Chapter VII.
There are a number of useful and ornamental articles which cannot be made with the carpenter’s tools alone, but which need a lathe for their construction. Wooden boxes of circular section, wooden and metal wheels and pulleys, ornamental chair and table legs, and a countless number of similar articles, all depend upon the skill of the turner. Models too of engines and machinery of all sizes and shapes, bring the lathe into constant requisition.
No one can say to whom this machine is to be attributed. Probably it has been developed by slow and imperceptible steps, from the potter’s wheel to its present elaborate and perfect form. As for the part that old Dædalus had in it, I believe he had just as much to do with it as he had with the saw, which he is said to have invented from seeing the backbone of a fish. Now, the backbone of a fish is not a bit like a saw, but the jaw of a shark is, and very quickly it amputates legs, arms, and heads, when unfortunately the chance is given to it. We need not, however, stay to discuss this unimportant point; we will leave it to the researches of the Antediluvian Society, or Noahican Brethren, or any other known or unknown learned body, and proceed to consider the lathe as it is now generally constructed—the ambition of boys, the delight of adult possessors, and, to the writer, “gem of gems!”
At the very time I write, I am engaged in fitting up two lathes; one of which is for just such a “young mechanic” as this book is intended to instruct. The bed will be of dry hard beech, the fly-wheel of iron turned up with five grooves or speeds, as they are called. The heads, which are the only really important part, are to be made by a well-known London maker, whose work is sure to be the best possible at the price afforded. Nevertheless, this lathe will cost several pounds, although it is to be fitted for hand-turning only, and it is possible in London to find a much cheaper (not better) article.
When I was myself a “young mechanic,” so many years ago that I find I do not quite like to count them, I had a lathe at £2, rather shaky, wooden fly-wheel, wooden head—not at all the thing to recommend. Then I had another made by a gunsmith—all iron—for it was what is called a triangle-bar lathe; the bed being a bar of triangular section, on which the heads or poppits slid, and also the rest. I think now it was not a bad lathe; but I am afraid the work I did on it was scarcely first-class; and I sold the machine one fine day under the impression that if I had a better I should do better work. This, however, proved a terrible fallacy; so I set myself upon high as a warning to young mechanics, who always fancy that their clumsy, bad work is due to some fault in their tools, whereas, after all, it is generally their own.
Well, I had a succession of lathes, after that triangle-bar one had passed into oblivion, by various makers; some good, some indifferent, some for heavy, and some for light work; and I fancy I am now fairly able to give an opinion upon the merits or demerits of any particular lathe which may come under my notice.
I was going to write a piece of advice, “Don’t give too much for a lathe,” when I remembered that I was scribbling for the edification first of boys; and experience tells me the caution is by no means generally necessary, few boys’ pockets being very heavily lined, owing to the constant claims upon them for peg-tops, knives, string, and etceteras—not to say lollipops and bulls’ eyes, and similar unwholesome luxuries.