A cotton thread, 120 yards in length, and strong enough to be twitched about and twisted by a score of vigorous, chattering, iron fingers, is wound around in this groove.
But it would be idle to attempt a description of either the machinery or the process.
I went next into a large establishment for dyeing, dressing, winding and packing the lace for market.

It was startling to see the acres of it dyed black for mourning.

Really there seemed enough of it to drape the whole valley of the shadow of death! It was an impressive sight truly.

If there were other establishments doing the same thing, Nottingham must turn out weeds of grief enough for several millions of mourning widows, mothers, sisters and daughters in a year.

I ascended into the dressing-room, I think they called it, in the upper story, where there was a piece containing one twenty-fifth of an acre of lace undergoing a fearful operation for a human constitution to sustain.