In some of our provincial towns along the coast, the open door and cheerful bow-window of the lapidary, generally situated in the best street, form a coup d’oeil which can hardly fail of enticing a visitor to look in once during his morning walk.

If he should do this, he will probably become aware, by a certain whirring sound, that there is an inner room which serves for a workshop. This latter I have always been partial to: but as the contents of the show-room are the most attractive, I will speak of them first, reserving to the end of the chapter a description of the lapidary’s wheel and other implements of his trade.

Let us suppose that we are in the pretty town of Sidmouth in South Devon. Somebody wishes for a jet bead to replace one missing from a bracelet, and we sally forth in quest of a jeweller’s shop, but come first upon that of his cousin the lapidary, which may probably do as well. Entering the doorway, a gigantic “snakestone” from Whitby, flanks the threshold on one side; and on the other a lump of iron ore, of some two hundred weight, keeps company with a quartz agate of equally cyclopean dimensions. These are striking objects: and instinctively we pause for a moment and consider whence they came. One of them has been washed out of the ribs of the conglomerate: another, after being dug from the bowels of the earth, was sent aloft by the miners as lumber: the third, once the shell of a living ammonite, must have lain for thousands of years in its cemetery of limestone rock, and was only disinterred when some northern contractor, reckless probably of fossil remains, but wide-awake to the actualities of his own generation, was excavating for a railway tunnel. Inland productions these, for the most part. But the threshold is only introductory: pass a few steps onward, and we shall handle substances which are as strictly marine as “crassicornis” or tangle.

The interior of the shop is fitted up with a massive semicircular dresser of elm or maple, some four feet in height, and perhaps half as many in width. This is heaped with specimens culled from various beaches, and several convenient shelves are similarly adorned; the polished stones lying in open trays, but set at an angle so as best to reflect the light. The eyeless head of a Saurian, a creature belonging to an extinct race, is suspended from the ceiling; and a stuffed cormorant, a well-known sea-bird of our own day, mounted on a rude tripod of fir-bough, fills the only spare niche in the apartment. But there is no study or affectation in all this: it is as genuine as the tent of shipwrecked Crusoe. The lapidary has from the first felt himself at home with Nature, and has found room for many of her devices and eccentricities, which he could not now bear to turn out of doors. Neither are we inclined to quarrel with him about his arrangements, though his shop exhibits nothing which will remind us of a frontage in Pall Mall or Bond Street. Moreover, when we look a little closer, he is not such a mere dreamer after all. Commerce has not been forgotten, nor is a certain kind of elegance lacking. Those well-washed panes of crown-glass are decorated with wisps of dried sea-weed more delicate than ostrich-feathers, and which serve the purpose of a hygrometer. And, interspersed with these, are sundry nuggets of amber, bones of the cuttle-fish for your pounce-box, and a string of veritable jet-beads: from which latter we at once select our purchase.

But we are now standing before the central counter, and our attention is drawn to the curious and beautiful fossils which lie upon it. We take up one to which the late Dr. Mantell kindly gave the name of a “choanite.” In doing this, he not only adopted a foundling, but conferred endless benefit upon the lapidaries. Nothing will sell in this country without a name: the appellation chosen by the Doctor was judged suitable, and a large and increasing sale of the fossil has followed upon it. This one is of a portly size; and the lapidary, after slicing it in two, has polished one of the flat surfaces. The internal structure revealed by this section is not unlike the corolla of a daisy, and at once reminds us of the living zoophyte called “actinia bellis.” Choanite means “funnel-body:” and the creature which lies here petrified must, when alive, have been globular or pyriform, with many tubular arms branching out from one central trunk.

The petrifaction has been faithful to its prototype: the several tubes being now charged with limestone, and the space between them, once a gelatinous substance, still retaining that appearance in a medium of semi-pellucid chalcedony.

