a machine very much like a roundabout at a
fair; only, that in place of the wooden horses
and cars, there are sieves, arranged so as to
cover the whole circle. In each of these
sieves, gunpowder in the rough is placed, and
upon this is laid loosely a round piece of
stone—lapis lazuli—about one-fourth part of
the size of the sieve. The machine is put in
motion; spins round; and in doing so, each
of the round loose pieces of lapis lazuli
describe a whirling circle in the sieve, and
thus reduce the rough powder to grains, by
rubbing it through the sieves. The
machinery in action does not inspire us with any
such dismay and apprehension as the first
corning demon. Perhaps our nerves have by
this time got more seasoned; but it is quite
bad enough in the present case for a mere
stranger; and we are heartily, thoroughly,
undisguisedly, and jovially glad to get out of
the place.

The last of our visits is to a "Charge House."
There are several of these, where the powder
is kept in store. We approach it by a path
through a plantation. It lies deep among the
trees—a most lonely, dismal sarcophagus. It
is roofed with water—that is, the roof is
composed of water-tanks, which are filled by
the rain; and in dry weather they are filled
by means of a pump arranged for that
purpose. The platform at the entrance is of
water—that is to say, it is a broad wooden
trough two inches deep, full of water, through
which we are required to walk. We do so,
and with far more satisfaction than some
things we have done here to-day. We enter
the house alone; the others waiting outside.
All silent and dusky as an Egyptian tomb.
The tubs of powder, dimly seen in the
uncertain light, are ranged along the walls, like
mummies—all giving the impression of a
secret life within. But a secret life, how
different! "Ah I there's the rub." We
retire with a mental obeisance, and a respectful
air—the influence remaining with us, so
that we bow slightly on rejoining our friends
outside, who bow in return, looking from us
to the open door-way of the "house!"

With thoughtful brows, and not in any
very high state of hilarity, after the duties of
the day—not to speak of being wet through
to the skin, for the second time—we move
through the fir groves on our way back. We
notice a strange appearance in many trees,
some of which are curiously distorted, others
with their heads cut off; and, in some places,
there are large and upright gaps in a plantation.
Mr. Ashbee, after deliberating inwardly
a little while, informs us that a very dreadful
accident happened here last year. "Was
there an explosion?" we inquire. He says
there was. "And a serious one?"—"Yes."
—"Any lives lost?"—"Yes."—"Two or
three?"—"More than that."—"Five or six?"
He says more than that. He gradually drops
into the narrative, with a subdued tone of
voice. There was an explosion last year.
Six different houses blew up.  It began with
a "Separating House,"—a place for sizing,
or sorting, the different grains through sieves.
Then the explosion went to a "Granulating
House", one hundred yards off.  How it was
carried such distances, except by a general
combustion of the air, he cannot imagine.
Thence, it went to a "Press House," where
the powder lies in hard cakes. Thence, it
went, in two ways,—on one side to a
"Composition Mixing House," and, on the other, to
a "Glazing House;" and thence to another
"Granulating House." Each of these
buildings was fully one hundred yards from
another: each was intercepted by plantations
of firs and forest trees as a protection; and
the whole took place within forty seconds.
There was no tracing how it had occurred.

This, then, accounts for the different gaps—
some of them extending fifty or sixty yards—
in the plantations and groves? Mr. Ashbee
nods a grave assent. He adds, that one large
tree was torn up by the roots, and its trunk was
found deposited at such a distance, that they
never could really ascertain where it came
from. It was just found lying there. An iron
water-wheel, of thirty feet in circumference,
belonging to one of the mills, was blown to a
distance of fifty yards through the air, cutting
through the heads of all the trees in its way,
and finally lodging between the upper boughs
of a large tree, where is stuck last, like a
boy's kite. The poor fellows who were killed
—(our informant here drops his voice to a
whisper, and speaks in short detached
fragments; there is nobody near us, but he feels
as a man should in speaking of such things)
—the poor fellows who were killed were
horribly mutilated—more than mutilated,
some of them—their different members,
distributed hither and thither, could not be
buried with their proper owners, to any
certainty. One man escaped out of a house,
before it blew up, in time to run at least forty
yards. He was seen running, when suddenly
he fell. But when he was picked up, he was
found to be quite dead. The concussion of
the air had killed him. One man coming
down the river in a boat was mutilated.
Some men who were missing, were never
found—blown all to nothing. The place
where some of the "houses" had stood, did
not retain so much as a piece of timber, or a
brick. All had been swept away, leaving
nothing but the torn-up ground, a little
rubbish, and a black hash of bits of stick, to
show the place where they had been erected.

We turn our eyes once more towards the
immense gaps in the fir groves, gaps which
here and there amount to wide intervals, in
which all the trees are reduced to about half
their height, having been cut away near the
middle. Some trees, near at hand, we observe
to have been flayed of their bark all down
one side; others have strips of bark hanging
dry and black.  Several trees ares strangely
distorted, and the entire trunk of one large