Part 4

The mould, if we may so express it, of a globe is turned out of a piece of wood. This sphere need not be mathematically accurate. It is for rough work, and flaws and cracks are of little consequence. This wooden ball has an axis, a piece of iron wire at each pole. And here we may remark, that, at every stage of the process, the revolution of a sphere upon its axis, under the hands of the workman, is the one great principle which renders every operation one of comparative ease and simplicity. The labour would be enormously multiplied if the same class of operations had to be performed upon a cube. The solid mould, then, of the embryo globe is placed on its axis in a wooden frame. In a very short time a boy will form a pasteboard globe upon its surface. He first covers it entirely with strips of strong paper, thoroughly wet, which are in a tub of water at his side. The slight inequalities produced by the over-lapping of the strips are immaterial. The saturated paper is not suffered to dry; but is immediately covered over with a layer of pasted paper, also cut in long narrow slips. A third layer of similarly pasted paper—brown paper and white being used alternately—is applied; and then, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth. Here the pasting process ends for globes of moderate size. For the large ones it is carried farther. This wet pasteboard ball has now to be dried,—placed upon its axis in a rack. If we were determined to follow the progress of this individual ball through all its stages, we should have to wait a fortnight before it advanced another step. But as the large factory of Messrs. Malby and Son has many scores of globes all rolling onward to perfection, we shall be quite satisfied to witness the next operation performed upon a pasteboard sphere that began to exist some weeks earlier, and is now hard to the core.

The wooden ball, with its solid paper covering, is placed on its axis. A sharp cutting instrument, fixed on a bench, is brought into contact with the surface of the sphere, which is made to revolve. In less time than we write, the pasteboard ball is cut in half. There is no adhesion to the wooden mould, for the first coating of paper was simply _wetted_. Two bowls of thick card now lie before us, with a small hole in each, made by the axis of the wooden ball. But a junction is very soon effected. Within every globe there is a piece of wood—we may liken it to a round ruler—of the exact length of the inner surface of the sphere from pole to pole. A thick wire runs through this wood, and originally projected some two or three inches at each end. This stick is placed upright in a vice. The semi-globe is nailed to one end of the stick, upon which it rests, when the wire is passed through its centre. It is now reversed, and the edges of the card rapidly covered with glue. The edges of the other semi-globe are instantly brought into contact, the other end of the wire passing through its centre in the same way, and a similar nailing to the stick taking place. We have now a paper globe, with its own axis, which will be its companion for the whole term of its existence.

The paper globe is next placed on its axis in a frame, of which one side is a semi-circular piece of metal;—the horizon of a globe cut in half would show its form. A tub of white composition,—a compound of whiting, glue, and oil is on the bench. The workman dips his hand into this ‘gruel thick and slab,’ and rapidly applies it to the paper sphere with tolerable evenness: but as it revolves, the semi-circle of metal clears off the superfluous portions. The ball of paper is now a ball of plaster externally. Time again enters largely into the manufacture. The first coating must thoroughly dry before the next is applied; and so again till the process has been repeated four or five times. Thus, when we visit a globe workshop, we are at first surprised at the number of white balls, from three inches diameter to three feet, which occupy a large space. They are all steadily advancing towards completion. They cannot be hurriedly dried. The duration of their quiescent state must depend upon the degrees of the thermometer in the ordinary atmosphere. They cost little. They consume nothing beyond a small amount of rent. As they advance to the dignity of perfect spheres, increased pains are taken in the application of the plaster. At last they are polished. Their surface is as hard and as fine as ivory. But, beautiful as they are, they may, like many other beautiful things, want a due equipoise. They must be perfectly balanced. They must move upon their poles with the utmost exactness. A few shot, let in here and there, correct all irregularities. And now the paper and plaster sphere is to be endued with intelligence.

What may be called the artistical portion of globe-making here commences. In the manufactory we are describing there are two skilled workers, who may take rank as artists, but whose skill is limited, and at the same time perfected, by the uniformity of their operations. One of these artists, a young woman, who has been familiar with the business from her earliest years, takes the polished globe in her lap, for the purpose of marking it with lines of direction for covering it with engraved strips, which will ultimately form a perfect map. The inspection of a finished globe will show that the larger divisions of longitude are expressed by lines drawn from pole to pole, and those of latitude by a series of concentric rings. The polished plaster has to be covered with similar lines. These lines are struck with great rapidity, and with mathematical truth, by an instrument called a ‘beam compass,’ in the use of which this workwoman is most expert. The sphere is now ready for receiving the map, which is engraved in fourteen distinct pieces. The arctic and antarctic poles form two circular pieces, from which the lines of longitude radiate. These having been fitted and pasted, one of the remaining twelve pieces, containing 30 degrees, is also pasted on the sphere, in the precise space where the lines of longitude have been previously marked, its lines of latitude corresponding in a similar manner. The paper upon which these portions of the earth’s surface are engraved is thin and extremely tough. It is rubbed down with the greatest care, through all the stages of this pasting process. We have at length a globe covered with a plain map, so perfectly joined that every line and every letter fit together as if they had been engraved in one piece,—which, of course, would be absolutely impossible for the purpose of covering a ball.

