The Rosalie Yarn Mill, of Natchez, has a capacity of 6,000 spindles and 160 looms, and employs 100 hands.  The Natchez Cotton Mills Company began operations four years ago in a two-story building of 50 x 190 feet, with 4,000 spindles and 128 looms; capital $105,000, all subscribed in the town.  Two years later, the same stockholders increased their capital to $225,000; added a third story to the mill, increased its length to 317 feet; added machinery to increase the capacity to 10,300 spindles and 304 looms.  The company now employ 250 operatives, many of whom are citizens of Natchez.  ’The mill works 5,000 bales of cotton annually and manufactures the best standard quality of brown shirtings and sheetings and drills, turning out 5,000,000 yards of these goods per year.’{footnote [New Orleans Times-Democrat, 26 Aug, 1882.]} A close corporation—­stock held at $5,000 per share, but none in the market.

The changes in the Mississippi River are great and strange, yet were to be expected; but I was not expecting to live to see Natchez and these other river towns become manufacturing strongholds and railway centers.

Speaking of manufactures reminds me of a talk upon that topic which I heard—­which I overheard—­on board the Cincinnati boat.  I awoke out of a fretted sleep, with a dull confusion of voices in my ears.  I listened—­ two men were talking; subject, apparently, the great inundation.  I looked out through the open transom.  The two men were eating a late breakfast; sitting opposite each other; nobody else around.  They closed up the inundation with a few words—­having used it, evidently, as a mere ice-breaker and acquaintanceship-breeder—­then they dropped into business.  It soon transpired that they were drummers—­one belonging in Cincinnati, the other in New Orleans.  Brisk men, energetic of movement and speech; the dollar their god, how to get it their religion.

‘Now as to this article,’ said Cincinnati, slashing into the ostensible butter and holding forward a slab of it on his knife-blade, ’it’s from our house; look at it—­smell of it—­taste it.  Put any test on it you want to.  Take your own time—­no hurry—­make it thorough.  There now—­ what do you say? butter, ain’t it.  Not by a thundering sight—­it’s oleomargarine!  Yes, sir, that’s what it is—­oleomargarine.  You can’t tell it from butter; by George, an expert can’t.  It’s from our house.  We supply most of the boats in the West; there’s hardly a pound of butter on one of them.  We are crawling right along—­jumping right along is the word.  We are going to have that entire trade.  Yes, and the hotel trade, too.  You are going to see the day, pretty soon, when you can’t find an ounce of butter to bless yourself with, in any hotel in the Mississippi and Ohio Valleys, outside of the biggest cities.  Why, we are turning out oleomargarine now by the thousands of tons.  And we can sell it so dirt-cheap that the whole country