The art of nail-making is one of the most ancient in Birmingham. It is
not, however, so much a trade _in_, as _of_ Birmingham, for there are
but few nail-makers left in the town; the nailors are chiefly masters,
and rather opulent. The manufacturers are so scattered round the
country, that we cannot travel far in any direction out of the sound of
the nail-hammer. Birmingham, like a powerful magnet, draws the produce
of the anvil to herself.
When I first approached Birmingham, says Mr. Hutton, from Walsall in
1741, I was surprised at the prodigious number of blacksmiths’ shops
upon the road; and could not conceive how a country, though populous,
could support so many people of the same occupation. In some of these
shops I observed one or more females stript of their upper garment, and
not overcharged with their lower, wielding the hammer with all the grace
of the sex. The beauties of their face were rather eclipsed by the smut
of the anvil. Struck with the novelty, I inquired “Whether the ladies
in this country shod horses?” but was answered, with a smile, “They are
nailers.”
A fire without heat, a nailer of a fair complexion, or one who despises
the tankard, are equally rare among them. His whole system of faith may
be comprised in one article--That the slender mug, used in a
public-house, “is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.”
While the master reaps harvest of plenty, the workman submits to the
scanty gleanings of penury, a thin habit, an early old age, and a figure
bending towards the earth. Plenty comes not near his dwelling, except of
rags and of children. His hammer is worn into deep hollows, fitting the
fingers of a dark hand, hard as the timber it wears. His face, like the
moon, is often seen through a cloud.