THE ARTISTIC CRAFTS SERIES

OF TECHNICAL HANDBOOKS

EDITED BY W. R. LETHABY

WOOD-CARVING: DESIGN AND

WORKMANSHIP

[3]

ARTISTIC CRAFTS SERIES OF

TECHNICAL HANDBOOKS.

Edited by W. R. Lethaby

The series will appeal to handicraftsmen in the industrial
and mechanic arts. It will consist of authoritative statements
by experts in every field for the exercise of ingenuity,
taste, imagination—the whole sphere of the so-called “dependent
arts.”

BOOKBINDING AND THE CARE OF
BOOKS. A Handbook for Amateurs, Bookbinders,
and Librarians. By Douglas Cockerell. With
120 Illustrations and Diagrams by Noel Rooke, and
8 collotype reproductions of binding. 12mo.
$1.25 net; postage, 12 cents additional.

SILVERWORK AND JEWELRY. A Text-Book
for Students and Workers in Metal. By H.
Wilson. With 160 Diagrams and 16 full-page
Illustrations. 12mo. $1.40 net; postage, 12 cents
additional.

WOOD CARVING: DESIGN AND
WORKMANSHIP. By George Jack. With
Drawings by the Author and other Illustrations.

In Preparation:

CABINET-MAKING AND DESIGNING. By C.
Spooner.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

[4]

A Suggestion from Nature and Photography.
See page 197.

[5]

WOOD-CARVING

DESIGN AND

WORKMANSHIP

BY GEORGE JACK

WITH

DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR

AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1903

[6]

Copyright, 1903,

By D. Appleton and Company

All rights reserved

Published October, 1903

[7]

EDITOR’S PREFACE

In issuing these volumes of a series of
Handbooks on the Artistic Crafts, it will
be well to state what are our general aims.

In the first place, we wish to provide
trustworthy text-books of workshop practise,
from the points of view of experts
who have critically examined the methods
current in the shops, and putting aside vain
survivals, are prepared to say what is good
workmanship, and to set up a standard of
quality in the crafts which are more especially
associated with design. Secondly, in
doing this, we hope to treat design itself
as an essential part of good workmanship.
During the last century most of the arts,
save painting and sculpture of an academic
kind, were little considered, and there was
[8]
a tendency to look on “design” as a mere
matter of appearance. Such “ornamentation”
as there was was usually obtained by
following in a mechanical way a drawing
provided by an artist who often knew little
of the technical processes involved in production.
With the critical attention given
to the crafts by Ruskin and Morris, it came
to be seen that it was impossible to detach
design from craft in this way, and that, in
the widest sense, true design is an inseparable
element of good quality, involving as it
does the selection of good and suitable material,
contrivance for special purpose, expert
workmanship, proper finish, and so on,
far more than mere ornament, and indeed,
that ornamentation itself was rather an exuberance
of fine workmanship than a matter
of merely abstract lines. Workmanship
when separated by too wide a gulf from
fresh thought—that is, from design—inevitably
decays, and, on the other hand,
ornamentation, divorced from workmanship,
is necessarily unreal, and quickly falls
into affectation. Proper ornamentation
[9]
may be defined as a language addressed to
the eye; it is pleasant thought expressed in
the speech of the tool.

In the third place, we would have this
series put artistic craftsmanship before people
as furnishing reasonable occupations for
those who would gain a livelihood. Although
within the bounds of academic art,
the competition, of its kind, is so acute that
only a very few per cent can fairly hope to
succeed as painters and sculptors; yet, as
artistic craftsmen, there is every probability
that nearly every one who would pass
through a sufficient period of apprenticeship
to workmanship and design would
reach a measure of success.

In the blending of handwork and thought
in such arts as we propose to deal with,
happy careers may be found as far removed
from the dreary routine of hack labor as
from the terrible uncertainty of academic
art. It is desirable in every way that men
of good education should be brought back
into the productive crafts: there are more
than enough of us “in the city,” and it is
[10]
probable that more consideration will be
given in this century than in the last to Design
and Workmanship.

This third volume of our series treats of
one branch of the great art of sculpture,
one which in the past has been in close association
with architecture. It is, well, therefore,
that besides dealing thoroughly, as it
does, with the craftsmanship of wood-carving,
it should also be concerned with the
theory of design, and with the subject-matter
which the artist should select to
carve.

Such considerations should be helpful to
all who are interested in the ornamental
arts. Indeed, the present book contains
some of the best suggestions as to architectural
ornamentation under modern circumstances
known to me. Architects can
not forever go on plastering buildings over
with trade copies of ancient artistic thinking,
and they and the public must some day
realize that it is not mere shapes, but only
[11]
thoughts, which will make reasonable the
enormous labor spent on the decoration of
buildings. Mere structure will always justify
itself, and architects who can not obtain
living ornamentation will do well to fall
back on structure well fitted for its purpose,
and as finely finished as may be without
carvings and other adornments. It would
be better still if architects would make the
demand for a more intellectual code of
ornament than we have been accustomed to
for so long.

On the side of the carver, either in wood
or in stone, we want men who will give us
their own thought in their own work—as
artists, that is—and will not be content to
be mere hacks supplying imitations of all
styles to order.

On the teaching of wood-carving I should
like to say a word, as I have watched the
course of instruction in many schools. It
is desirable that classes should be provided
with casts and photographs of good examples,
such as Mr. Jack speaks of, varying
from rough choppings up to minute and exquisite
[12]
work, but all having the breath of
life about them. There should also be a
good supply of illustrations and photographs
of birds and beasts and flowers, and
above all, some branches and buds of real
leafage. Then I would set the student of
design in wood-carving to make variations
of such examples according to his own skill
and liking. If he and the teacher could be
got to clear their minds of ideas of “style,”
and to take some example simply because
they liked it, and to adapt it just because
it amused them, the mystery of design
would be nearly solved. Most design will
always be the making of one thing like another,
with a difference. Later, motives
from Nature should be brought in, but always
with some guidance as to treatment,
from an example known to be fine. I would
say, for instance, “Do a panel like this,
only let it be oak foliage instead of vine,
and get a thrush or a parrot out of the
bird book.”

In regard to the application of carving,
I have been oppressed by the accumulation
[13]
in carving classes of little carved squares
and oblongs, having no relation to anything
that, in an ordinary way, is carved. To
carve the humblest real thing, were it but
a real toy for a child, would be better than
the production of these panels, or of the
artificial trivialities which our minds instinctively
associate with bazaars

W. R. LETHABY.

September, 1903.

[15]

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

To the Reader,

Be you ‘prentice or student, or what is
still better, both in one, I introduce the following
pages to you with this explanation:
that all theoretical opinions set forth therein
are the outcome of many years of patient
sifting and balancing of delicate questions,
and these have with myself long since passed
out of the category of mere “opinions”
into that of settled convictions. With regard
to the practical matter of “technique,”
it lies very much with yourself to determine
the degree of perfection to which you may
attain. This depends greatly upon the
amount of application which you may be
willing or able to devote to its practise.

Remember—the laws which govern all
[16]
good art must be known before they can be
obeyed; they are subtle, but unalterable.
The conditions most favorable to your
craft must first be understood before these
laws can be recognized. There yet remains
at your own disposal that devotion of energy
which is the first essential step, both in
the direction of obtaining clearer views and
in conquering technical difficulties.

I have to thank the following gentlemen
for their assistance in providing photographs
for some of the illustrations: Messrs.
Bedford Lemere & Co.—H. Sandland—Charles
C. Winmill—W. Weir—J. R.
Holliday and F. K. Rives.

G. J.

September, 1903.

[17]

Contents

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[25]

CHAPTER I

PREAMBLE

The study of some form of handicraft
has of late years become an important
element in the training of an art student.
It is with the object of assisting such with
practical directions, as well as suggesting
to more practised carvers considerations
of design and treatment, that the present
volume has been written. The art of
wood-carving, however, lends itself to
literary demonstration only in a very
limited way, more especially in the condensed
form of a text-book, which must
be looked upon merely as a temporary
guide, of use only until such time as
practise and study shall have strengthened
the judgment of the student, and enabled
[26]
him to assimilate the many and involved
principles which underlie the development
of his craft.

If the beginner has mastered to some extent
the initial difficulties of the draftsman,
and has a fair general knowledge of
the laws of design, but no acquaintance
with their application to the art of wood-carving,
then the two factors which will
most immediately affect his progress (apart
from natural aptitude) are his opportunities
for practise, and his knowledge of
past and present conditions of work. No
one can become a good carver without
considerable practise—constant, if the best
results are to be looked for. Just as
truly, without some knowledge of past
and existing conditions of practise, none
may hope to escape the danger of becoming,
on the one hand, dull imitators of
the superficial qualities of old work; or
on the other, followers of the first will-o’-the-wisp
novelty which presents itself to
their fancy.

If use of the tools and knowledge of
materials were the only subjects of which
a carver need become master, there would
be no way equal to the old-fashioned one
of apprenticeship to some good craftsman.
[27]
Daily practise with the tools insures a
manual dexterity with which no amateur
need hope to compete. Many traditional
expedients are handed down in this way
that can be acquired in no other. There
is, however, another side of the question
to be considered, of quite as much importance
as the practical one of handicraft
skill. The art of wood-carving has also
to fulfil its intellectual function, as an
interpreter of the dreams and fancies of
imagination. In this respect there is little
encouragement to be looked for in the
dull routine of a modern workshop.

There are, therefore, two widely separated
standpoints from which the art may
be viewed. It may be looked at from the
position of a regular craftsman, who regards
it primarily as his means of livelihood;
or it may be dealt with as a subject
of intellectual interest, based upon its
relation to the laws of art in general. As,
in the first instance, the use of the tools
can not be learned without some accompanying
knowledge of the laws of art, however
slight that acquaintance may be, the
method of apprenticeship has the advantage
of being the more practical of the
two; but it must be accepted with all the
[28]
conditions imposed upon it by the pressure
of commercial interest and its usages:
conditions, which, it may easily be
imagined, are far more favorable to the
performance of dull task-work, than to
the adventurous spirit of curiosity which
should prompt the enterprise of an energetic
student.

On the other hand, although an independent
study of the art offers a wider
range of interest, the student is, for that
very reason, exposed to the risk of involving
himself in a labyrinth of confusing
and ineffectual theories. The fact is,
that neither method can at the present time
be exclusively depended upon as a means of
development; neither can be pronounced
complete in itself nor independent of the
other. The only sure safeguard against
the vagueness of theory is constant practise
with the tools; while, to the craftsman
in the full enjoyment of every means
for exercising and increasing his technical
skill, a general study and intelligent conception
of the wide possibilities of his art
is just as essential, if it were only as an
antidote to the influence of an otherwise
mechanical employment. The more
closely these contradictory views are made
[29]
to approximate, the more certain will
become the carver’s aims, and the clearer
will be his understanding of the difficulties
which surround his path, enabling him to
choose that which is practicable and intrinsically
valuable, both as regards the
theory and practise of his art.

If the student, through lack of opportunities
for practise, is debarred from all
chance of acquiring that expertness which
accompanies great technical skill, he may
at least find encouragement in the fact
that he can never exhaust the interest
afforded by his art in its infinite suggestion
to the imagination and fancy; and also
that by the exercise of diligence, and a
determination to succeed, he may reasonably
hope to gain such a degree of proficiency
with the tools as will enable him
to execute with his hands every idea which
has a definite existence in his mind. Generally
speaking, it will be found that his
manual powers are always a little in advance
of his perceptions.

Thus the student may gradually work
out for himself a natural and reliable
manner of expressing his thoughts, and
in a way, too, that is likely to compensate
for his technical shortcomings, by exciting
[30]
a more lively interest in the resources of the
art itself. The measure of his success will
be determined partly by his innate capacity
for the work, and partly by the amount of
time which he is enabled to give to its practise.
The resources of his art offer an infinite
scope for the exercise of his powers
of design, and as this is the side which lies
nearest to his opportunities it should be the
one which receives his most earnest attention,
not merely as experiments on paper,
but as exercises carried out to the best of
his ability with the tools. Such technical
difficulties as he may encounter in the process
will gradually disappear with practise.
There is also encouragement in the thought
that wood-carving is an art which makes
no immediate calls upon that mysterious
combination of extraordinary gifts labeled
“genius,” but is rather one which demands
tribute from the bright and happy inspirations
of a normally healthy mind. There
is, in this direction, quite a life’s work for
any enthusiast who aims at finding the bearings
of his own small but precious gift,
and in making it intelligible to others;
while, at the same time, keeping himself
free from the many confusions and affectations
which surround him in the endeavor.

[31]

CHAPTER II

TOOLS

We will suppose that the student is anxious
to make a practical commencement to his
studies. The first consideration will be to
procure a set of tools, and we propose in
this place to describe those which will
answer the purposes of a beginner, as well
as to look generally at others in common
use among craftsmen.

The tools used by carvers consist for
the most part of chisels and gouges of
different shapes and sizes. The number
of tools required by professional carvers
for one piece of work varies in proportion
to the elaborateness of the carving to be
done. They may use from half a dozen on
simple work up to twenty or thirty for the
[32]
more intricate carvings, this number being
a selection out of a larger stock reaching
perhaps as many as a hundred or more.
Many of these tools vary only in size and
sweep of cutting edge. Thus, chisels and
gouges are to be had ranging from 1/16th
of an inch to 1 inch wide, with curves or
“sweeps” in each size graduated between
a semicircle to a curve almost flat. Few
carvers, however, possess such a complete
stock of tools as would be represented by
one of each size and shape manufactured;
such a thing is not required: an average
number of, say seventy tools, will always
give a sufficient variety of size and sweep
for general purposes; few pieces of work
will require the use of more than half of
these in its execution.

The beginner, however, need not possess
more than from twelve to twenty-four, and
may even make a start with fewer. It is a
good plan to learn the uses of a few tools
before acquiring a complete set, as by this
means, when difficulties are felt in the execution
of work, a tool of known description
is sought for and purchased with a foreknowledge
of its advantages. This is the
surest way to gain a distinct knowledge
of the varieties of each kind of tool, and
[33]
their application to the different purposes
of design.

The following list of tools (see Figs. 1
and 2) will be found sufficient for all the
occasions of study: beginning by the purchase
of the first section, Nos. 1 to 17, and
adding others one by one until a set is made
up of twenty-four tools. The tools should
be selected as near the sizes and shapes
shown in the illustration as possible. The
curved and straight strokes represent the
shape of the actual cuts made by pressing
the tools down perpendicularly into a piece
of wood. This, in the case of gouges, is
generally called the “sweep.”

Nos. 1, 2, 3 are gouges, of sweeps varying
from one almost flat (No. 1) to a
distinct hollow in No. 3. These tools are
made in two forms, straight-sided and
“spade”-shaped; an illustration of the
spade form is given on the second page of
tools. In purchasing his set of tools the
student should order Nos. 1, 2, 3, 10, 11
in this form. They will be found to have
many advantages, as they conceal less of
the wood behind them and get well into
corners inaccessible to straight-sided tools.
They are lighter and more easily sharpened,
and are very necessary in finishing the surface
of work, and in shaping out foliage,
more especially such as is undercut.
[34]

Fig. 1.

[35]

Fig. 2.

[36]

Nos. 5, 6, 7 are straight gouges graduated
in size and sweep. No. 8 is called a
Veiner, because it is often used for making
the grooves which represent veins in leaves.
It is a narrow but deep gouge, and is used
for any narrow grooves which may be required,
and for outlining the drawing at
starting.

No. 9 is called a V tool or “parting”
tool, on account of its shape. It is used
for making grooves with straight sides and
sharp inner angles at the bottom. It can
be used for various purposes, such as
undercutting, clearing out sharply defined
angles, outlining the drawing, etc., etc. It
should be got with a square cutting edge,
not beveled off as some are made. Nos.
10, 11, 12 are flat chisels, or, as they are
sometimes called, “firmers.” (Nos. 10 and
11 should be in spade shape.) No. 13 is
also a flat chisel, but it is beveled off to a
point, and is called a “corner-chisel”; it
is used for getting into difficult corners, and
is a most useful tool when used as a knife
for delicate edges or curves.

Nos. 14 and 16 are what are known as
“bent chisels”; they are used principally
[37]
for leveling the ground (or background),
and are therefore also called “grounders.”
These tools are made with various curves
or bends in their length, but for our
present uses one with a bend like that
shown to tool No. 23, Fig. 2, and at a
in Fig. 3, will be best; more bend, as at
b, would only make the tool unfit for
leveling purposes on a flat ground.

No. 15 is a similar tool, but called a
“corner grounder,” as it is beveled off like
a corner-chisel.

No. 17 is an additional gouge of very
slow sweep and small size. This is a very
handy little tool, and serves a variety of
purposes when you come to finishing the
surface.

These seventeen tools will make up a
very useful set for the beginner, and should
serve him for a long time, or at least until
he really begins to feel the want of others;
then he may get the remainder shown on
Fig. 2.

Nos. 18, 19, 20 are deep gouges, having
somewhat straight sides; they are used
where grooves are set deeply, and when
they are required to change in section
from deep and narrow to wide and
shallow. This is done by turning the
[38]
tool on its side, which brings the flatter
sweep into action, thus changing the shape
of the hollow. Nos. 21, 22 are gouges,
but are called “bent gouges”—”front
bent” in this case, “back bent” when the
cutting “sweep” is turned upside down.
It is advisable when selecting these tools
to get them as shown in the illustration,
with a very easy curve in their bend; they
are more generally useful so, as quick
bends are only good for very deep hollows.
These tools are used for making grooves
in hollow places where an ordinary gouge
will not work, owing to its meeting the
opposing fiber of the wood.

No. 23 is a similar tool, but very “easy”
both in its “sweep” and bend—the sweep
should be little more than recognizable
as a curve. This tool may be used as
a grounder when the wood is slightly
hollow, or liable to tear up under the flat
grounder.

No. 24 is called a “Maccaroni” tool.
This is used for clearing out the ground
close against leaves or other projections;
as it has two square sides it can be used
right and left.

In the illustration, Fig 3, a shows the
best form of grounding tool; b is little
[39]
or no use for this purpose, as it curves up
too suddenly for work on a flat ground.
It is a good thing to have the handles of
tools made of different colored woods,
as it assists the carver in picking them
out quickly from those lying ready for
use.

Fig. 3.

When in use, the tools should be laid
out in front of the carver if possible, and
with their points toward him, in order that
he may see the shape and choose quickly
the one he wants.

The tempering of tools is a very important
factor in their efficiency. It is
only of too common occurrence to find
many of the tools manufactured of late
years unfit for use on account of their
softness of metal. There is nothing more
vexatious to a carver than working with a
[40]
tool which turns over its cutting edge,
even in soft wood; such tools should be
returned to the agent who sold them.

With a selection from the above tools,
acquired by degrees in the manner described,
almost any kind of work may be
done. There is no need whatever to have
a tool for every curve of the design.
These can readily be made by using
straight chisels in combination with such
gouges as we possess, or by sweeping the
curves along their sides with a chisel used
knife fashion. No really beautiful curves
can be made by merely following the curves
of gouges, however various their sweeps,
as they are all segments of circles.

Tools generally come from the manufacturer
ground, but not sharpened. As
the student must in any case learn how to
sharpen his tools, it will be just as well to
get them in that way rather than ready for
use. As this process of sharpening tools
is a very important one, it must be reserved
for another place. Should tools be seriously
blunted or broken they must be reground.
This can be done by the carver,
either on a grindstone or a piece of gritty
York stone, care being taken to repeat the
original bevel; or they may be sent to a tool
[41]
shop where they are in the habit of grinding
carving tools.

Catalogues of tools may be had from
good makers; they will be found to consist
mainly in a large variety of the tools
already mentioned. Those which are very
much bent or curved are intended for
special application to elaborate and difficult
passages in carving, and need not
concern the student until he comes to find
the actual want of such shapes; such, for
instance, as bent parting tools and back bent
gouges.

In addition to the above tools, carvers
occasionally use one called a “Router.”
This is a kind of plane with a narrow perpendicular
blade. It is used for digging
or “routing” out the wood in places
where it is to be sunk to form a ground.
It is not a tool to be recommended for the
use of beginners, who should learn to make
sufficiently even backgrounds without the
aid of mechanical contrivances. Carvers
also use the “Rifler,” which is a bent file.
This is useful for very fine work in hard
wood, and also for roughly approximating
to rounded forms before finishing with the
tools.

A few joiner’s tools are very useful to
[42]
the carver, and should form part of his
equipment. A wide chisel, say about 1-1/4 in.
wide, a small iron “bull-nose” plane, and
a keyhole saw, will all be helpful, and save
a lot of unnecessary labor with the carving
tools.

CHAPTER III

SHARPENING-STONES—MALLET AND
BENCH

The stones which are most generally used
for the purpose of sharpening carving tools
are “Turkey” and “Washita.” There
are many others, some equally good, but
“Washita” is easily procured and very serviceable.
It is to be had in various grades,
and it may be just as well to have one
coarse and one fine, but in any case we
must have a fine-grained stone to put a keen
edge on the tools. A “Turkey” stone is
a fine-grained and slow-cutting one, and
may take the place of the finer “Washita.”
The “India” oilstone is a composition of
emery with some kind of stone dust, and
[43]
is a useful stone for quickly rubbing down
superfluous steel before putting an edge to
the tool. It is better to get these stones
without cases, as they can then be used on
both sides, one for flat tools and one for
gouges, which wear the face of a stone
into grooves. A case may be made by
hollowing out a block of wood so as to
take the stone loosely; and if at one end
a small notch is made in this block, a
screwdriver may be inserted under the
stone when it is necessary to turn it.
Two brads or pins should be inserted in
holes, having their points just appearing
below the bottom of the block. These
prevent it slipping about when in use.
These stones should be lubricated with a
mixture of olive oil and paraffin in equal
parts. Bicycle lubricating oil is very good
for this purpose.

Fig. 4.

For sharpening the insides of tools,
“slips” are made with rounded edges of
different sizes. One slip of “Washita”
[44]
stone and one of “Arkansas” will be
enough for the present, as they will fit
moderately well most of the gouges in
the beginner’s set of tools; the “Arkansas”
being used for the smaller tools. The
“Arkansas” slip should be what is called
“knife-edged.” This is required for
sharpening such tools as the veiner and V
tool; it is a very fine marble-like stone,
and exceedingly brittle; care must be
taken in handling it, as a fall would in all
probability be fatal.

