[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 892. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE MATERIALIZATION OF CHARLES AND MIVANWAY.
BY JEROME K. JEROME.
The fault that most people will find with this story is that it is
unconvincing. Its scheme is improbable, its atmosphere artificial. To
confess that the thing really happened--not as I am about to set it
down, for the pen of the professional writer cannot but adorn and
embroider, even to the detriment of his material--is, I am well aware,
only an aggravation of my offence; for the facts of life are the
impossibilities of fiction. A truer artist would have left this story
alone, or at most have kept it for the irritation of his private circle.
My lower instinct is to make use of it. A very old man told me the tale;
he was landlord of the Cromlech Arms, the only inn of a small,
rock-sheltered village on the northeast coast of Cornwall, and had been
so for nine-and-forty years. It is called the Cromlech Hotel now, and is
under new management, and during the season some four coach-loads of
tourists sit down each day to _table d'hôte_ lunch in the low-ceilinged
parlor. But I am speaking of some time ago when the place was a mere
fishing-harbor, undiscovered by the guide-books.
The old landlord talked, and I harkened, the while we both sat drinking
thin ale from earthen-ware mugs late one summer's evening, on the bench
that runs along the wall just beneath the latticed windows; and during
the many pauses when the old landlord stopped to puff his pipe in
silence and lay in a new stock of breath, there came to us the deep
voices of the Atlantic, and often, mingled with the pompous roar of the
big breakers further out, we would hear the rippling laugh of some small
wave that, maybe, had crept in to listen to the tale the landlord told.
* * * * *
The mistake that Charles Seabohn, junior partner of the firm of Seabohn
& Son, civil engineers, of London and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and Mivanway
Evans, youngest daughter of the Rev. Thomas Evans, pastor of the
Presbyterian church at Bristol, made originally was in marrying too
young. Charles Seabohn could hardly have been twenty years of age, and
Mivanway could have been little more than seventeen, when they first met
upon the cliffs two miles above the Cromlech Arms. Young Charles
Seabohn, coming upon the village in the course of a walking-tour, had
decided to spend a day or two exploring the picturesque coast; and
Mivanway's father had hired a neighboring farm-house wherein to spend
his summer vacation. Early one morning--for, at twenty, one takes
exercise before breakfast--as young Charles Seabohn lay upon the cliffs,
watching the white waters come and go upon the black rocks beneath him,
he became aware of a form rising from the waves. The figure was too far
off for him to see it clearly, but, judging from the costume, it was a
female figure, and promptly the mind of Charles, poetically inclined,
turned to thoughts of Venus or Aphrodite, as he, being a gentleman of
delicate taste, would have preferred to term her. He saw the figure
disappear behind a headland, but still waited. In about ten minutes or a
quarter of an hour it reappeared clothed in the garments of the
eighteen-sixties, and came towards him. Hidden from sight himself behind
a group of rocks, he could watch it at his leisure ascending the steep
path from the beach; and an exceedingly sweet and dainty figure it would
have appeared even to eyes less susceptible than those of twenty.
Sea-water--I stand open to correction--is not, I believe, considered
anything of a substitute for curling-tongs, but to the hair of the
youngest Miss Evans it had given an additional and most fascinating
wave. Nature's red and white had been most cunningly laid on, and the
large childish eyes seemed to be searching the world for laughter with
which to feed a pair of delicious, pouting lips. Charles's upturned
face, petrified into admiration, appeared to be just the sort of thing
for which they were on the lookout. A startled "Oh!" came from the
slightly parted lips, followed by the merriest of laughs, which in its
turn was suddenly stopped by a deep blush. Then the youngest Miss Evans
looked offended, as though the whole affair had been Charles's fault,
which is the way of women. And Charles, feeling himself guilty under
that stern gaze of indignation, rose awkwardly and apologized meekly,
whether for being on the cliffs at all or for having got up too early he
would have been unable to explain.
The youngest Miss Evans graciously accepted the apology thus tendered
with a bow, and passed on, and Charles stood staring after her till the
valley gathered her into its spreading arms and hid her from his view.
That was the beginning of all things--I am speaking of the universe as
viewed from the stand-point of Charles and Mivanway.
Six months later they were man and wife; or perhaps it would be more
correct to say boy and wifelet. Seabohn senior counselled delay, but was
overruled by his junior partner. The Rev. Mr. Evans, in common with most
theologians, possessed a goodly supply of unmarried daughters and a
limited income. Personally he saw no necessity for postponement of the
marriage.
The month's honeymoon was spent in the New Forest. That was a mistake to
begin with. The New Forest in February is depressing, and they had
chosen the loneliest spot they could find. A fortnight in Paris or Rome
would have been more helpful. As yet they had nothing to talk about
except love, and that they had been talking and writing about steadily
all through the winter. On the tenth morning Charles yawned, and
Mivanway had a quiet half-hour's cry about it in her own room. On the
sixteenth evening Mivanway, feeling irritable, and wondering why (as
though fifteen damp, chilly days in the New Forest were not sufficient
to make any woman irritable), requested Charles not to disarrange her
hair; and Charles, speechless with astonishment, went out into the
garden and swore before all the stars that he would never caress
Mivanway's hair again as long as he lived.
