The Story of Glass
S >>
Sara Ware Bassett >> The Story of Glass
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9
Both Giusippe and Uncle Bob laughed.
"The pudding idea is the nearer correct. Glass is made from ingredients
which are mixed together, boiled, baked, and set away to cool. Isn't
that about it, Giusippe?"
Giusippe nodded.
"I think the best remedy we can administer to this young lady, as well
as the most fitting penance for our own discourtesy to her, is to
escort her through a glass factory and let her, with her own eyes,
behold the process. What do you say, Giusippe?"
"A capital idea, senor. Then I, too, should have the chance to visit an
American factory and compare the process you use here with our Italian
method. I should like it above everything else."
"That is precisely what we will do then," declared Mr. Cabot. "On my
first leisure day we will go, and in the meantime I will hunt up the
location of the most satisfactory and nearest glass works."
Not more than a week passed before Uncle Bob fulfilled his promise.
"Make yourselves ready, oh ye glass-makers," said he one morning at
breakfast. "I find after telephoning to the office that I am not needed
to-day; therefore, the moment we have swallowed these estimable griddle
cakes of Hannah's we will hie us forth to instruct Jean in the art of
manufacturing vases, bottles, tumblers and the various sorts of
glassware."
The two young people greeted the suggestion with pleasure.
"Can you really get away to-day, Uncle Bob?" cried Jean. "What fun
we'll have!"
"I think it will be fun. We must, however, make Giusippe captain of the
expedition for he is the one who really knows glass-making from
beginning to end, and can answer all our questions."
"I think I might in Murano," returned the Venetian modestly, "but that
is no sign that I can do it here; your process may differ from the one
we use at home."
"Oh, I do not believe so--at least, not in essentials," Mr. Cabot
answered.
So they started out, and before they had proceeded any distance at all
they got into a spirited debate over the tiny lights of glass set in
the top of the electric car. The panes were of ground glass dotted with
an all-over pattern of small stars which had been left transparent.
"How did they make the stars on that glass?" was Jean's innocent
question. "Did they scratch off the thick surface and leave the design
of clear glass?"
"No indeed," Mr. Cabot replied. "On the contrary they started with the
stars and then made the background cloudy."
"But I don't see how they could."
"Do you, Giusippe?"
"I am afraid not, senor."
"Good! At last there is one fact about glass-making that I can impart
to you. This sort of glass is known as sand-blast glass, and the art of
making it, they say, chanced to be discovered near the seashore. It was
found that when the strong winds rose and blew the sand against glass
window-panes of the houses the small particles, being sharp, cut into
the glass surface, and before long wore it to a cloudy white through
which it was impossible to see out. Often the glass fronts of
lighthouses were injured in this way and the lights dimmed. Finally
some man came along who said: 'See here! Why not turn this grinding
effect of the sand to some purpose? Why not apply it to transparent
glass and make it frosted so one can get light but not see through it?
Often such glass would be a convenience.' Therefore this inventor set
his brain to the task. Strong currents or streams of sand were directed
against a clear glass surface with such force that they cut and ground
it until it was no longer transparent. They called the product thus
made sand-blast glass. Later they improved upon it by laying a stencil
over it so that a desired design was covered and remained protected
from the sand blast. The result was a pattern such as you see--clear
figures set in a background of clouded glass."
"How interesting!"
"Yes, isn't it? As is true of so many other of our most clever
inventions nature first showed man the path. Ground glass in its
modified forms is used for many purposes now; and yet I venture to say
few persons know how it came to be discovered."
Just at this point the car stopped with a sudden jerk, and beckoning
Jean and Giusippe to follow, Mr. Cabot got out and entered a large
brick building that stood close at hand. Evidently he was expected, for
a man came forward to greet him.
"Mr. Cabot?" he asked.
"Yes. I received your note this morning, so I brought my young charges
out at once. It is very good of you to allow us to go through the
factory."
"We are always glad to see visitors. I will put you in the hands of one
of our foremen who will take you about and tell you everything you may
want to know."
He touched a bell.
"Show Mr. Cabot and his friends down-stairs," said he to the boy who
answered his call, "and introduce them to Mr. Wyman. Tell him he is to
conduct them over the works."
Mr. Wyman welcomed them cordially.
"We see many visitors here, sir," said he, "and are always glad to have
them come. Although glass-making is an old story to us scarce a day
passes that some one does not visit us to whom the process is entirely
new; and it certainly is interesting if a person has never seen it.
