In Quest of the Perfect Book

CHAPTER III

THE KINGDOM OF BOOKS

A paraphrase of, “Would that mine adversary had written a book,” might well be, “Would that mine enemy had printed a book”; for the building of books has always yielded smaller financial returns for the given amount of labor and ability than is offered in any other line of intelligent human effort.

“Are all the workmen in your establishment blank fools?” an irate publisher demanded of a printer after a particularly aggravating error.

“If they were not,” was the patient rejoinder, “they would not be engaged in making books!”

There is an intangible lure that keeps all those associated with the book under subjection. There is a mysterious fascination in being a party to the perpetuation of a human thought that yields something in addition to pecuniary returns. To the author, the inestimable gratification of conveying a message to the world makes him forget the tedious hours of application required before that message can be adequately expressed. To the publisher, the satisfaction of offering the opportunity for occasional genius to come into its own more than balances the frequent disappointments. To the book architect, the privilege of supplying the vehicle for thought, and of creating the physical form of its expression, yields returns not altogether measurable in coin of the realm.

In 1891, during my apprenticeship at the old University Press, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, John Wilson, its famous head, permitted me to sit in at a conference with Eugene Field and his friend and admirer, Francis Wilson, the actor, booklover, and collector. The subject under discussion was the manufacture of a volume of Field’s poems, then called A New Book of Verses, which later became famous under the title of Second Book of Verse.

Field’s personal appearance made a deep impression that first time I saw him. I was then an undergraduate at Harvard, and this was a live author at close range! He entered the office with a peculiar, ambling walk; his clothes were ill-fitting, accentuating his long legs and arms; his hands were delicate, with tapering fingers, like a woman’s; his face was pallid; his eyes blue, with a curiously child-like expression. I remember my feeling of respect, tinged somewhat with awe, as I saw the pages of manuscript spread out upon the table, and listened eagerly to the three-cornered conversation.

Autograph Page of Eugene Field Manuscript

From Second Book of Verse, New York, 1892

In considering the manufacture of his book, Eugene Field had clearly defined ideas of the typographical effect he wished to gain; John Wilson possessed the technical knowledge that enabled him to translate those ideas into terms of type. The examination of the various faces of type, the consideration of the proportions of the page, the selection of the paper, the plan for the design of the cover and the binding,—all came into the discussion.

As I listened, I was conscious of receiving new impressions which gave me a fuller but still incomplete understanding. Until that moment I had found little of interest in the adventure of making books. Now came a realization that the building of a book, like the designing of a house, offered opportunity for creative work. This possibility removed the disturbing doubts, and I undertook to discover for myself how that creative element could be crystallized.

Years later came an unexpected echo to the Field episode. After the publication of the Second Book of Verse, the manuscript was returned to Field, who had it bound in half leather and placed it in his library. Upon his death many of his books went by bequest to his life-long friend, Horace Fletcher, the genial philosopher and famous apostle of dietetics. When Fletcher died, he bequeathed Field’s personal volumes to me. By this curious chain of circumstances, thirty-three years after I had seen the manuscript spread out upon the table at the University Press, it came into my possession, bearing the identical memoranda of instruction made upon it by John Wilson, whose large, flowing hand contrasted sharply with the small, copper-plate characters of the author’s handwriting.

Autograph Verse in Eugene Field’s Own Copy of Trumpet and Drum

The present generation of booklovers would think themselves transported back ages rather than decades were they to glance into a great book-printing office of thirty-five years ago. The old University Press at that time acknowledged competition only from the Riverside and the De Vinne Presses, and conditions that obtained there were typical of the times. The business office was called the “counting-room”; the bookkeeper and the head-clerk were perched up on stools at high, sloping desks, and wore long, linen dusters and black skull caps. John Wilson sat at a low table desk, and his partner, who was the financial executive, was the proud possessor of the only roll-top desk in the establishment. Near him, perhaps because of its value as a novelty and thus entitled to the same super-care as the cash, was installed the telephone. Most of the letters were written by Mr. Wilson in his own hand. One of my first responsibilities was to copy these letters on the wetted tissue pages of the copy-book with the turn-screw press.

JOHN WILSON IN 1891

Master-Printer

There was no particular system in effect, and scientific management was unknown. Mr. Wilson used to make out his orders on fragments of paper,—whatever came to hand. When the telephone was first installed he refused to use it, as he considered this method of conducting business as “sloppy” and even discourteous. To employ a stenographer would have been an evidence of a lazy disposition, and a dictated letter was an offence against dignity and decorum.

A week’s work at that time consisted of fifty-nine hours instead of the present forty-eight. Hand composition and electrotyping were figured together as one process and charged at from 80 cents to $1 per thousand ems. Changes required in the type by authors cost 50 cents an hour. An author could afford in those days to rewrite his book after it was in type, but today, with alterations costing five times as much, it is a different proposition!

The wages were as ridiculously low as the prices charged to customers. The girls in the composing room made from $9 to $12 a week, and those receiving the maximum considered themselves potential Hetty Greens. Today, receiving $40 to $45 a week, they find difficulty in making both ends meet. The make-up man, with the “fat” he received in addition to his wage of $16, actually earned about $20 a week, as against $50 to $60 a week now. The foreman of the composing room, with more than two hundred employees under him, received a weekly return of $23, as against $75 to $100 now.

Typesetting, thirty-five years ago, was almost entirely by hand, as this was before the day of the linotype and the monotype. Thorne typesetting machines, which then seemed marvels of mechanical ingenuity, failed to prove economical because they required two operatives and so easily got out of order. The composing room itself was laid out with its main avenues and side streets like a well-ordered town, divisions being marked by the frames bearing the cases of type in various faces and sizes. The correcting stones ran down the center.

The foreman of the composing room was the king of his domain and a power unto himself. Each side street was an “alley,” in which from four to eight typesetters worked, back to back. These were sometimes boys or men, but usually girls or women. The “crew” in each alley was in charge of an experienced typesetter. It was he who received from the foreman the manuscript to be put into type; who distributed the copy, a few pages at a time to each of his subordinates; who supervised the work, and arranged for the galleys to be collated in their proper order for proofing; and who was generally responsible for the product of his alley. As was characteristic of the times in well-conducted industrial plants, the workers in this department, as in the others, were simply a large family presided over by the foreman, who interpreted the instructions from the management; and by the heads of the crews, who carried out the detailed instructions of the foreman.

There was a pride in workmanship that is mostly lacking in manufacturing plants today, due largely to the introduction of labor-saving machinery, and again to the introduction of efficiency methods. Both were inevitable, but the price paid for the gain in production was high. I am old-fashioned enough to hope that modern ideas of efficiency will never be applied in the printing industry to the extent of robbing the workman of his individuality. Books are such personal things! I am in full sympathy with that efficiency which cuts out duplication of effort. I believe in studying methods of performing each operation to discover which one is the most economical in time and effort. I realize that in great manufacturing plants, where machines have replaced so largely the work of the human hand, it is obviously necessary for workmen to spend their days manufacturing only a part of the complete article; but when the organization of any business goes so far as to substitute numbers for names I feel that something has been destroyed, and that in taking away his individuality from the workman the work suffers the same loss.

I have even asked myself whether the greatest underlying cause of strikes and labor disturbances during the past ten years has not been the unrest that has come to the workman because he can no longer take actual pride in the product of his hand. Years ago, after the death of one of my oldest employees, I called upon his widow, and in the simple “parlor” of the house where he had lived, prominently placed on a marble-top table as the chief ornament in the room, lay a copy of Wentworth’s “Geometry.” When I picked it up the widow said proudly, “Jim set every page of that book with his own hands.” It was a priceless heirloom in which the workman’s family took continued and justifiable pride.

The old University Press family was not only happy but loyal. When the business found itself in financial difficulties, owing to outside speculations by Mr. Wilson’s partner, the workmen brought their bankbooks, with deposits amounting to over twenty thousand dollars, and laid them on Mr. Wilson’s desk, asking him to use these funds in whatever way he chose. The sum involved was infinitesimal compared to the necessities, but the proffer was a human gesture not calculable in financial digits.

Proofreading was an art in the eighteen-nineties instead of an annoying necessity, as it now seems to be considered. The chief readers were highly educated men and women, some having been clergymen or schoolteachers. One proofreader at the University Press at that time could read fourteen languages, and all the readers were competent to discuss with the authors points that came up in the proof. The proof was read, not only to discover typographical errors, but also to query dates, quotations, and even statements of fact. Well-known authors were constantly running in and out of the Press, frequently going directly to the proofreaders, and sometimes even to the compositors themselves, without coming in touch with the counting-room. Mr. Wilson looked upon the authors and publishers as members of his big family, and “No Admittance” signs were conspicuous by their absence.

The modern practice of proofreading cannot produce as perfect volumes as resulted from the deliberate, painstaking, and time-consuming consideration which the old-time proofreaders gave to every book passing through their hands. Today the proof is read once, and then revised and sent out to the author. When made up into page form and sent to foundry it is again revised, but not re-read. No proof used to go out from a first-class printing office without a first and a second reading by copy. It was then read a third time by a careful foundry reader before being made into plates. Unfortunately, with labor at its present cost, no publisher could produce a volume at a price that the public would pay, if the old-time care were devoted to its manufacture.

Time was when a reputation for careful proofreading was an asset to a Press. One day the office boy came to my private office and said that there was a man downstairs who insisted upon seeing me personally, but who declined to give his name. From the expression on the boy’s face I concluded that the visitor must be a somewhat unique character, and I was not disappointed.

As he came into my office he had every aspect of having stepped off the vaudeville stage. He had on the loose garments of a farmer, with the broad hat that is donned only on state occasions. He wore leather boots over which were rubbers, and carried a huge, green umbrella.

He nodded pleasantly as he came in, and sat down with great deliberation. Before making any remarks he laid his umbrella on the floor and placed his hat carefully over it, then he somewhat painfully removed his rubbers. This done, he turned to me with a broad smile of greeting, and said, “I don’t know as you know who I am.”

When I confirmed him in his suspicions, he remarked, “Well, I am Jasper P. Smith, and I come from Randolph, New Hampshire.”

(The names and places mentioned are, for obvious reasons, not correct.)

I returned his smile of greeting and asked what I could do for him.

“Well,” he said, “my home town of Randolph, New Hampshire, has decided to get out a town history, and I want to have you do the printin’ of it. The selectmen thought it could be printed at ——, but I says to them, ‘If it’s worth doin’ at all it’s worth doin’ right, and I want the book to be made at the University Press in Cambridge.’”

I thanked Mr. Smith for his confidence, and expressed my satisfaction that our reputation had reached Randolph, New Hampshire.

“Well,” he said, chuckling to himself, “you see, it was this way. You made the history of Rumford, and I was the feller who wrote the genealogies. That’s what I am, a genealogy feller. Nobody in New Hampshire can write a town history without comin’ to me for genealogies.”

After pausing for a moment he continued, “It was your proofreadin’ that caught me. On that Rumford book your proofreader was a smart one, she was, but I got back at her in good style.”

His memory seemed to cause him considerable amusement, and I waited expectantly.

“It was in one of the genealogies,” he went on finally. “I gave the date of the marriage as so and so, and the date of the birth of the first child as two months later. Did she let that go by? I should say not. She drew a line right out into the margin and made a darned big question mark. But I got back at her! I just left that question mark where it was, and wrote underneath, ‘Morally incorrect, historically correct!’”

When the first Adams flat-bed press was installed at the University Press, President Felton of Harvard College insisted that no book of his should ever be printed upon this modern monstrosity. Here was history repeating itself, for booklovers of the fifteenth century in Italy for a long time refused to admit that a printed volume had its place in a gentleman’s library. In the eighteen-nineties one whole department at the University Press consisted of these flat-bed presses, which today can scarcely be found outside of museums. If a modern publisher were to stray into the old loft where the wetted sheets from these presses were hung over wooden rafters to dry, he would rub his eyes and wonder in what age he was living. The paper had been passed through tubs of water, perhaps half a quire at a time, and partially dried before being run through the press. The old Adams presses made an impression that could have been read by the blind, and all this embossing, together with the wrinkling of the sheet from the moisture, had to be taken out under hydraulic pressure. Today wetted sheets and the use of hydraulic presses for bookwork are practically obsolete. The cylinder presses, that run twice as fast, produce work of equal quality at lower cost.

In those days the relations between publishers and their printers were much more intimate. Scales of prices were established from time to time, but a publisher usually sent all his work to the same printer. It was also far more customary for a publisher to send an author to the printer to discuss questions of typography with the actual maker of the book, or to argue some technical or structural point in his manuscript with the head proofreader. The headreader in a large printing establishment at that time was a distinct personality, quite competent to meet authors upon their own ground.

One of my earliest and pleasantest responsibilities was to act as Mr. Wilson’s representative in his business relations with Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy, which required frequent trips to “Pleasant View” at Concord, New Hampshire. Mrs. Eddy always felt under deep obligation to Mr. Wilson for his interest in the manuscript of Science and Health when she first took it to him with a view to publication, and any message from him always received immediate and friendly consideration.

In the past there have been suggestions made that the Rev. James Henry Wiggin, a retired Unitarian clergyman and long a proofreader at the University Press, rewrote Science and Health. Mr. Wiggin was still proofreader when I entered the Press, and he always manifested great pride in having been associated with Mrs. Eddy in the revision of this famous book. I often heard the matter referred to, both by him and by John Wilson, but there never was the slightest intimation that Mr. Wiggin’s services passed beyond those of an experienced editor. I have no doubt that many of his suggestions, in his editorial capacity, were of value and possibly accepted by the author,—in fact, unless they had been, he would not have exercised his proper function; but had he contributed to the new edition what some have claimed, he would certainly have given intimation of it in his conversations with me.

The characteristic about Mrs. Eddy that impressed me the first time I met her was her motherliness. She gave every one the impression of deepest interest and concern in what he said, and was sympathetic in everything that touched on his personal affairs. When I told her of John Wilson’s financial calamity, she seemed to regard it as a misfortune of her own. Before I left her that day she drew a check for a substantial sum and offered it to me.

“Please hand that to my old friend,” she said, “and tell him to be of good cheer. What he has given of himself to others all these years will now return to him a thousand-fold.”

At first one might have been deceived by her quiet manner into thinking that she was easily influenced. There was no suggestion to which she did not hold herself open. If she approved, she accepted it promptly; if it did not appeal, she dismissed it with a graciousness that left no mark; but it was always settled once and for all. There was no wavering and no uncertainty.

After Mrs. Eddy moved from Concord to Boston, her affairs were administered by her Trustees, so I saw her less frequently. To many her name suggests a great religious movement, but when I think of her I seem to see acres of green grass, a placid little lake, a silver strip of river, and a boundary line of hills; and within the unpretentious house a slight, unassuming woman,—very real, very human, very appealing, supremely content in the self-knowledge that, no matter what others might think, she was delivering her message to the world.

By this time, I had discovered what was the matter with American bookmaking. It was a contracting business, and books were conceived and made by the combined efforts of the publisher, the manufacturing man, the artist, the decorator, the paper mills’ agent, and, last of all, the printer and the binder. This was not the way the old-time printers had planned their books. With all their mechanical limitations, they had followed architectural lines kept consistent and harmonious because controlled by a single mind, while the finished volume of the eighteen-nineties was a composite production of many minds, with no architectural plan. No wonder that the volumes manufactured, even in the most famous Presses, failed to compare with those produced in Venice by Jenson and Aldus four centuries earlier!

When I succeeded John Wilson as head of the University Press in 1895, I determined to carry out the resolution I had formed four years earlier, while sitting in on the Eugene Field conference, of following the example of the early master-printers so far as this could be done amidst modern conditions. Some of my publisher friends were partially convinced by my contention that if the printer properly fulfilled his function he must know how to express his clients’ mental conception of the physical attributes of prospective volumes in terms of type, paper, presswork, and binding better than they could do it themselves. The Kelmscott publications, which appeared at this time, were of great value in emphasizing my contention, for William Morris placed printing back among the fine arts after it had lapsed into a trade.

I had no idea, when I presented my plan, of persuading my friends to produce typographical monuments. No demand has ever existed for volumes of this type adequate to the excessive cost involved by the perfection of materials, the accuracy of editorial detail, the supreme excellence of typography and presswork, and the glory of the binding. Sweynheim and Pannartz, Gutenberg’s successors, were ruined by their experiments in Greek; the Aldine Press in Venice was saved only by the intervention of Jean Grolier; Henri Étienne was ruined by his famous Thesaurus, and Christophe Plantin would have been bankrupted by his Polyglot Bible had he not retrieved his fortunes by later and meaner publications. Nor was I unmindful of similar examples that might have been cited from more modern efforts, made by ambitious publishers and printers.

What I wanted to do was to build low-cost volumes upon the same principles as de luxe editions, eliminating the expensive materials but retaining the harmony and consistency that come from designing the book from an architectural standpoint. It adds little to the expense to select a type that properly expresses the thought which the author wishes to convey; or to have the presses touch the letters into the paper in such a way as to become a part of it, without that heavy impression which makes the reverse side appear like an example of Braille; or to find a paper (even made by machine!) soft to the feel and grateful to the eye, on which the page is placed with well-considered margins; or to use illustrations or decorations, if warranted at all, in such a way as to assist the imagination of the reader rather than to divert him from the text; to plan a title page which, like the door to a house, invites the reader to open it and proceed, its type lines carefully balanced with the blank; or to bind (even in cloth!) with trig squares and with design or lettering in keeping with the printing inside.

By degrees the publishers began to realize that this could be done, and when once established, the idea of treating the making of books as a manufacturing problem instead of as a series of contracts with different concerns, no one of which knew what the others were doing, found favor. The authors also preferred it, for their literary children now went forth to the world in more becoming dress. Thus serving in the capacity of book architect and typographical advisor, instead of merely as a contrasting printer, these years have been lived in a veritable Kingdom of Books, in company with interesting people,—authors and artists as well as publishers,—in a delightfully intimate way because I have been permitted to be a part of the great adventure.

During these years I have seen dramatic changes. Wages were somewhat advanced between 1891 and the outbreak of the World War, but even at this latter date the cost of manufacturing books was less than half of what it is now. This is the great problem which publishers have to face today. When the cost of everything doubled after the World War, the public accepted the necessity of paying twice the price for a theater ticket as a matter of course; but when the retail price of books was advanced in proportion to the cost of manufacture, there was a great outcry among buyers that authors, publishers, and booksellers were opportunists, demanding an unwarranted profit. As a matter of fact, the novel which used to sell at $1.35 per copy should now sell at $2.50 if the increased costs were properly apportioned. The publisher today is forced to decline many promising first novels because the small margin of profit demands a comparatively large first edition.

Unless a publisher can sell 5,000 copies as a minimum it is impossible for him to make any profit upon a novel. Taking this as a basis, and a novel as containing 320 pages, suppose we see how the $2.00 retail price distributes itself. The cost of manufacture, including the typesetting, electrotype plates, cover design, jacket, brass dies, presswork, paper, and binding, amounts to 42 cents per copy (in England, about 37 cents). The publisher’s cost of running his office, which he calls “overhead,” is 36 cents per copy. The minimum royalty received by an author is 10 per cent. of the retail price, which would give him 20 cents. This makes a total cost of 98 cents a copy, without advertising. But a book must be advertised.

Every fifty dollars spent in advertising on a five thousand edition adds a cent to the publisher’s cost. The free copies distributed for press reviews represent no trifling item. A thousand dollars is not a large amount to be spent for advertising, and this means 20 cents a copy on a 5000 edition, making a total cost of $1.18 per copy and reducing the publisher’s profit to 2 cents, since he sells a two-dollar book to the retail bookseller for $1.20. The bookseller figures that his cost of doing business is one-third the amount of his sales, or, on a two-dollar book, 67 cents. This then shows a net profit to the retail bookseller of 13 cents, to the publisher of 2 cents, and to the author of 20 cents a copy.

Beyond this, there is an additional expense to both bookseller and publisher which the buyer of books is likely to overlook. It is impossible to know just when the demand for a book will cease, and this means that the publisher and the bookseller are frequently left with copies on hand which have to be disposed of at a price below cost. This is an expense that has to be included in the book business just as much as in handling fruit, flowers, or other perishable goods.

When a publisher is able to figure on a large demand for the first edition, he can cut down the cost of manufacture materially; but, on the other hand, this is at least partially offset by the fact that authors whose books warrant large first editions demand considerably more than 10 per cent. royalty, and the advertising item on a big seller runs into large figures.

I wish I might say that I had seen a dramatic change in the methods employed in the retail bookstores! There still exists, with a few notable exceptions, the same lack of realization that familiarity with the goods one has to sell is as necessary in merchandizing books as with any other commodity. Salesmen in many otherwise well-organized retail bookstores are still painfully ignorant of their proper functions and indifferent to the legitimate requirements of their prospective customers.

Some years ago, when one of my novels was having its run, I happened to be in New York at a time when a friend was sailing for Europe. He had announced his intention of purchasing a copy of my book to read on the steamer, and I asked him to permit me to send it to him with the author’s compliments. Lest any reader be astonished to learn that an author ever buys a copy of his own book, let me record the fact that except for the twelve which form a part of his contract with the publisher, he pays cash for every copy he gives away. Mark Twain dedicated the first edition of The Jumping Frog to “John Smith.” In the second edition he omitted the dedication, explaining that in dedicating the volume as he did, he had felt sure that at least all the John Smiths would buy books. To his consternation he found that they all expected complimentary copies, and he was hoist by his own petard!

With the idea of carrying out my promise to my friend, I stepped into one of the largest bookstores in New York, and approached a clerk, asking him for the book by title. My pride was somewhat hurt to find that even the name was entirely unfamiliar to him. He ran over various volumes upon the counter, and then turned to me, saying, “We don’t carry that book, but we have several others here which I am sure you would like better.”

“Undoubtedly you have,” I agreed with him; “but that is beside the point. I am the author of the book I asked for, and I wish to secure a copy to give to a friend. I am surprised that a store like this does not carry it.”

Leaning nonchalantly on a large, circular pile of books near him, the clerk took upon himself the education of the author.

“It would require a store much larger than this to carry every book that is published, wouldn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. “Of course each author naturally thinks his book should have the place of honor on the bookstalls, but we have to be governed by the demand.”

It was humiliating to learn the real reason why this house failed to carry my book. I had to say something to explain my presumption even in assuming that I might find it there, so in my confusion I stammered,

“But I understood from the publishers that the book was selling very well.”

“Oh, yes,” the clerk replied indulgently; “they have to say that to their authors to keep them satisfied!”

With the matter thus definitely settled, nothing remained but to make my escape as gracefully as circumstances would permit. As I started to leave, the clerk resumed his standing position, and my eye happened to rest on the pile of perhaps two hundred books upon which he had been half-reclining. The jacket was strikingly familiar. Turning to the clerk I said severely,

“Would you mind glancing at that pile of books from which you have just risen?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, smiling and handing me a copy, “that is the very book we were looking for, isn’t it?”

It seemed my opportunity to become the educator, and I seized it.

“Young man,” I said, “if you would discontinue the practice of letting my books support you, and sell a few copies so that they might support me, it would be a whole lot better for both of us.”

“Ha, ha!” he laughed, graciously pleased with my sally; “that’s a good line, isn’t it? I really must read your book!”

The old-time publisher is passing, and the author is largely to blame. I have seen the close association—in many cases the profound friendship—between author and publisher broken by the commercialism fostered by some literary agents and completed by competitive bids made by one publishing house to beguile a popular author away from another. There was a time when a writer was proud to be classified as a “Macmillan,” or a “Harper” author. He felt himself a part of the publisher’s organization, and had no hesitation in taking his literary problems to the editorial advisor of the house whose imprint appeared upon the title pages of his volumes. A celebrated Boston authoress once found herself absolutely at a standstill on a partially completed novel. She confided her dilemma to her publisher, who immediately sent one of his editorial staff to the rescue. They spent two weeks working together over the manuscript, solved the problems, and the novel, when published, was the most successful of the season.

Several publishers have acknowledged to me that in offering unusually high royalties to authors they have no expectation of breaking even, but that to have a popular title upon their list increases the sales of their entire line. The publisher from whom the popular writer is filched has usually done his share in helping him attain his popularity. The royalty he pays is a fair division of the profits. He cannot, in justice to his other authors, pay him a further premium.

Ethics, perhaps, has no place in business, but the relation between author and publisher seems to me to be beyond a business covenant. A publisher may deliberately add an author to his list at a loss in order to accomplish a specific purpose, but this practice cannot be continued indefinitely. A far-sighted author will consider the matter seriously before he becomes an opportunist.

In England this questionable practice has been of much slower growth. The House of Murray, in London, is one of those still conducted on the old-time basis. John Murray IV, the present head of the business, has no interest in any author who comes to him for any reason other than a desire to have the Murray imprint upon his book. It is more than a business. The publishing offices at 50a, Albemarle Street adjoin and open out of the Murray home. In the library is still shown the fireplace where John Murray III burned Byron’s Memoirs, after purchasing them at an enormous price, because he deemed that their publication would do injury to the reputation of the writer and of the House itself.

John Murray II was one of the publishers of Scott’s Marmion. In those days it was customary for publishers to share their contracts. Constable had purchased from Scott for £1,000 the copyright of Marmion without having seen a single line, and the honorarium was paid the author before the poem was completed or the manuscript delivered. Constable, however, promptly disposed of a one-fourth interest to Mr. Miller of Albemarle Street, and another one fourth to John Murray, then of Fleet Street.

By 1829 Scott had succeeded in getting into his own hands nearly all his copyrights, one of the outstanding items being this one-quarter interest in Marmion held by Mr. Murray. Longmans and Constable had tried in vain to purchase it. When, however, Scott himself approached Murray through Lockhart, the following letter from Mr. Murray was the result:

There has always been a vast difference in authors in the attitude they assume toward the transformation of their manuscripts into printed books. Most of them leave every detail to their publishers, but a few take a deep and intelligent personal interest. Bernard Shaw is to be included in the latter group.

A leading Boston publisher once telephoned me that an unknown English author had submitted a manuscript for publication, but that it was too socialistic in its nature to be acceptable. Then the publisher added that the author had asked, in case this house did not care to publish the volume, that arrangements be made to have the book printed in this country in order to secure American copyright.

“We don’t care to have anything to do with it,” was the statement; “but I thought perhaps you might like to manufacture the book.”

“Who is the author?” I inquired.

“It’s a man named Shaw.”

“What is the rest of his name?”

“Wait a minute and I’ll find out.”

Leaving the telephone for a moment, the publisher returned and said,

“His name is G. Bernard Shaw. Did you ever hear of him?”

“Yes,” I replied; “I met him last summer in London through Cobden-Sanderson, and I should be glad to undertake the manufacture of the book for Mr. Shaw.”

“All right,” came the answer. “Have your boy call for the manuscript.”

This manuscript was Man and Superman.

From that day and for many years, Shaw and I carried on a desultory correspondence, his letters proving most original and diverting. On one occasion he took me severely to task for having used two sizes of type upon a title page. He wrote four pages to prove what poor taste and workmanship this represented, and then ended the letter with these words, “But, after all, any other printer would have used sixteen instead of two, so I bless you for your restraint!”

We had another lengthy discussion on the use of apostrophes in printing. “I have made no attempt to deal with the apostrophes you introduce,” he wrote; “but my own usage is carefully considered and the inconsistencies are only apparent. For instance, Ive, youve, lets, thats, are quite unmistakable, but Ill, hell, shell, for I’ll, he’ll, she’ll, are impossible without a phonetic alphabet to distinguish between long and short e. In such cases I retain the apostrophe, in all others I discard it. Now you may ask me why I discard it. Solely because it spoils the printing. If you print a Bible you can make a handsome job of it because there are no apostrophes or inverted commas to break up the letterpress with holes and dots. Until people are forced to have some consideration for a book as something to look at as well as something to read, we shall never get rid of these senseless disfigurements that have destroyed all the old sense of beauty in printing.”

“Ninety-nine per cent. of the secret of good printing,” Shaw continued, “is not to have patches of white or trickling rivers of it trailing down a page, like rain-drops on a window. Horrible! White is the enemy of the printer. Black, rich, fat, even black, without gray patches, is, or should be, his pride. Leads and quads and displays of different kinds of type should be reserved for insurance prospectuses and advertisements of lost dogs.…”

His enthusiasm for William Morris’ leaf ornaments is not shared by all booklovers. Glance at any of the Kelmscott volumes, and you will find these glorified oak leaves scattered over the type page in absolutely unrelated fashion,—a greater blemish, to some eyes, than occasional variation in spacing. Shaw writes:

CHAPTER IV

FRIENDS THROUGH TYPE

In 1903 I again visited Italy to continue my study of the art of printing in the old monasteries and libraries, sailing on the S. S. Canopic from Boston to Naples. Among the passengers on board I met Horace Fletcher, returning to his home in Venice. At that time his volume Menticulture was having a tremendous run. I had enjoyed reading the book, and in its author I discovered a unique and charming personality; in fact, I have never met so perfect an expression of practical optimism. His humor was infectious, his philosophy appealing, his quiet persistency irresistible.

To many people the name of Horace Fletcher has become associated with the Gladstonian doctrine of excessive chewing, but this falls far short of the whole truth. His scheme was the broadest imaginable, and thorough mastication was only the hub into which the other spokes of the wheel of his philosophy of life were to be fitted. The scheme was nothing less than a cultivation of progressive human efficiency. Believing that absolute health is the real basis of human happiness and advancement, and that health depends upon an intelligent treatment of food in the mouth together with knowledge of how best to furnish the fuel that is actually required to run the human engine, Horace Fletcher sought for and found perfect guides among the natural human instincts and physiologic facilities, and demonstrated that his theories were facts.

