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box, the inside edges of which are also covered with teeth. It will easily be conceived, how effectually the cotton will be disentangled and shaken, when the cylinder is made to revolve at the rapid rate of 600 times per minute; all the heavier particles of dirt fall to the ground through a grated bottom, and the lighter are carried away through a funnel in the top of the machine. The willow will clean from 5000 to 7200 pounds of cotton in one day. The manufacturer then proceeds to prepare the cotton for the important operation of carding, by separating it from all particles of extraneous matter, whether lighter or heavier than itself, and by detaching the cotton fibres from each other. This is effected by means of the processes termed "scutching," "batting," or beating, and "blowing;" for, although these different terms are used, they are now almost synonymous,-one machine not only scutches, but also beats and blows. The following is the plan by which this is accomplished:-the cotton is spread evenly upon a continuallyrevolving cloth, which carries it to two fluted rollers; upon emerging from between which, a rapidly-rotating bar strikes the cotton, thus most effectually separating the fibres; this action is repeated a second time. There is a fan arranged, so as to produce a strong current of air, by which all the light particles of dirt are blown away through a funnel, and a grid beneath, through which all heavier impurities fall to the ground.

The first bar or scutcher makes about 1200 revolutions per minute, of each arm, and the second 1300. The two rollers, called feed-rollers, which receive the cotton from the endless apron, make eight revolutions per minute. Supposing their diameter to be 14 inches, they will introduce eight times their circumference, or about 36 inches in that time: the consequence is, that every 12th or 13th part of an inch of the cotton is struck three times by the scutcher; and the second pair of feed-rollers, by moving proportionally slower, cause the same quantity of cotton to receive 2 blows from the second scutcher. After passing the second scutcher, the cotton is often made to coil upon a wooden roller, which, when full, is removed to the carding engine.

It is the object of this beautiful machine to lay the fibres of the cotton parallel to each other. This is effected in the following manner: a number of stiff, clastic wires are so stuck into pieces of leather or wood, that they shall all be of the same length; if two such pieces are brought into contact, with some cotton between them, and moved in contrary directions, the fibres will evidently be arranged parallel to one another.

The annexed diagrams will serve to illustrate our meaning more fully:

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Suppose, a, (fig. 1) to be one of these cards, and b, to be another; it will be seen, if they are set in motion in the direction of their arrows, with the tuft of cotton between them, that the teeth of a will draw the fibres one way, and those of b the other, to their greatest length. The consequence will be, by a repetition of these strokes, that they will all be placed parallel to each other. Again, imagine this accomplished, and we wish to strip b of the filaments it has secured to itself from a by a transverse motion; the position

of a has only to be reversed, as in fig. 2, and the object is effected. Bearing these principles in mind, let us apply them to the machine, as seen in fig. 3; a is one of two slots into which slides one end of the rod

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upon which the cotton is wound; this coil rests upon a roller b, which aids the two rollers e, in unwinding the lap; a weight g hangs upon the upper one of these; f, is the card-drum, (measuring 35 inches in diameter, and making 130 revolutions per minute) which takes the lap from the two feedrollers e, and carries it in the direction of the arrow, when it is caught by the teeth of the runner p, which by its slower motion (five revolutions per minute) detains the cotton, and thus begins the carding; while the smaller runner r, by its greater velocity (470 revolutions per minute) combs away what cotton attaches itself to p, and surrenders it again to f, which carries it onward to the cards kkk, where the carding is renewed; as the drum passes onward, it encounters h, which strips off the cotton from it, and in consequence is called the doffer; from the doffer it is stripped by i, the comb or doffer-knife; the cotton then passes through the funnel n, which contracts it into a narrow riband, and delivers it to the drawing rollers o, and these again pass it to the last pair u and e, which conduct it into tin


The two pairs of rollers at o, lengthen the carding, and also diminish its size; the two under are made of iron, and fluted; but the two upper ones (made also of iron) are covered first with a flannel, and then with a leather coating, thus rendering them smooth and elastic; a weight w presses the latter upon the former; the second pair are at some little distance from the first, and revolve with greater rapidity, thus giving out more cotton than they receive. An elongation of the cotton also takes place between the second and the third pair of rollers, by the greater velocity of the latter.

