Rolls of papyrus and vellum--Quaternions--The sewing of
books--Headbands--The rounding and backing of books--Mediæval
books--Irish cumdachs--Byzantine bindings--Oriental books--Modern
methods of sewing and binding.
The length of ancient rolls of vellum has often puzzled bibliophiles.
Rolls of narrow breadth are found 16 or 17 feet or more in length. A
learned scholar on being asked how he accounted for this extraordinary
length was quite puzzled, never having realised that the roll was in
one piece. The neck of the giraffe seemed the only possible solution.
[Illustration: FIG. 16.--Egyptian papyrus roll, with mud seals.]
The writer however consulted a clever leather worker and gave him a
skin measuring about 3 feet by 2, suggesting certain ways of cutting
it. He produced eventually, by wetting, pulling and pinning, a
beautiful roll of nearly 4 inches in breadth and 16 feet 9 inches in
length.
Mediæval leather workers were no doubt more skilled and practised in
this particular art than anyone now is, and the experiment showed that
there is really nothing out of the way in the very long rolls which at
first sight seem so surprising.
Rolls were written upon in three ways. In the oldest rolls the usual
way was to write lines across the breadth of the roll, which was held
upright before the reader, and unrolled from the top downwards.
[Illustration: FIG. 17.--Roll written upon across its shorter diameter.]
A rare form of writing upon rolls is that found in the prayers written
on the strips which are rolled up inside Buddhist prayer wheels. Such
prayers, however, are never read, but are counted as being read through
on each revolution of the wheel. Each line of manuscript runs along
the entire length of the roll, which is unrolled sideways. The prayer
wheels vary immensely in size, the best known being the little hand
ones chiefly used in Thibet; they are variously ornamented.
[Illustration: FIG. 18.--Roll written upon longitudinally.]
The form of writing in rolls that is of most interest so far as books
is concerned is a modification of the Thibetan form. Instead of each
line running the whole length of the roll, a space limit is now fixed,
and the lines of writing follow under each other, so that the page form
is at once apparent. This form, a late one, can be seen in the case of
the Jewish scrolls of the law. The roll is unrolled sideways, and the
rollers at each end are often very handsomely decorated.
[Illustration: FIG. 19.--Thibetan prayer wheel.]
But writing of this last kind on rolls has suggested another
arrangement in which the reading is more easy, and the re-rolling of
the roll itself avoided.
It will be seen that a blank space is left between each of the written
“pages.” Now if the vellum, bark, or paper be folded across these
vacant spaces, one after the other, backwards and forwards, like
accordion pleating, we shall find that we get a form of book well known
in the East and also among primitive nations.
[Illustration: FIG. 20.--Roll written upon in page form.]
Curious examples of such converted rolls can be seen in most museums,
and they are generally kept flat by means of two boards front and back,
but not otherwise fastened.
The Chinese and Japanese have taken this particular form of evolution
from the roll to the book a step further, and by help of the ancient
device of “stabbing” the flattened roll along one of its sides, they
produce a form called an “Orihon,” easy to consult, strong, and the
blank back of the roll so hidden up that its existence is frequently
not realised. But if some of the leaves of an Orihon are cut, its real
structure becomes at once evident, and a book will be produced with
letterpress and blank paper alternately in pairs. A similar kind of
alternation shows now and then in the case of MS. rolls that have been
cut up, but they are oftener arranged letterpress and blank alternately.
[Illustration: FIG. 21.--Sumatran bark book in the form of a folded
roll.]
[Illustration: FIG. 22.--Orihon.]
Without realising it we still preserve this blank and letterpress
sequence, found in the converted roll, in official and legal
manuscripts as well as in those intended for the printer.
When the printing press took the place of the scribe, the blank leaves
had no further _raison d’être_, so they dropped out for good.
Following the rule that the forms of binding have always followed
tolerably closely the forms of the manuscript they have covered, we
find that rolls were kept in cylindrical boxes, called “scrinia.” Each
roll was usually provided with a little tag, so that if there were
several of them in one box they could easily be distinguished. The same
sort of tags are used to-day in the case of rolled maps kept on shelves.
Until a late period the term parchment must be understood to mean
vellum. Now we call sheep skin “parchment” and calf skin “vellum,” and
they are prepared in the same way with lime, so that not being tanned
they are not strictly “leather.” The finest vellum is prepared from
the very youngest and smallest calves, and it is the most beautiful
and suitable material for writing or printing upon that has ever
yet been found. The surface is singularly even and offers little or
no resistance to a pen, so that every sort of handwriting, square or
round, is put upon it with equal ease. Vellum has one fault alone,
particularly when bound in book form as distinct from a roll, and this
is that the edges are apt to cockle, and by so doing they not only make
the pages look ugly, but they also admit the dust. Often and often
magnificent vellum books, especially at the top, show large vandykes
of dust-stained spaces due to this cockling, and all such books should
be provided with a close fitting cardboard cap, to be kept upon them
whenever they are not in use.
Parchment and vellum were both well-known to the ancients, but their
value as materials for writing upon does not seem to have been fully
acknowledged until the second century B.C., until which period papyrus
had held undisputed pre-eminence for that purpose. At that time for
some reason the supply of papyrus from Egypt ran short, and Eumenes
II., King of Pergamum, successfully introduced parchment in its stead.