THE BENCH AND MALLET

The Mallet.—The carver’s mallet is used
for driving his tools where force is required.
The most suitable form is the
round one, made of beech; one 4 ins.
diameter will be heavy enough.

The Bench.—Every carver should provide
himself with a bench. He may make
one for himself according to the size and
construction shown in the illustration,
Fig. 5. The top should be made of two
11 x 2 in. boards, and, as steadiness is the
main feature to be aimed at, the joints
should have some care. Those in illustration
are shown to be formed by checking
[45]
one piece of wood over the other, with
shoulders to resist lateral strain. Proper
tenons would be better, but more difficult
to make. It must have a projecting edge
at the front and ends, to receive the clamps.
The bench should have a joiner’s “bench-screw”
attached to the back leg for holding
work which is to be carved on its edges
or ends. The feet should be secured to
the floor by means of iron brackets, as
considerable force is applied in carving
hard wood, which may move the bench
bodily, unless it is secured, or is very
heavy. Professional carvers use a bench
[46]
which is composed of beech planks, three
or four inches in thickness, and of length
according to shop-room.

Fig. 5.

Fig. 6

Should it not be possible to make or
procure a bench, then a substitute must
be used. Fig. 6 gives a suggestion for
[47]
making such a temporary bench. The top
is composed of one piece of board, 11 ins.
wide and 1-1/2 in. thick. It should be about
2 ft. 6 ins. long and rest on two blocks
fixed about 1-1/2 in. from the ends, which
must project, as in Fig. 6. This may be
used on any ordinary table, to which it
should be secured by means of two 3-1/2-in.
clamps. The height from the floor should
be 3 ft. 2 ins. to top of board. This gives
a good height for working, as carvers invariably
stand to their work. The height
can be regulated by making the blocks, a,
higher or lower to suit the table which is
to be used.

Fig. 7.

Cramps.—Cramps for holding the work
in position on the bench are of several
kinds. For ordinary
thicknesses
of wood, two 4-1/2-in.
screw clamps,
like the one in
Fig. 7, will be
sufficient. Wooden
blocks may be
also used to hold
one end of the
work down while
the other is held by a clamp. These blocks
[48]
are notched out to fit over the thickness of
the board being carved, as in Fig. 7.
Carvers use for their heavier work a
“bench-screw,” as it is called; that is, a
screw which passes through the bench into
the back of the work, which may thus be
turned about at will; also, if the work is
very thick, they hold it in position by means
of a bench “holdfast,” a kind of combined
lever and screw; but neither of these contrivances
is likely to be required by the beginner,
whose work should be kept within
manageable dimensions.

CHAPTER IV

WOODS USED FOR CARVING

The woods suitable for carving are very
various; but we shall confine our attention
to those in common use. Of the softer
woods, those which are most easily procured
and most adaptable to modern uses
are yellow pine, Bass wood, Kauri pine,
and Lime. These are all good woods for
the carver; but we need not at present
[49]
look for any better qualities than we shall
find in a good piece of yellow pine, free
from knots or shakes.

The following woods may be considered
as having an intermediate place between
soft and hard: Sycamore, Beech, and
Holly. They are light-colored woods, and
Very useful for broad shallow work.

English Oak.—Of the hard woods in
common use, the principal kinds are Oak,
Walnut, and occasionally Mahogany. Of
oak, the English variety is by far the best
for the carver, being close in the grain and
very hard. It is beyond all others the
carvers’ wood, and was invariably used by
them in this country during the robust
period of medieval craftsmanship. It offers
to the carver an invigorating resistance to
his tools, and its character determines to
a great extent that of the work put upon
it. It takes in finishing a very beautiful
surface, when skilfully handled—and this
tempts the carver to make the most of his
opportunities by adapting his execution to
its virtues. Other oaks, such as Austrian
and American, are often used, but they do
not offer quite the same tempting opportunity
to the carver. They are, by nature,
quicker-growing trees, and are, consequently,
[50]
more open in the grain. They
have tough, sinewy fibers, alternating with
softer material. They rarely take the same
degree of finish as the English oak, but remain
somewhat dull in texture. Good
pieces for carving may be got, but they
must be picked out from a quantity of stuff.
Chestnut is sometimes used as a substitute
for oak, but it is better fitted for large-scaled
work where fineness of detail is not
of so much importance.

Italian Walnut.—This is a very fine-grained
wood, of even texture. The
Italian variety is the best for carving: it
cuts with something of the firmness of
English oak, and is capable of receiving
even more finish of surface in small details.
It is admirably suited for fine work in low
relief. In choosing this wood for carving,
the hardest and closest in grain should be
picked, as it is by no means all of equal
quality. It should be free from sap, which
may be known by a light streak on the
edges of the dark brown wood.

English walnut has too much “figure”
in the grain to be suitable for carving.
American walnut is best fitted for sharply
cut shallow carving, as its fiber is caney. If
it is used, the design should be one in which
[51]
no fine modeling or detail is required, as this
wood allows of little finish to the surface.

Mahogany, more especially the kind
known as Honduras, is very similar to
American walnut in quality of grain: it cuts
in a sharp caney manner. The “Spanish”
variety was closer in grain, but is now almost
unprocurable. Work carved in mahogany
should, like that in American walnut,
be broad and simple in style, without
much rounded detail.

It is quite unnecessary to pursue the subject
of woods beyond the few kinds mentioned.
Woods such as ebony, sandalwood,
cherry, brier, box, pear-tree, lancewood,
and many others, are all good for
the carver, but are better fitted for special
purposes and small work. As this book is
concerned more with the art of carving
than its application, it will save confusion
if we accept yellow pine as our typical soft
wood, and good close-grained oak as representing
hard wood. It may be noted in
passing that the woods of all flowering and
fruit-bearing trees are very liable to the attack
of worms and rot.

No carving, in whatever wood, should
be polished. I shall refer to this when we
come to “texture” and “finish.”
[52]

CHAPTER V

SHARPENING THE TOOLS

Having given this brief description of
the tools and materials used by carvers,
we shall suppose a piece of work is about
to be started. The first thing the carver
will require to do is to sharpen his tools.
That is, if we may assume that they have
just come from the manufacturer, ground
but not yet brought to an edge. It will be
seen that each has a long bevel ending in
a blunt ridge where the cutting edge
should be. We shall take the chisel No.
10 and sharpen that first, as it is the easiest
to do, and so get a little practise before we
try the gouges. The oilstone and oil have
already been described. The first thing is
to well oil the stone and lay it on the bench
in a position with its end toward the operator.

A. ANGLE FOR SOFTWOOD

B. ANGLE FOR HARDWOOD

Fig. 8.

Tools which are going to be used in
[53]
soft wood require rather a longer bevel
and more acute edge than when they are
wanted for hard wood. Both angles are
shown in Fig. 8. Lay the flat of the tool
on the stone at an angle of about 15°, with
the handle in the hollow of the right hand,
and two fingers of the left pressed upon
the blade as near to the stone as possible.
Then begin rubbing the tool from end to
end of the stone, taking care not to rock
the right hand up and down, but to keep
it as level as possible throughout the
stroke, bearing heavily on the blade with
the left hand, to keep it well in contact
with the stone. Rocking produces a
rounded edge which is fatal to keenness.
[54]
C (Fig. 9) gives approximately, to an enlarged
scale, the sections of a good edge,
and D that of an imperfect one.

C. GOOD CUTTING EDGE
D. BADLY FORMED EDGE.
Fig. 9.

Practise alone will familiarize the muscles
of the wrist with the proper motion, but it
is important to acquire this in order to
form the correct habit early. It should
be practised very slowly at first, until the
hands get accustomed to the movements.
When one side of the tool has been rubbed
bright as far as the cutting edge, turn it
over and treat the other in the same way.
Carvers’ tools, unlike joiners’, are rubbed
on both sides, in the proportion of about
two-thirds outside to one-third inside.
When a keen edge has been formed, which
can easily be tested by gently applying the
finger, it should be stropped on a piece of
stout leather. It will be found, if the finger
[55]
is passed down the tool and over its edge,
that the stoning has turned up a burr. This
must be removed by stropping on both
sides alternately. A paste composed of
emery and crocus powders mixed with
grease is used to smear the leather before
stropping; this can either be procured at
the tool shop, or made by the carver.
When the tool has been sufficiently
stropped, and all burr removed, it is
ready for use, but it is as well to try it on
a piece of wood first, and test it for burr,
and if necessary strop it again.

Before we leave this tool, however, we
shall anticipate a little, and look at it after
it has been used for some time and become
blunt. Its cutting edge and the bevel
above it are now polished to a high degree,
owing to friction with the wood. We lay
it on the stone, taking care to preserve the
original angle (15°). We find on looking
at the tool after a little rubbing that this
time it presents a bright rim along the
edge in contrast with the gray steel which
has been in contact with the stone. This
bright rim is part of the polished surface
the whole bevel had before we began this
second sharpening, which proves that the
actual edge has not yet touched the stone.
[56]
We are tempted to lift the right hand
ever so little, and so get rid of this bright
rim (sometimes called the “candle”); we
shall thus get an edge quicker than if we
have to rub away all the steel behind it.
We do this, and soon get our edge; the
bright rim has disappeared, but we have
done an unwise thing, and have not saved
much time, because we have begun to
make a rounded edge, which, if carried a
little farther, will make the tool useless
until it is reground. There is no help for
it: time must be spent and trouble taken in
sharpening tools; with method and care
there need be very little grinding, unless
tools are actually broken.

To resume our lesson in tool-sharpening:
we can not do much carving with one
chisel, so we shall now take up gouge No.
2 as being the least difficult. This being
a rounded tool, we must turn the stone
over and use the side we have determined
to keep for gouges, etc. We commence
rubbing it up and down the stone in the
same manner as described for the chisel,
but, in addition, we have now another
motion. To bring all the parts of the
edge into contact with the stone the
gouge must be rolled from side to side
[57]
as it goes up and down. To accomplish
this the wrist should be slowly practised
until it gets into step with the up and
down motions; it matters very little
whether one turn of the tool is given to
one passage along the stone, or only one
turn to many up and down rubbings. The
main thing is evenness of rubbing all along
the circular edge, as if one part gets more
than its share the edge becomes wavy,
which is a thing to be avoided as much
as possible. When the outside has been
cleanly rubbed up to the edge, the inside
[58]
is to be rubbed out with the Washita slip
and oil to the extent of about half as much
as the outside. The handle of the tool
should be grasped in the left hand, while
its blade rests on a block of wood, or on
the oilstone. Hold the slip between the
fingers and thumb, slanting a little over
the inner edge; and work it in a series
of short downward strokes, beginning
the stroke at one corner of the gouge and
leaving off at the other (see Fig. 10).
Strop the outside of the tool, and test
for burr, then lay the leather over the
handle of another tool and strop the inside,
repeating the operation until all burr
has been removed, when probably the tool
will be ready for use.

Fig. 10.

The Veiner requires the same kind of
treatment, only as this tool is not part of
a circle in its section (having straight
sides), only one-half must be done at a
time; and it is as well to give the straight
sides one stroke or so in every half-dozen
all to itself to keep it in shape. Care
must be taken with this tool as it is easily
rubbed out of shape. The inside must be
finished off with the Arkansas knife-edged
slip, one side at a time, as it is impossible
to sweep out the whole section of these
[59]
deep tools at one stroke. Stropping must
follow as before, but as this tool is so small
that the leather will not enter its hollow,
the leather must be laid down flat and the
hollow of the tool drawn along its edge
until it makes a little ridge for itself which
fills the hollow and clears off burr (see
Fig. 11); if any such adheres outside, a
slight rub on the Arkansas stone will probably
remove it. When the edges of the
tools begin to get dull, it often happens
that they only require to be stropped, which
should be frequently done. As the treatment
of all gouges is more or less like
what has been described, practise will enable
the student to adapt it to the shape
of the tool which requires his attention.
There remains only the V tool, the Spoon
tools, and the Maccaroni, which all require
special attention. The point of the V
[60]
tool is so acute that it becomes difficult
to clear the inside. A knife-edged slip is
used for this purpose, and it is well also
to cut a slip of wood to a thin edge, and
after rubbing it with paste and oil, pass
it down frequently over the point between
the sides. Unless a very sharp point is
obtained, this tool is practically useless;
the least speck of burr or dullness will
stop its progress or tear up the wood. In
sharpening it, the sides should be pressed
firmly on the stone, watching it every now
and then to see what effect is being produced.
If a gap begins to appear on one
side, as it often does, then rub the other
side until it disappears, taking care to
bear more heavily on the point of the
tool than elsewhere. If the sides get out
of shape, pass the tool along the stone,
holding it at right angles to the side of
the stone, but at the proper angle of
elevation; in this case the tool is held near
its end, between fingers and thumb. Spoon
tools must be held to the stone at a much
higher angle until the cutting edge is in
the right relation to the surface, or they
may be drawn sidewise along it, taking
care that every part of the edge comes in
contact and receives an equal amount of
[61]
rubbing. These may be treated half
at a time, or all round, according to the
size and depth of the tool. However
it is produced, the one thing essential is a
long straight-sectioned cutting bevel, not
a rounded or obtuse one. Strop the inside
by folding up the leather into a little
roll or ball until it fills the hollow of the
tool.

Fig. 11.

For the small set of tools described in
Chapter II one flat oilstone and two slips
will be found sufficient for a beginning,
but as a matter of fact, it will be advisable,
as the number of tools is enlarged,
to obtain slips of curves corresponding
to the hollows of all gouges as nearly as
possible. Many professional carvers have
sets of these slips for the insides of tools,
varying in curves which exactly fit every
hollow tool they possess, including a triangular
one for the inside of the V tool.
The same rule sometimes applies to the
sweeps of the outsides of gouges, for these,
corresponding channels are ground out in
flat stones, a process which is both difficult
and laborious. If the insides are
dealt with on fitting slips, which may be
easily adapted to the purpose by application
to a grindstone, the outsides are not
[62]
so difficult to manage, so that grooved
stones may be dispensed with.

Before we leave the subject of sharpening
tools it will be well to impress upon
the beginner the extreme importance of
keeping his tools in good order. When a
tool is really sharp it whistles as it works;
a dull tool makes dull work, and the
carver loses both time and temper. There
can be no doubt that the great technical
skill shown in the works of Grinling
Gibbons and his followers could not have
been arrived at without the help of extraordinarily
sharp tools. Tools not merely
sharpened and then used until they became
dull, but tools that were always sharp,
and never allowed to approach dullness.
Sharpening tools is indeed an art in itself,
and like other arts has its votaries, who
successfully conquer its difficulties with
apparent ease, while others are baffled at
every point. Impatience is the stumbling-block
in such operations. Those most
painstaking people, the Chinese, according
to all accounts, put magic into their
sharpening stones; the keenness of their
blades being only equaled by that of their
wits in all such matters of delicate application.
To make a good beginning is
[63]
a great point gained. To carefully examine
every tool, and at the expense of
time correct the faults of management, is
the only way to become expert in sharpening
tools.

CHAPTER VI

CHIP CARVING

One of the simplest forms of wood-carving
is that known as “chip” carving.
This kind of work is by no means of
modern origin, as its development may be
traced to a source in the barbaric instinct
for decoration common to the ancient inhabitants
of New Zealand and other South
Sea Islands. Technically, and with modern
tools, it is a form of the art which demands
but little skill, save in the matter of precision
and patient repetition. As practised
by its savage masters, the perfection
of these two qualities elevates their work to
the dignity of a real art. It is difficult to
[64]
conceive the contradictory fact, that this
apparently simple form of art was once the
exponent of a struggling desire for refinement
on the part of fierce and warlike men,
and that it should, under the influence of
polite society, become the all-too-easy task
of esthetically minded schoolgirls. In
the hands of those warrior artists, and
with the tools at their command, mostly
fashioned from sharpened fish-bones and
such like rude materials, it was an art
which required the equivalent of many fine
artistic qualities, as such are understood by
more cultivated nations. The marvelous
dexterity and determined purpose evinced
in the laborious decoration of canoe paddles,
ax-handles, and other weapons, is,
under such technical disabilities as to tools,
really very impressive. This being so,
there is no inherent reason why such a
rudimentary form of the art as “chip”
carving should not be practised in a way
consistent with its true nature and limitations.
As its elemental distinctions are so
few, and its methods so simple, it follows
that in recognizing such limitations, we
shall make the most of our design. Instead,
then, of trusting to a forced variety, let us
seek for its strong point in an opposite
[65]
direction, and by the monotonous repetition
of basket-like patterns, win the not-to-be-despised
praise which is due to patience
and perseverance. In this way only can
such a restricted form of artistic expression
become in the least degree interesting.
The designs usually associated with the
“civilized” practise of this work are,
generally speaking, of the kind known as
“geometric,” that is to say, composed of
circles and straight lines intersecting each
other in complicated pattern. Now the
“variety” obtained in this manner, as contrasted
with the dignified monotony of the
savage’s method, is the note which marks
a weak desire to attain great results with
little effort. The “variety,” as such, is
wholly mechanical, the technical difficulties,
with modern tools at command,
are felt at a glance to be very trifling;
therefore such designs are quite unsuitable
to the kind of work, if human sympathies
are to be excited in a reasonable way.

An important fact in connection with
this kind of design is that most of these
geometric patterns are, apart from their
uncomfortable “variety,” based on too
large a scale as to detail. All the laborious
carving on paddles and clubs, such as
[66]
may be seen in our museums, is founded
upon a scale of detail in which the holes
vary in size from 1/16 to something under
1/4 in. their longest way, only in special
places, such as borders, etc., attaining a
larger size. Such variety as the artist has
permitted himself being confined to the
occasional introduction of a circular form,
but mostly obtained by a subtle change in
the proportion of the holes, or by an
alternate emphasis upon perpendicular or
horizontal lines.

As a test of endurance, and as an experimental
effort with carving tools, I set
you this exercise. In Fig. 12 you will find
a pattern taken from one of those South
Sea carvings which we have been considering.
Now, take one of the articles so
often disfigured with childish and hasty
efforts to cover a surface with so-called
“art work,” such as the side of a bellows
or the surface of a bread-plate, and on it
carve this pattern, repeating the same-shaped
holes until you fill the entire space.
By the time you have completed it you
will begin to understand and appreciate
one of the fundamental qualities which
must go toward the making of a carver,
namely, patience; and you will have produced
[69]
a thing which may give you pleasant
surprises, in the unexpected but very
natural admiration it elicits from your
friends.

Fig. 12.

Having drawn the pattern on your
wood, ruling the lines to measurement,
and being careful to keep your lines thin
and clear as drawn with a somewhat hard
pencil, proceed to cut out the holes with
the chisel, No. 11 on our list, 1/4 in. wide.
It will serve the purpose much better than
the knife usually sold for this kind of
work, and will be giving you useful practise
with a very necessary carving tool.
The corner of the chisel will do most of
the work, sloping it to suit the different
angles at the bottom of the holes. Each
chip should come out with a clean cut,
but to insure this the downward cuts
should be done first, forming the raised
diagonal lines.

When you have successfully performed
this piece of discipline, you may, if you
care to do more of the same kind of work,
carry out a design based upon the principles
we have been discussing, but introducing
a very moderate amount of
variety by using one or more of the
patterns shown in Fig. 12, all of which are
[69]
from the same dusky artist’s designs and
can not be improved upon. If you wish for
more variety than these narrow limits afford,
then try some other kind of carving,
with perhaps leafage as its motive.

CHAPTER VII

THE GRAIN OF THE WOOD

It is curious to imagine what the inside of
a young enthusiast’s head must be like
when he makes his first conscious step
toward artistic expression. The chaotic
jumbles of half-formed ideas, whirling
about in its recesses, produce kaleidoscopic
effects, which to him look like the most
lovely pictures. If he could only learn
to put them down! let him but acquire the
technical department of his art, and what
easier than to realize those most marvelous
dreams. Later in his progress it begins to
dawn upon him that this same technical
department may not be so very obedient
[70]
to his wishes; it may have laws of its
own, which shall change his fairy fancies
into sober images, not at all unlike something
which has often been done before
by others. But let the young soul continue
to see visions, the more the better, provided
they be of the right sort. We shall in the
meantime ask him to curb his imagination,
and yield his faculties for the moment to
the apparently simple task of realizing a
leaf or two from one of the trees in his enchanted
valley.

With the student’s kind permission we
shall, while these lessons continue, make
believe that teacher and pupil are together
in a class-room, or, better still, in a
country workshop, with chips flying in all
directions under busy hands.

I must tell you then, that the first surprise
which awaits the beginner, and one
which opens his eyes to a whole series of
restraints upon the freedom of his operations,
lies in the discovery that wood has a
decided grain or fiber. He will find that
it sometimes behaves in a very obstinate
manner, refusing to cut straight here,
chipping off there, and altogether seeming
to take pleasure in thwarting his every
effort. By and by he gets to know his
[71]
piece of wood; where the grain dips and
where it comes up or wriggles, and with
practise he becomes its master. He finds
in this, his first technical difficulty, a kind
of blessing in disguise, because it sets
bounds to what would otherwise be an
infinitely vague choice of methods.

We shall now take a piece of yellow
pine, free from knots, and planed clean all
round. The size may be about 12 ins.
long by 7 ins. wide. We shall fix this to
the bench by means of two clamps or one
clamp and a screwed block at opposite
corners. Now we are ready to begin work,
but up to the present we have not thought
of the design we intend executing, being
so intent upon the tools and impatient for
an attack upon the silky wood with their
sharp edges.

The illustration, Fig. 13, gives a clue
to the sort of design to begin with; it
measures about 11 ins. long by 7 ins.
wide, allowing a margin all round. The
wood should be a little longer than the
design, as the ends get spoiled by the
clamps. This little design need not, and
indeed should not, be copied. Make one
for yourself entirely different, only bearing
in mind the points which are to be observed
[72]
in arranging it, and which have
for their object the avoidance of difficulties
likely to be too much for a first effort.
These points are somewhat to this effect:
the design should be of leaves, laid out
flat on a background, with no complication
of perspective. They should have no
undulations of surface. That is to say,
the margins of all the features should be
as nearly as possible the original surface
of the wood, which may have just the least
possible bit of finish in the manner I shall
describe later on. The articulation of the
leaves and flower is represented by simple
gouge cuts. There should be nothing in
the design requiring rounded surfaces.
The passage for tools in clearing out the
ground between the features must not
be less than 1/4 in.; this will allow the
3/16 in. corner grounder to pass freely
backward and forward. The ground is
supposed to be sunk about three-sixteenths
of an inch.

