After Nathan’s recovery he had returned to his old post at the anvil, and had tuned up again as merrily as ever, for the gunpowder wasn’t manufactured which could blow his “sing” out of him, without dislodging either his tongue or his life. In fact he was one of the Mark Tapley genius with a higher inspiration, and his spirits always seemed to rise towards boiling point as his surroundings sank towards zero. Nathan was fashioning harrow teeth, and the quick rap-tap of his hammer on the heated iron bar kept capital time to his song:
Oh, Love is a clever magician;
His rod is a conjuror’s wand;
And this is his heavenly mission—
To bind in his magical band
The hearts of all men to each other
In amity, friendship, and peace,
That each may to each be a brother,
And hatred and envy may cease.
This, this was the way of the Saviour,