"'If any workman conveys his art to a strange country to the detriment of the Republic he shall be sent an order to return to Venice. Failing to obey his nearest of kin shall be imprisoned. If he still persists in remaining abroad and plying his art an emissary shall be charged to kill him.'
"'If any workman conveys his art to a strange country to the detriment of the Republic he shall be sent an order to return to Venice. Failing to obey his nearest of kin shall be imprisoned. If he still persists in remaining abroad and plying his art an emissary shall be charged to kill him.'
"In this way the secrets of glass-making were kept in Venice and the Republic soon became famous and prosperous. As the reputation of the Venetian glass-makers spread an immense trade was established. My grandfather has often told me of the great numbers of beads which were sent everywhere throughout the East—sometimes to Africa and even to India. In 1764 twenty-two great furnaces were kept busy supplying the beads that were demanded. Frequently, they say, as many as forty-four thousand barrels were turned out in a single week."
"Why, I should think that everybody in the world would have been covered with beads!" Jean exclaimed, smiling.
"Ah, I can tell you something stranger than that, señorita. So popular did Venetian glass of every variety become that a foreign prince created a great sensation by appearing in Paris with curls of finely spun black glass."
Jean and Uncle Bob laughed merrily.
"I think myself he was silly," Giusippe declared, echoing their amusement. "He, however, was not alone in his admiration for the beautiful and ingenious workmanship of the people of my country, for even as far back as 1400 Richard the Second of England gave permission to our Venetian merchants to sell glass aboard their galleys, duty free; and King Henry the Eighth owned as many as four or five hundred Venetian drinking goblets, vases, dishes, and plates, some of which, they say, are still in the British Museum."
"We must see them when we go to London, mustn't we, Uncle Bob?" cried Jean eagerly.
"We surely must. All this is very interesting, Giusippe. You do well to remember so much of your country's history," said Mr. Cabot.
"I am proud of it, señor. Besides I have heard it many, many times. My people were never tired of telling over and over the story of the old days; the golden days of Venice, my father called them. The Republic might have retained its fame much longer had not some of our countrymen been persuaded to go to other lands and sell their secrets for gold. It was thus that the art of making mirrors was taken into France and Germany."
"Tell us about it, Giusippe," pleaded Jean.
"Why, as I think I told you, the Venetians began to make mirrors as early as 1300. Of course, señorita, they were crude affairs—not at all like the fine ones of to-day, but to people who had nothing better they were marvels. And indeed they were both clever and beautiful. For you must remember that ages ago there was no such thing as a looking-glass. Men and women could only see their reflections in streams, pools, and fountains. Then the Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans began to make mirrors of burnished metal, using bits of brass or bronze often beautifully decorated on the back with classic Grecian figures. Rich women carried such mirrors fastened to their girdles or sometimes instead had them fitted into small, shallow boxes of carved ivory; sometimes too the mirror was set in a case of gold, silver, enamel, or ebony with intricate decoration on the outside. That was the first of mirror-making."
"How curious!"
"Later the Venetians experimented and began backing pieces of glass with mercury or tin. The surface was first covered with tinfoil and then rubbed down until smooth; then the whole was coated with quicksilver, which formed an amalgam with the tin. It does no harm to tell you about it now, señorita," added Giusippe a little sadly, "for every one knows. This process was slow and unsatisfactory, but it was the best the workmen then knew. These mirrors they set in elaborate frames of glass, silver, carved wood, mother-of-pearl, coral, tarsi, or into frames of painted wood. Some of them were sent by Venetian nobles as gifts to kings and queens of other countries; often they were purchased by royalties themselves. You can see many in the museums of France, Germany, or England."
"We will hunt them up, Jean," Uncle Bob declared.
"I'd love to see them," replied the girl.
"My father has told me that there were frequent quarrels between the glass-makers and the mirror-framers because, you see, the framers wanted to learn the secret of making the mirrors, and the mirror-makers were jealous of the skill of the framers and feared the frame would be more beautiful than the mirror itself and so overshadow it. Then in 1600 the French stole from our people the secret of mirror-making and began turning out mirrors not only as good, but in some respects better than the Venetian ones."
"Oh, Giusippe, how did they steal the secret?" Jean cried. "How dreadful!"
"It was through the treachery of our own countrymen, señorita," Giusippe confessed. "Yes, sorry as I am to say so, it was our own fault. The French, you see, as well as the Venetians, had long been experimenting with glass-making and since it was considered there, as here, an art, many penniless Huguenot gentlemen who had lost their fortunes took it up; for one might be a glass-maker and still retain his noble rank. Such was Bernard Palissy——"
"The potter!" interrupted Jean. "I learned all about him in my history."
Giusippe nodded.
"So? Then you know how he struggled for years to solve the secret of making the enamel he had seen on a Saracen cup. Palissy also made some fine old stained glass, although few people seem to know this. Many another Frenchman tried to discover the Venetian's great secret. They sought to bribe our people to tell the process, but without success. Then Colbert, the chief minister under Louis the Fourteenth, wrote the French ambassador at Venice that he must obtain for France some Venetian workmen. The ambassador was upset enough, as you may imagine, when he received the order. He said he could not do it. He dared not. If found out he would be thrown into the sea."
"He ought to have been!" Jean cried. "He would have deserved it."
"I think so too," Uncle Bob agreed.
"It would have been far better for Venice had he been drowned in the Adriatic," Giusippe answered slowly. "But he wasn't. Instead he began cautiously to look about. There are always in the world, señor, men who have no pride in their fatherland and can be bought with money. The next year the ambassador succeeded in bribing eighteen glass-makers to go to France and make mirrors for Versailles, the palace of the French king. And no sooner had these men got well to work and passed the mystery on to the French than Colbert forbade the French people to import any more mirrors from Venice, as mirrors could now be made at home. Some of these early French mirrors are now in the Cluny Museum in France, my father told me. In consequence of the treachery of these workmen Germany also soon learned how to make mirrors, and the fame of the Venetian artisans declined just as the Council had predicted it would. But it will be long before any other country can equal mine in the making of filigree or spun glass. You will, señorita, see much of this beautiful work while you are here in Venice."
"I want to, Giusippe; and I want to get some to take home. May I, Uncle Bob?"
Mr. Cabot nodded.
"Your story is like a fairy tale, Giusippe," said he.
The boy smiled with pleasure.
"It is a wonderful story to me because it is the story of my people. And, señor, there is much more to tell, but I must not weary you. Some of our filigree glass, it is true, became too elaborate to be beautiful. It is simply interesting because it is wonderful that out of glass could be fashioned ships, flowers, fruits, fish, and decorations of all kinds. It shows most delicate workmanship. But the drinking glasses with their fragile stems are really beautiful; and so are the vases and tazzas from white glass with enamel work or filigree of delicately blended colors. It was the Venetians, too, who invented engraved glass, where a design is scratched or cut into the surface with a diamond or steel point of a file. And our mille-fiori glass, which came to us way back from the Egyptians, is another famous variety. This is made from the ends of fancy colored sticks of glass cut off and arranged in a pattern. You will see it in the shops here."