As you have not got your design made,
I shall, for convenience’ sake, explain how
Fig. 13 should be begun and finished.
First having traced the full-size design it
should be transferred to the wood by
means of a piece of blue carbon paper.
[73]

Fig. 13.

Fig. 14.

[74]

Then with either the Veiner or V tool
outline the whole of the leaves, etc., about
1/8 in. deep, keeping well on the outside
of the drawing. Ignore all minor detail
for the present, blocking out the design in
masses. No outline need be grooved for
the margin of the panel at present, as it
should be done with a larger tool. For
this purpose take gouge No. 6 (1/4 in.
wide), and begin at the left-hand bottom
corner of the panel, cut a groove about
1/16 in. within the blue line, taking care
not to cut off parts of the leaves in the
process; begin a little above the corner
at the bottom, and leave off a little below
that at the top. The miters will be
formed later on.

In this operation, as in all subsequent
ones, the grain of the wood will be more or
less in evidence. You will by degrees get
to know the piece of wood you are working
upon, and cut in such a way that your
tool runs with the grain and not against it;
that is to say, you will cut as much as
possible on the up-hill direction of the
fiber. This can not always be done in deep
hollows, but then you will have had some
practise before you attempt these.

Now take chisel No. 11, and with it
[75]
stab into the grooved outline, pressing the
tool down perpendicularly to what you
think feels like the depth of the ground.
The mallet need not be used for this, as
the wood is soft enough to allow of the
tools being pressed by the hand alone, but
remember that the force must be proportioned
to the depth desired, and to the
direction of the grain; much less pressure
is wanted to drive a tool into the wood
when its edge is parallel with the grain
than when it lies in a cross direction;
small tools penetrate more easily than
large ones, as a matter of course, but one
must think of these things or accidents
happen.

When you have been all round the
design in this way with such gouges as
may be needed for the slow and quick
curves, get the wood out nearly down to
the ground, leaving a little for finishing.
Do this with any tool that fits the spaces
best; the larger the better. Cut across the
grain as much as possible, not along it.
The flat gouge, No. 1, will be found useful
for this purpose in the larger spaces, and
the grounders for the narrow passages.
This leaves the ground in a rough state,
which must be finished later on.
[76]

Now take gouges Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
and chisels Nos. 10, 11, 12, and with them
cut down the outline as accurately as possible
to the depth of the ground, and, if
you are lucky, just a hair’s breadth deeper.
In doing this make the sides slope a little
outward toward the bottom. If the
gouges do not entirely adapt themselves
to the contours of your lines, do not
trouble, but leave that bit to be done
afterward with a sweep of the tool, either
a flat gouge, or the corner-chisel used like
a knife.

Now we have all the outline cut down
to the depth of the background, and may
proceed to clear out the wood hanging
about between the design and the ground
all round it. We shall do this with the
“grounders,” using the largest one when
possible, and only taking to the smallest
when absolutely necessary on account of
space. This done, we shall now proceed to
finish the hollow sides of the panel and
make the miters. Again, take No. 6
gouge and drive a clear hollow touching
the blue line at end of panel, and reaching
the bottom of the sinking, i.e., the actual
ground as finished, see a, Fig. 15. To form
the miter at top of left-hand side of panel,
[77]
carry the hollow on until the tool reaches
the bottom of the hollow running along
the top; as soon as this point is gained,
turn the tool out and pitch it a little up
in the way shown at c, Fig. 15, in which
the tool is shown at an angle which brings
the edge of the gouge exactly on the line
of the miter to be formed. Beginning as it
does at b, this quick turn of the handle to
the left takes out the little bit of wood
[78]
shown by dotted lines at b, and forms one-half
of the miter. The cross-grain cut
should be done first, as in this way there is
less risk of splintering. Now repeat the
process on the long-grain side of the panel,
and one miter is in a good way for being
finished.

Fig. 15.

A word now about these sides of sunk
panels. They always look better if they
are hollowed with a gouge instead of
being cut square down. In the first case
they carry out the impression that the
whole thing is cut out of a solid piece of
wood, whereas when they are cut sharply
down they always suggest cabinet-making,
as if a piece had been glued on to form a
margin.

We have now got the work blocked out
and the ground fairly level, and we are
ready to do the little carving we have
allowed ourselves. Before we begin this
I shall take the opportunity of reminding
you that you must be very careful in
handling your tools; it is a matter of the
greatest importance, if the contingency of
cut fingers or damaged work is to be
avoided. The left hand in carving has
nearly as much to do as the right, only in
a different way. Grasp the chisel or gouge
[79]
in the left hand with the fingers somewhat
extended, that is, the little finger
will come well on to the blade, and the
thumb run up toward the top of the
handle; the wrist meanwhile resting on
the work. The right hand is used for
pushing the tool forward, and for turning
it this way and that, in fact does most of
the guiding. Both hands may be described
as opposing each other in force,
for the pressure on the tool from the
right hand should be resisted by the left,
until almost a balance is struck, and just
enough force left to cut the wood gently,
without danger of slipping forward and
damaging it or the fingers. The tool is
thus in complete command, and the
slightest change of pressure on either hand
may alter its direction or stop it altogether.
Never drive a tool forward with one hand
without this counter-resistance, as there is
no knowing what may happen if it slips.
Never wave tools about in the hand, and
generally remember that they are dangerous
implements, both to the user and the work.
Never put too much force on a tool when
in the neighborhood of a delicate passage,
but take time and eat the bit of wood out
mouse-like, in small fragments.
[80]

Now we are ready to finish our panel.
Take the grounders, according to the size
required, always using the biggest possible.
Keep the tool well pressed down, and
shave away the roughness of the ground,
giving the tool a slight sideway motion
as well as a forward one. Work right up
to the leaves, etc., which, if cut deep
enough, should allow the chips to come
away freely, leaving a clear line of intersection;
if it does not, then the upright
sides must be cut down until the ground
is quite clear of chips. Grounder tools
are very prone to dig into the surface and
make work for themselves: sharp tools,
practise, and a slight sideway motion will
prevent this. Tool No. 23 is useful in
this respect, its corners being slightly lifted
above the level of the ground as it passes
along. Corners that can not be reached
with the bent chisels may be finished off
with the corner-chisel.

Now we come to the surface decorations,
for the carving in this design consists of
little more. This is all done with the
gouges. Generally speaking, enter the
groove at its widest end and leave it at
the narrowest, lowering the handle of the
tool gradually as you go along to lift the
[81]
gouge out of the wood, producing the
drawing of the forms at the same time.
A gouge cut never looks so well as when
done at one stroke; patching it afterward
with amendments always produces
a labored look. If this has to be done,
the tool should be passed finally over the
whole groove to remove the superfluous
tool marks—a sideway gliding motion
of the edge, combined with its forward
motion, often succeeds in this operation.
To form the circular center of the flower,
press down gouge Nos. 5 or 6, gently at
first and perpendicular to the wood. When
a cut has been made all round the circle,
work the edge of the tool in it, circus-like,
by turning the handle in the fingers
round and round until the edge cuts its
way down to the proper depth. (See
A, Fig. 15.)

Carve the sides of the leaves where
necessary with flat gouges on the inside
curves, and with chisels and corner-chisels
on the outside ones. These should be
used in a sliding or knife-like fashion, and
not merely pushed forward. Finish the
surface in the same manner all over
between the gouge grooves and the edges
of the leaves, producing a very slight
[82]
bevel as in section a, Fig. 13, and this
panel may be called finished.

Fig. 14 is another suggestion for a
design, upon which I hope you will base
one of your own as an exercise at this
stage of your progress.

Before we begin another, though, I shall
take this opportunity of reading you a short
lecture on a most important matter which
has a great deal to do with the preparation
of your mind in making a suitable choice
of subject for your future work.

CHAPTER VIII

IMITATION OF NATURAL FORMS

Broadly stated, the three most formidable
difficulties which confront the beginner
when he sets out to make what he is
pleased to call his design for carving in
relief, are: Firstly, the choice of a
subject; secondly, how far he may go in
the imitation of its details; thirdly, its
[83]
arrangement as a whole when he has decided
the first two points.

Just now we shall deal only with the
second difficulty, that is, how far may
likeness to nature be carried. We shall
do this, because until we come to some
understanding on that point, a right
choice of subject becomes practically impossible,
consequently the consideration of
its arrangement would be premature.

There is, strictly speaking, only one aim
worthy of the artist’s attention, be he carver
or painter; and that is the representation
of some form of life, or its associations.
Luckily, there is a mighty consensus of
opinion in support of this dictum, both
by example and precept, so there is no
need to discuss it, or question its authority.
We shall proceed, therefore, to act upon
it, and choose for our work only such
material as in some way indicates life,
either directly, as in trees, animals, or
figures, or by association, and as explanation
thereof, as in drapery and other accessories—never
choosing a subject like those
known to painters as “still life,” such as
bowls, fiddles, weapons, etc., unless, as I
have said, they are associated with the
more important element.
[84]

You have already discovered by practise
that wood has a grain which sets bounds
to the possibilities of technique. You
have yet to learn that it has also an inordinate
capacity for swallowing light.
Now, as it is by the aid of light that we
see the results of our labor, it follows
that we should do everything in our
power to take full advantage of that helpful
agency. It is obvious that work which
can not be seen is only so much labor
thrown away. There is approximately a
right relative distance from which to view
all manner of carvings, and if from this
position the work is not both distinct and
coherent, its result is valueless.

Then what is the quality which makes
all the difference between a telling piece
of carving, and one which looks, at a
moderate distance, like crumpled paper or
the cork bark which decorates a suburban
summer-house? The answer is, attention
to strict economy in detail. Without
economy there can be no arrangement,
and without the latter no general effect.
We are practically dealing, not with so
much mere wood, but unconsciously we
are directing our efforts to a manipulation
of the light of day—playing with the
[85]
lamps of the sky—and if we do not
understand this, the result must be undoubtedly
failure, with a piece of wood
left on our hands, cut into unintelligible
ruts.

But what, you will say, has all this to
do with copying the infinite variety of
nature’s detail; surely it can not be wrong
to imitate what is really beautiful in itself?
You will find the best answer to this in
the technical difficulties of your task.
You have the grain of the wood to think
of, and now you have this other difficulty
in managing the light which is to display
your design. The obstinacy of the wood
may be to some extent conquered, and
indeed has been almost entirely so, by the
technical resources of Grinling Gibbons,
but the treatment demanded by the laws
of light and vision is quite another question,
and if our work is to have its due effect,
there is no other solution of the problem
than by finding a way of complying with
those laws.

If I want to represent a rose and make
it intelligible at a glance from such and
such a point of view, and I find after
taking infinite pains to reproduce as many
as I can of its numerous petals, and as
[86]
much as possible of its complicated foliage,
that I had not reckoned with the light
which was to illuminate it, and that instead
of displaying my work to advantage,
it has blurred all its delicate forms into
dusky and chaotic masses, would I not be
foolish if I repeated such an experiment?
Rather, I take the opposite extreme, and
produce a rose this time which has but
five petals, and one or two sprays of rudimentary
foliage. Somehow the result is
better, and it has only taken me a tenth
part of the time to produce. I now find
that I can afford, without offending the
genius of light, or straining my eyesight, to
add a few more petals and one or two extra
leaves between those I have so sparingly
designed, and a kind of balance is struck.
The same thing happens when I try to
represent a whole tree—I can not even count
the leaves upon it, why then attempt to
carve them? Let me make one leaf that
will stand for fifty, and let that leaf be
simplified until it is little more than an
abstract of the form I see in such thousandfold
variety. The proof that I am right
this time is that when I stand at the proper
distance to view my work, it is all as distinct
as I could wish it to be. Not a leaf-point
[87]
is quite lost to sight, except where,
in vanishing into a shadow, it adds mystery
without creating confusion.

We have in this discovery a clue to the
meaning of the word “Conventional”: it
means that a particular method has been
“agreed upon” as the best fitted for its
purpose, i.e., as showing the work to most
advantage with a minimum of labor.
Not that experience had really anything
to do with the invention of the method.
Strange to say, the earliest efforts in carving
were based upon an unquestioning sense
that no other was possible, certainly no
attempts were made to change it until in
latter days temptations arose in various
directions, the effects of which have entailed
upon ourselves a conscious effort of choice
in comparing the results of the many subsequent
experiments.

Before I continue this subject further, I
shall give you another exercise, with the
object of making a closer resemblance to
natural forms, bearing in mind the while
all that has been said about a sparing
use of minute detail with reference to its
visible effect. We shall in this design
attempt some shaping on the surface of
the leaves and a little rounding too, which
[88]
may add interest to the work. In my
next lecture to you, I shall have something
to say about another important element in
all designs for wood-carving. I mean the
shapes taken by the background between
the leaves, like the patches of sky seen behind
a tree.

CHAPTER IX

ROUNDED FORMS

[89]

Fig. 16.

Fig. 16, our second exercise, like the first
one, is only to be taken as a suggestion for
a design to be made by yourself. It is a
fundamental principle that both design and
execution should be the work of one and
the same person, and I want you to begin
by strictly practising this rule. It was indeed
one of the main conditions of production
in the best times of the past, and
there is not a shadow of doubt that it must
again come to be the universal rule if any
real progress is to be made in the art of
wood-carving, or in any other art for that

[90]
matter. Just think for a moment how
false must be the position of both parties,
when one makes a “design” and another
carries it out. The “designer” sets his
head to work (we must not count his hands
at present, as they only note down the
results in a kind of writing), a “design”
is produced and handed over to the carver
to execute. He, the carver, sets his hands
and eyes to work, to carry out the other
man’s idea, or at least interpret his notes
for the same, his head meanwhile having
very little to do, further than transfer the
said notes to his hands. For very good reasons
such an arrangement as this is bound
to come to grief. One is, that no piece of
carving can properly be said to be “designed”
until it is finished to the last
stroke. A drawing is only a map of its
general outline, with perhaps contours approximately
indicated by shading. In any
case, even if a full-size model were supplied
by the designer, the principle involved
would suffer just the same degree of violence,
for it is in the actual carving of the
wood that the designer should find both his
inspiration and the discipline which keeps
it within reasonable bounds. He must be
at full liberty to alter his original intention
[91]
as the work develops under his
hand.

Apparently I have been led into giving
you another lecture; we must now get to
work on our exercise.

Draw and trace your outline in the same
manner as before, and transfer it to the
wood. You may make it any convenient
size, say on a board 18 ins. long by 9 ins.
wide, or what other shape you like, provided
you observe one or two conditions
which I am going to point out. It shall
have a fair amount of background between
the features, and the design, whatever it
is, shall form a traceable likeness to a
pattern of some description; it shall have
a rudimentary resemblance to nature, without
going into much detail; and last, it
shall have a few rounded forms in it,
rounded both in outline and on the surface,
as, for instance, plums.

Fig. 17.

In setting to work to carve this exercise,
follow the same procedure as in the first
one, up to the point when the surface
decorations began. In the illustration,
there is a suggestion for a variety in the
background which does not occur in the
other. In this case the little branches are
supposed to lie along the tops of gentle
[92]
elevations, and the plums to lie in the
hollows. It produces a section something
like this, Fig. 17. There is a sufficient
excuse for this kind of treatment in the
fact that the branches do not require
much depth, and the plums will look all
the better for a little more. The depth
of the background will thus vary, say
between 3/16 in. at the branches and 3/8 in. at
the plums. The branches are supposed
to be perfectly level from end to end,
that is, they lie parallel to the surface of
the wood, but of course curve about in
the other direction. The leaves, on the
other hand, are supposed to be somewhat
rounded and falling away toward their
sides and points in places. The vein in
the center of the leaves may be done with
a parting tool, as well as the serrations at
the edge, or the latter may perhaps be
more surely nicked out with a chisel, after
the leaves have received their shapes, the
leaves being made to appear as if one side
was higher than the other, and as though
[93]
their points, in some cases, touched the
background, while in others the base may
be the lowest part. The twigs coming
out from the branches to support the
plums should be somewhat like this in
section, and should lie along the curve
of the background, and be in themselves
rounded, as in Fig. 18, see section a a.
The bottom of the panel shows a bevel
instead of a hollow border: this will serve
to distinguish it as a starting-point for
the little branches which appear to emerge
from it like trees out of the ground. The
plums should be carved by first cutting
them down in outline to the background,
as A, Fig. 19. Then the wood should be
removed from the edge all round, to form
the rounded surface. To do this, first
take the large gouge, No. 2, and with its
hollow side to the wood, cut off the top,
from about its middle to one end, and reversing
the process do the same with the
other side. Then it will appear something
[94]
like B (Fig. 19). The remainder
must be shaped with any tool which will
do it best. There is no royal road to the
production of these rounded forms, but
probably gouge No. 1 will do the most
of it.

Fig. 18.

Fig. 19.

Here it may be observed that the fewer
tools used the better, as if many are used
there is always a risk of unpleasant facets
at the places where the various marks join
each other. Before you try the plums,
or apples, or other rounded fruit which
you may have in your design, it would be
as well to experiment with one on a piece
of spare wood in order to decide upon the
most suitable tools. The stems or branches
may be done with flat gouge No. 1, or the
flat or corner chisel. A very delicate twist
or spiral tendency in their upward growth
will greatly improve their appearance, a
mere faceting produced by a flat gouge or
[95]
chisel will do this; anything is better than
a mere round and bare surface, which has
a tendency to look doughy. The little circular
mark on the end of the plum (call it
a plum, although that fruit has no such
thing) is done by pressing gouge No. 7 into
the wood first, with the handle rather near
the surface of the wood, and afterward at
a higher inclination, this taking out a tiny
chip of a circular shape and leaving a V-shaped
groove.

Now I am going to continue the subject
of my last lecture, in order to impress
upon you the importance of suiting your
subject to the conditions demanded by the
laws of technique and light. Practise with
the tools must go hand in hand with the
education of the head if good results are
to be expected; nor must it be left wholly
to hand and eye if you are to avoid the
pitfalls which lie in wait for the unwary
mechanic.

[96]

CHAPTER X

THE PATTERNED BACKGROUND

Fig. 20.

By a comparison of the piece of Byzantine
sculpture, Fig. 20, with the more elaborate
treatment of foliage shown in Fig. 21,
from late Gothic capitals, in Southwell
Minster, it will be seen how an increasing
desire for imitative resemblance has taken
the place of a patterned foundation, and
how, in consequence, the background is no
longer discernible as a contrasting form.
The Byzantine design is, of course, little
more than a pattern with sunk holes for a
background, and it is in marble; but those
holes are arranged in a distinct and orderly
fashion. The other is a highly realistic
treatment of foliage, the likeness to nature
being so fully developed that some of these
groups have veins on the backs of the
leaves. The question for the moment is
this, which of the two extremes gives the
[98]
clearest account of itself at a distance? I
think there can be little doubt that the more
formal arrangement bears this test better
than the other, and this, too, in face of the
fact that it has cost much less labor to
produce. Remember we are only now
considering the question of visibility in the
design. You may like the undefined and
suggestive masses into which the leaves
and shadows of the Southwell one group
themselves better than the unbending severity
of the lines in the other, but that
is not the point at present. You can not see
the actual work which produces that
mystery, and I may point out to you, that
what is here romantic and pleasing on account
of its changeful and informal
shadows, is on the verge of becoming mere
bewildering confusion; a tendency which
always accompanies attempts to imitate the
accidental or informal grouping of leaves,
so common to their natural state. The
further this is carried, the less is it
possible to govern the forms of the
background pattern; they become less
discernible as contrasting forms, although
they may be very interesting as elements
of mystery and suggestive of things not
actually seen. The consequence is a
[100]
loss of power in producing that instantaneous
impression of harmony which
is one of the secrets of effectiveness in
carving. This is greatly owing to the
constant change of plane demanded by an
imitative treatment, as well as the want of
formality in its background. The lack of
restful monotony in this respect creates
confusion in the lights, making a closer
inspection necessary in order to discern the
beauty of the work. Now the human imagination
loves surprises, and never wholly
forgives the artist who, failing to administer
a pleasant shock, invites it to come forward
and examine the details of his work
in order to see how well they are executed.

Fig. 21.

These examples, you will say, are from
architectural details which have nothing to
do with wood-carving. On the contrary,
the same laws govern all manner of
sculpturesque composition—scale or material
making no difference whatever. A
sculptured marble frieze or a carved ivory
snuff-box may be equally censurable as being
either so bare that they verge on baldness
and want of interest, or so elaborate
that they look like layers of fungus.

Do not imagine that I am urging any
preference for a Byzantine treatment in
[101]
your work; to do so would be as foolish
as to ask you to don medieval costume
while at work, or assume the speech and
manners of the tenth century. It would
be just as ridiculous on your part to affect
a bias which was not natural to you. I
am, however, strongly convinced that in
the choice of natural forms and their
arrangement into orderly masses (more
particularly with regard to their appearance
in silhouette against the ground), and
also in the matter of an economical use of
detail, we have much to learn from the carvers
who preceded the fourteenth century.
They thoroughly understood and appreciated
the value of the light which fell upon
their work, and in designing it arranged
every detail with the object of reflecting as
much of it as possible. To this end, their
work was always calculated for its best
effects to be seen at a fairly distant point
of view; and to make sure that it would
be both visible and coherent, seen from
that point, they insisted upon some easily
understood pattern which gave the key to
the whole at a glance. To make a pattern
of this kind is not such an easy matter as
it looks. The forms of the background
spaces are the complementary parts of the
[102]
design, and are just as important as those
of the solid portions; it takes them both
to make a good design.

Now I believe you must have had
enough of this subject for the present,
more especially as you have not yet
begun to feel the extraordinary difficulty
of making up your mind as to what
is and what is not fit for the carver’s
uses among the boundless examples of
beauty spread out for our choice by Dame
Nature.