During the years that followed I served as his typographic mentor. He was eager to try weird and ingenious experiments to bring out the various points of his theories through unique typographical arrangement (see opp. page). It required all my skill and diplomacy to convince him that type possessed rigid limitations, and that to gain his emphasis he must adopt less complicated methods. From this association we became the closest of friends, and presuming upon this relation I used to banter him upon being so casual. His copy was never ready when the compositors needed it; he was always late in returning his proofs. The manufacture of a Fletcher book was a hectic experience, yet no one ever seemed to take exceptions. This was characteristic of the man. He moved and acted upon suddenly formed impulses, never planning ahead yet always securing exactly what he wanted, and those inconvenienced the most always seemed to enjoy it.

A Page of Horace Fletcher Manuscript

“I believe,” he used to say, “in hitching one’s wagon to a star, but I always keep my bag packed and close at hand ready to change stars at a moment’s notice. It is only by doing this that you can give things a chance to happen to you.”

Among the volumes Fletcher had with him on board ship was one he had purchased in Italy, printed in a type I did not recognize but which greatly attracted me by its beauty. The book bore the imprint: Parma: Co’tipi Bodoniani. Some weeks later, in a small, second-hand bookstore in Florence, I happened upon a volume printed in the same type, which I purchased and took at once to my friend, Doctor Guido Biagi, at the Laurenziana Library.

“The work of Giambattista Bodoni is not familiar to you?” he inquired in surprise. “It is he who revived in Italy the glory of the Aldi. He and Firmin Didot in Paris were the fathers of modern type design at the beginning of the nineteenth century.”

“Is this type still in use?” I inquired.

“No,” Biagi answered. “When Bodoni died there was no one worthy to continue its use, so his matrices and punches are kept intact, exactly as he left them. They are on exhibition in the library at Parma, just as the old Plantin relics are preserved in the museum at Antwerp.”

GIAMBATTISTA BODONI, 1740–1813

From Engraving at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris

I immediately took steps through our Ambassador at Rome to gain permission from the Italian Government to recut this face for use in America. After considerable difficulty and delay this permission was granted, with a proviso that I should not allow any of the type made from my proposed matrices to get into the hands of Italian printers, as this would detract from the prestige of the city of Parma. It was a condition to which I was quite willing to subscribe! Within a year I have received a prospectus from a revived Bodoni Press at Montagnola di Lugano, Switzerland, announcing that the exclusive use of the original types of Giambattista Bodoni has been given them by the Italian Government. This would seem to indicate that the early governmental objections have disappeared.

While searching around to secure the fullest set of patterns, I stumbled upon the fact that Bodoni and Didot had based their types upon the same model, and that Didot had made use of his font particularly in the wonderful editions published in Paris at the very beginning of the nineteenth century. I then hurried to Paris to see whether these matrices were in existence. There, after a search through the foundries, I discovered the original punches, long discarded, in the foundry of Peignot, to whom I gave an order to cast the different sizes of type, which I had shipped to America.

This was the first type based on this model ever to come into this country. The Bodoni face has since been recut by typefounders as well as for the typesetting machines, and is today one of the most popular faces in common use. Personally I prefer the Bodoni letter to that of Didot (see opp. page). The Frenchman succumbed to the elegance of his period, and by lightening the thin lines robbed the design of the virility that Bodoni retained. I am not in sympathy with the excessive height of the ascending letters, which frequently extend beyond the capitals; but when one considers how radical a departure from precedent this type was, he must admire the skill and courage of the designers. William Morris cared little for it,—“The sweltering hideousness of the Bodoni letter,” he exclaimed; “the most illegible type that was ever cut, with its preposterous thicks and thins”; while Theodore L. De Vinne, in his Practice of Typography, writes:

When authorities differ to such a wide extent, the student of type design must draw his own conclusions!

The Bodoni Letter (bottom) compared with the Didot Letter (top)

Fletcher’s idea of an appointment was something to be kept if or when convenient, yet he never seemed to offend any one. He did nothing he did not wish to do, and his methods of extricating himself from unwelcome responsibilities always amused rather than annoyed. “If you don’t want to do a thing very badly,” he confided to me on one such occasion, “do it very badly.”

HORACE FLETCHER IN 1915

On board the Canopic Fletcher was surrounded by an admiring and interested group. General Leonard Wood was on his way to study colonial government abroad before taking up his first administration as Governor of the Philippines. On his staff was General Hugh Lennox Scott, who later succeeded General Wood as Chief of Staff of the United States Army. The conversations and discussions in the smokeroom each evening after dinner were illuminating and fascinating. General Wood had but recently completed his work as Governor of Cuba, and he talked freely of his experiences there, while General Scott was full of reminiscences of his extraordinary adventures with the Indians. He later played an important part in bringing peace to the Philippines.

It was at one of these four-cornered sessions in the smokeroom that we first learned of Fletcher’s ambition to revolutionize the world in its methods of eating. That he would actually accomplish this no one of us believed, but the fact remains. The smokeroom steward was serving the coffee, inquiring of each one how many lumps of sugar he required. Fletcher, to our amazement, called for five! It was a grand-stand play in a way, but he secured his audience as completely as do the tambourines and the singing of the Salvation Army.

“Why are you surprised?” he demanded with seeming innocence. “I am simply taking a coffee liqueur, in which there is less sugar now than there is in your chartreuse or benedictine. But I am mixing it with the saliva, which is more than you are doing. The sugar, as you take it, becomes acid in the stomach and retards digestion; by my method, it is changed into grape sugar, which is easily assimilated.”

“To insalivate one’s liquor,” he explained to us, “gives one the most exquisite pleasure imaginable, but it is a terrific test of quality. It brings out the richness of flavor, which is lost when one gulps the wine down. Did you ever notice the way a tea-taster sips his tea?”

As he talked he exposed the ignorance of the entire group on physiological matters to an embarrassing extent, clinching his remarks by asking General Wood the question,

“Would you engage as chauffeur for your automobile a man who knew as little about his motor as you know about your own human engine?”

No one ever loved a practical joke better than Horace Fletcher. I was a guest at a dinner he once gave at the Graduates’ Club in New Haven. Among the others present were President Hadley of Yale, John Hays Hammond, Walter Camp, and Professor Lounsbury. There was considerable curiosity and some speculation concerning what would constitute a Fletcher dinner. At the proper time we were shown into a private room, where the table was set with the severest simplicity. Instead of china, white crockery was used, and the chief table decorations were three large crockery pitchers filled with ice water. At each plate was a crockery saucer, containing a shredded-wheat biscuit. It was amusing to glance around and note the expressions of dismay upon the faces of the guests. Their worst apprehensions were being confirmed! Just as we were well seated, the headwaiter came to the door and announced that by mistake we had been shown into the wrong room, whereupon Fletcher, with an inimitable twinkle in his eye, led the way into another private dining room, where we sat down to one of the most sumptuous repasts I have ever enjoyed.

Today, twenty years after his campaign, it is almost forgotten that the American breakfast was at that time a heavy meal. Horace Fletcher revolutionized the practice of eating, and interjected the word fletcherize into the English language. As a disciple of Fletcher Sir Thomas Barlow, physician-in-chief to King Edward VII, persuaded royalty to set the style by cutting down the formal dinner from three hours to an hour and a half, with a corresponding relief to the digestive apparatus of the guests. In Belgium, during the World War, working with Herbert Hoover, Fletcher taught the impoverished people how to sustain themselves upon meager rations. Among his admirers and devoted friends were such profound thinkers as William James who, in response to a letter from him, wrote, “Your excessive reaction to the stimulus of my grateful approval makes you remind me of those rich soils which, when you tickle them with a straw, smile with a harvest”; and Henry James, who closes a letter: “Come and bring with you plenary absolution to the thankless subject who yet dares light the lamp of gratitude to you at each day’s end of his life.”

My acquaintance with Henry James came through my close association with the late Sir Sidney Lee, the Shakesperian authority, and Horace Fletcher.

“Don’t be surprised if he is brusque or uncivil,” Sir Sidney whispered to me just before I met him at dinner; “one can never tell how he is going to act.”

As a matter of fact, I found Henry James a most genial and enjoyable dinner companion, and never, during the few later occasions when I had the pleasure of being with him, did he display those characteristics of ill humor and brusqueness which have been attributed to him. It may not be generally known that all his life—until he met Horace Fletcher—he suffered torments from chronic indigestion, or that it was in Fletcherism that he found his first relief. In a typically involved Jamesian letter to his brother William he writes (February, 1909):

A Page from an Autograph Letter from Henry James to Horace Fletcher

My one visit to Lamb House was in company with Horace Fletcher. The meeting with Henry James at dinner had corrected several preconceived ideas and confirmed others. Some writers are revealed by their books, others conceal themselves in their fictional prototypes. It had always been a question in my mind whether Henry James gave to his stories his own personality or received his personality from his stories. This visit settled my doubts.

The home was a perfect expression of the host, and possessed an individuality no less unique. I think it was Coventry Patmore who christened it “a jewel set in the plain,”—located as it was at the rising end of one of those meandering streets of Rye, in Sussex, England, Georgian in line and perfect in appointment.

In receiving us, Henry James gave one the impression of performing a long-established ritual. He had been reading in the garden, and when we arrived he came out into the hall with hand extended, expressing a massive cordiality.

“Welcome to my beloved Fletcher,” he cried; and as he grasped my hand he said, as if by way of explanation,

“He saved my life, you know, and what is more, he improved my disposition. By rights he should receive all my future royalties,—but I doubt if he does!”

His conversation was much more intelligible than his books. It was ponderous, but every now and then a subtle humor relieved the impression that he felt himself on exhibition. One could see that he was accustomed to play the lion; but with Fletcher present, toward whom he evidently felt a deep obligation, he talked intimately of himself and of the handicap his stomach infelicities had proved in his work. The joy with which he proclaimed his emancipation showed the real man,—a Henry James unknown to his characters or to his public.

If William James had not taken up science as a profession and thus become a philosopher, he would have been a printer. No other commercial pursuit so invited him as “the honorable, honored, and productive business of printing,” as he expressed it in a letter to his mother in 1863. Naturally, with such a conception of the practice of book manufacture, he was always particularly concerned with the physical format of his volumes. He once told me that my ability to translate his “fool ideas” into type showed the benefit of a Harvard education! He had no patience with any lapse on the part of the proofreader, and when the galleys of his books reached this point in the manufacture even my most experienced readers were on the anxious seat. On the other hand, he was generous in his appreciation when a proofreader called his attention to some slip in his copy that he had overlooked.

After his volume Pragmatism appeared and created such universal attention, a series of “popular” lectures on the subject was announced at Cambridge. The Harpers had just published a novel of mine entitled The Spell, in connection with which I had devoted much time to the study of humanism and the humanists of the fifteenth century. Because of my familiarity with a kindred subject, I must confess to a sense of mortification that in reading Pragmatism I found myself beyond my depth. A “popular” presentation appealed to me as an opportunity for intellectual development, so I attended the first lecture, armed with pencil and notebook. Afterwards it so happened that Professor James was on the trolley car when I boarded it at Harvard Square, and I sat down beside him.

“I was surprised to see you at my lecture,” he remarked. “Don’t you get enough of me at your office?”

I told him of my excursions into other philosophic pastures, and of my chagrin to find so little in pragmatic fields upon which my hungry mind could feed. He smiled at my language, and entered heartily into the spirit.

“And today?” he inquired mischievously.—“I hope that today I guided you successfully.”

“You did,” I declared, opening my notebook, and showing him the entry: “Nothing is the only resultant of the one thing which is not.”

“That led me home,” I said soberly, with an intentional double meaning.

Professor James laughed heartily.

“Did I really say that? I have no doubt I did. It simply proves my contention that philosophers too frequently exercise their prerogative of concealing themselves behind meaningless expressions.”

Two of Professor James’ typographic hobbies were paper labels and as few words as possible on the title page. In the matter of supplying scant copy for the title, he won my eternal gratitude, for many a book, otherwise typographically attractive, is ruined by overloading the title with too much matter. This is the first page that catches the eye, and its relation to the book is the same as the door of a house. Only recently I opened a volume to a beautiful title page. The type was perfectly arranged in proportion and margin, the decoration was charming and in complete harmony with the type. It was set by an artist-printer and did him credit; but turning a few more pages I found myself face to face with a red-blooded story of western life, when the title had prepared me for something as delicate as Milton’s L’Allegro. A renaissance door on a New England farmhouse would have been equally appropriate!

I commend to those who love books the fascinating study of title pages. I entered upon it from curiosity, and quickly found in it an abiding hobby. The early manuscripts and first printed volumes possessed no title pages, due probably to the fact that the handmade paper and parchment were so costly that the saving of a seemingly unnecessary page was a consideration. The incipit at the top of the first page, reading “Here beginneth” and then adding the name of the author and the subject, answered every purpose; and on the last page the explicit marked the conclusion of the work, and offered the printer an excellent opportunity to record his name and the date of the printing. Most of the early printers were modest in recording their achievements, but in the famous volume De Veritate Catholicæ Fidei the printer says of himself:

Bibliographers contend that the first title page was used in a book printed by Arnold Ther Hoernen of Cologne in 1470. In this volume an extra leaf is employed containing simply an introduction at the top. It has always seemed to me that this leaf is more likely to have been added by the printer to correct a careless omission of the introduction on his first page of text. Occasionally, in the humanistic manuscript volumes in the Laurenziana Library, at Florence, there occurs a “mirror” title (see opp. page), which consists of an illuminated page made up of a large circle in the center containing the name of the book, sometimes surrounded by smaller circles, in which are recorded the titles of the various sections. This seems far more likely to have been suggestive of what came to be the formal title page.

MIRROR TITLE

From Augustinus: Opera, 1485. Laurenziana Library, Florence

By the end of the fifteenth century the title page was in universal use, and printers showed great ingenuity in arranging the type in the form of wine cups, drinking glasses, funnels, inverted cones, and half-diamonds. During the sixteenth century great artists like Dürer, Holbein, Rubens, and Mantegna executed superbly engraved titles entirely out of keeping with the poor typography of the books themselves. In many of the volumes the title page served the double purpose of title and full-page illustration (see pages 228 and 241). What splendid examples would have resulted if the age of engraved titles had coincided with the high-water mark in the art of printing!

As the art of printing declined, the engraved title was discarded, and the printer of the seventeenth century seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to cover the entire page with type. If you recall the early examples of American Colonial printing, which were based upon the English models of the time, you will gain an excellent idea of the grotesque tendency of that period. The Elzevirs were the only ones who retained the engraved title (page 241). The Baskerville volumes (page 247), in the middle of the eighteenth century, showed a return to good taste and harmonious co-ordination with the text; but there was no beauty in the title until Didot in Paris and Bodoni in Parma, Italy, introduced the so-called “modern” face, which is peculiarly well adapted to display (page 253). William Morris, in the late nineteenth century, successfully combined decoration with type,—over-decorated, in the minds of many, but in perfect keeping with the type pages of the volumes themselves. Cobden-Sanderson, at the Doves Press, returned to the extreme in simplicity and good taste (page 265), excelling all other printers in securing from the blank space on the leaf the fullest possible value. One of Cobden-Sanderson’s classic remarks is, “I always give greater attention, in the typography of a book, to what I leave out than to what I put in.”

The name of William Morris today may be more familiar to booklovers than that of Cobden-Sanderson, but I venture to predict that within a single decade the latter’s work as printer and binder at the Doves Press at Hammersmith, London, will prove to have been a more determining factor in printing as an art than that of William Morris at the Kelmscott Press, and that the general verdict will be that Cobden-Sanderson carried out the splendid principles laid down by Morris more consistently than did that great artist-craftsman himself.

T. J. COBDEN-SANDERSON, 1841–1922

From Etching by Alphonse Legros, 1893

The story of Cobden-Sanderson’s life is an interesting human document. He told it to me one evening, its significance being heightened by the simplicity of the recital. At seventeen he was apprenticed to an engineer, but he worked less than a year in the draft room. He disliked business as business, and began to read for Cambridge, with the idea of entering the Church. While at Trinity College he read for mathematical honors, but three years later, having given up all idea of going into the Church, he left Cambridge, refusing honors and a degree, which he might have had, as a protest against the competitive system and the “warp” it gave to all university teaching. Then, for seven or eight years, he devoted himself to Carlyle and the study of literature, “Chiefly German philosophy,” he said, “which is perhaps not literature,” supporting himself by desultory writing and practicing medicine. When he was thirty years old he was admitted to the Bar, which profession he abandoned thirteen years later to become a manual laborer. The following is quoted from notes which I made after this conversation:

It is difficult to associate Cobden-Sanderson’s really tremendous contributions to bookmaking as an art with his self-effacing personality. If I had met the man before I had become intimately acquainted with his work, I should have been disappointed; having had him interpreted to me by his books before I met him, his unique personality proved a definite inspiration and gave me an entirely new viewpoint on many phases of the art of typography in its application to human life.

In person, Cobden-Sanderson was of slight build, with sloping shoulders, his most noticeable feature being his reddish beard tinged with gray. He was nervous and shy, and while talking seldom looked one squarely in the eye, yet at no time could one doubt the absolute sincerity of his every word and act. He was hopelessly absent-minded. Invited to dine with me in London, he appeared the evening before the date set, retiring overwhelmed with embarrassment when he discovered his mistake. On the following evening he forgot the appointment altogether! Later, when in Boston, he accepted an invitation to dine with a literary society, but failed to appear because he could not remember where the dinner was to be held. He had mislaid his note of invitation and could not recall the name of the man who sent it. On that evening he dashed madly around the city in a taxicab for over an hour, finally ending up at his hotel in absolute exhaustion while the members of the literary society dined without their lion!

While president of the Society of Printers in Boston, I arranged for Cobden-Sanderson to come to America to deliver some lectures on The Ideal Book. Among these were four given at Harvard University. At the conclusion of the last lecture he came to my library, thoroughly tired out and completely discouraged. Seated in a great easy chair he remained for several moments in absolute silence, resting his face upon his hands. Suddenly, without a moment’s warning, he straightened up and said with all the vehemence at his command,

“I am the veriest impostor who ever came to your shores!”

Seeing my surprise and incredulity, he added,

“I have come to America to tell you people how to make books. In New York they took me to see the great Morgan Library and other collections. They showed me rare incunabula. They expected me to know all about them, and to be enthusiastic over them. As a matter of fact, I know nothing about the work of the great master-printers, and care less!”

My face must have disclosed my thoughts, for he held up a restraining hand.

“Don’t think me such an egotist as my words imply. It isn’t that at all. It is true that I am interested only in my own work, but that is because my work means something more to me than the books I produce. When I print a book or bind one it is because I have a message in my soul which I am impelled to give mankind, and it comes out through my fingers. Other men express their messages in different media,—in stone or on canvas. I have discovered that the book is my medium. When I bind and decorate a volume I seem to be setting myself, like a magnetized needle, or like an ancient temple, in line and all square, not alone with my own ideal of society, but with that orderly and rhythmical whole which is the revelation of science and the normal of developed humanity. You asked me a while ago to explain certain inconsistencies in my work, and I told you that there was no explanation. That is because each piece of work represents me at the time I do it. Sometimes it is good and sometimes poor, but, in any case, it stands as the expression of myself at the time I did it.”

As he spoke I wondered if Cobden-Sanderson had not explained why, in the various arts, the work of those master-spirits of the past had not been surpassed or even equaled during the intervening centuries. It is a matter for consideration, when the world has shown such spectacular advance along material lines, that in painting, in sculpture, in architecture, in printing, the work of the old masters still stands supreme. In their time, when men had messages in their souls to give the world, the interpretation came out through their fingers, expressed in the medium with which each was familiar. Before the invention of printing, the masses received those messages directly from the marble or the canvas, or from the design of some great building. The printed book opened to the world a storehouse of wisdom hitherto unavailable, and made individual effort less conspicuous and therefore less demanded. The few outstanding figures in every art have been those who, like Cobden-Sanderson, have set themselves “in line and all square, not alone with their own ideals of society, but with that orderly and rhythmical whole which is the revelation of science and the normal of developed humanity.” It is what Cobden-Sanderson has done rather than his written words, that conveys the greatest message.

While Theodore Roosevelt was President of the United States, and on the occasion of one of his several visits to Boston, his secretary wrote that the President would like to examine with me some of the special volumes I had built. I knew him to be an omnivorous reader, but until then did not realize his deep interest in the physical side of books.

He came to the University Press one bitterly cold day in January, and entered my office wrapped in a huge fur coat. After greeting him I asked if he wouldn’t lay the coat aside.

“Of course I will,” he replied briskly; “it is just as easy to catch hot as it is to catch cold.”

We devoted ourselves for an hour to an examination and discussion of certain volumes I had produced. One of these was a small twelve-mo entitled Trophies of Heredia containing poems by José-Maria de Heredia, brought out in artistic format for a Boston publishing house, which had proved a complete failure from a commercial standpoint. Probably not over two hundred copies of the book were ever sold. Evidently one of these had fallen into the President’s hands, for he seized my copy eagerly, saying,

“Hello! I didn’t remember that you made this. Extraordinary volume, isn’t it? I want to show you something.”

Quickly turning to one of the pages he pointed to the line, The hidden warmth of the Polar Sea.

“What do you think of that?” he demanded. “Did you ever think of the Polar Sea as being warm? And by Jove he’s right,—it is warm!”

Later, in Washington, I accepted his invitation for luncheon at the White House and for an afternoon in his library, where we continued our discussion of books. Before we turned to the volumes, he showed me some of the unusual presents which various potentates had given him, such as a jade bear from the Tzar of Russia, a revolver from Admiral Togo, and line drawings made personally by the Kaiser, showing in detail every ship in our Navy. When I expressed surprise that such exact knowledge should be in the possession of another country, my host became serious.

“The Kaiser is a most extraordinary fellow,” he said deliberately,—“not every one realizes how extraordinary. He and I have corresponded ever since I became President, and I tell you that if his letters were ever published they would bring on a world war. Thank God I don’t have to leave them behind when I retire. That’s one prerogative the President has, at any rate.”

I often thought of these comments after the World War broke out. An echo of them came while the desperate struggle was in full force. Ernest Harold Baynes, nature-lover and expert on birds, was visiting at my house, having dined with the ex-President at Oyster Bay the week before. In speaking of the dinner, Baynes said that Roosevelt declared that had he been President, Germany would never have forced the war at the time she did. When pressed to explain, Roosevelt said:

“The Kaiser would have remembered what he outlined to me in some letters he wrote while I was President. Bill knows me, and I know Bill!”

From the library we extended our examination to the family living-room, where there were other volumes of interest on the tables or in the bookcases. From these, the President picked up a hand-lettered, illuminated manuscript which he had just received as a present from King Menelik of Abyssinia. Some one had told him that it was a manuscript of the twelfth or thirteenth century, but to a student of the art of illumination it was clearly a modern copy of an old manuscript. The hand lettering was excellent, but the decoration included colors impossible to secure with the ancient pigments, and the parchment was distinctly of modern origin.

“You are just the one to tell me about this,” Mr. Roosevelt exclaimed. “Is it an original manuscript?”

He so obviously wished to receive an affirmative reply that I temporized by asking if some letter of description had not come with it.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, immediately divining the occasion of my question and showing his disappointment; “there was a missive, which is now in the archives of the State Department. I saw a translation of it, but it is only one of those banal expressions similar to any one of my own utterances, when I cable, for instance, to my imperial brother, the Emperor of Austria, how touched and moved I am to learn that his cousin, the lady with the ten names, has been safely delivered of a child!”

The President was particularly interested in the subject of illustration, and he showed me several examples, asking for a description of the various processes. From that we passed on to a discussion of the varying demand from the time when I first began to make books. I explained that the development of the halftone plate and of the four-color process plates had been practically within this period,—that prior to 1890 the excessive cost of woodcuts, steel engravings, or lithography confined illustration to expensive volumes. The halftone opened the way for profuse illustration at minimum expense.

The President showed me an impression from one of Timothy Cole’s marvelous woodcuts, and we agreed that the halftone had never taken the place of any process that depends upon the hand for execution. The very perfection to which the art of halftone reproduction has been carried is a danger point in considering the permanence of its popularity. This does not apply to its use in newspapers, but in reproducing with such slavish fidelity photographs of objects perpetuated in books of permanent value. It seemed paradoxical to say that the nearer perfection an art attains the less interesting it becomes, because the very variation incidental to hand work in any art is what relieves the monotony of that perfection attained through mechanical means. Since then, a few leading engravers have demonstrated how the halftone may be improved by hand work. This combination has opened up new possibilities that guarantee its continued popularity.

With the tremendous increase in the cost of manufacturing books during and since the World War, publishers found that by omitting illustrations from their volumes they could come nearer to keeping the cost within the required limits, so for a period illustrated volumes became limited in number

There is no question that the public loves pictures, and the development during recent years of so-called newspapers from which the public gleans the daily news by means of halftone illustrations, is, in a way, a reversion to the time before the printing press, when the masses received their education wholly through pictorial design. The popularity of moving pictures is another evidence. I have always wished that this phase had developed at the time of our discussion, for I am sure Mr. Roosevelt would have had some interesting comments to make on its significance. I like to believe that this tendency will correct itself, for, after all, the pictures which are most worth while are those which we ourselves draw subconsciously from impressions made through intellectual exploits

CHAPTER V

THE LURE OF ILLUMINATION

Sitting one day in the librarian’s office in the Laurenziana Library, in Florence, the conversation turned upon the subject of illumination. Taking a key from his pocket, my friend Guido Biagi unlocked one of the drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him, and lifted from it a small, purple vellum case, inlaid with jewels. Opening it carefully, he exposed a volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Then, as he turned the leaves, and the full splendor of the masterpiece was spread out before me,—the marvelous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of color, the magnificence of decoration and miniature,—I drew in my breath excitedly, and bent nearer to the magnifying glass which was required in tracing the intricacy of the work.

This was a Book of Hours illuminated by Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico, which had once belonged to Lorenzo de’ Medici, and was representative of the best of the fifteenth-century Italian work (page 146). The hand letters were written by Antonio Sinibaldi in humanistic characters upon the finest and rarest parchment; the illumination, with its beaten gold and gorgeous colors, was so close a representation of the jewels themselves as to make one almost believe that the gems were inlaid upon the page! And it was the very volume that had many times rested in the hands of Lorenzo the Magnificent, as it was at that moment resting in mine!

For the first time the art of illumination became real to me,—not something merely to be gazed at with respect and admiration, but an expression of artistic accomplishment to be studied and understood, and made a part of one’s life.

The underlying thought that has inspired illumination in books from its very beginning is more interesting even than the splendid pages which challenge one’s comprehension and almost pass beyond his power of understanding. To the ancients, as we have seen, the rarest gems in all the world were gems of thought. The book was the tangible and visible expression of man’s intellect, worthy of the noblest presentation. These true lovers of books engaged scribes to write the text in minium of rare brilliancy brought from India or Spain, or in Byzantine ink of pure Oriental gold; they selected, to write upon, the finest material possible,—sometimes nothing less than virgin parchment, soft as velvet, made from the skins of still-born kids; they employed the greatest artists of the day to draw decorations or to paint miniatures; and they enclosed this glorified thought of man, now perpetuated for all time, in a cover devised sometimes of tablets of beaten gold, or of ivory inlaid with precious jewels (page 112).

CARVED IVORY BINDING

Jeweled with Rubies and Turquoises

From Psalter (12th Century). Brit. Mus. Eger. MS. 1139

(Reduced in size)

For centuries, this glorification was primarily bestowed upon religious manuscripts, and illumination came to be associated with the Church, but by the fourteenth century the art ceased to be confined to the cloister. Wealthy patrons recognized that it offered too splendid a medium of expression to permit limitation; and lay artists were employed to add their talents in increasing the illuminated treasures of the world.

There would seem to be no reason why so satisfying an art as that of illumination should not continue to be employed to make beautifully printed books still more beautiful, yet even among those who really love and know books there is a surprising lack of knowledge concerning this fascinating work. The art of Raphael and Rubens has been a part of our every-day life and is familiar to us; but the names of Francesco d’Antonio, Jean Foucquet, and Jean Bourdichon have never become household words, and the masterpieces of the illuminator’s art which stand to their credit seem almost shrouded in a hazy and mysterious indefiniteness.

I have learned from my own experience that even fragmentary study brings rich rewards:—the interest in discovering that instead of being merely decorative, the art of illumination is as definitive in recording the temporary or fashionable customs of various periods as history itself. There is a satisfaction in learning to distinguish the characteristics of each well-defined school:—of recognizing the fretted arcades and mosaics of church decoration in the Romanesque style; the stained glass of the Gothic cathedrals in the schools of England, France, Germany, or Italy; the love of flower cultivation in the work of the Netherlandish artists; the echo of the skill of the goldsmith and enameller in the French manuscripts; and the glory of the gem cutter in those of the Italian Renaissance. There is the romance connected with each great masterpiece as it passes from artist to patron, and then on down the centuries, commemorating loyal devotion to saintly attributes; expressing fealty at coronations or congratulations at Royal marriages; conveying expressions of devotion and affection from noble lords and ladies, one to the other. Illuminated volumes were not the playthings of the common people, and in their peregrinations to their final resting places in libraries and museums, they passed along a Royal road and became clothed with fascinating associations.

There was a time when I thought I knew enough about the various schools to recognize the locality of origin or the approximate date of a manuscript, but I soon learned my presumption. Illuminators of one country, particularly of France, scattered themselves all over Europe, retaining the basic principles of their own national style, yet adding to it something significant of the country in which they worked. Of course, there are certain external evidences which help. The vellum itself tells a story: if it is peculiarly white and fine, and highly polished, the presumption is that it is Italian or dates earlier than the tenth century; if very thin and soft, it was made from the skins of still-born calves or kids, and is probably of the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries.

The colors, too, contribute their share. Each old-time artist ground or mixed his own pigments,—red and blue, and less commonly yellow, green, purple, black, and white. Certain shades are characteristic of certain periods. The application of gold differs from time to time: in England, for instance, gold powder was used until the twelfth century, after which date gold leaf is beautifully laid on the sheet. The raised-gold letters and decorations were made by building up with a peculiar clay, after the design had been drawn in outline, over which the gold leaf was skilfully laid and burnished with an agate.