"I think you Venetians are wonderful!" Jean exclaimed.
"Ah, señorita, you have yet to see one of the finest things we have done," was Giusippe's grave reply. "You have to see the San Marco with its mosaics!"
"Yes, we surely want to go there," put in Mr. Cabot. "Do you think you could be our guide, Giusippe?"
"I could go to-morrow, señor; because of the festa I am free from work. I would like to show you San Marco, of all things, because I love it."
"I am sure no one could do it better," replied Mr. Cabot, well pleased. "To-morrow at nine, then. We will be ready promptly. You shall tell us the rest of your fascinating Venetian history and make Venetians of us."
"I will come, señor."
"You shall be paid for your time, my boy."
"Alas, señor! That would spoil it all. I could not then show it to you. Forgive me and do not think me ungrateful. But my San Marco is to me the place I love. I show it to you because I love it. I have played about it and wandered in and out its doors since I was a very little child. I am proud that you should see it, señor."
"As you will. To-morrow then."
"Yes, señor."
Another moment and Giusippe was gone.
"A remarkable boy! A most remarkable boy!" ejaculated Mr. Cabot. "He knows his country's history as I fancy few others know it. Could you pass as good an examination on yours, Jean?"
Jean hung her head.
"I'm afraid not."
"Nor I," Uncle Bob remarked, patting her curls kindly.
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CHAPTER IV
UNCLE BOB ENLARGES HIS PARTY
The letter I
Naccordance with his promise Giusippe came promptly the next morning and the four set out for the San Marco. It was a beautiful June day. The piazza was warm with sunshine, and as groups of tourists loitered through it the pigeons circled greedily about their feet begging food.
"Why, Uncle Bob, these pigeons are exactly like the ones at home—just as pretty and just as hungry," Jean said.
"Should you like to stop a moment and feed them, little girl?"
"Oh, do! It will make Hannah think of Boston," begged Jean. "But we have nothing to give them," she added in dismay.
"I will find you something, señorita," Giusippe declared.
Darting up to an old Italian who was standing near he soon returned with a small paper cornucopia filled with grain.
"The pigeons of St. Mark's are very tame. See!"
He put some kernels of corn on the top of his hat, and holding more in his outstretched hands stood motionless. There was a whirr of wings, and in an instant the boy was quite hidden beneath an eager multitude of fluttering whiteness.
"I never saw so many pigeons," Jean whispered. "You have many more than we do at home."
"We Venetians are very fond of the birds," was Giusippe's reply. "So, too, are the tourists who come to Venice, for they never seem to be tired of having their pictures taken surrounded by flocks of pigeons."
"Doesn't this make you think of Boston Common, Hannah?" asked Uncle Bob.
"Yes, a little. But I should feel more as if I were in Massachusetts if there were not such a babel of foreign tongues about me." Then turning to Giusippe she demanded: "How did you come to speak English, young man?"
"I have been expecting you would ask me that," smiled Giusippe. "You see, I have an uncle who went to America; yes, to Pennsylvania, to seek his fortune. He stayed there five years and in that time he learned to speak English well. When he came back he taught me all he knew. Then he returned with his wife to the United States, and I got books and studied. When they found at Murano that I could speak English they often called on me to show tourists over the glass works. In this way I picked up many words and their pronunciation. Since then I have found that I could sometimes serve as interpreter for English or American travelers if I watched for the chance. I was eager for such opportunities, for it gave me practice, and I often learned new words."
"And why are you so anxious to learn English, Giusippe?" Jean questioned.
"I hope, señorita, to go some day to the United States. My uncle told me what a wonderful country it is, and I desire to see it. Perhaps in that beautiful great land where everything is in abundance I might grow rich. I now have nothing to keep me here; my parents are dead and I have no other kinsmen. I want to join my uncle in Pennsylvania as soon as I have enough money. Part of my passage I have already saved."
"Why, Giusippe!"
"Yes, señorita, I am in earnest. It is lonely here in Venice now that I have no people. And Murano is not what it was in the golden days of my ancestors. I am sure I could find work in your country if I should go there. Do you not think I could, señor?" He turned to Mr. Cabot.
"It is possible," was Uncle Bob's thoughtful answer. "Especially since you speak English so well. What sort of thing would you like to do?"
"I know my trade of glass-making," was Giusippe's modest answer. "I know, too, much of coloring stained glass and of mosaic making. These things I have known from my babyhood up. There must be such work for persons going to the United States. Perhaps my uncle, who is in Pittsburgh with a large glass company, could get me something to do there."
"Pittsburgh!" exclaimed the other three in a breath.
"Yes. My uncle is with the company of a Señor Thomas Curtis, who has been very kind to him."
"Uncle Tom! It's Uncle Tom!" Jean cried, laying her hand impulsively on his arm. "Mr. Curtis is my uncle, Giusippe. Did you ever hear anything so wonderful!"
"It certainly is a strange coincidence," agreed Mr. Cabot. "But why did your uncle come back, Giusippe, after he once got over there?"
"Ah, it was this way. He went first alone, expecting when he had enough money to send it back so that the young girl he loved could follow him, and they could be married. But when at last he had the money saved her parents became sick. They were old people. She could not leave them to die here alone, señor. Therefore she refused to go to America, and so much did my uncle love Anita that he would not stay there without her. Back he came and worked once more at Murano. Then the father and mother died, and my uncle and Anita were married and went to the United States. They wanted to take me, but I pretended that I would rather remain here. This I did because I feared that if I went with them and did not find work I might be a burden. All this was several years ago. My uncle is now a superintendent in one of the Curtis glass factories, and is happy and prosperous. Still, there are children, and I could not let him pay my fare to America. As I said, it will not take me much longer to save the rest of my passage money. Then I shall go and perhaps become rich. Who knows, señor!" Giusippe broke into a ringing laugh.
Mr. Cabot made no reply.
He was thinking.
Fearing that he had offended, Giusippe changed the subject.
"But I weary you with my affairs, señor. Pardon. Shall we go on to St. Mark's?"
It was but a few steps across the piazza, and they were soon inside the church. Then for the first time Mr. Cabot spoke.
"This church, Jean," said he, "is the link between the old art of the Mohammedans and the Gothic art of the Christian era. It was planned as a Byzantine church, and in it one can see many things suggesting St. Sofia's at Constantinople. When St. Mark's at Alexandria was destroyed by the Mohammedans many of its treasures fell into the hands of the Doge of Venice, who promptly proclaimed St. Mark the new patron saint in place of St. Theodore and set about building a cathedral in which to put all the beautiful things he had acquired. Some parts of this ancient cathedral remain, but most of the church was built by Doge Contarini between 1063 and 1071. To the next Doge, Domenico Selvo, fell the task of decorating it. You see, over here the building of churches takes longer than it does at home."
"I should think it did," answered Jean. "Why, we think it is awful if our churches are not all done in two years."
Giusippe smiled.
