180 



A TOPOGRAPHICAL 



some of the stone is also curiously streaked black, whereof there 

 are elegant patterns at Mr. Cough's, Perryhall." 



Bradley is a hamlet situated to the south of Bilston. Bradley- 

 hall, an ancient possession of the Hoo family, is now converted into 

 a farm-house : here is abundance of excellent coal arid iron-stone. 

 In opening a colliery at Bradley, about four years since, the roof 

 of the mine fell, and incarcerated a number of men and boys, all of 

 whom, except one man, were extricated from their perilous situation, 

 and providentially recovered, though they had been without food 

 for several days. Sir Joseph Scott, Bart, of Barr, is one of the 

 proprietors of this estate, in right of his wife, a daughter and co- 

 heiress of Mrs. Whitby. 



Bradley Moor is remarkable for a curious phenomenon called the 

 wild-fire, occasioned by a vein of coal having taken fire in the earth, 

 which has continued to burn for a number of years, but it is now 

 nearly extinct. 



Near Bradley are the extensive iron-works of Fereday, Smith, 

 and Co. supposed to be the largest establishment of the kind in the 

 world. The powers of the steam-engine, and other mechanical 

 improvements, are here employed to great advantage in the wield- 

 ing of ponderous hammers of two or three tons weight, and tiuge 

 rollers are acted upon to separate the dross from the metal while in 

 an almost fluid heat : castings of iron, weighing from ten to twelve 

 tons each, are made in one piece, and bars of one to four inches thick, 

 are sheared off with astonishing facility. The iron is here wrought 

 from the ore to the nail-bar, and afterwards manufactured into a 

 great variety of articles of convenience or commerce : many of the 

 boats employed upon the canal are constructed of plates of iron. 

 The hissing of the blast furnace, the clanging of hammers, the 

 dusky appearance of the workmen, and the various operations 

 upon unwieldy masses of red-hot iron, combine to excite an idea of 

 terror in the spectator : 



" The ponderous hammer falls, 



Loud anvils ring amid the trembling walls. 



Strokes follow strokes, the sparkling ingot shines, 



Flows the red flag, the lengthening bar refines. 



Cold waves immersed, the glowing mass congeal, 



And turn to adamant the hissing steel." 



BYSHBURY, or Bushbury, is a pleasant though retired village, 

 about two milts north-east of Wolverhampton : its ancient name, Bis- 

 copesburie, seems to imply that it was once the seat or residence of 

 some of the Mercian Bishops. In the time of William the Conqueror, 