By the side of the choanite is another fossil, which we now call an “alcyonite:” the learned name of the nearest living species being “alcyonium digitatum.” It is known in the Isle of Wight as “deadman’s fingers.” Despite the above unpleasing nickname, this is a most beautiful fossil. Its outer form resembles that of a branching ice-plant: while a polished section of one of the stems shows filaments all lying in the direction of the axis, and exhibiting in their cut ends an effect not unlike that of the granulations in a slice from a fresh cucumber. When the pith, as sometimes happens, is particoloured, I do not know a more desirable stone for the cabinet.

Fine specimens of this are now very scarce.

Another of these alcyonites has been polished all round, instead of dividing it: and the pebble being translucent, one can almost count the fibres or tubes disposed lengthwise.

Then we have a zoophyte, not injected as are the choanites, but preserved bodily, in delicate gray flint. It is an undoubted “actinia:” in every respect the same with those pulpy individuals who are displaying their jelly-like bodies and floral hues in many a household aquarium. This creature once floated up and down in shallow marine pools, or clung to banks of ribbon-weed fringing the coast-skerries. At present, himself of stone, he is firmly wedged in a hollow within a large pebble, and reminds us of the words of a pretty song:—

Several silicified sponges may next be examined. These are not exactly beautiful, but they are curiously intricate; the once elastic tubes having stiffened into “silex” of a light brown colour, and a horizontal section displaying their fine reticulations.

A step further, and what is that handsome stone? It is a block of Devonian jasper: scarcely so hard as the Egyptian, but more attractive, owing to the richness of its hues. It is striated with veins of agate, and here and there “shot” with a dark metallic “moss” of the colour of bloodstone. As a set off to this, the lapidary has arranged with true taste some quaint pieces of conglomerate, in which the nodules of chalcedony or crystals of quartz have taken a high polish, and are agreeably relieved by streaks of red jasper and blotches of yellow limestone.

Another part of the board exhibits a score of the well-known “echini,” which children call “sea-eggs.” These embrace two varieties, “spatangus” and “cor anguinum;” or, in the vernacular dialect, “fairy-loaves” and “fairy-hearts.” A third form of the Spatangus kind, but with a pointed cusp, is called “Galerites albogalerus.” A few are chalcedonized: in others, a bright spar has filled up the interior of the hollow conical shell.

A small open tray of twisted card contains several bits of carnelian, and a true bloodstone from the Yorkshire coast: while on a strip of canvas as a lit de repos, lie a cray-fish and some belemnites from the Gault formation of the Wight, hemmed round by lustrous sharks’ teeth: the latter now hardened into stone, and proclaiming by their isolated condition that the jaws in which they once grew were cartilaginous, and have therefore perished.

Thus the store of the lapidary comprises two main divisions, stones organic and inorganic, of the past history of the latter we know little; and can only judge by surmise, upon approved geological principles. In the former, there occur plain indications that we are not handling either an accidental “lusus” or an embryo; but that the structure here perpetuated was once endowed with life, and belonged to a creature having its assigned place in the scale of animated being.

Let any one fill a drawer with such specimens gathered by himself: and, omitting the question of mere marketable value, what jeweller’s counter can compare with it for real interest? The oriental gems, though they gleam as if “all air and fire,” are but dead crystals, and have never stood higher than they stand now: whereas these pretty fossils from our wave-beaten coast tell each a wondrous tale, and form a kind of tangible link between the zoophyte of to-day and his far-removed ancestry in the earliest seas which washed the surface of our globe.

But let us now look into the back-parlour, where all the cutting and polishing takes place. A peep behind the scenes is generally instructive.

The first time I ever entered such a “sanctum,” I remained there nearly an hour; asking questions, you may be sure.

