To _bide the time_ is often the means, though slow, of reaping success.
Late in the last century, a printseller settled in a leading street of
the artistic locality of Soho: during the first six weeks he kept shop,
his receipts were not as many pence; nevertheless he was civil and
obliging to all callers and inquirers, to whom, in the printselling
business, customers are a very small proportion. This obliging
disposition was his main investment, and his shop grew to be the resort
of print-collectors of all grades—from the rich duke to the hard-working
engraver; he became wealthy, and died bequeathing to his family a
considerable fortune, and the finest stock of prints in the metropolis.
Extraordinary instances have occurred of latent genius having been
discovered by some lucky accident, and fostered to high position. Isaac
Ware, the architect and editor of _Palladio_, was originally a
chimney-sweeper, and, when a boy, was seated one day in front of
Whitehall-palace, upon the pavement, whereon he had drawn in chalk the
elevation of a building. This attracted the notice of a gentleman in
passing, and led him to inquire who had chalked out the building. The
boy replied, it was his own work; the unknown patron then took the lad
to the master-sweeper to whom he was apprenticed, purchased his
indenture, and forthwith had little Ware educated: he rose to be one of
the leading architects of his day, and among other edifices he built
Chesterfield-house, in South Audley-street, one of the handsomest
mansions in the metropolis. Ware died in 1766; and, it is said, retained
the stain of _soot_ in his face to the day of his death.
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