Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIII.—April, 1852.—Vol. IV.

In the dormitories on the first floor, some lie bed-ridden. Gentler still, if possible, is now the Sister's voice. The rooms throughout the house are airy, with large windows, and those inhabited by the Sisters are distinguished from the rest by no mark of indulgence or superiority.

We descend now into the old men's department; and enter a warm room, with a stove in the centre. One old fellow has his feet upon a little foot-warmer, and thinly pipes out, that he is very comfortable now, for he is always warm. The chills of age, and the chills of the cold pavement remain together in his memory; but he is very comfortable now – very comfortable. An other decrepit man, with white hair and bowed back – who may have been proud, in his youth, of a rich voice for love-song, talks of music to the Sister; and, on being asked to sing, blazes out with joyous gestures, and strikes up a song of Béranger's in a cracked, shaggy voice, which sometimes – like a river given to flow under ground – is lost entirely, and then bubbles up again, quite thick with mud.

We go into a little oratory, where all pray together nightly before they retire to rest. Thence we descend into a garden for the men; and pass thence by a door into the women's court. The chapel-bell invites us to witness the assembly of the Sisters for the repetition of their psalms and litanies. From the chapel we return into the court, and enter a large room, where the women are all busy with their spinning-wheels. One old soul immediately totters to the Sister (not the same Sister with whom we set out), and insists on welcoming her daughter with a kiss. We are informed that it is a delusion of her age to recognize in this Sister really her own child, who is certainly far away, and may possibly be dead. The Sister embraces her affectionately, and does nothing to disturb the pleasant thought.

And now we go into the kitchen. Preparation for coffee is in progress. The dregs of coffee that have been collected from the houses of the affluent in the neighborhood, are stewed for a long time with great care. The Sisters say they produce a very tolerable result; and, at any rate, every inmate is thus enabled to have a cup of coffee every morning, to which love is able to administer the finest Mocha flavor. A Sister enters from her rounds out of doors with two cans full of broken victuals. She is a healthy, and, I think, a handsome woman. Her daily work is to go out with the cans directly after she has had her morning coffee, and to collect food for the ninety old people that are in the house. As fast as she fills her cans, she brings them to the kitchen, and goes out again; continuing in this work daily till four o'clock.

You do not like this begging? What are the advertisements on behalf of our own hospitals? what are the collectors? what are the dinners, the speeches, the charity sermons? A few weak women, strong in heart, without advertisement, or dinners, or charity sermons; without urgent appeals to a sympathizing public; who have no occasion to exercitate charity, by enticing it to balls and to theatrical benefits; patiently collect waste food from house to house, and feed the poor with it, humbly and tenderly.

The cans are now to be emptied; the contents being divided into four compartments, according to their nature – broken meat, vegetables, slices of pudding, fish, &c. Each is afterward submitted to the best cookery that can be contrived. The choicest things are set aside – these, said a Sister, with a look of satisfaction, will be for our poor dear sick.

The number of Sisters altogether in this house engaged in attendance on the ninety infirm paupers, is fourteen. They divide the duties of the house among themselves. Two serve in the kitchen, two in the laundry; one begs, one devotes herself to constant personal attendance on the wants of the old men, and so on with the others, each having her special department. The whole sentiment of the household is that of a very large and very amiable family. To feel that they console the last days of the infirm and aged poor, is all the Little Sisters get for their hard work.

HOW GUNPOWDER IS MADE. – VISIT TO HOUNSLOW MILLS

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, inasmuch as it has very few inhabitants. 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 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 immovable, like an antediluvian skeleton, against the dull, gray 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 armor with a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes, there will be a free way upward, 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 upward 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 any body 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 any thing to another, or to ask for any thing 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, every body knows that some imminent danger is expected the next moment, and all rush away headlong from the direction of the shout. As to running toward 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 employers, and think of the danger to the lives of others, and of the property at stake at all times, and more especially in all the more dangerous "houses." The proprietors of the various gunpowder mills all display the same consideration for each other, and whenever any improvement tending to lessen danger is discovered by one, it is immediately communicated to all the others. The wages of the men are good, and the hours very short; no artificial lights are ever used in the works. They all wash themselves – black, white, yellow, and bronze – and leave the mills at half-past three in the afternoon, winter and summer.

