charcoal, to the reddening, glowing column that shot with an arrowy stream of sparks up the wide-throated chimney.  How the dark rafters and nail-pierced roof grew ruddy as the white-hot ploughshare or iron bar was drawn from the fire!—­what alternations of light and shadow!  No painter ever drew figure in such relief as the blacksmith presented in that wonderful light, with his glistening face, his tense muscles, and his upraised arm.

Alas! the hammer is still; the wheel dashes no more the glittering spray; the fire has died out in the forge; the blacksmith’s long day’s work is done!

He settled in Innisfield when it was but a district attached to a neighboring town.  There were but three or four houses in the now somewhat populous village.  He came on foot, driving his cow; his wife following in the wagon, with their little stock of household goods,—­not forgetting his hammer, more potent than Prospero’s wand.  The minister, the doctor, and Squire Kinloch, who constituted the aristocracy, yielded precedence in date to Ralph Hardwick, Knight of the Ancient Order of the Anvil.

So he toiled, faithful to his calling.  By day the din of his hammer rarely ceased, and by night the flame and sparks from his chimney were a Pharos to all travellers approaching the town.  Children were born to him, for which he blessed God, and worked the harder.  He attained a moderate prosperity, secure from want, but still dependent upon labor for bread.  At length his wife died; he wept like a true and faithful husband as he was, and thenceforth was both mother and father to his babes.

During all his life he kept Sunday with religious scrupulousness, and with his family went to the house of worship in all weathers.  From the very first he had been leader of the choir, and had given the pitch with a fork hammered and tuned by his own hands.  With a clear and sympathetic voice, he had such an instinctive taste and power of expression, that his song of penitence or praise was far more devotional than the labored efforts of many more highly cultivated singers.  Music and poetry flowed smoothly and naturally from his lips, but in uttering the common prose of daily life his organs were rebellious.  The truth must be spoken,—­he stammered badly, incurably.  Whether it was owing to the attempt to overcome his impediment by making his speech musical, or to the cadences of his hammer beating time while his brain was shaping its airy fancies, his thoughts ran naturally in verse.

Do not smile at the thought of Vulcan’s callused fingers touching the chords of the lyre to delicate music.  The sun shone as lovingly upon the swart face of the blacksmith in his shop-door, as upon the scholar at his library-window.  “Poetry was an angel in his breast,” making his heart glad with her heavenly presence; he did not “make her his drudge, his maid-of-all-work,” as professional verse-makers do.