Parchment is so called because it was first produced at Pergamum.
Until about the fifth century A.D., vellum MSS. were in the roll form,
but then came a change to the book form as we now know it. This change
was probably due to the fact that stabbed binding, the only sort then
used, was not suited to vellum. The few papyri that exist in book
form were stabbed, that is to say, the rectangular pages were kept
in position by a binding cord laced through holes pierced sideways
right through the entire thickness of the back of the book. The marks
of these holes can often be seen along the inner margins of ancient
papyri, and they also show in many instances of rebound copies of our
early English printed books. To-day plenty of examples of this form of
sewing can be seen in the Chinese and Japanese books, “Orihons,” which
are really links between the roll and the book form. It is also largely
used for thin books of little value, and a modification of it can be
seen in numbers of magazines, books of advertisements, and the like,
which are kept together by abominable little clamps of wire attached
on the same principle. When such books have to be properly bound the
little clamps have to be carefully removed, and it is generally found
that they have made an indelible stain of rust on the paper, even if
they have not also torn it considerably.
[Illustration: FIG. 23.--Stabbed binding.]
In mediæval libraries or monasteries when a book was to be made,
vellum leaves were cut into the required size and folded once across
the middle. The folded leaves were then fitted inside each other in
groups of four (quaternions) or five (quinternions), or whatever other
number seemed good to the bookmaker. The leaves were then marked in
some slight way so that their order might not be lost, and sent to the
scribe to be written upon.
The books count as folios because each original sheet only forms two
pages; the fact of their being arranged in groups is accidental,
and does not theoretically alter the size of the book. For this the
original skin of vellum would have to be folded with certain further
divisions, and in the case of early manuscripts this was never done.
Vellum shows a different surface on the flesh side to that on the hair
side, and the scribe usually made his rule marks with a blunt style
to guide his writing on the hair side, so that on this side the ruled
lines are slightly indented, whereas on the flesh side they show as
little ridges.
This point is apparently trivial, but if, as seems likely, both Greek
and Latin scribes were really very particular and consistent in the way
they alternated the two sides of the vellum, then the matter becomes
one of much critical importance. Indeed, it has already been of the
utmost value in deciding questions as to whether new pages had been
added or not to an old book.
[Illustration: FIG. 24.--Quaternion threaded together.]
When the scribe had made his rulings he then doubled up his sheets
once, and arranged them as he desired with regard to the hair or flesh
sides. When a section of four sheets were fitted into each other,
so that when pressed together they made a solid gathering, such a
gathering is called a “Quaternion,” from which term we derive our word
“Quire.” This is a normal state of things, but it is obvious that
abnormal arrangements might easily be made, from the insertion of a
single leaf to that of an entirely additional section.
Now the question arose of how best to fasten the quaternions together,
not only as to themselves but also as to the other quaternions, which
together formed the entire book.
As to the quaternion itself, it must have been evident at once that
a stitch of thread or fibre run from the innermost fold right through
to the outermost would hold the leaves firmly together. It is likely
enough that this was done separately at first, and then the binder
would have looked at a small heap of such gatherings wondering how best
to keep them together, and it would soon occur to any constructive
mind to knot the loose ends of the threads together, or else to supply
a supplementary cord or cords laid at right angles to the back of the
sections on which the projecting ends of the threads might be tied or
sewn.
[Illustration: FIG. 25.--Four threaded quaternions ready to be tied
together.]
[Illustration: FIG. 26.--Four threaded quaternions tied on to
transverse bands.]
This, in fact, was done, and very shortly the best way of fastening the
sections on to such cords or threads was hit upon--a method indeed that
we have never bettered, and which can still be found in the work of
many of our best modern binders.
At first this fastening together of the sections of a book was no doubt
done uncomfortably and roughly by hand, but it soon became evident
that some simple device in the form of a skeleton frame might be
contrived which would render the operations of sewing and binding much
easier. Not only easier to execute but also giving a more regular and
workmanlike result.
The earliest known sewing frames were the same as are used now. There
are two strong columns of wood fixed on a broad platform, with a slot
between their bases. From capital to capital extends a bar, and the
strips of leather, vellum, or hempen cords which are to form the bands
of the book are looped upon it, and are kept taut by means of metal
keys attached to the other end, which lock into the slot at the bottom.
The bands can be quite easily adjusted to any space the worker desires.
[Illustration: FIG. 27.--Modern hand-sewing press.]
The book, ready for sewing and in proper order of sections, is laid
near the worker’s hand, and he, or she, takes it up by sections, one at
a time. The section to be worked upon is laid downwards on the little
platform, with its back close against the bands, and the worker’s left
hand keeps the section open in the middle, while with the right hand a
thread is drawn through the back fold, from the inside to the outside,
round the band, and then back from the outside to the inside, and so
on until all the bands have been caught round. Then to end up, the
thread is passed through near the extreme end of the fold and knotted,
forming what is called a “kettle stitch,” and from this point the whole
operation is repeated, backwards, with the next section. It sounds
complicated, but is not so really, and several sections could have been
sewn together in the time that it has taken me to describe the sewing
of one of them.
