That there was a logical connection between the two eras of mechanical contrivance—that of the ingenious automata and that of the useful modern machines—is extremely probable. That the refugee artisans from Antwerp and from France had a stimulating effect upon English invention and discovery there can be little doubt; and that the French automata, which were much written about, and exhibited as a triumph of mechanical genius, became known to and exercised an influence upon the minds of intelligent mechanics is equally probable. We are therefore surprised to find Mr. Smiles arriving at a conclusion in such direct conflict with his general views of the gradual growth of inventions, namely, “that Maudslay’s invention was entirely independent of all that had gone before, and that he contrived it for the special purpose of overcoming the difficulties which he himself experienced in turning out duplicate parts in large numbers.”
But however this may be, Mr. Maudslay’s invention revolutionized the workshop. Before its introduction the tool of the artisan was guided solely by muscular strength and the dexterity of the hand; the smallest variation in the pressure applied rendered the work imperfect. The slide-rest acting automatically changed all that. With it thousands of duplicates of the most ponderous, as well as the most minute pieces of machinery, are executed with the utmost precision. Without it the steam-engine, whether locomotive or stationary, would have been hardly more than a dream of genius; for the monster that is to be fed with steam can be properly constructed only by automatic steam-driven tools; or, as another has expressed it, “Steam-engines were never properly made until they made themselves.”
Ten minutes are thus agreeably and profitably occupied by the instructor in a review of the history of a single invention, and its relations to the whole field of mechanical work.
Another branch of the lesson consists of an inquiry into the natural history, qualities, value, and common uses of the wood which is to be the material of the day’s manipulation—black-walnut. Holding a piece of the purplish brown wood high in his hand the instructor discharges, as it were, a volley of questions at the class, “What is it called?” “Where is it found?” “How large does the tree grow?” “For what is the wood chiefly used?” Up go a dozen hands. The owner of one of the hands is recognized, and he rises to tell all about it, but is only allowed to say “black-walnut.” The next speaker is permitted to say that “the black-walnut is found all over North America;” the next that it is more abundant west of the Alleghanies, and most abundant in the valley of the Mississippi; the next that in a forest it has a limbless trunk from thirty to fifty feet high, but in the “open” branches near the ground; the next that it is extensively used in house-finishing, in furniture, for all kinds of cabinet-work, and especially for gunstocks.
Further inquiry elicits the information that the black-walnut is a quick-growing, large tree; that its wood is hard, fine-grained, durable, and susceptible of a high polish, and that through use and exposure it turns dark, and with great age becomes almost black. One student describes the leaves, another the fruit or nuts, and states that they are used in dyeing; a third states that the black-walnut is a great favorite for planting in the treeless tracts of the West, on account of its rapid growth and the value of its timber. When the subject appears to be nearly exhausted, a boy at the farther end of one of the forms rises timidly and tells the story of the late Mr. W. C. Bryant’s great black-walnut-tree at Roslyn, Long Island. He concludes, excitedly, “It is one hundred and seventy years old and twenty-five feet in circumference.”[1] The timid boy dwells upon his story of the “big” tree with evident fondness, and his eyes dilate with satisfaction as he resumes his seat. The circumstance of the great age no less than the enormous size of the tree has captivated his imagination. The discriminating instructor will not fail to note such incidents of the lesson. It is through them that the special aptitudes of students are disclosed. The instructor will always bear prominently in mind that the purpose of the school is not to make mechanics but men. Nor will he forget, as Buckle remarked, that Shakespeare preceded Newton. Buckle pays a glowing tribute to the usefulness of the imagination. He says, “Shakespeare and the poets sowed the seed which Newton and the philosophers reaped.... They drew attention to nature, and thus became the real founders of all natural science. They did even more than this. They first impregnated the mind of England with bold and lofty conceptions. They taught the men of their generation to crave after the unseen.”
[1] “At Ellerslie, the birthplace of Wallace, exists an oak which is celebrated as having been a remarkable object in his time, and which can scarcely, therefore, be less than seven hundred years old. Near Staines there is a yew-tree older than Magna Charta (1215), and the yews at Fountains Abbey, in Yorkshire, are probably more than twelve hundred years old. Eight olive-trees still exist in the Garden of Olives at Jerusalem which are known to be at least eight hundred years old.”—“Vegetable Physiology.” By William B. Carpenter, M.D., F.R.S., F.G.S. London: Bell and Daldy. 1865. p. 78.
Disraeli, in his matchless biography of Lord George Bentinck, in summing up the character of a great English statesman is equally emphatic in praise of the imagination as a practical quality. He says,
“Thus gifted and thus accomplished, Sir Robert Peel had a great deficiency—he was without imagination. Wanting imagination, he wanted prescience. No one was more sagacious when dealing with the circumstances before him; no one penetrated the present with more acuteness and accuracy. His judgment was faultless, provided he had not to deal with the future. Thus it happened through his long career, that while he always was looked upon as the most prudent and safest of leaders, he ever, after a protracted display of admirable tactics, concluded his campaigns by surrendering at discretion. He was so adroit that he could prolong resistance even beyond its term, but so little foreseeing that often in the very triumph of his manœuvres he found himself in an untenable position.”
The timid boy has imagination; if he has application and the logical faculty he may become an inventor, or he may become an artist—an engraver or a designer of works of art—or he may become a man of letters. To the man of vivid imagination and industry all avenues are open; Disraeli’s wonderful career offers a striking illustration of the truth of this proposition. The true purpose of education is the harmonious development of the whole being, and the purpose of this turning laboratory is to educate these twenty-four boys, not to make turners of them.
The laboratory is a labyrinth of belts, large and small, of wheels, big and little, of pulleys and lathes. A student, at a word from the instructor, moves a lever a few inches, and the breath of life is breathed into the complicated mass of machinery. The throbbing heart of the engine far away sends the currents of its power along shafting and pulleys. The dull, monotonous whir of steam-driven machinery salutes the ear, and the twenty-four students take their places at the lathes. They are from fourteen to seventeen years of age, and range in height from undersize to “full-grown.” They look like little men. Their faces are grave, showing a sense of responsibility. They are to handle edge-tools on wood rapidly revolved by the power of steam. There is peril in an uncautious step, and death lurks in the shafting. Of these dangers they have been repeatedly warned; and there is in their bearing that manifestation of wary coolness which we call “nerve,” and which in an emergency develops into a lofty heroism capable of sublime self-sacrifice.