THEY who regard wholesome labor as incessant drudgery, or they who hold the manufacturing occupation in contempt, may smile at the idea of the poetry of manufactures. Still the occupation taken in its various relations has a poetic attribute of distinguished beauty, whatever boldness it may require to make the assertion. This attribute has belonged to it through all time, and is to be found under the present system; and while other and more substantial influences may be required to induce its general practical adoption throughout our country, the demonstration of this feature of the calling may tend to soften the prejudices which exist against it and to commend it to our more favorable regards. True, it is not the poetry of bold deeds and adventurous exploits, of sudden change, imminent peril or hairbreadth escape. It is not the poetry of licentious tendencies. The spirit of manufactures frowns on all extravagance, whether manifested in freaks of fancy or of fortune. Artificial pigments it puts aside contemptuously for the more substantial cosmetics of morning air, invigorating employment, regular meals and unbroken slumbers. The poetry of manufactures is the true poetry-the poetry of real life. The representations of voluptuous ease and luxurious indolence-what are they but distorted imaginings? The poetry of manufactures is no dream of an Oriental paradise peopled with Genii and carpeted with flowers; neither is the cotton-mill an enchanted castle where hapless maidens are imprisoned by grim Blue Beards, nor a wind-mill to offer battle to love-sick Quixotes. Nor is the machine-shop the gaudy cabin of the reckless freebooter whose pastime it is to ride upon the stormy sea by day, but who, dastard-like, at night decking himself in a costume attractive to the eyes of female simplicity, appears in the livery of an enchanter in the quiet cottage, displays his gold and jewelry, and departs having robbed purity of its chastity and a home of its bliss. This is the romance which it is alas! too frequently the office of so called poetry to set forth. Such poetry the genius of manufactures does not boast. Hers is the poetry of the unobtrusive virtues, the poetry of humble life. It is linked to the heart and the affections. It derives its fragrance from the gentlest attributes of human nature. Ever has the true poet, whether sacred or profane, drawn from this occupation images and themes of song which by their truthfulness and beauty engage our cordial admiration. Homer imparts a deep pathos to some of his most touching scenes by introducing woman at the loom. Hector pleading against the remonstrances of his wife Andromache, to go forth to battle, thus endeavors to excite her alarms. Nothing so wounds his mind "As thine, Andromache! thy grief, I dread; I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led! In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part were thine." Again, in describing the death of Hector, Andromache is thus represented, at the loom. "But not as yet the fatal news had spread Forth from her ivory hand the shuttle falls, As thus astonished to her maids she calls." The gentle Cowper, whose most charming descriptions are drawn from scenes interwoven with female industry, exhibits the weaver at her labor, that by a contrast between her and Voltaire his reader may infer how inestimably happier is the lot of the humble but sincere Christian than that of the courted, gifted and polished Infidel. After speaking of the homage paid to Voltaire he says, "Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Heathen poets represented the Destinies as three female divinities, one of whom held the distaff, another spun the thread, while the third stood by with the scissors to clip off the web of human life. Sacred poetry, too, is full of these images which greatly enhance its beauty. 66 My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle." "His staff was like a weaver's beam." "She seeketh wool and flax, she worketh diligently with her hands." "She layeth her hands to the spindle and her hands hold the distaff.” "She maketh herself coverings of tapestry, her clothing is silk and purple." "She maketh fine linen and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." "I have cut off like a weaver my life." "Their webs shall not become garments." etc. etc. Is there no poetry in manufactures? Then is there no poetry in life, no beauty in the practice of its charities, no sublimity in moral greatness. Wherever are found the self-devotion, the patient labor, the cheerful voice, the mild eye and the tender heart of woman, there is poetry; and through all time, to manufacture has been the vocation of woman. She who has no desire to see the loom or can look upon it without emotion, although she may weep over a romance, is destitute of the finer sensibilities of the soul and a stranger to her sex; for she is indifferent to the most intimate companion of the toils, the tastes, the amusements, the condition and the progress of woman. Nor because woman has left the domestic hearth and gone to the manufacturing village-following thither the loom, still clinging to it as if bound by a tie of nature-has the poetry of the calling deserted it. What shall we say of the daughter, who educated in ease and affluence, but finding her father embarrassed by the reverses of fortune, repairs to the manufacturing village and year after year in obscure seclusion applies herself to the loom, until having earned sufficient for her object, she returns to her aged parents and brightens their declining life by clearing the estate of its mortgages and restoring them to a condition of ease? Is there nothing of romance or heroism in this? Surely she labors for no trivial nor sordid purpose. To hoard money, or to bestow it on showy finery, comes not within the scope of her aims. What shall we say of her who, surrounded with a family of little ones, finds herself connected with a husband of no principle or moral firmness -a wretched inebriate. She too, sundering the home-tie, takes up her abode in the town to which manufactures have given an existence, and devotes herself to a life of unintermitted toil, not that she may amass wealth, but that she may provide food for her household, and by foregoing the use of their labor supply them with the means of becoming prosperous and respected. The picture which poverty presents of a woman bowed down with years, subsisting upon a reluctant charity, gives her no alarm, for she feels that she is not its prototype. Having seen her own family fed, warmed, clad and instructed, and her faithfully loved, though fallen and ungrateful husband cared for, she goes forth to bestow her last mite upon the sick and the suffering; or if she have no mite, she imparts her kind offices, her counsels and her tears. And the rewards of both romance and real life are hers. Her children fill places of trust and respectability, and rise up and call her blessed. To such as these the true poet goes for his originals. The truth of nature and the simplicity of beauty are here. The pathos of sincerity and the earnestness of devotion are here. Time would fail to recount the occurrences of every day life in the manufacturing village, which are fraught with poetic beauty. If the mill be not an enchanted castle nor an Oriental harem, it is the resort of cultivated and sensible females; where virtuous principles and correct habits are formed. Manufactures aim not at exhibiting scenes of distress, choosing rather to lose their poetical character than to deal in romance if such must be the conditions. The light is not indeed transmitted through painted glass into the operatives' rooms, but as it streams through the windows it lingers among flowers, and in passing extracts and diffuses their fragrance. If serenades are not heard beneath the walls, there is the hum of industry within them. If the tramp of the war-horse is not quickened by woman's encouraging voice, the galloping loom is sped on its way by her active hand. If no intrigue gives rise to a story of romance, the tale of scandal is also spared. The poetical effusions and literary articles composed in our manufacturing villages grace the pages of our annuals and magazines, and there might be found correspondents with whom Felicia Hemans or Hannah More would have been proud to hold intercourse. Such is the poetry of our real, every day, manufacturing life. It is no unnatural fiction; but a substantial reality, daily exhibited before us, calling forth admiration, warming the heart with a true sympathy, and calculated to excite a desire among all beholders to emulate, each in his proper sphere, deeds so worthy, humanity so noble, intellect so cultivated, and devotion so generous and sublime. We have spoken of the poetry of manufactures as connected with the affections of the heart. We believe the system contains a special adaptedness to develope some of the most beautiful of the sensibilities of our nature. In all these there exists true poetry. We lay no claim for the employment to an exemption from its full share of life's evils-its trials, its temptations, its sorrows and its, sufferings. Indeed were it bereft of these, it would be destitute of poetry. For as the soil which is the most deeply impreg nated with the putrefactions of organic life is best adapted to produce perfect botanical specimens, so do scenes where affections |