Meantime, I do not want you to run
away with the impression that when you
have mastered the principles of economy
in detail and an orderly disposition of
background, that you have therefore
learned all that is necessary in order to
go on turning out design after design
with the ease of a cook making pancakes
according to a recipe. You will find by
experience, I think, that all such principles
are good for is to enforce clearness
of utterance, so to speak, and to remind
you that it is light you are dealing with,
and upon which you must depend for all
effects; also that the power of vision is
limited. Acting upon them is quite
another matter, and one, I am afraid, in
[103]
which no one can help you much. You
may be counseled as to the best and most
practical mode of expressing your ideas,
but those thoughts and inventions must
come from yourself if they are to be
worth having.

In my next lecture I shall have something
to say with regard to originality of
design, but now we must take up our
tools again and begin work upon another
exercise.

CHAPTER XI

CONTOURS OF SURFACE

Fig. 22.

Here are two fragments of a kind of
running ornament. Fig. 22 is a part of
the jamb molding of a church in Vicenza.
If you observe carefully, you will find that
it has a decidedly classical appearance.
The truth is that it was carved by a
Gothic artist late in the fourteenth century,
just after the Renaissance influence began to
make itself felt. It is an adaptation by him
[104]
of what he remembered having seen in his travels of the new style,
grafted upon the traditional treatment ready to his hand. It suits our
purpose all the better on that account, for the reason that we are going
to re-adapt his design into an exercise, and shall attempt to make it
suitable to our limited ability in handling the tools, to the change in
material
[105]
from stone to wood, and lastly, to our different aims and motives in the
treatment of architectural ornament. Please do all this for yourself in
another design, and look upon this suggestion merely in the light of
helping a lame dog over a stile.

Fig. 23.

In this
exercise (Fig.
23) you will
repeat all you
have already
done with
the others,
[106]
until you come to the shaping of the
leaves, in which an undulating or up and
down motion has been attempted. This
involves a kind of double drawing in the
curves, one for the flat and one for the
projections; so that they may appear to
glide evenly from one point to the other,
sweeping up and down, right and left,
without losing their true contours. Carvers
call this process “throwing about,”
i.e., making the leaves, etc., appear to
rise from the background and again fall
toward it in all directions. The phrase
is a very meager one, and but poorly expresses
the necessity for intimate sympathy
between each surface so “thrown about.”
It is precisely in the observance of this last
quality that effects of richness are produced.
You can hardly have too much
monotony of surface, but may easily err by
having too much variety. Therefore, whatever
system of light and shade you may
adopt, be careful to repeat its motive in
some sort of rhythmic order all over your
work; by no other means can you make
it rich and effective at a distance.

It is well every now and then to put
your work up on a shelf or ledge at a
distance and view it as a whole; you will
[107]
thus see which parts tell and which do
not, and so gain experience on this point.
Work should also be turned about frequently,
sidewise and upside down, in
order to find how the light affects it in
different directions. Of course, you must
not think that because your work may
happen to look well when seen from a
little way off that it does not matter
about the details, whether they be well
or poorly carved. On the contrary,
unless you satisfy the eye at both points
of view, your work is a partial failure.
The one thing is as important as the
other, only, as the first glance at carved
work is generally taken at some little distance,
it is the more immediately necessary
to think of that, before we begin to work
for a closer inspection. First impressions
are generally lasting with regard to carved
work, and, as I have said before, beauty
of detail seldom quite atones for failure
in the arrangement of masses.

The rounded forms in this design may
give you a little trouble, but practise, and
that alone, will enable you to overcome
this. Absolute smoothness is not desirable.
Glass-papered surfaces are extremely
ugly, because they obtrude themselves on
[108]
account of their extreme smoothness,
having lost all signs of handiwork in the
tool marks. We shall have something to
say presently about these tool marks in
finishing, as it is a very important subject
which may make all the difference between
success or failure in finishing a piece of
work.

CHAPTER XII

ORIGINALITY

I told you that I should have something
to say about originality. Almost every
beginner has some vague impression that
his first duty should be to aim at originality.
He hears eulogiums passed upon the individuality
of some one or other, and tries
hard to invent new forms of expression or
peculiarities of style, only resulting, in
most cases, in new forms of ugliness, which
it seems is the only possibility under such
conscious efforts after novelty. The fact
is that it takes many generations of ardent
minds to accomplish what at first each
[109]
thinks himself capable of doing alone.
True originality has somewhat the quality
of good wine, which becomes more delightful
as time mellows its flavor and
imparts to it the aroma which comes of
long repose; like the new wine, too, originality
should shyly hide itself in dark
places until maturity warrants its appearance
in the light of day. That kind of
originality which is strikingly new does
not always stand the test of time, and
should be regarded with cautious skepticism
until it has proved itself to be more
than the passing fashion or novelty of a
season. There is a kind of sham art very
conspicuous at the present time, which was
at quite a recent date popularly believed to
be very original. It seems to have arisen
out of some such impatient craving for
novelty, and it has been encouraged by an
easy-going kind of suburban refinement,
which neither knows nor cares very much
what really goes to the making of a work
of art. This new art has filled our shops
and exhibitions with an invertebrate kind
of ornament, which certainly has the doubtful
merit of “never having been seen before.”
It has evidently taken its inspiration
from the trailing and supine forms
[110]
of floating seaweed, and revels in the
expression of such boneless structure. By
way of variety it presents us with a kind
of symbolic tree, remarkable for more than
archaic flatness and rigidity. Now, this
kind of “originality” is not only absolutely
valueless, but exceedingly harmful;
its only merit is that, like its ideal
seaweed, it has no backbone of its own,
and we may hope that it will soon betake
itself to its natural home, the slimy bottom
of the ocean of oblivion.

Meantime, the only thing we are absolutely
sure of in connection with that
much-abused word “originality” is this,
that no gift, original or otherwise, can be
developed without steady and continuous
practise with the tools of your craft.

CHAPTER XIII

PIERCED PATTERNS

The present exercises may be described as
a kind of carved open fretwork—that is to
[111]
say, the ground is entirely cut away, leaving
the pattern standing free. This will
form an excellent piece of discipline with
regard to the design of background forms,
because in such work as this, those forms
assert themselves in a very marked manner;
if they are in any way found to be conspicuously
unequal in size or are awkwardly
designed as to shape, the whole
effect of the work is spoiled.

Fig. 24.

For your first effort make a design
based upon No. 24, and please to observe
these rules in its construction. The main
or leading lines of the pattern are to run
as much as possible without crossing each
other. The holes are to be fairly equal in
[112]
size, or rather in area, as they need not be
at all like each other in shape. The
amount of wood left standing to be of a
width averaging never less than half the
length of the average-sized hole. This is
necessary for securing sufficient strength of
material in the cross-grained pieces, which
would be liable to split if made too long
and narrow. The pattern should be
formal in character, not necessarily symmetrical,
but it should be well balanced.
You may have one part of your design
composed of large holes and another of
small ones, provided the change is part of
a definite design, as in Fig. 25. You may
even leave the wood in some parts forming
a solid background, or you may treat
[113]
it as a separate piece of simple carving on
the solid, as in Fig. 26, being careful to
execute it in a consistently simple manner,
as in this kind of work much change
of manner in execution is inadvisable,
although, at the same time, it is open to
any amount of variety in design of outline
and combination of contrasts.

Fig. 25.

Fig. 26.

Take a piece of pine about 3 or 4 ft.
long and 7 or 9 ins. wide by 3/4 in.
thick. Trace on your pattern and drill
circular holes in the middle of each space
to be cut through. Then take a keyhole
saw, and remove the wood by sawing
round the space close to the blue line,
taking care not to cut through it in any
place. The saw must be held very truly
[114]
upright in order to cut the sides of the
spaces at right angles to the face of the
wood. Now carve the pattern on the surface
in whatever manner you have designed—in
grooves suggesting the articulation of
the leaves, in short grooves which may
pass for additional leaves, or in a dozen
ways which practise may help you to
invent.

The wood should be held tightly down
to the bench in all its parts, or, at least, in
those being operated upon, as it may, if unsupported,
crack across some of the narrow
parts. The sides of all the holes must be
carved out clean to remove the rough
saw marks. This can be done partly by
gouges, or still better, the wood may be
held up on its edge and the holes cut
round with a sharp penknife where the
grain allows it. Now turn the work
over on its face and carve bevels round
each of the holes. This reduces the apparent
thickness of wood, and adds to the
effect of delicacy in the pattern.

This work may be used for the cresting
of some large piece of furniture, or may
be adapted to fill screens or partitions,
stair newels, and balusters, or it may be
used as a cornice decoration in the manner
[115]
suggested by No. 26, where the pierced
work can be backed by a hollow cornice
which it fills and enriches.

In our next exercise we shall try our
hands upon a piece of hardwood for a
change—meantime do one or two of these
fret patterns by way of disciplinary exercise
in outline forms.

CHAPTER XIV

HARDWOOD CARVING

We now come to the question, what are
we going to do with all the pieces of
carving which we propose to undertake.

There is no more inexorable law relating
to the use of wood-carving than
the one which insists upon some kind of
passport for its introduction, wherever it
appears. It must come in good company,
and be properly introduced. The slightest
and most distant connection with a recognized
[116]
sponsor is often sufficient, but it
will not be received alone. We do not
make carvings to hang on a wall and be
admired altogether on their own account.
They must decorate some object. A
church screen, a font, a piece of furniture,
or even the handle of a knife. It is not
always an easy matter to find suitable
objects upon which to exercise our wood-carving
talents. Our furniture is all made
now in a wholesale manner which permits
of no interference with its construction,
while at the same time, if we wish to
put any carving upon it, it is absolutely
essential that both construction and decoration
should be considered together.

Fig. 27.

A very modest beginning may be made
in adapting ornament to a useful article,
by carving the surface of a bread plate.
These are usually made of some hard
wood, such as sycamore. They may be
made of oak, but sycamore has the advantage
in its lighter color, which is
more likely to be kept clean. Two suggestions
are given in Figs. 27 and 28 for
carving appropriate to this purpose. The
essentials are, that there should be a well-defined
pattern simple in construction, and
as effective as possible with little labor;
[117]
that there should be little or no rounding
of surface, the design consisting of gouge
cuts and incisions arranged to express the
pattern. The incisions may form a regular
sunk ground, but it should not be deep,
or it will not be easily kept clean. Then,
as in cutting bread the knife comes in
contact with the surface, no delicate work
is advisable; a large treatment with broad
surfaces, and some plain spaces left to
[118]
protect the carved work, is likely to
prove satisfactory in every way. A piece
of sycamore should be procured, ready for
carving; this may be got from a wood-turner,
but it will be as well to give him
a drawing, on which is shown the section
of edge and the position of all turned
lines required for confining the carving.
If the plate is to be of any shape other
than circular, then it must be neatly
[119]
made by a joiner, unless you can shape it
yourself.

Fig. 28.

Many of you are, I have no doubt,
handy joiners, and may with a little help
put together some slight pieces of furniture
to serve at least as an excuse for the introduction
of your carving. Here are
some suggestions for corner cupboards,
chosen as giving the largest area for
carved surface with the minimum of expense
in construction. The material
should be oak—English if possible, or it
may be Italian walnut. The doors of Figs.
40 and 41 are in three narrow boards
with shallow beads at the joints, those
of the others are each made of a single
board, and should be 1/2 in. to 5/8 in. thick,
the doors may be about 2 ft. 6 ins. high,
each having two ledges about 3 ins. wide,
screwed on behind top and bottom to
keep them from twisting. All moldings,
beads, etc., are to be carved by hand, no
planes being used. Having traced the
lines of your design upon the board, you
may begin, if there are moldings as in
Fig. 32, by using a joiner’s marking gage
to groove out the deepest parts of the
parallel lines in the moldings along the
edges, doing the same to the curved ones
[120]
with a V tool or Veiner. Then form the
moldings with your chisels or gouges.
Keep them very flat in section as in Fig. 29.
The fret patterns on Figs. 32, 35, and 36,
where not pierced, should also be done
in low relief, not more than 1/8 in. deep,
and the sides of the bands beveled as in
section a, Fig 30. The widths of these
bands ought not to be less than 1/2 in.,
and look better if they are wider. Very
narrow bands have a better appearance, if,
instead of being cut straight down, they
are hollowed at sides like b in Fig. 30.

Fig. 29.

Fig. 30.

Fig. 31.

Fig. 31 is a detail of a kind of gouge
work which you must all know very well.
One perpendicular cut of a gouge driven
in with the mallet, and one side cut, should
form one of these crescent or thimble-shaped
holes. They should not be too
deep in proportion to their size. Their

[122]
combinations may be varied to a great
extent. Two or three common ones are
shown in the illustration. This form of
ornament was in all likelihood invented
by some ingenious carpenter with a turn
for art and a limited stock of carving
tools. His humble contribution to the
resources of the carver’s art has received
its due share of the flattery which is implied
by imitation. In all these patterns
it is well to remember that the flat surface
of the board left between the cuts is really
the important thing to consider, as all
variety is obtained by disposing the holes
in such a way as to produce the pattern
required by means of their outlines on the
plain surface. Thus waved lines are produced
as in Fig. 31, and little niches like
mimic architecture as in Fig. 34, by the
addition of the triangular-shaped holes at
the top, and the splayed sills at the bottom.
(It is obvious that an arrangement like
the latter should never be turned upside
down.) If this attention to the surface
pattern is neglected the holes are apt to
become mere confused and meaningless
spots.

In small pieces of furniture like these,
which are made of comparatively thin
[123]
wood, the carving need not have much
depth, say the ground is sunk 1/4 in. at
the deepest. As oak is more tenacious
than pine, you will find greater freedom in
working it, although it is so much harder
to cut. You may find it necessary to use
the mallet for the greater part of the
blocking out, but it need not be much
used in finishing. A series of short
strokes driven by gentle taps of the mallet
will often make a better curve than if the
same is attempted without its aid.

It will be well now to procure the remainder
of the set of twenty-four tools if
you have not already got them, as they will
be required for the foliage we are about to
attempt. The deep gouges are especially
useful: having two different sweeps on
each tool, they adapt themselves to
hollows which change in section as they
advance.

Fig. 32 contains very little foliage,
such as there is being disposed in small
diamond-shaped spaces, sunk in the face
of the doors, and a small piece on the
bracket below. All this work should be
of a very simple character, definite in
form and broad in treatment.

Fig. 32. Half, Fig. 33. Half

Fig. 33 is more elaborate, but on much
[125]
the same lines of design varied by having
a larger space filled with groups of leaves.
Fig. 34 gives the carving to a larger scale;
in it the oak-leaves are shown with raised
veins in the center, the others being merely
indicated by the gouge hollows. There is
some attempt in this at a more natural
mode of treating the foliage. While such
work is being carved, it is well to look
now and then at the natural forms themselves
(oak and laurel in this case) in
order to note their characteristic features,
and as a wholesome check on the dangers
of mannerism.

It is a general axiom founded upon the
evidence of past work, and a respect for
the laws of construction in the carpenter’s
department, that when foliage appears in
panels divided by plain spaces, it should
never be made to look as if it grew from
one panel into the other, with the suggestion
of boughs passing behind the solid parts.
This is a characteristic of Japanese work,
and may, perhaps, be admirable when used
in delicate painted decorations on a screen
or other light furniture, but in carvings
it disturbs the effect of solidity in the
material, and serves no purpose which
can not be attained in a much better way.
[126]

CARVING IN PANELS OF FIG 33
Fig. 34.

[127]

Expedients have been invented to overcome
the difficulty of making a fresh start
in each panel, one of which is shown in Fig.
34, where the beginning of the bough is
hidden under a leaf. It is presumable
that the bough may go on behind the
uncarved portions of the board to reappear
in another place, but we need not
insist upon the fancy, which loses all its
power when attention is called to it, like
riddles when the answer is known.

Fig. 35., Fig. 36

In Fig. 35, like the last, the treatment is
somewhat realistic. This is shown to a
larger scale in Fig. 38. Nevertheless, it
has all been “arranged” to fit its allotted
space, and all accidental elements eliminated;
such, for instance, as leaves disappearing
in violent perspective, or even
turned sidewise, and all minute details
which would not be likely to show conspicuously
if carved in wood. In Fig. 39,
(a) is an outline of a group of vine-leaves
taken from nature, as it appeared, and in
which state it is quite unfitted for carving,
on account of its complicated perspective
and want of definite outline; Fig. 39 (b)
is a detail also copied from nature, but
which might stand without alteration provided
it formed part of a work delicate
[129]
enough to note such close elaboration in
so small a space. This, of course, would
entirely depend upon the purpose for which
the carving was intended, and whether it
was meant for distant view or close inspection.
As there is arrangement necessary in
forming the outline, so there is just as
much required in designing the articulation
of the surfaces of the leaves, which
should be so treated that their hollows fall
into a semblance of some kind of pattern.
Fig. 36 is a more formal design, or, to
use a very much abused word, more “conventional,”
in which such leafage as there
is only serves the purpose of ornamental
points, marking the divisions of the general
design. The gouge work upon the leaves
should be of the simplest description, but
strict attention is necessary in drawing the
grooves, so that their forms may be clear
and emphatic, leaving no doubt as to the
pattern intended. Designs of this kind
have no interest whatever except as pieces
of patterned work, to which end every
other consideration should be sacrificed.
It must not be cut too deep—say 1/4 in.
at the deepest—and the sides of the panels
should be very gently hollowed out with
a flattish sweep (see section on Fig. 37) in
[130]
order to avoid any appearance of actual
construction in what more or less imitates
the stiles and rails of a door. Fig. 37
shows a portion of the leafage to a larger
scale, and also a plan explaining the
construction of all these cupboards.

Fig. 37.

Fig. 38.

Fig. 39 (a).

Fig. 40 is designed upon the barest
suggestion of natural foliage, the wavy
[132]
stem being quite flat, and running out
flush into the flat margins at the sides,
connecting them together. The leaves in
this case should be carved, leaving the
veins standing solid; grooved veins would
have a meager look upon such rudimentary
leaves. Of course a more natural
[133]

treatment may be given to this kind of
design, but in that case it would require
to be carried all over the door, and replace
the formally ornamental center panel. The
pierced pattern in cresting should be done
as already described for Fig. 24.

Fig. 39 (b).

Fig. 40., Fig. 41.

Fig. 41 is a variant on the last design.
In this case a little more play of surface is
attempted, making a point of carving the
[135]
side lobes of the leaves into little rounded
masses which will reflect points of light.
This is shown better on Fig. 42.

Fig. 42.

Fig. 43.

In carving foliage like that of the vine,
where small dark holes or eyes occur,
enough wood should be left round them
to form deep dark little pits. They are
very valuable as points of shadow. In
doing this, cut the rim all round with a
very slight bevel as in section, Fig. 43.
Whenever leaves run out to a fine edge
[136]
they also should have a small bevel like
this in order to
avoid an appearance
of weakness
which acute
edges always present. As a general rule
leave as much wood as
possible about the edges of
leaves as you want shadow
from them—dipping them
only where you are sure
the variety will be effective.
In the execution of bunches
of rounded forms like
grapes there is no special
mechanical expedient for doing them
quickly and easily;
each must be cut
out separately, and
carved with whatever
tools come
handiest to their
shape and size. It
is a good way to
begin by cutting
triangular holes between
the grapes
with the point of
a small chisel (see Fig. 44), after which
[137]
the rough shapes left may gradually be
formed into ovals. When the work is
very simple in character, and does not
require a realistic treatment, the grapes
may be done in a more methodical way,
as in Fig. 45. First cut grooves across
both ways with a V tool, dividing the
grapes as at a a, then with a gouge turned
hollow down round each line of grapes
into rolls as at b b. Do this both ways,
and afterward finish the form as best
you can.

Fig. 44.

Fig. 45.

CHAPTER XV

THE SKETCH-BOOK

In holiday time, and as other opportunity
arises, be sure to visit some old building,
be it church or mansion. In this way you
will make acquaintance with many a fine
specimen of old work which will set your
fancy moving. In the one there may be
a carved choir-screen or bench ends, in
[138]
the other a fireplace or table. The first
sight of such things in the places and
among the surroundings for which they
were designed, is always an eventful
moment in the training of a carver, because
the element of surprise acts like a
tonic to the mind by arousing its emulative
instincts. It is by seeing such things
in their proper home and associations
that the best lessons are learned. One
sees in that way, for instance, why the tool
marks left by the old carvers on their work
look more effective than smoothly perfect
surfaces, when associated with the rough
timbers of the roof, or the uneven surface
of the plastered wall. One sees, too, the
effect of time and friction in the polished
surfaces of bench ends, rubbed and dusted
by countless hands until they have become
smooth to the eye and touch, and a mental
note is made to avoid sharp or spiky work
in anything that is likely to be within
reach of the fingers. In this way a certain
balance is given to the judgment in proportioning
to each piece of work its due
share of labor, and we come away with a
fixed determination to pay more attention
in future to breadth of design and economy
of actual carving, a problem which no carver
[139]
finds easy, but which must be faced if
wasted work is not to be his only reward.

[140]

Fig. 46.

[141]
In museums, too, we shall find many
useful lessons, although there we see
things huddled together in a distracting
fashion which demands great wariness of
selection. The great point to be observed
in making our notes for future reference
is, that each sketch should contain some
memorandum of a special quality, the one
which attracted us at the time of making
it. One may be made for sake of a
general arrangement, another to remind
us of some striking piece of detail or
[142]
peculiarity of execution. The drawings
need not be elaborate or labored, provided
they make clear the points they
were intended to record. Thus Fig. 46
is a sketch which is meant as a memorandum
of a lively representation of birds,
taken from an old Miserere seat. Fig. 47
was done for sake of the rich effect of an
inscription on the plain side of a beam,
and also for the peculiar and interesting
section to which the beam had been cut.
Fig. 48, again, for sake of the arrangement
of the little panels on a plain
surface, and the sense of fitness and
proportion which prompted the carver to
dispose his work in that fashion, by which
he has enriched the whole surface at little
cost of labor, and by contrast enhanced
[143]
the value of the little strips and diamonds
of carved work, otherwise of no particular
interest. Figs. 49 and 50 are two sketches
of Icelandic carved boxes. Fig. 49 was
drawn as an example of the rich effect
which that kind of engraved work may
have, and of the use which it makes of
closely packed letters in the inscription.
The pattern is, of course, a traditional
Norse one, although the carving is comparatively
modern. The points to be
noted in the other box were its quaint
[144]

and simple construction, the use of the
letters as decoration, more especially the
unpremeditated manner in which they
have been grouped, the four letters below
making a short line which is eked out
by a rude bit of ornament. The letters
are cut right through the wood, and are
surrounded with an engraved line. Fig.
51 was noted on account of the way in
[146]
which a very simple pierced ornament is
made much of by repetition. The ornament
is on a Portuguese bed, and this is
only a detail of a small portion. The
effect greatly depends upon the quantity,
but in this case that is a point which is
easily remembered without drawing more
of it than is shown. The fact that this
work is associated with richly turned balusters
is, however, noticed in the sketch, as
that might easily be forgotten. Figs. 47
to 51 are from South Kensington Museum.