One supreme folly they had conspired to commit even before the
commencement of the honeymoon. Charles, after the manner of very young
lovers, had earnestly requested Mivanway to impose upon him some task.
He desired to do something great and noble to show his devotion. Dragons
were the things he had in his mind, though he may not have been aware of
it. Dragons also, no doubt, flitted through Mivanway's brain; but
unfortunately for lovers, the supply of dragons has lapsed. Mivanway,
liking the conceit, however, thought over it, and then decided that
Charles must give up smoking. She had discussed the matter with her
favorite sister, and that was the only thing the girls could think of.
Charles's face fell. He suggested some more herculean labor, some
sacrifice more worthy to lay at Mivanway's feet. But Mivanway had
spoken. She might think of some other task, but the smoking prohibition
would in any case remain. She dismissed the subject with a pretty
hauteur that would have graced Marie Antoinette.
Thus tobacco, the good angel of all men, no longer came each day to
teach Charles patience and amiability, and he fell into the ways of
short temper and selfishness.
They took up their residence in a suburb of Newcastle, and this was also
unfortunate for them, because there the society was scanty and
middle-aged, and in consequence they had still to depend much upon their
own resources. They knew little of life, less of each other, and nothing
at all of themselves. Of course they quarrelled, and each quarrel left
the wound a little deeper than before. No kindly experienced friend was
at hand to laugh at them. Mivanway would write down all her sorrows in a
bulky diary, which made her feel worse; so that before she had written
for ten minutes her pretty unwise head would drop upon her dimpled arm,
and the book, the proper place for which was behind the fire, would
become damp with her tears; and Charles, his day's work done and the
clerks gone, would linger in his dingy office and hatch trifles into
troubles.
The end came one evening after dinner, when in the heat of a silly
squabble Charles boxed Mivanway's ears. That was very ungentlemanly
conduct, and he was most heartily ashamed of himself the moment he had
done it, which was right and proper for him to be. The only excuse to be
urged on his behalf is that girls sufficiently pretty to have been
spoiled from childhood by every one about them can at times be intensely
irritating. Mivanway rushed up to her room and locked herself in;
Charles flew after her to apologize, but only arrived in time to have
the door slammed in his face.
It had only been the merest touch; a boy's muscles move quicker than his
thoughts. But to Mivanway it was a blow. This is what it had come to!
This was the end of a man's love!
She spent half the night writing in the precious diary, with the result
that in the morning she came down feeling more bitter than when she had
gone up. Charles had walked the streets of Newcastle all night, and that
had not done him any good. He met her with an apology combined with an
excuse, which was bad policy. Mivanway, of course, fastened upon the
excuse, and the quarrel recommenced. She mentioned that she hated him,
he hinted that she had never loved him, and she retorted that he had
never loved her. Had there been anybody by to knock their heads together
and suggest breakfast, the thing might have blown over; but the combined
effect of a sleepless night and an empty stomach upon each proved
disastrous. Their words came poisoned from their brains, and they
believed they meant what they said. That afternoon Charles sailed from
Hull on a ship bound for the Cape, and that evening Mivanway arrived at
the paternal home in Bristol with two trunks and the curt information
that she and Charles had separated forever. The next morning both
thought of a soft speech to say to the other, but the next morning was
just twenty-four hours too late.
Eight days afterward Charles's ship was run down in a fog near the coast
of Portugal, and every soul on board was supposed to have perished.
Mivanway read his name among the list of lost.
By good luck, however, Charles and one other man were rescued by a small
trading-vessel, and landed in Algiers. There Charles learned of his
supposed death, and the idea occurred to him to leave the report
uncontradicted. For one thing, it solved a problem that had been
troubling him. He could trust his father to see to it that his own small
fortune, with possibly something added, was handed over to Mivanway, and
she would be free, if she wished, to marry again. He was convinced that
she did not care for him, and that she had read of his death with a
sense of relief. He would make a new life for himself and forget her.
He continued his journey to the Cape, and once there he soon gained for
himself an excellent position. The colony was young, engineers were
welcome, and Charles knew his business. He found the life interesting
and exciting. The rough, dangerous up-country work suited him, and the
time passed swiftly.
But in thinking he would forget Mivanway, he had not taken into
consideration his own character, which at bottom was a very gentlemanly
character. Out on the lonely veldt he found himself dreaming of her. The
memory of her pretty face and merry laugh came back to him at all hours.
Occasionally he would rate her roundly, but that only meant that he was
sore because of the thought of her; what he was really rating was
himself and his own folly. Softened by the distance, her quick temper,
her very petulance became mere added graces; and if we consider women as
human beings, and not as angels, it was certainly a fact that he had
lost a very sweet and lovable woman.
Ah! if only she were by his side now--now that he was a man, capable of
appreciating her, and not a foolish, selfish boy. This thought would
come to him as he sat smoking at the door of his tent, and then he would
regret that the stars looking down upon him were not the same stars that
were watching her; it would have made him feel nearer to her. For,
though young people may not credit it, one grows more sentimental as one
grows older--at least some of us do, and they, perhaps, not the least
wise.
