A Radical Change. — From the Square to the Circle; from Angles to Spherical, Cylindrical, and Eccentric Forms. — The Rhythm of Mechanics. — The Potter’s Wheel of the Ancients and the Turning-lathe. — The Speculation of Holtzapffels on its Origin. — The Greeks as Turners. — The Turners of the Middle Ages. — George III. at the Lathe. — Maudslay’s Slide-rest, and the Revolution it wrought. — The Natural History of Black-walnut. — The Practical Value of Imagination. — Disraeli’s Tribute to it; Sir Robert Peel’s Want of it. — The Laboratory animated by Steam. — The Boys at the Lathes. — Their Manly Bearing. — The Lesson.

When the twenty-four boys of the Carpenter’s Laboratory have become expert in the use of the tools employed in carpentry they will be introduced to the Wood-turning Laboratory. The change is radical—from the square to the circle, from the prose to the poetry of mechanical manipulation. Carpentry is distinguished for its corners and angles, turnery for its spherical, cylindrical, and eccentric forms. In these forms Nature abounds and delights, and it is in these forms that the rhythm of mechanics exists. It is by the Turners that the arts are supplied with a thousand and one things of use and beauty. The machines, great and small, from the locomotive to the stocking-knitter—without which the work of the modern world could not be done—these wonderful contrivances, seemingly more cunning than the hand of man, owe their very existence to the turning-lathe.

The skilled instructor in this department of the school loves to dwell upon the history of turning. Its origin is enveloped in the obscurity of early Egyptian traditions. It is the subject of one of the oldest myths, which runs thus: “Num, the directing spirit of the universe, and oldest of created beings, first exercised the potter’s art, moulding the human race on his wheel. Having made the heavens and the earth, and the air, and the sun and moon, he modelled man out of the dark Nilotic clay, and into his nostrils breathed the breath of life.”

The Potter’s Wheel of the ancients contained the germ of the turning-lathe found in every modern machine-shop, whether for the manipulation of wood or iron. Holtzapffels has an ingenious speculation as to the origin of the invention of the lathe. In his elaborate work on “Turning and Mechanical Manipulation” he says,

“It would appear probable that the origin of the lathe may be found in the revolution given to tools for piercing objects for ornament or use. At first it may be supposed that a spine or thorn from a tree, a splinter of bone or a tooth, was alone used and pressed into the work as we should use a brad-awl. The process would naturally be slow and unsuitable to hard materials, and this probably suggested to the primitive mechanic the idea of attaching a splinter of bone or flint to the end of a short piece of stick, rubbing which between the palms of his hands would give a rotary motion to the tool.”

Of the steps of progress in invention, from the rude turning-tools of the ancients down to the beginning of the present century, when Maudslay’s improvement made the lathe the king of the machine-shop, little is known. By the Greeks the invention of turning was ascribed to Dædalus. Phidias, who produced the two great masterpieces of Greek art, Athene and Jupiter Olympius, was familiar with the then existing system of wood-turning. In cutting figures on signets and gems in such stones as agate, carnelian, chalcedony, and amethyst, the Greek artificers used the wheel and the style. In the abundant ornamentation of Roman dwellings—their elaborately carved chairs, tables, bedsteads, sofas, and stools—there is ample evidence of a knowledge of the art of turning in wood. Improvements were made in turning-tools, and fine ornamental work was done by the artisans of the Middle Ages, to which the cathedrals and palaces of the time bear witness. Later, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, turning became a fashionable amusement among the French nobility and gentry. Louis XVI. was an expert locksmith, and spent much of his royal time in that pursuit. The fashion extended to England. George III. is said to have been an expert wood-turner, to have been “learned in wheels and treadles, chucks and chisels;” and as a matter of course a pursuit indulged by kings was followed by many nobles. There is, however, no evidence that those distinguished amateurs made any improvements in the tools they used; inventions and discoveries in this as in all departments of art came from the other end of the social scale. When the Spaniards sacked Antwerp in 1585 the Flemish silk-weavers fled to England and set up their looms there; and a century later, upon the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, the silk industry of England received a new accession of refugee artisans consisting of persecuted Protestants. Doubtless with the Flemish weavers there crossed the British Channel representatives of all the useful arts, including that of turning; for in another hundred years England took the front rank among nations in nearly all industrial pursuits.