The artist who thus covers the globe, called a paster, is also a colourer. This is, of necessity, a work which cannot be carried on with any division of labour. It is not so with the colouring of an atlas. A map passes under many hands in the colouring. A series of children, each using one colour, produce in combination a map coloured in all its parts, with the rapidity and precision of a machine. But a globe must be coloured by one hand. It is curious to observe the colourer working without a pattern. By long experience the artist knows how the various boundaries are to be defined, with pink continents, and blue islands, and the green oceans, connecting the most distant regions. To a contemplative mind, how many thoughts must go along with the mark, as he covers Europe with indications of popular cities, and has little to do with Africa and Australia but to mark the coast lines;—as year after year he has to make some variation in the features of the great American continent, which indicates the march of the human family over once trackless deserts, whilst the memorable places of the ancient world undergo few changes but those of name. And then, as he is finishing a globe for the cabin of some ‘great ammirall,’ may he not think that, in some frozen nook of the Arctic Sea, the friendly Esquimaux may come to gaze upon his work, and seeing how pretty a spot England is upon the ball, wonder what illimitable riches nature spontaneously produces in that favoured region, some of which is periodically scattered by her ships through those dreary climes in the search for some unknown road amidst everlasting icebergs, while he would gladly find a short track to the sunny south. And then, perhaps, higher thoughts may come into his mind; and as this toy of a world grows under his fingers, and as he twists it around upon its material axis, he may think of the great artificer of the universe, having the feeling, if not knowing, the words of the poet:—

‘In ambient air this ponderous ball HE hung.’

Contemplative, or not, the colourer steadily pursues his uniform labour, and the sphere is at length fully coloured.

The globe has now to be varnished with a preparation technically known as ‘white hard,’ to which some softening matter is added to prevent the varnish cracking. This is a secret which globe-makers preserve. Four coats of varnish complete the work.

And next the ball has to be mounted. We have already mentioned an instrument by which the brass meridian ring is accurately graduated; that is, marked with lines representing 360 degrees, with corresponding numerals. Of whatever size the ring is, an index-hand, connected with the graduating instrument, shows the exact spot where the degree is to be marked with a graver. The operation is comparatively rapid; but for the largest globes it involves considerable expense. After great trouble, the ingenious men whose manufactory we are describing have succeeded in producing cast-iron rings, with the degrees and figures perfectly distinct; and these applied to 36-inch globes, instead of the engraved meridians, make a difference of ten guineas in their price. For furniture they are not so beautiful; for use they are quite as valuable. There is only one other process which requires great nicety. The axis of the globe revolves on the meridian ring, and of course it is absolutely necessary that the poles should be exactly parallel. This is effected by a little machine which drills each extremity at one and the same instant; and the operation is termed poling the meridian.

The mounting of the globe,—the completion of a pair of globes,—is now handed over to the cabinet-maker. The cost of the material and the elaboration of the workmanship determine the price.

Before we conclude, we would say a few words as to the limited nature of the demand for globes.

Our imperfect description of this manufacture will have shown that experience, and constant application of ingenuity, have succeeded in reducing to the lowest amount the labour employed in the production of globes. The whole population of English globe-makers does not exceed thirty or forty men, women, and boys. Globes are thus produced at the lowest rate of cheapness, as regards the number of labourers, and with very moderate profits to the manufacturer, on account of the smallness of his returns. The _durability_ of globes is one great cause of the limitation of the demand. Changes of fashion, or caprices of taste, as to the mounting—new geographical discoveries, and modern information as to the position and nomenclature of the stars—may displace a few old globes annually, which then find their way from brokers’ shops into a class somewhat below that of their original purchasers. But the pair of globes generally maintain for years their original position in the school-room or the library. They are rarely injured, and suffer very slight decay. The new purchasers represent that portion of society which is seeking after knowledge, or desires to manifest some pretension to intellectual tastes. The number of globes annually sold represents to a certain extent the advance of Education. But if the labour-saving expedients did not exist in the manufacture the cost would be much higher, and the purchasers greatly reduced in number. The contrivances by which comparative cheapness is produced arise out of the necessity of contending against the durability of the article by encouraging a new demand. If these did not exist, the supply would outrun the demand;—the price of the article would less and less repay the labour expended in its production; the manufacture of globes would cease till the old globes were worn out, and the few rich and scientific purchasers had again raised up a market.

THE GHOST OF THE LATE MR. JAMES BARBER. A YARN ASHORE.

‘“Luck!” nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to blame.’

