The Story of Glass

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Uncle Bob was not long in finding where this treasure stood. It was
small--not more than nine inches in height, and like the other two was
of the familiar blue transparent glass with a white cameo design cut
upon it. Instead of having a Grecian decoration, however, the pattern
was of vines, leaves, and clusters of grapes.

"The Portland Vase, as I have already told you, was perfect when it was
unearthed," Mr. Cabot said. "And the Naples Vase you will remember was
also whole except that its base, or foot, which was probably of gold,
was missing. But the Auldjo Vase was in pieces, and it was only a
single one of these fragments that was bequeathed to the British Museum
by Miss Auldjo. Now when the Museum committee saw this single piece
nothing would do but they must have the others. They therefore bought
the rest, had the vase mended, and set it up here where people can see
it. It cost a great deal of money to purchase it."

"I think it is splendid of museums and of rich people to buy such
things and put them where every one can look at them!" exclaimed Jean.
"None of us could afford to and if those who owned them just kept them
in their own houses we should never see them at all."

"Yes. Remember that, too, in this day when there are so many persons
who begrudge the rich their fortunes. Remember if there were not
individuals in the world who possessed fortunes the poor would have far
less opportunity to see art treasures of every sort. And that is one
way in which those who are rich and generous can serve their country.
There are many different methods of being a good citizen, you see."

Mr. Cabot took out his watch and glanced at it thoughtfully.

"I think we shall have time to see just one thing more, and then we
must go back to the hotel. We have examined all kinds of glass
objects--so many, in fact, that it would seem as if there was no other
purpose for which glass could be used. And yet I can show you something
of which, I will wager, you have not thought."

"What is it?" questioned the two young people breathlessly.

Full of curiosity, Uncle Bob led them through several corridors until
he came to a large room that they had not visited. He conducted them to
its farther end and paused before a large sand glass.

"Before the days of clocks and watches," he began, "such glasses as
these were much in use for telling the time. Throughout the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries they had them in almost all the churches,
that the officiating clergyman might be able to measure the length of
his sermon."

Jean laughed.

"I wish they had them now," she declared mischievously.

"Sometimes I do," smiled Uncle Bob. "It is said the glasses were
originally invented in Egypt. Wherever they came from, they certainly
were a great convenience to those who had no other means of telling the
time. Charlemagne, I have read, had a sand glass so large that it
needed to be turned only once in twelve hours. Fancy how large it must
have been. At the South Kensington Museum is a set of four large sand
glasses evidently made to go together. Of course you have seen, even in
our day, hour, quarter-hour, and minute glasses."

"I used to practice by an hour glass," Jean replied quickly. "At least
it was a quarter-of-an-hour glass, and I had to turn it four times."

"It would be strange not to have clocks and watches, wouldn't it?"
reflected Giusippe as they walked back to the hotel.

"I guess it would!" Hannah returned emphatically. "The meals would
never be on time."

"One advantage in that, my good Hannah, would be that nobody would ever
be scolded because he was late," retorted Mr. Cabot humorously.

The three weeks allotted for the London visit passed only too quickly,
and surprisingly soon came the day when the travelers found themselves
aboard ship and homeward bound.

Perhaps after all they were not altogether sorry, for despite the
marvels of the old world there is no place like home. Hannah was eager
to open the Boston house and air it; Jean rejoiced that each throb of
the engine brought her nearer to her beloved doggie; Uncle Bob's
fingers itched to be setting in place the Italian marbles he had
ordered for the new house; and Giusippe waited almost with bated breath
for his first sight of America, the country of his dreams.

But a great surprise was in store for every one of these persons as the
mighty steamer left her moorings and put out of Liverpool harbor.

Across the deck came a vision, an apparition so unexpected that Jean
and Giusippe cried out, and even Uncle Bob muttered to himself
something which nobody could hear. The figure was that of a girl--a
girl with wind-tossed hair who, with head thrown back, stopped a moment
and looked full into the sunset.

It was Miss Ethel Cartright of New York, Giusippe's beautiful lady of
Venice!

