If one desires to know what the condition of cities, towns and peoples was before the nineteenth century had lightened and enlightened them, let him step into some poor country town in some out-of-the-way region (and such may yet be found) at night, pick his way along rough pavements, and no pavements, by the light of a smoky lamp placed here and there at corners, and of weeping lamps and limp candles in the windows of shops and houses, and meet people armed with tin lanterns throwing a dubious light across the pathways. Let him be prepared to be assailed by the odours of undrained gutters, ditches, and roads called streets, and escape, if he can, stumbling and falling into them. Let him take care also that he avoid in the darkness the drippings from the overhanging eaves or windows, and falling upon the slippery steps of the dim doorway he may be about to enter. Within, let him overlook, if he can, in the hospitable reception, the dim and smoky atmosphere, and observe that the brightest and best as well as the most cheerful illuminant flashes from the wide open fireplace. Occasionally a glowing grate might be met. The eighteenth century did have its glowing grates, and its still more glowing furnaces of coal in which the ore was melted and by the light of which the castings were made. It is very strange that year after year for successive generations men saw the hard black coal break under the influence of heat and burst into flames which lit up every corner, without learning, beyond sundry accidents and experiments, that this _gast_, or _geest_, or _spirit_, or _vapour_, or _gas_, as it was variously called, could be led away from its source, ignited at a distance, and made to give light and heat at other places than just where it was generated.