but was represented by Mr. Sibbald as comprehended within twelve months. The latter years of this ingenious man were chiefly spent in the compilation of his well known Chronicle of Scottish Poetry, and Glossary of the Scottish Language, 1802, four volumes, 12mo; a work, says Mr. Chambers, of taste and erudition, which will perpetuate his name among those who have illustrated our national literature. Two portraits of Mr. Sibbald have been given by Kay; one representing him as he daily walked up the centre of the High-street of Edinburgh, with his hands behind his back, and an umbrella under his arm; another places him amidst a group of connoisseurs, who are inspecting a picture. He was a man of eccentric, but benevolent and amiable character. He belonged to a great number of convivial clubs, and was so much beloved by many of his associates in those fraternities, that for some years after his death, they celebrated his birth-day by a social meeting.
1803, July 2. Died, Thomas Evans, a considerable bookseller in Paternoster-row, to which situation he advanced himself by industry and perseverance, as he had, in common with many other respectable characters who have trod in the same path, very little to boast of in point of origin, living, when he first went to London, with Mr. William Johnston, bookseller, of Ludgate-street, in the humble capacity of porter. He afterwards became publisher of the Morning Chronicle and the London Packet, which introduced him to the acquaintance of Dr. Kenriok, Mr. Macfarlane, (author of the History of the Reign of George III.) and several other literary characters, from whose friendship and conversation he obtained much valuable information. During his publication of the former of these papers a paragraph appeared in it against Dr. Goldsmith, which so highly incensed the doctor, that he was determined to seek revenge; and no fitter object presenting itself than the publisher, he was resolved all the weight should fall upon his back. Accordingly he went to the office, cane in hand, and fell upon him in a most unmerciful manner.[1] This Mr. Evans resented in a true pugilistic style; and in a few moments the author of the Vicar of Wakefield was disarmed, and extended on the floor, to the no small diversion of the by-standers. Mr. Evans next succeeded to the business and extensive connexion of Messrs. Hawes, Clarke and Collins, Paternoster-row. The success he met with in this house was beyond his most anxious expectations; and the youths who were bred up under his instruction became the ornaments of their profession. He had for some years retired from business. He bequeathed the bulk of his fortune to Mr. Christopher Brown, (late assistant to Mr. Longman, bookseller, Paternoster-row, and father of Mr. Thomas Brown, now a partner in that respectable house,) with whom he had continued on terms of the closest friendship for above forty years. He left one surviving son, who was at sea; and a nephew of his was a clerk in the house of Messrs. Longman and Co. To his wife, with whom he had not lived during the last five years, he bequeathed £40 a-year, and also £20 a-year to a niece. The cause of separation from his wife was attributed to her partiality for one of her sons, who failed in business as a bookseller, in Paternoster-row, and afterwards was literally reduced to beggary, and died in the street about a year and a half before his father. Mr. Evans requested in his will that he might be buried without a coffin or shroud, and that the whole of his funeral expense should not exceed forty shillings.
1803, July 25. Died, Thomas Walter, for forty years a bookseller at Charing-cross, and eighteen years director of the Westminster department of the Phoenix fire-office. He was the only apprentice of Mr. Robert Dodsley, and one of the executors of Mr. James Dodsley. He was a man of the strictest honour both in professional and private life; and his unbounded benevolence was only exceeded by his urbanity and uncommon flow of animal spirits.
1803, Aug. 1. Died, William Woodfall, a printer and celebrated parliamentary reporter, and whose memory deserves to be particularly held in esteem, as one who so long, so zealously, and so largely contributed to the information of the political world, and to literature in general. He was the younger brother of Henry Samson Woodfall, and was early placed by his father under Mr. Richard Baldwin, of Paternoster-row, to learn the art of bookselling; from whose house he went back to his father's office, and assisted in the printing and editing of the Public Advertiser. He became so warm an amateur of the drama, that, to gratify his penchant for the stage, he made an excursion into Scotland, and performed several times for his amusement in the
company of a Mr. Fisher. He used to relate many pleasant anecdotes of this jaunt, the most fortunate event of which, however, because it constituted the future happiness of his life, was his marriage with a most amiable woman, and with whom he returned to the metropolis about 1772, and engaged himself as editor of the London Packet. From this he was called by the
- ↑ When the John Bull newspaper first started, in 1803, many gentlemen felt offended at the freedom of the editor's remarks. Epithets not carefully chosen are sometimes taken amiss, and process by law is tedious and disagreeable. A gallant colonel therefore — a near relation of an illustrious house — taking amiss some innocent freedom of the editor, determined to curb his wit by a smart application of the horsewhip. The colonel fall of martial fury, went to the John Bull office, in Fleet-street, burning with revenge, grasping in his right hand the riding master's whip of the regiment. Intimating his wish to see the editor, was politely shown into a room, and informed that the editor would wait upon him instantly. Like a chafed lion, he walked up and down the room during the interval, flourishing his weapon of vengeance; when the door was opened, and in marched an individual of the Brobdignag species, clad in a thick white fuzzy great coat, bis chin buried in a red cotton handkerchief, with a broad oilskin hat upon his head, and a most suspicious looking oak stick under his arm. "What might you want with me, sir?" asked this engaging looking individual. "I wish to see the editor." "I am the editor, sir, at your sarvis," said this Brodignag, taking from its rest his stick of about the thickness and size of a clothes' prop. "Indeed!" ejaculated the colonel, edging away towards the door; "oh, another time." "Whenever you pleases, sir," and they separated.