As the student applies himself to the subject, one clue leads him to another, and he pursues his search with a fascination that soon becomes an obsession. That chance acquaintance with Francesco d’Antonio inspired me to become better acquainted with this art. It took me into different monasteries and libraries, always following “the quest,” and lured me on to further seeking by learning of new beauties for which to search, and of new examples to be studied. Even as I write this, I am told that at Chantilly, in the Musée Condé, the Très Riches Heures of the Duc de Berry is the most beautiful example of the French school. I have never seen it, and I now have a new objective on my next visit to France!

In this quest, covering many years, I have come to single out certain manuscripts as signifying to me certain interesting developments in the art during its evolution, and I study them whenever the opportunity offers. It is of these that I make a record here. Some might select other examples as better illustrative from their own viewpoints; some might draw conclusions different from mine from the same examples,—and we might all be right!

There is little for us to examine in our pilgrimage until the Emperor Justinian, after the conflagration in the year 532, which completely wiped out Constantinople with its magnificent monuments, reconstructed and rebuilt the city. There are two copies of Virgil at the Vatican Library in Rome, to be sure, which are earlier than that, and form links in the chain between illumination as illustration and as book decoration; there is the Roman Calendar in the Imperial Library at Vienna, in which for the first time is combined decoration with illustration; there is the Ambrosiana Homer at Milan, of which an excellent reproduction may be found in any large library,—made under the supervision of Achille Ratti, before he became Pope Pius XI; there are the burnt fragments of the Cottonian Genesis at the British Museum in London,—none more than four inches square, and running down to one inch, some perforated with holes, and almost obliterated, others still preserving the ancient colors of the design, with the Greek letters clearly legible after sixteen centuries.

These are historical and interesting, but we are seeking beauty. In the splendor of the rebirth of Constantinople, to which all the known world contributed gold, and silver, and jewels, medieval illumination found its beginning. Artists could now afford to send to the Far East and to the southern shores of Europe for their costly materials. Brilliant minium came from India and from Spain, lapis lazuli from Persia and Bokhara, and the famous Byzantine gold ink was manufactured by the illuminators themselves out of pure Oriental gold. The vellum was stained with rose and scarlet tints and purple dyes, upon which the gold and silver inks contrasted with marvelous brilliancy.

Gorgeousness was the fashion of the times in everything from architecture to dress, and in the wealth and sumptuous materials at their command the artists mistook splendor for beauty. The Byzantine figure work is based upon models as rigid as those of the Egyptians, and shows little life or variety (opp. page). Landscapes and trees are symbolic and fanciful. Buildings have no regard for relative proportions, and are tinted merely as parts of the general color scheme. The illuminators adhered so closely to mechanical rules that the volumes lack even individuality.

PSALTER IN GREEK. Byzantine, 11th Century

Solomon, David, Gideon, and the Annunciation

(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 19352. 9¼ × 8 inches)

There are comparatively few of these extravagant relics now in existence. Their intrinsic value made them favorite objects of pillage, and hundreds were destroyed for their jewels and precious metals. In many of those that have endured, like the Codex Argenteus, at Upsala, in Sweden, the silver letters have turned black, the gold ink has become a rusty red, and the stained vellum now supplies a tawdry background.

After passing the early stages of the art, there are ten examples I particularly like to keep fresh in my mind as showing the evolution of that insatiable desire on the part of booklovers of all ages to enrich the book. Four of these are in the British Museum in London, four in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, one in the Library of San Marco in Venice, and one in the Laurenziana Library in Florence. In each of these storehouses of treasure there are many other manuscripts worthy of all the time a pilgrim can spare; but these ten represent different schools and different epochs, and in my own study have combined to make illumination a living art and a romantic history.

The Lindisfarne Gospels is where I start my illuminated pilgrimage. It takes me back to the seventh century, when the world was shrouded in darkest ignorance, and is a reminder that except for the development in the Irish monasteries, as typified by early illuminated volumes such as this, knowledge of books might have almost wholly disappeared. It recalls the asceticism of those early Irish monks carried even to a point of fanaticism; their toilsome pilgrimages to Rome, visiting the different monasteries and collecting, one by one, the manuscripts to bring back to form those early libraries that kept alive the light of learning.

The Irish school of writing and painting passed over to England through the monasteries established by the Irish monks in Scotland, and the earliest of the English settlements was Lindisfarne. It was here that the Gospels, one of the most characteristic examples of the Celtic School, as translated to northern England, was produced. Such knowledge of its date and origin as exists rests upon a colophon added at the end of the manuscript, probably in the tenth century, which would seem to place the date of the execution of the work at about the year 700. For nearly two centuries it remained as the chief treasure of Lindisfarne. In 875, so the tradition runs, in order to escape from the invasion of the Danes, it was decided to remove the body of Saint Cuthbert and the most valued relics to the mainland, and the Gospels was included. When the attempt was made to cross over to Ireland, according to the legend, the ship was driven back by storm, and the chest containing the precious volume was lost overboard. Here is the quaint chronicle:

This quotation from Mr. Eric George Millar’s Introduction to the facsimile reproduction of this famous manuscript, published by the British Museum, is given at such length to emphasize at the very beginning of this pilgrimage the important place given to these manuscripts in the communities for which they were prepared. The fact that such a legend exists at all attests the personality the manuscript had assumed. It was my very great pleasure, the last time I studied the Gospels, to have Mr. Millar, who is an Assistant in the Department of Manuscripts at the British Museum, explain many things in connection with it which could not be gleaned without the exhaustive study which he has given to it.

The Gospels includes 258 leaves of heavy vellum, measuring about 13 by 10 inches. The Latin text is written in beautifully designed, semi-uncial characters. These differ from the capital letters only by their relatively greater roundness, inclination, and inequality in height. This style of lettering obtained until the eighth or ninth century, when the semi-uncial character became the transition to the minuscule. There are five full pages of decoration, in cruciform design of most extraordinary elaboration; six pages of ornamented text; four full-page miniatures of the Evangelists, in which the scribes are drawn in profile, seated, with cushion, desk, and footstool; sixteen pages of Canon tables, decorated in pure Celtic style; and numerous initials of various sizes.

The great interest in this manuscript lies in the cruciform pages. When I first saw them I thought the work a marvelous example of the amount of intricate design an artist could devise within a given area of space. Then, as I studied them, came the realization that, complicated as they were, there was a definite plan the artist had established and followed which preserved the balance of coloring and design.

In the illustration here given (page 124), Mr. Millar showed me how he has ingeniously unraveled the knots. It is peculiarly interesting as it demonstrates the methods by which the expert is able to understand much that the casual observer fails to see. He pointed out that the background of the page is occupied by a design of no less than 88 birds, arranged in a perfect pattern, with 7 at the top, 7 at the bottom, 9 on each side, 12 in the gaps between the outer panels, four groups of 10 surrounding the rectangular panels, and 4 single birds in the gaps between the points of the cross and the T panels. The necks and the bodies are so cleverly balanced that even when at first the scheme seems inconsistent, further examination shows that the artist adhered religiously to his plan. The color arrangement is carried out with equal thought and care.

THE LINDISFARNE GOSPELS. Celtic, about A.D. 700

(Brit. Mus. Cotton MS. Nero. D. iv. 12½ × 10 inches)

The four miniatures of the Evangelists show Byzantine influence, but in the features, and the hair, and in the frames, the Celtic style prevails. Gold is used only on two pages.

The Lindisfarne Gospels cannot be called beautiful when compared with the work of later centuries, but can we fully appreciate the beauty we are approaching without becoming familiar, step by step, with what led up to it? In this manuscript the precious Gospels were enriched by the labor of devoted enthusiasts in the manner they knew best, and with an ingenuity and industry that staggers us today. Taking what the past had taught them, they gave to it their own interpretation, and thus advanced the art toward its final consummation and glory.

Taken merely as an example of illumination, few would share my interest in the Alcuin Bible, a Carolingian manuscript of the ninth century; but to any one interested in printing, this huge volume at the British Museum cannot be overlooked. In the eighth century the Irish and Anglo-Saxon missionary artists transplanted their work to their settlements on the Continent, out of which sprang the Carolingian School in France,—so named in honor of Charlemagne. Sacred compositions, derived largely from Latin and Byzantine sources, were now added to the highly ornamental letters. Solid backgrounds were abandoned, and handsome architectural designs were used to frame the miniatures.

If you will examine the Alcuin Bible with me, you will note what a tremendous advance has been made. The manuscript is a copy of the Vulgate said to be revised and amended by Alcuin of York to present to Charlemagne on the occasion of that monarch’s coronation. Some dispute this tradition altogether; some claim that a similar Bible, now in Rome, is entitled to the honor; but the controversy does not detract from the interest in the book itself. This Alcuin of York was the instrument of Charlemagne in establishing the reform in hand lettering, which has been of the utmost importance in the history of printing. Starting with the foundation of the School of Tours in 796, the minuscule, or lower-case letter, which is the basis of our modern styles, superseded all other forms of hand lettering. By the twelfth century the clear, free-flowing form that developed from the Caroline minuscule was the most beautiful hand ever developed, and was never surpassed until the humanistic scribes of the fifteenth century took it in its Italian form as their model and perfected it.

The volume is a large quarto, 20 by 14¼ inches in size, splendidly written in double column in minuscule characters with uncial initials (opp. page). There are four full-page illuminations, and many smaller miniatures, with characteristic architectural detail that show Roman influence, while the decorations themselves are reminiscent of the Byzantine and the Celtic Schools.

ALCUIN BIBLE. Carolingian, 9th Century

Showing the Caroline Minuscule

(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 10546. 20 × 14¼ inches)

It is the hand lettering rather than the illumination or the decoration that particularly interests me. When I first began my work in designing my Humanistic type, I was amazed that the humanistic scribes of the fifteenth century, upon whose letters I based my own, could have so suddenly taken such a stride forward. The mere fact that there was a greater demand for their work did not seem to explain the phenomenon. Then I discovered that these fifteenth-century artists, instead of adapting or copying the Caroline minuscule, set about to perfect it. They mastered the principles upon which it was based, and with the technical advantages that had come to them through the intervening centuries, brought the design to its fullest beauty.

To supplement my study of the Alcuin Bible, I turn to the masterpiece of the Carolingian School in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. The Golden Gospels of Saint Médard belongs to the same period as the Alcuin Bible, and its hand letters are of the same beautiful design, but more brilliant in that they are written throughout in gold. In spite of the crude and unnatural figures, I am always impressed with a feeling that the artist is, for the first time, making a definite effort to break away from past tradition toward more natural design. The Byzantine atmosphere still clings to the work as a whole (opp. page), but in the frames and the backgrounds there is an echo of the ivory carving and the architecture of the new Church of San Vitale at Ravenna, and the powerful influence of the early Christian symbolism asserts itself in the miniatures.

GOLDEN GOSPELS OF ST. MÉDARD.

Carolingian, 9th Century

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 8850. 12 × 7½ inches)

The hand-lettered pages are enclosed in plain borders of green or red tint, with outside rules of gold. Each picture page covers the entire leaf. Every now and then, superimposed upon the solid background of the margins, are tiny figures so far superior in freedom of design to the major subjects as to make one wonder why the more pretentious efforts are not farther advanced than they are. Yet why should we be surprised that an artist, under the influence of centuries of precedent and the ever-present aversion to change, should move slowly in expressing originality? As it is, the pages of Saint Médard give us for the first time motivation for the glorious development of the art to come in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

The rise of Gothic influence forms the great dividing line between the old, or ecclesiastic, and the new, or naturalistic, spirit in monastic art. The Psalter of Saint Louis, a Gothic manuscript of the thirteenth century, in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, is an example of this transition that I like to study.

By the beginning of the thirteenth century the initial—which in the Celtic style had dominated the entire page—was losing its supremacy, becoming simply one factor in the general scheme. A delicate fringe work or filigree of pen flourishes, which had sprung up around the initial as it became reduced in size, was later to be converted into a tendril or cylindrical stem, bearing a succession of five leaves and leaflets of ivy, usually entirely filled with burnished gold. Small figures, and, later, groups of figures, take the place of the linear ornament in the interior of the letter, and calligraphy and miniature painting become successfully fused. An exact date cannot be assigned, as it was the result of a slow and gradual growth.

From certain references made in the Calendar pages of the Psalter, it is evident that the manuscript was copied and illuminated between the year 1252, when Queen Blanche of Castile died, and the death of Saint Louis in 1270. What a story this book could tell! Written in French in red ink on one of the front end leaves is this inscription:

The Psalter contains 260 leaves of parchment, 8½ by 6 inches. Of these, seventy-eight are small, beautiful miniatures, depicting the principal scenes in the early books of the Old Testament, and eight are illustrations to the Psalms (page 132), the remaining leaves being occupied by the text. In these miniatures is shown a refinement and delicacy of treatment combined with unusual freedom in execution. Here is one of the best examples of the reflection of the stained-glass windows of the Gothic cathedrals (opp. page), to which reference has already been made. There is no shading whatever. The body color is laid on the design in flat tints, finished by strokes of the pen.

PSALTER OF SAINT LOUIS. Gothic, 13th Century

Abraham and Isaac

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 10525. 8½ × 6 inches)

PSALTER OF SAINT LOUIS. Gothic, 13th Century

Psalms lxviii. 1–3

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 10525. 8½ × 6 inches)

All this is interesting because this period marks the end of the needless limitations illuminators placed upon themselves. Working on vellum as a medium instead of in glass with lead outlines, should be a much simpler operation! Still, one can’t help reveling in the bright scarlet and the rich blue of the stained glass, and would be loath to give it up.

The volume is bound in old boards, covered with blue and rose material embossed with silver and reinforced with velvet. The clasps are gone.

The style of illumination in the thirteenth century shows no distinct national characteristics, for, even in England, some of the work was executed by French artists. The initial is usually set within a frame shaped to its outline, the ground being either of gold, slightly raised or burnished, or of color, especially dark blue and pale tints of salmon, gray, or violet, sometimes edged with gold.

Queen Mary’s Psalter, a superb example of the English School in the early fourteenth century, is a landmark in our pilgrimage because, in addition to its surpassing beauty, it is an example of illumination sought for its own artistic value instead of being associated wholly with devotional manuscripts. No one can examine the charming series of little tinted drawings in the margins of the Litany without being convinced that the artist, whoever he may have been, was quite familiar with the world outside the Church (see frontispiece).

The earliest note of ownership in this manuscript is of the sixteenth century:

How fascinating these records are, made by different hands as the precious manuscripts are passed on down the ages! Even though we have no absolute knowledge of which Rutland is meant, an added personality is given to the pages we are now permitted to turn and to admire. In this manuscript there is also a second note, written in Latin on the fly leaf at the end, paying a tribute to a certain Baldwin Smith, “an honest customs officer,” who frustrated an attempt to ship the volume out of England, and presented it to Queen Mary. It is now in the British Museum.

Whether or not this was Queen Mary’s first acquaintance with the manuscript is not known, but from the binding she put on it she surely considered it a highly prized personal possession. It would naturally be of special interest to her because of its connection with the old liturgy she was so anxious to restore. The silver-gilt clasp fittings are missing now. The crimson velvet with the pomegranate, the Queen’s badge, worked in colored silks and gold thread on each cover, are worn and shabby; but on the corner plates the engraved lion, dragon, portcullis, and fleur-de-lys of the Tudors are still triumphant.

The manuscript, executed upon thin vellum, and consisting of 320 leaves about 11 by 7 inches, opens with a series of 228 pen and ink drawings. In most cases there are two designs on each page, illustrating Bible history from the Creation down to the death of Solomon (page 134). With the drawings is a running description in French, sometimes in prose, sometimes in rhyme, which in itself is interesting, as the story does not always confine itself strictly to the Biblical records but occasionally embodies apocryphal details.

The drawings themselves are exquisite, and in the skill of execution mark another tremendous advance in the art of illumination. They are delicately tinted with violet, green, red, and brown. The frame is a plain band of vermilion, from each corner of which is extended a stem with three leaves tinted with green or violet.

Following the series of drawings comes a full page showing the Tree of Jesse, and three other full pages depicting the Saints,—one page of four compartments and two of six. The text, from this point, represents the usual form of the liturgical Psalter, the Psalms being preceded by a Calendar, two pages to a month, and followed by the Canticles, including the Athanasian Creed, and then by the Litany. In the Psalter, the miniatures show incidents from the life of Christ; the Canticles depict scenes from the Passion; while in the Litany are miniatures of the Saints and Martyrs. The initials themselves are elaborate, many containing small miniatures, and all lighted up with brilliant colors and burnished gold. In the Litany, in addition to the religious subjects, there are splendid little scenes of every-day life painted in the lower margins which make the manuscript unique,—illustrations of the Bestiary, tilting and hunting scenes, sports and pastimes, grotesque figures and combats, dancers and musicians. The manuscript ends with the Miracles of the Virgin and the Lives and Passions of the Saints.

In Queen Mary’s Psalter, and in manuscripts from this period to those of the sixteenth century, we find ourselves reveling in sheer beauty. “Why not have started here?” asks my reader. Perhaps we should have done so; but this is a record not of what I ought to do, but of what I’ve done! To see one beautiful manuscript after another, without being able to recognize what makes each one different and significant, would take away my pleasure, for the riotous colors and gold would merge one into another. Is it not true that there comes greater enjoyment in better understanding? We admire what we may not understand, but without understanding there can be no complete appreciation. In this case, familiarity breeds content!

QUEEN MARY’S PSALTER. English, 14th Century

From the Life of Joseph

(Brit. Mus. Royal MS. 2B vii. 11 × 7 inches)

After studying the best of fourteenth-century English illumination in Queen Mary’s Psalter, I like to turn to the Bedford Book of Hours, to make comparison with one of the most beautiful French manuscripts of a century later. This is also at the British Museum, so in the brief space of time required by the attendant to change the volumes on the rack in front of me, I am face to face with the romance and the beauty of another famous volume, which stands as a memorial of English domination in France.

Fashions change in illuminated manuscripts, as in all else, and books of hours were now beginning to be the vogue in place of psalters. This one was written and decorated for John, Duke of Bedford, son of Henry IV, and was probably a wedding gift to Anne, his wife. This marriage, it will be remembered, was intended to strengthen the English alliance with Anne’s brother, Philip of Burgundy. On the blank page on the back of the Duke’s portrait is a record in Latin, made by John Somerset, the King’s physician, to the effect that on Christmas Eve, 1430, the Duchess, with her husband’s consent, presented the manuscript to the young King Henry VI, who was then at Rouen, on his way to be crowned at Paris. Such notes, made in these later illuminated volumes, are interesting as far as they go, but there is so much left unsaid! In the present instance, how came the manuscript, a hundred years later, in the possession of Henri II and Catherine de’ Medici, of France? After being thus located, where was it for the next hundred years, before it was purchased by Edward Harley, 2d Earl of Oxford, from Sir Robert Worsley’s widow, to be presented to his daughter, the Duchess of Portland? These are questions that naturally arise in one’s mind as he turns the gorgeous pages, for it seems incredible that such beauty could remain hidden for such long periods. Now, happily, through purchase in 1852, the manuscript has reached its final resting place.

BEDFORD BOOK OF HOURS. French, 15th Century

Showing one of the superb Miniature Pages

(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 18850. 10¼ × 7¼ inches)

Like other books of hours, the Bedford opens with the Calendar pages, combining the signs of the Zodiac with beautifully executed scenes typical of each month. Then follow four full-page designs showing the Creation and Fall, the Building of the Ark, the Exit from the Ark, and the Tower of Babel. The Sequences of the Gospels come next; then the Hours of the Virgin, with Penitential Psalms and Litany; the Shorter Hours; the Vigils of the Dead; the Fifteen Joys; the Hours of the Passion; the Memorials of the Saints; and various Prayers. Throughout the 289 leaves, a little larger than 10 by 7 inches, are thirty-eight full-page miniatures that are masterpieces,—particularly the Annunciation, with which the Hours of the Virgin begin. Every page of text is surrounded by a magnificent border, rich in colors and gold, with foliage and birds, and with the daintiest little miniatures imaginable. While these borders are based upon the ivy-leaf pattern, it resembles the style that carries the illumination through the leaf, bud, and flower up to the fruit itself, which one associates more with the Flemish than the French School. The work is really a combination of the French and Flemish Schools, but is essentially French in its conception and execution.

It was the custom, in these specially created manuscripts, to immortalize the heads of the family by including them with other, and, perhaps in some cases, more religious subjects. In this Book of Hours, the Duke of Bedford is depicted, clad in a long, fur-lined gown of cloth-of-gold, kneeling before Saint George, and the portrait is so fine that it has been frequently copied. The page which perpetuates the Duchess is reproduced here (at page 136). Clad in a sumptuous gown of cloth-of-gold, lined with ermine, she kneels before Saint Anne; her elaborate head-dress supports an artificial coiffure, rich in jewels; on her long train, her two favorite dogs are playing. The Saint is clad in a grey gown, with blue mantle and white veil, with an open book in front of her. At her left stands the Virgin in white, with jeweled crown, and the infant Christ, in grey robe. His mother has thrown her arm affectionately about Him, while He, in turn, beams on the kneeling Duchess. In His hand He carries an orb surmounted by a cross. Saint Joseph stands at the right of the background, and four angels may be seen with musical instruments, appearing above the arras, on which is stamped the device and motto of the Duchess.

Surrounding the miniature, worked into the border, in addition to the Duke’s shield and arms, are exquisite smaller pictures, in architectural backgrounds, showing Saint Anne’s three husbands and her sons-in-law. The pages must be seen in their full color, and in their original setting, to be appreciated.

The manuscript is bound in red velvet, with silver-gilt clasps, bearing the Harley and the Cavendish arms, and dates back to the time of the Earl of Oxford.

ANTIQUITIES OF THE JEWS. French Renaissance, 15th Century

Cyrus permits the Jews to return to their own Country, and to rebuild the Temple of Jerusalem

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Français 247. 16¼ × 11½ inches)

In the Antiquities of the Jews, Jean Foucquet’s masterpiece at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, we find the French Renaissance School. This manuscript interests me for several and different reasons. In the first place, Foucquet was one of the founders of the French School of painting, and had his masterpieces been painted on canvas instead of on vellum, his name would have been much more familiar to art lovers than it is today. The high degree attained by the art at Tours, which had become the center of the Renaissance in France, demanded a setting for the miniatures different from the Flemish type of decoration that had so dominated illumination in general. This it found in the Italian style, which at that time was first attaining its glory.

The book itself was originally bound in two volumes, being a French translation by an unknown writer of Flavius Josephus’ Antiquities and War of the Jews, the subject being the clemency of Cyrus toward the captive Jews in Babylon. It is in folio (a little larger than 16 by 11 inches), written in double column, and contains superb initials, vignettes, and miniatures (page 138). The work was begun for the Duc de Berry, but was left unfinished at his death in 1416. Later it came into the possession of the Duc de Nemours. Can one imagine a more aristocratic treasure for a cultured gentleman to own! It was probably begun very early in the fifteenth century, and completed between the years 1455 and 1477. A note at the end of the first volume (which contains 311 leaves) by François Robertet, secretary of Pierre II, Duc de Bourbon, states that nine of the miniatures are “by the hand of that good painter of King Louis XI, Jean Foucquet, native of Tours.”

For over two hundred years this first volume, containing Books I to XIV of the Antiquities of the Jews, has been in the Bibliothèque Nationale. It is bound in yellow morocco, and bears the arms of Louis XV. The second volume was considered lost. In 1903 the English collector, Mr. Henry Yates Thompson, purchased the missing copy in London, at a sale at Sotheby’s. This contained Books XV to XX of the Antiquities of the Jews and Books I to VII of the War of the Jews; but it was imperfect in that a dozen pages of miniatures had been cut out. Two years later, Sir George Warner discovered ten of these filched leaves in an album of miniatures that at some time had been presented to Queen Victoria, and were in her collection at Windsor Castle.

As soon as Mr. Thompson heard of this discovery, he begged King Edward VII to accept his volume, in order that the leaves might be combined. The English monarch received the gift with the understanding that he, in turn, might present the restored manuscript to the President of the French Republic. This gracious act was accomplished on March 4, 1906, and now the two volumes rest side by side in the Bibliothèque Nationale, reunited for all time after their long separation. If books possess personalities, surely no international romance ever offered greater material for the novelist’s imagination!

Now our pilgrimage takes us from Paris to Venice, to study that priceless treasure of the Library of San Marco, the Grimani Breviary, the gem of the Flemish School (which should properly be called “Netherlandish”). This style overlapped, distinctly, into Germany and France, and further complicated any certainty of identification by the fact that the number of Netherlandish illuminators was large, and they scattered themselves over Europe, practising their art and style in France, Germany, and Italy. They all worked with the same minute care, and it is practically impossible to identify absolutely the work even of the most famous artists. There has always been a question whether the chief glory of the Grimani Breviary belonged to Hans Memling or to Gerard Van-der-Meire, but from a study of the comparative claims the Memling enthusiasts would seem to have the better of the argument.

Internal and external evidence place the date of the execution of the Grimani Breviary at 1478 to 1489,—ten years being required for its completion. It is believed that the commission was given by Pope Sixtus IV. The Pontiff, however, died before the volume was finished, and it was left in the hands of one of the artists engaged upon it. Antonello di Messina purchased it from this artist, who is supposed to have been Hans Memling, and brought it to Venice, where he sold it for the sum of 500 ducats to Cardinal Domenico Grimani, whose name it bears.

GRIMANI BREVIARY. Flemish, 15th Century

La Vie au Mois de Janvier

(Biblioteca San Marco, Venice. 10 × 9 inches)

This Cardinal Grimani was a man noted not only for his exemplary piety but also as a literary man of high repute, and a collector of rare judgment. When he died, the Breviary was bequeathed to his nephew, Marino Grimani, Patriarch of Aquileia, on the condition that at his death the precious manuscript should become the property of the Venetian Republic. Marino carried the Breviary with him to Rome, where it remained until his death in 1546. In spite of his precautions, however, this and several other valuable objects would have been irretrievably lost had not Giovanni Grimani, Marino’s successor as Patriarch at Aquileia, searched for it, and finally recovered it at great cost to himself.

In recognition of his services, Venice granted Giovanni the privilege of retaining the manuscript in his possession during his lifetime. Faithful to his trust, Giovanni, fearing lest the volume be again lost, on October 3, 1593, sent for his great friend, Marco Antonio Barbaro, Procurator of Saint Mark’s, placed the treasure in his hands, and charged him to deliver it to the Doge Pasquale Cicogna in full Senate. This was done, and the volume was stored in the Treasury of the Basilica for safe keeping. Here it remained through the many vicissitudes of Venice, and even after the fall of the Republic, until the librarian Morelli persuaded the authorities to allow its removal to the Library of San Marco, whither it was transferred October 4, 1797.

When the Breviary was delivered to the Doge Pasquale, the Republic voted to entrust the binding to one Alessandro Vittoria. The cover is of crimson velvet, largely hidden by ornaments of silver gilt. On one side are the arms and the medallion of Cardinal Domenico Grimani, and on the other those of his father, the Doge Antonio. Both covers contain further decorations and Latin inscriptions, relating in the first case to the gift, and in the other to its confirmation. In the small medallions in the border one sees a branch of laurel, the emblem of vigilance and protection, crossed by a branch of palm,—the symbol of the religious life. The dove typifies purity, and the dragon stands for defense.

The volume itself contains 831 pages about 10 by 9 inches in size. There are the usual Calendar pages, containing the signs of the Zodiac, and further decorated with small miniatures (opp. page), alternating with twelve superb full-page illuminations (page 142), showing the occupations of the months. Following these, come the Prayers, with sixty additional full-page miniatures based on Bible history or the lives of the Saints. At the end are eighteen pages with smaller miniatures assigned to the saints of special devotion, placed at the beginning of the office dedicated to each.

GRIMANI BREVIARY. Flemish, 15th Century

Text Page showing Miniature and Decoration

(Biblioteca San Marco, Venice. 10 × 9 inches)

The marginal decorations throughout the book are wonderfully wrought. Some pages are adorned with perpendicular bands, with constantly varying color combinations. Arabesques of all kinds are used, and interspersed among the ornamentation are flowers and fruits, animals, birds, fishes, and all kinds of natural objects. In addition to these, one finds little buildings, landscapes, architectural ornaments, statues, church ornaments, frames, vases, cameos, medals, and scenes from Bible history and from every-day life as well,—all showing the genius of the artists who put themselves into the spirit of their work.

When the old Campanile fell in 1902, one corner of the Library of San Marco was damaged. Immediately telegrams poured in from all over the world, anxiously inquiring for the safety of the Grimani Breviary. Fortunately it was untouched. The last time I saw this precious manuscript was in 1924. Doctor Luigi Ferrari, the librarian, courteously took the volume from its case and laid it tenderly on a low table, extending to me the unusual privilege of personal examination. Thus I could turn the pages slowly enough to enjoy again the exquisite charm of its miniatures, the beauty of its coloring, and to assimilate the depth of feeling which pervades it throughout. My friends at the British Museum think that in the Flemish pages of the Sforza Book of Hours they have the finest example of the Flemish School. They may be right; but no miniatures I have ever seen have seemed to me more marvelously beautiful than those in the Grimani Breviary.

Whenever I examine a beautiful manuscript, and take delight in it, I find myself comparing it with the Italian masterpiece of Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico. It may be that this is due to my dramatic introduction to that volume, as recorded at the beginning of this chapter. Its date is perhaps half a century earlier than the Hours of Anne of Brittany; it is of the same period as the Grimani Breviary and the Antiquities of the Jews; it is fifty years later than the Bedford Book of Hours, and a century and a half later than Queen Mary’s Psalter. Which of all these magnificent manuscripts is the most beautiful? Who would dare to say! In all there is found the expression of art in its highest form; in each the individual admirer finds some special feature—the beauty of the designs, the richness of the composition, the warmth of the coloring, or the perfection of the execution—that particularly appeals.