Among the great inventions and discoveries which distinguished the last quarter of the eighteenth century, Maudslay’s slide-rest attachment to the lathe was one of the greatest, if not the greatest. Without it Watt’s invention would have been of little more real service to mankind than the French automata of the first quarter of the same century—the mechanical peacock of Degennes, Vaucauson’s duck, or Maillardet’s conjurer. Mr. Samuel Smiles, in his admirable book on “Iron-workers and Tool-makers,” declares that this passion for automata, which gave rise to many highly ingenious devices, “had the effect of introducing among the higher order of artists habits of nice and accurate workmanship in executing delicate pieces of machinery.” And he adds, “The same combination of mechanical powers which made the steel spider crawl, the duck quack, or waved the tiny rod of the magician, contributed in future years to purposes of higher import—the wheels and pinions, which in these automata almost eluded the human senses by their minuteness, reappearing in modern times in the stupendous mechanism of our self-acting lathes, spinning-mules, and steam-engines.”

That there was a logical connection between the two eras of mechanical contrivance—that of the ingenious automata and that of the useful modern machines—is extremely probable. That the refugee artisans from Antwerp and from France had a stimulating effect upon English invention and discovery there can be little doubt; and that the French automata, which were much written about, and exhibited as a triumph of mechanical genius, became known to and exercised an influence upon the minds of intelligent mechanics is equally probable. We are therefore surprised to find Mr. Smiles arriving at a conclusion in such direct conflict with his general views of the gradual growth of inventions, namely, “that Maudslay’s invention was entirely independent of all that had gone before, and that he contrived it for the special purpose of overcoming the difficulties which he himself experienced in turning out duplicate parts in large numbers.”

But however this may be, Mr. Maudslay’s invention revolutionized the workshop. Before its introduction the tool of the artisan was guided solely by muscular strength and the dexterity of the hand; the smallest variation in the pressure applied rendered the work imperfect. The slide-rest acting automatically changed all that. With it thousands of duplicates of the most ponderous, as well as the most minute pieces of machinery, are executed with the utmost precision. Without it the steam-engine, whether locomotive or stationary, would have been hardly more than a dream of genius; for the monster that is to be fed with steam can be properly constructed only by automatic steam-driven tools; or, as another has expressed it, “Steam-engines were never properly made until they made themselves.”

Ten minutes are thus agreeably and profitably occupied by the instructor in a review of the history of a single invention, and its relations to the whole field of mechanical work.

Another branch of the lesson consists of an inquiry into the natural history, qualities, value, and common uses of the wood which is to be the material of the day’s manipulation—black-walnut. Holding a piece of the purplish brown wood high in his hand the instructor discharges, as it were, a volley of questions at the class, “What is it called?” “Where is it found?” “How large does the tree grow?” “For what is the wood chiefly used?” Up go a dozen hands. The owner of one of the hands is recognized, and he rises to tell all about it, but is only allowed to say “black-walnut.” The next speaker is permitted to say that “the black-walnut is found all over North America;” the next that it is more abundant west of the Alleghanies, and most abundant in the valley of the Mississippi; the next that in a forest it has a limbless trunk from thirty to fifty feet high, but in the “open” branches near the ground; the next that it is extensively used in house-finishing, in furniture, for all kinds of cabinet-work, and especially for gunstocks.

Further inquiry elicits the information that the black-walnut is a quick-growing, large tree; that its wood is hard, fine-grained, durable, and susceptible of a high polish, and that through use and exposure it turns dark, and with great age becomes almost black. One student describes the leaves, another the fruit or nuts, and states that they are used in dyeing; a third states that the black-walnut is a great favorite for planting in the treeless tracts of the West, on account of its rapid growth and the value of its timber. When the subject appears to be nearly exhausted, a boy at the farther end of one of the forms rises timidly and tells the story of the late Mr. W. C. Bryant’s great black-walnut-tree at Roslyn, Long Island. He concludes, excitedly, “It is one hundred and seventy years old and twenty-five feet in circumference.”[1] The timid boy dwells upon his story of the “big” tree with evident fondness, and his eyes dilate with satisfaction as he resumes his seat. The circumstance of the great age no less than the enormous size of the tree has captivated his imagination. The discriminating instructor will not fail to note such incidents of the lesson. It is through them that the special aptitudes of students are disclosed. The instructor will always bear prominently in mind that the purpose of the school is not to make mechanics but men. Nor will he forget, as Buckle remarked, that Shakespeare preceded Newton. Buckle pays a glowing tribute to the usefulness of the imagination. He says, “Shakespeare and the poets sowed the seed which Newton and the philosophers reaped.... They drew attention to nature, and thus became the real founders of all natural science. They did even more than this. They first impregnated the mind of England with bold and lofty conceptions. They taught the men of their generation to crave after the unseen.”

Disraeli, in his matchless biography of Lord George Bentinck, in summing up the character of a great English statesman is equally emphatic in praise of the imagination as a practical quality. He says,

“Thus gifted and thus accomplished, Sir Robert Peel had a great deficiency—he was without imagination. Wanting imagination, he wanted prescience. No one was more sagacious when dealing with the circumstances before him; no one penetrated the present with more acuteness and accuracy. His judgment was faultless, provided he had not to deal with the future. Thus it happened through his long career, that while he always was looked upon as the most prudent and safest of leaders, he ever, after a protracted display of admirable tactics, concluded his campaigns by surrendering at discretion. He was so adroit that he could prolong resistance even beyond its term, but so little foreseeing that often in the very triumph of his manœuvres he found himself in an untenable position.”