Motion is communicated to the several parts of the machine in the following manner :-the band qq coming from a main shaft, drives the drum by the pulley t; from another pulley y on the axis of the drum proceeds a band by which the pulley a is driven, which sets in motion the mechanism

Im, working the doffer-knife; a third, from the drum's axis, works the small runner r, giving it its rapid motion; the doffer is set in motion by means of a pinion connected with the pulley a, which also sets in motion the large runner p, by means of the strap and pulley z, and also the feeding rollers e, and these again, by means of the wheel x, drive the wheel b.

On leaving the carding engine, the cotton is in a delicate, flat strip, called a "sliver;" and it is necessary, before communicating to it any degree of tightness and compactness, that the filaments should be made still more even; this is accomplished by means of "drawing" and "doubling :" but as an example has already occurred in carding, nothing more need be said respecting it, than that doubling is a combination of two or more of the slivers produced by the carding process.


"Roving" is the first spinning process which the cotton undergoes; it is similar to that of drawing: but as the cotton is without any degree of torsion, it would immediately part asunder, were not a twist now given, to convert it into a loose kind of thread. The accompanying diagram (fig. 4) represents the "can roving frame," contrived by Sir Richard Arkwright, which, till but recently, was in general use; a and b are the two drawing rollers, by which the combined slivers from the cans e, are elongated as before; d is the weight pressing the upper upon the lower ones; on emerging from between the rollers, the sliver is conducted through the funnel f, into the can g, which receives its rotatory motion from a band passing round the pulley k, placed a little above the pivot on which it turns; it will then be perceived, that as the can revolves, it gives the cotton-sliver a twist, as well as lays it in an even coil inside the can.

The "bobbin and fly frame," however, is now the great rover of the cotton manufacture. This machine consists of a series of vertical spindles, on each of which a reel or bobbin is placed, as well as a "fly" or fork, at a greater distance from the axis of the spindle than the bobbin, as seen in the annexed cut; the sliver (indicated by the doted line) having issued from between the drawing rollers as before, then passes down one arm of the fork or flyer, and by its revolution becomes twisted, as well as coiled with great regularity round the bobbin, which, when full, is removed and replaced by another: thus, three distinct operations are performed by this machine, viz. "drawing" or attenuating the sliver to a still greater thinness and delicacy; "roving" or slightly twisting it; and lastly, winding it upon the bobbin, thus enabling it to be conveniently conveyed to the spinning machine, of which, however, we shall speak in our next, together with the final process of weaving.


[From the French of MADAME DE MONTOLIEU.]

It was Sunday, and on every side was heard the silver sound of bells, summoning to the scattered churches the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages. In all the paths, were groups of men, women, youth, and children, walking at quick paces toward this or that rustic fane. All were dressed in their best clothes; the mothers and grandmothers in their weddinggowns, kept from year to year for Sundays, and were (thanks to the chest in which they were kept all the other days of the week) almost as good as on the happy day of their marriage, though the pattern was a little ancient. Fashion enjoys in the village an empire less rapid and less despotic in its mandates, but yet it does enjoy one; and the young girl, in her black corset, bordered with red, with short, puffed, shift-sleeves, and her straw hat, that covers one ear, titters at her mother's long train, her grandmother's hanging sleeves, and at both her mother's and grandmother's caps with large muslin lappets, without ever dreaming, that her children will titter at her own finery in their turn. Psalm-books are carried in the hands of all; but some are shut with silver clasps, which glisten in the sun, while others are more modestly ornamented with a sprig of rosemary, and a large red pink. All this troop of honest villagers appears to be going to a festival; and a festival it is, for pure and simple hearts, to begin the day of rest by joining together in an offering of prayer and praises to the Most High.

In a solitary and half-ruined cottage, before a small window with panes of oiled paper, stood an old man, looking mournfully at the procession of those that were going to church.

He followed them with his eyes till the last had entered, and the door was closed; and now, the bell ceased, and he heard the united voices of the congregation singing a psalm. He cast a look on his ragged clothing, and two tears flowed down his wrinkled checks; he wiped them with the back of his hand, and then turned toward his wife, who sat crying aloud on a wretched stool, her head resting upon a board which served them for a table, and her eyes covered with a table-cloth in which there were more holes than places to receive her tears.

Cry not thus, Bertha, said her husband; this is not as it should be, my child; you give offence to God, who requires that we bear with the lot which he assigns us: full well he knows that it is not our fault that we are not, like others, at prayer in his house. Could we dare to go, in these tatters which scarcely cover us? In the days of our prosperity, Bertha, we always went to church; even when we had two leagues to go, we went with pleasure: now, we can go no longer; but God sees the intention, he reads hearts, and he knows, that ours are given to him, as well here as in church. Forbear, therefore, to cry, Bertha; that will do no good; but give me the prayer-book, and I will read a prayer to you as well as the minister can, and afterward we will sing a psalm together, which I will lead as well as the chorister.

Bertha rose, and took from off the tester of the bed a book half torn to peices, and gave it to her husband. I am very willing, said she, to pray with you, my beloved; but not to sing: that is more than I am able to do.

When I see all these happy old women going to church, with their children and grandchildren

MARCELLUS. And their wedding clothes, Bertha! it is that which wrings your heart, is it not? Don't you think of your own, your pigeon'spoplin, which became you so well, and which was so beautiful? Alas! yes, poor Bertha, it was burnt with the rest, but what is left us to do? God was pleased that it should be so; we might have been burnt also, and we were saved.


What signifies it that we were saved, if we are to perish in our present misery? Would it had pleased God that I had died with my poor Georgette!

What will be

MARCELLUS. Bertha, Bertha! is this your love for me? left me now, if I have lost my good wife too? BERTHA. (Holding out to him her hand.) You are right, Marcellus, and I beg your pardon. With you I can suffer all. But we have bread but for one day, and you see our clothes!

MARCELLUS. God and good people will provide it for us, my wife. To-morrow it will not be Sunday, and we shall work. I have four pair of shoes to mend, which will bring me fourpence each; and your wheel, how it will go! We are not yet dead with hunger, though we have been very near it. We have not been obliged to beg, and it is that which would give me the greatest grief of all. As to receiving what is given us, I am content. Those that seek out the poor have certainly good hearts, and it is pleasing to give them thanks; but to ask of those who will perhaps refuse us, or give with an ill grace, accompanied with abuse; alas! that is hard, very hard; and it is that from which I pray God to spare my old age!

There is great need of it, perhaps, said Bertra, beginning again to weep. Who can answer for anything? who could have told us that our son would die in an hospital?

MARCELLUS. Who could have told us, at one time, that he would have died before ourselves? This is the real misfortune; for, as to the hospital, which you take so much to heart, many brave men die there, and go not the slower to heaven. Our children are in heaven, make yourself sure of that. God has taken them in their innocence, before they had sinned. Do you know that you could have kept them so, had they lived? Do you know that your daughter would not have left you for the first seducer, and your son for the first serjeant that offered him a cockade? Would not that have been much more grievous to you, than to render them up to the God who lent them? Cry no more, therefore, Bertha, and listen to the prayer that I am going to read.

Bertha sighed without replying. The afflicted mother could not resign herself to the vicissitude, in having had two beautiful children, and having them now no more; and in having been rich for her station, and being now in poverty. Her husband lamented the loss of his means, and still more of his children, not less than she; but grief in men has a quite different character; it is internal; and it is rarely that they like to give it issue, and to speak of it. Women, on the contrary, have a talkative sorrow, and very ready tears; and hence doubtlessly the cause, why grief is sometimes so fatal to men, while it is said that women thrive upon it. Be this as it may, Marcellus was not dead with his, but it bore heavier upon his heart than upon Bertha's: what he suffered from it made him dread to indulge it, and his single study was, to turn the conversation quickly when it fell upon the

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