[Illustration: FIG. 28.--Faulty sewing over a band.]
Now comes an interesting point, and that is the exact way in which the
threads are passed over the bands. We will first see that if the thread
is drawn through the back fold of the section, round a hand and back
again through another hole, that there is a weak construction, inasmuch
as the thread will have a strong tendency to cut through the paper at
_a_ and _b_, because there is in each case a side strain. It therefore
seemed necessary that the thread should make its return journey by the
same hole through which it emerged, but if simply done, this did not
mend matters much, as the strain still tended to pull this hole open
wider. A line of exit and entrance without any side pull was needed,
and this was found by means of a very clever device. A broad band of
leather or vellum was cut through lengthways, leaving a solid piece at
each end.
[Illustration: FIG. 29.--Mediæval sewing round double band.]
Now when the sewer came to this band he ran the thread straight through
the slot, then brought it round the entire band, under it, between it
and the back of the book, and down again, back through the slot, and
in at the same point from which it emerged. The result of this is that
there is no strain at all on the needle hole through which the thread
passes, as the pull is quite straight both coming and going. This is
undoubtedly the best form of sewing a book on bands, and a book so
treated is said to be sewn on “double bands.” But our recent work is
not always true, although from the outside it appears correct, because
in numbers of cases such double bands are simply glued on the outside
of the back, the real sewing, of a very inferior kind, possibly even
done by machinery, being hidden underneath the leather. Few great
binders except Charles Lewis have ever used sham bands.
Flexible sewn books can be had now if wanted, but the sewing on the
bands is not quite the same as the fine mediæval double bands I have
described. It is, however, practically nearly as good, and the bands
themselves can be made smaller.
[Illustration: FIG. 30.--Modern sewing round single band.]
The modern method is to bring the needle and thread through the back
of the section as usual, then give it one turn onwards over the band
and back again through the same hole. It will be seen that this is a
thoroughly sound principle, and brings no strain upon the back of the
section.
The ends of the bands of limp vellum books have always been treated in
the same way; they are drawn straight through the vellum at the joint
and then back again and fastened inside by means of the end paper.
The manner of drawing the bands of a “limp” vellum bound book through
the limp vellum cover is of much interest, and it survives in many
instances where boards are used.
In principle it is the same process as is described further on with
regard to boarded books, but in the case of the limp vellum bindings
the ends of the bands are normally visible for a short length, but in
the case of boarded books they are always covered up with the exception
of some vellum-covered boarded books in which the limp vellum
peculiarity is preserved.
Another small point of interest about the old limp vellum bindings is
that the head and tail bands are made of the same sort of thin vellum
strip as the main bands and carefully drawn diagonally through the
vellum at the corners and fastened inside. Dealt with in this way the
head band becomes of real structural value, much of which is lost if it
is cut off short as is done in the large majority of cases.
William Morris liked limp vellum bindings and often used them, but
without head bands. Instead of the short strips of vellum used for
bands in old books Morris used specially prepared silk tapes, and
brought them through the vellum at the joint in the old-fashioned way.
Instead of being cut short and pasted down as the old limp vellum
bands were, Morris continued his tapes and brought them out again near
the front edge of the vellum, where they could be tied. This is an
excellent arrangement and keeps such a book together in an admirable
and effective way.
Vellum bindings required flat backs because the material would not
yield sufficiently to be tucked round the projecting bands of a normal
flexible bound book, in which the leather back is firmly fixed over the
bands. Nevertheless in several instances old vellum books, in boards,
which have been sewn on raised bands show traces of these bands in low
relief across the back. In such cases it is common to find that some
padding has been put in the spaces between the bands so as to level
the back up. Books treated in this way are usually stiff to open and
uncomfortable to consult.
The flat back, which was necessary for the same reason in the case
of books bound at a later date in velvet, cloth, silk or canvas,
necessitated some modification of the thick projecting bands of the
ordinary book, and the requisite flatness was attained by using strips
of vellum or tape instead of cords of hemp. Then it was found that it
was not necessary to fasten the back of the cover to the back of the
sections, so the “hollow back” came into existence.
[Illustration: FIG. 31.--Book bound with “open” or “hollow” back, and
modern headband, cut off at each end.]
The majority of modern books are bound with hollow backs; it can be
recognised by opening a book to the full and seeing if the back is
separate, and it has one real virtue as well as several vices. If a
book should happen to be printed too far back, a hollow back binding
will enable it to “throw up,” and show the printing right down to the
inner edge of the paper, whereas a flexible binding always tends to
open less freely, especially in the middle.
For books that are likely to be much used hollow backs are unadvisable
as they are sooner worn out, but for small light books there is no
doubt much to be said in their favour.
[Illustration: FIG. 32.--Back of book prepared with cut trenches to
hold the bands.]
Among English binders of note I think Charles Lewis was the first to
use hollow backs extensively. But for fine books there is no doubt that
the old-fashioned flexible sewing on raised bands is the best in the
long run. Books bound with hollow backs often have the bands “sawn in,”
that is to say, a trench is cut for each band across the back of the
sections. In these trenches the bands are laid, and the sewing is of a
simpler and quicker sort than it is when the thread is brought round
each band as it is in the flexible style. Moreover, there is a weak
point where the thread touches the edge of the saw cut, and at this
place the paper is always apt to give. It is obvious that to cut away
paper from the back of a section must always be not only a barbarism
but also structurally wrong. Such a method of sewing a book can only
be excused on the score of cheapness, and it may be urged that in this
case it does not matter.
