This was
satisfactory as far as it went, of course, but it was not pottery. He
couldn't boil his joint for dinner in coco-nut or skull; he had to do it
with stone pot-boilers, in a rude kettle of puddled clay.
But at last one day, that inspired barbarian, the first potter, hit by
accident upon his grand discovery. He had carried some water in a big
calabash--the hard shell of a tropical fruit whose pulpy centre can be
easily scooped out--and a happy thought suddenly struck him: why not put
the calabash to boil upon the fire with a little clay smeared outside
it? The savage is conservative, but he loves to save trouble. He tried
the experiment, and it succeeded admirably. The water boiled, and the
calabash was not burnt or broken. Our nameless philosopher took the
primitive vessel off the fire with a forked branch and looked at it
critically with the delighted eyes of a first inventor. A wonderful
change had suddenly come over it. He had blundered accidentally upon the
art of pottery. For what is this that has happened to the clay? It went
in soft, brown, and muddy; it has come out hard, red, and stone-like.
The first potter ruminated and wondered. He didn't fully realise, no
doubt, what he had actually done; but he knew he had invented a means by
which you could put a calabash upon a fire and keep it there without
burning or bursting. That, after all, was at least something.
All this, you say (which, in effect, is Dr.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384