Stretching out, like spokes of a gigantic wheel, from their fiery centre, were huge embankments, like those of Titanic railways, whose summits and sides, especially towards their extremities, glowed in patches with all the hues of the rainbow.  As I gazed wonderingly on one of these,—­a real mountain of light, far surpassing the Koh-i-Noor,—­I observed a dark figure gliding along its summit, pushing something before it, like a black imp conveying an unfortunate soul from one part of Tophet to another.  At the extremity of the ridge the imp stopped, and suddenly there shot down the steep, not a tortured ghost, but a shower of radiant gems even more brilliant than those to which I have already referred.

“What, in the name of all that’s wonderful, is that?” said my friend, Mr. Vandyke Brown; and I was also trying to account for the phenomena, when a voice close to my ear—­a voice which I was certain belonged neither to Mr. B. nor myself—­uttered the mysterious word,—­

“Sl-aa-g!”

I looked round, and, sure enough, there stood a being who might very easily be mistaken for a new arrival from the bottomless pit.  Such, however, it was evident he was not.  Though he was black enough, in all conscience, he had neither horns, hoof, nor tail, and he was redolent rather of ’bacco than brimstone; a queer old hat, in the band of which was stuck an unlighted candle, covered a mass of matted red hair; his eyes were glaring and rimmed with red; and there was a gash in his face where his mouth should have been.  A loose flannel shirt, which had once been red, a pair of indescribable trowsers, and thick-soled shoes, completed his dress,—­an attire which I at once recognized as that common among the coal-miners of the district.

“’Deed and truth, Sur, they is cinder-heaps and slag from the iron-works, Sur; and yon is Merthyr-Tydvil, sure.”

Piloted by our dusky guide,—­not exactly, though, like Campbell’s “Morning brought by Night,”—­we soon reached the town,—­which is named after a young lady of legendary times named Tydfil, a Christian martyr, of which Merthyr-Tydvil is a corruption,—­and made the best of our way to the Bush Inn, where we treated our sable friend to some cwrw dach,—­Anglice, strong ale; and after a hearty supper of Welsh rabbit, which Tom Ingoldsby calls a “bunny without any bones,” and “custard with mustard,”—­which, as made in the Principality, it much resembles,—­I took a stroll through the town.  It was a dull-looking place enough, and as dirty as dull; every house was built with dingy gray stones, without any reference whatever to cleanliness or ventilation; and as to the civilization of the inhabitants, I saw enough to convince me, that, to see real barbarism, an Englishman need only visit that part of Great Britain called Wales.  It was eight in the evening, and the day-laborers at the furnaces had just left work.  The doors of all the cottages were open, and, as I passed them, in almost every one was to be seen a perfectly naked stalwart man rubbing himself down with a dirty rough towel, while his wife and grown-up daughters or sisters, almost as nude and filthy as himself, stood listlessly by, or prepared his supper.