Fig. 47.

Fig. 48.

Fig. 49.

Fig. 50.

Fig. 51.

Then we come to the sketch of a chair
(Fig. 52), or combined table and chair.
The richly carved back is pivoted, and
forms the table top when lowered over the
arms, upon which it rests. The points to
be noted in this are, the general richness of
effect, the contrast of wavy and rigid lines,
and the happy way in which the architectural
suggestion of arch and pillars has
been translated into ornament. As this
sketch was not made so much for the chair
itself as for its enriched back, no measurements
have been taken; otherwise chairs,
as such, depend very much upon exact dimensions
for their proportions. This chair
is at Exning in Suffolk.

Fig. 52.

Now we shall suppose that you are
[147]

going to make many such sketches both
in museums and in country churches or
houses. You will find some too elaborate
for drawings in the time at your disposal,
in which case you should obtain a photograph,
if possible, making notes of any detail
which you wish particularly to remember—such,
for instance, as the carved chest
shown in Plate I. The subject, St. George
and the Dragon, is given with various
incidents all in the one picture. This is a
valuable and suggestive piece of work to
have before you, as the manner in which
the pictorial element has been managed
is strikingly characteristic of the carver’s
methods, and well adapted to the conditions
of a technique which has no other
legitimate means of dealing with distant
objects. The king and queen, looking
out of the palace windows, are almost on
the same scale as the figures in the foreground;
the walls of the houses, roofs, etc.,
have apparently quite as much projection
as the foreground rocks—distance is inferred
rather than expressed. The very
simple construction, too, is worth noting.
It is practically composed of three boards,
a wide one for the picture, and two
narrower ones for ends and feet.
[148]

The object in making these sketches
should be mainly to collect a variety of
ideas which may brighten the mind when
there is occasion to use its inventive
faculties. Suggestive hints are wanted;
rarely will it be possible, or wise, to repeat
anything exactly as you see it. These
sketches, if made with care, and from
what Constable used to call “breeding
subjects,” will give your fancy a very
necessary point of vantage, from which
it may hazard flights of its own.

As much of our knowledge must necessarily
be gained from museums, and as
they now form such an important feature
of educational machinery, I think it will
be well to devote a word or two of special
notice to the drawbacks which accompany
their many advantages. This I propose
to do in the following chapter.
[149]

CHAPTER XVI

MUSEUMS

A new world of commerce and machinery,
having slain and forgotten a past
race of artist craftsmen, makes clumsy
atonement by sweeping together the fragments
of their work and calling the collection
a museum. From the four corners of
the earth these relics have been gathered.
Our hungry minds are bidden to make
choice according to fancy, for here is
variety of food! Here are opportunities,
never before enjoyed by mortal, for an intellectual
feast!—and of a kind which
might be considered god-like, were it not
for the suspicion of some gigantic joke.
That out of all this huge mass of chaotic
material we have not as yet been able to
make for ourselves some living form of
art, must indeed be to the gods a continual
subject of merriment.

Museums of art are in no respect the
unmixed blessings which they appear to
[150]
be. They have, to be sure, all the advantages
of handy reference; but at the same
time, on account of the great diversity in
the character of their exhibits, they tend
to encourage the spread of a patchy kind
of knowledge, far from being helpful to
the arts in the interests of which they are
established. It must be remembered that,
in these collections, all specimens of architecture
and architectural carving are invariably
seen in false positions. All have
been wrenched from their proper settings,
and placed, more or less at random, in
lights and relationships never contemplated
by their designers. To the environment
of a piece of architecture, and the position
and surroundings of carved decorations,
are due quite half of their interest as
works of art. Deprive them of these
associations, and little is left but fragmentary
specimens of handicraft, more or
less unintelligible in their lonely detachment,
misleading to the eye, and dangerous
as objects of imitation, in proportion
to the dependence they once had upon
those absent and unknown associations.

The educational purpose which these
collections are intended to serve is liable
to be construed into an unreasoning assumption
[151]
that every specimen exhibited is
equally worthy of admiration. How often
the plodding student is to be seen carefully
drawing and measuring work of the
dullest imaginable quality, with no other
apparent reason for his pathetically wasted
industry!

It would be strange, indeed, if all in
this vast record of past activity was of
equal value; if merely to belong to the
past was a sure warrant that such work
was the best of its kind. Far from this
being the case, it requires the constant
use of a more or less trained and critical
judgment to separate what is good from
the indifferent or really bad in these collections,
for all are usually present. There is
inequality in artistic powers, in technical
skill, and a distinction of yet greater importance,
which lies in the significance the
works bear as records of the inner life of
their creators. Artists, carvers in particular,
are the true scribes and historians of
their times. Their works are, as it were,
books—written in words of unconscious
but fateful meaning. Some are filled with
the noblest ideals, expressed in beautiful
and serious language, while others contain
nothing but sorry jests and stupidities.
[152]

As all the works of the past, whether
good or bad, are the achievements of men
differing but little from ourselves, save in
the direction of their energies and in their
outward surroundings, there is surely some
clue to the secret of their success or failure,
some light to be thrown by their experience
upon our own dubious and questioning
spirit.

What better could we look for in this
respect than a little knowledge of the lives
led by the carvers themselves, a mental
picture of their environment, an acquired
sense of the influence which this, that,
or the other set of conditions must have
imposed upon their work. With a little
aid from history in forming our judgments,
their works themselves will assist
us—so faithful is the transcript of their
witness—for, with more certainty than
applies to handwriting, a fair guess may
be made by inference from the work itself
as to the general status and ideals of the
workman. The striking analogy between
its salient characteristics and the prevailing
mood of that ever-changing spirit
which seeks expression in the arts, is
nowhere more marked than in the work of
the carver.
[153]

CHAPTER XVII

STUDIES FROM NATURE—FOLIAGE

It is high time now that we had some
talk about the studies from nature which
are to furnish you with subjects for your
work. I shall at present deal only with
studies of foliage, as that is what you
have been practising, and I wish you to
carry on your work and studies as much
as possible on the same lines.

Between the few abstract forms, representing
a general type of foliage, so
dear to the heart of the medieval carver,
and the unstinted variety of choice displayed
in the works of Grinling Gibbons
and his time, there is such a wide difference
that surely it points to a corresponding
disparity of aim. Although there is no
doubt whatever that such a striking change
of views must have had its origin in some
deeper cause than that which is to be explained
by artistic and technical development,
yet I think that for our immediate
[154]
purpose we shall find a sufficiently good
lesson in comparing the visible results of the
two methods. Broadly speaking, then, the
medieval carver cared more for general
effect than for possibilities of technique.
He therefore chose only such natural forms
as were amenable to his preconceived determination
to make his work telling at a
distance. He had no botanical leanings,
and rejected as unfit every form which
would not bend to his one purpose—that of
decoration on a large scale—and which he
aimed at making comprehensive at a glance,
rather than calling for attention to its details.
He invented patterns which he knew
would assist in producing this result, and
here he further handicapped his choice by
limiting it to such forms as would repeat
or vanish at regulated intervals, reflecting
light or producing shadow just where it
was wanted to emphasize his pattern.

The more modern carver, on the contrary,
offered an all-embracing welcome to
every form which presented itself to his
notice. He rejected nothing which could
by any possibility be carved. Nothing
was too small, too thin, or too difficult for
his wonderful dexterity with the carving
tools. His chief end was elaboration of
[155]
detail, and it was often carried to a point
which ignored the fact that nearly all of it
would become invisible when in position,
or, if seen at all, would only appear in confused
lumps and unintelligible masses.

Now, for many reasons, I think we had
better take the medieval method as our
model up to a point, and make a certain
selection of material for our studies, based
upon some relation to general effect, but
not necessarily imitating a medieval
austerity of rejection, which would be the
merest affectation on our part. Upon
these principles, and taking somewhat of a
middle course, I shall here note a few
types of foliage which I think may be
useful to you in the work upon which
you are engaged.

Leaf forms, with their appropriate
flowers or fruit, afford the carver a very
large proportion of his subject material.
They serve him as principal subject, as
bordering or background to figures of
men or animals; they occur as mere detached
spots, to break the monotony of
spaces or lines; and in a thousand other
ways give exercise to his invention.

As a general rule, those leaves with serrated,
or deeply cleft and indented edges,
[156]
lend themselves most readily to decorative
treatment. Large, broad leaves, with unbroken
surfaces, and triangular or rounded
outlines, are less manageable. Those
most commonly taken as models are:

The Vine, with its Grapes.—This was
freely used by medieval carvers, at first
for its symbolic significance, but afterward
even more on account of its rare
beauty of form. The play of light and
shade on its vigorous foliage, the variety
of its drawing in leaf, vine, and tendril,
and the contrast afforded by its bunches
of oval fruit, caused it to be accepted as a
favorite subject for imitation in all kinds
of carving. It lends itself kindly to all
sorts of relief, either high or low, in
almost any material. It is so recognizable,
even in the rudest attempts at imitation,
that its popularity is well deserved.

The hop-vine shares some of these
qualities, though much less strongly
marked in character.

The Acanthus.—This leaf was first
adapted for the purpose of ornament by
the workmen of classical Greece. The
inspiration was one of the few which they
took directly from nature’s models. It
was also freely used by medieval carvers,
[157]
but with an insistence upon the flowing
and rounded character of its surface
forms; and again by the Renaissance
artists, with a return to its classical character
of fluted and formal strength of line.
The graceful drawing of its elaborately
articulated surface, and the extraordinary
accentuation of its outline, provide an
endless source of suggestion. It has been
adapted in all manners, according to the
fancy of the carver—sometimes long and
drawn out, at others wide and spreading.
Altogether it has been more thoroughly
“generalized” than any other natural
form.

The Oak, with its Acorns, appears in
early medieval work, but without much
attempt to represent its form with anything
like individual character. In later
work it has more justice done to its undoubted
merits as a decorative feature by
a clearer recognition of its beauty in
clumps and masses. Fruit, other than the
grape and a nondescript kind of berry, was
seldom represented by medieval craftsmen;
it formed, however, a marked feature in
Renaissance ornament, where pomegranate,
apple, fig, and melon were in constant
requisition.
[158]

Flowers in general were very little used
in early times, and then only in a highly
abstract form corresponding to that of the
foliage. The rose and lily were the two
most frequently seen, but they seldom had
more individuality about them than was
sufficient to make them recognizable.
During the Renaissance flowers were treated
with much more regard to their inherent
beauties, and were represented with great
skill and power of imitation, although
often carried beyond legitimate limits in
this direction. When dealt with as ornaments,
rather than botanical details, they
form a rich source of suggestion to the
carver, and offer a ready means of contrast
with masses of foliage. The rose and lily
are such conspicuous flowers that they
should, in modern times, be used in a way
consistent with our demands for individual
character and likeness. They should be
fairly well defined and easily recognizable.
It is quite possible to treat these flowers in
a very realistic way, without endangering
their effect as decorative details: they
have both such distinguished forms in
flower and foliage.

Flowers should be chosen for their
forms; color should not be allowed to
[159]
deceive the eye in this respect, unless the
color itself is suggestive of lines and
contours.

Foliage should always be studied at its
prime, never when it is dried and contorted
in its forms.

Here is a short list of subjects, including
those I have mentioned, all having a sufficiently
pronounced character to make them
valuable as stock in trade. Many more
might be named, but these are chosen as being
commonly familiar, and as being
representative types of various forms.

For their Leaves and Fruit.—The grapevine,
hop-vine, globe artichoke, tomato,
apple, plum, pear, bramble, and strawberry.

For Fruit and Vine-like Growths (leafage
too massive and smooth to be of much value
without adaptation).—The melon, vegetable-marrow,
pumpkins, and cucumber.

For Leafage, Flowers, or Seed Vessels.—The
acanthus, oak, thistles, teazle, giant
hemlock, cow-parsley, buttercup.

Of Garden Flowers.—The rose, lily,
larkspur, peony, poppies, columbine,
chrysanthemum, tulip, Christmas rose,
Japanese anemone.

For Close and Intricate Designs.—Periwinkle,
[160]
winter aconite, trefoils of various
kinds.

Many valuable hints on this subject
may be gleaned by a study of Gerrard’s
Herbal, which is full of well-drawn illustrations,
done in a way which is very suggestive
to the designer.

A careful study of the outline forms of
leaves is a schooling in itself, so much
may be learned from it. It teaches the
relation between form and growth in a
way which makes it possible to use the
greatest freedom of generalization without
violating structural laws. The same causes
which govern the shaping of a tree are
present in the leaf, settling its final outline,
so that, however wandering and fantastic
it may appear, there is not the
smallest curve or serration which does not
bear witness to a methodical development,
and to every accidental circumstance which
helped or hindered its fulfilment.

You could not do better than make a
collection of suitable leaves, press them
flat and trace them very carefully, keeping
the tracings together in a book for reference.
Accompanying this you should
have in each case a drawing of the leaf
as it appears in its natural state, always
[161]
being careful to do this from a point of
view which will accommodate itself to
carving the leaf if you should have occasion
to use it.

CHAPTER XVIII

CARVING ON FURNITURE

Fig. 53.

You will find in the illustrations, Figs.
53 to 62, certain suggestions for various
pieces of furniture. They are given with
the intention of impressing upon you the
fact that very little carving can be done
at all without some practical motive as a
backbone to your fancies. To be always
carving inapplicable panels is very dull
work, and only good for a few preliminary
exercises. It is much better to consider
the matter well, and resolve upon some
“opus,” which will spread your efforts
over a considerable period. When you
have decided upon the piece of furniture
which is most likely to be useful to you, and
[163]

which lies within your powers of design
and execution, then make a drawing for it,
and have it made by a joiner (unless you
can make it entirely yourself), to be put
together in loose pieces for convenience of
carving, and glued up when that is finished.
You should certainly design the piece
yourself, as you should make all your own
designs for the carving. The two departments
must be carried on in the closest
relation to each other while the work is in
progress, otherwise their association will
not be complete when it is finished.
Take, for instance, the head of the bed in
the illustration. Why should it stand up
so high, like the gable of a house? It is
for no other reason than to give an opportunity
for carving. A plain board of
half the height would have been just as
effective as a protection to the sleeper.
Useless as carving may be from this
practical point of view, it must nevertheless
be amenable to utilitarian laws. It
must be smooth where it is likely to be
handled, as in the case of the knobs on top
of the posts; and even where it is not
likely to be handled, but may be merely
touched occasionally, it should still have
an inviting smoothness of surface. As a
[164]
matter of fact, all carving on a bed should
be of this kind, with no deep nooks or
corners to hold dust. Here, then, are a
number of conditions, which, instead of
being a hindrance, are really useful incentives
to fresh invention. Just as the
construction of joiner’s work entails concessions
on the part of the carver, so the
carver may ask the joiner to go a little
out of his way in order to give opportunities
for his carving. A little knowledge
of this subject will make a reasonable
compromise possible.

You will find a further advantage in
undertaking a fairly large piece of work.
As it is almost certain to be in several
parts, each may thus receive a different
treatment, by which means you not only
obtain contrast, but get some idea of the
extraordinary power with which one piece
of carving affects another when placed in
juxtaposition. Whatever designs you may
decide upon, should you undertake to
carve the panels for a bed, let them be in
decidedly low relief. The surface must
be smoothly wrought, doing away with as
much of the tool marking as you can, but
this smoothing to be done entirely with
the tools, not by any means with glass
[165]
paper. Great attention must be paid
to the drawing of the forms, as it is by
this that the impression of modeling
and projection will be expressed. A very
pleasant treatment of such low relief when
a smooth and even appearance is wanted,
is to carve the ground to the full depth,
say 1/8 in., only along the outlines of the
design, and form the remainder into a
kind of raised cushion, almost level in
the middle with the original surface of
the wood. The whole design need thus
be little more than a kind of deepish
[166]
engraving, depending for its effect upon
broad lights defined by the engraved
shadows. See Fig. 54 for an example of
this treatment applied to letters.

Fig. 54.

Now I expect you to make a fresh
design. The illustrations in all such cases
are purposely drawn in a somewhat indefinite
way, in order that they may
suggest, without making it possible to
copy.

Fig. 55.

Now we come to the mirror frame,
Fig. 55. I should suggest that this be
done in some light-colored wood like
pear-tree, which has an agreeably warm
tone, or if a hard piece of cedar can be
found, it would look well, but in no case
should polish be added except that which
comes from the tool. The construction
need not be complicated. Take two 3/4-in.
boards, glue them together to form the
width, shape out the frame in the rough.
Put behind this another frame of 3/4-in.
thick stuff, and make the cornice out of
wood about 1-1/2 in. thick. The parts to
be kept separate until the carving is
finished, and afterward glued or screwed
together. The carving on the body of the
frame, that is, in the gable above and the
front of bracket below, should be in very
[168]
low relief, the lower part being like the
last, a kind of engraving. The fret above
may be sunk about 1/16 in. and the ground
slightly cushioned. The carving on sides
and cornice is of a stronger character, and
may be cut as deeply as the wood will
allow, while the cornice is actually pierced
through in places, showing the flat board
behind. The design for this cornice
should have some repeating object, such
as the kind of pineapple-looking thing in
the illustration, and its foliage should be
formed with plenty of well-rounded surfaces,
that may suggest some rather fat
and juicy plant.

Fig. 56.

In Fig. 56 you have a suggestion for
carving a bench or settle, the proportions
of which have been taken from one
found at a Yorkshire village inn. The
actual measurements are given in order
that these proportions may be followed.
It is a well-known fact, that chairs, or
seats of any kind, can not be successfully
designed on paper with any hope of meeting
the essential requirements of comfort,
lightness, and stability. Making seats is
a practical art, and the development of
the design is a matter of many years of
successive improvements. A good model
[170]
should therefore be selected and copied,
with such slight changes as are necessary
where carving is to be introduced. The
main lines should not be interfered with
on any account, nor should the thickness
of the wood be altered if possible. The
carving on this settle is intended to be
in separate panels, about two inches apart.
These panels will look all the better if no
two are quite alike; a good way to give
them more variety will be to make every
alternate one of some kind of open pattern,
like a fret. These piercings need not extend
all over the design in the panel in
every case: some may have only a few
shapely holes mixed up with the lines,
others again may be formed into complete
frets with as much open as solid. (See
Fig. 57.)

The carving should be shallow, and not
too fine in detail, as it will get a great
deal of rubbing. The material should
be, if possible, oak; but beech may be
used with very good effect—in neither
case should it be stained or polished.

Fig. 57.

Fig. 58 is a clock case. Something of
this kind would make an excellent “opus”
such as I have alluded to, and give plenty
of scope for invention. As clocks of this
[172]
kind are generally hung on a wall, the
brackets, from a practical point of view,
are of course unnecessary, but as it is
important that they should look as if
they were supported and to satisfy the eye,
something in the way of a bracket or
brackets is generally added. A bracket
like the one in the illustration, not being
a real support constructively speaking, but
only put there to give assurance that such
has not been overlooked or neglected, becomes
a kind of toy, and may be treated
as such by adding some little fancy to
make it amusing, and give an excuse for
making a feature of it. This will be a
good place to try your hand at some
modest attempt at figure work. In designing
your bracket, should you wish to
introduce a little figure of man or beast,
I think you will find it more satisfactory
if the figure is separated from the structural
part by a slight suggestion of solid
surroundings of its own. Thus the little
roof over, and the solid bit of wood under,
the figure in the illustration serve this purpose,
lending an appearance of steadiness
which would be wanting in a bracket
formed of a detached figure. At any rate,
never make your figures, whether of man
[174]
or beast, seem to carry the clock; you may
hunch them up into any shape you like,
but no weight should be supposed to rest
upon them.

Fig. 58.

For sake of the carving, oak will be the
best wood to employ in making this clock,
or one like it, but Italian walnut will do
equally well. The size should be fairly
large, say about three feet over all in height.
This will give a face of about ten inches in
diameter, which face will look best if made
of copper gilt, and not much of it, perhaps
a mere ring, with the figures either
raised or cut out, leaving nothing but
themselves and two rings surrounding.
This should project from the wood, leaving
a space of about one inch.

Fig. 59.

If you are inclined to try a heavier
piece of work, the bench or settle-end in
Fig. 59 may give you a suggestion. In
this there is a bird introduced in the shape
of a cock roosting on the branch of a
tree. It would require to be done in a
thick piece of wood, say 3 ins. thick, and
would be best in English oak. The idea
will be, to cut away the wood from the
outer lower portion, leaving only about
1-1/4 or 1-1/2 in. thickness, but at the top
retaining the full thickness; in which the
[176]
bird must be carved, the outer edges
being kept full thickness in order to
give the structural form and enclose the
carving. The inside of this upper part,
toward the seat, should also be carved,
but with a smooth and shallow pattern of
some kind, as both may be seen together,
and in contrast to each other.

Fig. 60.

The introduction of figures leads me to
a subject which it will be better to discuss
in the next chapter, i.e., the question as to
how far it is possible or consistent with
[177]
present conditions to attempt anything
that may bear the character of humor.
But in the meantime here are three more
subjects upon which fancy and ingenuity
may be expended with profit. In Fig. 60
you have a heraldic subject. In all such
cases the heraldry should be true, and not
of the “bogus” kind. This shield represents
a real coat of arms, and was done
from a design by Philip Webb, being
finally covered with gesso, silvered and
painted in transparent colors.

