line, and sometimes coiling, and escaping by
a curve out of sight, intersects the whole
place. It is, in fact, a great straggling
plantation of firs, over swells and declivities of
land, with a branch or neck of a river meeting
you unexpectedly at almost every turn. The
more we have seen of this dismal settlement
"in the bush," the more do we revert to our
first impression on entering it. The place is
like the strange and squalid plantation of some
necromancer in Spenser's "Fairy Queen."
Many trees are black and shattered, as if by
lightning; others distorted, writhing, and
partially stripped of their bark; and all of
them have a sort of conscious look that this
is a very precarious spot for the regular
progress of vegetation. You wander up narrow
winding paths, and you descend narrow winding
paths; you see the broad arm of a river,
with little swampy osier islands upon it, and
then you enter another plantation, and come
upon a narrow winding neck of river, leading
up to a great black slanting structure, which
you are told is a "blast-wall;" and behind
this is the green embankment of a fortification
and further back you come upon one of
the black, ominous-looking powder "houses."
You advance along other tortuous paths, you
cross small bridges, and again you enter a
plantation, more or less sombre, and presently
emerge upon an open space, where you see
a semicircular road of red gravel, with cart-
ruts deeply trenched in it; and then another
narrower road down to a branch of the river,
where there is another little bridge; and
beyond this, on the other side, you see a huge
water-wheel revolving between two black
barn-like houses. You ascend a slope, by a
path of mud and slush, and arriving at
another larger open space, you find yourself in
front of a sheet of water, and in the distance
you observe one enormous wheel—the
diabolical queen of all the rest—standing, black
and immoveable, like an antediluvian skeleton,
against the dull, grey sky, with a torrent of
water running in a long narrow gully from
beneath its lower spokes, as if disgorged
before its death. This open space is
surrounded by trees, above which, high over all,
there rises a huge chimney, or rather tower;
and again, over all this there float clouds of
black smoke, derived from charred wood, if
we may judge of the effect upon our noses and
eyes.

At distances from each other, varying from
thirty or forty to a hundred and fifty yards,
over this settlement are distributed, by
systematic arrangement of the intervals, and the
obstructive character of the intervening ground
and plantations, no less than ninety-seven
different buildings. By these means, not only
is the danger divided, but the loss, by an
explosion, reduced to the one "house" in which
the accident occurs. Such, at least, is the intention
though certainly not always affording the
desired protection. The houses are also, for
the most part, constructed of light materials,
where the nature of the operation will admit
of it; sometimes extremely strong below, but
very light above, like a man in armour with
a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes, there
will be a free way upwards, and they hope to
get rid of the fury with no greater loss than a
light roof. In some cases the roofs are of
concrete, and bomb-proof; in others, the roofs are
floated with water in shallow tanks. There
are five steam-engines employed, one being a
locomotive; and the extraordinary number of
twenty-six water-mills, as motive powers for
machinery—obviously much safer than any
other that could be obtained from the most
guarded and covered-in engines requiring
furnaces.

In this silent region, amidst whose ninety-
seven work-places no human voice ever
breaks upon the ear, and where, indeed, no
human form is seen, except in the isolated
house in which his allotted task is performed,
there are secreted upwards of two hundred
and fifty work-people. They are a peculiar
race; not, of course, by nature, in most cases,
but by the habit of years. The circumstances
of momentary destruction in which they live,
added to the most stringent and necessary
regulations, have subdued their minds and
feelings to the conditions of their hire. There
is seldom any need to enforce these regulations.
Some terrific explosion here, or in
works of a similar kind elsewhere, leaves a
fixed mark in their memories, and acts as
a constant warning. Here no shadow of a
practical joke, or caper of animal spirits, ever
transpires; no witticisms, no oaths, no
chaffing, or slang. A laugh is never heard
a smile seldom seen. Even the work is
carried on by the men with as few words as
possible, and these uttered in a low tone.
Not that anybody fancies that mere sound
will awaken the spirit of combustion, or
cause an explosion to take place, but that
their feelings are always kept subdued. If
one man wishes to communicate anything
to another, or to ask for anything from somebody
at a short distance, he must go there;
he is never permitted to shout or call out.
There is a particular reason for this last
regulation. Amidst all this silence, whenever
a shout does occur, everybody knows
that some imminent danger is expected the
next moment, and all rush away headlong
from the direction of the shout. As to
running towards it to offer any assistance, as
common in all other cases, it is thoroughly
understood that none can be afforded. An
accident here is immediate and beyond
remedy. If the shouting be continued for
some time (for a man might be drowning in
the river), that might cause one or two of
the boldest to return; but this would be
a very rare occurrence. It is by no means to
be inferred that the men are selfish and
insensible to the perils of each other; on
the contrary, they have the greatest
consideration for each other, as well as for their