"Ah, we build not that way here, señorita," he said. "Three centuries did our people spend in building into St. Mark's the marble carvings brought from the East; erecting the altars; and adorning the walls. These mosaics alone it took workmen two hundred and fifty years to fashion. Venice was a rich Republic, you see, and could well afford to put into this cathedral the money she might have spent on war. Above the slabs of marble are the mosaics, señorita. So it was in St. Sofia, my father told me; the slabs of marble near the ground and the decoration above. This whole cathedral of ours is covered on all the walls with mosaics—pictures made from bits of glass put together to form scenes from the Bible or from history. Even the most ignorant people who had had no schooling could read such stories, could they not?"
Jean nodded.
She was dazzled by the beauty of the place—by the soft light; the walls rich in gold and color; by the many wonderful things there were to be seen. She was interested, too, in the smoothly worn, uneven floor which showed where the piles beneath the church had settled.
"Mosaic makers, you know, Jean, began crude attempts at making pictures in glass thousands of years ago, for glass-making was familiar to the Egyptians as well as to the Phœnicans and Syrians. The Greeks and Romans, too, were great glass-makers. So glass-making came down through the ages. The Byzantine churches usually were lighted by a row of tiny glass windows round the base of the dome. Some of this ancient glass still remains in St. Sofia. The common way of making such windows was to cut a design in a slab of marble or plaster, and then insert small pieces of colored glass. Sometimes, too, a pattern for wall decoration was worked out by sticking fragments of glass into soft stucco. So the first mosaic work began. We can see some of it in the museums of England."
"There seems to be a great deal to see in those London museums, Uncle Bob," Jean gasped.
"I am afraid you will be more convinced of that fact than ever when you get there," chuckled Uncle Bob. "But to return to Giusippe's mosaics. You may remember, perhaps, that when the Mohammedans invaded Constantinople and found how important a part the glass-makers played in decorating the churches, they at once handed the artisans over to the caliphs, that they might be set to work adorning their mosques. Now the Mohammedans believed it a crime to make a copy of either man or woman in a picture, a carving, or a statue. It was punishable to pay reverence to sacred figures; therefore all decoration in their churches took the form of flowers, fruit, or conventional designs. So no great mosaic pictures with figures such as these were made. Between the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries Damascus became the center of glass-making, and there are in existence in some of the museums old Arab lamps which hung in the mosques with inscriptions from the Koran engraved upon them. It is Giusippe's St. Mark's which revived the art of mosaic making, and served as the bridge between those Pagan days and the days when with Christianity the arts revived and mosaic makers began to represent in glass figures of Christ and the saints."
"And then the painters came, as Giusippe has said," put in Jean.
"Yes, the great artists were born, and from that time pictures on canvas instead of pictures of glass decorated the churches. But the mosaic makers did an important service to art, for it was they who indirectly gave to the world the idea of making stained-glass windows. And in Venice those who ceased to make mosaics made instead the beautiful Venetian glass of which Giusippe has told us."
"And are there no mosaics made now, Uncle Bob?" asked Jean.
"Yes. When in 1858 it became necessary to restore some of the mosaics in St. Mark's, a descendant of one of the old Murano glass workers named Radi, together with a Dr. Salviati, started a factory on the Grand Canal, where they gradually revived some of the past glory of Venice. They copied the old time glass products, making Arab lamps such as hung in the mosques; cameo work similar to the Naples and Portland vases; and pictures in mosaic. It was they who did The Last Supper for Westminster Abbey, and the mosaics for Albert Memorial Hall in London."
"But Salviati's mosaics were not like those here, señor," put in Giusippe, "because the San Marco mosaics were constructed upon the walls, small cubes of glass being pressed into the moist cement to make the picture. This gave a rough, irregular surface which artists say is far more artistic than is Salviati's smooth, glassy work. When Salviati sent mosaics away he made them here, and then backed them with cement so they could be placed on a slab of solid material and transported great distances from Venice. His pictures, it is true, were far more perfectly done than were the old mosaics—too perfectly, I have heard glass experts say."
"Undoubtedly they are right, Giusippe, for the roughness in the ancient mosaics would, of course, break up the great plain surfaces and make them more interesting. But Salviati did Venice a service, nevertheless, in reviving the art. And there is, too, another virtue about mosaics, and that is that they will endure far longer than paintings. Had it not been for the foresight of Pope Urban, who between 1600 and 1700 had many of the famous pictures of the Vatican copied in mosaic, these masterpieces would have been lost to the world."
"I have been told that the church in Ravenna has some fine mosaics, but I never have seen them," Giusippe ventured.
"I have. They are beautiful, and I hope you may see them some time. Then there are others scattered through the various churches of Sicily and Rome; and there are also many beautiful inlays of mosaic decorating the old churches and palaces of European cities. When we visit Westminster Abbey, Jean, I must show you the crude early mosaic work on the tomb of Edward the Confessor. It is very curious, for it is made of pieces of colored glass set in grooves of marble."
"How much you are to see, señorita," observed Giusippe wistfully.
Mr. Cabot fixed his eyes attentively on the boy.
"Should you, too, like to see all these wonders, Giusippe?" he asked half playfully and half in earnest.
But Giusippe, who did not catch the banter in his tone, answered seriously:
"Should I? Ah, señor, it is not for me to envy or be unhappy about that which I may not have. Some day, perhaps, when I have made my fortune in your country I can return to the old world and see its marvels. I must have a little patience, that is all."
The mingling of sadness and longing in the reply touched Uncle Bob; Jean and the young Venetian chattered on, but Mr. Cabot walked silently ahead, deep in thought.
"Did I understand you to say, Giusippe," he asked at last turning abruptly, "that you have no relatives in Venice?"
"None in all the world with the exception of the uncle in America of whom I told you, señor."
Again there was a pause.
"Suppose I were to take you with us."
"What, señor?"
"Take you with us now, when we leave Venice."
"I do not understand."
"Suppose I asked you to go with us to France and England, and then across to America."
"But I have not enough money, señor."
"I haven't much, either," Mr. Cabot answered, smiling kindly into the boy's puzzled eyes. "Still, I think I could get together a sufficient sum to pay your way until you got to the United States and found work."
"To go—to go with you now, do you mean, señor?"
"Yes. We leave Venice next week for France. You see, I like you, Giusippe; we all do. And in addition to that you have done us a service. But more than anything else I feel that, once started, you are capable of making your way and doing well in life; all you need is a chance. I have perfect faith that if I took you to America you would make good. It would cost very little more were you to join us, and no doubt you could help in many little ways during the trip. Do you speak French at all?"
"Yes, some; but more German. It is nothing. Many travelers come to Venice, and one must talk to them. Then, too, here it is not unusual to speak several languages, because the countries lie near together, and the people come and go from place to place. With you it is different; a mighty sea divides you from the rest of the world."
"Despite all your excuses for us, Giusippe, it is quite true that we Americans are as a rule pitiably ignorant about languages. Here is this boy, Jean, who knows not only his mother tongue but French, German and English besides. Isn't that a rebuke to us, with our fine schools and our college educations? It makes me ashamed of myself. Do you, little girl, try and do better than I have. Well, young man, what do you say to my proposition? Will you come with us to America?"
