An History of Birmingham (1783) | Page 2

thick fogs of penury,
prevented the sun of science from beaming upon the mind? That
necessity obliged me to lay down the battledore, before I was master of
the letters? And that, instead of handling systems of knowledge, my
hands, at the early period of seven, became callous with labour?
But, though a whole group of pretences will have no effect with the
impartial eye, yet one reason pleads strongly in my favor--no such
thing ever appeared as An History of Birmingham. It is remarkable, that
one of the most singular places in the universe is without an historian:
that she never manufactured an history of herself, who has
manufactured almost every thing else; that so many ages should elapse,
and not one among her numerous sons of industry, snatch the manners
of the day from oblivion, group them in design, with the touches of his
pen, and exhibit the picture to posterity. If such a production had ever
seen the light, mine most certainly would never have been written; a
temporary bridge therefore may satisfy the impatient traveller, till a

more skilful architect shall accommodate him with a complete
production of elegance, of use, and of duration.--Although works of
genius ought to come out of the mint doubly refined, yet history admits
of a much greater latitude to the author. The best upon the subject,
though defective, may meet with regard.
It has long been a complaint, that local history is much wanted. This
will appear obvious, if we examine the places we know, with the
histories that treat of them. Many an author has become a cripple, by
historically travelling through all England, who might have made a
tolerable figure, had he staid at home. The subject is too copious for
one performance, or even the life of one man. The design of history is
knowledge: but, if simply to tell a tale, be all the duty of an historian,
he has no irksome task before him; for there is nothing more easy than
to relate a fact; but, perhaps, nothing more difficult than to relate it
well.
The situation of an author is rather precarious--if the smiles of the
world chance to meet his labours, he is apt to forget himself; if
otherwise, he is soon forgot. The efforts of the critic may be necessary
to clip the wings of a presuming author, lest his rising vanity becomes
insupportable: but I pity the man, who writes a book which none will
peruse a second time; critical exertions are not necessary to pull him
down, he will fall of himself. The sin of writing carries its own
punishment, the tumultuous passions of anxiety and expectation, like
the jarring elements in October, disturb his repose, and, like them, are
followed by stirility: his cold productions, injured by no hand but that
of time, are found sleeping on the shelf unmolested. It is easy to
describe his fears before publication, but who can tell his feelings after
judgment is passed upon his works? His only consolation is accusing
the critic of injustice, and thinking the world in the wrong. But if
repentence should not follow the culprit, hardened in scribbling, it
follows, his bookseller, oppressed with dead works. However, if all the
evils in Pandora's box are emptied on a blasted author, this one comfort
remains behind--The keeper of a circulating library, or the steward of a
reading society can tell him, "His book is more durable than the
others."
Having, many years ago, entertained an idea of this undertaking, I
made some trifling preparations; but, in 1775, a circumstance of a

private nature occurring, which engaged my attention for several years,
I relinquished the design, destroyed the materials, and meant to give up
the thought for ever. But the intention revived in 1780, and the work
followed.
I may be accused of quitting the regular trammels of history, and
sporting in the fields of remark: but, although our habitation justly
stands first in our esteem, in return for rest, content, and protection;
does it follow that we should never stray from it? If I happen to veer a
moment from the polar point of Birmingham, I shall certainly vibrate
again to the center. Every author has a manner peculiar to himself, nor
can he well forsake it. I should be exceedingly hurt to omit a necessary
part of intelligence, but more, to offend a reader.
If GRANDEUR should censure me for sometimes recording the men of
mean life, let me ask, Which is preferable, he who thunders at the anvil,
or in the senate? The man who earnestly wishes the significant letters,
ESQ. spliced to the end of his name, will despise the question; but the
philosopher will answer, "They are equal."
Lucrative views have no part in this production: I