Towards the end of the fifteenth century it was found that the extreme
tops and bottoms of the backs of the sections of bound books not only
looked untidy and unfinished, but also that they tended to gape, in
fact they were weak points both structurally and artistically. When it
was once realised it was soon rectified, and a small additional band
was made of a strip of leather or vellum, to fit along the outer edge
of the top and bottom at the back. This slip was then sewn on by means
of thread and button-hole stitching, being caught in at intervals by a
long stitch drawn through the centre of one or other of the sections
of the book. The loose ends of the headband itself were drawn in to
the boards, forming in fact an additional band. The headband is a
point in the forwarding of a book which has not received much notice
as yet, but it is of some importance, as there is no doubt that much
attention has been paid by binders to the ornamentation of headbands
from mediæval times until now, and it is the first point in the binding
of a book in which ornament is considered.
[Illustration: FIG. 33.--French sixteenth century headband.]
[Illustration: FIG. 34.--Italian fifteenth century headband.]
[Illustration: FIG. 35.--German fifteenth century headband.]
[Illustration: FIG. 36.--English seventeenth century headband.]
[Illustration: FIG. 37.--English eighteenth century headband, by Roger
Payne.]
[Illustration: FIG. 38.--English nineteenth century headband, by
Charles Lewis.]
Some of the early headbands are sewn over with strips of soft leather,
and at a later time they are cut in distinctive ways, flat or round,
and sewn over with silks of particular colours or combinations of
colours.
Of late years the vice of cutting off the ends of the headband has
come into being; these ends ought to be drawn properly into the boards,
as Mr. Douglas Cockerell has indeed done for me in several instances.
But no words can adequately condemn the miserable ready-made coloured
slips which are often found simply _stuck on_ in the proper place.
[Illustration: FIG. 39.--What a book may do if the back is not properly
rounded.]
Vellum books were the first to be properly bound. The papyri which were
stabbed are so rare that they may be passed by. As I have already said,
vellum is apt to be curly; for this reason the boards used for binding
in early days were made of thick wood, the heaviness of which, even
when unaided by clasps, tended to keep the vellum flat.
[Illustration: FIG. 40.--Book with flat back.]
Beech wood was largely used for these old covers, and from the German
word “Buch,” meaning beech, we derive our word “book.” Beechen boards
were light, decorative, and very carefully dried and seasoned. It is
remarkable how flat such old boards are, and they were no doubt very
highly valued as they often have upon them the stamp of the monastery
in which they were used.
The edges of the boards are sometimes bevelled, from the upper side in
English or French books, and from the under side in German books--but
such a distinction must not be taken as invariable. Boards often show
signs of having been used more than once, and it is rarely that any
decoration shows on the wood. In a few cases of German books may be
found outline drawings of an heraldic nature.
[Illustration: FIG. 41.--Book with flat back falling in.]
The first bound books were made with flat backs, and the boards fitted
close upon the outer sheets of vellum, papyrus or paper. In this
formation, however, it was found that there was a strong liability for
the back to fall in and the foredge to project outwards.
As early as the fifteenth century, in the case of printed books on
paper, this fault of the back falling in led some few binders to
neutralise it by giving the back of the book a rounded form by means
of hammering, and this quite prevented the falling in of the back. The
exact extent of the rounding can easily be seen by looking at the front
edge of a book, because the curves of the back and front correspond.
The boards, however, remained in their first position, flat on the
outer sheets.
[Illustration: FIG. 42.--Book with rounded back.]
But another trouble was apparent in both these cases, namely, that
when such books were opened, the joint between the boards and the back
showed a tendency to pull up the few pages next adjacent. In time these
pages became torn and injured, and constructively there was something
wrong with the principle of attachment.
Paper is soft, and when a “rounded” book was fitted with hard boards
and strongly pressed there would be a certain tendency for the boards
to sink into the mass of the paper and to throw up a small ridge along
the edge of the back. Such a small accidental ridge is often found on
old paper books.
[Illustration: FIG. 43.--Book with back rounded and backed.]
[Illustration: FIG. 44.--Book rounded and backed, before the boards are
put on.]
But there is no doubt that the actual process of making an intentional
groove for the boards to fit in was practised by a few fifteenth
century binders in England. This groove is made by an extension of the
process of rounding the back, and it is produced by hammering the back
over two hard boards carefully placed in the proper position. The shape
of a back thus treated is theoretically as shown in Fig. 44, and it
will be seen that the actual joint now falls away from the body of the
book and is removed to the artificial line along the outer edge of the
groove, and from this line the projecting bands are drawn in to the
boards. If this operation of “backing” is properly done it is almost
impossible for the back of a book to fall in. It will always open
easily and return to its original form, and if the bands are properly
attached to the boards, the latter will never fall off.