CHAPTER VII

AMERICA ONCE MORE

The voyage from Liverpool to Boston was thoroughly interesting to
Giusippe. In the first place there was the wonder of the great blue
sea--a sea so vast that the Italian boy, who had never before ventured
beyond the canals of the Adriatic, was bewildered when day after day
the giant ship plowed onward and still, despite her speed, failed to
reach the land. Sunlight flooded the water, twilight settled into
darkness, and yet on every hand tossed that mighty expanse of waves.
Would a haven ever be reached, the lad asked himself; and how, amid
that pathless ocean, could the captain be so sure that eventually he
would make the port for which he was aiming? It was all wonderful.

Fortunately the crossing was a smooth one, and accordingly every moment
of the voyage was a delight. What happy days our travelers passed
together! Miss Cartright was the jolliest of companions. She dressed
dolls for Jean--dressed them in such gowns as never were seen, dainty
French little frocks which converted the plainest china creature into a
wee Parisian; she read aloud; she told stories; she played games.
Hannah surrendered unconditionally when, one morning after they had
been comparing notes on housekeeping, the fact leaked out that Miss
Cartright's mother had been a New Englander. That was enough!

"She has had the proper sort of bringing up," remarked Hannah, with a
sigh of satisfaction. "She knows exactly how to pack away blankets and
how to clean house as it should be done. She is a very unusual young
woman!"

Coming from Hannah such praise was phenomenal.

Mr. Cabot seemed to think, too, that Miss Cartright possessed many
virtues.

At any rate he enjoyed talking with her, and every evening when the
full moon touched with iridescent beauty the wide, pulsing sea he would
tuck the girl into her steamer chair and the two would stay up on deck
until the clear golden ball of light had climbed high into the heaven.

So passed the voyage.

Then as America came nearer Giusippe witnessed all the strange sights
that heralded the approach to the new continent; he saw the lights
dotting the coast; he watched steamers which were outward bound for the
old world he had left behind; he strained his eyes to catch, through a
telescope, the murky outlines of the land.

"Here is still another use to which glass is put, Giusippe," said Mr.
Cabot indicating with a gesture the red flash-light of a beacon far
against the horizon. "Without the powerful reflectors, lenses, and
prisms which are in use in our lighthouses many a vessel would be
wrecked. For not only must a lighthouse have a strong light; it must
also have a means of throwing that light out, and thereby increasing
its effectiveness. Scientists have discovered just how to arrange
prisms, lenses, and reflectors so the light will travel to the farthest
possible distance. At Navasink, on the highlands south of New York
harbor, stands the most powerful coast light in the United States. It
equals about sixty million candle-power, and its beam can be seen
seventy nautical miles away. The carrying of the light to such a
tremendous distance is due to the strong reflectors employed in
conjunction with the light itself. The largest lens, however, under
control of the United States is on the headlands of the Hawaiian
Islands. This is eight and three-quarters feet in diameter and is made
from the most carefully polished glass. And by the way, among other
uses that science makes of glass are telescopes, microscopes, and
field-glasses, which are all constructed from flawlessly ground lenses.
Often it takes a whole year, and sometimes even longer, to polish a
large telescope lens. Without this magnifying agency we should have no
astronomy, and fewer scientific discoveries than we now have. The
glasses people wear all have to be ground and polished in much the same
fashion; opera glasses, magic lanterns, and every contrivance for
bringing distant objects nearer or making them larger are dependent for
their power upon glass lenses."

"Even when making glass I never dreamed it could be used for so many
different purposes," answered Giusippe.

"I wish we had counted up, as we went along, how many things it is used
for," Jean put in.

"We might have done so, only I am afraid you would have become very
tired had we attempted it," laughed Uncle Bob. "In addition to optical
glass there are still other branches of science that could not go on
without glass in its various forms. Take, for instance, electricity. It
would not be safe to employ this strange force without the protection
of glass barriers to hedge in its dangerous current. Glass, as you
probably know, is a non-conductor of electricity, and whenever we wish
to confine its power and prevent it from doing harm we place a layer of
glass between it and the thing to be protected. The glass checks the
progress of the current. In all chemical laboratories, too, no end of
glass test-tubes, thermometers, and crucibles are in demand for
furthering research work. Science would be greatly hampered in its
usefulness had it not recourse to glass in its manifold forms."

"What a wonderful material it is!" ejaculated Jean. "I never shall see
anything made of glass again without thinking of all it does for us."

"Be grateful, too, Jean, to the men who have discovered how to use it,"
replied Mr. Cabot gravely. "Certainly our mariners many a time owe
their safety to just such warning beacons as the one ahead. We must ask
the captain what light that is. Just think--to-morrow morning we shall
wake up in Boston harbor and be at home again."