After several unsuccessful attempts to effect an entrance into one of the mysterious manufactories – attributable solely to the dangers of utter destruction that momentarily hover over all works of this kind, and not in the least from any want of courtesy in the proprietors – we eventually obtained permission to inspect these mills owned by the Messrs. Curtis, which are among the largest works of the kind in Europe. It was a very wet day, but that circumstance was rather favorable than otherwise, as our obliging companion, Mr. Ashbee, the manager of the works, considerately informed us. After visiting successively the mills where the charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone, are separately prepared, we plash our way over the wet path to the "incorporation mill" – a sufficiently dangerous place. Having exchanged our boots for India rubber over-shoes, we enter and find the machinery – consisting of two ponderous, upright millstones, rolling round like wagon-wheels, in a small circle. In the bed beneath these huge rolling stones lies, not one, but the three terrible ingredients of powdered charcoal, saltpetre, and sulphur, which are thus incorporated. The bed upon which the stones roll is of iron; from it the stones would inevitably strike sparks – and "there an end of all" – if they came in contact in any part. But between the stones and the iron bed lies the incorporating powder – forty pounds of it giving a bed of intermediate powder, of two or three inches deep; so that the explosive material is absolutely the only protection. So long as the powder lies in this bed with no part of the iron left bare, all is considered to be safe. To keep it within the bed, therefore – while the rolling twist of the stones is continually displacing it, and rubbing it outward and inward – several mechanical contrivances are adopted, which act like guides, and scoops, and scrapers; and thus restore, with regularity, the powder to its proper place, beneath the stones. A water-wheel keeps this mill in action. No workmen remain here; but the time required for the incorporating process being known, the bed of powder is laid down, the mill set in motion, and then shut up and left to itself – as it ought to be, in case of any little oversight or "hitch" on the part of the guides, scoops, or scrapers. The machinery of these mills, as may be readily credited, is always kept in the finest order. "And yet," says Mr. Ashbee, in a whisper; "and yet, five of them – just such mills as these —went off at Faversham, the other day, one after the other. Nobody knew how." This seasonable piece of information naturally increases the peculiar interest we feel in the objects we are now examining, as they proceed with their work.

The next house we visit, Mr. Ashbee assures us, is a very interesting process. To be sure, it is one of the most dangerous; and what makes this worse, is the fact that the process is of that kind which requires the constant presence of the men. They can not set the machinery to work, and leave it for a given time; they must always remain on the spot. It is the "Corning House" sometimes called "Graining," as it is the process which reduces the cakes and hard knobs, into which the gunpowder has been forced by hydraulic pressure, into grains – a very nice, and, it would appear, a sufficiently alarming operation.

Ascending by a rising pathway, we pass over a mound covered with a plantation of firs, and descending to a path by the river side, we arrive at a structure of black timber, some five-and-twenty feet high, set up in the shape of an acute angle. This is a "blast-wall," intended to offer some resistance to a rush of air in case of an explosion near at hand. There is also a similar blast-wall on the opposite side of the river. Passing this structure, we arrive at a green embankment thrown up as in fortified places, and behind and beneath this stands the "Corning House."

It is a low-roofed, black edifice, like the rest, although, if possible, with a still more dismal appearance. We know not what causes the impression, but we could fancy it some place of torture, devoted to the service of the darkest pagan superstitions, or those of the Holy Inquisition. A little black vestibule, or out-house, stands on the side nearest us. The whole structure is planted on the river's edge, to which the platform in front extends. We enter the little vestibule, and here we go through the ceremony of the over-shoes. We are then permitted to advance upon the sacred platform, and we then approach the entrance. If we have received a strange and unaccountable impression of a place of torture, from the external appearance and surrounding circumstances, this is considerably borne out by the interior. The first thing that seems to justify this is a dry, strangulated, shrieking cry which continues at intervals. We discover that it is the cry of a wooden screw in torment, which in some sort reconciles us. But the sound lingers, and the impression too. The flooring is all covered with leather and hides, all perfectly black with the dust of gunpowder, and on this occasion all perfectly dry. We do not much like that: the wet sliding about was more amusing; perhaps, also, a trifle safer.

The first object that seizes upon our attention is a black square frame-work, apparently suspended from the ceiling. Its ugly perpendicular beams, and equally uncouth horizontal limbs would be just the thing to hang the dead bodies of tortured victims in. We can not help following up our first impression. The men here, who stand in silence looking intently at us, all wear black masks. On the left there is reared a structure of black wood reaching to within two or three feet of the roof. It is built up in several stages, descending like broad steps. Each of these broad steps contains a sieve made of closely woven wire, which becomes finer as the steps get lower and lower. In this machine we noticed iron axles for the wheels, but our attention was directed to the rollers, which were of zinc. Thus the friction does not induce sparks, the action being also guarded against external blows. At present the machine is not in motion; and the men at work here observe their usual silence and depressing gravity. We conjecture that the machine, when put in motion, shakes and sifts the gunpowder in a slow and most cautious manner, corresponding to the seriousness of the human workers, and with an almost equal sense of the consequences of iron mistaking for once the nature of copper and brass. "Put on the house!" says Mr. Ashbee, in the calm voice always used here, and nodding at the same time to the head corning-man. A rumbling sound is heard – the wheels begin to turn – the black sieves bestir themselves, moving from side to side; the wheels turn faster – the sieves shake and shuffle faster. We trust there is no mistake. They all get faster still. We do not wish them to put themselves to any inconvenience on our account. The full speed is laid on! The wheels whirl and buzz – iron teeth play into brass teeth – copper winks at iron – the black sieves shake their infernal sides into fury – the whole machine seems bent upon its own destruction – the destruction of us all! Now – one small spark – and in an instant the whole of this house, with all in it, would be instantly swept away! Nobody seems to think of this. And see! – how the gunpowder rashes from side to side of the sieves, and pours down from one stage to the other. We feel sure that all this must be much faster than usual. We do not wish it. Why should pride prevent our requesting that this horror should cease? We hear, also, an extraordinary noise behind us. Turning hastily round, we see the previously immovable black frame-work for the dead whirling round and round in the air with frightful rapidity, while two men with wooden shovels are shoveling up showers of gunpowder, as if to smother and suffocate its madness. Nothing but shame – nothing but shame and an anguish of self-command, prevents our instantly darting out of the house – across the platform – and headlong into the river.