This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged midshipman, his elder brother.

‘Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?’ was the rejoinder.

‘Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and—and——.’ The speaker looked another way, and hesitated.

‘I am _not_, you would add—if you had courage. But I say I am, and a better seaman than Bobbin.’

‘Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years older in the service. But it was in the theoretical part of seamanship—which is equally important—that you broke down before the examiners,’ continued the younger officer, in tones of earnest but sorrowful reproach. ‘You never _would_ study.’

‘I’ll tell you what it is, master Ferdinand,’ said the elderly middy, not without a show of displeasure. ‘I don’t think this is the correct sort of conversation to be going on between two brothers after a five years’ separation.’

The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly on his brother’s arm, and entreated him to take what he said in good part.

‘Well, well!’ rejoined the middy, with a laugh half-forced. ‘Take care what you are about, or, by Jove, I’ll inform against you.’

‘What for?’

‘Why, for preaching without a license.—Besides, you were once as bad as you pretend I am.’

‘I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of poor James Barber——’

‘Of whom?’ asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass along the table. ‘You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him; once my messmate in the brig “Rollock.”’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What! dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why, it was one of our great delights, when in harbour and on shore, to “go the rounds,”—as he called it—with Jovial Jemmy. He understood life from stem to stern—from truck to keel. He knew everybody, from the First Lord downwards. I have seen him recognised by _the_ Duke one minute, and the next pick up with a strolling player, and familiarly treat him at a tavern. He once took me to a quadrille party at the Duchess of Durrington’s, where he seemed to know and be known to everybody present, and then adjourned to the Cider Cellars, where he was equally intimate with all sorts of queer characters. Though a favourite among the aristocracy, he was equally welcome in less exclusive societies. He was “Brother,” “Past Master,” “Warden,” “Noble Grand,” or “President” of all sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncommonly knowing was Jemmy in all sorts of club and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave the best dinners, and was always invited to the best balls. He was a capital judge of champagne, and when he betted upon a horse-race everybody backed him. He could hum all the fashionable songs, and was the fourth man who could dance the polka when it was first imported. Then he was as profound in bottled stout, Welsh rabbits, Burton ale, devilled kidneys, and bowls of Bishop, as he was in Roman punch, French cookery, and Italian singers. Afloat, he was the soul of fun:—he got up all our private theatricals, told all the best stories, and sung comic songs that made even the Purser laugh.’

‘An extent and variety of knowledge and accomplishments,’ said Lieutenant Fid, ‘which had the precise effect of blasting his prospects in life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed the service for intemperance and incompetence.’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘What, _alive_?’ inquired Ferdinand Fid, changing countenance.

‘Of course! Surely you do not mean to insinuate that you have seen his ghost!’

The lieutenant was silent; and the midshipman took a deep draught of his favourite mixture—equal portions of rum and water—and hinted to his younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of immediately confiding the story to the Marines; for he declined to credit it. He then ventured another recommendation, which was, that Ferdinand should throw the impotent temperance tipple he was then imbibing ‘over the side of the Ship’—which meant the tavern of that name in Greenwich, at the open bow-window of which they were then sitting—and clear his intellects by something stronger.

‘I can afford to be laughed at,’ said the younger Fid, ‘because I have gained immeasurably by the delusion, if it be one; but if ever there was a ghost, I have seen the ghost of James Barber. I, like yourself and he, was nearly ruined by love of amusement and intemperance, when he—or whatever else it might have been—came to my aid.’

‘Let us hear. I see I am “in” for a ghost story.’

‘Well; it was eighteen forty-one when I came home in the “Arrow” with despatches from the coast of Africa: you were lying in the Tagus in the “Bobstay.” Ours, you know, was rather a thirsty station; a man inclined for it comes home from the Slaving Coasts with a determination to make up his lee way. I did mine with a vengeance. As usual, I looked up “Jovial Jemmy.”’

‘’Twas easy to find him if you knew where to go.’

‘I _did_ know, and went. He had by that time got tired of his more aristocratic friends. Respectability was too “slow” for him, so I found him presiding over the “Philanthropic Raspers,” at the “Union Jack.” He received me with open arms, and took me, as you say, the “rounds.” I can’t recal that week’s dissipation without a shudder. We rushed about from ball to tavern, from theatre to supper-room, from club to gin-palace, as if our lives depended on losing not a moment. We had not time to walk, so we galloped about in cabs. On the fourth night, when I was beginning to feel knocked up, and tired of the same songs, the same quadrilles, the bad whiskey, the suffocating tobacco smoke, and the morning’s certain and desperate penalties, I remarked to Jemmy, that it was a miracle how he had managed to weather it for so many years. “What a hardship you would deem it,” I added, “if you were _obliged_ to go the same weary round from one year’s end to another.”’

‘What did he say to that?’ asked Philip.

