At the head of the beautiful valley of Borrowdale lies the little
hamlet of Seathwaite. Near a clump of historic yews, six or eight
whitewashed cottages nestle, a favourite haunt of artists, and the one
solitary place in England where plumbago is to be found in absolute
purity. Here the mountains converge on either side, until Glaramara
at last fills the gap and closes in the vale. Travellers who wish
to proceed farther, must go, either on horseback or on foot, over
Sty Head Pass, and so into Wastdale, or past Scafell, into Langdale.
Secluded little spot in Cumberland as this is, its hidden treasure was
well known to our ancestors at least two hundred years ago; nor did
any sentimental ideas of spoiling the lovely scenery deter them from
mining into the mountain-side in search of that peculiar form of carbon
commonly known as blacklead, plumbago, or graphite. The first and by
far the most generally used of these names is a decided misnomer, for
although there are many lead-mines in Cumberland, plumbago contains no
trace of lead, but is one of the two crystallised forms in which carbon
exists; the other being the diamond. Plumbago as found here lies in
nests or pockets—or _sops_, as they are locally named. These sops are
cavernous holes, varying in size from a few cubic inches to several
cubic feet, and occur in the solid rock, resembling on a large scale
what are known as air-holes in iron castings. The miners follow certain
veins of granite as a guide to the sops, and come upon them suddenly
in the heart of the mountain. It is in these that the plumbago—or
_wad_, as the workmen call it—is found, in the form of black lumps,
just like eggs in a nest. Some pieces are as small as peas, and others
as large as big melons. How that plumbago came there, is a great
puzzle to geologists. Odd pieces have been occasionally turned up by
husbandmen whilst delving the ground; but it is probable that these
were originally imbedded in the rocks, masses of which, having become
detached by frost and rain, fell into the valley, and in their descent
were broken up, and so laid bare the plumbago that was inside.
Owing to its power of standing great heat, our forefathers used
plumbago for crucibles, a large portion being sent to the Mint for
operations connected with coining. Pencils were also made of it; and
people who have been accustomed to hear of Cumberland lead-pencils,
may imagine that they are yet; but it is a mistake. A drawing-pencil
made of this virgin graphite cannot be manufactured to cost less than
a shilling; and who, except for some exceptional work, would give such
a price? The scientific chemist has stepped in and supplied a cheaper
article. Conté, a Frenchman, about the end of last century, was the
first to suggest a substitute, or rather a partial one; and since then,
his idea has been step by step worked out and perfected, until to-day
we are able to produce a commercial pencil at the wholesale price of
less than one farthing. Even crucibles are now rarely made from it; so
that, what with one thing and another, the Borrowdale mine has been
closed for the last five years. Many of the visitors suppose that the
stoppage of the works is caused by the mine having been exhausted.
This, however, is a mistake, as there is every reason to believe that
there are yet very large quantities of plumbago in the rock; but the
cost of production, and the discovery of cheaper substitutes, render
further mining impracticable as a commercial undertaking.
To give an idea of the difference in value of plumbago—the last lot
from this mine sold in London brought thirty shillings per pound; and
it has been known to sell for one hundred and sixty shillings; whilst
the price at present for best foreign is about forty shillings per
hundredweight, or, say, fourpence per pound. Inferior qualities, such
as are used for blackleading grates, &c., can be bought much cheaper.
Foreign plumbago is chiefly imported from Ceylon and Bohemia, where it
is found in veins in large quantities; but as this kind cannot be used
for pencils in its crude state, it has to be ‘manufactured.’ This is
done largely at Keswick; so that, after all, when a purchaser buys a
‘best Cumberland pencil,’ he is not altogether deceived; for although
the blacklead does come from Ceylon and the cedar from Florida, were
they not first introduced to each other by the Keswick workman, toiling
at his bench in the water-turned mills on the banks of the Greta? The
Borrowdale graphite varies much in degree of hardness; consequently,
in the old days when it was made into pencils, each lump was tested
and sorted according to the depth of colour it produced on a piece of
paper. The classification was from H.H.H. or very hard, to B.B.B.B.
or very soft and black. The graphite was then sawn by hand into
strips, which were inserted into a slot or groove in the wood, and the
whole glued together and turned in a lathe into a pencil. The method
of to-day is quite different, and there being great competition in
this trade, speed combined with good work is the principal end to be
attained to bring the cost as low as possible.