One night he had a vivid dream of her. She came to him and held out her
hand, and he took it, and they said good-by to one another. They were
standing on the cliff where he had first met her, and one of them was
going upon a long journey, though he was not sure which.
In the towns men laugh at dreams, but away from civilization we listen
more readily to the strange tales that Nature whispers to us. Charles
Seabohn recollected this dream when he awoke in the morning.
"She is dying," he said, "and she has come to wish me good-by."
He made up his mind to return to England at once; perhaps if he made
haste he would be in time to kiss her. But he could not start that day,
for work was to be done, and Charles Seabohn, lover though he still was,
had grown to be a man, and knew that work must not be neglected even
though the heart may be calling. So for a day or two he staid, and on
the third night he dreamed of Mivanway again, and this time she lay
within the little chapel at Bristol where, on Sunday mornings, he had
often sat with her. He heard her father's voice reading the burial
service over her, and the sister she had loved best was sitting beside
him, crying softly! Then Charles knew that there was no need for him to
hasten. So he remained to finish his work. That done, he would return to
England. He would like again to stand upon the cliffs above the little
Cornish village where they had first met.
Thus, a few months later, Charles Seabohn--or Charles Denning, as he
called himself--aged and bronzed, not easily recognizable by those who
had not known him well, walked into the Cromlech Arms, as six years
before he had walked in with his knapsack on his back, and asked for a
room, saying he would be stopping in the village for a short while.
In the evening he strolled out and made his way to the cliffs. It was
twilight when he reached the place of rocks to which the fancy-loving
Cornish folk had given the name of the Witches' Caldron. It was from
this spot that he had first watched Mivanway coming to him from the sea.
He took the pipe from his mouth, and leaning against a rock whose rugged
outline seemed fashioned into the face of an old friend, gazed down the
narrow pathway now growing indistinct in the dim light. And as he gazed,
the figure of Mivanway came slowly up the pathway from the sea and
paused before him.
He felt no fear. He had half expected it. Her coming was the complement
of his dreams. She looked older and graver than he remembered her, but
for that the face was the sweeter.
He wondered if she would speak to him, but she only looked at him with
sad eyes; and he stood there in the shadow of the rocks without moving,
and she passed on into the twilight.
Had he, on his return, cared to discuss the subject with his landlord,
had he even shown himself a ready listener--for the old man loved to
gossip--he might have learned that a young widow-lady named Mrs. Charles
Seabohn, accompanied by an unmarried sister, had lately come to reside
in the neighborhood, having, upon the death of the former tenant, taken
the lease of a small farm-house sheltered in the valley a mile beyond
the village; and that her favorite evening's walk was to the sea and
back by the steep footway leading past the Witches' Caldron.
Had he followed the figure of Mivanway into the valley, he would have
known that out of sight of the Witches' Caldron it took to running fast
till it reached a welcome door, and fell panting into the arms of
another figure that had hastened out to meet it.
"My dear," said the older woman, "you are trembling like a leaf. What
has happened?"
"I have seen him!" answered Mivanway.
"Seen whom?"
"Charles."
"Charles!" repeated the other, looking at Mivanway as though she thought
her mad.
"His spirit, I mean," explained Mivanway, in an awed voice. "It was
standing in the shadow of the rocks, in the exact spot where we first
met. It looked older and more careworn; but oh! Margaret, so sad and
reproachful."
"My dear," said her sister, leading her in, "you are over-wrought. I
wish we had never come back to this house."
"Oh, but I was not frightened," answered Mivanway. "I have been
expecting it every evening. I am so glad it came. Perhaps it will come
again, and I can ask it to forgive me."
So next night Mivanway, though much against her sister's wishes and
advice, persisted in her usual walk, and Charles, at the same twilight
hour, started from the inn.
Again Mivanway saw him standing in the shadow of the rocks. Charles had
made up his mind that if the thing happened again he would speak; but
when the silent figure of Mivanway, clothed in the fading light, stopped
and gazed at him, his will failed him.
That it was the spirit of Mivanway standing before him he had not the
faintest doubt. One may dismiss other people's ghosts as the fantasies
of a weak brain, but one knows one's own to be realities; and Charles
for the last five years had mingled with a people whose dead dwelt about
them. Once, drawing his courage around him, he made to speak, but as he
did so, the figure of Mivanway shrank from him, and only a sigh escaped
his lips; and hearing that, the figure of Mivanway turned, and again
passed down the path into the valley, leaving Charles gazing after it.
But the third night both arrived at the trysting-spot with
determination screwed up to the sticking-point. Charles was the first to
speak. As the figure of Mivanway came towards him with its eyes fixed
sadly on him, he moved from the shadow of the rocks, and stood before
it.
"Mivanway!" he said.
"Charles," replied the figure of Mivanway. Both spoke in an awed whisper
suitable to the circumstances, and each stood gazing sorrowfully upon
the other. "Are you happy?" asked Mivanway.
The question strikes one as somewhat farcical, but it must be remembered
that Mivanway was the daughter of a gospeller of the old school, and had
been brought up to beliefs that were not then out of date.
