me when I add that there does not live that man upon earth whom I remember with more gratitude and affection.... Good-night, my dear old friend and benefactor.“Robert Southey.”
“Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten those true and most essential acts of friendshipwhich you showed me when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had no other.... Sure I am that there never was a more generous or kinder heart than yours, and you will believe me when I add that there does not live that man upon earth whom I remember with more gratitude and affection.... Good-night, my dear old friend and benefactor.
“Robert Southey.”
THE END.
THE END.
BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY.