Some portions of the machinery do their work with marvellous precision and dexterity,
“——as if the iron thought!”
and it seemed to me that I could never have tired of watching the machine that took the wool, one fringe-like instalment after another, from assiduous cylinders, and delivered it to another series of movements which placed the fibres all in one direction, and produced the rough outline of the future thread. Another ingenious device weaves two pieces at once all in one width, and with four selvages, of which two are, of course, in the middle of the web, and yet there is no difference in appearance between those two inner ones and those on the outer edges. The piece is afterwards divided along the narrow line left between them. Even in the noisome washing-room there was something to admire. The wool, after a course of pushing to and fro in a cistern of hot water by two great rakes, is delivered to an endless web by a revolving cylinder. This cylinder is armed with rows of long brass teeth, and as they would be in the way of the web on their descent, they disappear within the body of the cylinder at the critical moment, and come presently forth again to continue their lift.
In the warehouse, I was shown that the wool is sorted into eight qualities, sometimes a ninth; and the care bestowed on this preliminary operation may be judged of from the fact, that every sorting passes in succession through two sets of hands. There, too, I learned that the first fleece of Gimmer hogs is among the best of English wool; and, indeed, it feels quite silky in comparison with other kinds. The quality loses in goodness with every subsequent shearing. The clippings and refuse are purchased by the shoddy makers, those ingenious converters of old clothes into new.
Where alpaca and other fine cloths are so largely manufactured, the question as to a continuous supply of finest wool becomes of serious importance. Mr. Salt has done what he can to provide for a supply by introducing the alpaca sheep into Australia and the Cape of Good Hope.
On my coming, I had thought the counting-house, and offices, and visitors’ room too luxurious for a mere place of business; but when I returned thither to take leave, with the impression of the enormous scale of the business, and the means by which it is accomplished fresh on my mind, these appeared quite in harmony with all the rest. And when I stood, taking a last look around, on the railway bridge, I felt that he whose large foresight had planned so stately a home for industry, and set it down here in a sylvan valley, deserved no mean place among the Worthies of Yorkshire.
I walked back to Shipley, and there spent some time sauntering to and fro in the throng, which had greatly increased during the afternoon. There was no increase of amusement, however, with increase of numbers; and the chief diversion seemed to consist in watching the swings and roundabouts, and eating gingerbread. Now and then little troops of damsels elbowed their way through, bedizened in such finery as would have thrown a negro into ecstacies. “That caps me!” cried a young man, as one of the parties went past, outvying all the rest in staring colours.
“There’s a vast of ’em coom t’ feast, isn’t there?” replied his companion; “and there ’ll be more, afore noight.”
“Look at Bobby,” said an aunt of her little nephew, who had been disappointed of a cake; “Look at Bobby! He’s fit to cry.”
“What’s ta do?” shouted a countryman, as he was pushed rudely aside; “runnin’ agean t’ foaks! What d’ye come poakin yer noase thro’ here for?”