had served his time at cabinet-making, and in spite of all his efforts to do other things, he perforce lived by the making of furniture. Still, he could not content himself with being a tradesman. " He was an author, a bookseller, a teacher of drawing, and a preacher besides," says Adam Black, writing of him in his memoirs. And he says also, " I believe his abilities and resources are his ruin, for by attempting to do everything he does nothing." Would that most peoples "nothing" might prove to be as much ! I find myself wondering if his paintings or his writings would have given as much pleasure to the world as his furniture has undoubtedly given, supposing he had been able to devote himself to these arts.
Much as one may appreciate the workmanship of Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and the Adam brothers, in the presence of a true piece of Sheraton's work, one cannot help feeling that their productions are coarse, almost blatant; that they were workmen— while Sheraton was a poet, and a poet blessed with the sense of colour. Of seeing genuine pieces of these two masters side by side only the fortunate few ever have a chance, for our national museums are wretchedly poor in specimens of any period of English
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