Although the principle of backing was known at the early time
mentioned, it was not universally understood and practised until quite
recent times. Now, however, it is fully recognised as one of the most
important processes in the binding of books, especially large ones.
We have seen that the book sewn in leather bands has the ends of these
bands left loose, projecting in the case of a large book some two or
three inches. Holes were now carefully cut along the back edge of the
board to fit the ends of the bands, sloping upwards, and some little
way in other slots were cut from the upper surface of the board to meet
them. Into these holes the ends of the bands were drawn, and when in
proper position they were pegged down with one or more small wooden
pegs. Sometimes the bands were drawn right through the boards and
fastened inside. Numbers and numbers of instances of this work exist
and are quite sound to-day. But such books do not open satisfactorily,
as there is a disagreeable pull upon the outer sections when the book
is opened. In fact, the junction between the bands and the boards is
not scientifically correct, because the backs are not rounded.
[Illustration: FIG. 45.--Half-bound book.]
The vulnerable part of the binding will now be seen to be the soft
threads which cover the bands where they adjoin the back of the
sections of the book, and to protect these delicate threads a strip of
leather was cut, damped and pressed over the bands so as to fit quite
closely, and fastened on with glue, projecting a short way over on to
the board itself so as to cover up the holes used for the bands. This
is called a “half-binding.” On the leather of such half-bindings there
is usually some blind tooling, lines or rolls or even small cameo
stamps.
Mediæval bindings are commonly provided with clasps. The original
reason of this was to help to keep the vellum leaves flat, but of
course artistic binders saw that clasps might be made very ornamental,
and so many of them are. They have survived as ornamental adjuncts to a
binding until the present day, although there is no necessity for them.
[Illustration: FIG. 46.--Mediæval book with bosses, corner pieces and
clasps.]
Bosses in the centre and at the corners of mediæval bindings were of
structural use, as they protected the actual boards of the book from
wear. In early days books were kept upon their sides and probably
had flat boards between each volume. So the bosses took the wear and
preserved the books. Many of the mediæval bosses and corners have
ornamental settings; they are generally of brass, but sometimes of
silver or wood. The titles of such books were sometimes written on the
front edges and sometimes on a slip of paper fastened under horn on
the upper board, and in the late fifteenth century they were sometimes
lettered in gold or blind, also on the boards.
It happened that the art of Byzantium was in its prime just about
the same time that vellum began to be arranged in sections--in book
form--in contradistinction to the roll form. So we find some of the
finest examples of Byzantine art on bookbindings. Of course it must be
understood that these richly worked covers are only ornamentally added
to the true binding underneath, and the actual work of the binding is
more or less as I have already described it. But the decorative art
in these cases is so predominant that they are generically known as
“Byzantine” bindings.
[Illustration: FIG. 47.--German binding of about the eleventh century,
with cabochon crystals.]
The large majority of the known specimens of this kind are no longer
in company with their original manuscripts. Many of them are preserved
simply as loose covers, and alien manuscripts have been inserted in
others. I expect that there are still considerable numbers of these
bindings preserved in remote churches and monasteries in Central
Europe, and some day perhaps some traveller with sufficient knowledge
and time at his command will make search for them. But for the present
fine and genuine examples of Byzantine bindings are of great rarity. It
is said that there are not more than about three hundred of them known.
The life history of many of these is well known, and so are many of
the additions and alterations to which they have been subjected during
their long life. Luckily some of the finest are now safely housed in
our London museums, and others are, or are likely to be, safe in a
great local museum.
To be able to judge whether these bindings are genuine, a librarian
must be an antiquary, a goldsmith and silversmith, skilled both in
repoussé work, engraving and cast work, a gem cutter, an enameller,
a skilled bookbinder, and an artist, and if he fails in one of these
knowledges his judgment cannot be relied on. An ordinary art critic who
possesses “Flaire” can pick up a certain amount of knowledge by reason
of having made many mistakes and profited by them, and if he has been
fortunately able to associate himself only with true and known fine
examples for a long time, he may eventually be a good guesser. But no
true judgment can be given without actual technical knowledge.
[Illustration: FIG. 48.--French binding of the thirteenth century with
enamels.]
The result of all this is, that collectors of such bindings have been
freely victimised. It is not really difficult to copy or to imitate a
Byzantine binding--it is not nearly so difficult as to counterfeit a
fine Le Gascon or a fine Roger Payne. It does not so much concern the
binder as the metal worker, and in metal a little skill goes a long
way, and so it does in the cloisonne enamel work which alone is found
in these bindings. The present market price of a very fine Byzantine
binding--a known one--will run into five figures, so it is little to be
wondered at that it pays the clever _faussaires_ of the Continent to
direct their attention to covers of this kind. They need not even take
the trouble to provide manuscripts for the inside; loose covers will
sell with equal readiness.
Ivory carving played an important part on early bindings. Apart from
diptychs, the earliest known decorative binding consists of plaques
of ivory carved with Biblical scenes, and having in the centre a lamb
within a wreath of cloisonne work, with inlays of coloured glass. It
is now kept in the cathedral treasury at Milan, and is without its
original inside; it is attributed to the fifth century.
Early Irish manuscripts were usually bound in quite simple limp leather
covers, but these were kept in book boxes or “Cumdachs,” all of which
still existing are of the greatest interest.