The lapidary works by means of wheels. These wheels are instruments for sawing and filing the stones which come under his hand: he has nothing to add to them, but a good deal to take away from them. When any one divides an orange with a sharp knife equatorially, he treats it as a choanite is treated in the simplest case: but the principle is somewhat different. The knife may cut the first as smooth as cheese, owing to the superior hardness of the steel and the compressibility of the fruit: but no instrument that man can invent will ever do this with a substance like flint or jasper. All that the wheel can do is to act like a saw, and to take out from the centre of the pebble, in the shape of saw-dust, a section equal in thickness to the wheel itself. If this be effected, and no more, then that part of the work is perfectly done: and this is not effected, without some fault, once in a dozen times, unless the workman be both skilful and attentive. The usual fault is, that the plane of section is not kept perfectly horizontal.

But let us now see how the wheels act. There must always be two of them: one which is to cut by its edge, and another which is to polish by its surface. But the lapidary is generally provided with several of both kinds; partly in case of accident, partly on account of variety in the texture of the pebbles brought to him. Each wheel is fixed upon an axis of its own, of perhaps a cubit’s length. And this portable axis is bevelled as a screw, for some inches, at the other end, so that it can be screwed at pleasure into a solid revolving spindle planted upright in the floor of the workshop. The spindle itself may either be worked by a leathern strap and a treddle; or, as is more usual, by a winch-handle acting at a mechanical advantage.

The horizontal wheel being made to spin round by turning the winch with one hand, the workman grasps the pebble firmly in the other, and presses it against the edge of the disk, which revolving in a horizontal plane acts like a saw. A pencil-line may first be drawn on the stone, to mark out the intended section.

But this is not all. A dry wheel, although it were formed of the finest steel, could barely scratch the surface of an agate: or, if great force were exerted at the winch, would splinter it. The lapidary has need of diamond-powder, emery, and rotten-stone. He makes use also of a peculiar kind of oil, and has a jar of water within reach for ordinary purposes. The oil is called “brick-oil.” It comes from coal-tar, and does not heat by friction, as common oil would: consequently, it neither burns the operator’s fingers, nor injures his specimens by causing the wheel to glow too fiercely. Of the above materials, the most expensive is the diamond. Although obtained by crushing “bort,” of little intrinsic value, it never costs the lapidary less than twenty-five shillings per carat; and he can do nothing without it. Emery, on the other hand, which is a coarse variety of corundum, is cheap enough.

The first wheel put on the spindle is an extremely thin one, it can scarcely be too thin, and is made of tin or of the softest steel. Its disk should lie exactly level in the plane of the horizon, and it must not have the shadow of a notch or bend upon its delicate edge. This wheel the lapidary wets, along its entire rim, with oil or water, by means of a feather. A small portion of the diamond, ready mixed with oil, is then applied to the edge of the wheel, the latter being made to revolve gently, until it has taken up the mixture from his finger.

The wheel thus primed is now set in motion, at first slowly, but by degrees more rapidly, and the pebble being steadily pressed, not pushed, against it, the diamond eats into the metal, and the metallic edge armed with an adamantine tooth eats into the solid stone, and at length saws it asunder.

In this way an agate of a couple of inches diameter, and of average hardness, will be neatly divided in less than a quarter of an hour.

The two surfaces thus obtained are then inspected, and if the stone be judged worthy, the lapidary proceeds to polish either or both of them. There is always some difference between the two, a slice having been taken out of the pebble answering to the thickness of the wheel; hence the importance of using a delicate disk, especially for valuable agates.

To accomplish the polishing, the thin wheel of steel is now exchanged for a much thicker one of lead, which takes its place upon the spindle. It is no longer the edge, but the ribbed upper surface which is now to do the work; and to charge it for this, it is smeared over with rotten-stone dipped in water. This heavy wheel is then set spinning at a rapid rate, and the pebble is pressed flat upon it with great force; the heavier the hand the better. As it slidders about, the action of the rotten-stone, which is very fine in the grain, gives it by degrees a high polish. And this polish is durable, and will preserve the agate from the corroding effect of our atmosphere.

Less than the above will not dress a pebble for the cabinet. Occasionally, much more is needed. For a very fine jasper I have seen two or three polishing wheels employed, the last disk being always loaded with soft rotten-stone.