"Señor! Oh, señor! How can I ever——"
"Well, then, that settles it," interrupted Mr. Cabot, cutting him short. "I will arrange everything. But there is just one condition to be made, my youthful Venetian patriot. If by chance we see any of those old mirrors made by the early Frenchmen who stole your art from Murano you are not to smash them. Remember!"
Giusippe laughed.
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CHAPTER V
GIUSIPPE ENCOUNTERS AN OLD FRIEND
The letter I
Twas scarcely a reality to Jean, to Hannah, or to Giusippe himself when Uncle Bob actually set forth for France with the young Venetian as a member of the party. Yet every one was pleased: Hannah because she would not now need her foreign dictionaries; Jean because it was jolly to have a companion her own age; and Giusippe because he felt that at last he had friends who were to guide for him the future which had loomed so darkly and so vaguely before him. Not a full week of the trip to Paris had passed before Mr. Cabot declared that how he had previously got on without that boy he did not understand. Giusippe had such a wonderful way of making himself useful; not only did he see what needed to be done, but he was quick to do it.
"His enthusiasm alone is worth the money I am paying for his railroad fares and hotel bills!" ejaculated Uncle Bob to Hannah.
There certainly never was such a boy to take in everything around him, and to remember what he saw. With mind alert for all that was to be learned he tagged along at Mr. Cabot's heels drinking in and storing away every scrap of history and of beauty which came across his path. And in Paris he found much of both. The Invalides with the tomb of Napoleon; Notre Dame with its odd gargoyles; the Arc de Triomphe; the Bois; and the Champs-Elysees shaded by pink horse-chestnut trees—all these sights were new and marvelous to the Italian lad. But it was Versailles with its gardens that charmed him and Jean most.
The travelers arrived there on a Sunday, when the fountains were playing, flowers blooming everywhere, and a gay crowd of sightseers thronging the walks. It was like fairy-land. The great Neptune fountain sent into the air a sheet of spray which was quickly caught up by the sunlight and transformed into a misty rainbow. Within the palace, amid old tapestries of battles and hunting scenes, and surrounded by paintings and statues, were the famous early French mirrors of which Giusippe had previously spoken.
Mr. Cabot pointed them out, half playfully, half seriously.
"Perhaps on further consideration I will leave them," returned the boy, falling in with the spirit of the elder man's mood. "They seem to fit the spaces, and I doubt if even our Venetian mirrors could look better here."
"I think it might be just as well," answered Mr. Cabot. "Besides, you must remember that those mirrors were not the only sort of glass the French made. There were many enamel workers at Provençe as early as 1520, and later much cast glass instead of that which is blown came from France. In fact, up to a hundred years ago the French held the plate glass monopoly. Then England took up glass-making and cut into the French market—the same old story of stealing the trade, you see. In addition to other varieties of glass-making some of the finest and most interesting of the old stained glass was made by the French people, and can now be seen in the church of St. Denis, just out of Paris, and at Sainte Chapelle which is within the city itself. Fortunately the glass at St. Denis escaped the fury of the French revolutionists, as it might not have done had it not been at a little distance from Paris. There is also glass of much the same sort at Poitiers, Bourges, and Rheims. Amiens, too, has wonderful glass windows. I hope before we leave for home we shall have a peep at some if not all of these."
"Isn't much beautiful French glass now made at Nancy, Mr. Cabot?" Giusippe inquired.
"Yes, some of the finest comes from there."
"But didn't any other people beside the Venetians and the French make glass, Uncle Bob?" asked Jean, much interested.
"Oh, yes. Almost every European nation has tried its hand at glass-making. It is curious, too, to notice how each differs from the others. The Bohemians, for instance, were famous glass-makers, and their work, which primarily imitated that of the Venetians, is known the world over."
"What sort of glass is it? Could I tell it if I should see it?"
"Well, for one thing they make beautiful wine glasses and goblets, having stems of enclosed white and colored enamel tubes twisted together with transparent glass, which look as if they had delicate threads of color running through them. Then the Bohemians and the Austrians make many great beakers or drinking glasses, steins, and bowls with decorative coats of arms upon them in gold or in colored enamel."
"Oh, I have seen things like that," Jean replied.
"Yes, we have some of those ornamental goblets at home in the dining-room. They are very rich and handsome. Beside these varieties the Bohemians have of late revived the making of old white opaque glass with colored enamel figures on it. But engraved glass is one of the kinds for which Bohemia is chiefly celebrated. Even very skilful glass engravers can be had there for little money. They cut fine, delicate designs upon the glass with a lathe. Some of this is white, but much of it is of deep red or blue with the pattern engraved on it in white. Such glass is made in two layers, the outer one being cut away so to leave the design upon the surface underneath."
"Wasn't it the Bohemians who invented cut glass?" Giusippe asked.
"No. Sometimes people say so, but this is not true. The fact is that there chanced to be a glass cutter so skilful that he was appointed lapidary to Rudolph the Second; he had a workshop at Prague, but though he did some very wonderful glass cutting, which gained him much fame, he did not invent the art. It was, by the way, one of his workmen who later migrated to Nuremburg and carried the secret of glass-cutting to Germany."
"Isn't it queer how one country learned of another?" reflected Jean.
"Yes, and it is especially interesting when we see how hard each tried not to teach his neighbor anything. There always was somebody, just as there always is now, who could not keep still and went and told," Mr. Cabot said. "And while we are speaking of the different kinds of glass we must not forget to mention the dark red ruby glass perfected in 1680 by Kunckel, the director of the Potsdam glass works, for it is a very ingenious invention. The deep color is obtained by putting a thin layer of gold between the white glass and the coating of red."
"What else did the Germans make?" queried Giusippe.
"Well, the Germans, like the other nations, turned out glass which was suggestive of their people. And that, by the by, is a fact you must notice when seeing the work of so many different countries. Observe how the art of each reflects the characteristics of those who made it. Italy gave us fragile, dainty glass famous for its airy beauty and delicacy; Germany, on the other hand, fashions a far more massive, rough, and heavier product—large flasks, steins and goblets, some of which are even clumsy; all are substantial and useful, however, and have the big cordial spirit of fellowship so characteristic of the German people. These glasses are decorated in large flat designs less choice, perhaps, than are the Bohemian. The shape of the German goblets and drinking glasses differs, too, from those made in Italy. They are less graceful, less dainty. Instead you will find throughout Germany tall cylindrical shafts, tankards, and steins adorned with massive eagles or colored coats of arms; often, moreover, both the Bohemians and the Germans use pictorial designs showing processions of soldiers, battle scenes, or cavalry charges such as would appeal to nations whose military life has long been one of the leading interests of their people."
"Tell me, Mr. Cabot," inquired Giusippe eagerly, "did you ever see one of the German puzzle cups?"
"Yes, several of them. In the British Museum there are several of the windmill variety."
"What is a puzzle cup, Uncle Bob?" demanded Jean.