Suppose we begin at the very beginning. In this bin, or trough, you
will see the mixture or batch of which the glass is made. It is
composed of red lead and the finest of white beach sand. The lead is
what gives the inside of the trough its vermilion color. The sand comes
from abroad, and before it can be used it must be sifted and sifted
through a series of closely woven cloths until it is smooth and fine as
powder. Before we put the mixture into the melting pots we heat it to a
given temperature so that it will be less likely to chill the clay pots
and break them."
"Do you really make glass by melting up that stuff?" asked Jean
incredulously.
The man smiled.
"But isn't it all red?"
"The red comes out in the melting. We have to be very careful, however,
in weighing out the ingredients, for much of our success depends on the
accurate proportions of the materials combined in the batch. Of course
the chemical composition differs some for different sorts of glass. It
all depends on what kind of glass is to be made. Then too the
conditions of the furnaces vary at times, the draughts being better at
some seasons than at others. We take a test or proof of every fresh
melt, and you would be surprised to see how little these differ.
Careful mixing of the raw materials is the first important item of
successful glass-making; the second is the fusion by heat of the
materials."
"The batch is next melted, Jean," explained Giusippe, as they followed
Mr. Wyman into the great brick-paved room where the furnaces were.
Here indeed was a picturesque scene. Numberless men were hurrying
hither and thither, some whirling in the air glowing masses of molten
glass; others standing before the furnace doors gathering balls of it
on the end of long iron blow-pipes which were from six to nine feet in
length. Everybody was scurrying. As soon as a ball of red-hot glass had
been collected on the end of a blow-pipe it was rushed off to the
blower before it cooled. In and out of the throng of moving workmen
young boys, or carriers, swung along bearing to the annealing ovens on
charred wooden trays or forks newly completed vases or pitchers.
Jean glanced about, fascinated by the bustling crowd.
"Here are the furnaces," the foreman said. "Each one has twelve
openings and is built with a low dome to keep in the heat. The flues or
chimneys are in the sides of the furnace. Within, and just beneath the
openings or working-holes, stand the great clay pots of molten batch.
These pots are made for us from New Jersey clay; formerly we used to
make them ourselves, but it was a great deal of trouble, and we now
find it simpler to buy them. They vary in cost from thirty to
seventy-five dollars, according to their size."
"And they are liable to break the first time they are used," whispered
Giusippe in a jesting undertone.
Mr. Wyman caught his words.
"Ah, you know something of glass-making then, my young man?"
"A little."
"The pots are, as you say, a great lottery. Sometimes one will be in
constant use three months or longer, and do good service; on the other
hand a pot may break the first time using and let all the melt into the
furnace. Then we have a lively time, I can tell you, ladling it out,
and taking care in the meantime that none of the other pots are upset."
Giusippe nodded appreciatively.
Many a day just such a catastrophe had occurred when he had been
working; vividly he recalled how all the men had been forced to come to
the rescue.
"Are the pots filled to the top with batch?" asked Mr. Cabot.
"Yes, we charge them pretty solid; but the raw material loses bulk in
melting, so they have to be filled in as the melt settles. At the end
of ten or twelve hours we have a refilling or _topping out_, as we
call it; usually this is enough. The first fill must become fluid and
its gases must escape before any more material is added; we also have
to be sure when we put the pots in the furnace that the temperature is
high enough to melt the batch immediately, or the glass will go bad."
"What do you use for fuel?"
"Crude oil. In the West they can get natural gas, and there they often
melt the batch in tanks instead of pots. But we find crude oil quite
satisfactory. You can readily understand that we cannot burn any fuel
that gives off a waste product such as coal dust or cinders, because if
we did such matter would get into the melt and speck the glass, causing
it to be imperfect. Much of the work done by the earliest glass-makers
was specked in this way, and in fact the genuineness of old glass is
sometimes determined from these very imperfections."
"I see," Mr. Cabot nodded.
"After the melt is in a fluid state it throws to the top, provided the
heat is sufficient, many impurities such as bubbles and scum. These
are, of course, skimmed off--a process called plaining. Afterward the
hot material has to be cooled before it can be worked, and reduced
from fluid to a thicker consistency. This we call _standing off_ or
_fining_."
"How long does it take to melt the batch and get it ready to use?"
