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CHAPTER 112 . 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 ! 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 . 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 . 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 .
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