The Blacksmith

Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after concluding his contributory work for Ahab’s leg, but still retained it on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades, pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man’s was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart. And so it was.—Most miserable!

The weather in these latitudes was mild and cool as summer, and the crew expected much more active work soon. Taking advantage of the weather and preparing for that work, Perth kept his portable forge on deck. The grimy, blistered old blacksmith had finished his part of the work on Ahab’s leg. But he had not returned the forge to the hold. It remained firmly lashed to ringbolts by the foremast. The headsmen, harpooners, and bowsmen now called on him almost constantly for small jobs. He altered, repaired, or reshaped their weapons and boat equipment. An eager circle often surrounded him, all waiting to be served. They held boat-spades, pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and watched his every soot-covered movement with jealous attention as he worked. Nevertheless, the old man’s hammer was patient, and so was the arm that wielded it. He never complained or showed impatience or irritation. Silent, slow, and solemn, he bent his permanently broken back still farther over his work. He labored as if work were life itself, and the heavy blows of his hammer were his own heartbeat. And so they were. Most miserable!

A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.

Early in the voyage, the sailors had noticed the old man's peculiar walk. He swayed slightly as he walked, and it seemed painful. This had made them curious. They kept questioning him until he finally gave in. So everyone now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.

Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter’s midnight, on the road running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life’s drama.

One bitter winter midnight, the blacksmith was late on the road between two country towns, and not through innocent circumstances. In a daze, he felt a deadly numbness creeping over him and took shelter in a leaning, rundown barn. As a result, he lost the ends of both feet. From this revelation, the story gradually emerged: the four happy acts of his life’s drama and the one long, sorrowful fifth act, which had not yet reached its tragic end.

He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow’s technicals called ruin. He had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family’s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now, for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith’s shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband’s hammer; whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor’s iron lullaby, the blacksmith’s infants were rocked to slumber.

He was an old man who had met with what sorrow calls ruin rather late, at nearly sixty. He had been a craftsman of famous skill, with plenty of work. He owned a house and garden. He had a young, loving wife who was like a daughter to him, and three cheerful, rosy-cheeked children. Every Sunday, he went to a cheerful-looking church in a grove. But one night, a desperate burglar slipped into his happy home and robbed them all of everything. The burglar came under cover of darkness, wearing a very clever disguise. And darker still, the blacksmith himself had unknowingly led the burglar into the heart of his family. It was the Bottle Conjuror! When that fatal cork was opened, the fiend flew out and shriveled up his home. For sensible, wise, and economical reasons, the blacksmith’s shop was in his home’s basement, with a separate entrance. His young, loving, healthy wife always listened to his hammer ringing out. Though her husband was old, his arms were still young. The sound caused her no anxious unease. Instead, she listened with hearty pleasure. Softened as it passed through the floors and walls, the hammer’s ringing sounded sweet enough in her nursery. And so the blacksmith’s babies were rocked to sleep by stout Labor’s iron lullaby.

Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely? Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.

Oh, sorrow upon sorrow! Oh, Death, why can’t you sometimes come at the right time? If you had taken this old blacksmith before his complete ruin, his young widow would have had a sweet grief. His orphans would have had a truly venerable, legendary father to dream of in later years. And all of them would have had enough money to free them from worry. But Death took some virtuous older brother instead. Another family depended entirely on his cheerful daily labor. Death left the old man standing, though he was worse than useless. Death waited until the hideous decay of life made him easier to harvest.

Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!

Why tell the whole story? Each day, the hammer blows from the basement came farther apart. Each day, each blow grew fainter than the last. The wife sat frozen at the window. Her dry eyes stared brightly into her children’s tearful faces. The bellows fell silent. The forge clogged with cinders. The house was sold. The mother was buried beneath the long churchyard grass. Two of her children followed her there. The old man, without a home or family, staggered away, a wanderer dressed in mourning. No one respected his sorrow. Young people mocked his gray head!

Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them—“Come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. Come hither! put up thy gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!”

Death seems the only desirable end to a life like this. But death is only a launch into a strange, untried realm. It is only the first greeting to the possibilities of the immense, remote, wild, watery, shoreless world. Such men long for death, yet still feel some inner scruples against suicide. So the ocean, to which all things flow and which receives them all, spreads its whole expanse before their longing eyes. It offers unimaginable, captivating terrors and wonderful adventures in a new life. From the hearts of countless Pacifics, a thousand mermaids sing to them: “Come here, brokenhearted. Here is another life without the guilt of dying first. Here are supernatural wonders, without having to die for them. Come here! Bury yourself in a life that will leave the world on land forgetting you more completely than death would. You now hate that world, and it hates you just as much. Come here! Put up your gravestone in the churchyard, too, and come here, until we marry you!”

Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve, the blacksmith’s soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth went a-whaling.

Listening to these voices, East and West, at sunrise and at nightfall, the blacksmith’s soul answered, Yes, I’m coming! And so Perth went whaling.