Gypsy habits, had nothing farther to expect than the occupation of tilling the earth, a dull hopeless toil; then it was that the Gitanos paid tribute to the inferior ministers of justice, and were engaged in illicit connection with those of higher station and by such means baffled the law, whose vengeance rarely fell upon their heads; and then it was that they bid it open defiance, retiring to the deserts and mountains, and living in wild independence by rapine and shedding of blood; for as the law then stood they would lose all by resigning their Gitanismo, whereas by clinging to it they lived either in the independence so dear to them, or beneath the protection of their confederates.  It would appear that in proportion as the law was harsh and severe, so was the Gitano bold and secure.

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Many of them reside in caves scooped in the sides of the ravines which lead to the higher regions of the Alpujarras, on a skirt of which stands Granada.  A common occupation of the Gitanos of Granada is working in iron, and it is not unfrequent to find these caves tenanted by Gypsy smiths and their families, who ply the hammer and forge in the bowels of the earth.  To one standing at the mouth of the cave, especially at night, they afford a picturesque spectacle.  Gathered round the forge, their bronzed and naked bodies, illuminated by the flame, appear like figures of demons, while the cave, with its flinty sides and uneven roof, blackened by the charcoal vapours which hover about it in festoons, seems to offer no inadequate representation of fabled purgatory.

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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.

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