What a house – what a workshop! It is quiet again. We have not sprung into the river. But had we been alone here, under such circumstances for the first time, we should have had no subsequent respect for our own instincts and promptitude of action if we had done any thing else. As it was, the thing is a sensation for life. We find that the whirling frame-work also contains sieves – that the invisible moving power is by a water-wheel under the flooring, which acts by a crank. But we are very much obliged already – we have had enough of "corning."

We take our departure over the platform – have our over-shoes taken off – and finding that there is something more to see, we rally and recover our breath, and are again on the path by the water's edge. A man is coming down the river with a small covered barge, carrying powder from one house to another. We remark that boating must be one of the safest positions, not only as unconducive to explosion, but even in case of its occurring elsewhere. Mr. Ashbee coincides in this opinion, although, he adds, that some time ago, a man coming down the river in a boat – just as that one is now doing – had his right arm blown off. We see that, in truth, o position is safe. One may be "blown off" any where, at any moment. Thus pleasantly conversing as we walk, we arrive at the "Glazing-House."

The process of glazing consists in mixing black-lead with gunpowder in large grains, and glazing, or giving it a fine glossy texture. For this purpose four barrels containing the grains are ranged on an axle. They are made to revolve during four hours, to render them smooth; black-lead is then added, and they revolve four hours more. There is iron in this machinery; but it works upon brass or copper wheels, so that friction generates heat, but not fire. The process continues from eight to twenty-four hours, according to the fineness of polish required; and the revolution of the barrels sometimes causes the heat of the gunpowder within to rise to one hundred and twenty degrees – even to charring the wood of the interior of the barrels by the heat and friction. We inquire what degree of heat they may be in at the present moment? It is rather high, we learn; and the head-glazer politely informs us that we may put our hand and arm into the barrels and feel the heat. He opens it at the top for the purpose. We take his word for it. However, as he inserts one hand and arm by way of example, we feel in some sort called upon, for the honor of "Household Words," to do the same. It is extremely hot, and a most agreeable sensation. The faces of the men here, being all black from the powder, and shining with the addition of the black lead, have the appearance of grim masks of demons in a pantomime, or rather of real demons in a mine. Their eyes look out upon us with a strange intelligence. They know the figure they present. So do we. This, added to their subdued voice, and whispering, and mute gesticulation, and noiseless moving and creeping about, renders the scene quite unique; and a little of it goes a great way.

Our time being now short – our hours, in fact, being "numbered" – we move quickly on to the next house, some hundred yards distant. It is the "Stoving-house." We approach the door. Mr. Ashbee is so good as to say there is no need for us to enter, as the process may be seen from the door-way. We are permitted to stand upon the little platform outside, in our boots, dispensing with the over-shoes. This house is heated by pipes. The powder is spread upon numerous wooden trays, and slid into shelves on stands, or racks. The heat is raised to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. We salute the head stove-man, and depart. But turning round to give a "longing, lingering look behind," we see a large mop protruded from the door-way. Its round head seems to inspect the place where we stood in our boots on the platform. It evidently discovers a few grains of gravel or grit, and descends upon them immediately, to expurgate the evil communication which may corrupt the good manners of the house. A great watering-pot is next advanced, and then a stern head – not unlike an old medallion we have seen of Diogenes – looks round the door-post after us.

The furnace, with its tall chimney, by means of which the stove-pipes of the house we have just visited, are heated, is at a considerable distance, the pipes being carried under-ground to the house.

We next go to look at the "Packing-house," where the powder is placed in barrels, bags, tin cases, paper cases, canisters, &c. On entering this place, a man runs swiftly before each of us, laying down a mat for each foot to step upon as we advance, thus leaving rows of mats in our wake, over which we are required to pass on returning. We considered it a mark of great attention – a kind of Oriental compliment.

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! 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!"