And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances.  “I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary.  It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past.  I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood.  Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude:  I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, {63a} and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful—­such a place as the Chong Gav. {63b} I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany.”

Shortly 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.” {63c} 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,” {64} said I.

CHAPTER II—­THE SHOEING OF AMBROL.

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 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 stroke sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, {65a} 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 mine own eyes in connection with forges.