In 1751, just three years prior to that in which Chippendale's great book, "The Gentleman's and Cabinet Maker's Director," was first published, there was born at Stockton-on-Tees, of humble parentage, a child who, though destined to a life of comparative penury - such is the irony of fate - nevertheless won for himself in after years, by force of industry and genius, a reputation second to none in the annals of the cabinet-making of that period. He did more to elevate the craft of which he was so proud, in his own and subsequent times, than any man of his or any other age. The story of poor Sheraton's life, or the small glimpse of it that has been accorded to us, is indeed full of pathos. It is far from easy to obtain biographical details of our eighteenth-century cabinet makers. In most cases none is available; but of Sheraton, fortunately, a few particulars have been handed down to us. Though somewhat meagre, they are nevertheless of intense interest to all earnest students of the history of the furniture of the Georgeian Era who are not content to regard these old household gods merely as examples of more or less admirable craftsmanship, but who desire to look beneath the surface - to know something of the conditions of the times in which they were made, and, if possible, to try and conjure up some picture, however vague and shadowy, of the lights and shadows of the lives of the men who designed and made them.

Material upon which to base the personal details of such pictures is unfortunately wanting. We may search through our great biographical dictionaries, and resort even to the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" in vain, to find it. True, this last-named publication does contain mention of Chippendale, and goes so far as to inform us that the furniture designed by him was decorated with "marquetry . . . laid out with diapers of two woods, or with medallions and pattern work," a statement which we know to be entirely wrong. In addition to this, the names merely of Heppelwhite and Sheraton are given. So it is useless for us to look for much assistance in that direction.

Our endeavour for the moment must be to discover, as far as possible, all that is connected with the career of the designer and cabinet maker - for he, too, "doubled the parts" - whose name heads these pages. In so doing we shall find ample food for reflection. In the first place, there can be no possible doubt that his artistic - not financial - success in after life as a designer is to be accounted for by the fact that from early childhood he was endowed with a strong bent for drawing, the steady cultivation of which, supplemented by a thorough practical training at the bench, provided a solid foundation for his future work. It seems, as I have indicated, that his career, from the outset, was nothing more nor less than one long-continued and bravely-sustained struggle. We find a saddening picture of the environment of his closing years in the Memoirs of Adam Black, who visited him on more than one occasion when a boy seeking his fortune in London, and, indeed, found employment under him for a time. In these Memoirs the writer says: "He (Sheraton) lived in a poor street in London, his house half-shop, half-dwelling-house, and looked like a Methodist preacher worn out, with threadbare black coat. I took tea with them one afternoon. There was a cup and saucer for the host, and another for his wife, and a little porringer for their daughter. The wife's cup and saucer were given to me, and she had to put up with another little porringer. My host seemed a good man, with some talent. He had been a cabinet maker, and was now author, publisher, and teacher of drawing, and, I believe, occasionally preacher." Black assisted Sheraton in some capacity, which is not stated. Describing some of his experiences when so occupied, he continues: "I wrought among dirt and bugs, for which I was remunerated with half-a-guinea. Miserable as the payment was, I was ashamed to take it from the poor man. This many-sided, worn-out encyclopaedist and preacher is an interesting character, and would have taken the fancy of Dickens. He is a man of talent, and, I believe, of genuine piety. He understands the cabinet business - I believe was bred to it. He is a scholar, writes well, and, in my opinion, draws masterly; is an author, bookseller, and teacher. We may be ready to ask how comes it to pass that a man with such abilities and resources is in such a state? I believe his abilities and resources are his ruin in this respect, for by attempting to do everything he does nothing."

The house referred to was, doubtless, the broken-down old place in Soho, where, after failing to make a financial success of the practical side of his craft, Sheraton settled down to design for other people, prepare his books and plates for the engraver and printer, and publish other literature of various kinds from his pen - notably discourses upon theological subjects. But when we read over Adam Black's words to-day how forcibly we are struck by the poverty of that writer's appreciation - if appreciation it may be called - of Sheraton's life's-work in connection with his craft, and how time has belied the all too sweeping assertion that "by attempting to do everything he does nothing." "Nothing" indeed! On the contrary, he did great things; so great, in fact, that, after the lapse of over a century, his name has become a household word; and, further, there are but few furnishing showrooms in the kingdom to-day where evidences of his healthy and far-reaching influence are not to be found.

In preceding chapters we have compared the respective works of Chippendale and Heppelwhite; when we come to see how the productions of the former stand in relation to those of Sheraton we shall find that the contrast between the two is exceptionally strong. While both based their styles, to a very large extent, on the French, the majority of the models to which Chippendale went for inspiration were produced at the most extravagant periods of the Rococo. Sheraton, with his greater refinement of taste, drew such of his ideas as were not purely original from the "Louis-Seize" - by far the most chaste and refined of all French styles - when occasion demanded that he should cater for those who demanded "something French," and would be content with nothing else. So accurate and admirable, indeed, was his interpretation of that style that his version of it is commonly called in France "Louis-Seize-Anglaise," and, as we shall see, not without a certain amount of justification.