"About three days. We run a relay of furnaces--three of them--and plan
so that a melt will be ready to be worked every other day; in that way
we keep plenty of usable material on hand."
"And then?"
"Then we are ready to go ahead and blow it. We make nothing but the
better grades of blown glass here; that is, no window glass or cheap
pressed ware. Of course there are some patterns, such as fluted designs
and their like, which cannot be entirely fashioned by the blower;
therefore these are first blown as nearly the required size as possible
and are then made into the desired form by shutting them inside iron
moulds and squeezing them into the proper shape. You shall see it done
later on."
He now led them up to where a gatherer stood at one of the
working-holes of the furnace.
"This man," explained Mr. Wyman, "is collecting on his blow-pipe enough
glass to make a pitcher. He uses his judgment as to the amount
necessary, but so often has he estimated it that he seldom gets either
too much or too little. He will next carry it to the blower, who will
blow it into a long, pear-shaped cylinder the size he wants the pitcher
to be."
They followed, and with much interest watched a great Swede fill his
lungs and blow into the smaller end of the iron pipe with all his
strength; immediately the ball of soft, red-hot glass began to take
form. With incredible speed the blower flattened its base upon a marver
or table topped with sheet iron. A short iron rod or pontil was next
fastened to the middle of the bottom of the pitcher in order that the
blower might hold it, and after this had been done the blow-pipe was
detached. The glass-maker sat in a sort of backless chair which had
long, flat, metal-covered arms at either side, and as he worked he
rolled the rod with its plastic material back and forth along one of
these iron arms to shape it. He then took his shears and, making an
incision at the middle of the back of the jug, he began to cut the top
into the shape he wanted it, depending entirely on his eye for the
outline. Then quick as a flash he seized a bit of round metal not
unlike a beet in shape and, pressing it inside the soft glass, made the
depression for the nose. All this was done in much less time than it
takes to tell it. A small boy, or carrier, now bobbed up at just the
proper moment and taking the pitcher on his wooden fork carried it off
to a small furnace where it was reheated at the opening or "glory
hole." This little furnace, Mr. Wyman said, was used only for the
purpose of softening glass objects which became chilled in the modeling
and began to be hard and less pliable. As soon as the boy brought the
pitcher back another lad, as if calculating by magic the precise moment
at which to appear, approached with a small mass of molten glass at the
end of his gathering-iron. This he stuck firmly against the pitcher at
the correct spot to form the base of the handle; the modeler snipped
off with his shears as much of the soft glass as he thought necessary,
turned it up, and in the twinkling of an eye fastened the upper end of
the handle in place. Then he surveyed his handiwork an instant to make
sure that it was symmetrical, straightened it just a shade with his
battledore of charred wood, and passed it over to the carrier, who bore
it off to be baked.
"Why do they use so much charred wood for the shaping?" inquired Jean.
"Metal things are liable to mark the glass, leaving upon it a print,
scratch, or other imperfection; charred wood, when worn down, is
absolutely smooth and cannot mar the material."
"Oh, yes, I see. And where have they taken the pitcher now?"
"We will follow it," replied the foreman.
Escorting them across the room he showed them a low oven or kiln. The
door of it was open, and inside they could see all sorts of glassware
which had just been finished.
"Here is where your pitcher will remain for the next three days," said
he. "We build a fire, put the completed glass in the oven, and leave it
there until the fire goes out and the oven gradually cools; we call the
process annealing. It prevents the glass from breaking when exposed to
friction or to the atmosphere. Glass is very brittle, and extremely
sensitive to heat and cold. If it were not annealed it would not be
strong, and would snap to pieces the moment it came in contact with the
outer air. Now it is very difficult to anneal glass, the trouble being
that all hollow ware is one temperature on the inside and another on
the outside. Hence, when heated, the inside takes longer to cool. Any
current of cold air that strikes it will fracture it. So, as you can
readily see, an annealing kiln or oven must be arranged in such a way
that it will allow the two surfaces to cool simultaneously."
"I think I understand," answered Jean. "And you say these things must
stay in the kiln about three days?"