"As happy as I deserve to be," was the sad reply; and the answer--the
inference was not complimentary to Charles's deserts--struck a chill to
Mivanway's heart. "How could I be happy, having lost you?" went on the
voice of Charles.
Now this speech fell very pleasantly upon Mivanway's ears. In the first
place it relieved her of her despair regarding Charles's future. No
doubt his present suffering was keen, but there was hope for him.
Secondly, it was a decidedly "pretty" speech for a ghost, and I am not
at all sure that Mivanway was the kind of woman to be averse to a little
mild flirtation with the spirit of Charles.
"Can you forgive me?" asked Mivanway.
"Forgive _you_?" replied Charles, in a tone of awed astonishment. "Can
you forgive me? I was a brute--a fool--I was not worthy to love you." A
most gentlemanly spirit it seemed to be. Mivanway forgot to be afraid of
it.
"We were both to blame," answered Mivanway. But this time there was less
submission in her tones. "But I was the most at fault. I was a petulant
child. I did not know how deeply I loved you."
"You loved me?" repeated the voice of Charles, and the voice lingered
over the words.
"Surely you never doubted it," answered the voice of Mivanway. "I shall
love you always and ever."
The figure of Charles sprang forward as though it would clasp the ghost
of Mivanway in its arms, but halted a step or two off. "Bless me before
you go," he said; and with uncovered head the figure of Charles knelt to
the figure of Mivanway.
Really ghosts could be exceedingly nice when they liked. Mivanway bent
graciously towards her shadowy suppliant, and as she did so, her eye
caught sight of something on the grass beside it; that something was a
well-colored meerschaum pipe. There was no mistaking it for anything
else even in that treacherous night; it lay glistening where Charles, in
falling upon his knees, had jerked it from his breast pocket.
Charles, following Mivanway's eyes, saw it also, and the memory of the
prohibition against smoking came back.
Without stopping to consider the futility of the action--nay, the direct
confession implied thereby--he instinctively grabbed at the pipe, and
rammed it back into his pocket; and then an avalanche of mingled
understanding and bewilderment, fear and joy, swept Mivanway's brain
before it. She felt she must do one of two things--laugh or scream, and
go on screaming; and she laughed. Peal after peal of laughter she sent
echoing among the rocks, and Charles, springing to his feet, was just in
time to catch her as she fell forward, a dead weight into his arms.
Ten minutes later the eldest Miss Evans, hearing heavy footsteps, went
to the door. She saw what she took to be the spirit of Charles Seabohn
staggering under the weight of the lifeless body of Mivanway, and the
sight not unnaturally alarmed her. Charles's suggestion of a stimulant,
however, sounded human, and the urgent need of attending to Mivanway
kept her mind from dwelling upon problems tending towards insanity.
Charles carried Mivanway to her room and laid her upon the bed. "I'll
leave her with you," he whispered to the eldest Miss Evans. "It will be
better for her not to see me until she is quite recovered. She has had a
shock."
Charles waited in the dark parlor for what seemed to him an exceedingly
long time. But at last the eldest Miss Evans returned.
"She's all right now," were the welcome words he heard.
"I'll go and see her," he said.
And the eldest Miss Evans, left alone, sat down and wrestled with the
conviction that she was dreaming.
MODELLING IN CLAY.
BY J. HARRY ADAMS.
The boy or girl on whom nature has bestowed the natural talent and
liking for art and art-work, will find clay-modelling a fascinating and
pleasing branch to follow.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
To become a perfect modeller, and finally a sculptor, requires years of
patience and perseverance to accomplish the highest degree that can be
aimed at; and to successfully carry out the most minute detail
accurately, necessitates a great deal of patient study and close
application to the work.
To copy simple objects in clay, carrying out the detail and general line
in quite a satisfactory manner, is not a difficult matter, and with some
clay, a few tools, and the skeletons or supports, the amateur should not
meet with any great obstacle if the following descriptions and
instructions are accepted and practised.
It is not possible to give the young modeller the complete
demonstration, but the primary helps can be suggested, so that, if
carried out in the right manner and by the worker with brains, minute
features in the detail can be accomplished that only the inventive brain
of the young artist would grasp and use to good advantage.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
Very few tools are necessary at the beginning, and those shown in Nos.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7, Fig. 5, are a full complement for any beginner.
The first four are wire tools, made of spring steel or brass wire, about
which fine wire is wrapped; the ends of the wires are securely bound to
the end of a round wooden handle, and sometimes for convenience two ends
are made fast to a single handle; and these tools are called
double-enders, and are used in roughing out the clay in the first stages
of the work. No. 5 is a boxwood tool with one serrated edge, and is used
for finishing. The tools shown in Nos. 6 and 7 are of steel, and are of
use on plaster, where others would not be sufficiently durable. Any of
these tools can be purchased at an art-material store for a few cents
each, except the steel tools, which are more expensive.
A stand or pedestal will be necessary on which to place the clay model,
unless perhaps it should be a medallion, which may be worked over on a
table.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
Fig. 6 is a stand that can be made by any boy from a few pieces of pine
two inches square, and a top board one inch and a half in thickness,
and arranged with a central shaft that may be raised or lowered, and to
the top of which a platform is securely attached.