Figs. 61 and 62 are suggestions for
wooden crosses, oak being the best material
to use for such a purpose. The carving
should be so arranged as to form some
kind of pattern on the cross. In Fig. 62
the black trefoils are supposed to be cut
right through the thin pieces of wood forming
the center portion, and the carving on
that part is very shallow.
[178]

Fig. 61.

[179]

Fig. 62.

[180]

CHAPTER XIX

THE GROTESQUE IN CARVING

The dullness which comes of “all work
and no play” may be said to affect the
carver at times. He tires of carving
leaves and ornaments: what more natural
than to seek change and amusement in
the invention of droll figures of men or
animals? The enjoyment which we all
feel in contemplating the outcome of this
spirit in ancient work, leads us to the
imitation of both subject and manner,
hoping thereby that the same results may
be obtained; but somehow the repetition
is seldom attended with much success,
while of original fancies of the same sort
we are obliged to confess ourselves almost
destitute. Who can behold the fantastic
humors of Gothic carvings without being
both amused and interested? Those
grotesque heads with gaping mouths recall
[181]
the stories of childhood, peopled with
goblins and gnomes. It is all so natural,
and so much in keeping with the architecture
which surrounds it, the carving is
so rude and simple, that it seems absurd
when some authority on such matters
makes a statement to the effect that all such
expression of humor has become forever
impossible to ourselves.

This important part of the question
must be left to your own meditation, to
settle according to your lights; experience
will probably lead you ultimately to the
same opinion. Meantime, the point I wish
to impress upon you is this, that until you
feel yourself secure, and something of a
master of various branches of your craft,
you should not attempt any subject which
aims at being decidedly grotesque. There
are very good and practical reasons for
this; one is, that while you are studying
your art, you must do nothing that may
tend to obscure what faculties you have
for judging proportion. Now, as all
grotesque work is based more or less on
exaggeration, it forms a very dangerous
kind of exercise to the beginner, therefore
I should never allow a pupil of mine to
so much as attempt it. Do not think
[182]
that I wish to discourage every effort
which has not an ultra-serious aim. On
the contrary, I am but taking a rather
roundabout way to an admission that the
humorous element has, and must have at
all times, a powerful attraction for the
wood-carver; and to the statement of an
opinion that it should not be allowed to
take a prominent place in the work of a
student; moreover, that it is quite possible
to find in nature a varied and unfailing
source of suggestion in this respect (more,
in fact, than we are ever likely to account
for), and which requires no artificial exaggeration
to aid its expression. Some
tincture of the faculty is absolutely necessary
to the carver who takes his subjects
from birds or beasts, in order that he may
perceive and seize the salient lines and characteristic
forms, of which the key-note
is often to be found in a faint touch of
humor, and which, like the scent of a
flower, adds charm by appealing to another
sense.

The same argument applies to the
treatment of the human figure. Let no
student (and I may include, also, master-carver)
think that a grotesque treatment
will raise the smile or excite the interest
[183]
which is anticipated. The “grotesque”
is a vehicle for grim and often terrible
ideas, lightly veiled by a cloak of humorous
exaggeration; a sort of Viking horse-play—it
is, in fact, a language which
expresses the mixed feelings of sportive
contempt and real fear in about equal
proportions. When these feelings are
not behind the expression, it becomes a
language which is in itself only contemptible.

Fig. 63.

[185]
If, carried away by fancy, you must find
vent for its impulses, and carve images of
unearthly beings, at least make them
cheerful looking; one can imagine such
demons and goblins as being rather nice
fellows than otherwise. A grim jest that
fails is generally a foolish one—at least its
perpetrator neither deserves nor receives
sympathy for his discomfiture. Now, I
shall show you one or two examples
which may make this matter a little
clearer to you, if you are at all inclined
to argue the position. I think, at any
rate, they will prove that the expression
of humor does not always depend upon
exaggeration, and may exist in a work
which is, one may say, almost copied
from nature. Fig. 63 is an example to

[186]
this effect. The little jester just emerging
from a flower, one of the side-pieces
to a Miserere seat carving, is undoubtedly
a true portrait, carved without the slightest
attempt at exaggeration. The quiet
humor which it evinces required only
sympathy to perceive and skill to portray
on the part of its carver. He had nothing
to invent in the common acceptation of
the word. The carving of the mendicant,
which comes on the other side, is equally
vivid in its truth to nature. It is so lifelike
that we do not notice the humorous
enjoyment of the artist in depicting the
whining lips and closed eyes of the professional
beggar. Observe the good manners
of it all—the natural refinement of the
artist who leaves his characters to make
all the fun, without intrusion from himself
other than to give the aid of his skill
in representation. Now, subjects of this
class will, in all probability, present themselves
until the end of the world; but
artists like this Gothic one are not so
likely to be common. Great technical
skill, a large fund of vitality, and many
other controlling qualities are necessary
to the production of such an artist; but
he gives a clue to the right action, which
[187]
we may with safety accept, even if we
can not hope to equal his performance.

Fig. 64.

Fig. 65.

The center-piece, Fig. 64, tells a little
story of Samson. It is noticeable in these
medieval picture subjects, how, when a
story has to be told, the details are treated
in a broad and distinct fashion, as if the
story could take care of itself, and only
required to be stated clearly as to facts.
The detached ornamental parts, on the
contrary, receive a degree of careful attention
not given to the picture, seemingly
with the object of making their loneliness
attractive.

The broad-humor characteristic of the
[188]
companion picture of medieval life, in
the little domestic scene, Fig. 65, is equally
free from forced exaggeration or intentional
misproportion. Scale and anatomy,
to be sure, have had little consideration
from the carver, but we readily forgive
the inaccuracies in this respect, on account
of his quick wit in devising means to an
end.

Before we leave this subject, look at
Plate II, in which you will see a curious
use of misproportion—intentional, too,
in this case—and used for quite other
than humorous purposes. This is a
little ornamental figure from the tomb of
Henry IV, in Canterbury Cathedral. You
will see that the body is out of all proportion;
too small for the head which
surmounts it, or too big for the feet upon
which it stands. Now, what could have
induced the carver to treat a dainty little
lady thus? It certainly was not that he
considered it an improvement upon nature,
nor was it a joke on his part. It could
only be done for some practical reason such
as this: that the little figure does part
duty as a bracket, hence, more appearance
of solidity is required at the top, and less
at the foot, than true proportions would
[189]
admit. It is all done so unostentatiously
that one might look for hours at the
figure without noticing the license. Not
that I should advise you to imitate this
[190]
naive way out of a difficulty. The childlike
simplicity of its treatment succeeds where
conscious effort would only end in affectation.

Fig. 66.

Fig. 67.

In Fig. 66 you will see another little
figure doing duty in connection with a
[191]
stall division in the Lady Chapel at
Winchester Cathedral. Its smooth roundness
of form is very appropriate to the
position it occupies; while its polished
surface bears ample testimony that it has
given no offense to the touch of the many
hands which have rested upon it.

Fig. 67 shows another example of the
same sort, but perched on a lower part of
the division. This one is from the cathedral
at Berne, each division of the stalls
having a different figure, of which this is a
type.

CHAPTER XX

STUDIES FROM NATURE—BIRDS AND
BEASTS

Nothing enlivens or gives more variety
of interest to wood-carving than the
introduction of animal forms. They
[192]
make agreeable halting-places on which
the eye may rest with pleasure. They
are, in general, both beautiful in their
shapes and associated with ideas which
appeal strongly to the imagination, thus
affording in masses of abstract ornament
the pleasantest kind of relief by adding
to it points of definite lineament and
meaning.

To carve animals as they ought to be
carved, one must have something more
than a passing interest in their forms;
there must be included also an understanding
of their natures, and some
acquaintance with their habits. A cattle-drover
is likely to know the salient points
of a bullock, a horse-breeder all those
connected with a horse, and so on. We
students, however, not having the advantage
of such accurate and personal knowledge,
must make shift in the best way
we can to discover and note the points so
familiar to trained eyes. To see animals
in this way, and, with knowledge of their
forms and habits, treat their sculptured
images according to the laws of our craft,
is no light task. If choice were to be
made between a rude manner of carving—but
which familiarity with the subject
[193]
invested with lively recognition of character—and
a more cultured and elaborate,
but lifeless study in natural history, there
should be no hesitation in making choice of
the former method, because animal forms,
without some indication of vitality, are the
dullest of all dull ornaments.

It is quite impossible to describe in
words the kind of “action” which is
most appropriate to sculpture, it being
much more a question of treatment, and
the guiding spirit of the moment, than
a subject which can be formulated. As
a broad and general principle which may
be taken for guidance, you will always
find yourself on surer ground in the
attempt to indicate the capacity for energy
and the suggestion of movement, than you
will if your aim is the extremity of action
in any direction. You may, with some
justice, point to the illustration given in
Fig. 65, and which appears to contradict
this statement, as being an example in
which violent action is the key-note. You
must notice, however, that the two figures,
although struggling, are for the moment
still, or may be supposed so. There is
enough suggestion of this pause to excuse
the attitudes and save the composition
[194]
from restlessness—even the raised hands
may be supposed to remain in the same
position for a second or two. This
imaginary pause, however infinitesimal, is
essential to the dignity of the sculptor’s
art, as nothing is more irritating to the
mind than being forced to recognize the
contradiction between a motionless image
and its suggestion of restless action. It
is necessary to observe the same rule in
the expression of actual repose, as some
clue must be given, some completed action
be suggested, in order to distinguish dormant
energy from downright inertia. I
should like to impress upon you the importance
of making a special study of the
characteristic movements of animals. You
will in time become so far familiar with
them that certain standards of comparison
and contrast will be established in your
mind as aids to memory. Thus you will
be all the better able to carve with significance
the measured and stately action of a
horse, if you have in your mind’s eye at
the same time a picture of the more cumbrous
and slower movements of a cow; and
you will be helped in the same way when
you are carving a dog, by remembering
that the movements of a cat afford a
[195]
striking contrast, in being stealthy where
the other is nervous and quick.

For the unfortunate town-bred student
or artist, who has had few opportunities
to study birds and beasts familiar to the
country schoolboy, there is no other way
but to make the best of stuffed birds,
photographs, etc. Much may be done
with these aids if a little personal acquaintance
with their habits and associations
is added like salt, to keep the
second-hand knowledge sweet and wholesome.

In the absence of opportunity for study
from the life, no pictures of animals can
compare in their usefulness to the carver
with those by Bewick. They are so completely
developed in essential details, so
full of character and expressive of life,
that even when personal acquaintance has
been made with their various qualities, a
glance at one of his engravings of birds or
beasts conveys new meaning, either of
gesture or attitude, to what we have
previously learned. Every student who
wishes to make a lively representation in
carving of familiar beast or bird should
study Bewick’s engravings of “Quadrupeds”
and “Birds.”[196]

Drawings made for the purpose of study
need not be elaborate: indeed, such drawings
are only embarrassing to work from.
The most practical plan is to make a drawing
in which the main masses are given
correctly, and in about the same relative
position that they will occupy in the carving.
I give you in Plate VII an example
of this in a drawing made by Philip Webb,
who, by the study of a lifetime, has
amassed a valuable store of knowledge
concerning animals, and acquired that
extraordinary skill in their delineation and
the expression of character which is only to
be attained by close observation and great
sympathy with the subject. The drawing
in question was made for myself at the
time I was carving a lion for the cover of a
book (given in Plate VIII). It was made,
in his good-natured way, to “help a lame
dog over a stile,” as I had got into difficulties
with the form. This drawing is all
that a carver’s first diagram should be, and
gives what is always the first necessity in
such preliminary outlines—that is, the right
relationship of the main masses, and the
merest hint of what is to come in the way
of detail; all of which must be studied
separately, but which would be entirely useless
[197]
if a wrong start had been made. In
Fig. 68 I give you tracings from some notes
I made myself while carving the sheep in
Plates V and VI. The object was to gain
some definite knowledge of form by noting
the relation of planes, sections of parts, projections,
etc., etc. The section lines and
side-notes are the most valuable part of
the memoranda. In the same manner
the illustration, Fig. 69, shows diagrams
made from a heron, giving section lines of
beak, etc.

The side-notes about the colors are
valuable, as, although not translatable into
carving, they do to some extent influence
the manner of interpreting forms.

Photographs must not be despised, but
they are only of use if read by the light of
previous knowledge. For this reason you
can not make too many notes of sectional
structure through heads, necks, and legs,
which will help to explain the mystery
common to all photographs.

The bear shown in the frontispiece is
traced from a photographic illustration
which appeared in the Westminster Budget
some time ago. By the merest accident
it is suggestive of a subject almost ready
for the carver’s hand.
[198]

Fig. 68.

Fig. 69.

[200]

Until tourists began to explore the
beauties of Switzerland, there were no
better carvers of animals than the serious
but genial craftsmen of that noble country,
more especially of such animals as were
familiar to their eyes. This preeminence
shows distinct signs of soon becoming a
thing of the past in the endeavors to
meet the demands created by thoughtless
visitors. Still, it is possible to obtain a
little of the traditional work, uninfluenced
by that fatal impetus originating in modern
commerce. A piece of this kind is shown
in Fig. 70, bought by a friend only a year
or two ago in the Grindelwald, and which,
although forming part of the usual stock
of such things made for tourist consumption,
was picked out with judicious discrimination
from a number of stupid and
trivial objects which displayed neither interest
of design nor other than mechanical
skill of carving. This little bear, a few
inches in size, is carved in a way which
shows long experience of the subject, and
great familiarity with the animal’s ways.
The tooling of the hair is done with the
most extraordinary skill, and without the
waste of a single touch. Now, a word
or two more on studies from the life
[201]
before we leave this subject. I have given
you examples of diagrams made for this
purpose, but much may be done without
any drawings, further than a preliminary
map of the general masses. In the case
of such an animal as the horse, which can
be seen in every street, I have myself
found it useful to follow them in my
walks, taking mental note of such details
as I happened to be engaged upon, such as
its legs and joints, its head or neck; another
day I would confine my attention to eyes,
ears, mane, etc., always with reference to
[202]
the work immediately in hand, as that is
the time to get the best results from life
study; because the difficulties have presented
themselves, and one knows exactly
what to look for. Five minutes spent
thus after the work has been started (provided
the start has been right and involves
no mistake in the general masses) is more
valuable than hours of labor in making
preliminary drawings.

Fig. 70.

The use of experimental models in clay
or wax has, of course, its advantages,
but it will be well to know just how far
such an aid is valuable, and at what point
its use becomes hurtful to one’s work.
It is a common practise in large carving
shops for one man to design the figure
or animal subjects in clay, while another
carves them in stone or wood. Now,
apart from the difference in material and
the unnatural “division of labor,” which
we have discussed before, it is beyond
question that a model of this kind has
even a more paralyzing effect on the
actual carver than a drawing would have.
Of course, the work is more certain to
reach a recognized standard, and the risk of
total failure is reduced to a minimum, but
there is literally nothing left for the carver
[203]
to invent; who, if he is a man with a
turn for that kind of thing, and of a
nervous temperament, must suffer untold
irritation in its execution. The good and
bad results of the use of a modeled pattern
attend in a modified degree even
where both are done by the same hand,
but for all that it is a useful and convenient
way of making experiments in doubtful
passages of the work. The “how far” a
model is to be carried must be regulated
by the amount of confidence the carver
has in his own foresight, but in any case it
is always well to remember the difference
of treatment required in plaster, clay, and
hard wood, which lead to such different
results that often fresh difficulty arises in
having to translate the one manner into
the other. For the purpose of roughing
out the general scheme, the clay, if it
must be resorted to, should be used in
soft masses, then a drawing in outline
made from this; but all doubtful detailed
work should be carved, not modeled, and
for this purpose the clay should be allowed
to harden until it is nearly dry.

The opinions of the well-known wood-carver,
Mr. W. Aumonier, on this subject,
will be of value to you; he says with
[204]
regard to the best method of going to
work: “A fresh piece of wood-carving
executed without a model is distinctly a
created work,” and that much good work
may come by “chopping boldly at a block
without any preconceived design, but designing
as you go on.” But he thinks it
is best to work from drawings; “rough,
full-size charcoal cartoons, which give the
effect wanted by their light and shade.”
He also says that he “strongly protests
against the too frequent use of clay or
plaster models, because they are often
worse than useless, and not infrequently
absolutely immoral in their tendency,
because they absorb time and money,
which ought more legitimately to be
spent on the carving itself.”
[205]

CHAPTER XXI

FORESHORTENING AS APPLIED TO WORK
IN RELIEF

I have spoken of the necessity for careful
balance between the outlines of subject
and background: that both should be
agreeable in shape. This becomes complicated
and more difficult to arrange
when we admit into our design anything
resembling what painters call foreshortening,
and the awkwardness is felt
even in the placing of such a small thing
as an apple-leaf, which may be treated in
such a way that the intention of the drawing
is entirely lost in the confusion which
arises between the inferred and the actual
projection.

In designing such subjects it will be
good to bear in mind as a guiding principle
that no matter what excuse there
may be in the nature of the inferred
position of the leaf or limb, the outline
[206]
against the background must be at once
agreeable and explanatory.

Every kind of work in relief develops
a species of compromise in the expression
of form, lying somewhere between the
representation of an object on a perfectly
flat ground, as in a painting, and the complete
realization of the same form, copied
from nature in some solid material,
without any background whatever. In
proportion to the amount of actual projection
from the background, of course
the necessity diminishes for that kind of
foreshortening which is obtained by delineation.
It might be inferred, therefore,
that in very low relief—which is more
nearly akin to the nature of a picture—more
liberty may be taken in this direction.
It is not so, however, for where actual
depth or projection exists, as in carving,
be it only so much as the depth of a line,
it makes foreshortening well-nigh impossible,
except to a very limited extent. There
must be, of course, some appearance of
this quality, so a certain conventional
standard has been set up, beyond which
one only ventures at one’s own risk. Thus,
care is taken that every object composing
the subject lies with its longest lines parallel

to the background. In this way the least
possible violence is done to the imagination
in completing the picture. As an example,
no single leaf should be represented in
[208]
relief as turning or coming forward more
than it would do if plucked from the tree
and laid loosely down upon a sheet of
paper. A, Fig. 71, is an outline of an
apple-leaf pressed out flat. B is an attempt
to present it in violent foreshortening,
showing its back to the spectator, while
its point is supposed to be buried in the
background. C is the same leaf turned the
other way, and supposed to be projecting
forward; both are exceedingly awkward
and unintelligible as mere outlines, and if
expressed in relief would not be any more
convincing as portraits of the thing intended—rather
less so, in fact, than the
diagram, which has no projection to interfere
with the drawing. So we must
turn our leaf until it presents its long side
more or less to the spectator, as in D; but
even here part of the edge is so thin at a
that it will be better to turn it a little
farther, as in E, showing more of its surface,
as at b.

Fig. 71.

Again, if we take as another example
two apples, one partly covering the other,
as in a, Fig. 72, where one apple is supposed
to be behind the other, and so
implies distance. There is no means
of expressing this distance in carving.
[209]
Lowering the surface of the hindmost
apple would merely throw out the balance
of masses without giving a satisfactory
explanation of its position, while to cut
a deep groove between the two would be
an equally unsightly expedient. The
difficulty should, whenever it is possible,
be avoided by partially separating the two
forms, as in b, where the center of the
hindmost apple clears the outline of the
other; thus making it possible to get a
division without awkwardness.

Fig. 72.

Fig. 73.

A good expedient, where leaf or scroll
forms are to be carved, and when very
truthful drawing is necessary to explain
their convolutions, is that adopted by
Professor Lethaby at the Royal College of
Art. It consists in cutting the leaf out of a
piece of stiffish paper, and with a knife or
pen-handle curling it into the required
[210]
form. The main lines will thus be seen in
true relation to one another, and all the
distortion avoided which arises from disconnection
of parts; not only that, but
it is a useful aid to the invention, as
much variety can be hinted at by a
skilful manipulation in curling its lobes.
Fig. 73 was drawn from a paper model of
this kind. Of course, it is quite without
the necessary veins or minor articulations,
but is useful as a suggestion of main
lines. With regard to subjects containing
figures of men or animals, the same principle
governs the placing of the whole body
in the first instance, then of the different
members, so that heads, arms, and legs
take up a position as nearly as may be with
a piece of background all to themselves.
Thus, no two bodies should be super-imposed
[211]
if it can be in any way avoided.
(I am speaking now of moderate and low
relief, although even in high relief the best
masters have always respected the principle.)
The temptation to imitate effects of
foreshortening for its own sake is not without
some excuse, as it is quite possible to
make presentable pictures in this way. A
horse, for instance, may be carved in low
relief, presenting either its head or hindquarters
to the spectator, and yet not look
absolutely absurd. Again, a front face
may be carved in the same way, notwithstanding
the difficulty presented by the
projection of the nose. Neither of these
experiments can ever be said to prove entirely
successful. It is not so much that
they are either difficult or impossible, as
that a more suitable method, one more
natural to the technique of the carver, is
being neglected, and its many good qualities
sacrificed for sake of an effect which
can never be fully realized in sculpture.
To so dispose the various masses, great
and small, that they fall easily into groups,
each having some relation to, and share of
the background, is a true carver’s artifice.
A skilful use of this arrangement makes
it quite unnecessary to encroach upon the
[212]
domain of another art in the imitation
of an effect which may be successfully
rendered with the pencil, but only so to a
very limited extent with the carving tools.

You have all seen the actors, when
called before the curtain at the close of the
play, how they pass before it one by one,
and perhaps joining hands make their bows
in line, to all appearance, on a very narrow
platform. The curtain is your background,
while the footlights may stand for the
surface of your wood. In illustration of
this principle, let me call your attention to
the arrangement of the animals in Plate
VI, where economy of space, and a desire
to display each detail to advantage, are the
leading motives. I give it as the readiest
example to hand, and because it fairly illustrates
the principle in question. You must
excuse the apparent vanity in making choice
of one of my own works to exemplify a
canon of art. The sheep at the top is supposed
to be scampering over rocks; the ram
below may be any distance from the sheep
that you choose to imagine—the only
indication of relative position is separation,
by means of a ridge that may pass for a
rock. The head of the ram is somewhat
foreshortened, but there was enough thickness
[213]
of wood contained in the big mass of
the body to allow of this being done in
the smaller mass of the head, without
leaving too much to be supposed. The
heads of the sheep in the fold have been
as closely packed as was consistent with
showing as much of each as possible, as it
was considered better to give the whole
head and no body than to show only a
part of both: most of the bodies, therefore,
are supposed to be hidden behind
the wall, only one showing in part.

