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84 The Macclesfield silk-weaver is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. Every artisan who can master a few shillings and a little energy, endeavours to take leave of the blighted town. They are wise. Many have reached the colonies, where their once soft and delicate hands have become hard and horny with handling the axe and spade; others have drifted to other towns in the kingdom, but very few have ever returned to die in the place of their birth. A curse seems to lie on it. Well situated for a manufacturing seat, possessing ample communication, both by rail and canal, with other towns, and owning an abundance of cheap labour, together with many other advantages, somehow or another Macclesfield fails to attract capital. A site amid the bleak and mountainous regions of Yorkshire or Lancashire seems preferable to a town which is apparently doomed to industrial ruin. Is not this a problem worth the studying? Like Coventry, Macclesfield affords a terrible proof of the folly of fostering a manufacture which can only exist by the maintenance of an artificial monopoly, and which perishes the moment that the legislative props are removed. Yet a gleam of hope shines through the murky darkness. It is said that when things get to the worst, they mend; and it may be that, when happier days shall come, when our cotton supply shall resume its former magnitude, Macclesfield may regain, as a cotton manufacturing town, the reputation which it has lost as the seat of the broad-silk manufacture. 2em

brawny shoulders are not tired, nor do our strong arms ache; Our stalwart horses need no draught their battle thirst to slake; Our steel swords are not blunted yet,” one of the heroes cried— Alosha Popovitsch the young, that champion lion-eyed, Send us a host with strength divine, send us both foot and horse, And we, the Vitiazes bold, will tame that heavenly force.” Just as he spoke those unwise words, so full of sound and flame, Slowly towards those boasting men two mounted warriors came, Mantled and arm’d as simple folk: and lo, they call’d aloud, Well! Vitiazes, let us strike, since ye’re so hot and proud. We are but two, and you are seven; yet Heaven gives us might; The odds are great; more fame for us,—come, heroes, let us fight.” Alosha Popovitsch his wrath could scarcely bridle then. He curb’d his horse, and threw himself upon those scornful men;

One drawing stroke, one gashing blow, and they were hewn in two. But lo! the stricken men rose up unhurt, and changed to four. All were alive, and all were arm’d, and fiercer than of yore. But Dobreena, the stalwart brave, could not restrain him then; He rein’d his horse, and threw himself upon those magic men.

One drawing stroke, one slashing cut, he clove them all in two. But swift the stricken men rose up; the four were changed to eight! Stern, hot, and eager for the fray—proud, fierce, bold and elate. Then Reilga of Moorsoom his wrath could not restrain him then, He curbed his horse, and threw himself upon those scornful men. One mighty blow, one angry stroke, he slashed the horsemen through: Deep-piercing brain and heart and lungs; he clove them all in two. But swift the stricken men arose, and lo! the eight men slain Were sixteen warriors, arm’d and fierce, and on their steeds again!

Then all the Vitiazes rode fierce spurring at the band: With rage at heart, they hew’d and cut, and smote off head and hand;

Their horses trampled under foot more than the heroes felled. But yet the horsemen grew and grew with an increasing might, And still they gave and took the blows, in that heroic fight. The Vitiazes fought three days, three hours, three moments strove,

But still that army grew and grew with an increasing might, And still they gave and took the blows, in that heroic fight. Twas then the Vitiazes fled before that magic force, And threw their arms away, and spurr’d each one his bleeding horse. They fled unto the mountain-pass—unto the dark stone caves—

As soon as the first Vitiaz approach’d, he turn’d to marble stone; Ere the next horseman had come up, he to a rock had grown; And as the rest rode fiercely on, they too were changed straightway, And so the race of heroes pass’d from our bright land away.