Part 24 (1/2)
As for the rest of the books that were dragged out from the Spanish for ”storehouse” when ”The Four Hors.e.m.e.n” romped in winners, I can speak only as I would speak of ”The World's Most Famous Battles” or ”Heroines in Shakespeare.” I have looked them over. I gave ”Mare Nostrum” a great deal of my very valuable time because the advertis.e.m.e.nts spoke so highly of it. ”Woman Triumphant” took less time because I decided to stop earlier in the book. ”Blood and Sand” I pa.s.sed up, having once seen a Madrid bull-fight for myself, which may account for this nasty att.i.tude I have toward any Spanish product. I am told, however, that this is the best of them all.
It is remarkable that for a writer who seems to have left such an indelible imprint in the minds of the American people, whose works have been ranked with the greatest of all time and who received more publicity during one day of his visit here than Charles d.i.c.kens received during his whole sojourn in America, Senor Blasco and his works form a remarkably small part of the spontaneous literary conversation of the day. The characters which he has created have not taken any appreciable hold in the public imagination. Their names are never used as examples of anything. Who were some of his chief characters, by the way? What did they say that was worth remembering? What did they do that characters have not been doing for many generations? Did you ever hear anyone say, ”He talks like a character in Ibanez,” or ”This might have happened in one of Ibanez's books”?
Of course it is possible for a man to write a great book from which no one would quote. That is probably happening all the time. But it is because no one has read it. Here we have an author whose vogue in this country, according to statistics, is equal to that of any writer of novels in the world. And as soon as his publicity department stops functioning, I should like to lay a little bet that he will not be heard of again.
XLVI
ON BRICKLAYING
After a series of introspective accounts of the babyhood, childhood, adolescence and inevitably gloomy maturity of countless men and women, it is refres.h.i.+ng to turn to ”Bricklaying in Modern Practice,” by Stewart Scrimshaw. ”Heigh-ho!” one says. ”Back to normal again!”
For bricklaying is nothing if not normal, and Mr. Scrimshaw has given just enough of the romantic charm of artistic enthusiasm to make it positively fascinating.
”There was a time when man did not know how to lay bricks,” he says in his scholarly introductory chapter on ”The Ancient Art,” ”a time when he did not know how to make bricks. There was a time when fortresses and cathedrals were unknown, and churches and residences were not to be seen on the face of the earth. But today we see wonderful architecture, n.o.ble and glorious structures, magnificent skysc.r.a.pers and pretty home-like bungalows.”
To one who has been scouring Westchester County for the past two months looking at the structures which are being offered for sale as homes, ”pretty home-like bungalows” comes as _le mot juste_. They certainly are no more than pretty home-like.
One cannot read far in Mr. Scrimshaw's book without blus.h.i.+ng for the inadequacy of modern education. We are turned out of our schools as educated young men and women, and yet what college graduate here tonight can tell me when the first brick in America was made? Or even where it was made?... I thought not.
Well, it was made in New Haven in 1650. Mr. Scrimshaw does not say what it was made for, but a conjecture would be that it was the handiwork of Yale students for tactical use in the Harvard game. (Oh, I know that Yale wasn't running in 1650, but what difference does that make in an informal little article like this? It is getting so that a man can't make any statement at all without being caught up on it by some busybody or other.)
But let's get down to the art itself.
Mr. Scrimshaw's first bit of advice is very sound. ”The bricklayer should first take a keen glance at the scaffolding upon which he is to work, to see that there is nothing broken or dangerous connected with it.... This is essential, because more important than anything else to him is the preservation of his life and limb.”
Oh, Mr. Scrimshaw, how true that is! If I were a bricklayer I would devote practically my whole morning inspecting the scaffolding on which I was to work. Whatever else I s.h.i.+rked, I would put my whole heart and soul into this part of my task. Every rope should be tested, every board examined, and I doubt if even then I would go up on the scaffold. Any bricks that I could not lay with my feet on terra firma (there is a joke somewhere about terra cotta, but I'm busy now) could be laid by some one else.
But we don't seem to be getting ahead in our instruction in practical bricklaying. Well, all right, take this:
”Pressed bricks, which are b.u.t.tered, can be laid with a one-eighth-inch joint, although a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch is to be preferred.”
Joe, get this gentleman a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch, b.u.t.tered. Service, that's our motto!
It takes a book like this to make a man realize what he misses in his everyday life. For instance, who would think that right here in New York there were people who specialized in corbeling? Rain or s.h.i.+ne, hot or cold, you will find them corbeling around like Trojans. Or when they are not corbeling they may be toothing. (I too thought that this might be a misprint for ”teething,” but it is spelled ”toothing” throughout the book, so I guess that Mr. Scrimshaw knows what he is about.) Of all departments of bricklaying I should think that it would be more fun to tooth than to do anything else. But it must be tiring work. I suppose that many a bricklayer's wife has said to her neighbor, ”I am having a terrible time with my husband this week. He is toothing, and comes home so cross and irritable that nothing suits him.”
Another thing that a bricklayer has to be careful of, according to the author (and I have no reason to contest his warning), is the danger of stepping on spawls. If there is one word that I would leave with the young bricklayer about to enter his trade it is ”Beware of the spawls, my boy.” They are insidious, those spawls are. You think you are all right and then--pouf! Or maybe ”crash” would be a better descriptive word. Whatever noise is made by a spawl when stepped on is the one I want. Perhaps ”swawk” would do. I'll have to look up ”spawl” first, I guess.
Well, anyway, there you have practical bricklaying in a nutsh.e.l.l. Of course there are lots of other points in the book and some dandy pictures and it would pay you to read it. But in case you haven't time, just skim over this resume again and you will have the gist of it.