"protecting" powder between the two
fire-striking substances, till we are falling into a
state of passive, stupefied dismay, when one of
the proprietors draws us away by the arm, saying
softly—"Perhaps it's as well not to—you
may shut up, Mr. Ashbee—not to—"The rest
dies in expressive silence. The folding-doors
are closed, and the grim, ponderous stones, are
left to themselves to roll round in darkness.
We hear their lonely grinding murmur as we
walk away, rather briskly—none of us speaking
for some minutes.

This process was originally performed in
the Powder-mills of England by means of
huge pestles and mortars, or great wooden
sockets, the pestles being worked by
machinery. But they have long been abandoned;
in fact, there is a law against them. All
Powder-mills must be licensed by act of
parliament. In the improved process we have
just witnessed, there occurs several
"beautiful varieties," as a connoisseur would say,
all of which are in operation in the works
of the Messrs. Curtis. They have stone-rolls
working in iron beds (with two or three
inches of powder between, acting as a
safeguard against sparks!); iron working on stone
(with powder between); iron working on iron
(with powder between); and stone working
on stone (with powder between); to which
terrific protection, as explained to us by
Mr. Ashbee, we bow our courteous assent,
declaring that we clearly comprehend the
principle, and feel perfectly safe—in fact, as
safe as could be expected. It happened on
our visit to the mill just described, that a
quantity of powder, caked and adhering by
pressure to one of the rolls, rose up with it.
We looked at Mr. Ashbee. "It will be wiped
off by the machinery before the stone rolls
round here again," said Mr. Ashbee, calmly.
Saying which, he wiped it off himself, as if by
instinct.

Wandering on our way along a narrow
footpath, with a fir plantation on our right
hand, and on the left the edge of the river—
the Colne—which meanders through the
whole of these grounds, partly by nature, but
also by art, we arrive at a high green mound,
exactly like the embankments of a fortification.
Turning an angle, we discover another
small black structure, which we are informed
is the "Press-house." Arrived at the wooden
ridge which marks the sacred precincts of
the platform, our boots are carefully encased
in the over-shoes,—one leg at a time, when
ready, being then placed for us, by the hand
of our shoe-bearer, upon the platform. We
should tell the reader that the reason for this
ceremony is in case some small particles of
gravel may adhere to our soles, and cause a
spark, by any two of these particles rubbing
together as we walk. Thus preserved and
preserving, we cross the platform, which is swimming
with water, and we enter—the den, we
had almost said, for it has no appearance like
any other place of work we ever saw, or read
of. The floor is carpeted with leather and
bullocks' hides. Everybody having to walk
over the watery platform (not attributable
only to the rain, but always kept floating),
their feet moving over the fallen gunpowder
which bestrews the floor, have made a slippery
paste. Over this we go sliding about, to
look at the several interesting objects of the
"house;" in especial, we are attracted to the
hydraulic press. This bulky iron monster,
inspiring river water, which is pumped up
beneath his body, possesses a power of
compression equal to five hundred tons to the
inch. Here a number of layers of powder are
placed between flat plates of copper, we
believe, and pressed till they come out in cakes
as hard as tiles. Small wooden tubs are
arranged on the other side, filled with those
cakes, broken up into fragments. In order
to show us how hard it is, Mr. Ashbee
obligingly begins to bang a large piece upon
the edge of one of the tubs. We see that
the tubs are of wood, and not likely to emit
a spark, and we take it for granted that the
experienced manager knows that the cake of
gunpowder itself will not explode with the
concussion; nevertheless the sound, and the
violence of the action, in so silent and
restrained a place, is a sensation—whether
rational or irrational—as little partaking of
the agreeable as possible. Being quite satisfied
of the hardness of these cakes, and expressing
ourselves—we hope we did not omit this—
highly gratified with the inspection of the
"house," we slither our way over the wet
leather and hides; and, continuing our slide
across the watery platform, are met by our
over-shoe bearer at the edge, who seizes upon
one leg, takes off the over-shoe, and places this
foot upon the ground, beneath the narrow
ridge, and then the other, all as before.
Nothing could be more proper.

But we have not adequately described the
locality of these works, nor the most marked
peculiarity which characterises the workmen.
We believe there are no other classes of
manufactures, nor of men, which in any respect
resemble them.

Hounslow Gunpowder Mills are not so
much like a special "town," as so many other
large manufactories appear, but rather have
the appearance of an infant colony;—a very
infant one, you will say, inasmuch as we have
never spoken of its inhabitants, excepting
those few whom we have seen in the different
houses. We never met a single man in all
our rambles through the plantations, nor
heard the sound of a human voice. It is like
a strange new settlement, where there is
ample space, plenty of wood and water, but
with scarcely any colonists, and only here and
there a log-hut or a dark shed among the
trees.

These works are distributed over some
hundred and fifty acres of land, without reckoning
the surface of the Colne, which, sometimes
broad, sometimes narrow, sometimes in a