‘Why, I never saw him so taken aback. He looked quite fiercely at me, and replied, “I _am_ obliged!”’

‘How did he make that out?’

‘Why, he had tippled and dissipated his constitution into such a state that use had become second nature. Excitement was his natural condition, and he dared not become quite sober for fear of a total collapse—or dropping down like a shot in the water.’

The midshipman had his glass in his hand, but forebore to taste it.—‘Well, what then?’

‘The “rounds” lasted two nights longer. I was fairly beaten. Cast-iron could not have stood it. I was prostrated in bed with fever—and worse.’ Ferdinand was agitated, and took a large draught of his lemonade.

‘Well, well, you need not enlarge upon that,’ replied Phil Fid, raising his glass towards his lips, but again thinking better of it; ‘I heard how bad you were from Seton, who shaved your head.’

‘I had scarcely recovered when the “Arrow” was ordered back, and I made a vow.’

‘Took the pledge, perhaps!’ interjected the mid, with a slight curl of his lip.

‘No! I determined to work more and play less. We had a capital naval instructor aboard, and our commander was as good an officer as ever trod the deck. I studied—a little too hard perhaps, for I was laid up again. The “Arrow” was, as usual, as good as her name, and we shot across to Jamaica in five weeks. One evening as we were lying in Kingston harbour, Seton, who had come over to join the Commodore as full surgeon, told me what he had never ventured to divulge before.’

‘What was that?’

‘Why, that, on the very day I left London, James Barber died of a frightful attack of _delirium tremens_!’

‘Poor Jemmy!’ said the elder Fid sorrowfully, taking a long pull of consolation from his rummer. ‘Little did I think, while singing some of your best songs off Belem Castle, that I had seen you for the last time!’

‘_I_ hadn’t seen him for the last time,’ returned the lieutenant, with awful significance.

Philip assumed a careless air, and said, ‘Go on.’

‘We were ordered home in eighteen forty-five, and paid off in January. I went to Portsmouth; was examined, and passed as lieutenant.’

This allusion to his brother’s better condition made poor Philip look rather blank.

‘On being confirmed at the Admiralty,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘I had to give a dinner to the “Arrows;” which I did at the Salopian, Charing Cross. In the excess of my joy at promotion, my determination of temperance and avoidance of what is called “society” was swamped. I kept it up once more; I went the “rounds,” and accepted all the dinner, supper, and ball invitations I could get, invariably ending each morning in one of the old haunts of dissipation. Old associations with James Barber returned, and like causes produced similar effects. One morning while maundering home, I began to feel the same wild confusion as had previously commenced my dreadful malady.’

‘Ah! a little touched in the top-hamper.’

‘It was just daylight. Thinking to cool myself, I jumped into a wherry to get pulled down here to Greenwich.’

‘Of course you were not quite sober.’

‘Don’t ask! I do not like even to allude to my sensations, for fear of recalling them. My brain seemed in a flame. The boat appeared to be going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Fast as we were cleaving the current, I heard my name distinctly called out. I reconnoitred, but could see nobody. I looked over on one side of the gunwale, and, while doing so, felt something touch me from the other; I felt a chill; I turned round and saw——’

‘Whom?’ asked the midshipman, holding his breath.

‘What seemed to be James Barber.’

‘Was he wet?’

‘As dry as you are.’

‘I summoned courage to speak. “Hallo! some mistake!” I exclaimed.

‘“Not at all,” was the reply. “I’m James Barber. Don’t be frightened, I’m harmless.”

‘“But——”

‘“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the intruder. “Seton did not deceive you—I am only an occasional visitor _up here_.”

‘This brought me up with a round turn, and I had sense enough to wish my friend would vanish as he came. “Where shall we land you?” I asked.

‘“Oh, any where—it don’t matter. I have got to be out every night and all night; and the nights are plaguy long just now.”

‘I could not muster a word.

‘“Ferd Fid,” continued the voice, which now seemed about fifty fathoms deep; and fast as we were dropping down the stream, the boat gave a heel to starboard, as if she had been broadsided by a tremendous wave—“Ferd Fid, you recollect how I used to kill time; how I sang, drank, danced, and supped all night long, and then slept and soda-watered it all day? You remember what a happy fellow I seemed. Fools like yourself thought I was so; but I say again, I wasn’t,” growled the voice, letting itself down a few fathoms deeper. “Often and often I would have given the world to have been a market-gardener or a dealer in chick-weed while roaring ‘He is a jolly good fellow,’ and ‘We won’t go home till morning!’ as I emerged with a group from some tavern into Covent Garden market. But I’m punished fearfully for my sins now. What do you think I have got to do every night of my—never mind—what do you think is now marked out as my dreadful punishment?”

‘“Well, to walk the earth, I suppose,” said I.

‘“No.”

‘“To paddle about in the Thames from sunset to sun-rise?”