I went over two of the mills, those of the Merrimack corporation and of the Massachusetts.  At the former the printing establishment only was at work; the cotton mills were closed.  I hardly know whether it will interest any one to learn that something under half a million yards of calico are here printed annually.  At the Lowell Bleachery fifteen million yards are dyed annually.  The Merrimack Cotton Mills were stopped, and so had the other mills at Lowell been stopped, till some short time before my visit.  Trade had been bad, and there had of course been a lack of cotton.  I was assured that no severe suffering had been created by this stoppage.  The greater number of hands had returned into the country—­to the farms from whence they had come; and though a discontinuance of work and wages had of course produced hardship, there had been no actual privation—­no hunger and want.  Those of the work-people who had no homes out of Lowell to which to betake themselves, and no means at Lowell of living, had received relief before real suffering had begun.  I was assured, with something of a smile of contempt at the question, that there had been nothing like hunger.  But, as I said before, visitors always see a great deal of rose color, and should endeavor to allay the brilliancy of the tint with the proper amount of human shading.  But do not let any visitor mix in the browns with too heavy a hand!

At the Massachusetts Cotton Mills they were working with about two-thirds of their full number of hands, and this, I was told, was about the average of the number now employed throughout Lowell.  Working at this rate they had now on hand a supply of cotton to last them for six months.  Their stocks had been increased lately, and on asking from whence, I was informed that that last received had come to them from Liverpool.  There is, I believe, no doubt but that a considerable quantity of cotton has been shipped back from England to the States since the civil war began.  I asked the gentleman, to whose care at Lowell I was consigned, whether he expected to get cotton from the South—­for at that time Beaufort, in South Carolina, had just been taken by the naval expedition.  He had, he said, a political expectation of a supply of cotton, but not a commercial expectation.  That at least was the gist of his reply, and I found it to be both intelligent and intelligible.  The Massachusetts Mills, when at full work, employ 1300 females and 400 males, and turn out 540,000 yards of calico per week.

On my return from Lowell in the smoking car, an old man came and squeezed in next to me.  The place was terribly crowded, and as the old man was thin and clean and quiet, I willingly made room for him, so as to avoid the contiguity of a neighbor who might be neither thin, nor clean, nor quiet.  He began talking to me in whispers about the war, and I was suspicious that he was a Southerner and a secessionist.  Under such circumstances his company might not be