"Why, a puzzle or wager cup, as they are sometimes called, was an ingenious invention of the Germans during their early days of glass-making. The kind I speak of is a large inverted goblet which has on top a small silver windmill. The wager was to set the fans revolving, turn the glass right side up, and then fill and drain it before the mill stopped turning. Such wagers were very popular in those olden days and are interesting as relics of a mediæval and far-away period in history."
So intently had Mr. Cabot and the others been talking that they had stopped in the center of the room and it was while they were standing there that a party of tourists entered from the hallway. Foremost among them was an American girl who carried in her hand a much worn Baedeker. As her eye swept over the tapestries covering the walls her glance fell upon Giusippe.
Instantly she started and with parted lips stepped forward; then she paused.
"It cannot be!" Mr. Cabot heard her murmur.
At the same moment, however, Giusippe had seen her.
"The beautiful señorita!" he cried. "My lady of Venice!"
He was beside her in an instant.
"Giusippe! Giusippe!" exclaimed the girl. "Can it really be you?"
"Yes, yes, señorita! It is I. Ah, that I should see you again! What a joy it is. Surely four or five years must have passed since first you came to paint in Venice."
"Fully that, my little Giusippe. It is five years this June. You have a good memory."
"How could I forget you, señorita; and the pictures, and your kindness! But I have left Venice, you see. Yes. Even now I am on my way to America."
"To America? Oh, Giusippe, Giusippe! And that is why you have discarded your faded blouse, and the red tie which you wore knotted round your throat. Alas! I am almost sorry. And yet you look very nice," she added kindly. "But to leave Venice!"
"It is best," Giusippe explained gently. "I have my way to make, and I can do it better in your country, my señorita."
"Perhaps. Still, I am sorry to have you leave your home. It is like taking sea shells away from the sands of the shore."
"And yet you would want me to be a man and succeed in life. Think how you yourself worked for success."
"I know. And it was you who brought it to me, Giusippe. The portrait I painted of you was exhibited in America and when I later sold it to an art dealer there it brought me a little fortune; but the fame it brought was best of all." The girl put her hand softly on the lad's shoulder.
"Oh, señorita, how glad I am!"
"I had a feeling that you would bring me luck the morning when I first saw you in the square near St. Mark's. Do you remember? And how you stood watching me paint? Do you recall how we got to talking and how I asked if I might do the portrait of you? You laughed when I suggested it! And then you came to the hotel evenings when you were free, and I sketched in the picture. It seems but yesterday. In the meantime you entertained me by telling me of Venice and its history. What a little fellow you were to know so much!" The girl smiled down at him. "And now let me hear of yourself. What of your parents?"
"Alas, señorita, they have died. I am now quite alone in the world. It is for that that I felt I must leave Venice. It is sad to be alone, señorita."
"So it is, Giusippe. No one knows that better than I." Impulsively she slipped a hand into the small Venetian's. "But I must not take you from your friends. See, we have kept them waiting a long time."
"I want you to meet them, señorita. They are from your country, and they have been kind to me."
"Then surely I must meet them."
With a shy gesture the boy led her forward.
"Miss Cartright is from New York, Mr. Cabot," said Giusippe simply. "Long ago when I was a little lad I knew her in Venice, and she was good to me and to my parents."
I KNEW HER IN VENICE
"I KNEW HER IN VENICE"
"It was five years ago," added Miss Cartright. "I went there to paint."
"And little Giusippe, perhaps, made your stay as delightful as he has made ours," Mr. Cabot said.
"Yes. I was all by myself, and knew no one in Venice. Furthermore, I spoke only a word or two of Italian. Giusippe was a great comfort. He kept me from being lonesome."
"And you are now staying in Paris?" questioned Mr. Cabot.
"Yes, I have been here with friends studying for nearly a year; but I am soon to return home. And now, before I leave you, I want to hear all about Giusippe's plans. What is he to do?"
Little by little the story was told. Mr. Cabot began it and continued it until Giusippe, who thought him too modest, finished the tale.
"You see, señorita, Mr. Cabot, Miss Jean, and good Hannah will not themselves tell you how kind they have been, so I myself must tell it," said the boy. "And now I go with them to find a position in America that by hard work I may some time be able to repay them for their goodness to me."
Miss Cartright nodded thoughtfully.
At last she said:
"If you should come to New York I want to see you, Giusippe. There might be something I could do to help you. Anyway, I should want to have a glimpse of you. And if you do not come and Mr. Cabot does, perhaps, since he knows how fond of you I am and how much I am interested in your welfare, he will come and tell me how you are getting on."
She drew from her purse a card which she handed to the lad.
"Perhaps I'd better take it, Giusippe," Mr. Cabot said in a low tone. "It might get lost."
Then there was a confusion of farewells, and the girl rejoined her friends, who had gone through into the next room.
It was not until she was well out of ear-shot that any one spoke. Then Jean, who had been silent throughout the entire interview, exclaimed:
"Oh, isn't she beautiful! Isn't she the very loveliest lady you ever saw, Giusippe?"
And Giusippe, answering in voluble English mixed with Italian, extolled not only the fairness but the goodness of his goddess.
Even Hannah agreed that the American girl was charming, but regretted that she had not come from Boston instead of New York.
Uncle Bob alone was silent. Turning the white card in his fingers he stood absently looking at the door through which Miss Ethel Cartright had passed.
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CHAPTER VI
UNCLE BOB AS STORY TELLER
The letter U
NCLE BOBand his party remained in France several weeks, and during that time visited the old French cathedrals with their interesting windows; and saw in the Louvre much glass of early French make as well as many beautiful Venetian mirrors with all sorts of unique histories. One mirror was that famous seventeenth century possession of Marie de Medici, a looking-glass set in a frame which represented a fortune of over thirty thousand dollars. This mirror was of rock crystal combined with cut and polished agates, and around it was a network of enameled gold. Outside this inner frame was a larger one formed entirely of precious stones. Three large emeralds as well as smaller diamonds and rubies adorned it.
"Probably," said Mr. Cabot, "this is but one of many such examples of ancient luxury. Unfortunately, however, most of these extravagant affairs have been melted up by avaricious monarchs who coveted the gems and gold. Such ornate mirrors are a relic of the Renaissance when each object made was considered an art work on which every means of enrichment was lavished. I do not know that I think it any handsomer than are the simpler mirrors with their Venetian frames of exquisitely carved wood, of which there are many fine specimens in the Louvre."
"Is the mirror that was given by the Republic of Venice to Henry the Third in the Louvre?" asked Giusippe.
"No, that is in the Cluny Museum. You have heard of it, then?"
"Oh, yes; often in Venice. I have seen pictures of it, too," Giusippe replied.
"We must see it before we leave France," declared Mr. Cabot. "It was, as you already know, presented to Henry the Third on his return from Poland. It is set in a wonderfully designed frame of colored and white beveled glass, and the decoration is of alternating fleur-de-lis and palm leaves, which are fastened to the frame by a series of screws. It is quite a different sort of mirror from that of Marie de Medici."