It is a general axiom of the craft, that
every mass (be it body or leaf) must be
made as complete in itself as the circumstances
will allow; but, if partly hidden,
the concealment should be wilful, and
without ambiguity. Thus, a dog’s head
may be rightly carved as being partly
hidden in a bucket, but ought not to be
covered by another head if it is possible to
avoid it.[214]

CHAPTER XXII

UNDERCUTTING AND “BUILT-UP” WORK

By undercutting is meant the cutting
away of the solid portions of projections
in such a manner as to make them invisible,
thus throwing the carved surface
work into more complete relief by detaching
it from the background. This device
has often been carried so far, where the
projection was sufficient, that entire groups
of figures and foliage have been practically
detached from the background, like pieces
of separate sculpture carved all round.
This desire for completeness of relief was
more or less a departure from the orthodox
aims of the carvers’ craft, and led ultimately
to what is known as “built-up”
work—that is to say, work in which the
projecting parts were composed of many
different pieces of wood, each carved
separately, and afterward glued or pinned
together to form the composition. Many
[215]
of the most elaborate carvings by Grinling
Gibbons are of this kind; they have a
charm of their own, but it is one of quite
separate interest, and belongs to a category
entirely removed from the art of
carving objects in a solid piece of wood.
Apart from this distinction, the difficulty
of the method requires the most
accomplished mechanical skill and a highly
trained eye to either carve or compose
such work in a way to command respect. I
shall therefore dismiss this branch of the
subject as being outside of our present
limits.

Undercutting, on the other hand, is an
expedient distinctly characteristic of solid
wood-carving, and some experiments ought
to be made by you in designing work
in which it can be used. It may be
either partial or complete—complete, of
course, only up to a point; that is to say,
the connection with the background must
in every case be not only maintained but
visibly demonstrated. Partial undercutting
applies to such portions as the sides
of leaves, the receding parts of heads,
wings, etc., where the wood between the
object and its background is cut away on
an inward bend, either completing the
[216]
projecting form, as in the case of a head,
or merely to hide the superfluous wood
in the case of a leaf. All this presupposes
a certain amount of elevation in the relief;
indeed, it is only in such cases that the
process is necessary or can be carried out.
The use of undercutting of this kind is
like every other technical process, liable to
abuse through too much being made of
its effects. Fortunately the time it consumes
is a safeguard against any tendency
to run riot in this direction. The point
at which it should in all cases stop, and
that relentlessly, is where it begins to
cause a separation between any entire mass
of ornament and its background. If portions
are thus relieved almost to complete
detachment, but visibly reconnect themselves
in another place, a certain piquancy
is gained which adds charm without
destroying character. A curious use is
made of undercutting in the bunch of leaves
given in Plate XI from a Miserere seat
in Winchester Cathedral; it may be said
to be completely undercut in so far that
the whole bunch is hollowed out under
the surface, leaving from 1/4 to 1/2 in. thickness
of wood, in which the leaves are
carved, so that you may put your finger
[217]
in at one hole and see it at the bottom of
another. The only end all this extra
labor seems to have attained is that of
changefulness in the shadows of the holes
between the leaves, in which one sees
dark rims with light at the bottom, a condition
which certainly adds a mysterious
lightness to the whole mass. It is a very
refined and appropriate use of undercutting,
but would only be possible where
time could be spent to secure a variant of
such epicurean delicacy, as all the superfluous
wood must be taken out through
the spaces between the leaves, and in this
case they are not overlarge for that
purpose.

Work which has its background entirely
cut away, and which is afterward glued or
“planted” on a fresh background to save
labor, can not be called “undercut”; this
method has generally a cheap look, as it is
used with the object of saving time and
expense. Carving which is treated in this
way, but instead of being “planted” close
to the background, is fixed at a little distance
from it (as is the case with the lace-like
designs fitted into the hollow moldings
of fifteenth-century choir-screens), is
of quite a different order, although even in
[218]
this case it can not be strictly described as
undercut: it is more nearly akin to pierced
fretwork. It has, however, all the general
effect of undercut work, and is the only
possible way of obtaining this effect in
wood where a large quantity of such
ornament is required. The face of such
carving is generally a little convex, while
the back is hollowed out to give an equal
thickness of section. The ornaments in
Figs. 75, 76, and 77 are of this description,
and are calculated to give great play
of light and shade, and be seen well at a
considerable distance.

Undercutting in the strict and more
laborious sense must be reserved for occasions
where the labor is repaid by the
additional charm. It must be considered
in the light of a tour de force, which, on
account of its cost in the matter of time,
should only be used under exceptional circumstances,
care being taken to make it
clear that it is an exception to the general
rule of solid carving on a solid background.
[219]

CHAPTER XXIII

PICTURE SUBJECTS AND PERSPECTIVE

Those vague and shadowy boundaries
which separate the domains of the different
arts are being perpetually called in
question. By what landmarks such indefinite
frontiers may be distinguished,
and how far they may be extended or
transgressed, will always be a matter of
dispute. Excursions of conquest are continually
being made, and conspicuous
among these, one which animates the
hopes of many sculptors and modelers.
Its aim is the appropriation of those
charms which are the peculiar property of
the graphic arts, more especially their
power of expressing the effects of distance
by means of linear and aerial perspective.

The background of a piece of carving is
so obviously solid and impenetrable that
any attempt to imitate an appearance of
distance is sure to defeat its own ends, the
[220]
loss being greater than the gain. If there
are limits to be observed in the foreshortening
of a single leaf, how much
more must they apply to the representation
of whole landscapes? Properly
speaking, there is no distance available in
the carver’s art; its whole interest lies
near the surface, and in the direct rays of
the light which illuminates it. There is
even a distinct pleasure to be derived from
the sense that it is all carved out of a
block of such and such thickness, pointing
to the reasonable conclusion that this
thickness should never be lost sight of,
the carving ever and anon returning to the
surface as a measure of music does to its
key-note. This is exemplified in all the
great works of antiquity, among which
the Parthenon frieze may be quoted as
evidence. On the other hand, all pictorial
sculpture, such as carved landscapes with
figures diminishing both in scale and projection,
necessarily fail to uphold this sense
of solidity, as there must occur large spaces
which are hollowed out far below the
surface to give another plane on which
to carve the more distant objects in low
relief, in the vain hope of making them
appear to recede. Work in which perspective
[221]
of this kind is used must be
viewed as nearly as possible from the point
of vision produced by its vanishing-lines;
this point is intelligible enough in the case
of a painting, but when it comes to be
carved into relief, if it happens to be seen
from any other point of view, it necessarily
looks all wrong, because every part
is thrown into false relationship.

All this, of course, forms no argument
against the use of explanatory landscapes
with trees, buildings, etc. It only means
that all such features must be treated in a
way entirely different to that adopted by
the painter—that is to say, in detached
groups, each having some due relation to
the original surface of the wood, and only
very little to their perspective positions.
In Fig. 74 are two diagrams of a landscape
composition. The one is appropriate
to a painted picture and the other
to carving; both have pretty nearly the
same number of features, except that
in the carving there is no effect of distance
attempted, whereas in the painting
everything leads to this one particular
distinction. The road goes into the
picture, the bridge is seen end on, the
house and mill are diminished in size, and
[223]
the horizon is strongly enforced by a
shadow echoed in the sky. The carving
looks ridiculous beside the painting, but it
is a severe test, as it is not a subject which
should be carved at all in that condensed
way.

Fig. 74.

CHAPTER XXIV

ARCHITECTURAL CARVING

That the study of wood-carving should
be confined to the narrow field of its own
performances would be the surest way to
bring contempt upon an art which already
offers too many temptations for the easy
embodiment of puerile motives. Such a
limited range would exclude all the stimulating
lessons to be derived from the many
other kinds of carving and sculpture; forgetful
that they are, after all, but different
forms of the same art, differing only in
technique and application. It would take
no note of the stately sculptures of
[224]
Greece—the fountain-head of all that is
technically and artistically perfect in expression
of form—or of the splendor of
imagination displayed in the ivories of
Italy. Many another source of inspiring
impetus would be neglected, including the
greatest of all, the influence of architecture,
and through it, the dignified association
or the carver’s art with all that is noble
in the life of mankind.

The dry and uninviting aspect which a
serious study of architecture presents to
some minds is such that it is too often
avoided as both useless and wearisome.
Much of this diffidence is due to a misconception
of the aims which should
govern the student of decorative design in
making an acquaintance with its principles.
The study should not be looked upon as
pertaining exclusively to the functions of
an architect, nor as having only an accidental
connection with particular crafts.
It must be remembered that in the old
days mason and carpenter were both craftsmen
and architects, and the sculptor and
wood-carver had an equal share in creating
every feature which gives any distinction
of style to the buildings that were the
outcome of their united efforts. So, instead
[225]
of looking upon the subject as only
a study of dates for the antiquary, and
rules of construction for the architect, the
carver should take his own view, and regard
architecture for the time being as
what in some sense it really is: a very
large kind of carving, which includes and
gives reason for his own particular branch.
The importance of the subject is proved
by the experience of centuries; history
showing plainly how the two arts grew in
strength and beauty only when closely
associated, and shared each other’s fate in
proportion to their estrangement.

In this place I can say but very little
upon such a vast subject; all I can do is
to call your attention to one or two
examples of carved work combined with
structural carpentry, in order that you may
see for yourselves what a power of effect
lies in that union, and how by contrast it
enhances the value and interest of both.
I do this in the hope that it may possibly
lead you to a more complete study of
architecture, for which there is no lack of
opportunity in books and museums, but
more especially in what remains of the old
buildings themselves, with which a familiar
and personal acquaintance will be much
[226]
better than a theoretical or second-hand
one.

No carver with a healthy ambition can
long continue to make designs and produce
them in wood without feeling intensely
the want of some architectural
occasion for his efforts. Had he only a
barge-board to carve, or the canopy of a
porch, it would be such a relief to turn to
its large and general treatment after a
course of the panels and ornaments
peculiar to domestic furniture. Look,
for instance, at the carved beams of the
aisle roof in Mildenhall Church given in
Plate III, and think what a fund of powerful
suggestion lay in the bare timbers before
they were embellished by the carver
with lion, dragon, and knight. Even the
carpenter became inspired with a desire to
make something ornamental of his own
department, and has shaped and carved
(literally carved) his timbers into graceful
moldings. Then, again, in the roof of
Sall Church, Norfolk, shown in Plate IV,
you have a noble piece of carpentry which
is as much the work of an artist as the
carved figures and tracery which adorn it—indeed
it is all just as truly carved
work as those figures, being chopped out
[227]
of the solid oak with larger tools, ax and
adze, so that one knows not which to admire
most, carved angels or carved carpentry.

Plates XI and XII are details of the
carvings which fill the spandrels of arch
and gable in the choir stalls and screen at
Winchester Cathedral. There are a great
many of these panels similar in character
but differing in design, some having figures,
birds, or dragons worked among the foliage.
They are comparatively shallow in
relief, and this appears less than it really
is owing to the fact that many parts of the
carving dip down almost to the background,
giving definite but not deep
shadows. The main intention seems to
have been to allow only enough shadow
to secure the pattern, and then to emphasize
this by means of a multitude of little
illuminated masses. The leading lines run
through the pattern as continuously as
possible, but the surface of the leafage is
divided up into numbers of little hills and
hollows. The sides of these prominences
catch and reflect light more readily than
they produce shadow, so that it is possible
to trace the pattern at a considerable distance
by means of the lights alone. Unfortunately
[228]
for all believers in the historical
evidence of ancient handicrafts, this work
was overhauled some half century ago,
and in parts “restored.” The old work
has been imitated in the new with surprising
cleverness, but for that, no one
who has a clear sense of the true function
of the carver’s art, or of the historical
value of its witness to past modes of life,
will thank those who carried out the “restoration,”
so confusing is it to be unable
to distinguish at a glance the old from the
new, so depressing to find such laborious
efforts wasted in pleasing a childish desire
for uniformity of treatment when it could
only be achieved at the cost of deception,
and, I may add, so irritating to find oneself
for a moment deceived into accepting one
of the “restored” parts as genuine old
work. To add to the deception, the
whole of the old woodwork, as well as the
new, was smeared over with a black stain
in order the better to hide the difference
of color in old and new wood, thus
forever destroying its soft and natural
color, as well as the texture of its surface,
so dear to the wood-carver.

The fifteenth century in England was
a period of great activity among wood-carvers,
[229]
and many beautiful choir-screens
were added about this time to the existing
churches, all in the traditional Gothic
manner, as the Renaissance influence was
a full century at work in other countries
before its power began seriously to affect
the national style. The West of England
(Somerset and Devon in particular) is
rich in the remains of this late Gothic
carving, some details of which are shown
in the accompanying illustrations, Figs.
75, 76, 77.

Fig. 75.

Fig. 76.

Fig. 77.

As a general rule the supporting carpentry
of these screens bears a strong
[230]
resemblance to stonework; so imitative
is it in treatment, that it is only by the
texture of the wood and its lightness of
construction that the distinction is made
evident. Now a certain degree of modified
imitation, where one craft models its
forms of design upon those of another,
using a different material, as in the case of
woodwork imitations of arches, tracery,
etc., is not only legitimate, but very
[232]
pleasing in its results. To attain this
end, the carpenter need only be true to
his own ideals—there is no occasion to
abandon the methods of his own craft
in order to copy the construction which
is peculiar to another. The resources
of carpentry offer an infinite field for
the invention of new and characteristic
forms, and these may be made all the
more attractive if they show, to some
extent, the influence of an associated
craft, but never fail to become wearisome
if essential character has been sacrificed for
the sake of an ingenious imitation. The
structural parts of some of these screens
are composed of elaborate imitations of
stone vaulting and tracery, so closely
copied as to be almost deceiving, therefore
they can not be taken as good examples
of suggestive opportunity for the wood-carver.

The carved work, on the other hand,
is marked by a strong craft character,
essentially woody both in design and execution.
The illustrations referred to are
typical examples of this kind of work, and,
although the execution can not be indicated,
they at least give the disposition of parts,
and some idea of the contrast obtained by
[233]
the use of alternate bands of ornament differing
in scale, or, as in some cases, the
agreeable monotony produced by a repetition
of almost similar designs, varied
slightly in execution.

Another prominent feature of church
woodwork, which developed about this
time into magnificent proportions, was
the font cover and canopy. Many of
these were, however, more like glorifications
of the carpenter’s genius for construction
than examples of the carver’s art,
as they were composed of a multitude
of tiny pinnacles and niches, the carver’s
work being confined to a repetition of
endless crockets, tracery, and separate
figures or groups. However, in Plate
XIII an example is given of what they
could do when working together on
a more equal footing; although much
mutilated, enough remains to show how
the one craft gains by being associated
with the other in a wholesome spirit of
rivalry.
[234]

CHAPTER XXV

SURFACE FINISH—TEXTURE

The term “texture” is sometimes applied
to the quality of finish which is characteristic
of good carving; it has a somewhat
misleading sound, which seems to
suggest that the final treatment of the
surface is the work of a separate operation.
However, it is a right enough
word, as the texture which wood-carvers
aim at is that of the wood in which they
are carving. One might naturally think
that this texture must necessarily appear
when the work was finished, but that is
not the case, as it is only rescued by the
most skilful use of the tools, and easily
disappears under the mismanagement of
clumsy or unsympathetic hands.

Texture in carving is in some respects
on a parallel with tone in painting—it
depends upon a right relation of many
qualities. As in the painting good tone
[235]
is the outcome of the combined effects
of truth in color and a right balance of
what are called the “values,” together with
decision in the handling of the brush, so in
carving, texture depends upon, first, having
a clear idea of what is being carved, and
making it clear to others; that if it be
round, hollow, or flat, it must be so indeed;
that edges and sharpnesses be really where
they were intended to be, and not lost in
woolly confusion. Then again, as with the
painter’s brush, the tool must be moved by
a hand which adapts itself to every changing
plane, to all manner of curves and contours,
with touches sometimes delicate and
deliberate, at others broad and sweeping,
or even, at times, brought down with the
weight and force of an ax-blow.

A good quality of finish may exist in
the most divergent kinds of work, each
having its own characteristic texture.
Thus a broad treatment on a large scale
will make much of the natural texture
of the wood, enforcing it by crisp edges
and subtle little ridges which catch the
light and recall the momentary passage
of the sharp tool, while elaborate work
in low relief may have a delicate texture
which partly imitates that of the details
[236]
of its subject, and partly displays the
nature of the wood. In either case, the
texture must be consciously aimed at by
the carver as the last but by no means
least quality which is to give vitality to the
work of his hands. A sense of the capabilities
of his wood in this respect is one of
the best aids to the carver, as it reacts on
his sense of form and compels him to precision.

Manual dexterity alone may succeed
in making its work clearly intelligible,
but that is all, and it generally leaves
a surface in which there is little indication
of any feeling for the material in
which the work is carved, nothing, in
fact, that marks it specially as carving in
wood, or distinguishes it from a casting in
metal.

The technical operation which is most
immediately answerable for the making
or marring of texture is the disposition
and nature of the final tool marks. These
should be so managed that they help the
eye to understand the forms. They should
explain rather than confuse the contours
of the surface. Just as in a good chalk
drawing the strokes and cross-hatchings
are put in with method, and if well done
[237]
produce the effect of something solid,
so in carving, the tool marks should
emphasize the drawing without in any way
calling attention to themselves.

It is quite impossible to explain in
words that will not be open to misconstruction
the subtle commingling of
qualities which make all the difference
between good and bad texture. We may
succeed better by describing those conditions
which are unfavorable to it. Thus
work which is very much cut up into minute
detail, and which lacks a proper contrast
of surface, or, for the same reason, work
which is too generally bald and smooth,
rarely exhibit a good surface texture.
Again, work which is overlabored, or
where delicate details have been attempted
on a coarse-grained wood, or finally, work
which, although done with success in the
matter of mechanical dexterity, is deficient
in feeling for its woody possibilities,
are all likely to fail in the matter of
texture.

Punch-marked backgrounds have undoubtedly
a legitimate place among the
expedients of the carver for obtaining
contrast, but on the whole, as such, they
are of a somewhat meretricious order, and
[238]
in almost every case their use is fatal to
the charm of fine texture, as this always
depends on an appreciation of the homogeneous
connection of carving and background.
If they are used at all they
should be made to form patterns on the
background, and not put down promiscuously.
Little gouge marks are still better,
as they are not so mechanical.

I shall conclude this part of my subject
with a quotation from the words of Mr.
W. Aumonier, in a lecture delivered at
the Royal Institute of British Architects.

“All carving to be treated according to
the position it is to occupy. Not only
the design, but the actual carving itself,
should be considered with a view to the
position it is to take and the light it will
receive. Thus, even if quite close to the
eye, where, of course, its position warrants
or demands a certain amount of finish, it
must be remembered that real finish rather
means perfection of form than smoothness
of surface, so that even there it should still
show its cuts and its tool marks fearlessly,
and be deepened in parts to make it tell its
proper tale in the combined scheme of
decoration; while if it is going a great
height or distance from the eye it should
[239]
be left as rough as ever you can leave it.
The only points that have to be regarded
are the outlines, varieties of planes, and
depths, and if these be properly considered
everything else will take care of itself, and
then the whole work can not be left too
rough. Its very roughness and choppy cuts
will give it a softness and quality when in
its place that no amount of smoothing or
high finish can possibly attain to.”

Beware of putting a wrong interpretation
upon the word “rough”—refer to
what he says of the points to be regarded,
i.e., the “varieties of planes, and depths.”
If they are right the “roughness” is not
likely to be of the offensive kind.

Nothing so effectually destroys the
quality of texture as polish applied to carving.
If furniture must be polished it should
not be carved. The only polish that improves
carving is that which comes of use.
On hard woods, such as oak or Italian walnut,
the pressure of the tools leaves a
pleasant polish, which is all that is necessary;
the most that should be allowed may
be given by a little burnishing with the handle
of the tool.
[240]

CHAPTER XXVI

CRAFT SCHOOLS, PAST AND PRESENT

The present revival of interest in the arts,
especially with regard to those of a decorative
kind, is based on the recently awakened
esthetic desires of a small section of the
general public, who owe their activity in
this direction to the influence of men like
John Ruskin and William Morris. The
first of these, by his magic insight, discerned
the true source of vitality which
lay in the traditions of medieval workmanship,
i.e., their intensely human character
and origin. His fiery words compelled
attention, and awakened a new enthusiasm
for all that betokens the direct
and inspiring influence of nature. They
raised the hope that this passion might in
some way provide a clue to the recovery of
a fitting form of expression.

William Morris, with no less power as a
[241]
craftsman, was the first to give practical
embodiment to this newly awakened impulse
by a modified return to the older
methods of production. His rare knowledge
of medieval history, and manly sympathy
with all that is generous in modern
life, made it impossible for him to become
a superficial imitator. His work is an example
of what may be achieved by a union
of high artistic instincts with a clear understanding
of the conditions of modern
life.

Cheering as is the present activity in
its encouragement of endeavor, the difficulties
of establishing anything like an
efficient system of education for the artist,
more especially the sculptor, or carver
artist, is only being gradually realized.
The difficulties are not so much academic
as practical. It is less a question of where
to study than one of knowing what direction
those studies should take. Before
any genuine development in the art can be
looked for, continuity of effort must be
established, and that in a single direction,
undisturbed as it is at present by differences
of public taste.

Opportunities for study are now afforded
to an extent never before dreamed of: in
[242]
books and schools, and in museums; but
division of opinion mars the authority of
the two first, while the last is confessedly
but a kind of catalogue, which may only
be read with profit by the light of considerable
experience.

A certain amount of success has undoubtedly
attended the progress of the
new system, but it must always be more
or less at a disadvantage; firstly, by reason
of its divided aims; secondly, because the
system is more theoretic than practical,
and is often based on the false assumption
that “design” may be learned without
attaining a mastery over technique, and
vice versa.

