On his death, I sent the following notice to Mr. Walker’s newspaper:— “July 15th, 1821, died, Mr. William Cant, of the Blue Bell Inn, Newcastle, aged 70 years. He was an excellent performer on the violin and the Northumberland pipes; and, like his great predecessors on the latter instrument—Turnbull, Gilley, Old Lamshaw, and Peacock—he kept up the ancient tunes with all their charming lilts and pauses, unspoiled by the _modern improvers_ of music, with their ‘Idiot notes impertinently long.’ He played ‘his native wood-notes wild,’ such as pleased the ears of the yeomanry of old at Otterburn, Hedgley Moor, and Flodden Field. For—
‘Whene’er his pipe did silence break You’d thought the instrument would speak.’”
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I HAVE noticed several of my friends and acquaintances whose characters stood high in my estimation. I have now another to introduce, the play-fellow of my youth, Thomas Lawson, as remarkable as any of them. He left Tyneside, his and my home, and came to Newcastle about 1777 or ’78, to launch out into the world of exertion and turmoil; and, from his abilities and integrity, he seemed well befitted to make a great figure in it, and, had he been spared, he would, in my opinion, have shone out like another Benjamin Franklin. He was for a short time one of my schoolfellows at Ovingham; but, from his father having been beggared by the failure of a coal-owner for whom he had been employed many years, my young friend was obliged to leave school, and to seek out some employment for himself. In the interim, he took up his abode in my father’s house as a home. The first employment that my companion got was that of a plough-driver. He next became a farmer’s servant, and afterwards a manager of a farm and brewery. In all these departments, he was distinguished for his industry, good sense, good management, and great integrity. It happened, however, that he, being handsome in his person and manly in his deportment, his employer began to suspect that the young lady of the house was showing a marked partiality towards him; and this having occasioned some frowns and hints which his spirit could not brook, he gave up his place and set off to Newcastle, where he bound himself to a printer, as a pressman; for which he was to be paid 8_s._ per week. With this wage, he contrived to maintain himself, and to pay out of it for a night-school education. His progress was truly astonishing in figures, languages, the use of the globes, &c.; but his memory was so tenacious that he retained whatever he learned, and he could repeat the longest harangue, (as far as I was able to judge) verbatim. I once had an opportunity of witnessing this, in his repeating the whole of a charity sermon, preached by the eloquent the Rev. Dr. Scott, of Simonburn. While he was employed in the drudgery of the printing press, he, at the same time, made himself master of the business of a compositor. Shortly after, he left this employment, and married a young woman of respectable parentage. It happened that the printing of a Bible in numbers had been established; but the publisher, either from mismanagement, or something amiss, was on the verge of a failure. In this state of affairs, Lawson turned his attention to the business, and applied to his wife’s friends for assistance, but they could, at that time, only spare him about thirty pounds; and with this sum in hand, he made a proposal for purchasing the types, and everything belonging to the printing office. It is singular enough that the printer referred to, having left Newcastle, lived and had his printing office in the governor’s house at Tynemouth, whither I went with my friend when the bargain was to be closed between them. He now commenced business on his own account, but how long he had to struggle through difficulties, before he got well established, I have forgotten. It is remarkable that he met with unsolicited aid from many friends; for every one who knew him became interested in his welfare. He lived till he surmounted every obstacle to his prosperity; but, in doing this, his too great application and exertion ruined his health. He pined away and died, in a house close by mine at the Forth, on the 7th March, 1783, aged 31 years. I, with many other of his friends, accompanied his remains to Ovingham, where he was buried. This was the first time in my life that I felt poignant grief.