"I should like to see it," Jean said.
"You certainly shall."
How rich France was in beautiful things! One never could see them all.
One of the sights that especially interested Jean and Hannah was the imitation gems displayed in the Paris jewelry shops. These exquisite stones, Uncle Bob told them, were made in laboratories by workmen so skilful that only an expert could distinguish the manufactured gems from the real, the stones conforming to almost every test applied to genuine jewels. They were not manufactured, however, for the purpose of deceiving people, but rather to be sold to those who either could not afford valuable stones or did not wish the care of them. The imitation pearls were especially fine, and by no means cheap either, as Hannah soon found out when she attempted to purchase a small string.
But many as were the wonderful sights in France, the continent had soon to be left behind, and almost before the travelers realized it the Channel had been crossed and they stood upon English soil. As Uncle Bob's time was limited they went direct to London, and when once there one of the first things that Giusippe wished to see were the mosaics in St. Paul's Cathedral of which he had heard so much. So they set out. On reaching the church Giusippe regarded it with awe. How unlike it was to his well loved St. Mark's. And yet how beautiful!
"These mosaics, like the ones we shall see at the Houses of Parliament, were not first made and then put up on the walls as were those such as Salviati and other Venetians shipped from Venice," explained Mr. Cabot. "No, these were made directly upon the walls, the pieces of glass being pressed into prepared areas of cement spread thickly upon the brickwork of the building. The designs are simple, large and effective figures being preferred to smaller and more intricate patterns. Millions of pieces have been used to make the pictures, and if you will notice carefully you will see that they have the rough surface which catches the light as do all the early Venetian mosaics."
Giusippe nodded.
"There must also be some fine old glass windows in London," he speculated. "Aren't there, Mr. Cabot?"
"Yes, some varieties that you did not have in Venice, too," declared Uncle Bob. "You see other people did invent something, Giusippe. Here in England in some of the older houses there are windows made of tiny pieces of white glass leaded together; people were not able at that time to get large sheets of glass such as we now use, and I am not sure that these windows made of small leaded panes were not prettier. Then you will find other windows made from what we call bull's eye glass. These bull's eyes were the centers or waste from large discs of crown glass after all the big pieces possible had been cut away. As most glass comes now in sheets crown glass is little made, and therefore we find bull's eyes rare unless manufactured expressly to imitate the antique roundels."
"Of course there is lots of old stained glass in England, isn't there, Uncle Bob?" Jean ventured.
"Yes, indeed. I am sorry to say, however, that much of it has been destroyed before the public realized its value. At Salisbury Cathedral, for instance, some of the fine old glass was taken down and beaten to pieces in order that the lead might be used. At Oxford rare Gothic windows were removed and broken up to give room for the more modern work of the Renaissance. But you will still find at Canterbury and in many other of the English churches stained glass which has escaped destruction and come down to us through hundreds of years. And speaking of how such things have been preserved I must tell you the wonderful story of the east window in St. Margaret's Chapel at Westminster."
"Oh, do tell us!" begged Jean. "I love stories."
"This story is almost like a fairy tale, when one considers that it is the history of such a fragile thing as a glass window," Mr. Cabot began. "This window of which I am telling you was Flemish in design, and is said to have been ordered by Ferdinand and Isabella when their daughter Catherine was engaged to Arthur, the Prince of Wales. But for some reason it was not delivered, and a Dutch magistrate later decided to present it to King Henry the Seventh. Unfortunately the king died before the gift arrived and it came into the hands of the Abbot of Waltham. Now these were very troublous times for a stained glass window to be traveling about the land; Cromwell was in power and his followers believed it right to destroy everything which existed merely because of its beauty. So the old abbot was afraid his treasure would be wrecked, and to insure its safety he buried it."
"How funny!"
"Yes, wasn't it?"
"What happened then?"
"After the Restoration one of the loyal generals of the Crown had the window dug up and placed in a chapel on his estate. But the house changed hands and as its new owner did not like the window he offered it to Wadham College. The college authorities, alas, did not care for it, so it remained cased up for many years. Then by and by along came an Englishman who had the courage to buy it and have it set up in his house."
"Was that the end of it?" queried Giusippe.
"No, indeed. This person died, and his son took down the stained glass heirloom and in 1758 sold it to a committee which was at that time busy decorating St. Margaret's Chapel. Here at last it was set up and here one cannot but hope it will remain. Certainly it has earned a long rest."
"Shouldn't you think it would have been broken in all that time?" ejaculated Jean.
"One would certainly have thought so," Uncle Bob agreed. "It seemed to possess a charmed life. Most of that early glass was made by Flemish refugees who had fled to England to escape religious persecution. Some was designed for English monasteries. Houses, you know, did not have glass windows at that time but depended for protection upon oiled paper and skins. Glass was considered a luxury, and it was many, many years before window glass or table glass was in use. Rich English families bought glass dishes from galleys which, as Giusippe has told us, came laden from Venice. Sometimes this Venetian glass was mounted in gold or silver. There was, it is true, a little glass of English make, but no one thought it worth using; in fact when the stained glass windows were put into Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick it was expressly stated that no English glass was to be used."
"How did glass ever come to be made here, then?" inquired Jean.
"Well, in time more Flemish Protestants fled to England and began making stained glass at London, Stourbridge, and Newcastle-on-Tyne. In 1589 there were fifteen glass-houses in England. Then, because so much wood had been used in the iron foundries, the supply became exhausted and sea or pit coal had to be used instead. People were forced to try, in consequence, a different kind of melting pot for their glass and a new mixture of material; in this way they stumbled upon a heavy, brilliant, white crystal metal which the French called 'the most beautiful glassy substance known.' It was the pure white flint, or crystal glass, for which England has since become famous. Immediately it began to be used for all sorts of things. In 1637 the Duke of Buckingham had flint glass windows for his coach, and he had some Venetian workmen make mirrors out of it. So it went. A great many more mirrors were made, great pier glasses with beveled edges. It is said that some of those very mirrors are even now at Hampton Court. In the course of time the English became more and more skilful at glass-making, and when Queen Victoria came to the throne they were manufacturing enormous cut glass ornaments and bowls, and decorating their palaces and theaters with glass chandeliers which had myriads of heavy, sparkling prisms dangling from them. You will remember that in Venice you saw some glass chandeliers; and you may recall how delicately fashioned they were and how their twisted branches were covered with glass flowers in the center of which candles could be set. But the English chandeliers were far more massive affairs than those. And no sooner did English workmen find what they could do with this new material than they went mad over glass-making. Why, in 1851 they actually built for the first International Exhibit a Crystal Palace with a big glass fountain in it. Its builder was James Paxton, and he was knighted for doing it."
"I should think he deserved to be!" Jean said. "Who ever would have thought of making a palace of glass!"
"This one attracted much attention, I assure you," said Uncle Bob. "Later it was reconstructed at Sydenham and to this day there it stands. England now makes the finest crystal glass of any country in the world; but to-morrow I intend to take you to the British Museum and show you that in spite of all that European nations have done there were other very skilful glass-makers in the world before any of them made glass at all."
