ortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from
the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon Mr.
Petulengro said, 'Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go
with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi.' But I again refused Mr.
Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward
alone; and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had
spoken, and, following certain directions which he had given, discovered,
though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned.
It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field; the shelving sides
were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on
the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable,
however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space,
and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge.
'I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro,' said I.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

HIGHLY POETICAL--VOLUNDR--GRECIAN MYTHOLOGY--MAKING A PETUL--SPITE OF
DUKKERIN--HEAVINESS

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 illumed 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.

I believe the life of any blacksmith, e