Nevertheless I was in good heart as I came down the hill into the fair city of Canterbury. For who would not be of good cheer at the age of seventeen with £24 17s in his pocket? I lodged in fine style at the Mitre with a chamber overlooking the Market. Since I was hungry, I bought a pound of cherries of a fruit seller and retired to my chamber where I had great sport throwing the cherry stones down upon the heads of the citizens.
But now it was time to drop upon Mr Coggan and Mr Billingsley. I put on my clean linen and my black coat and assumed an earnest mien which might sort with the sober character my uncle had given me. For he had forewarned the honest booksellers of his great Experiment and they were ready of their charity to extend me every courtesy.
With each wheezing (for he was Asthmatic) Mr Coggan docked another shilling off the price of his chart of the West Indies. This is a sheet direct from the Waggoners Pilot Book giving true and particular details of the shoals plumbed by HMS Jason during her late voyage. To you, young Jem, I shall sell it for but seventy per cent of my strangers’ price. My hearty thanks, Mr Coggan, sir, I know how grateful my uncle will be.
And so it proceeded with Mr Billingsley who was a tall pale man with a nodding head like a bird pecking at a bush. Before the day was out, I had a full load of sermons and law-books and marine charts and I had laid out but £9 13s.
I bade farewell to Mr Billingsley who was putting up his shutters. When the shutters were secure and he could no longer see me, I darted next door, to the infamous Mr Dancer’s. The proprietor was a low, grubby sort with a smile upon his face. I could see at once that he was a man of quick intelligence. I explained my requirements and he understood them perfectly. Never was an actor less in need of a prompter. My dear sir, you shall have exactly what you need, you have come to the right man to accommodate you, sea-captains you say, I’m acquainted with the taste of sea-captains if ever a bookseller was.
And so I came away with a fine parcel well wrapped by Mr Dancer’s boy – we believe in discretion, sir, a discreet trade is a thriving trade, I always say – and I was well pleased with the contents, viz.:
* 1doz. copies: The Night-Walker; or, Evening Rambles in search after lewd women, with the various Conferences held with them.
* six copies: The Raven Fleece: wherein a Dark Lady discovers her adventures among Men of Quality.
* five copies (very rare): The Anatomy of Venus, a learned treatise upon the amorous science by a Doctor of Medicine in the University of Padua translated from the Italian.
* Aretine’s Postures, translated from the Italian full and entire with the original illustrations.
* Captain Cuttle’s Decameron, a collection of curious tales comical, romantic, astrological and fantastical, by the Author of The Strange Fate of Sebastian Shortbreech.
* six copies: Jokes, Jests and Jollities by Portia Plackett, a woman of parts.
Certain other works were also made up into the parcel, but I do not like to set their names down here.
After these purchases, I still jingled £3 10s in my pocket and took a fine dinner at the Crooked Billet on my way home. Tabby waited on me and seeing my gentleman’s clothes and my bulging purse (I mean the money) spoke me very fair. But I would not forgive her. I had resolved to apply myself to trade and there was work to do besides. After dinner, I copied out the receipts which Messrs Billingsley and Coggan had given me, but in place of the moneys which I had paid I set down the price I would have paid had I been a stranger. I took great pains with this task, for although my uncle was dull, he was not blind. Thorough was to be my motto, too, though I had no intention of ending up on the scaffold like my Lord Strafford, nor of ending up like my uncle a pious country bookseller.
Well, said my uncle, thou hast done well, Jem. These are first-rate charts, Waggoner is a Michael Angelo of the art, Archbishop Duguid a favourite of mine and the sheepskin bindings excellent on the Ars Clericalis. Thou will make a bookseller yet if only thou learnst to bargain like a man. I confess that I had thought Mr Billingsley would favour thee with a somewhat larger discount, Mr Coggan ditto.
I tried as best I could, Uncle, but they swore prices had increased greatly since your previous visit because of the Dutch and the embargo.
The Dutch, said my uncle as though he were spitting out a fishbone, I hate not any man or any race, my religion forbids it, but I hate the Dutch. These mynheers are desperadoes, they will ruin our trade before we are in our graves, etc., etc.