The movable shaft can have some holes bored through it from side to
side, through which a small iron pin may be adjusted to hold the
platform at a desired height. Clay can be purchased at the art stores by
the pound, or in the country a very good quality of light slate-colored
clay may sometimes be found along the edges of brooks, or in swampy
places where running water has washed away the dirt and gravel, leaving
the clear deposit of clay in the consistency of putty.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
Supports which the clay models are built upon can be made of wood and
wire, as the requirements necessitate. That for the head is shown in
Fig. 1. Nearly every clay model of any size will need some support, as
clay is heavy and settles, and if not properly supported will soon
become distorted, and the composition spoiled. Add to the paraphernalia
some old soft cloths that can be applied wet to the clay, a pair of
calipers, and a small trowel or spatula.
To model well, the art of drawing is constantly used, the idea of form
is continually brought into play, so the knowledge of drawing is
essential to the good modeller. To begin with, choose some simple object
to copy, such as a vase or some small ornament, then when a satisfactory
result has been obtained, select something a trifle more difficult, such
as a hand or foot.
Plaster heads, hands, feet, and all parts of the human body, as well as
animals and flower pieces, can be purchased at the art stores, but if
they are not available something that may be at hand in which artistic
merit is evident may be chosen as a model.
When copying a head obtain a bust support on which to work the clay, and
a very simple and strong one can be made from a piece of board, two
sticks, and a short piece of pipe wired to the top end of the upright
stick, Fig. 1.
To carry out the proportions of a bust similar to Fig. 4, the clay can
be packed about the support much after the manner shown in Fig. 2. This
will be the support for the clay.
With a lump of clay and the fingers form the general outline as shown in
Fig. 2 for the head, then with the wire tools begin to work away the
clay in places so as to follow the lines of the model. With the calipers
measurements can be taken from the plaster head and used advantageously
in carrying out the accuracy of the clay model. Turn the plaster model
and clay copy occasionally, so that all sides may be presented and
closely followed in line and detail.
Modelling differs from drawing and painting in that every side of the
model is visible, while only the face of the painting is presented to
the eye, where the impression of form and outline is worked out on a
flat surface.
The contour of proportion is the most difficult part of modelling, and
for this reason it is to the student and amateur one of the most
beneficial branches of the fine arts. Having successfully mastered the
head, next attempt a foot from a plaster cast. Select a simple foot, and
afterwards a more elaborate subject, such as a whole figure, can be
tried.
[Illustration: FIG. 5.]
With the wire modelling-tools and the fingers begin to work away the
clay to obtain the general outline and form; continue this in a rough
manner, until a perfect composition is obtained that compares favorably
with the original model; the finishing-touches may then be applied, and
the detail worked up more carefully.
Never complete one part and leave the remaining ones until later; always
work up the model uniformly, adding a little here and there, or taking
away, as may be necessary, and so developing the total composition
gradually.
Always turn both model and copy frequently, that comparison may be
frequently made, and thus training the eye to detect any little
miscalculation in proportions and lines, and by the addition or removal
of small masses the clay will finally take the form and accurate outline
and detail of the original.
Moisten the clay occasionally with water sprayed on with a small
watering-pot or a green-house sprinkler, to keep it soft and ductile,
and when not being worked upon it should be covered with wet cloths to
keep it moist.
[Illustration: FIG. 6.]
As the work progresses the clay may be allowed to harden and
consolidate, but not to dry; if allowed to dry entirely the model may be
considered ruined, as the shrinkage of the clay around the support
results in fissures and fractures that cannot be repaired.
By the time the amateur has acquired the knowledge to attempt a
full-size figure he will invent the devices to support it.
The support or skeleton must of course be adapted to line with the pose
of the figure, and should be of pipe and heavy wire or rods securely
anchored to the base-plate.
The composition of flowers, fruit, foliage, animal life, and landscape
is an inexhaustible one, and some beautiful effects can be had in
flat-work. Good examples of this character of work can be found on all
sides, and to the genius the field of modelling is a broad one, without
limit.
For the help and assistance of those who desire to make a deeper study
there are many hand-books and treatises on the subject by masters and
sculptors, but the boy or girl adopting the work as a pleasant pastime
will find this description very beneficial in the selection of tools and
materials, as well as the primary steps to the great art of sculpture.
When casting from hands, feet, or ornaments where undercut predominates,
the most successful mode is in the use of gelatine or glue.
To cast a head similar to the one shown in Fig. 4, it will be necessary
to make a box frame large enough to place the head in.
The cast is to be well oiled, and down the front and back, running
around under and back over the base block, strong linen threads are to
be stuck on with oil. Warm glue or gelatine is then poured in the box,
and left to chill and solidify.
When sufficiently cold the frame may be removed, leaving the solid block
of glue like hard jelly; the ends of the threads are to be grasped and
torn through the gelatine, thus separating it in two or three parts. The
plaster head may then be removed, and the mould put together again and
surrounded by the frame to hold it in place.
To make a plaster head this plaster of Paris may be poured into the
mould and left for a while, when, on removing the frame and taking the
glue mould away, a perfect reproduction of the original head will be
found.
