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.