On the morrow I made haste with my handcart down to the harbour and boarded the first ship I came to, a dirty old collier, the Cherub. The master was as black as his ship. Charts, bellowed this sack of coals in human shape, what do I want with charts, I know this coast as well as I know my own arse. These are new charts, sir, which portray the currents, shoals and winds as discovered by the last Admiralty survey. I want nothing to do with the Admiralty, Coalsack returned, they’re a gaggle of old women who make an honest seaman’s life a misery with their regulations and their caterwauling. Sir, I shall not detain you further, said I, perceiving that no time was to be lost in moving to the primum agendum, I can see you are a gentleman of taste, I should be failing in my duty if I departed without showing you one of the rare and curious volumes which I have also for sale. They come direct from Mr L’Estrange in Warwick Lane who draws the custom of the most elegant young rakes of the town. Any gentleman with a lively faculty for pleasure would desire such works for his private library. Hum, hum, says Coalsack pretending not to be listening, books, books, I’ve no time for such things, but his eye has lighted upon The Raven Fleece and, heaven be praised, the book has fallen open at the frontispiece which depicts the first encounter between Rosalinda and the Chevalier de Grosseprong, and he is hooked. He desires the book with all his heart, he foresees many a pleasant evening in his cabin, while storm and wind make roar outside, tucked up snug with the adorable Rosalinda and her insatiable Chevalier. In a trice, I have sold him The Night-Walker, and Captain Cuttle’s Decameron into the bargain, but a furrow crosses his grimy brow, a serpent creeps into his Eden. Where is he to stow these lewd volumes that the seamen may not catch sight of him and make mock of his solitary tastes? They will call him Captain Toss-Off and other such low names.
I come to his rescue. Sir, I have here the very thing – a portable library for the seafaring man, made of fine polished Norway firwood. The charts fit into this upper compartment that they may be ready at hand on any pressing engagement and, below, safe from prying eyes, you may stow your books. Whether they be maritime, legal, religious, or consecrated to the delight of the senses, ’tis all one, they lie there together hugger-mugger.
Hum, hum, goes the gallant captain, pretending now to be a fanatic for charts, I shall have need of the Strait of Dover, and the Estuary, and the Dogger Bank if you have it, oh yes and this little thing will fill up a corner (picking up Aretine’s Postures).
You may find it convenient, sir, if I parcel the lot up into one bill which you may post to your navigation accounts, for I am sure your proprietors would wish their ship to be well furnished.
Why, so they would, to be sure, says Coalsack, it is a most necessary expense that a ship should be well stocked, a modern chart may be a Life-preserver.
Very true, sir, so it may. Shall we say nine guineas in toto?
Done.
An ineffable joy seizes me as the contract is concluded, and I settle the books into the lower compartment, replace the ingenious flap and roll the charts tight that they may fit into the upper storey of the box. Coalsack counts out the £9 9s, takes the box, cuddles it as though it were a baby. I take my leave and dance for joy down the gangway. Oh the beauties of commerce! I wish I were a poet that I might hymn the delights of that trade into which it hath pleased Dame Fortune to plump me.
By noon, I have sold a similar parcel to Captain Proudfoot of the Ceres, for £11 10s. In celebration, I take a barrel of oysters and a pint of canary at the Eagle, to refresh my voice which is strained by the recitativos of the mor
ning. Then in the afternoon, I board what shall be my greatest prize, the Firecat, a second-rater newly come from Chatham, and Captain Quiney, a languid gentleman reputed learned (though, I fancy, seafaring men are but poor judges of erudition). This captain is at the other extreme of the gamut from Coalsack. He sprawls upon his chair as though he were half asleep and affects to be well acquainted with all my wares. I have seen such charts many times on Tower Hill, I doubt these are much improvement – and – oh these volumes are but poor trash, in my father’s library, etc., etc. Yet in the end he too cometh to heel, choosing The Raven Fleece, the Anatomy of Venus and two other volumes which I do not care to name. To Captain Quiney, HMS Firecat at Dover, One Chart box and set of Charts and other maritime necessities: thirteen guineas.
