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To Correspondents.—We are much obliged to "A Lady" in Philadelphia. Her
interest in " The Living Age " is so cordial as to be quite cheering. If she had given her
address we should have been glad to explain to her, more at large than we can do here;
the article she refers to was not copied from an American Journal, as she will see by look-
ing at the table of contents.

Very many kind letters we are obliged to pass unnoticed, because the writers give us no
address—and it is inexpedient to answer in print.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL, S O N, & C O., B O S T O N.

SLEEP NOT DEATH.

"Grato m' 6 il sonno . . .

Mentre che'l danno e la vergogna dura."

In immemorial aisles, whose mellow gloom

Was crimsoned with the flush of setting day, Where angels prayed above a trophied tomb,

Shadowed or sealed by death a woman lay; The smile, the scorn of regal majesty,

Seemed frozen on her lips, or fixed in stone, A chaplet of.the stars that cannot die

Shone on the brow where living light was

none; Tet death it was not, or it did not seem,

Methought, she slumbered in a heavy trance, With fitful starts, the passion of a dream,

And mourners stood around, and wept for France.

Then Freedom bowed her stately form and said:

"O, Mother, mine no more, I seek a home. Who are my friends . the exile and the dead.

Where are my banners 1 Do they float at

Rome? One short bright morning of my life I stood,

Armed at thy side, crying to Earth ' be free!' Through crashing kingdoms, through a sea of olood,

Unconquerable, I looked and clnng to thee; I shone like Hesper over death's array,

And death was beautiful. The steadfast sky Sees baser hopes and meaner men to-dny,

These dare not follow where I point and die;

"They tremble if I speak. I must begone." Then Faith said, sadly, " He who camo to

save Joined Faith with Freedom. Shall I rest alone,

A marble mourner weeping on a grave? France knew me once. Her white-cross warriors fought,

Bleeding and faint, a passage to my shrine; And, as they fell, the peace that is not bought Camo to them with death's kiss , the cause

was mine;

Bv all the woman's weakness I was strong. "Now, courtiers, give the word, and hirelings

pray,

The soldier's clatter drowns the sacred song; I fly like Mary bearing Christ away."

A murmur of unutterable woe,

"Let us depart," was breathed upon the air, Cross shadows flickered ghost-like to and fro, The sculptured angels seemed to cease from

prayer;

But Honour, gray with years, knelt in the dust,
"I watched thy cradle first, I quit thee last.
.The secret massacre, the broken trust,
Can these, can Cesar's crown, degrade thy

Past?

I live a memory in the hearts of men."
And Hope, with eyes fresh kindled from the

sun,

Said, "Lady, thou shalt rise and reign again, Thou art immortal, and thy foe is—One." —Spectator.

SONG OF THE RIVER.

BY CHARLES KISGSUET.

Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;

Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining shingle, and foaming wear;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,

Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,
By the smoke-grimed town in its murky cowl •

Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare spbrt with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.

Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along,
To the golden sands and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned

again.

Undefiled, for the nndefiled, Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

FAITH AND WILL.

Two Powers, since first the world began,

Have ruled our race and rule it still: Twin Masters of the fate of man Are Faith and Will.

The pole-star and the helm of life,

That sets the end, this gives the force, O'er plains of peace and seas of strife, To carve our course.

The power that stands on rocks of strength,

And lets the tempest lash and foam,—
Unshaken—is the power at length
That brings us home.

But where is home? that Faith can tell.

But what is Faith? that Will can prove
By suffering bravely, striving well,
And serving Love.

Spectator.

From The Spectator.
KING COTTON.

THERE is—or was until recently—a tall, handsome man confined in a lunatic asylum at Camberwell. He used to sit mournfully for days and weeks in a corner of bis lone room, little given to talk, and less to physical exercise. Now and then, however, he broke out in a sudden blaze of excitement, repeating incoherent sentences, in which only the word "flax-cotton " was distinctly audible. The unhappy man's name was Chevalier Claussen. By birth a Dane, and a man of high scientific education, he gave himself up early to the study of practical chemistry, particularly those branches connected with the manufacture of textile fabrics. After years of labor, and many experiments, he came to the conclusion that the fibre of flax, if rightly manipulated, is superior to cotton for all purposes in which the latter is employed, and therefore ought to supersede it, as well on this account as being an indigenous plant, for the supply of which Europe might remain independent of serf or slave. Claussen's experiments were well received in his own country, and his king gave him the title of Chevalier; but, unfortunately, little other substantial encouragement. The inventor then went to France, married a young French lady, was presented at court, and received the order of the Legion of Honor; but again got little else but promises of future reward for the years of labor devoted to the one great object he had in hand. Somewhat weary of his work, and sorely pressed by poverty, Chevalier Claussen next came to this country, arriving just in time for the International Exhibition of 1851. He displayed in the Hyde Park Palace some beautiful articles made of flax-cotton, and set all the world in raptures about the new invention, the more so as he freely explained the secret of the process for converting flax-straw into a material equal in all and superior in some respects to the cotton fabric. The manipulation was simple enough, according to Claussen's showing. The flax, cut into small pieces by machinery, was left for a short while to the combined action of alkaline solvents and of carbonated alkalies and acids, which converted the fibre into a material very similar to cotton, and fit even, to some extent, to be spun with cotton machinery. The English manufacturers

