essup & Moore on the Brandywine. Our welcome is sure
to be a cordial one, for among the largest customers of the firm are the
publishers of _Lippincott's Magazine_. The process of paper-making by
the Fourdrinier machine was so fully explained in our Number for last
November that it is useless now to repeat the details. But it would
never do to leave the Brandywine without a glance at least at one of its
principal manufactures. The mill of Jessup & Moore uses the strength of
the torrent as an auxiliary to its steam-power of seven hundred and
fifty horses. The machinery is made by Pusey, Jones & Co., whose iron
ships and machine-shops we have already examined: the rolls of admirable
accuracy are from the shops of J. Morton Poole & Co. The paper-making
process--the vast revolving boiler of twelve feet by twenty-six; the
countless sacks of filthy rags, that have clothed peasants of the Black
Forest, beggars on the steps of St. Peter's and Egyptian fellahs; their
reduction to purity, and hardening from pulp to snowy continuities of
endless, marginless paper,--all this is of rare interest in the
watching, but has been told until the public is satiated. We leave the
banks of the Brandywine and the wharves of Christine, and try to lose
ourselves in the thickly-built heart of the city.

Even here the implacable business spirit exhibits itself at every turn.
In place of the placid millers and quaint refugees of the last century
at their doors, we see the shops, the storehouses of manufacturers'
supplies, the hotel and the theatre; and, pervading all, the vast throng
of artisans, providing such problems of local government and education
as the last century never dreamed of.

[Illustration: HIGH-SCHOOL.]

In almost all the industries of the city you are struck by the ancestral
aspect of the trades, the continuance of a business from father to son,
or the gradual change of firms by the absorption of partners. Boughman,
Thomas & Co., established in a handsome, modern-looking bookstore,
represent a business as old as 1793, uninterrupted since the time when
the founder, James Wilson, hung the sign of Shakespeare at his door. The
young girl of the period, who goes to their place from one of the model
seminaries of which Wilmington is so full to buy a little paper for
confidential notes or perhaps a delicate valentine, sees the old brown
advertisement framed against the wall, and behind it, in sign-painting
of her great-grandfather's t