"Yes, the kiln takes about that time. It is a slow process, because we
have practically no way of regulating its heat. A lehr does the work
much quicker. Over here you will see one. It is a long arch or oven
open at both ends. The glassware travels in iron pans along a moving
surface from the hot oven, or receiving end, to the cool, or
discharging end. The temperature of the lehr can be scientifically
tested and regulated, and this is very necessary, because the heavy
glass intended for cutting can stand a greater heat than can ordinary
hollow ware such as vials and table glass. We regulate the oven
according to what we are annealing in it. It does not take so long to
anneal glass in a lehr as in a kiln, and therefore in many factories
only lehrs are used. If you will come around to the cool end you can
see some of the finished pieces being taken out. Each object is made by
a certain set or gang of workmen--a shop, we call it. The work of each
shop when taken from the lehr is put in a box by itself and is then
counted up, and the men paid according to the number of perfect objects
finished. It is piece work. For instance, one shop makes only pitchers,
another wine-glasses, another vases, and so on. Every group has its
specialty, and each workman in the team understands exactly what his
part is in the whole. The common interest of turning out as many
perfect pieces as possible spurs each man to work as rapidly, well, and
helpfully as he can."
"Just like a football squad, Uncle Bob," laughed Jean.
"Exactly," nodded Mr. Wyman. "After the finished glass is taken from
the kiln or lehr it goes to the examining room, where girls dip it in
clear water and hold it to the light to test it for imperfections; then
it is sorted, packed, and shipped."
"And vases, sugar-bowls, tumblers, and most of the hollow glassware is
made in the same way?" inquired Mr. Cabot.
"Yes, practically so. The general scheme is the same. As I told you,
there are some difficult designs which must be squeezed into shape in
moulds. These are of iron, and for the convenience of the blowers are
set in holes in the floor. They are made in two parts joined by a
hinge. The molten glass is blown to the approximate size and then a boy
shuts it inside the mould and the blower blows into it until it has
entirely filled out the mould in which it is confined. When released it
is shaped to the form required."
[Illustration: "IT IS SHAPED TO THE FORM REQUIRED"]
"But doesn't it stick to the mould?"
"Seldom. The moulds are painted over on the inside with a preparation
which prevents the glass from sticking."
"Do you cut any glass here?"
"Oh, yes. Cut glass is made from the heavier crystal variety. The
design is roughly outlined upon it in white and then the cutter places
the part to be cut against an emery-wheel, which grinds out the grooves
and figures and makes the pattern. Just above each cutter's revolving
wheel is suspended a funnel of wet sand, and this drops at intervals
upon the turning disc and cools it; otherwise it would become so hot
from the friction that it could not be used. After the design has been
cut on the emery-wheel all its rough edges are smoothed off on a stone
of much finer grain. I can show you our glass cutters at work if you
would care to see them."
"Oh, do let's see them, Uncle Bob," begged Jean.
"All right; but only for a few moments. We have already taken too much
of Mr. Wyman's time, I fear. And besides, I must be back in town for
luncheon," answered Mr. Cabot.
Accordingly they went on into the next room, where Jean became so
fascinated by the whirring wheels and the men whose steady hands guided
them that it was with difficulty she could be persuaded to leave and
start for home.
"Do you think, little lady, that when you get back to Boston you can
mix up some glass for us and bake it in Hannah's oven?" questioned
Uncle Bob of her when they were at last in the car.
"I am not sure," replied the girl with a bright smile. "But certainly I
have a much clearer idea how to do it than I had before I went out to
the factory. In future when you and Giusippe talk glass-making I can at
least be a bit more intelligent. I think, too, I appreciate now how
wonderful it was that the Egyptians, Persians, and Syrians discovered
in those far-off days how to make glass. I am not at all sure,
Giusippe, that when we go to Pittsburgh I shall not steal your trade
and apply to Uncle Tom for a place in his factory."
Mr. Cabot pinched her cheek playfully.
"I guess you'd better stick to dressing dolls," he said.
CHAPTER IX
A REUNION
At length all too soon for Uncle Bob and Hannah, and indeed far sooner
than Jean and Giusippe had realized, October came, and the time for
starting for Pittsburgh was at hand. To the young people their
departure was not without its anticipations. Jean longed to see Beacon
and Uncle Tom, and Giusippe burned with eagerness to take up the
position his uncle had secured for him at Mr. Curtis's factory.
"How odd it is, Giusippe," Jean mused one day, "that we each have an
uncle waiting for us. And besides that you have an aunt, too, haven't
you? I wish I had. I'd love to have an aunt! As it is I have only
Beacon."
"Maybe you'll have one some day," was Giusippe's vaguely consoling
answer. "But anyway I shouldn't think you would care much. You have
Miss Cartright, and she is almost as good as an aunt."