A hush fell on the party.

"I shall be dreadfully sorry to have Miss Cartright leave us and go to
New York; sha'n't you, Uncle Bob?" said Jean at last, slipping her hand
into that of the older woman who stood beside her. "Wouldn't it be
nice, Miss Cartright, if you lived in Boston? Then I'd see you all the
time--at least I would when I wasn't in Pittsburgh, and then Uncle Bob
could see you, and that would be almost as good."

"Almost," echoed Uncle Bob.

"But you are coming to New York to see me some time, Jean dear," the
girl said with her eyes far on the horizon. "You know your uncle has
promised that when you go to Pittsburgh both you and Giusippe are to
stop and visit me for a few days."

"Yes, I have not forgotten; it will be lovely, too," replied Jean.
"Still that is not like having you live where you can dress dolls all
the time. Why don't you move to Boston? I am sure you would like it. We
have the loveliest squirrels on the Common!"

Everybody laughed.

"I have been trying to tell Miss Cartright what a very nice place
Boston is to live in," added Mr. Cabot softly.

"Well, we all will keep on telling her, and then maybe she'll be
convinced," Jean declared.

So they parted for the night.

With the morning came the bustle and confusion of landing. Much of
Uncle Bob's time was taken up with the inspection of trunks, and with
helping Giusippe sign papers and answer the questions necessary for his
admission to the United States. Then came the parting. They bade a
hurried good-bye to Miss Cartright, whom Uncle Bob was to put aboard
the New York train, and into a cab bundled Hannah, Giusippe, and Jean,
in which equipage, almost smothered in luggage, they were rolled off to
Beacon Hill.

Nothing could exceed Giusippe's interest in these first glimpses of the
new country to which he had come. For the next few weeks he went about
as if in a trance, struggling to adjust himself to life in an American
city. How different it was from his beloved Venice! How sharp the
September days with their early frost! How he missed the golden warmth
of the sunny Adriatic and the familiar sights of home! During his
journey through France and England the constant change of travel had
carried with it sufficient excitement to keep him from being homesick;
but now that he was settled for a time in Boston he got his first taste
of what life in the United States was to be like. Not that he was
disappointed; it was only that he felt such a stranger to all about
him. The automobiles, subways, elevated roads, all confused his brain,
and the dusty streets made his throat smart with dryness.

Daily, however, he became more and more accustomed to his surroundings,
and when at last he ventured out alone and discovered that he could
find his way back again his courage rose. Then he began going on
errands for Hannah, and was proud and glad to be of use. He accompanied
Uncle Bob to his office and arrived home alone in safety. Gradually the
strangeness of his new home wore away. Every novel sight he beheld,
every custom which was surprising to him, everything that he did not
understand he asked a score of questions about. It was _why_, _why_,
_why_, from morning until night. His questions, fortunately, were
intelligent ones, and as he remembered with accuracy the answers given
him and applied the knowledge thus gained to future conditions he made
amazing headway in becoming Americanized. He got books and read them;
he visited the churches, Library, and Art Museum. And when he saw how
much of its beauty the New World had borrowed from the Old he no longer
felt cut off from his Italian home.

Uncle Bob, in the meantime, had been forced to plunge so deeply into
business that he had had little opportunity to aid his protege in these
explorations. But one Saturday noon he came home and announced that he
was to treat himself to a half holiday.

"I am not going back to the office to-day," he declared. "Instead I
intend to carry off you two young persons and show you something very
beautiful, the like of which you will see nowhere else in all the
world."

"What is it?" cried Jean and Giusippe.

"Oh, I'm not telling. Just you be ready directly after luncheon to go
with me to Cambridge."

"Cambridge! Oh, I know. It is the University, Mr. Cabot. It is
Harvard!" exclaimed Giusippe, very proud of his knowledge.

"Not quite," Mr. Cabot said, shaking his head, "although, being a
Harvard man, I naturally feel that the equal of my Alma Mater cannot be
found elsewhere. But you are on the right track. It is something which
is out at Harvard. Guess again."

"I don't know," confessed Giusippe.

"Well, you may be excused because you have not been in this country
long enough to be acquainted with all its marvels. But Jean should
know. Where are you, young lady? You at least should be able to tell
what treasures America possesses."

"I am afraid I can't."