BOOK OF HOURS. Italian, 15th Century

By Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico

(R. Lau. Bibl. Ashb. 1874. 7 × 5 inches)

When one considers the early civilization of Italy, and the heights finally attained by Italian illuminators, it is difficult to understand why the intervening centuries show such tardy recognition of the art. Even as late as the twelfth century, with other countries turning out really splendid examples, the Italian work is of a distinctly inferior order; but by the middle of the thirteenth century, the great revival in art brought about by Cimabue and Giotto stimulated the development in illumination. During the next hundred years the art became nationalized. The ornament diverged from the French type, and assumed the peculiar straight bar or rod, with profile foliages, and the sudden reversions of the curves with change of color, which are characteristic of fourteenth-century Italian work. The miniatures, introducing the new Tuscan manner of painting, entirely re-fashioned miniature art. The figure becomes natural, well-proportioned, and graceful, the heads delicate in feature and correct in expression. The costumes are carefully wrought, the drapery folds soft, yet elaborately finished. The colors are vivid but warm, the blue being particularly effective.

The vine-stem style immediately preceded the Classic revival which came when the Medici and other wealthy patrons recognized the artistic importance of illumination. In this style the stems are coiled most gracefully, slightly tinted, with decorative flowerets. The grounds are marked by varying colors, in which the artists delicately traced tendrils in gold or white.

The great glory of Italy in illumination came after the invention of printing. Aside from the apprehensions of the wealthy owners of manuscript libraries that they would lose prestige if books became common, beyond the danger to the high-born rulers of losing their political power if the masses learned argument from the printed book,—these true lovers of literature opposed the printing press because they believed it to cheapen something that was so precious as to demand protection. So they vied with one another in encouraging the scribes and the illuminators to produce hand-written volumes such as had never before been seen.

Certainly the Book of Hours of d’Antonio is one of the marvels of Florentine art. The nine full-page miniatures have never been surpassed. No wonder that Lorenzo de’ Medici, lover of the beautiful, should have kept it ever beside him! The delicate work in the small scenes in the Calendar is as precise as that in the larger miniatures; the decoration, rich in the variety of its design, really surpassed the splendor and glory of the goldsmith’s art (page 146). Some deplore the fact that England lost this treasure when the Italian government purchased the Ashburnham Collection in 1884; but if there ever was a manuscript that belongs in Florence, it is this.

You may still see d’Antonio’s masterpiece at the Laurenziana Library, but it is no longer kept in the ancient wooden desk. The treasures of illumination are now splendidly arrayed in cases, where all may study and admire. There are heavy choir-books, classic manuscripts, books of hours, and breviaries, embellished by Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico; by Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes still make the Riccardi famous; by Gherado, and Clovio, and by other artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art that should be revived.

Experts, I believe, place the work of Jean Foucquet, in the Antiquities of the Jews, ahead of that of Jean Bourdichon (probably Foucquet’s pupil) in the Hours of Anne of Brittany; but frankly this sixteenth century manuscript at the Bibliothèque Nationale, in Paris, always yields me greater pleasure. Perhaps this is in compensation for not knowing too much! I will agree with them that the decorative borders of Foucquet are much more interesting than Bourdichon’s, for the return of the Flemish influence to French art at this time was not particularly fortunate. In the borders of the Grimani Breviary realism in reproducing flowers, vegetables, bugs, and small animal life, would seem to have been carried to the limit, but Bourdichon went the Grimani one better, and on a larger scale. The reproductions are marvelously exact, but even a beautifully painted domesticated onion, on which a dragon-fly crawls, with wing so delicately transparent that one may read the letter it seems to cover, is a curious accompaniment for the magnificently executed portraits of Anne and her patron saints in the miniature pages! Here the artist has succeeded in imparting a quality to his work that makes it appear as if done on ivory instead of vellum (see page 148). The costumes and even the jewels are brilliant in the extreme. The floral decorations shown in the reproduction opposite are far more decorative than the vegetables, but I still object to the caterpillar and the bugs!

HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. French Renaissance, 16th Century

The Education of the Child Jesus by the Virgin and Saint Joseph

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7½ inches)

HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. French Renaissance, 16th Century

Page showing Text and Marginal Decoration

(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7¼ inches)]

In 1508 there is a record that Anne of Brittany, Queen of Louis XII, made an order of payment to Bourdichon of 1050 livres tournois for his services in “richly and sumptuously historiating and illuminating a great Book of Hours for our use.” This consists of 238 leaves of vellum, 12 by 7½ inches in size. There are sixty-three full pages, including forty-nine miniatures, twelve reproductions for the various months, and a leaf containing ornaments and figures at the beginning and end of the volume. Of the text, there are some 350 pages surrounded by borders. The Italian influence shows in the architectural and sculptural decorations, just as the Flemish obtains in the borders.

The manuscript is bound in black shagreen, with chased silver clasps.

The question naturally arises as to the reason for the decline and practically the final extinction of the art. I believe it to be that which the princely Italian patrons foresaw. Their apprehensions, though selfish in motive, have been confirmed by history. The invention of printing did make the book common, and as such, its true significance came to be forgotten because of greater familiarity. The book as the developer of the people in science and in literature crowded out the book as an expression of art.

I wonder if it is too late to revive illumination. Never has there existed in America or England a keener appreciation of beautiful books; never have there been so many lovers of the book blessed with the financial ability to gratify their tastes. There are still artists familiar with the art, who, if encouraged, could produce work worthy of the beautifully printed volumes the best Presses are capable of turning out. What is lacking is simply a realization that illumination stands side by side with art at its best. In America, the opportunities for studying illumination are restricted, but a student would have no difficulty in finding in certain private collections and in a few public libraries more than enough to establish his basic understanding of the art. The great masterpieces are permanently placed now, and strictly enforced laws prevent national monuments from being further transferred from one country to another; but even of these, excellent facsimile reproductions have been made and distributed throughout the world

No true lover of art visits Europe without first preparing himself by reading and study for a fuller understanding and more perfect enjoyment of what he is to find in the various galleries. Assuming that no one can be an art lover without also being a lover of books, it is perhaps a fair question to ask why he should not make an equal effort to prepare himself to understand and enjoy those rich treasures in the art of illumination which are now so easily accessible

HOURS OF ANNE OF BRITTANY

Order of payment of 1050 livres tournois to Jean Bourdichon, 1508

CHAPTER VI

FRIENDS THROUGH THE PEN

Maurice Hewlett combined to an unusual degree those salient characteristics that go to make the great writer: he was a discerning observer, and had formed the habit of analyzing what he observed; his personal experiences had taught him the significance of what he had seen and enabled him to assess its valuation. Beyond all,—having observed, analyzed, and understood,—he possessed the power to interpret to others.

At the time I first met him, The Queen’s Quair was having a tremendous run, and the volume naturally came into the conversation.

“In spite of its success,” he said with much feeling, “I am disappointed over its reception. I have always wanted to write history, but not the way history has always been written. There are certain acts attributed to the chief characters which, if these characters are studied analytically, are obviously impossible; yet because a certain event has once been recorded it keeps on being repeated and magnified until history itself becomes a series of distortions. Mary, Queen of Scots, has always been my favorite historical figure, and I know that in The Queens Quair I have given a truer picture of her character than any that at present exists. But alas,” he added with a sigh, “no one accepts it as other than fiction.”

After this statement from him I turned again to my copy of The Queen’s Quair and re-read the author’s prologue, in which I found:

I wonder if every writer in his heart does not feel the same ambition. The novelist is a story-teller who recites bed-time stories to his audience of grown-up children, while the humorist plays the clown; but in writing history one is dealing with something basic. Within a year a volume has been published containing alleged documentary evidence to prove that Mary, Queen of Scots, was innocent of the charge of treason. What a triumph if an author through character analysis could correct tradition! It was a loss to the world that Hewlett permitted himself to be discouraged by unsympathetic critics from carrying out a really big idea.

To meet Maurice Hewlett at his home at Broad Chalke, a little English village nearly ten miles from a railroad station, and to walk with him in his garden, one might recognize the author of The Forest Lovers; but an afternoon with him at a London club would develop another side which was less himself. Instead of discussing flowers and French memoirs and biography in a delightfully whimsical mood, Hewlett’s slight, wiry figure became tense, his manner alert, his eyes keen and watchful. In the country he was the dreamer, the bohemian, wholly detached from the world outside; in the city he was confident and determined in approaching any subject, his voice became crisp and decisive, his bearing was that of the man of the world.

His early life was more or less unhappy, due partly to his precociousness which prevented him from fitting in with youth of his own age. This encouraged him to reach beyond his strength and thus find disappointment.

“I was never a boy,” he said once, “except possibly after the time when I should have been a man. As I look back on my youth, it was filled with discouragements.”

The classics fascinated him, and he absorbed Dante. Then Shelley and Keats shared the place of the Italian poet in his heart. Even after he married, he continued to gratify his love of Bohemia, and his wife wandered with him through Italy, with equal joy; while in England they camped out together in the New Forest,—the scene of The Forest Lovers.

The peculiar style which Hewlett affected in many of his volumes resulted, he told me, from his daily work in the Record Office in London, as Keeper of Land Revenue Records and Enrolments, during which period he studied the old parchments, dating back to William the Conqueror. In this respect his early experience was not unlike that of Austin Dobson’s, and just as the work in the Harbours Department failed to kill Dobson’s poetic finesse, so did Hewlett rise above the deadly grind of ancient records and archives. In fact it was during this period that Hewlett produced Pan and the Young Shepherd, which contains no traces of its author’s archaic environment.

One point of sympathy that drew us closely together was our mutual love for Italy. My first desire to know Maurice Hewlett better was after reading his Earthwork Out of Tuscany, Little Novels of Italy, and The Road in Tuscany. I have always preferred these volumes to any of his later ones, as to me they have seemed more spontaneous and more genuine expressions of himself. We were talking about Italy, one day, when he made a remark which caused me to suggest that what he said was the expression of a modern humanist. Hewlett was obviously surprised yet pleased by my use of this expression.

“I don’t often meet any one interested in the subject of humanism,” he said. “It is one of my hobbies.”

I explained my association with Doctor Guido Biagi, librarian of the Laurenziana Library at Florence, and the work I had done there in connection with my designs for a special face of type, based upon the beautiful hand letters of the humanistic scribes (see page 16). With that introduction we discussed the great importance of the humanistic movement as the forerunner and essence of the Renaissance. We talked of Petrarch, the father of humanism, and of the courageous fight he and his sturdy band of followers made to rescue the classics. We both had recently read Philippe Monnier’s Le Quattrocento, which gave additional interest to our discussion.

“Monnier is the only writer I have ever read who has tried to define humanism,” Hewlett continued. “He says it is not only the love of antiquity, but the worship of it,—a worship carried so far that it is not limited to adoration alone, but which forces one to reproduce.”

“And the humanist,” I added, picking up the quotation from Monnier, which I knew by heart, “is not only the man who knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them; it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.”

“Well, well!” he laughed; “we have struck the same street, haven’t we! But does that exactly express the idea to you? It isn’t antiquity we worship, but rather the basic worth for which the ancients stand.”

Autograph Letter from Maurice Hewlett

“Monnier refers to the obsession that comes from constant contact with the learning of the past, and the atmosphere thus created,” I replied. “Only last year Biagi and I discussed that very point, sitting together in his luxuriant garden at Castiglioncello, overlooking the Gulf of Leghorn. The ‘basic worth’ you mention is really Truth, and taking this as a starting point, we worked out a modern application of Monnier’s definition:

“There is a definition with a present application,” Hewlett exclaimed heartily. “I like it.—Did you have that in mind when you called me a modern humanist, just now?”

“No one could read Earthwork Out of Tuscany and think otherwise,” I insisted.

Hewlett held out his hand impulsively. “I wish I might accept that compliment with a clear conscience,” he demurred.

Meeting Austin Dobson after he became interpreter-in-chief of the eighteenth century, it was difficult to associate him with his earlier experiences as a clerk in the Board of Trade office, which he entered when he was sixteen years old, and to which service he devoted forty-five useful but uneventful years, rising eventually to be a principal in the Harbours Department. With so quiet and unassuming a personality, it seems incredible that he could have lifted himself bodily from such unimaginative environment, and, through his classic monographs, bring Steele, Goldsmith, Richardson, Fielding, Horace Walpole, Fanny Burney, Bewick, and Hogarth, out of their hazy indefiniteness, and give to them such living reality. Perhaps Dobson’s very nature prevented him from seeing the coarseness and indecency of the period, and enabled him to introduce, or perhaps reintroduce, to England from France the ballade and the chante royal, the rondeau and the rondel, the triolet, the villanelle, and other fascinating but obsolete poetical forms in which he first became interested through his French grandmother.

Dobson was the most modest literary man I ever met. I happened to be in London at the time when the English government bestowed upon him an annuity of £1,000, “for distinguished service to the crown.” When I congratulated him upon this honor his response was characteristic:

“I don’t know why in the world they have given me this, unless it is because I am the father of ten children. I have no doubt that would be classified under ‘distinguished service to the crown.’”

One afternoon Austin Dobson and Richard Garnett, then Keeper of the Printed Books at the British Museum, happened to come to my hotel in London for tea at the same time. On a table in the apartment was a two-volume quarto edition in French of Don Quixote, a prize I had unearthed at a bookstall on the Quai Voltaire in Paris. It was beautifully printed, the letterpress just biting into the paper, and making itself a part of the leaf, which is so characteristic of the best French presswork. The edition also contained the famous Doré illustrations. Dobson picked up one of the volumes and exclaimed over its beauty.

“This edition,” he said, “is absolutely perfect.”

“Not quite,” I qualified his statement. “It is lacking in one particular. It requires your Ode to Cervantes to make it complete.”

Dobson laughed. “Send the book to me,” he said, “and I will transcribe the lines on the fly leaf.”

When the volume was returned a few days later, a letter of apology came with it. “When I copied out the Ode on the fly leaf,” Dobson wrote, “it looked so lost on the great page that I ventured to add the poem which I composed for the tercentenary. I hope you won’t mind.”

My eleven-year-old son came into the reception room while our guests were drinking their tea. Dobson took him on his lap, and after quite winning his affection by his gentleness, he quietly called his attention to Garnett, who was conversing with my wife in another part of the room.

“Never forget that man, my boy,” Dobson said in a low voice. “We have never had in England, nor shall we ever have again, one who knows so much of English literature. If the record of every date and every fact were to be lost by fire, Garnett could reproduce them with absolute accuracy if his life were spared long enough.”

Within fifteen minutes the youngster found himself on Garnett’s knee. Without knowing what Dobson had said, the old man whispered in the child’s ear, “It is a privilege you will be glad to remember that you have met such a man as Austin Dobson. Except for Salisbury’s desire to demean the post of poet laureate, Dobson would hold that position today. Never forget that you have met Austin Dobson.”

A few months after our return to America, Garnett died, and Dobson sent me the following lines. I have never known of their publication:

RICHARD GARNETT

Sit tibi terra levis

Autograph Poem by Austin Dobson

Garnett was a rare spirit, and the British Museum has never seemed the same since he retired in 1899. Entrance to his private office was cleverly concealed by a door made up of shelf-backs of books, but once within the sanctum the genial host placed at the disposal of his guest, in a matter-of-fact way, such consummate knowledge as to stagger comprehension. But, far beyond this, the charm of his personality will always linger in the minds of those who knew him, and genuine affection for the man will rival the admiration for his scholarship.

One afternoon at Ealing, after tennis on the lawn behind the Dobson house, we gathered for tea. Our little party included Hugh Thomson, the artist who so charmingly illustrated much of Dobson’s work, Mr. and Mrs. Dobson, and one of his sons. The poet was in his most genial mood, and the conversation led us into mutually confidential channels.

“I envy you your novel writing,” he said. “Fiction gives one so much wider scope, and prose is so much more satisfactory as a medium than poetry. I have always wanted to write a novel. Mrs. Dobson would never have it. But she is always right,” he added; “had I persisted I should undoubtedly have lost what little reputation I have.”

He was particularly impressed by the fact that I wrote novels as an avocation. It seemed to him such a far cry from the executive responsibility of a large business, and he persisted in questioning me as to my methods. I explained that I devoted a great deal of time to creating mentally the characters who would later demand my pen; that with the general outline of the plot I intended to develop, I approached it exactly as a theatrical manager approaches a play he is about to produce, spending much time in selecting my cast, adding, discarding, changing, just so far as seemed to me necessary to secure the actors best suited to the parts I planned to have them play. He expressed surprise when I told him that I had long since discarded the idea of working out a definite scenario, depending rather upon creating interesting characters, and having them sufficiently alive so that when placed together under interesting circumstances they are bound to produce interesting dialogue and action.

“Of course my problem, writing essays and poetry, is quite different from yours as a novelist,” he said; “but I do try to assume a relation toward my work that is objective and impersonal. In a way, I go farther than you do.”

Then he went on to say that not only did he plan the outline of what he had to write, whether triolet or poem, wholly in his head, but (in the case of the poetry) even composed the lines and made the necessary changes before having recourse to pen and paper.

“When I actually begin to write,” he said, “I can see the lines clearly before me, even to the interlinear corrections, and it is a simple matter for me to copy them out in letter-perfect form.”

Dobson’s handwriting and his signature were absolutely dissimilar. Unless one had actually seen him transcribe the text of a letter or the lines of a poem in that beautiful designed script, he would think it the work of some one other than the writer of the flowing autograph beneath.

Posterity is now deciding whether Mark Twain’s fame will rest upon his humor or his philosophy, yet his continuing popularity would seem to have settled this much-mooted question. Humor is fleeting unless based upon real substance. In life the passing quip that produces a smile serves its purpose, but to bring to the surface such human notes as dominate Mark Twain’s stories, a writer must possess extraordinary powers of observation and a complete understanding of his fellow-man. Neither Tom Sawyer nor Huckleberry Finn is a fictional character, but is rather the personification of that leaven which makes life worth living.

When an author has achieved the dignity of having written “works” rather than books, he has placed himself in the hands of his friends in all his varying moods. A single volume is but the fragment of any writer’s personality. I have laughed over Innocents Abroad, and other volumes which helped to make Mark Twain’s reputation, but when I seek a volume to recall the author as I knew him best it is Joan of Arc that I always take down from the shelf. This book really shows the side of Mark Twain, the man, as his friends knew him, yet it was necessary to publish the volume anonymously in order to secure for it consideration from the reading public as a serious story.

MARK TWAIN, 1835–1910

At the Villa di Quarto, Florence

From a Snap-shot

“No one will ever accept it seriously, over my signature,” Mark Twain said. “People always want to laugh over what I write. This is a serious book. It means more to me than anything I have ever undertaken.”

Mark Twain was far more the humorist when off guard than when on parade. The originality of what he did, combined with what he said, produced the maximum expression of himself. At one time he and his family occupied the Villa di Quarto in Florence (page 172), and while in Italy Mrs. Orcutt and I were invited to have tea with them. The villa is located, as its name suggests, in the four-mile radius from the center of the town. It was a large, unattractive building, perhaps fifty feet wide and four times as long. The location was superb, looking out over Florence toward Vallombrosa and the Chianti hills.

AUTOGRAPH LETTER FROM MARK TWAIN

With Snap-shot of Villa di Quarto

In greeting us, Mark Twain gave the impression of having planned out exactly what he was going to say. I had noticed the same thing on other occasions. He knew that people expected him to say something humorous or unusual, and he tried not to disappoint them.

“Welcome to the barracks,” he exclaimed. “Looks like a hotel, doesn’t it? You’d think with twenty bedrooms on the top floor and only four in my family there would be a chance to put up a friend or two, wouldn’t you? But there isn’t any one I think so little of as to be willing to stuff him into one of those cells.”

We had tea out of doors. Miss Clara Clemens, who later became Mrs. Gabrilowitch, served as hostess, as Mrs. Clemens was confined to her bed by the heart trouble that had brought the family to Italy. As we sipped our tea and nibbled at the delicious Italian cakes, Mark Twain continued his comments on the villa, explaining that it was alleged to have been built by the first Cosimo de’ Medici (“If it was, he had a bum architect,” Mark Twain interjected); later it was occupied by the King of Württemberg (“He was the genius who put in the Pullman staircase”); and still later by a Russian Princess (“She is responsible for that green majolica stove in the hall. When I first saw it I thought it was a church for children”); and then it fell into the hands of his landlady (“Less said about her the better. You never heard such profanity as is expressed by the furniture and the carpets she put in to complete the misery. I’m always thankful when darkness comes on to stop the swearing”).

The garden was beautiful, but oppressive,—due probably to the tall cypresses (always funereal in their aspect), which kept out the sun, and produced a mouldy luxuriance. The marble seats and statues were covered with green moss, and the ivy ran riot over everything. One felt the antiquity unpleasantly, and, in a way, it seemed an unfortunate atmosphere for an invalid. But so far as the garden was concerned, it made little difference to Mrs. Clemens,—the patient, long-suffering “Livy” of Mark Twain’s life,—for she never left her sick chamber, and died three days later.

After tea, Mr. Clemens offered me a cigar and watched me while I lighted it.

“Hard to get good cigars over here,” he remarked. “I’m curious to know what you think of that one.”

I should have been sorry to tell him what my opinion really was, but I continued to smoke it with as cheerful an expression as possible.

“What kind of cigars do you smoke while in Europe?” he inquired.

I told him that I was still smoking a brand I had brought over from America, and at the same time I offered him one, which he promptly accepted, throwing away the one he had just lighted. He puffed with considerable satisfaction, and then asked,

“How do you like that cigar I gave you?”

It seemed a matter of courtesy to express more enthusiasm than I really felt.

“Clara,” he called across to where the ladies were talking, “Mr. Orcutt likes these cigars of mine, and he’s a judge of good cigars.”

Then turning to me he continued, “Clara says they’re rotten!”

He relapsed into silence for a moment.

“How many of those cigars of yours have you on your person at the present time?”

I opened my cigar case, and disclosed four.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said suddenly. “You like my cigars and I like yours. I’ll swap you even!”

In the course of the afternoon Mark Twain told of a dinner that Andrew Carnegie had given in his New York home, at which Mr. Clemens had been a guest. He related with much detail how the various speakers had stammered and halted, and seemed to find themselves almost tongue-tied. His explanation of this was their feeling of embarrassment because of the presence of only one woman, Mrs. Carnegie.

Sir Sidney Lee, who was lecturing on Shakesperian subjects in America at the time, was the guest of honor. When dinner was announced, Carnegie sent for Archie, the piper, an important feature in the Carnegie ménage, who appeared in full kilts, and led the procession into the dining-room, playing on the pipes. Carnegie, holding Sir Sidney’s hand, followed directly after, giving an imitation of a Scotch dance, while the other guests fell in behind, matching the steps of their leader as closely as possible. Mark Twain gave John Burroughs credit for being the most successful in this attempt.

Some weeks later, at a dinner which Sir Sidney Lee gave in our honor in London, we heard an echo of this incident. Sir Sidney included the story of Mark Twain’s speech on that occasion, which had been omitted in the earlier narrative. When called upon, Mr. Clemens had said,

“I’m not going to make a speech,—I’m just going to reminisce. I’m going to tell you something about our host here when he didn’t have as much money as he has now. At that time I was the editor of a paper in a small town in Connecticut, and one day, when I was sitting in the editorial sanctum, the door opened and who should come in but Andrew Carnegie. Do you remember that day, Andy?” he inquired, turning to his host; “wasn’t it a scorcher?”

Carnegie nodded, and said he remembered it perfectly.

“Well,” Mark Twain continued, “Andrew took off his hat, mopped his brow, and sat down in a chair, looking most disconsolate.

“‘What’s the matter?’ I inquired. ‘What makes you so melancholy?’—Do you remember that, Andy?” he again appealed to his host.

“Oh, yes,” Carnegie replied, smiling broadly; “I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“‘I am so sad,’ Andy answered, ‘because I want to found some libraries, and I haven’t any money. I came in to see if you could lend me a million or two.’ I looked in the drawer and found that I could let him have the cash just as well as not, so I gave him a couple of million.—Do you remember that, Andy?”

“No!” Carnegie answered vehemently; “I don’t remember that at all!”

“That’s just the point,” Mark Twain continued, shaking his finger emphatically. “I have never received one cent on that loan, interest or principal!”

I wonder if so extraordinary an assemblage of literary personages was ever before gathered together as at the seventieth anniversary birthday dinner given to Mark Twain by Colonel George Harvey at Delmonico’s in New York! Seated at the various tables were such celebrities as William Dean Howells, George W. Cable, Brander Matthews, Richard Watson Gilder, Kate Douglas Wiggin, F. Hopkinson Smith, Agnes Repplier, Andrew Carnegie, and Hamilton W. Mabie.

It was a long dinner. Every one present would have been glad to express his affection and admiration for America’s greatest man-of-letters, and those who must be heard were so numerous that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning before Mark Twain’s turn arrived to respond. As he rose, the entire company rose with him, each standing on his chair and waving his napkin enthusiastically. Mark Twain was visibly affected by the outburst of enthusiasm. When the excitement subsided, I could see the tears streaming down his cheeks, and all thought of the set speech he had prepared and sent to the press for publication was entirely forgotten. Realizing that the following quotation differs from the official report of the event, I venture to rely upon the notes I personally made during the dinner. Regaining control of himself, Mark Twain began his remarks with words to this effect:

Charles Eliot Norton is a case in point in my contention that to secure the maximum from a college course a man should take two years at eighteen and the remaining two after he has reached forty. I was not unique among the Harvard undergraduates flocking to attend his courses in Art who failed utterly to understand or appreciate him. The ideals expressed in his lectures were far over our heads. The estimate of Carlyle, Ruskin, and Matthew Arnold, that Mr. Norton was foremost among American thinkers, scholars, and men of culture, put us on the defensive, for to have writers such as these include Norton as one of themselves placed him entirely outside the pale of our undergraduate understanding. He seemed to us a link connecting our generation with the distant past. As I look back upon it, this was not so much because he appeared old as it was that what he said seemed to our untrained minds the vagaries of age. Perhaps we were somewhat in awe of him, as we knew him to be the intimate of Oliver Wendell Holmes and James Russell Lowell, as he had been of Longfellow and George William Curtis, and thus the last of the Cambridge Immortals. I have always wished that others might have corrected their false impressions by learning to know Norton, the man, as I came to know him, and have enjoyed the inspiring friendship that I was so fortunate in having him, in later years, extend to me.

In the classroom, sitting on a small, raised platform, with as many students gathered before him as the largest room in Massachusetts Hall could accommodate, he took Art as a text and discussed every subject beneath the sun. His voice, though low, had a musical quality which carried to the most distant corner. As he spoke he leaned forward on his elbows with slouching shoulders, with his keen eyes passing constantly from one part of the room to another, seeking, no doubt, some gleam of understanding from his hearers. He told me afterwards that it was not art he sought to teach, nor ethics, nor philosophy, but that he would count it success if he instilled in the hearts of even a limited number of his pupils a desire to seek the truth.

As I think of the Norton I came to know in the years that followed, he seems to be a distinctly different personality, yet of course the difference was in me. Even at the time when Senator Hoar made his terrific attack upon him for his public utterances against the Spanish War, I knew that he was acting true to his high convictions, even though at variance with public opinion. I differed from him, but by that time I understood him.

“Shady Hill,” his home in Norton’s Woods on the outskirts of Cambridge, Massachusetts, exuded the personality of its owner more than any house I was ever in. There was a restful dignity and stately culture, a courtly hospitality that reflected the individuality of the host. The library was the inner shrine. Each volume was selected for its own special purpose, each picture was illustrative of some special epoch, each piece of furniture performed its exact function. Here, unconsciously, while discussing subjects far afield, I acquired from Mr. Norton a love of Italy which later was fanned into flame by my Tuscan friend, Doctor Guido Biagi, the accomplished librarian of the Laurenziana Library, in Florence, to whom I have already frequently referred.

Our real friendship began when I returned from Italy in 1902, and told him of my plans to design a type based upon the wonderful humanistic volumes. As we went over the photographs and sketches I brought home with me, and he realized that a fragment of the fifteenth century, during which period hand lettering had reached its highest point of perfection, had actually been overlooked by other type designers (see page 16), he displayed an excitement I had never associated with his personality. I was somewhat excited, too, in being able to tell him something which had not previously come to his attention,—of the struggle of the Royal patrons, who tried to thwart the newborn art of printing by showing what a miserable thing a printed book was when compared with the beauty of the hand letters; and that these humanistic volumes, whose pages I had photographed, were the actual books which these patrons had ordered the scribes to produce, regardless of expense, to accomplish their purpose.

The romance that surrounded the whole undertaking brought out from him comments and discussion in which he demonstrated his many-sided personality. The library at “Shady Hill” became a veritable Florentine rostrum. Mr. Norton’s sage comments were expressed with the vigor and originality of Politian; when he spoke of the tyranny of the old Florentine despots and compared them with certain political characters in our own America, he might have been Machiavelli uttering his famous diatribes against the State. Lorenzo de’ Medici himself could not have thrilled me more with his fascinating expression of the beautiful or the exhibition of his exquisite taste.

Each step in the development of the Humanistic type was followed by Mr. Norton with the deepest interest. When the first copy of Petrarch’s Triumphs came through the bindery I took it to “Shady Hill,” and we went over it page by page, from cover to cover. As we closed the volume he looked up with that smile his friends so loved,—that smile Ruskin called “the sweetest I ever saw on any face (unless perhaps a nun’s when she has some grave kindness to do),”—and then I knew that my goal had been attained (page 32).

