Spent most of the day, and examin'd the inexhaustible and
peculiar sand the glass is made of--the original whity-gray stuff in
the banks--saw the melting in the pots (a wondrous process, a real
poem)--saw the delicate preparation the clay material undergoes for
these great pots (it has to be kneaded finally by human feet, no
machinery answering, and I watch'd the picturesque bare-legged
Africans treading it)--saw the molten stuff (a great mass of a glowing
pale yellow color) taken out of the furnaces (I shall never forget
that Pot, shape, color, concomitants, more beautiful than any antique
statue,) pass'd into the adjoining casting-room, lifted by powerful
machinery, pour'd out on its bed (all glowing, a newer, vaster study
for colorists, indescribable, a pale red-tinged yellow, of tarry
consistence, all lambent,) roll'd by a heavy roller into rough plate
glass, I should say ten feet by fourteen, then rapidly shov'd into the
annealing oven, which stood ready for it. The polishing and grinding
rooms afterward--the great glass slabs, hundreds of them, on their
flat beds, and the see-saw music of the steam machinery constantly at
work polishing them--the myriads of human figures (the works employ'd
400 men) moving about, with swart arms and necks, and no superfluous
clothing--the vast, rude halls, with immense play of shifting shade,
and slow-moving currents of smoke and steam, and shafts of light,
sometimes sun, striking in from above with effects that would have
fill'd Michel Angelo with rapture.
Pages:
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708