the level of the ground, will be fed with
water from the Aire by one tunnel, and send
forth the used water by another tunnel.
Beneath the weaving shed will be an immense
filter and reservoir, capable of storing half a
million gallons of rain water from the various
roofs—rain water being useful in scouring
wool. Between the canal and the river are
to be gas-works, capable of supplying five
thousand jets with their light-giving food.
But as to the working-machines, the complex
apparatus which will cover ten or twelve
acres of flooring in the different stories, no
mere paragraph, or no dozen paragraphs,
could describe it; all that invention has yet
accomplished in the manufacture of stuffs,
alpacas, mohair, and such like, will doubtless
be brought into requisition.

The living machinery has yet to be noticed;
and here is the matter that will tax the head
and the heart of the founder of this great
establishment. The buildings, machines, and
appliances will be fitted for a staff of no less
than four thousand five hundred workpeople;
and as there must be at least an equal
number of non-workers to give domestic
homes to the workers, the full powers of the
mill would require a neighbouring population
of nine or ten thousand persons. Now, the
factory is being built out in the fields, beyond
the limits of Shipley; and Mr. Salt has therefore
to create a town as well as the factory
which is to give bread to the townspeople.
His plans comprise the building of seven
hundred houses, of various sizes and ranks,
but all provided with light, ventilation, and
drainage, on the most approved modern
arrangements; wide streets, gardens, spacious
squares, and play-fields and grounds; a church,
schools, a covered market, baths and wash-
houses, a public kitchen such as scientific
cooks now know well how to plan, a refectory
or large dining hall, and other useful
buildings.

And such will be SALTAIRE—a name which,
unless anything should occur to frustrate the
works now rapidly advancing, will soon
occupy a place among the notabilities of
Yorkshire. Some of the London newspapers
have set down the probable cost now being
incurred by Mr. Salt, at half a million sterling;
but it has since been stated, apparently on
good authority, that the outlay will be much
less than this. Be it a hundred thousand
more or less, however, here we see before us
a prospective community, the daily bread and
the social comfort, and the moral advancement
of which will very intimately depend
on the fortunes of one single establishment.
When trade is good, and stuffs are "looking
up" in the Bradford market, and all hands
are employed, and credit is sound—then may
Saltaire possibly be one of the best of our
industrial communities, for it appears as if it
would have many physical and moral advantages
to begin with; but when adversities
come (and they do occur to stuff-makers as
well as to other makers), then will be the test,
to show whether the Saltairians (we will coin
a word for the purpose) can bravely stand
the buffetings of fortune. How much, how
very much of this will depend on the
combined wisdom and kindliness of the Captain
of Industry, who leads the whole, need hardly
be insisted on.

BARRYHOORAGHAN POST-OFFICE.

THE Postmaster General may live in peace.
I have a complaint or two to make against
the post-office of Barryhooraghan, county
Cork—against the post-office of my own
village—but I complain, for my own satisfaction,
of abuses that I don't particularly want
to see reformed. If ever some busy City
gentleman, with a stiff neck and elastic boots,
should come for a week to Barryhooraghan,
the Times and the Postmaster General may
both expect to hear of us. To me our post-
office provides excitement and amusement, it
varies the monotony of life by its
irregularities, and breeds diversion in the village.
My complaint against it is a pleasure; like the
nightingale's complaint, however doleful it
may sound, it is the result of satisfaction in
the utterer.

Letters, for example, do now and then
change hands, and go down the middle, but
they always finally come up again. I think
it no very grievous thing, though I complain
sadly that sentimental letters addressed to
me are incessantly delivered to a stout matter-
of-fact neighbour, whose name begins and
ends like mine. I know that she reads them,
by the bad look she carries about with her,
after she has taken in this way an accidental
dose of poetry or feeling. The taste of it
seems to lie in her mouth all day.

Letters, however, do not go astray now
under the rule of Mrs. Minahan, grocer and
post-mistress, as they did two years ago in
the reign of Patrick O'Shaughnessy, who was
called for shortness, Posy Houlahan. Posy
had been a very excellent member of the
Irish constabulary force, and had, in one way
or other, scraped together many items of a
good education, Latin and Greek included.
He was constable and tutor, until, resigning
his post in the police force on his marriage,
he was placed at the head of the world of
letters in our village. Then, as we all agreed,
"Posy got beyant himself." He left the
letters to the care of his illiterate household,
by the members of which they were distributed
very much at random. Posy himself
prosecuted schemes of high ambition, and
eventually left us. I have seen a letter from
Dublin in his handwriting to a neighbour
abusing us all heartily as "the Barryhooraghan
clique of aristocrats," under the signature
of Standish Hamilton. To that length
has Posy got beyond himself.

Mrs. Minahan takes pains with the home
arrangement of the letters, but she finds it