WITHIN the narrow limits of a small wooden tenement, on one of the most retired and unfrequented lanes of the city of Richmond, lives and labors our hero--blacksmith. For more than threescore years has he been pursuing, in our city, his humble calling. And though his head is "silver'd o'er with age," even now the merry ring of Gilbert's anvil may be heard at early dawn, saying to many a tardy young man--Be diligent in business. At his door hangs a sign painted in rude, uncouth letters. It is made of sheet iron; perhaps to save expense, perhaps to gratify the love of the old blacksmith for the metal which has so long yielded him a support. Here is the sign--.