to whom the process was explained were delighted; nevertheless, they refused with many thanks the chevalier's offer to work his invention. It was found that flax-cotton could not be profitably spun without making various alterations in the existing machinery, and to this the Lancashire mill-owners objected, saying, why should we trouble ourselves about the new raw material as long as we have got cotton in abundance? With something of a prophetic vein, M. Claussen remonstrated, arguing that the supply was not all to be depended upon, and that, besides, it would be better, and cheaper in the long run, to make European hands feed European mills, by the aid of perfected steamagencies, than to leave the task to the rude manual labor of unwilling bondsmen. It was the voice of the preacher in the desert: Lancashire listened not; and when the Hyde Park show was over, Chevalier Claussen and his invention were no more thought of than the man who discovered the compass. Sorely troubled in mind, and with abject poverty staring him in the face, Claussen then pursued his pilgrimage, crossing the Atlantic to America. AVhat happened to him in the great Western Republic is not accurately known; but it is presumed that some 'cute natives laid hold of the young man from the old country, squeezing his brains and then throwing him overboard. It was rumored that Chevalier Claussen had got a "partner;" and not long after somebody, partner or otherwise, brought him back to this country, shutting him up in a lunatic asylum at Camberwell. Here the history of flax-cotton ends: the inventor in a madhouse; Lancashire without food for her mills and her people.

The case of flax versus cotton has not since had a fair trial. It is strange, indeed, to perceive in this matter to what an extent the industry of whole nations is liable to follow in the wake of mechanical inventions. It was not until the seventeenth century that cotton goods were made in England, while flax was cultivated to a far greater extent, and woven into textile fabrics, though with very simple mechanical appliances. Then it happened, about the year 1685, that a colony of Huguenot families, flying in consequence of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, settled in the North of Ireland, and gave the first impulse to the cultivation and manufacture of flax. Among the refugees was a gentleman of the name of Louis Cromonelin, a native of St. Quentin, whose family had been engaged for generations in the linen trade. This M. Cromonelin took a patent for various contrivances in the spinning and wearing of flax, and setting earnestly to work in the new manufacture, crops of the plant soon sprang up in all directions, and thousands of acres of land, mere wastes previously, were covered with the graceful little annual, on tall and slender stalk, with dejicate blue flowers, which in the time of Abraham already produced the "fine linen " on the spindles and looms of Babylonia. The flax manufactories, no less than the manufacturers, following the impulse thus given, throve remarkably well in Ireland; and it is interesting to note that at the present day a descendant of, M. Louis Cromonelin is at the head of one of the largest linen establishments in the province of Ulster. Towards the end of the latter century the use of the fibre of flax was near taking the lead in the manufacture of textile materials, when all at once a series of mechanical inventors— Hargreaves,Compton, Arkwright, and others —appeared upon the stage, devoting themselves entirely to the improvement of cotton machinery. Their efforts produced a social and commercial revolution as great as the introduction of the locomotive on the road. The quantity of cotton brought to this country in 1764 amounted only to about four millions of pounds; but in 1780 it came to be seven millions; in 1790, thirty millions; in 1800, about fifty millions; and increasing every decennium 4y from forty to one hundred millions, reached in 1860 the total of 1,250,000,000 pounds. Every step in this rising scale of consumption was marked, and was produced in the first instance by improved machinery. It seemed as if the entire energy of the mechanical genius of the age had been thrown into one direction of making contrivances for spinning and weaving cotton, and that all rival branches of industry had become totally neglected. So it happened that the methods for preparing flax adopted in this country, and, indeed, over the whole of Europe at the present time, still resemble those used by the ancient flax-growers of Egypt four thousand years ago, and yet followed by the natives of Hindostan. This is proved by numerous

pictorial representations on the walls of Egyptian tombs and temples, some of them as strikingly similar to the doings of Irish and Belgian peasants engaged in the flax manufacture as if copied on the spot. We have no more curious illustration of the in many respects one-sided and singularly accidental progress of modern civilization.