The timid boy has imagination; if he has application and the logical faculty he may become an inventor, or he may become an artist—an engraver or a designer of works of art—or he may become a man of letters. To the man of vivid imagination and industry all avenues are open; Disraeli’s wonderful career offers a striking illustration of the truth of this proposition. The true purpose of education is the harmonious development of the whole being, and the purpose of this turning laboratory is to educate these twenty-four boys, not to make turners of them.

The laboratory is a labyrinth of belts, large and small, of wheels, big and little, of pulleys and lathes. A student, at a word from the instructor, moves a lever a few inches, and the breath of life is breathed into the complicated mass of machinery. The throbbing heart of the engine far away sends the currents of its power along shafting and pulleys. The dull, monotonous whir of steam-driven machinery salutes the ear, and the twenty-four students take their places at the lathes. They are from fourteen to seventeen years of age, and range in height from undersize to “full-grown.” They look like little men. Their faces are grave, showing a sense of responsibility. They are to handle edge-tools on wood rapidly revolved by the power of steam. There is peril in an uncautious step, and death lurks in the shafting. Of these dangers they have been repeatedly warned; and there is in their bearing that manifestation of wary coolness which we call “nerve,” and which in an emergency develops into a lofty heroism capable of sublime self-sacrifice.

This is the very essence of education, its informing spirit. The student no longer thinks merely of becoming an expert turner; he thinks of becoming a man! All the powers of his mind are roused to vigorous action; imagination illumes the path, and reason, following with firm but cautious step, drives straight to the mark. Rapid development results from the combination of practice with theory—rapid because orderly, or natural. The knowledge acquired is at once assimilated, and becomes a mental resource, subject to draft like a bank account. But unlike a bank account it increases in the ratio of the frequency with which drafts are made upon it, and the result is the student leaves school at seventeen years of age with the reasoning experience of an ordinarily educated man of forty.

The lesson has been announced by the instructor, its chief points stated and analyzed, its place in the scale (so to speak) of the art of turnery defined, its educational value to the mind, the hand, and the eye shown, and the points of difficulty involved so emphasized as to lead to painstaking care in the execution of crucial parts. The new tool required by the lesson is handled in presence of the waiting class by the instructor; the time of its invention stated; the name of its inventor given; the method of its manufacture described; and how to sharpen, take care of, and use it explained with such minuteness of detail as to insure the making of a permanent impression upon the minds of students.

The wood-turner’s case contains more than a hundred tools, perhaps a hundred and fifty, but not more than a score of them are fundamental; the others are subsidiary, and require very little if any explanation.

The lesson may be one in simple turning, as a table-leg, the round of a chair, or parts of a section of a miniature garden-fence; or it may be a set of pulleys, or patterns for various forms of pipe. The pieces of wood to be wrought or manipulated lie at the feet of the student, and the working drawing (drawn by the student himself) lies on the bench before him. The piece of wood to be turned first is adjusted, the student touches a lever over his head which sets the lathe in motion, takes the required tool in hand, and the work begins. Guided by the automatic slide-rest, the sharp point of the tool chips away the revolving wood until it assumes the form of the drawing lying under the eye of the operator. Thus the lesson proceeds to the end of the prescribed period—two hours. The master watches every step of its progress. If a student is puzzled he receives prompt assistance, so that no time may be lost. Indeed the relations between instructor and students are such, or ought to be such, that the question is asked before the puzzled mind falls into a rut of profitless speculation through revolving in a circle. But if the true sequential method of study is followed the student rarely fails, from the vantage ground of a step securely taken, to comprehend the nature of the next step in the regular order of succession. This is the Russian system, and it is the method of the wood-turnery as well as of every department of the Manual Training School. Hence a certain tool having been mastered, the next tool in the regular order of succession is more easily understood, because (1) each tool contains a hint of the nature of its successor, and (2) each addition to the student’s stock of knowledge confers an increased capability of comprehension.

When the lesson is concluded the whir of the machinery ceases, and a great silence falls upon the class as the students assemble about the instructor, each presenting his piece of work. This is the moment of friendly criticism. The instructor handles each specimen, comments upon the character of the workmanship, points out its defects, and calls for criticisms from the class. These are freely given. There is an animated discussion, involving explanations on the part of the instructor of the various causes of defects, and suggestions as to suitable methods of amendment. Then the pieces of work are marked according to the various degrees of excellence they exhibit, and the class is dismissed.