Of the early history of this manufacture it may be sufficient to state that until the early part of the seventeenth century, at which time Edward Gunter invented the line of logarithms graduated upon a sliding scale, which solves problems instrumentally in the same manner as logarithms do arithmetically, the trade never assumed sufficient importance to cause it to be followed by persons who had no other occupation, and to make it worthy of being designated a craft.
Up to that time the best measures had been made by the mathematical instrument makers; but this ingenious invention of Gunter, by reason of its universal applicability to measuring purposes, called into existence another class of workmen, superior to those who had hitherto chiefly made the notched sticks similar to those used in many rural districts at the present day, but still somewhat distinct from the opticians and makers of such instruments as quadrants, sextants, and the finer kind of optical and mathematical instruments. The first men who were worthy of the name of rule-makers were to be found only in London; but after a time the trade gradually extended itself to Wolverhampton and Birmingham. (more…)
During every class I teach where we pick up a saw, a students always asks the following question: Why is your sawblade narrower at the toe?
This characteristic of some backsaws is curious at first to the modern eye. Many of the backsaws from the 19th and 20th centuries have blades that are perfect rectangles. And yet many old saws have blades that are narrower at the toe than they are at the heel.
Modern sawmakers who do this have different names for this feature. Lie-Nielsen Toolworks says the blades are “tapered,” which can be confusing because sawblades can also be tapered in their thickness. Gramercy Tools says their saws are “canted,” which is confusing because I don’t exactly know what that word means at first glance.
In any case, it means the blades are narrower at the toe. Many old saws have this shape. The question, however, is why.
Some woodworkers say that vintage blades are tapered or canted because of poor sharpening or because the blade has come loose from its back and has slid down. While both of these things are quite possible, my opinion is that the feature is very desirable and was commonly known among early sawmakers.
If you look at early catalog drawings of saws, the blades would have a tapered or canted shape. The most famous example is the page of saws in “Smith’s Key.” (I first wrote about the features of these saws seven years ago in this blog entry.)
So why were the saws tapered or canted? My opinion: It makes for a better saw.
Saws that are narrower at the toe have the following working characteristics.
1. The saw is lighter at the toe because there is less steel there.
2. On a related note, removing that steel shifts the center of gravity of the tool back a bit, making it feel lighter.
3. When you push these saws forward, every tooth is followed by a tooth that is a little lower. The saw feels more aggressive (to me, at least).
4. Most importantly: When you are sawing dovetails or any other joint, the canted or tapered blade allows you to saw to your baseline on the front side of the work and still be shy of the baseline on the backside of the work. Then you can look over the work and finish the job.
I love canted/tapered blades. I prefer them in all instances and for all of my joinery saws. Whether you buy into the historical argument or not is immaterial. Today we have a choice when we buy saws: tapered/canted or not tapered/canted.
I think the tapered/canted blades are clearly an improvement.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. I’m not recommending you throw away your non-tapered/canted blades. Quite the opposite. You can easily joint the teeth of your saws so the blade is canted/tapered. Just take more jointing strokes with the file at the toe of the blade. Then file the saw normally. After a few sharpenings your blade will be tapered like an old saw. Then you can file the toothline normally during sharpenings.
My little Dutch tool chest has seen a metric crap-load of miles (or kilometers or hogsheads) during the last 12 months. And wherever I take it, I like to pick up a sticker from a local gas station or convenience store to apply to the chest.
The stickers are not to reinforce the joinery. Promise.
Today, the president of the Kansas City Woodworkers Guild gave me the coolest stickers yet. Rob Young gets to spend some of his working life in Antarctica and brought back a sticker for the South Pole Station, plus a sticker that indicates you shouldn’t freeze whatever is in the package (it could be a well-dressed live penguin).
I can’t wait to add these stickers to the chest. Even though I haven’t been to the South Pole, and I have little prospect of teaching there (I hear there aren’t many trees. Yet), I love the stickers.
This year I hope to get stickers from Alaska, Alabama and England – three of the foreign lands in which I’ll be teaching in during 2014. (Sorry Alabama. I’m from Arkansas and you know that we’re constitutionally obligated to make jokes about you because… uh, we’re Arkansas.)
The present demand for hard-wood finish for the interior of dwellings in what might be called cabinet-work style, is tending to displace the ordinary house joiners, and to put in their places men who heretofore have been simply cabinet makers. The style of finish in vogue necessitates the employment of workmen of the greatest skill. Ordinary carpenters, or even joiners of moderate skill, stand very poor chances of turning out satisfactory work where every joint must be invisible, and where neither paint nor putty is allowable.
This demand for house finishing has taken many men from the regular cabinet-making shops into those shops which also engage in house work. At present the pay is better upon house finishing than upon regular shop work, while the additional advantage of being more certain of steady employment in those shops which conduct both branches of the business than in those which carry on but one, takes many men away from the latter. (more…)
Just like woodworking, publishing is a fractal. You can get lost in the tiniest of details inside of details. And when I say “lost,” I mean the good kind of lost. Like this.
Most of my career has been on the newspaper and magazine side of publishing, where the level of detail work isn’t (and cannot be) in the same league as a designer such as Wesley Tanner, who designed “To Make as Perfectly as Possible: Roubo on Marquetry.” But I’m coming around.
Today I flushed out some rough ideas for the cover of “Campaign Furniture.” These are rough. And did I mention they were not smooth? Rough. The idea is to make the cover look like the top of a traveling chest or trunk. Corner guards are placed at the corners and there is something in the center – either an Anglo-Indian pull or a plate with curved corners and the title of the book.
Yes, I might add screws to the pull or plate. Or I might not muck it up with too much detail. Everything is hand-drawn, which will work nicely with the dies that do the debossing on the cover.
I’ve also been sorting through all the color choices that are possible with this cover. Right now I’m leaning toward a cotton cover that will be a color called “mudpie” – it’s a brownish-red and looks like a lot of the 19th-century British woodworking books on my shelf. The stamp will likely be something coppery or gold-ish. Maybe. Or black.
Or I’ll put a giant smiling narwhal on the cover that’s pooping rainbows.
Of the early history of this manufacture it may be sufficient to state that until the early part of the seventeenth century, at which time Edward Gunter invented the line of logarithms graduated upon a sliding scale, which solves problems instrumentally in the same manner as logarithms do arithmetically, the trade never assumed sufficient importance to cause it to be followed by persons who had no other occupation, and to make it worthy of being designated a craft.