As to the expense, it will cost from sixpence to ninepence to cut a small pebble through; and to polish one surface, perhaps as much more. This is supposing that you take your specimens direct to a working lapidary. If, instead of doing so, you leave them at a jeweller’s shop with directions to get them done, you may expect to be charged fully twice as much. Nor is this so unreasonable as it sounds; for the man so deputed acts as your servant and will look to be paid for his trouble: he must have recourse to the lapidary, and you might at once have done so yourself.

To dress a large pebble, especially if a difficult stone in the grain, is a more costly affair. It demands many consecutive hours of labour and unremitting attention, and involves a perceptible outlay in diamond. Moreover, the weight of such a stone causes, by its vis inertiÆ, a severe strain on the machinery, which then fares like an engine drawing a monster-train up the inclined plane. This wear and tear of the wheels is so serious a consideration in provincial towns, where the supply of “plant” is limited, that few lapidaries out of London will undertake, for any reasonable sum, to dress the agates and close-grained jaspers when they run large.

One of my jaspers, a Devonshire beauty, took eight hours of cutting and polishing in Clerkenwell; and even this was a trifle compared to some of which I have heard tell. Certain substances again are intrinsically teasing to the wheel. There is a class of jaspery flints which have a dodge or twist in their texture; the lapidary abhors these visitors, and will not meddle with them, if he knows it, without bargaining for extra pay.

I have a great pleasure in seeing fine pebbles of my own polished. You can stop the wheel every now and then, and watch how the stone gets on. When the chiaroscuro begins to come out on the coloured pattern, the effect is like that produced by holding some lively object before a mirror. The surface no longer appears flat; but you obtain aËrial perspective, as in a good painting.

It were vain to deny that the lapidary’s acquaintance might in time prove an expensive amusement; for pebble-hunting is a hobby, and like all hobbies is liable to be over-ridden. But experience begets caution. For a score of stones which a tyro will leave on the board to be cut, a connoisseur will not venture above two or three.

Beginners, however, always run some risk, being naturally enthusiastic; and the best way for them is to lay down a few sound rules, and to adhere to these strictly. One good maxim is, to pay for all work upon the spot. Even an enthusiast will soon grow weary of parting with ready money for mere trash.

Some persons set up a wheel, &c., of their own, and operate upon their treasure at home. I do not recommend this course to any one, unless he were the son of a lapidary, as Achilles was “son of Peleus,” and intend to devote himself to the occupation. For most amateurs it will be found difficult. It is five to one that a young hand signalizes his apprenticeship by spoiling his best agates, cutting his fingers, and damaging his machinery. The only advantage, as far as I know, which such a plan may possess, is that you might try some curious experiments in working at odd pebbles.

A lapidary’s implements, if complete as they ought to be, will cost him from seven to ten pounds. About five pounds’ worth of diamond is a very good commencing stock. Five pounds more will fit up his shop with a counter and drawers to lock, and his work-room with a table, stool, hammers, a few cloths, and a good lens. This is all that he requires, besides knowledge and patience.

Suppose the entire outlay should amount to twenty pounds; in a good watering-place, on the south coast of England, he ought to make from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, without doing any night-work. But by day he must not spare hands nor eyes: and he cannot afford to make any serious mistakes with his customers. If he cuts a fine choanite the wrong way, or mutilates a rare alcyonite, or robs a promising “landscape-pebble” of its pellucid sky, it is well-nigh over with his professional reputation; and that once gone, he will get little custom of value. When I was last in Ventnor, the sea had thrown up some singularly fine pebbles for several successive tides. Three working lapidaries rented houses in the town; but all the more valuable orders went to one of them. This man knew admirably well how to handle almost any stone which was brought to him; while his two brethren in the craft, though both of them hard-working men, were comparatively ignorant. They were like quack-doctors, and he was a learned professor.