Portway: May 2, 1849.
Thanks be to Heaven, I am on land once more, and never do I wish again to experience that hideous nightmare—a voyage across the ocean. We had the warmest welcome at my cousin's pleasant home. . . . I went one afternoon to see the casting—that is, when the melted iron, like a river of fire, flows into the moulds which shape it. The Russel Hall Works are close by the town of Dudley. There is a wide extent of smoky country, with many little groups of machinery and brick buildings, each constituting or rather surrounding a pit; many mounds of glowing coal turning into coke; piles of iron-*stone being burned previous to the smelting; the houses of the managers in various directions, the office at the entrance; and immediately in front the two great blast-furnaces, which burn incessantly day and night, making many thousands of tons a year. Very few workmen were to be seen, but underground a whole army of them were hard at work. The casting was very curious. Twice a day the melted iron is drawn off from the bottom of the great brick towers they call furnaces. Strong men with faces as black and scorched as a coal were busy, armed with iron poles, guiding the sea of fire that rushed out into the moulds that covered a great extent of ground, drawing out the white-hot masses of cinders and dirt, and splashing cold water over the front of the furnace to enable them to stand there. We remained at the farther end, but the heat was so great that we had to cover our faces. Suddenly, with a loud noise, the flames burst out from the furnaces, ascending to the very top, immense volumes of black smoke rolled over our heads, and the rushing noise grew louder and louder. I thought some accident had occurred, and looked out for the safest retreat, when I found it was only the clearing of
