that, although
he was too deaf to hear one word of a public address, even of the
loudest speaker, he not only attended church every Sunday, but was
rarely absent when a lecture was delivered.

While I was performing on that occasion, I saw him sitting just in front
of the platform, sleeping the sleep of the just till the last word was
uttered.

Upon being introduced to this old gentleman in his office, and learning
that his business was to make hammers, I was at a loss for a subject of
conversation, as it never occurred to me that there was anything to be
said about hammers.

I have generally possessed a hammer, and frequently inflicted damage on
my fingers therewith, but I had supposed that a hammer was simply a
hammer, and that hammers were very much alike. At last I said,--

"And here you make hammers for mankind, Mr. Maydole?"

You may have noticed the name of David Maydole upon hammers. He is the
man.

"Yes," said he, "I have made hammers here for twenty-eight years."

"Well, then," said I, shouting in his best ear, "by this time you ought
to be able to make a pretty good hammer."

"No, I can't," was his reply. "I can't make a pretty good hammer. I make
the best hammer that's made."

That was strong language. I thought, at first, he meant it as a joke;
but I soon found it was no joke at all.

He had made hammers the study of his lifetime, and, after many years of
thoughtful and laborious experiment, he had actually produced an
article, to which, with all his knowledge and experience, he could
suggest no improvement.

I was astonished to discover how many points there are about an
instrument which I had always supposed a very simple thing. I was
surprised to learn in how many ways a hammer can be bad.

But, first, let me tell you how he came to think of hammers.

There he was, forty years ago, in a small village of the State of New
York; no railroad yet, and even the Erie Canal many miles distant. He
was the village blacksmith, his establishment consisting of himself and
a boy to blow the bellows.

He was a good deal troubled with his hammers. Sometimes the heads would
fly off. If the metal was too soft, the hammer would spread out and wear
away; if it was too hard, it would split.

At that time blacksmiths made their own hammers, and he knew very little
about mixing ores so as to produce the toughest iron. But he was
particularly troubled with the hammer getting off the handle, a mishap
which co