While the Humanistic type was being cut, Doctor Biagi came to America as the official representative from Italy to the St. Louis Exposition. Later, when he visited me in Boston, I took him to “Shady Hill” to see Mr. Norton. It was an historic meeting. The Italian had brought to America original, unpublished letters of Michelangelo, and at my suggestion he took them with him to Cambridge. Mr. Norton read several of these letters with the keenest interest and urged their publication, but Biagi was too heavily engaged with his manifold duties as librarian of the Laurenziana and Riccardi libraries, as custodian of the Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives, and with his extensive literary work, to keep the promise he made us that day.

The conversation naturally turned upon Dante, Biagi’s rank in his own country as interpreter of the great poet being even greater than was Norton’s in America. Beyond this they spoke of books, of art, of music, of history, of science. Norton’s knowledge of Italy was profound and exact; Biagi had lived what Norton had acquired. No matter what the subject, their comments, although simply made, were expressions of prodigious study and absolute knowledge; of complete familiarity, such as one ordinarily has in every-day affairs, with subjects upon which even the well-educated man looks as reserved for profound discussion. Norton and Biagi were the two most cultured men I ever met. In listening to their conversation I discovered that a perfectly trained mind under absolute control is the most beautiful thing in the world.

Climbing the circular stairway in the old, ramshackle Harper plant at Franklin Square, New York, I used to find William Dean Howells in his sanctum.

“Take this chair,” he said one day after a cordial greeting; “the only Easy Chair we have is in the Magazine.”

Howells loved the smell of printer’s ink. “They are forever talking about getting away from here,” he would say, referring to the long desire at Harpers’—at last gratified—to divorce the printing from the publishing and to move uptown. “Here things are so mixed up that you can’t tell whether you’re a printer or a writer, and I like it.”

Our acquaintance began after the publication by the Harpers in 1906 of a novel of mine entitled The Spell, the scene of which is laid in Florence. After reading it, Howells wrote asking me to look him up the next time I was in the Harper offices.

“We have three reasons to become friends,” he said smiling, after studying me for a moment with eyes that seemed probably more piercing and intent than they really were: “you live in Boston, you love Italy, and you are a printer. Now we must make up for lost time.”

After this introduction I made it a habit to “drop up” to his sanctum whenever I had occasion to go to Franklin Square to discuss printing or publishing problems with Major Leigh or Mr. Duneka. Howells always seemed to have time to discuss one of the three topics named in his original analysis, yet curiously enough it was rarely that any mention of books came into our conversation.

Autograph Letter from William Dean Howells

Of Boston and Cambridge he was always happily reminiscent: of entertaining Mr. and Mrs. John Hay while on their wedding journey, and later Bret Harte, in the small reception room in the Berkeley Street house, where the tiny “library” on the north side was without heat or sunlight when Howells wrote his Venetian Days there in 1870; of early visits with Mark Twain before the great fireplace in “the Cabin” at his Belmont home, over the door of which was inscribed the quotation from The Merchant of Venice, “From Venice as far as Belmont.”—“In these words,” Howells said, “lies the history of my married life”;—of the move from Belmont to Boston as his material resources increased.

“There was a time when people used to think I didn’t like Boston,” he would chuckle, evidently enjoying the recollections that came to him; “but I always loved it. The town did take itself seriously,” he added a moment later; “but it had a right to. That was what made it Boston. Sometimes, when we know a place or a person through and through, the fine characteristics may be assumed, and we may chaff a little over the harmless foibles. That is what I did to Boston.”

He chided me good-naturedly because I preferred Florence to Venice. “Italy,” he quoted, “is the face of Europe, and Venice is the eye of Italy. But, after all, what difference does it make?” he asked. “We are both talking of the same wonderful country, and perhaps the intellectual atmosphere of antiquity makes up for the glory of the Adriatic.”

Then he told me a story which I afterwards heard Hamilton Mabie repeat at the seventy-fifth birthday anniversary banquet given Howells at Sherry’s by Colonel George Harvey in 1912.

Two American women met in Florence on the Ponte Vecchio. One of them said to the other, “Please tell me whether this is Florence or Venice.”

“What day of the week is it?” the other inquired.

“Wednesday.”

“Then,” said the second, looking at her itinerary, “this is Venice.”

“I was born a printer, you know,” Howells remarked during one of my visits. “I can remember the time when I couldn’t write, but not the time when I couldn’t set type.”

He referred to his boyhood experiences in the printing office at Hamilton, Ohio. His father published there a Whig newspaper, which finally lost nearly all its subscribers because its publisher had the unhappy genius of always taking the unpopular side of every public question. Howells immortalized this printing office in his essay The Country Printer,—where he recalls “the compositors rhythmically swaying before their cases of type; the pressman flinging himself back on the bar that made the impression, with a swirl of his long hair; the apprentice rolling the forms; and the foreman bending over them.”

The Lucullan banquet referred to outrivaled that given by Colonel Harvey to Mark Twain. How Mark Twain would have loved to be there, and how much the presence of this life-long friend would have meant to Howells! More than four hundred men and women prominent in letters gathered to do honor to the beloved author, and President Taft conveyed to him the gratitude of the nation for the hours of pleasure afforded by his writings.

In the course of his remarks, Howells said:

As I listened to this recapitulation of contact with modern humanists, I wondered what Howells had left to look forward to. No one could fail to envy him his memories, nor could he fail to ask himself what twentieth-century names would be written in place of those the nineteenth century had recorded in the Hall of Fame

My library has taken on a different aspect during all these years. When I first installed my books I looked upon it as a sanctuary, into which I could escape from the world outside. Each book was a magic carpet which, at my bidding, transported me from one country to another, from the present back to centuries gone by, gratifying my slightest whim in response to the mere effort of changing volumes. My library has lost none of that blissful peace as a retreat, but in addition it has become a veritable meeting ground. The authors I have known are always waiting for me there,—to disclose to me through their works far more than they, in all modesty, would have admitted in our personal conferences

CHAPTER VII

TRIUMPHS OF TYPOGRAPHY

In gathering together his book treasures, a collector naturally approaches the adventure from a personal standpoint. First editions may particularly appeal to him, or Americana, or his bibliomania may take the form of subject collecting. I once had a friend who concentrated on whales and bees! My hobby has been to acquire, so far as possible, volumes that represent the best workmanship of each epoch, and from them I have learned much of fascinating interest beyond the history of typography. A book in itself is always something more than paper and type and binder’s boards. It possesses a subtle friendliness that sets it apart from other inanimate objects about us, and stamps it with an individuality which responds to our approach in proportion to our interest. But aside from its contents, a typographical monument is a barometer of civilization. If we discover what economic or political conditions combined to make it stand out from other products of its period, we learn contemporaneous history and become acquainted with the personalities of the people and the manners and customs of the times.

No two countries, since Gutenberg first discovered the power of individual types when joined together to form words down to the present day, have stood pre-eminent in the same epoch in the art of printing. The curve of supremacy, plotted from the brief triumph of Germany successively through Italy, France, the Netherlands, England, France, and back again to England, shows that the typographical monuments of the world are not accidental, but rather the natural results of cause and effect. In some instances, the production of fine books made the city of their origin the center of culture and brought luster to the country; in others, the great master-printers were attracted from one locality to another because of the literary atmosphere in a certain city, and by their labors added to the reputation it had already attained. The volumes themselves sometimes produced vitally significant effects; sometimes their production was the result of conditions equally important.

The first example I should like to own for my collection of typographical triumphs is, of course, the Gutenberg Bible (opp. page); but with only forty-five copies known to be in existence (of which twelve are on vellum), I must content myself with photographic facsimile pages. The copy most recently offered for sale brought $106,000 in New York in February, 1926, and was later purchased by Mrs. Edward S. Harkness for $120,000, who presented it to the Yale University Library. This makes the Gutenberg Bible the most valuable printed book in the world,—six times as precious as a Shakespeare first folio. Fortunately, the copies are well distributed, so that one need not deny himself the pleasure of studying it. In America, there are two examples (one on vellum) in the Pierpont Morgan Library, in New York; another in the New York Public Library, and still another in the library of the General Theological School; while the private collections of Henry E. Huntington and Joseph E. Widener are also fortunate possessors. In England, one may find a copy at the British Museum or the Bodleian Library; on the Continent, at the Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris, at the Vatican Library in Rome, or in the libraries of Berlin, Leipzig, Munich, or Vienna. Over twenty of the forty-five copies are imperfect, and only four are still in private hands. Of these four, one is imperfect, and two are already promised to libraries; so the copy sold in New York may be the last ever offered.

Part of a Page from the Vellum Copy of the Gutenberg Bible, Mayence, 1455

Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris (Exact size)

GUTENBERG BIBLE

And here is the end of the first part of the Bible, that is to say, the Old Testament, rubricated and bound for Henry Cremer, in the year of our Loard, one thousand four hundred and fifty-six, on the feast of the Apostle Bartholomew

Thanks be to God. Alleluia

Rubricator’s Mark at End of First Volume of a Defective Copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris

GUTENBERG BIBLE

This book was illuminated, bound, and completed for Henry Cremer, Vicar of Saint Stephens, of Mayence, in the year of our Lord, one thousand four hundred and fifty-six, on the feast of the Ascension of the Glorious Virgin Mary. Thanks be to God. Alleluia.

Rubricator’s Mark at End of Second Volume of a Defective Copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris

The copy I love best to pore over is that bound in four volumes of red morocco, stamped with the arms of Louis XVI, in the Bibliothèque Nationale. This perhaps is not so historical as the one De Bure discovered in the library of Cardinal Mazarin in Paris in 1763,—three hundred years after it was printed, and until then unknown; but the dignity of those beautifully printed types on the smooth, ivory surface of the vellum possesses a magnificence beyond that of any other copy I have seen. Also at the Bibliothèque Nationale is a defective paper copy in two volumes in which appear rubricator’s notes marking the completion of the work as August 15, 1456. Think how important this is in placing this marvel of typography; for the project of printing the Bible could not have been undertaken earlier than August, 1451, when Gutenberg formed his partnership with Fust and Schoeffer in Mayence.

GUTENBERG, FUST, COSTER, ALDUS, FROBEN

From Engraving by Jacob Houbraken (1698–1780)

To a modern architect of books the obstacles which the printer at that time encountered, with the art itself but a few years old, seem insurmountable. There was the necessity of designing and cutting the first fonts of type, based upon the hand lettering of the period. As is always inevitable in the infancy of any art, this translation from one medium to another repeated rather than corrected the errors of the human hand. The typesetter, instead of being secured from an employment office, had to be made. Gutenberg himself perhaps, had to teach the apprentice the method of joining together the various letters, in a roughly made composing stick of his own invention, in such a way as to maintain regularity in the distances between the stems of the various letters, and thus produce a uniform and pleasing appearance. There existed no proper iron chases in which to lock up the pages of the type, so that while the metal could be made secure at the top and bottom, there are frequent instances where it bulges out on the sides.

John Fust, from an Old Engraving

From the very beginning the printed book had to be a work of art. The patronage of kings and princes had developed the hand-lettered volumes to the highest point of perfection, and, on account of this keen competition with the scribes and their patrons, no printer could afford to devote to any volume less than his utmost artistic taste and mechanical ingenuity. Thus today, if a reader examines the Gutenberg Bible with a critical eye, he will be amazed by the extraordinary evenness in the printing, and the surprisingly accurate alignment of the letters. The glossy blackness of the ink still remains, and the sharpness of the impression is equal to that secured upon a modern cylinder press.

It has been estimated that no less than six hand presses were employed in printing the 641 leaves, composed in double column without numerals, catch words, or signatures. What binder today would undertake to collate such a volume in proper sequence! After the first two divisions had come off the press it was decided to change the original scheme of the pages from 40 to 42 lines. In order to get these two extra lines on the page it was necessary to set all the lines closer together. To accomplish this, some of the type was recast, with minimum shoulder, and the rest of it was actually cut down in height to such an extent that a portion of the curved dots of the i’s was clipped off.

Monographs have been written to explain the variation in the size of the type used in different sections of this book, but what more natural explanation could there be than that the change was involuntary and due to natural causes? In those days the molds which the printer used for casting his types were made sometimes of lead, but more often of wood. As he kept pouring the molten metal into these matrices, the very heat would by degrees enlarge the mold itself, and thus produce lead type of slightly larger size. From time to time, also, the wooden matrices wore out, and the duplicates would not exactly correspond with those they replaced.

In printing these volumes, the precedent was established of leaving blank spaces for the initial letters, which were later filled in by hand. Some of these are plain and some elaborate, serving to make the resemblance to the hand-lettered book even more exact; but the glory of the Gutenberg Bible lies in its typography and presswork rather than in its illuminated letters.

Germany, in the Gutenberg Bible, proved its ability to produce volumes worthy of the invention itself, but as a country it possessed neither the scholars, the manuscripts, nor the patrons to insure the development of the new art. Italy, at the end of the fifteenth century, had become the home of learning, and almost immediately Venice became the Mecca of printers. Workmen who had served their apprenticeships in Germany sought out the country where princes might be expected to become patrons of the new art, where manuscripts were available for copy, and where a public existed both able and willing to purchase the products of the press. The Venetian Republic, quick to appreciate this opportunity, offered its protection and encouragement. Venice itself was the natural market of the world for distribution of goods because of the low cost of sea transportation.

I have a fine copy of Augustinus: De Civitate Dei (page 205) that I discovered in Rome in its original binding years ago, printed in Jenson’s Gothic type in 1475. On the first page of text, in bold letters across the top, the printer has placed the words, Nicolaus Jenson, Gallicus. In addition to this signature, the explicit reads:

Nicolas Jenson’s Explicit and Mark

Jenson’s Gothic Type. From Augustinus: De Civitate Dei, Venice, 1475 (Exact size)

Jenson was a printer who not only took pride in his art but also in the country of his birth! He was a Frenchman, who was sent to Mayence by King Charles VII of France to find out what sort of thing this new art of printing was, and if of value to France to learn it and to bring it home. Jenson had been an expert engraver, so was well adapted to this assignment. At Mayence he quickly mastered the art, and was prepared to transport it to Paris; but by this time Charles VII had died, and Jenson knew that Louis XI, the new monarch, would have little interest in recognizing his father’s mandate. The Frenchman then set himself up in Venice, where he contributed largely to the prestige gained by this city as a center for printing as an art, and for scholarly publications.

Jenson had no monopoly on extolling himself in the explicits of his books. The cost of paper in those days was so high that a title page was considered an unnecessary extravagance, so this was the printer’s only opportunity to record his imprint. In modern times we printers are more modest, and leave it to the publishers to sound our praises, but we do like to place our signatures on well-made books!

The explicit in the hand-written book also offered a favorite opportunity for gaining immortality for the scribe. I once saw in an Italian monastery a manuscript volume containing some 600 pages, in which was recorded the fact that on such and such a day Brother So-and-So had completed the transcribing of the text; and inasmuch as he had been promised absolution, one sin for each letter, he thanked God that the sum total of the letters exceeded the sum total of his sins, even though by but a single unit!

Among Jenson’s most important contributions were his type designs, based upon the best hand lettering of the day. Other designers had slavishly copied the hand-written letter, but Jenson, wise in his acquired knowledge, eliminated the variations and produced letters not as they appeared upon the hand-written page, but standardized to the design which the artist-scribe had in mind and which his hand failed accurately to reproduce. The Jenson Roman (page 22) and his Gothic (page 205) types have, through all these centuries, stood as the basic patterns of subsequent type designers.

Jenson died in 1480, and the foremost rival to his fame is Aldus Manutius, who came to Venice from Carpi and established himself there in 1494. I have often conjectured what would have happened had this Frenchman printed his volumes in France and thus brought them into competition with the later product of the Aldine Press. The supremacy of Italy might have suffered,—but could Jenson have cut his types or printed his books in the France of the fifteenth century? As it was, the glories of the Aldi so closely followed Jenson’s superb work that Italy’s supreme position in the history of typography can never be challenged.

For his printer’s mark Aldus adopted the famous combination of the Dolphin and Anchor, the dolphin signifying speed in execution and the anchor firmness in deliberation. As a slogan he used the words Festina lente, of which perhaps the most famous translation is that by Sir Thomas Browne, “Celerity contempered with Cunctation.” Jenson’s printer’s mark (page 203), by the way, has suffered the indignity of being adopted as the trademark of a popular brand of biscuits!

Device of Aldus Manutius

The printing office of Aldus stood near the Church of Saint Augustus, in Venice. Here he instituted a complete revolution in the existing methods of publishing. The clumsy and costly folios and quartos, which had constituted the standard forms, were now replaced by crown octavo volumes, convenient both to the hand and to the purse.

“I have resolved,” Aldus wrote in 1490, “to devote my life to the cause of scholarship. I have chosen, in place of a life of ease and freedom, an anxious and toilsome career. A man has higher responsibilities than the seeking of his own enjoyment; he should devote himself to honorable labor. Living that is a mere existence can be left to men who are content to be animals. Cato compared human existence to iron. When nothing is done with it, it rusts; it is only through constant activity that polish or brilliancy is secured.”

GROLIER IN THE PRINTING OFFICE OF ALDUS

After Painting by François Flameng

Courtesy The Grolier Club, New York City

The weight of responsibility felt by Aldus in becoming a printer may be better appreciated when one realizes that this profession then included the duties of editor and publisher. The publisher of today accepts or declines manuscripts submitted by their authors, and the editing of such manuscripts, if considered at all, is placed in the hands of his editorial department. Then the “copy” is turned over to the printer for manufacture. In the olden days the printer was obliged to search out his manuscripts, to supervise their editing—not from previously printed editions, but from copies transcribed by hand, frequently by careless scribes. Thus his reputation depended not only on his skill as a printer, but also upon his sagacity as a publisher, and his scholarship as shown in his text. In addition to all this, the printer had to create the demand for his product and arrange for its distribution because there were no established bookstores.

The great scheme that Aldus conceived was the publication of the Greek classics. Until then only four of the Greek authors, Æsop, Theocritus, Homer, and Isocrates, had been published in the original. Aldus gave to the world, for the first time in printed form, Aristotle, Plato, Thucydides, Xenophon, Herodotus, Aristophanes, Euripides, Sophocles, Demosthenes, Lysias, Æschines, Plutarch, and Pindar. Except for what Aldus did at this time, most of these texts would have been irrevocably lost to posterity.

When you next see Italic type you will be interested to know that it was first cut by Aldus, said to be inspired by the thin, inclined, cursive handwriting of Petrarch; when you admire the beauty added to the page by the use of small capitals, you should give Aldus credit for having been the first to use this attractive form of typography. Even in that early day Aldus objected to the inartistic, square ending of a chapter occupying but a portion of the page, and devised all kinds of type arrangements, half-diamond, goblet, and bowl, to satisfy the eye.

To me, the most interesting book that Aldus produced was the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili,—“Poliphilo’s Strife of Love in a Dream.” It stands as one of the most celebrated in the annals of Venetian printing, being the only illustrated volume issued by the Aldine Press. This work was undertaken at the very close of the fifteenth century at the expense of one Leonardo Crasso of Verona, who dedicated the book to Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino. It was written by a Dominican friar, Francesco Colonna, who adopted an ingenious method of arranging his chapters so that the successive initial letters compose a complete sentence which, when translated, read, “Brother Francesco Colonna greatly loved Polia.” Polia has been identified as one Lucrezia Lelio, daughter of a jurisconsult of Treviso, who later entered a convent.

Text Page from Aldus’ Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, Venice, 1499 (11 × 7 inches).

It is on this model that the type used in this volume is based

Illustrated Page of Aldus’ Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, Venice, 1499 (11 × 7 inches)

GROLIER BINDING

Castiglione: Cortegiano. Aldine Press, 1518

Laurenziana Library, Florence

The volume displays a pretentious effort to get away from the commonplace. On every page Aldus expended his utmost ingenuity in the arrangement of the type,—the use of capitals and small capitals, and unusual type formations. In many cases the type balances the illustrations in such a way as to become a part of them. Based on the typographical standards of today, some of these experiments are indefensible, but in a volume issued in 1499 they stand as an extraordinary exhibit of what an artistic, ingenious printer can accomplish within the rigid limitations of metal type. The illustrations themselves, one hundred and fifty-eight in number, run from rigid architectural lines to fanciful portrayals of incidents in the story. Giovanni Bellini is supposed to have been the artist, but there is no absolute evidence to confirm this supposition.

Some years ago the Grolier Club of New York issued an etching entitled, Grolier in the Printing Office of Aldus (page 208). I wish I might believe that this great printer was fortunate enough to have possessed such an office! In spite of valuable concessions he received from the Republic, and the success accorded to him as a printer, he was able to eke out but a bare existence, and died a poor man. The etching, however, is important as emphasizing the close relation which exited between the famous ambassador of François I at the Court of Pope Clement VII, at Rome, and the family of Aldus, to which association booklovers owe an eternal debt of gratitude. At one time the Aldine Press was in danger of bankruptcy, and Grolier not only came to its rescue with his purse but also with his personal services. Without these tangible expressions of his innate love for the book, collectors today would be deprived of some of the most interesting examples of printing and binding that they count among their richest treasures.

The general conception that Jean Grolier was a binder is quite erroneous; he was as zealous a patron of the printed book as of the binder’s art. His great intimacy in Venice was with Andrea Torresani (through whose efforts the Jenson and the Aldus offices were finally combined), and his two sons, Francesco and Federico, the father-in-law and brothers-in-law of the famous Aldus. No clearer idea can be gained of Grolier’s relations at Casa Aldo than the splendid letter which he sent to Francesco in 1519, intrusting to his hands the making of Budé’s book, De Asse:

GROLIER BINDING

Capella: L’Anthropologia Digaleazzo. Aldine Press, 1533

From which the Cover Design of this Volume was adapted

(Laurenziana Library, Florence. 7½ × 4¼ inches)

What better conception of a book, or of the responsibility to be assumed toward that book, both by the printer and by the publisher, could be expressed today!

The early sixteenth century marked a crisis in the world in which the book played a vital part. When Luther, at Wittenberg, burned the papal bull and started the Reformation, an overwhelming demand on the part of the people was created for information and instruction. For the first time the world realized that the printing press was a weapon placed in the hands of the masses for defence against oppression by Church or State. François I was King of France; Charles V, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire; and Henry VIII, King of England. Italy had something to think about beyond magnificently decorated volumes, and printing as an art was for the time forgotten in supplying the people with books at low cost.

François I, undismayed by the downfall of the Italian patrons, believed that he could gain for himself and for France the prestige which had been Italy’s through the patronage of learning and culture. What a pity that he had not been King of France when Jenson returned from Mayence! He was confident that he could become the Mæcenas of the arts and the father of letters, and still control the insistence of the people, which increased steadily with their growing familiarity with their new-found weapon. He determined to have his own printer, and was eager to eclipse even the high Standard the Italian master-printers had established.

ROBERT ÉTIENNE, 1503–1559

Royal Printer to François I

From Engraving by Étienne Johandier Desrochers (c. 1661–1741)

Robert Étienne (or Stephens), who in 1540 succeeded Néobar as “Printer in Greek to the King,” while not wholly accomplishing his monarch’s ambitions, was the great master-printer of his age. He came from a family of printers, and received his education and inspiration largely from the learned men who served as correctors in his father’s office. François proved himself genuinely interested in the productions of his Imprimerie Royale, frequently visiting Étienne at the Press, and encouraging him by expending vast sums for specially designed types, particularly in Greek. The story goes that on one occasion the King found Étienne engaged in correcting a proof sheet, and refused to permit the printer to be disturbed, insisting on waiting until the work was completed.

For my own collection of great typographical monuments I would select for this period the Royal Greeks of Robert Étienne. A comparison between the text page, so exquisitely balanced (page 222), and the title page (page 220), where the arrangement of type and printer’s mark could scarcely be worse, gives evidence enough that even the artist-printer of that time had not yet grasped the wonderful opportunity a title page offers for self-expression. Probably Étienne regarded it more as a chance to pay his sovereign the compliment of calling him “A wise king and a valiant warrior.” But are not the Greek characters marvelously beautiful! They were rightly called the Royal Greeks! The drawings were made by the celebrated calligrapher Angelos Vergetios, of Candia, who was employed by François to make transcripts of Greek texts for the Royal Collection, and whose manuscript volumes may still be seen in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. Earlier fonts had been based upon this same principle of making the Greek letters reproductions as closely as possible of the elaborate, involved, current writing hand of the day; but these new designs carried out the principle to a degree until then unattained. The real success of the undertaking was due to the skill of Claude Garamond, the famous French punchcutter and typefounder. Pierre Victoire quaintly comments:

ÉTIENNE’S ROYAL GREEKS, Paris, 1550

Title Page (10¼ × 6 inches)

Page showing Étienne’s Roman Face (Exact size)

ÉTIENNE’S ROYAL GREEKS

Text Page (10¼ × 6 inches)

From Novum Jesu Christi D. N. Testamentum, Paris, 1550

Of course, they were too beautiful to be practical. In the Roman letters typecutters had already found that hand lettering could no more be translated directly into the form of type than a painting can be translated directly into a tapestry, without sacrificing some of the characteristic features of each. With the Greek letters, the problem was even more difficult, and the Royal Greeks offered no end of complications to the compositors, and added disastrously to the expense of the production. When Plantin came along, he based his Greek type upon Étienne’s, but his modifications make it more practical. Compare the Royal Greeks with Plantin’s Greek on page 231 and see how much beauty and variety was lost in the revision.

François I found himself in an impossible position between his desire to encourage Étienne in his publications and the terrific pressure brought to bear by the ecclesiastical censors. Just as the people had awakened to the value of books, not to put on shelves, but to read in order to know, so had the Church recognized the importance of controlling and influencing what those books contained. Throughout Robert Étienne’s entire tenure of office there raged a conflict which not only seriously interfered with his work, but distinctly hampered the development of literature. Had François lived longer, Étienne’s volumes might have reached a level equal to that attained by his Italian predecessors, but Henri II was no match for the censors. In 1552 Robert Étienne, worn out by the constant struggles, transferred his office to Geneva, where he died seven years later. His son Henri continued his work, but except for his Thesaurus produced little of typographical interest.

Had it not been for this bitter censorship, France might have held her supremacy for at least another half-century; but with the experiences of Robert Étienne still in mind, it is easily understood why the Frenchman, Christophe Plantin, in whom surged the determination to become a master-printer, sought to establish himself elsewhere.

By the middle of the sixteenth century Antwerp had assumed the proud position of leading city of Europe. The success that came to the Netherlanders in commerce as a result of their genius and enterprise later stimulated their interest in matters of religion, politics, and literature. Just as the tendencies of the times caused the pendulum to swing away from Italy to France, so now it swung from France toward the Netherlands. I had never before realized that, with the possible exception of certain communities in Italy, where the old intellectual atmosphere still obtained, there was no country in the world in which culture and intelligence were so generally diffused during the sixteenth century. How much more than typography these volumes have taught me!

It was inevitable that the art of printing should find in Belgium its natural opportunity for supreme expression. At the time Plantin turned his eyes in the direction of Antwerp, one entire quarter of that city was devoted to the manufacture of books. This apparently discouraged him, for at first he established himself as a bookbinder a little way out of the city. Later he added a shop for the sale of books; but in 1555 he moved boldly into Antwerp, becoming a full-fledged printer and publisher, soon demonstrating his right to recognition as the master-printer of his time.

By this time the words of Luther had attracted the attention of the Christian world more particularly than ever to the Bible. The people considered it the single basis of their faith, and upon their familiarity with it depended their present and future welfare. It was natural that they should attach the greatest importance to the possession of the most authentic edition of the original text. What more glorious task, then, could a printer take upon himself than to provide correct texts, to translate them with scrupulous exactitude, and to produce with the greatest perfection the single book upon which was based the welfare of men and of empires!

CHRISTOPHE PLANTIN, 1514–1589

From Engraving by Edme de Boulonois (c. 1550)

This was the inspiration that came to Christophe Plantin, and which gradually took form in the Biblia Polyglotta, the great typographic achievement of the sixteenth century. On the left-hand page should appear the original Hebrew text, and in a parallel column should be a rendering into the Vulgate (page 230). On the right-hand page the Greek version would be printed, and beside it a Latin translation (page 231). At the foot of each page should be a Chaldean paraphrase.

Antwerp was then under Spanish domination. Plantin at once opened negotiations with Philip II of Spain, and was finally successful in securing from that monarch an agreement to subsidize the undertaking,—a promise which unfortunately was never kept. It is probable that the King was influenced toward a favorable decision by the struggle that occurred between Frankfort, Heidelberg, and even Paris, for the honor of being associated with the great work. Philip subscribed for thirteen copies upon parchment, and agreed to pay Plantin 21,200 florins. He stipulated, however, that the work should be executed under the personal supervision of one Arias Montanus, whom he would send over from Spain. Plantin accepted this condition with some misgivings, but upon his arrival Montanus captivated all by his personal charm and profound learning.

In February, 1565, Plantin employed Robert Grandjon, an engraver of Lyons, to cut the Greek characters for the work, basing his font upon the Royal Greeks. They are still beautiful because they are still unpractical, but they cannot compare with their models any more than later fonts of Greek, cut with the rigid requirements of typography in mind, can compare with these. Grandjon also supplied Plantin with all his Roman, and part of his Hebrew types, the balance being cut by Guillaume Le Bé, of Paris, Hautin of Rochelle, Van der Keere of Tours, and Corneille Bomberghe of Cologne.