"Before the time of the Greeks and Romans—before the people who made the Naples Vase?" Jean asked.
"Yes, centuries before."
"Who were they?" demanded both Jean and Giusippe in the same breath.
"The Egyptians first; and after them the Phœnicians and Syrians. All these peoples lived where they could easily get plenty of the fine white sand necessary for glass-making. In some of the old tombs glass beads, cups, drinking-vessels, and curiously shaped vials have been found, many of them very beautiful in color. Some of this color is due to the action of the soil and the atmosphere, for science tells us that after glass has been buried in the earth many centuries and is then exposed to the air it begins to decay and its color often changes. We have in our museums many pieces of ancient glass which have changed color in this way and have become far more beautiful than they originally were. How these races that lived in the remote ages found out how to make glass no one knows; but certain it is that the Egyptians could fashion imitation gems, crude mosaics and various glass vessels. Later the Phœnicians improved the art and afterward, as you have seen, the Greeks and Romans took it up. There is a strange tale of how, during the reign of Tiberius, a glass-maker discovered how to make a kind of glass which would not break. It was a sort of malleable glass."
"Oh, tell us about it, please, Uncle Bob."
"Certainly, if you would like to hear. This glass-maker made a cup for the Emperor and tried a long time to get an audience at which to present his new invention. Then at last the chance came, and thinking to make himself famous the artisan contrived, as he passed the flagon to his sovereign, to drop it on the marble floor. Of course every one thought the glass was broken, and that is precisely what the glass-maker wanted them to think. He picked it up, smoothed out with his hammer the dent made in its side, and passed it once more expecting to receive praise for his wonderful deed. Tiberius eyed him silently. Then he asked; 'Does any one else know how to make glass like this?'
"'No one,' answered the glass-maker.
"'Off with his head at once!' cried the enraged monarch. 'If glass dishes and flasks do not break they will soon become as valuable as my gold and silver ones!'
"Despite his protests the poor glass-maker was dragged off and beheaded. The rulers of those days were not very fair-minded, you see."
With so many interesting stories, and so many things to see, you may be sure that neither Jean nor Giusippe found sightseeing dull. And the next day Uncle Bob was as good as his word, and took the young people to the British Museum, where he showed them some of the old Egyptian and Græco-Syrian glass. There were little vases, cups, and flasks of wonderful iridescent color, as well as many glass beads that had been found upon Egyptian mummies.
"Now, Uncle Bob," Jean said, after they had looked at these strange old bits of glass for some time, "you must take us to see the Portland Vase. You promised you would, you know."
"Sure enough; so I did. I should have forgotten it, too, had you not mentioned it."
Accordingly they hunted up the Gold Room where the vase stood.
Jean was very proud that she was able to point it out before she had been told which one it was.
"You see," explained she shyly, "it is so much like the Naples Vase that I recognized it right off."
It was indeed of the same dark blue transparent glass, and had on it the same sort of delicate white cameo figures.
"This vase," Mr. Cabot said, "was found about the middle of the sixteenth century enclosed in a marble sarcophagus in an underground chamber which was located two and a half miles out of Rome. It was taken to the Barbarini Palace, but later the princess of that noble family, wishing to raise money, sold it to Sir William Hamilton, who chanced to be at that time the English ambassador to Naples. From him it passed to the Duchess of Portland, and at her death was sold at auction to the new Duke of Portland. That is the way it got its name. Now the Duke, desirous of putting his precious purchase in a safe place, and also wishing to allow others to enjoy it, lent it to the British Museum. Imagine his horror and that of the Museum authorities when in 1845 a lunatic named Lloyd, who saw it, viciously smashed it to pieces."
His hearers gasped.
"To see it you would not dream that it had ever been broken, would you? Yes, it has been so carefully mended that no one could tell the difference. It was this vase which the English potter, Wedgwood, coveted so intensely that he bid a thousand pounds for it; the Duke of Portland outbid him by just twenty-nine pounds. He was, however, a generous man, and when at last the vase was his he allowed Wedgwood to copy it. This took a year's time, and even then the copy was far less beautiful than was the original. Many copies of it have been made since, but never has any one succeeded in making anything to equal the vase itself. You will see copies of it in almost all our American museums."
"I mean to see when I get home if there is a copy of it in Boston," Jean remarked.
"You will find one at the Art Museum. And now while we are here there is still that other famous vase which I mentioned once before and which I should like to have you see. It is not, perhaps, as fine as the Naples or the Portland, but it is nevertheless one celebrated the world over. Like the Naples Vase it came from Pompeii, and like the Portland Vase it has been skilfully mended. It is called the Auldjo Vase."
Uncle Bob was not long in finding where this treasure stood. It was small—not more than nine inches in height, and like the other two was of the familiar blue transparent glass with a white cameo design cut upon it. Instead of having a Grecian decoration, however, the pattern was of vines, leaves, and clusters of grapes.
"The Portland Vase, as I have already told you, was perfect when it was unearthed," Mr. Cabot said. "And the Naples Vase you will remember was also whole except that its base, or foot, which was probably of gold, was missing. But the Auldjo Vase was in pieces, and it was only a single one of these fragments that was bequeathed to the British Museum by Miss Auldjo. Now when the Museum committee saw this single piece nothing would do but they must have the others. They therefore bought the rest, had the vase mended, and set it up here where people can see it. It cost a great deal of money to purchase it."
"I think it is splendid of museums and of rich people to buy such things and put them where every one can look at them!" exclaimed Jean. "None of us could afford to and if those who owned them just kept them in their own houses we should never see them at all."
"Yes. Remember that, too, in this day when there are so many persons who begrudge the rich their fortunes. Remember if there were not individuals in the world who possessed fortunes the poor would have far less opportunity to see art treasures of every sort. And that is one way in which those who are rich and generous can serve their country. There are many different methods of being a good citizen, you see."
Mr. Cabot took out his watch and glanced at it thoughtfully.
"I think we shall have time to see just one thing more, and then we must go back to the hotel. We have examined all kinds of glass objects—so many, in fact, that it would seem as if there was no other purpose for which glass could be used. And yet I can show you something of which, I will wager, you have not thought."
"What is it?" questioned the two young people breathlessly.
Full of curiosity, Uncle Bob led them through several corridors until he came to a large room that they had not visited. He conducted them to its farther end and paused before a large sand glass.
"Before the days of clocks and watches," he began, "such glasses as these were much in use for telling the time. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they had them in almost all the churches, that the officiating clergyman might be able to measure the length of his sermon."
Jean laughed.
"I wish they had them now," she declared mischievously.
"Sometimes I do," smiled Uncle Bob. "It is said the glasses were originally invented in Egypt. Wherever they came from, they certainly were a great convenience to those who had no other means of telling the time. Charlemagne, I have read, had a sand glass so large that it needed to be turned only once in twelve hours. Fancy how large it must have been. At the South Kensington Museum is a set of four large sand glasses evidently made to go together. Of course you have seen, even in our day, hour, quarter-hour, and minute glasses."