Until students become disillusioned on
this latter point, and are at the same time
permitted to follow their natural bent
with as little interference as possible from
the exigencies of public taste, uniformity of
aim will be impossible, and consequently
the system must remain artificial. It can
never, under any circumstances, entirely
replace that more natural one adopted by
our ancestors. How can its methods compare
for a moment with the spontaneous
and hearty interest that guided the tools
of those more happily placed craftsmen,
[243]
whose subjects lay around them, of daily
familiarity; whose artistic language was
ready to hand and without confusion,
affording an endless variety of expression
to every new and individual fancy. Many
of these craftsmen were, owing to their
invigorating surroundings, gifted with a
high poetic feeling for their art—a quality
which gives to their work a transcendent
value that no learning or manual cleverness
could supply. They acquired their
technical knowledge in genial connection
with equally gifted members of other
crafts, and in consequence expressed themselves
with corresponding and justly
proportioned skill in execution.

Conditions that can not be altered must
be endured while they last, but the first
step toward their improvement must be
made in gaining a knowledge of the facts
as they are. This will be the surest
foundation upon which to build all
individual effort in the future.

Who that has felt the embarrassing
doubts and contradictory impulses, peculiar
to modern study, can have failed to
look disconsolately away from his own
surroundings to those far-off times when
craft knowledge was acquired under circumstances
[244]
calculated to awaken the
brightest instincts of the artist? The
imaginary picture calls up the ancient
carver at his bench, cheerfully blocking
out images of leaves and animals in his
busy workshop, surrounded with the
sights and sounds of country life. His
open door frames a picture of the village
street, alive with scenes of neighborly
interest. From the mill-wheel comes
a monotonous music making pleasant
cadence to his own woody notes, or the
blacksmith’s hammer rings his cheery
counterpart in their companionable duet.

Short as is the distance between workshop
and home, it provides a world of
beauty and incident; suggesting to his
inventive mind the subjects suitable for
his work. Birds, beasts, and flowers are
as familiar to him as the tools with which
he works, or the scent and touch of the
solid oak he handles daily. There, among
the aromatic chips, he spends the long
working hours of a summer day; varied
by the occasional visits of a rather exacting
Father from the neighboring monastery;
or perhaps some idle and gossiping acquaintance
who looks in to hold a long
parley with his hand upon the latch.
[245]
Or it may be that the mind turns to
another carver, at work in one of the
many large colonies of craftsmen which
sprang up amid the forest of scaffolding
surrounding the slow and mysterious
growth of some noble cathedral. Here
all is organized activity—the best men
to be found in the country have been
banded together and commissioned to
do their best, for what seems, in modern
eyes, a ridiculously small rate of pay.
Some are well known and recommended;
others, as traveling artists, are seeking
change of experience and daily bread.
Foreigners are here, from France, Italy,
and the East. All have been placed
under the direction of competent masters
of their craft; men who have long since
served their apprenticeship to its mysteries,
and earned an honorable position in its
gilds.

Here the carver works in an atmosphere
of exhilarating emulation. Stone-carver
and wood-carver vie with each
other in producing work that will do
credit to their respective brotherhoods.
Painter and decorator are busy giving to
the work of their hands what must have
appeared to those concerned an aspect
[246]
of heavenly beauty; the most precious
materials not being considered too costly
for use in its adornment.

What an interchange of artistic experience!—interchange
between those of
similar craft from different countries, and
the stimulating or refining influence of
one craft upon another—sculptors, goldsmiths,
wood-carvers, and painters, all
uniting in a sympathetic agreement to
do their utmost for the high authorities
who brought them together; with a
common feeling of reverence, alike for
the religious traditions which formed the
motives of their work and the representatives
of that religion in the persons of
their employers.

What an endless variety of interruptions
must have been common! all of
a kind eminently calculated to stimulate
the imagination. Municipal functions,
religious festivals with their splendid
gatherings and processions, the exciting
events of political contest, often carried
to the point of actual combat, to say
nothing of the frequent Saint’s day holidays,
enjoyed by the craftsman in jovial
social intercourse. All and every scene
clothed in an outward dress of beauty,
[247]
ranging from the picturesque roughness
of the village inn to the magnificent
pageantry of a nobleman’s display, or
the majestic surroundings of an archi-episcopal
reception.

From dreams of the past with its many-sided
life and background of serious
beauty, we turn with feelings almost
bordering on despair to the possibilities of
the present. Not only has the modern
craftsman to master the technicalities of
his business, but he must become student
as well. No universally accepted form of
his art offers him a ready-made language;
he is left fatally free to choose style,
period, or nationality, from examples of
every conceivable kind of carving, in
museums, photographs, and buildings.
As proud but distracted heir to all, he
may cultivate any one of them, from
Chinese to the latest style of exhibition
art. For his studies he must travel half
a dozen miles before he can reach fields,
trees, and animals in anything like inspiring
conditions. He must find in
books and photographs the botanical
lineaments of foliage and flowers, of
which he mainly seeks to know the
wild life and free growth. With but
[248]
one short life allowed him in which to
make his poor effort in a single direction,
he must yet study the history of his
craft, compare styles, and endeavor with
all the help he can get to shape some
course for himself. Can he be assured
of selecting the right one, or out of the
multitude of counselors and contradictory
views, is there not a danger of taking a
false step? No wonder, if in the cloudy
obscurity of his doubts, he sometimes
feels a tired desire to abandon the problem
as too intricate to be resolved.
[249]

CHAPTER XXVII

ON THE IMPORTANCE OF COOPERATION
BETWEEN BUILDER AND CARVER

The prevailing architectural fashion of a
time or country, known as its style, has
generally been determined by the influence
of more advanced nations on those of a
ruder constitution; each modifying the
imported style to suit its own climatic
and social conditions, and imbuing it with
its own individual temperament. The
foreign idea was thus developed into a
distinct and national style, which in its
turn bore fruit, and was passed on as an
initiative for other nations and new styles.
[250]
The current of this influence, generally
speaking, trended from east to west as
though following the course of the sun,
upon whose light it depended for the
illumination of its beauties.

There are so many styles of architecture,
and consequently of carving, both in
wood and other materials, that a history of
such a subject would be a life study in
itself, and be quite barren of results
except those of a professional kind. It
would include the characteristics of carvings
from every country under the sun,
from the earliest times known. Engravings
on boars’ tusks found in prehistoric
caves, carvings on South Sea Island canoe
paddles, Peruvian monstrosities of terror,
the refined barbarity of India and China,
the enduring and monumental efforts
of Egyptian art, and a hundred others,
down to times and countries more within
reach. In fact, it would only be another
name for a history of mankind from the
beginning of the world.

Nothing could be better for the student’s
purpose than to begin his studies of history
at that point where the first indication of
the Gothic or medieval period of architecture
makes its appearance. For it was
[251]
from this great and revolutionary change
in the manner of building that all the
subsequent variety of style in carving as
well as building in medieval Europe took
its origin. The first rudiments of the
great school of art, which has been broadly
classified as having a “Gothic” origin,
began to make their appearance in Byzantium
some three or four centuries after
the birth of Christ. This city, said to
have been founded by a colony of Greek
emigrants, became the seat of Roman
government in their eastern empire, and
is now known as Constantinople: it contains
a noted example of ancient art in the
great church of St. Sophia. From the date
of the building of this church in the sixth
century A. D. to the beginning of the fifteenth
century in Italy, and about a
hundred years later, more or less, according
to distance from that center, we have
roughly the period during which the
“medieval” spirit ruled the arts of
Europe.

The work of this long period is distinguished
beyond all others by the varied
beauty and interest of its carvings, a
preeminence it owes in part to the strong
bias in this direction which was given
[252]
by its early founders, but still more
to the unbroken alliance maintained
between builders and carvers throughout
the entire period. An inherited
talent for sculpture, handed down, no
doubt, from their classical forefathers,
distinctly marks the commencement of
the era; but from that time until the appearance
of the “Renaissance” influence,
builder and carver are no longer conceivable
as being independent of each
other. Sculpture of one kind or another
not only played an important part in the
decoration of its buildings, but became a
necessary and integral element in every
architectural conception, be its importance
little or great. The masons designed
their structural features with a view to
the embellishments to follow from the
hand of the carver; they were in full
sympathy with the artistic intention of
the decoration, therefore their own ideas
were in complete conformity with those of
the sculptor, while even in some cases
they did this part of the work themselves.
The sculptors, restrained by the severe
laws of structural design, never transgressed
the due limits of their craft, or
became insistent upon the individuality of
[253]
their own work. Hence, throughout all
the successive changes of style brought
about by time and difference of country,
climate, or material, the art of carving
steadily progressed hand in hand with the
art of building. The changes were so
very gradual, and grew so naturally from
the conditions and requirements of social
life, that ample time was allowed for the
education of public feeling, which became
in this way identified with the inventive
progress of the craftsmen. As a happy
result, one aim and desire governed alike
builders, carvers, and people, and one
style at a time, enjoyed and understood by
all, was the wholesome regimen by which
the architectural appetite of the period
was sustained. Cathedral and cottage
differed only in their relative grades of
importance; each shared in due proportion
the advantages of an architectural style
common to all forms of building, and
adaptable in the highest degree to every
varying purpose of design, from the
simplest piece of walling, with the barest
indication of style, to the most elaborate
arrangement of masonry and carving which
could be devised to distinguish a stately
and important structure.
[254]

Time was, however, preparing a revolution
which was destined to sweep away
many old beliefs and established institutions,
and with them those familiar motives
and habits of thought, which had long
formed the bountiful source of medieval
inspiration and invention. The period between
the beginning of the fifteenth century
and the Reformation was like a fiery
furnace, in which the materials for a new
world were being prepared; it was no time
for the leisurely enjoyment of the pleasures
of art, which presupposes settled convictions
and imperceptible developments.

About this time many new forms of
intellectual activity began to engage the
minds of the more gifted. Speculative
philosophy, the opening fields of science,
the imaginative literature of the ancients;
these were among the subjects which,
while they enlarged the sphere of individual
thought, destroyed that social ideal
which had its roots in a common belief,
and with it, the secret source of all past
development in architecture. With the
deep-lying causes and far-reaching effects
of the unrest which disturbed this period,
we are not here concerned, beyond the
point where it touches our interest in
[255]
architecture and sculpture. That drastic
changes were in progress affecting the
popular regard for these arts is undeniable.
Educated and illiterate minds
became alike indifferent to the authority
of established religion—either they succumbed
to the tyranny of its powerful
but corrupt ministers, or stood out in open
rebellion against its disputed dogmas.
In either case, that architecture which
had formerly been regarded as the chief
symbol of united faith, shared the neglect
of one section or the abhorrence of the
other. That strong sense of beauty, once
the common possession of builders, sculptors,
and people, was now between the
upper and nether millstones of fate,
being ground into the fine dust which
has served for centuries as the principal
ingredient in the manufacture of an
endless succession of moral puddings
and pies, known in modern times as “art
criticism.”

To earnest minds in all classes at that
time, any enthusiasm for architectural
styles, old or new, must have appeared
as futile as an anxiety about appearances
while one’s house was burning.

To the art of this period the title
[256]
“Renaissance” has been foolishly applied.
When used in association with
the arts of architecture and sculpture, it
is essentially a misnomer. For these arts
it was merely a time of revival, not in
any sense one of rebirth, as the word
implies. In no way can this period
claim to have conferred vitality along
with the resuscitation of outward form.
The revival of a classical style in architectural
design, which began in the early
years of the fifteenth century, was the
sequel to a similar “revival” in the
study of Greek and Roman literature,
then occupying the interests of cultivated
scholars. It was but a step further to
desire also the realization of those architectural
splendors which were associated
with these studies. Such dilettante dreams
can not be supposed to have deeply interested
the general public, with whose
concerns they had but a remote connection;
so under these circumstances,
probably the classical style was as suitable
as any other, chosen on such narrow and
exclusive grounds. There was even a
certain fitness in it, a capability of much
expansion on theatrical and grandiose
lines. Its unbending demeanor toward
[257]
craft talent of the humbler kind at once
flattered the vanity of the cultured, and
cowed uneducated minds.

The Duomo at Florence was finished
early in that century, and was one of the
first buildings in which the new style
was adopted. In this case it was used
mainly in the completion of a building
already well advanced on lines based
upon the older traditions. The character
of its design, although not of a
strictly imitative kind, was distinctly based
on a classical ideal. Imitations followed,
mingling, as in the case of the Duomo,
Gothic and classic elements, often with
fine effect. It is quite possible to believe
that, had this intermarriage of the two
schools continued to bear fruit, some
vertebrate style might have resulted from
the union, partaking of the nature of both
parents; but the hope was of short duration.
Its architects, becoming enamored
by the quality of scientific precision, which
is the fundamental principle of classical
design, soon abandoned all pretense of
attempting to amalgamate the native and
imported styles. They gave themselves up
wholly to the congenial task of elaborating
a scholarly system of imitation; so that,
[258]
by the middle of the sixteenth century,
no trace whatever remained of native
feeling in the architecture of its important
buildings.

During the progress of this revolution
in style, the old medieval habits of
cooperation between master mason and
sculptor were slowly being exchanged for
a complete dependence upon a special
architect, who was not necessarily a craftsman
himself; but whose designs must
be carried out line for line with the most
rigid adherence to measurements.

For a moment in history, the rival
spirits of the two great schools of architecture
stand face to face like opposing
ideals. The classical one, recalled from
the region of things past and forgotten,
again to play a part on earth with at
least the semblance of life; the Gothic
spirit, under notice to quit and betake
itself to that oblivion from which its
rival is reemerging.

In the heyday of their power, the first
had shown a distinctly autocratic bearing
toward its workmen; offering to its
sculptors of genius opportunities for the
exercise of highly trained powers, and
to the subordinate workmen only the
[259]
more or less mechanical task of repeating
a limited number of prescribed forms.
The other, a more genial spirit, had possessed
the largest toleration for rude or
untrained workmanship, provided that in
its expression the carver had a meaning
which would be generally understood
and appreciated. If skill could be commanded,
either of design or technique,
it was welcomed; but it gave no encouragement
to work which was either so
distinctive as to be independent of its
surroundings, or of a kind which could
have no other than a mechanical interest
in its execution. The abrupt contrasts,
the variety and mystery, characteristic
of Gothic architecture, had been a direct
and irresistible invitation to the carver,
and the freest playground for his fancy.
The formality of the classical design, on
the other hand, necessarily confined such
carving as it permitted to particular lines
and spaces, following a recognized rule;
and except in the case of bas-relief figure
subjects and detached statues, demanded
no separate interest in the carvings themselves,
further than the esthetic one of
relieving such lines and spaces as were
otherwise uncomfortably bare.
[260]

Some modification of this extreme arrogance
toward the decorative carver
was only to be expected in the revived
style, but the freedom allowed to the
individual carver turned out to be more
apparent than real. A new race of carvers
sprang up, imbued with the principles of
classical design; but being no longer in
touch with natural and popular interests,
nor stimulated by mutual cooperation
with their brother craftsmen, the mason
builders, they adopted the fashionable
mode of expression invented by the new
architects and the painters of the time.
Elaborate “arabesque” and other formal
designs gave employment to the carvers,
in making an infinite repetition of fiddles,
festoons, and ribbons, in the execution of
which they became so proficient, that their
work is more often admired for its exquisite
finish than for any intrinsic interest
in the subject or design.

Judged by its effects upon the art
of carving, without the aid of which a
national style of architecture is impossible,
the revival of classical architecture never
had a real and enduring life in it.
Strictly speaking, no organic style ever
grew out of its ambitious promises; the
[261]
nearest approach to such a thing is to
be found in those uncouth minglings of
Gothic tradition with fragments of classical
detail which distinguish much of the
domestic architecture during the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries. Amusing in
their quaint and often rich and effective
combinations, humanly interesting in proportion
to the predominance of the Gothic
element, association has grown up around
these homely records of a mixed influence,
until they have come to be regarded with
affection, if not with the highest admiration.

The “revival” brought nothing but
harm to the carver himself—that is, to
the carver who found it impossible to
reach the elevation of a sculptor of genius.
He sacrificed his own small but precious
talent as a creator of pleasant images
for the attainment of a finesse in the
execution of other people’s ideas. To
the “Renaissance” must be attributed
that fatal separation of the craftsman’s
function into the hands of designer and
executant which has so completely paralyzed
the living spirit of individual invention.
It has taken close upon four
centuries to open the eyes of our crafts
[262]men
to this inconsistency, and “revive”
the medieval truth that invention and
execution are strictly but one and the
same thing. Let us hope that the present
awakening to the importance of this fact
may yet lead to what will be truly worthy
of being called a “Renaissance”; not
merely of outward forms, but of that
creative energy which alone justifies the
true meaning of the word.

[265]

NOTES ON THE
COLLOTYPE PLATES

Plate I.—Old Carved Chest in York
Cathedral. The front of a chest of
almost similar design, only reversed, is
to be seen in South Kensington Museum,
which looks from its resemblance both
in design and technique to be the work
of the same carver, or at least to have
been done about the same time. Note
the absence of any attempt at elaborate
perspective, and the “decorative” aspect
of houses, rocks, trees, etc., also the
distinctive treatment of the Knight and
Princess who appear in the picture several
times, representing various incidents of
the story.

Plate II.—Figure from the Tomb of
Henry IV in Canterbury Cathedral. This
figure is one of the corner ornaments on
the canopy. The whole of the upper
structure is of wood, painted in colors
with parts picked out in gold.
[266]

Plate III.—Aisle Roof, Mildenhall
Church, Suffolk. This is one of the
many beautiful carved roofs which abound
in Norfolk and Suffolk. The nave roof
is enriched with carvings of angels with
wings outspread.

Plate IV.—Nave Roof, Sall Church,
Norfolk. This is another very beautiful
timber roof showing the union of
practical carpentry with carving to perfection.

Plate V.—Portion of a Carved Oak
Panel. The Sheepfold. The other part
is shown in Plate VI, as, owing to the
proportion of this panel and the necessity
for keeping the scale of the plates as
large as possible, it has been divided and
shown in two portions. It was begun
without any premeditated intention as
to use, the sloping end being the shape of
the board as it came into the author’s hands,
the other end being sloped off to match it.

Plate VI.—Portion of a Carved Oak
Panel. The Sheepfold. See description
of Plate V.
[267]

Plate VII.—Preliminary Drawing of a
Lion for Carving. This plate is, as explained
in the text, from a drawing by
Philip Webb, the well-known architect.
It was done by him to explain certain
facts about the pose of a lion when the
author was engaged in carving the book
covers which are shown in Plates VIII and
IX.

Plates VIII and IX.—Book-Covers
carved in English Oak. These were done
by the author for one of the “Kelmscott
Press” books, Tale of Troy, at the instance
of Mr. Cobden-Sanderson. The
relief is very slight, and is rather exaggerated
by the light and shade of the
photograph. The carved portion only of
these covers is shown, the size of which is
11-1/2 x 5-3/4 ins.

Plate X.—Book-Covers carved in English
Oak. These were done by the
author for Mr. F. S. Ellis’s translation
of Reynard the Fox. The size of the
carved part is 8-3/4 x 5-1/4 ins.

Plate XI.—Carvings from Winchester
Cathedral. This plate is from sketches
[268]
made by the author at Winchester Cathedral.
The upper one is a spandrel piece
from the traceried arcading of the stalls.
The lower one is a part of one of the
carved Miserere seats. The spandrel carving
is pierced; that is, has the ground cut
right through. The other piece is elaborately
undercut.

Plate XII.—Carving from Choir-Screen,
Winchester Cathedral. This plate is from
a sketch done for the purpose of noting
the general effect of a large mass of
carved foliage with particular reference
to the distribution of lighted surfaces in the
design.

Plate XIII.—Font Canopy, Trunch
Church, Norfolk. The plate gives the
upper portion only of this beautiful
canopy; it is supported upon six posts
richly carved on all sides, of which there
are five to each post. The height of the
whole canopy is about fifteen or sixteen
feet—it presumably dates somewhere
toward the end of the fourteenth century
or beginning of the fifteenth.

Plate XIV.—Designs for Carving, by
[269]

Philip Webb. This plate gives two
examples of designs for carving by Philip
Webb. The upper one is part of a richly
carved cornice which was done for a
chimney-piece; the carving was executed
by Mr. Laurence Turner, from whom
the author got his first lesson in wood-carving.
The other example is a design
on paper for carving to be done in oak.
This was carried out in the paneling
of the dining-room at Clouds House,
Salisbury, and looked exceedingly effective.
Much of the articulation on the
surface of the leaves, it will be noticed,
is got by sharp facets produced by the intersection
of gouge cuts.

Plate XV.—Leg of a Settle carved in
English Oak. This was begun by the
author as forming part of a large oak
seat or “settle,” but has never been
completed. The wood out of which
it is carved came out of an old house
at Tewkesbury and was full of cracks which
were filled up with slips of oak glued in and
carved over.

Plate XVI.—Pew Ends in Carved Oak,
Brent Church, Somersetshire. The three
[270]
bench ends shown in this plate are from
Brent Church, Somersetshire. Although
rude in execution, they are extremely
effective in design. The bounding form
of the molded edges and gracefully shaped
top are worth noticing; the whole evidently
the outcome of a nice and inherited sense of
design, without any particular technical
knowledge or experience. The termination
of the finials was unfortunately omitted
in the photograph, hence the abrupt line at
the top.

[271]

THE COLLOTYPE PLATES

[272]

I. Old Carved Chest in York Cathedral.

[275]

II.—Figure from the Tomb of Henry IV. in Canterbury
Cathedral.

[277]

III.—Aisle Roof—Mildenhall Church, Suffolk.

[279]

IV.—Nave Roof—Sall Church, Norfolk.

[282]

V.—Portion of a Carved Oak Panel—The
Sheepfold.

[285]

VI—Portion of a Carved Oak Panel—The
Sheepfold.

[286]

VII.—Preliminary Drawing of a Lion for Carving. By
Phillip Webb.

[289]

VIII.—Book Cover Carved in English Oak—”Tale
of Troy.”
(only carved portion shown.)

[288]

IX.—Book Cover Carved in English Oak—”Tale
of Troy.”
(only carved portion shown.)