PLANTIN’S BIBLIA POLYGLOTTA, Antwerp, 1568

Title Page

(13¼ × 8¼ inches)

Page of Preface from Plantin’s Biblia Polyglotta, Antwerp, 1568 (13¼ × 8¼ inches)

Text Page of Plantin’s Biblia Polyglotta, Antwerp, 1568 (13¼ × 8¼ inches)

Text Page of Plantin’s Biblia Polyglotta, Antwerp, 1568 (13¼ × 8¼ inches)

PLANTIN’S BIBLIA POLYGLOTTA, Antwerp, 1568

Second Page

(13¼ × 8¼ inches)

The eight massive parts of the Biblia Polyglotta appeared during the years 1568 to 1573. The first volume opens with a splendid engraved title, representing the union of the people in the Christian faith, and the four languages of the Old Testament (opp. page). In the lower, right-hand corner appears the famous Plantin mark. Immediately following are two other engraved plates (page 232), illustrative as well as decorative in their nature. One of these pages gives to the faithless Philip an undeserved immortality. There are also single full-page engravings at the beginning of the fourth and fifth volumes. Twelve copies were printed on vellum for King Philip. A thirteenth copy on vellum was never completed. In addition to these, ten other copies were printed on large Italian imperial paper, and were sold at 200 florins per copy. There were 300 copies on imperial paper at 100 florins, and 960 printed on fine royal Troyes paper, which were offered to the public at 70 florins each, with ten florins discount to libraries. One of the vellum copies was presented by the King to the Pope, another to the Duke of Alba, and still a third to the Duke of Savoy, the remaining copies being left in the library of the Escurial.

King Philip was so pleased with the volumes that he created Plantin Prototypographe, ruler over all the printers in the city,—a polite and inexpensive way of escaping his obligations. The world acclaimed a new master-printer; but these honors meant little to pressing creditors.

What a series of misfortunes Plantin endured! Stabbed by a miscreant who mistook him for some one else; hampered by censorship in spite of previous assurances of liberty in publications; his property wiped out again and again by the clashes of arms which finally cost Antwerp her pre-eminence; forever in debt, and having to sell his books below cost, and to sacrifice his library to meet pressing financial obligations;—yet always rising above his calamities, he carried on his printing office until his death in 1589, when he left a comfortable fortune of above $200,000.

Historically, Plantin’s contribution to the art of printing can scarcely be overestimated, yet technically he should be included in the second rather than the first group of early master-printers. The century that had elapsed since Gutenberg had removed many of the mechanical difficulties which had been obstacles to his predecessors. The printer could now secure printed copy to be edited and improved. Scholars were easily obtainable from the universities for editing and proofreading. Printing machinery could be purchased instead of being manufactured from original models. The sale of books had been greatly systematized. A printer could now devote himself to his art without dividing himself into various semi-related parts. Plantin proved himself a business man. Who else ever established a printing or publishing business on such an enduring basis that it continued for three hundred years! In bequeathing it to his daughter and his son-in-law, Moretus, Plantin made the interesting injunction that the printing office was always to be maintained by the son or successor who was most competent to manage it. If no son qualified, then the successor must be selected outside the family. Fortunately, however, there were sons who, each in his generation but with diminishing ability, proved his right to assume the responsibility, and the business was actually continued in the family down to 1867. A few years later the property was purchased by the city of Antwerp for 1,200,000 francs, and turned into a public museum.

Device of Christophe Plantin

I never visit the Plantin Museum at Antwerp without feeling that I have come closer to the old master-printers and their ideals. Here is the only great printing establishment of the past that time and the inroads of man have left intact. The beauty of the building, the harmony of the surroundings, the old portraits, the comfort yet the taste shown in the living-rooms,—all show that the artist-printer sought the same elements in his life that he expressed in his work. Entering from the Marché du Vendredi, I find myself face to face with a small tablet over the door on which is the device of Christophe Plantin, “first printer to the King, and the king of printers.” Here the familiar hand, grasping a pair of compasses, reaches down from the clouds, holding the compasses so that one leg stands at rest while the other describes a circle, enclosing the legend Labore et Constantia. Within the house one finds the actual types, and presses, and designs by Rubens and other famous artists, that were employed in making the Plantin books. The rooms in which the master printer lived make his personality very real. In those days a man’s business was his life, and the home and the workshop were not far separated. Here the family life and the making of books were so closely interwoven that the visitor can scarcely tell where one leaves off and the other begins.

In the vocabulary of booklovers, the name Elzevir suggests something particularly choice and unique in the making of books. These volumes cannot compare favorably with many products of the press which preceded and followed them, yet the prestige which attended their publication has endured down to the present day. The original popularity of the Elzevirs was due to the fact that after a century of degradation, some one at last undertook to reclaim printing from the depths.

Printing, after reaching such heights so soon after its beginnings, had steadily declined. The art may really be said to have had its origin in Italy, as the work from Gutenberg’s office, while extraordinary and epoch-making, could not rank with the best of the fifteenth-century Italian productions. The French volumes of the early sixteenth century were splendid examples of typography and presswork, but they did not equal those of their Italian predecessors. Christophe Plantin’s work in Antwerp was typographically unimportant except for his Biblia Polyglotta; and after Plantin, which takes us to the end of the sixteenth century, printing passed from an art into a trade. The Elzevirs were craftsmen rather than artists, but the best craftsmen of their period.

All this was a natural reaction. The book-buying public had come to demand the contents of the book at a cheaper price rather than volumes of greater technical excellence at a correspondingly higher cost. As we have seen, Sweynheim and Pannartz had ruined themselves by their experiments in Greek; the Aldine Press was saved from bankruptcy only by the intervention of Grolier. Henri Étienne, son of the great Robert Étienne, who endeavored to emulate his father’s splendid work, came to financial grief in producing his Thesaurus; and Plantin could not have withstood the drain of his Biblia Polyglotta had it not been that he was commercially far-sighted enough to turn his plant over to the manufacture of inexpensive and less carefully made books.

By the end of the sixteenth century cheaper paper, made in Switzerland, came into the market, and this inferior, unbleached product largely replaced the soft, fine paper of Italian and French manufacture which had contributed in no small part to the beauty of the printed pages. Ink manufacturers had learned how to produce cheaper and poorer ink, and the types themselves, through constant use, had become worn down to such an extent that real excellence was impossible.

Holland was the natural successor to Belgium in the supremacy of printing. The devastations of war had brought trade to a standstill in the Netherlands, while the city of Leyden had won the attention and admiration of the world for its heroic resistance during the long Spanish siege. To commemorate this event, William of Orange, in 1575, founded the University of Leyden, which quickly took high rank among scholars, and became the intellectual and literary center of Europe.

Thither the battle-scarred Plantin betook himself at the suggestion of Lipsius, the historian, who was now a professor in the new University. In Leyden, Plantin established a branch printing office. He was made Printer to the University, and for a time expected to remain here, but the old man could not bring himself to voluntary exile from his beloved Antwerp. Plantin’s Leyden printing office had been placed in charge of Louis Elzevir, and when the veteran printer determined to return to Antwerp it would have seemed natural for him to leave it in Louis Elzevir’s hands instead of turning it over to his son-in-law, Raphelengius. This Elzevir, however, although the founder of the great Elzevir house, was not a practical printer, being more interested in bookselling and publishing; so distinction in printing did not come to the family until Isaac, Louis Elzevir’s grandson, became Printer to the University in 1620. Fifteen years later, Bonaventura and Abraham Elzevir made the name famous through their editions of Terence, Cæsar, and Pliny.

Up to this time the favorite format had been the quarto volume, running about 12 by 18 inches in size. The Elzevirs boldly departed from the beaten path, and produced volumes running as small as 2 by 4 inches. They cut types of small size, showing no special originality but based on good Italian models, and issued editions which at first met with small favor. “The Elzevirs are certainly great typographers,” the scholar Deput wrote to Heinsius in 1629. “I can but think, however, that their reputation will suffer in connection with these trifling little volumes with such slender type.”

Contrary to this prediction, the new format gradually gained favor, and finally became firmly established. The best publisher-printers in France and Italy copied the Elzevir model, and the folios and the quartos of the preceding ages went entirely out of style.

ELZEVIR’S TERENCE, 1635

Engraved Title Page (Exact size)

ELZEVIR’S TERENCE, Leyden, 1635

Text Pages (4 × 2 inches)

The Terence of 1635 is the volume I selected for my collection (page 242). While not really beautiful, it is a charming little book. The copper-plate title (page 241) serves not only its original purpose but is also an illustration. The Elzevirs were wise enough to go back a hundred years and revive the practice of the copper-plate title, which had been discarded by intermediate printers because of its expense. The types themselves, far superior to other fonts in use at that time by other printers, were especially designed for the Elzevirs by Christoffel van Dyck. The interspacing of the capitals and the small capitals, the arrangement of the margins, and the general layout all show taste and knowledge of typographical precedent. The presswork would appear to better advantage except for the impossibility of securing ink of consistent quality.

The Elzevirs showed a great advance in business organization over any of their predecessors. Freed from oppressive censorship, they were able to issue a long list of volumes which were disposed of through connections established in the principal book centers of Italy, France, Germany, and Scandinavia, as well as throughout the Netherlands themselves. There is no record of any Elzevir publication proving a failure; but, by the same token, one cannot say that the Elzevirs accomplished as much for the art to which they devoted themselves as did the master-printers in whose steps they followed.

Curiously enough, it was not until the eighteenth century that England produced volumes which were pre-eminent in any period. Caxton’s work, extraordinary as it was, competed against books made at the same time in Venice by Jenson, and were not equal to these Italian masterpieces. I have a leaf from a Caxton volume which I often place beside my Jenson volume, and the comparison always increases my wonder and admiration for the great Italian printer. Caxton’s work was epoch-making, but until John Baskerville issued his Virgil in Birmingham, in 1757, England had not produced a volume that stood out, at the moment of its publication, as the best of its time.

John Baskerville

(1706–1775)

John Baskerville is one of the most unique characters to be found in the annals of printing. He had been in turn a footman, a writing teacher, an engraver of slate gravestones, and the proprietor of a successful japanning establishment. He showed no special interest in types or books until middle age, and after he had amassed a fortune. Then, suddenly, he designed and cut types which competed successfully with the famous Caslon fonts, and produced his Virgil, which, as Benjamin Franklin wrote in presenting a copy to the Harvard College Library, was “thought to be the most curiously printed of any book hitherto done in the world.” Macaulay called it, “The first of those magnificent editions which went forth to astonish all the librarians of Europe.”

The Baskerville types were at first received with scant praise, although even the severest critics admitted that the Italic characters, from which was eliminated that cramped design seen in the Italics of other foundries of the period, were essentially beautiful. A letter written by Benjamin Franklin to Baskerville in 1760 is of amusing interest:

Title Page of Baskerville’s Virgil, Birmingham, 1757 (8½ × 5⅜ inches)

Text Page of Baskerville’s Virgil, Birmingham, 1757 (8½ × 5⅜ inches)

The Virgil itself, beyond the interest that exists in its type, shows grace and dignity in its composition and margins. For the first time we have a type title (page 247) that shows a printer’s appreciation of its possibilities. Baskerville affected extreme simplicity, employing no head or tail pieces and no ornamental initials to accomplish his effects (page 249).

The copy of Baskerville’s Virgil in my library contains a copper-plate frontispiece. The advertisement which particularly emphasized this feature excited my curiosity, as no book of Baskerville’s is known to have contained illustrations. When I secured the copy I found that the frontispiece was a steel engraving stamped on water-marked paper which indicated its age to be at least two hundred years earlier than the publication of the book. The owner of this particular copy had inserted the illustration in re-binding, and it was no part of the original edition!

The glossy paper referred to in Franklin’s letter was an outcome of Baskerville’s earlier business experience. It occurred to him that type would print better upon highly finished paper, and that this finish could be secured by pressing the regular book paper of the time between heated japan plates made at his own establishment. Baskerville is entitled to the credit of having been the first printer to use highly finished paper, and, beyond this, as Dibdin says of him, “He united, in a singularly happy manner, the elegance of Plantin with the clearness of the Elzevirs.”

Interest in the Baskerville books, and in fact in all books printed in what is known as “old-style” type, ceased suddenly with the inexplicable popularity attained about 1800 by the so-called “modern” face. The characteristics of the old-style letter are heavy ascending and descending strokes with small serifs, whereas the modern face accentuates the difference between the light and the heavy lines, and has more angular serifs. The engraved work of Thomas Bewick, in England, the publication of the Racine by the Didots, and the Bodoni volumes in Italy, offered the public an absolute innovation from the types with which they had been familiar since the invention of printing, and the new designs leaped into such popular favor that many of the foundries destroyed the matrices of their old-style faces, believing that the call for them had forever disappeared. As a matter of fact, it was not until the London publisher Pickering revived the old-style letter in 1844, that the modern face had any competition. Since then the two styles have been maintained side by side.

Thus the second supremacy of France came from a change in public taste rather than from economic causes. For a time there was a question whether Bodoni would win the distinction for Italy or the Didots for France, but the French printers possessed a typographical background that Bodoni lacked, and in their Racine produced a masterpiece which surpasses any production from the Bodoni Press. The Didots were not only printers and publishers, but manufactured paper and invented the process of stereotyping. While Minister to France, in 1780, Benjamin Franklin visited the Didot establishment, and, seizing the handle of a press, struck off several copies of a form with such professional familiarity as to cause astonishment.

“Don’t be surprised,” Franklin exclaimed smiling. “This, you know, is my real business.”

In 1797, the French Minister of the Interior placed at the disposal of Pierre Didot l’aîné that portion of the Louvre which had formerly been occupied by the Imprimerie Royale. Here was begun, and completed in 1801, an edition of Racine in three volumes that aroused the enthusiasm of booklovers all over the world, and brought to Pierre Didot the glory of being recognized as a master-printer worthy to assume the mantle of Robert Étienne. This is the typographic achievement I would select as the masterpiece of its period.

DIDOT’S RACINE, Paris, 1801

A Frontispiece

Designed by Prud’hon. Engraved by Marius (12 × 8 inches)

Title Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801 (12 × 8 inches)

Opening Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801

Text Page of Didot’s Racine, Paris, 1801

FIRMIN DIDOT, 1730–1804

From Engraving by Pierre Gustave Eugene Staal (1817–1882)

The large quarto volumes contain nearly five hundred pages each. The type was designed and cut by Firmin Didot in conjunction with, or possibly in collaboration with Giambattista Bodoni, of Parma, Italy. So closely do the two faces match that the similarity of their design could scarcely have been a coincidence (see page 81). There is a peculiar charm in the unusual length of the ascending and descending characters; there is a grace in the slender capitals in spite of the ultra-refinement; there is satisfaction in having the weight of the Italic letter approach that of the Roman, thus preventing the usual blemish which the lighter faced Italic gives to an otherwise perfectly balanced page. The figures, really a cross between the old style and the modern, have a distinct individuality entirely lost in the so-called “lining” figures which those who have copied this face in America have introduced as an “improvement.”

The Racine contains magnificent steel engravings, of which one is reproduced at page 253. The handmade paper is a return to the beautiful sheets of the fifteenth century, and the presswork—the type just biting into the paper without leaving an impression on the reverse side—is superbly characteristic of the best French workmanship. The vellum copies show the work at its best. The engravings stand out almost as original etchings. The ink is the densest black I ever saw. Didot succeeded in overcoming the oil in the vellum without the chalk surface that is given to the Morris vellum, the ink being so heavy that it is slightly raised. I was particularly interested in this after my own experiments in printing my humanistic Petrarch on vellum.

At the Exposition of 1801, in Paris, the Racine was proclaimed by a French jury the “most perfect typographic product of any country and of any age.” Is this not too high praise? To have equaled the Italian masterpieces of the fifteenth century would have been enough glory for any printer to claim!

The Racine was a step in the direction of reclaiming typography from the trade which it had become, but it was left for William Morris to place printing squarely back among the arts.

WILLIAM MORRIS, 1834–1896

From Portrait by G. F. Watts, R. A. Painted in 1880

National Portrait Gallery, London

Morris was nearly sixty years of age when he finally settled upon the book as the medium through which to express his message to the world. The Morris wall papers, the Morris chair, the Morris end papers, are among his earlier experiments, all sufficiently unique to perpetuate his name; yet his work as a printer is what gave him undying glory. The Kelmscott Chaucer is his masterpiece, and must be included whenever great typographic monuments are named. For this the decorator-printer cut a smaller size of his Gothic font, secured the co-operation of Sir Edward Burne-Jones as illustrator, and set himself the task of designing the initial letters, borders, and decorations. This was in 1892, and for four years they worked upon it, one delay following another to make Morris fearful that the work might never be completed.

SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES, Bart., 1833–1898

From Photograph at the British Museum

The decoration for the first page was finished in March, 1893. Morris was entirely satisfied with it, exclaiming, “My eyes! how good it is!” Then he laid the whole project aside for over a year, while he devoted himself to his metrical version of Beowulf. In the meantime Burne-Jones was experiencing great difficulty in having his designs satisfactorily translated onto wood, and Morris dolefully remarked, after comparing notes with his friend and collaborator, “We shall be twenty years at this rate in getting it out!”

It was June, 1894, before the great work was fairly under way. “Chaucer getting on well,” Morris notes in his diary,—“such lovely designs.” At the end of June he records his expectation of beginning the actual printing within a month, and that in about three months more all the pictures and nearly all the borders would be ready for the whole of the Canterbury Tales.

About this time Morris was asked if he would accept the poet-laureateship of England, made vacant by Tennyson’s death, if offered to him, and he unhesitatingly declined. His health and strength were noticeably failing, yet at the beginning of 1895, less than two years before his death, he was completely submerged by multifarious occupations. Two presses were running upon the Chaucer and still a third upon smaller books. He was designing new paper hangings and writing new romances; he was collaborating in the translation of Heimskringla and was supervising its production for the Saga Library; he was engaged in getting together his splendid collection of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century illuminated manuscripts.

It was not all smooth sailing with the Chaucer. In 1895 Morris discovered that many of the sheets had become discolored by some unfortunate ingredient of the ink, but to his immense relief he succeeded in removing the yellow stains by bleaching. “The check of the Chaucer,” he writes, “flattens life for me somewhat, but I am going hard into the matter, and in about a fortnight hope to know the worst of it.”

In December the Chaucer was sufficiently near completion to encourage him to design a binding for it. Even here he found another difficulty. “Leather is not good now,” he complained; “what used to take nine months to cure is now done in three. They used to say ‘What’s longest in the tanyard stays least time in the market,’ but that no longer holds good. People don’t know how to buy now; they’ll take anything.”

Morris’ anxiety over the Chaucer increased as it came nearer to completion. “I’d like it finished tomorrow!” he exclaimed. “Every day beyond tomorrow that it isn’t done is one too many.” To a visitor, looking through the printed sheets in his library, who remarked upon the added beauty of those sheets that follow the Canterbury Tales, where the picture pages face one another in pairs, Morris exclaimed in alarm, “Now don’t you go saying that to Burne-Jones or he’ll be wanting to do the first part over again; and the worst of that would be that he’d want to do all the rest over again because the other would be so much better, and then we should never get done, but be always going round and round in a circle.”

The daily progress of the work upon the Chaucer was the one interest that sustained his waning energies. The last three blocks were brought to him on March 21, 1896. The Easter holidays almost killed him. “Four mouldy Sundays in a mouldy row,” he writes in his diary. “The press shut and Chaucer at a standstill.”

On May 6 all the picture sheets were printed and the block for the title page was submitted for Morris’ approval, the final printing being completed two days later. On June 2 the first two bound copies were delivered to him, one of which he immediately sent to Burne-Jones, the other he placed in his own library.

Thus the Kelmscott Chaucer came to completion. Four months later William Morris was dead. The Chaucer had been nearly five years in preparation and three and a half years in execution. The printing alone had consumed a year and nine months. The volumes contain, besides eighty-seven illustrations by Burne-Jones, a full-page woodcut title, fourteen large borders, eighteen frames for pictures, and twenty-six large initial words, all designed by Morris, together with the smaller initials and the design for binding, which was in white pigskin with silver clasps, executed by Douglas Cockerell.

Text Page of Kelmscott Chaucer, London, 1896 (15 × 10¼ inches)

I have never felt that the Kelmscott volumes were books at all, but were, rather, supreme examples of a master-decorator’s taste and skill. After all, a book is made to read, and the Kelmscott Chaucer is made to be looked at. The principles which should control the design of the ideal book as laid down by William Morris cannot be improved upon, but when he undertook to put them into execution he found himself so wholly under the control of his decorating tendencies that he departed far from his text. William Morris’ work is far greater than is shown in the volumes he printed. He awoke throughout the world an interest in printing as an art beyond what any other man has ever accomplished, the results of which have been a vital factor in bringing modern bookmaking to its present high estate.

It remained for T. J. Cobden-Sanderson, Morris’ friend, admirer, and disciple, to put Morris’ principles into operation at the Doves Press, London, supplemented by Emery Walker, who designed the Doves type,—to me the most beautiful type face in existence. Cobden-Sanderson, undisturbed by counter interests, plodded along, producing volumes into which he translated Morris’ ideals far more consistently than did Morris himself. “The Book Beautiful,” Cobden-Sanderson wrote in his little masterpiece, The Ideal Book, “is a composite thing made up of many parts and may be made beautiful by the beauty of each of its parts—its literary content, its material or materials, its writing or printing, its illumination or illustration, its binding and decoration—of each of its parts in subordination to the whole which collectively they constitute; or it may be made beautiful by the supreme beauty of one or more of its parts, all the other parts subordinating or even effacing themselves for the sake of this one or more, and each in turn being capable of playing this supreme part and each in its own peculiar and characteristic way. On the other hand each contributory craft may usurp the functions of the rest and of the whole, and growing beautiful beyond all bounds ruin for its own the common cause.”

The Doves Bible is Cobden-Sanderson’s masterpiece, and one turns to it with relief after the riotous beauty of the Morris pages. It is printed throughout in one size of type with no leads between the lines and with no paragraphs, the divisions being indicated by heavy paragraph marks. The only decorative feature of any description consists of exceedingly graceful initial letters at the beginning of each new book. The type is based flatly upon Jenson’s Roman face, and exactly answers Morris’ definition of the type ideal, “Pure in form, severe, without needless excrescences, solid without the thickening and thinning of the lines, and not compressed laterally.” The presswork is superb.

Title Page of Doves Bible, London, 1905 (8 × 6 inches)

Text Page of Doves Bible, London, 1905 (8 × 6 inches)

Surely no form of bibliomania can yield greater rewards in return for study and perseverance. The great typographical monuments, dating from 1456 to 1905, have given me a composite picture of man’s successful struggle to free himself from the bonds of ignorance. I have mingled with Lorenzo the Magnificent and with the oppressed people of Florence; I have been a part of François I’s sumptuous Court, and have seen the anxious faces of the clerical faction as they read the writing on the wall; I have listened to the preaching of Luther, and have heard the Spanish guns bombarding Antwerp; I have stood with the brave defenders of Leyden, and have watched the center of learning find its place in Holland; I have enjoyed Ben Franklin’s participation in the typographical efforts of Baskerville and Didot; I have received the inspiration of seeing William Morris and Cobden-Sanderson put a great art back into its rightful place. These triumphs of the printing press are far more than books. They stand as landmarks charting the path of culture and learning through four marvelous centuries

What volume of the twentieth century and what master-printer shall be included? That is yet to be determined by the test of retrospect; but the choice will be more difficult to make. In America and England history is being made in printing as an art, and the results are full of hopefulness and promise

INDEX

THE SPELL OF THE LAURENZIANA

The most fascinating city in all Europe is Florence, and the most alluring spot in all Florence is the Laurenziana Library. They say that there is something in the peculiar atmosphere of antiquity that reacts curiously upon the Anglo-Saxon temperament, producing an obsession so definite as to cause indifference to all except the magic lure of culture and learning. This is not difficult to believe after working, as I have, for weeks at a time, in a cell-like alcove of the Laurenziana; for such work, amid such surroundings, possesses an indescribable lure.

Yet my first approach to the Laurenziana was a bitter disappointment; for the bleak, unfinished façade is almost repelling. Perhaps it was more of a shock because I came upon it directly from the sheer beauty of the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile. Michelangelo planned to make this façade the loveliest of all in Florence, built of marble and broken by many niches, in each of which was to stand the figure of a saint. The plans, drawn before America was discovered, still exist, yet work has never even been begun. The façade remains unfinished, without a window and unbroken save by three uninviting doors.

Conquering my dread of disillusionment, I approached the nearest entrance, which happened to be that at the extreme right of the building and led me directly into the old Church of San Lorenzo. Drawing aside the heavy crimson curtains, I passed at once into a calm, majestic quiet and peace which made the past seem very near. I drew back into the shadow of a great pillar in order to gain my poise. How completely the twentieth century turned back to the fifteenth! On either side, were the bronze pulpits from which Savonarola thundered against the tyranny and intrigue of the Medici. I seemed to see the militant figure standing there, his eyes flashing, his voice vibrating as he proclaimed his indifference to the penalty he well knew he drew upon himself by exhorting his hearers to oppose the machinations of the powerful family within whose precincts he stood. Then, what a contrast! The masses vanished, and I seemed to be witnessing the gorgeous beauty of a Medici marriage procession. Alessandro de’ Medici was standing beneath a baldacchino, surrounded by the pomp and glory of all Florence, to espouse the daughter of Charles V. Again the scene changes and the colors fade. I leave my place of vantage and join the reverent throng surrounding the casket which contains the mortal remains of Michelangelo, and listen with bowed head to Varchi’s eloquent tribute to the great humanist.

The spell was on me! Walking down the nave, I turned to the left and found myself in the Old Sacristy. Verrocchio’s beautiful sarcophagus in bronze and porphyry recalled for a moment the personalities and deeds of Piero and Giovanni de’ Medici. Then on, into the “New” Sacristy,—new, yet built four centuries ago! Again I paused, this time before Michelangelo’s tomb for Lorenzo the Magnificent, from which arise those marvelous monuments, “Day and Night” and “Dawn and Twilight,”—the masterpieces of a super-sculptor to perpetuate the memory of a superman!

A few steps more took me to the Martelli Chapel, and, opening an inconspicuous door, I passed out into the cloister. It was a relief for the moment to breathe the soft air and to find myself in the presence of nature after the tenseness that came from standing before such masterpieces of man. Maurice Hewlett had prepared me for the “great, mildewed cloister with a covered-in walk all around it, built on arches. In the middle a green garth with cypresses and yews dotted about; when you look up, the blue sky cut square and the hot tiles of a huge dome staring up into it.”

From the cloister I climbed an ancient stone staircase and found myself at the foot of one of the most famous stairways in the world. At that moment I did not stop to realize how famous it was, for my mind had turned again on books, and I was intent on reaching the Library itself. At the top of the stairway I paused for a moment at the entrance to the great hall, the Sala di Michelangiolo. At last I was face to face with the Laurenziana!

SALA DI MICHELANGIOLO

Laurenziana Library, Florence

Before I had completed my general survey of the room, an attendant greeted me courteously, and when I presented my letter of introduction to the librarian he bowed low and led me the length of the hall. The light came into the room through beautiful stained-glass windows, bearing the Medici arms and the cipher of Giulio de’ Medici, later Pope Clement VII, surrounded by arabesque Renaissance designs. We passed between the plutei, those famous carved reading-desks designed by Michelangelo. As we walked down the aisle, the pattern of the nutwood ceiling seemed reflected on the brick floor, so cleverly was the design reproduced in painted bricks. Gradually I became impressed by the immense size of the room, which before I had not felt because the proportions are so perfect.

Doctor Guido Biagi, who was at that time librarian, was seated at one of the plutei, studying a Medicean illuminated manuscript fastened to the desk by one of the famous old chains (see page 14). He was a Tuscan of medium height, rather heavily built, with full beard, high forehead, and kindly, alert eyes. The combination of his musical Italian voice, his eyes, and his appealing smile, made me feel at home at once. Letters of introduction such as mine were every-day affairs with him, and no doubt he expected, as did I, to have our meeting result in a few additional courtesies beyond what the tourist usually receives, and then that each would go his way. I little realized, as I presented my letter, that this meeting was to be so significant,—that the man whose hand I clasped was to become my closest friend, and that through him the Laurenziana Library was to be for me a sanctuary.

Dott. Comm. GUIDO BIAGI in 1924

Librarian of the Laurenziana Library, Florence

After the first words of greeting, I said,

“I am wondering how much more I can absorb today. By mistake I came in through the church, and found myself confronted by a series of masterpieces so overpowering that I am almost exhausted by the monuments of great personages and the important events they recall.”

“A fortunate mistake,” he replied smiling. “The entrance to the Library should be forever closed, and every one forced to come in through the church as you did, in order to absorb the old-world atmosphere, and be ready to receive what I can give.—So this is your first visit? You know nothing of the history of the Library?”

“Simply that everything was designed by Michelangelo,—and the names of some of the priceless manuscripts in your collection.”

“It is not quite exact to say that everything was designed by the great Buonarroti,” he corrected. “It was Michelangelo who conceived, but Vasari who designed and executed. Let me show you the letter the great artist wrote to Vasari about the stairway you just ascended” (page 280).

Leaving me for a moment he returned with a manuscript in his hand which he read aloud:

“Who but a great artist could visualize that marvelous staircase through a collection of wooden boxes!” Biagi exclaimed. “Vasari built this great room, but the designs were truly Michelangelo’s,—even to the carving of these plutei,” he added, laying his hand on the reading-desk from which he had just risen. “See these chains, which have held these volumes in captivity for over four hundred years.”

He asked me how long I was to be in Florence.

“For a week,” I answered, believing the statement to be truthful; but the seven days stretched out into many weeks before I was able to break the chains which held me to the Library as firmly as if they were the links which for so many years had kept the Medicean treasures in their hallowed places.

“Return tomorrow,” he said. “Enter by the private door, where Marinelli will admit you. I want to keep your mind wholly on the Library.”

VESTIBULE of the LAURENZIANA LIBRARY, FLORENCE

Designed by Michelangelo

The private door was the entrance in the portico overlooking the cloister, held sacred to the librarian and his friends. At the appointed hour I was admitted, and Marinelli conducted me immediately to the little office set apart for the use of the librarian.

“Before I exhibit my children,” he said, “I must tell you the romantic story of this collection. You will enjoy and understand the books themselves better if I give you the proper background.”