But after one more customer I, too, must put into port, for my cabinet-maker had fashioned but four boxes and they are all gone. I say ‘cabinet-maker’, though he is old Hedges, the coffin-maker in Herring Street, who makes up these boxes from off-cuts of his coffins for 2s the finished article. Don’t worry, young Jem, I’m quick even if my customers aren’t, you may have half a dozen more by the morning.
Thus passed my first day as a Man of Business on my own account and it was a Jubilee. Total takings: £53 11s. Total outgoings: £28. Profit, that glorious invention of our modern age, £25 11s.
But my labours were not yet concluded, for if I presented the account to my uncle in raw state, he would collect all the proceeds. I needs must continue that Double-keeping which I had first practised in my traffic with the booksellers of Canterbury.
Thus in my chamber at the Eagle, after dining on a stewed carp, I hastened to draw up a fresh set of accounts for my uncle’s eyes, viz. total takings £38 3s, total outgoings £28, profit £10 3s – which latter sum I proudly presented to my uncle on my return to his house.
Heaven be praised, Jeremiah, thou art an honest apprentice and heaven hath rewarded thy honesty, etc., etc. But I could see in his little blinking eyes that my success had nonplussed him. He would not cease from worrying me with his questions. Tell me now, Jem, how didst thou shift the charts? What was the trick? Uncle, I said looking at the portly old hypocrite with due severity, I would not stoop to jargon. I merely pointed out to them the advantages of sailing with first-rate maps. Oh, he said, somewhat downcast, that was all, was it? Yes, I said, as thou knowest, Uncle (what sport it was to return him a thou), goods of quality will always find a buyer. So they will, Jem, so they will.
But I could see that he could not abide my success, for though he was lazy he was a proud little man and it was not fitting that the apprentice should outshine his master.
For my part, I had hauled into my nets several great principles of commerce:
primo, that a shopkeeper must impart to his wares a Property that will make them indispensable. Thus, this is the only article of its kind in our hemisphere.
secondo, that Novelty is a powerful engine of purchase. Thus, this item is but lately imported from Amsterdam, there is none like it in London, for the design is entirely new.
tertio, that a bargain smiles all the more warmly upon the purchaser, if you throw into the balance some extra article. It matters not that the article be trumpery, so long as it be unexpected.
quarto, that accounts cannot be digested raw. Books are all the better for a little cooking so that they may answer the purpose more exactly than in their natural state.
quinto, that a cheerful demeanour and an open countenance will put the customer in a buying vein. He will reject the fairest bargain if he suspects the tradesman be a rogue or a cormorant.
A Man of Business who bases his enterprise upon these five principles cannot fail to prosper.
But in this wicked world merit provokes envy and I saw that my uncle was growing suspicious. Meanwhile, Mr Hedges turned out my portable Libraries as fast as he turned out coffins during the late plague.
II
The Shop
Did you ever hear the like
Or ever hear the same
Of five women-barbers
That lived in Drury Lane?
I IMITATED MY horny captains, for in my attic I too kept a chest with an ingenious flap which Mr Hedges had constructed for me, but mine was of fine oak (the leavings from some gentleman’s coffin) and cost me 5s. In the secret compartment, my winnings mounted gloriously. I wrapped them in a cloth of red genoa velvet that they might not chink, for the floorboards in my uncle’s attic clucked like young magpies. And on the Lord’s Day I went to my private devotions, that is – counted my money. I vowed that when my purse was worth £100 I would go to London and preen my feathers in sight of the world, for young as I was I itched for a wider stage and a more discriminating audience than my uncle.
The old hypocrite visited the Metropole but twice a year to replenish his stock, though I fancy he also had some naughty business to despatch, for on his return he would smile to himself as much as to say this old dog is not done yet. But his gout was so grievous at Michaelmas that he could not contemplate the journey and I offered to go as his proxy. Thou art a bold volunteer, Jem, my uncle said, London is a city of vile temptations and wicked merchants who are on the look-out to gull poor country tradesmen. Uncle, I said, didn’t you see me withstand the temptations of Canterbury and outwit the booksellers of that great city when I was but a lad? Now that I am full-grown, etc., etc.