"I used to practice by an hour glass," Jean replied quickly. "At least it was a quarter-of-an-hour glass, and I had to turn it four times."
"It would be strange not to have clocks and watches, wouldn't it?" reflected Giusippe as they walked back to the hotel.
"I guess it would!" Hannah returned emphatically. "The meals would never be on time."
"One advantage in that, my good Hannah, would be that nobody would ever be scolded because he was late," retorted Mr. Cabot humorously.
The three weeks allotted for the London visit passed only too quickly, and surprisingly soon came the day when the travelers found themselves aboard ship and homeward bound.
Perhaps after all they were not altogether sorry, for despite the marvels of the old world there is no place like home. Hannah was eager to open the Boston house and air it; Jean rejoiced that each throb of the engine brought her nearer to her beloved doggie; Uncle Bob's fingers itched to be setting in place the Italian marbles he had ordered for the new house; and Giusippe waited almost with bated breath for his first sight of America, the country of his dreams.
But a great surprise was in store for every one of these persons as the mighty steamer left her moorings and put out of Liverpool harbor.
Across the deck came a vision, an apparition so unexpected that Jean and Giusippe cried out, and even Uncle Bob muttered to himself something which nobody could hear. The figure was that of a girl—a girl with wind-tossed hair who, with head thrown back, stopped a moment and looked full into the sunset.
It was Miss Ethel Cartright of New York, Giusippe's beautiful lady of Venice!
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CHAPTER VII
AMERICA ONCE MORE
The letter T
HEvoyage from Liverpool to Boston was thoroughly interesting to Giusippe. In the first place there was the wonder of the great blue sea—a sea so vast that the Italian boy, who had never before ventured beyond the canals of the Adriatic, was bewildered when day after day the giant ship plowed onward and still, despite her speed, failed to reach the land. Sunlight flooded the water, twilight settled into darkness, and yet on every hand tossed that mighty expanse of waves. Would a haven ever be reached, the lad asked himself; and how, amid that pathless ocean, could the captain be so sure that eventually he would make the port for which he was aiming? It was all wonderful.
Fortunately the crossing was a smooth one, and accordingly every moment of the voyage was a delight. What happy days our travelers passed together! Miss Cartright was the jolliest of companions. She dressed dolls for Jean—dressed them in such gowns as never were seen, dainty French little frocks which converted the plainest china creature into a wee Parisian; she read aloud; she told stories; she played games. Hannah surrendered unconditionally when, one morning after they had been comparing notes on housekeeping, the fact leaked out that Miss Cartright's mother had been a New Englander. That was enough!
"She has had the proper sort of bringing up," remarked Hannah, with a sigh of satisfaction. "She knows exactly how to pack away blankets and how to clean house as it should be done. She is a very unusual young woman!"
Coming from Hannah such praise was phenomenal.
Mr. Cabot seemed to think, too, that Miss Cartright possessed many virtues.
At any rate he enjoyed talking with her, and every evening when the full moon touched with iridescent beauty the wide, pulsing sea he would tuck the girl into her steamer chair and the two would stay up on deck until the clear golden ball of light had climbed high into the heaven.
So passed the voyage.
Then as America came nearer Giusippe witnessed all the strange sights that heralded the approach to the new continent; he saw the lights dotting the coast; he watched steamers which were outward bound for the old world he had left behind; he strained his eyes to catch, through a telescope, the murky outlines of the land.
"Here is still another use to which glass is put, Giusippe," said Mr. Cabot indicating with a gesture the red flash-light of a beacon far against the horizon. "Without the powerful reflectors, lenses, and prisms which are in use in our lighthouses many a vessel would be wrecked. For not only must a lighthouse have a strong light; it must also have a means of throwing that light out, and thereby increasing its effectiveness. Scientists have discovered just how to arrange prisms, lenses, and reflectors so the light will travel to the farthest possible distance. At Navasink, on the highlands south of New York harbor, stands the most powerful coast light in the United States. It equals about sixty million candle-power, and its beam can be seen seventy nautical miles away. The carrying of the light to such a tremendous distance is due to the strong reflectors employed in conjunction with the light itself. The largest lens, however, under control of the United States is on the headlands of the Hawaiian Islands. This is eight and three-quarters feet in diameter and is made from the most carefully polished glass. And by the way, among other uses that science makes of glass are telescopes, microscopes, and field-glasses, which are all constructed from flawlessly ground lenses. Often it takes a whole year, and sometimes even longer, to polish a large telescope lens. Without this magnifying agency we should have no astronomy, and fewer scientific discoveries than we now have. The glasses people wear all have to be ground and polished in much the same fashion; opera glasses, magic lanterns, and every contrivance for bringing distant objects nearer or making them larger are dependent for their power upon glass lenses."
"Even when making glass I never dreamed it could be used for so many different purposes," answered Giusippe.
"I wish we had counted up, as we went along, how many things it is used for," Jean put in.
"We might have done so, only I am afraid you would have become very tired had we attempted it," laughed Uncle Bob. "In addition to optical glass there are still other branches of science that could not go on without glass in its various forms. Take, for instance, electricity. It would not be safe to employ this strange force without the protection of glass barriers to hedge in its dangerous current. Glass, as you probably know, is a non-conductor of electricity, and whenever we wish to confine its power and prevent it from doing harm we place a layer of glass between it and the thing to be protected. The glass checks the progress of the current. In all chemical laboratories, too, no end of glass test-tubes, thermometers, and crucibles are in demand for furthering research work. Science would be greatly hampered in its usefulness had it not recourse to glass in its manifold forms."
"What a wonderful material it is!" ejaculated Jean. "I never shall see anything made of glass again without thinking of all it does for us."
"Be grateful, too, Jean, to the men who have discovered how to use it," replied Mr. Cabot gravely. "Certainly our mariners many a time owe their safety to just such warning beacons as the one ahead. We must ask the captain what light that is. Just think—to-morrow morning we shall wake up in Boston harbor and be at home again."
A hush fell on the party.
"I shall be dreadfully sorry to have Miss Cartright leave us and go to New York; sha'n't you, Uncle Bob?" said Jean at last, slipping her hand into that of the older woman who stood beside her. "Wouldn't it be nice, Miss Cartright, if you lived in Boston? Then I'd see you all the time—at least I would when I wasn't in Pittsburgh, and then Uncle Bob could see you, and that would be almost as good."
"Almost," echoed Uncle Bob.
"But you are coming to New York to see me some time, Jean dear," the girl said with her eyes far on the horizon. "You know your uncle has promised that when you go to Pittsburgh both you and Giusippe are to stop and visit me for a few days."
"Yes, I have not forgotten; it will be lovely, too," replied Jean. "Still that is not like having you live where you can dress dolls all the time. Why don't you move to Boston? I am sure you would like it. We have the loveliest squirrels on the Common!"
Everybody laughed.
"I have been trying to tell Miss Cartright what a very nice place Boston is to live in," added Mr. Cabot softly.
"Well, we all will keep on telling her, and then maybe she'll be convinced," Jean declared.