ency to become stiff and unmanageable in the cold, a gas-flame is kept constantly burning under the engraving plate. The sheets of paper as they come from the press are covered with a thick layer of ink in those portions which correspond to the parts of the globe not to be etched. While still fresh, the printed sheets are passed to a girl sitting at a neighboring table. She cuts off the superfluous paper surrounding the design, and wraps the print around the globe to be treated. A second print serves to cover the globe completely. The paper is pressed tightly against the glass, and the wrapped-up globe then warmed over a gas-stove for a few moments. The paper is left on for a day or so, and when it is finally removed the design is found transferred to the glass. It will be seen that the process is not unlike that by which in former years decalcomania were attached to china and marble, to their supposed ornamentation.
The globe is now a study in black and white, and is ready for the etching proper.
The acid-room—for such is the name applied to the apartment where the etching process is carried out—is a truly villainous place. The atmosphere is so charged with hydrofluoric acid that it has a sharp smell and a most irritating effect upon the bodily economy generally. The instantaneous photograph of the bath had to be taken with more than customary expedition, lest the ninety-dollar lens in use should be fouled by the fumes. The man in charge of the process wears rubber gloves, and has his face partially protected from the fumes by a thick, bluish-white ointment. His appearance, in consequence, is far from prepossessing. The protection, however, is of a very superficial character. It leaves the eyes and the breathing apparatus entirely exposed. The operators soon show the ravages of the unwholesome atmosphere. Poor, pale ghosts of men, with red and blinking eyes, one wonders that, in a world so full of wholesome activities, they should be willing to sacrifice the best part of themselves in such an unnecessary cause. It is one of the saddest features of modern industrial life that things become so vastly more important than men, that both employers and employed—the responsibility is a joint one—come to look upon the ledger account as the first consideration and manhood the second. Dainty as are the products of this industrialism, I find myself taking less pleasure in them as I go more among the workers, and see what a price of dull routine and unwholesome labor is paid for the wares. If beautiful things are necessarily the product of unbeautiful lives, I am quite willing to forego the things. Under the present industrial régime, one feels almost an accessory to the degradation of human life if he purchase articles made on a large scale under the factory system. Morally, there is complicity, however unwilling we may be to admit it. It