[Illustration: FIG. 49.--The upper cover of the Cumdach of the Stowe
Missal.]
One of the finest is that of the Stowe Missal, dating from about the
eleventh century. It belonged originally to the monastery of Lorrha in
Tipperary, whence it was taken to the Irish monastery of Ratisbon. In
1784 it was found by Mr. John Grace in Austria, and afterwards belonged
to the Stowe Library, and Lord Ashburnham, from whom it was purchased
by the nation in 1883 with the rest of his library, and then deposited
in the museum of the Royal Irish Academy.
The lid is ornamented with a large cross set with pearls and metal
bosses, having in the centre a large oval crystal over a pink ground,
and enclosed with recent enamels, no doubt replacing old ones. At each
end of the cross is a large jewel. The spaces between the arms of the
cross contain silver gilt plates engraved with figures of Saints, and
on the silver edge plates is an inscription in Irish inviting the
reader to “Pray for Dunchad descendant of Taccan of the family of
Cluan who made this.” This may therefore be called the earliest signed
binding in the world, if a cumdach can be considered a binding. No
doubt much of the work now on this lid, as well as some of the jewels
and their settings, have been added since the original work was made.
The base of the box has a similar ornamentation upon it, but the jewels
and enamels are all gone, the spaces between the arms of the cross
being filled with silver plates cut into an open pattern set over
bronze gilt.
The sides of the box are much destroyed, but they have fortunately
not been restored. The ornamentation consists of enamelled bosses or
curious castings in the centre of each side, flanked by panels of open
designs cut out of thin silver over gilt, and corner ornaments of cast
work. There are small bosses of blue enamel.
The remarkable open work over gilt bronze occurs again in the base of
the cumdach containing Molaise gospels, it also belongs to the eleventh
century, and this sort of ornamentation seems to be characteristic
of Irish work of that time. The lid of the box is ornamented in a
modification of the same idea, but in this case the bronze showing
through the silver is beautifully worked. The main idea is a cross,
and between the arms are the evangelistic emblems, and with their
names, Leo, Aquila, Homo, Taurus. An inscription asks us to “Pray for
Cenn, for the successor of Molaise for whom this case was made by
Gillabaithain the artisan.” It is possible that this may be a little
earlier than the Stowe cumdach.
A few more cumdachs are known, about ten of them altogether, and others
are recorded only.
There is that of Dimma’s book, of the Cathach of the O’Donnells, and
several others, some of which are quite plain.
Other book cases were made of beautifully worked leather. The satchel
of the Book of Armagh is one of these, and leather cases or “Forels”
were made of cuirbouilli in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,
particularly in Italy. These forels were in the shape now known as
“slip off” cases, and they generally had attachments for a strap. They
are always charmingly chased, and often bear heraldic ornamentation.
Cuirbouilli was calf or hide, worked with knife, style, or hammer, and
then probably boiled in oil, but the exact process that was used is now
unknown. It is very strong, and its value was known in England, where
it was used to make wrist guards for archery, but as far as I know it
was never used here for bindings or covers for bindings. I have heard
the calf or sheep bindings of the early sixteenth century, bearing
panel stamps, described as cuirbouilli, but they are not so.
The earliest cover still containing its original manuscript is probably
that given with other treasure to Theodelinda, Queen of the Lombards,
by Pope Gregory the Great, in the seventh century. It is now kept in
the cathedral treasury at Monza.
The manuscript is described in a contemporary document as being “theca
persica inclusam,” and, so far, its cover resembles the Irish cumdachs.
The case is of gold, ornamented with a large cross, outlined with lines
of small flat garnets, with sapphires and emeralds, set in cloisons.
The body of the cross is richly jewelled with cabochon cut stones and
pearls, and at the extremity of each arm is a curious glass bead of
millefiori glass, green with a little red flower in the centre.
Between the arms of the cross are four gamma shaped ornaments, each set
with small flat jewels. Across the sides are bands of gold on which are
engraved the words DE DONIS DEI OFFERIT THEODELENDA REG. GLORIOSISSIMA
SANCTO JOANNI BAPTISTE IN BASILICA QUEM IPSA FUNDAVIT IN MODICIA
PROPE PALATIUM SUUM. A handsome border with flat garnets enclosed the
whole, and the four cameos set near the gammas are a recent addition.
Byzantine art is generally considered as a decadent form of Roman art,
but in this particular instance there is much Greek feeling, and it is
in all respects, excepting perhaps the inscription, a magnificent piece
of work.
[Illustration: FIG. 50.--The binding of the Gospels of Lindau, the
older side.]
The binding of the Gospels of Lindau has now two sides of different
dates, each of which has been repaired and added to in recent times.
The earlier of the two, far the finer, is probably contemporary with
the manuscript, having been made about the later half of the ninth
century, as the Abbey of the Noble Canonesses at Lindau was founded by
the Emperor Lewis the Pious in A.D. 834. A large golden cross pattée is
the chief motive of this beautiful piece of work, and it is ornamented
with rare enamels showing bust figures wearing stoles, and jewels in
great variety, the borderings being inlaid with small flat pieces of
garnet. The spaces between the arms of the cross are filled with bronze
plaques elaborately ornamented with Celtic interlacings in chiselled
work. The workmanship is probably Irish, and was most likely done
abroad, possibly enough at Lindau itself, by some Irish artists who
had emigrated. Irish jewellers and enamellers of this early time were
justly celebrated, and their services were secured whenever possible.
