rcoal vapours which hover about it in festoons, seems
to offer no inadequate representation of fabled purgatory.

* * * * *

It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a
forge I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured
me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town,
without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which
are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially
rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot--a dingle for example,
which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still
more so, for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of
poetry--is connected with these cross roads! I love to light upon such a
one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to
most advantage at night, the hammer sounds more solemnly in the
stillness, the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with
more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro,
half in shadow, and half illumined by the red and partial blaze of the
forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my
horse's rein, and seated in the saddle endeavour to associate with the
picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild
and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in
connection with forges.

* * * * *

A sound was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and
distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass sward,
nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, rushed out of the
tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose from the stool upon which I
had been seated, and just at that moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and
sticks, a man on horseback bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few
yards' distance from where we were; from the impetus of the leap the
horse was nearly down on his knees; the rider, however, by dint of
vigorous handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode
up to the tent. ''Tis Nat,' said the man; 'what brings him here?' The
new comer was a stout, burly fellow, about the middle age; he had a
savage, determined look, and his face was nearly covered over with
carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching hat, and was dressed in a grey
coat, cut in a fashion which I afterwards learnt to be the genuine
Newmarket cut, the skirts b