Man first catches the profession; the profession afterwards moulds the
man.
In whatever profession we engage, we assume its character, become a part
of it, vindicate its honor, its eminence, its antiquity; or feel a wound
through its sides.
Though there may be no more pride in a minister of state, who opens a
budget, than in a tinker who carries one, yet they equally contend for
the honor of their trade.
Every man, from the attorney's clerk to the butcher's apprentice, feels
his own honor, with that of his profession, wounded by travelling on
foot. To be caught on his feet, is nearly the same as to be caught in a
crime. The man who has gathered up his limbs, and hung them on a horse,
looks _down_ with dignity on him who has not; while the man on foot
offers his humble bow, afraid to look up--If providence favours us with
feet, is it a disgrace to use them?--I could instance a person who
condescended to quit London, that center of trick, lace, and equipage;
and in 1761, open a draper's shop in Birmingham: but his feet, or his
_pride_, were so much hurt by walking, that he could scarcely travel ten
doors from his own without a post-chaise--the result was, he became such
an adept in riding, that in a few months, he rode triumphant into the
Gazette. Being quickly scoured bright by the ill-judged laws of
bankruptcy, he rode, for the last time, _out_ of Birmingham, where he
had so often rode _in_: but his injured creditors were obliged to _walk_
after the slender dividend of eighteen pence in the pound. The man who
_can_ use his feet, is envied by him who _cannot_; and he, in turn,
envies him who _will_ not. Our health and our feet, in a double sense,
go together. The human body has been justly compared to a musical
instrument; I add, this instrument was never perfectly in tune, without
a due portion of exercise.
The man of military character, puts on, with his scarlet, that martial
air, which tells us, "he has formed a resolution to kill:" and we
naturally ask, "Which sex?"
Some "_pert and affected author_" with anxiety on his brow, will be apt
to step forward, and say, "Will you celebrate the man of the sword, who
transfers the blush of his face to his back, and neglect the man of the
quill, who, like the pelican, portions out his vitals to feed others?
Which is preferable, he who lights up the mental powers, or he who puts
them out? the man who stores the head with knowledge, or he who stores
it with a bullet?"
The antiquarian supports his dignity with a solemn aspect; he treats a
sin and a smile as synonimous; one half of which has been discarded from
his childhood. If a smile in the house of religion, or of mourning, be
absurd, is there any reason to expel it from those places where it is
not? A tale will generally allow of two ingredients, _information_ and
_amusement_: but the historian and the antiquarian have, from time
immemorial, used but _one_. Every smile, except that of contempt, is
beneficial to the constitution; they tend to promote long life, and
pleasure while that life lasts. Much may be said in favour of tears of
joy, but more on joy without tears. I wonder the lively fancy of Hogarth
never sketched the _dull_ historian, in the figure of an ass, plodding
to market under his panniers, laden with the fruits of antiquity, and
old time driving up the _rear_, with his scythe converted into an
hedge-stake.
The bellows-maker proclaims the _honor_ of his art, by observing, he
alone produces that instrument which commands the winds; his soft
breeze, like that of the south, counter-acts the chill blasts of winter:
by his efforts, like those of the sun, the world receives light: he
creates when he pleases, and gives _breath_ when he creates. In his
caverns the winds deep at pleasure; and by his _orders_ they set Europe
in flames.
He pretends, that a gentle puff in the eyes of a _reviewer_, from a pair
of his bellows, would tend to clear the sight, and enable him to
distinguish between a smile and a serious face: that his circular board,
like a ferula, applied by the handle to an inferior part, would induce
him to peruse the _whole treatise_, and not partially pronounce from
the preface.
He farther pretends, that the _antiquity_ of his occupation will appear
from the plenty of elm, once in the neighbourhood, but long cut up for
his use: that the leather-market in Birmingham, for many ages, furnished
him with sides; and though the manufacture of iron is allowed to be
extremely ancient, yet the smith could not procure his heat without a
blast, nor could that blast be raised without the bellows.
Two inferences arise from these remarks, that the antiquarian will frown
on this little history; and that bellows-making is one of the oldest
trades in Birmingham.