Smithing is a sturdy, albeit a very black art; yet its black is a
good, honest black, very easily washed off, which is more than
can be said for many other trades, arts, and professions.
Yes, a fine, free, manly art is smithing, and those who labor at
the forge would seem, necessarily, to reflect these virtues.
Since old Tubal Cain first taught man how to work in brass and
iron, who ever heard of a sneaking, mean-spirited, cowardly
blacksmith? To find such an one were as hard a matter as to
discover the Fourth Dimension, methinks, or the carcass of a dead
donkey.
Your true blacksmith is usually a strong man, something bowed of
shoulder, perhaps; a man slow of speech, bold of eye, kindly of
thought, and, lastly--simple-hearted.
Riches, Genius, Power--all are fair things; yet Riches is never
satisfied, Power is ever upon the wing, and when was Genius ever
happy? But, as for this divine gift of Simpleness of Heart, who
shall say it is not the best of all?
Black George himself was no exception to his kind; what wonder
was it, then, that, as the days lengthened into weeks, my liking
for him ripened into friendship?
To us, sometimes lonely, voyagers upon this Broad Highway of
life, journeying on, perchance through desolate places, yet
hoping and dreaming ever of a glorious beyond, how sweet and how
blessed a thing it is to meet some fellow wayfarer, and find in
him a friend, honest, and loyal, and brave, to walk with us in
the sun, whose voice may comfort us in the shadow, whose hand is
stretched out to us in the difficult places to aid us, or be
aided. Indeed, I say again, it is a blessed thing, for though
the way is sometimes very long, such meetings and friendships be
very few and far between.
So, as I say, there came such friendship between Black George and
myself, and I found him a man, strong, simple and lovable, and as
such I honor him to this day.
The Ancient, on the contrary, seemed to have set me in his "black
books;" he would no longer sit with me over a tankard outside
"The Bull" of an evening, nor look in at the forge, with a cheery
nod and word, as had been his wont; he seemed rather to shun my
society, and, if I did meet him by chance, would treat me with
the frigid dignity of a Grand Seigneur. Indeed, the haughtiest
duke that ever rolled in his chariot is far less proud than your
plain English rustic, and far less difficult to propitiate.
Thus, though I had once had the temerity to question him as to
his altered treatment of me, the once had sufficed. He was
sitting, I remember, on the bench before "The Bull," his hands
crossed upon his stick and his chin resting upon his hands.