Hoby was not only the greatest and most fashionable bootmaker in London,
but, in spite of the old adage, _ne sutor ultra crepidam_, he employed
his spare time with considerable success as a Methodist preacher at
Islington. He was said to have in his employment three hundred workmen;
and he was so great a man in his own estimation that he was apt to take
rather an insolent tone with his customers. He was, however, tolerated
as a sort of privileged person, and his impertinence was not only
overlooked but was considered as rather a good joke. He was a pompous
fellow, with a considerable vein of sarcastic humour.

I remember Horace Churchill (afterwards killed in India with the rank of
major-general), who was then an ensign in the Guards, entering Hoby's
shop in a great passion, saying that his boots were so ill made that he
should never employ Hoby for the future. Hoby, putting on a pathetic
cast of countenance, called to his shopman:

"John, close the shutters. It is all over with us. I must shut up shop;
Ensign Churchill withdraws his custom from me."

Churchill's fury can be better imagined than described.

On another occasion the late Sir John Shelley came into Hoby's shop to
complain that his top-boots had split in several places. Hoby quietly
said:

"How did that happen, Sir John?"

"Why, in walking to my stables."

"Walking to your stables!" said Hoby, with a sneer. "I made the boots