"Then we must excuse you also; you are so young. I see plainly that we
must appeal to Hannah. She who is ever extolling Boston can of course
tell us what it is that Harvard University possesses which is
unsurpassed in any other part of the world."

Hannah looked chagrined.

"You do not know?" went on Uncle Bob teasingly. "Oh, for shame! And you
such an ardent Bostonian! Well, so far as I can see there is nothing
for it but for me to take you all three to Cambridge as fast as ever we
can get there. Such ignorance is deplorable."

You may be very sure that during the ride out from the city every means
was employed to get Uncle Bob to tell what particular wonder he was to
display. At last, driven to desperation by Jean's persistent questions,
he answered:

"I will tell you just one fact. The things we are going to see are made
of glass."

"Glass! But we have already seen everything that ever could be made
from glass, Uncle Bob," cried Jean in dismay.

"No, we haven't."

"Is it stained glass windows?"

"No."

"Mosaics?"

"No."

"A telescope?"

"No."

"What is it, Uncle Bob?"

"Never you mind. You would never guess if you guessed a lifetime. You
better give it up," was Mr. Cabot's smiling answer.

Cambridge was soon reached, and after a walk through the College Yard
that Giusippe might have a peep at Holworthy, where Uncle Bob had spent
his student days, the sightseers entered a quiet old brick building and
were led by Mr. Cabot into a room where stood case after case of
blooming flowers. There were garden blossoms of every variety, wild
flowers, tropical plants, all fresh and green as if growing. And yet
they were not growing; instead they lay singly or in clusters, each
bloom as perfect as if just cut from the stalk.

"How beautiful! Oh, Uncle Bob, it is like a big greenhouse!" exclaimed
Jean.

"This is what I brought you to see."

"But you said we were coming to see something made of glass," objected
Giusippe.

"You did say so, Uncle Bob."

"Behold, even as I said!"

"Bu-u-t, these flowers are not glass. What do you mean?"

"On the contrary, my unbelieving friends, glass is precisely what they
are made of. Every blossom, every leaf, every bud, every seed here is
the work of an expert glass-maker."

Mr. Cabot watched their faces, enjoying their incredulity.

"_Glass_!"

"Even so. Shall I tell you about it?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"This collection of flowers is called the Ware Collection, the name
being bestowed out of compliment to Mrs. and Miss Ware, who generously
donated much of the money for which to pay for it. Sometimes, too, it
is known as the Blaschka Collection of Glass Flower Models, for the
making was done by Leopold Blaschka and his son Rudolph, both of whom
were Bohemians. It happened that several years ago Harvard University
wished to equip its Botanical Department with flower specimens which
might be used for study by the students. The question at once arose how
this was to be done. Real flowers would of course fade, and wax flowers
would melt or break. What could be used? There seemed to be no such
thing as imperishable flowers."

Mr. Cabot paused a moment while the others waited expectantly.

"There were, however, in the Zooelogical Department some wonderfully
accurate glass models of animals made by a Bohemian scientist named
Blaschka, who was a rather remarkable combination of scholar and
glass-maker. Accordingly when it became necessary to have fadeless
flowers one of the professors wondered if this same Bohemian could not
reproduce them. So he set out for Blaschka's home at Hosterwirtz, near
Dresden, to see."

"Did he have to go way to Germany to find out?"

"Yes, because in the first place he did not know that Blaschka could
make flowers at all; and if he could he was not certain that he could
make them perfectly enough to render them satisfactory for such a
purpose. So he traveled to Germany and found the house where lived the
famous glass-maker; and it was while waiting alone in the parlor that
he saw on a shelf a vase containing what seemed to be a very beautiful
fresh orchid."

"It was made of glass!" Jean declared, leaping at the truth.

"Yes; and it was so perfect that the Harvard professor could hardly
believe his eyes. At that moment the scientist entered. He confessed
that he had made the flower for his wife; indeed, he had made many
glass orchids--one collection of some sixty varieties which had been
ordered by Prince Camille de Rohan, but which had later been destroyed
when the Natural History Museum at Liege had been burned. Since then,
Blaschka explained, he had given all his attention to making models of
animals. He said that his son Rudolph helped him, and that they two
alone knew how the work was done. It was their knowledge of zooelogy and
of botany added to their skill at glass-making which enabled them to
turn out such correct copies of real objects."