The later side of the binding is one of the finest existing specimens
of Carlovingian art. It is radically different from the earlier side
and was probably added about the eleventh or twelfth century.
[Illustration: FIG. 51.--The binding of the Gospels of Lindau, the more
recent side.]
In the centre is a large cross on which is a gilt figure of our Lord in
the attitude of the crucifixion. The cross is outlined by a structure
of open work of gold ornamented with filagree work and thickly set with
jewels. Between the arms of the cross are angels worked in repoussé,
and rich bosses of gold and jewels, raised on arcades of open work. The
border is of great richness, and is thickly sown with large jewels cut
“en cabochon,” many of them pierced longitudinally, betraying in all
probability an Oriental provenance. No doubt this was originally made
for some valuable manuscript now lost, and it was used to replace the
original simple lower cover of the Gospels of Lindau at some unknown
time.
The book was formerly in the possession of the Earl of Ashburnham, but
now it is gone to America.
Beautiful Byzantine work of the twelfth century is to be seen upon the
carved and jewelled binding of the Psalter of Melissenda, daughter of
Baldwin II., King of Jerusalem, and wife of Fulk, his successor. The
ivory covers measure eight by six inches, and are elaborately carved in
bas relief with Biblical scenes. On each side are six circles, and in
each circle a little figure group, on one side representing episodes in
the life of David and on the other works of mercy. There is lettering
run in with red, giving the names of each of the personages shown, and
their eyes are set with tiny rubies or emeralds cut “en cabochon” like
coloured grains of sand. The spaces between the circles are filled
with other Biblical or symbolical figures, scrolls and animals, and a
beautiful interlacing border encloses the whole, set with turquoises
and rubies.
The carver’s name, “HERODIUS,” is cut in the lower cover. The
workmanship on these ivories is extremely fine, and there is no doubt
they were made to be used as a binding. The majority of ivory carvings
found on mediæval bookbindings appear to have been simply added, having
been originally made for some other purpose. But there are notable
exceptions, particularly in the Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris. The
shape in which the plaque of ivory is cut will often give a valuable
indication in this matter.
The finest Byzantine binding now in England is probably that known as
the Gospels of Charlemagne, now in the Victoria and Albert Museum.
It is nearly square, and the upper side is overlaid with gilt metal,
enamels and gems. In the centre is a seated figure of Our Lord in
the attitude of Benediction, in repoussé work. Round this is a band
of white and green enamelled lettering, restored, on which are two
hexameter lines: “MATHEVS ET MARCVS LVCAS SCSQ JOHANE VOX HORV QVATVOR
REBOAT TE XPE REDEMPTOR.” The outer border is made up of rectangular
plaques of enamels, gold work and jewels.
The work here is also largely restored, but it is, as a rule, admirably
done, and where the old work remains, especially in the gold, it is of
a high excellence. The jewels have, for the most part, been restored.
As the book is now it is a splendid and dignified example of its kind;
the under side is simply covered with strong red leather, with a cross
marked by small studs. Like many of these splendid altar books, this
one is said to have served as a Pax.
The manuscript itself is of the tenth century, and belonged to the
Abbey Church of St. Maurice d’Agaune, and from here it was stolen in
the fourteenth century. It afterwards found a home at Sion, and was
purchased for the Victoria and Albert Museum at the Spitzer sale in
1893.
No doubt examples of rich monastic bindings did exist in England,
but none of them are now known. It is likely enough that their value
condemned them, and that they were entirely destroyed in the earlier
half of the sixteenth century to swell the revenues of the king. The
manuscripts belonging to these destroyed covers have, luckily, been
kept, and numbers of them came to the British Museum by gift of George
II.
Two ornamental bindings only of English origin now remain; these are
both simple, they are the St. Cuthbert’s Gospels and the English
coronation book of Henry I. These are described in Chapter VIII.
There were plenty of leather bindings ornamented with blind tooling or
cut leather work in mediæval times, and these also are described later
on.
The idea of ornamenting bindings with sunk panels is of Arab origin.
The fashion came to Europe by way of Venice, and the Venetians
themselves quickly saw that the possibilities of decorating bindings
were largely increased by this device. It is done by means of two
boards, the upper of which is pierced, then the whole is covered
with leather and ornamented with painted work or stamped work as the
case may be. In inferior bindings of this sort, the sunk panels are
sometimes produced simply by hard pressure, but the state of the edges
of the panels will soon show how they are made. If they are steep
there are the double boards, if very sloping there may only be one.
Queen Elizabeth had some of these Venetian sunk bindings presented to
her and she liked them. Consequently there were a few examples of it
made in England in the sixteenth century. At a later time Charles Lewis
bound several large books with double boards in this way, and I think
he was the only important English binder who has ever done so to any
great extent.
The double boards have left a trace of their existence in the form of
a trench which is frequently found along the edges of the boards of
sixteenth century bindings of English, Italian, and French workmanship.
