dipped. It is dyed in orchil first, and then
made bluer, and somewhat more secure, by
being soused in a well-soaped alkaline mixture.
—That is a good red brown. It is from Brazil
wood, with alum for its mordant.—This is
a brilliant blue;—indigo, of course ? Yes,
sulphate of indigo, with tartaric acid.—Here
are two yellows: how is that ? One is much
better than the other; moreover, it makes a
better green; moreover, it wears
immeasurably better.—But what is it? The inferior
one is the old-fashioned turmeric, with tartaric
acid. And the improved yellow ?—O! we
perceive. It is a secret of the establishment,
and we are not to ask questions about it.
But among all these men employed here, are
there none accessible to a bribe from a rival
in the art ? There is no saying; for the men
cannot be tempted. They do not know, any
more than ourselves, what this mysterious
yellow is. But why does it not supersede the
old-fashioned turmeric?—It will, no doubt;
and it is gaining rapidly upon it; but it takes
time to establish improvements. The
improvement in greens, however, is fast
recommending the new yellow.—This deep amber
is a fine colour. We find it is called California,
which has a modern sound in it.—This
Napoleon blue (not Louis Napoleon's) is a rich
colour. It gives a good deal of trouble. There
is actually a precipitation of metal, of tin,
upon every fibre, to make it receive the dye;
and then it has to be washed; and then dipped
again, before it can take a darker shade; and
afterwards washed again, over and over, till
it is dark enough; when it is finally soused
in water which has fuller's earth in it, to
make it soft enough for working and wear.—
What is doing with that dirty-white bundle?
It is silk of a thoroughly bad colour. Whether
it is the fault of the worm, or of the worm's
food, or what, there is no saying—that is the
manufacturer's affair. He sent it here. It
is now to be sulphured, and dipped in a very
faint shade of indigo, curdled over with soap.
This will improve it, but not make it equal to
a purer white silk. Next, the wet hanks
have to be squeezed in the Archimedean
press, and then hung up in that large, hot
drying-room.

One serious matter remains unintelligible
to us. Plaid ribbons—that is, all sorts of
checked ribbons—have been in fashion so
long now, that we have had time to speculate
(which we have often done) on how they can
possibly be made. About the colours of the
warp (the long way of the ribbon) we are clear
enough. But how, in the weft, do the colours
duly return, so as to make the stripes, and
therefore the checks, recur at equal distances?
We are now shown how this was done
formerly, and how it is done now. Formerly,
the hanks were tied very tightly, at equal
distances, and the alternate spaces closely
wrapped round with paper, or wound round
with packthread. This took up a great deal
of time. We were shown a much better plan.
A shallow box is made, so as to hold within
it the halves of several skeins of silk; these
halves being curiously twisted, so as to alternate
with the other halves when the hanks
are shaken back into their right position for
winding. One half being within the box, and
the other hanging out, the lid is bolted down
so tight that .the dye cannot creep into the
box; and the out-hanging silk is dipped. So
much can be done at once, that the saving of
time is very great, and, judging by the
prodigious array of plaid ribbons that we saw in
the looms afterwards, the value of the invention
is no trifle. The name of this novelty is
the Clouding Box.

We see a bundle of cotton. What has
cotton to do here? It is from Nottingham—
very fine and well twisted. It is a pretty
pink, and it costs one shilling and sixpence per
pound to dye. But what is it for ?—Ah!
that is the question! It is to mix in with
silk, to make a cheap ribbon. Another pinch
of devil's dust!

There is a calendering process employed in
the final preparation of the dried silk, by
which, we believe, its gloss is improved; but
it was not in operation at the time of our
visit. We saw, and watched with great
curiosity, a still later process—more pretty to
witness than easy to achieve—the making up
of the hanks. This is actually the most
difficult thing the men have to learn in the
whole business. Of course, therefore, it is no
matter for description. The twist, the insertion
of the arm, the jerk, the drawing of the
mysterious knot, may be looked at for hours
and days, without the spectator having the
least idea how the thing is done. We went
from workman to workman—from him who
was making up the blue, to him who was
making up the red—we saw one of the
proprietors make up several hanks at the speed
of twenty in four minutes and a half, and we
are no more likely to be able to do it, than if
we had never entered a dye-house. Peeping
Tom might spy for very long before he would
be much the wiser: when done, the effect is
beautiful. The snaky coils of the polished
silk throw off the light like fragments of
mirrors.

Another mysterious process is the marking
of the silk which belongs to each
manufacturer. The hanks and bundles are tied
with cotton string; and this string is knotted
with knots at this end, at that end, in the
middle, in ties at the sides, with knots
numbering from one to fifteen, twenty, or
whatever number may be necessary; and the
manufacturer's particular system of knots is
posted in the books with his name, the
quantity of silk sent in, the dye required, and
all other particulars.

We were amused to find that there is a
particular twist and a particular dye for the
fringe of brown parasols. It is desired that
there should be a claret tint on this fringe,
when seen against the light; and here,