Well, well, he said, time marches on, and youth must have its day. I can’t afford to defray thy travel, but heaven knowst thy wages are commodious enough and it will be a rare privilege for thee to travel as my agent. I gave effusive thanks for this privilege while resolving that the old hypocrite would be defraying my odyssey in ways he should know not of.
How pleasant was that journey along the old Roman roads with the orchards filled with women climbing the ladders after the apples. I still think of their round rumps straining this way and that as they reached for the rosy fruit. I whistled or shouted some low jest and they turned and riposted with words I should blush to set down here. I reflected that if I could thus skirmish with the apple women of Kent then London should not be beyond the sweep of my rapier.
But I must confess that the sharp wits in London discomposed me at first. When I inquired the way, they spoke quickly and with a twang that I was slow to master. Here’s another Kentish cunt, one man said to his fellow. What did you say, sir? A Kentish gent, sir, you are such, are you not? That was not what you said, sir. Why, sir, it was, wasn’t it, Toby? It was, John, and a fine young gentleman if I may say so. You may say so, Toby, I never saw a cunt like it. Don’t make game of me, or I’ll knock your block off. Oh he’s going to knock my block off, Toby, whatever shall I do? Run for your life, John, and call the constable.
I perceived that there was no profit in bandying words with such trash. A gentleman ought to preserve a dignified, sombre mien, and a warm man should show a cold exterior. I resolved to buy a black suit and some fine white linen to bolster my new character. A bookseller of my uncle’s acquaintance recommended Mr Radford the mercer, at the sign of the Three Spanish Gypsies by the Exchange.
This was a shop for magnificoes. First there were the gloves, silk and leather and kid in grey and scarlet and canary, as soft and supple as though the living animal still inhabited them. Then there were the perfumery wares with wash-balls from Castile and French pomanders and bottles of every fragrance from China and the Indies and our own English hedgerows: lavender and lily and honeysuckle and oil of bergamot and camomile and carnation and a hundred others. But I was bound for the Mercery where behind the pile of silks and cottons I espied half a dozen young seamstresses at their work, their bright eyes lowered as their needles flew in and out. There never was such a pretty sight as these fair Penelopes in their lace caps so diligent and unconscious of being looked at.
Well, sir, you may stare for free, I suppose, but my young ladies are not to be disturbed or distracted.
She that spoke to me thus was a woman somewhat older than thos
e she spoke of: a tall, well-set woman not handsome but with an air of command, dark with proud lips (she might have been one of the Spanish gypsies on the painted sign outside). I could not help noticing that she was also somewhat negligent in her dress. Her bodice-strings had come loose, and the curls of her frizzled hair had escaped the hairnet. Her fragrance too was not one of those being dispensed from the perfumery, being composed of two parts honest London sweat to one part Virginia tobacco.
Madam, I apologise, I said in my new man-of-quality’s manner.
Accepted, I’m sure, she said. I’m Mrs Radford, how may I be of assistance?
She spoke so warmly and with such friendly smiles that I dropped my dignity, gave my name and explained that I was newly arrived from Dover, my clothes had not yet come after me, I needed rigging out from head to toe.
Come into the back shop and we’ll have you fitted out like a galleon or my name’s not Nan Clarges.
But I thought you said you were Mrs Radford?
And so I am and very grateful to Radford for the honour he did me, but everyone in the parish knows me as Nan Clarges, for Clarges is a celebrated name in these parts. My father is the farrier in the Savoy and my mother, well, everyone knows my mother. Take off your coat and we’ll see what you’re made of.
Why does everyone know your mother? I asked as I stood there behind a green curtain in the little back room in my shirt and stockings while Nan Clarges alias Mrs Radford darted round me taking measure.
Oh you are a bumpkin. She chuckled like a jay in the springtime. Have you never heard of the five women-barbers of Drury Lane?
I fear not, madam, I said, reverting to my man-of-quality frigidity of manner.
You don’t know the ballad? Then I will sing it to you. And she sang it in a merry sort of whisper that the other customers might not hear her singing. I have set down the first verse at the head of this chapter. The other verses are too obscene to be printed here but I will give the explanation.
Jem (and Sam) Page 3