Here is the story he told me. I wish you might have heard the words spoken in the musical Tuscan voice:

Four members of the immortal Medici family contributed to the greatness of the Laurenziana Library, their interest in which would seem to be a curious paradox. Cosimo il Vecchio, father of his country, was the founder. “Old” Cosimo was unique in combining zeal for learning and an interest in arts and letters with political corruption. As his private fortune increased through success in trade he discovered the power money possessed when employed to secure political prestige. By expending hundreds of thousands of florins upon public works, he gave employment to artisans, and gained a popularity for his family with the lower classes which was of the utmost importance at critical times. Beneath this guise of benefactor existed all the characteristics of the tyrant and despot, but through his money he was able to maintain his position as a Mæcenas while his agents acted as catspaws in accomplishing his political ambitions. Old Cosimo acknowledged to Pope Eugenius that much of his wealth had been ill-gotten, and begged him to indicate a proper method of restitution. The Pope advised him to spend 10,000 florins on the Convent of San Marco. To be sure that he followed this advice thoroughly, Cosimo contributed more than 40,000 florins, and established the basis of the present Laurenziana Library.

“Some of your American philanthropists must have read the private history of Old Cosimo,” Biagi remarked slyly at this point.

Lorenzo the Magnificent was Old Cosimo’s grandson, and his contribution to the Library was far beyond what his father, Piero, had given. Lorenzo was but twenty-two years of age when Piero died, in 1469. He inherited no business ability from his grandfather, but far surpassed him in the use he made of literary patronage. Lorenzo had no idea of relinquishing control of the Medici tyranny, but he was clever enough to avoid the outward appearance of the despot. Throughout his life he combined a real love of arts and letters with a cleverness in political manipulation, and it is sometimes difficult correctly to attribute the purpose behind his seeming benevolences. He employed agents to travel over all parts of the world to secure for him rare and important codices to be placed in the Medicean Library. He announced that it was his ambition to form the greatest collection of books in the world, and to throw it open to public use. Such a suggestion was almost heresy in those days! So great was his influence that the Library received its name from his.

The third Medici to play an important part in this literary history was Lorenzo’s son, Cardinal Giovanni, afterwards Pope Leo X. The library itself had been confiscated by the Republic during the troublous times in which Charles VIII of France played his part, and sold to the monks of San Marco; but when better times returned Cardinal Giovanni bought it back into the family, and established it in the Villa Medici in Rome. During the fourteen years the collection remained in his possession, Giovanni, as Pope Leo X, enriched it by valuable additions. On his death, in 1521, his executor, a cousin, Giulio de’ Medici, afterwards Pope Clement VII, commissioned Michelangelo to erect a building worthy of housing so precious a collection; and in 1522 the volumes were returned to Florence.

Lorenzo’s promise to throw the doors open to the public was accomplished on June 11, 1571. At that time there were 3,000 precious manuscripts, most of which are still available to those who visit Florence. A few are missing.

The princes who followed Cosimo II were not so conscious of their responsibilities, and left the care of the Library to the Chapter of the Church of San Lorenzo. During this period the famous manuscript copy of Cicero’s work, the oldest in existence, disappeared. Priceless miniatures were cut from some of the volumes, and single leaves from others. Where did they go? The Cicero has never since been heard of, but the purloining of fragments of Laurenziana books undoubtedly completed imperfections in similar volumes in other collections.

The House of Lorraine, which succeeded the House of Medici, guarded the Laurenziana carefully, placing at its head the learned Biscioni. After him came Bandini, another capable librarian, under whose administration various smaller yet valuable collections were added in their entirety. Del Furia continued the good work, and left behind a splendid catalogue of the treasures entrusted to him. These four volumes are still to be found in the Library. In 1808, and again in 1867, the libraries of the suppressed monastic orders were divided between the Laurentian and the Magliabecchian institutions; and in 1885, through the efforts of Pasquale Villari, the biographer of Machiavelli, the Ashburnham collection, numbering 1887 volumes, was added through purchase by the Italian Government.

“Now,” said Biagi, as he finished the story, “I am ready to show you some of the Medici treasures. I call them my children. They have always seemed that to me. My earliest memory is of peeping out from the back windows of the Palazzo dei della Vacca, where I was born, behind the bells of San Lorenzo, at the campanile of the ancient church, and at the Chapel or the Medici. The Medici coat of arms was as familiar to me as my father’s face, and the ‘pills’ that perpetuated Old Cosimo’s fame as a chemist possessed so great a fascination that I never rested until I became the Medicean librarian.”

Biagi led the way from his private office through the Hall of Tapestries. As we passed by the cases containing such wealth of illumination, only partially concealed by the green curtains drawn across the glass, I instinctively paused, but my guide insisted.

“We will return here, but first you must see the Tribuna.”

We passed through the great hall into a high-vaulted, circular reading-room.

“This was an addition to the Library in 1841,” Biagi explained, “to house the 1200 copies of original editions from the fifteenth-century Presses, presented by the Count Angiolo Maria d’Elchi. Yes—” he added, reading my thoughts as I glanced around; “this room is a distinct blemish. The great Buonarroti must have turned in his grave when it was finished. But the volumes themselves will make you forget the architectural blunder.”

He showed me volumes printed from engraved blocks by the Germans, Sweynheym and Pannartz, at Subiaco, in the first Press established in Italy. I held in my hand Cicero’s Epistolæ ad Familiares, a volume printed in 1469. In the explicit the printer, not at all ashamed of his accomplishment, adds in Latin:

There was Tortelli’s Orthographia dictionum e Græcia tractarum, printed in Venice by Nicolas Jenson, showing the first use of Greek characters in a printed book. The Aldine volumes introduced me to the first appearance of Italic type. No wonder that Italy laid so firm a hand upon the scepter of the new art, when Naples, Milan, Ferrara, Florence, Piedmont, Cremona, and Turin vied with Venice in producing such examples!

“You must come back and study them at your leisure,” the librarian suggested, noting my reluctance to relinquish the volume I was inspecting to receive from him some other example equally interesting. “Now I will introduce you to the prisoners, who have never once complained of their bondage during all these centuries.”

In the great hall we moved in and out among the plutei, where Biagi indicated first one manuscript and then another, with a few words of explanation as to the significance of each.

“No matter what the personal bent of any man,” my guide continued, “we have here in the Library that which will satisfy his intellectual desires. If he is a student of the Scriptures, he will find inspiration from our sixth-century Syriac Gospels, or the Biblia Amiatina. For the lawyer, we have the Pandects of Justinian, also of the sixth century, which even today form the absolute basis of Roman law. What classical scholar could fail to be thrilled by the fourth-century Medicean Virgil, with its romantic history, which I will tell you some day; what lover of literature would not consider himself privileged to examine Boccaccio’s manuscript copy of the Decameron, or the Petrarch manuscript on vellum, in which appear the famous portraits of Laura and Petrarch; or Benvenuto Cellini’s own handwriting in his autobiography? We must talk about all these, but it would be too much for one day.”

Leading the way back to his sanctum, Biagi left me for a moment. He returned with some manuscript poems, which he turned over to me.

“This shall be the climax of your first day in the Laurenziana,” he exclaimed. “You are now holding Michelangelo in your lap!”

Can you wonder that the week I had allotted to Florence began to seem too brief a space of time? In response to the librarian’s suggestion I returned to the Library day after day. He was profligate in the time he gave me. Together we studied the Biblia Amiatina, the very copy brought from England to Rome in 716 by Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth, intended as a votive offering at the Holy Sepulchre of Saint Peter. By this identification at the Laurenziana in 1887 the volume became one of the most famous in the world. In the plate opposite, the Prophet Ezra is shown by the artist sitting before a book press filled with volumes bound in crimson covers of present-day fashion, and even the book in which Ezra is writing has a binding. It was a new thought to me that the binding of books, such as we know it, was in practice as early as the eighth century.

THE PROPHET EZRA. From Codex Amiatinus, (8th Century)

Showing earliest Volumes in Bindings

Laurenziana Library, Florence (12 × 8)

At another time we examined the Medicean Virgil written on vellum, dating back to the fourth century, and the oldest Codex of the Latin poet.

“This is a veritable treasure for the classical scholar, is it not?” Biagi inquired. “While the Medicean collection remained in the hands of the Chapter of San Lorenzo some vandal cut out the first leaves. See,—the text now begins at the 48th line of the 6th Eclogue.”

I felt almost as if I were looking at a mutilated body, so precious did the manuscript seem.

“In 1799,” the librarian continued, “these sheets were carried to France as part of the Napoleonic booty. Later, through the good offices of Prince Metternich, under a special article in the Treaty of Vienna, the volume was returned to Italy. In 1816 a solemn festival was held here in Florence to celebrate its restoration to the Library. Such events as these,” Biagi added, “show you the place the book holds in the hearts of the Italian people. Look!” he exclaimed, pointing disgustedly at the stiff, ugly binding placed upon the Virgil in Paris during its captivity. “See how little the French appreciated what this volume really is!”

The Petrarch manuscript yielded me the originals of the famous portraits of Madonna Laura de Noves de Sale and of Messer Francesco Petrarca which had hung in my library for years; my friend’s comments made them assume a new meaning. The poet’s likeness so closely resembles other more authentic portraits that we may accept that of Madonna Laura as equally correct, even though the same opportunity for comparison is lacking. What could be more graceful or original than the dressing of the hair, recalling the elegance of the coiffures worn by the ladies of Provence and France rather than of Italy, even as the little pearl-sewn cap is absolutely unknown in the fashions of Petrarch’s native country. After looking at the painting, we can understand the inspiration for Petrarch’s lines:

So we discussed the treasures which were laid out before me as I returned again and again to the Library. The illuminated volumes showed me that marvelous Book of Hours Francesco d’Antonio made for Lorenzo the Magnificent, which is described in an earlier chapter (page 146); I became familiar with the gorgeous pages of Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico; of Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes give the Riccardi its greatest fame; of Gherado and Clovio, and other great artists whose names are unknown or forgotten.

Besides being librarian of the Laurenziana, Biagi was also custodian of the Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives. Thus it was that during some of my visits I had the opportunity to study the early sketches of the great Leonardo, and the manuscript letters of Michelangelo. Such intimacies gave me an understanding of the people and the times in which they worked that has clothed that period with an everlasting halo.

As our friendship expanded through our work together, Biagi introduced me to other fascinations, outside the Library. I came to know Pasquale Villari and other great Italian intellects. My friend and I planned Odysseys together,—to Vallombrosa, to Pisa, to Perugia, to Siena. We visited the haunts of Dante.

Nor was our conversation devoted wholly to the literary spirits of antiquity. One day something was said about George Eliot. I had always shared the common fallacy that she was entitled to be classified as the greatest realist of the analytical or psychological school; yet I had always marveled at the consummate skill which made it possible for her, in Romola, to draw her characters and to secure the atmosphere of veritable Italians and the truest Italy without herself having lived amongst the Florentines and assimilating those unique peculiarities which she so wonderfully portrayed. For I had accepted the myth that she had only passed through Italy on her memorable trip with the Brays in 1849, and secured her local color by study.

I made some allusion to this, and Biagi smiled.

“Where did you get that idea?” he asked. “Her diary tells you to the contrary.”

I could only confess that I had never read her diary.

“George Eliot and Lewes were in Florence together in 1861,” he continued; “and it was because they were here that Romola became a fact.”

Enjoying my surprise, the librarian became more communicative:

“They studied here together from May 4 until June 7, 1861, at the Magliabecchian Library,” said he, “and I can tell you even the titles of the books they consulted.”

Perhaps I showed my incredulity.

“I have discovered the very slips which Lewes signed when he took out the volumes,” he continued. “Would you like to see them?”

By this time Biagi knew me too well to await my response. So we walked together over to the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, the library which became famous two hundred and fifty years ago through the reputation of a jeweler’s shop boy, Antonio Magliabecchi, and was known as the Biblioteca Magliabecchiana for more than a century before the Biblioteca Palatina was joined with it in 1860 under its present modern and unromantic name.

ANTONIO MAGLIABECCHI

Founder of the Magliabecchia Library, Florence

As we walked along Biagi told me of the unique personality of this Magliabecchi, which attracted the attention of the literary world while he was collecting the nucleus of the library. Dibdin scouted him, declaring that his existence was confined to the “parade and pacing of a library,” yet so great was his knowledge and so prodigious his memory that when the Grand Duke of Florence asked him one day for a particular volume, he was able to reply:

“The only copy of this work is at Constantinople, in the Sultan’s library, the seventeenth volume in the second bookcase on the right as you go in.”

We entered the old reading hall, which is almost the only portion of the building still remaining as it was when George Eliot and George Henry Lewes pursued their studies at one of the massive walnut tables. The jeering bust of Magliabecchi is still there; the same volumes, resting upon their ornamental shelves, still await the arrival of another genius to produce another masterpiece—but except for these the Library has become as modernized as its name.

“I was going over some dusty receipts here one day,” my friend explained, “which I found on the top of a cupboard in the office of the archives. It was pure curiosity. I was interested in the names of many Italian writers who have since become famous, but when I stumbled upon a number of receipts signed ‘G. H. Lewes,’ I realized that I was on the track of some valuable material. These I arranged chronologically, and this is what I found.”

Now let me go back a little, before, with Biagi’s help, I fit these interesting receipts into the story of the writing of the book as told by George Eliot’s diary, which I immediately absorbed.

Silas Marner was finished on March 10, 1861, and on April 19 the author and Lewes “set off on our second journey to Florence.” After arriving there, the diary tells us that they “have been industriously foraging in old streets and old books.” Of Lewes she writes: “He was in continual distraction by having to attend to my wants, going with me to the Magliabecchian Library, and poking about everywhere on my behalf.”

Library Slips used by George Eliot in the Magliabecchia Library, Florence, while writing Romola

The first slip signed by Lewes is dated May 15, 1861, and called for Ferrario’s Costume Antico e Moderno. This book is somewhat dramatic and superficial, yet it could give the author knowledge of the historical surroundings of the characters which were growing in her mind. The following day they took out Lippi’s Malmantile, a comic poem filled with quaint phrases and sayings which fitted well in the mouths of those characters she had just learned how to dress. Migliore’s Firenze Illustrata and Rastrelli’s Firenze Antica e Moderna gave the topography and the aspect of Florence at the end of the fifteenth century.

From Chiari’s Priorista George Eliot secured the idea of the magnificent celebration of the Feast of Saint John, the effective descriptions of the cars, the races, and the extraordinary tapers. “It is the habit of my imagination,” she writes in her diary, “to strive after as full a vision of the medium in which a character moves as of the character itself.” Knowledge of the Bardi family, to which the author added Romola, was secured from notes on the old families of Florence written by Luigi Passerini.

“See how they came back on May 24,” Biagi exclaimed, pointing to a slip calling for Le Famiglie del Litta, “to look in vain for the pedigree of the Bardi. But why bother,” he continued with a smile; “for Romola, the Antigone of Bardo Bardi, was by this time already born in George Eliot’s mind, and needed no further pedigree.”

Romance may have been born, but the plot of the story was far from being clear in the author’s mind. Back again in England, two months later, she writes, “This morning I conceived the plot of my novel with new distinction.” On October 4, “I am worried about my plot,” and on October 7, “Began the first chapter of my novel.”

Meanwhile George Eliot continued her reading, now at the British Museum. La Vita di G. Savonarola, by Pasquale Villari, gave her much inspiration. The book had just been published, and it may well have suggested the scene where Baldassarre Calvo meets Tito Melema on the steps of the Cathedral. No other available writer had previously described the struggle which took place for the liberation of the Lunigiana prisoners, which plays so important a part in the plot of Romola.

In January, 1862, George Eliot writes in her diary, “I began again my novel of Romola.” By February the extraordinary proem and the first two chapters were completed. “Will it ever be finished?” she asks herself. But doubt vanished as she proceeded. In May, 1863, she “killed Tito with great excitement,” and June 9, “put the last stroke to Romola—Ebenezer!”

Since then I have re-read Romola with the increased interest which came from the new knowledge, and the story added to my love of Florence. Many times have I wandered, as George Eliot and Lewes did, to the heights of Fiesole, and looked down, even as they, in sunlight, and with the moon casting shadows upon the wonderful and obsessing city, wishing that my vision were strong enough to extract from it another story such as Romola.

Such were the experiences that extended my stay in Florence. The memory of them has been so strong and so obsessing that no year has been complete without a return to Biagi and the Laurenziana. Once, during these years, he came to America, as the Royal representative of Italy at the St. Louis Exposition (see also page 182). In 1916 his term as librarian expired through the limitation of age, but before he retired he completely rearranged that portion of the Library which is now open to visitors (see page 149). The treasures of no collection are made so easily accessible except at the British Museum.

I last visited Biagi in May, 1924. His time was well occupied by literary work, particularly on Dante, which had already given him high rank as a scholar and writer; but a distinct change had come over him. I could not fathom it until he told me that he was planning to leave Florence to take up his residence in Rome. I received the news in amazement. Then the mask fell, and he answered my unasked question.

“I can’t stand it!” he exclaimed. “I can’t stay in Florence and not be a part of the Laurenziana. I have tried in vain to reconcile myself, but the Library has been so much a fiber of my being all my life, that something has been taken away from me which is essential to my existence.” The spell of the Laurenziana had possessed him with a vital grip! The following January (1925) he died, and no physician’s diagnosis will ever contain the correct analysis of his decease I shall always find it difficult to visualize Florence or the Laurenziana without Guido Biagi. When next I hold in my hands those precious manuscripts, still chained to their ancient plutei, it will be with even greater reverence. They stand as symbols of the immutability of learning and culture compared with the brief span of life allotted to Prince or Librarian