When very large objects that would require a great deal of plaster are
cast, they are generally made hollow in the following manner:
Obtain the glue mould by the process described, and into it pour a
quantity of thin plaster, having first oiled the surfaces that come in
contact with it. Turn the mould about and upside down, so the plaster
will enter every part and adhere to the glue form. Allow it to "set,"
and again pour some plaster into the mould, which will adhere to the
first coating, and after this has set repeat the operation several
times, until a deposit or coating an inch or more in thickness has been
made.
The glue mould on being removed will reveal a perfect plaster casting
that, instead of being solid, is hollow, and in consequence is much
lighter.
MIDSHIPMAN JACK, U.S.N.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
"I am not one of those fellows who 'can fight and run away, and live to
fight some other day,'" one of the bravest Lieutenant-Commanders in the
United States navy said one evening to a party of friends, who were
making him feel uncomfortable by discussing his brilliant war record.
"My bad leg won't let me run, so I always have to stand and fight it
out."
"Why, Commander," one of his friends exclaimed, "I did not know that you
had a bad leg. You do not limp."
"No," he answered, "not ordinarily. But when I tire myself I limp a
little, and if I were to undertake to run I should come to grief."
"Where did you receive your injury?" another asked.
"In action at Apalachicola," the Commander replied; "the severest action
I ever saw."
There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, and he looked about the
table to see what effect the words had upon his friends. Two of them
merely muttered their sympathy, and the third asked for the story of the
fight; but the fourth man looked up with a comical expression that told
the Commander he was understood in one quarter at least.
"You will certainly have to tell us about that," this fourth man
laughed, seeing that the Commander was waiting for a question; "for I
have always understood that Apalachicola, being an out-of-the-way place,
was one of the few Southern towns that escaped without a scratch in the
war. I never heard of any battle there."
"No, there was no battle there," the Commander replied, "and you would
hardly hear of the action, because there were so few engaged in it. In
fact, I was the only one on the Federal side, and there were no
Confederates. When I was a boy there I fell out of a pine-tree and broke
my thigh; so it was my own action, and one that I still have reason to
remember."
This was the Commander's modest way of describing an accident that
brought out all the manliness he had in him, and made him an officer in
the United States navy, and he seldom gives any other account of it; but
some of the grown-up boys of Apalachicola tell the story in a very
different way--the same "boys," some of them, who used to set out in
parties of three or four and chase young Jack Radway and make life
miserable for him.
Jack had a strange habit, when he was between fifteen and sixteen (this
is the way they tell the story in Apalachicola), of going down to the
wharf and sitting by the half-hour on the end of a spile, looking out
over the bay. That was in 1862. His name was not Jack Radway, but that
is a fairly good sort of name, and on account of the Commander's modesty
it will have to answer for the present. While he sat in this way it was
necessary for him to keep the corner of one eye on the wharf and the
adjacent street, watching for enemies. Oddly enough, every white boy in
the town was Jack's enemy, generous as he was, and brave and
good-hearted; and when one came alone, or even two, if they were not too
big, he was always ready to stay and defend himself. But when three or
four came together he was forced to retire to his father's big brick
warehouse, across the street. They would not follow him there, because
it was well known that the rifle standing beside the desk was always
kept loaded.
This enmity with the other boys, for no fault of his own, was Jack's
great sorrow. A year or two before he had been a favorite with all the
boys and girls, and now he was hungry for a single friend of his own
age. The reason of it was that his father was the only Union man in
Apalachicola. Every white man, woman, and child in the town sympathized
with the Confederacy, except John Radway and his wife and their son
Jack. The elder Radway had thought it over when the trouble began, and
had made up his mind that his allegiance belonged to the old government
that his grandfather had fought for.
Near the mouth of the river lay the United States gunboat _Alleghany_,
guarding the harbor, with the stars and stripes floating bravely at her
stern.
"Look at that flag," Jack's father told him. "Your great-grandfather
fought for it, and I want you always to honor it. It is the grandest
flag in the whole world. It is my flag and yours, and you must never
desert it."
By the side of Mr. Radway's house stood a tall pine-tree, much higher
than the top of the house, with no limbs growing out of the trunk except
at the very top, after the manner of Southern pines. Jack was a great
climber, and nearly every day, when he did not go down town, he
"shinned" up this tall tree to make sure that the gunboat was still in
the harbor. And one day, the day of what the Commander calls "the action
at Apalachicola," he lost his hold in some way, or a limb broke, and he
fell from the top to the ground.
For some time he lay there unconscious, and when he came to his senses
he could not get up. There was a terrible pain in his left hip, and he
called for help, and his mother and some of the colored women ran out
and carried him into the house, and when they laid him on a bed he
fainted again from the pain.
Mr. Radway was sent for, and after he had examined the leg as well as he
could, he looked very solemn, for there was no doubt that the bone was
badly broken. Even Jack, young as he was, could tell that; but with all
his pain he made no complaint.
"This is serious business," he said to his wife when they were out of
Jack's hearing. "The bone is badly fractured at the thigh, and there is
not a doctor left in Apalachicola to set it. Every one of them is away
in the army, and I don't know of a doctor within a hundred miles."
