“ The ideal of the human arts of spinning and 
weaving,”—said to me one day a Southerner (a 
manufacturer, but a man of imagination),—“the 
ideal which we always follow is a woman’s beauti¬ 
ful hair! Oh, how far are the softest wools or finest 
cotton from approaching it! At what an enormous 
distance does all, and ever will all, our progress leave 
us! We drag ourselves onward, a long, long way in 
the rear, and enviously regard that supreme perfection 
which Nature daily realizes as a mere matter of 
pastime. 
“ That delicate, yet strong and tenacious hair, 
vibrating with an exquisite sonority which goes from 
the ear to the heart, and yet withal so soft, warm, luminous, and 
electrical—is the flower of the human flower. 
“ Men fruitlessly dispute respecting the merits of colour. What 
'IP 
f' W 
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