More tragical and more inscrutably mysterious than any mystic sight, human or machine, throughout the factory, was the strange innocence of cruel-heartedness in this usage-hardened boy. ‘And now,’ said he, cheerily, ‘I suppose you want to see our great machine, which cost us twelve thousand dollars only last autumn. That’s the machine that makes the paper, too. This way, sir.’ Following him, I crossed a large, bespattered place, with two great round vats in it, full of a white, wet, woolly-looking stuff, not unlike the albuminous part of an egg, soft-boiled. ‘There,’ said Cupid, tapping the vats carelessly, ‘these are the first beginnings of the paper; this white pulp you see. Look how it swims bubbling round and round, moved by the paddle here. From hence it pours from both vats into that one common channel yonder; and so goes, mixed up and leisurely, to the great machine. And now for that.’ He led me into a room, stifling with a strange, blood-like, abdominal heat, as if here, true enough, were being finally developed the germinous particles lately seen. Before me, rolled out like some long Eastern manuscript, lay stretched one continuous length of iron framework--multitudinous and mystical, with all sorts of rollers, wheels, and cylinders, in slowly-measured and unceasing motion. ‘Here first comes the pulp now,’ said Cupid, pointing to the nighest end of the machine. ‘See; first it pours out and spreads itself upon this wide, sloping board; and then--look--slides, thin and quivering, beneath the first roller there. Follow on now, and see it as it slides from under that to the next cylinder. There; see how it has become just a very little less pulpy now. One step more, and it grows still more to some slight consistence. Still another cylinder, and it is so knitted--though as yet mere dragon-fly wing--that it forms an air-bridge here, like a suspended cobweb, between two more separated rollers; and flowing over the last one, and under again, and doubling about there out of sight for a minute among all those mixed cylinders you indistinctly see, it reappears here, looking now at last a little less like pulp and more like paper, but still quite delicate and defective yet awhile. But--a little further onward, sir, if you please--here now, at this further point, it puts on something of a real look, as if it might turn out to be something you might possibly handle in the end. But it’s not yet done, sir. Good way to travel yet, and plenty more of cylinders must roll it.’ ‘Bless my soul!’ said I, amazed at the elongation, interminable convolutions, and deliberate slowness of the machine; ‘it must take a long time for the pulp to pass from end to end, and come out paper.’