Transcriber’s Notes

• Adams Presses, 50
• Æthelwald, 122
• Alba, the Duke of, 233
• Alcuin Bible, the, described, 125–127
• Alcuin, Bishop, of York, 125, 126
• Aldine Press, the, at Venice, saved by intervention of Jean Grolier, 56, 238;
• printing at, 206–215;
• the Jenson office combined with, 214
• Aldus Manutius, legend over office of, 10;
• his confidence in permanence of the printed book, 11–12;
• his type designs, 17;
• establishes his office in Venice, 206;
• his printer’s mark and slogan, 207, 208;
• changes format of the book, 207;
• his aims, 208;
• the Greek classics of, 209;
• his contributions to typography, 210;
• his Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, 210–213;
• Jean Grolier’s friendship with family of, 214–215
• Allegro, l’, Milton’s, 93
• Ambrosiana Iliad, the, 24, 25
• Ambrosiana Library, the, humanistic manuscripts in, 24, 25
• Angelico, Fra, 149, 290
• Anglo-Saxon missionary artists, the, 125
• Anne, of Brittany, Hours of, described, 149–151
• Anne, Saint, 138
• Antiquities of the Jews, the, described, 138–141, 146
• Antonio del Cherico, Francesco d’, Book of Hours illuminated by, 111, 113, 116, 146–149, 290
• Antwerp, the leading city in Europe, 223;
• book manufacture in, 224;
• under Spanish domination, 227;
• loses her pre-eminence, 233;
• purchases the Plantin office, 235;
• referred to, 239
• Apostrophes, Bernard Shaw’s ideas concerning, 68
• Arnold, Matthew, 178
• Ashburnham Collection, the, 148, 284
• Augustinus, 202
• Austria, the Emperor of, 105
• Authors, relations between publishers and, 51, 63;
• their attitude toward the physical format of their books, 67
• Bandini, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 284
• Baptistery, the, at Florence, 273
• Barbaro, Marco Antonio, Procurator of Saint Mark’s, 143
• Bardi, the, 297
• Bardi, Bardo, 297
• Barlow, Sir Thomas, 85
• Baskerville, John, his editions, 245;
• letter from Benjamin Franklin to, 245;
• his types, 245–246;
• his Virgil, 246–250;
• first to introduce glossy paper, 250;
• Dibdin’s estimate of, 251;
• referred to, 95, 244
• Baynes, Ernest Harold, 104
• Bedford, Anne, Duchess of, 135, 137
• Bedford Book of Hours, the, described, 135–138, 146
• Bedford, John, Duke of, 135, 137
• Belgium, see Netherlands, the
• Bellini, Giovanni, 213
• Beowulf, William Morris’, 259
• Berlin, library of, 196
• Berry, the Duc de, the Très Riches Heures of, 116;
• the Antiquities of the Jews begun for, 139
• Bertieri, Raffaello, 32
• Bewick, Thomas, 163, 251
• Biagi, Dr. Guido, custodian of the Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives, 14, 182, 290;
• defines the humanist, 15, 162;
• his association with the designing of the Humanistic type, 17–33;
• his comments on Bodoni, 78;
• his meeting with Charles Eliot Norton, 180–183;
• described, 277;
• in the Laurenziana Library, 277–300;
• his early ambition to become librarian of the Laurenziana, 284;
• in America, 299;
• his last days, 299–300;
• his death, 300;
• referred to, 14, 16, 17, 111
• Bible, the, welfare of men and of empires based upon, 224
• Biblia Amiatina, the, 287, 288
• Biblia Polyglotta, Plantin’s, 227;
• the story of, 227–233;
• pages from, 229–231
• Bibliothèque Nationale, the, Paris, 119, 127, 128, 139, 140, 141, 149, 196, 198, 220
• Billfrith, Saint, 122
• Bindings, 113, 288
• Birmingham, England, 244
• Biscioni, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 283
• Bisticci, quoted, 12
• Blanche, Queen, of Castile, 129
• Boccaccio, 287
• Bodleian Library, the, 196
• Bodoni, Giambattista, the father of modern type design, 78–82, 251;
• compared with Didot, 252, 257;
• referred to, 95
• Bodoni Press, the revived, in Montagnola di Lugano, 79
• Bodoni type, the, 78;
• compared with the Didot type, 79–82;
• William Morris’ dislike of, 80;
• De Vinne’s admiration for, 80, 82;
• estimate of, 257
• Bokhara, 118
• Bomberghe, Corneille, type designer, 228
• Book, the, conception of early patrons of, 11;
• lure of, 37;
• the tangible expression of man’s intellect, 112.
• See also, Illuminated book, Printed book, Written book
• Bookmaking, in 1891, 42–54;
• the weakness of method in, 54
• Book of Hours, by Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico, 111;
• described, 146–149;
• referred to, 290
• Books, cost of making, 58
• Bookselling, inadequate methods in, 60
• Boston, Howell’s comments on, 186
• Boston Society of Printers, the, 99
• Bourbon, Pierre II, Duc de, 140
• Bourdichon, Jean, 113, 149, 150
• Boyd, Henry, 26, 27
• Brays, the, 292
• British Museum, the, 27, 28, 117, 119, 122, 125, 132, 135, 166, 196, 298, 299
• Broad Chalke, England, Maurice Hewlett’s home at, 157
• Browne, Sir Thomas, 207
• Budé, Guillaume, 214
• Buonarroti, see Michelangelo
• Buonarroti archives, the, 14, 182, 290
• Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, and the Kelmscott Chaucer, 259, 261, 262;
• referred to, 6
• Burney, Fanny, 163
• Byron, Lord, manuscript of his letters burned by John Murray III, 65
• Byzantine illumination, see Illumination, Byzantine
• Byzantine ink, 112
• “Cabin,” the, Howell’s, 186
• Cable, George W., 177
• Cæsar, Elzevir’s, 240
• Cambridge Immortals, the, 178
• Camp, Walter, 84
• Campanile, Giotto’s, at Florence, 273
• Campanile, the, at Venice, 145
• Carlyle, Thomas, 178
• Carnegie, Andrew, 174–177
• Carnegie, Mrs. Andrew, 174
• Caroline minuscule, the, 126
• Carolingian illumination, see Illumination, Carolingian
• Carolingian School, the, in France, 125
• Caslon foundry, the, 245, 246
• Castiglioncello, Italy, 162
• Cato, quoted, 208
• Caxton, William, work of, compared with Jenson’s, 244
• Cellini, Benvenuto, autobiography of, 287
• Celtic illumination, see Illumination, Celtic
• Censors, the, 221
• Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth, 288
• Ceriani, Monsignor, librarian of the Ambrosiana Library at Milan, described, 24;
• his work on the Ambrosiana Iliad, 24, 25;
• quoted, 25
• Chantilly, the Musée Condé at, 116
• Charlemagne, Emperor, 125
• Charles, King, of France, son of King John, 129
• Charles, King, of France, son of King Charles, 129
• Charles V, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, 216, 276
• Charles VIII, of France, 282
• Chaucer, the Kelmscott, the story of, 259–268
• Chaucer type, the, designed by William Morris, 20
• Chianti Hills, the, 171
• Chiari, 297
• Chinese, the, 7
• Cicero, the Medicean, 283
• Cicogna, Doge Pasquale, 143
• Cimabue, Giovanni, 147
• Clemens, Clara, 172, 174
• Clemens, Samuel L., see Twain, Mark
• Clemens, Mrs. Samuel L., 172, 173
• Clement VII, Pope, 214, 276
• Clovio, Giulio, 149, 290
• Cobden-Sanderson, T. J., quoted, 96, 97;
• estimate of, 96–101;
• described, 98;
• in Boston, 98–99;
• importance of his work, 263;
• his Ideal Book
• quoted, 264;
• his Doves Bible, 264–268;
• referred to, 3, 68, 71, 95
• Cockerell, Douglas, 262
• Codex Argenteus, the, 119
• Cole, Timothy, 106
• Colonna, Francesco, 210
• Colvin, Sir Sidney, 27, 28
• Constable, Archibald, publisher, 66
• Constantinople, might have become center of learning of XV century, 8;
• destroyed by fire, 117;
• the rebirth of, 118
• Cosimo il Vecchio, and the Laurenziana Library, 280;
• his personality and history, 280–281;
• his fame as a chemist, 284
• Cosimo II, and the Laurenziana Library, 283
• Costs of making books, in 1891, compared with present costs, 48
• Costume Antico e Moderno, Ferrario’s, 296
• Country Printer, the, Howell’s, 187
• Crasso, Leonardo, 210
• Cremona, early printing at, 286
• Curtis, George William, 178
• Cuthbert, Saint, 120, 121, 122
• Cyrus, King, 139
• Danes, the, 120
• Dante, proposed edition in Humanistic type of, 19, 32;
• referred to, 158, 182;
• Biagi’s work on, 182, 299;
• the haunts of, 291
• “Dawn and Twilight,” Michelangelo’s, 275
• “Day and Night,” Michelangelo’s, 275
• De Asse, Budé’s, 214
• De Bure, discoverer of the Gutenberg Bible, 198
• Decameron, the, manuscript copy of, 287
• De Civitate Dei, Augustinus’, 202
• Decorations, 116
• Del Furia, librarian of the Laurenziana Library, 284
• Delmonico’s, in New York City, 176
• Deput, quoted on the innovations of the Elzevirs, 240
• De Veritate Catholicæ Fidei, 93
• De Vinne Press, the, New York, 42
• De Vinne, Theodore L., 6;
• his admiration for the Bodoni type, 80, 82
• Dibdin, quoted on Baskerville, 251;
• on Antonio Magliabecchi, 295
• Didot, Firmin, the father of modern type design, 78–82;
• his type discussed, 79–82, 257;
• referred to, 39, 95, 257
• Didot, Pierre, his Racine, 252–258
• Didot Press, the, Benjamin Franklin at, 252
• Didot type, the, compared with the Bodoni type, 79–82
• Didots, the, in Paris, 251;
• compared with Bodoni, 252
• Dobson, Austin, 158, 162–169;
• his lines on Richard Garnett, 166, 167;
• his ideas on fiction, 168;
• his methods of work, 169;
• his handwriting, 169
• Dobson, Mrs. Austin, 168
• Doves Bible, Cobden-Sanderson’s, described, 264–268
• Doves Press, the, in London, 3, 70, 96, 263
• Doves type, the, designed by Emery Walker, 18, 19;
• specimen page of, 23;
• in the Doves Bible, 264–268
• Duneka, Frederick, 184
• Dürer, Albrecht, 95
• Dyck, Christoffel van, 243
• Eadfrith, Bishop, 122
• Earthwork Out of Tuscany, Hewlett’s, 159, 162
• Eddy, Mrs. Mary Baker, 52–54
• Edward VII, King, of England, 85, 140, 141
• Egyptians, the, 118
• Elchi, Count Angiolo Maria d’, 285
• Eliot, George, in the Magliabecchian Library, 291–298;
• her diary quoted, 296;
• volumes consulted in writing Romola, 296–298
• Elzevir, Abraham, editions of, 240;
• his Terence, 241–243
• Elzevir, Bonaventura, editions of, 240;
• his Terence, 241–243
• Elzevir, Isaac, becomes printer to the University of Leyden, 240
• Elzevir, Louis, founder of the House of Elzevir, 239, 240
• Elzevir, the House of, craftsmen rather than artists, 238;
• in Leyden, 240;
• adopt new format for the book, 240;
• their editions, 240–243;
• their types, 243;
• their business organization, 243;
• estimate of importance of their work, 243;
• referred to, 95, 237, 251
• England, typographical supremacy of, 194, 244–250;
• second supremacy of, 258–268
• English illumination, see Illumination, English
• Engravings, steel, 105
• Epistolæ ad Familiares, Cicero’s, 285
• Ethics, in business, 65
• Étienne, Henri, ruined by his Thesaurus, 56, 238;
• in Geneva, 223
• Étienne, Robert, becomes “printer in Greek” to François I of France, 216;
• the Royal Greeks of, 219–222;
• leaves France, 223;
• death of, 223;
• his Roman type, 222;
• referred to, 252
• Eugenius, Pope, 281
• Evreux, Queen Jeanne d’, 129
• Explicit, the, 92;
• examples of, 94, 202, 204, 206, 285
• Ezra, the Prophet, portrait of, 288
• Famiglie del Litta, Le, 297
• Felton, Cornelius Conway, President of Harvard University, 50
• Ferrara, early printing at, 286
• Ferrari, Dr. Luigi, librarian of the San Marco Library, Venice, 145
• Ferrario, 296
• Field, Eugene, described, 38;
• manuscript of, 39, 41;
• referred to, 38, 55
• Fielding, Henry, 163
• Fiesole, the heights of, 298
• Firenze Antica e Moderna, Rastrelli’s, 297
• Firenze Illustrata, Migliore’s, 296
• Fiske, Willard, 26, 27
• Flemish illumination, see Illumination, Flemish
• Fletcher, Horace, friend of Eugene Field, 41;
• philosophy of, 75, 82, 84;
• his ideas of typography, 75;
• page of his manuscript, 77;
• his dinner at Graduates’ Club, New Haven, 84;
• importance of his work, 85;
• his friendship with William James and Henry James, 86;
• letter from Henry James to, 87;
• visit to Lamb House, 89
• Fletcherism, 75, 83
• Florence, Italy, the most fascinating city in Europe, 273;
• early printing at, 286
• Florence, the Grand Duke of, 295
• Forest Lovers, the, Hewlett’s, 157, 158
• Foucquet, Jean, 113, 138, 140, 149
• France, typographical supremacy of, 194, 215–223;
• loses supremacy, 223;
• second supremacy of, 251–258
• François I, of France, becomes patron of learning and culture, 216;
• makes Robert Étienne “printer in Greek to the King,” 216;
• his interest in printing, 216–221;
• his relations with the censors, 221;
• referred to, 214, 216
• Frankfort, 227
• Franklin, Benjamin, quoted on the Baskerville editions, 245;
• his letter to Baskerville, 245;
• at the Didot Press, 252
• French illumination, see Illumination, French
• French Republic, the, 141
• French School of Painting, the, 139
• Fust, John, 198, 199
• Gabrilowitch, Mrs. Ossip, 172
• Garamond, Claude, 220
• Garnett, Dr. Richard, 164, 165;
• lines written by Dobson on, 166, 167;
• estimate of, 166
• General Theological School Library, the, New York, 196
• Genesis, the Cottonian, 117
• Geneva, the Étiennes at, 223
• George, Saint, 137
• Germany, not sufficiently developed as nation to take advantage of Gutenberg’s discovery, 8, 9;
• brief typographical supremacy of, 194–201;
• loses supremacy, 201
• Gherado, 149, 290
• Gilder, Richard Watson, 177
• Giotto, 147, 273
• Golden Gospels of Saint Médard, the, described, 127–128
• Golden type, the, designed by William Morris, 18
• Gold leaf, 116
• Gold, Oriental, 112
• Goldsmith, Oliver, 163
• Gothic illumination, see Illumination, Gothic
• Gozzoli, Benozzo, 149, 290
• Graduates’ Club, the, in New Haven, 84
• Grandjon, Robert, 228
• Greece, the rich humanities of, 15
• Greek classics, the, first printed by Aldus, 209
• Greeks, the, 7
• Greek types, 56, 219–221, 238
• Grimani Breviary, the, described, 141–145, 146, 149
• Grimani, Cardinal Domenico, 142, 143
• Grimani, Doge Antonio, 143
• Grimani, Giovanni, Patriarch of Aquileia, 142
• Grimani, Marino, Patriarch of Aquileia, 142
• Grolier Club of New York, the, 213
• Grolier, Jean, saves the Aldine Press by his intervention, 56, 238;
• his friendship with family of Aldus, 214–215;
• his letter to Francesco Torresani, 215
• Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino, 210
• Gutenberg Bible, the, described, 194–201;
• rubricator’s notes, 196, 197
• Gutenberg, John; the Bible printed by, 194–201;
• referred to, 7, 194, 198, 234, 237
• Hadley, Pres. Arthur T., 84
• Halftones, 105–107
• Hammond, John Hays, 84
• Hand lettering, the art of, 10.
• See also, Humanistic hand lettering, Semi-uncial characters, Minuscule characters
• Harkness, Mrs. Edward S., 196
• Harper and Brothers, 90, 183, 184
• Harper’s Magazine, 183
• Harte, Bret, 184
• Harvard College Library, the, 245
• Harvard University, Cobden-Sanderson’s lectures at, 99
• Harvey, Col. George, gives birthday dinner to Mark Twain, 176;
• gives birthday dinner to William Dean Howells, 187
• Hautin, 228
• Hay, John, 184
• Hay, Mrs. John, 184
• Heidelberg, 227
• Heimskringla, the, William Morris’ translation of, 260
• Heinsius, letter from Deput to, 240
• Henri II, of France, 136, 221
• Henry IV, of England, 135
• Henry VI, of England, 136
• Henry VIII, of England, 216
• Hewlett, Maurice, 155–162;
• describes the cloister of San Lorenzo, Florence, 275
• Hoar, Senator George F., makes attack on Charles Eliot Norton, 179
• Hogarth, William, 163
• Holbein, Hans, 95
• Holland, the natural successor to Belgium in supremacy of printing, 239.
• See also Netherlands, the
• Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 178
• Homer, the Ambrosiana, see Iliad, the Ambrosiana
• Hoover, Herbert, 85
• Houghton, Henry O., 6
• Hours of Anne of Brittany, the, 146;
• described, 149–151
• Howells, William Dean, 177;
• recollections and reflections on, 183–188;
• the Harvey birthday dinner, 188
• Humanism, Petrarch the father of, 15
• Humanist, the, defined, 15, 160–162
• Humanistic hand lettering, 16, 21, 24, 126
• Humanistic manuscripts, the, in the Laurenziana Library, 16, 21;
• in the Ambrosiana Library, 24
• Humanistic movement, the, far-reaching influence of, 15;
• the forerunner and essence of the Renaissance, 15;
• significance of, 16, 160
• Humanistic scribes, the, see Scribes, the humanistic
• Humanistic type, the, first idea of design of, 17;
• proposed edition of Dante in, 19, 32;
• work upon, 19–24, 126, 159, 180, 181
• Huntington, Henry E., library of, 196
• Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, the, printed by Aldus, 210;
• described, 210–213
• Ideal Book, The, Cobden-Sanderson’s, 3, 99;
• quoted, 264
• Iliad, the Ambrosiana, 24, 25, 117
• Illuminated book, the, attitude of Italian patrons toward, 11–12
• Illumination, the art of, encouraged by Italian patrons in XV century, 11–13;
• the underlying thought in, 112;
• rich rewards in study of, 114;
• various schools of, 114;
• means of identifying various schools and periods, 115;
• manuscripts which mark the evolution of, 116–119;
• the Celtic School, 119–125;
• the Carolingian School, 125–128;
• the Gothic School, 128–131;
• the English School, 131–134;
• the French School, 135–141, 149–151;
• the Flemish School, 141–145;
• the Italian School, 146–149;
• cause for the decline of, 151;
• opportunities for studying, 152
• Illumination, Byzantine, described, 118;
• referred to, 124, 125, 127
• Illumination, Carolingian, 125–128
• Illumination, Celtic, 119–125, 126, 129
• Illumination, English, 114, 131–134
• Illumination, Flemish, 114, 137, 139, 141–145, 149, 150
• Illumination, French, 114, 135–141
• Illumination, Gothic, 114, 128–131
• Illumination, Italian Renaissance, 114, 146–149, 150
• Illumination, Romanesque, 114
• Illustration, 105
• Imperial Library, the, in Vienna, 117
• Incipit, the, 93
• India, 112, 118
• Ink, Byzantine gold, 112, 118;
• inferior quality introduced, 238;
• Didot’s, 258
• Innocents Abroad, Mark Twain’s, 170
• Ireland, 121
• Irish monks, the, see Monks, the Irish
• Irish School of Writing and Painting, the, 120
• Italian illumination, see Illumination, Italian
• Italic type, first used by Aldus, 17, 286;
• said to be based on handwriting of Petrarch, 17, 210;
• Baskerville’s, 245;
• Didot’s, 257
• Italy, life and customs of people of, in XV century, 8;
• illumination slow in getting a hold in, 146;
• typographical supremacy of, 194, 201–215;
• loses supremacy, 215;
• culture in the XVI century in, 223
• James, Henry, Horace Fletcher’s friendship with, 86;
• quoted, 86;
• estimate of, 86;
• letter to Horace Fletcher from, 87;
• quoted, 88
• James, William, Horace Fletcher’s friendship with, 86;
• quoted, 86;
• letter from Henry James to, 88;
• his interest in printing, 90, 92
• Jenson, Nicolas, type designs of, 18, 19, 22, 202, 205, 206;
• the explicit in books printed by, 94, 202;
• printer’s mark of, 203, 207;
• sent to Germany by Charles VII of France, 204;
• establishes his office in Venice, 204;
• death of, 206;
• his office combined with the Aldine Press, 214;
• Caxton’s work compared with, 244;
• referred to, 216, 286
• Jenson’s Gothic type, 202, 205, 206
• Jenson Roman type, the, 18, 19, 206, 268;
• sample page of, 22
• Joan of Arc, Mark Twain’s, 170
• John of Spires, 285
• Jones, George W., 32
• Joseph, Saint, 138
• Josephus, Flavius, 139
• Justinian, the Emperor, 117
• Justinian, the Pandects of, 287
• Keats, John, 158
• Keere, Van der, 228
• Kelmscott Chaucer, the, see Chaucer, the Kelmscott
• Kelmscott Press, the, 6, 55, 70, 96, 259–268
• Kelmscott volumes, the, 259–268;
• estimate of, 263
• Koreans, the, 7
• Labels, paper, 92
• Lamb House, Rye, Henry James’ home, 89
• Lapis lazuli, used in printing ink, 30;
• in illumination, 118
• Laura, see Sale, Madonna Laura de Noves de
• Laurenziana Library, the, humanistic volumes at, 16;
• illuminated volumes at, 119, 148, 287;
• uninviting approach to, 273;
• the Sala di Michelangiolo, 276;
• Dr. Guido Biagi at, 277–300;
• the great staircase, 278;
• Vasari’s work in, 278;
• the story of, 280–284;
• the treasures of, 284–289;
• the Hall of Tapestries, 285;
• the Tribuna, 285;
• the printed books in, 285;
• the spell of, 300;
• referred to, 14, 21, 94, 111, 182
• Le Bé, Guillaume, 228
• Lee, Sir Sidney, 86, 174, 175
• Leigh, Maj. Frederick T., 184
• Leipzig, library of, 196
• Lelio, Lucrezia, 213
• Leo X, Pope, 282.
• See also Medici, Giovanni de’
• Lettering, see Hand lettering
• Letters, raised gold, 116
• Lewes, George Henry, in the Magliabecchian Library, 292–298
• Leyden, heroic resistance to Spanish siege, 239;
• becomes the intellectual and literary center of Europe, 239;
• Plantin in, 239;
• the Elzevirs in, 239–240
• Leyden, the University of, 239;
• Plantin made printer to, 239;
• Isaac Elzevir made printer to, 240
• Lindisfarne Gospels, the, described, 119–125
• Lippi, 296
• Lippi, Fra Filippo, 28
• Lipsius, the historian, 239
• Lithography, 105
• Little Novels of Italy, Hewlett’s, 159
• Lockhart, John Gibson, 66
• Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 178
• Longmans, London publishers, 66
• Lorenzo the Magnificent, see Medici, Lorenzo de’
• Lorraine, the House of, and the Laurenziana Library, 283
• Louis XI, of France, 140
• Louis XII, of France, 150
• Louis XIV, of France, 198
• Louis XV, of France, 140
• Louis, Saint, Psalter of, described, 128–131;
• death of, 129
• Lounsbury, Professor, of Yale, 84
• Lowell, James Russell, 178
• Luther, Martin, 215, 224
• Mabie, Hamilton W., 177, 187
• Macaulay, Thomas B., quoted on Baskerville editions, 245
• Machiavelli, Niccolo, 181, 284
• Macmillan Company, the, 26
• Magliabecchi, Antonio, 292–295
• Magliabecchian Library, the, 284;
• George Eliot in, 291–298
• Malmantile, Lippi’s, 296
• Man and Superman, Shaw’s, the making of, 67
• Mantegna, Andrea, 95
• Manuscripts, methods of reproducing, 9
• Manuscripts, illuminated, romance of, 114;
• not the playthings of the common people, 115
• Manutius, Aldus, see Aldus Manutius
• Marie, Madame, of France, 130
• Marinelli, 280
• Marmion, Scott’s, 66
• Martelli Chapel, the, in the Church of San Lorenzo, Florence, 275
• Mary, Queen, of England, Psalter of, described, 131–134;
• referred to, 132
• Mary, Queen of Scots, 156–157
• Matthews, Brander, 177
• Mayence, printing at, 198, 204, 216
• Mazarin, Cardinal, 198
• Médard, Saint, the Golden Gospels of, 127–128
• Medicean Library, the, see Laurenziana Library, the
• Medici, the, 147;
• Savonarola’s diatribes against, 274;
• and the Laurenziana Library, 280
• Medici, Alessandro de’, 274
• Medici archives, the, 14
• Medici, Catherine de’, 136
• Medici, the Chapel of the, in Florence, 284
• Medici, Cosimo I de’, see Cosimo il Vecchio
• Medici, Cosimo II de’, see Cosimo II
• Medici, Giovanni de’ (later Pope Leo X), 275;
• and the Laurenziana Library, 282, 283
• Medici, Giulio de’ (later Pope Clement VII), 276;
• commissions Michelangelo to erect building for the Laurenziana Library, 283
• Medici, Lorenzo de’, Book of Hours made by d’Antonio for, 111, 146–149, 290;
• tomb of, 275;
• and the Laurenziana Library, 281–283;
• his personality, 281–282;
• referred to, 111, 112, 148
• Medici, Piero de’, 275
• Memling, Hans, 142
• Menelik, King, of Abyssinia, 104
• Mentelin, types of, 19
• Menticulture, Horace Fletcher’s, 75
• Messina, Antonello di, 142
• Metternich, Prince, 289
• Michelangelo, letters of, 182, 290;
• his plan for the façade of S. Lorenzo, 273;
• Varchi’s tribute to, 275;
• his tomb for Lorenzo de’ Medici, 175;
• his work in the Laurenziana Library, 276;
• his letter to Vasari, 278;
• manuscript poems of, 287;
• referred to, 14
• Michelangelo archives, the, 14, 182
• Migliore, 296
• Milan, early printing at, 286
• Millar, Eric George, quoted, 122, 123
• Miller, Mr., London publisher, 66
• Minium, 112, 118
• Minuscule characters, described, 123;
• introduced, 126
• “Mirror” title, the, 94
• Mochenicho, Doge Pietro, 202
• “Modern” type, the introduction of, 251
• Molds, early type, 201
• Monaco, Lorenzo, 149, 290
• Monks, the Irish, 120, 125
• Monnier, Philippe, 160
• Montanus, Arias, 227
• Morelli, librarian of the San Marco Library, Venice, 143
• Moretus, inherits the Plantin office, 234
• Morgan Library, the, see Pierpont Morgan Library, the
• Morris chair, the, 258
• Morris end papers, the, 258
• Morris wall papers, the, 258, 260
• Morris, William, demonstrates possibilities of printing as an art, 14;
• Golden type of, 18;
• his other type designs, 18–20;
• placed printing back among the fine arts, 55, 258;
• Bernard Shaw’s enthusiasm for, 69–70;
• his dislike of the Bodoni type, 80;
• his title pages, 96;
• early experiments of, 258;
• the Kelmscott Chaucer, 259–268;
• declines the poet-laureateship of England, 260;
• death of, 262;
• estimate of his work, 263;
• his definition of the type ideal, 268;
• referred to, 6, 96, 258
• Munich, library of, 196
• Murray, the House of, 65
• Murray II, John, and Walter Scott, 66;
• letter to Scott from, 66
• Murray III, John, burns manuscript of Byron’s memoirs, 65
• Murray IV, John, 26, 27, 65
• Musée Condé, the, at Chantilly, 116
• Naples, early printing at, 286
• Nazionale Centrale, the Biblioteca, in Florence, see Magliabecchian Library, the
• Nemours, the Duc de, 139
• Néobar, Royal printer to François I of France, 216
• Netherlandish illumination, see Illumination, Flemish
• Netherlands, the, typographical supremacy of, 194, 223–244;
• commercial supremacy of, 223;
• devastated by war, 239
• New Forest, the, in England, 158
• New York Public Library, the, 196
• Norton, Charles Eliot, 26;
• autograph letter of, 31;
• his association with the design of the Humanistic type, 32, 180–181;
• recollections and reflections on, 178–183;
• his meeting with Guido Biagi, 182–183
• Ode to Cervantes, Dobson’s, 164
• “Old-style” type, the passing of, 251;
• revived by Pickering, 251
• Orcutt, Reginald Wilson, 165
• Orcutt, William Dana, first visit to Italy, 14;
• meeting with Guido Biagi, 14, 277;
• his work designing the Humanistic type, 17–33;
• in the Ambrosiana Library, 24–25;
• experiences with Willard Fiske, 26, 27;
• apprenticeship at old University Press, 38;
• experience with Eugene Field, 38–41;
• experiences with Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy, 52;
• becomes head of University Press, 55;
• his ambition to emulate methods of early printers, 55;
• experiences with Bernard Shaw, 67–71;
• returns to Italy in 1903, 75;
• his interest in the Bodoni and Didot types, 78;
• his acquaintance with Horace Fletcher, 75, 82, 84, 86;
• his acquaintance with Henry James, 86;
• visit to Lamb House, 89;
• experiences with William James, 90–92;
• experiences with Cobden-Sanderson, 96–101;
• experiences with Theodore Roosevelt, 101–106;
• becomes interested in illumination, 111;
• meeting with Maurice Hewlett, 155–162;
• experiences with Austin Dobson, 162–169;
• experiences with Mark Twain, 170–177;
• experiences with Charles Eliot Norton, 178–183;
• experiences with William Dean Howells, 183–188;
• experiences in the Laurenziana Library, 273–300;
• last visit with Guido Biagi, 299–300
• Orcutt, Mrs. William Dana, 165, 171
• Oriental gold, 112
• Orthographia dictionum e Græcia tractarum, Tortelli’s, 286
• Oxford, Edward Harley, 2d Earl of, 136
• Palatina, the Biblioteca, at Florence, 293
• Pan and the Young Shepherd, Hewlett’s, 159
• Paper, poorer quality introduced, 238;
• Italian handmade, 238;
• French handmade, 238, 257;
• Baskerville the first to introduce glossy, 250
• Parchment, English, 29;
• Florentine, 28;
• Roman, 28;
• virgin, 113
• Paris, 227
• Paris Exposition of 1801, the, 258
• Passerini, Luigi, 297
• Patmore, Coventry, 89
• Patrons, Italian, attitude toward printed book of, 11;
• their conception of a book, 11;
• their real reasons for opposing the art of printing, 12, 151
• Peignot foundry, the, in Paris, 80
• Persia, 118
• Perugia, 291
• Petrarca, Francesco, the father of humanism, 15;
• Italic type said to be based upon handwriting of, 17, 210;
• portrait of, 287, 289;
• quoted, 290
• Petrarch, see Petrarca, Francesco
• Petrarch, the Humanistic, the type design, 17–26;
• the copy, 26, 27;
• the illustrations, 28;
• the parchment, 28;
• the ink, 29, 30;
• the composition, 30;
• Norton’s estimate of, 32
• Philip, of Burgundy, 135
• Philip II, of Spain, 227;
• his interest in Plantin’s Biblia Polyglotta, 227–228, 233;
• makes Plantin prototypographe, 233
• Pickering, the London publisher, revives the old-style type, 251
• Piedmont, early printing at, 286
• Pierpont Morgan Library, the, New York, 99, 196
• Pisa, 291
• Pius XI, Pope, see Ratti, Achille
• Plantin, Christophe, financially embarrassed by his Biblia Polyglotta, 56, 238;
• his Greek types, 221;
• leaves France, 223;
• conception and making of his Biblia Polyglotta, 227–233;
• his types, 228;
• his printer’s mark, 228, 236;
• made prototypographe by Philip II, 233;
• the value of his work estimated, 233;
• misfortunes endured by, 233;
• in Leyden, 239;
• made printer to University of Leyden, 239;
• referred to, 79, 237
• Plantin-Moretus Museum, the, at Antwerp, 235
• Pliny, Elzevir’s, 240
• Plutei, in the Laurenziana Library, designed by Michelangelo, 14, 276, 286, 300
• Politian, 181.
• See also Poliziano, Angelo
• Poliziano, Angelo, 215.
• See also Politian
• Pollard, Alfred W., 27
• Polyglot Bible, Plantin’s, see Biblia Polyglotta
• Portland, the Duchess of, 136
• Pragmatism, William James’, 90
• Printed book, the, attitude of Italian patrons toward, 11–12;
• competed against the written book, 199;
• Aldus changes format of, 207;
• Elzevirs change format of, 240;
• important part played in XVI century by, 215
• Printer, the, responsibilities of, in early days, 208
• Printing, as an art, opposed by the Italian patrons, 11–13;
• its possibilities demonstrated by William Morris, 14;
• brief supremacy of Germany in, 194–201;
• supremacy of Italy in, 201–215;
• supremacy of France in, 215–223;
• supremacy of the Netherlands in, 223–244;
• lapses into a trade, 238;
• supremacy of England in, 244–250;
• second supremacy of France in, 251–258;
• second supremacy of England in, 258–263
• Printing, invention of, made books common, 151
• Priorista, Chiari’s, 297
• Proofreading, in 1891, 47
• Psalter of Saint Louis, the, described, 128–131
• Publishers, relations between authors and, 51, 63
• Quattrocento, Le, Monnier’s, 160
• Queen Mary’s Psalter, described, 131–134, 146
• Queen’s Quair, The, Hewlett’s, 155–156
• Racine, Pierre Didot’s, 251;
• described, 252–258
• Raphael, 113
• Raphelengius, 239
• Rastrelli, 297
• Ratti, Achille, 25, 117
• Ravenna, 128
• Reformation, the, 215
• Renaissance, the, humanistic movement the forerunner and essence of, 15, 160;
• Tours becomes center of, in France, 139
• Repplier, Agnes, 177
• Riccardi Library, the, 14, 149, 182, 290
• Richardson, Samuel, 163
• Riverside Press, the, 42
• Road in Tuscany, the, Hewlett’s, 159
• Robertet, François, 140
• Roman Calendar, the, 117
• Romanesque illumination, see Illumination, Romanesque
• Romans, the, 7
• Rome, the rich humanities of, 15;
• referred to, 126
• Romola, George Eliot’s, 292–299;
• volumes consulted in writing, 296–298
• Roosevelt, Theodore, deeply interested in physical side of books, 102;
• his interest in illustration, 105
• Royal Greeks, the, of Étienne, 219–222
• Rubens, Peter Paul, 95, 113
• Ruskin, John, 178, 182
• Russia, the Emperor of, 103
• Rutland, the Earl of, 131
• Sacristy, the New, in the Church of San Lorenzo, Florence, 275
• Sacristy, the Old, in the Church of San Lorenzo, Florence, 275
• Saga Library, the, 260
• Saint John, the Feast of, 297
• St. Louis Exposition, the, 182, 299
• Saint Peter, the Holy Sepulchre of, 288
• Sala di Michelangiolo, the, in the Laurenziana Library, Florence, 14;
• described, 276
• Sale, Madonna Laura de Noves de, portrait of, 287, 289;
• Petrarch’s verses to, 290
• Salisbury, the Marquis of, 165
• San Lorenzo, the Church of, in Florence, 274, 283
• San Marco, the Convent of, in Florence, 281, 282, 288
• San Marco, the Library of, Venice, 119, 141, 143, 145
• San Vitale, the Church of, at Ravenna, 128
• Saracens, the, 7
• Savonarola, 274, 284
• Savoy, the Duke of, 233
• Schoeffer, types of, 19;
• referred to, 198
• Science and Health, 52
• Scott, Gen. Hugh Lennox, 82
• Scott, Walter, and John Murray II, 66;
• letter from Murray to, 66
• Scribes, the humanistic, base their lettering on the Caroline minuscule, 126;
• referred to, 16, 21, 24
• Scribes, the monastic, in XV century, 9
• Scribes, the secular, in XV century, 10
• Scriptorium, the, 9
• Second Book of Verse, Eugene Field’s, 38
• Semi-uncial characters, described, 123
• Sforza Book of Hours, the, 145
• “Shady Hill,” in Cambridge, Mass., home of Charles Eliot Norton, 180, 181
• Shakespeare first folio, a, value of, 196
• Shaw, G. Bernard, his interest in printing, 67–71;
• the making of his Man and Superman, 67;
• his enthusiasm for William Morris, 69;
• letters from, 68–71
• Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 158
• Sherry’s, in New York City, 187
• Siena, 291
• Silas Marner, George Eliot’s, 296
• Sinibaldi, Antonio, the Virgil of, 16;
• the Book of Hours of, 112
• Sixtus IV, Pope, 142
• Smith, Baldwin, 132
• Smith, F. Hopkinson, 177
• Somerset, John, 135
• Sotheby’s, in London, 140
• Spain, the Netherlands under the domination of, 227;
• referred to, 112, 118
• Spanish siege, the, of Leyden, 239
• Spanish War, the, 179
• Spell, The, Orcutt’s, 90, 184
• Spires, the town of, 286
• Steele, Sir Richard, 163
• Subiaco, early printing at, 285
• Sweynheim and Pannartz, ruined by experiments in Greek, 56, 238;
• engraved blocks of, 285
• Switzerland, 238
• Syriac Gospels, the, 287
• Taft, President William H., 188
• Tapestries, the Hall of, in the Laurenziana Library, Florence, 285
• Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 260
• Terence, Elzevir’s, 240;
• described, 241–243
• Ther Hoernen, Arnold, 94
• Thesaurus, the, printed by Henri Étienne, 56, 238
• Thompson, Henry Yates, 140
• Thomson, Hugh, 166
• Title, the engraved, 95
• Title, the “mirror,” 94
• Title page, the, Bernard Shaw’s ideas concerning, 67;
• William James’ ideas concerning, 92;
• “the door to the house,” 92;
• evolution of, 92–96.
• See also Title, the engraved; Title, the “mirror”
• Togo, Admiral, 103
• Torresani, Andrea, 214
• Torresani, Federico, 214
• Torresani, Francesco, friendship of Jean Grolier with, 214;
• letter from Jean Grolier to, 215
• Tortelli, 286
• Tours, becomes center of Renaissance in France, 139
• Tours, the School of, 126
• Très Riches Heures, the, of the Duc de Berry, 116
• Tribuna, the, in the Laurenziana Library, Florence, 285
• Trionfi, Petrarch’s, 26, 28, 181
• Triumphs, Petrarch’s, see Trionfi, Petrarch’s
• Trophies of Heredia, 102
• Troy type, the, designed by William Morris, 20
• Turin, early printing at, 286
• Twain, Mark, and the Jumping Frog, 61;
• recollections and reflections on, 170–177;
• the Harvey birthday dinner, 176;
• referred to, 188
• Type design, difficulties of, 17
• Types, early designs of, 17;
• Aldus’ designs of, 17;
• Jenson’s designs of, 18;
• William Morris’ designs of, 18;
• William Morris’ definition of, the ideal, 268.
• See also Humanistic type, Jenson Roman type, Jenson Gothic type, Golden type, Doves type
• Typesetting, in 1891, 44
• University Press, the old, Cambridge, Mass., 5, 38, 41, 42, 46, 47, 49, 51, 102
• Upsala, Sweden, 119
• Urbino, the Duke of, 12
• Vacca, the Palazzo dei della, 284
• Vallombrosa, 171, 291
• Van-der-Meire, Gerard, 142
• Varchi, his tribute to Michelangelo, 275
• Vasari, his work in the Laurenziana Library, 278;
• Michelangelo’s letter to, 278
• Vatican Library, the, at Rome, 117, 196
• Vellum, 115, 257.
• See also, Parchment
• Venetian Days, Howells’, 186
• Venetian Republic, the, 142;
• encourages the art of printing, 202
• Venice, early printing in, 94, 204, 206, 214, 286;
• Howells’ love for, 186;
• becomes the Mecca of printers, 202;
• John of Spires in, 286
• Vergetios, Angelos, 219
• Verrocchio, 275
• Victoire, Pierre, quoted, 220
• Victoria, Queen, of England, 140
• Vienna, library of, 196
• Villa di Quarto, the, in Florence, Mark Twain at, 171
• Villa Medici, the, in Rome, 282
• Villari, Pasquale, 284, 291, 298
• Vinci, da, archives, the, 14, 182, 290
• Vinci, Leonardo da, sketches of, 290;
• referred to, 14, 182
• Virgil, Baskerville’s, 244;
• described, 246–250
• Virgil, illuminated by Sinibaldi, 16
• Virgil, the Medicean, 287;
• the story of, 288–289
• Virgil, the Vatican, 117
• Vita di G. Savonarola, La, Villari’s, 298
• Vittoria, Alessandro, 143
• Wages, in 1891, 58
• Walker, Emery, designs the Doves type, 18, 19;
• engraves plates for Humanistic Petrarch, 28;
• at the Doves Press, 263;
• referred to, 71
• Walpole, Horace, 163
• Warner, Sir George, 140
• Widener, Joseph E., library of, 196
• Wiggin, Rev. James Henry, 52
• Wiggin, Kate Douglas, 177
• Wilhelm, Kaiser, 103, 104
• William of Orange, founds the University of Leyden, 239
• William the Conqueror, 158
• Wilson, Francis, 38
• Wilson, John, 5, 6, 38, 40, 42, 46, 52, 53, 55
• Windsor Castle, 140
• Wood, Gen. Leonard, 82
• Wood cuts, 106
• Wordsworth, William, quoted, 20
• World War, the, 103
• Worsley, Sir Robert, 136
• Writing, see Hand lettering
• Written book, the printed book had to compete against, 199
• Yale University Library, the, 196
• Zainer, Gunther, types of, 20