"Of course the Harvard professor was delighted," Jean ventured.

"Indeed he was! Before he left he won a promise from Blaschka and his
son to send to Cambridge a few flowers to serve as specimens of what
they could do. Now you may fancy the rage of the Harvard authorities
when on the arrival of the cases of flowers they found that almost all
of them had been broken to bits in the New York Custom House. There
was, however, enough left of the consignment to give to the Cambridge
professors the assurance that the two Bohemians were well equal to the
task demanded of them. Those who saw the shattered blossoms were most
enthusiastic, and Mrs. Ware and her daughter told the authorities to
order a limited number as a gift to the University. This second lot
came safely and were so beautiful that Harvard at once arranged that
the two Blaschkas send over to America all the flowers they could make
for the next ten years."

"My!"

"Yes, that seems a great many, doesn't it?" Mr. Cabot assented, nodding
to Jean. "But after all, it was not so tremendous as it sounds. You see
Harvard needed a copy of every American flower, plant, and fruit. The
making of them would take a great deal of time. Of course unless the
collection was complete it would be of little use to students. So the
Blaschkas began their work, and for a few years averaged a hundred sets
of flowers a year. Then the father died and Rudolph was left to finish
the work alone. You remember I told you that in true mediaeval fashion
they had kept the secret of their art to themselves; as a consequence
there now was no one to aid the son in his undertaking. Twice he came
to our country to get copies of flowers from which to work, toiling
bravely on in order to finish the task his father had begun. He said he
considered it a sort of monument or memorial to the elder man's genius.
There you have the story," concluded Mr. Cabot. "No other such
collection exists anywhere else in the world. Even with a microscope it
is impossible to distinguish between the real flower and the glass
copy."

"How were they made?" Giusippe demanded. "Was the glass blown?"

"No; the flowers were modeled. That is all I can tell you. The brittle
glass was in some way made plastic so it could be shaped by hand or by
instruments. Some of the coloring was put on while the material was
hot; some while it was cooling; and some after it was cold. It all
depended upon the result desired. But one thing is evident--the
Blaschkas worked very quickly and with marvelous scientific accuracy."

"It is simply wonderful," said Giusippe. "Even at Murano there is
nothing to equal this."

"I thought you, who knew so much of glass-making, would appreciate what
such a collection represents in knowledge, toil, and skill. Furthermore
it is beautiful, and for that reason alone is well worth seeing,"
answered Mr. Cabot.

"It is wonderful!" repeated the Italian lad.

All the way home the young Venetian was peculiarly silent. His national
pride had received a blow. Bohemia had surpassed Venice at its own
trade, the art of glass-making!

CHAPTER VIII

JEAN THREATENS TO STEAL GIUSIPPE'S TRADE

It was the next morning while Mr. Cabot and Giusippe were still
discussing the Blaschka glass flowers that the Italian lad remarked:

"I have wondered and wondered ever since we went out to Harvard how
those fragile flower models were annealed without breaking. It must
have been very difficult."

"What is annealing?" inquired Jean, holding at arm's length a doll's
hat and straightening a feather at one side of it.

"Annealing? Why, the gradual cooling of the glass after it has been
heated."

"What do they heat it for?"

"Don't you know how glass is made?" Giusippe asked in surprise.

Jean shook her head.

"No. How should I?"

"Why--but I thought every one knew that!"

"I don't see why. How could a girl know about the work you men do
unless you take the trouble to tell her?" Jean dimpled. "All through
Europe you and Uncle Bob have talked glass, glass, glass--nothing but
glass, and as you both seemed to understand what you were talking about
I did not like to interrupt and ask questions; but I had no more idea
than the man in the moon what you meant sometimes."

"Do you mean to say you know nothing at all about the process of
glass-making, Jean?" asked Mr. Cabot.

"Not a thing."

"Well, well, well! You have been a very patient little lady, that is
all I can say. Giusippe and I have been both rude and remiss, haven't
we, Giusippe? I thought of course you understood; and yet it is not at
all strange that you did not. As you say, how could you? Why didn't you
ask us, dear?"

"Oh, I didn't like to. I hate to seem stupid and be a bother."

"You are neither of those things, dear child. Is she, Giusippe?"

"I should say not."

"Well then, if it is all the same to you, I do wish somebody would tell
me whether glass is dug up out of the earth or is made of things mixed
together like a pudding," said Jean.

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