The trench, however, is merely a survival and does not necessarily
imply the actual existence of double boards. It is a distant tribute to
our indebtedness to the East.
In some of the double-board books bound for Queen Elizabeth, with
sunk panels, the headband is curiously produced away from its normal
finishing point and is carried right round the entire edge of the
boards in the trench between the boards. It is a decorative and curious
peculiarity, and I have never met with it in any foreign books.
Wooden boards were used for bindings until about the end of the
fifteenth century, when the idea of using several layers of paper
pasted together--paste boards--was thought of. In fact, paste boards
may be considered to have been introduced about the same time as
printing, and waste printed matter was often used for making them with.
There are many instances in which valuable printed matter has been
found hidden up in binder’s boards, and as these can generally be
soaked apart and cleaned, we already owe the preservation of several
unique fragments to the fact of their having been used for bindings.
[Illustration: FIG. 52.--Painted Persian binding (Nadir Shah at the
battle of Karnul).]
Persian manuscripts of the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries are
often ornamented in a manner which is of considerable interest. They
are bound in paste boards like all other Oriental bindings known to
me, and are covered with some sort of gesso applied in a thin layer.
On this gesso are paintings of varied merit; some of them, especially
the historical and hunting scenes, are extremely well done, and others,
mostly floral, are of a commonplace character. The boards are sometimes
painted inside and out.
The painting is done in water-colours, and is of the same sort as is
found with the manuscript inside, but generally by an inferior artist.
When finished the painting was thickly varnished, and this varnish
has darkened by time into a mellow golden colour which improves the
appearance of the colour work underneath.
The darkening of this varnish has, however, had a remarkable result:
the photographic ray cannot pierce it except here and there--in fact,
the painting is covered by a non-actinic curtain. A photograph will
only show the surface of the varnish with here and there a patch where
the blue colour underneath succeeds in making itself felt.
Ornamental though these painted and varnished bindings are, there is
unfortunately a great and inherent delicacy about them, and it is that
the varnished surface is badly given to chipping off. It is difficult
to say what the best remedy for this chipping or flaking off is; it is
probably due to the discrepancy in hardness between the hard varnish
and the soft boards; it seems to be radical.
Experiments are needed in this matter, but owners of fine specimens,
even if chipped, are naturally chary of allowing experiments which may
do harm as well as good. I should say that probably much good might be
done by dropping a little collodion so as to make it run down between
the loosened surfaces; it will act as a cement and strengthen as well
as fasten them together. It is also likely that thin glue applied
several times might also do good used in the same way, but I believe
collodion is better and penetrates weak places more readily.
The same styles of ornamentation are used on mirror cases and other
small objects, so that although many bindings are so treated, yet the
method is not one exclusively used for such purpose. But no doubt the
finest work was put on bindings, some of which are large.
Another Persian manner is that of using large metal stamps impressed
with elaborate arabesques. The impressions from these stamps of course
give a design in relief. The whole impression is generally gilded in
various tints, and the small design itself is often picked out with a
little colour. Many of these arabesque panel stamps are of wonderful
beauty.
Arabic and other Oriental bindings have a curious flap projecting from
one of the boards, which covers and protects the front edges. The flaps
are ornamented in the same way as the rest of the binding.
The sewing and the paper of all these books is weak and light, but
there is always work of much interest on the bindings. The backs are
flat and the paste boards are thin and covered with very thin leather.
They are usually ornamented inside and outside with blind and gilt
work, stamped and cut work, and hand painting, in much variety.
[Illustration: FIG. 53.--Oriental binding with flap.]
The open work cut with a knife from thin leather is remarkable for
its extraordinary precision and delicacy; it is usually in arabesques
with small flowers, and often coloured by hand. It is always set on a
background of colour, either painted or a bit of coloured paper. But
the work is very frail, and panels of it are rarely found perfect.
Oriental bindings are altogether weak, and they will not stand hard
wear.
Now we have, chiefly from America, machines that will do almost every
one of the hand-operations for binding a book. There are sewing
machines that only want to be fed with thread and the books to be sewn;
there are casing machines of wonderful speed and accuracy, backing
machines and binding machines. The only one thing that cannot yet be
done by a machine is the pasting down the ends of the bands or tapes
inside the boards. I rather think that many of these machines strain
the paper badly, and also they require setting elaborately to a certain
size. They are very useful for large, cheap editions, but little
use for good miscellaneous work. Nothing is really so good as the
old-fashioned sewing on raised bands by hand.
BOOKS TO CONSULT.
COCKERELL, D. Bookbinding. _London_, 1901.
DAVENPORT, C. Cantor Lectures on Decorative Bookbinding. _London_, 1898.
DAVENPORT, C. (Encyc. Brit. Article Bookbinding). _London_, 1902.
DU SOMMERARD, A. Les arts au Moyen Age. _Paris_, 1838-46.
GORI, A. F. Thesaurus vet. Diptychorum. _Florentiæ_, 1759.
LABARTE, J. Hist. des Arts au Moyen Age. _Paris_, 1864.
LIBRI, COUNT G. Catalogue. _Paris_, 1857.
MADAN, F. Books in Manuscript. _London_, 1893.