a factory capacious enough to contain within
its walls the machinery, or, rather, the
equivalent to the machinery, now working in five
of his Alpaca mills scattered over various
parts of the vicinity.

At a distance of two or three miles from
Bradford, the traveller by the Leeds Railway
may observe a sweet spot of country where the
river Aire meanders gently through as pretty a
green valley as is to be seen for many a league.
On that spot, just where the Lancaster and
Glasgow Railway and the Leeds and Liverpool
Canal diverge from each other, is a
block of ground, now fast disappearing
beneath a vast pile of masonry. This is the
Saltaire estate, and is destined to receive
the whole of Mr. Salt's operations, with new
machinery and engines more than equal to
his present force. The mill or factory is so
situated with regard to the railway and
the canal, that goods may be conveyed to it
by either of them without the aid of cartage
or porterage.

This vast building stands upon six acres of
ground, running east and west, and is nearly
six hundred feet in length, and eighty in
height: the several floors and sheds will
comprise a superficial extent of nearly fifty-
six thousand feet.

Such is, and such will be, Saltaire; and
the whole of this, it must be borne in mind,
is created by the genius and industry of one
quiet man of business. All these vast
machines, these huge piles of works, these
myriads of working instruments, this wonderful
whole, spring from that one source—
those three hundred and odd dirty bales of
frowsy South American stuff.

COGSWELL'S.

COGSWELL'S is my Coffee-house. It is
not at all an aristocratic coffee-house.
Hundreds of coffee-houses in London would feel
offended at being compared with it; much
less has it any claim to be likened to a
Parisian coffee-house. It has no chandeliers,
nor circular mirrors for the distortion of
customers' faces, nor candelabra ornamented
with lustre drops, nor tables of marble, nor
chairs of crimson velvet, nor gilded panels,
nor emblazoned ceilings, nor waiters with
white neckcloths. A King is compelled to
recognise in a beggar a man like himself; but
a café of the Palais Royal or the Boulevard
des Italiens, in Paris, would not discover in
my coffee-house the slightest trace of affinity.
Perhaps in the coffee which my coffee-house
supplies, it would be equally unable to find
any resemblance, in colour or flavour, to its
own fragrant café-au-lait, at sixteen sous per
cup. The thin brown liquid with a surface
of oil floating in spots and streaks, like
marbled paper, which my coffee-house calls
chocolate, would be equally strange to it.
The silent groups parted off in solitary boxes;
the total absence of dominoes; the blazing
coal fire, which any customer for a single
cup of coffee has the right to stir and stand
by; the very newspapers, huge broadsheets
that do not offend your nostrils at five yards
off with the smell of rank printing oil, or
wear your eyes when you take them up, by
the very small difference in the colours of
print and paper; but, mostly, the kitchen,
whose screen and scanty curtain only half
conceal from the eyes of customers in the
coffee-room its stores of eatables, and rows of
cups and saucers—(not to mention its small
tin cisterns, where tea and coffee simmer all
day long, and all night too, for aught I know)
—these have nothing to do with the Frenchman's
café. If you ask for tea at my coffee-
house, they don't bring you black and green
imitations of tea in two snuff-boxes, and bid
you make the infusion yourself; they don't
require two able-bodied men, one with a
milk can and the other with a coffee can, to
pour out a cup of coffee for you. When a cup
of chocolate is wanted, my coffee-house does
not set complicated machinery at work to
crush, and spread, and scrape brown paste
upon shining steel plates. Ask my coffee-
house-keeper for a roll, and he will not bring
you a small, round, crusty something, big in
the middle, and tapered off at the ends, like a
rolling-pin seen through the wrong end of a
telescope. People come to my coffee-house to
eat and drink; not to lounge and sip coffee
and sugar-water, to pass away time.

Having thus modestly repudiated, on
behalf of my coffee-house, all pretension to be
compared with those glittering palaces in
which Frenchmen pass three-fourths of the
day, let me say what it is not among London
coffee-houses. Its windows are not covered
with bills, announcing sales to take place
there, at every day and hour for a month to
come; and it does not sell port, or sherry, or
bitter ale, or Barclay's stout, or sandwiches.
It is, in short, nothing like Garraway's
coffee-house. Its frequenters' heads are
not filled with ships and cargoes, like the
frequenters of Lloyd's or the Jerusalem.
It does not let rooms for arbitrations and
noisy meetings of creditors, like the Gray's
Inn coffee-house. It does not file all the
papers in the world, like Deacon's. It is
never appointed for a rendezvous in
mysterious advertisements in the Times, like
Peele's. It is not haunted by pale men in
brown-black coats and white muslin stocks,
ready to be hired to write or preach sermons
by the job, like the Chapter. All these it
knows to be far above its own humble
pretensions. Yet is my coffee-house equally
above the "Noted Cocoa-house" that paints
itself all red from top to bottom, and writes
up its proprietor's and its own name, in green
and yellow flamy letters. It thinks the
Temperance house—where the Building Society
holds its meetings, and the respectful circular
of Monsieur Starve (native of Paris) in vain
invites young men to come in and be taught