The three mills at Keswick employ about a hundred workpeople, males and
females. The men earn on an average about twenty-five shillings per
week, and the women about twelve. The blacklead—we are now speaking
of imported plumbago—is first crushed and then mixed with what is
technically called a _binding_, the composition of which is a trade
secret and varies at each mill. Its purpose is, as the term denotes,
to give a glutinous consistency to the powdered plumbago and also to
add to the blackness of its marking qualities. Lampblack, sulphuric
acid, gum-arabic, resin, and several other substances are used in this
binding. The whole is worked into a pulp between revolving stones. It
is then partially dried and again crushed. Whilst in this half-dry
state, it is forced through a mould under considerable pressure. These
moulds are of various sizes, from a very big one a quarter-inch square,
used for fancy walking-sticks—a mere catchpenny, and purchased only by
tourists as mementoes—to the little round ones used for putting into
pencil-cases and which are called ‘lead-points.’ The intermediate sizes
are known as Carpenters, Drawing, Pocket-book, and Programme. A workman
receives the thin strip of blacklead as it is slowly forced through the
mould, and at intervals breaks it off, carefully placing it on a board
between pieces of wood. By this means a large quantity can be kept
without fear of damage. When sufficient is moulded to compose a baking,
the oven is heated; and these long slips, which are exactly the size of
the lead in a pencil, are cut into lengths of about four inches, and
packed with care in cast-iron crucibles. These are then put into the
oven, and allowed to remain at a red heat for two hours. When gently
cooled, the leads are ready for pencils.
In another part of the manufactory, a different kind of work is going
on—that of preparing, or rather working the wood, for it undergoes
no change but that of shape. Cedar is universally used, except in
very low qualities and carpenters’ pencils. Most of this wood comes
from America; and Florida is one of the largest exporting States. The
chief reasons for using cedar are—that it is easily worked, is soft,
straight-grained, free from knots, and is sweet-scented. Am eminent
firm of toilet-soap makers have taken note of this last quality, and
purchase all the cedar sawdust that is made in these pencil-mills. A
minimum of waste is one of the sure signs of an advanced civilisation.
Many and various circular saws reduce the cedar logs into strips of
two sizes—one, about thirty inches long, an inch and a quarter wide,
and three-eighths of an inch thick; the other, of the same dimensions,
but only half the thickness. These are examined; and any having
defects, such as knots, cracks, &c., are laid aside, to be used in
shorter lengths, the bad places having been cut out. The thicker or
three-eighth-inch strips are then passed through the grooving-machine,
which cuts out three perfect and clean grooves up the whole length.
These are now ready to receive the strips of lead, which are first
dipped in glue and placed by girls into the grooves, which they exactly
fill. The wood has now the appearance of having three black lines
running parallel along the whole length. This surface is then brushed
over with hot glue and the thinner strip placed firmly on it. If any
pencil is looked at closely, the joining of these two pieces will be
easily noticed. The whole is placed, with many similar ones, in a
frame, where they are pressed firmly together until the glue has quite
set.
It will be understood that now each piece is composed of two strips
of wood, firmly glued together, inside which, three grooves, filled
with plumbago composition, run from one end to the other—about thirty
inches, or sufficient to make four pencils to each groove—that is,
twelve pencils in all. The length of a finished pencil is seven inches.
These pieces are then taken to a very curious machine and passed twice
through. The first time, the top surface is ploughed from end to end
into what resembles three distinct semicircular ridges; the piece is
then turned, and the other side treated in a similar manner. The result
of this second ploughing is that three perfectly circular and entirely
separate lengths are seen to emerge from the machine. On examining
any one of these, it will be found to be a pencil thirty inches long,
having the vein of blacklead exactly in the centre. This is an American
invention, and has done much to reduce the cost of the modern pencil.
The pencils, however, have to pass through many hands before they can
claim to be finished. Women rub them with fine sand-paper, other women
varnish and polish them, and then they are cut by a circular saw into
seven-inch lengths. For the first time, they could now be recognised by
a child as pencils. A thin shaving is taken off each end, which gives
them a finished appearance and causes the lead to shine, as the saw
does not cut clean enough for a fastidious public. Lastly, the pencil
is stamped, not necessarily always with the maker’s name, for nowadays
he occasionally sinks his individuality for the purpose of selling his
wares; and for an order of a gross, some makers will stamp any village
stationer’s name on each pencil.