There is something truly marvellous in the contemplation of the thousand wonderful contrivances for manufacturing cotton shown in the " iron tabernacle " of the present International Exhibition, and the reflection that the whole is but the product of some seventy or eighty years. Before Arkwright's time the cotton manufacture was carried on — as the flax manufacture is still to a great extent—in the cottages of agricultural laborers, who, working partly in the fields and partly at their simple hand-looms, brought both calicoes and cabbages to the nearest market, to dispose of them to itinerant dealers. The stride from those old rural hand-looms to the modern machinery exhibited in the western annexe of Captain Fowke's warehouse is far more gigantic than anything else in the history of modern inventions, not excepting railway travelling and electric interchange of words. Itis doubtful, indeed, whether there is anything more expressive of human ingenuity —that which Carlyle calls the beaver-faculty of man—in the world, than some of the cotton-spinning automatons at the exhibition. An immense row of spindles are seen flying round in furious whirl, twisting slender threads in all directions, bending upwards and downwards, obedient to an invisible power, and performing evolutions unapproachable in exactness and regularity by the hand of man. Other parts of the machinery take the cotton fibre, spread it evenly over long lattices, pass it between rollers, lead it along under a complication of wrappers, combs, brushes, and knives, and discharge it in the end in greatly altered form, ready for furthur manipulation. There is incessant life, movement, and action, and no propelling agency visible, save an occasional whiff of steam, which now and then pops out from beneath the world of wheels. Perhaps a little girl, with flakes of cotton in her hair, and more flakes in her apron, is looking on leisurely from the distance, pulling out here and there an errant thread; but apparently not otherwise interested in the doings of the huge automaton. Contemplating the thing for awhile, nigh stunned by the tumult of wheels and levers, the thought creeps over the mind that all earthly intelligence has been Concentrated here for the sole purpose of shaping the fibres of the gossypium plant into a textile fabric. To perform the task, ten millions of steam-propelled spindles are incessantly whizzing in this country, and hundreds of thousands of free men must be dependent on the labor of the slave. It is a contemplation almost hideous, to think of a legion of such automatons as are seen in the western exhibition annexe, all whirling and whizzing, but with no food to put down their throat, and nothing to grasp between their iron teeth. King Cotton, with famine in his trail, looks lurid in the extreme.

The terrors vanish somewhat on a further stroll through the exhibition. There are hundreds upon hundreds of stalls, from all parts of the world, whose owners offer to feed King Cotton, be be ever so hungry. Australia, South America, the Cape, Natal, Egypt, Algiers, Ceylon, China, Japan, the whole of India, and a host of other countries, down to classic Attica, have sent samples of their gossypium to show what they can do towards keeping the ten millions of British spindles in movement. The sight is a very fair one; but, alas, far from being entirely consolatory. The catalogue of countries which can produce cotton, but have not yet proved it, is like the list of works which young authors and poets set down in their pocket-books, as intending to write as soon as called upon, and which consequently they never do write. This awful question of cotton, it seems, is ruled everywhere more by accident than by the will of governments and nations. The ten millions of British spindles grew into existence because, as it chanced, a few working men of Lancashire took to inventing power-looms instead of flax-steeping machines; and King Cotton himself built up his throne on the banks of the Mississippi, because a couple of halfstarved Frenchmen were wrecked there one day with a few seeds of gossypium in their pockets. The finest " long-stapled" cotton, the only kind for which Lancashire is really

crying in its distress, grew originally in the Antilles, where Columbus found it on his arrival, and settled a supply of it as a tribute on the natives. The districts of San Fran9013 of Bailly, and other old settlements of Guadaloupe and the neighboring islands, furnished for a long time the whole of Europe with the best kind of cotton. In 1808, the export of the material from the Antilles amounted to near a million and a half of pounds; but the culture was as suddenly interrupted by the wars of the first empire, as recently again in the internecine struggle of America. Flying from the scene of strife, some French emigrants carried a small quantity of cotton seed from Guadaloupe to South Carolina, and thus established the element of commercial importance in the American Republic. This was the origin of the famous sea-island cotton. For many years past, the French Government has tried hard to revive the culture of the plant in the Antilles, but without any appreciable success. The millions spent to encourage the industry have had no other effect hitherto but to destroy it more and more, by introducing the artificial element. The same has been the case in other countries, wherever governments or commercial associations have attempted to carry the matter with a high hand. King Cotton evidently disdains restraint, and will rule only by the grace of God and his own supreme will. Whether it would not be wise to temper the sway by constitutional means, such as the appointment of Prince Flax to the chief ministry, is a question which the owners of the ten millions of spindles will have to decide before long. It seems hard and almost unnatural that hundreds of thousands of Europeans should be dependent for their very existence on the fibres of a plant which will only grow in hot and unhealthy climes, and the control of which, wherever produced, must be insecure in the last degree. Accident made King Cotton sovereign; but nature points in another direction, to an organism of the same constituencies, which flourishes with our race from the torrid zone to the north pole. We have it on high authority that man does not live on bread alone: why on cotton?

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