ory "slum."

We do not yet realize what he did to the mistresses, how he utterly
changed their character and how he marvelously increased their
number.

But look! His machine, with the countless machines which followed it,
in the spinning industry and in all other industries, made it possible
to organize masses of individuals into industrial regiments which
required captains and majors and colonels and generals. It created the
need of leadership, of _multitudinous_ leadership. And with leadership
came the rewards of leadership. And the wives and daughters of the
leaders (a race of men previously, by comparison, nonexistent) arose
in thousands and hundreds of thousands and millions to live in leisure
and semi-leisure on the fruits of the new system.

While the maids went to the "slums," the mistresses went to the
suburbs.

What did Wyatt get out of it? Imprisonment for debt and the buzz of
antiquarians above his rotted corpse.

Wyatt and his equally humble successors in genius, Hargreaves and
Crompton, artisans! Where in history shall we find men the world took
more from, gave less to?

To Hargreaves, inventing the spinning-jenny, a mob and a flight from
Lancashire, a wrecked machine and a sacked house! To Crompton,
inventing the spinning-mule (which, in simulating, surpassed the
delicate pulling motion of the spinster's arm)--to Crompton, poverty
so complete that the mule, patient bearer of innumerable fortunes to
investors, was surrendered to them unpatented, while its maker retired
to his "Hall-in-the-Wood" and his workman wages!

Little did Wyatt and Hargreaves and Crompton eat of the bread of
idleness they built the oven for.

But Arkwright! There was the man who foreshadowed, in his own career,
the new aristocracy about to be evoked by the new machinery. He made
spinning devices of his own. He used everybody else's devices. He
patented them all. He lied in the patents. He sued infringers of them.
He overlooked his defeats in the courts. He bit and gouged and endured
and invented and organized till, from being a barber and dealing in
hair-dyes and bargaining for the curls of pretty girls at country
fairs, he ended up Sir Richard Arkwright and--last perfect touch in a
fighting career--was building a church when he died.

And his son was England's richest commoner.

It was the dawn of the day of common richness.

The new aristocracy was as hospitably large as the old aristocracy had
been sternly small.