"I suppose she is something like one," admitted Jean, "only, you see,
she doesn't live where I do, so I can't see her very often. Of course
she has sent me nice letters since she got home to New York and
sometimes she writes Uncle Bob, too; but it isn't really like seeing
her. When I think that the day after to-morrow she is to meet us in New
York it seems too good to be true. Won't it be fun? I love Miss
Cartright! Do you suppose she looks just the same as she did when she
was with us on the steamer?"
"I suppose so. Your uncle said she did when he saw her in New York."
"I know it. He has had lots of chances to see her because he has been
over there so many times on business trips. I wish we had. But we shall
see her now, anyway. Oh, I am so glad!" Jean whirled enthusiastically
round the room. "I think we are to have a pretty nice visit in New York
if we do all the things Uncle Bob is planning to. He says he is going
to take us to the studio of one of his friends and show us how stained
glass windows are made. I shall like to see that, sha'n't you?"
So the boy and girl chattered on little dreaming, in the delight of the
pleasures in store for them, how lonely at heart were Mr. Cabot and
poor Hannah.
"If it wasn't that Jean is coming back in the spring I should be
completely inconsolable," lamented Hannah. "I cannot bear to part with
the child. But she will surely be back again, won't she, Mr. Bob? There
won't be any other plan made? You'll certainly insist that Mr. Curtis
send her home to us in May, won't you?"
"There, there, Hannah, dry your eyes. Of course Jean will be back. I
have no more mind to lose her than you have. No one knows how I love
that child! I'd no more let her leave my home than I would cut off my
right hand," was Mr. Cabot's vehement reply.
"The boy is a splendid fellow, too," Hannah went on. "He has the
makings of a fine man, Mr. Bob."
"Yes. Giusippe is a very unusual lad. As time goes on I am more and
more convinced that we made no mistake in bringing him to America. I am
sure that we are adding a good citizen to the country. I have a feeling
that Mr. Curtis will be much interested in him."
"I wish he'd be sufficiently interested to adopt him and send Jean home
to us," suggested Hannah, smoothing out the edge of an apron she was
hemming.
"I am afraid such a scheme as that would be too good to be true,"
laughed Mr. Cabot. "If, however, he helps place Giusippe in a fine
business position I shall be satisfied. That is all I shall ask."
Nevertheless, brave as Uncle Bob tried to be, he was very solemn the
morning he saw the trunks brought down-stairs and strapped on the back
of the waiting cab.
"Cheer up, Hannah!" he called from the sidewalk. "Why, bless my soul,
if you're not crying! Come, come, this will never do! May will be here
before you know it, and the child will be back again. She is only going
on a visit--remember that. Her home is here. Say good-bye to Hannah,
you young scamps. She somehow seems to have the notion you are never to
return. Tell her she is not to get off so easily. Before many moons she
will find you two in the pantry raiding the cookie jar just as you
robbed it yesterday--you bandits!"
And so with a gaiety he did not feel Mr. Cabot hustled his charges into
the carriage and slammed the door.
The trip to New York was a blur of new impressions and the city itself,
when they reached it, another blur--a confusion of madly rushing
throngs; giant sky-scrapers; racing taxicabs; and clanging bells. To
the children it seemed a maelstrom of horror. Their one thought was to
get safely out of the crowd, have something to eat, and go to bed. But
with the morning light New York took on quite a different aspect. It
proved to be not such a bad place after all. The solitary fact that it
harbored Miss Cartright was quite enough to redeem it in their eyes.
Then there was so much to see which was new and strange! Directly after
breakfast Uncle Bob took them out for a stroll and after a walk in the
brisk air he led them into Tiffany's.
"While we have time and are right here I want to show you one of the
most wonderful glass products of America," said he. "It is called
Favril glass and is made at Coronna, Long Island. Just how, I do not
know. The process is a secret one. You remember, don't you, the
marvelous iridescent colors of the ancient Egyptian glass we saw in the
British Museum? And you recall how exquisite was the turquoise glaze on
some of the old pieces? Well, the Tiffany people have tried to imitate
that, and so well have they succeeded that they have received many
medals in recognition of their skill. Museums all over the world from
Tokio to Christiania have purchased collections of the glass that it
may be exhibited and enjoyed by young and old. I am going to show you
some of it now."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9