[135] One is ready to ask who but a shoemaker could have gone so heartily into the rollicking fun of the shoemaker's room, or asked such a question as the following:--"Have you all your tools; a good rubbing pin, a good stopper, a good dresser, your four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring knife, your hand and thumb leathers, and good St. Hugh's bones to smooth your work?" It may be remarked here that St. Hugh is another patron saint of the craft. Hugh, son of the king of Powis, was in love with Winifred, daughter of Donvallo, king of Flintshire. Both were martyrs under Diocletian. St. Hugh's bones were stolen by the shoemakers, and worked up into tools to avoid discovery. Hence the cobbler's phrase, "St. Hugh's bones." See Deloney's "Entertaining History." JAMES WOODHOUSE, THE FRIEND OF SHENSTONE. James Woodhouse stands first on our list in point of time, but not in regard to ability. He evidently owed his little brief popularity to the friendship of William Shenstone, author of "The Schoolmistress." Shenstone lived at Leasowes, seven miles from Birmingham, in a charming country-house surrounded by gardens, artistically laid out and cultivated with the utmost care by the eccentric, fantastic poet. Woodhouse, who was born about 1733, was a village shoemaker and eke a schoolmaster at Rowley, two miles off. Shenstone had been obliged to exclude the public from his gardens and grounds at Leasowes on account of the wanton damage done to flowers and shrubs. Whereupon the village shoemaker addressed the poet in poetical terms asking to be "excluded from the prohibition." In reply Shenstone admitted him not only to wander through his grounds, but to make a free use of his library. "Shenstone found," says Southey, "that the poor applicant used to work with a pen and ink at his side while the last was in his lap--the head at one employ, the hands at another; and when he had composed a couplet or a stanza, he wrote it on his knee." Woodhouse was then about twenty-six years of age. His lot must have been rather hard at that time, for, speaking of his wife's work and his own, he says in one of his poems-- "Nor mourn I much my task austere, Which endless wants impose; But oh! it wounds my soul to hear My Daphne's melting woes! "For oft she sighs and oft she weeps And hangs her pensive head, _While blood her farrowed finger steeps_ _And stains the passing thread._ "When orient hills the sun behold, Our labors are begun; And when he streaks the west with gold, The task is still undone."