"Except on the gunboat," Mrs. Radway interrupted; "there must be a
surgeon on the gunboat."
"I have thought of that," Mr. Radway answered; "but if he should come
ashore he would almost certainly be killed, so I could not ask him to
come. And if I should take Jack out to the boat, we would very likely be
attacked on the way. I must take time to think."
Medicines were scarce in Apalachicola in those days, but they gave Jack
a few drops of laudanum to ease the pain, and made a cushion of pillows
for his leg. For all his terrible suffering, and the doubt about getting
the bone set, he did not utter a word of complaint. But he turned white
as the pillows, and the great heat of midsummer on the shore of the Gulf
added to his misery.
For hours Mr. Radway walked the floor, trying to make up his mind what
to do. Jack's suffering was agony to him, and the uncertainty of getting
help increased it. Late in the evening, when all the household were in
bed but Mr. and Mrs. Radway, they heard the sound of many feet coming up
the walk, then a shuffling of feet on the piazza, and a heavy knock at
the front door.
[Illustration: "COULD THEY COME TO ATTACK US WHEN THEY KNOW WHAT TROUBLE
WE ARE IN?"]
"Have they the heart for that?" Mr. Radway exclaimed. "Could they come
to attack us when they know what trouble we are in? Some of them shall
pay dearly for it if they have."
The knock was repeated, louder than before, and Mr. Radway took up a
rifle and started for the door. Standing the rifle in the corner of the
wall, and with a cocked revolver in one hand, he turned the key and
opened the door a crack, keeping one foot well braced against it.
"You don't need your gun, neighbor," said the spokesman of the party
without; "it's a peaceable errand we are on this time."
"What is it?" Mr. Radway asked, still suspicious.
"We know the trouble you are in," the man continued, "and we are sorry
for you. It's not John Radway we are down on; it's his principles; but
we want to forget them till we get you out of this scrape. There are
twenty of us here, all your neighbors and former friends. We know there
is no doctor in Apalachicola, and we have come to say that if you can
get the surgeon of the gunboat to come ashore and mend up the sick lad,
he shall have safe-conduct both ways. We will guard him ourselves, and
we pledge our word that not a hair of his head shall be touched."
This friendly act came nearer to breaking down John Radway's bold front
than all the persecutions he had been subjected to. He threw the door
wide open, put the revolver in his pocket, and grasped the spokesman's
hand.
"I need not try to thank you," he said; "you know what I would say if I
could. My poor Jack is in great pain, and I shall make up my mind
between this and daylight what had better be done."
The knowledge that he was surrounded by friends instead of enemies made
Jack feel better in a few minutes; but the pain was too great to be
relieved permanently in such a way, and all night long he lay with his
teeth shut tight, determined to make no complaint.
By daylight he was in such a high fever that his father had no further
doubts about what to do. He must have medical attendance at once; and
the quickest way was to take him out to the gunboat, rather than risk
the delay of getting the surgeon ashore. So a cot-bed was converted into
a stretcher by lashing handles to the sides. Colored men were sent for
to carry it, and another was sent down to the shore to make Mr. Radway's
little boat ready.
The morning sun was just beginning to gild the smooth water of
Apalachicola Bay, when the after-watchman on the gunboat's deck, who for
some time had been watching a little sail-boat with half a table-cloth
flying at the mast-head, called out,
"Small flag-of-truce boat on the port quarter!"
Jack Radway, lying on the stretcher in the bottom of the boat, heard the
words repeated in a lower tone, evidently at the door of the Captain's
cabin: "Small flag-of-truce boat on the port quarter, sir."
An instant later a young officer appeared at the rail with a marine
glass in his hand.
"Ahoy there in the boat!" he called. "Put up your helm! Sheer off!"
The _Alleghany_ lay in an enemy's waters, and she was not to be caught
napping. Nothing was allowed to approach without giving a good reason
for it.
Then Jack's father stood up in the boat. "I have a boy here with a
broken thigh," he said. "I want your surgeon to set it."
"Who are you?" the officer asked.
"John Radway--a loyal man," was the answer.
The name was as good as a passport, for the gunboat people had heard of
John Radway.
"Come alongside," the officer called; and five minutes later a big
sailor had Jack in his arms, carrying him up the gangway, and he was
taken into the boat's hospital and laid on another cot. It was an
unusual thing on a naval vessel, and when the big bluff surgeon came the
Captain was with him, and several more of the officers.
The examination gave Jack more pain than he had had before, but still he
kept his teeth clinched, and refused even to moan.
"It is a bad fracture, and should have been attended to sooner," the
surgeon said at length. "There is nothing to be done for it now but to
take off the leg."
"Oh, I hope not!" Mr. Radway exclaimed. "Is there no other way?"
"He knows best, father," Jack said; "he will do the best he can for me."
"He is too weak now for an operation," the surgeon continued; "but you
can leave him with me, and I think by to-morrow he will be able to stand
it."
If Jack had made the least fuss at the prospect of having his leg cut
off, or had let a single groan escape, there is hardly any doubt that he
would be limping through life on one leg. But the brave way that he
bore the pain and the doctor's verdict made him a powerful friend.
The Captain of a naval vessel cannot control his surgeon's treatment of
a case; but the Captain's wishes naturally go a long way, even with the
surgeon. So it was a great point for Jack when the Captain interceded
for him.
"There's the making of an Admiral in that lad in the hospital," the
Captain told the doctor later in the day. "I never saw a boy bear pain
better. I wish you would save his leg if you possibly can."
"He'd be well much quicker to take it off," the surgeon retorted. "But
I'll give him every chance I can. There is a bare possibility that I may
be able to save it."
There was joy in the Radway family when it became known that there was a
chance of saving Jack's leg; but all that Jack himself would say was,
"Leave it all to the doctor; he will do what he can."
Three weeks afterward Jack still lay in the _Alleghany_'s hospital with
two legs to his body, but one half hidden in splints and plaster. Mr.
and Mrs. Radway visited him every day, and the broken bone was healing
so nicely that the doctor thought that in three or four weeks more Jack
might be able to hobble about the deck on crutches, when more trouble
came. A new gunboat steamed into the harbor to take the _Alleghany_'s
place, bringing orders for the _Alleghany_ to go at once to the Brooklyn
Navy-Yard. This was particularly unfortunate for Jack, for his broken
bone was just in that state where the motion of taking him ashore would
be likely to displace it. But that unwelcome order from Washington
proved to be a long step toward making Jack one of our American naval
heroes.
"It would be a great risk to take him ashore," the surgeon said to Mr.
Radway. "The least movement of the leg would set him back to where we
began. You had much better let him go north with us. The voyage will do
him good; and even if we are not sent back here, he can easily make his
way home when he is able to travel."
Nothing could have suited Jack better than this, for he had become
attached to the gunboat and her officers; so it was soon settled that he
was to lie still on his bed and be carried to Brooklyn. For more than a
month he lay there without seeing anything of the great city on either
side of him; and the _Alleghany_ was already under orders to sail for
Key West before he was able to venture on deck with a crutch under each
arm. There were delays in getting away, so by the time the gunboat was
steaming down the coast Jack was walking slowly about her deck with a
cane, and the color was in his cheeks again, and the old sparkle in his
eyes. He was in hopes of finding a schooner at Key West that would carry
him to Apalachicola; but he was not to see the old town again for many a
day.
The _Alleghany_ was a little below Hatteras, when she sighted a
Confederate blockade-runner, and she immediately gave chase. But, much
to the surprise of the officers, this blockade-runner did not run away,
as they generally did. She was much larger than the _Alleghany_, and
well manned and armed, and she preferred to stay and fight. Almost
before he knew it Jack was in the midst of a hot naval battle. The two
vessels were soon close together, and there was such a thunder of guns
and such a smother of smoke that he does not pretend to remember exactly
what happened. But after it was all over, and the blockade-runner was a
prize, with the stars and stripes flying from her stern, Jack walked as
straight as anybody down to the little hospital where he had spent so
many weeks.
His mother would hardly have known him as he stepped into the hospital
and waited till the surgeon had time to take a big splinter from his
left arm.
"Where's your cane, young man?" the surgeon asked, when Jack's turn
came.
"I don't know, sir!" Jack replied, surprised to find himself standing
without it. "I must have forgotten all about it. I saw one of the
gunners fall, and I took his place, and that's all I remember, sir,
except seeing the enemy strike her colors."
That action made Jack a Midshipman in the United States navy, and gave
him a share in the prize-money, and a year later he was an Ensign. For
special gallantry in action in Mobile Bay he was made a Lieutenant
before the close of the war, and in the long years since then he has
risen more slowly to the rank of Lieutenant-Commander.
[Illustration]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 888.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER VI.
A LAND VOYAGE.
As soon as breakfast had been finished I bade farewell to Captain
Morrison, and to the mate and all of the crew, with whom I had somehow
gained popularity, and then I was set on shore.
When I felt the solid ground beneath me and smelt the familiar odors of
a seaport town, my fears almost gained the upper hand, and I was tempted
to stay by the brig and return to Maryland in her. But finding that the
town of Miller's Falls was distant only some thirty miles up in the
country, and getting the right direction from the first person I asked,
a blacksmith standing at the entrance to his forge, I set out bravely on
foot with my belongings on a stick over my back, the way I had seen
sailors start on a land voyage from Baltimore.
Hill country was new to me, and the stone walls and fences and neat
white houses gave me much to wonder at, as I plodded along the road that
was deep in dry dust, and such hard travelling that after I had made
twelve miles, or such a matter of distance, I grew very tired, and
determined to rest.
Although it was November the day was quite warm, and I sat down by the
edge of a little brook and bathed my feet, that had blistered badly. The
cold water felt very comforting, and I took my ease.
While drawing on my shoes I heard a strange sound, and saw coming down
the road a two-wheeled cart drawn by a team of swaying oxen. Climbing up
to the roadway and hailing the man who was walking at their heads,
(calling out "Gee," "Haw," every other minute), I asked my whereabouts
and the hour.